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_Title:_ Temper
_Date of first publication:_ 1848
_Author:_ Amelia Alderson Opie (1769-1853)
_Date first posted:_ September 1, 2013
_Date last updated:_ September 1, 2013
Faded Page eBook #20130901

This ebook was produced by: Delphine Lettau, Elizabeth Oscanyan & the
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                                TEMPER.

                                  FROM

                               THE WORKS

                                   OF

                           MRS. AMELIA OPIE;

                              VOLUME III.

                  *       *       *       *       *

                             PHILADELPHIA:
                   CRISSY & MARKLEY, No. 4 MINOR ST.
                                 1848.




                   Printed by T. K. & P. G. Collins.




“Shut the door, Agatha,” said Mr. Torrington to a beautiful girl of four
years old; “the wind from the passage is intolerable.”

But Agatha stirred not.

“Did you not hear what I said?” resumed her father; “shut the door, for
I am cold.”

Still, however, the child continued to build houses, and her father
spoke in vain.

“I will shut the door myself,” said her fatally indulgent
mother;—”Agatha is not yet old enough to understand the virtue of
obedience.”

“But she is old enough to understand the inconveniences of disobedience,
my dear Emma, if properly punished for disobeying.”

“Surely it would be cruel to punish a child when she is incapable of
knowing that what she does is worthy of punishment. When she is old
enough to have reason, I will reason with her, and make her obedient and
obliging on principle.”

“It is lucky for society, Emma, that the keepers of lunatics do not act
on your plan, and allow them to follow all their propensities till they
are reasonable enough to feel the propriety of restraint.”

“There is a great difference between mad people and children, Mr.
Torrington.”

“Undoubtedly, but not in the power of self-guidance and
self-restriction. The man who has lost his reason, and the child who has
not gained his, are equally objects for reproof and restraint, and must
be taught good and proper habits by judicious and firm control, and
occasionally by the operation of fear.”

“Fear! Mr. Torrington, would you beat the child?”

“If you were a foolish mother, and by weak and pernicious indulgence
were to _brutify_ Agatha so much as to render her incapable of being
governed in any other way. But in my opinion, if corporeal chastisement
is ever necessary, it can only be where the parents by neglect and folly
have injured the temper and destroyed the mind of their offspring.”

“Could you ever have the heart to beat Agatha, Mr. Torrington?”

“If Agatha’s good required it. If it were necessary that she should take
medicine in order to cure her body, even you, Emma, would not hesitate,
I conclude, to force the medicine down her throat.”

“Certainly not.”

“And is not the health of her mind of even greater importance? and
should we hesitate to inflict salutary punishment in order to preserve
_that_ uninjured?”

At this moment, Agatha, unconscious, poor child! how important to her
future welfare was this conversation between her parents, interrupted it
by seizing a pair of sharp-pointed scissors, and carrying off the
forbidden plaything to the furthest part of the room.

“Agatha, bring back the scissors this moment,” cried Mr. Torrington; but
Agatha kept them still.

“Give them to me this instant,” he repeated, rising from his chair, and
approaching to take them by force; when Agatha, unaccustomed to obey, as
she was, when not in her father’s presence, always used to command,
instantly threw the scissors on the ground with violence.

“Take them up, and give them to me.”

But Agatha only turned her back, and putting her hand under her chin
threw out her raised elbow at her father with the gesture of sulky
defiance.

Mr. Torrington now found that he was seriously called upon to practise
as well as preach.

“Agatha,” said he, firmly, but mildly, “obey me, and give me the
scissors, or you shall go to bed this moment, and without your supper.”
But as the child continued obstinate and disobedient; in spite of her
cries, blows, and kicks, Mr. Torrington took her up in his arms, and
carried her into the nursery.

“Put Miss Torrington to bed directly,” said he; “and on pain of instant
dismissal, I forbid you to give her any thing to eat or drink.”

He then returned to her mother, in the midst of the screams of the
spoiled and irritated Agatha. He found Mrs. Torrington in tears.

“Why are you distressed thus, dearest Emma?” cried he, affectionately.

“I cannot bear to hear Agatha cry, Mr. Torrington.”

“It does not give me pleasure,” coolly replied he.

“Ah! Mr. Torrington, but you are not a mother.”

“I know it, my love. I have had, it is true, many comical nervous
fancies; but I never fancied myself a mother yet.”

“This is a bad joke, Mr. Torrington.”

“I grant it.”

“And _I_, Mr. Torrington, am in no humour for joking; this is too
serious a subject.”

“Emma, I joked, to show you that _I_, at least, did not think this
temporary affliction of our violent child a cause for sorrow.”

“No? Hark how she screams! Indeed, Mr. Torrington, I must go to her.”

“Indeed, Emma, you must not.”

“Her agonies distract me; I cannot bear it, I tell you.”

“You must bear it, Mrs. Torrington, or forfeit much of my respect.”

“O, a mother’s feelings——”

“——are natural, and therefore honourable feelings; but I expect a
rational being to be superior to a mere brute mother.”

“A brute mother, Mr. Torrington!”

“Yes; a brute mother. The cat that lies yonder, unable to bear the cries
of its kitten, would, from mere natural instinct (the feelings of a
mother, Emma, which I have not, you know,) fly at the animal, or human
creature, that occasioned those cries; and the cat, wholly guided by
instinct, could not do otherwise, though an operation were performing on
its offspring that was requisite to save its life. But from you, Emma,
who have reason to aid and regulate the impulses of mere instinct,—from
_you_ I expect better things than a selfish indulgence of your own
tenderness at the expense of your child’s future welfare; nay, even of
its present safety. For had she been allowed to retain the scissors, she
might have destroyed an eye or laid open an artery with them. If you
must weep because she weeps, let it be for the alarming obstinacy and
violence which she is now exhibiting; a violence which may, perhaps, be
big with her future misery and ruin.”

“I am a weak, a foolish woman, Mr. Torrington, and——”

“Not so, Emma. If you had been weak and foolish, though young, rich, and
beautiful, and I only a younger brother, I would never have made you my
wife. No; I saw in you a woman capable of being a rational companion,
and the instructress as well as the mother of my children; and I do not
recognise you, my dear Emma, in the puerile tenderness that shrinks
appalled at the cries of an angry child.

“Let me put a case to you, Emma;—Suppose in one house a mother informed
by the surgeons attending, that her beloved daughter must undergo a
painful operation in order to save her life, or prevent the progress of
a pernicious disease; suppose that mother unable from maternal
tenderness to remain in the room while the operation is performing, and
giving way to tears and hysterics in the adjoining apartment;—

“Suppose in another house a mother under similar circumstances,
suppressing all selfish emotions, by thinking only of the beloved
sufferer, and hastening to the scene of trial, to cheer by her presence,
to soothe by her caresses, and to support in her arms, the object of her
anxiety; while maternal tenderness checks the tear that maternal
tenderness urges, and firmly, though feelingly, she goes through the
painful task assigned her by affectionate duty. Now, in which of these
two do you recognise the highest order of motherly love?”

“In the latter, undoubtedly.”

“And such, my dear Emma, is the conduct of those wise parents who, in
order to ensure the future good of their children, refuse them
indulgences pernicious to their health, or inflict on them salutary
punishment regardless of the pain they themselves suffer from giving
pain to the resisting and angry child, and consoling and comforting
themselves with knowing that, though the duty they are performing is
even an agonizing one, the good of the beloved object requires it of
them;—while the parents who suffer their children to tyrannize over
them, and have their own way in every thing, because, forsooth, it gives
them pain to deny and afflict them, are like the hysterical mother, who
had rather indulge her own feelings in tears and exclamations, than
punish and constrain herself in order to endeavour to be of service and
of comfort to her child.”

The cries of Agatha at this moment began to grow fainter and fainter,
and at length ceased altogether; for she had cried herself to sleep. But
now a new alarm took possession of Mrs. Torrington.

“Bless me!” she exclaimed, “perhaps she has screamed herself into
convulsions! I must go up and see her, indeed, Mr. Torrington.”

“No, Emma. I will spare you the trouble and go myself.”

Accordingly he did so, and found Agatha in a calm and quiet slumber;
though on her full and crimson cheek still glittered the tears of
turbulent resentment.

Mrs. Torrington, whom love and reverence for her husband made submissive
to his will, did not venture to follow him into Agatha’s bed-room; but
she stood in the hall anxiously awaiting his return.

“Away with these foolish fears,” said Mr. Torrington, “the child is in a
most comfortable sleep;—or, if you must fear, let it be, as I said
before, for the health of her mind, not of her body; and avoid in future
the conduct that may endanger it. Should the child with which you are
about to bless me be a son, Emma, I shall expect you to assist me in
forming him for a hero, or a legislator; and I you must not disappoint
the expectations so honourable to you, and so dear to me.”

What is there that a wife, a woman so flattered and encouraged would not
have promised, and would not, at the moment, have felt able to perform?
Mrs. Torrington fondly pressed the kind hand that held hers; declared
her consciousness of past weakness, and her hope of future strength, and
retired to rest one of the happiest of human beings.

A very few weeks beheld an amendment in the behaviour and temper of
Agatha, under the firm but gentle authority of her father, assisted by
the now well-regulated indulgence of her mother. But, alas! in a few
weeks more this husband so devotedly beloved, this father so admirably
fitted to take on himself the awful responsibility of a father, was
carried off, after a short illness, by consumption, the hereditary
scourge of his family; and his almost distracted widow, overwhelmed by
the suddenness as well as violence of the blow, gave birth to a dead
infant, and was for some time incapable of attending in any way to the
duties which she was lately so solicitous to perform.

But when time had ameliorated her grief, and Agatha regained her usual
power over her affections, she was continually saying to herself that
she would show her regard for her late husband by acting implicitly on
his system for the education of Agatha. Still, at first she gave way to
the childish whims of her daughter, from want, she said, of energy in
her afflicted state to contradict her; and afterwards from want of power
to distress, even momentarily, the beloved being who reminded her of the
husband she had lost; and as that lamented husband was the only person
who had ever possessed power to overcome her usual obstinacy of
decision, and indolence of mind, and prevail on her to use her
understanding uninfluenced by the suggestions of temper or prejudice,
with him for ever vanished Mrs. Torrington’s inducements to the
exertions which he recommended, and Agatha became the tyrant of her
mother and her mother’s household, and the pity, the torment, and
detestation of all the relations and friends who visited at the house.

But when Agatha approached the age of womanhood, and with her years the
violence of her uncorrected temper increased, she became an object of
fear even to Mrs. Torrington; for, having been long accustomed to
tyrannize in trifling matters, she showed herself resolved to govern in
matters of importance. Mrs. Torrington, however,loved power as well as
Agatha, and a struggle for it immediately took place, which gave rise to
a great deal of domestic discord, and had no tendency to improve the
already impetuous temper of Agatha. Still she loved her mother, for her
affections were as violent as her disposition; but her virtues, her
beauty, and her talents were fatally obscured by the clouds thrown over
them by the obliquities of temper.

There is nothing more likely to soberize the intoxications of self-love,
than the reflection how soon even the most celebrated of men and women
are forgotten; how soon the waters of oblivion close over the memory of
the distinguished few, whose wit or whose beauty has delighted the
circles which their reputation had attracted round them; and that even
they, when they cease to be seen and heard, at the same time also cease
to be remembered.

Mrs. Torrington (when Emma Bellenden) had shone brightest of the
birthday beauties, and besides being nobly born, was rich both in
personal property and estates; consequently, she was the little sun of
every circle in which she moved. But when, at the age of eighteen, she
gave her hand and her heart to Mr. Torrington, and retired with him to a
remote residence in the country, where, like a virtuous and affectionate
wife, she found her best pleasure in the enjoyment of her husband’s
society, and in attention to her husband’s comforts; the circles which
she had herself forgotten, forgot her in their turn; and some new
beauty, some new heiress, filled the place which she had vacated, and
soon banished all remembrance of the once celebrated Emma Bellenden.

The seclusion which love had taught, affliction and habit continued; and
when Agatha became old enough to be introduced to general society, her
mother found that, having for so many years dropped those acquaintances
whose knowledge of the world would be of use to her daughter, she should
re-appear in “those scenes so gay,” as a stranger, or one long since
forgotten, where she had once shone “the fairest of the fair,” and
should be forced to form new connexions, or to solicit a renewal of
friendship with those whose self-love she had wounded by long and
undeviating neglect. She knew, notwithstanding, that the effort must now
be soon made, and Agatha be presented to that gay world which she seemed
formed to adorn.

Previously, however, to their taking a journey to London, it was agreed
upon that Agatha should be allowed to visit a relation a few miles
distant from home, unaccompanied by her mother, who was confined to the
house by attendance on a sick friend; and the beautiful heiress, in all
the bloom of seventeen, made her appearance at a race-ball in the
neighbourhood of her relation’s abode.

“I conclude,” said Mrs. Torrington to her daughter before she departed,
“that my cousin will take care to prevent all possibility of your
dancing with improper partners, and forming improper acquaintance.”

“I flatter myself,” replied Agatha, “that my own judgment will enable me
to avoid such risks without the interference of any relation whatever.”

“You forget that you are very young, Agatha, and new to the world; but I
trust your pride will teach you the propriety of dancing with men of
rank and consequence only, even though they be neither single nor
young.”

“I will not answer for obeying my pride, if the only rich and titled in
the ball-room be the old, the ugly, and the married; for my taste
certainly leads me to prefer the young and the well-looking at least.”

“But it is my request, Agatha, that—”

“Hush, hush,” cried Agatha, laughing and jumping into the carriage. “I
will not allow you, dear mother, to fetter my first moments of liberty
with any restraints.” Then singing,

    “My heart’s my own, my will is free;
     No mortal man shall dance with me,
     Unless he is my choice,”

she kissed her hand to Mrs. Torrington, and drove to the house of her
relation.

Agatha had not been long in the ball-room before her hand for the first
two dances was solicited by the eldest son of a viscount, and she began
the ball with a partner such as her mother would have most cordially
approved. But as her partner was neither young nor handsome, Agatha
resolved that, having done homage to pride and propriety in her first
choice, she would either dance no more that evening, or dance with one
more calculated to please than the right honourable partner whom she had
just quitted.

At this minute her attention was directed to a very handsome young man,
who, apparently uninterested in anything that was going forward, was
leaning against the wall, and seemingly looking on in vacancy.

“Look, Miss Torrington, look! that is the handsome Danvers,” said the
young lady on whose arm Agatha was leaning; “there he is! in a reverie
as usual! and though almost all the women in the room are dying to dance
with him, the insensible creature looks at no one, and dances with no
one; but after exhibiting his fine person for an hour, he will lounge
home to bed.”

“Perhaps,” said Agatha, “the poor man is in love with an absent lady,
and thence his indifference to those who are present. He is very
handsome.”

“Yes, and very agreeable too, I am told, when he pleases; but he is so
proud and fastidious, (for he is not in love, they say,) that he does
not think any lady in this part of the world worth the trouble of
pleasing.”

“Who is he?” asked Agatha; “and whence does he come?”

“What he is I know not; but he came hither from London, on a visit to
Captain Bertie, who is quartered here, and who assures me that he is a
man of family, though not of fortune.”

“And so he never dances!” said Agatha, whom this handsome and
indifferent man was beginning to interest, while her self-love piqued
her to wish to conquer the indifference of which he seemed to make so
provoking a parade. While these thoughts were passing in her mind, she
and her companion were approaching the spot where Danvers stood; and as
he chanced to glance his eye on Agatha, an obvious change in the
expression of his countenance took place, and with evident interest and
admiration he gazed on the beautiful girl before him; and when she moved
to another part of the room, his eye followed her with undeviating
attention.

Agatha, blushing and delighted, observed the effect which she had
produced; nor was it unseen by her companion, who could not forbear, in
an accent of suppressed pique, to rally her on having subdued at once a
heart supposed to be impregnable. In a few minutes more Mr. Danvers was
presented to Agatha by a lady of whom she had a slight knowledge, and
led his ready and conscious partner to join the dance. In vain did her
relation tell her she had engaged her to one baronet, and that another
had also requested the honour of dancing with her, and that it was quite
improper in her to dance with a man whom nobody knew. Agatha persisted
in her resolution to dance with whomsoever she chose; and when Danvers
came to claim her, she curtsied with a look of proud independence to her
monitor, and joined the dancers.

To be brief; Danvers found opportunities to see Agatha often enough, in
spite of the vigilance of her chaperone, to deepen the impression which
his appearance, his manners, and still more the marked preference which
he had given her over every other woman, had made on her heart; and when
two gentlemen of rank and fortune asked Mrs. Torrington’s leave to
address her daughter, Agatha peremptorily rejected their addresses, and
replied to her mother’s letter of expostulation on the subject, in terms
which wounded both the love and pride of Mrs. Torrington. Soon after her
relation informed her that Danvers was endeavouring to gain the
affections of Agatha, and that it was evident he would only too soon
succeed. On hearing this, the alarmed mother resolved to summon Agatha
home; but as she well knew that, being a stranger to the virtue of
obedience, her daughter would refuse to obey the summons if the cause of
it were told to her, Mrs. Torrington had recourse to the weakness and
the vice of falsehood; the same weakness which led her to spoil Agatha
in her _childhood_, naturally enough prompting her to make use of fraud
in order to influence her in her _youth_; and she wrote to her,
requesting her to return home, as she was very ill, and required her
attendance.

The filial affection of Agatha immediately took alarm. She fancied that
her mother had caught a fever of the friend whom she had been nursing.
Without a moment’s delay, therefore,—for even Danvers and the pleasures
of a growing passion could not detain her from the sick bed of her
mother,—she set off on her return home, and arrived there even before
Mrs. Torrington could think her arrival possible. But when Agatha saw in
the unimpaired bloom of her mother’s cheek the evidence of uninjured
health, and observed in her countenance at the same time the expression
of grave resentment, she felt that she had been recalled on false
pretences. Consequently she understood the motives for the summons, and
with a sullen, haughty demeanour, she received without returning her
mother’s unendearing kiss, and, throwing herself into a chair, awaited
in angry silence the lecture which she had no doubt was prepared for
her.

Nor was she mistaken. But unfortunately the angry mother reproached her
daughter for encouraging the attentions of a man whose fortune was
contemptible, whose character was equivocal, and of whose connexions she
had no satisfactory knowledge, in terms so violent and provoking, that
they aroused all the rebellious feelings of the equally angry daughter;
till at length, overcome by a variety of conflicting emotions, Mrs.
Torrington gave up the fruitless contention; and yielding to the
suggestions of maternal tenderness, alarmed for the future happiness and
welfare of its object, she melted into tears of agony and affection, and
told her daughter, that if she persisted in marrying Mr. Danvers, she
would give her consent; but she knew that she could not long survive a
union which would utterly destroy her peace of mind.

The proud rebellious heart, which anger and reproaches could not subdue,
was overcome by gentleness and affection; and Agatha, throwing herself
on her mother’s neck, promised that she would endeavour to conquer a
passion which was likely to be so inimical to her mother’s peace. But
the next day Mrs. Torrington, on a renewal of the subject, and on being
more and more convinced, even by the confession of Agatha herself, that
a union with her lover would be the most imprudent of actions, gave way
immediately to a new burst of passion, and desired Agatha to remember,
that by the will of her father she was left wholly dependent on _her_,
and had only ten thousand pounds left her by her godmother which she
could call her own. This ill-timed remark was of all others the most
likely to awaken the pride and irritate the feelings of Agatha.

“Do you then threaten me, madam,” cried Agatha indignantly, “after
having had the meanness to impose on me by a tale of feigned illness?”
then, with a look and gesture of defiance, she suddenly left the room,
and retired to her own apartment, where she remained all day.

That evening, that fatal evening, she received a messenger from Danvers,
to inform her that he was waiting to speak to her in a wood near the
gate of the park; and urged by the dictates of ill-humour, and
resentment against her mother, even more than by the suggestions of
affection, she stole out unperceived to the place of rendezvous, whence
her lover, who had a chaise waiting, had little difficulty in persuading
her, in the then irritated state of her temper, to elope with him, and
become his wife without the privity or approbation of Mrs. Torrington.
In order to avoid pursuit, Danvers took care to have it reported in the
neighbourhood that he had carried Miss Torrington to Scotland; but he
preferred taking his victim to a village near London; and at the end of
a month, Agatha was led to the altar by a man who knew that at the
moment he pledged his faith to her, he had left a wife and family in
India.

There were two circumstances, relative to the ceremony that united
Agatha to Danvers, which it is proper for me to remark. The first is,
that the only person present at it, besides those concerned in it, was
the mistress of the house where they lodged, who, though far gone in a
decline, which carried her off in two months afterwards, chose, as she
had never seen a wedding, to accompany Agatha to church. And the second
is, that the clergyman who married her was in a few weeks after their
marriage killed on the spot by a fall from his horse.

Agatha for a few weeks thought herself happy; but she soon found that it
was easier for her to violate her duty than to be easy under the
consciousness of having done so; and with the entire approbation of
Danvers she wrote in affectionate and even humble terms to Mrs.
Torrington, to implore forgiveness. But the still irritated parent did
not even vouchsafe an answer to her letter; and this silence soon became
intolerable to Agatha; for, ere she had been a wife six months, she
discovered that she had married a man of no tenderness, no affections,
and who, now the novelty of her beauty was passed, and her fortune
nearly expended in paying his debts, regarded her in no other light than
as an encumbrance, and ran from the loud reproaches of her indignant
spirit, and soon irritated temper, to the society of other women, to the
tavern and the gaming-table. Nor was there any chance of his ever being
reclaimed; for it was not in the nature of Agatha to soothe any one; and
still less could she subdue her feelings so far as to endeavour to
please a man who was now on the point of becoming the object of her
contempt as well as her resentment; and Agatha, the repentant Agatha,
was, as a wife, in every point of view completely miserable.

“Well, sir,” said she one day to her tormentor, “if you will not give me
your own company, let me seek that of your friends. Introduce me, as you
promised you would do, to your relations.” Danvers turned round, looked
at her with a smile of great meaning and contempt, saying, “Never!” and
left the room in disorder.

Agatha was motionless with amazement and fear of she knew not what; for
why should she not be presented to his friends and relations? From this
moment a feeling of forlornness took possession of her mind, which not
even the consciousness that she was soon to enjoy the happiness of being
a mother, could overcome,—and she again sat down to address Mrs.
Torrington; who, though she had not written to her daughter, had so far
relented as to send her trunks and trinkets, as soon as she knew where
she was to be found. On this indulgence Agatha built hopes of future
pardon, and she wrote in the fulness of her hopes and of her gratitude.
Mrs. Torrington answered her letter; but she told her she would never
forgive her; and, had not a tear evidently dropped upon the paper, and
proved that she was more full of grief than indignation when she wrote,
Agatha would have despaired perhaps of ever being pardoned. But in the
first place her mother had deigned to write, and in the next place she
had wept while she wrote.

“Courage!” said Agatha to herself; “I will write to her again when I am
become a mother; and I think, I am _sure_ that the image of her only
daughter giving birth to her first child, unsoothed and unsupported by
her presence, will soften her heart in my favour, and she will receive
me and my poor babe into the safe asylum of her bosom;”—and then she
shed tears of bitterness at the recollection that, though a wife, she
was likely some time or other to need such an asylum.

At length Agatha gave birth to a daughter; and my heroine came into the
world welcomed, fondly welcomed, by the caresses and tears of her
mother, and received with sullen indifference by her vicious and
cold-hearted father.

“Now then,” thought Agatha, “I will write my intended letter;”—but in a
few days she became so ill that her life was despaired of; and Emma was
four months old before Agatha was able to announce her birth to Mrs.
Torrington. Indeed she had scarcely courage to begin the task; for she
had to entreat from her mother’s bounty, the means of living separate
from her husband, if she would not receive her and her child into her
own house; and Agatha hesitated to narrate the sad tale of her sorrows
and her injuries.

Danvers was now never at home; but she observed that he went out more
carefully dressed than usual, and commonly returned home sober, and at a
decent hour. She also observed that he wrote notes frequently, and in a
very neat hand, and on expensive paper. From these and other
circumstances, she conjectured that the present object that drew him so
frequently from home, and seemed to engross his thoughts when there, was
a woman of character and respectability, who might perhaps encourage his
addresses, not knowing that he was already married, and whose affections
might become irrevocably and fatally engaged.

Soon after, as she was taking an evening walk in St. James’ Park, with
her child and its maid, feeling herself tired, she sat down on one of
the chairs in the principal promenade,—when she saw her husband
approach, in company with some ladies elegantly dressed, and apparently
of great respectability. To one of these ladies, who leaned on the arm
of an elderly gentleman, she observed that Danvers paid the most devoted
attention, and that he addressed her in a low voice, while she replied
to what he said, with evident confusion and delight. She had sufficient
leisure to make these observations, as the party walked backwards and
forwards, slowly and frequently; and as she wore a thick veil, she could
observe them without any fear of being known even by her husband, if his
attention had not been wholly engrossed by his companion; while the
nursery-maid, though she wondered why the husband and wife did not
notice each other, was too much in awe of Agatha, even to say, “Look,
madam! there is my master!”

What Agatha now beheld, confirmed all her suspicions. She saw in
Danvers, that dangerous expression of countenance, and gentle
insinuation of manner, which had won her inexperienced heart; and she
left the Park, resolved to expostulate with him the next morning.

That night Danvers returned early, and in good-humour,—so much so,
luckily for Agatha, that he threw a purse of thirty guineas into her
lap, telling her that he had won the money at cards, and that she had a
right to share the luck she had occasioned; “for,” added he, laughing,
“you know the proverb says, ‘That if a man has bad luck in a wife, he
has good luck at cards.’” The fulness of Agatha’s torn heart, deprived
her of the power of answering him, and she deferred her intended
expostulation till the next day; when, in all the bitterness of a
wounded spirit, she told Danvers what she had witnessed; and disclosing
to him her suspicions of his intentions towards the young lady whom she
had seen, she declared that she would do all in her power to warn her of
her danger.

“She is in no danger,” replied Danvers, thinking the moment was now come
for him to throw off the mask entirely, “as you are no obstacle to my
marriage with her; for I am a single man now, and you never were my
lawful wife. Know, madam, when I led you to the altar, my friends and
relations could have informed your mother, if you had given her time to
make the proper inquiries, that I was married six years ago in India,
and that when I married you, I had a wife living in that country.”

Agatha heard him with speechless and overwhelming horror. Now then his
reluctance that she should see or correspond with any of her relations
and friends was explained, and his refusal to present her to his own;
now then the whole hopeless wretchedness of her fate was disclosed to
her. She saw that she was a mother, without being a wife; and that she
had given birth to a child who had no legal inheritance, and though not
the offspring of a mothers guilt, was undoubtedly the victim of a
father’s depravity! With the rapidity of lightning these overwhelming
certainties darted across her mind, and with the force of it they
stretched her in a moment senseless on the earth.

Slow and miserable was her recovery; and such was her frantic agony when
she took her child in her arms, that though her manners, too often under
the influence of her temper, had not conciliated the regard of the
persons where she lodged, the mistress of the house, whom Danvers had
sent to her assistance previously to his leaving home, when she found
her senses returning, hung over her with the appearance of compassionate
sympathy; and at length by her soothings moved the broken-hearted Agatha
to tears, which in all probability saved her from immediate destruction.

In a few hours she was able to form some projects for the future. To
remain even a night longer in the house with Danvers, was now, in her
just conceptions of propriety, criminal;—but whither should she go?
Would her mother consent to receive that child when proved to be only
the mistress of Danvers, whom she had refused to receive when she
appeared to be his lawful wife? She dared not anticipate the probable
answer of Mrs. Torrington;—but to fly from Danvers and implore the
protection of her mother was now her sole hope, her sole resource.

While she sat lost in mournful reverie, she heard Danvers return; and
shutting himself into his own apartment with great force, he continued
to walk about some time in violent agitation. At length he entered the
room where she was, and looked at her in silence with a countenance of
such savage and cruel defiance, that the original violence of her sorrow
returned, and she was carried to bed in a state of insensibility.

Had Agatha suspected the cause of Danver’s agitation, and the severity
in his expression when he looked at her, she would have felt emotions of
thankfulness, not of sorrow; for he had that morning received
intelligence which defeated the expectations of his love, and showed him
that his villany towards Agatha had been wholly unsuccessful. When he
informed her that he had, at the time of his marriage with her, a wife
living in India, he told her what he imagined to be true, (as he had
received information of his wife’s death only a few days preceding that
conversation;) and she, to whom the practice of falsehood was unknown,
implicitly believed the horrid truth which he asserted. But he had
scarcely left the house when a letter was put into his hands, containing
not only a detailed account of his wife’s illness and death, but also
the exact day, and even hour when she breathed her last; by which he
found that she had been dead full three weeks before he led Agatha to
the altar, and that consequently AGATHA TORRINGTON WAS HIS LAWFUL WIFE!
He also met at the house of his agent a woman of colour just arrived
from India, who was inquiring his address, and who, by the mother’s
advice, had brought over to England his only child, a beautiful boy of
five years old; and from her he received ample confirmation of the
intelligence which burthened him so unexpectedly with a wife whom he
disliked, and made it difficult and dangerous perhaps to prosecute his
endeavours to marry the woman whom he loved.

But as he grew calmer, he began to reflect that he had told Agatha she
was not his lawful wife, and she believed him; therefore he hoped he
should have no difficulty in keeping the real state of the case from her
knowledge. But in order to make “assurance doubly sure,” he resolved
that the woman of colour before mentioned should be introduced to
Agatha, in order to confirm his statement.

Nor was this woman averse to do so, when she heard his reasons for
requiring this service from her. In early life, this unhappy being, when
living at Calcutta in his father’s family, had been the favourite
mistress of Danvers; and she had ever remained so warmly attached to
him, that when he married, her affliction, and her hatred of his wife,
were so great, as to make it advisable for her to be sent up the
country, lest, in a transport of jealous fury, she might gratify her
hatred on her innocent and then beloved rival. But when she heard that
this rival was in her turn forsaken, and was separated from her
inconstant husband, she forgot her animosity; and hearing that Mrs.
Danvers was in want of a nurse maid to attend on her child, she returned
to Calcutta, where Mrs. Danvers resided, and became the attached and
confidential servant of that lady, who, on her death-bed, consigned her
son to her care, and charged her to see him safe into his father’s arms.

This charge of her dying mistress the faithful creature punctually
obeyed; and when, while inquiring for Danvers of his agent, he, as I
have stated before, unexpectedly entered, the sight of him renewed in
all its force the passion of her early youth; and as soon as he told her
that he had a wife whom he hated, and whom he wished to get rid of, she
was very ready to assist him, in the weak but natural hope that she
might, for a time at least, be his again. Had she known that Danvers
wanted to get rid of Agatha in order to obtain another woman, she would
not have shown such a pernicious alacrity to oblige him; but she now
readily promised to tell the falsehood which he dictated; and the next
morning, while Agatha, buried in thought, was leaning on her hands and
endeavouring to decide on some immediate plan of action, Danvers entered
the room, leading in his little boy, and followed by the woman of
colour.

At sight of the author of her misery, Agatha started, trembled, and rose
from her seat, with a look so terrible and so wild, that the frightened
Indian gazed on her with mingled awe and terror. Agatha, in compliance
with the wishes of Danvers, had never worn powder; she usually, when at
home, wore her hair, which was very thick and glossy, and had a natural
wave amidst its other beauties, parted on the forehead, and hanging down
on either side of her long and finely-formed throat. This flowing hair,
which was commonly kept in the nicest order, was now neglected, and it
fell disordered and dishevelled, while a long white bed-gown, loosely
folded round her, completed the disorder of her dress, and added to the
frantic appearance of her countenance and action.

“Who are these?” she demanded in a tone of desperation.

“This,” said Danvers, “is the faithful servant of my late wife, who
attended her in her last moments; and I have brought her hither, lest
you should be inclined to disbelieve my assurance that you never were my
lawful wife, in order to tell you the very day and hour on which she
died, namely, two months after my marriage with you.”

“It was wholly unnecessary, sir,” said Agatha, turning still paler than
before; “for I believed your own statement implicitly. But surely, sir,
you are liable to a prosecution for bigamy?” added Agatha.

“Undoubtedly I am,” replied Danvers; “but even if you had it in your
power to adduce evidence of my two marriages,—which you have _not_, nor
ever _can_ have,—still, I know your pride and delicacy to be too great
to allow you to proceed against me, especially as by so doing, you would
neither establish your own marriage, nor legitimate your child.”

“True,—most true,” said Agatha, shuddering. “But what child is this?”
said she, drawing near the little boy, who hid his face in his nurse’s
gown, as if alarmed at the approach of a stranger.

“It is my son,” replied Danvers.

“Ay,” returned Agatha, “your legitimate son. But what then is _this_
innocent babe?” snatching to her heart the child sleeping on a sofa
beside her.

Danvers, despite of his dauntless callousness of feeling, turned away in
confusion.

“Poor boy!” continued Agatha, “why shouldest _thou_ hide thy face, as if
in shame? for THOU art not the child of shame. Nor art thou either, poor
unconscious victim! Let me do myself justice,” she exclaimed, pressing
her child closely to her bosom; “it is for thy father, thou wilt have to
blush, not for thy mother!” Then with an air of proud insulted dignity,
she bade Danvers and the woman of colour, to be gone immediately;—and
as if awed by her manner, and conscious of her superiority, they
instantly and rapidly obeyed.

The rest of the day was spent by Agatha in forming plans for her future
conduct; and after long and varied deliberation, she resolved to write
to her mother again, but not till she could date her letter from a roof
unpolluted by the presence of the man who had betrayed her, and inform
her she had parted with him to behold him no more.

That night Danvers, to whom the dread of a discovery, in spite of the
pains which he had taken to prevent it, occasioned considerable
agitation, indulged more than usual in the excesses of the bottle, at
the tavern where he dined, and was brought home and put to bed in an
apoplexy of drunkenness. In the middle of the night, Agatha, who, unable
to sleep, was pacing the floor of her chamber in morbid restlessness,
thought she heard an alarming noise in Danvers’ apartment, from which
she was separated only by a dressing-room; and aware of the state in
which he returned, she stole gently to his door, from an impulse, not of
alarmed affection, but of principled humanity. She listened a few
moments, and all was still again; and the stillness alarming her as much
as the previous noise, she entered the chamber, and anxiously surveyed
her flushed and insensible betrayer.

But a few moments convinced her that she had nothing to apprehend for
his life; and she was gently returning, when she saw on the floor,
papers that had evidently dropped from the pocket of the coat, which was
thrown in a disordered manner on the chair, by the side of the bed.
Involuntarily she stooped, in order to replace them, and her eye glanced
on an open letter, sealed with black, addressed to George Danvers, Esq.,
Bruton Street, Berkely Square, London, _England_. An impulse not to be
resisted, urged her to read this letter. It probably was the one he
alluded to, containing the account of his wife’s death! and setting the
candle on a table, she opened it, and read the contents; which were such
as immediately to throw her on her knees in a transport of thanksgiving.
It was indeed the letter giving an account of Mrs. Danvers’ last
moments, and also of the very day and hour that she died; and Agatha, as
Danvers had done before, saw that beyond the power of doubt she herself
was THE LAWFUL WIFE of Danvers, and her child the offspring of a
LEGITIMATE MARRIAGE. When the transports of her joy and gratitude had a
little subsided, she folded the letter up and deposited it in her bosom,
resolved to keep it as a defence against the evidently villanous
intentions of Danvers; and with a lightened heart she returned to her
own apartment.

The next morning she made a small bundle of the clothes most requisite
for herself and child; and leaving a note for Danvers, informing him of
the discovery which she had made, and of her intention to take every
legal means to substantiate her marriage, bidding him at the same time
farewell for ever, she walked with her child in her arms, to a stand of
coaches, and having called one, desired the coachman to drive to a
street which she named, at some distance from Danvers’ lodgings, and
then to stop wherever he saw “Lodgings to let” in the window.

Luckily for Agatha, she found two apartments to let on the ground floor,
in a distressed but honest family; and having taken them for one week,
she sat down to deliberate on her best mode of proceeding. To obtain a
certificate of her marriage seemed a necessary step; but first she
resolved to write a full detail to her mother, flattering herself that,
as the conduct of Danvers was calculated to injure the fame of her
daughter, Mrs. Torrington’s pride might be roused to resent it, though
her tenderness might remain unmoved.

Unfortunately for Agatha, Danvers was of the same opinion; and as soon
as he found that Agatha was in possession of the letter, he took every
possible means in his power to frustrate the success of her application
to Mrs. Torrington, and to deprive her of every evidence that a marriage
with him had taken place. Danvers knew, though Agatha did not, that her
mother was at a retired watering-place, about a day’s journey from
London; and thither he immediately sent the woman of colour, and his
little boy, whose deep mourning and excessive beauty were, he well knew,
likely to attract the attention of all women, but more especially of
_mothers_.

Nor was he mistaken in his expectations. Mrs. Torrington observed and
admired the perhaps orphan child, who was constantly led along the walks
which she most frequented; and at last she could not help stopping the
servant to inquire the name or that beautiful child, and the cause of
the deep mourning which he wore.

“He is in mourning for Mrs. Danvers, [at this name Mrs. Torrington
started,] his poor mamma, who died a little while ago in India.”

“But has he no father?” asked Mrs. Torrington.

“O dear! yes,” replied the woman of colour, “A fine gentleman indeed,
Mr. George Danvers, formerly of —— regiment, who lives in Bruton
street, Berkely square, just now.”

“Impossible! quite impossible!” answered Mrs. Torrington, tottering to a
bench which was near her. “Surely that Mr. Danvers has a wife living!”

“A wife!” resumed the artful Indian with a look full of sarcastic
meaning. “No! my master never had any wife, I am sure, but my poor dear
mistress. That miss (Miss Torrington I believe her name is) who lives
with him only goes by his name, and is only his miss.”

It was too much for a mother to bear; and believing implicitly a tale
which seemed so plausible, Mrs. Torrington fell from her seat in a state
of insensibility, and it was many hours before she recovered her senses
and recollection. But at the very moment she did so, a letter from
Agatha was put into her hands, and torn unread into a thousand pieces;
while the woman of colour remained a few days longer at the
watering-place, in order to avoid any appearance of having come thither
merely to effect a purpose,—and then returned to the delighted Danvers,
who had no doubt of the success of his scheme in order to prevent the
money and power of Mrs. Torrington from being exerted in her daughter’s
favour.

But his machination did not end here. In the clerk at the church where
they were married, he had recognised an old friend and his assistant in
the unprincipled seduction of a farmer’s daughter; and who, though he
had to his great surprise, when he last saw him, found him in a
situation of trust and respectability, he was very sure was a being so
completely unprincipled as not to scruple any action, however bad, for
which his avarice was to receive a single gratification. Accordingly, he
set off for the village where he had been united to Agatha; and while
the church register was lying in the library of the rector, for the
purpose of having extracts made from it, the cleric, bribed by Danvers,
contrived to tear out the leaf which contained the evidence of his
marriage; and as, owing to circumstances, no copy had yet been taken of
the register, Danvers returned to his own apartments with the
consciousness of successful guilt.

Agatha, meanwhile, watched the arrival of the post every day with vain
and fruitless anxiety, till her feelings approached the very verge of
insanity, and the nourishment which she had hitherto afforded her child
began to be dried up; for dark and hopeless was the prospect before her.
At length, she wrote again to her mother. And this letter Mrs.
Torrington opened; but seeing that Agatha, presuming as she conceived on
her superior understanding, was trying to impose on her, by making her
believe that she was the deserted _wife_ of Danvers, she read only the
first sentence or two; then, in a letter of reproach and invective, she
returned it to the expecting and half-distracted Agatha.

Agatha received her own letter back, and read her mother’s with the calm
firmness of desperation, and also with the indignant pride of conscious
and outraged innocence. But where could she turn for assistance, advice,
and redress? She was too proud to confide in inferiors, too proud also
to apply, in that equivocal situation, which even exposed her to be
called infamous by a _mother_, to the scorn or suspicions of her own
relations and friends.

Yet something she must do; and her good sense taught her, as before,
that she must try to obtain a certificate of her marriage. Accordingly
she hired a coach, and drove, as Danvers had done, to the village where
they were married. She was directed to the clerk’s house; and little did
Agatha suspect with what malignant joy this base agent of her unworthy
husband saw her arrive at his door, and knew the errand on which she
came. For during her childhood this man had been a hanger-on in her
mother’s kitchen; and his little girl, a most lovely child, the darling
of his heart, had been often the playfellow of Agatha, and the slave of
her tyrannical humours. One day this uncorrected tyrant, in a fit of
passion, gave a blow to the poor child, who was forced into the misery
of playing with her; and though the blow itself could have done her
little injury,—in endeavouring to avoid it, she struck her head against
a marble table so severely that she was taken up stunned and apparently
dead; and while the terrified and therefore penitent Agatha was by her
criminally weak parent soothed and comforted as tenderly as her little
victim was by the parents who feared for her life, the father of the
endangered child breathed curses on the head of the unamiable Agatha,
and wished from the bottom of his soul to be revenged on her.

True—Agatha meant not to hurt so seriously the offending child, but who
can say where may terminate the consequences of a blow aimed by the hand
of passion! True—many presents were lavished on the child, when she
recovered, both by Mrs. Torrington and her daughter;—but the darling of
a father’s heart had suffered pain, and had experienced danger; and the
man hated the being that had inflicted them; for this darling did not
live to womanhood, and her father always believed this blow was the
occasion of her death.

Soon after he left the neighbourhood, and he never saw Agatha again till
he beheld her at the altar. He now saw her once more, and he had had the
_revenge_ on her which he desired. But his vengeance was going to be
more _amply_ gratified;—he was going to see her writhe under the misery
to which he had contributed.

Agatha was requested to alight, and the well-remembered face of the
clerk met her view. Still she had no idea _where_ she had seen him, and
he had no inclination to inform her; while with suppressed agitation she
begged to have a copy of the register of her marriage, mentioning the
day and hour when it was solemnized. The clerk feigned astonishment, and
looked at her as if he doubted her being in her senses. But Agatha
persisted in her statement and her demand, and the clerk at last
accompanied her to the church, having procured the keys of the vestry
closet from the sexton; and the register was opened at the month which
she mentioned. But in vain did she seek the record which she
required;—it was not there! and the helpless, injured Agatha stood
speechless with surprise! At length, however, indignation gave her
words, and turning scornfully round to Cammell—

“You are a villain!” she exclaimed, “and the mean agent of a greater
villain still. Let me see your rector himself; to his justice I shall
appeal.”

Cammell bowed; and said, “if the lady insisted on it, he would go to
him.”

“No,” replied Agatha; “I will accompany you, nor shall you quit my sight
till I have seen him.”

The clerk again bowed, and saying the lady must be obeyed, led the way
to the rector’s house. At the door the servant said his master was
dressing, but that the clerk might be admitted; and Agatha was,
unwillingly, forced to submit to this separation.

Her suspicions of its consequences were not unfounded. The clerk
described her as a maniac; a woman deprived of her senses by the
marriage of a man who had seduced and abandoned her; that she was become
mad, on the idea that she was his wife; and was in the habit of going to
different churches demanding a copy of her marriage register. It is not
to be wondered at, therefore, that the clergyman should, when he beheld
Agatha, discover immediately in her looks the frenzy attributed to
her;—and to her appeal for justice, and her accusation of her husband
and Cammell, he replied with shrugs of the shoulders, shakes of the
head, and “Really, ma’am, I can’t say,—I cannot believe——” which
drove the proud, irritable, and aggrieved Agatha into the real frenzy
which the clerk had feigned. And when the clergyman wished her good
morning, and attempted to leave the room, she, to his great
consternation, suddenly seized his arm, and commanded him to stay. Then
turning to Cammel, she started, mused a moment, and exclaimed,

“Where have I seen that dark and gloomy face before? It haunts my
recollection like some miserable remembrance of pain endured long
since!”

Here the clerk and the clergyman exchanged significant glances; and the
clerk, prefacing his words with a look of pity, and “Poor, distracted
creature!” assured him that he had never seen her before in his life.

“You are both in a league against me, I perceive,” said she, “and where
to turn, and what to do, I know not.—Sir,” (turning round so quickly as
to make the clergyman start,) “sir, who keeps the keys of the place
where you deposit the register?”

“Myself.”

“And you never trust them to others, except as I have myself witnessed
this day?”

“Never.”

“You never have it at your own house?”

“Yes; but then it is never out of my sight?”

“Never! And this you would swear in a court of justice?”

“I would.”

“And there, sir, you _shall_ swear it then,” replied Agatha.

Then darting at them both a look of ineffable and fierce disdain, she
walked majestically away; and, having found her coach, returned in an
agony of unspeakable wretchedness to London; while those whom she left
behind remained differently affected, though equally glad that she was
gone. The clergyman was really afraid of her, on account of her imagined
disorder, though at the same time he felt charmed by her beauty, and
awed by the evident dignity of her manner—the natural result of
conscious importance; while Cammell, though he rejoiced in his revenge,
was every moment afraid that Agatha would recollect him and his name,
and prove beyond a doubt that he had lied in declaring he had never seen
her before.

Meanwhile Agatha, with despair in her heart, arrived at her lodgings,
and was eagerly knocking at the door, having scarcely waited till the
step was put down; while, so anxious was she to see her child, whom she
had never left till now, that she forgot to ask the driver his fare. But
he surlily reminded her of her neglect, and made a most exorbitant
demand.

Agatha, however, complied with it immediately; and taking the purse
which Danvers had given her, and which once contained thirty guineas,
but was now reduced to much less than a fourth of the sum, she paid the
man what he required. But he, his avarice being awakened by a compliance
he so little expected, seized her arm, and told her she had not given
him enough, and he must and would have more.

Against this evident imposition even the fast-clouding intellect of
Agatha revolted, and she refused to comply; but alarmed at the violence
of the coachman, and the crowd that began to gather, her hand dropped
the purse, which scattered the guineas around as it fell.

The coachman immediately let go his hold; and Agatha feeling herself at
liberty, and hearing her child cry, rushed into the then opening door,
and was not conscious she had dropped her purse till the maid of the
house brought it to her a few minutes afterwards, declaring that the
coachman and the crowd had run away with all but one solitary
guinea.—But she spoke to one who heard her not.

The mistress of the lodging-house had met Agatha on her return, holding
her screaming child in her arms, who had been vainly for some time
requiring the food which her fevered and agitated mother, even when she
arrived, could no longer bestow on her. And while the poor woman, who
had never been a mother herself, was lamenting her inability to offer
either advice or assistance, Agatha sat in still, desponding silence,
clasping the gradually sinking child to her heart, and ruminating sad
and desperate resolutions.

At length she started up, and, wrapping her child in a large mantle,
with outward composure but inward perturbation, told her landlady that
she was obliged to leave the lodgings directly; and on begging to know
what she was indebted to her, she heard with horror, that the sum
exceeded, far exceeded, the guinea which, Agatha now comprehended, was
all that remained of her once well-filled purse!

“Do not distress yourself thus, madam,” said the kind-hearted woman, to
whom her own sorrows had taught sympathy with those of others, “it is
not much, and we can wait; and if you never pay us, it does not
signify.”

“I shall never be able to pay you if I do not pay you now,” replied
Agatha in a mournful and solemn tone; “but I believe my clothes are more
than worth the money. I shall therefore leave them behind me; and if you
do not hear from me in a month’s time, look on them as your property.”

The woman, alarmed, she scarcely knew why, by the manner of Agatha,
earnestly entreated her to remain one night longer where she was, and
offered to go in search of a wet nurse for the child. But Agatha, by a
commanding look, imposed silence on her importunities; and, borrowing a
shilling to pay her coach-hire, desired a coach to be called, and took a
feeling, though distant, farewell of her anxious and kind hostess.

The coachman had driven Agatha, who knew little of the geography of
London, as far as Windmill-street, on her way to Westminster-bridge,
when she recollected that probably a shilling would not be sufficient to
pay her fare thither. Accordingly she stopped the coach, and, desiring
to be set down, got out, offered the shilling as payment, and was
relieved to find that it was immediately accepted.

“I can ask my way thither,” said Agatha to herself, “it is the only
trouble I shall ever again give my fellow-creatures;” and she pressed
her sleeping, because exhausted, babe still closer to her bosom; while
the grave appeared her only place of refuge. For Agatha was married, yet
had no husband; had a mother, yet was motherless; she was herself a
parent, without the means of prolonging the existence of her child; she
was spotless in virtue, yet was believed criminal even by the mother who
bore her in her bosom; she had uttered her just complaints, and had been
treated as a maniac; and discarded by the only being who could enable
her to redress her wrongs, where on _earth_ could she look for succour
and for sustenance!

“I will seek the mercy and pardon of my God!” she exclaimed, and with a
firm voice she desired to be shown the way to Westminster-bridge. But
she was told it in vain; and in Cockspur-street she was again at a loss,
and was debating of whom she should next inquire, when, just as a most
severe summer shower began to fall, she was forced to stand up against
the door of a shop in order to avoid a carriage. The pale face of Agatha
was slightly shaded by so very costly a lace veil, depending from a
small straw bonnet, and around her tall majestic figure was wrapt a
laced muslin mantle of such curious texture, and her air and mien were
so pure and so commanding, that it was impossible for her to be mistaken
either for a servant, or for a depraved woman, or indeed for any thing
but what she was—a gentlewoman. Yet this lady, as every thing about her
proved her to be, was wandering alone in the streets of London, and
carrying, like a menial, an infant in her arms.

“This is very strange,” said a Mr. Orwell to himself, as Agatha stopped
against his door; and his wife’s countenance expressed equal surprise
with that of her husband.

It was a bright evening in the first week of July, undimmed even by the
shower then falling, for that glittered with the evening rays; and many
of the inhabitants of Cockspur-street stood at their doors to enjoy the
genial season. The door of Mr. Orwell’s shop was very near that of his
parlour, which also stood open, and he and his wife were drinking tea,
and seeing the carriages and people pass; when Agatha, after throwing a
wild unconscious look into the shop, stood up, as I before said, for
safety. There was something in her look, her dress, her air, which
irresistibly impelled Mr. Orwell to start from his seat and approach
her; and an impulse equally strong led his wife to follow his example.
Coach after coach continued to impede the progress of the passengers,
and barrow after barrow; while the increasing rain made all who were not
provided with umbrellas, seek shelter in some friendly doorway. But
Agatha remained in the wet, unconscious that it rained; and, turning
round, her wild, yet sunk eye, met that of Mr. Orwell.

“Pray, madam, come in,” said he, in an accent of kindness, an accent
made kinder than it was wont to be, by recently-experienced affliction;
“it rains very hard, and you will be wet through, ma’am.”

“Ay, pray do come in, and sit down till the rain is over,” said his
equally kind wife; and Agatha, though she scarcely knew why she did so,
complied with their request, and entered the shop.

“Here is a chair, ma’am,” said Mr. Orwell; and Agatha took it; but to
sit was impossible. She hastily arose, and began, ill-suited as the
narrow bounds of the place were for the purpose, to pace backwards and
forwards, with the maniacal walk of overwhelming misery. Here a faint
cry from the infant called her attention to it, and awakened still more
forcibly that of the Orwells.

“I thought it was a child you were carrying, madam,” said Mrs. Orwell.
“May I, without offence, beg leave to look at it?”

“It is not worth looking at _now_,” replied Agatha, unclosing the
mantle; and Mrs. Orwell brushed away a tear, caused by a painful
recollection, as she saw in its pale and sunken cheek, the evident
approaches of death. Agatha saw her tear, and understood it.

“It will not suffer long!” said she; “neither shall I;” and she
pronounced this in a tone of voice so deep, so solemn, and with a look
so expressive of the resolution of despair, that Mr. Orwell, who was
gazing on her when she spoke, guessed the misery, and suspected the
desperate purpose of her soul.

“I will follow and not lose sight of her,” said he, mentally; “but first
I will endeavour to draw her into the relief of conversation.”

Agatha had resumed her walk, and extended it into the parlour, where the
tea yet smoking in the cups, and new bread, attracted her unconsciously,
and she recollected that she had not eaten food for days. Mrs. Orwell
observed the eager look she cast on the well-filled table, and with
great humility,—for she saw that Agatha, as she afterwards expressed
it, was “somebody,”—asked her to take a cup of warm tea, to counteract
the cold, should her wet clothes have exposed her to it; and Agatha, her
wonted pride yielding to her sense of fatigue and hunger, gave a ready
assent; and in a moment more she was seated at the humble board of Mr.
and Mrs. Orwell.

“Well; I am degraded for the last time!” said Agatha to herself; and she
immediately began to ask her way to Westminster-bridge.

“To Westminster-bridge!” said Mr. Orwell, looking at her steadfastly;
“It is past eight o’clock, and it will soon be dark; what can a young
lady like you, burthened too with an infant, do at such a place at this
late hour?”

“I am going to meet a friend there,” said Agatha, sighing deeply.

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Orwell. “Well, Mr. Orwell, I’m sure, will see you
safe so far, if you will allow him.”

“No, madam,” replied Agatha, haughtily, “I shall go _alone_.”

Mrs. Orwell was awed, and begged her pardon submissively, but Mr. Orwell
coolly replied, “You shall go alone, or with me, as you please, madam,
but not till you have had a hearty meal here, so pray condescend to sit
down again;” while, presenting Agatha with some bread and butter, he
opened a cupboard and offered her some cold meat, to tempt and gratify
the ravenous appetite with which she devoured whatever was set before
her.

“You are very kind,” said Agatha, “and this is so welcome to me! I had
not tasted food for hours—no, not for days.”

“No! Then to be sure you are not a _nurse_?” observed Mrs. Orwell.

“I _was_ a nurse,” said Agatha; “but all is dry here now,” putting her
hand on her bosom.

Mr. Orwell left the room.

“No wonder;—if you starve yourself, you must starve your child.”

Agatha started. “True—most true,” she replied, “but if——” (“If I have
no money to buy food,” she meant to say.)

“If you were to eat and drink, the poor little thing might still live
and do well,” resumed Mrs. Orwell, who in her zeal in the cause of
maternity, forgot her fear of Agatha; “and I wonder you can answer it to
your conscience, not to do all you can for it. In the meantime, let us
see what _I_ can do.”

Immediately, and while Agatha, now alive only to the idea of relieving
her famished infant, sat gazing in wild but still expectation, Mrs.
Orwell ordered some milk to be warmed, and in a very few minutes by
artificial means, known to her who had been herself a mother, the
exhausted infant sucked nourishment eagerly and copiously while she lay
on Mrs. Orwell’s lap;—and Agatha, encouraged by Mrs. Orwell to expect
with certainty the restoration of her babe, uttered a wild hysteric
scream of joy, and sank back, laughing and almost convulsed, into the
arms of Mr. Orwell, who at that moment returned.

“My dear,” said Mr. Orwell, while his wife was administering remedies to
her interesting charge, “I trust we have not saved the child only!” And
as he gazed on Agatha, tears in quick succession rolled down his cheek.
“My dear,” resumed he, “I see a likeness; don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Orwell, with a deep sigh; “especially now that her
eyes are closed, and she looks so like death. Our poor child, when
dying——” Here emotion broke off her speech.

“I wish she was not a lady,” said the old man; “else for the child and
grandchild we have just lost, it should seem that Providence had thus
sent us this distracted stranger and her poor babe.”

At length Agatha completely recovered her senses and her powers, and
found her head resting on the compassionate bosom of Mr. Orwell, who if
she had been a neighbour’s child, would have pressed the poor forlorn
one to his heart, and bidden her be comforted. But Mr. Orwell’s feelings
towards Agatha, were checked by the cold and haughty dignity of her
mien, which not even affliction could subdue; and before she could
herself proudly withdraw from his supporting arm, he had resigned her to
the care of his wife.

Strange, mixed, and almost insupportable sensations returned with her
senses to the heart of Agatha; and pride yet unsubdued,—for I believe
the proud are rendered prouder still by adversity,—urged her to leave
these kind but lowly strangers, who had stopped her on her way to the
peace and independence of death.—”But _must_ she die? Could she not
live and her poor infant too?” And the moment she had once borne to ask
herself the question, the reign of despair was beginning to cease, and
that of hope to return.

“It still rains,” said Mr. Orwell, “and is now nearly dark; your friend,
madam, at Westminster-bridge cannot expect you now! Allow me to see you
to your own house.”

Agatha started, shuddered, and hid her face in her hands.

“Madam, I wait your commands,” said Mr. Orwell, taking his hat down from
the peg; “Shall I call a coach, and see you home?”

“I have no home!” exclaimed Agatha wildly. “Nor, when I leave this
hospitable shelter, know I where to seek another, except—”

Here she remained choked by violent emotions; while Mr. Orwell,
replacing his hat, eagerly locked the street door of his shop, ordered
the shutters to be closed, and drawing a chair seated himself by the
side of Agatha.

“My dear young lady,” said he, “excuse my freedom; but my home is yours
for this night at least; and were you not so much our superior, it
should be yours as long as we lived, as I am sure guilt has had no share
in your evident distress.”

“Bless you! bless you for that!” said Agatha. “You, _you_ do me justice;
you a stranger, while _she_—”

“Allow me,” said Mr. Orwell, “to tell you something of the man who thus
presumes. Perhaps it is merely the suggestions of my own conceit; but I
cannot help thinking you must have considered my language as superior to
my situation in life.”

Agatha only bowed; for she had not thought on the subject; and Mr.
Orwell continued thus:—

“I have known better days, and having been heir to great wealth,
received a suitable education. But unfortunate speculations ruined my
father, and I was glad at last to settle in this little shop, where in
the bosom of my family I became obscurely indeed but thoroughly happy;
and I blessed the present goodness, without ever repining at the past
severe dispensations of Providence. I had not, however, yet suffered my
appointed share of affliction. I had an only _daughter_;—she married,
had a child, and came to die in _our arms_;—she _did_ do so; but still
we were resigned; despair was never in our hearts nor its expressions on
our lips; but we suffered, suffered deeply, and we still suffer——”

Here he hid his face, and wept; and Agatha, though at first felt
inclined to resent being thus _preached_ to, conscious of the
obligations she owed him, sat and listened with evident attention and
sympathy.

Mrs. Orwell, meanwhile, was still nursing the sleeping babe of Agatha,
and weeping as she did so; while her husband went on.

“My dear young lady, you resemble our poor child, and——”

“Ay, you do indeed,” cried Mrs. Orwell with a violent burst of sorrow;
“and when you lay just now looking so like death, I could not help
kissing your pale lips, and fancying you my poor Mary. Oh! that you were
not, as I see you are, a lady, though now so sad and friendless; for
then I could throw myself on your neck, and call you my lost daughter,
my dear—dear Mary!”

Agatha’s heart could not stand this appeal to its best feelings; every
emotion of pride was annihilated; and bursting into a flood of tears,
the first she had shed for many days, she threw herself on the neck of
Mrs. Orwell, and exclaimed, “Do call me your child, your Mary, if it
will relieve your poor heart!” And when composure was a little restored,
Agatha, whose oppressed head and bosom had been greatly relieved by
crying, blessed her in the most affectionate manner for having saved her
child and her also from destruction.

“Well, but you will stay here till you can do something better?” said
Mrs. Orwell.

“You shall have a room to yourself,” said her husband; “and you shall
pay me what you will, either little or much.”

“I have not a shilling in the world!” cried Agatha.

“I am glad of it,” replied Mrs. Orwell; “for then you may be pleased to
stay with us.”

“I fear _not_,” observed Mr. Orwell; while Agatha gratefully and
gracefully pressed his wife’s hand to her quivering lip. But a sudden
thought struck across her brain;—she jumped up, she ran into the shop,
examined the contents of the shop windows; and returning with a
countenance radiant with renewed hope and joy, she fell on her knees,
and audibly returned thanks to God for having allowed her to be snatched
from irremediable perdition.

Her new friends listened and beheld her with considerable alarm, and
feared her frenzy had only taken a new turn. But they were relieved when
Agatha, as soon as tears—tears of joy—would allow her to speak, told
them she had discovered that they sold prints, patterns, water-coloured
drawings, and paintings of flowers.

“To be sure we do,” said Mrs. Orwell; “but what then, my dear young
lady?”

“Why then you can employ _me_, and I shall be able to maintain myself
and child by the exertion of those talents which to the rich heiress
were only the source of most pernicious vanity.”

“And you are a good artist then, are you?” said Mr. Orwell doubtingly;
for he knew something of art, and of what lady artists too often are.

“You shall _see_ what I can do,” said Agatha; and she took from her
pocket a miniature of her mother.

“Excellent!” said Orwell. “A copy, I presume?”

“No! an _original_; but that is not all; give me a pencil and paper, and
let me sketch that dear group.”

He gave them to her; and in a few minutes she designed with great skill
and accuracy, Mrs. Orwell and her child upon her lap.

“Admirable!” said the delighted and convinced old man. “It is not so
handsome as my old woman, to be sure; but it is a very pretty sketch.
Why, madam, you may make my fortune and your own too. And what else can
you do?”

“I can paint much better than those unnatural, stiff, ill-coloured
groups of flowers for patterns are painted. In short, I am somewhat
skilled in every branch of your trade, and you will save me from
distraction and death by promising to employ me to the very utmost.”

Words cannot express the joy of the benevolent and affectionate old
couple, as Agatha spoke thus.

“Then you will _stay_ with us now?” said Mrs. Orwell.

“Yes,” said Mr. Orwell, “now you can do so without incurring pecuniary
obligation;—for I see, young lady, that you have your full share of the
pride of a gentlewoman, and have not yet been afflicted _long_ enough to
be humble. However, _who_ you are, and _what_ you are, you will tell us
when _you choose_.”

“All I _can_ tell you, I will tell you _now_,” returned Agatha. “I am a
_deserted wife_, and a discarded daughter; but I am _innocent_; and now
that I have a prospect of being able to earn a livelihood, I may one day
live to triumph over my enemies. Perhaps some time or other I may tell
you more;—but now I wish to suspend the operation of painful images on
my mind. O ye kind, generous, Christian beings, who, though I was a
stranger, took me in, and cherished me!—may you in your last moments be
soothed by the reflection that you were the means of saving from
destruction, from _self_-destruction, a wretched, injured, but
_virtuous_ fellow-creature!”

“Hush! hush! don’t speak so loud,” said Mrs. Orwell, smiling through her
tears; “you’ll wake the dear babe. Well, I’ll put it to bed, for the bed
is ready for you, my dear—_madam_, I mean.” And Agatha, affectionately
pressing Mrs. Orwell’s hand, followed her to her apartment. It was a
clean and quiet though not a spacious chamber, and Agatha, with a
relieved and grateful heart, retired to the prospect of rest which it
afforded her; and having again fed her evidently recovering infant, she
soon sank into repose by its side.

In the morning, Agatha, wondering, humbled, sad, yet no longer
despairing, awoke to mingled and overpowering sensations; amidst which,
gratitude to her Maker for preservation from a sinful death, was the
predominant feeling;—and happy would it have been for her, had not the
sentiment of grateful adoration to God been nearly paralleled by one of
vindictive resentment towards a fellow-creature, and that
fellow-creature the mother who had given her being. But TEMPER, the bane
of Agatha’s existence and the ruler of her conduct, towered in all its
strength by the side of her religious emotions, and rendered vain the
resources against the evils of her situation, to which a person
uninfluenced by temper would gladly have had recourse. True it was that
her husband had denied her to be his wife, and destroyed, as she could
not doubt, one evidence of his marriage with her;—but did it follow
that there was no other remaining, which legal means might not enable
her to procure? True it was, that her mother had renounced her, and
declared her belief that she was only the mistress of Danvers. But she
had powerful though not near relations in London; and it was most likely
that the tale she had to tell them, though they might at first
disbelieve it, would at last find its way to their hearts, and through
them, to her mother’s, by the irresistible and omnipotent power of
truth.

But Agatha derived a sad and sullen joy, a malignant consciousness of
future revenge, from the idea that one time or other, when no one could
know and no one disclose the fate of her lost daughter, the mother who
had dared to suspect the virtue of that daughter, and to discard her in
consequence of that suspicion, would regret her lost child, would wish
she had been less hasty to condemn her, and feel in all its bitterness,
the agony of a fault, for which it was no longer in her power to make
any reparation. It was perhaps an angry feeling like this, that, adding
force to the other source of misery, prompted her to the resolution of
committing violence on her and her infant’s life;—for there is little
doubt that suicides have been often, very often, occasioned merely by
the vindictive wish of planting an everlasting thorn in the breast of
the parent, the lover, the mistress, the wife, or the husband, whose
conduct has in the opinion of the weak sufferer, the slave of an
ill-governed temper, excited the terrible cravings of a vicious
resentment.—Sure is it, that Temper,—like the unseen, but busy
subterranean fires in the bosom of a volcano, is always at work where it
has once gained an existence, and is for ever threatening to explode,
and scatter ruin and desolation around it. Parents, beware how you omit
to check the first evidences of its empire in your children; and
_tremble_ lest the powerless hand which is only lifted in childish anger
against you, should, if its impotent fury remains uncorrected, in future
life be armed with more destructive fury against its own existence, or
that of a fellow-creature!

“No,” said Agatha to herself, “I will conceal my name and my wrongs in
oblivion the most complete. Not even the good and generous beings to
whom I owe my life and its continuance, shall be informed of them; but
sustained by the proud consciousness of my own desert, I will be
all-sufficient to myself and to my child; and the injured heiress of
thousands shall derive more honourable pride from the exertions of her
talents in honest industry, than she ever felt as the idol of an
interested crowd.”

And, unfortunately, the persevering obstinacy of Agatha, led her to
adhere rigidly to the determination which Temper led her to form. Had
she not done so,—had she opened her heart, and told the tale of her
injuries to the benevolent Mr. Orwell,—it is possible that his
representations might have induced such a line of conduct as would have
been the means of restoring her to her mother, and might have enabled
her to establish her marriage beyond dispute; for Mr. Orwell would have
advised her to have immediate recourse to legal advice, and would gladly
have afforded her the means of doing so.

But her resolution was taken, and she never allowed herself to suppose
that from her resolves there could ever be any appeal.

At an early hour Agatha, who with the feeling of a real gentlewoman
wished to conform to the hours of her hosts, took her seat at the
breakfast-table, and with a quivering lip beheld her child received into
the arms of Mrs. Orwell, while her husband took her seat and occupation
at the board. Still, spite of the even parental kindness of these
excellent people, Agatha felt that she was not in her place; and
notwithstanding her efforts to be affable, she was at last only
graciously condescending.

“You are not so like our poor Mary to-day,” said Mrs. Orwell,
attentively regarding her.

“No,” said Mr. Orwell; “our Mary was not a lady, and therefore, had not
the look or air of one; nor had she this lady’s beauty.”

“Our Mary was very pretty, my dear,” interrupted Mrs. Orwell, “and
looked so good and sweet-tempered!”

“She was certainly quite perfect in her parents’ eyes,” replied Mr.
Orwell, the big drops swelling in his eyes;—”but she is gone—and it is
a comfort we cannot be too grateful for, that we were allowed to
administer to her wants during her last illness:—

            ‘On some fond breast the parting soul relies,’”

added he, willing perhaps to show off his little reading to Agatha. But
he was interrupted by her starting from her chair, and paring with
distempered haste the narrow floor of the room.

“Excellent people!” said she at length, taking a hand of each, and
pressing them affectionately—”you feel as parents should feel;—and
would I had been in reality your Mary! for then I should have breathed
my last on a bosom which loved me.—But now——!”

Here her voice failed her, and she burst into tears. And as she viewed
her softened eye, her languid air, poor Mrs. Orwell again recognised her
lost Mary.

“But come,” said Agatha with a more cheerful countenance, as soon as
breakfast was over; “let us to business—I long to be earning money;
procure me some flowers, and I will paint a group immediately.” And in a
very short time Mr. Orwell had procured the best flowers Covent-garden
afforded; while Agatha was diligently employed in copying them.

As soon as the group was finished, it was exhibited by the delighted Mr.
Orwell in the shop-window; and to his and Agatha’s satisfaction, it was
sold as soon as it was seen. It was bought by a gentleman of some rank
and distinction in society, and he bespoke eleven more by the same
artist, as he wanted them to decorate some particular room in a villa
which he had lately purchased; promising, at the same time, to recommend
Mr. Orwell’s shop to all his friends.

“It was a kind Providence for me as well as you, madam,” said Mr.
Orwell, “that brought you to my house.”

“I trust it will turn out so,” said the gratified Agatha, who worked
with such assiduity, that in a very short time the twelve paintings were
completed, and declared admirable by the satisfied purchaser.

By this time Mrs. Orwell, who was become used to Agatha’s “grand
manner,” as she called it, and who naturally enough was attached to her
by a sense of the benefit she had conferred, was very desirous to learn
whether she meant to continue with them, especially as she had
contrived, by removing their own bed to the top of the house, to make a
sitting-room for Agatha. But the latter, though her heart glowed with
gratitude towards these excellent people as her preservers, could not
prevail on herself to remain an inmate of their house, nor indeed of any
other in London. She felt, in this respect wisely felt, that though Mr.
Orwell had been a gentleman, and had had the education of one, (however
his manners might have lost some of their habitual polish by collision
with vulgar society,) Mrs. Orwell was only a tradesman’s wife; and she
knew that not Only her pride but her taste would be offended by constant
association with one so much her inferior; and whose affectionate
familiarity she might, however reluctantly, be at times forced to repel.
For it is not pride alone, but a sense of fitness, that makes persons
prefer living with their equals to association with their inferiors.

It is the want of equal education that makes the great difference
between man and man; and the bar that divides the vulgar man from the
gentleman is not a paltry sense of superior birth, but a feeling of
difference, a consciousness of different habits, ways of thinking, and
manners—the result of opposite situations.

“No, no—I cannot, must not stay here,” said Agatha to
herself;—”besides, I long for the country, and some wild sequestered
place where my infant may derive health and strength from the mountain
breeze, and I may escape all chance of being known.”

But in order to reach “this mountain breeze,” it would be necessary for
Agatha to undertake a long and expensive journey, and live at a most
inconvenient and expensive distance from the metropolis. Her drawings
and paintings for sale would in that case be some days on the road, and
the carriage to London, consequently, considerably diminish the profits
of her employers. She was therefore at last prevailed upon by Mr. Orwell
to reside in a village in Sussex, sufficiently lonely, bleak, and
desolate, to satisfy the gloomy and unsocial taste of Agatha;
sufficiently near the sea to make it a healthy residence in her opinion
for her child, and near enough to the metropolis for purposes of
business; while Mr. Orwell pleased himself with the idea that he could
occasionally step into a stage-coach, and in twelve hours’ time be set
down within a walk of the habitation of Agatha. Besides, his benevolence
was gratified by being enabled from Agatha’s choice of the abode he had
recommended to be of pecuniary service, without her knowledge that he
was so. He had hired rooms for her in the house of a dependent relation
of his, and binding the woman to secresy, he had desired her to ask of
Agatha only such a sum for the apartments, paying her himself the real
rent which she had a right to demand.

Agatha, when she arrived at her new abode, resolved in solitude the most
rigorous, to devote her days to unremitting industry, in order to
maintain herself and child; endeavouring at the same time to impart to
her little Emma those accomplishments and refinements which she had
herself been taught, in order that she might be able to acquit herself
with propriety and elegance, when (as Agatha had no doubt she would be,)
she should be called upon to emerge from obscurity, and move in that
sphere of life in which her birth had originally designed her to move.
For Agatha was sure, she scarcely knew why perhaps, that her mother
would not always remain inexorable; and though resolved never to hold
communion herself with her tardily relenting parent, she looked forward
with angry pleasure to the time when she would become an object of
unavailing regret to her mother, and her daughter an object of pride and
of tenderness. In the meanwhile, her natural activity, both of body and
of mind, being rendered still more vigorous by an almost frenzied sense
of injury and unkindness, she exerted her varied talents to the utmost,
and had the satisfaction of knowing that she thereby increased, to a
considerable degree, the profits of her affectionate benefactors; though
they could not often prevail on themselves to sell a drawing, however
good, that seemed taken from Agatha or her child; for “if we did not
give, we at least saved their lives,” said Mr. Orwell; “and every
memorial of their persons is precious to us from that recollection.”

But to return to Mrs. Torrington,—who, deceived by the arts of Danvers
into a belief of her daughter’s infamy, gave way to all the indignation
which a proud and virtuous woman would feel on such a conviction; and
while she returned to brood in solitude over her shame and her distress,
to her sequestered seat in Cumberland, she was surprised there by a
visit from her cousin, the honourable Mr. Castlemain, one of her
earliest friends and admirers, but whose suit she had rejected in favour
of Mr. Torrington.

Mr. Castlemain, faithful to his first attachment, had never married; and
hearing of the distress in which Agatha’s conduct had involved her
mother, he hastened from the continent, where he had long resided, in
order to express to her in person his sympathy in her sorrow, with a
hope perhaps as yet scarcely defined to himself, that in her forlorn and
childless state Mrs. Torrington might be induced to listen to his
addresses, and secure to herself an attached and affectionate companion.
Nor was he deceived in his expectations. Mrs. Torrington, grateful for
his long and faithful affection, and eager to lose in new ties the
remembrance of those which appeared dissolved for ever, consented to
become his wife; and the birth of another daughter had in a degree
reconciled her to the loss of Agatha, when, four years after her
marriage with Mr. Castlemain, death deprived her not only of a husband
whom she sincerely esteemed, but of the child to whom she looked for a
renewal of all that happiness which Agatha’s conduct had deprived her
of. At first she almost sank under the blow; but as she recovered her
powers of reflection, the idea that Agatha, though disgraced and
distant, was yet alive, presented itself, and spoke peace to her wounded
mind. “After all, she is my child!” said Mrs. Castlemain to herself,
“and it was cruel to discard her for a first and only fault; for who
knows what base arts were used to mislead her!” And from the moment she
had allowed herself to think and feel thus, she became constantly
solicitous to discover the residence of Agatha. But her solicitude was
heightened almost to frenzy by the following circumstance.

There is probably no heart so callous, no human being so thoroughly
depraved, as not to feel at some moment the agonizing pang of remorse
and compassion towards the victim of its successful villany.—When
Danvers recollected that he had put it out of the power of Agatha to
obtain a copy of the certificate of her marriage at the church where the
ceremony took place, and that owing to accident no copy of it had been
previously transmitted according to the usual forms to any other
register, he knew that he was perfectly secure from any legal
prosecution in order to establish the fact of the marriage having taken
place, and that his subsequent conduct, in order to make Mrs. Torrington
discard her daughter entirely, had been a piece of villany as needless
as it was detestable. Concluding also from Agatha’s temper and
disposition that her mother’s rejection of her on the plea that she was
only a mistress, though she endeavoured to make herself be received as a
wife, would in all probability drive his unhappy victim to the frenzy of
desperation, and involve his child also in all the misery incident to a
deserted orphan,—he in a moment of remorse and self-condemnation wrote
to Mrs. Torrington before he sailed for the West Indies, to assure her
that he had really led Agatha to the altar, and that, as she never even
suspected he had a wife living, she was consequently in intention as
pure and virtuous as when she left her mother’s house; adding, that as
soon as she found she was not his lawful wife, she had fled from him for
ever, carrying her child along with her; and he ended by conjuring Mrs.
Torrington to give her innocent and injured daughter an asylum under her
roof.

Though no representations from a man of such confessed profligacy as
Danvers was, were worthy of credit, still Mrs. Castlemain did not for a
moment hesitate to believe even his testimony to the innocence of
Agatha, a belief at the same time precious though agonizing to her
heart; and wild with remorse, regret, and anxiety, she left no means
untried to find out the retreat of the sufferer, and induce her to
return to the arms of her repentant mother. Danvers, meanwhile,
satisfied that if Agatha lived she would be restored to the favour of
her mother, or that his child at least would receive from her the
protection of a parent, left England with a mind lightened of a
considerable load, and felt himself less painfully haunted than he had
lately been by the image of his victim. Of Mrs. Torrington’s second
marriage he had never heard, nor of her change of abode. The letter,
however, as I have stated above, reached her in safety, and occasioned
her repeated and long unavailing endeavours to discover the retreat of
her daughter.

But no traces could be found of this long-lost daughter; and at last,
despairing of any other means, Mrs. Castlemain caused a paragraph or
advertisement, addressed to “Agatha,” to be inserted in every paper,
desiring that an answer should be directed to her lawyer in London. But
as Agatha never saw a newspaper, this advertisement would have appeared
in vain, had not Mr. Orwell seen it, who suspecting that the Agatha so
addressed was the interesting object of his benevolence, sent the
newspaper immediately down to her.

Agatha, in the mean time, had been endeavouring to make herself amends
for the loss of other ties, by inspiring her child with an exclusive
attachment to herself. “She is all to me, and I will be all to her!” was
her constant exclamation; and when she fancied “Agatha,” as she _now_
called her, (since “Emma,” the name of her mother, after whom she had
christened her, was become odious to her,) was old enough to understand
her, she used to delight in telling her the story of her cruel
treatment; and she took a sad and savage pleasure in hearing her express
hatred of her grandmother and her father, because they had been so cruel
to her dear mamma;—while the lesson of deep resentment for a mother’s
wrongs was daily inculcated. But, though Agatha hated, or rather
despised her husband, she was far from feeling sentiments of this nature
in reality towards her mother; for her conscience told her she had
violated her duty in marrying contrary to the laws of decorum and the
express will of a parent; and though she could not remember without
indignation that her mother had presumed to question the purity of her
conduct, she felt that it was but justice to make allowance for those
violent and resentful feelings, which after all were the result of her
own disobedience.

Such was her frame of mind when she received a parcel from Mr. Orwell;
and the address to “Agatha,”—an address so worded that she could not
but immediately feel that she was the person addressed,—met her eager
eye, and convulsed her whole frame with emotion.

“So then,” cried she, “I am at last forgiven, regretted, and solicited
to return to the home so long denied me:—Be it so; and when I am on my
death-bed I too will forgive, and be contented to be forgiven—but not
before.”

Still, in spite of this angry resolution, she read the welcome address
of parental affection over and over again; and several times she caught
herself calling her daughter by the long prohibited name of Emma, the
name of her mother; and as she did so the last time, she burst into
tears, and folded the astonished child to her bosom with emotions of a
various and contending nature. But the name so recalled to her memory
and her tongue, was not again banished thence.

“I am Agatha, not Emma, mamma,” said the little girl.

“You are both, my dear,” replied her mother, making an effort to
restrain her tears; “and henceforth I shall call you Emma.”

Another and another week elapsed; the advertisement was repeated again
and again, and the paper sent down to her every day; while the
resolution of Agatha, never to let her mother hear of or from her but on
her death-bed, grew weaker and weaker; and she began bitterly to repent
of the pains which she had taken to make her child imbibe an aversion to
her grandmother.

“Let me endeavour,” said she to herself, “to eradicate this aversion
while it is yet time.” But she found the task a much more difficult one
than she at first imagined.

Other persons had helped to deepen the feeling of dislike which she had
originally inculcated. The surgeon of the village had several children,
with whom Emma was occasionally permitted to associate, and sorry am I
to add that they were frequently sufferers from the violence of her
uncorrected temper. The consequence was, that her little playfellows,
finding her grandmother was an object of terror and aversion to Emma,
used to frighten her into submission by threatening to send her to her
grandmamma. And Agatha found too late, that she had inspired her child
with a sentiment of hatred unworthy of a Christian to feel or to
inculcate.

Shuddering at this conviction, and at her own guilt in having cherished
so vile a feeling in the heart of her child,—”How criminal I have
been!” she exclaimed in the anguish of her soul; “but let me now make
all the expiation I can.”

“My dear child,” cried Agatha, “you are to forgive your enemies, and to
love everybody.”

“Yes,” replied Emma, “forgive and love everybody;—No, no,—forgive and
love everybody but grandmamma.”

Agatha was confounded at the tenaciousness of Emma’s memory and
feelings, and eagerly answered;—”No;—you must forgive and love
grandmamma too; for she is a very good woman.”

“No, no,—she is not a good woman; she is cruel to you, and uses you
ill, and beats you!”

“Indeed she is good, and you must love her, Emma,” replied the
distressed Agatha; “for she will love you and me very dearly, and
perhaps we shall live with grandmamma very soon.”

Words would fail to express Agatha’s consternation at the violent
expression of rage and aversion which this information excited in her
child; for she was not in the least aware that her mother had long been
a bugbear to Emma, through the means of her play-fellows.—And with
painful surprise she heard the child, stamping with terror and passion,
declare that she never, never would go nigh so wicked, so very wicked a
woman.

“I deserve this,” said Agatha mournfully;—”I violated my duty both as a
child and mother, when I tried to pollute that innocent heart with the
angry and disturbed passions of mine.” Then melting into tears of
tenderness, she sighed over the injury which she had done Mrs.
Castlemain, by steeling her child’s heart against her; and the feelings
of returning affection towards her were deepened by the consciousness.

The next week the advertisement was again repeated; and Agatha’s heart
was completely overcome. “Mother! dear mother!” she exclaimed, “you
shall not long sigh for me in vain.”

It so happened, that on the Sunday following the parable of the prodigal
son was read at church. Agatha listened to it with emotions the most
overwhelming; and when the preacher came to those words, “I will arise
and go to my father,”—her feelings became uncontrollable; and throwing
herself on her knees, she hid her face on the seat, and nearly sobbed
aloud.

Her emotion had not escaped the observant eye of the amiable being who
was officiating; and when the service was over, he followed her,
resolved that he would no longer permit her to reject, as she had
hitherto done, his advances to acquaintance, since he was now convinced
that something weighed heavily on her mind; and he believed that
conversation with him in his professional capacity, if not as a friend,
might be the means of lightening her sorrows. But he soon found that
Agatha was no longer averse to form the acquaintance which he sought.
Her mind was wounded by the reproaches of conscience; and knowing the
character of this truly pious man, she hoped that if she unbosomed
herself to him, he might speak peace to her self-upbraiding spirit.

Accordingly she requested an interview with him, which he readily
granted. She then detailed to him the eventful history of her short
life, and of the feelings of regret, remorse, and repentant affection
excited in her by her mother’s advertisement.

“Let me advise you,” cried Mr. Egerton, sighing as he spoke, “to lose no
time in writing to your mother! Let her feel no longer the agony of
‘hope deferred!’” And as he said this, overcome by some painful
recollection, he brushed a tear from his eye. Agatha promised that she
would write the next morning;—and cheerfully acceding to her request,
that he would give her the benefit of his society as often as he could,
he took his departure, leaving Agatha full of regret that she had
allowed the feelings of disappointment and proud resentment to shut up
her heart so long against the comforts of society and the consolations
of religion.

But, alas! Agatha had neglected to profit by the past, and the present,
and for her there was no future in store.

Whether the agitation which she had experienced in church was the cause
of illness, or whether it was only the effect of an illness then
impending, it is impossible to determine; but that night she was seized
with all the symptoms of a low and dangerous fever, and was soon
pronounced to be past any hopes of recovery.

In one of the intervals of delirium she sent for Mr. Egerton; and after
having gone through with him the duties of religion, she earnestly
entreated him to take her child under his care, till her mother, to whom
she was about to write, should make known her will concerning her.

“I will do more,” replied Mr. Egerton;—”I will myself deliver your
daughter and your letter into your mother’s hands.”

“What! undertake so long a journey yourself?”

“Can I be better employed?—Remember that your mother will need
consolation;—and who so likely to give it to her as the man who
attended you in your last moments? for believe me,” continued he, “I
shall not leave you till all is over.”

“May God reward you!” cried Agatha, grasping his hand fervently—”O that
I had known you sooner!”—Then, making a violent effort, she scrawled,
with a trembling hand, the following lines:

    “I presumed to indulge the bitterness of resentment, and towards
    a mother too; and I am punished for it! for just as I was going
    to throw myself into your arms, and accept your protection for
    me and my poor child, I was seized with a mortal malady; and
    when you receive this, I shall be no more.—Take then my last
    blessing and farewell! Would I could have seen you before I
    died!—but I have a child,—named Emma, after you; love
    her;—she will be presented to you by the pious and generous
    being whose kindness has soothed to me the agonies of my last
    moments. If you and he think it right, let my claims and my
    Emma’s, on my deluded husband, be prosecuted legally; and let
    him be told, if you bring forward my claims, that with my last
    breath, I forgave and prayed for him!

    “A thousand sad and fond thoughts, my dearest mother, struggle
    for utterance, as I write; but——I can no
    more——I——farewell——I——”

Here she fell back exhausted on her pillow; and in a few hours she
expired.

Emma, in the meanwhile, had been kept as much as possible at the house
of the surgeon, where she had been in the habit of visiting; but the
affectionate child could with difficulty be restrained from going home,
though forbidden to go thither; for Agatha, as soon as she found that
her disorder was infectious, had courageously determined not to see her
child again.

When Agatha had breathed her last, Mr. Egerton went in search of the
poor, unconscious orphan, who eagerly ran up to him, and begged him to
take her to her mamma.

“My dear child,” replied Mr. Egerton, tears starting in his eyes, “your
mamma has desired that I should take you home with me.”

The child for a moment sullenly refused to go; but when he gravely
added, “and can you have the cruelty to disobey your poor sick mamma?”
Emma burst into tears, and suffered him to lead her to his house.

But it was some time before he had resolution to tell the quick-feeling
child that she could see her mother no more! nor, when he did so, had he
fortitude enough to retain any thing like self-command, when he
witnessed her frantic agony at hearing it. Of death, indeed, she could
have but a vague idea; but not seeing her mother, was a positive and
intelligible evil; and hour succeeded to hour, and still the little
sufferer was not consoled. But the next day the violence of her feelings
had abated; and though she occasionally gave way to dreadful bursts of
sorrow, the pains which Mr. Egerton’s house-keeper took to amuse her
were not thrown away upon her.

On the fourth day after Agatha died, the funeral took place; but Mr.
Egerton did not allow Emma to attend it. He knew how little used to
restraint she had been; and he dreaded, from a degree of curiosity and
proneness to inquiry above her years, questions and conduct ill-assorted
to the solemnity of the scene.

But he desired that Emma might be put into deep mourning. And on his
return from the performance of the last melancholy duties to Agatha,
with a heart full of sadness, and a cheek pale with emotion, he started
and shuddered at witnessing the childish joy with which Emma ran forward
to meet him, and showed him her new clothes and her fine black sash.

“Poor child!” said Mr. Egerton, shedding tears as he clasped her to his
generous bosom, “one day thou wilt know how dearly they are purchased!”

A few days after, Mr. Egerton, having learnt from Mrs. Castlemain’s
agent in London her change of name and her present abode, set off with
Emma for the house of her grandmother. But he was careful not to let her
know whither they were going, as he was aware of the child’s aversion to
Mrs. Castlemain, and knew that it would be better to conquer it by
degrees, than attempt to overcome it by violence. Mrs. Castlemain still
lived in Cumberland, and her house was situated about three miles from
Keswick; it was therefore some days before Mr. Egerton reached his
journey’s end, and beheld at the foot of a mountain the beautiful
mansion of Mrs. Castlemain. But the journey had not appeared long to
him. Emma, though not much more than six years old, had found the way to
his heart, and had unlocked his long dormant affections. By turns he had
been charmed by the quickness of her perceptions and had been terrified
by the quickness of her sensibilities. He soon saw that she required a
strict and unusually watchful eye to be kept over her; and long before
they were arrived at their journey’s end, he had convinced himself that
Emma could have no guardian so watchful over her as he should be.

“Poor thing! how useful I could be to her!” he had said to himself;—and
having once admitted the truth of that proposition, it was impossible
for a man so conscientious as Mr. Egerton not to resolve to act
accordingly; and his heart had fondly and for ever adopted the orphan
Emma, when the postilion informed him that the house he saw before him
was the house of Mrs. Castlemain, and by that means recalled to his
recollection that he was going to present Emma to one who had real and
natural claims on her, which might entirely annihilate those which he
had resolved to put in force. “But if her grandmother should not be
willing to receive her?” thought Mr. Egerton; and he was shocked to find
how much he wished that Mrs. Castlemain might give them a cold
reception.

While these ideas were passing in his mind, and while Emma, sitting on
his lap, was leaning against his bosom, and playfully parting the
unpowdered locks that hung over his forehead, among which sorrow, not
time, had scattered the grey hairs of age, the chaise stopped at the
door of the White Cottage, as it was called, and a lady, whose dress and
manner bespoke her the mistress of the house, while her appearance
proclaimed her worn with sorrow and anxiety, came to the green gate at
which they stopped, and in a faint and languid tone demanded their
business.

“Do I see Mrs. Castlemain?” said Mr. Egerton.

“Yes, sir,” replied the lady; and struck with compassion at sight of her
evident and habitual state of depression, he forgot the wish which he
had just expressed, of keeping Emma to himself; and thought of nothing
but the probable comfort which she would prove to her forlorn and
miserable relation.

“I have some business with you, madam,” answered Mr. Egerton; “and with
your leave I will alight.”

In a few moments Mr. Egerton, leading Emma by the hand, whose features
were shaded from the view by her ringlets and the bonnet which she wore,
followed the anxious and uneasy Mrs. Castlemain into the house, and
prepared himself to give her the information which she was too anxious
to demand.

But Mr. Egerton felt himself unable to speak before the child; he
therefore requested that she might be allowed to play in the garden
before the house; and Emma having eagerly accepted the permission given
her, he found himself at last alone with the mother of Agatha.

“Is that your little girl, sir?” said Mrs. Castlemain, while with an
anxious and inquiring look she gazed on Emma from the window, and saw
her bound along the lawn with all the untamed vivacity of childhood.

“O, no!” answered Mr. Egerton, “she is not my child;—would to heaven
she were; She——” Here he paused, for he had not yet courage to enter
on the mournful task that awaited him.

“You were going to say something, sir,” said Mrs. Castlemain, seating
herself by him, and speaking in a faltering voice, as if her heart
foreboded something unusual. “That sweet child, sir, by her dress seems
to have lately sustained a great loss?”

“Yes, madam, the greatest of all losses,” replied Mr. Egerton, making a
great effort; “poor Emma has just lost——her mother!”

“Emma! did you say?” cried Mrs. Castlemain, catching hold of his arm,
and gazing wildly in his face. “Who was her mother, sir?”

“You——you had a daughter, madam,” replied Mr. Egerton.

“I _had_ a daughter!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain, and fell back
insensible in her chair.

Mr. Egerton immediately rang for assistance; and while the servants ran
backwards and forwards with restoratives, Emma, who saw them pass to and
fro, imagined that refreshments for them were preparing, and instantly
returning to the house she re-entered the parlour just as Mrs.
Castlemain had recovered her senses, and had learnt from Mr. Egerton
that Agatha on her death-bed had bequeathed her orphan child to her
care. Mr. Egerton was going to add, that Emma had conceived so great a
terror and hatred of her grandmother, that it was advisable Mrs.
Castlemain should not for the present be known to her as anything more
than a friend of her mother’s,—when he was prevented by her unexpected
entrance.

As soon as Mrs. Castlemain saw her, a thousand fond and uncontrollable
emotions urged her towards the unconscious orphan; while tears of
tenderness trickling down her wan cheek, she stretched forth her arms to
the astonished and affrighted child, and dropping on her knees entreated
her to come to the arms of her grandmother.

At that name Emma, starting from Mrs. Castlemain’s grasp as if from the
touch of a serpent, uttered a loud and piercing shriek, and darting
through the open doors flew over the lawn; while Mrs. Castlemain,
shocked and surprised, sank almost fainting on the floor, and demanded
of Mr. Egerton an explanation of this strange conduct.

“By some unfortunate means or other,” replied he, “she has learned to
associate with the name of her grandmother ideas of fear and dislike,
which her poor mother has vainly endeavoured to remove.”

“But then she did endeavour to remove them?” eagerly remarked Mrs.
Castlemain.

“She did,” said Mr. Egerton.

“Thank God!” returned the unhappy and repentant mother; (and Mr. Egerton
immediately gave her Agatha’s letter;)—then begging Mr. Egerton to go
and find Emma, and endeavour to soothe her, she hastily left the room to
read it in the solitude of her own apartment.

Mr. Egerton went immediately in search of Emma. He found her in a
paroxysm of rage and terror. At sight of him she stamped with all the
violence of passion, and protested that she would go away that moment.
Mr. Egerton replied, that he had brought her there by her poor mother’s
express command; but that, if she would not stay where she was, he must
take her away again; still he could not and would not go till he had
eaten his dinner; he therefore expected that she should return into the
house with him. But the violent child refused to comply; for she said
the house belonged to her wicked grandmamma.

“So does the bank on which you are sitting, my dear,” replied Mr.
Egerton; and Emma started from it immediately. “The place on which you
are standing is hers also; every thing you see is hers except the
post-chaise,” observed Mr. Egerton; “therefore while I dine I know not
what can become of you, as you can’t bear to remain on your
grandmother’s premises.”

“I will sit in the post-chaise,” said Emma, sobbing violently. And Mr.
Egerton having ordered the postilion to put the horses into the stable,
and to go into the house himself, he assisted Emma into the chaise, and
then left her to herself, expecting that solitude and hunger would at
length subdue her as yet untamed and pernicious anger and animosity.

It was near an hour before Mr. Egerton was sufficiently composed to
venture into the parlour again, and during that time the cloth was laid
for dinner, and he saw that Emma from the chaise window could see the
preparations which were going on.

Mrs. Castlemain at length came down, and with a countenance so full of
woe, that Mr. Egerton could not speak to her, when he beheld her, but
was forced to turn to the window to hide his emotion.

“Where is my child, my all now?” said Mrs. Castlemain in a voice almost
extinct with sorrow.

“I have left her to herself,” replied Mr. Egerton; “for at present she
is too headstrong for me to attempt to bring her hither.”

“Shall I go to her? shall I humble myself before her?”

“By no means. On the first impression which you now give her of yourself
will depend her future conduct towards you; and if she finds you
submissive, depend on it she is discerning enough to act accordingly.”

“No matter,” cried Mrs. Castlemain, “so that she does but love me.”

“But for her sake as well as for yours, my dear madam, it is necessary
that she should respect you too. At least allow me to advise you to-day,
and we will see what to-morrow will produce.”

“You shall direct, and I will obey you,” replied Mrs. Castlemain; “for a
mind so injured by distress as mine is, scarcely knows what is right;
and indeed,” added she, “I would have seen no one but you, after the sad
intelligence which I have just received; but you have such claims on me!
Besides, from you I can learn all the particulars of——” Here her voice
failed her. Mr. Egerton was at no loss to fancy the remainder of the
sentence.

Soon after, dinner was announced, and Mrs. Castlemain, as she seated
herself at the table, asked Mr. Egerton if she must really not invite
Emma to join them.

“Certainly not,” he replied; “but let us open the windows, that she may
see what is going forward.”

Mrs. Castlemain, whom sorrow kept fasting, sat opposite the window; and
as she could not eat, her whole attention was directed to Emma; she saw
her continually looking out of the window of the chaise, as if she
wished to be a sharer in what was going forward; and Mrs. Castlemain
begged to be allowed to carry her some dinner. But Mr. Egerton requested
that she would not be so perniciously indulgent. When dinner was ended,
and a dessert of fine fruit brought on the table, Emma proclaimed by her
gestures and her angry screams the violence of her rage and
disappointment.

“I cannot bear this; I must go to her,” said Mrs. Castlemain.

“Forgive me, but it is not yet time.”

“But there is a mist rising from the lakes, Mr. Egerton, and she will
catch cold.”

“I had rather, madam, her health should be temporarily affected, than
her temper ruined eternally,—which it must be, if she be allowed to see
that by persisting in violence she can gain a point.”

At these words, at this sentiment, Mrs. Castlemain sighed deeply, and
became silent; for she had heard them before; she had heard them from
that beloved husband whose precepts she had disregarded, whose rules for
education she had neglected to act upon, and had by that means
occasioned the ruin of her daughter!

Terrible are the wounds inflicted by self-reproach; and Mrs. Castlemain
felt them severely.

When Mr. Egerton had finished his fruit, he went out to Emma. He found
her quiet but sullen; and he took care to let her know, that, but for
him, her grandmother Mrs. Castlemain would have brought her out some
dinner; but that he told her he knew very well that she would take
nothing from her hands. The child hung her conscious head on her bosom
at these words, and, bursting into a loud fit of sobbing, replied, “But
I am so hungry!”

“Indeed!” answered Mr. Egerton; “I am sorry to hear it; for hungry you
must remain, unless you choose to eat some of your grandmother’s
excellent pudding and fruit.”

“I am so hungry!” cried Emma again; and Mr. Egerton immediately letting
down the step of the chaise, Emma allowed him to lead her in silence
into the house; while with all the grimaces and distortions of
sheepishness and sullenness she accepted a chair and plate at the table,
and, turning her back on Mrs. Castlemain, eagerly ate the good things
which were set before her.

When she had satisfied her hunger, she got up and begged Mr. Egerton to
order the chaise, and take her away again.

“Not to-night,” said Mr. Egerton coolly; “for I have promised to stay
and sleep here.”

Emma heard him in sullen silence; but it was not long before she gladly
consented to be undressed and put into a warm bed; where, with the happy
forgetfulness of her age, she soon ceased to remember on whose bed she
was, and fell into a deep and peaceful slumber.

“Thank God!” cried Mrs. Castlemain when she heard of it, gratefully
pressing Mr. Egerton’s hand as she spoke, “the child of my poor Agatha
is reposing under my roof.”

The rest of the evening was passed in anxious and interesting questions
on the part of Mrs. Castlemain, and as interesting answers on the part
of Mr. Egerton; who, though prejudiced greatly against Mrs. Castlemain
by knowing Agatha, and the faults in her temper, a character which he
attributed to a defective education, was so deeply impressed by her
evident distress, so affected by the “venerable presence of misery,” (as
Sterne calls it,) that he retired to rest full of kindness and regard
for his unhappy hostess, and resolved to do all that lay in his power to
console her afflictions.

The next morning, when Emma awoke (and worn out with the fatigue and
angry agitation of the day before she had slept much later than usual,)
she found two servants watching by her bed-side, and ready to assist her
to dress as soon as she was disposed to rise. It is difficult to say how
soon a child loves to be made of importance; and certain it is, that
Emma was fully capable of feeling the delight of being waited upon. She
was also equally alive to the pleasures of a repast far more luxurious
than she had ever seen; and the sight of a breakfast consisting of hot
bread, honey, cream, preserved gooseberries, potted char, and fruit,
immediately had power to suppress the emotions of terror and aversion
which the sight of Mrs. Castlemain again occasioned her.

Mr. Egerton was also careful to let her receive every thing which she
desired from the hand of Mrs. Castlemain; and the latter, having
received the hint from Mr. Egerton, called the servants into the room;
and after introducing Emma to them as her granddaughter and sole
heiress, and their future mistress, desired them, as they valued her
favour, to show her every possible attention.

Where one association is already powerful, it can be destroyed only by
one as powerful, or still more so. The grandmother, hitherto an object
of dread to Emma, and a being with whom she associated nothing but ideas
of hatred and aversion, was now, because she had ministered to Emma’s
pleasure and ambition, become associated with agreeable images only in
her mind; and with the versatility of childhood, she now no longer
shrank from the offered kiss of Mrs. Castlemain, but gazed on her with a
propitiatory smile as the dispenser of plenty and happiness.

Mrs. Castlemain beheld with delight the victory she had gained; and
eager to insure its duration, she went in search of some old toys which
had belonged to her daughter; and not waiting to indulge the painful
recollections which the sight of them occasioned her, she soon returned
laden with them into the parlour; where Emma, uttering a scream of joy,
ran forward to meet her, and with eagerness received in her lap the
precious case. The scream, the eager look of joyful impatience, the
mottled and extended arms, reminded Mrs. Castlemain so powerfully of her
lost daughter, that, with a heart oppressed almost to bursting, she
rushed out of the room, and walked on the lawn to recover herself. But
then she recollected how foolish she was to allow herself to be so
painfully overcome by a resemblance which must endear Emma to her, and
she resolved to re-enter the parlour, to contemplate the likeness from
which she had before fled.

But the lapse of years, on her return, was entirely forgotten, and the
illusion complete. Emma was seated on the carpet, encompassed by her
mother’s toys, and in the same room which had so often witnessed the
childish sports of Agatha! and as she shook back her auburn and
clustering ringlets from her face, and smilingly held up one of the
playthings to Mrs. Castlemain on her entrance, she rushed forward to
embrace Emma, exclaiming as she did so, “My dear, dear child!” Then,
suddenly recollecting herself, she left the room, overcome by the mixed
and painful feelings which overwhelmed her.

At this moment, as she slowly walked down the lawn before the house, she
met Mr. Egerton, to whom she expressed the emotion which Emma occasioned
her to experience from her strong likeness to her poor mother.

“The likeness strikes even me,” replied Mr. Egerton, “who saw your
daughter only when pale and faded by uneasiness of mind.—And I fear,”
added Mr. Egerton, “that the likeness in one respect extends still
further; and that in the quickness of feeling and in the
ungovernableness of her temper, she also resembles her mother.”

“Perhaps she does,” said Mrs. Castlemain; “but so as she be but like
her, I care not, however dear the complete resemblance may cost me!”

Mr. Egerton forgave the irrationality of this speech, for the sake of
the feeling which it contained; but he felt it his duty to convince Mrs.
Castlemain, that she was bound in conscience to endeavour to correct and
eradicate those defects in Emma’s temper and disposition which had had
so fatal an effect on her mother’s happiness. And he did so in a manner
so kind and soothing, at the same time that he expressed his sentiments
firmly and unequivocally, that Mrs. Castlemain confessed the impropriety
of the sentiment which she had before indulged, and promised that it
should be the study of her life to make Emma’s temper as mild and
tractable as her poor mother’s had been otherwise.

“But, indeed,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “I fear my own weakness, my own
want of resolution. Sorrow and remorse have changed almost into
imbecility and incapacity of resistance that proud tyrannical spirit to
which I attribute all my woes;—and against the child of my injured
Agatha, never, never can I use severe measures, even though they may be
deemed necessary.”

“I can enter into the feelings which produce that conviction,” replied
Mr. Egerton, “and have no doubt but that you will sometimes act upon
them to Emma’s disadvantage; therefore, you will want an assistant in
the important office of educating your dear charge.”

“I shall;—but where, O! where can I find the person with the proper
requisites to undertake that office? If you, sir, would and can
undertake it, believe me, my fondest hopes for Emma’s welfare would at
once be realized.”

“To say the truth, madam,” answered Mr. Egerton, “I have been wishing to
offer you my services.”

“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Castlemain eagerly; “then all my fears are at an
end. Name your own terms, and I will instantly accede to them. I should
think my whole income cheaply spent in securing to my Agatha’s child
those advantages which I was incapable of affording to her mother.”

“Believe me, my dear madam, that the pecuniary reward which I shall ask
for my trouble will be very little; my best and dearest reward will be
your esteem and respect, and the affection of Emma. I _was_ a solitary,
insulated, unattached being; but I feel _now_ that I have still
affections, and that my heart is not entirely buried in the grave; and
while I travelled from Sussex hither with your orphan grandchild, I
learnt to love her so tenderly, that I thought I should never have the
courage to separate from her again.”

“I hope you never will,” replied Mrs. Castlemain.

“I don’t mean to do so at present.—In a fit of gloom, and disgust to
the world, I solicited the curacy of the village near which your
daughter resided; but I found not there the comfort which I sought. I
had been used to society, and I saw myself in a desert;—true, there
were poor around me, and I could minister to their wants; but they were
as ignorant as they were indigent, and I felt the wretchedness which
made me leave the world, increased by the fancied remedy which I had
chosen. Therefore I was resolved to give up the situation and seek a
less gloomy one, when I became acquainted with your lost Agatha, and
learnt to know the value of that society which the sullen, proud
reserve, springing from a consciousness of unmerited misfortune, was
always careful to withhold from me.—But this is not to the point in
question; you wish me to assist you in the education of Emma, and I wish
to afford you such assistance. My terms then are these;—you shall give
me the same sum (and no more) which I received as a curate; and as
preaching does not agree with my health, I will give it up entirely, and
content myself with performing the other duties of a parish priest,
namely, visiting the sick and the afflicted, and bestowing on them the
consolations of religion.—But I must have a house to myself.”

“What! will you not live with me?”

“By no means; but as near you as you please. And should any one in the
neighbourhood have another pupil to offer me, I will agree to receive
another pupil, either boy or girl.”

“Nothing can be more fortunate,” eagerly replied Mrs. Castlemain; “Mr.
Hargrave, a gentleman who lives about two miles off, is at this time
greatly in want of a tutor in some way or other, for his nephew, Henry
St. Aubyn, whom, from some caprice or other, he has taken from
Westminster school; he has a very pretty little cottage on his estate,
which is now to let; therefore, if you will not indulge me by living in
my house—”

“Indulge you, my dear madam!—What! make you and me the theme of all the
gossips in the town of Keswick! No;—we are neither of us old enough to
set busy tongues at defiance; besides, as we are to educate Emma, we
must not set her the example of a violation of decorum; for I deem an
attention to decorum one of the first bulwarks to female chastity.”

Mrs. Castlemain in a happier moment would not perhaps have been sorry to
be told that she was still too young to escape scandal; but she was very
sorry that she could not make her arrangements such as to enable her to
enjoy the comfort of Mr. Egerton’s conversation at all times. She
however rejoiced at having succeeded so much to her own satisfaction in
procuring a preceptor for the orphan Emma.

“But what sort of man is Mr. Hargrave?” asked Mr. Egerton.

“O! a humorist, and a domestic tyrant; a man who can’t bear
contradiction, and who likes to keep even those whom he pretends to
love, in an abject state of dependence on his will.”

“Was he ever at College for a short time?”

“Yes.”

“At Cambridge?”

“I believe so.”

“Is he rich?”

“Very rich.”

“And is his name Henry?”

“It is.”

“Then it must be the same Hargrave whom I knew at College. He is my
senior by some years, but I occasionally associated with him during his
short stay there.”

“I flatter myself he is the Mr. Hargrave whom you know; for I hope there
are not two such queer-tempered beings in the world.”

“This Henry Hargrave had a very beautiful sister, who came to visit her
brother, a very showy, dressing, dashing girl, and her name was
Henrietta.”

“That convinces me,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, “that my neighbour and
your College friend are the same person; for Henrietta Hargrave married
Mr. St. Aubyn, a gentleman of an old and honourable family and large
estates; and having ruined him by her extravagance, he died, it is said,
broken-hearted; and she as well as her son is now dependent on the
bounty of Mr. Hargrave, and at this moment she resides at Keswick, and
Henry with his uncle.”

“So,” replied Mr. Egerton, “I am here then _en pays de connoissance_;
and for your sake, Mrs. Castlemain, I rejoice in being so, for you can
now receive proper testimonials to convince you that I am the man of
education and honour, which I have professed myself to be; for, my dear
madam, you must own that you have at present only my own word to prove
that I am the reverend Lionel Egerton, and no sharper or swindler.”

“Sir,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, with great feeling, “it is enough for me
that my poor child named you with gratitude and affection in her letter,
and that you have been the protector of her orphan hither.”

“But suppose I have robbed the real Egerton of the letter and the
child?” replied Mr. Egerton, smiling.

“O! my dear sir, your looks and manner are sufficient proofs that——”

“Well, well,—I see you are determined to think well of me, and that it
was not imprudent in you to receive me into your house without a
certificate of my good intentions; however, I feel at this moment, so
satisfied with myself, with you, and with my present prospects, that, as
I am in a conversable humour, I will trouble you to tell me my way to
Mr. Hargrave’s; and I will call upon him, and beg him to assure you that
your confidence is really not ill-placed.”

Then, having received the necessary information, Mr. Egerton set off on
his visit to the Vale House, as Mr. Hargrave’s seat was called.

I will now give a short sketch of Mr. Egerton’s history. But it is a
history common to many men. Events in life are often not important in
themselves, but rendered so by the effect which they produce in the
person to whom they occur.

Mr. Egerton was the youngest son of a very numerous and respectable
family, and brought up to the Church, in the prospect of being provided
for by a noble relation. At College he soon distinguished himself by his
knowledge of the classics, and his conversational powers; and he was so
deservedly a favourite of the circle in which he moved, that, having
become a fellow at the age of twenty-eight, he was contented to await at
the University, a good College living, or one from his long-promised
patron; when, unfortunately for his peace, he was introduced to the
beautiful sister of a College friend, and became passionately and
irrecoverably in love for the first time in his life. Nor was the young
lady slow to return his passion;—but to marry was impossible.

Miss Ainslie was the daughter of an extravagant man of fashion, and her
habits had been expensive in a degree far beyond what her fortune
warranted. True, she was willing, in a transport of youthful enthusiasm,
to share the poverty of the man of her heart, and to quit “the scenes so
gay, where she was fairest of the fair.” But Mr. Egerton knew that it
was the nature of enthusiasm to subside, and that love, when exposed to
the assaults of poverty and the teasing details of severe domestic
economy, is only too apt to struggle against them in vain; and though
sure that his passion was proof against all attacks whatever, he was
unwilling to expose that of Miss Ainslie to the trial which he did not
fear for his own. It was therefore settled, on mature deliberation, that
the lovers should not marry till Mr. Egerton obtained a living; and in
the meanwhile Mr. Egerton and Miss Ainslie’s friends were both very
active in their endeavours to obtain, from the noble relation mentioned
before, the long-promised living. But year succeeded to year,
application to application, and still Mr. Egerton s claims were
overlooked or forgotten; and the sickly hue of “hope deferred” began to
be visible on the once blooming cheek of Clara Ainslie. To her a union
with Mr. Egerton was desirable, not only because he was a man whom her
heart and her reason both approved, but she longed to seek shelter in
the protection and quiet of a house of her own, from the profligate and
dissipated company which frequented the house of her deluded father, and
sometimes insulted her with addresses, to which her well-known poverty
but too frequently exposed her. But her hopes of emancipation from her
sufferings still continued fruitless; and she saw herself at the age of
five-and-thirty the ghost of what she was, and vainly endeavoured, by
the faint glimmerings of a distant hope of a union with her still
devoted lover, to cheer her drooping spirits, and light up the languid
radiance of her eye. But the frame, weak and delicate while warm with
youth and the consciousness of happiness, shrank and faded before the
constant and corroding power of restless wishes and certain distresses;
while Egerton, only kept alive himself by a sure though distant prospect
as he thought, of having his long-raised expectations gratified, hung
over her drooping form with still increased affection and anxiety.

At length he heard in the fourteenth year of their courtship that the
incumbent on a very considerable living in Lord D.’s gift was a very old
man, and at the point of death; and he hastened to the house of a friend
at about forty miles’ distance, where Clara was then staying, in order
to impart to her this welcome intelligence. He arrived, and found her in
the last stage of a rapid decline. Her constitution had at length
yielded to the constant demands made on it by her feelings;—and she had
scarcely smiled on the welcome news which her lover brought, had
scarcely received the kiss on her pale cheek, with which he hailed her
his in prospect for ever—when, laying her head on his bosom, she
murmured out, “We shall then at length be happy!” and expired.

On the day of her funeral, and while Egerton with the calmness of
deep-rooted anguish was visiting the body for the last time and gazing
on it in solitary woe, the letter announcing the death of the incumbent
above mentioned followed him to the chamber of mourning; and he found
that a living worth a thousand a year waited his immediate acceptance.

Oh! what agony did he not endure, while in a hollow and mournful tone he
exclaimed, “It comes too late!”—and stooping down as he did so, rested
his cheek on the cold brow of Clara.

“_It comes too late_, and I reject it;—I scorn the wealth of which she
lives not to partake and now welcome poverty and solitude!” was his only
answer to his patron; and with a sort of spiteful sorrow and savage
grief, he gave up his fellowship, and sought for the trifling curacy
above mentioned, resolved to court the difficulties and privations of a
narrow income. But when time, the great soother, had calmed the first
transports of his sorrow, he became dissatisfied with his
situation;—not that he wished for means of living better, for on
principle he had always practised the strictest denial, nor had he ever
found his yearly savings insufficient to relieve the really deserving
indigent around him; but he was conscious of having other treasures
which he could not in solitude bestow—the treasures of his learning,
his knowledge of mankind, and his experience. He saw himself amply
possessed of the power of being useful, but completely shut out from the
means of employing that power. If he talked, there were none to listen
to or understand him; and though he felt convinced that his affections
were for ever buried in the tomb of Clara, he sighed for a kindred mind,
and wished for an intelligent companion, if it was only to listen to the
tale of his sorrows. As soon as he saw Agatha he thought he had found
this companion. He read an expression of fixed sorrow in her countenance
that interested him; but he soon found that it was a sort of savage,
proud, sullen sorrow, like what his own had originally been; and though,
he felt her endeared to him by this conviction, he also felt that this
disposition was a bar to all hopes of intimacy; and he had lived in the
same village with Agatha two years before he had exchanged two words
with her. But when he saw her melted into tears at church at the
pathetic parable of the prodigal son, he felt that the power of sullen
grief was past, and he doubted not but that the moment was arrived when
the voice of consolation would be welcome to her, and when her heart, as
I before observed, would be lightened of half its load, could she but
tell the tale of her sorrows to one who would listen to and pity them.
Accordingly he did speak to her;—he heard her mournful tale; and while
he hung over her death-bed, and received her last parting wishes, and
promised to obey them,—with the consciousness of being useful, returned
a degree of tranquillity to his mind; and the death of Agatha awakened
him to new life and the prospect of new enjoyment. Besides, he read in
her deep and guilty resentment,—in that sullen indignation which had
caused her to put off the day of forgiveness till the pardon which she
longed to pronounce and to implore was arrested on her lips by death,—a
warning lesson and a salutary reproof to himself. Because a patron had
neglected to fulfil his promises till, according to his long-treasured
hopes, he could no longer profit by his bounty, in the sullenness of
resentment,—a resentment which could injure and mortify himself
alone,—he had fled from the society of men, to brood in retirement over
the proud consciousness of injury. He had allowed the powers of his mind
to droop, unstimulated by the influence of collision; and had suffered
hours, precious hours, to be wasted in the languor of unavailing regret,
which he might have employed to amuse, to instruct, and to enlighten his
fellow-creatures.

“I have erred; but I will endeavour instantly to repair my error,” he
exclaimed, as he stood by the corpse of Agatha;—adding, as he imprinted
a kiss on the cold unconscious hand beside him, “Thou shalt not have
suffered and repented in vain. And I will repay, by endeavouring to
benefit thy child, the gratitude I owe thee for the good I have derived
from thy warning example.”

He kept his resolution; and the child of Agatha became the pupil of his
affection.

When Mr. Egerton returned from his visit to Mr. Hargrave, who happened
to be in a good humour, and therefore received him graciously, he was
pleased to find that when the postilion had come to the door with the
chaise, according to the orders given the preceding day, Emma had burst
into tears at sight of him, had protested that she would stay where she
was, and had screamed as much at the idea of leaving her grandmother as
she had before done at the idea of staying with her; nor could she be at
all pacified till Mrs. Castlemain had paid and discharged the driver and
his chaise.

“May all her hatreds through life be as evanescent as her hatred of you
has been, my dear madam!” said Mr. Egerton; “for the being who hates
easily and eternally, is a curse to himself and a pest to his
fellow-creatures.”

Mr. Egerton returned, accompanied by Henry St. Aubyn, the nephew of Mr.
Hargrave, and now the pupil in prospect of Mr. Egerton, who ever and
anon regarded him with such looks of interest and affection, as,
considering the shortness of their acquaintance, were matter of surprise
to Mrs. Castlemain.

Henry St. Aubyn was a tall, lank, unformed boy of fourteen; his figure
all bone, and his face all eyes; for the rest of his features had not as
yet grown sufficiently to bear any proportion to the large dark grey
eyes, shaded with long and silken black eyelashes, which formed the
striking feature in his sun-burnt yet blooming face. His hair, which
once curled in luxuriant ringlets down his shoulders, was, to the great
mortification of his mother’s vanity, cropped close to his head, to
gratify the arbitrary will of his uncle. But to prevent his hair from
curling was impossible;—short, but full, his dark ringlets still
clustered round his straight low forehead, and gave his head the
resemblance of the bust of some young Greek. Still, though his
appearance was certainly picturesque and interesting, he was not yet
handsome enough to deserve the earnest gaze of affectionate and silent
admiration which Mr. Egerton bestowed on him; but Mrs. Castlemain ceased
to be surprised, when Mr. Egerton, sighing deeply as he turned away from
a long examination of St. Aubyn’s features, said to her, “That dear boy,
madam, is, by his father, I find, second cousin to the Ainslies, and to
_her_ whom I have mentioned to you. And I am sure, quite sure, that in
the cut of his dark-grey eye, and in countenance particularly when he
smiles, he greatly resembles her. Judge then, madam, with what delight I
shall undertake the task of instructing him.”

Before Mrs. Castlemain could reply, Emma, who had just been fresh washed
and dressed, came running into the room; and jumping on Mr. Egerton’s
lap, told him with a scream of joy that the post-chaise was gone, and
that they were to stay where there were, and go away no more. “I am glad
of it,” cried Henry St. Aubyn; “for I hope you will stay and play with
me, and love me.”

Emma at first drew back from his offered hand; but after looking at him
some time under her ringlets that hung over her eyes, she ventured to
give her hand; and in a short time she very kindly took him to see her
baby house.

The intimacy thus happily began, was as happily matured by time. Mr.
Egerton became the inhabitant of a small house at an equal distance
between Mr. Hargrave’s and Mrs. Castlemain’s; but he taught Emma and St.
Aubyn together at the house of the latter; while Emma, urged on by the
example and praises of St. Aubyn, learnt eagerly and readily every thing
which Mr. Egerton taught her, and was soon the pride and delight of her
grandmother, her preceptor, and her companion.

But it was not in her studies only that Emma profited by the society of
St. Aubyn; her heart and her temper were benefited by his example. It
was at first a difficult task for Mrs. Castlemain by kindness, and Mr.
Egerton by judicious severity, to break their pupil of those habits of
violence and ill-humour which the unfavourable circumstances in which
she had been placed had exposed her to acquire. But this task was
rendered easy at length by the model of fine temper and obedience
exhibited to her every day by St. Aubyn.

Henry St. Aubyn’s most striking characteristic was filial piety. He was
an only child, and his mind and feelings exhibited that precocity which
is often observed in those children who have been the exclusive objects
of attention and instruction. But he had also been in situations which
never fail to bring forward prematurely the sensibility and the
intellect. He had been nursed and educated in scenes of domestic
distress;—the tears of his mother had mingled with her caresses of him,
while she loudly lamented that extravagance, though she had not
resolution to relinquish it, which would unavoidably destroy the future
fortune of her son. He had also wept on his father’s neck, while in
unavailing agony the self-condemned parent had implored his forgiveness,
for having weakly allowed his fond folly as a husband to get the better
of his duty as a father, and suffer Mrs. St. Aubyn to pursue that
ruinous line of conduct which had made them all beggars and dependants.

But luckily for Henry it was only as a husband that Mr. St. Aubyn was
weak and criminally indulgent; as a father, he knew how to unite
kindness with restraint, and tenderness with firmness, so judiciously,
that the temper of his son was neither soured by cruel privations, nor
injured still more by blind and excessive indulgence.

Henry St. Aubyn obeyed his father in infancy, because he knew that on
disobedience awaited certain punishment; and thus the habit of obedience
to proper restraint and proper commands was acquired without trouble. As
he grew older, he found that he was thus constrained, because his ruler
knew better what was good for him than he for himself, and he continued
to obey from respect as well as from habit; and as his father possessed
that command of temper himself, which he endeavoured to teach, St. Aubyn
both from precept and example became mild without abjectness, and
good-humoured without effort. Besides, he had the great advantage of
being his father’s constant companion; and being thus early the witness
of his parent’s sorrows, he learnt to feel and to reflect deeply at a
time of life when children in general only know “the tear forgot as soon
as shed,” and the almost uninterrupted sunshine of the breast. He also
felt himself the sole comfort of his father; and his young self-love
flattered by the consciousness, he often preferred his own lonely
fireside and the sad society of his unhappy parent, to the sports of
childhood and the heartless mirth of his companions.

When his father was on his death-bed, he called St. Aubyn to him, who
had then not long reached the age of thirteen; and telling him that he
knew he was in virtue and understanding considerably above his years, he
bequeathed his mother to his care and protection; desiring him whatever
might be her errors, to behave to her with tenderness and forbearance,
and to prove himself in every thing not only a fond and obedient son,
but a guardian and a defender.

“The charge was needless,” replied St. Aubyn melting into tears; “but,
to give you all the satisfaction in my power, _hear me swear, that in
all emergencies whatever, my mother’s peace and comfort shall be my
first care and my first motive of action_.”

Mr. St. Aubyn accepted the oath; called him the best of children, prayed
for his welfare; and the last words he pronounced, while with clasped
hands he awaited his final struggle, were a prayer for Henry.

St. Aubyn’s father had not been dead above nine months when he first saw
Emma at Mrs. Castlemain’s, and her mourning habit for her mother he
beheld with a sympathetic interest.

“Poor child!” said he one day, as he looked at her black dress.

“Ay!” replied Mrs. Castlemain, “unhappy child!—it is very hard to lose
a parent so young!”

“Say rather, happy child!” said St. Aubyn bursting into tears, “to lose
a parent when she was too young to know the greatness of her loss!”

“Don’t cry, master Henry,” said Emma, putting up her pretty mouth to
kiss him; “grandmamma is not angry with you.” And St. Aubyn caught her
to his bosom with mixed pity and affection.

When Mrs. Castlemain was again alone with Mr. Egerton, she said to him
after some little hesitation, “but by what name, my dear sir, shall I
call our Emma?”

“By what name, my dear madam? By her own name certainly,—that of her
father—Danvers.”

“No, sir, no!” replied Mrs. Castlemain with great agitation; “I cannot
bear to be every moment reminded of that villain.”

“But consider, madam, that by not calling your granddaughter and heiress
by the name of her father, you would seem to admit her illegitimacy, and
that she was not born in wedlock.”

“No, sir, no; because I mean to call her Castlemain!”

“But, madam, her name is not Castlemain; and I am a decided enemy to all
sorts of fraud. For whom, and what, madam, do you wish this dear child
to be imposed on the world?”

“Sir, I scorn the idea of imposition as much as you.”

“Then, to prove it, call her the child of Agatha Danvers; for then, and
then only, will the real truth be told.”

“No, sir; I will call her by the name of my late husband, who was my
first cousin; for I mean, as soon as she is of age, to give her an
estate left me by Mr. Castlemain, and shall solicit leave for her to
bear the name and arms of Castlemain.”

“But in the meanwhile, madam, for what do you wish her to be taken by
strangers?—for your child by Mr. Castlemain?”

“I do not see, sir, that it is necessary for her own and her mother’s
story to be told to every one. Our intimate friends know it of course;
and should any gentleman pay his addresses to Emma, he also will be told
the truth.”

“But suppose, madam, that, believing Emma to be the daughter of the
honourable Mrs. Castlemain, a gentleman allows himself to become in love
with Emma, under the sanction of a father’s approbation; do you not
think that gentleman will have reason to reproach you, when he finds he
has been deceived by the change of name; and that your heiress is the
fruit of a marriage, which, in all human probability, will never be
proved to have taken place?”

“Sir,” said Mrs. Castlemain angrily, “you are putting an extreme case,
and fancying, I hope, an improbability that does not _exist_! Sir, my
peace of mind depends on my not hearing the hateful name of Danvers; and
in this respect, sir, I must beg, sir,—nay, sir, I must _insist_ on
having my own way!”

“Well, madam, then I must submit, though against my principles and my
judgment; for never yet did I know any good the result of
deception,—and God grant that from this no material mischief may
ensue!”

Accordingly the orphan of Agatha was in future known by the name of Emma
Castlemain.

But before I go on with the history of Emma, and her young companion,
Henry St. Aubyn, I shall make my readers acquainted with two persons,
who will be prominent characters in these pages, and on whose influence,
directly and indirectly, will in a great measure depend the fate both of
my hero and my heroine.

Mr. Hargrave was one of those fortunate men whom a series of unforeseen
accidents, aided by quickness of talent and industry, elevate from a
mean and obscure situation of life to one of opulence and gentility;
and, as is often the case with persons who are the makers of their own
fortune, he valued himself greatly on the extent of his possessions, and
had a particular spite against family pride, and what he denominated “a
poor, proud gentleman.” Mr. Hargrave’s understanding was good, but he
fancied it better than it really was; or rather, perhaps, he did not so
much overvalue his own ability, as undervalue that of those who
surrounded him. He did not fancy, while measuring himself with others,
that he was a giant; but he erroneously imagined them to be pigmies,
while he piqued himself on his talent of overreaching and imposing upon
his less acute companions. This propensity alone would have prevented
him from being a desirable companion; as, though he was unconscious of
it, his attempts were often discovered by the objects of them; and
however politeness might prevent them from disclosing the discovery,
they felt an indignant resentment at being supposed weak enough to be so
deceived. But there was a still stronger reason why, though he might be
an active citizen, an upright tradesman, and a generous relation, he
could never be an amiable man, an agreeable companion, or a beloved
friend. He was the slave of a bad and incorrigible temper; and this
slave to himself became the tyrant of others. The spoiled child of a
weak and ignorant mother, whose understanding he despised, and of an
indolent and sottish father, whose helpless, yet contented indigence
disgusted him,—he was thrown upon the world with all his irritable
feelings uncorrected and unsubdued, except where interest and ambition
made it necessary for him to assume the virtue which he had not.

At the age of thirty, love asserted its turn to reign over his yet
unwounded heart; and the object of his affection had extreme youth,
loveliness, and gentleness, to recommend her to his notice. Her fortune
was small; but that he did not consider as any obstacle to his wishes,
as he had wealth enough for both; and her birth and connexions were such
as to flatter his pride. Nor was he long before he made known his
passion and his views; and the lady seemed so fully to return his
affection, and to share in the warm approbation of his suit which her
parents expressed, that even a time for their union was fixed; while the
prospect of happiness as perfect as this world can afford, seemed to
soften the usual asperity of Mr. Hargrave’s disposition, and he felt
desirous of imparting to others the cheerfulness which he was conscious
of himself. But his hopes and his benevolence were only too soon
clouded, as it were for ever, by the most cruel and unmerited of
disappointments. A better connexion, and perhaps a more amiable man,
were offered to the mercenary parents of Mr. Hargrove’s betrothed wife;
and in a short time, by a number of little neglects and petty affronts,
he was given to understand that both the lady and her family were become
tired of him and his pretensions; and while by letters of earnest
expostulation, he was daily requesting to be informed how he had
deserved to forfeit the favour of the parents and the tenderness of the
daughter, he received the overwhelming and heart-rending intelligence
that the woman of his affections was married to another!

It would be needless for me to point out to my readers the natural
effect of an injury and a disappointment like this, on a proud and
irritable temper like that of Mr. Hargrave. Suffice that, having shortly
realized by a successful speculation, a fortune sufficient even for his
lofty ambition, he resolved to give up business and retire into the
country, in order to brood in solitude over the recollection of promised
joys to him for ever lost, and the wrongs which, though common to many,
his resentment magnified into injuries never experienced before by any
one but himself.

But the affair did not end here. The brother of his mistress, hearing
that Mr. Hargrave in the bitterness of just resentment had used very
opprobrious terms when speaking of her conduct, insisted that he should
either retract what he had said, or give him the satisfaction of a
gentleman. With this latter demand Mr. Hargrave eagerly complied, and
his second fire stretched his adversary on the ground, apparently
deprived of life. But though the surgeon in attendance declared that
life was only suspended, his wound was so dangerous a one that Mr.
Hargrave and the seconds thought proper to abscond. During a whole
twelve-month, the former was forced to be an exile from his country, and
to experience the tormenting fear of being obliged never to return to
it, or of standing a trial for his life.

At length, however, the cause of his distress was declared wholly out of
danger, and Mr. Hargrave returned to England;—but both from principle
and feeling he was become so decided an enemy to duelling, that he
solemnly declared he would discard, pursue with implacable hatred, and
disinherit a relation, however dear to him, who should either give or
accept a challenge. He returned, too, so disgusted with the world, that
he immediately went in search of an estate in some distant part of the
country; and having on the death of his parents made his orphan sister
the mistress of his house, he took her with him on his journey. It was
while making the tour of the Lakes that chance introduced Mr. St. Aubyn
to their acquaintance, who, captivated with the beauty of Miss Hargrave,
formed that hasty and ill-advised union with her, which was the ruin of
his fortune, and the bane of his peace of mind.

The marriage of his sister with Mr. St. Aubyn, though welcome to Mr.
Hargrave in some points of view, as he got rid by it of a sister whose
want of management hourly offended him, was very unpleasing to him in
others. Mr. St. Aubyn, whose estates were deeply mortgaged, owing to the
extravagance of his father, was a poor and proud gentleman, and Mr.
Hargrave, as I have before observed, hated persons of that description;
and the dignified refinement of Mr. St. Aubyn’s manners, which as he
could not imitate he therefore pretended to despise, was ill-suited to
the coarse banter and unpolished demeanour of his brother-in-law. Nor
could Mr. St. Aubyn always command his temper when the latter was
determined to put him off his guard; and at such moments the just and
haughty resentment of the man of family, used to show itself in a manner
which the man of wealth never pardoned. And as Mr. Hargrave, like all
angry persons, was apt to dwell on the provocation which he received,
and to forget that which he gave, the proximity of the St. Aubyn estate
to that which Mr. Hargrave purchased in the county of Cumberland soon
made it a very undesirable residence for him; he therefore removed with
his wife and infant son to a house which he still possessed near the
west end of the metropolis. But he soon found reason to repent of his
removal, as his wife’s extravagance became such, that in a very short
time he saw himself reduced to the alternative of going to a gaol, or of
parting with his paternal estate; and as a purchaser for St. Aubyn (the
name of his seat) offered at this critical moment, he with a sort of
desperate resolution accepted the offer, and bade for ever farewell to
the dear abode of his ancestors.

Soon after, he discovered that the real purchaser of a possession so
valued by him was the purse-proud Mr. Hargrave; and the agony of his
situation was considerably increased by the news. But he recollected
that if Mr. Hargrave did not marry,—and he had solemnly resolved that
he never would marry,—his son would in all probability be his heir, and
St. Aubyn would revert to its original possessor! This thought was
rapture to him; and in the happy state of mind which it occasioned, he
even fancied that Mr. Hargrave made the purchase from the benevolent
wish of preventing the estate from going out of the family; and as Mr.
St. Aubyn was resolved to act upon this idea, and in Mr. Hargrave’s
supposed generosity to forget his unkindness, the latter soon after
received a most affectionate letter from his brother-in-law, requesting
him to forget all that had passed, and to receive them for a few weeks
as his guests. Mr. Hargrave, flattered at being thus courted to a
reconciliation, promised to forget and forgive everything; and the St.
Aubyns came to Vale-House on a visit. But in less than two years Mr.
Hargrave, either in a fit of spleen against Mr. St. Aubyn, or from the
love of accumulation, sold the highly-prized estate for a very large
premium to another possessor; and Mr. St. Aubyn never recovered the
blow.

“How I have mortified the pride of that poor gentleman!” said Mr.
Hargrave to himself in one of his angry and malignant humours.

But he had it in his power to inflict still greater mortification on
him. Debt succeeded to debt, embarrassment to embarrassment,—till so
little of his once-comfortable fortune remained, that Mr. St. Aubyn on
his death-bed saw himself obliged to recommend his wife and child to the
protection and bounty of Mr. Hargrave! It was a moment of triumph for
Mr. Hargrave; the representative of the ancient family of the St. Aubyns
was thenceforth thrown by his high-born father on the pity and
dependence of a man of yesterday. How humbled was now the pride of the
man of family! But a better feeling succeeded to the throb of ungenerous
exultation.

Mr. Hargrave gazed on the pale and care-worn cheek, the imploring and
sunk eye of Mr. St. Aubyn, with pity, not unmixed perhaps with remorse.
“She shall not _ruin me_,” said he with ungracious graciousness; “but I
will maintain her handsomely; and if he behaves well, I will be a father
to the child.” The eyes of the dying man beamed with momentary joy,—for
he knew Henry would “behave well,”—and visions of future greatness, and
even of the recovery of the family estate, danced momentarily before his
closing eyes; while a blessing, a fervent blessing, faltered on his
quivering lips, and wrung a tear from the usually dry lid of Mr.
Hargrave.

Mr. St. Aubyn died; and he fulfilled his promise to the dying: he hired
a small house for his sister in the town of Keswick, and allowed her a
respectable income, but took Henry to reside with him, proposing to
provide for and to educate him as if he were his own child.

But it was impossible for a man of Mr. Hargrave’s temper and disposition
to make conscious dependence easy to be borne. On the contrary, every
day, every hour, every moment, reminded the St. Aubyns that they were
eating the bread of dependence; and Mrs. St. Aubyn had at once to dread
from her brother the sneer of contempt, the frown of reproof, and, what
was still more painful to endure with composure, the coarse and noisy
banter of sometimes well-deserved ridicule.

The circumstances in which Mrs. St. Aubyn had been placed in early life,
were the most unfavourable in every point of view, to form a
well-principled and respectable woman.—Praises of her beauty were the
first sounds that met her ear; while, as she grew up, her weak and
unprincipled mother, in order to obtain means to purchase ornaments for
the child whose personal graces were her pride, used to set apart for
that purpose, with her knowledge, small sums from the slender allowance
given her by her husband for their daily meals; and by this means her
daughter’s young mind learnt a lesson of artifice and disingenuousness
to which it could never rise superior. Nor was her father’s sense of
moral rectitude much greater than that of his wife, as a love of truth
made no part of his precepts or his practice; and the ready lie with
which his daughter usually endeavoured to hide the faults which she
committed, was looked upon, both by him as well as Mrs. Hargrave, as a
proof of talent and quickness above her years, and received with a wink
of the eye at each other, and an ill-suppressed smile, which convinced
the young delinquent, that the only crime in lying was that of being
found out.

In addition to this sort of training, was a constant assurance from her
mother that nothing was so necessary to a young woman as to look well,
and that if she set off her person to advantage there was no doubt but
that her beauty would make her fortune. But spite of her attention to
her dress, and the splendour of her personal charms, Miss Hargrave’s
apparent folly and flippancy had so far counteracted the power of her
beauty, that she had reached the age of twenty-five without having had
one offer of marriage worth accepting; when, on the death of her
parents, her brother invited her to reside with him, and Mr. St. Aubyn
saw her with Mr. Hargrave, as I before mentioned, on his tour to the
Lakes.

The vivacity and perhaps even the silliness of her expression, gave Miss
Hargrave the appearance of extreme youth, an appearance which her manner
strongly confirmed, and the bloom of her fine complexion, heightened by
air and exercise, considerably increased. Mr. St. Aubyn gazed on her,
the first moment that he beheld her, with admiration and delight. He saw
her in her youth, beauty, grace, every thing that his heart had ever
sought in woman; and when he became acquainted with her, and accompanied
her hanging on his arm, through the romantic scenes around him, he felt
that she was become the arbiter of his fate, and that it was impossible
for him to be happy without her. Indeed she appeared to Mr. St. Aubyn
under peculiar advantages. The fear of her brother made her always
silent and timid in his presence; therefore her lover heard not her
usually insipid volubility, and her occasional he considered as general
timidity. When they were alone, indeed, he found that she talked a great
deal, but this he attributed to the sort of intoxicating relief which
she felt at being removed from the alarming eye of her tyrant; and
judging thence how great must be her sufferings from a residence with
such a man, pity assisted to fan the flame of love, and he felt that it
would be both a just and generous action to remove so fascinating a
victim from the fetters that galled her.

Her want of fortune was indeed a serious obstacle to his wishes; as Mr.
St. Aubyn, in order to pay off several heavy mortgages on his estates,
had been living many years on a very inconsiderable part of his income,
and it was necessary that he should continue so to do, in order to
effect the honourable design which his integrity had dictated. But if
Miss Hargrave loved him, he thought every obstacle would vanish; for she
had been accustomed to live on a narrow income, and that which he had to
offer her was certainly larger than the one on which she had been
accustomed to live. Accordingly, rendered blind and confiding by the
illusions of passion, Mr. St. Aubyn revealed his love to the object of
it, and received from her an avowal of mutual regard. Immediately
transported with joy, and the hopes of future happiness, he declared to
her his situation, his well-principled plans of economy, and all that he
required of his wife during the first years of marriage, in order to
assist him in clearing his estates, and in rescuing from obloquy the
memory of a much respected though improvident father.

Miss Hargrave listened to and approved his plan, promised every thing
that he desired, and performed nothing. Still her infatuated husband
admired and adored her; and even while they remained at their
country-seat, he indulged her pride and her vanity by resuming much of
the ancient state of his family in his mode of living. But when, in
consequence of repeated differences with Mr. Hargrave, they removed to
the vicinity of London, her extravagance knew no bounds, and her husband
had not the heart to reprove or restrain her; for was she not called
“the beautiful Mrs. St. Aubyn?” was she not the most admired woman in
the drawing-room? and while her charms administered thus to the
gratification of his vanity and his affection, Mr. St. Aubyn endeavoured
to forget that the mortgages remained unpaid, and that debts were
accumulating around him.

The result I have before detailed, and the consequences of that fatal
uxoriousness, that want of proper energy, which led to the utter ruin of
his fortune, and precipitated him into an early grave. But, let me speak
it to his honour, he never, in his consciousness of the errors of the
wife, forgot for a moment the respect which he, as a gentleman, thought
due to her as a woman. Though too late convinced of her folly, her
vanity, her extravagance, her disregard of truth,—he behaved to her
before his servants and his son with as much politeness and deference as
if her words were oracles. He took no mean revenge on her for her
weakness, by wounding her self-love either in public or even in private;
and though her foibles were such as to make her often an object of
ridicule, he deplored but never scoffed at her weakness; whatever she
ordered respecting her son, he never contradicted; if wrong, he told her
it was so in private, and the order was repealed by herself, as if from
her own conviction, and not his desire; and it was owing to this kind,
generous, and manly conduct in her husband, that Henry St. Aubyn, in the
midst of his convictions of his mother’s follies, never lost sight for
one moment of the respect due to her as his parent. His father had
accustomed him to treat her with respect by his own example; and when
crushed to the earth by the avowed contempt and ridicule of her brother,
Mrs. St. Aubyn’s tearful eyes could turn on her son with confiding and
never-deceived affection, and her self-love was immediately soothed by
his respectful attention to herself, and the firm, decided, but cool and
gentle manner in which he defended and supported her under the attacks
of his uncle;—while Mr. Hargrave feared, approved, oppressed, admired,
and envied his nephew—love him he did not; it is not in nature for us
to love those whom we feel to be our superiors in those qualities which
entitle a person to the appellation of amiable. No one loved Mr.
Hargrave, and every one loved St. Aubyn. How then could he possibly
forgive his nephew an advantage which he had never possessed, and never
could possess himself? But he could torment him occasionally, and that
pleasure he often gave himself by speaking slightingly of his father;
and once with ingenious malignity he tried to wound St. Aubyn to the
utmost by leading Mrs. St. Aubyn to join him in disrespect to the memory
of her husband. “After all, Harriet,” said he, “St. Aubyn turned out a
very bad match for you; with your beauty and power of pleasing, you
might have done better; a rich London merchant would have been a more
proper husband for you, than a poor and proud country gentleman; and I
dare say you think so yourself; for then, you know, whatever you had
spent, he could have supplied you by his increasing gains; and instead
of now being dependent on a queer tempered fellow like myself, perhaps
at this moment you might have been Lady Mayoress.”

St. Aubyn turned pale at this ensnaring speech, and sat in fearful
expectation for his mother’s reply, who, trembling with agitation, rose
from her seat, and pressing both her hands upon her bosom, as if to keep
down the emotions that struggled there, indignantly exclaimed,

“What, sir, do you think I ever wish that I had been the wife of any
other man than Mr. St. Aubyn?—No, sir; I know he was only too good for
me; I know how faulty I am, and how indulgent he was.—No, Mr. Hargrave,
believe me, with all my faults, I can never forget what I owed to the
best of husbands; and I had rather have the proud consciousness of
having been his wife, than be married to an emperor!” Here sobs
interrupted her; and while Henry, with whom this energetic tribute to
his father’s worth effaced a score of her faults, ran to her, and laid
her head on his bosom, Mr. Hargrave, struggling himself with a little
rising in his throat, held out his hand affectionately to her, and said,

“Come, come, Harriet, don’t be a fool, I only said what I did to try
you.—So, I find you have a _heart_; and as St. Aubyn, but for his
confounded pride, was a very fine fellow, if you did not feel concerning
him as you do I should despise you;—but you have said what you ought;
so shake hands, and be friends.”

She gave him her hand, smiled, and forgot what had passed. But her son
could not so soon forget this wanton trial of his mother, and the
torture inflicted on himself; but with a look of reproach, which Mr.
Hargrave felt, though he did not choose to notice it, he folded his arms
in a sort of contemplative sadness, and left the room.

But to return to the inhabitants of the White Cottage.——I shall pass
over the details of the succeeding eight years, contenting myself with
saying, that during that time Emma’s progress in acquirements had fully
equalled the expectations of her preceptors, and that her improvement in
temper, from the firm though gentle authority of Mr. Egerton, and the
influence and example of St. Aubyn, had surpassed even their warmest
hopes.

Indeed, in that difficult part of good temper which consists in
forbearance and accommodation to the ill-humour of others, St. Aubyn was
unrivalled; and Mr. Egerton was never tired of dwelling on his praises,
and holding him up in this instance as an unfailing and admirable
example.

“Excuse me, Mr. Egerton,” said Mrs. Castlemain one day, piqued perhaps
at the evident superiority which he attributed to St. Aubyn over Emma in
this particular, “excuse me,—but I think you consider Temper as a
quality of more importance than it really is.”

“I am surprised at such an opinion from you, madam,” replied Mr. Egerton
gravely, “as I should have thought that you must have been aware, the
chief part of your misfortunes and those of your daughter were
occasioned by Temper.”

Mrs. Castlemain looked down and sighed, conscience-stricken.

“So far from agreeing with you, madam,” continued Mr. Egerton, “in what
you have just advanced, I consider Temper as one of the most busy and
universal agents in all human actions. Philosophers believe that the
electric fluid, though invisible, is everywhere in the physical world;
so I believe that Temper is equally at work, though sometimes unseen
except in its effects, in the moral world. Perhaps nothing is rarer than
a single motive; almost all our motives are compound; and if we examine
our own hearts and actions with that accuracy and diffidence which
become us as finite and responsible beings, we shall find that of our
motives to bad actions Temper is very often a principal ingredient, and
that it is not unfrequently one incitement to a good one. I am also
convinced,” added he, “that the crimes both of private individuals and
of sovereigns are to be traced up to an uncorrected and uneducated
temper as their source.”

“You seem to have considered this subject very carefully, and in a
manner wholly new to me,” answered Mrs. Castlemain in an accent of
uncomfortableness; “and you probably are right; but if you be, how many
then are wrong!”

“Alas!” replied Mr. Egerton, “the many are indeed, in my humble opinion,
wrong; for few persons are sufficiently aware how much the virtue, the
dignity, and the happiness of life depend on a well-governed temper. You
may remember that the Bourgeois Gentilhomme in Moliere finds, to his
great surprise, that he has been speaking prose all his life without
knowing it; and I have often observed, that parents and preceptors have
in their gift the best and most compendious of all possessions, that of
a good and well-governed temper, without at least the seeming
consciousness that it is in their disposal; and that to watch over the
temper of a child, ameliorate it by salutary or proper indulgence, or
control it by salutary restraints, is far, far more necessary to its
future welfare, than to reprove a fault in grammar, or to correct an
exercise.”

“Well, sir,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “education and care may do much; but
I suppose you will allow that some persons have tempers naturally
good,—and there is no merit in that.”

“No, madam,” answered Mr. Egerton smiling; “but there is great
convenience. I will allow, as the contrary does not admit of proof, that
there are persons who seem to come into the world with good tempers, and
that therefore they have no more merit in being good-humoured than in
having fine eyes. But then what a world of trouble they themselves are
spared! as they have no ill-humours to subdue; and how pleasant is an
intercourse with them! because you are not afraid that their temper,
like a tiger chained, should occasionally break loose and tear asunder
the scarcely well-knit tie of affection, destroying the confidence and
comfort of society. But many possess this sort of good temper, which may
be called the physical part of it, without having an atom of the other
sort, which may be called the moral part.”

“I do not understand you, sir; you are too deep for me,” observed Mrs.
Castlemain.

“I will explain my meaning, madam, if you will permit me to talk a
little longer.—I own that I am given to preach,—but preaching you know
is my vocation,—therefore I hope you will excuse it. I mean by the
moral part of good humour, that which shows itself in bearing with the
ill-humour and provoking irritability of others; and this necessary and
valuable power, I must say, is rarely, in my opinion, possessed by any
one who has not a good understanding. Now St. Aubyn possesses both sorts
of good temper, and—”

“Ah!” interrupted Mrs. Castlemain, “I thought how this long harangue
would end; namely, in the introduction of your favourite’s name, and of
his praises; but they are not _new_ to me; therefore, excuse my staying
to hear more.” So saying, she left the room with a toss of the head and
a quick step; not conscious, perhaps, how much she herself was at that
moment under the dominion of temper.

Mr. Egerton smiled, but not in derision. It was not for Mrs. Castlemain
that he had harangued, but for the silent and attentive Emma, who was
present, and in whose young and conscious heart every word that he had
uttered had made a due and salutary impression.

“Sir,” said Emma, coming to Mr. Egerton, and leaning on the back of his
chair; “pray, sir, go on with what you were going to say about Henry;
for I like to hear him praised for his temper, though I can’t help
thinking, sir, that grandmamma does not.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Egerton, suppressing a smile; “and what makes yon
think so?”

“O! her look and her manner, and I think I know why too; I think—”

“What dost thou think, my dear child?” said Mr. Egerton, taking her
hand.

“I think, sir, that she looks upon such praise as a reproach to me; for
you know, sir, I am not half so good-tempered as Henry St. Aubyn.”

“O yes, much more than _half_, my dearest girl,” replied Mr. Egerton;
“but I believe you are right in your observation; and as Mrs. Castlemain
is hurt at the praise of Henry, merely out of her affection for you, you
ought to love her the better for being so.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Emma; “but you know her love to me need not make
her unjust to others; and I am _sure_ Henry deserves _all_ you can say
of him.”

“True, very true. Well, then it is in your power to put a stop to Mrs.
Castlemain’s affectionate error, as you think it, by becoming as
tractable, as mild, and as forbearing, as Henry himself.”

“I will, sir, indeed I will,” said Emma; and Mr. Egerton saying “I
believe thee, dear child!” set out for his evening walk. But to resolve
and to execute are, alas! very different things; and even that evening,
as well as the next day, exhibited proofs of Emma’s love of excellence
being stronger than her power of imitating it.

That very evening Mrs. Castlemain invited Emma to walk with her to the
town of Keswick; and when there, business led the former to the shop of
a milliner. In the shop, unfortunately for Emma, was that weak, vain,
inconsiderate woman, the mother of St. Aubyn; and on the counter, as
unfortunately, lay a straw bonnet trimmed with pale-blue ribands. Emma’s
eyes were soon attracted to the bonnet; which the shopwoman perceiving,
she instantly begged the young lady would put it on, assuring her it was
the last new fashion, and amazingly becoming. To resist this entreaty
was impossible. Emma’s own bonnet, though nearly new, became immediately
of no value in her eyes, especially as the milliner and Mrs. St. Aubyn
declared, when Emma put on the new one, that there never was any thing
so becoming, and that it seemed made on purpose for her.

Mrs. Castlemain was silent, her look grave and unapproving; but Emma had
a quarterly allowance, and enough remaining of it to pay for the bonnet
at least. Ay; but she did not want it, and she knew that Mr. Egerton and
Mrs. Castlemain would both disapprove her incurring so unnecessary an
expense. Yet the bonnet was so pretty and so becoming, and Mrs. St.
Aubyn advised her so earnestly to buy it, that Emma had faintly
articulated “Well, I think I must have it,” when Mrs. Castlemain, who
recollected that Mr. Egerton had said no opportunity of inculcating the
practice of self-denial in Emma should be passed over, gravely observed,

“You must please _yourself_, Miss Castlemain, as I have made you in a
measure independent of _me_ in your expenses; but I must say, that if
you are so extravagant as to purchase, for the indulgence of a whim, a
hat which you do not want, I shall be very seriously displeased.”

Emma’s proud spirit revolted at this threat, uttered before so many
witnesses; and saying within herself, “What signifies my independence if
I am not allowed to use it?” she had half resolved to disobey her
grandmother, when her resolution was completely confirmed by Mrs. St.
Aubyn’s indiscreetly and impertinently observing,

“Dear girl! it does not signify how much she spends! but do, dear madam,
buy it for her! she looks so beautiful in it!—I assure you, Miss
Castlemain, my son Henry says nothing becomes you so much as
_pale-blue_.”

This was _decisive_; and after a short struggle between duty and
inclination, Emma threw down the money for the hat on the counter, and
desired it might be put into the carriage, which now came to the door,
as they were to walk only one way.

The drive home was gloomy and uncomfortable. Mrs. Castlemain was too
greatly irritated to speak; and Emma, to the painful consciousness of
having indulged a refractory temper, and displeased and disobeyed her
grandmother, added that of having unnecessarily expended nearly the last
farthing of her allowance, forgetting that it wanted some weeks to the
quarter-day.

Mr. Egerton, who met them on their return, soon discovered that
something unpleasant had happened, and he sighed as he observed that the
ingenuous vivacity which had sparkled in Emma’s eyes when she set out on
her walk, from having formed a virtuous resolution, with the full
intention of keeping it, was replaced by a sullen downcast look,
indicative of self-upbraiding, and the consciousness of having failed in
some necessary duty.

Mrs. Castlemain was silent, and spoke and answered in monosyllables; but
as soon as Emma, tired and dejected, had retired to bed without her
supper, she told her tale of grievances to Mr. Egerton, who, though much
mortified at hearing of the weakness of his pupil, hoped that the
inconveniences to which the want of money would expose her, would at
once punish and amend the fault of which she had been guilty; and after
volunteering a promise to Mrs. Castlemain that he would neither give nor
lend Emma any money, however she might require it, and receiving a
similar promise from her in return, he could not help hinting to Mrs.
Castlemain that this was a fresh proof of the importance of a good and
yielding temper; and he obliged her to own that, under similar
circumstances, Henry St. Aubyn would not have gratified his own
inclinations at the expense of a frown or a pang to his mother.

“But,” added he, “depend on it, my dear madam, that our joint and
incessant care will at length succeed in abating, if we cannot entirely
remove this only fault in the object of our solicitude, and one entirely
owing to the pernicious effect of early and erroneous habits.”

The next day, to the joy of Emma, was a day of splendid sunshine; so
much so, that there seemed no likelihood any rain would fall during the
day; and as this was the case, she looked forward with all the delight
of her age to a party of pleasure, in a beautiful vale about two miles
distant from Mrs. Castlemain’s house, which was to take place if the
weather promised to be fine and settled. This party was to consist of
Mr. Hargrave, Mrs. St. Aubyn, her son, some young ladies in the
neighbourhood, and Mrs. Castlemain, Mr. Egerton, and Emma. It was in
order to look well on this occasion that Emma was so eager to have the
new hat, and when told that she might prepare for this promised
expedition, as the weather would certainly be good, the pleasure she
felt on putting on this dearly purchased ornament, almost deadened her
regret for having disobeyed and displeased Mrs. Castlemain.

The place of their destination was Watenlath, or the valley on the top
of rocks; a scene as beautiful and sequestered as the warmest fancy can
conceive, and beyond the power of the most finished pencil to describe.
It was agreed that Mr. Egerton, Mrs. Castlemain, and Emma, should walk
thither, and meet the rest of the party there, they having resolved to
go on horseback, as to them the vale was well known; but Mr. Egerton and
Emma had never seen Watenlath, and its peculiar beauty could best be
felt if approached on foot, and by means of one particular pathway.

The party were to dine in the valley, and a pony well-laden with
provisions was to follow at a certain hour.

The party from the White Cottage were to go in the carriage as far as
Keswick; and at length nine o’clock, the time for setting off, being
arrived, Emma, dressed to the very utmost of her wishes, joined Mrs.
Castlemain and Mr. Egerton, on the lawn.

“So—you have gotten a new bonnet, I see!” observed the latter; “but I
don’t think you look so well in it as you did in your old one. Not that
the hat is not a pretty hat, and the colour of the riband becoming to
you; but you don’t look so happy as usual, and your countenance has not
that open vivacity which I saw on it when you set off on your walk
yesterday. Believe me, my dear girl,” added Mr. Egerton, taking the hand
of the conscious and blushing Emma, “the best ornament to a young woman
is a mind at peace with itself, and a brow unruffled by a frown.”

This remark, though well-meant, was perhaps ill-timed. It convinced her
that Mrs. Castlemain had told tales; and the resentment of the preceding
evening, which had nearly subsided, was again called forth.

Within a mile of Keswick, one of the wheels came off, and obliged them
to alight; when on the road, which in places was exceedingly heavy and
dirty, (and against which Emma’s feet were fortified by a pair of thick
shoes which fastened high on the instep, and were buckled on one side by
a pair of small but substantial silver buckles, which had belonged to
Mrs. Castlemain’s grandfather,) the interest of the party was excited,
and their course arrested, by the sight of a woman fainting by the side
of a hedge, whom a child, seemingly of eight or nine years old, was
vainly attempting to recover. But Mrs. Castlemain was more successful in
her efforts; and when the poor creature, whose tattered garments bespoke
her extreme poverty, recovered her senses, she said that she was a
soldier’s widow, and was travelling with her child to her parish, which
was in Carlisle; but that, being worn down with sorrow, hunger, and
fatigue, she had lain down, as she thought, to die on the road.

The woman’s countenance bore a strong testimony to the truth of her
narration;—and her auditors listened to it with the sincerest
compassion. But to pity her distresses was not sufficient; they resolved
to alleviate them; and having procured refreshments both for her and her
child from a neighbouring cottage, they resolved to walk on briskly to
Keswick, and hire a man and cart to convey her to Penrith, where she was
to stay a night or two to recruit her exhausted strength. Longer time
she said she could not spare, as she had a mother on her death-bed, whom
she wished, if possible, to see once more. When she was quite recovered,
and was seated comfortably at the cottage-door, awaiting the arrival of
the cart, Mrs. Castlemain and Mr. Egerton took out their purses; and
both not only relieved her present wants, but gave her money sufficient,
as they hoped, to procure her a conveyance as far as Carlisle.

Now then the moment was arrived to fill the generous heart of Emma with
sorrow, for the needless extravagance of the preceding evening, and Mrs.
Castlemain was amply revenged. For the first time in her life since she
had money to bestow, she had it not in her power to add her mite to the
bounty of her friend and her relation; who, as soon as they had given
the poor woman what they intended, walked forward to escape from her
thanks, and hasten the intended conveyance for her; while Emma, sad,
mortified, and irresolute, lingered behind, reading, as she fancied, in
the sufferer’s looks, an expression of wonder that she gave her nothing,
and also of expectation and supplication.

“I have no money in my pocket,” said Emma, mournfully; “but I will
borrow some;” and having overtaken Mr. Egerton, who was behind Mrs.
Castlemain, she begged him in a faltering voice, to lend her five
shillings.

“I have no silver, my dear,” cried he: “ask Mrs. Castlemain.” But the
latter angrily turned round and said she would not lend her money, as
she did not deserve it; adding, “this is a proper punishment for your
obstinate folly and extravagance in buying what you did not want last
night.”

This was only too true; and angry, sorry, abashed yet irritated, Emma
ran back to the cottage, and soon, to her great satisfaction, lost sight
of her monitors. Immediately she stooped down, took out her
old-fashioned silver buckles, drew the twist out which confined her
gloves over her dimpled elbows, endeavoured as well as she could to
re-fasten her shoes by tyeing them; and then, as much impelled, I fear,
by spite as by generosity, she entered the cottage, and telling the
woman that she could not give her money, but that those buckles were
silver, and would sell for some, she waited neither for an acceptance
nor a denial of her gift; but, almost afraid to reflect on what she had
done, she ran violently forward to overtake Mr. Egerton and Mrs.
Castlemain; not liking, however, to show her tied shoes in the town of
Keswick, she called out to tell them they would find her on the lake,
and turned off to hasten to the boat in waiting to convey them to the
spot whence they were to ascend the mountain; which having entered, she
sat silently, sorrowfully, and even fearfully; for she dreaded the
discovery of what she had done, and began to wish that she had had more
self-government.

At length, Mrs. Castlemain and Mr. Egerton, with the expression of
satisfied benevolence on their countenances, arrived at the boat, having
procured the promised cart for the poor soldier’s widow. But the joy of
both of them was soon damped by observing the clouded countenance of
Emma, who could with some difficulty contrive to hide her feet under the
bench on which she was seated.

At length they landed near the foot of the Lodore waterfall, and began
their laborious walk; when to Mr. Egerton’s surprise, he not only found
that Emma, so remarkable for the agility with which she used to climb
mountains, could now with difficulty keep up with her companions, and
evidently walked up with uncomfortable effort; but that ever and anon
she was stooping down to adjust her shoes.

“This is very strange,” thought he, turning round and offering her his
assistance, (while Mrs. Castlemain, whom nothing impeded in her
progress, was nearly out of sight;) but Emma in so pettish and
peremptory a manner rejected his assistance, and turned her back while
she stooped, that a suspicion of the truth darted across his mind; and
when she again turned round, he saw that his suspicions were just. He
said nothing, however, but contented himself with observing Emma, as
first one string broke and then another, till at last they were too much
broken to be used again; and poor Emma, almost crying with vexation, was
forced to proceed with the straps of her shoes hanging loose, and
threatening to throw her down every moment. To add to her distress, the
road was wet and full of bogs; and at last both her shoes stuck
completely fast in the mud, and unable to help herself, she was
precipitated forward on her knees,—when a new calamity befell her; for
before she could put her hand to her head to prevent it, the new hat was
blown off by a sudden gust of wind, and the blue ribands disfigured with
mud!

In spite of his love for Emma, his compassionate vexation at her
distress, and his self-command,—when Mr. Egerton saw this last
accident, and beheld the hat, the cause of all the mischief, on the
ground, he could not refrain from a violent fit of laughter; which so
irritated the poor prostrate Emma, that, as he stooped to raise her from
the ground, she attempted to strike him.

Mr. Egerton, shocked, but instantly recovering himself, said with great
calmness, “I shall address you, my dear, in the words of a celebrated
Greek general on a similar provocation; I shall say to you, ‘Strike, if
you please; but hear me!’”

“No, no,” exclaimed the sobbing and now subdued Emma; “hear me, hear me!
I beg and entreat your pardon. O do, do, Mr. Egerton, forgive me! but I
am sure I shall never forgive myself.”

“I do forgive you, my dear, and will not say what I meant to say, and I
scarcely regret what has passed; because I am sure that to a mind
ingenuous and generous as yours is, it will afford an indelible lesson,
and one for which you will be the better as long as you live; besides, I
am well convinced that your own reproaches are more severe, and will be
of more benefit, than any I should have the heart to address to you.”

“You are too, too good,” replied Emma, almost convulsed with sobs, and
leaning her head against his arm.

“But recover yourself, my child,” said Mr. Egerton, “and let us see what
we can do for you, for you are in a terrible condition—shoes,
stockings, petticoats, hat covered with mud!”

“Well, I must bear it patiently,” said Emma meekly, “for I deserve it
all.”

“Good girl!” said Mr. Egerton affectionately; and Emma was able to look
up once more. “But, my dear girl,” added Mr. Egerton, “let me put you on
your guard. You know Mr. Hargrave, and you know that to tease and to
torment is one of the great delights of his life; and that I always hold
him up as constantly as an example to deter, as I do his nephew as an
example to invite. Then you will readily believe that he will make a
number of provoking and teasing observations on your draggled
appearance; but ‘forewarned, forearmed;’ and as you owe some reparation
for the pain your conduct has occasioned me, make it, by bearing with
temper and calmness the sneers and sarcasms of Mr. Hargrave.”

“I will try to obey you, sir,” replied Emma; “but indeed I have lost all
confidence in myself.” Then leaning on the now welcome arm of Mr.
Egerton, Emma slowly and with difficulty renewed her walk; but though
dirty and fatigued from being scarcely able to lift her feet from the
slippery and tenacious ground, her mind was considerably lightened, and
she even began to observe the beauty of the richly-wooded rocks, and the
flowery and velvet carpet, which, the further they advanced, still more
and more kept spreading under their feet; while the sound of the
cataract of Lodore, lately so distinctly heard, grew every moment
fainter and fainter, and the lake of Keswick became diminished to the
eye. Yet so gradual had been the ascent that they had scarcely perceived
it, and now could only ascertain its length and height by the effect
exhibited to the sight. They now began to approach the expected valley,
and beheld with wonder that they were still, though on the top of
mountains, surrounded by mountains and rocks, and were eagerly gazing
around them, when some of the party whom they expected to join appeared
in sight coming to meet them.

“Now, Emma, now your hour of trial begins; and I see by the sneer
flickering on Mr. Hargrave’s upper lip, and the expression of his fierce
projecting eye, that I was right in my forebodings,” said Mr. Egerton.

Mrs. Castlemain at this moment was expatiating to Mr. Hargrave on the
great progress which Emma had made in the study of Latin, and even of
Greek, as Mr. Egerton had readily acceded to her wish of learning those
languages, because he wisely considered that it was the ostentatious
display of learning in a woman, and not the learning itself, that was to
be objected to; and telling Emma that all he required of her was a
promise never to quote a Latin saying, or talk of Greek quantities, he
tried to make her as good a classical scholar as he did St. Aubyn. And
at this moment, as I before stated, this unlucky moment, Mrs. Castlemain
was reporting her progress to the cynical Mr. Hargrave, who, as soon as
he saw poor Emma with the straps of her shoes hanging down, a draggled
frock, and dirty stockings, observed, as many men, ay and many women
too, would have observed on a similar occasion—”Yes, madam, I don’t
doubt but that her progress has been considerable; for, see, she looks
very like a learned lady indeed! There’s a smart figure for you! Pray
admire her!”

On hearing this, the eyes of all the company were turned on Emma; and
Henry St. Aubyn kindly ran forward to inquire what had happened.

“Bless me! Where are your buckles, Emma?” asked Mrs. Castlemain, half
suspecting the true state of the case; and Emma could not answer her.

“O!” said Mr. Hargrave, “I suppose she forgot to put them on; geniuses
cannot attend to such trifles, you know!”

“You don’t answer my question, Emma,” resumed Mrs. Castlemain; “Was Mr.
Hargrave’s conjecture right?”

“No, madam,” answered Emma, sobbing as she did so; while Mr. Egerton
preserved a grave silence.

“Come, come, Mrs. Castlemain, don’t distress the fair classic,”
exclaimed Mr. Hargrave; “but let us return to the valley, or we shall
not see all its beauties before dinner;” and she, suspecting she had
nothing to hear that would give her pleasure, consented to his proposal;
while Emma, having begged her young companions to walk on without her,
remained behind with Henry St. Aubyn, who declared he would not leave
her; and Mr. Egerton, who was better pleased to gaze on the beauties of
the surrounding scene alone, than surrounded by loquacious companions,
walked slowly on before Emma and Henry, yet was not so far before them
but that he heard their conversation.

“Now do tell me, dear Emma,” said Henry, “why you have neither riband
nor buckles in your shoes;—you who are generally so neat in your
dress!”

“Why then, I must tell you,” replied Emma, “that as I had no money to
give, I gave my buckles to a poor distressed woman whom I saw on the
road.”

This explanation, so flattering to the generous pity of Emma, if not to
her judgment, alarmed Mr. Egerton for the sincerity of his pupil; and he
listened anxiously for what was to follow.

“Dear, generous girl!” cried Henry; “so this was the truth; and yet you
bore my uncle’s taunts in silence! But I will go and tell him.”

“No, no, Henry,” returned Emma, detaining him; “for, if you knew _all_,
I doubt you would blame rather than praise me.”

Here Mr. Egerton breathed freely again.

“Indeed! Well, what is this dreadful _all_?”

“Why, you must know, Henry, that I yesterday spent my last shilling most
foolishly and unnecessarily; therefore, to the joy I believe of my
mother and Mr. Egerton, I was punished by having no money to give the
poor woman.”

“Well, but you gave her your buckles, you know.”

“True; but I tried to borrow some money first, and was refused;
therefore as much out of spite as charity I gave her my buckles; and now
what do you think of me?”

Here Mr. Egerton almost bounded forward with joy.

“Think of you!” replied Henry; “why, even more highly than before, for
so nobly disclaiming the praise that was not due to you.”

“You are right, quite right, my dear boy,” said Mr. Egerton turning
round; “ingenuousness like this is a much rarer quality than that of a
disposition to relieve distress. I have overheard all that passed, and I
own, Emma, I am again proud of my pupil. But be not elated by this
well-earned praise; remember, you have still a terrible defect to
conquer—a defect of temper; and that on the excellence or badness of
temper chiefly depends not only one’s own but the happiness of others.
But come, let us forget everything now, except the beauties that
surround us.”

But Emma pointed sorrowfully to her shoes, and declared she must sit
down on a piece of rock near them; while Mr. Egerton, producing a piece
of strong cord from his pocket, (which from principle he had not
produced before,) contrived, though rather awkwardly, to fasten Emma’s
straps over her feet, and enable her to walk with less effort.

While thus employed, neither of them was conscious of the disappearance
of St. Aubyn; but when they looked up again he was out of sight.

“This is very strange!” said Mr. Egerton.

“This is very strange!” echoed Emma.

But the next moment a suspicion of the cause of St. Aubyn’s absence came
across the mind of both, though neither of them communicated it to the
other.

Emma was now sufficiently rested to proceed as fast as her admiration
would let her, while Mr. Egerton pointed out to her the picturesque
beauties which met her eye as she advanced. They now found themselves on
the banks of a clear and rapid river called the Lodore, whose waters
fall into the cascade known by that name, which forms one of the great
features on the shores of Keswick Lake. The green and velvet banks of
this river were bounded on either side, and at no considerable distance,
by bare, by wooded, and nearly perpendicular rocks, of which, as Gilpin
observes, the particularity consists in their being nearly as much
asunder at the bottom as at the top. It was then the hay season, and the
unrivalled verdure of the scene was beautifully contrasted with the
golden haycocks that were reared almost profusely around; while in
places the dark green alder, and the mountain ash then decorated with
its brightest berries, met across the stream, and united their
well-assorted branches. At some distance a small lake was discoverable,
on whose shores were scattered a few white cottages.

Near the lake, and on the point of entering a boat, Mr. Egerton and Emma
now discovered their whole party, and amongst them Mrs. St. Aubyn, who
was endeavouring, though evidently she was angrily repulsed by her
brother, to assist him in getting ready his fishing-tackle, as the lake
contained excellent trout.

On not seeing St. Aubyn with the companions with whom he had left him,
Mr. Hargrave angrily desired to know what was become of his nephew, that
he was not there to assist him with his fishing-tackle, which was
entangled.

Mr. Egerton coldly replied, that he knew nothing of Mr. St. Aubyn;—but
that he doubted not, when he returned, he would be able to account for
his absence in a satisfactory manner.

“Oh, that I am sure he will,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn; then seeing a frown
gather on her tyrant brother’s brow, she exclaimed, glad to turn the
conversation, “Dear me, what a pity! Why, the ribands on the beautiful
hat of Miss Castlemain are covered with dirt! Still, young ladies, pray
look, is it not very becoming? She would not have bought it if I had not
persuaded her, and told her that I had heard it observed how becoming
_blue_ was to her.”

“So, Mrs. St. Aubyn!” said Mr. Hargrave with a provoking sneer; “you are
not content with being a coxcomb yourself, but you must endeavour to
make one of a mere child?”

“Dear me, brother, you are so——,” but her declaration of _what_ he
was, was stopped on her lips by a frown so terrible, that the poor woman
almost trembled with apprehension; while Mr. Egerton was not sorry to
find that Emma’s obstinate extravagance was occasioned as much by the
folly of another as by her own. But still St. Aubyn came not; and his
uncle was so discontented at his absence, that nothing pleased him;
nobody could steer a boat so well as Henry, he declared, as he was not
there to steer it; for had he been there, his excellence would not have
been allowed; and after rowing about the lake some little time, stopping
occasionally to let Mr. Hargrave endeavour to angle, in order, if
possible, to get him into good humour, the party returned to shore; and
soon after, his cheek crimsoned with heat and exercise, and bearing a
bundle under his arm, St. Aubyn appeared.

“I thought so,” cried Emma, running forward with artless delight to meet
him, and hanging affectionately on his arm, while he told her the bundle
contained clean stockings, shoes, petticoat, and frock for her.

“So!” cried Mr. Hargrave, “it was well worth while, was it not? for you
to go and heat yourself into a fever in order to make a little girl
clean, who, I dare say, does not care whether she be clean or dirty!”

“But I _do_ care very much, sir,” said Emma; “and I am sure I am so
obliged to Henry——”

“It is more than I am,” muttered his uncle; “but I am always to be last
served.”

“Nay, I am sure, brother,” observed Mrs. St. Aubyn, “Henry is always
ready to wait on you; and it was only his good nature that led him to
——, for I am sure Henry is the sweetest and most obliging temper!”

“That he is,” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain, giving Henry her hand; “and
this is a proof of it.” And so said all the young ladies, and Mr.
Egerton too.

This praise of his now well-grown nephew, and for a quality which Mr.
Hargrave was conscious that he did not himself possess, either in
reality or reputation, was more than he could bear, as he had already
begun to be so jealous of his nephew’s virtues, and the general love
which they excited, that he felt a sort of malevolent consolation in the
knowledge of his complete dependence on him, and on his will.

“Come, let us have no more of your flattery, if you please,” he angrily
exclaimed; “the boy is a good boy enough, but no such paragon as you
represent him to be.”

St. Aubyn, more gratified by the praise he had received than wounded by
his uncle’s ungraciousness, now attempted to turn the discourse by
following Emma, who was going into an adjacent cottage to change her
dress; and producing a paper he said, “Here, dear Emma, here is some
blue riband to supply the place of that dirty one;—pray accept it as a
present from me.”—And while Emma with a sparkling eye and dimpled cheek
received this new proof of Henry’s kindness, Mr. Hargrave, who had
overheard him, observed with a look of more than common malice,

“I am glad, Mr. St. Aubyn, to find you are _rich_ enough to make
_presents_.”

“This is a present,” said Mr. Egerton eagerly, “which _I_ must beg leave
to make my young pupil,—and not Mr. St. Aubyn; as I know that, if the
riband be _my_ gift, it will recall to her mind some events of this day,
from the recollection of which I trust she will never cease to derive
improvement.”

“I dare not dispute this matter with you,” replied Henry timidly, “as
your right is so much beyond mine; but, dear sir,” said he in a whisper,
“do tell her that what I have done was meant as a reward for her
_ingenuousness_.”

In a short time after, and before the beauty of the scene and the
pleasant tone of spirits which it inspired had begun to pall upon the
feelings, and to allow any sensation of hunger to prevail amongst the
party, Mr. Hargrave proposed having dinner; and as he was generally
conscious of being the richest individual in company, (an advantage of
which he was very proud,) his proposals were usually uttered in the tone
of commands.—Mrs. Castlemain, indeed, had some right to oppose his
will; but she was on this occasion willing to accede to it, in hopes
that he might eat himself into good humour; dinner therefore was served
up as soon as ever Mr. Hargrave expressed his wishes on the subject.

But the angry particles of a bad temper, when once they have begun to
effervesce, do not soon subside again. Mr. Hargrave was still
dissatisfied; the meat-pie was too salt, the fruit-pie too sweet, the
potted char wanted seasoning, and the home-brewed ale wanted strength.
Every word from his poor dependent sister called forth from him an
expression of insulting contempt; while his nephew, whom he could not
even pretend to despise, was treated by him with sullen disregard.

“He is nothing but an old baby,” whispered Emma to Mr. Egerton.

“True,” replied Mr. Egerton; “but remember that all this disgusting
conduct is the effect of _temper_; and be warned by his example!”

At this moment Mr. Hargrave asked Emma to help him to some tart which
stood near her; and in her haste to comply with his request,—a haste
perhaps occasioned by her consciousness of having just spoken of him in
a degrading manner,—she unfortunately spilt some of the juice on the
table-cloth, which happened to be his; and this trifling accident
irritated him so much that he exclaimed,

“Pshaw! I might have known better than to have employed you to help me,
as geniuses are above knowing how to do common things.”

Henry blushed with indignation at this coarse speech, and Mr. Egerton
looked ready to resent it; but Emma meekly replied,

“I am very sorry for my awkwardness, sir, as I wish to do every thing
well. I am certainly a bad carver, but I will try to become a good one.”

Mr. Egerton and Henry looked at each other with an expression of mutual
satisfaction while she said this; and Mrs. Castlemain, looking proudly
around her, exclaimed,

“You are a good girl, Emma, for you can return good for evil, and that
is better than being a good scholar, as you certainly are.”

“But is she a good workwoman? and can she make a pudding or a pie?”
cried the implacable Mr. Hargrave.

“No, sir; but I can learn—”

“Can learn!—But will you? would you not think such things beneath you?”

“I am sure, sir,” cried Henry eagerly, “Miss Castlemain has too much
good sense to think it beneath her to be useful.”

“I did not speak to you, you puppy,” replied Mr. Hargrave; “What says
Miss Castlemain herself?”

“That time will discover how justly Henry St. Aubyn answered for me.”
And Mr. Hargrave, pleased at the trimming which, as he boasted
afterwards, he had given these uncommon folks, was tolerably
good-humoured the rest of the day. Nor was this change lost upon the
rest of the party; for it had an agreeable effect on their spirits. So
paralyzing is the influence that one splenetic, sullen, and unamiable
person in company has on that company!

Mr. Hargrave, now deigning to be agreeable, offered Mrs. Castlemain his
arm, and even complimented her on _wearing well_; while Mr. Egerton
offered his to the now loquacious and simpering Mrs. St. Aubyn, who, no
longer awed by the dark and frowning brow of her brother, began to play
off all the artillery of her airs and graces on the unconscious Mr.
Egerton.

Little indeed did he think that even the vanity of Mrs. St. Aubyn could
have imagined his affection for his amiable pupil Henry was at all
increased by admiration of his mother;—yet such was this weak woman’s
belief;—and while with the common care and attention of a gentleman he
handed her over broken pieces of rock, or little rivulets difficult to
cross, which ever and anon obstructed their path, she fancied his
supporting grasp was one of overflowing tenderness; and if he sighed,
she sighed audibly in return.

“What a countenance that young man has!” cried Mr. Egerton, as Henry
bounded past, and smiled on them as he went.

“He has indeed,” simpered Mrs. St. Aubyn; adding, with affected and
hesitating timidity, “Do you see any _likeness_? Some people say
that——”

“A likeness! O yes, I do _indeed_, madam,” replied Mr. Egerton in a
faltering voice, “I do _indeed_ see his likeness to one very dear to
me;”—for he concluded she alluded to her husband’s cousin, Clara
Ainslie, whose image was always present to his mind, and whose name he
thought Mrs. St. Aubyn from delicacy forbore to mention.

“Do _you_ not see the likeness yourself, dear madam?” asked he, pressing
her arm gently as he spoke.

“Why—yes,” replied the lady, “I believe I do; but I must be a bad judge
you know——”

“You are too modest,” rejoined Mr. Egerton, again pressing her arm
kindly, and hoping she would gently hint some praise of his regretted
love; but Mrs. St. Aubyn only pressed his arm in return, and he felt the
action to be an expression of her sympathy in his affliction and
sorrows; which being recalled to his mind by this supposed allusion of
Mrs. St. Aubyn’s, he fell into a melancholy reverie, mistaken by his
companion for a tender one, with her for its object. But at length,
tired of his long and unnecessary silence, she ventured to express to
him how happy she esteemed her son in having found in him such a friend
and preceptor, nay even a _father_, as it were.

“A father!” cried Mr. Egerton enthusiastically, and suddenly starting
from his reverie; “you say well, madam; I hope I shall one day or other
prove a father to him!”

“Dear me!” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, affectedly disengaging her arm from Mr.
Egerton’s, for she thought this speech amounted to little less than an
offer of his hand. But Mr. Egerton, wrapt in his own thoughts, heard not
her exclamation, neither was he conscious of the delicate scruple which
unlocked her arm from his, nor of the action itself;—and seeing Emma
before him evidently waiting for his approach, he walked hastily
forward; then taking her under his arm, he left Mrs. St. Aubyn to walk
alone,—but at the same time to hope also; as she attributed his abrupt
departure from her to the fear of having disclosed too much of his
intentions on so short an acquaintance; and she earnestly wished she had
let her arm remain where it was. But she had no opportunity of regaining
the station which she had lost; for when the party, who all walked home,
reached the town of Keswick, they separated and went to their respective
homes; and as Mr. Egerton before he entered Mrs. Castlemain’s carriage
which met them at Keswick, bowed low to Mrs. St. Aubyn without looking
her in the face, the tenderness which she had thrown into her last look
was wholly thrown away; but she mused for hours after on her prospect of
becoming the wife of Mr. Egerton, and had in fancy made him exchange his
greyish unpowdered locks for an auburn Brutus.

Meanwhile Mr. Egerton, wholly unsuspicious of his power and of the
dangerous hopes which his words and attentions had excited, was,
together with Mrs. Castlemain, conversing with Emma on the errors which
she had committed in the beginning of the day, and the virtues with
which she had made amends for that error; while Emma, penitent yet
pleased, and smiling through her tears, promised to turn the events of
that day to profit the most unfailing.

The next day Henry, being obliged to go to Penrith on business for his
uncle, did not attend at the usual hour for lessons; and Mr. Egerton,
observing that Emma was very absent, desired to know the reason. On
which she confessed that she thought herself pledged to learn those
branches of housewifery which Mr. Hargrave had reproached her for not
knowing.

“I have no objection,” said Mr. Egerton, smiling, “to your close
initiation into all the mysteries of the kitchen and the pantry,
provided the motives for learning them be good ones;—but if your only
motive be a wish to triumph over a splenetic old man, I object to it;
for then it would be only _your_ temper taking its revenge on _his_.”

“I own,” replied Emma, blushing, “that I _should_ like to prove to him
that the fair classic can be useful; but I do assure you that I had a
painful feeling of _shame_ during Mr. Hargrave’s coarse speech, from the
consciousness how little I knew of what I have often heard that all
women should know; therefore for my own sake, I wish to learn all a
woman’s learning.”

“And so you shall,” replied Mr. Egerton, “as it is for your own
gratification; for if you wished for it on any other account, you would
be terribly disappointed. Men, and women too, scarcely, if ever, part
with certain prejudices; and in spite of the evidence of their eyes, if
they once find out that you have learning and talents, they will still
taunt you with the reproach of being a slattern, and ignorant of every
thing which it is necessary and becoming for women to learn. And yet,
though in trifles like these prejudice is so difficult to be eradicated,
we sit and wonder at the slow progress we make in eradicating prejudices
of a more important and pernicious tendency.”

“And is the world so full of prejudice then?” asked Emma, sorrowfully.

“More than you can imagine,” replied Mr. Egerton; “but still in some
respects mercy and justice have triumphed over it.”

Here they were most unexpectedly and painfully interrupted; and Emma
felt, in its full force, how true it is, that when once we have
committed a fault, however trifling, it is impossible to calculate what
may be the mischievous consequences of that single error.

Mrs. Castlemain ran into the room, an open letter in her hand, and
exclaimed, “There, Miss Castlemain! see the effect of your preposterous
generosities! There, read and tremble.”

Emma did read, and did tremble; for the letter was an official letter
from Penrith, stating that a poor woman had offered a pair of silver
buckles for sale there, on the inside of which was engraved the name of
Bellenden; and that, on being asked how she came by them, she had said
that a young lady who had no money in her pocket had given her the
buckles out of her shoes; and that this story had appeared so
improbable, that the silversmith concluded she had either taken the
buckles from the young lady’s person by violence, or had stolen them in
some other way; and had therefore carried the woman before a magistrate;
who having on inquiry found out that Mrs. Castlemain of the White
Cottage had hired the cart in which she came to Penrith, had committed
her till further information could be procured from Mrs. Castlemain
herself; and she was requested to send such information directly.

It would be impossible for me to describe the clamorous grief of Emma on
this unexpected consequence of her foolish conduct; or her frantic
eagerness to set off immediately to the relief of the poor woman, whom
she had not only been the means of exposing to the disgrace of being
committed as a felon, but who might probably be prevented by the delay
from reaching Carlisle time enough to see her mother before she died.
But Mrs. Castlemain and Mr. Egerton were just as eager to go as Emma
herself was; and soon, as fast as four horses could carry them, they
were on the road to Penrith. In the meanwhile the story of the poor
woman’s commitment and its cause was told to Henry St. Aubyn and his
mother, who had accompanied him to Penrith that morning; and he, filled
with pity for the prisoner, and grief for what Emma would feel on the
occasion, ran immediately to the magistrate who was then sitting in
court, to tell all he knew on the subject, and exculpate the poor woman.
But unfortunately Mrs. St. Aubyn went with him; and while Henry was
telling his story to the magistrates, she was relating the same at the
door of the hall to the crowd that was collected; while, pleased to be
listened to, and as she thought admired, she dwelt with raptures on the
noble generosity of Emma; describing her as an angel not only in mind
but person, till she worked up her audience to such a pitch of
enthusiastic admiration of Emma, and of pity for the woman who had been
so unjustly confined, that they huzzaed Mrs. St. Aubyn, and declared
they would huzza Emma as soon as she arrived.

Mrs. St. Aubyn was so delighted at this homage paid to her eloquence,
that she went on haranguing, flattering herself all the time that she
should be exalted by it in the opinion of Mr. Egerton, and that he would
feel the greatest gratitude towards her, as having been the means of his
pupil’s receiving so public a tribute to her virtue; and she was waving
her white hand gracefully in the air, and expatiating on the duty and
charm of charity to the poor, when the party from the White Cottage
stopped at the hall, and beheld the delighted Mrs. St. Aubyn.

“I wonder what that fool is about!” said Mr. Egerton in no kind tone of
voice; for he had taken alarm at seeing Mrs. St. Aubyn directing the
attention of the crowd to the carriage; and his brow assumed a frown
almost terrific, when, as soon as he lifted out the trembling Emma, the
crowd greeted her with three loud huzzas; while the self-satisfied
simper, nods, and glistening eyes of Mrs. St. Aubyn explained at once
the cause and the effect.

“O that grinning idiot!” muttered Mr. Egerton, as he hurried the
confused Mrs. Castlemain and the weeping Emma through the crowd; while
the latter, seeing instead of the angelic beauty whom Mrs. St. Aubyn’s
description had led them to expect, a pale girl with blubbered eyes and
discoloured cheeks, could not help muttering, “Well, I see no beauty in
her, howsomever.”

“But handsome is that handsome does,” said one; and “That is the good
young lady that gave her buckles to the poor woman out of her own
shoes,” was whispered on every side; while poor Emma wanted to stop and
assure them that she did not deserve the good character they gave her.

“My dear girl,” said Mr. Egerton, “you must bear in silence this new but
severe punishment to an ingenuous mind like yours, that of being praised
undeservedly.”

Henry St. Aubyn had but just finished his story when the party arrived
in the court, where Emma was again received as an object of curiosity
and admiration; but she had not long to undergo the pain of
interrogatories and praises. The poor woman was soon discharged, and she
was made ample amends for the disgrace, delay, and terror she had
undergone, by a promise from Mrs. Castlemain to send her in a light open
chaise to the end of her journey.

Henry St. Aubyn undertook to procure this chaise, and see the soldier’s
widow comfortably settled in it; and as soon as the money necessary to
defray expenses had been deposited by Mrs. Castlemain, they hastened
from the court, the self-judged Emma being eager to hide her confusion
in the carriage. Accordingly they passed so rapidly along to it, their
speed being hastened by a renewal of the shouts, that Mrs. St. Aubyn,
who was still waiting at the door, and had been too much elated with the
attention she excited there to follow her friends into the court, had
not even an opportunity of speaking to them, which for two reasons she
earnestly desired; the first was, that she might show her intimacy with
the lady who arrived in a carriage-and-four; and the second was, her
wish to borrow money of one of the party to give the lower order of the
crowd which she had collected round her, some of whom had seemed to hope
her ladyship would give them something to drink her health, and had
certainly lost a little of their respect for her when she declared she
had (as was usually the case with her) no money in her pocket. “But,”
added she, mortified to observe the almost contemptuous expression of
countenance which her avowal called forth, “I can borrow some of my
friends when they come out.”

But this was rendered impossible by the celerity with which they passed
her and drove off. However, she knew she could procure some from her
son, “the best of sons,” who would soon appear.

Meanwhile, as it was market-day, the surrounding crowd was increased by
several farmers whom curiosity had led to the spot, and whom the love of
fun kept there when they heard all that had been communicated by the
loquacious Mrs. St. Aubyn; who, while she went on to dwell on her son’s
great kindness in hastening to relieve the poor woman before the parties
concerned arrived, applauded by clapping of hands, and sometimes cried
“_Angcor_“ in a manner so evidently intended to ridicule her, that she
began to feel the impropriety of her situation, and resolved to go in
search of St. Aubyn, who had been detained by an unexpected
circumstance. While he was endeavouring in the sword-room to hire a
chaise of a person present; an attorney, who was always on the watch for
jobs of the sort, took the poor woman aside, and informed her that an
action would lie against the silversmith for false imprisonment, which
St. Aubyn overhearing, he eagerly interfered to prevent a proceeding
which was, he thought, both unnecessary and unjust. Nor did the
sufferer, worn down as she was with sickness as well as sorrow, feel any
inclination to revenge herself, especially when the silversmith, in
order to make her some compensation for the distress which his ideas of
duty had occasioned her, came forward and offered to send her in his own
chaise to Carlisle free of all expense; and begged that the money
deposited by Mrs. Castlemain, should be given to her for other uses. To
this proposal St. Aubyn gladly acceded, and the lawyer had the
mortification of losing his job, and of seeing those whom he hoped to
make enemies, part as friends. At length St. Aubyn appeared, and as soon
as his mother saw him, she joyfully exclaimed, “There he is! there is my
son!” On which one of the group archly cried, “Come then, let us huzza
_the best of sons_!” and St. Aubyn, to his infinite confusion and
surprise, was greeted by loud huzzas.

“What is the reason of this?” said he to his mother, and looking
fiercely round on the mob.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied she, at that moment seeing to her great
relief the horse and chaise come to the door, in which they were to
return home; “only do lend me five shillings, that’s all;” and with a
deep sigh Henry obeyed her, and entered the chaise, into which she
immediately followed, throwing the money amidst the crowd as she did so.

This action immediately gave rise to such violent, repeated, and loud
acclamations from the populace, that the horse took fright and ran with
alarming violence through the town and along the road, till he overtook
Mrs. Castlemain’s carriage, which he passed, and soon after, by a sudden
and unexpected shock, St. Aubyn and his mother were thrown out, and the
gig nearly broken to pieces.

In an instant Mr. Egerton, followed by Mrs. Castlemain and Emma, who
were scarcely able to support themselves from terror, hastened to the
spot, and were greatly relieved by seeing St. Aubyn unhurt running to
raise his terrified and nearly fainting mother.

“Lean on me, my dear madam,” cried Mr. Egerton, seeing St. Aubyn too
much alarmed to be of much use; and Mrs. St. Aubyn, who even then was
sufficiently alive to certain impressions to be aware of the
affectionate anxiety with which Mr. Egerton spoke, threw herself on his
arm, and leaned against his shoulder with such prompt and energetic
obedience, that his fears subsided, and he was well convinced that by
the aid of Mrs. Castlemain’s salts she would soon be herself again. Nor
was he mistaken; after a little hysterical laughing and crying, Mrs. St.
Aubyn resigned the support of Mr. Egerton, and, relinquishing the cold
and trembling hand of her still terrified son, began to set her dress to
rights, and to replace the _flaxen_ ringlets, that had wandered from her
forehead to her ear.

“But where’s my bonnet?” she exclaimed. And when it was brought to her,
covered with dirt and completely spoiled, “I am glad of this,” said she,
as she surveyed its discoloured beauties; “I have _now_ a good excuse to
get a new one; and I shall get one like yours, my dear,” she added,
addressing Emma; while St. Aubyn, deeply blushing, turned away.

“But what is to be done with this broken whiskey!” asked Mr. Egerton.
“We can take Mrs. St. Aubyn in the carriage with us; and as the horse
will soon be caught and brought back, Henry can ride it home. The chaise
is then our only difficulty.”

“I must get it taken back to Penrith,” replied St. Aubyn, “and cause it
to be mended as fast as possible, or my uncle will never forgive me.”

“Bless me!” cried Mrs. St. Aubyn, “and must I go home without you,
Henry? I am sure I dare not face my brother unsupported and alone. He
will be so angry about his ugly old chaise.”

“O we will go with you,” said Mrs. Castlemain; “and perhaps our presence
will be some restraint on him.” And Henry and his mother being both
relieved by this promise, the former went to a neighbouring farm-house
in search of assistance to remove the broken carriage, and the latter
took her seat in the chiariot of Mrs. Castlemain.

An uncomfortable silence took place during the ride to Vale-House,
rarely broken in upon even by the loquacious Mrs. St. Aubyn, as the
dread of her brother’s anger was the feeling continually uppermost, and
the rest of the party had not as yet recovered the terror which they had
experienced from the accident of the overturn. But at length, Mr.
Egerton begged to know what had frightened the horse.

“O, the people’s shouting.”

“And why did they shout?”

“Why, the first time they shouted because they saw Henry, and were
pleased with him on account of his kindness in going to try to exculpate
the poor woman.”

“But how came they to know that he had been so kind?”

“Because——because I told them.”

“And how did they know him when they saw him?”

“Because I said it was he; and my son, the best of sons; so then they
huzzaed him.”

“But you have not yet explained why they shouted so as to frighten the
horses?”

“O that was because I gave them five shillings.”

“So then,” replied Mr. Egerton, “they were resolved you should have your
money’s worth of huzzas. And now, madam, be so good as to tell me why we
were greeted in the same noisy way; was that owing to you too?”

“It was,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, drawing up her head and smiling with
satisfaction as she informed Mr. Egerton of the obligation which his
pupil owed her; while she proceeded to tell him how lavish she had been
in the praise of the abashed and humble Emma.

“And you said all this?” they all three asked at once; and Mrs. St.
Aubyn, convinced they were filled with gratitude and delight, answered,
“Yes, and a great deal more,” with such a simple, confiding, and
self-admiring expression on her distended mouth, that, even more amused
by her folly than angry at its disagreeable consequences, Mr. Egerton
gave way to a violent burst of laughter, in which he was joined by Emma
and Mrs. Castlemain.

Mrs. St. Aubyn gazed on them with wonder. Instead of thanks, to be
repaid with laughter!—but she was too good-humoured to resent it; and
in a few moments she laughed as much as they did, though why she did not
exactly know. They gave no explanation, and Mrs. St. Aubyn did not
demand one; but conceiving the business of the shouting to be a better
joke than she had fancied it, she felt satisfied that all was as it
should be, and was convinced that Mr. Egerton’s pride was gratified by
what had happened, though he was too politic to acknowledge it.

But the white chimneys of the Vale-House now began to appear in sight;
and Mr. Egerton, who wished Mr. Hargrave to remain ignorant if possible
of their journey to Penrith and its disagreeable cause, proposed that
they should dismiss the carriage, as it was drawn by four horses, and
walk the rest of the way; a plan highly approved of by Mrs. St. Aubyn,
as she hoped by that means to enter the house unobserved, and change her
dirty and disordered dress before she was seen by Mr. Hargrave.
Accordingly they alighted, and walked to the house, which they entered
by a back door; but not unperceived by Mr. Hargrave, who, being in an
adjoining parlour, called his trembling sister, who was therefore forced
to appear before him, leaning for support on Mr. Egerton, he having
engaged to explain the cause of her strange appearance, and of the
absence of Henry.

“Heyday! whom have we here?” cried Mr. Hargrave. “I did not expect so
much good company. And why this extraordinary humility of coming in at
the back door? Well, where is Henry?—What! not a word? And you all look
as glum as if you had just come from a funeral.”

“We were very near being present at a death,” replied Mr. Egerton
gravely.

“A death! What do you mean? No accident to Henry, I hope?”

“No, thank God! no serious accident.”

“Nor to me neither, as it happened,” returned Mrs. St. Aubyn.

“As it happened!—Ah! and now I look again, your wig is on one side, old
girl, and you have lost some of your bloom. And, why, ‘sdeath! you have
been in the _mire_, madam!”

“I have indeed, I have been _overturned_.”

“Overturned!—No harm come to my horse and gig, I hope?”

Here Mrs. St. Aubyn, afraid to answer “Yes,” thought it best to give way
to a gentle hysteric; she had known such an expedient succeed with her
husband, and she had a mind to try it on her brother. But scarcely had
she begun to raise a few notes, when Mr. Hargrave rang the bell and
ordered in a pail of water.

“Good heavens! what for?” cried Mrs. Castlemain.

“For my sister,” he coolly replied; “to souse her,—that’s all.”

And while Mr. Egerton turned round indignantly to reprove him for his
brutality, he saw to his infinite surprise that Mrs. St. Aubyn was quite
recovered.

“There!” said Mr. Hargrave exultingly, “now am I not a good
physician?—I have known St. Aubyn on such occasions send for a surgeon,
and wine, and brandy, and hartshorn, and the deuce knows what, and
almost go into a responsive and sympathetic hysteric himself;—while
madam kicked and squalled very much at her ease.—But I, you see, had no
sooner—”

Here he paused; for real tears, the tears of wounded sensibility, now
coursed each other down his poor sister’s cheek, as she recollected the
tenderness of her husband, and contrasted it with the coarseness of her
brother;—while she indignantly exclaimed,

“It is cruel in you to remind me of that fond indulgence which I have
lost for ever, and which the behaviour I now experience serves to endear
to me every day more and more.”

“Humph! well put, that,” replied Mr. Hargrave; “and I like to see you
cry for St. Aubyn, for he deserved it from you; though he was a
confounded proud fellow, and I hate pride.—But come, now let us hear
about the accident; are my horse and gig safe? I ask you.”

“Your horse is, I hope;—but your gig—”

“Is broken to pieces, I suppose?”

“Not quite.”

“Not quite!! ‘sdeath! I had rather—but how did it happen?”

“The horse ran away,” said Mr. Egerton, “and threw your nephew and
sister out, and broke the chaise, which Mr. St. Aubyn has taken to be
mended!”

“The horse ran away! That must have been the fault of the driver; for he
is as gentle as a lamb, and not given to such freaks.”

“Indeed it was no fault of Henry’s,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn; “but the
people at Penrith _shouted_ so loud that they frightened the horse.”

“And what did they shout for, pray?”

“Why, for _us_.”

“For you! What the deuce could they shout for at the sight of a
fantastical old woman, and a tall gawky boy?”

“Well, they shouted for others besides us.”

“So,” thought Mr. Egerton, “all will out!”

“They shouted when they saw Miss Castlemain too.”

“Amazing!” cried Mr. Hargrave; “Why, what ails the people of
Penrith?—are they going mad? or are old women and pretty girls so rare
at Penrith, that the sight of them turns their heads?—Do, Mrs.
Castlemain, or Mr. Egerton, explain this business; for the fair classic
looks sulky, and so does my sister.”

Mr. Egerton immediately, as succinctly as possible, related what had
passed; but could scarcely go on in his story uninterrupted by Mr.
Hargrave, who was impatient to give a loud vent to the suppressed bursts
of laughter which evidently shook his frame. When he had concluded, Mr.
Hargrave put a restraint on his inclinations no longer; but gave way to
so loud and hearty a laugh, that even the mortified Emma could not help
joining in it. But her inclination to laughter soon ceased, when Mr.
Hargrave recovering his speech exclaimed,

“This is glorious fun. It is a great consolation to poor ignoramuses
like myself to see these uncommon folks getting themselves into such
ridiculous scrapes! Oh! ho! ho! ho! I protest I don’t think it would
have entered into the head of any one, but a little Miss who learns
Greek and Latin, to give away her buckles out of her shoes, in a fit of
unnecessary generosity, and bear to go about like a slattern the whole
day after! Oh! ho! ho! I shall burst my sides! I think I see you, Miss
Emma, with your straps hanging down, and your draggled petticoats! But
what did that signify? You had done something out of the common road,
and that was enough for you, you know!”

Mr. Egerton, who felt deeply this coarse and unmerited attack on his
pupil, was so angry he dared not trust himself to speak; but Mrs.
Castlemain was beginning a—

“Let me tell you, Mr. Hargrave,” when he interrupted her with,

“Stop, madam, I have not done yet.—Tell me, my pretty classic, were you
not much elated when those fools at Penrith applauded you for what you
had done? I dare say your little heart beat high with exultation and
conceit, ha!”

Mr. Egerton was going to answer for her, dreading that Emma would make
an angry reply, as he had marked the varying colour of her cheek, and
the quick heaving of her bosom;—but she spoke before he was aware of
it, and in a voice so gentle, that his alarm subsided.

“No, indeed, sir,” she mildly replied; “for I did not add to the folly
of giving away my buckles that of valuing myself on what I had done;—on
the contrary, sir, my conscience told me that my fatal present was given
more from ill-humour and spite than generosity; and the moments which
you fancy I thought so flattering, were to me the most humiliating that
I ever experienced.”

“There, sir!” cried Mrs. Castlemain, in a tone of triumph.

“Heyday! what is all this? what new stage-effect have we here?”

“No stage-effect, nor attempt at it,” said Mr. Egerton; “but a plain
matter-of-fact, as I will condescend to convince you; though you hardly
deserve that I should do so. But no, Emma shall tell her own
story.”—And thus encouraged, the blushing girl gave a circumstantial
account of her extravagance and all its consequences, and blamed herself
so unaffectedly, where Mr. Hargrave had fancied her valuing herself on
her nobleness of feeling, that even he, though mortified to find he had
not been able to mortify Emma, allowed she was a very good and
well-disposed girl;—but he was afraid they would _educate_ her into a
pedant in petticoats.

It was now near Mr. H.’s dinner-time, and his guests rose to depart; but
he would not allow it, and insisted so violently on their staying to
partake of his family meal, that they at length consented, especially as
they were anxious to await the return of Henry St. Aubyn, and be
convinced that he had not at all suffered from his accident. Their
compliance put Mr. Hargrave into great good-humour; still he could not
entirely forget the destruction of his chaise; and he declared that
Henry was a lad to be trusted alone anywhere; but that, if his
ridiculous mother went with him, he was always led by her into some
scrape or another.

“I am very certain,” observed Mr. Egerton, “that Henry would not feel
obliged to you for this compliment to him, at the expense of his
mother.”

“No, to be sure,” answered Mr. Hargrave; “I know he is your pious
Æneas;—or rather, I dare say you think pious Æneas was bloody Nero to
Henry St. Aubyn.——But, huzza! here he is! here is pious Æneas at last,
and my chaise too, I declare! But I vow Henry shall pay for the
mending!”

By this time the wine which Mr. Hargrave had drunk had made him more
than usually kind. He therefore received Henry most graciously; declared
he was an honest fellow, and he was very glad he had not broken his neck
as well as the chaise. Then filling up a bumper, he desired him to drink
it off to Madam Castlemain’s health, and wish her another husband, and
soon, (winking his eye as he spoke, at Mr. Egerton;)—then he chucked
his sister under the chin, by the title of old mother St. Aubyn; and
telling Emma she was a beauty, and he should come a courting to her
soon, he gave her so loud a kiss, that St. Aubyn started from his seat
with a feeling of pain, which he would as yet have found it difficult to
define even to himself.

When the company separated, an early day was fixed for their meeting
again, at the house of Mrs. Castlemain; and Emma anticipated the arrival
of that day, with more pleasure than she had ever before felt, when
expecting to be in company with the dreaded Mr. Hargrave. But an attack
of the gout deferred that gentleman’s visit even some weeks longer.

At length, however, Mr. Hargrave’s malady left him, and he was able to
pay his long-promised visit to Mrs. Castlemain; and Mr. Egerton was not
a little amused to observe that Emma was an interested partaker in the
preparations making for Mr. Hargrave’s reception.

“You take such pains to please this odd-tempered man,” said he laughing,
“that one might suppose you were in love with him!”

“Indeed,” replied Emma with great simplicity, “I don’t even like him;
still I had rather please than displease him; for he is Henry’s uncle,
you know.”

Mr. Egerton smiled again, but turned away as he did so, conscious that
his smile had now assumed an arch expression, which he would not have
liked to explain to her who called it forth.

At the appointed hour Mr. Hargrave, his sister, and Henry arrived, and
the former in good humour. But when Emma helped him to some fruit-pie,
and did it without spilling any of the juice, he observed that she took
better care of Mrs. Castlemain’s table-cloths than she did of other
people’s.

“Let me tell you, sir,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “that you are very
ungrateful to Emma, considering the pains which she has taken to please
you. The custard which you are now eating and commending, was made by
her; and you reward her by reverting to past grievances.”

“He! what!” replied Mr. Hargrave; “Why, how should I know this? How
should I suspect that the young genius had so condescended?—Here, give
us your hand, my girl; and believe me, this pretty hand will look
prettier covered with the remains of paste and pie-crust, than daubed
with ink from writing Latin themes, or scribbling verses.”

“Every thing in its season, Mr. Hargrave,” replied Mrs. Castlemain,
piqued at his ungraciousness; but she hoped that the present which Emma
had in store for him would make him repent, and perhaps amend his
harshness; and in a low voice she desired her to bring down her work.

Emma obeyed. Then timidly approaching Mr. Hargrove, she begged his
acceptance of a silk handkerchief to replace one which he had mentioned
having lost.

“He! what!—What have we here?” said he; “and whose work is this? and
why is it given to me?”

“It is Emma’s work; she both made and marked it; and now she begs you
will reward her for her trouble by accepting and wearing it.”

“Nay, madam,” returned Mr. Hargrove, “I am not much obliged to her, I
believe. Come hither, girl; and so you did all this to prove to me that
I was an old fool, and to give me the lie, did you?”

(Here Henry with indignant emotion started from his seat.)

“No, sir,” answered Emma, her eyes filling with tears as she spoke; “I
did it merely to gain your good opinion and my own; as I agree with you
in thinking that a woman should learn every thing that is useful.”

Even Mr. Hargrove was not proof against this meek and modest reply; and
catching her in his arms, he swore she was the best little girl in the
world. “But,” added he, as if afraid of being too amiable, “I shall
never dare to use my handkerchief; but I shall lay it up in lavender,
and show it as a wonder—Neat work by a learned young lady.”

Mrs. Castlemain, Mr. Egerton, and Henry looked their indignation at this
ungracious and sarcastic courtesy; but Emma, as if she did not feel the
bitterness of it, replied, “Pray, sir, do not do that; for when it is
worn out I should he very happy to make you another.”

Mr. Hargrove looked at her a moment in silence; then said, taking her
hand and kissing it respectfully, “You have conquered, young lady; and I
will never call you learned again.” While Emma, venturing to raise her
eyes to those of Mr. Egerton and Henry, read in them such lively
approbation of her forbearance as amply rewarded her for her efforts to
obtain it, and flattered her much more than Mrs. St. Aubyn’s repeated
assurances, that to be sure she was the sweetest temper in the world.

In the evening Mr. Hargrave and Mrs. Castlemain played chess, and
unfortunately the latter was the conqueror,—a circumstance which was
particularly galling to the former, because he had an avowed contempt
for the talents of women, and piqued himself on his skill as a
chess-player; and secretly displeased as he had before been, and as Mr.
Egerton suspected he would be, by Emma’s triumph, his ill-temper became
ungovernable; and on his poor dependent sister’s coming near him, he
vented some of his spleen on her by desiring her, with an oath, to get
out of the way, and accompanying what he said with a push violent enough
to send her almost on her face to the other end of the room.

Soon after, on Mrs. Castlemain’s venturing to contradict him, he was so
gross in his abuse of her that she replied in no very gentle manner. The
consequence was, that they parted immediately, resolving never, on any
terms, to meet again. Vain were Mrs. St. Aubyn’s tears, and Mr.
Egerton’s remonstrances. Mr. Hargrave persisted in leaving the house,
and Mrs. Castlemain in approving his departure; and meeting Henry at the
gate, returning with Emma from a walk in an adjacent valley, he seized
his arm, and exclaimed, “Come along, you puppy! and mark me, I do not
choose you should be inveigled by any artful old woman, or her base-born
brats; so come home, and never presume to enter these doors again.”

“What has happened? for mercy’s sake, tell me what has happened?” cried
Henry; while Emma ran into the house; repeating his “Come away, I tell
you!” Henry had only time to say, “Good night, my dear Emma, and I will
try to see you to-morrow.”

But that very night, Mrs. Castlemain told Emma, that as Mr. Hargrave and
she, in consequence of a violent quarrel, had parted, never to meet
again, it was not at all likely that Henry would be allowed to continue
his visits; and Emma did not behave like a heroine on the occasion, for
she retired in great distress to her apartment, and literally cried
herself to sleep. The next morning Henry did not appear according to his
promise, either at Mrs. Castlemain’s or Mr. Egerton’s; and Mr. Egerton,
after endeavouring with some little success to calm the violence of Mrs.
Castlemain’s resentment, set out for Vale-House, with the benevolent
intention of appeasing that of Mr. Hargrave. But his efforts were wholly
unsuccessful, and he was forced to return with no prospect of a
reconciliation between the parties, unless it should be in the power of
time or accident to effect it; and, however deeply his want of success
might affect the heart of Emma, it was not less sensibly felt by Mr.
Egerton himself.

Emma could not be more desirous of pleasing Mr. Hargrave, because he was
the uncle of St. Aubyn, than Mr. Egerton was. He allowed his paradoxes
to pass uncontradicted, his asperities of temper to remain unresented,
rather than offend the man on whose caprice the destiny of St. Aubyn
depended; for his heart was bent on a union between Emma and Henry; and
he well knew, that by displeasing Mr. Hargrave he should run the risk of
weakening, if not of destroying the chance of this desired union’s
taking place. But all his forbearance was now rendered vain, and by a
circumstance more likely to prove fatal to his views than a dispute
between him and Mr. Hargrave could have been. The near relation of Emma
had mortally offended the arbiter of Henry St. Aubyn’s fate; and when
Emma ran out to meet him, as soon as he appeared in sight, she
discovered by his countenance, before he answered her interrogating
eyes, that he had no pleasing intelligence to communicate. But to submit
with patience to a positive evil, even though it be unavoidable, is a
hard task for youth to learn; and to bear with fortitude the loss of her
companion, her monitor, and her example, was a lesson which Mr. Egerton
found it difficult to teach his usually docile scholar.

In a few days, however, Mrs. Castlemain observed that Emma had recovered
her spirits; and she also observed, that though she herself rose very
early, Emma rose still earlier, and immediately went out to take a walk.
At first, this unusual circumstance excited no suspicion in the mind of
Mrs. Castlemain, and she forgot to question Emma concerning it. But one
morning, it occurred to her that these early walks must have a motive,
and she determined to follow her. She did so, and found that she went to
meet St. Aubyn. On seeing Mrs. Castlemain, Henry and Emma advanced
towards her, afraid perhaps of being received with some degree of
coldness, but not conscious that they deserved the severity of reproof.
St. Aubyn, therefore, was shocked, and Emma irritated, at hearing
himself accused by Mrs. Castlemain of having seduced her child into the
commission of a disobedient, indelicate, and clandestine action, and
secret, unbecoming intercourse.

“You astonish and distress me,” cried St. Aubyn; while Emma was too
indignant to speak. “You know I am forbidden to visit both at your house
and Mr. Egerton’s, (a command which I dare not disobey,) but I am not
forbidden to associate either with you, Mr. Egerton, or Emma, if I
happen to meet you; therefore, having been so fortunate as to meet Emma
by chance one morning, I prevailed on her to indulge me with her
company, and in hopes of enjoying the same pleasure again, though not by
appointment, I have walked the same way every morning ever since;
and——”

“She has been so complaisant as to do the same, I suppose?”

“She has,” replied St. Aubyn, blushing; “nor did either of us imagine
that in so doing we were guilty of an impropriety.”

“Sweet innocents!” said Mrs. Castlemain, reddening with resentment; “but
though you, Mr. St. Aubyn, may, and no doubt _do_, disapprove your
uncle’s unwarrantable conduct to me, and therefore do not at all feel
disposed to enter into his quarrel, Miss Castlemain ought to have
resented my injuries so far as to scorn to have meetings with the nephew
of the man who has offended me; especially when she knows that her
intercourse with you, if known to Mr. Hargrove, would be disapproved by
him, and consequently forbidden. But if she does not know how to act
with proper spirit, I must teach her; therefore, sir, while Mr. Hargrave
and I are at variance, I positively forbid you to see or speak to Miss
Castlemain; and I forbid her to see or speak to you.” So saying, she
turned hastily away, refusing to listen to St. Aubyn’s remonstrances,
and desiring Emma to follow her immediately.

Emma obeyed, but slowly and sullenly; and till she lost sight of St.
Aubyn, she continued to kiss her hand to him, while the rapid tears that
coursed each other down her cheek, sufficiently betrayed her sorrow at
this cruel and in her opinion unnecessary prohibition.

“And you expect me to obey you, madam?” said Emma, in a tone more akin
to defiance than submission.

“I do,” hastily replied Mrs. Castlemain; “or you most take the
consequences.”

It happened unfortunately that Emma, who had been told by a tattling old
servant who waited on her, some imperfect particulars of her mother’s
rash marriage, and Mrs. Castlemain’s bitter and long resentment of it,
had asked St. Aubyn if he could give her any information on the subject;
and he, though he endeavoured to soften his account of Mrs. Castlemain’s
implacability as much as possible, had said enough to recall to Emma’s
mind the recollection of the dread and hatred which she used to feel
towards her grandmother, and to account for her mother’s having, as she
concluded, inspired her with them.

It was at this moment, this unlucky moment, that Mrs. Castlemain, having
kept Emma in sight, followed her at a distance; and seeing her walking
with St. Aubyn, suddenly appeared before them with determined severity
and resentment in her look; and while Emma listened to her words with a
heart bursting with indignation, her mother’s sorrows, her mother’s
wrongs alone were present to her view; and she forgot all Mrs.
Castlemain’s kindness to herself, and her own daily sense of that
kindness, and she only saw in her indulgent and fostering parent the
object of her early and just terror and aversion. No wonder then that
her proud spirit rose at hearing a sort of threat from Mrs. Castlemain
of future vengeance if she dared to disobey her; and that she listened
with a rebellious heart to the lecture on propriety, which after
breakfast (of which Emma refused to partake) Mrs. Castlemain thought it
her duty to give her.

“I see no harm in what we have done,” replied Emma; “and as an uncle is
not one’s father, nor a grandmother one’s own mother, and therefore
their right to command may very well be disputed, I should not at all
scruple to meet Henry St. Aubyn again, and walk with him, in spite of
your prohibition and Mr. Hargrave’s.”

Mr. Egerton who had entered the room just before Emma made this
unbecoming reply, now came forward in great emotion; but she was too
angry to be awed even by his presence.

“I see by your countenance, Mr. Egerton,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “that
you have heard what this ungrateful girl has been saying, and that you
are shocked at it.”

Mr. Egerton bowed in silence.

“I am glad you are here, sir,” she continued, “that you may also hear
what I am going to say; namely, that if in defiance of my express
commands, and all the laws of propriety, Miss Castlemain persists in
meeting Mr. St. Aubyn, I shall——”

“Renounce me for ever! I suppose,” cried Emma rising, and pale with
anger; “for I know you are not very forgiving in your nature. My poor,
injured, discarded mother knew that to her cost!”

A thunderbolt could not have had a more overpowering effect on Mrs.
Castlemain than this cruelly reproachful speech. She fell back in her
chair; she spoke not—she stirred not—but lay with her eyes fixed in
glaring unconsciousness.

Emma, on seeing this, gave a loud shriek, and sprang forward to her
assistance; but Mr. Egerton, indignantly pushing her away with violence,
exclaimed, “you have killed her! or you have driven her to frenzy!” and
ringing the bell for the servants, he would not suffer Emma to share in
his endeavours to restore her victim, as he called her, to life and
reason; and Emma, screaming dreadfully, threw herself in frantic agony
on the ground.

This roused Mrs. Castlemain from her stupor; she sobbed violently, and
in a few moments tears came to her relief; while a “thank God!” that
seemed to come from the bottom of her heart, burst from the self judged
Emma.

In a short time Mrs. Castlemain was able to speak; and as she then
begged to be left to recover herself alone, Mr. Egerton took Emma away
with him, and led her into a room which she but rarely entered; namely,
the dressing-room of Mrs. Castlemain. “Poor child of passion!” cried Mr.
Egerton, seizing Emma’s hand; “what an act of brutality have you been
guilty of! Do you see that picture?” (pointing to a picture hanging over
the chimney-piece, and drawing aside the curtain which concealed it as
he spoke;) “know then that the life of that indulgent parent whose heart
you have so cruelly wounded, is already tortured by incessant repentance
and self-upbraiding; and that it was only yesterday, when unperceived I
entered the adjoining apartment, that I overheard her, as she looked at
that picture, speaking aloud in all the agonies of a broken and contrite
spirit, and calling on her lost daughter to witness her sufferings and
pardon her injustice! Cruel unnatural child! was it for you to inflict a
still severer pang on a heart already lacerated and bleeding with
remorse?”

Emma stayed to hear no more; but rushing out of the room, she almost
flew into the apartment where she had left Mrs. Castlemain, and throwing
herself on her knees before her, earnestly conjured her to pity and
forgive her, though she declared that she never, never should forgive
herself.

“Forgive thee! my child,” replied Mrs. Castlemain in mournful and
faltering accents; “ay, from the bottom of my soul do I forgive thee;
for I have only too much need of forgiveness.” Here she pressed Emma
almost convulsively to her bosom; and as she again wished to be left
alone, Emma returned to Mr. Egerton.

But, as she had foreseen, it was not easy for her to obtain her own
pardon for the wound she had inflicted on the feelings of Mrs.
Castlemain; during the whole of that day she was occasionally in
paroxysms of frantic anguish, and the death-like figure of Mrs.
Castlemain was present to her view; for what agony can exceed that of a
young and virtuous heart that feels for the first time the horrors of
remorse!

That evening, after Emma, exhausted by exertion, was retired to rest,
Mr. Egerton told Mrs. Castlemain that he thought, as Emma was more than
fifteen, she was old enough to be told her unhappy mother’s story; “and
at this moment,” added he, “that her mind is melted and humbled by
self-upbraiding, the warning moral which it inculcates will sink into it
deeply, and she will also learn to understand and hold sacred your
claims, your just claims, to her obedience and affection.”

“I believe you are right,” replied Mrs. Castlemain; “but as the
narration would only call into additional force feelings and
recollections which are already only too present to my mind, I shall
order the carriage and go out for a long drive, that I may be out of the
way of it. But here,” said she, taking a letter out of a case deposited
in her bosom, “here is my child’s last letter to me; show it to her
daughter, who in some respects I see too nearly resembles her, and as
soon as I shall have driven from the door to-morrow, begin your
melancholy task.”

Mr. Egerton approved of Mrs. Castlemain’s intended absence; and having
on his return to his own cottage that night looked over some papers
containing particulars necessary to be accurately explained, he was
prepared the next morning to give Emma the desired and necessary
information.

As soon as Mrs. Castlemain had left the house, Mr. Egerton told Emma
that he wished to have some conversation with her on some circumstances
very interesting to her feelings; and leading her into Mrs. Castlemain’s
dressing-room, he again undrew the curtain that concealed the picture of
Agatha. “I am going,” said he, “to relate the history of that dear
unhappy woman.”

“I am glad of it, very glad of it indeed,” replied Emma bursting into
tears; “but is it possible that that can be my mother’s picture? I
believe my grandmother showed it to me some years ago, and told me it
was so; but I have never seen it since, and I had quite forgotten there
was such a picture.” Then going close to it, she regarded it some
moments in silence, and, turning mournfully round, exclaimed, “O, sir,
is it possible that my mother could ever have looked so young, so happy,
so beautiful?”

“Yes, my dear,” replied Mr. Egerton gravely, “till she became the slave
of an imperious temper and ungovernable passions, and by an act of
disobedience paved the way to her own misery and early death.”

Emma blushed, looked down, and remained silent for a moment; but looking
again at the picture, she suddenly observed, “Surely I have seen a face
like that, for the features seem quite familiar to me!”

“You have,” said Mr. Egerton with a significant look, which as Emma’s
eyes involuntarily turned towards a pier-glass opposite to her, she was
at no difficulty to explain, and she blushed again; (but from emotions
of a mixed nature, for pleasure was one of them,) as “the consciousness
of self-approving beauty stole across her busy thought.”

“Yes, Emma,” cried Mr. Egerton, replying to the deepened and expressive
glow of her cheek, and the involuntary complacency that dimpled the
corners of her closed mouth; “that picture is as like you as if it had
been painted from you; and you yourself have pronounced it beautiful.
But be not elated by the conviction which it gives you; for,

    What’s female beauty, but an air divine
    Thro’ which the mind’s all-gentle graces shine?

Therefore, how easy it is for temper and passion, by leaving their
traces on the countenance, to injure if not to destroy loveliness even
perfect as that is! Such as is that picture was your dear unhappy mother
at the age of sixteen;—and such as is _this_ picture was the same woman
at the age of _twenty-four_; (giving Emma a large miniature of her
mother as he spoke;) so great and so obvious were the ravages which the
passions had made in her appearance.”

Emma, surprised and affected, took the picture with a trembling hand,
but had no sooner beheld it, than she exclaimed in a voice inarticulate
from emotion, “this is indeed my mother!” and sunk back in her chair
almost choked with the violence of her feelings.

When she recovered herself sufficiently to speak, she asked why this
resemblance of her mother as she was accustomed to see her, had been so
long concealed from her; and Mr. Egerton informed her that Agatha had
desired him to let it remain unknown to her till she was old enough to
hear the story of her mother’s wrongs.—”When that time arrives, and not
till _then_, show Emma,” said she, “this picture which I hare painted on
purpose for her.”

“I have obeyed your mother, my dear child,” added Mr. Egerton, “in the
one respect; it now only remains for me to obey her in the other.”

“How many heartaches should we spare ourselves,” said Mr. Egerton, as he
prepared to narrate to Emma the history of her mother’s sorrows, “if we
were careful to check every unkind word or action towards those we love,
as it is occasionally suggested to us by the infirmities of our temper,
by this anticipating reflection;—’The time may soon arrive when the
being whom I am now about to afflict, may be snatched from me for ever,
to the cold recesses of the grave; secured from the assaults of my
petulance, and deaf to the voice of my remorseful penitence!’ O Emma!
had Mrs. Castlemain fallen a victim last night to the strong emotion
your cruel reproaches occasioned her, what to-day would not have been
your bitter and unavailing agonies!”

Emma, conscience-stricken, did not attempt to answer him even by a
promise of future self-control; and Mr. Egerton continued thus:

“‘She is dead, and never knew how much I loved, and how truly I forgave
her!’ was the exclamation of Mrs. Castlemain, when I informed her that
your mother was no more; and the tone in which she spoke conveyed to my
mind such an impression of remorse and agony as no time can eradicate
from my memory! and when you shall learn how much both of your mother’s
and of Mrs. Castlemain’s miseries was the result of ill-humour,
improperly indulged, I trust, my dear child, that you will not wonder at
the incessant care with which I have endeavoured to teach you the virtue
of self-command.”

Mr. Egerton then proceeded to his long and melancholy detail, with which
my readers are already acquainted;—but I wish to observe, that when Mr.
Egerton said her mother was led to the altar, Emma eagerly interrupted
him, and exclaimed with great emotion,

“Is it indeed true that my mother was really _married_ to my father?”

“Certainly,” replied Mr. Egerton, amazed at her agitated manner.

“Bless you! bless you! sir, for telling me so!” returned Emma, bursting
into tears; “Oh what a load have you taken off my mind! I thought I had
been told——but now that agony is over, and I have not the misery of
blushing for a mother’s guilt!”

“But,” replied Mr. Egerton, affectionately, “it is only too probable
your mother’s fame may never be cleared in the eyes of the world.”

“It is cleared, sir, in the eyes of her daughter,” replied Emma, “and
other considerations are comparatively indifferent. I know her to be
innocent, and I bless God that I know it; but pray go on: I think I can
now bear to hear the detail of my father’s depravity.”

Mr. Egerton, satisfied with his pupil, pressed her hand kindly, and
proceeded in his narration.

It is not in the power of words to describe the force or the variety of
the emotions which agitated the heart of Emma while she listened to the
tale of her mother’s wrongs and sorrows; nor of the affectionate
eagerness which she expressed to see the Orwells, the humble but
admirable friends of her mother, to whom Mr. Egerton was in the habit of
writing occasionally, and sending little presents in the name of Emma.

“I should like to go to London on _purpose_ to see them,” said Emma; and
Mr. Egerton kept alive in her young heart a sense of gratitude so
honourable and so just.

But he soon found that the praises of the Orwells, which Emma was for
ever indulging in, sounded harshly on the ears of Mrs. Castlemain; for
they recalled her own hasty renunciation of Agatha to her mind, and she
felt that if _she_ had done her duty by her, she would not have been
forced to incur such vast obligations to the benevolence of obscure
strangers.

“My dear child,” said Mr. Egerton to Emma when they were alone together,
“do not mention the Orwells again in the presence of your grandmother.”
And Emma, who immediately discerned the cause of his request, implicitly
obeyed him.

It was now that Mr. Egerton thought the time was come for some inquiries
to be made concerning the father of Emma, and for some steps to be taken
in order to force him to acknowledge her as his legitimate daughter; and
to the propriety of these measures, as a justice due to the memory of
her child, Mrs. Castlemain reluctantly consented. Hitherto, the terror
of being forced to resign her to a father’s claims, when those claims
were established, had kept them from bringing the affair forward; but
selfish considerations could not now with propriety be acted upon any
further; and Mr. Egerton employed an agent in London to inquire what was
become of Danvers. And it was with no small degree of satisfaction they
heard that, after many inquiries, the agent could only discover that
Danvers had sailed nearly fifteen years back for the West Indies, and
was supposed to have died there of the yellow fever, as no person of
that name was known upon any of the islands.

“Then you are mine, exclusively mine _now_,” said Mrs. Castlemain
affectionately embracing Emma, “and all that is necessary to be done, is
to procure a copy of the register of your mother’s marriage, in order to
clear her fame from the shadow of suspicion.”

But though sure of still remaining under the protection which she loved,
though _in hopes_ of being proved the legitimate child of her mother,
and lawful heiress of her grandmother, gaiety no longer lighted up the
eye nor bloomed on the cheek of Emma; for Mr. Hargrave remained at
variance with Mrs. Castlemain, and Henry St. Aubyn therefore was no
longer a visiter at the Cottage. Mr. Egerton too missed his pupil as
much as Emma her companion. Still at church they met; but for two
successive Sundays Emma had vainly looked both for St. Aubyn and his
mother, and she wondered at an absence so unusual. But she heard the
reason of it only too soon from the gossip of the town of Keswick; and
learnt with indescribable emotion, that St. Aubyn and his mother were
gone on a tour of the Lakes with the honourable Mrs. Felton, a beautiful
widow with a large jointure, to whom report said St. Aubyn was shortly
to be united.

“This is a mere gossip, I am sure,” said Mr. Egerton when the report of
St. Aubyn’s marriage reached him; “for I am certain Henry would have
done me the honour to inform me of his marriage prospects, had any such
existed.”

And while Mr. Egerton said this, dear as he had always been to his
affectionate pupil, she felt him at that moment dearer to her than
ever;—but, as yet unacquainted with the nature of her own feelings
towards St. Aubyn, she attributed her emotions to the indignation of
injured friendship, which resented not being in the confidence of its
object.

“No, no,” continued he, “I can never believe that he would take a fancy
to this fashionable belle and blue stocking.”

“Pray, sir, what is a blue stocking?” said Emma.

“That is a question which I am not able to answer with perfect accuracy;
especially as the term ‘blue stocking’ is one that has, like many
others, varied from its original signification.”

“I believe, I am _sure_,” replied Emma, “that I am most interested in
knowing what is its present meaning; still, I should like to hear all
you can tell me on the subject.”

“I have heard that it had its origin in the mistake of a foreigner, who,
on being invited to a party of ladies and gentlemen that were in the
habit of meeting for the purpose of conversation, asked whether he must
come in full dress? and was told in answer, by no means; you may come in
blue stockings;—meaning by that, that any undress was admissible.”

“But what could be meant by blue stockings?”

“I conclude worsted or thread stockings of that colour, occasionally
worn even by gentlemen in a morning. The foreigner, however, conceived
that _bas bleus_ were the livery of the party to which he was invited;
and he went about describing them as wearing _bas bleus_ at their
meeting, and requiring their visiters to do the same. Hence arose the
title of ‘the blue stocking society,’ given to the ladies and gentlemen
in question; amongst whom were some of the first wits, scholars,
moralists, poets, and painters of the day.”

“I thought,” said Emma, “that ‘blue stocking’ was a term applied to
ladies only?”

“So it is now; but originally it must, from its origin, have been common
to both sexes.”

“Now, however, it is used to women only, is it not, sir? and is it not
used as a term of reproach rather than of commendation?”

“I fear it is,” replied Mr. Egerton, smiling at the eagerness with which
Emma asked the latter part of the question, and which he accounted for
by his having denominated Mrs. Felton a ‘blue stocking;’ “but whether
justly or not, you shall judge for yourself. A ‘blue stocking’ is now, I
believe, strictly speaking, nothing more than a woman who loves reading
and literature, and who courts the society of literary men and women.
Sometimes, perhaps, she is herself a writer, but not a professed one;
and she occasionally makes her friends happy and flattered by the sight
of manuscript verses and translations.”

“Oh! then surely, sir,” interrupted Emma smiling, “there are strong
symptoms of blue stockingism about me!”

“Wait till I have finished, Emma. The ‘blue stocking,’ however, after
all, only dips her foot in the waters of Helicon, without daring, like
the bolder published authoress, to plunge in altogether. But giving the
name of _bas bleus_, to the amateurs of literature of both sexes, I will
point out the great advantage in society which _bas bleus_ have over
professed authors and authoresses. ‘Blue stockings,’ who write and read
for pleasure, not profit, can afford to cull the richest flowers from
the garden of their fancy in order to decorate their conversation. But
not so the author or authoress;—they, as they write probably either to
procure a necessary addition to their income, or even perhaps to obtain
a subsistence for themselves and family, cannot afford to exhaust in
society that produce of their imagination which is requisite for their
works. The florist in Covent-garden market, whose flowers are in
greatest profusion there, does not probably spare his own wife even a
single sprig of geranium to adorn her bosom; and authors and
authoresses, while ‘blue stockings’ are splendid and eloquent in their
conversation, deny to theirs the brilliancy that might teach it to
charm. I have often pitied authors, when I have seen them exhibited on
these occasions in what are called conversationes, and expected to
become what Dr. Johnson calls ‘intellectual gladiators,’ and have
wondered at the wonder expressed, that men who could write so well
should talk so ill; when the truth is probably, in the first place, that
they do not choose to exhaust their minds in society; in the next, that
the mind, which is often at full stretch in the study, requires
relaxation in the drawing-room; and therefore they rather shun than
court literary converse; while the love of display, which causes men and
women of letters to delight so much in literary subjects, being
gratified in authors on a wider and a prouder field, they have not in
company the same motive to intellectual exertion.”

“Then, my dear sir, you would not have professed authors and authoresses
invited to blue stocking parties, because they are of no use when they
get there?”

“Pardon me, I would have every attention possible paid to talents, at
least in one point of view. Authors and authoresses are useful and
ornamental too on such occasions; for every one feels a desire to see
the being whose works have either interested or enlightened the world.”

“Then I think,” replied Emma, “that authors and authoresses are the
costly heavy chairs in a drawing-room, which are there to be looked at
only, and not used; while blue stockings of both sexes are the gilt cane
chairs, which are set promiscuously about the apartment, for use as well
as show, and formed of a lighter material.”

“Bless me, child!” cried Mrs. Castlemain, who, lost in reverie, had only
heard part of what had passed, “what are you saying about _bas bleus_? I
hope you are not going to set up for one!”

“Dear grandmother,” returned Emma, “I have a shrewd suspicion that I am
one already; at least I shall henceforth take all _bas bleus_ under my
protection.”

“What! Mrs. Felton and all, Emma?” archly asked Mr. Egerton.

“Yes, sir, certainly; for I think them very harmless and even
commendable persons; for their greatest crime seems to be, preferring
having full to having empty minds; literary conversation to gossip,
scandal, and cards; nor do they do any thing which you and I and Mr.
Egerton and St. Aubyn do not do every day.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Mrs. Castlemain; “still there is such a prejudice
against blue stockings that I should be very sorry to hear you called by
the name.”

Emma was going to answer in a way that would not have pleased Mrs.
Castlemain, and with more sarcasm on the prejudices of the world in
general than would have become her age, her ignorance in many respects,
or her relative situation to the speaker; but recollecting herself, and
put on her guard perhaps by a look from Mr. Egerton, she replied,
affectionately hanging over Mrs. Castlemain’s chair as she spoke, “I
shall endeavour, dear grandmother, to avoid deserving to be called any
thing that you disapprove, and my highest wish will always be to please
you.”

Mrs. Castlemain kissed her affectionately as she said this, but suddenly
rose up and left the room in tears, affected probably at the
consciousness, that had the unhappy Agatha received from her the same
judicious education and control which had been the safeguard of her more
fortunate orphan, she might have been blessed with meeting from her the
same respectful and affectionate deference to her will, and been at that
moment free from those self-upbraidings that in solitude and secresy too
often invaded her peace.

But to leave my heroine for a little while, and return to St. Aubyn.
Part of the story was undoubtedly true. St. Aubyn and his mother were on
a party of pleasure with the honourable Mrs. Felton and other friends.

This lady, whose charms in early youth had captivated the younger son of
a nobleman, and induced him to raise her from the situation of governess
to his sisters to the rank of his wife, was now, according to her own
account, about seven-and-twenty. She had vivacity, grace, and
accomplishments; and if not regularly handsome, there was an expression
in her countenance, a something so attractive in her altogether, that
women dreaded her for a rival quite as much as a more perfect beauty;
and as the fine though full proportions of her form were set off by the
most exquisite taste in dress, Mrs. Felton ranked in the calendar of
fashionable belles. But presuming on her situation and talents, and not
being a woman possessed of such delicacy of moral feeling as to shrink
nearly as much from the imputation of guilt as from guilt itself, too
proud to bear to be indebted to the candour of the world for believing
her innocent spite of appearances, Mrs. Felton had been a flirting wife,
and was now a flirting widow, dragging on a sort of sickly reputation,
shunned by some few of her own sex from jealousy as much as from
propriety, and extolled or abused by many of the other, according as
their self-love was flattered by her fancied preference, or wounded by
her neglect.

Mrs. Felton was now attended by a companion, on a visit to a lady and
gentleman, friends of the St. Aubyns, who lived on a fine estate in the
neighbourhood of Carlisle, meaning to go thence on a tour to all the
Lakes, on which tour she had expected to have been joined by some of her
London admirers. But having been disappointed in this expectation, she
was anticipating a very dull expedition, when Mr. and Mrs. Selby, her
host and hostess, thought it would be a good opportunity to claim an old
promise made by Mrs. St. Aubyn, that she and her son would one day or
other accompany them on a tour through the beauties of Westmoreland and
Cumberland. Mrs. St. Aubyn’s company would, they knew, be of no value to
their fair guest, but as St. Aubyn was a handsome young man, of nearly
four-and-twenty, was of a studious turn, and wrote pretty verses, they
imagined that he would be a great acquisition to Mrs. Felton, whose aim
was universal conquest, and whose pretensions to literature and taste
were as decided and as universally acknowledged as her pretensions to
fashion and to beauty.

To a woman of this description, it was, therefore, very certain that the
expected arrival of a young, handsome and accomplished man, was an event
of some importance; and on the day on which the St. Aubyns were
expected, Mrs. Felton appeared dressed evidently for the purposes of
conquest.

Mrs. St. Aubyn meanwhile had commenced her journey with feelings and
anticipations of pleasure the most unalloyed. She wore a new and in her
opinion most becoming riding-habit, and a straw bonnet exactly
resembling that which in an evil hour she had recommended to Emma. True,
in order to procure these decorations of her person, she had been
obliged to increase an enormous old bill, and begin an enormous new one;
enormous, I mean, according to the slenderness of her income; but that
was a trifle in the estimation of Mrs. St. Aubyn, and the idea that for
a whole month perhaps she should not meet the awful frown of her
brother, excited in her such even girlish gaiety, as she sat by the side
of her beloved son, who had hired for the occasion a low chaise, and a
horse warranted steadiest of the steady, that she called a frequent and
sometimes sympathizing smile to the now grave countenance of her
companion, who, since he had been banished the dear society at the White
Cottage, had felt a void at his heart, and a propensity to silence and
abstraction, which were before unknown to him. But whatever were St.
Aubyn’s cares, the sweetness and benevolence of his nature always
forbade him to make them a source of pain, or even uncomfortableness, to
others; and nothing could be more foreign to his feelings than that
selfishness which leads many persons to give way to the expression of
their sorrows, even before those to whom the sight of their sufferings
is an affliction difficult to endure. If St. Aubyn ever gave way to
grief, it was in the solitude of his own chamber; for, as a social
being, he thought he had no right to mix with his fellow-creatures
without contributing his share of cheerful conversation, and
endeavouring to do all in his power to fill the passing hour with
innocent amusement.

After a pleasant and safe journey, though a few gentle screams from Mrs.
St. Aubyn, on the road, seemed to imply that she had been in some
danger, they arrived at their journey’s end time enough for Mrs. St.
Aubyn to dress for dinner. And when Mrs. Felton and herself entered the
drawing-room, it would have been difficult to say which of the two
ladies had taken the most pains at their toilet. The effect which the
appearance of each had on the other, was, however, very different. Mrs.
St. Aubyn certainly beheld Mrs. Felton’s dress with unqualified
admiration; but the latter could scarcely restrain a smile as she
rapidly surveyed the long uncovered and meagre throat of the former, and
the flowers which nodded on one side of the flaxen tresses which shaded
the once polished brows of the faded but still self-admiring beauty. Yet
Mrs. Felton was used to such exhibitions in town, but she did not expect
them in the country; and she expected that Mrs. St. Aubyn’s conversation
would confirm the impression of her character which her dress had given.

St. Aubyn undoubtedly found more favour in Mrs. Felton’s sight than his
mother, on his introduction to her; and the look and smile with which
she received his graceful bow, were calculated to convey to him how much
she already appreciated him; but their force was lost on St. Aubyn, and
he was only conscious that Mrs. Felton was a good-looking, and Miss
Spenlove, her companion, an ill-looking woman.

But as he sat opposite to Mrs. Felton at dinner, he could not but
discover that she had very fine eyes, though he was unconscious of what
was visible to every one else, how often those eyes were turned
expressively towards him, reminding one of the simile, “as on impassive
ice the lightnings play.” In vain too did the fair widow court every
possible opportunity of carving, that she might show the beauty of her
hands and arms, which were uncovered to the very extremity of fashion.
St. Aubyn did not notice them; but, unconscious of her motive, he
admired within himself that attentive politeness which made her willing
to take so much trouble to help and please other people.

After dinner, Mrs. Felton introduced literary conversation, and brought
in her taste and understanding in aid of her personal graces; but her
evident wish to show off, counteracted her power of pleasing him in this
instance, and St. Aubyn would have admired her more had she not talked
so well. But the singularity of taste in the auditor for whom she talked
was wholly unsuspected by Mrs. Felton, who, having displayed her own
powers and gratified her own vanity sufficiently, thought it was
incumbent on her at length to gratify the vanity of her intended
captive; and before the evening ended she took care to insinuate to him
that the fame of his literary talents had reached her, and she hoped
that he would indulge her during their tour with a sight of some of his
beautiful verses.

Nothing but St. Aubyn’s surprise could exceed his confusion at being
thus invested with the dignity of authorship, and told of the celebrity
of his literary talents; for he was not conscious that his having
written at all was known beyond the dear circle at Mrs. Castlemain’s,
and he gazed on Mrs. Felton with looks of wonder, confusion, and
inquiry.

“Who can have so much misrepresented me and my pretensions to you,
madam?” said St. Aubyn, blushing deeply.

“Misrepresented!” exclaimed Mrs. Felton. “Fy, Mr. St. Aubyn! With that
ingenuous countenance, how is it possible you can be so deceitful?
However modest your pretensions may be, Mrs. Selby assures me she has
seen very beautiful verses written by you on different occasions;—but I
see, Mr. St. Aubyn, that you ‘write verse by stealth, and blush to find
it fame.’”

“However the verse on these occasions, madam,” replied St. Aubyn, “may
have been written, I am sure it must have been seen by stealth, as I
never gave a copy of it to any one but my mother.”

“But in the first place you own that you have written?”

“I do—a few schoolboy’s verses.”

“In the next place, you plead guilty to the charge of having given a
copy to Mrs. St. Aubyn?”

“Certainly.”

“And you know there is such a thing as _parental pride_; and Mrs. St.
Aubyn, in the amiable pride of her heart, showed these stanzas so given
to some of her friends; and these friends mentioned them with the praise
they deserved to me.—Have I not clearly made out my case, Mr. St.
Aubyn?—Verdict against the defendant, who is adjudged to pay a fine of
so many stanzas into the Muses’ court.”

“A severe judgment,” replied St. Aubyn, “when the poverty of the
condemned is considered,—and I move for an arrest of judgment.”

“What is the matter?” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, drawing her chair closer to
her son’s.

“The matter is, that Mr. St. Aubyn is called upon, as a punishment for
his offences, to write some poetry, and he wishes his sentence to be
revoked.”

“My son refuse to write poetry! Well, that is droll indeed. Why, he
writes such beautiful poetry!—Oh, I could show you, madam, such sweet
things!”

“Admirable! just what I wished! These ‘sweet things’ are what I want to
see; but Mr. St. Aubyn looks as if he would forbid you to show them.”

“What! when he knows I wish to show them? No; Henry never denied me any
thing yet, and I think he will hardly begin now.”

St. Aubyn bowed to his mother with a look and smile of affection, and,
seeing the display of his manuscripts was unavoidable, withdrew to
another part of the room.

From Mrs. Felton’s severity of criticism St. Aubyn had little to fear;
for to him she was disposed to be particularly indulgent, as his person
and manners were likely to make his poetry appear even faultless in the
eyes of a female critic.

Henry St. Aubyn was above six feet in height; but the fine proportions
of his form made it almost impossible for any one to deem him too tall;
and now that all his features had acquired their due size, the beauty of
his face, though not as perfect, was as striking as that of his figure.
Still his beauty was chiefly the charm of countenance and expression,
heightened by a rich and ever-mantling bloom, the result of health,
temperance, and exercise. His manners, though he had seen little of the
world, were the manners of a finished gentleman; for they had been
modelled on his father’s; and in those of his most intimate associate
Mr. Egerton, he had a daily example of the politeness and graceful
attention of the old court, as it is called, without any of its
formality; and while his lofty and dignified carriage seemed to speak
him born to command, the affectionate gentleness of his manner, and the
mildness of his address, spoke him eager to oblige and willing to obey.

“What a highly gifted creature it is!” said Mrs. Felton, wiping a tear
from her eye, as she read some lines by St. Aubyn, to the memory of his
father.

“Henry! come hither, Henry,” cried the delighted mother; “see, see! you
have made Mrs. Felton shed tears!”

Henry obeyed the summons, and _saw_ tears in the fine eyes of Mrs.
Felton; but he either did not see, or would not see, the hand which she
held out to him, and which he ought to have pressed or kissed according
as his inclinations prompted.

“Here,” said Mrs. Felton, “take away your odious verses; I wish I had
not seen them!”

“Odious verses! and wish you had not seen them!” cried the literal Mrs.
St. Aubyn—”well; that is funny!”

“But very true; for they will make me out of love with every thing else
of the kind for ages to come. They are so beautiful, that I shall be as
fastidious in future as I have hitherto been indulgent.”

“There, Henry! do you hear?” asked Mrs. St. Aubyn.

“Yes, madam, and would I could _believe_ what I hear!”

“You may, for I never flatter; not even myself.”

“Nor do I; therefore I must think that your kindness rather than your
judgment speaks.”

“May be so,” replied Mrs. Felton; “but I trust that the world will some
day or other decide between you and me. Mr. St. Aubyn,” added she,
lowering her voice and looking archly at him, “these are pretty lines
entitled ‘To Emma, aged twelve years, on her birthday.’ I wonder how you
will write ‘To Emma, aged _eighteen_.’”

“‘To Emma, aged eighteen,’ I shall probably not write at all,” replied
St. Aubyn blushing.

“Perhaps not,” returned Mrs. Felton with quickness, and heaving a sigh
as she spoke; “and in that case she will be a more enviable object than
if you _had_ written.”

“I do not exactly understand you,” said Henry.

“No matter,” was the answer; and the artillery of glances, sighs, and
occasional pressures of the soft white hand on the sleeve of his coat,
were again played off on the still insensible St. Aubyn, who when they
retired for the night kept repeating to himself till he dropped asleep,
“What could she mean? and why would she not explain herself?”

Had she not contrived to occupy his mind by this affected mystery, St.
Aubyn would not have thought of Mrs. Felton at all. However, she had
contrived to make him think of her, whether directly or indirectly, and
that was a point gained; and had Mrs. Felton been sure she had done so,
she would have been of the same opinion, and looked forward with some
certainty to a time when she should occupy his attention and thoughts
still more.

The next morning the whole party were to begin their tour through
Cumberland and Westmoreland. It consisted of Mrs. Felton and her
companion, the St. Aubyns, Mr. and Mrs. Selby, and Miss Travers, a young
lady on a visit to the latter. At nine, the carriages drove to the door,
consisting of Mrs. Felton’s landaulet and the one-horse chaises of Mr.
Selby and St. Aubyn.

As Mrs. Felton, it was known, preferred a chaise to her own carriage, it
was resolved that Mrs. Selby, Miss Spenlove, and Miss Travers should go
in the landaulet; accordingly, they took their seats and drove off from
the door before Mrs. Felton, who had been writing letters, was equipped
for her journey; and before she came down stairs, St. Aubyn had handed
his mother into his chaise, and was preparing to follow the carriage.
Nothing could exceed Mrs. Felton’s astonishment and mortification at
finding, when she reached the door, that, instead of requesting leave to
drive her in his chaise, he was already contentedly seated by the side
of his own mother, and preparing to drive off, as regardless of her as
if he had never seen her. To such neglect and indifference, she had
never been accustomed, and knew not how to endure it; and her
countenance assumed so gloomy an expression, that even Mr. Selby, who
was not the most penetrating of men, discovered the cause of her
disquietude; and calling to St. Aubyn to stop, he in a low voice asked
Mrs. Felton whether she would not oblige Mr. St. Aubyn, by taking his
mother’s place beside him, while he would condemn himself, for the sake
of his young friend, to the pain of relinquishing her society. At this
speech, which soothed her wounded self-love, her countenance
brightened,and she allowed Mr. Selby to oblige St. Aubyn by making the
proposal; but what could exceed her astonishment and angry mortification
when St. Aubyn returned for answer, that he must beg leave to decline
the honour intended him, as his mother was so fearful in an open
carriage, that he knew she would be miserable if driven by any one but
himself, as to his driving she had been accustomed!

Too much provoked to speak, Mrs. Felton seated herself beside Mr.
Selby,and followed the other chaise in perturbed silence, debating in
her own mind whether she should not show her sense of St. Aubyn’s
rudeness, in preferring his mother’s comfort to her society, by treating
him with disdain. But in the first place, he was the _only beau_,
therefore she could not _afford_ to affront him; and in the next place,
she felt conscious, that by seeming to resent his indifference, she
should only gratify his vanity, by proving that indifference gave her
pain; therefore, before they had gone two miles, she had recovered her
good-humour. Mr. Selby, who had waited in patient silence till the
clouds of mortified vanity had dispersed, now led her into conversation,
and took occasion, on her making some inquiries concerning St. Aubyn, to
panegyrize his filial piety, amongst his other virtues, of which, he
said, his refusal to have the honour and happiness of driving her was
another instance; and Mrs. Felton, gratified to find she had been
sacrificed to an habitual, and therefore irresistible duty, forgot all
her displeasure, and made numberless inquiries concerning St. Aubyn’s
age and expectations in life.

“But who is that Emma,” said she, “to whom he has written verses?”

“Oh! a little girl with whom he has been educated.”

“But is she still a little girl?” And Mr. Selby, who had forgotten the
insensible lapse of years, answered, “Yes; her age is only thirteen or
fourteen.”

“But who, and what is she?”

“The heiress of the honourable Mrs. Castlemain.”

“But what did St. Aubyn mean, think you, by saying in answer to a remark
of mine, on my mentioning his verses ‘to Emma, aged twelve,’ ‘to Emma,
aged eighteen, I should probably not write at all’?”

“That he should not dare to take the liberty of writing to her at that
age.”

“And why not?”

“Because he is poor, and utterly dependent on a capricious uncle; and
she is a rich heiress.”

“Oh! that is all that he meant, is it?” replied Mrs. Felton; “I
suspected that he meant much more.” And she immediately fell into a
pleasant reverie, of which St. Aubyn was certainly the object.

It was the intention of the party to go to Cockermouth, and thence to
Cromack Water and Buttermere, whence they were to make the complete tour
of the lakes, ending it at Ulswater. When they stopped to bait the
horses, and explore some of the fine scenery on the road from Carlisle
to Cockermouth, Mrs. Felton eagerly approached Mrs. St. Aubyn, and
offering her her arm as she did so, regretted having been so long
deprived of her society, declaring at the same time, her resolution not
to undergo a similar privation again. This speech, which Mrs. St. Aubyn
received with smiles of unexpected satisfaction, was overheard by Mr.
Selby with wonder and mortification; for he could not help thinking that
his conversational powers were quite equal, if not superior, to Mrs. St.
Aubyn’s; and as he was a simple-minded, straight-forward man, as the
phrase is, he had no suspicion that Mrs. Felton was saying what she did
not think.

“I have a proposal to make to you, my dear madam,” added Mrs. Felton,
“which is, that you will do me the honour of going with me, when we
resume our journey, in my landaulet, as you are apt, I find, to be
alarmed in an open carriage.”

“Dear me, you are vastly obliging! I am sure I should prefer going in
the landaulet, and then my son may have the honour and happiness of
driving you.”

“Me! Oh, by no means; that would entirely defeat my purpose; which is,
to procure myself more of your company. Therefore, if he pleases, Miss
Spenlove shall be Mr. St. Aubyn’s companion, and dear Mrs. Selby go with
you and me, while Miss Travers takes my place in Mr. Selby’s chaise.”

From Mrs. Felton’s decisions there was usually no appeal; and as his
mother looked delighted at the marked and flattering attention of Mrs.
Felton, and wished to accept her offer, St. Aubyn cheerfully acquiesced;
though Miss Travers, who was a very pretty girl, and therefore perhaps
not fixed upon by the fair widow to accompany St. Aubyn, would have been
better pleased if the latter had not been so quiescent, but had insisted
on driving her instead of Miss Spenlove.

Mr. Selby meanwhile said nothing,—but he thought the more,—and
wondered within himself to hear Mrs. Felton professing such eagerness to
enjoy the conversation of a woman who, but a few hours ago, she declared
was as insipid as she was fantastical! “Well, it is very strange,”
thought Mr. Selby; for her refusal to be driven by St. Aubyn had
completely succeeded in blinding the simple-minded Mr. Selby to her real
motives of action; and he resolved to consult his wife on the subject,
as she prided herself on her sagacity, and had persuaded him to think
very highly of it also.

At length the horses were refreshed, the scenery sufficiently explored,
and Mr. Selby handed Mrs. St. Aubyn and Mrs. Felton into the landaulet,
and then his wife; who, as she seated herself, stooped down, and laying
her finger on the side of her nose, (a habit which she had,)
significantly and sarcastically said to her husband in a low tone of
voice, “Oh ho, is it so?” a jingle she was fond of. And on this
expressive but mysterious couplet, as it may be called, Mr. Selby mused
for at least half an hour; but recollecting that it was deemed unmanly
to be curious, the vice of curiosity being said to be exclusively that
of the other sex, he resolved to wait patiently till bed-time for an
explanation of what Mrs. Selby’s penetration had discovered, and valued
himself not a little on being a man, and consequently not at all
curious. How often is one reminded of the fable of the Sculptor and the
Lion!

During the drive, his sagacious wife was much amused at observing how
completely “dear Mrs. Selby,” as Mrs. Felton affectedly called her, was
neglected for the new acquaintance, Mrs. St. Aubyn, and she was very
eager to arrive at her journey’s end, in order to indulge herself in
another “Oh ho!” proof of her penetration.

“My dear madam,” said Mrs. Felton with great tenderness of manner,
“believe me, I consider you as a sort of cousin!”

“Dear me, do you! How so?” said the flattered Mrs. St. Aubyn.

“Oh, not without reason. Lady Mary St. Aubyn, your Mr. St. Aubyn’s
mother, was second cousin to my Mr. Felton; therefore, by marriage, you
and I are certainly cousins.”

“Dear me! to be sure we are,” replied the delighted Mrs. St. Aubyn; “are
we not, Mrs. Selby?”

“Oh ho!” replied Mrs. Selby, looking very arch, “and pray what relation
then is Henry to you, Mrs. Felton?”

“I protest I—I never considered,” said Mrs. Felton in some confusion.

“But why, my dear madam,” continued Mrs. Selby, “is it necessary for you
to discover a relationship to Mrs. St. Aubyn in order to account for
your sudden affection for her——”

“No, certainly not,” answered Mrs. Felton.

“O dear me! said Mrs. St. Aubyn.

“There is,” resumed Mrs. Selby, “a sympathy, a natural adhesion between
some persons, stronger than any which are the result of blood. The ivy,
dear ladies, clings much more closely to the oak than any of its own
saplings do; and I am convinced that the cause of your growing
attachment will make it much stronger than if relationship had really
anything to do with it.”

“You are very figurative in your language, Mrs. Selby,” said Mrs.
Felton, conscious that she saw through her designs.

“Oh! there is nothing like a simile to illustrate one’s meaning. But
which of you in this case is the ivy? _You_, Mrs. St. Aubyn, resemble it
in one respect; that is, in being an evergreen; bat sober green is not
smart enough for your taste; no, you would rather be likened to the
China rose, that blooms even in winter.”

Not one word of this conversation was thoroughly understood by Mrs. St.
Aubyn; however, she bowed and smiled, and said “Dear me!” as if she did
understand it; though she was not at all sure that by comparing her to a
blooming rose, Mrs. Selby did not mean a sarcasm on her rouge.

Luckily for the maintenance of Mrs. Felton’s good-humour, the
conversation was soon interrupted by their arrival at Cockermouth; for
Mrs. Felton feared Mrs. Selby’s sarcastic penetration, and she was not
likely to be backward in the use of it on this occasion, as she in her
heart disliked that lady; for whenever there was no other gentleman
present, the fair widow, whose aim was universal conquest, and who
always kept her fire-arms in order by constant exercise, used to flirt
most unmercifully with the simple-minded Mr. Selby; and to use a vulgar
but expressive phrase, the jealous wife was now paying off old scores,
while Mrs. Felton was not backward to return the dislike which she felt
conscious of exciting; and she spoke of and to her hostess by the name
of “dear Mrs. Selby” on the same principle that we often throw perfumes
about a room in order to hide an unpleasant smell.

At length, after the duties of the toilet were gone through, the company
assembled to a late dinner, and St. Aubyn saw in the happy countenance
of his mother an expression of satisfied and conscious importance which
he had not for years beheld on it; and as he was certain that she
derived it from Mrs. Felton’s marked attentions to her, he felt grateful
to that lady for the benevolence which dictated them.

“But is it benevolence?” thought St. Aubyn, for he sometimes had a
suspicion that Mrs. Felton was laughing at his mother; as, spite of his
filial piety, his uncle’s just though coarse raillery had so often held
her up in his presence to deserved ridicule, that he could not help
fearing that this superabundant passion for her society which Mrs.
Felton evinced, was founded on a wish to make her what is denominated a
butt; for St. Aubyn had no suspicion that it was through his mother that
the fair widow was aiming at him; and watchful, and suspicious, and
pensive, he sat down to dinner as before, opposite to Mrs. Felton. But,
with all his distrustful vigilance, he saw nothing in her manner to his
mother but what demanded his grateful approbation.

Mrs. Felton evidently endeavoured to give her consequence, and she
succeeded. She talked to her of her former residence near London, of the
birth-day and the birth-day balls, of Lady Mary St. Aubyn, her husband’s
mother. And Mrs. St. Aubyn, who in her brother’s presence had always the
appearance of a frightened fool, thus encouraged, resumed the ease and
gaiety natural to her; and her son, who had never seen her to such
advantage before, and was now convinced he had undervalued his mother’s
talents, felt the liveliest gratitude to that benevolent woman, as he
now believed she might really be, who had thus gratified his filial
affection,and caught himself several times saying mentally, “She is
certainly very beautiful!”

Never for an instant did a suspicion of Mrs. Felton’s motives come
across the mind of St. Aubyn. But Mr. Selby was now become more
enlightened, for he had seen his wife alone; and having been informed by
her of the plan of operations which was going forward, the corners of
his good-humoured mouth were during dinner dimpled with more arch
meaning than usual, and though he did not give utterance to any “Oh
ho’s,” he looked even more of them than Mrs. Selby herself.

Not but that it required all his confidence in his wife’s penetration,
to be entirely convinced of the truth of what she asserted; for instead
of directing her discourse to St. Aubyn, and paying him those pointed
attentions which he had witnessed the first day they met, Mrs. Felton
talked less to him than she did to any one else; and her seducing looks,
her _agaceries_ were so exclusively directed to himself, that he began
to fear his wife would be jealous again.

But Mr. Selby was not aware that St. Aubyn, being opposite to Mrs.
Felton, could see her every look and motion; and that the play of her
countenance while speaking to him, and the graceful bend of her
finely-formed head and neck while leaning towards him, with the
occasional display of her fine hand and arm, could not escape St.
Aubyn’s notice, especially as now he was become unconsciously interested
in her from her attention to his mother; and they were more likely to
have their full effect on him, from not being _apparently_ intended to
captivate him; while ever and anon she addressed Mrs. St. Aubyn in a
tone and manner so kind and so respectful, that Mrs. St. Aubyn’s
countenance was quite radiant with pleasure, and she forgot there was
such a person in the world as her formidable brother.

During the course of the evening, Mrs. Felton was asked to sing; and
having immediately complied with the request, she sung the following
song:—

    The soft blooms of summer are fair to the eye,
    Where brightly the clear silver Medway glides by;
    And rich are the colours which autumn adorn,
    Its gold chequer’d leaves, and its billows of corn.

    But dearer to me is the pale lonely rose,
    Whose blossoms in winter’s dark season unclose;
    Which smiles in the rigour of winter’s stern blast,
    And smooths the rough present by signs of the past?

    And thus when around us affliction’s dark power
    Eclipses the sunshine of life’s glowing hour,
    While drooping, deserted, in sorrow we bend,
    O sweet is the presence of one faithful friend!

    The crowds whom we smiled with when gladness was ours;
    Are summer’s bright blossoms, and autumn’s gay stores;
    But the friend on whose breast we in sorrow repose,
    That friend is the winter’s lone beautiful rose.

Mrs. Felton did not increase her power over St. Aubyn by singing; for
though she sung with taste and science, she only recalled to his
recollection a sweeter voice, and tones which he dearly loved; and for a
few moments the White Cottage and its beloved inhabitant swam before his
glistening eye. He soon, however, recovered himself; and suppressing a
deep sigh, he hoped Mrs. Felton would be more generous than to excite
their wishes by a proof of her musical talents, and then refuse to
gratify still further the wish she had excited; and as he said this,
there was so much softness in the expression of his eyes, the result of
recent recollections, that Mrs. Felton flattered herself his evident
emotion was caused by her, and that the look which accompanied his
speech was also caused by the feeling of tenderness with which she had
inspired him.

“You overrate my musical talents,” said Mrs. Felton modestly; “but, such
as they are, you and this good company may command them; and I hope Miss
Spenlove will join me in a duet.”

“Certainly, if you desire it,” replied Miss Spenlove, “and I shall at
least be an excellent foil to you.”

“Ridiculous!” said Mrs. Felton; and she said right, as my readers will
also say when it suits me to give a short history of Miss Spenlove. As
soon as Miss Spenlove had given her consent to sing, Mrs. Felton fixed
on a duet, which was received with more applause even than the song had
been; and it was evident, even to the most untutored ear in the company,
that, so far from being a foil to Mrs. Felton, Miss Spenlove’s voice was
of a richer and finer tone than her friend’s, and her delivery of it
proved her a performer of great excellence. She could not, however, be
prevailed upon to sing any thing but a second to Mrs. Felton, and the
latter was again requested to favour the company alone.

“But pray,” said Mr. Selby, “who wrote the words you have just been
singing?”

“Well, Mr. Selby,” cried Miss Spenlove, “I am surprised you should ask.
I thought you must suspect, if you did not _know_—that they are—”

“Hush! hush! you foolish woman,” said Mrs. Felton, putting her hand
before Miss Spenlove’s mouth.

“No, I will speak,” exclaimed she; “the words are this dear creature’s!”

“Oh, fy!” cried Mrs. Felton, as well she might if she had valued truth;
for, though Mrs. Felton wished them to pass for hers, as she had the
reputation of never singing any words but her own, they were in reality
the production of a friend, who did not value himself on them, and was
contented to let them pass as productions by Mrs. Felton. It is to be
supposed that when the company heard that the songs were Mrs. Felton’s,
they were so complaisant as to admire them.

“And who composed the music?” asked St. Aubyn.

“Oh! the music is—” replied Mrs. Felton.

“By the same person, I suspect, that wrote the words.”

“You may say so,” said Miss Spenlove. And indeed with equal truth so he
might; for the tunes were both old tunes; but, as they were not much
known, by a few judicious alterations by Miss Spenlove, and some pretty
cadences and shakes well introduced by Mrs. Felton, they passed for the
original composition of that lady, and were handed about in MS., in
fashionable circles, as little _chef-d’œuvres_ by the honourable Mrs.
Felton.

“What a monopolizer of talent you are!” said St. Aubyn.

“A monopolizer!” exclaimed Mrs. Selby; “it is well you did not call my
fair friend a regrater too.”

“Dear me!” cried Mrs. St. Aubyn, “what is a regrater?”

“One,” answered Mrs. Selby, quickly, “who buys up other persons’
commodities, and retails them according to their own fashion and their
own price.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Selby, hastily, alarmed at his wife’s coarseness,
(for he well knew her suspicions,) “considering you are a woman, and
therefore know nothing of business, the explanation, though not a
correct one, is a tolerably good one, and I shall not take the trouble
to amend it, but beg our friends to indulge us with some more singing.”

Henry St. Aubyn had listened to Mrs. Selby’s observation, and seen Mr.
Selby’s alarm, with ill-disguised astonishment. It seemed to him so
unnecessary for a woman to write verses, or compose music, in order to
be either charming or estimable, that he never suspected it possible for
a gentlewoman to forfeit the indispensable requisites of truth and
honesty, in order to obtain the reputation of being so gifted. He
therefore unwillingly attributed Mrs. Selby’s evidently intended sarcasm
to the spite of an envious woman, while his admiration of Mrs. Felton
was increased by the temper with which she bore the imputation, and
consented to sing again.

“Might I be allowed to choose your song?” said Miss Spenlove fawningly.

“Certainly you shall,” replied Mrs. Felton with apparent kindness; “for
no one will dispute the excellence of your judgment, and you certainly
know which song I sing best.”

St. Aubyn did not know it; but the rancour which Mrs. Selby had excited,
Mrs. Felton vented thus on poor Miss Spenlove, who had once been a
professional singer, and had taught music; but who having, on an
accession of property, commenced woman of fashion, had not strength of
mind enough to like to be reminded of her former situation. Miss
Spenlove therefore blushed, from mixed feelings excited by this masked
battery, which, “this dear creature,” as she had just called her, had
opened upon her; but returning good for evil, she requested her to sing
the song she was famous for singing with such irresistible pathos;
“though indeed,” added she, “I wonder you can have the heart to sing it
at all, as the unhappy writer was most fatally in love, and—”

“No more on that subject,” replied Mrs. Felton, affecting to sigh very
deeply, “for I wish to sing my best;” and she began the following
stanzas, which she had adapted to an old Scotch melody;

    Then be it so, and let us part,
    Since love like mine has fail’d to move thee;
    But do not think this constant heart
    Can ever cease, ingrate, to love thee.
    No—spite of all thy cold disdain,
    I’ll bless the hour when first I met thee,
    And rather bear whole years of pain
    Than e’en for one short hour forget thee,
                                  Forget thee! No.

    Still Memory, now my only friend,
    Shall with her soothing art endeavour
    My present anguish to suspend,
    By painting pleasures lost for ever.
    She shall the happy hours renew,
    When full of hope and smiles I met thee,
    And little thought the day to view
    When thou wouldst wish me to forget thee,
                                  Forget thee! No.

    Yet, I have lived to view that day,
    To mourn my past destructive blindness,
    To see now turn’d with scorn away
    Those eyes once fill’d with answering kindness.
    But go—farewell! and be thou blest,
    If thoughts of what I feel will let thee;
    Yet, though thy image kills my rest,
    ‘Twere greater anguish to forget thee,
                                  Forget thee! No.

“Brava! brava!” cried Mr. Selby, when Mrs. Felton had finished her song.

“I think,” said St. Aubyn gravely, and conceiving by what Miss Spenlove
had said, that the song had been addressed to her friend, “I think a man
who could love as well as the poor man who wrote those lines must have
loved, ought not to have loved in vain; but it seems he did; and he also
complains of encouragement given and then withdrawn.” St. Aubyn said
this with a severity of manner which Mrs. Felton, spite of her aptitude
to flatter herself, could not impute to apprehensive jealousy merely,
but was obliged to see in it an implied censure of suspected coquetry;
and she replied as composedly as she could, that men were very apt to
flatter themselves, and to fancy encouragement given where none was
intended.

“True, very true,” observed Mrs. St. Aubyn, looking, or trying to look,
wise; “I have often found it so to my cost. But, poor man! I should like
to know what became of the gentleman who wrote that song;—I hope he did
not drown or shoot himself for love!”

“I hope not too,” said Mrs. Selby, “for that would have shown he was
more in earnest than such a jilting mistress would have deserved; for
you know, Mrs. St. Aubyn, our friend Hudibras says,

                ‘If a man hang, or blow out his brains,
                The deuce is in him if he feigns.’”

“Upon my word, madam, I have no friend of that name,” replied Mrs. St.
Aubyn, “at least not that I recollect; to be sure, when I lived in town,
I had many foreigners on my visiting list, and this person might be one
of them.”

St. Aubyn blushed—Mrs. Selby bit her lip—while Mrs. Felton kindly
said,

“I protest, my dear madam, I know no more of Mrs. Selby’s friend
Hudibras than you do; and indeed it is a book not usually liked by
ladies, and you served Mrs. Selby quite right in affecting not to
understand her allusion.”

St. Aubyn, though grateful to Mrs. Felton for this attempt to veil Mrs.
St. Aubyn’s mistake, could not allow even his mother to be defended at
the expense of truth; and therefore replied,

“I am sure, my dear madam, that my mother had not the intention which
you obligingly impute to her; especially as, though she does not know
the poem of Hudibras by name, she is familiar with many passages in it,
for my poor father was fond of quoting Hudibras; and you must remember,”
added he, addressing his mother, “how much you used to admire one
burlesque simile which he was often repeating—

                 ‘Now, like a lobster boil’d, the morn
                 From black to red began to turn—’”

“Dear me! yes to be sure I do; and that was by Hudibras, was it?”

St. Aubyn finding it was a hopeless case to attempt to set her right,
sighed and was silent; but no one even _smiled_ at Mrs. St. Aubyn’s
mistake. The filial piety of her son cast such a shield over her on all
occasions, that when he was present it would have seemed sacrilegious to
make her an object of ridicule; and even Mrs. Selby, who, because Mrs.
Felton seemed to protect Mrs. St. Aubyn, felt inclined to attack her,
was awed by respect for the son’s feelings into forbearance towards the
mother; and Mr. Selby took advantage of the temporary silence to change
the conversation by observing,

“Your father, Henry, was a most amiable man, and I shall regret his
early loss to the end of my existence. However, my dear boy,” squeezing
St. Aubyn’s hand affectionately, “he survives still in you. Do you not
think, Mrs. St. Aubyn, that your son is an improved likeness of his
father?”

“My Mr. St. Aubyn was a very handsome man also,” she replied; while her
son’s deep blushes at this implied compliment to his beauty called forth
some good-natured raillery, and the evening terminated in mirth and good
humour.

The next day Mrs. Felton persisted in going in the landaulet with Mrs.
St. Aubyn and Mrs. Selby, though St. Aubyn requested the honour of
driving her; but she was gratified at his having made the request; and
when they arrived at Buttermere, she accepted his offered arm, and the
assistance of his hand in passing miry paths and pieces of projecting
rock; and sometimes while he sat down to sketch the most striking parts
of the scenery, she leaned over him as he did so, and occasionally
leaned her arm on his shoulder.

“Oh ho!” said Mrs. Selby to her husband as she observed this
familiarity; and Mrs. St. Aubyn, as she delightedly gazed on them, asked
Miss Spenlove in a whisper, if she did not think they would make a very
handsome picture.

As the weather was fine, and Buttermere and Cromack Water were well
worth visiting again and again, they did not quit the banks of the
latter lake till twilight, and then took up their abode for the night in
the neighbourhood, that they might return to the same scenes again the
next day; Mr. Selby’s servants having in the meanwhile joined them with
fishing tackle, and a tent which they could pitch wherever they thought
proper.

But late as was the dinner-hour, neither the ladies nor the gentlemen
sat down to table without changing their dress; and had St. Aubyn
continued to distrust Mrs. Felton’s motives for behaving with such
marked kindness to his mother, the appearance of the latter when she
came down to dinner would for ever have lulled his suspicions to rest.
Mrs. St. Aubyn appeared in a very elegant lace cap tied under her chin,
the gift of Mrs. Felton; and as it was a style of head-dress more
becoming her time of life than any cap she was in the habit of wearing,
St. Aubyn saw that Mrs. Felton endeavoured to remove rather than promote
his mother’s follies; and his heart glowed towards her with a fervour
that she had never excited in him before, and which all her beauty, all
her coquetry, and all her seducing familiarity, would have failed to
excite. She had really attacked St. Aubyn on his weak side, if I may
call by such a name his attachment to a most foolish mother; and the
fair widow was not at all blind to the advantage which she had gained.

As the day had been a day of fatigue, the party separated early. Nothing
worth relating took place during the evening, except that Mr. and Mrs.
Selby looked a number of ho ho’s at each other, on observing several
kind and corresponding glances exchanged between the grateful St. Aubyn
and the fascinating Mrs. Felton.

The next and the two succeeding days were passed amidst the scenery of
Buttermere and Cromack Water, or on the Lakes themselves; and the whole
party walked from and to the inn. But as the lake which they meant to
visit the next day was at some distance, the carriages were again
necessary, and again St. Aubyn requested leave to drive Mrs. Felton, and
was graciously permitted to do so, to the petitioner’s great
satisfaction, as he was become tired of both his companions, Miss
Travers and Miss Spenlove. The former, though very pretty, was very
insipid; and towards the latter, St. Aubyn, though not at all apt to
dislike any one, was inclined to feel something rather resembling
aversion.

Miss Spenlove, as I have before said, had once been a teacher of music,
and had sung, for hire, in many respectable societies, contented with
the honourable distinction of gaining an honest livelihood by virtuous
industry; but having become mistress of eight or ten thousand pounds by
the death of a distant relation, Miss Spenlove wished to set up for a
woman of fashion. But to do this was a difficult task as a _noun
substantive_; therefore Miss Spenlove resolved to become a noun
_adjective_; and, by making herself useful to some leader of ton, get
herself passed into the circles of high life, as an appendage to the
aforesaid leader; like a _burr_ sticking to a velvet petticoat.

At the time when Miss Spenlove’s good fortune, as she called it, had led
her to form this resolution, Mrs. Felton was a leader of the ton; and
having known that lady when she was poor, and dependent on her talents
for support, Miss Spenlove took the first opportunity of calling on her
now her style of living was changed, and that she walked nowhere without
a servant behind her. The pretence for calling on Mrs. Felton was, that
she had composed a song hitherto unheard by any one, on purpose for Mrs.
Felton’s beautiful voice and manner of singing, and Miss Spenlove had
little doubt but that under the auspices of the fair widow she should
move in those circles after which her ambition panted; not that Miss
Spenlove was romantic enough to suppose that Mrs. Felton would introduce
her into fashionable circles from motives of kindness; no, she knew too
much of the world and of human nature, and also of Mrs. Felton’s nature,
to suppose that. But she knew she could make it a traffic of mutual
accommodation, and that she could purchase the services which it was not
in her power to command.

After Miss Spenlove, who was immediately admitted, as Mrs. Felton had
nothing better to do, had presented her song, which was most graciously
received, she told Mrs. Felton that she knew her generous heart would
rejoice to hear of her good fortune; that in consequence of it she had
given up all professional pursuits, and had made a vow never to sing
even gratuitously for any one again, “except,” she added, “for _you_, my
dear Mrs. Felton, whose musical talent is such as to entitle you to
demand an exertion of the best efforts of others.”

Mrs. Felton, whose heart was not at all given to rejoice at the good
fortune of other people, received the first part of the intelligence
very coldly, but heard the other with unfeigned delight, though she
could not at first divine why this kind exception was made in her
favour.

Miss Spenlove perceived the satisfaction her proposal had given, and
went on to the complete furtherance of her project.

“My dear lady,” said she, “I know you compose pretty melodies;—perhaps
you have some by you to which you would like that I should put a bass.
It would give me the greatest pleasure to be of use to you in that way;
and perhaps you would sing over with me the song which I have brought.”

Mrs. Felton complied; and without at all wounding her self-love, Miss
Spenlove contrived to give her a most instructive lesson in singing; and
she was too clever not to perceive immediately how useful to her a
friend would be who could insure to her fame as a composer, by doing for
her what she was too ignorant to do for herself; and reputation as a
singer, by teaching her to sing in the first style of excellence,
without her being at the expense of having a master.

The little melodies were produced; song succeeded to song, duet to duet;
graces were noted down for the acquisition of Mrs. Felton, amateur, by
the obliging fingers of Miss Spenlove, now amateur also; and, after some
hours spent by Miss Spenlove thus in conferring obligation, she returned
home, having at length received obligation in return; for Mrs. Felton
begged, till her kind friend Miss Spenlove could meet with lodgings
entirely to her mind, that she would make her house her home.—And that
very night Miss Spenlove, who was elderly and ugly, removed to the house
of the young and beautiful Mrs. Felton; being qualified to serve at once
both for a foil and for a companion.

Nor, though the ladies had no great affection for each other, had their
union during three years ever known interruption, so powerful is the tie
called mutual convenience; and as Miss Spenlove paid Mrs. Felton very
handsomely for her board, it was impossible for either lady to think
herself more the obliger than the obliged.

But they knew each other too well to add to the tie of interest that of
esteem and affection. Mrs. Felton, whose temper was not good, used to
vent on her companion the ill-humour she was forced to restrain towards
others; and as she knew Miss Spenlove wished it to be forgotten that she
had ever been a musical professor, Mrs. Felton used to take a malicious
pleasure in alarming her by distant allusions to this circumstance,
which in time would have been wholly forgotten but by Miss Spenlove’s
almost pettish refusals to sing anywhere but at Mrs. Felton’s, as the
reason for her refusal was immediately suspected and whispered round the
room, with sneers at her pride and affectation.

But Miss Spenlove took her revenge amply on Mrs. Felton behind her back
for the mortification she endured sometimes in her presence; for she had
a custom in seeming friendship, but with real malignity, to extol Mrs.
Felton’s personal charms and talents in so extravagant a manner to her
rivals and acquaintance, as could not fail to provoke her hearers to
deny her pretensions to such excelling attractions; for few persons can
bear to admit the overwhelming superiority of any one, and on such
occasions envy with propriety assumes the garb of justice, and may
unoffendingly dispute the claims of the person so praised, to such
extravagant eulogium. It was very evident therefore that Miss Spenlove
set up Mrs. Felton in this manner as a ninepin, only for the pleasure of
having her knocked down again;—after which she used with well-feigned
concern to hint to Mrs. Felton what envious persons there were in the
world! and how strenuously she had asserted her charming friend’s rights
to universal homage; well knowing, as she did so, that Mrs. Felton would
be more hurt at the consciousness of being attacked, than gratified at
being defended by such a person as Miss Spenlove.

But it was not by extravagant praise of Mrs. Felton that Miss Spenlove
had disgusted St. Aubyn; it was only before women that she amused
herself in this manner; to men she had a different way of
proceeding;—as thus,

“Do you not think, Mr. St. Aubyn, my sweet friend is the most beautiful
creature in the world?”

“She is beautiful certainly, madam, but—”

“Oh! I know very well what you would say,—that she looks differently at
different times, and that when not a little rouged she is like all women
of fashion, rather sallow.”

“No indeed, madam,” replied St. Aubyn, “I was not going to say any such
thing, and I did not know till this moment that Mrs. Felton’s colour was
not at all times her own.”

“Her own!” returned Miss Spenlove with a laugh as she meant it to be,
but which was any thing _but_ a laugh, “her own! yes, it is certainly
her own, for she bought it with her own money.”

“But what a sweet figure she is! though to be sure, at her time of life
it is as well perhaps to grow fat.”

“At her time of life, madam!”

“Yes, sir, after thirty it is always advantageous for a woman to get a
little _em bon point_;” drawing herself up as she spoke with a proud
consciousness of rotundity.

“After thirty! I did not suppose Mrs. Felton was above five-and-twenty,
madam!” replied St. Aubyn.

“I do not wonder at that, sir; many persons have been so deceived; when
dressed she certainly looks very young; for her great vivacity and
cheerfulness give a youthful expression to her countenance. Not but that
her temper is none of the _evenest_. She is _very_ irritable at
times;—however, I love her so much, dear creature! with all her faults,
that I cannot help remaining with her, though, as I have an independent
fortune, (bridling as she said this,) and could live handsomely
_anywhere_ for what I pay Mrs. Felton for my board, I need not stay with
her if I did not like it.”

“No, to be sure not,” replied St. Aubyn, by way of saying something, and
disgusted with this conversation; still, however, he felt less angry
with Miss Spenlove, when he heard she was a woman of independent
fortune, because till she said this he had looked upon her as a poor
dependant on Mrs. Felton, who vented on her benefactress in this manner
the hatred excited in her by a sense of obligation which she felt that
she could never repay. Now the case was altered; however, disgust was
still the predominant feeling in him towards Miss Spenlove; and though
he was in a degree amused by the ingenious malice with which, while
praising Mrs. Felton’s beauty, she insinuated that her beauty was the
result of art; that though she looked young, she was in reality old;
that though she seemed cheerful and good-humoured, she was in truth the
contrary; still he could scarcely refrain from putting a stop to this
effusion of wormwood mixed up in syrup, by asking very seriously whether
after this conversation he was to consider her as Mrs. Felton’s friend
or her enemy?

But as I am quite as much tired of this sickening though too natural
conversation as St. Aubyn himself, I shall repeat no more of it, but go
to pleasanter contemplations; namely, the very different subjects
discussed by St. Aubyn and Mrs. Felton, when she became his travelling
companion. They delighted to converse on literature, the arts, morals,
and every thing connected with them, and it was with pain that they
found themselves arrived at the end of their journey; where Mrs. St.
Aubyn beheld with delight, but Mrs. Selby with pain, the mutual
satisfaction which beamed in the countenances of Mrs. Felton and St.
Aubyn, as they declared how pleasant their drive had been; and the
expression of interest and pleasure with which St. Aubyn, apparently
regardless of every one else, eagerly, offered his arm to Mrs. Felton,
when they began their walk to the lake.

Till this excursion took place, the first wish of Mrs. St. Aubyn’s heart
was, that her son should marry Miss Castlemain; but now her only
ambition was to see him the husband of the honourable Mrs. Felton, while
she in fancy beheld herself by this means reinstated in those gay and
fashionable scenes which her own vicious folly had caused her to forego,
but which she had never ceased most bitterly to regret.

No such sanguine expectations for the aggrandizement of St. Aubyn
entered into the more penetrating mind of her friend Mrs. Selby. She
accurately read and justly appreciated the character of Mrs. Felton; and
it was not only from dislike of that lady that she could not bear so
precious a votary should do homage at the shrine of her vanity, but also
from a conviction that Mrs. Felton in no one point of view was worthy to
attach a being so excellent as St. Aubyn; the feeling of esteem for him
being even more strong in the heart of Mrs. Selby than aversion to Mrs.
Felton; whom she would never have admitted into her house, had she not
been related to Mr. Selby’s first wife, and had not he in early life
been under obligations to Mrs. Felton’s father.

To be brief; that evening St. Aubyn retired to rest more charmed than
ever with the fascinating widow, especially when his mother, following
him to his apartment, told him, almost with tears of joy, that Mrs.
Felton had given her a most pressing invitation to visit her in London
the ensuing spring, when London would be most full, and she could
introduce her into such circles as she ought to be seen in.

“Kind Mrs. Felton!” exclaimed St. Aubyn, kissing his mother
affectionately; “she is irresistibly charming; but of all her charms,
the greatest she has for me is her affectionate attention to you!”

That night when St. Aubyn laid his head on his pillow he certainly did
not recollect so vividly, nor think of so long as usual, a pair of
dark-blue eyes peeping at him almost by stealth, between the crimson
curtains of a certain pew in a certain church, from under the longest
and thickest black eyelashes that ever were seen; while the blushing
cheek beneath them was shaded by a large cottage bonnet tied with blue
ribands.

Three weeks had already passed rapidly in exploring the beauties of the
lakes, when the party arrived at Keswick or Derwentwater; and as that
lake was well known to every one of the party, as neither Mrs. St.
Aubyn’s house nor purse would allow her to entertain her companions, and
as Mr. Hargrave was absent from home, it was resolved that one day only
should be spent in revisiting Borrowdale, Watenlath, and the other
surrounding beauties; and that then, after visiting Bassenthaite and
other scenes worthy of notice, they should proceed to Penrith, and
devote all the time they could spare to the varied and extensive
beauties of Ulswater and its environs. It was not without many tender
and many painful recollections that St. Aubyn found himself once more in
the vicinity of the White Cottage, and saw the church where, and where
only, he had now for weeks beheld the dear companion of his youth and
his studies; he therefore seized the first opportunity to steal from his
party and mount a hill whence he could discern the chimneys of Mrs.
Castlemain’s dwelling. And when he returned he was absent and pensive
during the remainder of the evening; but so marked had lately been his
attentions to Mrs. Felton, that she, blinded by vanity, was sometimes
inclined to attribute his abstraction to love for a present not an
absent idol; and of the rest of the party some hoped and some feared the
same thing.

Already before Mrs. St. Aubyn’s sight swam white and silver favours and
bridal finery, and she had nodded, and winked, and insinuated the same
belief into pretty Miss Travers, who thought with a sigh that Mrs.
Felton was a very lucky woman. But Mrs. Selby, who did not believe the
dangerous widow was capable of being in love even with a St. Aubyn, and
who believed her only aim was conquest, was alarmed lest the peace of a
heart so valuable should be ruined by the wiles of a coquette.

In this instance, however, Mrs. Selby was only right in part. Mrs.
Felton had made no vow against marrying again; and if St. Aubyn had been
already in possession of his uncle’s immense fortune, she was so charmed
with the beauty of his person and the graces of his manner, that she
would willingly have resigned her liberty to him, and have been proud to
exhibit her handsome husband in the circles of high life. But love in a
cottage was not at all to Mrs. Felton’s taste; and so Miss Spenlove
assured Mr. Selby, when he hinted his suspicions of St. Aubyn’s
attachment to her, the first time they were alone together.

“Pho! nonsense!” said she, “I know her; She is only at her usual tricks.
I endeavoured to put the young man on his guard, and tell him what she
really is; but he is mighty conceited, and I saw by his look he did not
believe me.”

Mr. Selby, good man, listened, and was astonished for he had been
completely the dupe of Miss Spenlove’s “sweet creatures,” and “dear
creatures,” and supposed that she idolized her friend with even blind
affection.

“My dear,” said he to his wife at night, “would you believe it? I have
discovered that Miss Spenlove’s affection for Mrs. Felton is all put
on.”

“Oh ho! is it so?” replied Mrs. Selby; “what, have you only now found
that out, Mr. Selby?”—who, poor man, sighed to think that he should
never, if he lived even to the age of Methuselah, be as wise as his
wife.

It was now an understood thing, that St. Aubyn was always to drive Mrs.
Felton, and of course he handed her into the chaise as soon as it drove
round. The preference he felt for her society he had no scruple in
showing by his manner; and Mrs. Felton, though she had sometimes doubts
herself on the subject, was charmed to discover, by the looks and
conduct of the rest of the party, that most of them suspected St. Aubyn,
though not yet her declared lover, was on the point of becoming so; and
she felt authorized to add to the list of her captives, the name of
Henry St. Aubyn.

Mrs. Felton had now in a great measure carried her point; still, she
wished her conquest to be proved past doubt, by a regular declaration;
and towards this she saw no symptoms of any progress; not that she meant
to accept his offer, but most earnestly did she wish to have the honour
of refusing it.

“I wish I could excite his jealousy,” thought Mrs. Felton, “in order to
bring him to the point; but that is impossible, as he can’t be jealous
of Selby, and there is no other beau.” Fortune, however, as if eager to
indulge so amiable a wish in this accomplished coquette, sent another
beau, when she least expected it; and such a beau! no other than the man
whom, of all others, she was the most desirous of charming, and to whom
she would most willingly be made captive in return.

Mr. Wanford was, at the time I am speaking, one of the most admired and
courted young men in the regions of fashion. Fortunately for him, when
he first went to college, his fortune was so small, and his expectations
so trifling, that he knew his only chance of distinction and success in
life, was in having resolution enough to labour to deserve them; and Mr.
Wanford had ambition; he had also talents and perseverance; and the same
year that he took a very high mathematical degree, he was senior
medallist also; while the ensuing year, having cultivated with great
assiduity his poetical abilities, his poem on a given subject obtained
the prize.

At this climax of his well-deserved celebrity, prosperities of another
kind poured in upon him, but luckily too late to interfere with those
virtuous habits of application in which poverty had fortified him. An
uncle of his father died, and left him heir to a large independent
fortune; and at the same time, his mother’s brother, who had acquired an
immense fortune in trade, had interest enough to obtain a peerage; and,
having no children of his own, the patent was made out with remainder to
the son of his sister—this fortunate Mr. Wanford.

It is not to be wondered at that such sudden prosperity should in some
measure turn the head of the young and laurelled scholar; and that the
expectance of title, and the possession of wealth, should not sit so
gracefully on him as on those to whom such things have long been
habitual. But to do him justice, he was quite as proud of his academical
as of his other honours; and while he was abroad on his travels he
published a volume of poems, consisting of some original pieces, and
some elegant translations of Greek and other fragments.—This volume,
coming as it did from the heir to a barony, and the possessor already of
a very fine fortune, was received with much admiration by those ladies
and gentlemen who unite literature with fashion. But the return of Mr.
Wanford from abroad was anxiously expected not only by all who had read
his works, and had heard of his reputation; he was considered as a prize
worth trying for by illiterate mothers who had daughters to dispose of,
and by widows of small jointures, who only knew that he was rich and
lord Erdington’s heir. To Mrs. Felton he was welcome, as scholar, poet,
heir, and rich man; “and if I ever part with my liberty again,” she had
often said to herself, “it shall be to Mr. Wanford.”

Being so highly gifted as I have described him, it was almost
unnecessary for him to possess beauty of person or grace of manner;
however, he was well made though not tall, and handsome rather than
otherwise; and his manners, though at times rather haughty and
important, were generally pleasing, and sometimes even insinuating. Of
marrying he had at present not the most distant intention, and he had
been so much the object of coquetry, that he was become no mean
proficient in the art himself. Such was the man who was now making the
tour of the Lakes, accompanied by his only sister, who resided with him,
in a carriage of his own construction, which he drove himself, and of
which the back part contained his man and his sister’s waiting-maid.

Mr. Wanford had not returned to England long before the close of the
season for parties in London; and it had so happened that though Mrs.
Felton had been invited more than once to meet this gentleman, long the
object of her secret wishes, he had either gone away before she had
entered, or had come after she had left the house; while, in spite of
her repeated invitations to him sent by friends of both parties, he
never gratified her so far as to visit her either in a morning or an
evening. She had therefore never seen him, nor he her; and when Miss
Spenlove, who had seen Mr. Wanford arrive, and had heard his name from
his servants, announced his arrival to Mrs. Felton at the inn at
Patterdale, the joy she felt was so great as to make her jump off her
seat, and exclaim, “The man here whom of all others I am most ambitious
to see and know! What a fortunate event!”

“What a fortunate man! you might also have said,” observed St. Aubyn,
with perhaps a little feeling of mortification; while Mrs. St. Aubyn
uttered a “Dear me!” in no cheerful tone, and Mrs. Selby drawled out a
significant “Oh ho!”

But Mrs. Felton was too much engaged in her own speculations to attend
to them.—Thought, that rapid traveller, had already gone through all
the advantages accruing from meeting Mr. Wanford in such a spot; and
could she but be introduced to him, could she but have such
opportunities with him as she had with St. Aubyn, her success seemed
sure, her marriage undoubted! But how could she contrive to make herself
known to him? “Necessity has no law,” says the proverb; and if nothing
but a bold stroke can succeed, Mrs. Felton is too much a woman of the
world to scruple it.

“My dear Mr. St. Aubyn,” said Mrs. Felton, “will you do me an essential
service?”

“Any thing in my power.”

“It is absolutely necessary that I should be introduced to the gentleman
(Mr. Wanford) who is just arrived, Lord Erdington’s nephew and heir;
would you then have the great goodness to tell him that Mrs. Felton
wishes much to make his acquaintance, and begs the pleasure of seeing
him? He knows me by _name_ and reputation very well already.”

“If then, madam,” replied St. Aubyn gravely, “he knows you by name and
reputation already, and learns, as no doubt he will do, or indeed as he
shall do, (for I will take care of that,) that the honourable Mrs.
Felton is at this inn, it will be his business surely to solicit the
honour of knowing you.”

“To be sure—certainly,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn.

Mrs. Felton, who felt the delicacy of this reproof, blushed deeply both
with a sense of shame and of resentment; though she fancied jealousy as
much as regard for her dignity had dictated St. Aubyn’s reply.

“My dear sir,” she replied, forcing a laugh, “where a woman is conscious
she confers full as much, or more honour than she receives by courting
an acquaintance, there surely is no harm in her making the first
advances.”

“Not to a lady; but indeed I respect you, or any one of your sex, too
much to endure the idea of flattering any man’s vanity so far as to be
the bearer of solicitations from a fair lady to a gentleman, requesting
the pleasure of making his acquaintance.”

“Mr. St. Aubyn,” cried Mrs. Felton, too determined on her purpose to be
withheld from it even by the risk of disgusting her friendly monitor,
“it is necessary, as I said before, that I should know Mr. Wanford, as I
have a message to deliver to him; and if you will not repeat to him what
I said, I will go and introduce myself.”

“Rather than you should do that, madam,” said St. Aubyn, “I will, though
reluctantly, obey you.”

At this moment Miss Spenlove entered the room.

“So!” said she, “Mr. Wanford has a lady with him, I find!”

“A lady!” echoed St. Aubyn, immediately returning; while Mrs. Felton
blushed from alarm, lest the lady should be such a one as to prevent the
possibility of her introduction.

“Yes; but it is only his sister.”

“His sister!” cried Mrs. Felton pettishly, but with her countenance
brightening up; “why could you not say so before, Miss Spenlove? and
then I should have felt no difficulty in this business; for Mr. St.
Aubyn’s delicacy will not be shocked by my requesting the honour of
knowing Miss Wanford.”

“Undoubtedly not,” he answered, bowing profoundly, and left the room.

“Well, and may I ask who this great gentleman is?” asked Mrs. St. Aubyn
in a tone of pique.

“He is a poet, a scholar, a fine gentleman, and the heir to a nobleman,”
replied Mrs. Felton.

“May be so; but I never heard of him before.”

“It would not break his heart if he knew it,” said Mrs. Felton
contemptuously; “he is sufficiently known and admired where he wishes to
be.”

“Then if this be true, and you do not know him, it must be because, by
you at least, he does not _wish_ to be known and admired,” sarcastically
observed Mrs. Selby.

“Think what you please, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Felton angrily.

“Dear me!” cried Mrs. St. Aubyn; “what a fuss there is about this man,
who, I am sure, if that be he coming yonder, is not half as handsome as
my son.”

“Ridiculous! beneath my notice!” muttered Mrs. Felton, looking at Mrs.
St. Aubyn with such a frown, that she almost fancied it was her brother
whom she beheld.

Just then Mr. Wanford passed the window, at which stood Miss Travers,
who had taken off her riding-hat from the heat of the weather, and let
fall over her shoulders a profusion of fine light hair; while on her
cheek not only the “sultry season glowed,” but the bloom of healthy and
happy eighteen!

Mr. Wanford gazed earnestly at her, and _almost_ stopped as he gazed,
but recovering himself passed on. Soon however he returned pretending to
call his dog, though his eyes were riveted on the now blushing Miss
Travers, who from native modesty turned away and went to a remote corner
of the room; on which Mr. Wanford repassed the window and disappeared.

“Well, I declare,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, “my dear, you have made a
conquest certainly of this Mr. Wanford.”

“Ridiculous!” muttered Mrs. Felton.

“Not so ridiculous neither,” cried Mrs. St. Aubyn; “for I am sure he had
no eyes for any one else.”

“That was very certain,” observed Mrs. Selby; “and I think it was
strange after your message to his sister, Mrs. Felton, that he should
not look for you!”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Spenlove, “he took Miss Travers for my dear
friend.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Selby. “Take that young thing for Mrs.
Felton? Nonsense!”

“It is not the first time, madam,” said Miss Spenlove looking grave,
“that Mrs. Felton has been taken for a girl of eighteen.”

At this moment St. Aubyn put his head into the room, saying, “Miss
Wanford desires her compliments to you, madam, and she will wait on you
presently.” So saying, he disappeared, and the party soon after saw Miss
Wanford walking along a path at a little distance, whither St. Aubyn had
been in search of her.

However, instead of coming immediately into the house, she passed the
window, after having asked of the waiters which way her brother went.

“Very odd that,” said Mrs. Selby; “it seems as if she dares not make the
acquaintance unsanctioned by her brother.”

This remark gave Mrs. Felton as much pain as it was intended to give
her; for the elegant widow knew very well, that though generally
received in society, there were some squeamish and rigid persons who
were not desirous of visiting her; and as Mr. Wanford had hitherto
rejected all her advances to acquaintance, it was possible that his
sister might be of the latter number. St. Aubyn, meanwhile, ever ready
to oblige, was gone to gather some curious grass which he had discovered
in a wet ditch behind the inn; a grass of which Mrs. Felton, who studied
botany among other things, was desirous of obtaining specimens; and in
this ditch he was standing mid-leg in water when Miss Wanford hastened
to her brother, who was sitting on a bank and sketching a fine tree on
the other side of the hedge under which St. Aubyn was.

“So, Frank!” cried Miss Wanford, as soon as she saw her brother; “who do
you think is here, and has sent the handsomest young man I ever saw to
solicit the pleasure of making my acquaintance? No other than Mrs.
Felton!”

“What! _the_ Mrs. Felton—”

“Yes, her own honourable self.”

“Fairly hooked, by Jupiter! Now I must know her whether I would or no,”
returned Wanford; while St. Aubyn coughed and hemmed very audibly to
inform them they were overheard, though he stooped down as he did so,
lest the young lady should recognise him and be shocked at finding he
had heard her praises of his beauty. But regardless of St. Aubyn’s
honourable notice, they went on.

“I never could understand why you would not know Mrs. Felton, brother.”

“Because, when I found she was so desirous of making my acquaintance, I
suspected she had designs on me.”

“Well said, my modest brother! and so I suppose you think, in soliciting
my acquaintance, all she aims at is yours?”

“To be sure I do.”

“And so do I. For, from what I have heard of Mrs. Felton, I do not
believe she ever cares an atom for the females of a family, unless she
can through them best obtain ascendency over the males.”

Here Mr. St. Aubyn smiled to himself, and again hemmed audibly, though
in vain.

“I see you know this sweet enslaver as well as I do, Bell. Well—as I
must know her, I must; but if marriage be her end, I can tell her she
cannot catch me in that snare; and if her only aim be to make a fool of
me as she has done of other men, that I defy her to do. But, pray, have
you met?”

“No; I sent word I would wait on her soon; but as I never mean to make
an acquaintance till it is approved by you, I chose to consult you
first, especially as Mrs. Felton is——”

“Generally received, Bell, and that is enough for me. I do not wish my
sister to set up for being more wise and more virtuous than two-thirds
of the world; besides, you know, Bell, you are very desirous to be
invited to Mrs. Felton’s parties. But come, since the fair widow will
attack me, who’s afraid? Besides, in her party I suspect is a lovely
Hebe of a girl that I should like to be better acquainted with; and I
shall have no little fun in playing off this inexperienced blushing
beauty against this celebrated and dangerous coquette.”

So saying they walked towards the inn, leaving St. Aubyn warned and
enlightened sufficiently, if he had needed such warning; and not pleased
with Wanford for his worldly and convenient morality; for, if it was to
be more wise and virtuous than two-thirds of the world to avoid
association with women of doubtful reputation, he proved in St. Aubyn’s
opinion, by not wishing his sister to be thus wise and virtuous, that
his sense of propriety was not over-nice, and that he was not a very fit
guardian for the honour and reputation of a young and pleasing woman.

“And this formidable coquette, whom they have thus freely discussed, is
my amiable friend Mrs. Felton! and this woman whom I so much respected
and admired, was really _mean_ enough to want to solicit the
acquaintance of a man who, it seems, has purposely hitherto rejected all
her overtures to acquaintance! Sure is the saying, that where there is
much vanity there is no pride, (virtuous pride I mean)!” And with a
feeling of pity not unmixed with contempt for Mrs. Felton, he returned
to the inn to change his shoes and stockings, before he joined his
companions in a party on the lake.

But new arrangements had taken place during St. Aubyn’s absence, in
consequence of a violent thunder-storm, and it was agreed that in order
to lose no time they should take a cold dinner while the bad weather
lasted, and when it was over go on the lake, and remain on the water or
its banks till the approach of night should force them to return to
Penrith, their head-quarters.

Mr. and Miss Wanford, therefore, when they arrived at the inn, found the
party preparing to sit down to dinner; but having been graciously met at
the door by Mrs. Felton, and being pressed to sit down to their meal by
her and Mr. and Mrs. Selby, they complied with the request, and soon
felt themselves as much at ease as if they had been old acquaintances.
When the dinner was completely served up, and the ladies seated, Mr.
Wanford took the chair at the head of the table between Mrs. Selby and
Mrs. Felton; on which Mrs. St. Aubyn hastily said, “You have taken my
son’s place, sir.”

“Your son’s place, madam!” replied Wanford coldly; “pray, where is he? I
have not the honour of knowing him. Oh! I suppose that gentleman at the
bottom of the table is your son.”

“Dear me! if I ever heard the like! Why, Mr. Selby is as old as I am.”

“Not happening to know how old that is, I hope you will excuse me,
madam, and your son too when he makes his appearance, for I must keep my
seat.” And this he said with an air, as if he felt that the heir of Lord
Erdington had some right to sit at the head of the table next to the
honourable Mrs. Felton.

“Gracious goodness!” whispered Mrs. St. Aubyn to Mrs. Selby, “what airs
the man gives himself! I can’t abide him. And then for Mrs. Felton not
to tell him it was my son’s place!”

Wanford, who was only too fond of that mean order of fun denominated
quizzing and banter, and to which those who reside in college are but
too much addicted, soon discovered that Mrs. St. Aubyn was an excellent
subject for this sort of diversion; and perceiving by her fanning
herself violently, and other symptoms, that she was displeased, he very
coolly exclaimed, leaning towards her as he did so, “Are we not
friends?”

“No, sir,” she replied, “nor even acquaintance.”

“But I hope we shall be, dear madam,” returned Wanford; “no endeavours
on my part, I am sure, shall be wanting to bring about so desirable a
circumstance. Shall we drink wine together?”

“No, sir, I never drink wine so soon; though stay—yes, I will take half
a glass, for I remember my husband’s mother, lady Mary St. Aubyn,” (whom
by the by she always talked of when she wished to impress any one with
an idea of her consequence,) “yes, lady Mary used to say that it was
rude to refuse to drink wine with any one.”

“Lady Mary is a very sensible woman, and here’s her good health.”

“Good health, sir! Why did one ever hear the like! The poor soul has
been dead these sixteen years.”

“Indeed; I am very sorry for it.”

“Sorry! Why, sir, you did not know her, I dare say.”

“Not I, madam; I was only sorry on your account; as you seem so fond of
her, you cannot help bringing her into company by head and shoulders.”

“Indeed, sir, lady Mary was not a woman to be brought into any company
against her will, and those whom she associated with might think
themselves honoured; for, sir, lady Mary was none of your upstart
yesterday quality; she was of the old and right sort, and a duke’s
daughter, sir.”

“So much the better for her, madam,” returned Wanford, who thought this
was meant as a sarcasm on his want of family antiquity, and the bought
peerage of his tradesman uncle. “So much the better for her. It is a
fine thing to be a duke’s daughter!” Then, with mock pathos, he added,
“I wish I was a duke’s daughter! but I fear it is impossible for me to
be one now.”

“Dear me!” whispered Mrs. St. Aubyn to Mrs. Selby, “did you ever hear
the like! This your wit and your scholar indeed! Why, he appears to me
no better than a fool or a madman!” And while the rest of the party were
laughing spite of themselves, at Wanford’s nonsense, St. Aubyn entered
the room. There was such an air of command about St. Aubyn’s person and
manner, that he always inspired strangers at first sight with a sort of
involuntary deference; and Wanford, who felt himself irresistibly
impelled to laugh at the mother, was as irresistibly impelled to respect
the son. When St. Aubyn saw Wanford occupying his usual seat and that
the table seemed completely filled elsewhere, he exclaimed with a smile,

                          “The table’s full.”

On which Miss Spenlove said,

                      “Here is a place reserved.”

offering him a vacant seat between herself and Miss Travers, which he
instantly accepted. But Wanford, with more graciousness than usual,
said—“I understand, sir, that I am occupying your usual place, and I
earnestly wish to exchange it for that you have now taken.”

“Impossible, sir! I know its value too well,” he replied, smiling, “to
bear to inflict on any one the pain of quitting it.”

“And it is, sir, because I feel its value equally,” answered Wanford,
“that I am resolved not to expose a fellow-creature to the misery of
regretting it.”

“Well, sir, if I must be made happy at another’s expense, I must;” and
they exchanged seats. Mrs. Felton felt excessive mortification during
this dialogue, which in words appeared so flattering to her vanity; for
she saw that Wanford, whose eyes were oftener turned on Miss Travers
than herself, was glad of an excuse to sit next that young lady; and in
St. Aubyn’s smile, and his extravagant compliments, so unlike his usual
manner, she read that his heart was quite at ease, though she had
carried her point, and the man she so much desired to know was sitting
by her side. Nor was the pleasantness of her feelings increased by
witnessing the entire devotion of Wanford to the pretty Miss Travers, or
the good-humoured archness with which St. Aubyn rallied her on her
evident discomposure and absence of mind when he addressed her.

“This man is too much at his ease to be jealous!” thought Mrs. Felton;
and she thought right; therefore, as she did not like to lose one
admirer before she had gained another, she renewed her attentions to
Mrs. St. Aubyn. And though that lady was inclined to resent the epithets
of “ridiculous! and absurd!” which she had addressed to her, and also
her not keeping the place next her for her son, she was completely
pacified by a “when you come to stay with me in town, Mrs. St. Aubyn.”

After a hasty meal, as the thunder-storm soon passed away, leaving the
scenery of Ulswater still more beautiful than it found it, they went on
the lake, and as usual Mrs. Felton and her friend were requested to
sing; while St. Aubyn, who, though no coxcomb, could not help looking on
Miss Wanford with complacency, as she thought him “the handsomest young
man she ever saw,” hoped that she also would favour the company with a
song, as her brother had hinted that it was in her power to do so. But
that lady having declared that her brother had not spoken truth, Mrs.
Felton and Miss Spenlove sung a duet; after which Miss Wanford hoped
that Mrs. Felton would sing the song of “Forget thee! No,” of which she
had heard so much; and Mrs. Felton, as usual, complied with graceful and
unaffected alacrity.

“You know who wrote that song,” said Miss Spenlove, significantly to
Wanford, while Mrs. Felton sighed and hung down her head.

“Oh, yes,” replied Wanford, carelessly; “poor Trevor! Ay—he was
desperately in love when he wrote it! at least he thought so, and that
is pretty much the same thing.”

“Thought so! Why, I understood,” cried Mrs. St. Aubyn, “that the poor
gentleman was near hanging or shooting himself. Did not you say so, Mrs.
Selby?”

“Me! Oh, dear no,” replied Mrs. Selby, smiling at the inaccuracy of Mrs.
St. Aubyn’s memory.

“Then, sir, you know the author of this song,” addressing Wanford, (for
she did not believe it was addressed to Mrs. Felton,) “and did the
gentleman recover his disappointment? and is he living, sir?”

“He was living, madam, in 1798, at Florence, when I parted with him.”

“Poor man! Retired into a convent, I presume, disgusted with the world?”
asked Mrs. Selby in an ironical tone.

“What an absurd idea!” cried Mrs. Felton. “Mr. Trevor was too wise a
man, however disappointed, to seek a remedy in seclusion.”

“True, madam,” answered Wanford, archly smiling; “though your cruelty
drove my friend to despair, I see you appreciated his wisdom justly. You
are right—my friend sought a better remedy than seclusion or the
cloister’s vows for his misery.”

“How, how is his health, sir?” asked Mrs. Felton.

“Never better; and in the smiles of one beautiful woman he sought
consolation for the _frowns_ of another.”

“What, sir!” cried Miss Spenlove, “is Mr. Trevor married?” for Mrs.
Felton was too confused to speak.

“He is, madam, to a most lovely and admirable woman, indeed; and I am
sure Mrs. Felton’s generosity and tenderness of heart are such as to
make her rejoice to hear, that my friend’s eternity of woe exists no
longer anywhere than in his song.”

“Certainly, sir, certainly,” said the lady; while Mr. Selby, laughing
heartily, exclaimed, “So much for the constancy and sincerity of a
poet!”

“_Apropos_,” said Wanford,” I should like to read those doleful verses.
I will not ask _you_ to _repeat_ them, Mrs. Felton; but perhaps you can
favour me with a sight of them.”

“I cannot? but Mr. St. Aubyn can, for I wrote them out for him.”

“Indeed, I am very sorry, and ashamed to own,” replied St. Aubyn,
blushing, “that I have _lost_ them.”

“Lost them!” said Mrs. Felton, pale with mortification; “it is a proof
that my gift was not of much _value_ in your opinion.”

“You do me great injustice then; I valued it so much that I had it
constantly about me.”

“But not in a safe place, it seems.”

“I thought it so; but I suspect that in stooping over the boat
yesterday, it fell into the water.”

“Oh ho!” said Mr. Selby, borrowing a phrase and a look from his wife,
“then I suspect you wore it in your bosom, and it fell out from thence.”

“No, indeed I did not, sir,” hastily replied St. Aubyn, blushing with a
sort of indignant feeling, and conscious _that_ place was sacred to the
hand-writing of only one being in creation; “no, indeed, sir, I wore it
in my waistcoat pocket.”

“Ay, ay,” said his sapient mother, “he does not like to own that he did
so, but I have seen a piece of folded paper in his bosom.”

“Madam,” replied St. Aubyn firmly but respectfully, “I know no motive
sufficient to justify a falsehood. I wore the valuable verses which I
have unfortunately lost nowhere but in my waistcoat pocket, and the
paper to which you allude is still where you discovered it, and this is
it.” Then, with many blushes, St. Aubyn produced a folded paper from his
bosom, and holding it towards Mrs. Felton, said, “You see, madam, this
cannot be the paper in question, for that was embossed paper, and edged
with green.”

“It was sir,” said Mrs. Felton in a tone of pique.

“Yes,” observed Mrs. Selby, “Mrs. Felton wrote it with her best pen on
her best paper, and in her best hand; and _yet_ you lost it! O fie,
Henry, to set so little value on a lady’s favours!”

“But _all_ ladies’ favours he is not so negligent of, it seems,” said
Wanford.

“On that subject, sir,” replied St. Aubyn, proudly, “I do not admit of
any comments.”

“I dare say,” cried Mrs. Selby, in hopes of laughing off what might grow
serious, “that treasured paper contains the white satin bandeau that I
lost off my hair the other day.—Well, at my time of life, who could
have thought it!”

“But, my dear,” said Mr. Selby, “as at your time of life you are too
wise to wear satin bandeaus, this is no stray charm of yours that has
met with so sure a pound.”

“No, but I remember now that Mrs. Felton lost _her_ bandeau,” archly
observed Mrs. St. Aubyn.

“Oh ho!” cried Mrs. Selby.

“Yes, yes,” nodded Mr. Selby, while St. Aubyn blushed so deeply, that
every one _but_ Mrs. Selby and Mrs. Felton herself, was convinced the
guess was a just one. However, the former being anxious to drop a
subject displeasing to St. Aubyn, and the latter being willing to let it
be supposed her bandeau was so highly honoured, were silent, while nods
and winks went round; and here the conversation dropped.

The day, on the whole, was one of mortification, and therefore of pain,
to Mrs. Felton. In the first place, she had lowered herself in St.
Aubyn’s esteem, by wishing to force herself on Wanford’s notice; and she
had pretty plainly shown Mrs. St. Aubyn that her temper was not so mild
as self-command had hitherto made it appear. In the second place, it was
evident that Wanford, as yet, admired Miss Travers more than he did her;
and that St. Aubyn, who she fancied was all but her slave, was wholly
from love towards her, for he was free from jealousy; besides, he had
lost her precious hand-writing, and wore some one’s else she believed in
his bosom. And lastly, Mr. Trevor had forgotten her, and was happy with
another woman!

But though a little disappointed, Mrs. Felton was not disheartened. She
expected that Mr. Wanford, as the friend of Mr. Trevor, who had been in
reality, the victim of the most consummate coquetry, would feel
prejudiced against her; and she made it her study to remove this
prejudice as fast as possible, even though she gave up St. Aubyn wholly
in order to effect it, and resigned his weak mother to the
insignificance in their party from which her notice had raised her. But
the difficulty was, how to obtain enough of Wanford’s society to make
him willing to acquit her towards his friend, by feeling her power to
charm himself. She saw that it was a matter of indifference to him
whether she noticed his sister or not; therefore she could not make any
impression on his heart by gratifying his affections. Alone, she never
saw him; for having dared to ask him to let her go with him in his very
pretty and novel equipage (which was in truth the ugliest thing ever
seen,) Wanford had coolly replied, he was very sorry, but that he was
already engaged to drive Hebe, as he called Miss Travers, but hoped at
some future time that he should be able to devote himself to the
_maturer_ charms of Minerva.

This was insupportable, especially as it had been overheard by St.
Aubyn, who, with a smile too natural to be the result of pique, said,
“You see, after all, you must take up with me; so you had better submit
to your fate with a good grace, and let me hand you into my humble
chaise, which, when you are in it, I consider as a triumphal car;” and
Mrs. Felton, with assumed gaiety, complied.

I must mention here, that St. Aubyn wrote out from memory a copy of the
song which he had lost, and gave it to Mrs. Felton in his _own
hand-writing_.

Mrs. Felton would have been still more assured, that St. Aubyn’s
admiration of her was wholly unmixed with love, had she known of the
dialogue that had taken place the preceding evening between him and his
mother. Mrs. St. Aubyn had followed her son into his chamber, requesting
a few minutes’ conversation with him, when she exclaimed, “Oh! my dear
Henry! it grieves me to the soul, to think how you are going on with
Mrs. Felton!”

“What do you mean, my dear mother? I protest I do not understand you.”

“Why, to see you so grave and so queer, and her so cold and so pettish,
after you have been so loving together, and I thought and hoped all
would soon be settled between you.”

“Do I hear right, madam? For pity’s sake, what can you mean? as I said
before.”

“Why, that you are going wrong together, I am sure, only owing to your
not speaking _out_, as she expected you would do. Now pray come to an
explanation with her; for I can’t bear to see that pert jackanapes going
to put your nose out of joint, as the saying is.”

“I protest I cannot yet comprehend what your meaning is, and what I am
to explain.”

“Nay, dear child, this is all jealous spite and pride, I see very
clearly; but do conquer it, do, my darling, to make me happy, and do
what she expects and wishes, that is, pop the question to her.”

“Pop the question, madam! I have no question to ask Mrs. Felton. To what
question do you allude?”

“Now as if you did not know, Henry, what popping the question means!
Why, asking her to _marry_ you, to be sure.”

“Marry me! ask Mrs. Felton to marry me! And is the state of your son’s
heart so little known to you, that you could suppose him capable of
loving, and wishing to marry Mrs. Felton?”

“Well, did one ever hear the like! I could have sworn, and so could
other people, I’m sure, that you were in love with each other; and I was
so rejoiced to think that I should call the honourable Mrs. Felton
daughter, and go and live with her and you in a fine house, and be as
happy as the day was long!”

“My dearest mother, you greatly distress me! Is it possible that my
attentions to Mrs. Felton, such as she had a right to command from any
man, could lead you or any one to suppose I was seeking to gain her
affections? Certain am I, however, that, great as is her vanity, she
knows too much of the human heart to have been herself deceived; and
therefore I have nothing to reproach myself with,—else I should be
miserable!”

“Miserable!” replied Mrs. St. Aubyn in a whining tone, “miserable! I am
sure you have made _me_ so. There! to be thus disappointed, when I
thought I had got a daughter-in-law, that was so fond of me, and had
invited me to go and see her! Dear me! I shall not have half the
pleasure in staying with her in London, now I find there is nothing
serious between her and you.”

“My dear madam, you will never be asked, depend upon it, to visit Mrs.
Felton.”

“No, child! Why, how can you be so provoking? Why, she repeated her
invitation only yesterday; and I am sure, if she does not again, it will
be all _your fault_.”

“Believe me, she never meant you should be her guest. I have reason to
think Mrs. Felton is not the amiable woman she seems to be, and that
under that apparent kindness and good-nature she conceals a cold heart
and a bad temper.”

“Indeed! Well, and now I recollect, when you were not present to-day she
called me ‘ridiculous! absurd!’ and looked as if she could have eaten
me, just like my brother!”

“Very likely; and now you will see that the attentions she paid to you
and me she will transfer to Mr. Wanford and his sister, and neglect us.”

“No, child, no; I can’t think she is so bad as that, neither.”

“Well, we shall see. However, I thank her; for I am indebted to her for
many pleasant hours, and for making me forget awhile the secret care
that oppresses me; for surely, my dear mother, you cannot have forgotten
that I undertook this journey not only to oblige you, but also to
dissipate the uneasiness I felt at being forced to relinquish the
beloved society at the White Cottage, and even that of Mr. Egerton, in
compliance with my uncle’s will!”

“Dear me! Why, what a fool I have been! Well, to be sure I see it all
now; and so you have not forgotten Miss—”

“Hush! hush! dear mother! and let me try to rest. So, good night, good
night! and do not be so cruel as to wish your son to be the husband of
Mrs. Felton.”

Mrs. St. Aubyn reluctantly departed, and St. Aubyn retired to bed, but
not to sleep; for so nice was his sense of honour, that he was
apprehensive lest his attentions to Mrs. Felton should have gone beyond
what admiration alone warranted, and he began to consider how he ought
to behave to her in future.

“As I have hitherto done, to be sure,” said St. Aubyn mentally, after
long deliberation. “If I change my manner now, it would prove that I am
self-condemned, and that I think my behaviour hitherto has been
improper, while of aught dishonourable my heart acquits me; but for my
mother, who _knows_ Emma Castlemain, to think that a Mrs. Felton could
drive her from my thoughts! Emma, dear Emma!” and thinking on her he
fell asleep.

The next day he accosted Mrs. Felton with the same attentive manner as
usual; and as he saw her earnest desire to captivate Wanford, and now
knew her to be a most determined coquette, he anticipated some diversion
from observing her plan of operations, in the same manner as a person
who has already witnessed a display and an explanation of optical
delusions, is amused at observing their power to deceive those who are
as yet unacquainted with their nature.

During the walks on the banks and rocks surrounding the lakes, Mrs.
Felton, just before they returned to Penrith, contrived to begin a long
enumeration to Wanford, whose arm she had as it were seized, of the very
fine things a friend of hers had said of him; but just as the carriages
were announced, she had come to the most interesting part of the eulogy,
which was she declared too flattering for her to indulge his vanity
with. The bait took; Wanford vowed she should not leave him till she had
told him all, as she had excited his curiosity to an intolerable degree.

“No, no,—the carriage is here,—adieu! au revoir,” cried Mrs. Felton.

“No adieu for me. You stir not from my side, or sight, till you have
told me all,” replied Wanford. “Therefore, Mr. St. Aubyn, will you do me
the favour to take my place and drive Miss Travers, while I drive this
lady?” And St. Aubyn, knowing that in making the exchange he should
greatly oblige Mrs. Felton, smilingly agreed to the proposal.

During their ride to Penrith, Mrs. Felton, by feeding all the varied
sources of vanity which were abundant in Mr. Wanford, won on him so far
that he did not once regret the pretty Hebe whom he had forsaken; and he
made himself so agreeable to the fair widow, that it was not till St.
Aubyn, with a cheek glowing with exercise, and eyes sparkling with a
number of arch meanings, met her at the supper table, that she secretly
wished, with a sigh more tender than usual, that he, and not Wanford,
had been heir to Lord Erdington. During supper, however, she had no eyes
or ears but for Wanford; she took no notice of her dear Mrs. St. Aubyn;
and to the great amusement of St. Aubyn, having prevailed on Wanford to
repeat some of his poems and little pieces, she had tears for his
elogies, smiles for his epigrams, and a loud laugh for his comical
songs; in short, she acted over again the same scene with which she had
endeavoured to charm him the second evening that they met.

During this time, Mrs. Selby’s oh ho’s, Miss Spenlove’s meaning sneer,
Miss Wanford’s arch smile, and Mr. Selby’s sly winks at his wife, were
not unobserved by St. Aubyn, and added to his diversion; but he had no
pleasure in observing the comic-pathetic of his mortified mother’s
expression, nor her evident resentment at seeing her son thrown into the
back-ground entirely, and even his poetry forgotten,—that poetry which
Mrs. Felton had declared was so fine that it would be a long time before
she relished any other! At last maternal vanity got the better of all
restraint, and she said to Mr. Wanford,

“My son can write poetry too, sir, and a very pretty poet he is, as that
lady can testify. Come hither, Henry, and repeat to that gentleman some
of your _beautiful_ verses, as Mrs. Felton called them.”

“Forgive me, dear madam, if I do not obey you,” replied St. Aubyn,
blushing, and leaving the room.

“Dear me! see what it is to be modest,” added Mrs. St. Aubyn; “my son
could no more repeat his own verses than he could fly; though, as I said
before, he is so pretty a poet.”

This remark excited a general smile at the implied contrast it contained
between Wanford and St. Aubyn in respect to modesty; and he, in order to
hide his confusion, said,

“A _pretty_ poet, madam! your son a pretty poet! That is impossible!”

“Well, did one ever hear the like! to tell me my son _can’t_ be a pretty
poet!”

“I repeat my words, madam, and I appeal to the whole company for the
_truth_ of what I say. ‘Pretty’ does not describe St. Aubyn! No—the
appellation is unworthy of him. If he be a poet at all, he must be a
_handsome_ one; his height, his size, the size of his features, pretty
indeed! Ask the ladies if they ever thought of calling him the _pretty
St. Aubyn_. No, no—that appellation belongs exclusively to his mother,”
bowing low to her as he spoke.

“Well, good folks, you may laugh, and all this may be true,” replied
Mrs. St. Aubyn, a little pacified by the compliment to her beauty; “but
Mrs. Felton knows my son writes finely, does he not madam? I ask you the
question point blank; for I suspect that you do not like to answer me,
lest you make your new friend envious and jealous.”

“Madam!” replied Mrs. Felton contemptuously, “your suspicions proclaim
the depth and nature of your understanding. Mr. St. Aubyn it a fine
writer, a very fine writer; and so is Mr. Wanford, with this
_additional_ claim to admiration, a claim which must set him above the
fear of competition with your son, that his talents have been stamped
with the seal of public approbation, and that the university where he
was educated, is proud of calling him her own.”

“Not prouder, I’m sure, than I am of calling _Henry_ my own, madam, for
that matter,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn; and Mr. Selby declaring it was past
midnight, broke up the party.

The next day, when they all assembled at breakfast, Mrs. St. Aubyn made
known the intention of herself and son to take their leave and return to
their respective abodes; a resolution which, if she could, Mrs. Felton
would have been glad to attribute to the pain St. Aubyn felt at seeing
her growing partiality to Wanford; however, she flattered herself that
the _rest_ of the party would attribute this intended defection to a
cause so flattering to her vanity. But Mrs. St. Aubyn, who now disliked
her as much as she had formerly liked, was resolved neither she nor any
one else should labour under an error which she thought so injurious to
Henry, and into which he had hinted to her it was just possible they
would fall. She therefore told the company, who expressed universally
great regret at the idea of parting with them, that it was quite useless
to pretend to alter their determination, for that the reason that could
alone have induced her son to leave home so long existed no longer; as
the unhappiness which he travelled to dissipate was removed by the
removal of the cause.

“Unhappiness!” exclaimed Mrs. Selby.

“Yes; my brother had quarrelled with Mrs. Castlemain; therefore Henry
was forbidden her house, and could no longer be with Miss Emma and Mr.
Egerton, whom he loves better than the whole world, myself excepted.”
(Here Mrs. Felton changed colour, in spite of her self-command.)
“To-day, however, my son has received a letter from my brother, telling
him they are all reconciled, and Henry is so impatient to see his dear
friends again, that to make him easy, I promised to set off directly;
besides, as my brother is returned, I think it right to go home, lest he
should be angry at my staying away so long.”

This story was not only true, but had such an air of truth also, that
Mrs. Felton was forced to believe in it implicitly, and felt that the
rest of the company would believe it also,—therefore all idea of St.
Aubyn’s ever having had a serious thought of her, must vanish from every
mind; and had any doubts remained, the countenance of St. Aubyn, who now
entered, would have been sufficient to banish them. His heightened
colour, and the joy that sparkled in his eyes, spoke such internal
happiness, that his former gaiety appeared languid to his present
animation; and there was not a woman in the room that did not feel
inclined to envy “Miss Emma,” if not Mr. Egerton.

“Hush! mum!” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, “pray don’t tell my son _why_ he is so
happy, and so impatient to be gone.”

“So, you are going to leave us, Henry?” cried Mrs. Selby,
affectionately.

“Ay, cruel boy!” said Mr. Selby,” and you seem as if you were glad to
leave us too.”

St. Aubyn blushed, and, suspecting that his mother had been
communicative, told him that he was sorry, very sorry, to leave so many
kind friends and companions, but glad, very glad to return to others
from whom he had long been separated.

“That’s enough; we cannot expect more. And pray, Henry,” asked Mrs.
Selby, interrupting her husband, “how old is Miss Castlemain now?”

“I believe she is, that is to say, I think, yes, she is between sixteen
and seventeen now.”

“So old! I had no idea of it.”

“And she is so tall and formed for her age,” observed Mrs. St. Aubyn,
“that she might pass for eighteen or twenty; then she is the most
beautiful creature that ever was seen;—no art; all pure nature there;
and then so learned and so sensible, and yet she never gives herself
airs, and sneers at other people who may not know so much as herself!”

“Quite a prodigy!” said Mrs. Felton, with a laugh in which there was no
mirth.

“My dear friend,” said Mrs. Selby, “Miss Castlemain’s merits have made
you quite eloquent; but what says _Henry_? does he confirm your
account?”

“Oh, yes! my mother has scarcely done her justice; the greatest charm of
her character is ingenuousness, and, and——”

“Do not distress yourself,” said Mrs. Selby kindly, “you are not on your
oath, and you have said enough and looked enough to convince everybody
that Miss Castlemain is the most charming of girls, and you the most
_impartial_ of judges. I _hate_ her for being one of the magnets to draw
you hence; and so I dare say do some others in the company, if they were
as ingenuous as Miss Castlemain and I.”

“But is she very intelligent, Henry?” asked Mr. Selby. “I met her a year
ago in a large party at your uncle’s; and though I thought her face and
form perfection itself, I did not hear her say anything extraordinary.”

“No, my dear sir; no, I trust not.—Emma—Miss Castlemain, I mean, has
all the modesty becoming her sex and age. She is, as Mr. Egerton once
said of her, like the six-hour primrose, that closes its flowers in a
bright and dazzling day, and only displays its beauties in shade. At
home she talks; uttering with the simplicity of a child, observations
that would do honour to a woman.”

Here Henry paused and deeply blushed, shocked and astonished to find
that he had had nerves enough to say so much; then saying he must go and
see after his chaise, which was gone to have one of the wheels mended,
he left the room.

Before the company could make any remark on what he had said of Miss
Castlemain, Miss Spenlove, who had been absent a few minutes, returned,
and told Mrs. Felton that a gentleman with whom she had entered into
conversation knew her, and spoke in raptures of her beauty, and would
like to renew his acquaintance with her.

“Oh! pray, show the gentleman in,” cried Mr. Selby; and Miss Spenlove,
who was eager to have him introduced, desired him to enter, before Mrs.
Felton could ask a single question.—I have before said that Mrs.
Felton, who was a native of a sea-port town, had not been born to the
rank of life in which she then was, though education had fitted her to
shine in it. Still, her family was respectable, and some of her
connexions opulent, though not calculated for companions to the
_honourable_ Mrs. Felton; and one of these very relations, introduced by
Miss Spenlove, now entered the room. He was a thick-set, short-necked,
vulgar-looking man, very rich, very purse-proud, and the wit of his own
family, a family that he thought the wisest and most virtuous in the
world,—and had consequently a thorough contempt for every one not
belonging to it; therefore, though he admitted Mrs. Felton, because she
had once been a Stokes, might be both clever and handsome, yet, when he
heard of her marrying a lord’s son, he observed, ‘A fool! she had better
have married me, or cousin Simon, than a pert sprig of quality.” And as
Mrs. Felton was conscious that quality and the Stokes family would not
agree well together, she had not seen any of her cousin Stokeses since
her marriage. Judge then of her consternation, when, while in such
company, she saw the door open, and cousin Peter Stokes enter the
apartment!

“How do you do, cousin, how do you do?” cried Peter Stokes, advancing to
the petrified Mrs. Felton; “I dare say you did not expect to see me;”
attempting at the same time to salute her; but she drew back with a sort
of horror, and offering him her hand, coldly said, “Bless me, is it you?
how are you, sir?”

“Ha! what, I suppose it be n’t the fashion to kiss! But I think the
children of two own brothers, as you and I are, should not meet like
strangers.” Then, looking round, he said, “Your servant, gentleman; how
do you do, ladies?” and leading Mrs. Felton to a chair, took a seat
beside her. “Well, cousin Lucy,” he cried, “you look monstrous glum. Ha!
there is a pretty girl!” in a half whisper, looking at Miss Travers.
“Ay, Lucy, I remember you just such another; but beauty’s a blossom—the
fairest rose at last is withered. However, I must say you wear
well—though all’s not gold that glitters,” grinning maliciously; “and
as you are now set up for a fine lady,” rubbing his cheek, “you may have
more there than what’s your own.”

Never was woman more distressed than Mrs. Felton; to affront so near a
relation was impossible, especially a man who was coarse and brutal
enough to say the most offensive things if offended; yet she scarcely
knew how to forbear resenting his vulgar rudeness.

“Well, cousin, though you are grown so sad and so silent, I’m glad to
see you. Ah! poor thing! when you were only Lucy Stokes you used to be
as merry as a grig; but honours change manners!”

“True,” said Wanford, turning to Mrs. Selby, to whom this scene was
highly gratifying:—

            ‘——new-made honour doth forget men’s names;
            And if his name be Dick, I’ll call him Peter.’”

“What’s that you are saying, sir, about Peter?” cried Stokes to the
astonished Wanford; “Peter’s a good name; I have a great respect for it;
_my_ name’s Peter, sir.”

“Sir, I have a great respect for the name too; and I shall have the more
since I hear it is the Christian denomination of——Whom, sir—pray,
whom have I the honour of addressing?”

“Why, as to the _honour_, sir, that’s neither here nor there; though
Peter Stokes, sir, is a name on _‘Change_ as well known and as
honourable perhaps as any in the land. My pockets, sir, have no gold
outside, but plenty _within_!”

“Not more, I dare say, than this gentleman has,” said Mrs. Felton.

“No! who is he?” (whispering.)

“Mr. Wanford, Lord Erdington’s heir.”

“Heir! a fig for heirship! ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the
bush.’ But hark ye! as you are so fond of lords and their heirs, I’ll
inquire, if you please, into the truth of such reports of riches, and
let you know the result, that you may not be swindled.” This was said in
a whisper, but so loud a one that Wanford and the rest of the party were
forced to turn to the window to hide their laughter.

“Well, good folks, you are very merry there,” said cousin Peter; “as to
your names, I have only heard the name of one of you; and my own I was
forced to tell myself, thanks to my cousin here, who did not choose to
introduce us,—but may be that’s the fashion; or perhaps she thinks
Peter Stokes is not smart enough, nor grand enough for her to own him,
now she has got _honourable_ before her name.”

“Indeed, sir, you wrong me.”

“Sir, indeed! No sirring me, if you please.”

“Well then, cousin, allow me to present you to——”

“_Present_ me! There’s an affected word! Why can’t you say _introduce_?”

“Well then, let me _introduce_ you to Mrs. Selby—Mr. Selby—Mrs. St.
Aubyn—Miss Wanford—Miss Spenlove—Miss _Travers_.”

“Ay, that’s something like; I wish I was your cousin, young lady, and I
would not be put off with a shake of the hand, as I was with cousin Lucy
here. All’s pure and wholesome on that round cheek, you pretty smiler;
but come, tip us your dandy, will you not?” And poor Miss Travers,
half-alarmed, complied.

“I admire your taste, sir,” observed Wanford; “but allow me to ask, is
there a _Mrs._ Peter Stokes?”

“No, sir; but perhaps there may be, one day or other; there’s no hurry.”

“No, sir, no, you are quite a young man yet.”

“Why, yes; but not so young as I was, nor my cousin, here, neither, and
she and I are much of a muchness with respect to age.”

“You and Mrs. Felton, sir! Impossible!” cried Wanford.

“What, sir, do you doubt my word? I tell you, when I _die_, cousin Lucy
may begin to quake in her shoes.”

“Really, Mr. Stokes, really,” faltered out Mrs. Felton, “you must
be——”

“Ay, coz! what am I? Two-and-thirty next birth-day, and so are you?”

“Sir,” replied Mrs. Felton almost ready to cry with vexation, “you must
not be contradicted, I know; therefore I shall not dispute the point
with you.”

“Dear me!” whispered Mrs. St. Aubyn to Mrs. Selby, congratulating
herself that the register of her parish was out of his reach, “did you
ever hear such a rude, vulgar brute?”

“No whispering there, that an’t manners, I’m sure, Mrs. —— What did
you say this lady’s name was?”

“St. Aubyn—Mrs. St. Aubyn.”

“Mrs. St. Aubyn! What, the widow of St. Aubyn, once member for
Cockermouth?”

“The very same, sir, the very same,” eagerly replied that lady.

“Well, said the incorrigible Peter Stokes, after looking long and
earnestly in her face, “to see how things come about! Why, I dare say
then you are Henny Hargrave that was?”

“To be sure I am: but what then, sir?”

“What then? Why, only that five-and-thirty years ago my uncle, Dick
Stokes, was so in love with you!”

“Dear me! I am sure, sir, I never knew such a person as Dick Stokes in
my life, and you must mean some one else.”

“No such thing, I tell you; I know what I say; and his father, my
grandfather, would not let him marry you because you had not the cash.”

“It is all a mistake, sir, I tell you,” cried Mrs. St. Aubyn, provoked
at being made so old.

“No, no, madam, it is not; and where’s the wonder that some thirty years
ago you were young and beautiful? I say, sweetheart,” to Miss Travers,
“don’t be vain of your youth and your beauty; for as the man says in the
play,

              “To this complexion you must come at last.”

“And a very good complexion it is to come to, sir,” said Wanford; “‘‘tis
beauty truly blent,’ as I see you are fond of quotations, ‘whose red and
white—’ But to speak more to the purpose, sir; give me leave to hint,
that if a Mrs. Peter Stokes be not already fixed upon, this young lady
whom you admire, Hebe I call her, would perhaps be—”

“Mr. Wanford,” said Mrs. Selby angrily, “you distress Miss Travers, and
I must desire you to desist.” While Mrs. Felton, at length recovering
her vexation a little, asked him how his family did.

“My family!” he replied; “why not say _our_ family, as your and my
family are the same? And if your husband had not been honourable by
nature, as well as by name, and done so handsomely by you, as to leave
you a good 2000_l._ per annum, you would have been glad enough to have
come to _my_ family for support.”

“_Never_, sir, never,” cried Mrs. Felton, fire flashing from her eyes,
“never; I would have begged my bread sooner.”

“Well said, spirit, but I don’t believe you; however, I am glad to find
you so well to do in the world, with your fine landaulet which I saw in
the yard; however, as I know nothing about coats-of-arms, I should not
have known to whom it belonged but for that chatty lady yonder, Miss or
Mrs. Spenlove; but she began talking to me, and she told me that it
belonged to Mrs. Felton (the honourable Mrs. Felton,) with whom, she
contrived to tell me, she was living, and on the present tour. Oh,
thinks I to myself, if so be she is so proud of being the _friend_ of
this bit of quality, what will she think I ought to be when she hears I
am her relation?”

“So then it is to Miss _Spenlove_, is it,” said Mrs. Felton with a most
malicious expression, “that I am indebted for this happiness!”

“Yes; she knew how fond you were of your own flesh and blood, and so she
said she would _present_ me.”

“Miss Spenlove, you may depend on it I shall not _forget_ the
obligation.”

Just then St. Aubyn entered, and Mrs. Felton introduced him.

“What! is this your son, madam?” cried Stokes, rising and bowing low to
St. Aubyn.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Then, madam, you have deserved well of your country. Why, he looks like
a prince! The finest young fellow I ever set my eyes on!” in a half
whisper to his cousin; one would have thought she had him by my uncle;
out of my own family, I never saw such a man!”

St. Aubyn now said his chaise was at the door; and having gracefully
taken an appropriate leave of each of the company, and received from
Mrs. Felton her card of address in town, he handed his mother down
stairs; to whom, when she bade her adieu, her faithless friend had said,
“Should you ever happen to come to town, Mrs. St. Aubyn, I hope you will
not forget to give me _a call_.”

“So much for your visit to London, my dear mother,” said St. Aubyn as
they drove on. “But come, be cheerful, we are hastening to real friends;
to fond, affectionate, faithful friends; to beings who mean all that
they say, and by whom it is an honour to be respected and beloved.”

“My dear child,” cried Mrs. St. Aubyn dolefully, “to be sure you forget
we are going home to my brother.”

As soon as they were gone, the carriages were ordered round; and Mrs.
Selby, not out of kindness to Mr. Stokes, but malice to Mrs. Felton,
asked the former if he would not do them the honour of joining their
party, and accompanying them to and on Ulswater lake.

“I was thinking, madam,” said he, “that considering it is so many years
since we met, my cousin here might have had the kindness to invite me.”

“Impossible! I could not take the liberty,” replied Mrs. Felton. “I
consider myself as Mr. and Mrs. Selby’s guest, and cannot ask any one to
join our party.”

“Except,” retorted Mrs. Selby laughing, “that one be a gentleman of
certain agreeable qualities and rank in life;” for it was Mrs. Felton
who invited Wanford.

“Well, madam, whether so be my qualities and rank in life,” cried
Stokes, “be agreeable or not, is neither here nor there—I am her own
flesh and blood—but not that I should have accepted her offers, had
they been ever so pressing. None of your going on your lakes for me.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Wanford, “I thought you came on purpose to see
the lakes.”

“Well, and so I did; but going on the lakes and _seeing_ them are two
very different things, I take it.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied Wanford; “then I conclude you are afraid on
the water.”

“I afraid on the water! that’s a good one—I that have crossed the
Atlantic half-a-score times! I that have been for logwood to the bay of
Honduras, I afraid of the water! No, indeed—but after being tossed
about on waves as high as a house, this going along on smooth water is
poor insipid work.”

“True, sir, who after having ridden an elephant would cross a donkey!”

“Besides, angling in fresh water is poor milk and water fun.”

“Certainly, sir, to one,” replied Wanford, “whose pleasures, like yours,
are all of the sublime kind; you I conclude never bob but for whales.
May I ask how many you have ever caught?”

Stokes, having shrewdness enough to perceive that Wanford was laughing
at him, replied, half in joke and half in earnest, “Caught whales! No,
sir, no,—I never caught anything of the sort; but I’ll tell you, sir,
what you’ll soon find you have caught to your cost.”

“Bless me, sir, what have I caught?”

“Why, in me you have caught a _Tartar_,” he replied in a voice of
thunder, which turned the laugh against Wanford, and made Stokes very
vain of his own wit.

The carriages were now announced, Stokes persisting in not accompanying
them, even though, he said, nodding and winking at Miss Travers, they
had with them a nice decoy duck.

Mrs. Felton coldly gave him her card of address in London, and said she
should be glad to see him; that she breakfasted at ten or eleven
commonly, and dined at seven.

“Thank ye, thank ye,” said he; “and when you come into our parts,
cousin, I hope you will come and smoke a pipe and drink a bottle of wine
with me.”

“A very extraordinary proposal to a lady, sir!” said Wanford.

“Not more so than her inviting me to a breakfast at ten, and a dinner at
seven; for I am just as fit for one as she for the other.

“No, no, my honourable cousin, your habits and mine don’t suit,—so we
shall not come together often,—and luckily the world is wide enough for
us both. But come, let us see you off.” So saying, he handed Mrs. Felton
down stairs; when finding she was to go with Wanford in his carriage,
“what, is she going with you?” said he to Wanford. “I thought you would
have preferred that pretty young thing. But every one to his taste, as
the old gentlewoman said when she kissed her cow.”

“Stay, sir, one moment’s conference,” cried Wanford. “Have you any
ground for what you have just said? Is there any historical evidence for
supposing that the sensible person whose saying you have just quoted,
was an old gentlewoman, and not an old woman only, as she is usually
called?”

“Whom do you mean?”

“I mean the cow-caresser, sir, whom you honoured by speaking after;
perhaps amongst your own family archives you may possess her pedigree?”

“Why, no, sir,” returned Stokes, with a malicious laugh; “I have not
much to do with pedigrees; but if the _cow_ in this case had a pedigree,
I should not be surprised to find your name in it as one of her
descendants, by the name of a _calf_.” Then he laughed so loud at what
he fancied wit, that Wanford, glad to escape from a contest in which he
was not likely to come off unhurt, set his horses into a quick trot,
putting his whip-hand to his ear, as he did so, and exclaiming, “A most
extraordinary and overpowering person, ‘pon honour!” while Stokes, after
shaking the rest of the company heartily by the hand, and looking as if
he wished to give Miss Travers a warmer farewell, allowed the other
carriages to drive off, and then mounted his horse. But he overtook
Wanford’s vehicle on the road; and riding up to Mrs. Felton, to the
great mortification of her pride, he desired her to see how independent
he was,—for that he carried his linen and portmanteau before him.

“How shockingly vulgar, sir!” exclaimed she; “why, you look like a
rider!”

“Ay, ay, and like a very good thing too; for if your ancestors and mine,
cousin, had not been riders, you and I should not have been as genteel
as we are now. But look, those powder-monkeys are, I see, grinning to
hear a man with saddle-bags call their mistress cousin. So my service to
you, I and my bags will shock you no longer.” So off he galloped, much
to the joy of Mrs. Felton, but the regret of her companion—to whom his
oddity was a source of amusement.

The next morning, as the lake had been sufficiently explored, the party
resolved to return to Mr. Selby’s house, where after staying two days,
Mr. and Miss Wanford continued their journey to Scotland; whither, had
she been invited, Mrs. Felton would have accompanied them. But Wanford,
now he had lost his rival St. Aubyn, from whom he was proud to have
gained the fair widow, was tired of a conquest which he had made with so
little trouble; and as he clearly perceived Mrs. Felton would accept his
hand if he offered it, his vanity was sufficiently gratified, and he
thought his honour required that he should leave the lady before she had
lost her affections beyond the power of recall. Accordingly he and his
sister pursued their original plan, and set off; while the mortified and
disappointed Mrs. Felton returned to London soon after, out of humour
with herself, Miss Spenlove, and all the world.

But while St. Aubyn and his mother are on their road home, I will relate
how this happy reconciliation with Mr. Hargrave took place. “I am come,”
said Mr. Egerton, one morning abruptly entering the room where Emma and
Mrs. Castlemain were sitting, “I am come to tell you that Mr. Hargrave
is dangerously ill with the gout in his stomach.”

“O dear! if he should die!” exclaimed Emma, with nothing like alarm in
her countenance.—Here she stopped, checked by a look of displeasure
from Mrs. Castlemain, and one of sad surprise from Mr. Egerton.

“I doubt, Emma, you do not always think before you speak,” said Mrs.
Castlemain.

“At least,” replied Emma with blushing ingenuousness, “I do not always
speak well, and I must own that there is not to me any thing very
terrible in the idea of Mr. Hargrave’s death.”

“Do you think him then so well prepared to die?” said Mr. Egerton
gravely.

“But he shall not die if I can help it,” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain; “I
have a prescription for the gout in the stomach, which I have known
perform wonderful cures; and if you, Mr. Egerton, could but contrive
means of getting it administered to Mr. Hargrave, without his knowing
from whom it came——”

“I will attempt no such subterfuge, madam,” replied Mr. Egerton; “but I
will go to Mr. Hargrave myself immediately, and if he will consent to be
saved by your means, well and good; but it is always the best, as well
as most virtuous mode of proceeding, to tell the truth, regardless of
consequences.”

“I dare say you are right,” said Mrs. Castlemain, rising to go in search
of the prescription; while Emma, starting across the room, kissed her
affectionately, exclaiming, “Kind, good grandmother! how I respect you!
and after all his ill-usage too! But you forgave _me_, and that was more
difficult still;” not being aware that the difficulty lies in preserving
enmity towards those we fondly love.

Mr. Egerton found Mr. Hargrave so seriously alarmed for his life, that
he was willing to try any medicine, and from any hand; and though he
said with an oath, that Mrs. Castlemain was a very conceited, obstinate
old woman, he was quite willing to take her medicine, adding, that to be
nurses and Lady Bountifuls was all old women were good for; and Mr.
Egerton left him fully resolved to profit by the cure which Mrs.
Castlemain had sent.

In two days’ time, whether the medicine was infallible, or the disorder
transient, certain it is, that Mr. Hargrave was cured; and on the
morning of the third day, he presented himself in person at the door of
Mrs. Castlemain, who graciously received him, and his hearty thanks for
her kind and salutary attention, which were accompanied by a salute, at
once a pledge of reconciliation and gratitude,—while he swore, that no
infernal chess-board should ever in future make any words between them.

“But where is Henry? is not he returned yet?” asked Mr. Egerton.

“No, he is still on his frolics.”

“And on his _preferment_ too, we hear,” observed Mrs. Castlemain, while
Emma turned to the window to hide her involuntary emotion.

“Pho! nonsense! all stuff!” cried Mr. Hargrave, “Henry is not such a
goose as to marry any honourable madam, any fine lady whatever. Besides,
I flatter myself that I must have a spoke in that wheel, and I promise
you, I have no taste for any thing like quality-binding; and I value my
banker’s book more than all the red books that were ever printed.”

Emma listened with anxious attention to this speech, and thought she had
never seen Mr. Hargrave so amiable; still he only spoke what he
believed, not what he knew; and though consciously easier than before,
she was delighted to think St. Aubyn was probably on his road home, and
she eagerly anticipated his return to the Vale-House.

But a new event now took place, of more importance even than Mr.
Hargrave’s reconciliation with Mrs. Castlemain. Mr. Egerton, who, as I
have before stated, was the younger son of one of the branches of a
noble family, became, by the death of a distant relation, heir to a very
large fortune, not less than 60,000_l._ in money, besides estates, which
were capable of being raised to some thousands per annum. The news of
this great accession of property, was received by him at first with a
feeling of anguish, rather than of joy. It re-awakened the agony he had
felt before, when good tidings reached him, for then he was mourning by
the dead body of her who could alone, he thought, give value to riches,
by sharing them with him; and as he read the letter, informing him of
his acquisitions, he clasped his hands convulsively together, and
exclaiming, “It comes too late,” as he had formerly done, he threw the
letter to his alarmed friends, and rushed into another apartment.

“No,” said Emma to Mrs. Castlemain, “it does _not_ come too late, and so
his benevolent heart will own when he recovers his first feelings; he
will then recollect the good which this money will enable him to do, and
he will rejoice in it, I am sure he will.” Emma was right, and in an
hour’s time Mr. Egerton returned to them composed and even cheerful. But
neither Emma nor Mrs. Castlemain could speak to him: they each took and
held his hand in silence, while the full and glad heart betrayed itself
by the swelling and quivering lip.

“So, ladies, I am a rich old fellow at last,” said he, brushing a tear
from his eye.

“And I bless God that you are so,” said Emma, “for your wealth will be
the source of blessing to many.”

“My dear sir,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “your present residence will not be
good enough for you now!”

“I am sure I shall have no other,” replied Mr. Egerton, “I shall make no
difference in my mode of life—_none_. I have long had a melancholy
pleasure, and shall have to the end of my existence, in rejecting _all_
but the bare necessaries of life, as she who would have joyfully shared
my poverty cannot share——Pshaw!” cried he abruptly, and hastily left
the room; while Emma, whose young heart was rendered unusually
susceptible by the anxieties of a dawning passion, wept over these
affecting reminiscences of a virtuous, faithful, and unhappy love, and
almost envied the lost, but still fondly regretted Clara Ainslie.

“Mr. St. Aubyn is like Miss Ainslie, in Mr. Egerton’s opinion,” observed
Emma.

“_Mr. who_, my dear?” said Mrs. Castlemain.

“M—Mr. St. Aubyn.”

“Bless me, child! why do you _Mr._ him? I never knew you do so before.”

“Well,” replied Emma, deeply blushing, “then Henry St. Aubyn is like
Miss Ainslie; therefore it is no wonder that Mr. Egerton loves him so
dearly; nor,” thought Emma sighing, “if she was really like Henry, is it
to be wondered at that he was fond of _her_.”

It was some hours before Mr. Egerton could conquer his own heart, and
meet his good fortune with the thankfulness of a Christian and the
fortitude of a man; but at length he was quite himself again, and
re-entered the drawing-room.

“Well, Emma,” he exclaimed, “to whom shall my _first_ present be given?
whom does your heart suggest as the first object for my riches to be
exerted on? Come, speak; I do not mean you should openly and boldly
point out who are to be my heirs.”

“No, sir,” replied Emma, “for I hope your only heirs will be your own
children.”

“My children, Emma! I suppose you mean the heirs or children of my
adoption?”

“No, sir; I mean that I hope you will marry and have children.”

“Very disinterested that in you,” replied Mr. Egerton forcing a smile;
“but consider my grey hairs, child.”

“What are they, sir?” she returned; “only a little snow on the top of a
green mountain; you are a young man yet, and formed as you are for
domestic life, I—”

“Say no more on that subject, if you love me,” hastily returned Mr.
Egerton, “the vibrations of that string thrill through me yet too
painfully. No, Emma, no, talk to me only of feasible plans,—of the St.
Aubyns probably by my means rescued from dependence on Mr. Hargrave!”

“Oh! my dear sir, do that, do that,” eagerly exclaimed Emma, “and you
will be good indeed!”

“Well, well, we shall see,” replied Mr. Egerton, smiling at her
eagerness; “but Henry, you know, is said to be on the eve of
independence already.”

“I have not yet answered your question, sir,” said Emma (glad to get rid
of that subject,) “relative to your first gifts on this accession of
fortune.”

“True, and to whom shall they be given?”

“To the Orwells, sir, if I may advise.”

“Right; you guessed my meaning;” and Mrs. Castlemain, with a deep sigh,
observed that they deserved every attention.

The next day, and before etiquette _warranted_, as breakfast was
scarcely over, St. Aubyn appeared at Mrs. Castlemain’s gate; for though
he had been home two days, his uncle, on pretence of business, had not
allowed him to leave the house. Immediately, in spite of her repeated
declarations that she would fly to him as soon as she saw him and
reproach him for not confiding in her, Emma ran up stairs to hide the
perturbation which the sight of him occasioned her; and when she had
resolution to enter the room where he was, and alone too, her manner was
involuntarily cold, distant, and restrained.

“Dear Emma,” said St. Aubyn, “what an age it is since I have seen you,
and how glad I am to see you once more!” while Emma, walking awkwardly
across the room, for the first time in her life smiled languidly, coldly
gave him her hand, and seated herself at a distance from him.

“But how _well_ you look!” cried St. Aubyn, following her and gazing
with delight on her mantling cheek; “yet surely you are not well,—you
seem out of spirits, and so so,—I can’t tell how, but certainly not
like _my_ Emma;” and he kissed her hand as he spoke.

“Your Emma, Mr. St. Aubyn!” said Emma, putting up her pretty lip, and
angrily withdrawing her hand.

“I desire you will not take such liberties with me; I dare say you dare
not do so to Mrs.—Mrs. Felton.”

“Mrs. Felton!” replied St. Aubyn, laughing.

“But perhaps you are on very familiar terms with that lady?” resumed
Emma.

“Ay, to be sure I am, or was, dear Emma,” he replied, again approaching
her; but with a look of serious displeasure, she desired him to keep a
respectful distance, for that she did not consider herself any longer as
a child.

“Emma, dearest Emma, for pity’s sake,” exclaimed St. Aubyn, “tell me how
I have offended you!”

“You have _not_ offended me, but, but—”

St. Aubyn now saw tears in her eyes, “But what?”

“Only I think it very unkind that you should not let me know yourself
that you were to marry Mrs. Felton, but leave me to hear it from
strangers.”

St. Aubyn, surprised but delighted beyond measure, again seized her
struggling hand, and exclaimed,

“Is this then the reason of all this coldness and displeasure? Oh! if I
dare interpret these signs as I wish,” said he to himself, for he was
too delicate to utter the sentiment, “I would not give one of those
frowns or starting tears for all the smiles or distinction that Mrs.
Felton could bestow.

“And _could_ you for a moment, Emma, believe that I was in love with, or
going to marry Mrs. Felton? O Emma! are you indeed so unacquainted with
my heart?”

It was unnecessary for St. Aubyn to say any more. Emma felt that the
report was entirely false; and with a heart suddenly lightened of a
load, the weight of which she was not conscious of till it was removed,
she smiled archly through her tears, gave him her hand freely, and
saying, “So then I am disappointed of my wedding favour!” jumped up
suddenly with her usual velocity, bounded along the lawn to meet Mr.
Egerton, and told him with great eagerness, that Henry St. Aubyn was
come, and not going to marry Mrs. Felton.

“I told you so,” said Mr. Egerton, his countenance beaming with
satisfaction, and observing with delight that the countenance of his
pupil also had an expression of happiness on it which, he had not seen
for some time,—for certainly his fondest wish was a marriage between
Emma and St. Aubyn. And weeks and months lasted the happiness that was
thus restored to the bosom of Emma, by the presence of St. Aubyn. Every
hour that he could spare from his exacting uncle he spent at the White
Cottage, and every hour seemed to insure to him a dearer interest in the
heart of all its inhabitants. Emma had not a sorrow, a care, or a hope,
which she did not communicate to her friend as she called him, save one
lurking anxiety which she did not like to own even to herself. St.
Aubyn, in relating to her the events of his tour to the lakes, had owned
that he thought Mrs. Felton very handsome, very clever, very
accomplished, and very insinuating; and she was not without her
suspicions at times, being naturally inclined to jealousy, that had not
Mr. Wanford come in the way, St. Aubyn’s affections might really have
been captivated by this dangerous woman, and her _friend_ have been lost
to her for ever. This idea used sometimes to come across her mind, and
fill her eyes with tears, while St. Aubyn was talking of Mrs. Felton,
which he perceiving, used tenderly to inquire their cause.

“Oh! it is nothing, nothing,” she was in the habit of replying; then,
ashamed of her weakness, she endeavoured to change the discourse, and
was very soon herself again. To St. Aubyn she now confided every
circumstance of her poor mother’s history; while he used to gratify her
by declaring, that whenever he went to London, his first wish would be
to see the benevolent Orwells, to whom _he_ owed so much. In short,
nothing of love was wanting between them but a declaration of it; and
that, St. Aubyn, aware of the obstacles to their union, hesitated to
make, lest, as honour forbade him to do so without having first obtained
the consent and approbation of his uncle and Mrs. Castlemain, his suit
should be at once rejected, and the present delightful intercourse be
entirely forbidden. Of Mr. Egerton’s intentions in his favour he knew
nothing; and he knew his uncle too well, not to fear that, were it only
from the suggestions of temper, he would oppose his wishes; he therefore
reluctantly resolved to conceal his secret in his own breast, (if that
can be said to be concealed, which every look, every tone, and every
sentiment betrayed,) and to wait patiently, contented with the
privileges of a friend, till Emma, no longer secluded from an admiring
world, should be the object of other vows, and he must either speak, or
lose her for ever.

It may be asked why St. Aubyn with his honourable feelings, and
possessed as he was of health, industry, and talent, should so tamely
submit to dependence on a tyrannical and coarse-minded relation? But,
alas! his reasons for so doing were cogent and even unanswerable. He
knew that were he to throw off the yoke of dependence, his uncle, in
revenge, would cast off Mrs. St. Aubyn, and leave her to be wholly
maintained by him; a duty which he would have delighted to take on
himself, had his mother been like, I may venture to say, _most_ women
under similar circumstances; but St. Aubyn well knew that by no probable
and even possible exertion of his could he ever _maintain_ his
thoughtless, wasteful, and extravagant parent. With a mother of other
habits he was conscious that he could have lived on the income of a
fellowship or clerkship, and on whatever trifle she could have added to
their income by keeping a school, or the exertions of her needle; while
with such a one he felt that he could have supported the difficulties of
a narrow fortune with a light, contented heart, and have gladly braved
the danger of being disinherited by his unamiable relation. But it was
clear even to a mathematical demonstration, that should he venture to
disoblige his uncle, and be turned adrift by him with the helpless Mrs.
St. Aubyn, a jail for his mother, if not for himself, was the only
prospect that awaited him, such were her inveterate habits of needless
extravagance; and thus did this otherwise affectionate parent, by this
pernicious vice, hang like a millstone round the neck of her
noble-minded son, palsying all the energies of his free-born soul, and
reducing to the slave of a tyrant’s nod, a creature born with the best
and proudest aspirings of a virtuous and highly-gifted being.

While St. Aubyn was thus continuing to bear the burthen of dependence
from the best of motives, a little cheered indeed under the load by the
consciousness that it was only as the heir of his uncle that he could
pretend to the hand of Emma Castlemain, (for of Mr. Egerton’s intentions
in his favour Emma was at present forbidden to inform him,) Mr. Egerton
was considering the best mode of putting those plans in execution,
flattering himself that they would further an immediate union between
Henry and Emma, as he well knew that only the half of his fortune ceded
to them during his life, would be sufficient for the gratification of
all their wishes. “But the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to
the strong;” and the benevolent man, however good his intentions may be,
must only be too often forced to content himself with the consciousness
that he meant well, though chance or error may frustrate the
accomplishment of his designs.

Mrs. St. Aubyn looked upon herself, it is true, as rather an extravagant
woman,—but then she smoothed over the acknowledged fault thus; “To be
sure I like to spend money,—but then I have been used to it, and I like
to have things _genteel_ about me; and I know my brother is rich enough
to keep me a carriage if he would; and therefore I _must_ have things a
little smart, and I _will_ have them too.”

But like all of us in our turn, Mrs. St. Aubyn did not look to the
consequences of her own actions. She was not aware that errors, like
_sorrows_, “come not as single spies, but in battalions;” that the
consequence of her determination to have “things genteel about her” was
running in debt; that the consequence of running in debt was lying and
mean evasions in order to put off the pressing demands of creditors; and
she chose to forget that though she talked of making her _brother_
provide for her elegant wants, she dared not make any one of them known
to him, but that she drew from the filial piety of her noble-minded son
even the money he wanted to enable him to support the appearance of a
gentleman. Still Mrs. St. Aubyn called herself only a _little
extravagant_ or so; but she had soon to learn that an extravagant being,
like an avaricious one, is never sure of remaining completely honest.

St. Aubyn and his mother both returned home with all their little stock
of wealth expended on their tour, and two months must elapse before Mr.
Hargrave, who never paid money before it was due, would pay them their
quarterly allowance; and debts and duns awaited Mrs. St. Aubyn at home.

“I will pay you in two months’ time positively,” said she; and soon
after her return, all but one creditor went away relying on her promise;
but he telling her she had so often deceived him that he would have the
money that evening, or half of it, or apply instantly for it to her
brother the squire; poor Mrs. St. Aubyn saw herself reduced to the
necessity of either borrowing what she wanted herself, or prevailing on
Henry to borrow it, or of being exposed to the terrible and fierce
resentment of her awful brother. But already had she asked her son for
the money, and he, eager to oblige her, had asked it as a loan to
himself of his uncle, who had _obligingly_ told him he must wait for it
till it was his due, and that he need not have been so extravagant as to
spend his money in journeys and frolics. Still she thought St. Aubyn
might be prevailed upon to borrow the money elsewhere; and as she was to
dine at the Vale-House that day to meet Mr. Egerton and the families
from the White Cottage, she hoped to have an opportunity of seeing her
son apart, and of disclosing her distresses to him. To Mr. Egerton she
dared not apply, because, though he was come to a large fortune and was
very generous, she did not like to make a disclosure which might lead
him to suppose her extravagant, as she had not yet given up the idea
that he secretly loved her, and might one day or other make her his
wife.

As it was a wet day, Mrs. Castlemain sent her carriage for her when it
had taken them to Mr. Hargrave’s,—therefore, Mrs. St. Aubyn had not the
relief she expected, of unburthening her mind to her son when he came to
fetch her in the chaise,—and full of agitation she took her seat at her
brother’s table.

Nor was the humour in which she saw Mr. Hargrave at all likely to calm
her perturbation; for he was in one of his worst moods, a mood, indeed,
in which his nephew was but too often accustomed to see him, but which
he did not frequently exhibit before any one that was not a dependant.

“Where is St. Aubyn?” said Mr. Egerton, seeing that they were summoned
to dinner without his having yet made his appearance.

“He is gone some miles off on business of mine,” gruffly replied Mr.
Hargrave, “and he can’t be home for an hour yet.”

“I am very sorry to hear it,” cried Mr. Egerton.

“Yes, no doubt,” returned the other, “I know I am nobody to Henry; and
it is him and not me whom you came to see.”

“Not so, Mr. Hargrave; but surely, if you invited me to come and partake
of turbot and turtle-soup at your table, I should have a right to be
disappointed if you gave me only the latter!”

“So, you make Henry the turbot, and me only the soup! But you are right
there, for certainly I have more cayenne in me than he has.”

Just then, Henry himself arrived, having ridden very fast; and was
received by his uncle with—

“How dare you, sir, ride my horse as hard as you must have ridden him in
order to get back so soon?”

“I have not ridden him harder than humanity warranted, sir,” replied St.
Aubyn.

“It is a lie,” answered Mr. Hargrave.

“As you know, sir, that I never told you a falsehood in my life, and am
incapable of doing it, I am satisfied that you are not in earnest in
what you have now said,” replied St. Aubyn mildly but manfully.

“Meaning to say then that I lie, I suppose?” retorted Mr. Hargrave.

“I hope my words will not bear so coarse an interpretation, sir.”

“Come, come, let us eat our dinner,” interrupted Mr. Egerton; and Mr.
Hargrave, full of sulky irritation, took his seat.

St. Aubyn then produced some letters which he had written for his uncle;
but they were all condemned as ill-worded and ill-written; and Mr.
Hargrave added,

“But you never do any thing well for me; you think any thing good enough
for me. If Mr. Egerton had employed you, the case would have been very
different.”

But neither that gentleman nor St. Aubyn chose to notice this splenetic
remark, and the subject was dropped.

It was the time for Mr. Hargrave to receive his dividends on his
East-India property; and though the contemplation of his riches had
usually power to put him in good-humour, it had not done so to-day; as
he was not fond of his expected guests; and he really disliked Mr.
Egerton more than ever since his accession of fortune,—he, like most
other rich people, not being able to endure a rival in wealth, and
having great pleasure in undervaluing the fortunes and gains of others,
while he not unfrequently boasted of his own.

“Alas!” thought Mrs. St. Aubyn, while her brother at dinner talked of
the pleasure of a well-filled purse, and seemed to wish to measure his
with Mr. Egerton’s; “I wish he would impart this blessing to some one
whom I could name!” and her wishes were not a little increased, nor her
alarm heightened, by the intelligence that some one wanted to speak with
her, and by seeing that it was the dreaded creditor. With some
difficulty she however got away from him, and returned to Mrs.
Castlemain, who was busily reading the paper in the drawing-room,
whither the ladies had already retired, while Emma was walking in a
grove near the house.

“O that I dare borrow this money of Mrs. Castlemain!” thought Mrs. St.
Aubyn; “the half, which would satisfy him, is only _five pounds_.” But
before she could make up her mind to do it, Mr. Egerton and Henry came
in, and the latter sat down to copy a letter of business for the former,
which he wanted to have written immediately. Consequently, Mrs. St.
Aubyn could not speak to her son as soon as she had intended. Soon after
Mr. Hargrave entered the room, and taking a handful of bank-notes out of
his pocket, which he was going to deposite in the drawers of a book-case
which stood at the end of the apartment, he told them over one by one
with all the pride of riches, naming the amount of the precious hoard.

“It is right,” said he, “to tell money, they say, even after one’s own
father;” then preparing his keys, he was going to lock up the sum, when
he was called out to speak to a tenant, and he left the notes piled up
upon the table at which St. Aubyn was writing. At this moment St.
Aubyn’s whole attention was riveted on his letter; Mr. Egerton’s back
was towards the company, while he was employed in making a new pen for
Henry; and Mrs. Castlemain was completely absorbed in reading the
newspaper; while on the top of the notes lay a five-pound note, the very
sum which would extricate Mrs. St. Aubyn from her difficulties; and Mr.
Hargrave had told the notes once, therefore it was very unlikely he
should tell them again. The temptation was irresistible; and she
flattered herself that she could own what she had done when her brother
paid her allowance, and return five pounds; so it was taking what would
soon be her _due_; till at last she drew near the table; and while she
pretended to be admiring Henry’s fine writing, she contrived by degrees
to separate the five-pound note from the rest; and having done so, with
a sort of desperate resolution she put it in her pocket and retreated to
a glass door leading into the garden, meaning to join Emma who was
walking there, and avoid the perturbation which her brother’s return
would unquestionably expose her to feel. But to effect this was
impossible. Mrs. Castlemain followed, and, detaining her, insisted that
she should read a long and interesting account in the newspaper of a
mysterious murder; and Mrs. St. Aubyn, too ill at ease to find a ready
excuse for refusing, submitted to her request and read the story, wholly
unconscious of a single character before her, for Mr. Hargrave’s loud
voice was heard in the hall, and in another minute he entered the room.

“A plaguy puppy!” said he in no very placid frame of mind; “I thought I
should never have gotten rid of him. But now for my notes. Hey-day!”
exclaimed he, “how is this? why, I thought I left a five-pound note at
top! Some one has been meddling with these things,” darting a look of
suspicion around.

“I am positive, sir, that no one has touched them,” said St. Aubyn
mildly, and looking up as he spoke; “for I do not recollect that any one
has been near the table but myself.”

“Well, I shall soon see that,” said Mr. Hargrave, and began to re-tell
the notes,—while Mrs. St. Aubyn wished herself in the centre of the
earth.

“I was not mistaken,” said Mr. Hargrave, scowling suspicion and
accusation from under his bushy brows; “the sum was right before, and
now there are five pounds wanting; besides, the note was a remarkable
one, and could not but be missed. Ha!” cried Mr. Hargrave, “and now I
remember, five pounds was the sum you wanted to borrow of me yesterday,
Mr. St. Aubyn; and here, sir, before all these witnesses, I accuse you
of having stolen my note!”

At this dreadful speech, uttered with almost maniacal vehemence of look
and gesture, Mr. Egerton, Mrs. Castlemain, and even Mrs. St. Aubyn
approached the scene of contention; while St. Aubyn rising with all the
dignified indignation of conscious and outraged innocence, was about to
deny the charge with firmness equal to his uncle’s violence, when his
eye glanced on his self-convicted and guilty mother, who more dead than
alive, awaited the consequence of her too late repented guilt, and
seemed to regard him with a look of supplication. In a moment the truth
flashed on his mind; and aware that his denial of being guilty, and the
proof which Mr. Hargrave would require of him, namely, submitting to be
searched, would immediately fix the accusation on the _real_ culprit,
his courage failed him, his indignation was swallowed up in agony, and
sitting down he leaned in silence on the table, and hid his face in his
hands.

“What, sir! you will not speak then, you will not confess your guilt!
But silence gives consent, they say, and—”

Here Mr. Hargrave was again called out of the room, and muttering a
curse or two, he obeyed the summons.

“What is the matter?” said Emma, hastily entering.

“A mystery,” replied Mrs. Castlemain: “Mr. Hargrove misses a bank-note,
and accuses his nephew of having taken it; and it is very certain no one
was _near_ the table but he.”

“And what then, madam?” cried Emma, turning pale with anger, “If fifty
Mr. Hargraves accused St. Aubyn of the theft, I would not believe him
guilty. Nay, I would not believe, if I had even seen him take the
note,—but I should have doubted the evidence of my senses.”

“Mighty fine and romantic indeed!” cried Mrs. Castlemain; “and pray who
do you think then _did_ take the note, I, Mr. Egerton, or Mrs. St.
Aubyn?”

“Me!” said Mrs. St. Aubyn almost convulsively; “Dear me!”

“I accuse no one,” said Emma gravely, “but I only say, I _know_ that St.
Aubyn is innocent; and to the base charge, I would have him ‘let his
only answer be _his life_!’”

“Well said, my dear child, cried Mr. Egerton, “and well felt too;” while
St. Aubyn, too miserable to be even capable of joy at being thus
defended, could only reply to the “dear, dear St. Aubyn, be composed,”
which she addressed to him, by wringing her hand with the convulsive
violence of agony. Mrs. St. Aubyn meanwhile, unable to stand, tottered
to a chair, for again the alarming voice of her brother was approaching.

“I see, madam,” said Mr. Egerton, “that the scene which must follow will
be too much for your nerves; therefore, allow me to lead you into
another apartment;” and Mrs. St. Aubyn, leaning on his arm, staggered
out of the room. In a few moments, Mr. Egerton returned, just as Mr.
Hargrave was again accusing his nephew, and demanding a confession of
his guilt. Oh, then, what were not the struggles in St. Aubyn’s mind!
Scenes, long past, rapidly flitted across his recollection. He
remembered his father’s death-bed; and the promise he made, to make his
mother’s good his first rule of action, to screen her from every ill, to
shelter from every sorrow; and now, one word from his lips would plunge
her in irremediable disgrace.

“No,” said St. Aubyn to himself, “I can better bear my own; and _Emma_
will not believe me guilty.”

During this struggle, Emma, amazed and alarmed at his hesitation,
exclaimed,

“Mr. St. Aubyn, why do you hesitate? why are you silent? You surprise,
you _terrify_ me, Mr. St. Aubyn!”

This was a stroke indeed; and his resolution almost failed him.

“So, then, _she_ too will believe me guilty!” But filial piety
prevailed, and with a look of desperate resolution, St. Aubyn said,
“Sir, I own, and I deny, nothing; but I beg you to dispose of me, and to
proceed as you think proper.”

“There, you see!” said Mrs. Castlemain; and Emma, though even _yet_ she
thought him innocent, bewildered and miserable turned aside and wept.

“I shall certainly not harbour a thief in my house, sir,” said Mr.
Hargrove; “therefore, you may decamp immediately;” and St. Aubyn,
bowing, was about to leave the room, when Mr. Egerton, in a voice hoarse
with emotion, seized his arm; “Mr. Hargrave,” said he, “if you turn this
young man out of your house, why then, as the old lord says in the play,
‘I will receive him into mine.’”

“Yes; out of spite to me, I suppose?”

“No, sir; out of justice to him. Look up, look up boldly, thou
noble-minded being, and tell this hasty-judging uncle of yours, that no
guilt has ever stained either your heart or hand; and that you are now
holily, though mistakingly, taking on yourself the guilt of another.”

“Heyday! What is the meaning of all this?” cried Mr. Hargrave.

“Oh, sir! what are you saying? what are you going to do?” said St.
Aubyn; “I see you know; I am satisfied; pray let me—”

“Peace!” cried Mr. Egerton; “you have done your duty, young man; now let
me _do mine_. Mr. Hargrave, your nephew did _not_ take the note,—but
your sister did!”

“Very likely,” replied he, you persuaded her to take the fault on
herself to screen her child;” vexed, Mr. Egerton imagined, to find that
the virtue and high reputation of his nephew were not stained with the
fault imputed to him, but were likely to shine out greater than ever.

“Indeed!” said Mr. Egerton, sarcastically; “Mrs. St. Aubyn’s known
virtue and Henry’s known vices make this likely, do they? You know
_better_, Mr. Hargrave; but here is the note which your penitent and
miserable sister desired me to give you. However, sir, to put her guilt
beyond dispute, know that I _saw_ her take it. My back was towards the
table, but my face fronted the pier-glass, and I happened to look in the
glass just as Mrs. St. Aubyn took the note and put it in her pocket. At
first I thought she did it on purpose to alarm you; but the moment I
looked at her, I saw in her countenance and manner, all the perturbation
of guilt, and was meditating how I should act, when your return brought
the matter to a crisis, independent of me, and showed that excellent
young man in—”

“There, there, you have said quite enough in his praise,” interrupted
Mr. Hargrave; while St. Aubyn left the room abruptly, in order to go and
speak comfort to his mother. While he was gone, Mr. Egerton told Mr.
Hargrave that he had informed Mrs. St. Aubyn that he had _seen the whole
transaction_, and must, to save her son, disclose the truth; begging to
know what the great distress was which could alone have led her to
commit such an action,—and she had told him much to palliate, though
not to excuse, her guilt; declaring her satisfaction at knowing her
son’s fame would be cleared, though terror of her brother prevented her
from doing it, and he hoped Mr. Hargrave would be as merciful to her as
he could.

Emma and Mrs. Castlemain, though greatly shocked at a delinquency which
they could not conceive possible in a rank of life like Mrs. St.
Aubyn’s, earnestly joined the cry for mercy; but Mr. Hargrave vowed he
would reduce her allowance one-half.

“That is,” said Mr. Egerton, “you will increase the poverty which was
the occasion of her error. Is that wise?”

“May be not; but it is my will.”

“Well, then,” said Mr. Egerton, “hear with indulgence the plan that I
have to propose. Allow _me_ to maintain Mrs. St. Aubyn in future, as the
mother of my adopted son should be maintained; and let me also maintain
Henry St. Aubyn, and send him to College as my future heir.”

At first Mr. Hargrave, irritated to madness by this well-meant, but most
injudicious and ill-timed proposal, a proposal which, however it might
flatter the avarice of this man of wealth, was calculated to wound a
passion more dear, namely, that of his pride, was speechless with
unutterable rage.

“S’death, sir!” cried he, at length, “do you take me for a pauper, that
you offer to maintain my nearest relations for me? Have your
newly-gotten riches turned your head, Mr. Egerton; and you think nobody
is rich and benevolent but yourself? Sir! how _dare_ you insult me thus?
But mark me, sir, if either my nephew or my sister condescend to be your
pensioners—I _will_—Yes . . . . .” he, as if triumphing in some
malignant recollection which gave him pleasure; “yes, that will do; and
he dares not displease me.”

“Mr. Hargrave, only hear me!” said Mr. Egerton.

“No, sir, I will hear nothing more on this subject; but I am not angry,
sir, no, not at all; I owe you, on the contrary, a great obligation. Ha,
ha, ha! so you wanted to take your pupil, did you, out of the clutches
of his old crabbed uncle! I see it, I see it all;—and instead of doing
so, you have fixed him there firmer than ever. Ha! ha! ha! O these wise
folks, how often they overreach themselves!” Then laughing within
himself, and looking as maliciously merry as Sir Joshua Reynolds’ Puck,
he left the room.

“What does he mean?” said Emma.

“I can’t exactly tell,” replied Mr. Egerton, pacing the room in
considerable agitation, “but I fear I have done harm.” St. Aubyn
returned no more that evening, or rather not till the ladies from the
White Cottage and Mr. Egerton were gone; nor did Mr. Egerton see him the
next day, as he had a right to expect, but he received from St. Aubyn
the following hasty note, written in a hand scarcely legible:

    “My kind friend, and intended benefactor, accept my best thanks
    and blessings for your generous proposal! which I _never, never_
    can accept, nor _any bounty from your hands_. Still how fondly
    my heart clings, and will _ever_ cling to you and the dear
    inhabitants of the Cottage!—But I dare add no more, except that
    I am your faithful, grateful, and affectionate, though
    miserable,

                                                 “HENRY ST. AUBYN.

    “Ask me no questions, for mercy’s sake ask me no questions!”

This letter, evidently written in a moment of excessive agitation, and a
total absence of judgment, because it said both too much and too little,
gave excessive pain to Mr. Egerton, and still greater to Emma. Mrs.
Castlemain bore it more heroically; for, conscious how great an heiress
Emma would be, she was not sorry to see that the growing attachment
between her and St. Aubyn might be checked by circumstances arising out
of the strange temper of his uncle; for though she never would have
opposed a marriage between them, out of respect and gratitude to Mr.
Egerton, whose wishes she was well acquainted with; still, as she was of
noble descent herself, and nobly connected, she wished her heiress to
marry the heir or son of some great family; for though St. Aubyn’s was
ancient and honourable, it was not noble. Therefore, while Mr. Egerton,
alarmed more than he liked to own to himself, at the probable result of
his avowed wishes, and quick-sighted too late to what was likely to be
the event of the transactions of the preceding day, sat brooding in
melancholy reverie over St. Aubyn’s letter, Mrs. Castlemain preserved a
degree of composure which was most painful to his feelings, and said
“All things are for the best—and Providence orders every thing for our
good,” so often and so provokingly, that, pious and good as Mr. Egerton
was, he could scarcely help wishing to contradict her; while Emma
wandered along the paths in solitary sadness, where she had lately roved
with St. Aubyn, and tried to remember only his declaration, “that to the
dear inhabitants of the Cottage his heart would fondly cling for ever.”
But when she again saw St. Aubyn, every hope that she had cherished,
every prospect that she had contemplated, seemed extinguished and closed
from her view. He came alone indeed,—but his manner was cold and
restrained, his countenance bore the marks of excessive depression; he
never looked at, and rarely spoke to Emma,—though Mr. Egerton thought,
and Emma too perhaps, that whenever she spoke he seemed to hang upon her
accents with the silent attention of love, and to reply in tones
softened by the influence of ardent, though restrained tenderness. Mr.
Egerton at last, unable to endure in silence a change so afflicting and
so marked, took him by the arm, and demanded to speak to him in private.
But as soon as he entreated to be told the cause of what he saw, St.
Aubyn, with a vehemence, an agony not to be resisted, conjured him for
mercy’s sake to desist, and not to require explanations which he could
not give, but to leave to him uninjured the only consolation that was
left him under his misfortunes, the consciousness of fulfilling his
duty, and of an unblemished integrity. “But one day, one day, Henry,”
replied Mr. Egerton affected by his evident distress, “you will explain
every thing, I trust.”

“One day!” he exclaimed, “one day! Ay, sir, I trust that day will come,
or I doubt I should want fortitude to bear up under the tortures of a
lacerated heart and a wounded spirit.”

“Your unhappy mother,” said Mr. Egerton.

“Do not name that subject to me,” interrupted St. Aubyn, “I cannot bear
it—but she _is_ my mother, she was left too to my care by a dying and
revered father, and I _will_ do my duty by her, come what may.—Sir,
dearest and best of friends, I should say, I shall see you all once
more, and only once; for I am going to College at last; I have prevailed
on my uncle to send me, and in a few days I set off.”

“In a few days! well, it is better not to see you at all, than to see
you thus.”

“Oh, much better,” replied St. Aubyn with quickness; “in this at least
he is kind—and absence will be salutary.”

They then returned to the ladies, and St. Aubyn soon after took his
leave; but, as he withdrew, he cast a look of mournful tenderness on
Emma, which, during the many long months of absence which succeeded, was
the only comfort which her agitated bosom knew; for St. Aubyn returned
not to the cottage, but set off for Cambridge without bidding his
friends farewell.

Various conjectures and ever-changing surmises mingled with the painful
feelings which this conduct in St. Aubyn occasioned both to Emma and Mr.
Egerton, and unfortunately neither of them could have the relief of
imparting their different sensations and ideas to the other. Delicacy
and pride, the pride and delicacy becoming her sex, forbade Emma to
complain of St. Aubyn’s conduct, lest the secret of her heart should be
by that means discovered; a secret only recently discovered to herself;
for Emma was not aware that her silence on this occasion was a proof of
that love which she wished properly to conceal; as but for a conscious
feeling of disappointed tenderness, she would naturally, from the quick
feelings of a neglected friend, have clamoured against the strange
conduct of St. Aubyn, and his blind obedience to what she considered the
will and caprice of his uncle. But this well-meant silence spoke volumes
of conviction to the heart of Mr. Egerton, and he felt with an agony of
self-reproach, that he had done all in his power to encourage in his
docile pupil an attachment which was likely to end in nothing but
miserable suspense and unavailing wishes.

Yet he had one consolation under his distress, and that was the
consciousness that Emma in loving St. Aubyn was loving virtue; and while
he respected the feelings of Emma too much to allude even in the
remotest manner to the cause of her evident dejection, and even to
endeavour to account for St. Aubyn’s altered manner and conduct, he felt
a firm conviction that those very changes were the result of some
imperious necessity of which duty was the source, and he looked forward
with certainty to the hour which should clear up the present mystery,
and restore St. Aubyn to their society. But in the meanwhile he felt it
to be his duty and that of Mrs. Castlemain to do all in their power to
suspend in Emma’s mind the images which preyed on it, and he therefore
proposed excursions into different parts of England. But as soon as a
certain number of weeks or months had elapsed, they returned home again,
and occasionally saw St. Aubyn, who, with his uncle, paid his respects
formally at the Cottage during the vacation; and these meetings, Mr.
Egerton soon discovered, though painful in the extreme, were sufficient
to keep alive in Emma’s mind, not only the image of Henry St. Aubyn, but
the dangerous conviction that he loved her, spite of his behaviour, as
an involuntary look of tenderness, and a sigh half-suppressed,
continually gave marks of feelings wholly contrary to the coldness which
he assumed, and added fresh fuel to a flame which absence and the total
annihilation of hope might have been able to extinguish. But at length
St. Aubyn ceased his visits entirely, and Emma became more and more
dejected.

“This will not do,” said Mr. Egerton to Mrs. Castlemain, who mourned in
secret over the faded cheek and abstracted air of Emma; “we had better
resolve to leave this neighbourhood entirely;” and Mrs. Castlemain
joyfully consented.

“But whither shall we go?” and Mrs. Castlemain answered, “To Roselands,
to that seat which I have in the neighbourhood of the town of K——, in
right of Mr. Castlemain.”

“I did not expect,” said Mr. Egerton to Mrs. Castlemain, “that you would
propose going to Roselands, because I thought that place would be
disagreeable to you, as it was there you lost Mr. Castlemain and your
little girl.”

“Some years ago,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, “it would have been so; but I
own to you that the presence of our dear Emma has so forcibly recalled
to me the recollection of her mother, and of the ever-dear and regretted
object of my first and fondest love, that all other recollections hare
faded before them; and though on my arrival at Roselands, mournful and
tender remembrances will no doubt recur, still they will be bearable and
evanescent feelings, and the most powerful possessors of my affections
will again assert their influence unrivalled.” Mr. Egerton felt that
this must be a true statement, because what it asserted had its origin
in natural feelings, and feelings which he could comprehend; and saying,
“You must be the best judge of your own sensations,” the subject was
dropped, and the journey to Roselands agreed upon.

This removal was even more necessary than they imagined. True it was
that even Mr. Hargrave at length gradually ceased, as well as his
nephew, to visit at the White Cottage, because, in the first place, he
had never forgiven the scene at his own house, in which Mr. Egerton had
been so foremost an actor; and in the second, because he knew that
without St. Aubyn his company had little charm for any one of the
family; besides, he always disliked those who preferred his nephew’s
society to his, though such a preference was very natural and
irresistible. It should seem therefore that all intercourse with St.
Aubyn, or knowledge of where St. Aubyn was, would have been wholly at an
end, especially as Mrs. St. Aubyn also, too conscious to be easy in her
company, had not returned the visit which Mrs. Castlemain had kindly
made her, and had declined the acquaintance—but the fact was otherwise.

However short were St. Aubyn’s visits to his uncle, during his residence
at College, he always contrived to steal out at night before the clock
had struck eleven, and conceal himself in the neighbourhood of Mrs.
Castlemain’s abode, in order to catch a sight of Emma as she crossed the
landing-place, on her way to her own apartment; and once, when Emma,
unable to sleep, had arisen, and come in the dark to an open window, she
saw, unseen herself, a tall figure of a man walking slowly away, who, by
his height and manner, she was convinced was St. Aubyn; and having once
seen him, she watched for him several successive nights, and saw him
come again and again. Once too she had left a small ruler in a
summer-house at the end of a wood, and when she went back for it the
next day it was gone; and as its real value was too trifling to tempt a
common thief, she suspected that St. Aubyn, having visited the spot,
had, for her sake, purloined it as a remembrance; and her suspicions
were confirmed a short time after, by the seeming reappearance of her
ruler in the same place; but on examining it she found it was not her
own, though it was one so like it; as to have made it impossible for her
to have distinguished the difference, had she not been conscious of
having scratched with a pin on the ivory her own initials and those of
St. Aubyn.

Often, very often, too, did she see the footsteps of a man on her most
favourite walks, the walks which she had trodden with him, which her
heart whispered were the footsteps of St. Aubyn.

These proofs of still-remaining and still-ardent, though concealed
affection for _her_, kept alive in its utmost force, her deep-rooted
love for _him_; and though her pride and her delicacy revolted at the
idea that she loved a man who had never solicited her love, yet she
could not but feel an internal conviction, that he would have made such
a solicitation, had not an imperious necessity commanded him to forbear;
while she lived over and over again in memory the happiness she had
experienced only the evening before the sad exposure at Mr. Hargrave’s,
when on her falling from a piece of projecting rock, St. Aubyn, though
she was not in the least hurt, was as much alarmed as if she had
actually sustained an injury; and by the tenderness of his expressions,
and the affectionate manner in which he supported her as they walked
home, declared so plainly how fondly, how entirely, he was devoted to
her, that she almost wished to meet such an accident every day, in order
to be so questioned and so supported.

But all these consciousnesses and these recollections were food to a
passion which she felt she ought to conquer, because it promised to be
hopeless; and Emma forced herself to rejoice that she was going to leave
scenes so destructive of her peace; for though she was sorry to be
obliged to leave the school she had established in the neighbourhood,
and some other useful and praise-worthy occupations, she felt that to go
was right, and to stay as improper as it was dangerous.

K—— was a provincial town, near the northern coast of England; and,
though partiality to the beautiful estate in Cumberland, which she
inherited from her ancestors, had made her prefer her White Cottage to
Roselands, still Mrs. Castlemain was not sorry to have a sufficient
motive for incurring the expense and trouble of removing to the latter
residence.

“Besides, I was once there for some months,” said Mrs. Castlemain to Mr.
Egerton, “and I thought the society at K—— very good, though it was
that of a country-town,”

“No wonder, my dear madam,” said Mr. Egerton; “the society in
country-towns is composed of men and women made up of the self-same
passions, the same virtues, and the same vices, as those are who inhabit
the country itself, or a metropolis.”

“I begin to feel impatient to be at K——,” exclaimed Emma, “and wish we
were to set off this moment!” Not that Emma anticipated in reality much
pleasure from her new residence, but that morbid restlessness which ever
attends a mind ill at ease, made motion and change desirable to her; and
as she drove away from the Cottage, she fancied she was driving away
also from the associations there, which were wearing away her health and
undermining her peace. This happy illusion was prolonged by the sight of
the new mansion itself; for it had every charm of architecture, and of
situation, to recommend it; and in the richly-decorated and spacious
apartments, Emma found some pictures, by rare and excellent masters,
which gave her a degree of pleasure to which she had hitherto been a
stranger. But as the environs of the White Cottage, and even the town of
Keswick itself, did not afford much society, and that variety of human
character and liveliness of event so interesting to a young and
inquiring mind, Emma looked forward with eagerness to the hour when she
should become acquainted with the wider society of K——, and make her
appearance at a K—— ball. Nor was it long before her wishes were
gratified.

As soon as it was known, that Mrs. Castlemain, after an absence of many
years, was returned to Roselands, many of those families, whom she had
formerly visited, came to pay their compliments of welcome to her.

Contrary to her expectations, Mrs. Castlemain felt embarrassed while
presenting Emma as Miss Castlemain to these acquaintance, especially
when she saw in their countenances an expression of wonder and inquiry,
who Miss Castlemain could be! However, as Mrs. Castlemain did not
explain, they were forced for the _present_ to remain in ignorance; I
say for the present,—because, as a gossiping spirit of inquiry is
proverbial in a country-town, it was not likely that any one of the
parties should long remain ignorant on this subject, especially as
amongst them was one lady who piqued herself on knowing the marriages
and intermarriages of every noble or ancient family in the kingdom.
Their curiosity indeed was soon gratified, as the ladies and gentlemen
in question met that very evening at a rout, and naturally enough the
first persons whose merits and demerits were discussed, were the
inhabitants of Roselands.

“I think,” observed a gentleman, “that Mrs. Castlemain looks excessively
well.”

“Indeed, poor woman!” returned a Mrs. Evans, a lady who affected great
feeling, benevolence and sentiment, and who had not yet called on her;
“I am surprised at that, considering her years, and what she has gone
through! I have not yet been to Roselands, for I dread going. Poor dear
Mr. Castlemain and I were such old friends, that the meeting between me
and his widow, whom I have not seen since her loss, will be a very
affecting one.”

“Especially,” observed another lady sarcastically, “as the afflicted
widow is on the point of marriage with a third husband, if report says
true.”

“Impossible!” replied Mrs. Evans; “I can’t believe my friend capable of
a measure so derogatory; really if I thought she was, I would not go
near the house.”

“What, for fear such improprieties should be catching!” bluntly replied
a gentleman to this lady of alarmed susceptibility, who, like Mrs.
Castlemain, had buried her second husband. Mrs. Evans answered him only
by a look of disdain.

“But pray,” said she, “who may this third husband be?”

“Oh, that handsome, keen-looking, grey-headed man who lives with her.”

“_Lives_ with her!” exclaimed Mrs. Evans.

“Yes, madam,” resumed Mr. Vincent, the gentleman who had before spoken;
“may I beg leave to ask what are the improper ideas which your delicacy
annexes to the term? But Mr. Egerton, whom I knew at College, is only on
a _visit_ to Mrs. Castlemain here, and does not live with her when in
Cumberland; but he resides in a cottage near her, and is the preceptor
of Miss Castlemain.”

“Of Miss Castlemain!” exclaimed several ladies at once; “and pray who
_is_ Miss Castlemain?”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Rivers, the lady skilled in pedigrees, “ay, who is she?
I am sure I _know_, whatever _you_ may do.”

“And I too, I hope,” replied Mr. Vincent.

“Nay, I can’t guess,” said one. “We all know that Mrs. Castlemain left
Roselands, because she could not bear to remain in the place where she
had lost a husband and an only child.”

“No, that is a mistake; she had a daughter then living by her first
husband.”

“She had indeed,” said Mr. Vincent, sighing.

“O dear, yes!” cried another; “a fine handsome girl, who ran away with a
man named Danvers, a fellow whom nobody knew.”

“No! there you must excuse me,” observed Mrs. Rivers, conceitedly, and
speaking very fast; “I know something on such subjects, and I can assure
you the Danverses are a very old and respectable family. There’s the
Danverses of Shropshire, and the Danverses of Cheshire. The heiress of
the Shropshire Danverses married Sir Henry Douglas, whose sister married
Lord Clanross; and the Cheshire Danverses by marriage are related to the
Duke of Montagu; and a daughter of that family married General Nugent,
whose sister was drowned on her voyage to the Cape of Good Hope.”

“But what is all this to Miss Castlemain?” said Mr. Vincent, as soon as
Mrs. Rivers had talked herself out of breath.

“O dear!” resumed she, “I only meant to show that Mr. Danvers was not a
man whom nobody knew; for that people of family themselves, and who
therefore prize it in others, _know_ that his family is both ancient and
honourable.”

“I am much more interested in what he was himself than what his family
was,” returned Mr. Vincent, “for the sake of the beautiful creature whom
he married. I saw his wife, Agatha Torrington, when, in the pride of her
youth, her beauty, and her expectations, she made her first appearance
at a race-ball, and for the first time in my life I regretted that I was
not a man of high birth and fortune.”

“Bless me!” cried Mrs. Evans, “who should ever have suspected Mr.
Vincent of being tender and sentimental?”

“Those few, madam,” returned he, “who look beyond the surface, and
therefore might fancy me both because I affect to be neither.”

“Well, but Mr. Vincent,” said Mrs. Rivers eagerly, “if you were so much
charmed with Miss Torrington, you will be pleased to know that there is
every reason to believe this Miss Castlemain her daughter.”

“I suspected as much, madam,” replied Mr. Vincent, “and am happy to find
that Mrs. Castlemain received to her favour her daughter’s unoffending
orphan, though to her daughter herself she continued inexorable.”

“How can you be so cruel and unjust,” resumed Mrs. Evans, “as to blame
my friend for her virtuous severity? How could she receive her daughter
into favour when she knew her to be only Mr. Danvers’s mistress, not his
wife?”

“I am convinced, madam, that she could know no such thing, for I am sure
Miss Torrington would never have been the mistress of any man.”

“I fear it is only too true,” said a lady who had not yet spoken, “that
Miss Torrington was never married to Danvers; and on his marriage with
another woman she lost her senses, and used to go about to different
churches demanding a copy of her marriage register. I know this to be
true, because I had it from a clergyman to whom she applied, and whom
she accused, together with the clerk, of having destroyed the register,
threatening at the same time to prosecute them.”

To an assertion so positive as this Mr. Vincent had nothing to reply. At
length, however, he said, that as to Danvers, he believed him to be
capable of any villany; but that whether Miss Castlemain was born in
wedlock or not, he knew, from a servant who then lived with him, (but
who lived with Mrs. Castlemain when Mr. Egerton arrived with the little
Emma,) that the day after their arrival she called her servants into the
room, and introduced the child to them “as her daughter and heiress.”

“_There_“ cried Mrs. Evans; “you hear that—’as her _daughter_;’ and
then she gave her the name of Castlemain; whereas, if the child had had
a name of her own, she would have introduced her as her
_grand-daughter_, Miss Danvers! Oh, it is as plain as possible; and I
fear the other story is only too true, namely, that this Miss Castlemain
was Miss Torrington’s child, _not_ by Danvers, but the man with whom she
lived when she died, this very Mr. Egerton! O, my poor dear Mrs.
Castlemain! it breaks my heart to think what you must have suffered from
the errors of your daughter!”

“Surely, madam,” said Mr. Vincent, “a lady of your exquisite
benevolence, who feels so severely for the faults and griefs of her
friends, should not be so ready to believe reports that militate against
the fame and peace of others! What ground have you for the calumny which
you nave now uttered against that most respectable man, Mr. Egerton?”

“Oh, sir, I had it from undoubted authority.”

“Name it.”

“Excuse me, sir, I never give up names.”

“No, you only make free with them. Mr. Egerton, to my certain knowledge,
had never spoken to Mrs. Danvers more than once, till he saw her on her
death-bed.”

“Dear me! Egerton! Egerton!” exclaimed Mrs. Rivers; “I wonder whether he
is a relation of the noble family of that name; or perhaps he is of the
Durham Egertons. The heir of that family, by the by, married a
Castlemain, so it is very likely——” Here, luckily, she was interrupted
by a summons to the card-table; and Mrs. Evans and Mr. Vincent being
called away for the same purpose into different apartments, they had no
opportunity of resuming their angry altercation.

The next day Mrs. Evans was amongst the earliest of the visitors at
Roselands; but her meeting with the lady of the house was not, as she
apprehended, such as to affect the acuteness of her feelings. Mrs.
Castlemain, who was usually cold and stately in her manners, did not at
all relax in her usual stateliness at sight of Mrs. Evans; nor did the
gathering tear in her eye declare that she either recollected “poor dear
Mr. Castlemain” tenderly, or Mrs. Evans as his friend. The latter lady,
therefore, who had taken out her pocket-handkerchief, and was beginning
to sigh and look very pathetic, was obliged to resume her natural look,
as reminiscences were not, she found, the order of the day, and she was
soon able to answer Mrs. Castlemain’s inquiries concerning her
acquaintances at K——, with her usual assumed benevolence and real
malignity.

“Pray, how are the Johnsons?” said Mrs. Castlemain.

“Oh, they live in a _great style_, and make a very fine appearance; and
it is all very well if they can go on so; but there is such a family!
Poor dear little things! my heart bleeds for them when I think what
their fate may be!”

“Set your bleeding heart at rest then,” observed another lady archly,
“for their fate will be a very good one; as I know from authority that
Mr. Johnson is worth at least 150,000_l._“

“I don’t believe it,” hastily replied Mrs. Evans, reddening violently;
“that is, I mean I wish I could believe it.”

“Pray, madam,” interrupted Mrs. Castlemain, “let me inquire after that
sweet little girl, the daughter of an attorney at K——, who promised to
be a perfect beauty.”

“Oh, poor thing! she grew up to be both a wit and a beauty, and——”

“And what, madam? I hope no harm has happened,” said Mr. Egerton,
smiling, “to a young lady so proudly gifted?”

“Harm, sir! No, not harm in the common sense of the word,
certainly,—for she is married very much above her sphere in life,—she
is married to a young baronet of very large fortune, and who is also
heir to a higher title, who fell desperately in love with her.”

“She is very much to be pitied, indeed,” said Mr. Egerton,
ironically;—”no wonder you called her ‘poor thing!’ So, she is young,
beautiful, and clever, and is the wife of a rich young baronet, who
married her from disinterested affection!”

“You may laugh, sir,” replied Mrs. Evans, but “‘all is not gold that
glitters,’ It is said that her husband is a very gay man.”

“Well, madam,” said Mr. Egerton, affecting not to understand her; “and
if she be a gay woman, and loves to laugh, so much the better for her.”

“Nay, sir, by gay I did not mean lively, I meant that he was a very,
very libertine man, sir; and that she, poor thing! is pining herself
very fast into a consumption! I am sure I did not believe this story
till I could not help it, and I have felt a great deal for the anguish
of her poor parents, who were so proud of their daughter’s elevation!”

“For which, if this be the case, she has paid dear indeed,” observed
Mrs. Castlemain; “but I never approved of unequal marriages.”

At this moment Mr. Vincent was announced, and received by Mrs.
Castlemain with marked cordiality. When she presented him to Mr.
Egerton, he too seemed glad to see him as an old College acquaintance;
but Mr. Vincent was so struck with the strong likeness that Emma bore
her mother, who had really captivated his young heart the first time he
beheld her, that he could scarcely speak the welcomes which he felt; and
Emma, blushing at his earnest yet melancholy gaze, turned to the window.

“I have been making inquiries of Mrs. Evans, sir,” said Mrs. Castlemain,
“concerning some old acquaintances of mine at K——, and I am sorry to
find that beautiful girl, Mary Beverly, has been so unfortunate in her
marriage, and is fretting herself into a consumption!”

“And you told this lie to Mrs. Castlemain, madam, did you?” said Mr.
Vincent sternly, looking steadfastly at Mrs. Evans.

“Sir! sir! I told it because I do not believe it is a _fib_, for I scorn
to repeat your vulgar word again.”

“Yet you well know, madam, that I told you only two days ago, when you
were repeating the same rancorous tale, which you and others believe
true only because they wish it to be true, as they cannot forgive the
sweet girl her good fortune; you know, I say, that I then told you, that
from my own knowledge I could assert the whole story to be false.

“Madam,” added Vincent turning to Mrs. Castlemain, “I must beg you to
excuse my warmth, but I love the lady concerning whom you have kindly
inquired; and as I have lately been staying at her house, I am qualified
to assure you, that if being unhappily married is having a husband that
adores her, and if growing fat be any proof of pining in consumption,
then is this lady right in her assertions, and my poor friend in a
miserable way indeed!”

“Well, sir,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, “I have no doubt you are right,
and——”

“I have great doubts still,” angrily exclaimed Mrs. Evans; “for Mr.
Vincent is so pleased with being this great lady’s guest, that he is
_bribed_ to say what he has done.”

“It is well for you that you are a _woman_, madam,” replied Mr. Vincent,
“or I should soon convince you that my honour is not to be questioned
with impunity.”

“We had better call another subject,” coldly and proudly observed Mrs.
Castlemain; and Mr. Vincent, again apologizing for his warmth, soon
after took Mr. Egerton by the arm and led him to the end of the room,
where with many apologies for the liberty he took, he begged leave to
ask him whether that young lady was not, as report said, the daughter of
Mrs. Danvers; on which Mr. Egerton gave him a short detail of Agatha’s
history, and, to his great joy, gave him another opportunity of
contradicting the representations of Mrs. Evans.

In a short time Mrs. Evans was the only visiter remaining; when looking
out of the window she exclaimed,

“Oh! that’s the mayor’s coach, here comes his lady, I protest.”

“Who is mayor now?” said Mrs. Castlemain.

“Your old acquaintance, Mr. Nares the banker; he has married a second
wife, and she is coming to pay her compliments to you;—but I wish just
to say something concerning this charming but giddy creature.”

“Giddy! Has then Mr. Nares married a young wife?”

“Yes, poor man! he has indeed! and I think it right to let you know that
she has been a great deal talked of; there was a sad business about her
and an officer, and almost half the town will not visit her; but _I_ do,
for I believe she was only _indiscreet_, not _guilty_; and therefore out
of Christian charity and kindness I thought it right to take her by the
hand, poor young creature, when no one else would; and now she is very
well received. Still, lest some evil-disposed person should tell you
this tale in order to prejudice you against her, I thought it right to
be beforehand with them.”

“Upon my word, madam,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, drawing herself up even
higher than usual, “I cannot see that it was at all necessary for you to
give yourself this trouble; for I flatter myself there is nothing about
me to encourage any one to tell me a gossiping tale of scandal, as I
have long been convinced that no one is ever told by another any thing
but what that other supposes the person so addressed is likely to
relish.”

The mortified Mrs. Evans was at first too much confounded to speak; at
last she stammered out,

“That really there was so much ill-nature in the world, that——”

“Ay, madam, so there is indeed,” observed Mr. Egerton; “but never is
ill-nature so odious as when it tries to hide itself under the mask of
pity and benevolence;—don’t you agree with me, madam?”

“O yes! certainly, sir,” she answered in a hurried manner; and at this
moment Mrs. Nares was announced.

In spite of the well-principled aversion and the well-grounded distrust
which the quick-sighted family at Roselands were beginning to feel
towards Mrs. Evans, they could not help being a little influenced by
what she had said respecting the lady who now entered the room. But
distance, suspicion, and reserve, vanished before the charms of her
manners and her countenance, and Mr. Egerton did not wonder, if she
added indiscretion to youth and beauty, that half the town of K—— were
too strictly virtuous to visit her. But Mrs. Castlemain’s stately
carriage evidently disconcerted her. However, blushing as she did so,
she gracefully requested her acceptance of tickets for a public ball, to
which Mr. Nares was to be steward; and Mrs. Castlemain expressed her
readiness to accept them. Mrs. Nares then sought relief from the awe
impressed by Mrs. Castlemain, in a more familiar intercourse with her
kind friend Mrs. Evans, who welcomed her with a sort of protecting
air,—while the countenance and manner of Mrs. Nares to her, denoted
such unsuspecting confidence in the reality of her friendship, that even
Mrs. Castlemain, filled with pity and indignation at the treachery of
Mrs. Evans, forgot that her new guest was said to be a woman of
suspected character, and entered with alacrity into conversation with
her. But in the meanwhile she had advanced greatly in the good opinion
of Emma and Mr. Egerton, and rose in proportion as Mrs. Evans declined;
for both ladies had brought a child with them. Mrs. Evans’s was a girl
about five years old, so spoiled and so humoursome, that it was very
evident the mother had either not known or not practised her duty
towards it. When desired to say or do any thing, its only answer was,
“No, I won’t;” while it ever and anon interrupted conversation with loud
clamours of “Mamma, I will go home!” till Emma did not know which was
most disagreeable, the mother or the child.

Mrs. Nares’s little boy, on the contrary, though he was so beautiful
that some mothers might have thought themselves excused for spoiling him
on that account, was under such proper restraint, and so well brought
up, that he always spoke when spoken to, and never otherwise; and the
whole appearance and manner of the child argued so forcibly in favour of
the good sense and propriety of the mother, that all Mrs. Evans had said
was soon forgotten; and _indiscretion_, a great and pernicious error in
every woman, was judged wholly incompatible with the evident good
qualities that Mrs. Nares as a parent possessed.

At length the ladies departed, and the family were left to comment on
the variety of persons and characters, many of which I have not
mentioned, who that day came under their review.

“Do you not remember,” said Emma, “an interesting anecdote of the poor
Dauphin, who, when those horrible _poissardes_ besieged Versailles, was
taught by his mother, who held him in her arms, to clasp his little
hands, and say ‘_Graces pour maman_‘“

“To be sure we do.”

“Well then, Mrs. Nares’s little boy’s manners seem to cry ‘_Graces pour
maman_‘ for I find it difficult to believe that so good a mother should
be so bad a wife.”

“And so do I, Emma,” replied Mr. Egerton; “for I think it a very fair
conclusion, that when a woman performs one duty well, she is not very
negligent of others; for I believe the virtues, like the vices, are so
fond of one another, that they are seldom or never found separate; and
if a virtue or two be sometimes found crowded in amongst many vices,
they are there only like sprigs of geranium set without roots in a
garden, which before they have time to take root, are thrown down by the
first shower or gust of wind, and are no more seen or heard of. But did
you ever see so odious a child as that little girl?”

“Hush! hush! dear sir,” cried Emma, laughing and blushing, “I cry
‘_Graces pour cet enfant_‘ for my sake; for _indeed_ I saw in that
disgusting child my own likeness when I first knew you, and I could
hardly help saying, ‘Pray, my dear, is not your name Emma?’”

“Indeed, Emma,” cried Mrs. Castlemain, in great emotion, “I cannot bear
to hear you calumniate your mother so far as to compare yourself to that
rude and spoiled child!”

“I calumniate my mother! God forbid!” cried Emma, “My poor mother! it
was no wonder if she did spoil me, for I was her all, you know.”

“I _do_ know it, I know it but too well, Miss Castlemain;” while Emma,
shocked at the inconsiderateness of her reply, was, like Mr. Egerton
himself, unable for a few minutes to change the conversation or give a
pleasanter turn to it. At length however she said,

“Yet fond of me as my mother was, she had strength of mind enough to
correct me very severely when she thought such correction necessary for
my good.”

“Ay, indeed!” said Mr. Egerton, “as when, pray?”

“Oh! never but once, and then I shall remember what passed to the last
day of my life. She had given me a piece of cake, and I some time after
asked her for another; on which she replied, ‘Have I not already given
you some?’ when I, thinking it better to tell a fib than lose my cake,
replied, ‘_No_, indeed you did not.’ In an instant her face became quite
terrible with rage; and giving me a blow that almost felled me at her
feet, ‘You are a base and mean-spirited liar,’ she exclaimed, ‘and I am
ashamed to own you for my child! Hence from my sight, nor dare to come
into my presence again all day.’ It was the first and last time I ever
saw her angry with me; but her wise resentment did not end with the
impulse of passion. She made me go to church the next day in my oldest
and dirtiest coloured frock, telling me that any thing was good enough
for a liar to wear; and that till I had the _spirit_ of a gentlewoman’s
child, I should not wear the dress of one.”

“Well! I think for a first fault my daughter need not have been so
severe.”

“Surely, dear grandmother, as it was a first fault, it was the more
necessary to be so; for, though I did not know why, I considered lying
to be so terrible an offence, from this unusual severity in my indulgent
mother, that I was terrified from committing it again; and as I grew
older, and found myself fondly caressed whenever I spoke the truth,
fearless of consequences, the habit of ingenuousness which you have so
often commended in me, was impressed on me too deeply, I trust, to be
ever eradicated.”

“Well, well, I am sure I am disposed to think your poor mother
right,—but let us drop the subject, and tell me what you think of Mrs.
Evans.”

“Think of her!” cried Emma, “Why, do you remember, grandmother, that I
used to say to you when you wanted me to take a pill wrapt up in
currant-jelly,—’No, no; when you give me physic, give me physic; when
sweetmeat, sweetmeat;’ and so I used to make a wry-face, and swallowed
the physic as physic.”

“Well, and what is this to the purpose?”

“Why, Mrs. Evans appears to me physic wrapt up in sweetmeat; for under
her jelly of pity and feeling is hidden the bitter herb malevolence, and
so forth. Now, this is as odious to me as your physic wrapt up in
sweets; and I should like to say to her, ‘Good Mrs. Evans, say at once,
I rejoice in the distresses of my fellow-creatures, and that’s the truth
of it.’ I fear I was wicked enough to wish that honest gentleman, who
looked at me so comically kind, had knocked her down.”

“So then, you did observe something particular in his expression when he
looked at you?”

“Yes, my dear sir; and that he took you to the other end of the room.
Well, sir, what was it for? Did he make proposals?”

“Proposals! What is she talking of?” cried Mrs. Castlemain. “To think of
that child’s talking of proposals, indeed!”

“And to think of a young lady who is going to a K—— ball, and will
probably open it with the mayor himself, being called a child!”

“How the girl’s tongue runs to-day, Mr. Egerton,” said Mrs. Castlemain
smiling.

“I am glad of it,” replied Mr. Egerton, “for it shows a heart at ease.”
But Emma, knowing this was by no means the case, suddenly turned round
and hastily retired to her own room.

Mr. Egerton soon discovered, however, that her heart was by no means as
much at ease as he imagined. Going into her apartment one day, which she
had only quitted meaning to return to it immediately, he saw some verses
lying on the table, evidently wet from the pen; and, concluding that
verses not meant to be seen could not have been left so exposed to view,
he ventured to read them.

When Mrs. Castlemain came to Roselands, she found the garden had been so
much neglected, that weeds grew along the parterre, and the spring
flowers had planted themselves in the gravel-walks. This circumstance
occasioned Emma to write the lines in question, which were as follows:—

                            IRREGULAR SONNET
                  ON A NEGLECTED BUT BLOOMING GARDEN.

         Not on the weeded bed of yielding earth
         Bloom the bright flowers that in my garden grow;
         Midst rougher soil they force their beauteous birth,
         And on thick turf or pebbly gravel blow.
         Self-call’d they came, like friends in sorrow’s hour,
         Who wait not forms, but aid uncourted bring;
         And like yon welcome, yet obtrusive flower,
         O’er our rough path a rainbow splendour fling.
         Sweet flowers! while wrapt in pensive thought I stray,
         Where still unlooked-for in my path ye bloom,
         Fond fancy whispers that some cheering ray
         Of future joy may chase my present gloom;
         May, like your buds, opposing powers o’ercome,
         And light, with gladness light, my clouded home.

“I wish I had not read it,” Mr. Egerton had just said to himself, when
Emma returned and saw the sonnet in his hand, as he had purposely kept
it that she might know he had read it, though he knew not what to say to
her relative to it.

“So, I see you have read my lines,” said Emma, blushing deeply as she
spoke.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Egerton, “and approve them too; my only objection to
them is their solemnity,—but I hope your next will be of a gayer turn;”
then, without looking at her, he left the room. While Emma, conscious
how little likelihood there was that his hope would soon be gratified,
vented her feelings in tears; and, afraid of being seen while under the
influence of such painful sensations, set off for a walk in the gardens
and the woods adjoining.

The assembly-day at length arrived; when Mrs. Castlemain and Mr.
Egerton, for the first time for many saddened years, and Emma, for the
first time in her life, prepared for a public ball. Not one of them,
however, looked forward to the busy scene with any one feeling unalloyed
by pain. Mrs. Castlemain recollected, as if it had been yesterday, the
hour when she had parted with Agatha, that she might be present at her
first ball, that _fatal ball_, which stamped with woe the future destiny
of her life; and Mr. Egerton remembered that the last time he had been
present at such an amusement, he had danced with the lost object of his
constant affections; while Emma recollected, in the secret recesses of
her heart, how often she had hoped, and how certainly expected, that her
first partner at her first assembly would have been Henry St. Aubyn! But
no one communicated to the other the feelings that were common to each,
and they met with seeming cheerfulness in the drawing-room to await the
arrival of the carriage.

Mrs. Castlemain, in order to do honour to her old acquaintance the
mayor, and to show her respect to her K—— friends, made a point of
appearing in a new and handsome dress, and in her family jewels. As her
mind had now been for many years in a degree lightened of its
overwhelming load, she had recovered her usual _embon-point_, and her
complexion had lost but little of its original loveliness. At this time,
therefore, she looked considerably younger than she was,—an illusion
heightened by the judicious manner in which she dressed herself; for,
conscious that after fifty, the less of the skin and form that is
exhibited, the more is gained in personal appearance, as well as in
propriety, Mrs. Castlemain concealed, either with lace or fine muslin,
the whole of her figure; while round the only part of her once beautiful
throat that met the view, she wore a black velvet collar, which at once
hid the as yet only threatened wrinkles, and set off its still remaining
whiteness. Her dress for this evening was black velvet, of which the
only ornaments were point-lace and jewels; and on her still dark and
glossy hair, she wore a simple though costly cap composed entirely of
lace.

When she entered the drawing-room at Roselands, her smoothed and
finely-grained complexion flushed with emotion, and a sort of anxious
expectation, occasioned by the idea that she was going to introduce the
child of Agatha at her first ball, Mr. Egerton was struck with wonder at
her beauty, and the general magnificence of her appearance, and was
gazing at her with respectful admiration, when Emma appeared, glowing
with youth and expectation, simply habited in a white crape dress,
ornamented, as well as her head, with pearls only. Both Mrs. Castlemain
and Mr. Egerton looked at her with delight, though a tear glistened in
the eye of both. Nor was Emma as unmoved as she seemed to be; but,
substituting, like many other people, gaiety for cheerfulness, she held
up her white and dimpled hands with wonder as she looked on her
grandmother, and making a pirouette, exclaimed, “Well, I know who will
be the handsomest woman in the room to-night!”

“That is very conceited in you, Emma,” said Mrs. Castlemain smiling, and
affecting to misunderstand her.

“What! is it conceited to be vain of one’s own grandmamma?” replied
Emma, caressing her as she spoke.

“I believe I may look well enough for an old woman,” she answered; “and
considering——,” then overcome by many tender and many agonizing
feelings, she burst into tears, and hastily retired.

“I suppose she is thinking of my poor mother,” said Emma in a faltering
voice; “but how well, how even beautiful she looks!”

“She does indeed,” said Mr. Egerton; “and how judiciously she dresses
herself!”

“Judiciously!” replied Emma.

“Yes; and were she, instead of being indifferent to her personal graces,
at all inclined to the hope or wish of conquest, I should even have
said, how _coquettishly_ she is dressed! for I never saw any one who, at
her time of life, better understands the art of clothing judiciously. I
have often thought, that a beauty of fifty should imitate the example of
a skilful general after the battle of the day is over, and a retreat is
sounded. The general, previous to beginning another attack, takes an
accurate survey of his remaining forces; and when he enters the field
again, he puts in front and in full view the strongest part of them, but
takes care to conceal from the sight that in which he is conscious of
weakness. In like manner, a faded beauty should be careful to hide by
dress whatever, according to the regular progress of decay, is the
indication of age in the female figure, and to set off to the best
advantage, whatever beauty time has touched with a more gentle hand.”

“Really, dear sir,” replied Emma, “it would be only kind in you to
publish a magazine of instructions for elderly ladies in the art of
dress, embellished with a vignette of my grandmother by way of
illustrating your meaning.”

Before Mr. Egerton could reply, Mrs. Castlemain returned, and soon after
they set off for the ball.

“I hope,” said Emma when they were seated in the coach, “that the
greater part of the inhabitants of K—— resemble the pretty mayoress
rather than Mrs. Evans.”

“My dear child,” replied Mr. Egerton, “very possibly the pretty mayoress
herself may resemble Mrs. Evans, as most human beings resemble her
also.”

“What a libel on human nature!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain.

“If the truth be a libel on human nature, I am sorry for it; but I am
sure that I speak only the truth.”

“I hope not; but if it be so, why, my dear sir, do you wish to throw a
gloom over the prospects of this young charge of ours, by representing
human beings in so unamiable a point of view?”

“Do you wish me to deceive her?”

“I would rather that you should, than speak truths calculated to destroy
those blissful illusions on which so much of the happiness of youth
depends.”

“But admitting, which I will never admit, that happiness can have a
stable foundation on delusion, youth is but a small part of human
existence; and I think it is the duty of a preceptor to prepare his
pupil’s mind in such a manner as to fit it for every stage of life.
Illusion, we all know, must end in disappointment; and there is nothing
that has such a tendency to sour the temper, and deprive the mind of
energy, as disappointment. The young, who are not taught to believe all
human character imperfect, are only too apt to set up idols to worship,
and to fancy the acquaintance, the friend, the lover, or the mistress,
devoid of blemish either of mind, heart, or temper; but time,
circumstances, and rivalship, most probably unveil the real character,
and the poor dupe learns not only to mourn past confidence betrayed, but
to give up all hope of ever feeling confidence in future. But this would
not be the case, if to the young was exhibited a picture of things as
they are.”

“Disappointment, I own,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “would be avoided, but
years of happiness or confidence would also be lost; and what then would
they gain by the exchange?”

“Much, in my opinion, of the greatest importance to the improvement of
the heart and character, and to the safety of the temper.”

“Explain.”

“I would wish to impress on the young mind this painful, degrading, but
salutary truth, that ‘envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness,’
are the most frequent, and the most general of all human passions. If
they were not so, should we have been taught to pray publicly every
week, to be delivered from them? I would impress on the young mind, that
even those who are capable of honestly and deeply feeling the distresses
and misfortunes of their friends, are often very much mortified at their
success and elevation. That, generally speaking, the elevation of a
friend or acquaintance above ourselves, either in fame, rank, or wealth,
is a crime against our self-love, which we never thoroughly forgive; and
that we seize with eager avidity on any dirty story, however improbable,
which tends to lower the individual, so favoured and so envied, in the
scale of happiness or reputation.”

“A dreadful, but I trust an exaggerated picture!”

“You are a strong painter, Mr. Egerton, but you are one of the black
masters!”

“I am particularly fond of those masters,” replied he smiling; “and as I
am convinced even their darkest tints and shadows are all to be found in
nature, I think you flatter me by the comparison.”

“But I am anxious to know how a young mind can be benefited by being
taught to believe ill of all the world.”

“That is not a fair statement;—but let me go on;—It would be benefited
thus: A tendency to overrate the virtues, and to be blind to the
weaknesses of others, has a most pernicious effect on our own character;
our self-love forbids us to suppose that we ourselves are not as
virtuous and as free from weakness as other people; therefore to those
best and most necessary friends, self-examination and self-condemnation,
we become wholly strangers; whereas, if we look upon certain mean but
natural passions to be common to all, we cannot deceive ourselves so far
as to believe that we are exempt from them. Consequently, we shall be on
the watch for every rising tendency to them in our own breasts; and
being conscious of a fault is one very important step to an amendment of
it, I have sometimes, with disgust and contempt, heard hoary-headed
sentimentalists, persons grown old in worldly experience, with whining
candour and pretended generosity declare that it is most unjust and
cruel to judge thus harshly; while, like the simple girl in the play,
they exclaimed, on being told of the errors of others, the result of
malice and envy,

           ‘Can there be such, and know they peace of mind?’

Yet, before an hour was at an end they would themselves utter something
dictated by those very passions, the existence of which, as common
agents on the actions and language of men, they had so strenuously
denied.”

“I feel the weight of what you say,” replied Mrs. Castlemain; “still, I
doubt not our poor Emma here would have been glad to have thought higher
of human nature.”

“But, my dear madam, it would have been more cruel to deceive her by a
false representation of it. Suppose, Emma, (for I know you love a
metaphor,) that you and I were approaching a large city, and I were to
inform you, on hearing you admire the handsome churches, towers, and
buildings, which we beheld before us, that the whole city was composed
of such, and every part of it equally worthy of admiration; surely you
would have great reason to reproach me with your subsequent
disappointment, when you found, on your arrival, that these edifices
were encompassed by mean, little, ill-built houses, and narrow streets,
and dirty lanes?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“But if, on the contrary, I told you that these fine buildings were so
surrounded, but that the small houses, narrow streets, and dirty lanes,
were necessary to carry on the common business of life, you would not
only feel no disappointment on entering the city, but you would be
contented to bear with its defects for the sake of its beauties. It is
thus with human life and human character, Emma; we must all of us
forgive each other’s faults for the sake of each other’s virtues; but we
must not be guilty of the pernicious vice, not virtue as some call it,
of blinding ourselves to the faults of others; in the first place, it
has, as I have before observed, a tendency to blind us to our own; in
the next, it only prepares for us the agonies of disappointment; for
disappointment is always the offspring of error, by blind and
ill-founded expectation. You see, ladies,” added he, “that I cannot
leave off the habit of preaching; and a pretty long sermon you have
had!”

“I thank you for it, for more than one reason, sir,” cried Emma; “for I
thought I was only going to a ball; but you have convinced me I am going
to a ball and _masquerade_, where many Mrs. Evanses will be walking
about, affecting to be the thing they are not.”

“Ay, Emma, till passion and circumstances, like the call to supper, or
the morning light, cause the mask to be taken off, and the person to
appear what it really is.”

Here the coach stopped at the assembly house, and Mr. Egerton had not an
opportunity of preaching any longer.

Though out of compliment to Mrs. Castlemain the steward would not have
allowed the ball to begin till she arrived, had she come ever so late,
still, as she knew the usual hour of beginning was nine o’clock, she was
too well-bred not to accommodate herself to the custom of the place, and
she entered the ballroom before many persons of less consequence had
made their appearance.

Emma, having no rank, could not have begun the ball, because there were
young ladies present who had claims to precedence, if she had not been a
stranger; but according to the polite, and I may add benevolent,
regulation of the K—— balls, a stranger lady was always provided with
a partner if she wished to dance, and was uniformly allowed to begin.

The mayor himself, having given up dancing, presented his son to Emma,
who accordingly was led by him to the top of the set.

The unfortunate mother of Emma was a remarkably fine dancer, and it was
fortunate for her child that she was so, as otherwise her proficiency in
dancing could not have been very great. But Agatha, knowing that grace
of motion and activity of limb are only to be acquired by practice and
habit in the earliest years of childhood, began to teach Emma to dance
when she was only four years old; and when she died, Emma knew in that
art all her poor mother could teach her;—therefore a lesson which she
received once a week from a master who resided at Kendal, and gave
lessons in the neighbourhood, was sufficient to keep in her memory all
she already knew, and to teach her whatever she was still ignorant of.
But notwithstanding she had reason to think herself a very good dancer,
she trembled with diffidence and emotion at performing before so many
spectators; while the natural bloom of her cheek was heightened by the
mantling glow of modesty.

Mr. Egerton’s eyes followed her down the dance with admiring and
gratified affection; but Mrs. Castlemain, still unable to separate the
idea of Agatha from that of Emma, was so agitated, that it was with
difficulty she could command herself so far as to remain in the room.

The first two dances being over, Emma’s partner, a young barrister of
very agreeable manners and conversation, begged leave to introduce a
partner to her for the next two dances. Accordingly, a vulgar-looking
young man, who was, as Mr. William Nares had informed her, one of the
first beaux in the town, was presented to her by the name of Popkison;
while Mrs. Castlemain, leaving Emma to the care of a lady, was glad to
join a party to the card-room, and endeavour to calm her mind by cards.

Though Emma had never been at a public ball before, she had been at
private ones in the neighbourhood, and was therefore conversant with the
usual rules on such occasions; but if not, her own good sense and love
of justice would have taught her, that it was only fair that the person
who had stood at the top during two dances should go to the bottom
during the two next. She accordingly took her place at the bottom of the
dance.

“Why, what’s that for, Miss Castlemain?” said her new partner. “Why, to
be sure you don’t mean to stand here?”

“Indeed I do, sir; it is my proper place, as I began the two last
dances.”

“Well, but what does that signify? The misses here, I assure you, never
mind that; but ‘tis first come first served, and there is always such
pushing and pushing! Come now, let us go up higher. I know some kind
body or other will let us in. I see a good-tempered girl yonder, she
will let us in above her.”

“I cannot suppose, sir,” said Emma, “that any young lady will be kind to
me, a stranger, at the expense of other young ladies her acquaintances;
nor has she any right to oblige one at the expense of many.”

“Oh, that is her concern, so don’t be so scrupulous, it is always done;
and I assure you nobody here, that is _somebody_, ever stands at the
bottom.”

“I should rather think, sir,” replied Emma, smiling, “that it is
somebody who is _nobody_, that is thus presuming; as persons of real
consequence are usually better bred than to assume rights which they
have not;” and the young man finding that he could not gain his point,
said within himself,” What a queer fish she is!” and was silent for a
minute or two.

“Well, Miss Castlemain, how do you like these parts?” resumed he, after
a pause.

“Very much, sir; the country around is pretty, and well-cultivated,
though not grand. There is a gentleman’s seat a few miles off that is a
very desirable residence.”

“Oh! I suppose you mean Mr. Wells’s, or Squire Wells’s, as we call him?”

“I do.”

“Ay, ay, let you young ladies alone for finding out the rich bachelors.
There, there he is! Now what say you to setting your cap at him? Shall I
introduce you?”

“No, sir,” coldly and proudly replied Emma, disgusted at his
forwardness; “I am not in the habit of courting the acquaintance of any
one.” Then, in order to change the discourse, she inquired the name of a
fine-looking woman who was standing near them.

“That! Oh, she is one of the has-beens. She has nursed me on her knee
many is the time and oft.”

“That lady! I should not have supposed she was thirty!”

“Thirty, and sixteen added to it, more likely. But what do you think of
our mayoress? is not she a pretty creature?”

“Oh, very; and pleasing too.”

“Yes; and _fond_ of pleasing. But you know, if an old man will marry a
young wife, he must take the consequences—ha!”

“Mr. Nares is a very young and well-looking man,” said Emma, gravely.

“So he is for his years, fifty-six turned; but he is grey; so the joke
here is, that he is the grey mayor, but not the better horse, for madam
drives.”

“Drives! a gig, or a curricle?”

“Poh, poh, you are a rogue; you know what I mean; that is, she has her
own way.”

At this moment Emma caught the eye of a lady whom she had seen at
Roselands, and curtsied to her.

“What,” said Popkison, “do you know old Peg?”

“Not I, sir. Pray who is old Peg?”

“Why, you curtsied to her this moment.”

“That, sir, was Miss Mortimer.”

“I know that; but we call her old Peg, or Peggy. _Miss_ Mortimer! yes,
and a fine old Miss she is! I know the year she was born in.”

“But why, pray, sir, do you call her old Peg? she seems a very
well-bred, pleasing woman; and age, if she be aged, is not a crime in
K——, is it?”

“No. But by way of fun and joke we call her so. To be sure she is a
good-natured, inoffensive, excellent creature.”

“You seem to be great jokers here, sir. And so the distinguishing reward
for good-nature, inoffensive manners, and excellence, in the town of
K——, in a woman, is the appellation of ‘Old Peg?’ I suppose, sir, you
call a good-natured, inoffensive, excellent man, Old Harry?”

“Ha, ha, ha! very good indeed! A good joke, eh!”

“I am sure, sir, I did not mean it for one. Really, sir, you are very
facetious persons here.”

“Why, that’s true. There is a set of us, to be sure, who do love fun and
joking, and who make very free with our neighbours sometimes.”

“I hope your neighbours return the compliment.”

“Oh, they are welcome; ‘Give and take’ is my motto. Why, there’s Dick
Mullins, and Jem Hanway, and two or three more, when we get together we
are very funny, sure enough; and we do give comical names to people. Jem
Hanway is a most excellent mimic, and it is such fun to see him take off
everybody!”

“I dare say; and how pleasant it would he for you to get unperceived
behind a screen, and hear him take yourself off!”

“Why, that’s true, to be sure, that one should not much like.”

“Oh! you forget—’Give and take’ is your motto; and if you like to see
your friends served up for your amusement, it is only fair you should be
served up in your turn for theirs.”

“Yet if I thought he _did_ mimic me, I would break every bone in his
skin.”

“Right; and all I wish is, that every one whom he does mimic would do
the same.”

Here Popkison left her for a moment to go and whisper in a gentleman’s
ear who was dancing with a lady who had only one eye; and coming back
with a face brimful of laughter, he said, “I beg your pardon for leaving
you, but I could not help going to whisper Sam Vernon, who is dancing
with that one-eyed beauty; I told him, as she is so rich, it would be
wise in him to get on the blind side of her.”

“And did you really whisper concerning the poor girl’s personal defect
to the gentleman with whom she was dancing? Suppose she had overheard
you?”

“Oh, she would not have minded; for she knows she is called Miss
Polypheme.”

“And is she?”

“Yes; and once Dick Mullins, from use, forgot to call her by her own
name, and called her Miss Polypheme to her face.”

“How cruel!”

“Oh, but he did not mean it; and after all it was only a joke.”

“_Only_ a joke! If, sir, you and this Dick somebody are capable of being
amused with jokes on the deformities of your fellow-creatures, you can
never want for mirth certainly; but you obtain it at the expense of all
the finer feelings of human nature.”

Popkison, piqued at the animated contempt which beamed in Emma’s
expressive face as she spoke, and unable to answer her, looked up
saucily in her face and said, “Pray, madam, are you bringing up to the
church? for I never heard a young lady preach such fine sermons before.”

“No, sir,” replied Emma, laughing at this fair retort; and was going to
say, “I conclude that you are already brought up to the bar, by your
ready impudence;” but she wisely recollected that it would be unbecoming
her to imitate the pertness and sarcasm which she condemned.

Emma was little aware what ample revenge for her just severity it would
soon be in Popkison’s power, unintentionally, to inflict.

“I think, Miss Castlemain,” said he, “that I know some one from your
part of the world. Does not Harry St. Aubyn live near you?”

“He does, sir,” replied Emma, blushing and alarmed at hearing that name
pronounced, and pronounced by such a person.

“I was at College with him; he is a fine-looking fellow, though rather a
quiz, and a formal chap, for he would not drink, and used to study all
day.”

“Is that uncommon, sir? I thought young men went to College on purpose
to study.”

“Ha, ha, ha! What an antediluvian idea! Study is very well in its way,
but to do nothing else is a horrid bore. Do you know one Alton?”

“No, sir.”

“Why, he is a great friend of St. Aubyn’s. Alton is a short, thick-made,
fat little fellow, and so nervous, that if he is alarmed or agitated at
all, he stutters most laughably; so some of us, who loved fun, used to
like to tease him in order to set him a-stuttering; and you know there
was no great harm in this—only a little sport or so.”

“No, certainly,—only the fable of the Boys and the Frogs.”

“Ay, so St. Aubyn used to say; and he never would let us make fun of
Alton in his presence, and as he is a devilish strong-built fellow, and
has a good large fist of his own, we thought it as well to let Alton
alone; but we nicknamed St. Aubyn Don Quixote, and Alton his Sancho
Panza.”

“That was witty indeed; but no doubt the same laudable fear of
consequences which led you to avoid laughing at Alton in St. Aubyn’s
presence, prevented you from calling him and his friend by their
nick-names in his hearing?”

“Why, yes.”

“And pray, sir, may I ask you in what you took your degree at College?”

“Degree! Why I did not stay long enough. Bless your heart! I thought it
a horrible bore to be forced to get up willy-nilly to prayers at seven
o’clock in the morning, or incur certain consequences; and really, as I
never got up time enough to tie up my stockings before I went to chapel,
I used to get the rheumatism in my knees.”

“Poor man! The rheumatism!”

“Oh, poh! you need not look so compassionate; that’s a joke.”

“What, the rheumatism, sir?”

“No, that’s no joke certainly; but I mean that I was laughing when I
said I had it.”

This was indeed a joke which Popkison had repeated several times as a
clever thing, though our heroine was too stupid to understand it.

Just then the pretty mayoress passed, and Popkison stopping her said,
“Here is Miss Castlemain knows your cousin Harry St. Aubyn.”

“No doubt she does,” replied Mrs. Nares. “It is many years since I saw
Henry; but I well remember to have heard him talk of his little
playfellow.”

“I did not know that you were relations,” said Emma in some confusion.

“Very distant,” replied Mrs. Nares. “It is through the Ainslies I am
related to Mr. St. Aubyn.”

Here they had reached the top of the dance, and the conversation, to
Emma’s relief, was put a stop to.

Having danced down with only half the couples standing up who had begun,
Popkison told Emma he supposed she would rest herself, and not join the
second dance till it was near her turn to begin.

“No, sir,” replied Emma, “let us do as we would be done by. If all
dancers did as you recommend me to do, those who are at the bottom of a
set would be served as you and I were just now, and would have scarcely
couples enough to form a dance.”

“Well, and what is that to us? I always take care of number one. Pray,
madam, are you related to Don Quixote, alias St. Aubyn?”

“No, sir.”

“But you were playfellows together, Mrs. Nares said; and, upon my soul,
I believe you read out of the same primer, for I never heard two people
talk so alike as you and he.”

“Sir,” replied Emma warmly, “I thank you; for you have now, in my
opinion, paid me the highest compliment I could receive from any one.”

“So so,” cried Popkison, “the Don has gotten a Dulcinea, I see;” and
would have gone on on this scent much longer had not the dance been a
double one, and the set so small, that to talk while they went up it was
impossible; and Emma, as soon as she had danced to the bottom, made her
courtesy to her partner, and happy to be released from him, joined the
lady to whose care Mrs. Castlemain had left her. For she was indeed
completely tired of him, as his whole conversation consisted of such
jokes as I have enumerated above, hints and sneers against every one
whom he mentioned, and an account of the age of every man and woman in
the room, and the age of the latter given with such spiteful accuracy as
Emma could only have supposed possible in the worst species of female
envy. But spite is of no sex, and it is not always born of rivalship; it
is as often the result of a mean malevolent pleasure taken by the person
who indulges in it, in traducing and lowering every one that happens to
come within reach. Nor can I allow that gossiping is a fault more common
to women than to men. Emptiness of mind, and want of proper and
wholesome occupation are common to both sexes, and consequently their
result a gossiping spirit and a traducing tongue; and though some faults
like some diseases are for the most part confined to women; yet
backbiting and slander, like the attacks of a fever, are common equally
to both women and men.

Before Emma made Popkison her parting courtesy, she assumed a very arch
look, which he in vain tried to understand, and said, “I could not for
some time imagine how you could have opportunities of knowing the ages
of all those persons whom you have named to me; but at last I have found
it out;” and before the inquisitive beau could tease her, as he meant to
do, into an explanation, she had entered into conversation with Mr.
William Nares.

“I am going to quarrel with you, sir,” said she to the latter, assuming
a very angry look. “I did not expect that you would have paid me so bad
a compliment as to introduce to me so improper a partner.”

“Improper! Believe me, madam, he is one of the first young men in the
town.”

“Then so much the worse for K——, sir; for I am convinced, by his
knowledge of every one’s age, what his situation in life must be, and
that he is the clerk of the parish.”

Young Nares immediately understanding her sarcasm, and disliking
Popkison, told it to his father, his father to another, that other to
two or three more; and the mortified beau had at last the pain of
finding, through the means of some good-natured friend, that he, who had
no pleasure so great as that of turning others into ridicule, was now
the object of ridicule himself; and he saw that be would be called the
Parish Clerk for the rest of his life. In vain did he take his revenge,
by calling Emma the young Parson. He was told the idea was not new, but
borrowed from Emma’s name for him; and though he related his happy
repartee to her over and over again, no one believed it, till wearied
and angered beyond measure, he quitted the ballroom, wishing Emma had
been a man, that he might have had the satisfaction of caning her.

Emma having refused to dance again, and Mrs. Castlemain being tired of
cards, she proposed they should return home, and Mr. Egerton and Emma
cheerfully acceded to her desire.

“Well, ladies,” said Mr. Egerton, as soon as they were seated in the
coach, “how has your evening pleased you?”

“For my part,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “I fear I must own that pain has
preponderated over pleasure; and much of this was owing to you, Mr.
Egerton. The picture of human nature which you bad drawn previously to
our reaching K——, in spite or myself was ever before my eyes, and made
to me a sort of glass, distorting like a concave mirror, through which I
viewed the actions and conduct of every one during the whole evening.”

“Say rather that you viewed every one, not through a distorting medium,
but with clearer optics than you did before.”

“And what have I gained by that? Oh, what ill-nature there is in the
world! Would I could get back my happy ignorance! for really I must say
with the poet,—

                      ‘——where ignorance is bliss,
                      ‘Tis folly to be wise.’”

“A very pretty thing, my dear madam, for a poet to say, but a very bad
rule to be acted upon in our passage through life, and for this best of
all possible reasons, that it is not true. But what was this ill-nature?
I suppose you heard of several marriages that were going to take place?”

“Yes.”

“And I dare say, not one of them was allowed to have any prospect of
happiness.”

“Scarcely one, certainly,” replied Mrs. Castlemain.

“Ay, I can imagine what was said. I once lived in a country-town, and I
always observed that a reputed marriage was sure to call forth all the
malignity, not only of acquaintances, but friends. Madness, scrofula,
bad-temper, libertinism, extravagance, and all the curses of life, were
immediately imputed to one or other of the poor creatures that were
looking forward, in the simplicity of their hearts, to conjugal
felicity; and it is astonishing how long the town used to feast on this
cheap dainty. Indeed, a projected marriage in a place like K——, is a
treat, given at the expense of the lovers and their families, to the
whole town, while ‘envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness,’ like
the harpies of old at the table of Phineus, cover the entertainment with
their filth; though, unlike that of the harpies, their presence is not
known to the entertained; but the good souls, while indulging their bad
passions to the utmost, believe that they are only actuated by a sincere
interest in the well-being of the poor victims of their busy tongues.
The wise son of Sirach,” added Mr. Egerton, “says, ‘There be three
things that my heart feareth, and for the fourth I was sore afraid;—the
slander of a city,—the gathering together of an unruly multitude,—and
a false accusation; all these are worse than death.’ Now all these
things, my dear madam, you probably have encountered this evening; for
you have heard the slander of a city, and many a false accusation, no
doubt; and what is a crowded assembly but the gathering together of an
unruly multitude?”

“An unruly multitude, indeed!” cried Emma, laughing; “there was amongst
the dancers, at least, such jostling and crowding and trying for
precedence! and such a selfish disregard of other persons’ pleasure
exhibited, by many couples sitting down as soon as they had danced down
the dance!”

“That is a most base practice indeed,” said Mr. Egerton. “I declare that
were I a marrying man, I should be afraid to marry a girl who made a
practice of quitting the dance when she had taken her own pleasure, and,
regardless whether others had theirs or not, did not join the dances
again till it was near her turn to begin.”

“But why judge a girl from this action? this one action too?”

“Because the general temper and disposition are often shown in one
action, however trifling; and it is evident that she who is thus selfish
in her amusements is selfish in little things; a terrible trait in a
wife! The happiness of the married life depends on a power of making
small sacrifices with readiness and cheerfulness. Few persons are ever
called upon to make great sacrifices, or to confer great favours; but
affection is kept alive, and happiness secured, by keeping up a constant
warfare against little selfishnesses; and the woman who is benevolent,
and habitually fond of obliging, will, regardless of herself, be
benevolent and obliging even in a ball-room.

“But tell me, Emma, how have you been entertained?”

“Oh! much, very much, on the whole. I was pleased with my first partner,
and I had agreeable conversation with two or three persons, and wholly
unstained with scandal or calumny. My second partner, however, was a sad
counterbalance to these advantages.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Egerton; “but I was sorry to find that you took such
ample revenge on him for his delinquency.”

“How!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain; “pray what was the delinquency, and
what the revenge?”

“Why, madam, it seems that as he amused her with a minute detail of the
ages of every person in the room, Emma had the malice to tell Mr.
William Nares that she concluded he was the parish clerk; and the Parish
Clerk the poor man was not only called during the rest of the evening,
but will be all the rest of his life, for a nick-name sticks to every
one like a bur.”

“Well, but, dear sir, where was the harm of this? Why was I wrong in
throwing a poor little harmless bur at a man who himself throws darts
and dirt at every one within his reach?”

“Such a man, I own, my dear Emma, deserves punishment, and I am only
sorry that you were the inflicter of it. Your youth and your sex make
you an improper person to go about reforming the world; and silent
contempt would have been in my opinion the only weapon for you to use
against him; for you must see that what you said was only too much in
his own way.”

“I feel that it was so,” replied Emma ingenuously; “but I assure you the
error carried the punishment along with it; for I overheard a very
pleasing young man say, on being asked to dance with me by Mr. Nares,
‘No, no; she is a wit, I find, and I am not fond of encountering that
sort of person.’ But fore-warned fore-armed, and I hope to profit, dear
sir, by your lessons and my own experience.”

And Mrs. Castlemain and Mr. Egerton, who forgot her fault in the
ingenuous readiness with which she confessed it, forbore any further
comments except those of commendation.

As it was now generally known that the family at Roselands wished to
visit and be visited, invitation succeeded to invitation, and in paying
and receiving visits several cheerful if not happy weeks passed away;
for the society of K—— might be called on the whole good society,
though tainted with the usual vices of a country place,—or, I should
rather say, of human nature, called more frequently into action by the
operation of circumstances, the result of closer collision, and the
greater jarring of interests and self-love, from the narrowness of the
field of action. But at length that morbid restlessness which ever
attends disappointed affection again took possession of Emma; again her
colour faded, her spirits flagged, and she ventured to hint that she was
tired of Roselands.

“Then suppose we go to London,” said Mrs. Castlemain, whose anxious and
observant tenderness immediately took alarm. “We have,” added she
sighing, “business of some importance to transact there, and it is now
the prime of the London season.”

“The proposal delights me,” replied Mr. Egerton.

“Then when shall we set off?” returned Emma.

“In a few days,” was the reply, and Emma again vainly hoped to escape
from her own heart. Three or four days before that fixed upon for their
departure, they went to another public ball at K——. As Emma had
complained of indisposition lately, she had promised her grandmother to
decline dancing; therefore the family appeared at the ball merely to
have an opportunity of taking leave of those friends and acquaintances
to whose civility they had been principally indebted during their
residence in the neighbourhood.

During the course of the evening Emma had an opportunity of entering
into conversation with Sir Charles Maynard, the gentleman who had
refused to dance with her because he fancied that she pretended to be a
wit; and she had the satisfaction of finding that by the reserve of her
conversation, and the modesty with which she gave her opinions, she
succeeded so well in her endeavours to remove his prejudice, that he
never left her to join the dance, but was her constant and assiduous
attendant.

But her amusement was not derived entirely from Sir Charles Maynard. A
young man made his appearance at the ball that evening, whose dress,
manners, and countenance amused her excessively, though she had no
conversation with him. His name was Varley; and the place of his
residence, London; but he was come down to K—— on a visit to a
relation. His mother, who was a widow, kept a lodging-house in
Westminster, and a relation of hers had had interest enough to procure
the son, who was about one-and-twenty, a small place in the War-office,
with the promise of future promotion. Meanwhile Varley, who was
industrious and frugal, contrived in different ways to increase his
little income; and to do him justice, he had a great variety of
talent—for he could paint watch-papers and transparencies, copy music
to admiration, play on the tenor and flute very well for an amateur; he
could dance admirably, and spout speeches, and enact scenes from plays
with great excellence; and so infected was he with a love for the
theatre, that his conversation was amusingly varied with quotations from
Shakspeare and other dramatic writers. But I must now speak of his
higher pretensions and attainments; he had a great command of language,
and wrote prose and verse with equal facility, and I might add of equal
merit; for though he had some talents, as he had no strength of
understanding, they were like a thick embroidery on a flimsy gauze, and
were of more detriment than service; while, like many people, he mistook
a taste for literature for a power of excelling in it.

But Varley was of a very different opinion, and while he kept his muse
in breath by constant exercise in diurnal and monthly publications, he
looked forward to the time when he should distance past and present
competitors in the race for fame, and shine a planet in the sphere of
literature and the beau monde. For it was Varley’s ambition to blend the
poet and the man of fashion, and to be at once a beau and a bel esprit.
Nature had indeed made him a very pretty man; he was tall, slenderly but
gracefully formed, had a regular set of small features, a pink and white
complexion, light hair and light eye-brows; but the judicious
application of some dark substance improved the latter, and sometimes
his natural bloom looked as if it was heightened by art. It must be
owned, therefore, that Varley, with these pretensions to be reckoned
very pretty, might without any great stretch of vanity fancy himself
very handsome; and as his dress made him a beau, and reading and natural
capacity in his opinion, had made him a bel esprit, it is certain that
as a beau and bel esprit, he had a right to present himself to the town
of K——, and to hope to astonish the natives, to use his own phrase,
when in the spring of 1802 he made his appearance at a K—— ball,
dressed in all the extremity of the mode. Fashion, indeed was his idol,
and he meant to be what he considered as fashionable in his attachments.
He wished excessively to be in love, but as yet had found no object
worthy of his heart and his muse; for as yet he was not introduced into
that high life for which he panted. Therefore lady —— ——, the
countess ——, and the honourable Miss ——, could only be gazed at by
him through a glass from the pit at the Opera; and as yet, at least,
these admired ladies had not apparently noticed his personal beauty, or
the graceful lounge which distinguished him in fop’s alley. In the
meanwhile, he wished to become the lover of some beauty rather advanced
in life, provided such beauty was of rank or fashion, and be was on the
look-out for such an object when he came to the ball.

Varley had so much of the true cockney feeling about him, that he
fancied it was impossible there could be anything so knowing or so tasty
as himself in the room; and he walked op and down, concluding there was
no one present fit for a Town-man to dance with, when he was requested
by a gentleman whom he could not refuse, to dance one dance with a young
lady who had sat still all the evening. Accordingly, with an air and a
grace, he complied, saying,

              “Since you will buckle fortune on my back.”

When he had begun the dance, not being yet satisfied with the notice he
excited, he took a pair of castanets out of his pocket, and by the
novelty of the exhibition and the admirable though affected manner in
which he danced with them, called the attention of the whole room to him
and his terrified partner. When he had done, he looked round with an air
of great self-satisfaction; and the young lady declining to dance any
more, though Varley said,

                “Oh, do not tear thyself away from me,”

he volunteered a few steps with the castanets at the end of the room,
while Popkison went about proposing to go round with a hat for him,
adding, “He is very poor, and I dare say the cash would be welcome.” And
to the ladies he observed, “Are you not fascinated by that rattlesnake?”
and on these two new jokes Popkison valued himself highly.

By this time Varley found that he was become an object of attention to
every one, and that delighted him; he also saw the eyes of our heroine,
and those of the friend on whose arm she leaned, observing him with
great attention; and concluding admiration was the cause, he began to
look delightfully with all his might.

“Ha! Varley, are you there?” said a gentleman who then entered the room.

“Ay, my good lord, and your poor servant ever,” he replied, bowing very
low and affectedly. Then extending his hand to a young man, who now
approached, he exclaimed, seeing that Emma and her friend were
listening,

             “I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
             Can in this crowded place find entertainment,
             Bring me where I may rest myself, and drink.
             I am a youth with dancing much opprest,
             And faint for succour.”

“What! I suppose, in plain English, you want a seat, and some porter?”
cried his friend bluntly; “the one you may fetch from the bar, and the
other is behind you.”

                        “I thank your courtesy,”

said Varley, with a sneer, and seated himself beside him, on the seat to
which he pointed.

“Is all right in that poor young man’s brain?” said Emma to Sir Charles.

“Yes, if a brain can be said to be quite right that is nearly turned by
vanity.”

Varley, still seeing Emma’s fine eyes following him, asked, “Who is that
pretty girl

                 ‘That falls to such perusal of my face
                 As she would draw me?’”

“That pretty girl, as you call her, is a great heiress.”

“The devil she is!” cried Varley, immediately adjusting his neckcloth,
and stretching out one leg in what he imagined a becoming posture; “but
is her fortune in her own power yet!”

“No; for her grandmother, the honourable Mrs. Castlemain, is not dead,
nor like to die, but as strong and as good-looking as ever.”

“What! has she a grandmother, good-looking, rich, a widow, and an
honourable into the bargain?”

“Yes.”

“And is she here?”

“Yes.”

“Show her to me.”

“She is not in the room at present; but surely a young heiress is a
better thing than an old one.”

“That is as people think,” replied Varley, conceitedly; “you
country-folks have vulgar every-day notions; the girl, that young thing,
is not despicable certainly, but let me see her grandmother.”

“Well then, so you shall, for here she comes!” and Mrs. Castlemain
entered the room, her cheek flushed with a very brilliant bloom, and
looking, being attired in French grey satin, even younger than she did
at the preceding ball.

Varley really was, to do him justice, as much struck with her beauty as
he pretended to be; while turning away from Emma, and gazing on her
grandmother, he theatrically exclaimed,

                “So doth the greater glory dim the less;
                A substitute shines brightly as a king,
                Until a king be by.”

“My dear grandmother,” said Emma, running up to Mrs. Castlemain, “here
is the most amusing person! I think him a little mad and——”

“Mad! child!” she replied, “I see nothing amusing in madness, that
climax of human misery. But where is he!” And Emma pointed Varley out to
her, who now rose in order to walk and show his fine person off, in
hopes of charming as much as he was charmed—

               “Oh! she doth hang upon the ear of night,
               Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear,”

he exclaimed, as, taking hold of his companion’s arm, he lounged up and
down the room after Emma and Mrs. Castlemain, looking at the latter
languishingly through his half-closed eyes; while she, wholly
unconscious of her own power, imagined those dying looks and those sighs
were all aimed at Emma. Emma herself was of the same opinion; and though
not remarkably vain, she also took to herself the “beautiful! charming
creature!” which Varley occasionally uttered when behind them. And as
the ladies when they turned round saw Varley using extravagant
gesticulation, Mrs. Castlemain’s opinion of his madness became a much
more positive one than Emma’s had been. Therefore, though she attributed
his behaviour to admiration of Emma, she began to be seriously afraid of
him. In early life, and when a young and beautiful heiress, Mrs.
Castlemain had been excessively alarmed by a madman, who fell in love
with her, and she was also in some danger from him. She therefore,
naturally enough, feared for Emma, the risk she had incurred herself;
and when Emma said, “But if he were really insane, he would not be
here,” she with great propriety replied, “The gentleman who persecuted
me was at large, and went to balls, like other people; therefore, I
really wish to go home directly; for you see the poor man never once
takes his eyes off you, and his dress, his looks, and his manners are
all proofs of a deranged mind.” She then requested Mr. Egerton to call
up the carriage directly. Mr. Egerton did so; and Emma began talking to
Sir Charles Maynard, who said, that in order to mortify her pride of
youthful beauty, he must inform her he had discovered the object of
Varley’s passion was not herself, but her grandmother, and that Mr.
Egerton could tell her the same.

While Emma was enjoying this information, and laughing with Sir Charles,
the carriage was announced; and Mrs. Castlemain desired Mr. Egerton to
take Emma between him and Sir Charles; “for indeed,” said she in a low
voice, “I do not like the looks of that young man.”

“That is very ungrateful in you, and very hard upon him,” said Mr.
Egerton smiling; “but pray, if we do as you bid us, who is to take care
of you?”

“Me! I want no guard.”

“There, madam, you are deceived. It is you who are the prize aimed at;
you are the Hesperian fruit that requires a dragon to guard it.”

“I cannot understand you, Mr. Egerton; and as the horses are waiting,”
replied Mrs. Castlemain angrily, “I must beg you will take Emma, as I
desired, and let us be gone.”

Mr. Egerton and Sir Charles immediately bowed and obeyed, while Mrs.
Castlemain, thinking herself quite secure on the shady side of fifty,
feared not the fate of Proserpine for herself. When Varley saw her
going, he exclaimed to his companion—

    “I now do penance for contemning love,
    Whose high imperious thoughts have punish’d me.
    Oh! gentle Tomkins, love’s a mighty lord,
    And hath so humbled me, as I confess
    There is no woe to his correction,
    Nor to his service no such joy on earth!
    Now, no discourse, except it be of love:
    Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep,
    Upon the very naked name of love.”

“A very lucky thing,” observed the purse-proud Popkison, “for a man of
no fortune.” While Varley, exclaiming,

              “I must be gone and live, or stay and die,”

ran out of the room to catch another look at his idol. Varley overtook
Mrs. Castlemain just as she was left alone at the door, the gentlemen
being gone to see Emma into the coach. This was an opportunity not to be
lost. With a smile which he meant to be irresistible, Varley said,
“Allow me the honour of conducting—” when Mrs. Castlemain, with a half
scream, bounded forward, and did not stop till she found her hand in Mr.
Egerton’s.

When they drove off, and before Mrs. Castlemain was sufficiently
composed to speak, Emma exclaimed, “Well, grandmother, whenever I mean
to make conquests, I will not go into public with you; my youth has no
chance against your beauty, I find; and the wretched Varley has received
a mortal wound.”

“I desire, Miss Castlemain, you will not presume to laugh at me,” she
angrily answered. “Besides, it is very inhuman to laugh at the vagaries
of a madman. Would you believe it, he spoke to me! and I was so
terrified!”

“Believe me, madam,” said Mr. Egerton, “he is no madman; though I fear
he may be one when he finds you cruel, for he is dreadfully in love.”

“If this be true, sir,” replied Mrs. Castlemain in her most angry
manner, “I wonder you can presume to assert that he is not mad; for what
boy in his senses would think of falling in love with an old woman like
me?”

Neither Mr. Egerton nor Emma could help laughing at the modesty of this
speech. “Pardon me, madam,” said the former, “but there is something
irresistibly comic to me in your manner of proving Varley’s insanity,
who, I dare say, would be ready to exclaim,

                     “O! madam, who’d ever be wise
                     If madness be loving of thee?’

There is so much modest simplicity, and ‘bonhommie’ as the French say,
in that answer!”

“I am glad it amuses you, sir. But I must say the whole thing is to me
very disagreeable. Poor crazy boy! I am sure my heart bleeds for him.”

“That is only retributive justice then,” resumed Mr. Egerton; “but I
assure you I met him this morning in a bookseller’s shop, and had some
conversation with him on books; and he, being a collector of old
editions like myself, I was much pleased with the meeting. He told me he
possessed one very scarce book, but had it not with him here, else he
would have shown it to me.”

“What an escape!” cried Mrs. Castlemain, “for then he would have come to
Roselands to bring the book! However, we are going away in a few days,
so it is not worth fretting myself about such nonsense!” Then, as soon
as they alighted, Mrs. Castlemain retired to her own room, in no little
perturbation, and some indignation of mind; while Emma, though neither
perturbed nor indignant, retired to bed any thing but calm and happy;
for the pretty mayoress had told her that she had just heard from
London, that St. Aubyn was seen there very gay and gallant, and
escorting the beautiful Mrs. Felton everywhere; while report represented
them as shortly to be married.

It had been with great difficulty that Emma had summoned resolution to
say, “and where is Mr. St. Aubyn now? in London?”

“No, he is, I believe, returned into Cumberland;” and Emma felt relieved
to hear she was not likely to meet St. Aubyn and his mistress in town.

The next morning, when Emma and Mr. Egerton set out for their usual
walk, they met Varley very near Roselands, who had really walked that
way in hopes of seeing Mrs. Castlemain, with whose person as well as
rank and fortune he had persuaded himself that he was violently in love,
and he had lain awake all night thinking over his chances of success. In
the first place he had convinced himself that both Mrs. Castlemain and
her daughter had married at fifteen, and that Emma was only seventeen;
therefore, that Mrs. Castlemain was not fifty. In the second place, he
knew that many women older, and probably as wise as she, had married
young men for love; and he flattered himself that his personal graces
and acquirements were such as to excuse such a tender weakness in any
woman. In the third place, he had a great idea of the power of
perseverance; and could he once get introduced into the family, he was
sure that his powers of pleasing would establish him there. In the
fourth place, Mrs. Castlemain had had two husbands already; and so far
from that circumstance appearing to him likely to militate against the
success of any third suitor, he looked upon it as a favourable omen of
the success of his suit. But he well knew that he must appear to suffer
long, and in secret, and that his best way to obtain hope was to
personate _despair_. And _happier_ than ever he was in his life, for he
had found a lady of rank to be in love with, and to _boast_ also of
being in love with, feeling that it would tell well to be in love with
the honourable Mrs. Castlemain, Varley set off for Roselands to _look_
as _unhappy_ as possible.

When Mr. Egerton saw him, he bowed, and that gentleman courteously
entered into conversation with him, presenting him at the same time to
Emma, who was much diverted with his dress. He wore a white hat lined
with green, and a pair of striped pantaloons of pink linen, which gave a
most offensive air of effeminacy to his appearance. But his conversation
was, though affected, not unmanly, and sufficient to convince Emma that
his love for her grandmother was no proof of madness, but a great one of
worldly wisdom and presumptuous ambition; and she had _no mean_ idea of
his _courage_, to call it by the mildest term, when she heard him say,
looking at Roselands,

             “‘How reverend is the face of that tall pile!’

The views from the _house_ must be very _fine_, I should think.” But as
neither Emma nor Mr. Egerton took the hint, and asked him to return with
them, he was forced to wish them good morning, and trust to chance for
giving him a sight of the goddess of his idolatry.

“It will be better, I think,” said Emma, “not to tell my grandmother we
met Varley so near the house;” and Mr. Egerton coincided with her in
opinion. But the well-meant caution was vain.

As soon as Varley lost sight of them, he proceeded to Roselands; and
discovering a lane that led by the park-palings, he entered it, and
found at the end of it a high gate that commanded a wood, in which were
several walks; then climbing this gate, he got up a convenient hedge,
and, putting his head between the branches of a tree, awaited there the
chance of seeing Mrs. Castlemain.

That lady, being full of other thoughts, had forgotten Varley, and was,
as usual, taking her morning walk in this her favourite wood; and Varley
had not acted Hamadryad long, when she came in sight, and passed very
near him. The second time she passed still nearer, and Varley ventured
to sigh.—Mrs. Castlemain started, looked round, but saw nothing, and
passed on. When she was approaching again, Varley, by moving, moved the
branches through which he looked, and the motion attracted Mrs.
Castlemain’s notice, on which she looked steadily forward, and saw a
_face_ in the tree;—and whose could that face be? Instantly, the idea
of Varley recurred to her; and turning round, regardless of her age and
her dignity, she ran towards the house with all possible speed;—while
Varley exclaimed in transport,

    “Just so the fleet Camilla scour’d the plain,
     Flew o’er the unbending corn, and skimm’d along the main!”

The Camilla in question, however, not being quite so young as formerly,
did not find flying agree with her; and when she reached home, she began
to doubt her own wisdom in having run so rapidly from what at last might
be an imaginary danger. For was it certain that she _had_ seen a man’s
face,—and if she had, was it certainly Varley’s? However, she thought
it better to ascertain the fact, by sending the gardener to search the
lane; who soon returned, saying he had seen nothing; for Varley, being
conscious that Mrs. Castlemain had acted Camilla merely in consequence
of seeing a man’s face in the hedge, without at the same time suspecting
that man was his charming self, wisely conjectured that she would, in
her alarm, be likely to send some one to search for the intruder, and
ask what he wanted; therefore he thought it wise to make a precipitate
retreat.

“I shall certainly not tell Mr. Egerton and Emma of my alarm,” said Mrs.
Castlemain to herself, “for they would only laugh.” While Varley, on his
return to K——, took care to look very pensive and lovelorn, and to let
every one know that he had been wandering near Roselands all the
morning, and had seen Mrs. Castlemain; adding, with a sigh, “What a fine
creature she is! O Heavens!”

The next day, Mrs. Castlemain had a great struggle with herself, whether
she should take her usual walk or not; but ashamed of her own want of
courage, she determined to conquer her fears, and walk through the wood,
and cross a field to visit a poor neighbour. Varley, meanwhile, had
stationed himself in his old place, having resolved, if Mrs. Castlemain
saw him and was alarmed, to discover himself, and beg her pardon for
having alarmed her; by which means, he should have an opportunity of
speaking to her, and also rendering her a service; for he had seen a
furious bull in the field, and he did not know whether he had not better
at once watch for Mrs. Castlemain, and accost her, in order to warn her
against this identical bull.

Mrs. Castlemain, meanwhile, timidly but rapidly approached the spot
where Varley stood, and again she saw a face; on which, as before, she
turned about and fled. But Varley, according to his previous resolve,
immediately jumped from the hedge and pursued the fleet Camilla, in
order to assure her it was _only he_ little suspecting that that _only
he_ was the only person of whom the flying lady was afraid. The faster
she ran the raster Varley pursued; till at length, unable to run any
further, Mrs. Castlemain, nearly fainting, leaned against a tree, and
Varley stood before her hat in hand, begging leave to assure her that it
was he, and no evil-disposed person, whom she had beheld, and that he
had followed her to assure her of her safety, and to warn her against a
mad bull that was in the field.

Mrs. Castlemain only bowed and trembled, for she was conscious of being
afraid of a mad something, but not of a mad bull; then, with faltering
steps, she proceeded towards the house, Varley still following.

“Might I presume, madam,” said he, “to take advantage of this
opportunity to present a little petition?” taking a paper from his
pocket, from which also at the same time dropped a German flute——

“Bless me!” cried Mrs. Castlemain, starting, for she thought it a
pistol. But Varley, taking it up, said, “It is only a flute, which
sometimes

                   ‘Discourses most eloquent music.’

But this paper, madam,” he added, bowing and presenting it. And Mrs.
Castlemain, having heard he was poor and a poet, concluded it was a
proposal to print his poems by subscription; and hoping to get rid of
him, she eagerly said, giving him a half-guinea which she had loose in
her pocket,

“It is not necessary for me to read this paper,—but take this.”

The astonished and mortified Varley, who was merely presenting her with
a copy of verses which he had written on her and Emma, comparing them to
a full-blown rose and a rosebud, surveyed the money with a look which
Mrs. Castlemain mistook for one of fierce indignation; and fearing she
had offended him by the smallness of her donation, she immediately took
out her purse, and putting it in his hand, was ready to exclaim like the
old lady in the play,

                 “Take all I have, but spare my life.”

But she only said, “Take whatever you please,—you are quite welcome.”
Then, seeing the gardener approaching, she walked rapidly forward; and
before Varley, who was lost in amazement at the offered purse which she
left in his hand, could recover himself, she had entered a conservatory
communicating with the house, and having locked the door, sat down to
recover herself.

“I have it! I have it!” at last exclaimed Varley. “She thought I was
asking her to subscribe for the relief of some distressed object; and
having a hand

                   “Open as day to melting charity,”

she gave me her _purse_ to dispose of. But what could frighten her so?
What caused her emotion? Certainly my approach fluttered her, and
flutter they say is a sign of love;

    “Deep confusion, rosy terror,
     Quite expressive paint her cheek!”

Oh! Varley, Varley! what a lucky dog art thou!” Then resolving to call
the next day to return the purse and explain the mistake, he went home
in the most happy of reveries.

Poor Mrs. Castlemain, meanwhile, had no such enviable sensations; and
her companions discovered that something disturbed her, though what it
was they were unable to conjecture. At about ten in the evening they
heard the sound of a flute at a distance, which seemed to be drawing
nearer and nearer, and as it did so they saw Mrs. Castlemain become much
agitated.

“How finely the person, whoever he is, plays!” cried Emma; “let us open
the window.”

“Open the window!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain. “Not for the world! And I
will have every door and window closed and barred directly.”

“Dear grandmother! What danger can you apprehend?”

“No matter what; I will be obeyed, Miss Castlemain;” and immediately she
ordered every window and door to be fastened.

“I suspect,” said Emma to Mr. Egerton, “my grandmother thinks it is
Varley come to serenade her!” And Emma was little conscious how truly
she spoke.

The flute meanwhile drew nearer; and had Mrs. Castlemain been a
catholic, she would have crossed herself; while her visible alarm
astonished her companions.

“Surely, madam, if it be a blunderbuss approaching, it comes in the
sweetest shape possible, and I should like to see who carries it.”

“I beg, I _entreat_, you will not think of such a thing,” replied Mrs.
Castlemain, and though reluctant to obey, Mr. Egerton’s respect insured
his obedience.

The flute now came very near, and then the sound appeared to grow
fainter and fainter, till at length it ceased. But when Mrs. Castlemain
had retired for the night it was heard again; and Emma expressed an
earnest wish that her grandmother had not forbidden her to peep at the
musician.

“But I conclude that you recollect her prohibition, strange as it was,
and will attend to it,” replied Mr. Egerton.

“Certainly,” returned Emma. “I am incapable of being so base as to do
behind my grandmother’s back what I should not dare to do in her
presence.” Then, listening to the flute as they went, which was now
evidently under Mrs. Castlemain’s window, who slept in the front of the
house, they retired to their apartments wondering at that lady’s emotion
and commands, and suspecting that they were occasioned by some idle or
well-grounded fear of her young admirer.

Varley, for it was he, having played

                     “How imperfect is expression,”

and other love ditties under Mrs. Castlemain’s window, for he had
contrived to find out which was her room, retired, resolved to come
again early in the morning, though not to approach the house; but he
meant to awake his Juliet by his melting strains, and perhaps draw her
to the window. Accordingly he came; and as he foresaw, he soon saw a
curtain gently drawn aside and closed again. But as it was partly of
clear muslin, he was sure that he could be seen through it; and
immediately ceasing to play, he began to assume despairing looks, and
apostrophize with much action the house that contained his beloved;
while, as he paced the banks of a fine piece of water opposite Mrs.
Castlemain’s window, he seemed as if he had a great mind to throw
himself in, to the terror of that lady; who now being more than ever
convinced that he was insane, was on the point of sending a servant to
watch him, when Varley, feeling hungry, and having had no breakfast,
thought he had exhibited love enough for one morning, and went quickly
back towards the town.

Mrs. Castlemain now began to think seriously of consulting Mr. Egerton,
and telling him of her alarm; but still the dread of ridicule prevailed,
and she remained silent.

“I will certainly not walk in the woods and lane again,” said she to
herself; accordingly she went on the other side of the house, and taking
a book with her, sat down, when tired, in a sort of summer-house at the
end of a walk, surrounded by what had been a ha-ha, but was now filled
with water.

But what can escape the prying eye of love? Varley, having breakfasted,
and till the time for his visit to the wood had arrived, had gone round
the premises, and had seen Mrs. Castlemain go up and down the walk in
question, and then seat herself in the summer-house.

“What an opportunity,” thought he, “to return the purse, and have a
conversation with her in that sweet spot! besides showing my grace and
agility in jumping that watery barrier.”

Mrs. Castlemain was reading at this moment the “Victim of Magical
Delusion,” and was pitying the poor man, who, like herself, was haunted
by one particular person and face; when looking up she saw Varley, who
had leaped over the water, standing before her; and instantly uttering a
loud scream, she sprang forward, locked the door, and fell back almost
insensible in her chair. The gardener was, however, luckily for her, and
unluckily for poor Varley, very near at hand; and hearing his mistress
scream, he came running, armed with his spade.

Varley, who stood trembling and abashed at sight of Mrs. Castlemain’s
situation, had added to the strangeness of his white and green hat, and
his pink pantaloons, a branch of May, which he thought would give him a
pastoral and picturesque appearance, and had therefore gathered as he
came along, and put on one side of his hat. It was no wonder, therefore,
that the gardener should take him for a sort of mad Tom, (every village
having occasionally its mad Tom or its crazy Betty,) and lifting up his
spade, he desired Varley to go away, and not to frighten his mistress.

“I must speak to her, I must indeed,” cried Varley.

“Not you, indeed, poor crazy soul!”

“Crazy! I am not crazy.

‘When the wind’s southerly I know a hawk from a hernshaw,’”

said Varley. “Nay, let me speak to her.”

“There, there, go away! If you are not a little wrong in the head, more
shame for you to go about such a figure, looking like a Miss Molly, and
drest up in flowers. But whosoever you be, as you came over the water,
back over it you shall go again; so off with you, my lad; you shall be
‘Charley over the water.’”

In vain did Varley entreat to be permitted to go out by some path. The
man was resolute, and Varley was forced to attempt the jump; but not
being on the vantage ground as he was before, he could not effect it,
and he fell into the water, whence with great difficulty he contrived to
scramble up on the other side. However, he did reach the land at last,
but in such a condition that he was glad to hide himself all day in the
adjoining wood, and not return to K——, till it was quite dark, lest
the boys in the streets should hoot at him, as did the ploughmen who saw
him run across the field, and pursued him with shouts and derision. The
gardener, meanwhile, was quite vain of his exploit; and looking in at
the summer-house window, assured his lady, who was only just recovering
her senses, that the poor madman was gone, and she had nothing to fear.

“There!” thought Mrs. Castlemain; “even the servant sees the poor wretch
is mad; and when we have left Roselands I will own all that has passed,
and make Emma and Mr. Egerton ashamed of their obstinacy.”

That evening poor Varley stayed quietly at home, excessively chagrined
at his morning’s expedition, and only consoled by the reflection that he
had not his best coat on when he fell in the water.

The next morning he dressed himself in his best coat, waistcoat, and
breeches, and a black hat; and, looking like other people, set out to
put in execution a plan which he had now enabled himself to realize.

“Well, my alarms are now almost over,” said Mrs. Castlemain mentally
that morning when she arose. “In another day we leave K——, and it is
only giving up one walk; and I will take a drive if I wish for air, and
then I shall certainly be safe.” When, therefore, Emma and Mr. Egerton
set out, as usual, for one of their long rambles, Mrs. Castlemain,
instead of going out, sat down to read in her library. The servants had
just brought in the luncheon, and Mrs. Castlemain was preparing to lay
down her book, having ordered the carriage round, when one of the men
came in and told her that a gentleman had called to inquire for Mr.
Egerton; but that hearing he was not at home, he had requested to see
her.

“To see me!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain, turning very pale. “What sort of
looking man is he, John?”

“Oh, he is a queer-looking gentleman, madam; but it is not the poor man,
certainly, that frightened you so much.” And Mrs. Castlemain had just
desired he might be admitted, when, introduced by another servant, in
walked the queer-looking gentleman in the shape of Varley himself; while
John, not understanding his lady’s nods and winks for him to stay in the
room, retired, shutting the door after him.

At first Varley only bowed; while Mrs. Castlemain, rendered respectful
through fear, courtesied as much as he bowed. At length he stammered out
an apology for having unintentionally alarmed her so often, and she
begged him to make no apology. He then approached her, while she
retreated to a door behind her, and, presenting a book to her, begged
she would do him the honour of giving it to Mr. Egerton, he having sent
to London for it, in order to show it to that gentleman; and as it was a
very scarce work, he did not like to leave it in any hands but hers. He
then, with a deep sigh, and a look of such love that Mrs. Castlemain
could not mistake the expression, begged leave to return her purse, as
he had had no other petition to prefer to her than one in the success of
which his heart was much interested; namely, that she would deign to
peruse a little poetical effusion, presenting the paper as he spoke,
which he was unable to restrain. And Mrs. Castlemain took it, begging he
would sit down, she herself still keeping near the door, and exhibiting
evident emotion, which the vain boy attributed to her consciousness of
feelings of tenderness towards him which she was ashamed to indulge.

“What a fine piece of water is that in the park, madam!” said Varley;
“and it looks so calm, so tranquillizing, that a man forced to endure
‘the proud one’s contumely,’ or ‘the pangs of despised love,’ might
easily be tempted to plunge into its silver bosom, and forget his woes
for ever.”

“_Begin_ his woes for ever,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, “if he thinks
properly of the crime of suicide, sir; and I am sure I should never look
at that water again with any pleasure, if a fellow-creature were to
drown himself there.” Then fancying Varley looked very wild, she got up,
saying, “Perhaps you would like to take some refreshment, there it is,
ready.” Then opening the door, she made a precipitate retreat into the
next room, while the delighted Varley seated himself at the table.

As soon as Mrs. Castlemain escaped from the dreaded presence of Varley,
she called the two footmen, and desired them not to lose sight of that
gentleman, (who was the very man, though differently dressed, who had
alarmed her before,) till they had seen him safe out of the grounds, and
into the town of K——, or in the custody of some of his acquaintance,
for she had reason to believe he was mad; and they were to take
particular care that he did not go near the piece of water. The servants
promised to obey her punctually; and Mrs. Castlemain, finding the coach
at the door, jumped in, desiring the man to drive very fast.

Vartey, meanwhile, was regaling himself much at his ease, on excellent
cold pigeon-pie, flattering himself that Mrs. Castlemain was gone to
read his verses. His pride too was gratified by the attendance of the
two servants, who, seeing his very odd faces and gesticulations, when,
laying down his knife and fork, he indulged in a tender reverie, and
congratulated himself on his cleverness in having so well introduced
himself at Roselands, kept looking at each other very significantly, as
much as to say, “Ay, poor man! I see my mistress was right!”

But Varley continued eating till he was ashamed to eat any longer. Then,
beginning to wonder at Mrs. Castlemain’s long absence, which he vainly
tried to flatter himself was owing to the sweet bashful reluctance she
felt to re-enter the room after having perused his verses, he asked the
servants if their lady was particularly engaged.

“My lady, sir! Why, she is gone out; that was she who drove away just
now.”

“Zounds!” cried Varley, starting up with mortified dismay; then, with a
theatrical air, exclaiming,

                  ‘And must I leave thee, Paradise!’”

by which the servants thought he meant the pigeon-pie, he put on his hat
and walked out of the house, not knowing exactly what to make of the
behaviour of its mistress, but satisfied with the eclat, as he thought
it, of being known to the honourable Mrs. Castlemain, of being in love
with her, and of having dared to hint his passion to her in verse. Full
of these thoughts, which made him sometimes jump, dance, and bound
forward as he walked, he was not conscious that the two servants were
behind him; and when he was, he certainly felt no small surprise. But
having that happy vanity which was capable of converting every thing
into a source of pride, he recollected that there were gates to open in
the park, and that Mrs. Castlemain being a lady of the old school, she
had, with old-fashioned politeness, ordered her servants to open the
gates for him—and so they did—by that means confirming his suspicions.
But nothing could exceed his astonishment, when, as he approached the
beautiful piece of water above mentioned, and was dancing towards its
brink to look at some swans, the two servants came up, one on either
side of him, and told him he must walk along the path willingly, or they
must make him.

“Make me! make me! A man like me be controlled by two impertinent
footmen!” cried the indignant Varley.

“Why, look ye, sir,” said John; “it is a good thing for you to have two
anybodies to take care of you; and as to your calling names, if it was
not in consideration of your infirmities, why, we’d soon cure you of
that fun.”

“My infirmities! rascals! I’ll go and complain to your mistress of your
insolence.”

“Ay, do, and she will tell you that we only obeyed orders in not letting
you go near the water.”

“Obeyed orders!” exclaimed Varley;

                             ‘——Man, proud man,
                Dress’d in a little brief authority——’”

Then recollecting what he had said about drowning himself, and his
gestures as if he meant to do it, he imputed this order to weak but
alarmed tenderness, and, clasping his hands in an ecstasy, exclaimed—

                     “I see what Emma meant to say,
                     My Varley, live for me.’”

And he bounded along the path with such swiftness, that the servants,
now more convinced than ever of his insanity, could hardly keep him in
sight. But at this moment he met two gentlemen whom he knew, who each
took him under the arm; and the servants seeing him thus, as they
thought, in custody, and being now long out of the grounds of their
mistress, returned to Roselands, satisfied that they had done all that
was necessary.

When Mrs. Castlemain returned home, she questioned the servants relative
to what had passed, and received from them an account completely
corroborative of all her ideas relative to Varley.

“Well,” said Mrs. Castlemain to herself, “shall I, or shall I not, tell
all that has passed to Mr. Egerton and Emma, and triumph in my superior
penetration? No, I dare not; for they will very likely still assert that
this youth is not mad; and that I can’t bear; for, if not mad, his
pursuit of me is an insult not to be endured, and one which I have not
deserved. Had I painted my face, and gone about half undressed, and
without a cap, I might have been taken for a woman of intrigue, and a
silly, vain boy might have dared to make love to me; but for a woman of
my propriety of conduct and appearance to be the object of a pursuit
like this!—No, no, ‘tis impossible; I must, in self-defence, think the
poor wretch insane. However, I will desire my servants not to mention
what has passed to Mr. Egerton and Emma, and I will be equally silent
myself.” Accordingly, she only said when they returned, “Mr. Varley has
been here, and left this book for you;” and, seeing an arch smile on the
lip of him and Emma, she suddenly left the room to avoid further
questions. The book was that evening returned, with a note of thanks to
Varley from Mr. Egerton.

The next morning they set off for London, having given the town of K——
something to talk of for at least a week. One person reported that Mr.
Egerton and Mrs. Castlemain were privately married; another, that they
were going to town to be married; a third, that Mrs. Castlemain, having
vainly tried to get Mr. Egerton for herself, because he was in love with
Emma, and not willing his wealth should go out of her family, was going
to sacrifice that beautiful young creature to that old fellow through
avarice. Popkison said, he supposed the young Parson was going to get
ordained. Mrs. Evans declared it made her heart ache to think that poor
dear Mrs. Castlemain had so little regard for her reputation as to go
about everywhere with that Mr. Egerton, especially as it was shrewdly
suspected he had been the gallant of her daughter. But this she took
care never to say in the hearing of Mr. Vincent.

“Now then,” said Emma, “we are on the road to this boasted metropolis.
But do you think, my dear sir, that I shall certainly admire the style
of life and the society which I shall meet with there?”

“Not at first,” replied Mr. Egerton. “You will feel, even though
conscious of wealth, and of the importance which wealth gives, like a
drop in the ocean, or like an atom in creation, when you find yourself
in the immense crowd of London, an unknown individual. You will probably
wonder at first that there should be so many persons in the world whom
you neither know nor are known by; and it will be so impossible for you
to believe this almost mortifying truth, that, as you drive along the
busy streets, you will fancy at every turn that you meet some one whom
you have seen before; but in time you will form so many acquaintances,
that this illusion of your fancy, or your self-love, will become a
reality. Admirers, if not friends, will soon surround the carriage of
Mrs. Castlemain’s heiress when it stops at a shop in Bond-street, and
all the adulation which can attend on youth, wealth, and I will venture
to add beauty, will in a very short time, my beloved girl, be yours!
And——” Here Mr. Egerton paused; for Emma suddenly leaned her head on
the table, and burst into a violent flood of tears; for she felt how
contemptible, how valueless would be to her the admiration of the whole
world, if unaccompanied by that of one being whom she might never behold
again;

    “——an atom to creation, yet of power
     To hide the whole creation from her.”

Mr. Egerton and Mrs. Castlemain both understood the cause of her tears,
but delicately forbore to notice them; and at length Mr. Egerton
continued thus: “But in the conversation of flattering men and
flattering women you will not find that society of which I have so often
boasted; and it will require a long residence in London to procure an
entrance into it. It will soon be known that you must be an ornament to
a ball-room, or any assembly which you will honour with your presence.
But those whom good taste and a respect for talent lead to assemble at
their houses persons of both sexes for the purposes of conversation,
will not even suspect, perhaps, that a young and admired woman has
similar tastes with themselves, and had rather listen in modest silence
to the converse of the intellectual and the learned, an unobserved,
though not uninterested auditor, than shine the gazed at meteor of a
ball-room, or form the centre of an admiring crowd in a fashionable
assembly. But we will endeavour to teach them this, and then, I trust,
my dear Emma will feel how just is my partiality to London society.”

“I wish it may be so,” said Emma; “but at any rate we shall have gained
something; we shall no longer be forced to listen to dirty gossip, to
stories of vice and folly, which often have no foundation; and as no one
in this great world of London can know the private concerns of his
neighbour, because in London there are no neighbours—and as Mr. D.
cannot speak ill of Lady S. because he can’t be sure that he is not in
company with some near relation of the lady’s, I am convinced that my
good feelings will be more often called forth than my bad ones, during
my residence in the great city; and I shall scarcely sleep to-night for
joy at thinking, that in two days more we shall be in London.”

At this moment, as they turned up a hill, on which was a sort of seat
made of turf, Mrs. Castlemain, looking out of the window, started back
in great trepidation, declaring that there was the madman again, and
more wild than ever, for he was using violent gesticulations, and even
in the carriage she felt afraid of him.

“My dear madam, let me _assure_ you,” cried Mr. Egerton, “he is _not_
mad, poor youth!”

“I don’t like to be laughed at,” said Mrs. Castlemain.

“Nor would I presume to laugh at you; but it is very certain that this
ton-studying, affected, poetical boy has set you up as an idol to
worship, and I doubt not but he is standing there on purpose to catch a
last glimpse of you.”

“Nonsense!” cried Mrs. Castlemain, throwing herself back in the
carriage, drawing up the glass first; while Emma, laughing violently,
was peeping at Varley through the front windows. The truth was, that he
had taken this early walk, not only for the purpose, as Mr. Egerton
suspected, of endeavouring to see Mrs. Castlemain, in order that he
might write a sonnet on the occasion, and paint to his companions at
K—— the elegant woe he had experienced; but in the hope that he should
be favoured with an invitation from Mr. Egerton to call on the family in
London. Finding, however, that the coach was not even in sight when he
got to the top of the hill, he thought he might as well amuse away the
pangs of tender expectation, by rehearsing a speech which he was going
to make at a debating society in London, whither he was soon to return;
and thence arose the vehemence of gesticulation which Mrs. Castlemain
beheld. When the coach drew near, Varley took off his hat; and while it
passed him, he made a most obsequious bow, but vainly tried to behold
the object of his passion. Greatly also was he discomforted by receiving
only a cold bow from Mr. Egerton, instead of the expected invitation,
while his countenance and affectation had an immediate effect on the
risible muscles even of Mr. Egerton, which were so rarely acted upon; an
effect which was not at all counteracted by a “Let me tell you, this is
_mighty disagreeable_“ and “I am very glad we have left K——,” from the
incensed Mrs. Castlemain.

They little suspected, nor even did Varley himself, the mortification
that awaited him on his return to K——; a mortification infinitely
greater than that of not having received an invitation to call on Mr.
Egerton in town, nor even a gracious smile and bow of adieu from the
divine widow, in return for his elegant verses.

Popkison was riding along the road to Roselands, at the very time when
the servants of Mrs. Castlemain were following Varley; and from a hill
commanding the park, he saw Varley’s approach to the water, and the
singular conduct of the men in consequence of it. “This is very
strange,” thought Popkison; and soon after seeing Varley running along
the footway to the town, while the men turned back towards Roselands, he
clapped spurs to his horse; and being of a very inquisitive, as well as
malevolent and gossiping spirit, he rode after the men, and began
questioning them relative to what he had seen. Delighted to tell all
they knew on the subject, and proud, not only of their valour in taking
charge of a madman, but also of their spirited humanity in having dared
to oppose him in order to save his life, they told him every thing he
asked, calling Varley “the poor distracted creature!” thereby gratifying
Popkison’s most favourite propensities so much, that he sincerely
regretted that an indispensable engagement to dine in the country that
day, prevented him from going back to K—— to tell this story, and
raise a laugh at Varley’s expense. But this benevolent indulgence he was
forced to put off till the evening of the ensuing day, when he knew he
was to meet Varley at a rout; and he entered the room just as the poor
young man was haranguing to a group of ladies and gentlemen, on the
beauties or Roselands, and on the excellent pigeon-pie which Mrs.
Castlemain’s cook made; having before informed the company, in order to
give them an idea how intimate he was already become with the family,
that he had seen them that morning also.

“So!” said Popkison with a malevolent grin, “Mrs. Castlemain gave you
cold pie, did she? I wonder she did not give you cold pudding to settle
your love, or rather your brain.”

“My brain, sir! Do you think that wants settling?”

“Not I; but no doubt Mrs. Castlemain does. So she sent her two servants
home with you!”

“Home! No—only to open the gates for me.”

“But would not _one_ have done as well?”

“Yes, but it would not have been so _respectful_; and persons of ancient
families are always remarkable for carrying good breeding and ceremony
even to a fault.”

“But where was the servants’ good breeding, I wonder, when they
_insisted_ on your not walking by the water’s side?”

“Amazing! How should you know that?” replied Varley, too much thrown off
his guard to deny it.

“No matter how I know it,—is it not a fact?”

“Yes; but a fact of so delightful a nature, and originating from so
charming a cause! Excuse me, but I cannot explain myself.”

“What’s all this nonsensical rhapsody, Varley?” replied Popkison, “I
shall begin to think Mrs. Castlemain’s idea was right.” Then to the
amusement of the company, but the shame and agony of poor Varley, he
related all he had heard from the servants, and even mimicked Varley
while eating and walking, as the servants themselves had mimicked
him,—till the mortified and self-adoring Varley left the house in a
rage. And not being able to bear the ridicule which he knew would
continue to be his portion, he threw himself into a coach that very
night, having told his friends he was summoned away on business; and
having crossed the country to a friend’s house, about fifty miles from
London, on the Windsor road, he stayed there one night, and proceeded to
town on top of a stage-coach, the day our travellers arrived at most
elegant apartments provided for them in the best part of Piccadilly.

But to return to them; at length, on the third day of their journey, the
distant dome of St. Paul’s burst on their sight, and proclaimed their
approach to the metropolis.

“Now then I shall soon see the good Orwells!” exclaimed Emma. “Oh! how
glad I shall be to see _them_, how glad they will be to see _me_, the
poor little babe whom——” Here a look from Mr. Egerton broke off her
discourse; for the gloom that had during the whole day been evidently
gathering on the brow of Mrs. Castlemain, now burst into a convulsive
fit of sobbing, which both alarmed and affected her affectionate
companions. Yes, they were approaching the metropolis, that place where
her discarded daughter, with the lovely girl who sat beside her in her
arms, was about to commit the crimes of self-murder and infanticide, in
consequence of her unrelenting severity; and she was also about to
behold, humbled and conscience-stricken to behold, the benevolent
beings, the good Samaritans, who had poured oil and wine into the wounds
which she had made, and had proved more truly parents to her child than
she herself had been!

“But you are spared to me, and I trust I have done my duty to _you_,”
she at length articulated, catching Emma convulsively to her bosom.

“You have done your duty by us, and by the Orwells too, my dear madam,”
said Mr. Egerton in a soothing tone of voice, “and would have done so by
your daughter, but for the representations of a villain.”

“A villain!” echoed Emma, turning pale with painful emotion, for that
villain she remembered was the man who gave her birth. “Alas!” thought
Emma, whose mournful recollections ‘and blighted prospects in love’ had
been, unknown to herself, dissipated for some hours by the consciousness
of the favourable circumstances under which she was going to be
introduced into fashionable life, and who was feeling the advantages
attending on being young, handsome, accomplished, and an
heiress,—”alas! how many, perhaps, are the drawbacks on the apparently
most brilliant situation, could one but commune with the closely veiled
heart! Who will suspect, while I am smiling amidst the glittering crowds
of London, that I _know_ my father to be a villain, and that I feel in
the secret recess of my heart all the torments of a virtuous but
hopeless passion?”

Mr. Egerton observed the reverie into which she had fallen, and, in
order to put an end to it, directed her attention to the beauty of
Highgate Hill and the surrounding country. And soon the everywhere
increasing promises of an approaching London, the regularly built rows
or houses stretching on every side, bearing the pompous names of
Paradise-Row, Paragon-Place, Phœnix-Terrace, by awakening a new train of
ideas in her mind, weakened the force of old and painful associations,
and substituted in their stead a variety of new and pleasant ones.

At about three in the afternoon they arrived at their place of
destination,—not without Emma’s having, as Mr. Egerton predicted,
several times fallen into the error or fancying she saw persons whom she
knew; while Mrs. Castlemain beheld, in the brilliant scene of wealth and
business and existence around her, nothing but that London where her
daughter had suffered, and where she had nearly died the death of the
despairing. Her feelings therefore in consequence of this remembrance
were indeed insupportable; and as soon as she alighted, she retired into
her own apartment, unable even to bear to witness the delight of Emma at
the novelty and splendour of every thing which she beheld from the
windows.

“How much more interesting, my dear Emma, would this scene, pleasant as
it is, become to you,” said Mr. Egerton, “if I could tell you the names
of some of the gentlemen whom you see standing in groups near the
windows, or lounging up and down the street! for among the throng are
probably men of rank without name, and men of name without rank,
generals and admirals, who have fought and bled for their country, and
orators who have endeavoured to promote her interests in the senate.
Perhaps at this moment some fashionable poet, whose works have delighted
you, is passing under the window, or some distinguished pleader, whose
eloquence, even in newspaper reports, has aroused your feelings in the
cause of oppressed innocence.”

“How tantalizing,” cried Emma, “and how mortifying it is to think, that
of so many well-known persons I know not one!”

At this moment a stage-coach passed; and seated on the top of it, though
muffled up, as it were, Emma beheld and recognised Varley, who, with
laudable economy, was contented to be an outside passenger to the great
city, whither he was hastening to gain a livelihood by the exertion of
his industry and talents. Immediately Emma, being thrown off her guard
by the pleasure of seeing one face that she knew, exclaimed “It is Mr.
Varley!” kissing her hand in even delighted recognition; while poor
Varley, mortified at being known in such a situation, and too angry with
Mrs. Castlemain to wish to be recognised by any of her family, turned
away his head without noticing her salute, in hopes by so doing she
would imagine she had mistaken some one for him.

“It certainly _was_ Varley,” said Mr. Egerton. “The foolish young man
would not return the bow, because he is evidently ashamed of what he
ought to be proud of, namely, the virtue of squaring his expenses to his
circumstances.”

“He is certainly following my grandmother,” said Emma, laughing, “but I
will not tell her of his arrival for fear of alarming her.”

At this moment they heard a violent crash and loud screams, and throwing
up the window, they saw that owing to a hole in the street the coach had
been overturned, and poor Varley precipitated from his elevated station
into the kennel. The first impulse of Emma was to run out herself, end
inquire if any mischief had been done. But Mr. Egerton prevented her;
nor did he go himself, as he saw that the only inside passenger was
taken out unhurt; and he soon beheld Varley on his feet, evidently
suffering no inconvenience but that of being covered with mud.

“But surely, sir,” said Emma, “it would be only kind in you to ask Mr.
Varley to come in and take a glass of wine after his fright!”

“No, my dear girl,” he replied. “I suspect, from Varley’s manner, that
it would be very unkind; for his self-love would be more wounded by the
conviction that we had witnessed his distress, than by our desire to
comfort him under it; and I dare say the foolish boy is more mortified
at the possibility of our having seen him on the top of a coach, and
thence precipitated into the dirt, than he would have been had we seen
him reeling home from a tavern in a state of inebriety. Such are the
false estimates of good and evil appearance, which we all in our turns
make.” They now saw a fat, vulgar, loosely and dirtily dressed woman run
across the street, who going up to Varley with open arms, exclaimed with
loud sobs and many tears, “Oh! my dear Billy! my dear Billy! are you
sure you are not hurt, my Billy! my poor dear child!”

It was Varley’s mother, who expecting his arrival, had gone out to meet
him, and had seen the accident happen before she had reached near enough
to ascertain the degree of damage that had ensued.

It was not in the nature of Emma or Mr. Egerton to experience any thing
but respect and sympathy for the fears of a mother for the safety of a
darling son, however ridiculously expressed; and at first even the
populace respected her alarm. But knowing it to be groundless, and poor
dear Billy wholly unhurt, they could not survey without excessive
laughter, the endeavours of Mrs. Varley to clean her son; who, taking
from her pocket a handkerchief begrimed with snuff, wiped the poor
youth’s face with it so elaborately, that it was streaked from one end
to the other; and the sight produced such excessive mirth in the
spectators, that Varley, suspecting the Roseland family were witnesses
to his mortification, broke from his poor mother’s grasp, and running
down the street was out of sight in a twinkling; while he from that time
cherished a spite against them, which he took the earliest opportunity
of indulging.

It is curious to observe in the history of men, and even of kingdoms,
how often the destiny and the most important event in the lives of both,
are to be traced up to the most apparently trifling and insignificant of
events.

While watching the motions of the discomfited beau, neither Emma nor Mr.
Egerton was conscious of the effect which the appearance of the former
had had on the gay crowd between them; but when Varley had disappeared,
Emma blushed with confusion, at finding herself the object of universal
attention, while many glasses were levelled at her, and some gentlemen
absolutely stopped in order to gaze more at their ease at the new and
beautiful face before them.

Emma instantly drew back, sorry to find her indiscretion had deprived
her of the pleasure which she derived from watching the passers-by, as
she saw several persons pass and repass evidently from the hope of
seeing her again; for, whatever satisfaction her vanity might derive
from this tribute to her charms, it was dearly purchased, she thought,
by being forced to forego that of standing at the window. But after all
this was a heartless enjoyment, and a mere gratification of the eyes and
the curiosity. A dearer and a more respectable one awaited her the next
day, as every feeling most near to her heart decided her to pay her
first visit to the Orwells.

The next morning, when they assembled at the breakfast-table, Emma
proposed going at eleven o’clock to call on the Orwells.

“You are in a great hurry, I think,” said Mrs. Castlemain, starting, and
in a tone of pique.

“Not in too great a hurry surely, madam,” replied Mr. Egerton, “to see
persons to whom we all owe so much!”

“Well, well,” she returned with a deep sigh, “but you had better send
them word that you are coming.”

“They know it already; I never like what are called agreeable surprises;
I think that by depriving persons of anticipations of pleasure, one robs
them of more than half the pleasure itself; I therefore wrote to the
Orwells last night to announce our visit to-day.”

“I think you might have consulted me first,” said Mrs. Castlemain,
angrily; “but I suppose you will not insist on _my_ going with you.”

“Certainly not, though we shall regret your absence; but why, dear
madam, should you not go?”

“Oh! because—because it will be for many reasons a painful visit to
me.”

“Then get it over.”

“Besides, the Orwells don’t wish to see me.

“Not to see you! Not to see their benefactress!”

“_Their_ benefactress! Oh, Mr. Egerton!”

“Yes, madam, their benefactress. My dear lady, why will you always dwell
on your past and repented errors, and forget the virtues by which you
have made such honourable atonement? The Orwells owe you _much_, and I
am sure that they will be cruelly disappointed if you do not accompany
us.”

“Do you think so?” said Mrs. Castlemain, in a gentler tone, soothed and
encouraged by this speech; and on Emma’s tenderly approaching her, and
begging her to go with them, she consented, and as soon as the carriage
came to the door, they got in and drove to the house of Mr. Orwell.

It was in a small street in Kensington, and was pleasantly situated on
the side of a wide field, while the back-windows commanded the
well-cultivated country adjoining. This house, furniture and all, was
the gift of Mrs. Castlemain, who accompanied it by a deed of settlement
of a handsome annuity on Mr. and Mrs. Orwell for their joint lives,
sufficiently large for them to give up half the produce of their
business to their nephew, and enjoy the blessing of comparatively
country air; while, as they grazed with ever-new delight on the comforts
that surrounded them in their new habitation, their grateful and
conscious hearts whispered, “All these are the reward of an act of
kindness to a suffering and friendless fellow-creature!”

The Orwells, as soon as the church-clock struck eleven, began to count
the moments which must still intervene before they beheld their
anxiously-expected guests; while Mrs. Orwell endeavoured to beguile the
time by calling the maid again and again to rub the mahogany
tables,—being never satisfied with their brightness, so eager was she
to show Mrs. Castlemain the care she took of the furniture which she had
bestowed. Mr. Orwell, unable to sit still, walked up and down before the
door; and Mrs. Orwell had stroked down her bustling because
clear-starched muslin apron, at least twenty times, as she heard the
sound of an approaching carriage, before the expected party arrived.

“I wonder who the child is like, my dear,” said she, joining her husband
in his walk.

“The child! You forget, old woman, that the child is now a young lady.”

“True, true; but I think I see her now as when—” Here affecting
recollections made emotion break off her speech; and the old man,
equally affected, spoke not, but pressed her arm, which was locked in
his.

“I wonder whether she is like the drawings we have of her,” resumed Mrs.
Orwell; and in spite of her knowledge that Emma was now indeed a woman
grown, her idea of her could not get beyond those drawings, and she
clothed the image of Emma in the childish form which they exhibited.

The expected visitants, meanwhile, were not without their agitations.
Mr. Egerton was much affected by the sight of Mrs. Castlemain’s
agitation; but in Emma’s he participated, for it was the flutter of
joyful sensibility. She was to see the preservers of her and her
mother’s life! and the tear that trembled in her eye, was one of
grateful pleasure. At length they arrived at the little gate which
opened into the small garden leading to the house in which Mrs. Orwell
had intended to await her guests; but as soon as the coach was drawing
up, overcome with trepidation, she hastened back into the parlour, and,
scarcely knowing what she did, began to set the chairs and wipe down the
table with her handkerchief. Meanwhile, Mr. Orwell stood bowing at the
door. Mr. Egerton got out first, and seizing the old man’s hand,
pronounced, “God bless you, sir!” with such earnestness of feeling, that
be took from Mr. Orwell the power of replying.

Mrs. Castlemain then, leaning on Mr. Egerton, tottered into the house;
and Emma bounded out after her; while Mr. Orwell followed, raising his
eyes in pious thankfulness for having been allowed to save the life of
such a creature. Mrs. Orwell stood at the door of the parlour to
courtesy if not to speak her welcome. But Mrs. Castlemain did not notice
her; she rushed past her, and throwing herself on the sofa, hid her face
with her hands.

“Shall I get the lady anything?” said Mrs. Orwell to Mr. Egerton.

“No; you had better take no notice of her,” he replied in a low voice;
and Mrs. Orwell turned from Mrs. Castlemain to look at Emma.

“Bless me!” cried she, “is it possible? Can that fine young lady be—”

“It is the child whom—” replied Emma; she could say no more, but
gracefully throwing herself into the extended arms of Mrs. Orwell, she
sobbed out her thanks on her shoulder; and Mr. Egerton, seizing Mrs.
Orwell’s hand, raised it to his lips as respectfully as he would have
done that of an empress.

“But where is Mr. Orwell?” said Emma recovering herself; while the old
man, wiping a tear from his eyes, came forward and affectionately
saluted the wet and glowing cheek which Emma presented to him.

“This is a proud day for you both,” said Mr. Egerton, as he and Emma
seated themselves on the offered chairs.

“Yes,” observed Emma, “it must give you great pleasure to see one who
owes you so much.”

“But I am the person the most obliged,” cried Mrs. Castlemain uncovering
her face, “and I—I cannot even articulate one thank.”

“Madam,” replied Mr. Orwell, “it is for us to thank you! Look round! all
the comforts we enjoy are, you well know, the gift of your benevolence!”

“Say rather of my _gratitude_,” she resumed, “for obligations which I
can never sufficiently repay. Let me,” she added, taking a hand of both
Mr. and Mrs. Orwell, “let me clasp in mine the hands of the preservers
of—” and as she pressed their trembling hands, she bowed her head on
them with the humility of a contrite spirit.

“You have a very pleasant house here,” said Mr. Egerton.

“Yes, indeed,” replied both at once; “and I am sure,” continued Mr.
Orwell, “that coming to it has lengthened both our lives.”

“God be praised!” cried Mrs. Castlemain, smiling through her tears, and
bowing to the gratified Orwells. Soon after, as she followed the eyes of
Emma towards some drawings which decorated the room, she saw enough to
convince her those drawings were by Agatha, and she again hid her face
in her handkerchief.

“But why is there no drawing _here_?” said Emma, pointing to a vacant
space over the chimney-piece. “If you have not one large enough for that
place, I will give you one of mine.”

“I should rejoice to have it,” said Mrs. Orwell, “but——”

“My dear,” interrupted Mr. Orwell hastily, “_some other time_, not now,
we will explain.”

Mrs. Castlemain at this moment raised her head; and seeing by the nails
in the wall that a drawing or picture had once hung in that place,
suspected the truth, and desired to know whether a picture or drawing
had not for some particular reason been removed.

“Yes, madam,” replied Mr. Orwell, “one which we thought it might give
you pain to see.”

“No matter,” rejoined Mrs. Castlemain with quickness, “I would rather
you should inflict pain on me than not;”—and Mrs. Orwell brought in the
drawing. It was a coloured drawing representing Mrs. Orwell with Emma
pale and dying on her lap; while Agatha, on her knees beside her, was
awaiting with clasped hands and a look of wild anguish the effect of the
nutriment which Mrs. Orwell was going to convey into the infant’s mouth.

“It is _very_ like her,” said Mr. Egerton with a quivering lip.

“It is like, indeed!” said Emma, gazing wistfully on the beloved face of
her unhappy mother.

“It is not like my child as _I knew_ her!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain
wildly, and falling back on the sofa in an agony almost too great to
bear.

“I would not be that poor lady for all the world!” thought Mrs.
Orwell;—”my poor Mary died in my arms!——Sir, sir,” said Mrs. Orwell,
affectionately pressing Mr. Egerton’s arm, “were not you the gentleman
who were with——”

“We will talk of those things another time, my dear madam,” interrupted
Mr. Egerton; then approaching Mrs. Castlemain, he asked her if she had
not better return home; to which proposal she thankfully assented; and
Mr. Egerton having put her into her carriage, and well knowing she would
prefer solitude to company, desired the carriage to return for them as
soon as it had set down Mrs. Castlemain.

“Now, my dear friends,” said Mr. Egerton, “I will tell you all you wish
to know.” And Emma, as well as the Orwells, listened with eager interest
to the description of Agatha’s last illness and death, and the journey
Mr. Egerton took with his orphan charge; while ever and anon the deeply
interested old couple interrupted him with exclamations of “Dear child!
poor little girl!” then turning to gaze with pleasure almost amounting
to rapture on the lovely and expressive face of the being whom they had
been the means of preserving.

Almost daily did Emma and Mr. Egerton visit the Orwells; and Mrs.
Castlemain too very often forced herself to call on them; but she was
never easy in their presence, and was also conscious that, however
gratefully they felt towards her as their benefactress, a chill came
over their feelings when they thought of her as the unforgiving mother
of Agatha; and at such times she could not help recollecting, that in
Agatha’s narrative she had herself contrasted with her own mother’s
conduct the benevolence of these strangers. But to the pleasure which
Emma and Mr. Egerton derived from being with these good old people there
was no drawback, and many a day did Emma spend with them alone; for she
thought that they had a right to some hours of that existence which they
had preserved; and the joy that sparkled in their countenance whenever
she appeared, gave her more heartfelt satisfaction than the homage paid
her by admiring crowds. They were more at ease with Emma than they had
ever been with her mother; for she united to the dignity of Agatha a
degree of graciousness and playfulness of manner wholly unknown to her;
and never once were the Orwells reminded by Emma’s manners, though they
had often been by Agatha’s, that there was any difference between them
in rank and situation.

But the pleasure which Emma derived from visiting the Orwells was not
wholly the result of a feeling of duty fulfilled. They had informed her
that a very handsome young man had called on them a few months preceding
her arrival in town, and had told them that he came to see them, from
the respect their conduct to Mrs. Danvers and her child had excited in
him; and that having stayed with them an hour or two, during which time
he had informed them that he knew Mrs. and Miss Castlemain and Mr.
Egerton, he had taken his leave without letting them know his name or
place of abode. But Emma was at no loss to discover who this visitant to
the Orwells was; and the consciousness that St. Aubyn, actuated no doubt
by the interest he still felt in her, had been at that house, had sat in
that apartment, and had conversed with the owners of it, gave a degree
of charm in her eyes to them and to their residence, which other
feelings, though very powerful, could not alone have bestowed.

Emma often recollected that Mr. Orwell had once been opulent, and had
probably been no stranger to the luxuries which opulence bestows; she
therefore could not rest till she had seen his old age in possession of
most of the enjoyments which his youth had known.

“I wonder whether he ever kept a close carriage?” thought Emma; and she
contrived to find out that he had not, but that for many years he had
had a one-horse chair, in which he used to drive his mother. This
intelligence, and her wishes in consequence of it, were immediately made
known to Mr. Egerton, who joyfully undertook to purchase a low-built
open chaise, and a steady horse to draw it; while Mrs. Castlemain and
Mr. Egerton disputed which of them should defray the expenses attendant
on this new appendage to the establishment of the old couple. But at
length Mr. Egerton carried his point; and till Emma came of age, and had
an allowance of her own, it was agreed that Mr. Egerton should be at all
the charges incident to this gift.

“Dear me! see what a pretty little carriage has stopped at our door!”
said Mrs. Orwell to her husband, when Emma, who had come to spend the
day with them, was standing by her side at the window.

“A pretty carriage, indeed!” replied he; “I wonder whose it can be; for
see, the servant who is in it is getting out, and coming hither. It must
be a mistake, unless he brings some message to you, Miss Castlemain.”

“He has made no mistake,” cried Emma; “and I have to request that you,
my dear sir, will drive me a little way on the road, that I may see how
the horse goes.”

“I drive you, my dear!”

“Yes; you know you used to drive your mother, and I hope and trust that
for many a day to come you will drive Mrs. Orwell in that chaise for my
sake; for that chaise and horse are yours, if you will do us the honour
of accepting them.”

The delighted old couple, well aware that in accepting this gift they
should impart more pleasure than they received, gratefully acceded to
her request, and Mr. Orwell had the pride and satisfaction of driving
Emma through the beautiful environs of Kensington.

But though Emma derived unmixed satisfaction from her visits to the
Orwells, they frequently beheld her with mingled pleasure and pain; for
Mrs. Orwell, like all women, quick-sighted to the feelings of her sex,
soon discovered that some secret disquiet preyed on the mind of Emma,
and she suspected her young favourite was in love.

“And if she _were_,” said Mr. Orwell, petulantly, when Mrs. Orwell
communicated her discovery to him,—”if she be in love, as she can’t
love in vain, that I am sure of, her cares, if she has any, can’t
proceed from that source.”

“But perhaps she loves some one whom her grandmother does not approve!
for you remember that very handsome young man’s calling on us, to see us
as the preservers of Miss Castlemain, and who knows but it may be her
mother’s sad story over again?”

“God forbid!” ejaculated Mr. Orwell; and he resolved to watch Emma as
attentively as his wife had done; nor was he slow to discover in her
symptoms which alarmed him for her future peace, though they _both_
thought that Emma’s spirits seemed to grow better from day to day.

Nor were they mistaken. Though Emma thought that she could love one
alone, she was not insensible to the pleasure of being admired and
addressed by sensible and respectable men, amongst whom Sir Charles
Maynard had pleaded his suit, but pleaded in vain. And now, Mr. Egerton
and Mrs. Castlemain having both renewed some of the acquaintance of
their youth, she often associated at her grandmother’s table with
persons of acknowledged talents and great conversational powers; and she
had also been introduced into those parties which she and Mr. Egerton
used to discuss under the name of conversationes. These parties were
held at a house where she would infallibly have met Mrs. Felton, had not
that lady been at variance with the mistress of it; nor did they resume
their acquaintance till Emma left London.

On these evenings they used to arrive at the lady’s house at an early
hour, and were introduced into a most elegant and tastefully decorated
apartment, containing a party sufficiently large to admit of its being
formed into many groups, but not large enough to preclude the
possibility of walking about with ease and comfort. Amongst the company
were usually men and women of the highest rank in the country, but
waiving all the distinctions of their rank and situation, and only
desirous of recommending themselves by their own talents, or their
graceful and respectful attention to the exhibited talents of others;
for many of both sexes who held a distinguished place in the literature,
the arts, or the sciences of the day, were mingled in this fashionable
throng, and joining in that greatest of all delights, rational
conversation. Emma, though her polite hostess frequently endeavoured to
call her forth, was always contented to listen; but it was in silence so
animated and intelligent, that once, as she timidly declined giving a
decisive opinion on a subject which she was hearing discussed, an
elderly gentleman, turning to his neighbour, observed that that young
lady need not speak in order to charm, for that she reminded him of the
lines of the poet with one word altered—

    “Alike her speaking and her silence move,
     Whose voice is music, and whose looks are love.”

At the close of one of these evenings our heroine and her friends
observed that the party had increased so much that the adjoining room
was full of company, while they heard one voice, louder than the rest,
speaking alone; and as the folding-doors which divided the rooms were at
this moment thrown open, Mrs. Castlemain, with infinite amazement,
beheld Varley, standing up in the middle of the room, speaking with
great vociferation, and using gestures of the most violent description.

It was indeed Varley, exercising for the amusement of the company a
talent, which, as I have before observed, he possessed in no mean
degree, viz. that of spouting, or acting. He was not the mimic or copier
of others; on the contrary, he gave his own conception of certain parts,
both in comedy and tragedy, from which, with the occasional aid of paint
and dress, he was in the habit of acting detached scenes, in a very
amusing and interesting manner. It had long been the first object of
Varley’s ambition to get introduced into fashionable circles; and to do
that he would willingly have consented to play Punch, or grin through a
horse-collar, had such accomplishments been deemed necessary to procure
such an introduction. At this acme of bis ambition he luckily was
introduced to a gentleman of some rank, who was a Pidcock or a Polito in
his way, and was famous for assembling at his house those rarities, or
monsters, or wild-beasts, denominated remarkable persons, or persons
possessed of curious and amusing talents. Dwarfs, giants,
ventriloquists, Turks, parrots, monkeys, mimics, often formed the rare
and entertaining menagerie of this gentleman when he opened his house to
fashionable society; and having been told by his hair-dresser that a
young man of his acquaintance in the war-office had great talents for
spouting, the delighted Varley received an invitation to dine with this
gentleman, who, finding he really had the talents imputed to him,
invited him to a party; and thence he gained admission to the still more
tonish house of the lady where Mrs. Castlemain saw him.

It was the first time of Varley’s appearing there, when his evil genius
led the family from Roselands thither also.

Such is the power of prepossession, that even seeing Varley at this
house had not power to remove Mrs. Castlemain’s impressions concerning
him, and she said to a gentleman near her—”How shocking it is that no
one has humanity enough to interrupt that poor young man, and lead him
home!” Then seeing Mr. Egerton, she exclaimed, “There, Mr. Egerton! here
is your boasted London society, indeed! How dreadfully cruel and
unprincipled it is for persons to amuse themselves with the ravings of a
madman!”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Egerton, “Mr. Varley is only showing off as a
spouter, and is now acting Benedict. Approach, and you will be convinced
of it.” And as Emma, who was already listening to him, smilingly
beckoned her, Mrs. Castlemain leaning on Mr. Egerton’s arm timidly drew
near. But as Varley’s eye happened at this moment to turn towards Mrs.
Castlemain, the consciousness that she had it in her power to tell a
ridiculous story of her mistaking him for a madman, so completely
overset him, that after fruitlessly endeavouring to recollect himself,
and go on with his speech, he complained of illness occasioned by the
intense heat of the room, and made a precipitate retreat before any one
could stop him.

But when was excessive vanity unaccompanied by malignity? Varley, who
was never happy except he was in all places the prominent person, was so
provoked at the power which Mrs. Castlemain’s appearance had on him, as
it prevented his continuing to be that evening a centre of attraction,
that he determined to be revenged; and whether she did or did not tell
the story of his love, and its results, he was resolved to inflict
mortification to the best of his power on her and Emma, in return for
that which they had occasioned him that evening, and at K——.
Accordingly, being at this time a writer in a fashionable newspaper, he
inserted the following paragraph:—

“We hear from undoubted authority, that the Hon. Mrs. C——, grandmother
to the beautiful Northern star that now glitters in our hemisphere,
intends to obtain letters patent for this young lady to bear the arms
and take the name of C——n, as she was not born in wedlock, and
therefore could not otherwise be called by the ancient and noble name of
C——n, though she will inherit some of the estates of that family; thus
endeavouring to hide this terrible stain on the purity of the T——n
family, by the spotless shield of that of C——n. This may be called _an
escutcheon of pretence_ indeed!”

This paragraph had all the power to wound the mother and daughter of
Agatha which he expected it would have; for he had heard at K——, that
Mrs. Castlemain’s feelings were most painfully alive to any allusions to
the illegitimacy of Emma, and he took a malignant pleasure in thus
exercising the most dangerous of all powers, that of wounding
anonymously. Deeply indeed was Mrs. Castlemain distressed to see the
fame of Agatha publicly injured, and her child declared illegitimate,
without the power of vindicating her in any convincing or satisfactory
manner; for the only evidence which they could at present adduce, even
to their friends and relations, was the declaration of Agatha, that she
was the lawful wife of Danvers, because he had led her to the altar
_after_ the death of his first wife, as was proved by the letter to him
which she had found and preserved;—while Danvers on the contrary
asserted in his letter to Mrs. Castlemain, that his first wife was
_alive_ when he married Agatha. And as no register had yet been found to
contradict by its _date_ the truth of the assertion, there was only too
much reason to believe that Emma’s claims to legitimacy would always
remain disputable.

“This paragraph must have been written by some secret enemy,” said Mr.
Egerton thoughtfully.

“But whom can we have offended?” demanded Emma. “I flattered myself that
I had no enemy.”

“No enemy!” replied Mr. Egerton. “Then, my dear child, you must have
thought you had no merit. But whoever wrote the paragraph in question,
it is very certain that it calls upon us imperiously to endeavour once
more to procure a copy of the registry of your mother’s marriage. And I
must advertise again, in all the papers, a considerable reward to
whoever will procure one.”

“Advertise!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain, who had hitherto preserved a
gloomy silence, “advertise, and we in London! I could not endure it,
indeed I could not.”

“Well, then, let us leave London.” And Emma, disgusted and alarmed at
this effusion of secret malice, consented joyfully to the proposal.

“But whither shall we go?” she added.

“What say you, ladies, to a trip to Paris?” replied Mr. Egerton; while
Emma almost screamed for joy at the idea.

“I should like it excessively,” said Mrs. Castlemain,” as being out of
England during the time we are advertising would be a most desirable
circumstance indeed.”

“Then let us take the necessary steps immediately.” And in a few days
everything was ready for their departure.

Thus did the paltry spite of a vain, malignant boy, the result of a
wound to his self-love, disarrange the plans and disturb the quiet of
these respectable individuals; and thus did a paragraph in a newspaper,
lead them to a scene pregnant with the fate of their future lives, and
fraught with events of the most serious and important nature.

This paragraph, however, stimulated afresh Mr. Egerton’s intention, to
call on the minister of the parish where Agatha had been married; and at
her earnest request, Mrs. Castlemain and Emma, as well as Mr. Orwell,
accompanied him. They found, on inquiring for Mr. Jones, that he was
still alive, and still minister of that parish; therefore they knew that
they had met with the object of their search. He was also at home, and
they were immediately conducted to him in that very room where the poor
Agatha, nearly nineteen years since, had vainly opposed the
representations of injured and helpless innocence to the successful
machinations of a villain.

Mr. Egerton told the cause of their visit, and the subject of their
inquiry, in as few words as possible; and Mr. Jones assured him, that he
recollected the _poor lady’s_ calling on him, and her evident
derangement, perfectly. But on Mr. Egerton’s asking him, whether he had
judged her to be insane from his own observation only, or from the
previous suggestions of another, he owned, that he entered the room
prepared to see a mad-woman, because his clerk, Cammell, had assured him
she was notoriously so, and told him the cause of her madness.

“Then, sir, that Cammell was a villain; for the poor lady was in her
perfect senses, though driven perhaps into the temporary frenzy of
passion by the consciousness of being the victim of treachery,—Bat
where is this man, this Cammell?”

“Cammell! Cammell!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain, in an agitated manner,
“What sort of man was he, sir! and how long had he been clerk of this
parish?”

“For about nine years, I believe, madam; and he was a man marked with
the small-pox, with small light eyes, and turned-up nose, and very red
hair.”

“And whence did he come, sir?”

“From somewhere in the North,—Cumberland, I believe.”

“It is he! it is the same man!” cried Mrs. Castlemain, turning pale as
death; “he left Cumberland about that time; and I was told, after he
left my neighbourhood, and went to London, that he had often wished to
be revenged on my poor child.”

“Revenge! for what, madam?” asked Mr. Egerton.

“Ask me not now!” she replied in agony the most overwhelming. “The
miseries of my child are on my head, and I feel sinking under the load.”

“However,” observed Mr. Egerton, “we have gained much by finding that
Cammel had a motive to join Mr. Danvers in his scheme against his
unhappy wife. But where is this man? Let him be confronted with us.”

“That, sir, is impossible,” replied Mr. Jones in some confusion; “for he
absconded about two years ago with all his family, and it is supposed he
went abroad, having been detected in some very dishonest practices;
therefore I really should have thought it very likely, if I had not been
conscious the registry had never been from under my eye, that the poor
lady’s accusation was just.”

“I am sorry he is gone off,” said Mr. Egerton; “though this evidence of
the man’s villany gives still greater credibility to the fact we wish to
establish. And now, sir, you shall hear what happened to this injured
lady, on the evening of the day on which _you_ saw her, from the mouth
of that benevolent being who succoured her in her distress; the good
Samaritan who poured oil and wine into her wounds, while the priest
passed by on the other side.” So saying, he led Mrs. Castlemain into the
room where they had left Emma and Mr. Orwell, and returned to Mr. Jones
accompanied by the latter.

As soon as Mr. Orwell had told his tale, which clearly proved the sanity
of Agatha,—as whatever might be called insanity in her vanished as soon
as the power of the operating causes was removed,—Mr. Egerton desired
to introduce to Mr. Jones the orphan of Agatha, whose claims to
legitimacy it was now the first desire and purpose of Mrs. Castlemain
and himself to prove. But before he did so, he gave him a short detail
of Agatha’s life, and the circumstances attending her death, in order to
interest that gentleman as much as he could in the fate of her injured
child, and induce him to do all in his power to aid their efforts to
discover Cammell and bring him to justice.

“But allow me, sir,” said Mr. Jones,”to make one remark;—I recollect
perfectly, that the unhappy lady said to Cammell, who was certainly a
most ill-looking man,’Where have I ever seen you before?’ and she added
words importing the consciousness of having seen his ‘dark and gloomy
face,’ as she called it, without being able to recollect where; on which
Cammell, saying half aside, ‘Poor distracted creature!’ declared he had
never seen her before in his whole life.”

“Well, sir,—and what then?”

“Why, sir, as Cammell must have been the clerk at the time of the lady’s
marriage, if she really was married; and as, according to your own
statement, he must have even officiated as father to the lady, it is
very strange that she should not have remembered _where_ she had seen
him; and I confess that this appears to me a strong proof that at this
church, at least, the marriage between her and Mr. Danvers never took
place.”

“There is some plausibility in what you say, certainly, sir,” replied
Mr. Egerton; “but you should make allowance for the perturbation of mind
Mrs. Danvers was under while questioning Cammell, and also for that
which she felt during the ceremony of her marriage; for she has declared
to me, that she had not the slightest recollection of the clerk who gave
her away, nor indeed was she sure that she even looked at him.—She
added, that she had forgotten to ask how long this man, whose name she
did not know, had been clerk of that parish; but she had a consciousness
of having seen him before, when she conversed with him in this house;
and, to use her own expression, that the recollection of him was
‘associated in her mind with the idea of pain endured long since.’ And
how _correctly_ she judged and felt on this subject, we have now her
mother’s testimony to prove. However, sir, that a marriage _did_ take
place, we have Mr. Danver’s own evidence in a letter to Mrs. Castlemain,
at which time _he_ says he had a wife _living_. But this we could prove
false, could we obtain a copy of the marriage register, as we have a
letter to him proving his wife to have died some time previously.”

Well, sir, well,” returned Mr. Jones, this may be true as you say;” and
Mr. Egerton, leaving the room, returned, leading in Emma.

As Mr. Egerton had conducted her, he gave her to understand that Mr.
Jones was not very friendly to their cause, and was unwilling to give up
the idea of her mother’s insanity. Emma, therefore was not disposed to
regard that gentleman with much complacence; and she assumed on her
entrance so much haughtiness of manner and expression, that her
resemblance to Agatha was rendered thereby even more striking than
usual. To her cold and dignified courtesy Mr. Jones returned a low bow;
when venturing to look up in her face he exclaimed,

“I protest I never saw such a likeness! It seems as if her mother really
stood before me! Only that this young lady’s complexion is more
brilliant, and her cheeks and person are fuller.”

“No wonder, sir,” replied Emma, tears involuntarily filling her eyes,
“for I have been the child of happiness and kindness; my poor mother was
that of misery, and was the victim of the depravity of others.”

“The very voice too, as I live!” returned Mr. Jones.

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Egerton, “this is the injured orphan, in order to
assert whose rights you see us prepared to bring the whole matter into a
court of justice; and your evidence, though not as favourable as we
could wish, we shall undoubtedly call for.”

“Such as it is, sir, and such as I can conscientiously make it, you may
command it, sir.”

“It now only remains that we should examine the register,” said Mr.
Egerton; and the book was produced. After a long and a most minute
examination, even Mr. Jones himself declared, that it did seem as if a
leaf might have been torn out much about the time when Agatha stated her
marriage to have taken place; though, as he was _positive_ the book was
under his sole care, he did not see how it could have happened. And
having to their own satisfaction established _this_ fact, the party
returned to London. On their way thither Mrs. Castlemain, with many
compunctious feelings, explained the cause of Cammell’s inveteracy
towards Agatha, and by that means made his compliance with the infamous
proposal of Danvers the less to be wondered at.

On their return home a circumstance happened mortifying to the pride,
though not painful to the affections, of Emma. A young nobleman, the
eldest son of a peer, had been so charmed with Emma’s beauty and other
attractions, that he had solicited his father to make proposals in his
name to Mrs. Castlemain; and the earl, imagining Emma to be Mrs.
Castlemain’s daughter, did what his son required.

Mrs. Castlemain, in her reply, referred the gentleman to Emma for his
answer, declaring that she would never influence her in her
determination on such subjects, though in the present instance she
earnestly desired that Emma might approve of the proposal as highly as
she did; but that she thought it proper to inform his lordship that Miss
Castlemain was not her daughter, but her grand-daughter; her daughter’s
child by a marriage of which hitherto, and at present, there was no
possibility of procuring proofs.

The answer to this letter she received on the day of her return from
visiting Mr. Jones; and it added not a little to their wish of quitting
England, as the earl politely, but coldly, declined for his son all
further thoughts _at present_ of a union with Miss Castlemain.

During the ride home Mrs. Castlemain remarked, that she thought it was
not right for Mr. Egerton, who wished to conciliate, to call Mr. Orwell
the good Samaritan, and insinuate that poor Mr. Jones was the priest.

“I agree with you,” replied Mr. Egerton laughing; “and I can only say,
that I was too much at that moment under the dominion of TEMPER, that
domestic enemy against which I am so fond of guarding others; but I am
not at all sure that good Mr. Jones had sense enough to make the
application.”

The next step they took was to prepare an advertisement for a copy of
the registry of the marriage of Agatha Torrington and George Danvers, in
case such a copy had been made, offering a very considerable reward.

A few days before their departure they went to the Haymarket Theatre,
when just as the play was finishing, Emma heard a gentleman in the next
place say, “What fine fellow now has Mrs. Felton caught in her chains?
Who is that good-looking youth to whom she is talking?”

“It is a Mr. St. Aubyn,” was the answer, “a North-country man, who has
just entered into the dragoon guards.” And Emma, following the direction
of the speaker’s eyes, as surprised and agitated she involuntarily
turned round to look at him, beheld St. Aubyn, apparently gay and
animated, listening with smiling attention to a tonish-looking woman,
whose beauty she unconsciously exaggerated to herself. In a moment the
stage, the audience, every thing disappeared from her view, but St.
Aubyn and Mrs. Felton. Still, however, in the midst of her emotion she
felt that seeing St. Aubyn as she _now_ saw him, seemingly absorbed by
another woman, would be of great service to her heart on reflection; it
was the idea that he loved her, spite of his neglect, which made his
image so dangerous to her; could she but once be convinced he loved her
no longer, and loved another, she was _sure_ that time and absence would
in the end entirely annihilate his power over her. But _absence_ was,
she thought, the _surest_ remedy; and not seeing him at all, a better
cure than even seeing him paying attention to Mrs. Felton. She therefore
gladly acceded to Mrs. Castlemain’s proposal to return home as soon as
the play was finished, as she felt oppressed by the heat of the house.

“But surely,” said Mr. Egerton to Emma, “you will stay to see the
entertainment! You came on _purpose_, and Mrs. Castlemain has no
objection to returning alone.”

“Not in the least,” she replied; “do, my dear Emma, stay;—Mr. Egerton
will take care of you, and I will send the carriage back.”

“Indeed I had rather, _much_ rather, go home,” said Emma deeply
blushing.

“Are you unwell? Are you oppressed by the heat of the house?” And Emma,
too great a votary of truth to violate it on any occasion, professed
herself neither ill nor _warm_, but declared that she had rather go home
with Mrs. Castlemain.

“‘Tis very strange!” said Mr. Egerton;—when at this moment the same
gentleman who had spoken before observed,

“See! see! Look at St. Aubyn! How attentive he seems! Egad, I believe
the fair widow has him.” On hearing this, Mr. Egerton himself turned
round, and seeing St. Aubyn, no longer thought Emma’s wish to leave the
house an unaccountable one. But he took no notice to her of what he saw
and thought; only he could not help gently pressing the cold hand which
trembled in his.

“I will see for the carriage directly,” said he, “and do you remain in
the box.”

While he was gone, lounging on the back seat of the box next her, Emma
saw Varley; and actuated not only by the wish to be civil to him, but
also by the desire of turning her attention from St. Aubyn and Mrs.
Felton, she courtesied very kindly to him, and, leaning forward to speak
to him, lamented that she came into the room too late at Mrs. C.’s to be
gratified like others with his admirable recitations. At this tribute to
his vanity from a quarter so unexpected, and from one too whom mortified
vanity had led him to injure to the best of his mean ability, Varley’s
conscience gave him some well-merited pangs; and scarcely could he with
all his impudence reply to the benevolent and lovely girl who addressed
him, little suspecting that he was the adder who had stung her and Mrs.
Castlemain through the medium of a newspaper.

In a few moments Mr. Egerton returned, accompanied by Sir Charles
Maynard, who assisted in seeing the ladies to their carriage, Varley
crossing them on their way, in order to be noticed, in sight of some of
his fellow clerks, by the beauty of the day.

“You are a lucky fellow, Varley,” said one of his companions to him,
just as Sir Charles returned into the lobby, “to have such a bow and
smile from that angelic being.”

“Do you think so?” cried Varley conceitedly, and pulling up his
neckcloth, “she really is a fine creature, and I mean to patronize her.”

“Presuming coxcomb!” said Sir Charles, loud enough for Varley to hear,
and giving him a look of fierce disdain; while Varley, pretending not to
notice it, slunk away into the crowd and disappeared.

A day or two after, however, Sir C—— M——d was stated in a certain
newspaper to have been one of the unsuccessful suitors to a certain
Northern heiress. Had Varley been contented to let his revenge stop
here, it would have been better for him; but when the intended departure
of Sir Charles and other men of fashion for France, was a few days after
announced in some paper, he inserted another paragraph, which was as
follows:—

“We hear that Sir C—— M——d, being disappointed in his matrimonial
speculations, is glad to escape into a foreign land, from certain
troublesome remembrancers, and is on the eve of his departure from
England.”

The consequence of this was, that Sir Charles was arrested at Dover by
an alarmed creditor, whose bill he was fortunately able to discharge
immediately,—vowing as he did so, that as soon as he returned, which
would be in a few months, he would leave no method untried to discover
the author of so foul a libel.

The proprieter of the paper in which Varley wrote, was himself abroad,
when this paragraph concerning Sir Charles was inserted, else it would
have been rejected as libellous and unsafe; but the person who
officiated for him, knowing Varley was a favourite writer of his
employer, concluded what he sent must be admitted and approved, and
therefore he either did not know or did not regard the risk. But when
the proprietor himself returned, he was so justly incensed at the
paragraph in question, and apprehensive of its consequences, that he
paid Varley whatever he was in arrears to him, and dismissed him from
all future employment, having first drawn from him a confession of his
motives for this calumnious insertion; severely reproaching him for
having meanly dared to make the power of anonymous attack with which he
was vested, the engine of venting his own petty spite, and the means of
gratifying the malignity of his offended vanity.

The sum of money thus earned, Varley, afraid he should never again have
so large a sum in his possession at once, resolved to spend in a trip to
Paris; and there I shall again introduce him to the notice of my
readers.

It was well for Emma that they could leave England so soon, as she had
ceased to drive along the streets with any security and pleasure. She
fancied every gentleman she met was St. Aubyn, and cast a timid
inquiring glance round every company she entered, dreading to behold him
accompanying her fascinating rival. But at length they set off for
France; and when Emma landed at Calais, “thank Heaven!” she mentally
ejaculated, “now the sea rolls between me and them!”

I am well convinced that no two persons can receive exactly the same
impressions from any one object or scene, but that, however like the
impressions might be in the aggregate, they would be different in
detail; therefore there would be something of variety, and consequently
of interest, in the account given by each passenger in the same boat of
his voyage even from Dover to Calais. Still I shall not fatigue my
readers with a relation of what my heroine and her companions saw,
thought, or felt, during their passage to France, or on their landing on
the Calais Pier. But no sooner were they arrived at their hotel, namely
that kept by Grandsire, the one formerly the residence of the Duchess of
Kingston, than Mrs. Castlemain became alarmingly ill, and Emma and Mr.
Egerton endured an increased degree of anxiety on her account, from
their very natural want of confidence in a foreign medical attendant;
but luckily for them, Mr. Egerton learnt on the second day of her
illness, that an English physician in the suite of an English nobleman
had just landed.

Immediately, though a stranger to both gentlemen, he waited on them at
their inn, to request the physician’s attendance on the invalid,—a
request instantly granted; and he had the satisfaction of hearing that
three or four days of rest, with the aid of medicine, would remove every
unfavourable symptom, and enable them, without any fear of a relapse, to
proceed on their journey. Accordingly, after having passed a week at
Calais, they set off in their own open barouche, drawn by four horses,
with the footman and the lady’s maid on the dicky.

The ladies, who had never been out of England, were surprised, as well
they might, at seeing the horses fastened together and to the carriage
by ropes; and as one never values health sufficiently till one is
attacked by sickness, so our travellers, for the first time in their
lives, felt the value and the elegance of and English equipage.

“Yet, as far as it can affect national happiness, of what consequence is
it,” said Mr. Egerton, “whether the harness and the other accoutrements
be of leather or rope—if the French be as well contented with the one
as the other?”

“No,” replied Emma; “nor does it signify that the boasted view from the
Calais ramparts commands in reality nothing but a miserable barren flat,
and the uninteresting meanderings of the treeless road into Flanders, if
all the inhabitants, as no doubt they do, like that good old gentleman
in the steeple-crowned had, can point it out to strangers with, ‘Mais
voyez donc! quelle vue superbe! Mais, mon Dieu! c’est magnifique!’”

Nothing either of event or of interest worth narrating, happened on the
road till they approached Chantilly; when the increasing beauty of the
country, the distant view of the palace and its celebrated stables,
awakened their as yet dormant feelings into life.

“Alas!” said Mr. Egerton, “_I_ saw that fine building in its splendour!
However, I will see it in its _décadence_, were it only to impress on my
mind the frail tenure of earthly greatness.”

But as Chantilly has been frequently described by travellers, and is
likely to call forth the same feelings in every one, I shall pass by in
silence our travellers’ visit to the palace and the environs, and
content myself with giving the following lines, written no doubt in the
days of its magnificence, which Mr. Egerton desired Emma to copy and
preserve, as one of the instances in which the double meaning of a word
is the same in both languages.

The following lines are written either on a wall or window of an inn at
Chantilly:

    “Beaux lieux, où de plaisirs Condé fixa la source,
     A ne vous point quitter l’on feroit son bonheur,
     Si vous n’étiez à notre bourse
     Plus CHERS encore qu’à notre cœur.”[1]

When they were about twenty miles from Paris, they were passed by a
curricle and four driven by a gentleman, another gentleman sitting
beside him. The one who drove looked earnestly at Emma as he passed, and
turned back several times to repeat his gaze (evidently one of
admiration) till they were out of sight; and when they had proceeded
about two miles further, they saw the same equipage standing in the
road, having evidently been just overturned, while the gentlemen
belonging to it and the servants were employed in arranging whatever had
been discomposed by the accident. The truth was, that the gentleman who
drove had been so absorbed in admiration of Emma, that he had been
unconscious of the horses’ increasing speed till it was too late to stop
them, and in trying to turn them short on one side, the vehicle had
upset. The gentlemen, however, were both unhurt; and the poor youth, who
had thus been put in peril of life by the power of beauty, was resolved
to repay himself by another look at the beauty that had endangered him,
and he still found something to do to the carriage, long after his
companion had assured him that every thing was properly adjusted.

“I hope, gentlemen,” said Mr. Egerton, in very good French, “that you
have sustained no injury?” To which the gentleman who drove, with a bow
and a blush, and a look at Emma, answered “No,” in the same language.

“At least, not such an injury as the gentleman apprehends,” observed his
companion in English, (concluding Mr. Egerton was a Frenchman,) and
laughing archly as he spoke. While Mr. Egerton, who found by this
speech, which he perfectly understood, that the gentlemen were English,
smiled involuntarily; but not choosing to expose Emma any longer to an
intensity of admiring observation, which, though respectful, evidently
distressed her, and displeased Mrs. Castlemain, he, with a bow, and an
expression of pleasure at their safety, desired the postilions to
proceed. But the curricle again overtook, and passed them, and its
driver had another opportunity of looking at Emma, while he made a
distant bow of recognition to the party.

At length, our travellers were approaching Paris; and if Chantilly had
awakened strong emotion in their hearts, what must they have felt on
entering that great city, that Paris, whose decrees had for years
influenced three quarters of the globe, and whose inhabitants had, by
turns, excited the pity, the horror, the detestation, and some few the
admiration, of the world!

“I saw the church of St. Denys in its pride,” said Mr. Egerton, as they
entered that fauxbourg, “when the royal and the mighty dead slept
undisturbed within its walls, and rapacious avarice had not thence
removed the costly offerings of piety and superstition!”

“But is there nothing worth seeing there still?” asked Emma.

“No; I am told not,” replied he. “However, some pious hands have
conveyed to a place of safety many of the statues, the mausoleums, and
perhaps the bones of those who here were ‘quietly inurned,’ and I expect
to feel great interest and pleasure in beholding the former once more
in, I trust, their last home; together with many other things of the
same description, gathered from distant provinces, and all arranged
under one point of view at Paris.”

“Ay, but how much,” observed Mrs. Castlemain, “must they not lose of
their interest by being no longer seen in the spot where they were first
placed!”

“True, madam, much of local and associated interest; still they have an
interest appertaining to themselves, of which no change of situation can
deprive them. Architectural beauty and propriety, and powers of
sculpture, must exist, to charm and to instruct, whether in the church
of St. Denys, or in the Petite Augustins at Paris; and I shall certainly
not scorn the pleasure of looking at them where they now are, because I
have once seen them to better advantage. On that principle, we might
despise the gratification of seeing the Apollo of Belvidere, because
Paris is not Florence, where he was originally situated, and, as I hear,
in a better point of view. But to go from inanimate to animated
beauty,—What did you think, ladies, of the young Jebu who passed us
just now?”

“I think,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “that he is almost the handsomest man I
ever saw; I wonder who he is.—But what say you, Emma?”

“That he is certainly very handsome.”

“Well, I dare say,” replied Mr. Egerton, “we shall see him again; and in
the meanwhile I shall fancy him somebody of great consequence.”

They were now entering Paris, and Mr. Egerton was amused by the surprise
which Emma expressed at seeing melons piled up against the walls, and
lying one on the other in baskets in large heaps, like turnips in
Covent-garden market.

“Well,” exclaimed Emma; “What a superiority over England this
circumstance proves them to possess! Melons, a luxury only served up in
our country at the tables of the rich, are here, you see, a mere common
fruit, like apples with us.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Egerton, laughing; “and perhaps you may find out
occasionally, that carpets and clean floors, which are every-day
necessaries with us, are luxuries here.”

They took up their abode at the Hotel des Etrangers, Rue de la Concorde,
the best and widest street in Paris, and particularly interesting from
its being so near, not only the finest objects in the city, but the
scenes most pregnant with impressive associations. At one end of it, was
the place where the perpetual guillotine stood; at the other, was the
church of La Madelaine, where so many victims of revolutionary fury were
buried; and the stones of that street, now so peaceable and so smiling,
had lately reverberated from the heavy steps of a ferocious multitude,
and, almost without a metaphor, had been dyed with rivers of blood.

The next day, for Mrs. Castlemain was too tired to venture out the
evening of their arrival, was impatiently hailed by Emma; and as soon as
she saw Mr. Egerton, “To the Louvre!” cried Emma; “I cannot rest till I
have seen the Gallery.” And Mr. Egerton, breaking from the mournful
reverie into which he had fallen, led the way thither. It lay across the
Place de la Concorde, and through the garden and palace of the
Thuilleries. But while Emma and Mrs. Castlemain, struck with the
uncommon beauty and grandeur of the surrounding objects, stopped on the
above-mentioned place to gaze with delight around them, Mr. Egerton,
with an exclamation of horror, darted down the passage which led into
the gardens, and awaited them at the entrance.

“My dear sir, what impelled you to leave us in that abrupt manner!”
cried Emma: “Why were you in such a hurry to quit the sweetest spot of
the kind that my eyes ever beheld?”

“Because a friend, a venerable abbé whom I dearly loved, was butchered
on that spot; because, Emma, the guillotine was erected in the midst of
that smiling plain!”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed his auditors.

“I fear,” added Emma, “that I shall never think it beautiful again.” Yet
the next moment she wished to go back again to see the very spot where
the guillotine stood; but the Palace of the Thuilleries now caught her
eye, and by calling forth other feelings urged her forward on her way.

Emma could not help stopping in the hall of the Palace, as certain
recollections came across her mind; and going up to a soldier on guard
there, she said in French, “And was it on those stairs that the poor
Swiss were massacred?” The soldier, colouring deeply, replied, “Mais
oui, mademoiselle:” while Mr. Egerton seizing Emma’s arm, all the
terrors of the revolutionary government recurring to his mind, hurried
into the Place du Carrousel, saving, “For the future be more guarded.
Why could you not have said killed, instead of massacred?”

“Because my pity got the better of every other consideration.”

“But had your pity been so powerful in those days, when there was
neither pity nor justice, that small mistake of yours might have sent us
all three to the guillotine.”

But all unpleasant remembrances of the past, or fears for the future,
were absorbed in delight when they entered the saloon of the Louvre, and
beheld in one room the scattered glories of the first painters whom the
world ever saw. Yet great as was the pleasure which this first room
afforded them, where the pictures were not only fine, but seen in a fine
light, amongst which the St. Peter Martyr of Titian shone conspicuous,
their sensations on entering the long gallery adjoining were of a still
higher nature. There was a vastness, a magnificence in the idea of the
whole space before them being crowded with chef d’œuvres of art, that
filled and elevated the mind in a manner too vast for utterance; and
choked with the emotions that overwhelmed them, they paused at the
entrance as if too much overawed to proceed. But recovering themselves
they slowly walked up the room, unable at first to fix on any one
picture as an object of admiration; and they went to the top of the
Gallery and back again without stopping before any one in particular. At
length, however, Mr. Egerton was fixed by the St. Jerome of Dominico,
Mrs. Castlemain was gazing on the Three Crosses by Rubens, and Emma was
contemplating with admiring interest the Deluge by Poussin, when it was
loudly rumoured that the First Consul was going in state to the
Conservative Senate, and would very soon be on the Place du Carrousel.

“That I could but see him and the procession!” exclaimed Emma, eager to
forsake a picture for a reality; and running up to Mr. Egerton, “Could
we not see him from these windows?” she added, running to the window
near her; when one of the guardians of the Gallery, hearing her name
Buonaparte, and suspecting her wishes from the expression of her
countenance, told her if she would follow him he would lead her to a
window whence she could see the sight to the greatest advantage; and
immediately Emma, followed by Mrs. Castlemain and Mr. Egerton, eagerly
kept up with the rapid pace of her guide. He led them to the very
extremity of the Gallery, which joined the Palace of the Thuilleries,and
introduced them into an unfurnished apartment, full of lumber and of
unframed pictures, where they found sitting in the window two French
ladies and a gentleman engaged in earnest conversation. The women
immediately, with French politeness, made room for the stranger ladies,
and the gentleman also rose to offer his seat to Mr. Egerton; and when
he turned round, our travellers, though with less delight pictured in
their countenances than beamed on his at the meeting, recognised in him
the driver of the curricle who had been so endangered by looking at
Emma.

“Countryman and countrywomen of mine, I presume!” said the young man;
“and indeed I earnestly hope so for the honour of England,” he added,
looking at Emma, while Mr. Egerton, smiling, replied in the affirmative,
and hoped he had experienced no ill effects from his accident.

They were now, all, except the young stranger who insisted on Mr.
Egerton’s taking his seat, most commodiously placed for beholding the
whole sight from the windows; but one of the ladies assuring them that
it would be some time before the First Consul entered his carriage, she
earnestly requested the gentleman, whom she called “mon cher Balfour,”
to go on with the subject of their dispute. “But, perhaps,” said she to
our travellers, “as it is connected with a story of a countryman of
yours, it may be interesting to you to hear it; so suppose you tell the
whole story over again, Balfour?” And Balfour declaring he was never
tired of telling a story so much to the honour of any one as he thought
it to be, smiling archly at the lady who spoke, said, with the English
ladies’ permission, he would relate what had occasioned a disagreement
between him and the French ladies present.

“There are several English and Irish officers here; amongst the latter
of whom is a man of brutal manners, who used very improper language to a
young lieutenant, a great favourite with the ladies present.”

“O mon Dieu, oui!” exclaimed one of them; “Il est fait à peindre;[2]
c’est grand dommage qu’il soit poltron!”

“But is he so?”

“That is the point in dispute between us,” returned his animated
historian. “From you, ladies, and you, sir, he added, bowing to Mr.
Egerton, “I hope a milder verdict. But to proceed;—the young lieutenant
replied with temper, yet with proper severity, and the consequence was a
challenge from the other, which to the astonishment of his brother
officers, he refused to accept; and he even declared, on their telling
him that they expected him to fight, that duelling was against his
principles, and fight he would not.”

“How I honour him!” cried Mrs. Castlemain.

“But the consequence, sir?” eagerly demanded Emma.

“The officers, who had a sincere regard for him, earnestly entreated him
to behave as officers on such occasions were expected to behave, telling
him that they did not think his reasons sufficient as a military man for
declining to fight.

“‘But,’ replied he, ‘before I became a soldier, I was a man, a son, and
a responsible being; and, as all these, I deem myself forbidden to fight
a duel. As a man, and a member of society, I think it right to bear my
testimony against a custom worthy only of savage nations; as a son, I
think it my duty not to risk a life which is of the greatest consequence
to a fond and widowed parent; and as a responsible being, I dare not, in
express defiance of the will of my Creator, attack in cold blood the
life of a fellow-creature.’”

“Well said!” cried Mr. Egerton.

“Ah!” cried one of the ladies, sarcastically looking at Mr. Egerton’s
coat, “apparemment Monsieur est prêtre!”[3]

But, without answering her, he begged to know of the stranger whether he
was present at this conference.

“I was,” he replied; “and perhaps, being hasty and rash in my judgments,
I should not have judged more candidly than the officers, had the
lieutenant been an every-day-looking man; but his look, his voice, his
air, his manner are so full of truth and manliness, as at once to carry
conviction to the heart that cowardice is unknown to him; and I could
swear that, in his refusal to fight, principle, and principle alone, was
his motive of action.”

“Ah! le pauvre petit crédule!”[4] exclaimed one of the ladies
affectedly.

“I believe we are as credulous as you, sir,” said Emma with a smile that
well repaid him for his candour, “but again I ask what was the result to
this interesting being.”

“Sorry am I to say,” he replied, “that the officers of the lieutenant’s
own regiment, amongst whom was his colonel, who is, I believe, jealous
of him, told him he must either fight, or they must abjure his society,
and insist on his leaving their regiment when they returned to England.
He still however persisted in his refusal, and met the threatened
consequences with the manly firmness which might be expected from him.”

“Poor young man!” said Emma.

“Poor! Rich rather,” cried Mrs. Castlemain, “rich in the best of all
fortitude, that of being able to act up to his principles, unawed by the
fear of shame!”

“True, madam,” said Mr. Egerton; “and believe me, I honour you, sir,”
addressing Balfour, “for daring to defend this young hero (hero in my
sense of the word) against these fair accusers.”

“But where is this gentleman, sir?” said Emma.

“I am told that he is gone into Poitou, madam.”

“What led him thither?”

“Kindness and pity. An emigrant friend of his in London is so anxious
concerning his father,—who is or was living in that part of France, and
whom he has not heard of for some time,—that he got his address, and is
gone in search of him.”

“I am afraid,” said Mrs. Castlemain to the ladies, “that you think our
opinion on this subject very outré.”

“O! poor cela non,” one of them replied; “but I wish cet exquis St.
Aubyn had not entertained the same.”

“St. Aubyn!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain. “What St. Aubyn? pronouncing the
name in English, and addressing herself to Balfour.

“A Mr. Henry St. Aubyn,” he replied, “who has but lately entered the
army, to oblige his uncle, a Mr. Har—Har—”

“Hargrave, perhaps.”

“The same.”

“‘Tis he! ‘tis he himself then!” exclaimed Mr. Egerton, “our own St.
Aubyn!”—while Emma leaned forward and looked out of the window to hide
her emotion—”Just what I should have expected from him! consistent!
manly! pious!”

“Do you then know him, sir?” asked Balfour, glancing a look of suspicion
towards Emma; when at this moment, luckily for her, “Le voila! le
voila!” exclaimed both ladies at once; but before he could be
distinguished, the First Consul was in his carriage, and the procession
began.

But neither the different corps of Mamelucs, their sabres glittering in
the sun, nor the eight bays harnessed to the Consul’s carriage, nor the
splendid consular guard bringing up the rear, could draw Emma’s
attention from the narration which she had just heard! St. Aubyn in
France! St. Aubyn disgraced, though more deserving of honour than
before! St. Aubyn gone on a mission of benevolence into a remote part of
the country! St Aubyn lost to her, probably for ever; though why, alas!
she knew not;—but at least he was not with Mrs. Felton, and on that
idea she could dwell, and dwell with pleasure. Mr. Egerton, meanwhile,
was informing Balfour of his long intimacy with St. Aubyn, and lamenting
that some circumstances which he did not think necessary to mention had
interrupted their intercourse for the last two years; and Balfour
immediately suspected that this circumstance was either unrequited love
for Emma on the part of St. Aubyn, or parental disapprobation perhaps of
a mutual attachment between the parties; and he felt his latter
suspicions confirmed by his having observed the anxious look of
inquiring affection which Mrs. Castlemain turned on Emma when St.
Aubyn’s name was mentioned, and her evident emotion.

Soon after, the sight being over, Emma rose, wishing to return to the
Gallery; and as she did so, she gave the defender of St. Aubyn so kind
and fascinating a smile, that he earnestly hoped St. Aubyn had never
been her favoured lover; and he was eagerly anticipating a hope that Mr.
Egerton, whose name and that of the ladies he had yet to learn, would
express a wish of being better known to him, when he was summoned out of
the Gallery to speak to a messenger from his father; and before he
returned, Emma having complained of indisposition, and Mrs. Castlemain
of fatigue, Mr. Egerton had called a fiacre, and they had returned to
their hotel. Mr. Egerton however, more fortunate than he had been, had
learnt his name and rank from a gentleman in the Gallery, and found that
he was the Honourable George Frederic Balfour, only son of lord
Clonawley, an Irish viscount then at Bareges for the recovery of his
health;—he also learnt that the son had some thousands a year,
independent of his father, left him by his grandfather. The whole of
this information gave great satisfaction to Mrs. Castlemain, who saw
Balfour’s evident admiration of Emma, and wished for nothing more than
to see her addressed by a man worthy to obtain her, in order to give her
a chance of forgetting the ever admirable and still too dear St. Aubyn;
while she rejoiced to find that her illness, by delaying their arrival
at Paris, had prevented their meeting St. Aubyn there.

Perhaps Mr. Egerton ought to have wished as she did relative to this new
acquaintance,—but he could not; the idea of seeing Emma the wife of any
other man than his beloved pupil was agony to him; and though he was
much prejudiced in favour of Balfour because he did justice to St.
Aubyn, the prospect of his becoming the avowed admirer of Emma almost
called forth, even in his subdued feelings, a sensation of aversion
towards him, and he was inclined to retard an acquaintance which he
clearly saw that he could not prevent. Accordingly, when, on finding
that a lady to whom they had brought letters was gone to the valley of
Montmorenci, a favourite spot some miles from Paris, Emma proposed that
they should go thither in pursuit of her, he eagerly acceded to the
proposal, and to Montmorenci they went, leaving Paris as yet unseen, in
compliance with the wishes of the restless, because secretly unhappy,
Emma.

In the castle of Montmorenci then resided two or three families, who had
separate apartments, but met at dinner at a common table.

As soon as they arrived, they made themselves known to the lady for whom
they had letters; but finding her an insipid, uninteresting woman, they
would not have remained in the valley for the sake of her society, had
not the ease and cheerfulness of the way of living there, and its
vicinity to interesting objects, induced them to stay and take
apartments for a fortnight; especially as Mrs. Castlemain fancied
herself much better for the air.

The second day after their arrival, Emma was seated at dinner between
two Miss Balfours, West Indians, who, with a little sister and a
governess, were awaiting their father from Bareges and their brother
from Paris. Emma immediately concluded that this brother was the young
man whom she had seen at the Louvre; and she took occasion to say to
Miss Balfour,

“I believe I saw your brother, Mr. Balfour, two days ago at the Louvre
Gallery.”

“Oh, very likely. Frederic is an extremely handsome young man, very
tall, and rather thin.”

“Yes; that describes him.”

“Oh! dear Mary Ann,” cried Miss Harriet Balfour, “I dare say Miss
Castlemain is the young lady whom my brother mentions in his letter, in
such raptures, and whom he is seeking all over Paris!”

“Very likely,” said Miss Balfour turning to look at Emma with a critical
stare, which ended in a look of disappointment; after which she said,
“you have great reason I am sure to be proud, Miss Castlemain; for
Frederic, who is, I assure you, very difficult to please, and is a great
judge of beauty, thinks you the most beautiful creature he ever saw.”

“Then I am tempted to believe,” replied Emma blushing indignantly at
this gross speech, “that it was not your brother whom I met; as I could
not be very proud of the commendation of the gentleman I mean, since his
extreme youth makes it impossible for his experience to give much value
to his praise.”

“Young! Why, Frederic is near four-and-twenty; and I assure you he knows
every thing. Why, he is such a critic in dress, as well as in beauty,
poetry, painting, and music, that neither Harriet nor I dare wear even a
riband that he disapproves.”

“But deciding on every thing, and knowing every thing, are very distinct
things; and I suspect that if I were Mr. Balfour’s sister I should
choose ribands for myself.”

“No, you would not,” said Harriet; “for you would love Frederic so much
that you would have a pleasure in doing every thing he bids you.”

“That,” cried Emma, taking her hand with kindness, “is the best proof of
your brother’s worth that has been given yet, and shows that he has
merit beyond all the connoisseurship in the world.”

“Poor Frederic!” exclaimed Miss Balfour, “there is he roaming about
Paris to find a bird that is safe in his own nest at Montmorenci! I
declare I must write and tell him you are here.” But this Emma
positively forbade; and that evening, weary of his fruitless search,
Balfour arrived.

Unconscious that the beautiful girl he so much wished to see was
observing him from the windows, Balfour, as soon as he saw his sisters,
began to show off to them in his usual consequential way; and giving one
his gloves to carry, another his hat and whip, and leaning on a third,
he lounged into a room next to that where Emma was sitting with the door
open, and threw himself on the sofa.

“I am dying with heat and thirst!” cried he. “Do, Harriet, come and fan
me; and you, Mary Ann, fetch me the shaddock which I desired might be
saved for me.”

“I’ll get it directly,” she replied. “Fanny was feverish last night and
wanted to have it, but I would not let her lest you should want it.”

Emma, who overheard all that passed, expected Balfour would regret that
the poor feverish child had not been gratified. But she was mistaken; he
declared that he would not for the world have lost the luxury of eating
it then. The shaddock was brought; and one sister having pulled off the
young despot’s boots, another his coat, and exchanged it for a loose
chintz gown, and the third having rubbed his head dry, then sprinkled it
with eau de Cologne, he cut the shaddock and was preparing to devour it,
when one of his sisters, looking up in his face archly, said,

“Pray, brother, have you found the beauty you were in search of?”

“Pshaw! do not mention that subject, for I can’t bear it.—No, I have
not found her, though I have searched all Paris; and I suspect she was
suddenly translated from the Louvre to her kindred skies, angel as she
is, as soon as I was called away that morning!”

On hearing this, Emma, who had promised the sisters to come in and
surprise Balfour, was rendered incapable, by delicacy, of fulfilling her
promise, and she endeavoured to escape into another apartment; but they,
being on the watch, ran after, and prevented her. Then, almost dragging
her up to their brother, they presented her to him, as Miss Castlemain;
while Balfour, blushing with delight, not unmixed with confusion, lost
in a moment the important airs which he had assumed with his family, and
like a timid youth stammered out something about surprise, pleasure, and
soforth, setting down his untasted shaddock while be spoke.

“Do not let me disturb you,” cried Emma; “pray eat your fruit.”

“Impossible!” replied he, “unless you partake with me.”

“I don’t know that I should like it, as I never tasted shaddock.”

“No!” cried the little feverish girl, “it is so good!”

Emma smiled, and ate a piece; while Balfour, seeing that she liked it,
insisted on her eating the whole.

“In Jamaica,” said the little Fanny, “every body has a whole shaddock,
me and all.”

“But as that is not the case here,” replied Emma, touched by the poor
child’s diseased wish for the forbidden fruit, and willing to give the
spoiled child (as she considered Balfour) a lesson, “I shall insist on
sharing this fruit equally amongst us all; for participation makes
pleasure sweeter.”

“But my sisters,” cried Balfour, “know what shaddock is.”

“And they do not like it, I presume, as you were going to eat all this
yourself!”

“Indeed we do,” cried the girls, “but—”

“Then eat this to oblige me,” said Emma. “But you, dear Fanny, whose
lips look so parched and feverish, shall have the largest piece;” which
Fanny ate with great eagerness, wishing that she was again in Jamaica,
that she might have a whole shaddock to her own share.

All this time Balfour, who saw he was lessened in Emma’s eyes by the
circumstance of the fruit, was silent from mortification; and Emma
became silent also. She was shocked at the little girl’s greedy and
selfish wish for solitary pleasure, and could not help attributing it to
the bad example of her brother, whose habits, as she saw, being those of
selfish gratification in trifles, had taught her to value unparticipated
enjoyments. “No doubt,” thought Emma, “Balfour has had a bad education!”
and fancying, though mistakingly, that he had been chiefly brought up in
the West Indies, she began to consider him as an unfortunate young man,
spoiled by having been placed in unfavourable circumstances, especially
as he had been for some years in possession of an independent fortune.
While these things were passing in her mind, she was roused from her
reverie, by little Fanny’s whispering in her ear,—

“Brother must love you very much to offer you all his shaddock!”

“Nonsense!” cried Emma, blushing very deeply; and the sisters declaring
Miss Castlemain looked warm, proposed taking a walk,—to which Balfour,
forgetting his fatigue, gladly assented. Immediately the obsequious
sisters ran to fetch his coat and shoes, and get his white hat.

“I think,” said Emma, “you should have brought some of your slaves over,
to wait on you.”

“I have none; but my father would have brought over some of his,”
replied Balfour gravely, “had there been any chance of their being
properly obedient in England;—but there, you know, as soon as they
land, they are free.”

“And would they were so all the world over!” cried Emma warmly, “or
rather, would that the detestable traffic in slaves was everywhere put
an end to!”

“We will talk together coolly on that subject one day,” replied Balfour
gently, contrary to his usual custom when any one expressed opinions
differing from his own, “and I have no doubt but I shall make a convert
of you.”

“Never,” exclaimed Emma indignantly, “but I hope to be more successful
in my endeavours to convert you.” And immediately, with all the sanguine
expectations of a young and virtuous mind, Emma, presuming on the
influence which she saw she was going to acquire over Balfour, beheld
visions of freed negroes, and schemes of benevolent utility float before
her fancy; which determined her, romantically eager as she was to do
good, to encourage rather than repress his growing attachment.

Mr. Egerton, meanwhile, little thinking that the intimacy which he was
willing Emma should go to Montmorenci to retard, had been hastened by
that very plan, was at Paris on business; and Mrs. Castlemain, seeing at
the end of a fortnight that Emma was pleased with her new companions,
and that Balfour improved every day upon acquaintance, joyfully
consented to the entreaties of the Balfours that they would stay another
fortnight. And when Mr. Egerton returned, he saw with pain, that another
fortnight spent together under the same roof would, in all probability,
mature Balfour’s passion into a serious attachment; and though it could
not eradicate Emma’s love for St. Aubyn, it would at least weaken his
power, and very likely induce so strong a feeling of gratitude and
esteem in her heart towards Balfour, as to make her willing to listen to
his addresses with a view to accept them in future.

And he was right in his conjectures. Before the end of the month Balfour
made proposals of marriage to Mrs. Castlemain for Emma, which she
decidedly approved, provided his father approved them also; and Emma,
though she positively refused to give a decided consent, on the plea of
the shortness of their acquaintance, yet allowed Balfour to continue his
addresses, and do all in his power to overcome her dislike to marry.
But, in spite of the shortness of their acquaintance, his character was
already known to her; and when she contrasted the disrespect with which
he spoke of his weakly indulgent parent, with the filial piety of St.
Aubyn,—and his violent despotic temper, with the mild forbearance of
the latter,—her heart died within her, and she felt it would be equally
impossible to forget St. Aubyn and marry Balfour. Still, however, new
hopes and new views on the subject presented themselves occasionally to
her mind; hopes and views too much, perhaps, the result of vanity and
self-confidence. But Emma was only nineteen, and was, from motives dear
to the heart of every delicately-feeling woman, anxious to get rid, if
possible, of an attachment which she felt derogatory to her _delicacy_
and her _pride_.

“Balfour,” thought Emma, “has great faults; but then he is conscious of
them, and he owns them to me with tears in his eyes, declaring, at the
same time, that if I would but become his monitress, the result of the
errors of his education will be removed!” And she also remembered that
he looked so handsome and so humble when he said this, that Emma could
not help wishing to lend her aid towards making so charming a being
perfect; especially one whose self-importance, great as it was, was
surrendered at the feet of her beauty. And then she reasoned thus: “St.
Aubyn’s character is perfect already, according to Mr. Egerton; to him,
therefore, I could be of no use, and to him the defects of my character,
were it possible we could ever be united, would be painfully apparent;
whereas, by becoming the wife of Balfour, I should improve and exalt,
perhaps, the character of a being capable of great actions, and be,
besides, not only beloved by him, but looked up to by him as one of the
first of women.”

Emma forgot, at that moment, how often she had brought it as an argument
for loving St. Aubyn, that his wife would have in him a friend to whom
she could look up for instruction and improvement, while she learnt to
correct the errors of her own judgment by the calm experience of his.
But, unknown to herself, it was wounded pride and pique against St.
Aubyn, two of the varieties of Temper, that urged her to marry a man she
did not love; and Mr. Egerton, almost convinced that he must give up the
darling wish of his heart, resolved, for Emma’s sake, to study the
character of Balfour, and endeavour to ameliorate it to the best of his
powers. He found the young man more docile than he expected, and even
willing to give up opinions, after having long and manfully defended
them, on conviction of their fallacy. “This young man,” said he to Emma,
“has a heart, but it has never been taught to feel; he has a head, but
it has never been taught to reason. However, I believe I shall like him
in spite of his faults, and that his greatest defect in my eyes is not
being——”

“What?” asked Emma, eagerly.

“Not being St. Aubyn;” and Emma understanding him, blushed, sighed, and
turned away.

The month being now expired, they returned to Paris; while Balfour,
having heard Emma express great admiration of filial piety, had the
resolution to accompany his two elder sisters on the road towards
Bareges, whence Lord Clonawley was proceeding by slow journeys to Paris.
Accordingly Emma and Mrs. Castlemain, attended only by Mr. Egerton,
prepared to explore all the scenes and beauties of that city. The day
after they returned thither, the First Consul was to review the troops,
and to have a grand levee afterwards. Accordingly our travellers
procured tickets of admission to enable them, when the review was over,
to get into one of the passage-rooms, in order to see the company pass
to be presented.

The review being ended, they went from the ground-floor of the palace,
whence they had beheld it, into an upper apartment, and were
commodiously seated there, when an English gentleman entered into
conversation with them, and said, that he was not come thither to see
the review, or the company pass, they being sights familiar to him—but
that he was curious to see an English officer go by, to whom the First
Consul was going to present an elegant sword as a reward for his
personal bravery.

“And shall we see him pass?” said Emma.

“Certainly, or I should not be here,” he replied. “But in the mean
while, suppose I tell you, ladies, the story of this young man’s noble
daring.” On which Mrs. Castlemain begged him to begin the narration
immediately, and he proceeded thus:

“It seems that during the troubles in La Vendée, many robbers by
profession, calling themselves royalists, took possession of places of
concealment in the woods and caverns there, and used to murder, or
otherwise ill-treat the passengers; and as yet the government has not
been able to hunt them all from their hiding-places. The young officer
in question was travelling by himself one evening in this unhappy part
of France, when he heard the cries of women; and spurring his horse up
to the spot from whence the cries proceeded, he saw two women and their
two servants in the power of some of the Vendéan banditti, one of whom
was holding a pistol to the head of one of the ladies, while another
ruffian was carrying the other off in his arms. Our young hero did not
stop a moment to deliberate; with the butt-end of his whip he knocked
down the ruffian who was standing over the lady, and, seizing his
pistols, attacked the wretches who were plundering the carriage and the
servants; the latter of whom, being thus reinforced, struggled with the
plunderers, while their champion shot dead the man who was carrying off
the lady, but who, leaving her, was coming forward to attack him. Then,
though severely wounded, he, assisted by the servants, succeeded in
mastering the banditti; and being reinforced by some peasants whom the
noise called to the spot, they were all secured and carried to prison;
while the rescued ladies overwhelmed our gallant countryman with their
praises and their blessings.

“They were on their way to Paris; but as their preserver bled profusely,
they insisted on going back with him to their chateau, and his weakness
obliged him to comply with the proposal.

“The ladies are the widow and daughter of an early friend and favourite
comrade of the First Consul, who, on hearing from the lady’s letter to
madame Buonaparte of the gallantry of their champion, insisted on their
bringing him with them to Paris, that he might see and publicly thank
one who had so materially served friends so dear to him. But these
public thanks, and this elegant sword, are not the only good things, I
find, which are likely to be the portion of our countryman; for the
young lady has a large fortune and is very handsome, and it is supposed
that herself and her wealth will both be bestowed on one who has so well
deserved her.”

“But his name, his name, sir?” demanded Emma.

“I have heard it, but I have forgotten it.”

Then, while her companions thanked the gentleman for the interesting
narration he ad given them, Emma fell into a reverie.

At length the levée began, and a French gentleman said to their
communicative companion, that he was sure, when the gallant Englishman
drew near, the heart of the little girl opposite would beat violently,
for it was she whom he saved from the ruffians; “and I have seen her
have recourse to her salts several times to keep her from fainting.” On
bearing this they all followed the direction of the gentleman’s eyes,
and saw a pretty interesting girl with blonde hair, who was fanning
herself with great violence, and seeming oppressed by the notice which
she excited. But their attention was soon called to a more interesting
object.

“Le voilà qui vient ce brave Anglois!” cried the Frenchman, the friend
of their companion; when pale from recent loss of blood, his left arm in
a sling, and dressed in full uniform, they beheld St. Aubyn.

“There!” said Mr. Egerton, and it was all he could say; while Emma, pale
and trembling, caught hold of Mrs. Castlemain’s hand, who, full of
emotion herself, retained it in her grasp; while St. Aubyn, looking
neither to the right nor to the left, went forward to the
presence-chamber.

On the opposite side Mr. Egerton saw the French ladies who had accused
St. Aubyn of being _tant soit peu poltron_; and having caught their eye,
he made them a bow of very sarcastic meaning, which they perfectly
understood, and by their gestures made him comprehend their penitence
and their admiration.

Emma meanwhile spoke not a word; but Mr. Egerton and Mrs. Castlemain,
while the French and English gentlemen were admiring the beauty and
grandeur of St. Aubyn’s face and person, assured them that they had once
known him intimately, and that his mind and heart were not inferior to
his personal graces.

In an hour some of the gentlemen who had been presented began to return,
and amongst the rest St. Aubyn,—but not pale and languid as when he had
passed them before; his cheek was flushed with pleasure, and his eyes
were beaming with animation, while in his hand he held the promised
sword of honour. Nor was he unattended. Those officers who had desired
him to leave their regiment were crowding round him, offering him any
apology that his offended pride might require; and Mr. Egerton, who
approached them unseen, heard him answer, “I require no apology; you,
according to the rules of military etiquette, did your duty, and I did
mine; but there is one justice, sir,” said he, addressing his Colonel,
“which I shall require of you in due time.”

While this was passing, Emma and Mrs. Castlemain heard a gentleman
repeat the First Consul’s address to St. Aubyn, which was such as could
not fail to be gratifying to his pride.

Was all this likely to assist the endeavours of our heroine to drive him
from her heart? Ah! no. And Emma felt in all its bitterness the cruelty
of her situation. While he was thus congratulated, and pressed, and
gazed upon, St. Aubyn’s eyes met those of the young lady and her mother
for whom he had fought and conquered; and with a look of delighted
eagerness he made his way up to them, and, kissing a hand of each,
pressed the young lady’s hand to his bosom without speaking, while the
poor girl’s bead sunk on her mother’s shoulder.

“We shall meet in the evening, I trust, dear St. Aubyn,” said the
mother, who saw that St. Aubyn’s presence overcame her daughter, whose
nerves had been greatly injured by the fright which she had received;
and St. Aubyn, taking the hint, withdrew; while Emma, who had witnessed
the scene, felt the anguish of the preceding moments comparatively
trifling.

In the door-way, in order to intercept St. Aubyn on his passage, stood
Mr. Egerton. St. Aubyn, on seeing him, started and turned pale; but he
held out his hand to him with affectionate pleasure, and while Mr.
Egerton, speechless with strong emotion, could only press the hand he
held, his eyes filled with involuntary tears.

“I did not expect,” said he at length, “to see you here, my dear sir.”
Then looking round, as if he wished, yet dreaded, to see some one, his
eyes rested on Mrs. Castlemain and Emma;—and all the animation of his
countenance fled. Mrs. Castlemain kissed her hand to him with a look
which powerfully expressed the affectionate interest which she took in
all that had passed; Emma tried to smile also, but her lip quivered with
emotion, and she knew that her bow was cold and devoid of grace; while
St. Aubyn, instead of making his way up to them, bowed in a hurried
manner in return, and taking Mr. Egerton’s arm, left the room with him.

“We have heard all your adventures here, Henry,” said Mr. Egerton, (who,
alive only to the pleasure of seeing his beloved pupil, and witnessing
his successes, could not feel any resentment towards him for his long
estrangement from his society,) “and you are really quite a hero of
romance;—but what is the justice you mean to require of your Colonel?”

“Why, you know my uncle——”

“Yes, only too well.”

“And you know, perhaps, that he has always declared he would never
forgive a relation of his who ever accepted a challenge?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, when I on principle refused one since my arrival here, I
wrote him word of it, telling him that, though I should have done just
the same if he had not been in existence, it gave me great pleasure to
reflect that my conduct in this instance was conformable to his
opinions, and would procure for me his approbation.”

“And what was his answer?”

“That he did not believe principle had any thing to do with my refusal
to fight, and that he thought the officers quite right in wishing to get
rid of such a chicken-hearted fellow.”

“Shocking!” exclaimed Mr. Egerton; “here is another proof of the
obliquities of Temper. But what will he say when you write him word of
your chivalric exploits?”

“I shall _not_ write to him on the subject; but I shall desire my
Colonel to do it, and let him know that his ‘chicken-hearted nephew’ is
no longer considered by the regiment as a disgrace to them; and this is
the service I told him I should require.”

At that moment St. Aubyn was told that he was wanted at the hotel of
Madame de Coulanges (one of the ladies whom he had saved.)

“But we shall meet again, I hope?” said Mr. Egerton, impatiently.

“Not for some time, I doubt,” replied St. Aubyn, confusedly, “for I
expect a summons to England. My poor mother is very unwell, and unless
to-morrow’s post brings me a better account, I shall set off
immediately;—so farewell! all happiness attend you and your friends
till we meet again.”

He then disappeared, and Mr. Egerton returned to the ladies.

Mr. Egerton’s countenance bore evident marks of vexation and
disappointment; and in reply to Mrs. Castlemain’s “Well, what says St.
Aubyn?” he almost pettishly repeated his conversation. But Emma, who had
accurately observed the change in St. Aubyn’s countenance when his eyes
met hers, was so conscious that the sight of her occasioned him to
experience very strong emotion, emotion which neither hatred nor
indifference could cause, that her heart felt considerably lightened of
its load, and though she thought it might be true that St. Aubyn was
going to marry Mademoiselle de Coulanges, she fancied, she was sure,
that he was not positively in love with her. Still she was unhappy, and
could not help comparing Balfour and St. Aubyn so long and so often,
that the former seemed to lose every moment the little ground which he
had gained in her heart, and she began to dread his return to Paris.

That evening she at first refused to go to any public place, lest she
should see St. Aubyn and Mademoiselle de Coulanges; but her delicacy
being wounded at the idea that it was necessary for her to avoid St.
Aubyn, she consented to the plan proposed, and neither at the Opera nor
at Frescati did she behold him; while had admiration been her passion,
the admiring gaze which greeted her whithersoever she went, and the name
of la belle Angloise which on every side met her ear, would have
gratified her feelings to the utmost, and healed perhaps the wounds of
secret and ill-requited love. But admiration, though pleasing to Emma,
was only dear to her from those she loved, and the greatest satisfaction
she derived from it, was the look of pleasure and exultation which the
notice she excited called forth in the expressive faces of Mrs.
Castlemain and Mr. Egerton. That evening when they returned from
Frescati, and Emma had left them, Mrs. Castlemain and Mr. Egerton began
to discuss St. Aubyn’s singular conduct, but still attributed it to some
caprice of Mr. Hargrave, whose obliquities of temper they could not help
recalling.

“It is very plain, by Mr. Hargrave’s vulgar violence,” said Mrs.
Castlemain, “that he is a low-bred man, and was not born a gentleman.”
(Mr. Egerton on bearing this smiled significantly.)

“Why do you smile, Mr. Egerton?” added; she.

“Because, madam, I am convinced that the conduct of the low and the high
born, when under the dominion of temper, is commonly the same; that
temper is the greatest of all levellers, the greatest of all equalizers;
and that the peer and the peasant are, when under the influence of
passion, equally removed from having any right to the name of
gentleman.”

“Indeed, Mr. Egerton,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, “I cannot agree with
you; consider the force of habit, that the language of a gentleman being
habitually genteeler than that of the peasant, even his angry
expressions must partake of this induced difference.”

“But do you consider, my dear madam, that we are talking of a feeling
powerful enough to overturn even the most powerful thing, itself
excepted, namely, habit? It is a notorious fact, that even ladies
delicately and carefully brought up, when in a state of derangement, use
such language and such oaths as are only to be heard amongst the lowest
of the sex; and what is passion but a temporary derangement, a maniac
unrestrained by the usual decorums of life, and only to be kept in
bounds, like other maniacs, by the operations of fear?”

“This is a mortifying and I hope an exaggerated picture, Mr. Egerton.”

“No, madam, would it were! Still it is not temper, as exhibited in the
shape of violent passion, that has the most pernicious influence on
human conduct and happiness. It is temper under the shape of cool
deliberate spite, and secret rancour, that is most to be guarded
against.

             ‘It is the taunting word whose meaning kills;’

the speech intended to mortify one’s self-love, or wound our tenderest
affections; it is temper under this garb that is most hateful and most
pernicious; when inflicting a series of petty injuries with a mild and
smiling face, then is temper the most hideous and disgusting. The
violence of passion, when over, often subsides into affectionate
repentance, and is easily disarmed of its offensive power. But nothing
ever disarms the other sort of temper. In domestic life it is to one’s
mind, what a horsehair shirt is to the body, and, like the spikes of
Pascal’s iron girdle, whenever one moves it lacerates and tears one to
pieces.”

The next morning, the same principle which forced her to the Opera and
Frescati, led Emma to the Louvre Gallery, though at the risk of meeting
St. Aubyn.

Mr. Egerton had gone to the Louvre Gallery very early that morning, in
order to gaze on some of his favourite pictures alone and undisturbed.
Not that he pretended to be a great connoisseur in painting, and
fancied, because he had during a short residence in Flanders and Italy
seen fine pictures, that he must understand them; his judgment taught
him a more correct idea of his own powers, and he felt that a person by
looking at Greek manuscripts might as well suppose himself capable of
understanding Greek, as pretend to set up for a correct judge of
painting from having gazed on pictures without some previous knowledge
of the rules of art. But he had a correct eye and a poetical fancy, and
on such paintings as interested his feelings he delighted to
dwell,—while, by comparing the style of one master with another, he
endeavoured to form an idea of the different merits of each. He was thus
employed in that precious depository of the best works of the best
masters,—and particularly precious to artists, because they can in the
same room compare in a consecutive series the French school with the
Flemish, and the Florentine with the Venetian,—when he saw a man pass
him in a Highland dress.

“Another countryman arrived, I see!” said he to himself; “but why is he
so clad?” Then supposing it might be some officer of one of the gallant
Highland regiments, who had particularly distinguished themselves during
the war, he followed him from a motive of respect and curiosity, and
also probably from that warming of the heart which one feels when in a
foreign land towards any native of our own beloved isles.

This sensation, however, was somewhat damped in Mr. Egerton, when he
recognised in the stranger, on his turning round, no greater person than
Varley. Still operated upon possibly by that feeling which makes one
willing, when meeting countrymen abroad, to consider strangers as
acquaintance, and mere acquaintance as friends, Mr. Egerton welcomed
Varley most cordially to Paris; though, considering the personal vanity
of the young man, he had his suspicions that Varley had assumed this
very singular dress for an Englishman and a clerk in the War-office,
from an idea of its being becoming and likely to attract notice to his
really graceful form.

“Well, Mr. Varley, what brings you hither?” said Mr. Egerton.

                 “A truant disposition, good my lord,”

was the reply.

“Have you brought letters with you? have you any acquaintance here?”

“No,” replied Varley, sighing, “I am

                 ‘Remote, unfriended, solitary, slow!’”

“Unfriended,” returned Mr. Egerton, “you shall not be if I can serve
you; and I will do all in my power to make your residence here agreeable
to you.”

“I rest much bounden to you,” replied Varley, concluding that his charm
of manner and conversation had interested Mr. Egerton in his favour. But
he was mistaken.

Varley owed the benevolent wish which that gentleman felt to serve him,
not only in trifles but essentials, to his having witnessed what Varley
was ashamed of, namely, the laudable economy that had made him travel on
the outside of the coach; and the anxious affection of his poor
dowdy-looking mother. Even the dirty pocket-handkerchief which she had
employed in a vain endeavour to wipe him clean, had had a pleasant
effect on Mr. Egerton’s feelings, as a proof of maternal tenderness; and
when he recollected that Varley had some talent, and was, he had been
informed, industrious, and a good and dutiful son, he could not help
wishing to employ some of his large income in ameliorating the condition
of these poor people, could he do so in such a manner as to stimulate,
not check, the industry he so much approved. For never did the Christmas
gift of a piece of money burn a child’s pocket, as the phrase is, more
certainly than did Mr. Egerton’s purse burn his since his accession of
wealth; and as he had no personal expense, he had so much money to give
away, that it was quite a piece of good fortune for him to discover
objects on whom to exercise his benevolence. His fixing on Varley,
therefore, (for one of his protégés,) was more perhaps an act of
necessity than of choice. He saw the young man’s foibles, and was not a
little disposed to resent his daring to cast a look of love on Mrs.
Castlemain, little suspecting how far his conceit had led him; but he
thought that a judicious friend might correct these follies, and convert
him into a useful if not an ornamental member of society.

“Yes,” said he mentally, “I will be that friend.” Then, as the Gallery
began to fill, he took Varley’s arm, and, saying he wished to have some
conversation with him, led him into a solitary part of the gardens of
the Thuilleries. He then told Varley how much he had approved the manner
in which he travelled,—a manner so contrary to the habits which he had
attributed to him; he also expressed the interest which his affectionate
mother had excited in him; and while Varley listened with amazement to
hear that what he thought must have degraded had exalted him in Mr.
Egerton’s opinion, he added, that he wished to prove himself his friend,
and must begin by telling him, that if he wished to be introduced into
gentlemen’s society, he must dress like a gentleman, and leave off every
thing outré in his appearance, especially the dress he then
wore,—-begging to know what could induce him to assume it.

Varley, who did not want shrewdness, immediately saw that he could turn
this circumstance, which originated in the motive Mr. Egerton had
suspected, to good account; therefore, with downcast eyes, and affected
reluctance, he answered,

               “‘My poverty, but not my will, consented,’

when my poor mother proposed to make up for me a plaid, which was a
present to her from her native country, into the dress you see;—this,
made at home to save expenses, and another by a smart London tailor, are
all the wardrobe of one

         ‘Who would buy more, but that his hand wants means.’”

Varley had formed a right judgment of the probable effect of this avowal
on the man to whom it was addressed; and it deepened the interest which
Mr. Egerton felt for the mother and the son.

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Egerton with an air of great respect, and a
blush of deep confusion, “I shall not believe that you pardon the great
liberty I have taken in speaking to you with such freedom, if you will
not confer on me the obligation that it is in your power to confer,
namely, to accept this,” sliding a purse into his hand; “for, having
presumed to find fault with your dress, it is only just that I should
furnish you with the means of procuring another;”—while Varley only
bowed, and spoke his thanks in half-sentences, then put his handkerchief
to his face to hide not his tearful, but his _dry_ eyes.

“Mr. Varley,” said Mr. Egerton, “you must dine with me. Can you come
to-day? My ladies dine out, and I shall be happy to see you.”

Varley, still more delighted at attention so unexpected, gratefully
promised to wait on him; then telling Mr. Egerton he would go to his
hotel immediately, and lay aside a dress so displeasing to his
benefactor, he took his leave; and, as soon as he was out of sight,
eagerly examined the contents of the purse which he had received. Its
amount was as much beyond his expectations as it was his deserts; and
while he felt some few stings of conscience for having written a certain
spiteful paragraph, those feelings were soon forgotten in anxiety lest
his delinquency should come to light, and cause him to forfeit the
favour of that benevolent but credulous being, as he thought him, whose
purse was thus generously opened to his suspected wants.

The real truth which Varley concealed from Mr. Egerton was, that he, in
imitation of the celebrated Dr. Goldsmith, intended to walk through some
part of France, hoping by the charm of his flute, and his dancing, to
obtain food and lodging amongst the peasantry, and perhaps gain
admittance into some chateaux on the road; and he thought his Highland
dress would have not only a becoming but _pastoral effect_, and give him
still more the air of a _héros de roman_. But the plea of poverty would,
he was sure, do more with Mr. Egerton than that of picturesque effect,
and certainly his scheme succeeded beyond his utmost expectations.

Mr. Egerton, out of respect to Mrs. Castlemain, would not invite Varley
to dinner when she was at home; for, though he had no suspicion what
good grounds she had for disliking that ridiculous boy, he felt that he
had no right to ask him to a table where she presided, though with her
conviction of his insanity her terror of him had vanished. Nor when he
told her that he had invited a friend to dine with him, did he inform
her who that friend was. But if, after some hours’ conversation with
Varley, he should appear to him deserving his notice, he resolved to
endeavour to interest the excellent heart and benevolent nature of Mrs.
Castlemain in his favour; and he had no doubt but that she would conquer
her present dislike to Varley the forward coxcomb, in compassionate
consideration for Varley the ingenious, industrious son of a poor,
affectionate, and widowed mother.

At the appointed hour Mrs. Castlemain and Emma went out, and Varley
arrived; and Mr. Egerton, under the unconscious influence of an eager
desire to find an object for his benevolence to exercise itself upon,
found Varley intelligent and interesting beyond his expectations, and
was resolved in a day or two to arrange with the young man some scheme
for serving him essentially.

During the course of the afternoon, Mr. Egerton, seeing a flute stick
out of Varley’s pocket, asked him to play to him; and he had not long
complied before he was convinced that the flute he had heard in the park
at Roselands was Varley’s. He did not, however, think proper to notice
this discovery,—to the great joy of his guest, who did not wish to have
any allusions made to the transactions at Roselands.

“You are really a very fine performer on that instrument,” said Mr.
Egerton when he had ended; “can you play on any other?”

“Yes, sir, on the tenor and the violin.”

“You must be quite an acquisition, then, to a private concert; and as I
am going to join my companions to-night at a musical party, I will take
you with me, if you have no better engagement.”

And the gratified Varley had the satisfaction of hearing that he was
about to be introduced into one of the best circles in Paris!

When they arrived, Mr. Egerton presented Varley as a young friend of
his, who had great musical talents; while Mrs. Castlemain, seeing Varley
before her, was ready to exclaim with the poor man in the story—”Vat!
Monsieur Tonson come again!” and observing with surprise, not unmixed
with resentment, that Varley was introduced by Mr. Egerton, she drew
herself up, intending to receive both the introducer and the introduced
with an air of haughty coldness. But Varley did not come within the
reach of her disdain; for he soon took his place amongst the performers,
and played the solo flute parts in a quintetto so well as to delight
every one. Nor was he less successful on the tenor in a quartetto; and
before the end of the evening, an English nobleman present was so
charmed with his performance, that he invited him to a concert at his
house the next week; and Varley thus saw an entrance into that sort of
society which he most coveted, opened to him without any difficulty.

Emma, meanwhile, was lost in amazement at seeing Varley introduced by
Mr. Egerton, who, purposely to enjoy her looks of wonder and curiosity,
kept at a distance both from her and Mrs. Castlemain; nor till they
returned home would he say anything on the subject. He then told Mrs.
Castlemain his wish to serve Varley, and the interest he felt for him
and his mother, and his hope that she would have the goodness to pardon
the too open display of his admiration of her, which had, he believed
offended her delicacy at the K—— ball; assuring her that he would
answer for Varley’s conduct and manners being in future all she could
desire. To this speech Mrs. Castlemain, conscious that she had much more
to pardon in Varley than his conduct at the K—— ball, did not
vouchsafe an answer; but with an air of offended dignity she retired to
her own apartment, leaving Emma to hear and approve Mr. Egerton’s
intended patronage of Varley, and to promise to assist him in removing
her grandmother’s prejudice against him.

As soon as Mrs. Castlemain reached her own apartment, dismissing her
maid, she began to walk up and down it in violent agitation, debating
with herself how she ought, consistent with her dignity, to proceed. She
well knew that, if she were to tell Mr. Egerton how Varley had haunted
and persecuted her at Roselands, he would resent his presumption so much
as not to countenance him perhaps at all; but benevolence, and a sort of
self-defence, _both_ forbade her to make this confession. She felt that
even to Mr. Egerton and Emma she could not bear to exhibit herself as an
old Daphne flying before a youthful Apollo, and screaming and fainting
at seeing a young man suddenly appearing before her, having jumped a
ditch full of water in order to get at her. Then her mistake about the
petition, and the verses on her beauty! Oh! it was impossible to
disclose all this, because, though there was nothing derogatory to her
in all this from Varley insane, it assumed the appearance of insult from
Varley proved to be in his senses. What then could she do? and was it
quite certain that Varley was as culpable as he appeared to be? Did not
she, seeing through the prejudiced medium of conviction of his insanity,
give a false colouring to actions in themselves excusable? When his face
first alarmed her peeping through the branch of a tree, might he not be
merely surveying the pretty walks in the wood? When he jumped down and
ran after her, might he not be actuated really by the wish of informing
her a mad bull was near? Might not his presuming to show her his verses,
be excused by the very natural wish in a man like him, to obtain the
patronage and notice of a woman of her rank in life? And might not the
flute-playing in the park be justified by the same motive? while the
jumping the ditch could be excused by the honest wish of returning her
purse as soon as he had an opportunity. The call at Roselands was to Mr.
Egerton, and the request to see her was satisfactorily accounted for by
the value of the book which he was to leave. In short, Mrs. Castlemain’s
generous wish not to stand in the way of the welfare of an indigent, but
endowed young man, conquered even the suggestions of offended pride; and
when she saw Mr. Egerton again, she assured him that _she_ would throw
no obstacles in the way of Varley’s success with him. Accordingly,
Varley was received at her table, and he, by his very judicious
behaviour, a behaviour that spoke admiration, only kept in bounds by
proper respect, soon made Mrs. Castlemain as much his friend as Mr.
Egerton; and for his introduction to many pleasant parties, and the
enjoyment of many pleasant evenings, Varley was indebted to our
benevolent travellers.

It was on the very morning of Mr. Egerton’s rencontre with Varley that
another acquaintance was added to their list. I have before said that
Emma had forced herself to go to the Louvre Gallery, though fearful of
meeting there St. Aubyn and Mademoiselle de Coulanges; but neither he
nor that young lady was to be seen, though there were Scotch, Irish, and
English, in abundance. Amongst the English was a new comer, a widow of
some rank, who, attended by a humble companion, and dressed à la
Parisienne, was displaying her own lovely figure to great advantage,
while admiring the plump person of Titian’s mistress. This lady,
catching a glimpse of Emma as, with her arms pensively folded in a long
white veil, she walked along the Gallery, unconscious of the gaze of
general admiration which followed her, was so struck with her beauty
that she turned quite round to look at her, and with national pride
exclaimed, “That must be _English_ beauty!” And then, having eagerly
inquired who she was, she smiled with great meaning, and unattended,
followed Emma out of the saloon and down the stairs. Before she could
overtake her, Emma had reached the Statue Gallery, and she did not come
up with her till she had entered the “Hall of Illustrious Men,” and was
gazing on the statue of Phocion. As Emma turned way from it, she passed
her hand affectionately over his chin, smiling, and shaking her head as
she did so; when, looking up, she saw peeping from under a long black
veil, the brilliant dark eyes of the above-mentioned lady, archly fixed
upon her.

“What you said just now,” cried the lady, “was very true.”

“And what did I say, madam?” replied Emma, surprised at the familiarity
of the speaker; “I do not remember that I spoke at all.”

“No; but you shook your head, and according to our friend Bayes, that is
the same thing, you know.”

“And what did my shake say?”

“Oh! it meant, (for you looked at Phocion) ‘Excellent, honest old
fellow! these modern republicans are, alas, very little like you!’”

“I declare I will not stay near you a moment longer,—you are a
conjuror, or something worse; for it is true that I thought nearly what
you said.”

“Not so, _ma belle_; we must not part so soon; by virtue of the art
which you attribute to me, I also know that you are Miss Castlemain,
commonly called here ‘_la belle Angloise_;’ and out of pity to you, who
have no devil to consult, I give you this (presenting her card) to tell
you who I am.”

On reading the card, Emma almost started as well as blushed, for it was,
she found, Mrs. Felton who addressed her; but as she had now a new
object of jealousy in Mademoiselle de Coulanges, she felt more kindly
towards Mrs. Felton than she had done when she left England; and
recovering herself, she said she should be happy to be better known to
her.

Mrs. Felton, having made her a formal courtesy and received one in
return, twisted her arm in Emma’s, and exclaimed, “There,—now let us
forget that we have not been acquainted these seven years.” And Emma
suffered herself to be led by Mrs. Felton back into the Gallery.

“So,” cried Mrs. Felton, “it is full mall, I see! Come, my sweet old new
friend, call up a look, and let us make

                    ‘Parisian nymphs with envy die,
                    Their shepherds with despair;’

for

              ‘The Hotspur and the Douglas both conjoin’d
              Are confident against the world in arms.’”

And saying this, she began to strut theatrically up the room.

“But let our arms be directed against the French, not the English
world,” replied Emma smiling; “for, or my eyes much deceive me, there
are none but British in view.”

“I believe you are very right,” returned Mrs. Felton; “for so much do we
abound here, that on a gentleman’s asking who a man was at Frescati last
night, he said on hearing the reply, ‘Thank ye, sir. Now then I shall
not return to England without having seen _one_ Frenchman.’ But, my
dear, is not that Mrs. Castlemain approaching? Pray present me.” And
Emma did so. But that lady, to whom Mrs. Felton’s character was known,
and who thought her granddaughter might have made a more desirable
acquaintance, assumed an air so proud and distant, that even the _woman
of the world_ felt awed by it.

But at this moment Mr. Egerton joined them; and when Emma presented him
to Mrs. Felton, he made his bow with a look of so much satisfaction, and
entered into conversation so courteously with the fair widow, that Mrs.
Castlemain, conjecturing Mr. Egerton could not by his manner disapprove
the acquaintance, and having implicit reliance on his judgment, relaxed
in her repulsive hauteur, and condescended to be agreeable.

Mr. Egerton, though he certainly did not entirely approve of Mrs.
Felton’s character, was bribed into approbation of her present
acquaintance with Emma, by seeing that the contagion of her vivacity had
called back to her faded lip the smile so long a stranger to it; and if
Mrs. Felton’s varied talents, and the charm of her conversation could
divert Emma’s mind from dwelling on depressing images, he thought it was
the duty of both Mrs. Castlemain and himself to encourage the
association, especially as Mr. Egerton believed no guilt, either of act
or intention, stained the conduct of Mrs. Felton, and that his pupil’s
morals and reputation would neither of them be injured by her. With
these feelings, he accosted Mrs. Felton, and his favourable intentions
towards her were increased by her introduction.

Mrs. Felton possessed a great deal of what is called _manner_, a charm
difficult to define, but certain to captivate. Mr. Egerton told Mrs.
Felton, with an apology for alluding to the husband whom she had lost,
that he had known Mr. Felton at College, and had so highly esteemed him,
that he had cherished some spite against the irresistible charms which
had made him give up being a fellow, in order to become a husband; and
Mrs. Felton, in reply, said,—

“Is it possible that you, sir, can be the Mr. Egerton whom my husband
knew and admired at College? I should have expected to have seen a much
_older_ man.”

Thus, each offering a very innocent homage to the self-love of the
other, (for it was not founded on falsehood, as Mrs. Felton was very
handsome, and Mr. Egerton very young-looking, for his years,) they were
disposed to regard each other with complacency;—for, whether Mr.
Egerton’s vanity was pleased or not by the implied compliment, his moral
sense was satisfied, as he highly valued that sort of good-breeding,
typical of benevolence, if not benevolence itself, which wishes to put
every one in good humour, and call forth the good feelings only of those
with whom we associate;—a habit of wishing and acting, which, when it
does not militate against sincerity, in his opinion very nearly bordered
on a virtue; while, on the contrary, he classed among the vicious those
members of society, who, from coarseness of feeling, and a want of
benevolence, (perhaps I should say of humanity,) are in the constant
habit of wounding the self-love even of their best friends, by vulgar
jokes on the defects of their persons, their dress, nay, sometimes on
their professions, their trades, or their poverty.—And when not in
good-humour, or when careless of pleasing, Mrs. Felton was as much given
to speak daggers as any one;—but this he had as yet to find out.

But where was Miss Spenlove all this time? Miss Spenlove was Miss
Spenlove no longer. A gouty, decrepit old Admiral, of seventy, who
wanted a nurse, and had no objection to her 9 or 10,000_l._, paid his
addresses to her, and was immediately accepted,—to the great
mortification and agony of Mrs. Felton; not that she envied Miss
Spenlove her gouty husband, but, alas! this gentleman was the son of a
_peer_, ay, and the son of a viscount too. Therefore, as Mrs. Felton’s
husband was only the son of a baron, Miss Spenlove, alias the honourable
Mrs. Fitz-Walter, had precedence of the honourable Mrs. Felton; and it
was amusing enough, to see the ill-concealed triumph of the one lady,
and the mortified pride of the other. One day, the servant, at a small
party, handed the tea first to Mrs. Fitz-Walter, when Mrs. Felton was
sitting by her; on which, the former lady obligingly observed, “it
shocks me, my dear creature, to take precedence of _you_,—but, you
know, I _must_ selon les règles;” and Mrs. Felton uttered a
‘_ridiculous_‘ in a tone sufficiently expressive of her pique at the
necessity her amiable friend was under. But Mrs. Felton was consoled for
the pain she felt, at seeing a sort of dependant raised in rank above
her, by the consciousness that she paid very dear for her elevation, as
the old Admiral was said to use his gouty stick for more purposes than
_one_, though its dimensions were larger than those allowed of by legal
authority for the infliction of conjugal discipline; and no one could
offend Mrs. Felton more, than by asserting that poor Mrs. Fitz-Walter
was _not_ the most wretched of women.

When they separated, Mrs. Castlemain assured Mrs. Felton that they
should have the honour to call on her next day. Accordingly, they did
so; and Emma would have felt quite at ease with her new and fascinating
companion, but for the terror she experienced; lest Mrs. Felton should
talk to her of St. Aubyn. But of this there was no fear; for Mrs.
Felton, who was in reality more in love with him than she had ever been
with any man in her life, was extremely jealous of his attachment to
Emma, and was as much averse to talking of him to her, as Emma could be
to hear her do so; at least while such conversation could not assist in
furthering the design nearest her heart.

I will here explain why St. Aubyn had renewed his acquaintance with Mrs.
Felton, and had been seen escorting her to places of public amusement in
London. Soon after Mrs. Felton’s return to London, two pieces of
intelligence reached her; the one was, that all hope of her ever
marrying Wanford was rendered vain by his marriage with pretty Miss
Travers; the other was, that Mr. Egerton, having become possessor of a
large fortune, intended to adopt Henry St. Aubyn as his son, and settle
on him immediately an independent property. This last information, which
unhappily could not, as we have seen, be realized, made St. Aubyn appear
as desirable a match in fortune, as he was before from merit; and Mrs.
Felton began to repent her folly in giving up her chance of winning
_him_, for the vain hope of captivating a man considerably his inferior
in charms and agreeableness; and she immediately concerted a plan to

                 “Lure this tassel gentle back again!”

and a plausible one soon offered. St. Aubyn was much interested in the
fate of a young man, who, having been brought up in affluence, was
reduced to the extreme of poverty, and as this young man was in London
trying to procure some employment, St. Aubyn mentioned him to Mrs.
Felton, in the hope that she had interest, and might exert it in his
favour. Mrs. Felton promised that she would so do; but she would never
have remembered her promise again, had it not held forth a prospect of
enabling her to please St. Aubyn, and induce him to renew his
acquaintance with her when he visited London. For this purpose she wrote
to him for the address of his protégé; and having received it, she not
only was of great pecuniary relief to the poor youth and his distressed
family, but she procured him by her exertions a place of increasing
profit in a mercantile house.

When St. Aubyn, therefore, entered into the dragoon guards at the desire
of his uncle, his first visit was indeed to the Orwells, but his second
to Mrs. Felton; and more charmed with her than ever from her generosity
to his friend, he allowed her to carry him about with her, a seeming
captive in the chains of her attractions. But love and jealousy are
quick-sighted, and though Mrs. Felton might deceive others, she did not
deceive herself; she soon discovered that, whatever might be the cause
of St. Aubyn’s cessation of intercourse with the family at the White
Cottage, his heart still sighed for the subject of his early muse; and
that though to _Emma at eighteen_ he had _not written at all_, to that
Emma every faculty of his soul was devoted. But would it be so, if he
was convinced she loved, and was likely to marry another? This query had
occurred to her at Paris, and she resolved to proceed accordingly.

The new friends were now frequently in parties together; sometimes to
Meudon, sometimes to Versailles; and not only were they at concerts and
balls given by the English visiting at Paris, or residing there, but at
some of the elegant fêtes given by a noble Russian family at a chateau
about twelve miles from the metropolis. Mrs. Felton, meanwhile, gained
so much on Mr. Egerton’s good opinion, that she began to think, if she
could not secure St. Aubyn, it would be no bad speculation to turn her
artillery on _him_. And certain it is that, by way of preparation in
case she was reduced to make such an attack, she continued on her guard
in his presence, and did not give way to those airs and flippancies
which, having been told that they became her, and were allowable in a
woman of rank and fashion, the exuberance of her spirits sometimes
prompted her to indulge in.

Mr. Egerton had seen her to great advantage in his opinion, namely, at
her own table. It was one of his maxims, that it was easy for any woman
to behave with graceful propriety at the table of another, where she has
nothing to do; but the test of an habitual gentlewoman was seeing her at
the head of her own;—and here it must be owned that Mrs. Felton always
appeared in an attractive point of view.

They had met at a dinner given by Mrs. Felton two pleasant French
families, and an English and an Irish family. But Emma’s enjoyment of
the conversation was damped by the terror she felt lest she should hear
St. Aubyn named, and his late exploit expatiated upon. But though Emma
was unfortunately ignorant of it, this was perhaps the only table in
Paris, that day, where the circumstance was not likely to be alluded to;
for the Irish gentleman present was the very officer whose challenge St.
Aubyn refused, and the English one was the very lieutenant-colonel who
sided with him in all he did. It was very certain therefore that Mrs.
Felton would not name St. Aubyn, and she had given her French friends a
hint to be as guarded.

The dinner itself was in the best style of French cookery; and Mrs.
Felton’s politeness had led her to learn all the difficult nomenclature
of French dishes, and the meat of which they were composed, lest the
appetite of her guests should be damped, as English appetites are so apt
to be, by the terror of being betrayed into eating, in masquerade,
something which in its ordinary dress is peculiarly repugnant.

This attention in their fair hostess was not thrown away on Mr. Egerton,
who was an accurate observer of manners. “Well,” said he as they
returned home, “Mrs. Felton has gone through with honour to herself, in
my opinion, one of the tests by which I try the understanding of a
woman, and that is by her conduct at her own table.”

“I never saw any one acquit herself better,” replied Mrs. Castlemain,
“and she is as well-bred as if she had been born to the rank of life in
which good fortune has placed her.”

“How attentive she was to her guests!” observed Emma.

“Yes,” said Mr. Egerton, “and how well she preserved the medium between
being troublesomely pressing, or painfully negligent in asking her
guests to eat! In short, she never forgot that she was the mistress of
the feast, and was not stuck up there to do nothing. I hate to see the
master and mistress of a house sitting at the head of the table with
their hands and arms crossed before them as useless as a carving-knife
and fork before a fricassé, or serving only like their plateau to fill
up a space.”

“Yes, but, unhappily,” observed Emma, “though just as useful, not so
ornamental as that self same plateau, which is generally the prettiest
thing in sight.”

“I think,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “that the master and mistress of a
house should consider their guests as so many fire-works, and themselves
as the _match_ to be applied to them in order to make them explode for
the general amusement.”

“Ay, but there are some guests,” observed Emma, “that, like phosphoric
matches, blaze of themselves, requiring no external application; and I
should like best to surround my table with them, as much the least
troublesome as well as the most pleasant.”

“And there are some guests,” said Mr. Egerton, “who, if they are to be
likened to fire-works at all, it must be to fire-works damaged by rain,
and therefore incapable of going off let the match be applied ever so
often. Some persons seem to think that they come to your table only to
eat and drink, and not to contribute their share of conversation for the
amusement of the company.”

“Miss Castlemain,” added he, “I hope you observed that Mrs. Felton
condescended to know the name and quality of every dish. I have
sometimes been amused, I confess, at the ludicrous distress of an
unhappy John Bull eater, when he has been vainly exploring some made
dish in his vicinity, and, often not daring to venture on the desperate
step of eating ‘a dish without a name,’ has modestly inquired of the
lady of the house what that tempting viand was; and then being informed
that she knew nothing of the matter, I have seen the poor tantalized man
apply to another dish, with equal doubt and equal curiosity, and receive
the same answer to his question again; while, with all due deference,
Miss Emma Castlemain, to your talents and latinity, I could not help
thinking a woman could know nothing of more daily utility than what her
table was composed of. For, after all, society is kept together, and our
good feelings called forth, not by any _great_ services that we can any
of us do or receive, but by _little_ services and attentions; attentions
which show our friends when present, that we have thought of them when
_absent_, and have felt interested in doing all in our power to gratify
even their palates; for, such are the artificial wants that society
creates, I never yet met with any one to whom dinner was positively a
matter of no consequence. Therefore, Miss Castlemain, when you have a
table of your own, I expect that you will never answer my question of
what such a dish is, ‘that indeed you don’t know,’ unless you mean by
that to inform me you are rich enough to keep a housekeeper,—a fact
that I should never have thought of doubting; and I do assure you that
Mrs. Felton’s conduct at table, to-day, was to me a much stronger proof
of the soundness of her understanding, than if she had shown me a moral
essay of her own writing, or descanted eloquently on a moral duty.”

“Sir,” replied Emma, “you may rely upon it, that the coroner, if called
upon to sit on one of my visiters, shall never have to bring in his
verdict, ‘Died of eating an anonymous dish!’ It should seem,” added she,
“that Mrs. Felton had modelled her conduct at her own table according to
the wise son of Sirach’s directions, who bids the master of a feast take
diligent care for his guests, and so sit down. ‘Then,’ adds he, ‘when
thou hast done thy office, take thy place, and make thyself merry with
them.’”

“This seems to imply,” observed Mr. Egerton, “that the givers of the
feasts should stand, and wait behind their guests, that probably being
the custom of those days. But the advice to take diligent care for one’s
guests, that is, to be attentive in helping them, and providing for
them, is a rule applicable to all ages of the world, and worthy of the
illuminated pages from whence your quotation is taken.”

“Your observation, Mr. Egerton,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “on Mrs. Felton,
reminds me of a story which poor lady Bellenden, my mother, used to
tell. Lady Bellenden was, you must know, what is called a notable woman,
and piqued herself on a knowledge of household duties. My father and
mother were dining one day at the house of what are called here ‘_les
nouveaux riches_, or _new rich_;’ persons who, though born only to a
narrow income, and its usual paucity even of comforts, had been enabled
by successful speculations in trade to keep a carriage, two men in
livery, and a housekeeper; and the gentleman had been knighted for
carrying up an address. The lady in this case was a very silly woman,
and her weak head was nearly turned by the great change in her
situation. The dinner was good and expensive, and consisted of many made
dishes. As usual, some timid or some luxurious eater asked the lady
occasionally what such a dish was. ‘I am sure I don’t know, you must ask
my housekeeper,’ was the reply with a smile, as if she had said a good
thing. As this answer was amusing enough, another person, out of a
malicious love of fun, and then another, asked the same question, and
the same answer was given. At length, the master of the house ventured
to ask what was coming at the bottom of the table, when the fish was
removed. ‘How can you be so ridiculous, Sir James,’ replied the lady
indignantly, ‘as to ask me such a question? That is just like you! You
know, since we have been rich enough to keep a housekeeper, I never
trouble my head about those matters.’ ‘Suppose then, madam,’ said a very
sarcastic old gentleman, who was intimate in the family, and from whom
they expected a legacy,’suppose we have the housekeeper up; for she
seems to have much more useful information than her lady.’ The lady
looked silly, but had not capacity enough to understand the full force
of the speech, and profit by it; for she again made the same reply to
the same question; and soon after, while she was talking to the person
next her, a gentleman asked her if she would not like a piece of mince
pie; and concluding it was the same tiresome question, she angrily
answered, ‘I am sure I don’t know, you must ask my housekeeper.’ This
produced a general and most violent laugh; while the old gentleman
observed, that as he did not approve of taking anybody’s name in vain,
he moved that the housekeeper so often named should be brought in to
answer for herself.”

“I thank ye, madam, for your story,” said Mr. Egerton; “and in future,
when I hear a lady say, ‘I am sure I do not know what that dish is,’ I
shall translate her words into ‘You troublesome person, ask my
housekeeper.’”

“But silly as this lady was,” observed Emma, “in her reply to her
guests, she was still more offensive to me in that to her husband. There
is nothing I dislike more than to hear a woman speak disrespectfully to
the being whom she has sworn to honour.”

“The same wise man from whom you have already quoted,” replied Mr.
Egerton, says, “‘A woman that honoureth her husband shall be judged wise
of all.’ And Richardson, in his Clarissa, a book which many years hence
I wish you to read, gives a fine monition to wives. When his hero
Lovelace calls at a glover’s shop, and desires to see the master of it,
the wife replies that he is up stairs, and calls him down by the name of
‘John!’ on which Lovelace calls him also, and by the same familiar
appellation of John. This gives great offence to the woman, and she
reproaches him for taking such a liberty with her husband; to which he
replies, ‘Woman, learn to treat your husband with respect yourself, so
shall you teach others to respect him.’”

“Admirably said,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, “and the poor lady in my
story might have profited by the hint. There is nothing so offensive,
certainly, as the bickering of husbands and wives in company, especially
in those conspicuous situations, the top and bottom of their own tables.
I have sometimes seen _such_ looks travel backwards and forwards!”

“Ay, so have I,” returned Mr. Egerton; “looks sent like a shuttlecock
backwards and forwards from the one to the other.”

“But,” observed Emma, “it was like a shuttlecock then, could such a
thing be, with the quills not the feathers uppermost, and those of the
porcupine kind.”

“True,” said Mr. Egerton; “and I am of opinion that conjugal quarrels,
like conjugal endearments, should never take place before company; and
that those parents who quarrel with each other, and correct their
children, before even their intimate friends, are positive nuisances in
society.”

“This from you, Mr. Egerton!” replied Mrs. Castlemain laughing. “I
thought you were so fond of having children corrected, that you would
have no opportunity omitted; but, like King Arthur in Tom Thumb, you
would bid the school masters

                       ‘Whip all the little boys’

at any time.”

“Not so, madam,” answered Mr. Egerton smiling; “but if the alternative
was, that they must be corrected in my presence, or not corrected at
all, I should certainly say, whip away, and make no stranger of me. But
let me quote in defence of that wise man King Arthur and myself, no less
authority than that of the wise man in whose writings I am happy to see
you, Emma, so conversant; ‘He that loveth his son causeth him often to
feel the rod, that he may have joy of him in the end.’ Again, ‘He that
chastiseth his son shall have joy of him, and shall rejoice of him
amongst his acquaintance.’ ‘A horse not broken becometh headstrong, and
a child left to himself will be wilful.’”

“Ay, ay, all this is very wise, I know,” said Mrs. Castlemain, and
‘Spare the rod, and spoil the child,’ is a well-known proverb; but there
is also another proverb, Mr. Egerton, about bachelors’ wives and so
forth.”

“True, madam, and a very sensible proverb it is; for it means that
people are very apt, overlooking the difficulties of those tasks which
they have not been called upon to perform, to arrogate to themselves a
power of acting better and more wisely in a difficult situation than
their neighbours and friends. But in this case the proverb does not
apply to me; for I am fully aware of the difficulties of bringing up
children properly; and though I am well convinced that the parents who
have resolution to correct their offspring, love them more truly than
those whose fine feelings, forsooth, forbid them to do it, I can make
allowances for the obstacles thrown in the way of such corrections by a
selfishness looking so very like the virtue of parental tenderness. But
all I pretend to say is, that the conduct towards children which I
admire, though rare perhaps, is very possible. Though not so fortunate
as to be a parent myself, my mother was a parent; and I am well
convinced, that whatever of good there is in my temper or disposition, I
owe to her judicious corrections in the early stages of my childhood. I
have also known many mothers, (for on mothers chiefly depends the
conduct which forms the temper of the child,) whom I have surveyed with
affection and veneration, while the firm and salutary frown of maternal
severity could scarcely conceal the starting tear of maternal tenderness
as they inflicted, magnanimously inflicted, punishment on present error,
from the consciousness that it was the means of preventing more serious
guilt in future. Some such mothers I have still the happiness of
knowing; the grave has hidden others from my view, and circumstances
separated me from many; but lovely and venerable is the recollection of
them to my mind! And when all my conduct towards you, dear madam, has
showed, during Emma’s childhood, that I thought you capable, with a
little exertion, of being all that these mothers were, I do not think I
deserved to have a musty proverb thrown in my teeth as a sort of
reproach, and I must say that it exhibited too much of pique and
temper.”

“Perhaps it did,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, “and I sincerely ask your
forgiveness.”

“My forgiveness! O fy! the fault was too trifling to require such an
apology. But I see by the light of yon lamp that you are looking very
arch, Miss Castlemain. Pray why is this?”

“Nay, nothing; only that one has heard of a man’s going to see that
good-for-nothing person a house-breaker, executed in just punishment of
his offences, and taking the opportunity himself of picking a pocket.”

“Well, Emma, and now for the application.”

“Why, sir, you reproached my poor grandmother with quoting a proverb
against you, in spite and ill-temper, and in a manner at least as
indicative of anger as hers was.”

“True, child, true; and I beg pardon in my turn.” Here the coach stopped
at the door of the hotel.

When Emma had retired for the night, Mrs. Castlemain told Mr. Egerton
that she wished to speak to him. “You said just now, sir, that some
years hence you would wish Emma to read Clarissa, and I doubt not but
your reasons for wishing her to defer reading it so long are very good
ones. But, I must tell you, that Madame de Lamoignan reproached me the
other day, because Emma at nineteen had not yet read that book,—a book
which, she assured me, most French mothers think it right, as one of the
first sources of moral instruction, to put into the hands of their
daughters at seventeen. But I replied to her that I could see no
necessity for this.”

“No, madam, no more than to make a point of leading your pupil into a
squalid and filthy cottage, the abode of dirt and poverty, in order to
teach her the necessity of keeping her person clean. Can the death-bed
of a Sinclair, and the horrible fate of Clarissa, be necessary to teach
a young woman to hate vice, love virtue, and detest a villain? And as
this otherwise admirable work contains very improper descriptions, and
scenes of infamy with which it must sully a young woman’s mind to be
acquainted, I must think that putting this book in the hands of a girl,
by way of improving her morals, is like giving a person a wound in order
to bestow on them a plaister. Still, I consider the Clarissa of
Richardson as a national boast; and so far from objecting to the formal
manners of his Harlowe family, I think one might as well object to the
dresses of Vandyke, and Lely and Kneller’s portraits, because they are
not according to the present fashion. The manners of the Harlowes are
the manners of that time of day, and I cannot therefore wish to spare
them an atom of their stateliness.”

“I agree with all you have said,” replied Mrs. Castlemain, “and am happy
to find my opinions sanctioned by yours.”

The next day Mrs. Felton was to accompany them to the Petits Augustins.
It was agreed that they should meet in the Louvre Gallery, and walk
thence to Mrs. Castlemain’s hotel, whence they were to proceed in that
lady’s carriage. The walk from the Louvre lay, as I have before said,
across the Place de la Concorde; and as the day was fine, the sunbeams
beautifully illuminated the splendid objects which that scene exhibits.
Our travellers, standing near the scaffolding then erected on the spot
where the guillotine stood, and where once stood the equestrian statue
of Louis Quinze, paused awhile to gaze upon the grand assemblage of
objects. Behind them were the palace and gardens of the Thuilleries; on
the right, the magnificent pile of building called Le Garde Meuble,
divided by the widest street in Paris, the Rue de la Concorde,
terminated by the numerous columns of La Madelaine. On the left were the
river, and the Palais Bourbon, with the distant dome of the Invalides;
and in front the Elysian Fields, with the grand vista leading to the
hill beyond.

“Were all Paris like this spot,” cried Mr. Egerton, “the world surely
could not parallel it as a city.”

“But it is not,” replied Mrs. Felton; “and lovely as is this scene, I
must forget the horrors transacted in it before I can relish its beauty
as it deserves. Alas! this is a spot which the world cannot parallel for
other reasons than its loveliness.”

“True,” said Mr. Egerton, the thought of his murdered friend painfully
recurring to him. “And what a brief but eventful chronicle is the place
in which we now are! In that palace lived and reigned Louis XVI. On the
very spot on which we now stand, he was beheaded; in that church he lies
buried; and all these striking memorials meet the eye as it were at
once!”

“Ay,” observed Emma, “in that church his remains, his unhonoured remains
indeed, lie buried.”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Felton, “amidst the bones of those humbler
individuals who were crushed to death amongst the crowds assembled to
witness the rejoicings which took place on his nuptials.”

“True, madam,” returned Mr. Egerton, “and I never feel more disgust at
the operations of temper, (here he smiled significantly at Emma,) that
universal agent in all human actions, and that soul of party spirit,
than when they lead men to assume as it were the terrors of the
Almighty, and presume to point the arrows of retributive justice. Often
have I heard the circumstance of the poor king’s being buried with the
victims of his bridal-day, mentioned as an awful and signal instance of
retribution; than which, nothing could be further from the truth, as no
one can be properly said to suffer for a crime he never committed. Had
the unhappy Louis ordered these persons so buried to be crushed to
death, or had he by an act of sovereign power caused them to be put in a
situation of which death was the unavoidable consequence, then might
this circumstance be held up as a sign of retributive justice. But he
was only an accessary to this dreadful fact, by having been, as a
bridegroom, the cause of the festivity which called together those
wretched people who perished in the gratification of their curiosity.
This is one amongst many of those cruel deductions and observations
which the virulence of party spirit makes, and partisans adopt as true
without giving themselves the trouble of asking their own understandings
whether it be really the truth or not; and this spirit caused Louis to
be buried in that spot, as an expiatory offering to the manes of those
unfortunate people!”

“As exhibiting an awful picture of human passions in uncontrolled
action,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “the history of the French revolution is
an instructive volume to read, though every page be written in
characters of blood.”

“Alas!” replied Mr. Egerton, “in such characters must the history of
_every_ revolution be written; for private dislikes and personal
resentments are commonly amongst the most powerful motives of the
promoters of revolutions, and Temper reigns triumphant under the
specious name of Public Spirit!”

“Conversations like these, and the sight of a scene like this,” said
Mrs. Felton, “are no bad preparation for what we are going to
survey,—the tombs of those illustrious dead on whom the mean vengeance
of Temper did indeed, under the mask of patriotism, vent itself with
even Vandal barbarity.”

At this moment Mrs. Castlemain’s carriage appeared in sight, and the
coachman came forward to meet them; while Emma slily whispering Mr.
Egerton, said, “So, sir, you could not forbear mounting your hobby-horse
just now. But I suspect, by Mrs. Felton’s looking so grave when you
began to talk about Temper, and your system concerning it, that your
hobby gave her a kick or two. However, we shall find out if that was the
case.”

The Museum of Ancient Monuments which our travellers were now visiting,
is in the Rue des Petits Augustins, and in the former monastery of that
name. There are now deposited the tombs and monuments of the metropolis,
as well as of other parts of France, which, saved from the destruction
of Jacobin fury, are here historically and chronologically arranged.
With judicious accuracy, the chamber[5] containing the works of the
twelfth century is decorated with the architectural ornaments peculiar
to that age; and the same excellent plan is adopted in ornamenting the
other chambers, containing in succession the monuments of the
thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, and
eighteenth centuries; while the garden, dignified by the pompous name of
the Elysium, contains forty statues, besides several tombs and urns
raising their marble heads amidst pine trees, cypresses, and poplars.
Here rest entombed the ashes of Abelard and Eloisa; here the illustrious
remains of Descartes, Moliere, Lafontaine, and Boileau, and those of
many other great men who are immortal in the pages of French history,
and were judged worthy of having their names and actions recorded on
monumental marble.

The interest which our travellers and Mrs. Felton expected to feel in
these scenes, so calculated to call forth a variety of recollections and
emotions, did not fall short of their expectations; and they gazed with
gratified attention on the sculptured features of many a one whose
valour, whose weaknesses, whose virtues, or whose genius, had been made
known to them by the pages of history. The monument of cardinal
Richelieu was already known to them by engravings; and there were
others, amongst which was that erected by Le Brun to the memory of his
mother, sculptured from a design of his own, of which they were happy to
be enabled to perpetuate the recollection by similar means. When they
entered the chamber of the sixteenth century, in which one of the most
striking things is the monument of Diane de Poitiers, duchess of
Valentinois, they saw a gentleman looking at this tomb with great
attention, and contemplating the features of the once captivating
beauty, whose kneeling figure was worthy of admiration; and when he
turned round they recognised Varley, whom Emma immediately presented to
Mrs. Felton, Mr. Egerton being too much engaged in consulting the book
he held in his hand to do this kind office for his protégé. It was
Lenoir’s “Description Historique et Chronologique des Monumens de
Sculpture réunis au Musée des Monumens Français.”

“I am amused,” said Mr. Egerton smiling, “with this sentimental
gentleman’s account of this tomb, that of Diane de Poitiers.”

“Who was she?” asked Emma.

“The mistress of Henry the Second, who was the husband of Catherine de
Medicis.”

“A mistress! and of a married man too! And yet there is a splendid
monument erected to her memory!” exclaimed Emma.

“There spoke the uncorrupted feeling of a virtuous heart,” replied Mr.
Egerton. “Yes, Emma, it is even so; but Diane de Poitiers, the lady of
Anêt, whither she retired on the death of Henry, and where she died at
an advanced age, might have a tomb erected to her, as this was within
her own chapel, without any offence to good morals. And I, as an
Englishman, cannot object to it, when the remains of one of our
celebrated actresses, a woman notoriously the unmarried mother of
children by different men, after lying in state in the Jerusalem
chamber, was interred in Westminster Abbey. But what strikes me, and
_offends_ me as contrary to decorum and good morals, is what this
Frenchman _values_ himself upon; and that is, that the ‘emails or
enamels, which he has introduced in the pedestal of her statue, suit it
exactly, since, on one side is seen Francis the First, and on the other
Henry the Second, at the feet of Diane, who is surrounded by
love-ciphers, such as ornamented all the monuments erected by Henry’s
orders.’ Thus does he show himself vain of perpetuating the remembrance
of an adulterous intercourse, as if it were the bright spot on the life
of the departed sinner, whom this breathing marble represents, instead
of a stain on it, which it would be kinder to shroud in oblivion.”

“But what does he say of this celebrated woman?” asked Mrs. Felton.

“Oh! he calls her ‘illustre, aimable,’ and soforth.”

“And does he not regret that her talents and her graces were clouded
over by her misconduct?” said Mrs. Castlemain.

“Oh, no.”

“And does he say nothing of her age?” asked Mrs. Felton laughing.

“No; even when speaking of a dead beauty he is too gallant to talk of
her age.”

“Yet her age was one of the most remarkable parts of her history,”
returned Mrs. Felton; “for she was more than forty when Henry the
Second, who was then eighteen, fell in love with her!”

“Astonishing!” cried Emma.

“Not at all so to me,” observed Varley eagerly; “for, probably, as the
poet says of Cleopatra,

    ‘Age could not wither her, nor custom stale
     Her infinite variety.’

For my part, _I_ admire Henry’s taste, and do not wonder that, like a
modern poet, he should have been apt to exclaim,

    ‘So lovely thou art still to me,
     I had rather, my exquisite mother,
     Repose in the sun-set of thee,
     Than bask in the noon of another.’”

It would have been difficult to say whose cheeks were of the deeper
crimson at this moment, Mrs. Castlemain’s or Varley’s. While Emma, who
stood behind them with Mr. Egerton, could not help whispering to him,
that for ‘_mother_,’ she supposed Varley meant they should read
‘_grandmother_.’ Mrs. Castlemain during this whisper, said hastily,
“What nonsense! A boy of eighteen in love with a woman of forty! He
indeed has youth for the excuse of _his_ folly, but there can be none
for the lady’s.”

“Nay,” cried Mr. Egerton, “he had a still better,—economy; for, in
choosing so sage and reverend a companion, he could make her serve both
for privy counsellor and mistress _too_; and perhaps the lady, from a
spirit of patriotism, consented to further this saving plan.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Castlemain pettishly, “I think this monument has
detained us long enough; let us pass on to more.”

“I cannot regret our detention,” replied Mrs. Felton, “as it has drawn
forth so many various comments;” and conscious that she was herself
turned thirty, she looked with an eye of great complacency on the very
pretty young man whose obliging taste led him, as it seemed, to value
women, like wine, the more, rather than the less, for their age.

Emma was too _young_ to feel thus gratefully, and her grandmother too
_old_ in her own sober judgment; but Varley soon observed that, whatever
was the cause, this handsome Mrs. Felton paid great attention to what he
said; and when he afterwards found that she was “an honourable, a
fashionable, and a rich widow,” he began to think that Mrs. Castlemain’s
place in his heart might perhaps be filled up even in a more stylish
manner.

At length they reached the Elysium, where Varley, on having the tomb of
Abelard and Eloisa pointed out to him, began to recite, with great
propriety of action and sweetness of tone,

“If ever fate some wandering lovers bring,”

and so on to the line of

“Oh! may we never love as they have loved!”

“Thank you, Mr. Varley,” said Mr. Egerton, “given with good emphasis and
discretion.”

“I beg pardon for my little effusion,” replied Varley, “but at sight of
that tomb enthusiasm conquered every other feeling.

“Surely,” observed Mrs. Felton, “the sight of the tomb of those renowned
and unfortunate lovers, Abelard and Eloisa, may well excite and excuse
enthusiasm.”

“Why so?” said Emma. “For, after all, those unfortunate lovers were
guilty ones also. When Mr. Egerton first read aloud to me the poem
whence Mr. Varley quoted those fine lines, I was charmed by the beauty
of the verse, and interested for the sorrow that it expressed. But when
I found that it was the sorrow of unlawful love, and not of a virtuous
wife separated by force from a virtuous and beloved husband, that the
writer too was a woman not ashamed of her error, but glorying in it, and
preferring the title of mistress to that of wife, while the poet had
only given more power and notoriety to her own profligate prose by
clothing it in the most seducing poetical language, I lost the deep
interest I originally felt for the eloquent nun, and can, I confess to
you, gaze on this tomb with as much indifference nearly as on that of
the mistress of Henry the Second.”

“I am far from sharing in this indifference,” said Mrs. Felton, “though
on principle I ought; but the poem in question is so popular, that it is
generally read long before one’s ideas of right and wrong are precisely
defined to our own judgments, and one’s feelings are charmed without
waiting for the leave of one’s principles. But did Mr. Egerton, your
grave preceptor,” asked Mrs. Felton smiling, “really read that poem
aloud to you?”

“Yes,” interrupted Mr. Egerton, “all that I could read with propriety;
for it is very certain that this poem, which, as you justly observe, is
in general request with all ages, is one that a man who respects your
sex could not read aloud to any woman.”

“And were you, Miss Castlemain, contented with hearing it read?”

“Certainly; for surely what Mr. Egerton could not read _to_ me, must be
improper for me to read to _myself_.”

“Her mind, I see,” said Mrs. Felton, taking Mr. Egerton’s arm, and
leading him aside, “has all its original whiteness unsullied.”

“It has been the endeavour of her most excellent parent and myself to
keep it so,” he replied, delighted, as Mrs. Felton foresaw he would be,
at this tribute to his mode of educating Emma; “and I flatter myself
that the correct judgment which in my opinion she displayed in her
comments on Eloisa, she exhibits on all moral subjects; and that you
will never see my pupil allowing a veil of sentiment to give a false
loveliness to the face of female frailty.”

“But are we not all too severe to one single error of that kind in our
sex?”

“I think not; for, as the end of punishment is not to punish crime, but
to deter from its commission, the individual delinquent must, I fear, be
always on principle sacrificed for the good of the whole. Besides, I am
much of Dr. Johnson’s opinion. ‘Chastity,’ says that excellent moralist,
‘is the great principle which a woman is taught. When she has given up
that principle, she has given up every notion of female honour and
virtue, which are all included in chastity.’”

“But where,” said Mrs. Castlemain, “is the tomb of Turenne! I expected
to have seen that.”

“It has been removed from this place,” replied Mrs. Felton, “and you
will see it at the Invalides, where it stands by itself, harmonizing
well, as the monument of a great hero, with the memorials of French
valour which surround it. Striking is it also by its dignified
simplicity, and worthy of the simple greatness of him whom it contains;
for it is of undecorated black marble, and its only inscription is the
name of ‘Turenne’ in gold letters.”

“And that says enough,” replied Mr. Egerton. “I always liked the
character of Marshal Turenne, and when I read the account of his death,
and of its effects on all ranks, as given by Madame de Sevigne in her
inimitable letter on the subject, I learnt to love him, and to envy
France her hero.”

“O that the tomb of Madame de Sevigne were here!” cried Mrs. Castlemain.
“Then indeed would my feelings be powerfully excited, and my judgment
approve the utmost homage that they could pay!”

“True,” said Mr. Egerton, “for she was an honour not only to her nation,
but humanity. She was chaste in an age and at a court where to be
unchaste was scarcely considered as a crime. Young, beautiful, and
adored, she was faithful to a grossly unfaithful husband. The perfect
wife became as perfect a mother, and at the early age of twenty-four she
devoted herself exclusively to the children of her dear though unworthy
husband; while in her maternal affection appeared a pure but decided
passion as well as principle, as is exhibited by those admirable
letters, which, though in some instances they are stained with passages
not suited to the exemplary and matchless delicacy of Englishwomen, are
models of wit, style, tenderness and friendship. I wish,” continued Mr.
Egerton, “that she had lived longer and happier; but it was no unfit end
for this sweet and spotless lady to die the victim of maternal anxiety
for the health of her daughter. And it is a comfort for me to think that
she breathed her last at the house of that child for whom she had lived,
and for whom she also died.”

“Happy, enviable woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain with a faltering
voice and a glistening eye; “for she died before her beloved daughter,
and with the blessed consciousness of having fulfilled towards her every
duty, and having displayed towards her the most unremitting tenderness
and affection! Oh! how I envy her!”

Here Mr. Egerton, alarmed at her strong emotion, gently pressing her
arm, recalled her to more self-command.

“I feel equal enthusiasm with you,” said Mrs. Felton, “and wish much
more strongly than you can do, that the monument of Madame de Sevigne
was preserved in this interesting museum.”

“Why so?” demanded Emma.

“Because I know the fate of that monument which was erected to her in
the chapel of the castle of Grignan, her body being deposited in the
vaults of the family.[6]

“During the reign of terror, the chateau with the church and family
monuments were all laid in ruins; but when the destroyers came to the
monument of this illustrious lady, on which was her effigy, a name so
celebrated struck even them with a sacred awe, and the monument was left
untouched.”

“I thank you, I thank you heartily, madam, for this anecdote; it
delights me to see such homage paid to the combination of exalted virtue
with superior talent, even by barbarous ruffians like those.”

“Ay, but the sequel, dear sir! So far, so good; but as avarice was of
stronger influence over them, than enthusiastic reverence for
virtue,—when they entered the vaults, and found that the body of this
illustrious woman was incased in lead, they carried away the coffin, and
left the body to the chance of what might befall it.”

“Wretches!” cried Emma.

“Having been embalmed, it was found entire, and in a state of high
preservation. It was dressed in a long robe of silk, fastened round the
waist with a silver girdle. The girdle was carried away, as well as the
coffin, and the body was in time deprived of its silken garment, by
persons coming and taking a piece of it as a precious relic. The body
remained amongst the ruins, and is probably now restored to its original
dust,—while neglect and the injuries of the weather have laid this
respected monument in ruins with the rest.”

“O that the same pious hands which preserved these monuments had been
busy at Grignan!” cried Emma.

“Would that the same _politic_ hands had been busy there!” replied Mr.
Egerton, “for I doubt their being actuated wholly by feelings properly
called pious; and would that we possessed some of the silk that covered
those sacred remains! For, however philosophy may laugh at such
feelings, and learn to consider the unconscious body as unworthy the
respect of rational beings, when the soul has departed from it, I
believe it salutary to the affections, that of the mouldering relics of
those we loved, or honoured, we should continue to think as if they were
still conscious, and to consider them as too sacred to be polluted by
mortal touch; and coeval with this world itself be those feelings that
make our departed friends revive in our own creative sensations! What is
it that throws a charm over all that we are now contemplating, but a
reverence for, and a sympathy with, those very feelings? Taught by our
own experience of similar emotions, fancy portrays the sorrowing
affections which gratified themselves by erecting these memorials to
those whom they loved; and whether the monument be one raised by private
tenderness or national gratitude, it is by our power of entering into
that enthusiasm, long since passed away and forgotten, which prompted
the tributary erection, that we learn to feel so strongly while gazing
on the cold unconscious marble, and to claim a sort of tender kindred
with the dead who sleep beneath.”

From the time of this visit to the Musée des Monumens, Varley became an
invited guest of Mrs. Felton’s, and he began to think that all the
high-raised hopes of his vanity and ambition were likely to be
gratified. I have before said that Varley danced admirably,—and he must
indeed have been a good dancer to be admired as such in the circles of
Paris; and as a man’s dancing only tolerably well is a proof that he
must be of a respectable class in society, as his friends were rich
enough to send him to a dancing-school, it was natural that the very
superior style in which Varley danced should lead the Parisian world to
believe him a person to whom fortune had facilitated the means of having
the first instruction; therefore he was soon named the Chevalier Varley.
Indeed his excellence in this art was a matter of surprise to Emma, who
knew that he was poor, and understood that he was born of obscure
parents; she was also sure that whatever his father might have been, his
mother was a vulgar woman. While these thoughts were occurring to her,
which as they rose she communicated to Mrs. Castlemain, who was with her
at a ball near Paris, to which Mrs. Felton had brought Varley, she
resolved as delicately as she could to interrogate Varley on the
subject. And while he was handing her some ice, she said, “There is no
accomplishment, perhaps, Mr. Varley, in which it is more advantageous to
a young man, who is a stranger anywhere, to excel, than dancing; as a
proficiency in that art, such a proficiency as yours I mean, indicates
une _éducation très soignée_; you must have had the first masters, to
dance as you do.”

“I had indeed a most admirable master; my poor father spared no pains
for my improvement,” replied Varley, sighing.

“So it seems; I know no one who does so much, so well. Your father must
have been a great loss to you.”

“He was indeed; for he never took a step but with a view to my future
good; and had he lived, I should have certainly become rich by degrees.”

“I am always sorry when the prospects of youth are thus suddenly
blasted,” said Emma kindly; “and I am very glad, Mr. Varley, that my
admirable friend Mr. Egerton, is interested in your welfare, and has
both the wish and the means of promoting it.”

Little did Emma suspect the double meaning of Varley’s words. The truth
was, that his father was _a dancing-master_, and died before Varley was
old enough to take his business.

Little also did she suspect that Varley, incapable of appreciating the
generosity that he could not feel, was inclined to attribute Mr.
Egerton’s wish to serve him to a consciousness that Emma loved him; and
that, finding she was bent on marrying him some day or other, he had
resolved, by getting him forward in life, to make the match as little
unequal as he could. But the end of his ill-deserved elevation was near
at hand.

A Russian nobleman had invited all the French and British of rank and
fashion, in and near Paris, to a dress ball at his chateau about twelve
miles from the metropolis; and Emma had leave to bring any one she
liked. Varley, though he had accomplishments, had neither rank nor
fashion, and was therefore not invited; but he pined to be at this
splendid fête, at which, though no one was to be admitted in a _mask_,
every one was to wear a masquerade dress or a fancy dress.

“I wish, dear sir,” said the kind-hearted Emma to Mr. Egerton, “you
would go with us, and take Varley.”

“I go, in a masquerade or a fancy dress, to a ball, child!”

“Why not? you would look so well as a Druid!”

“Fy, fy! consider my profession. But perhaps you think that a clergyman
is not more bound to abide by certain restraints than another man; and
that he may play high, attend cock-fights and boxing-matches, and go
a-masquerading?”

“No, indeed I do not. On the contrary, I think that the man whose
profession it is to teach self-denial to others, should first set an
example of it himself, and should never be addicted to such amusements
as must lead him occasionally to association with dissolute and bad
people. But that would not be the case here, and a Druid is a very
venerable character.”

“My dear child, no man of my age and profession can assume any character
without a total surrender of _his own_. I wish Varley to go to this
fête, but I can’t introduce him. However, you recollect that monsieur de
Lamoignan and his son will go with you and Mrs. Castlemain as your
protectors; therefore there can be no impropriety in Varley’s being of
the party.”

Accordingly the delighted Varley was told that Mrs. Castlemain would, on
such a day, send her carriage for him, and take him to this splendid
fête, Mr. Egerton having informed him that he must go in a fancy dress.

“What say you, Mr. Varley,” said he, “to going as a Highlander! What an
opportunity would the Highland dress give you of showing off your Scotch
steps, and playing Scotch tunes on your flute! and the dress ready
provided.”

Varley, conscious the dress was becoming, and that it would give him an
opportunity of great display, acceded to the proposal. “But,” said he,
“I will go as the _Young Norval_ and _spout Douglas_. Afterwards I can
join the dance and play on the flute.” And Varley could neither eat,
drink, nor sleep, for thinking how his constellation of talents would
charm and astonish every one at the ball.

But in the meanwhile Mr. Orwell, feeling great resentment against the
unknown asperser of Agatha’s fame, resolved to find out, if he could,
the author of the paragraph. Accordingly, he seized an opportunity of
forming an acquaintance with the proprietor of the newspaper in which it
appeared, and did so, just as Sir Charles Maynard, being returned from
his tour, had gone to the office, and insisted that the writer of the
paragraph against him should be given up, or he would proceed against
the editor. But, finding that the writer, whose name they told him was
Varley, was dismissed for having written this libel, and that the
proprietor was not in the least to blame, he contented himself with the
insertion of another paragraph, apologizing for the false statement in
the first; while the proprietor could not help inveighing bitterly
against Varley by name, and did so before Mr. Orwell, who soon
discovered that the Varley whom Emma mentioned as a protégé of Mr.
Egerton’s, was the same Varley that had written the slanderous
paragraph; and, obtaining the original, in Varley’s own hand, he sent it
over to Paris, to let Mr. Egerton see that he was fostering in his bosom
the serpent that had wounded Mrs. Castlemain and her family, and might
wound them again.

The day, the long-desired and expected day of the Russian nobleman’s
fête was at length arrived; and Varley, dressed in his Highland
habiliments, to which he had added a shield and spear, in order to
represent the young and gallant Douglas, was admiring himself and
practising attitudes and steps before a whole-length glass. Sometimes he
laughed, to admire the effect of his white teeth; sometimes he added a
shade of black to his eyebrows; sometimes he laid on a deeper tint of
rouge; and then finished his interesting survey of his own person by
making an entrechat, to the great diversion of his opposite neighbours,
who supposed it was “un _fou Ecossais_,” and stood at the window to
watch him.

“The poor Emma Castlemain, how she will look and love to-night!” thought
Varley; “but I shall make her horribly jealous of the divine and
honourable Lucy Felton!” At this moment, while he was expecting the
carriage that was to convey him to the scene of his triumph, instead of
that anxiously-expected carriage, he received the following note from
Mr. Egerton, enclosing the paragraph in the paper in _his own
hand-writing_.—”Mr. Egerton is very much concerned at being forced to
inform Mr. Varley that he does not consider the writer of anonymous
libels as fit to be introduced to the house of a gentleman, or admitted
to the society of one.—He therefore declines all further acquaintance
with Mr. Varley.”

I will not attempt to describe Varley’s agonies at receiving this
overthrow of all his splendid expectations, amongst which, the shame of
detection, not the penitence of guilt, was predominant. The consequence
was, that he the next morning put his plan in execution, and set off to
walk through part of France in his Highland dress, with his flute in his
pocket.

After a fortnight’s absence, Balfour, unable to endure a longer absence
from Emma, left his father two days’ journey from Paris, and returned
thither to see her for a day or two. He brought with him his father’s
unqualified approbation of his choice, and consent to his marriage, in a
letter to Mrs. Castlemain, she having written to Lord Clonawley by his
son, to explain who Emma was, and the particular circumstances of her
situation. This letter, and what passed between him and Lord Clonawley,
Balfour with great joy and animation communicated to Mrs. Castlemain
alone. But when he entered the room where Emma was, and eagerly advanced
to seize her hand and press it to his lips, she shrunk from his touch
with such evident coldness, and seemed so little glad to see him again,
that Balfour, stung to the soul at her behaviour, gave way to all the
violence of his temper; which provoked such severe sarcasms from Emma,
who could not help secretly drawing comparisons between him and St.
Aubyn, that Balfour left the house in an agony of resentment and
despair, and almost resolved in his own mind to give up for ever, the
prosecution of a suit to which he met with so ungrateful a return.

As soon as he was gone, Emma severely reproached herself for her cruelty
and ingratitude, and almost felt disposed to despise herself for
behaving so unkindly towards a man who really loved her, and had with
manly openness avowed his love, from the powerful and degrading
influence, as she considered it to be, of one who, having gained her
affections, had never offered her his own, but had left her for ever, as
it appeared, in a manner at once offensive and incomprehensible. But
Balfour did not return any more that evening; therefore he missed the
opportunity of taking advantage of the whispers of her remorse. Nor did
he come the next morning at his usual hour; for, being still too angry
to see Emma with composure, he joined a party of young men to the Louvre
Gallery, who flattered his vanity by begging him to tell them what
pictures were most worth looking at; and while he was talking loud, and
showing off with all the conceit of a connoisseur, Emma and Mrs. Felton,
arm-in-arm, entered the Gallery. Balfour affected not to see Emma; but,
being glad to display his real or supposed knowledge before her, he went
on haranguing on the art of painting, and the beauty of particular
pictures. As they came up the stairs, at the bottom of which some
gentlemen had left them who had accompanied them in a walk in the
Thuilleries, Emma had been rallying Mrs. Felton on the provoking
sarcastic severity with which she had treated their harmless beaux,
asking her whether all women of ton resembled her.

“Oh! by no means,” replied Mrs. Felton. “I assure you I am unique, no
servile copy I, but a daring original.”

“Daring indeed,” said Emma, archly; “and who shall presume to follow
such a leader!”

“No woman under the rank of an honourable, or without a certain
reputation for talent, should attempt it, certainly,” replied Mrs.
Felton, piqued at Emma’s meaning smile, and thrown off her guard so much
as to give way to her natural love of mortifying the pride of others;
“No, my dear child, no; as you are not a person of rank in society, what
would only be thought whim and spirit in me would be called rudeness in
you; not that I flatter myself so far as to suppose you are likely to
copy me, far from it!”

“Indeed,” cried Emma laughing, “I should not presume so far; and to
prevent any foolish girls from attempting a task of so much danger, I
think it would be a proper measure in the King to grant you a patent,
running thus; ‘We grant to the honourable Lucy Felton, the sole use and
benefit of certain airs and graces of her own inventing, for such a term
of years; when the said Lucy Felton having made her fortune and left off
business, the said airs and graces shall become the property of any lady
whose rank entitles her to become a purchaser, and who thinks them worth
the trouble of acquiring.’”

“So,” said Mrs. Felton colouring with resentment, and secretly resolved
that she would not be long unrevenged; “you can be severe, I see, and I
am not sure now that my caution was unnecessary.—But what have we here?
Who is that gawky youth talking in that oracular tone of voice? Oh! I
see now; it is a young man whom I saw at Frescati; Lord Clonawley’s
son.” She did not add, though she had certainly not forgotten, that the
said gawky youth had eternally offended her at Frescati, because, when
pressed by a gentleman to be presented to Mrs. Felton, she had overheard
him reply, “No, I like neither her face, her form, her dress, her
expression, nor her manner;” a severity of criticism which few women,
and certainly not a Mrs. Felton could be expected to pardon.

“Don’t you think,” said Mrs. Felton to Emma, “that youth is mighty
disagreeable?—Yet, do you know, I hear a very pretty girl is in love
with him, and is going to marry him!” Then, before the blushing Emma
could reply, Mrs. Felton was standing near Balfour and listening to him
with profound attention; while the vain youth went on with redoubled
eloquence. Mrs. Felton then, with a half-courtesy to Balfour, begged
leave to profit by his remarks, and asked him some questions relative to
the names of certain pictures and their subjects; which Balfour,
flattered by the appeal, gave most elaborately.

“But what were you saying to these gentlemen,” said she, “concerning the
ignorance of artists in general?”

“I was lamenting,” replied he, “that modern artists take so little
trouble to excel. A painter should be everything: He should be an
anatomist, that he may be able to draw accurately; he should be a
sculptor, that he may know how to put flesh properly on the parts when
drawn; he should be a botanist, that he may know how to paint plants
with such accuracy that every botanist might swear to the class of every
separate flower; he should be an architect, that he may know how to
exhibit buildings correctly.”

“And,” interrupted Mrs. Felton with great gravity, “he should be a
tailor, that he may know how to fit coat, waistcoat, and breeches
properly to the body.” This speech occasioned a laugh, which
disconcerted Balfour; “and,” added she, “after all these _should-bes_,
he should have the years of Methuselah, to enable him to complete so
elaborate a course of study;” then, being tired of his harangue, and
wishing to give him his coup de grace, she made him another drop, and,
thanking him for the trouble he had taken, said that he was one instance
amongst many, of the politeness of the French nation, which, for the
convenience of English travellers, had provided them with a showman of
their own country.

“A showman!” cried Balfour turning pale, “Do you take me for a showman,
madam? The lady with yon, by informing you better, might have spared me
this insult.”

“This lady does not know you, I believe, sir,” she replied, “and how can
you call my very natural mistake an insult? for who could suppose that a
man would take so much trouble, unless he was employed and paid for it?”

“Miss Castlemain,” cried Balfour, “surely, in consideration of the
intimacy that subsists between us, you might have prevented me from
experiencing the mortification of this moment!”

“Intimacy!” exclaimed Mrs. Felton. “Sir, she disclaimed all knowledge of
you.”

“How can you say so?” cried Emma. “You know, before I could answer, you
accosted—”

“Ay, very true; so I did;—but pray Mr. Gaw—Gawky, forgive—”

“My name is not Gawky, madam,” replied Balfour colouring.

“No! wrong again, I protest;—Why, my dear, I am sure you told me the
gentleman’s name was Gawky.”

“Mrs. Felton,” replied Emma indignantly, “I beg you will not attribute
to me speeches which can become no woman ‘under the rank of an
_honourable_‘ and of ‘_some reputation in the world for talent_? but
remember, that what is ‘only _whim_ and _spirit_‘ in you, would be
‘_rudeness_‘ in me; and Mr. Balfour knows, that to raise a laugh at the
expense of another is contrary both to my habits and my
inclination.”—There she stopped, and the grave rebuke,

                “Severe in youthful beauty, added grace
                Invincible.

Mrs. Felton angrily bit her lip, and felt that Emma’s retort had a
little damped the triumphant revenge which she had taken on Balfour, for
his speech concerning her at Frescati, and on Emma for her well-deserved
sarcasms; while Emma held out her hand affectionately to Balfour. But
he, too angry to accept it, and be just, indignantly left the room.

“So then, I suspect,” cried Mrs. Felton, taking her arm, and making her
walk up and down the Gallery, “I suspect you are the pretty girl who is
going to marry that handsome savage; for handsome he is, and most
uncommonly so; and when you have tamed him a little, he may be worth
knowing. So no wonder you answered me so spitefully;—but is it really
to be!”

“Possibly,” replied Emma sighing deeply, “some time or other.”

“But bless me! how dismal you look! Is that the effect of the sweet
prospect of marrying the man of your heart? for I conclude he is the man
of your heart; else, young, beautiful, and rich, as you are, I cannot
see why you should marry him.”

“Nor I neither,” pettishly answered Emma.

“And really, to do him justice,” coolly returned Mrs. Felton, “he has a
great command of words, and is very handsome as I said before;—not,”
added she, thinking the time was come for her to strike the stroke she
meditated, “not that I think him as handsome as another Englishman, who
I am sorry to say is not now in Paris, a dear friend of mine, who has
lately made a great noise here, and is quite the hero of the day. I
conclude you know whom I mean.” And so confused was Emma at this
address, that nothing but her habitual reverence for truth could have
prevented her replying, “No; I know not to whom you allude.” But the
rising falsehood was instantaneously checked, while in a faltering voice
she said, “I conclude you mean Mr. St. Aubyn.”

“To be sure I do,” answered Mrs. Felton. “Oh! now I recollect, by the
by, that St. Aubyn is or was an old friend of yours. Yes, yes, I
recollect you are the little girl to whom he once addressed some pretty
lines, entitled ‘To Emma, aged twelve, on her birth-day.’”

“Did Mr. St. Aubyn show you those verses?” said Emma blushing.

“O, yes! and when I said ‘I should like to see now you will write to
Emma aged eighteen,’ he made me an answer which, to use a French phrase,
m’intrigua beaucoup.”

“What was it?” demanded Emma in a voice faint from emotion.

“Why, he said, ‘To Emma aged eighteen I shall probably not write at
all.’ But I believe,” she added with affected carelessness, “I quite
mistook his meaning, and he has not, I fancy, written to you at all
since you was eighteen.”

“No, ma’am, he has not,” replied Emma almost in a tone of vexation.

“That’s a pity, for he writes charmingly. Indeed, now I recollect, he
has not seen much of you for the last two years. It is a pity he is not
in Paris. If he were, I would ask him to meet you at my hotel one day.
But he is gone to see a poor sick man, the father of an emigrant whom he
knows in London, who on his way hither was taken ill, and is at a
village twenty miles off; for St. Aubyn is, you know, a good creature.
Poor fellow! he expects to be summoned to England to see his mother; but
he has promised me to come back, unless she is in danger, in order to
see me across the water. He came over with me; but when I went round by
Flanders, he chose to come on to Paris, in a fit of jealousy forsooth,
because I took some notice of a German baron who was of my party.”

All this was said with an air so natural that it deceived Emma exactly
as the speaker meant it should; however, struggling with her feelings,
she replied, “But what will Mademoiselle de Coulanges say to Mr. St.
Aubyn’s attendance on you?”

“Oh! you have heard that idle report, have you?—But I assure you there
is no truth in it, none. At least, I know from undoubted authority, that
when the lady’s friends hinted to him that if he offered he would
certainly be accepted, he honestly confessed that his affections were
fixed elsewhere.—Bless me! what is the matter with you?” cried Mrs.
Felton at this moment; “I fear you are going to faint; let me lead you
to a seat.”

“Thank you,” said Emma sitting down, “I feel a giddiness in my head.”

“Well, thank heaven! the complaint is not in your heart.” And Emma,
roused to exertion by this speech, which she did not attribute to
chance, regained her composure, and with a proud feeling of insulted
delicacy looked her tormentor in the face.

“I beg your pardon,” said Emma; “my illness interrupted you; you were
saying something about mademoiselle de Coulanges and Mr. St.
Aubyn,—then it is not to be a match?”

“A match! O dear, no!—how could you believe it?”

“Why not? She is very young, very pretty, and very rich.”

“Ay, but a woman may be all these, and yet not be able to attach
permanently such a man as St. Aubyn.” And Emma felt that this truth as
it _seemed_ was aimed at _her_.

“Yet St. Aubyn can _love_,” resumed Mrs. Felton; “I could show you some
lines of his addressed to a friend of mine.”

“A friend of yours,” repeated Emma, scarce knowing what she said.

“Yes. By the by, I believe I have them about me.” So saying, she took a
pocket-book out of her _reticule_, and taking out some MS. verses,
presented them to Emma, observing, “You know his hand.”

“Perfectly,” answered Emma, and opened the paper. The verses were those
which St. Aubyn wrote out from memory for Mrs. Felton to show Wanford,
when he had owned that he had lost the copy she gave him, and which were
in reality written to her by a Mr. Trevor! But Emma, too guileless
herself to suspect guile in another, saw it was really St. Aubyn’s
hand-writing, and implicitly believed that he had addressed them to Mrs.
Felton. When therefore she read

            “Then be it so, and let us part,
             Since love like mine has fail’d to move thee,”

a mist came over her eyes; and unable to go on, she told Mrs. Felton she
would, with her leave, keep them to read at her leisure.

“By all means,” replied Mrs. Felton. “The poor soul was very dismal when
he wrote them; but those hours of gloom are over, and I trust that
happier days are in store for him. I have a miniature of St. Aubyn at
home,” she added, “which I will show you some day or other.”

Emma now, affecting great gaiety, talked very fast, and laughed very
loud, though she said nothing at all laughable; and seeing Mr. Egerton,
she challenged him to walk three times round the Thuilleries gardens
before dinner; while Mrs. Felton, thinking she had said all that was
necessary to convince Emma that St. Aubyn was attached to herself, bade
her farewell till the next day; convinced that, though Emma secretly
preferred St. Aubyn to Balfour, pride would in all probability induce
her to make an effort to overcome her passion, and thereby render
certain a union which at present was only probable; “and then,” thought
Mrs. Felton, “St. Aubyn may perhaps be mine!”

It required all Mr. Egerton’s speed to keep up in any degree with Emma
during their walk. The restlessness of her mind imparted itself to her
movements; and as she dreaded rest, since rest would bring leisure to
think, it was not till Mr. Egerton pleaded excessive fatigue, that he
could prevail on her to turn her steps towards the hotel. At dinner,
Emma’s total want of appetite alarmed her affectionate companions.

“Do, Emma, eat some of this dish,” said Mrs. Castlemain; “I ordered it
on purpose for you.”

“You are very good,” replied Emma, “but yon know I am not dainty.”

“No, my dear girl; but your appetite has lately been so indifferent,
that I wished to tempt it to the best of my power.”

“You are ever kind and indulgent,” said Emma, a tear filling her eye,
“and I will try to eat.”

“How unfortunate!” exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain. “I ordered most of these
things for Emma and Mr. Balfour—and Emma can’t eat, and Mr. Balfour did
not come.”

“Did you ask, did you expect him to dinner?” said Emma eagerly.

“Yes, to be sure I did; but just now he sent a note of excuse.”

“I am sorry, very sorry for it,” returned Emma. “Then I fear he is
seriously offended with me, though without adequate cause.—Would he
were here! For never since I have known him did I feel so
affectionately, so warmly towards him as I do at this moment.”

“I am prodigiously glad to hear that,” cried Mrs. Castlemain; while Mr.
Egerton, who had been observing Emma in perturbed silence, sighed, but
spoke not. At length Emma, complaining of a bad headache, said she would
go and lie down awhile, and hastily retired to her apartment.

As soon as the servants were withdrawn, Mr. Egerton said, “This ought
not to be, madam. It is evident to me that Emma has some terrible weight
on her mind; and with your approbation I should like to tempt her to a
disclosure of it, provided you yourself will not undertake the task.”

“I had rather not,” replied Mrs. Castlemain; “but I wish you by all
means to do so.” And as soon as Emma re-appeared, it was settled that
Mr. Egerton should request a private conversation with her.

Emma meanwhile lay down, but not to _rest_. Busy memory recalled every
hour of her past intercourse with St. Aubyn, since his acquaintance with
Mrs. Felton; and she now recollected that he must (unconsciously to
himself, she admitted,) have even then imbibed sentiments for that lady,
which justified the jealous suspicions she herself always _felt_
relative to her; which sentiments being now, as she evidently saw,
returned, had ripened into sincere, ardent, and _successful_ love,—for
was it possible that a woman should have the picture of a man whom she
did not expect to marry? Then her thoughts dwelt on poor Mademoiselle de
Coulanges, who was also said to be attached to him. But could she have
felt for St. Aubyn a real attachment in so short a time, unless he had
given her reason to suppose he felt attachment towards _her_? No;—and
when she considered his conduct towards herself and this young lady, she
could not acquit him of being that most despicable character, a male
coquette; for it was evident that Mrs. Felton was, and had ever been,
the only real object of his affections. She then ventured to read the
verses so falsely attributed to St. Aubyn; and having read them, she
fell back on her pillow, in an agony of wounded pride and jealous love.
But at length the soothing thought, that the extent of her weakness was
known only to herself, and that St. Aubyn, if she married before him,
would never suspect that her regard for him had exceeded the bounds of
friendship, tranquillized her mind in a degree; and feeling more
tenderly towards Balfour, in proportion as St. Aubyn decreased in her
good opinion, she at length returned to the drawing-room tolerably
composed. But her composure vanished, when on her entrance Mr. Egerton
took her hand, and begging to have some conversation with her in her
dressing-room, led her thither in silence.

“Emma,” said Mr. Egerton, after a pause of great emotion, “I have
hitherto forborne, from respect to the pride and delicacy of your sex,
to endeavour to remove the veil which you have so properly drawn between
the feelings of your heart and the curiosity of others. But both Mrs.
Castlemain and myself are so alarmed and distressed, at witnessing the
present agitated state of your mind, that we conjure you, by all our
past and present affection for you, to confide in that affection, and
let us know what are the secret sorrows that oppress you! My dear
child,” added he, “recollect that our peace of mind depends on you, and
that we must be wretched while we see that you are so.” Here emotion
stopped him from proceeding; and Emma, every feeling of pride and
reserve overcome by the claims of gratitude and affection, replied,

“Put to me, sir, any question that you please, and I will answer you.”

“Well then,” said Mr. Egerton, “are you not going to give your hand to
one man, while your heart is wholly in possession of another?”

“Had you put that question to me, sir, yesterday,” replied Emma, “I
must, I fear, have answered _Yes_—but to-day I feel myself justified in
answering _No_.”

“Indeed! can a few hours have obliterated an image so long and so deeply
impressed on your heart? Are you well assured that you are not under the
influence of jealousy?” Emma paused for a moment, and then, without
further comment, related to Mr. Egerton the progress of her attachment
to St. Aubyn; her idea that it was mutual; her jealousy of Mrs. Felton
after his return from his tour; her endeavours, on principle, to return
the love of Balfour; the prospect she now had of succeeding in those
endeavours; and finally, the whole of what had passed between her and
Mrs. Felton relative to St. Aubyn.

“Amazing!” cried Mr. Egerton. “Is it possible that St. Aubyn can be in
love with her, after having known you? Answer me, Emma; did his evident
emotion when he saw you in the Palace appear to you a proof of
indifference and aversion, or of still straggling but concealed love?”

“Of the latter. But I am now convinced that emotion proceeded from a
remorseful consciousness that he had basely endeavoured to gain my
affections, without any real intention of offering me his in return.”

“Impossible!” warmly replied Mr. Egerton, “my life upon his honour!”

“At least you will own,” answered Emma rather indignantly, “that his
avoiding me, and attending Mrs. Felton, with those verses and the
picture, are very suspicious circumstances; besides his having refused
the hand of Mademoiselle de Coulanges, on the plea of a prior
attachment.”

“Nay, that proves nothing. You as well as Mrs. Felton may be the object
of that attachment.”

“Well, sir,” resumed Emma proudly; “but suppose that I am the object of
St Aubyn’s concealed affection, concealed through dire and invincible
necessity, what would you have me do? Would you have me wait humbly and
patiently till he thinks fit to come and say, ‘Will you marry me, dear
Ally, Ally Croker?’ and would you then have me make him a courtesy, and
say, ‘Yes, if you please to accept me, kind sir!’ No! forbid it every
feeling of woman’s pride and woman’s delicacy!”

“But is it therefore necessary that you should marry a man you do not
love?”

“There is no danger of that. It will very soon be in Balfour’s power, I
am convinced, to convert my present feelings towards him into positive
tenderness. Besides, I have ever considered a woman who has so much
meanness, and such a want of self-respect, as to pine in love for a man
who has either never loved or has forsaken her, to be in the next degree
of vice to a woman who has forfeited her honour; and I am well convinced
that I shall be able to act up to this principle completely, as soon as,
by a marriage with a man who adores me, the barrier of wedded duty will
be raised between me and Mr. St Aubyn.”

“But suppose Balfour, from the obsequious lover, becomes the tyrant
husband?”

“He will not do so; for he is conscious of his own infirmities of
temper; and I am sure the influence over him which I possess, and which
my not loving him as much as he loves me will allow me to increase, as I
shall not be thrown off my guard by ungovernable tenderness, will enable
me to keep his temper in subjection, especially as I am tolerably sure
of my own now.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Egerton doubtingly, “your temper is a _corrected_
temper; and were you to be united to a man of such a disposition as is
possessed by one that I could name, I have no doubt of your continuing
to exercise proper self-command; but, when exposed to the contagion of a
violent temper, I doubt the force of bad example will awaken dormant
tendencies, and that you will too late repent the rashness which led you
to marry a man in hopes of improving him. Yet one question more,” he
added, “have you disclosed to Mr. Balfour your attachment to St. Aubyn?”

“Not directly; but I hare told him of our long-intimacy and friendship,
and of my sorrow at his sudden and apparently unmotived estrangement
from me. But I will summon resolution to tell him more, and even to own
that I had unsolicited bestowed my affections. For, though a delicate
woman must feel agonies at owning so degrading a truth, an ingenuous
woman feels still more from concealing it.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied Mr. Egerton; “still the task of disclosing
such a truth is a difficult one, and one from which a common mind would
shrink for ever. But I expect more from an uncommon mind like yours, and
principles and practice usually so pure and upright. It is your duty to
be as explicit with Balfour as you have been with me. Your future
happiness depends on it; for on mutual ingenuousness must all connubial
happiness be built.”

“I agree with you,” replied Emma, faintly, “and I will tell Balfour all
directly; feeling at this moment, as I have often done before, great
self-upbraiding at having so long delayed to tell the degrading tale.”

“Not so, Emma. Loving a St. Aubyn is no degradation; and though he never
in words solicited your love, I am witness that he did so every day by
his attentions.”

“Then how, sir, can you excuse or account for his present conduct?”

“That I cannot do; but I still believe that time will, and
satisfactorily. However, I see that you will and must marry Balfour,
provided his self-love, which is I think as strong as his love, strong
as that may be, is proof against knowing that you _have loved_, if you
do not _still_ love, another. If, when he knows that, he still
perseveres in his suit, I shall feel him raised considerably in my
estimation, and shall with less fear commit to him the guardianship of
your happiness.”

“At every risk, however,” replied Emma, “I will tell him the whole
truth; and then, come what come may, I shall have done my duty, and
shall not have to add to the sorrows I now experience, the aggravated
misery of self-condemnation.”

“Spoken like yourself, my dear child,” replied Mr. Egerton; while with
the lofty mien and open countenance of conscious integrity, Emma, on
being told that Mr. Balfour was below, desired him to be shown into her
dressing-room. He entered with an expression of joy on his countenance,
which surprised Emma. It was occasioned by Mrs. Castlemain having, in
the joy of her heart, informed him of Emma’s affectionate feelings
towards him, and her hope that their union was now not only probable,
but certain. Soon after, Mr. Egerton retired; and Emma, putting an
immediate stop to Balfour’s expressions of penitence and love, begged
that he would listen to her in uninterrupted silence.

I shall not detail what Balfour’s feelings were during her confession,
nor his expression of those feelings. Suffice that, when she had ended,
Emma said, “And now, dear Balfour! I leave you to think over alone,
uninfluenced by my presence, all that I have been saying; and if, after
a night’s calm deliberation, you still feel inclined to entrust your
happiness in my hands, come to me to-morrow morning, and I pledge myself
most solemnly to tender you this hand, as a pledge of grateful,
faithful, and principled affection.” So saying she ran out of the room,
and Balfour saw her no more that night,—a night to Emma, as well as to
himself, of anxious perturbation. The next morning by eight o’clock he
was at the hotel, and Emma soon after joined him.

“I come,” said Balfour, as soon as he saw her, “to claim this promised
hand, as I am sure that my devoted affection will at length procure to
me a full return, and to you with ardent and confiding love I willingly
entrust my happiness.”

“Take it! it is yours!” said Emma, blushing and sighing as she spoke;
and Balfour, seeing Mrs. Castlemain enter the room, led Emma up to her,
and begged her blessing on them.

“This is as I hoped,” she cried, mixing tears with her blessings. And
Mr. Egerton, on hearing what had passed, endeavoured to pronounce his
congratulations as steadily as Mrs. Castlemain; but he could not do it;
and it was a relief to him to hear that Balfour was forced to set off
immediately to his father, who was taken very ill on the road.

Before he departed, he candidly told Emma that he did not approve her
having much intercourse with Mrs. Felton. “And I think,” said he, “you
yourself cannot desire it now. For, if she is to be the wife of St.
Aubyn, it will be impossible for you to talk with her on her prospects,
without betraying the deep interest you once felt in him yourself; and
if she be his mistress, she is an improper acquaintance for you.”

“His mistress!” cried Emma; “such a suspicion never entered my mind.”

“Very likely; but I dare say it may be a very just one,
notwithstanding.”

“At any rate,” replied Emma, “I do not wish to see much of Mrs. Felton.
Besides, I am not a little inclined to resent her rudeness to you.”

This speech delighted Balfour, and he asked her how she would avoid Mrs.
Felton.

“I will tell you how,” said Emma. “Your sister Fanny is very unwell at
Montmorenci, and has sent to request me to visit her. To-morrow morning
I have promised to accompany two friends from K——, just arrived, to
the Petits Augustins; but before the evening I will set off for
Montmorenci, and stay there as long as my grandmother will spare me.”
And Balfour, satisfied with this arrangement, bade her adieu, to return
to his father, with more tranquillity of mind than usual. Emma too,
considering her fate as fixed, exerted herself to preserve the
appearance of content, as one means towards procuring the reality, and
she set off to the Petits Augustins, with a quiet heart and a calm
countenance. A visit to the tombs was indeed congenial with her
feelings; and what so likely to speak peace to each rebellious passion,
and soberize the vanity of human wishes and expectations, as the
contemplation of those mementos of mortality, and the lowly beds of
kings and queens, of heroes and legislators, who having been the sport
of their own passions and the passions of others, there, heedless of
their enmity while living, sleep beside each other in the cold
forgetfulness of the grave, reminding long suffering and patient
affliction, that at last her miseries, like theirs, will find a resting
place and an oblivion.

“When I look upon the tombs of the great,” says Addison, “every emotion
of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every
inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a
tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the
parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we
must quickly follow.”

Emma, in pensive silence, listened to the remarks of her companions, as
they passed from the monuments of one age to those of another, till at
last they entered the Elysium, and the tomb of Abelard and Eloisa was
pointed out to them by their guide. As they approached, they saw a man
evidently absorbed in a deep reverie, leaning his head on his hands
against this interesting monument. The gentleman who accompanied Emma,
on seeing him, said to her in a low voice,

           “O’er the cold marble shall they join their heads,
            And drink the falling tear each other sheds.”

But this poor gentleman can only drink his own. What a pity that his
love is not with him, to realize the fancy of the poet!”

Emma was about to reply, when, the gentleman raising his head, she could
discern his profile sufficiently to see that she beheld St. Aubyn! and
overpowered, bewildered, and surprised, she became heedless of her
steps, and fell over a piece of marble that lay across the path.

St. Aubyn turning round, and seeing the accident, ran to her assistance
as eagerly as her friends, and felt full as much emotion as she did when
he recognised in the pale and trembling being whom he supported, and
whom pain and emotion both made ready to faint, that Emma, whose
probable marriage and attachment to another, having just been
communicated to him by Mrs. Felton, had made him wander forth he
scarcely knew whither, till, finding himself near the Petits Augustins,
he had entered the garden, and almost unconsciously had drawn near the
tomb of the unhappy lovers.

“I hope you are not much hurt,” cried he in a tone of tenderness, with
which Emma’s ear and her heart also were but too well acquainted; while
Emma, recovering herself a little, replied that the pain was only
momentary, and that she was already better, withdrawing herself as she
spoke from his supporting arm, and venturing to lift her eyes to his;
but they shrunk immediately from the tender expression of his glance,
and she felt relieved; when, sighing deeply, St. Aubyn bowing coldly
round, wished them good morning, and suddenly disappeared.

“Is it possible,” said Emma mentally, “that a man happy and successful
in his love I should be found almost in tears reclining against that
monument? Is it possible, either, that the lover of Mrs. Felton could
look at me with such an expression in his eyes?” And Emma certainly felt
much happier than when she came to the Musée.

“Well,” said her female companion, “I am afraid that uncommonly handsome
young man is more hurt than you were, Miss Castlemain; for I never saw
such a look of love as he gave you! Did you ever see him before?”

“O dear, yes,” replied Emma in visible confusion; “it was Mr. St.
Aubyn.” And her companions, seeing her distress, forbore to press her
further on the subject; while Emma, as they returned, forced herself to
talk with unceasing volubility.

Mr. Egerton meanwhile had shut himself up in his own room, to reflect on
the important decisions that had taken place on that and the preceding
day; and in spite of his high reverence for Emma’s principles, and his
respect for the apparent motives that actuated her to accept Frederic
Balfour, he was convinced that, unknown to herself, Temper was at the
bottom of her decision. He was of opinion, that what is called pride, in
a man and woman, both by themselves and others, is often nothing but
temper in one of its various modifications, denominated _pique_ or
_wounded self-love_. And he felt assured that, had not Emma’s pride and
jealousy been roused by the communications of Mrs. Felton, she would
have taken more time to deliberate, before she grave an irrevocable
promise to bestow her hand on a man towards whom she well knew that she
had not a sentiment resembling what she felt for St. Aubyn, and had long
learnt to denominate love. Nor, indeed, did Mr. Egerton see in Balfour’s
attachment for her, the symptoms of a real affection. Her beauty had
charmed him at first sight, and he found his taste justified by the
admiration of all who beheld her; and as he was never accustomed to know
an unsatisfied wish, he resolved to make himself the envy of others, by
obtaining this valuable prize. But her coldness threw obstacles in his
way; and obstacles to a temper such as his was, only induced him to
persevere the more. His self-love indeed was very near getting the
better of all other considerations, when he heard that Emma loved
another; but it was counteracted by the wish he felt to triumph over St.
Aubyn, who he believed loved Emma in spite of the representations of an
artful woman, such as he considered Mrs. Felton to be, for he had become
jealous of St. Aubyn’s fame; who was now not only called the English
hero, but “le bel Anglois,” a title exclusively Balfour’s till St. Aubyn
reappeared at Paris.

“No, no,” said he mentally, “he shall not triumph over me in every way,
and I will marry the woman whom he loves, and have the felicity of
forcing her to love me in return.”

Accordingly he persevered, and Emma promised to be his. Meanwhile,
though Mr. Egerton could not read Balfour’s heart, he was so unhappy as
to suspect that love alone was not the motive that overcame the
influence of his pride, and induced him to forget so soon that Emma had
loved, and probably still loved another.

He was still indulging these sad thoughts, when Emma and her companions
returned. They found Mrs. Felton and Mrs. Castlemain, to whom the latter
had communicated the news that Emma had accepted Balfour; and that lady
could not help suspecting that her communications had been instrumental
in influencing her determination.

Mrs. Felton expressed great surprise and sorrow, at the idea of Emma’s
departure for so many days, then begged to see her alone; when, taking a
case from her pocket, she said she had brought St. Aubyn’s picture to
show her. Emma, provoked at her indelicate forwardness in displaying
this picture, and also in her heart, a little distrustful of her truth,
since the rencontre with St. Aubyn, was irritated into self-command,
and, looking at the picture with great calmness, replied,

“It is like, that is to say, it is like what he now is, rather than what
he was, for I never saw a man more altered; and I am sure he does not
look like a happy and successful lover.”

Mrs. Felton blushed at this observation; and hastily said, “Pray when
did you see him?”

“Just now,” she replied; and Mrs. Felton turned pale; while Emma, with
great composure, added, “we found him reclining on the tomb of Abelard
and Eloisa, and he evidently had been in tears.”

“O, yes! Of yes!” in a hurried manner answered Mrs. Felton, “he is very
uneasy about his mother, and thinks of setting off directly for England;
that is all, I assure you, that afflicts him.” And Emma with a sarcastic
smile, which she meant Mrs. Felton to perceive, as she turned from her,
in silence led the way back to the drawing-room.

The truth was, that Mrs. St Aubyn was better, not worse. Still her son,
unable to bear to be in Paris during the time of Emma’s marriage, set
off for England as soon as he left the Petits Augustins; and perhaps,
like Emma herself, he was in his heart cheered and consoled by the
meeting of that morning, and the emotion that he had witnessed.

As soon as Mrs. Felton and her friends from K—— had taken leave, Emma
set off in Mrs. Castlemain’s carriage for Montmorenci, and alone; for
the only woman-servant that they had brought with them was wanted to
attend on her grandmother, who had had at least the wisdom to teach both
Agatha and Emma habits of independence, habits which rendered the
poverty of the former more bearable than it would otherwise have been,
and guarded the other against many inconveniences and difficulties to
which those women are exposed who have been accustomed to depend
entirely on servants for the duties of the toilette. Yes, Emma and
Agatha, though heiresses, could really dress and undress themselves!

“I shall see you I hope during my visit, sir,” said Emma to Mr. Egerton,
as she got into the carriage, and proceeded on her journey,—little
conscious what trials and what dangers awaited her at Montmorenci.

But to return to St. Aubyn.—It was lucky for him that he set off for
England when he did, as by that means he avoided receiving a letter,
desiring him, if he wished to see his mother alive, to return
immediately; therefore, being already on the road when this letter
reached Paris, he was spared the agony of travelling, an agony
insupportable to an affectionate heart, in terror lest he should arrive
too late. As it was, though he expected to find his mother ill, he did
not expect to find her dying; and when he reached Keswick, he found
that, so far from the account given in the letter, which never reached
him, being the literal truth, Mrs. St. Aubyn was likely to live some
weeks longer, though all hope of her recovery must prove to be vain.

After having shown Mrs. St Aubyn in the degraded light of a detected
criminal, I could not venture to obtrude her on the notice of my readers
again, till I could exhibit her in that sad and fearful state in which
one is disposed to pardon the most guilty their offences, because they
can offend no more, and may soon be within the reach of that judgment,
more terrible than any punishment which human justice can inflict.

When he arrived, the surgeon who attended Mrs. St Aubyn, seeing him
drive up, met him at the door, in order to prepare him for the change
which had taken place in her during his absence. The wish of serving an
interesting emigrant family, whom some peculiar circumstances of
distress had thrown in St. Aubyn’s way, as much as a desire of seeing
France, had induced him to go abroad; an excursion in which his uncle,
being by chance in a good humour when he requested his leave to
undertake it, enabled him to indulge himself in a manner worthy of his
expectations in life; while his poor mother taught herself even to
rejoice in his absence, by the thought of the pretty things he would
bring her from Paris. St. Aubyn, therefore, could not accuse himself,
with justice, of having violated any duty by his foreign tour. Still,
when he saw his certainly, though slowly, declining parent, his agony
was so great as to make him bitterly reproach himself for having left
her so long. In the first place, indeed, he had left her, to fulfil a
military duty; but if he had not gone to France, he thought his
attentive care and tenderness might have prevented her being guilty of
the imprudence which brought on her complaint, as during his leave of
absence he should have returned to the Vale-House, and been with her at
the time when her love of youthful dress had made her go to a sort of
fête champêtre on the lake, which was extended into the evening, too
lightly clothed to bear the chill of the autumnal wind, especially as at
that very moment she was oppressed with a severe cold.

When St. Aubyn saw her first on his return, she was sitting up in an
easy chair, breathing with difficulty, and one meagre cheek pale as
death itself, while the other was glowing with the bright red of fever.
Her son, scarcely able to control his emotion, sprung towards her, and
reclining her drooping head against his bosom, wept over her in silence.

“Ay, my dear Henry,” she faintly articulated, “you little knew how ill I
was, or I am sure you would have come sooner; but I am now getting well
very fast; so don’t distress yourself, for you know the sight of you
will do me quite as much good as medicine.—Well, but I hope you have
brought me some pretty gowns and trinkets from Paris. I have been quite
reckoning upon them, I do assure you.” And St. Aubyn, glad for an excuse
to leave the room and give vent to his feelings, went in search of the
expected presents. They consisted of fans, gold pins, brooches, &c., and
two pieces of sarsnet for gowns.

The poor invalid was delighted with all she saw, and eagerly looked
forward to the time when she should excite the envy and admiration of
the town and country by wearing her Paris finery; while St Aubyn, unable
to bear this language of hope, which he well knew was the result of
mortal disease, was again and again obliged to leave the room, in order
to conceal the emotion which he felt. One of the pieces of sarsnet was
dark, and his mother told him it was too old and grave for her; but the
other, being what was called a French white, suited her taste exactly,
as she pronounced it to be very becoming to the complexion.

That evening, while his mother by the aid of anodynes procured a little
sleep, St. Aubyn visited Mr. Hargrave, who received him very graciously,
nay, with a degree of involuntary respect; for the colonel had written
to him a detail of his nephew’s bravery, and the praises bestowed on him
by the First Consul; and though his jealousy of his nephew was
considerably increased by the means, his pride in him increased in
proportion, and spite of himself he felt that he was in the presence of
a superior.

St. Aubyn told him that he earnestly desired he would allow him to
resign his commission, as, if he had not an insuperable objection to
remain amongst men who had been so willing to disgrace and discard him,
he could not bear to be under the necessity of leaving his mother, as
his attentions and care, if they could not prolong her life, might at
least smooth her way to death.

“Pshaw!” cried Mr. Hargrave, to whom the idea of his sister’s death was
as insupportable as to her son from different motives, “the old girl
will recover again, never fear; however, resign and welcome if you
choose. But harkye! don’t come hither any more with that ugly long face,
for your mother is in no more danger than I am, unless that ghostly
visage of yours should frighten her into convulsions, by reminding her
too powerfully of her latter end.” And St. Aubyn, not feeling himself
able to endure this sort of coarse banter, so uncongenial to his
feelings, took an early farewell of his uncle and returned to Keswick,
where he was resolved in future to pass every day and every night,—a
determination very disagreeable to Mr. Hargrave; but as he was a little
in awe of what other people might say, he did not venture to forbid St.
Aubyn’s performance of the duties of a son.

If Mr. Hargrave had been possessed of supernatural power, his sister
would have borne about “a charmed life,” and her existence would have
been at least as long as his own. Not for any great affection that he
bore her, but because with her life, he knew, all his power over St.
Aubyn must end, as he, for her dear sake alone, had endured in patient
silence the goadings of his tyranny, and even sacrificed on the altar of
filial piety the best and deepest wishes of his pure and deeply feeling
heart.

I will now explain the reasons of his mysterious conduct towards the
family at the White Cottage. I have before said, that Mr. Hargrave in
his heart never liked either Mrs. Castlemain or Mr. Egerton, for many
cogent reasons. In the first place, they were of ancient families, and
he was apt to hate any one who possessed an advantage which must be for
ever unenjoyed by himself;—in the next place, he knew that they
preferred his nephew to himself, another unpardonable fault; and
finally, he had never forgiven what he considered as the triumph of that
conceited girl, Emma Castlemain, over those splenetic effusions of his
malignant disposition, of which, though he had not power to overcome
them, he had sense enough to be conscious and ashamed. Still he knew not
how, respected and respectable as Mrs. Castlemain, was, to refuse what
he saw would probably be proposed to him, namely, a union between his
nephew and Emma, as he foresaw that every one of his acquaintance would
blame him for such a refusal, and his detestable temper be more
commented upon and abused than ever. But the guilt of his sister, and
the disclosure which followed, put it in his power to prevent such an
offer being made, and to cause his innocent nephew to appear at least as
much in fault as himself in dropping the acquaintance of the family at
the White Cottage. While his pride was irritated to madness by Mr.
Egerton’s proposal of emancipating St. Aubyn from his tyranny by
maintaining both the son and the mother, the soothing consciousness came
over his mind, that the reputation of his unhappy sister was now in his
power, and by that means his noble-minded nephew also.

The day after that fatal business of the banknote, he called his nephew
into his study, and told him that he saw very clearly his devoted
attachment to Miss Castlemain; but as he never would consent to his
union with her, he peremptorily forbade him to think of her more, or
even to continue his acquaintance with any one of those three
disagreeables, as he chose to call them; while St. Aubyn, who, had
learnt from him the preceding evening Mr. Egerton’s offer in his favour,
and who thought he might at least accept from that gentleman’s bounty
the means of procuring a livelihood for himself, though he shrank from
the idea of incurring a pecuniary obligation without the prospect of
returning it, coolly assured bis uncle, that he could not and would not
resign those hopes and that society which alone gave a value to
existence; but accepting Mr. Egerton’s offer for his mother till by his
aid he could, by labouring in a profession, be rich enough to maintain
her himself, he should, though reluctantly, resign his claims to his
uncle’s favour and support, if they could be retained only at the
expense of sacrificing his dearest affections and friendships.

“Then this is your decision, is it?” asked Mr. Hargrave with the smile
of a demon.

“It is.”

“Then hear me, sir,” he replied. “I will this instant take the most
dreadful and solemn oath that ever passed the lips of man, that if you
persist in refusing to give up, gradually indeed, but finally, and
without assigning any reason, all intercourse with those accursed people
who have seduced your affections from me to fix them on themselves, I
will proclaim to the whole town of Keswick and to its neighbourhood,
that the mother who is the beloved object of your filial, nay, I might
say, your paternal care, that mother bequeathed to you and your
protecting love by your father on his death-bed, is an unprincipled
wretch, and a detected thief. Her reputation, sir, shall be blasted
wherever her person is known, till even the sentimentalists at the White
Cottage shrink from her with aversion, and she pines away under the
agonies of wounded vanity and pride, till she sinks into the shelter of
the grave!”

St. Aubyn, on hearing this dreadful threat, which he well knew that Mr.
Hargrave was capable of executing, sunk on a chair horror-struck, and
almost heart-broken; and it was some minutes before he was composed
enough even to think; and when he was, misery seemed to encompass him,
till that filial piety, which in him was a principle as much as a
feeling, held out to him consolation for the sorrows to which it doomed
him; and convinced that in time, at least, every sacrifice to duty is
rewarded, he faintly assured his uncle that his wishes should be obeyed,
and be would gradually, but ultimately, break off all intercourse with
the family at the White Cottage.

“But I must have your oath, sir!” cried Mr. Hargrave. And St. Aubyn,
firmly grasping and devoutly kissing that book, whence his courage to
devote himself was derived, took the oath required, and a few hours
after wrote the letter which alarmed and distressed Mr. Egerton.

But spite of his oath, he felt that even the fear of betraying himself
would make him do so involuntarily, if he continued to see or converse
at all even with Mr. Egerton; and rigidly indeed did this most exemplary
son fulfil the painful duty that his cruel relation imposed.

Now, however, the moment was come when the grave was in reality opening
to shelter his mother from every evil that a tyrant could inflict, and
free his noble victim from the chains that had galled him so long; but
yet not, alas! time enough to restore to him those hopes which once he
had delighted to indulge.

Mr. Hargrave, averse to believe the unwelcome truth, that the hour of
St. Aubyn’s deliverance approached, persisted to think his sister was in
no danger; and, as he had never condescended to visit her, he could not
be convinced of her situation by ocular demonstration.

But three days after St. Aubyn’s return, and while he was watching in
silent sorrow over that fading parent, who little suspected that she was
the unworthy cause of his separation from the friends whom he loved
best, he was informed that his uncle was in the next room, and desired
to see him; and St. Aubyn, wondering at this unusual visit, waited on
him in the adjoining apartment.

Mr. Hargrave met him with smiles unusually gracious; and after asking
how the old girl was, more from habit than feeling, (for he did not wait
to hear the answer,) he told St. Aubyn, that he came to speak to him on
important business, and to put him in the way of making his fortune with
very little trouble, and that of the most agreeable kind.

St. Aubyn, shocked at his levity at a moment so serious, only bowed his
head as awaiting an explanation. It came too soon; for Mr. Hargrave
called to propose to him a marriage with a young lady, the heiress of a
very rich tradesman, who had seen him, and admired him prodigiously, and
whose father was very desirous of the connexion. “For my part,” added
Mr. Hargrave, “it suits me exactly; for the girl’s father is a man of
yesterday like myself, and therefore can’t be always throwing his rotten
old ancestors in my face, like her majesty of Castlemain. So hark ye, my
boy! I desire you will, as soon as your mother gets better, set off for
town, and fall a courting with all your might.”

“Never, never, sir,” replied St. Aubyn. “To your will I resigned every
hope of earthly happiness, except what arose from the consciousness of
duty fulfilled; but never will I marry at the bidding of any created
being, though utter ruin of every worldly prospect were the instant
result of my determination.”

“Do not provoke me, sir!” replied Mr. Hargrave, “remember, remember who
is in my power.”

“I do remember,” solemnly replied St. Aubyn; “but at the same time I
know that you dare not use that power against her.”

“Dare not! It is false. If you refuse to obey me, before I return home,
I will blast your mother’s fame for ever!”

“No, sir, no,” again resumed St Aubyn, “I defy you to be so base and so
brutal! Sir, I will not allow you to calumniate yourself thus. You are
not the cruel and wicked man that you represent yourself to be. You have
a heart capable of human feelings and human sympathies; and once more I
_defy_ you, at a moment like this, to utter aught against my dying
mother, and your dying sister! Look there, sir!” he added, throwing open
the door of his mother’s chamber.

Mrs. St. Aubyn was sitting up in the bed, and looking at herself in a
pocket-glass. On seeing her brother, an exclamation of joy escaped her,
and she eagerly begged him to come in. At first he did not, for he could
not obey her. With her face fallen away, even to the slender dimensions
of sickly infancy, her teeth frightfully white from the transparency
incident to disease, her eyes radiant from fever, and her cheeks glowing
with the unwholesome bloom of consumption, while her oppressed breathing
betrayed the nature and the danger of her illness,—Mr. Hargrave beheld
that Henrietta, whose beauty had once been his pride, whose weakness had
made her his dependant, and whose days he was conscious of haying
embittered by the terrible inflictions of his oppressive temper.

“Why do you not come to my bedside?” repeated Mrs. St. Aubyn, while Mr.
Hargrave stood gazing on her in silence, the big tear swelling in his
eye, and his voice choked by strong emotion. At length he drew near,
and, grasping her meagre and burning hand, just articulated, “I did not
think you had been so ill,” and burst into tears.

“No; I thought you did not, or you would have come to see me,” said Mrs.
St. Aubyn, who always esteemed a visit from her rich brother as a great
favour. “But I am getting well fast now,—only see what a fine colour I
have got! all my own, too, I assure you—not rouge—you don’t like
rouge, you know. And Henry has brought me such beautiful gowns! and such
pretty things! The first time I come to dine with you, brother, I shall
put some of them on.”

Mr. Hargrave, overcome by surprise and a variety of emotions, vainly
endeavoured to answer her. At last, he grasped her hand convulsively,
kissed that cheek, now becoming as wan as it was red before, then,
without looking at St. Aubyn, left the room and the house.

“Well, did you ever see the like?” cried Mrs. St. Aubyn, as soon as he
was gone. “But that is so like my brother! When I was very ill, he never
came near me, as if he did not care a farthing for me; and now that I am
so much better, he comes to see me, and cries as if I was dying!”

St. Aubyn could not answer her, but he felt certain in his own mind that
his mother’s reputation would remain _unhurt_.

The next day Mr. Hargrave sent a confidential servant to offer St. Aubyn
any sum of money that he wanted, to defray the expenses of illness, and
begging that he would send for a physician from London, if he thought
any thing could save her. St. Aubyn was affected even to tears, at this
proof of remorseful affection; but returned for answer, that the
physician in the neighbourhood, on whose judgment he could rely, had
assured him that all hope was over. The surgeon, meanwhile, who was
brother to the rector of the parish, had thought it right to hint to
Mrs. St. Aubyn, that she had better settle her affairs; and ventured to
ask her, if he should request his brother to read prayers to her. On
hearing this, her surprise and her anger were beyond description.

“What, sir, are you ignorant enough to think me dying,” she exclaimed,
“and cruel enough to tell me so? No, sir, I am not dying; and when I
want you and your brother, I will send for you. Till then I desire you
not to come near my house.” This scene, when related to St. Aubyn, gave
him increased pain; and he told the surgeon that those religious rites,
which, when desired, were soothing and salutary to the conscious
sufferer, would be only irritating and alarming to a being who persisted
in the belief that her danger was over, and whose mind was therefore not
in a state to profit by the visit he recommended.

Another month Mrs. St. Aubyn struggled with her disorder; but at the end
of that period she sunk unconsciously into the sleep of death, breathing
her last on the bosom of him whom, in the pride of her heart, she had
proclaimed to be “the best of sons.”

Though her death freed St. Aubyn from a thraldom that was become
insupportable, he felt it with bitterness. He too felt as if he were
alone in the world; as if he had lost the only being that really loved
him, and whose interests were the same as his own. Besides, as we are
all, I am convinced, more attached by the sense of the benefits we
confer, than of those which we receive, St. Aubyn felt himself bound to
his mother the more, from the consciousness of the sacrifices which he
had made for her sake. He had not seen his uncle since his visit to
desire him to marry; he now wrote to him to tell him all was over, and
to say that he wished his mother to be buried by his father in the
family vault at St. Aubyn, if he could gain leave to do so from its
present possessor, that estate having passed again to a new owner.

Mr. Hargrave did not write an answer; but he sent his confidential
servant again to say, that Mr. St. Aubyn was welcome to bury his mother
how and where he pleased, and to draw on him for any sum that he
desired. The servant at the same time informed him that his uncle was on
the point of marriage with a young lady, who, with her mother, was then
staying at the Vale-House; but that, out of compliment to his sister’s
memory, he meant to delay the ceremony a month.

It was indeed true that Mr. Hargrave, finding that St. Aubyn would now
be no longer the slave of his will, resolved to marry, hoping to have a
child of his own, in order to disinherit and punish his nephew.

But St. Aubyn felt more surprise than mortification at the news, and
instantly prepared to fulfil the mournful task that awaited him; and
having obtained leave from a Mr. Browne, the agent of the gentleman to
whom St. Aubyn now belonged, and who was at that time abroad, to let his
mother be interred in the family vault, he set off for that estate,
which though only twelve miles off, he had not seen since the death of
his father, to perform the last duties to the parent whom he had lost.

St. Aubyn was too conversant with the virtue of self-command to disturb
the sacred solemnity by any bursts of grief, and in calm and silent
melancholy he witnessed the last rites, and listened to the affecting
service; but when it was over he desired to be shown into the vault, and
suffered to remain there a short time alone. Then he gave vent to the
long-smothered agony of his soul, and then he gratified his affectionate
triumph also; then too he reaped the reward of his patient and
self-denying virtue, for he threw himself on the coffin of his father;
and as he did so his heart throbbed with the proud consciousness that he
had punctually fulfilled the promise given to that dying father, and, to
save the mother confided to his care, had not hesitated a moment to
sacrifice himself. St. Aubyn had followed the dictates of a blind
impulse, and had for the bravery that he displayed been honoured with
the title of hero, and the praises of a hero. But his claims to that
name were founded on a better right; he was a hero in domestic life; in
the rugged field of self-denial he had fought the most difficult of all
fights, he had warred against temper and his own conflicting interests
and passions, he had struggled for, and had obtained the greatest of
_all victories_, a conquest over _himself_.

When St. Aubyn had taken his last look at all that now remained of his
parents, he asked permission to see once more the well-remembered house;
and on entering it, he found that the servant who took care of it, had
with officious civility provided refreshments for him and the surgeon
who accompanied him. But St. Aubyn could not eat; and outstepping his
guide, he passed with eager and breathless emotion from one room to
another, till he entered an apartment decorated with family pictures,
amongst which, the first that met his eye was a fine whole-length of his
mother, with him, a child, on her lap. St. Aubyn looked at it,
shuddered, and turned away; but recovering himself, he turned round
again, and gazed on its companion, a whole-length picture of his father,
the eyes of which, as they looked directly forward, seemed to meet the
glistening eyes and affectionate glance of his son. St. Aubyn continued
to gaze on this picture, and with a self-approving feeling that almost
recompensed him for all his sorrows, “Thank God, I can bear to look him
in the face!” he exclaimed aloud; then bursting into tears, he hurried
through the other rooms, and hastened to the garden to visit the
best-remembered walks.

“It was here,” thought he, “that I bounded along with all the vivacity
of childhood; and there, I remember, I used to sit while I learned my
first lessons.”

The sound of the village-clock had a peculiarity in it which he had not
forgotten; and as it struck, it seemed to his ear like the voice of a
long-separated friend. But at last the painful present proved superior
to the pleasant associations and remembrances of past times; and not
daring to trust himself in the manor-house again, he beckoned his
companion, jumped into the morning coach, and bade, as he believed, an
eternal adieu to the scenes of his childhood, and the last home of his
beloved parents.

They were not above six miles on their return to Keswick, when the
coachman was desired to stop, and a horseman rode up to the window. It
was one of Mr. Hargrave’s servants, who came to desire St. Aubyn to
gallop with all possible expedition to the Vale-House, as his uncle,
just as he had taken the pen in his hand to sign the marriage articles,
was seized with a paralytic stroke, and his life was despaired of,
though his senses were returned; that, when asked whether his nephew
should be sent for, his countenance expressed pleasure, and with a nod
of approbation, he tried to say “Yes—Henry;” and the servant came off
immediately. St. Aubyn instantly mounted the servant’s horse, and was
out of sight in a moment.

He found his uncle quite sensible, but nearly speechless; and St. Aubyn,
whose heart was rendered more than usually susceptible, sobbed audibly,
as he leaned over the pillow of the invalid, who appeared evidently
gratified by the emotion he expressed; and pressing his hand with that
which was unstricken with disease, he said with difficulty,
“Good—Henry—kind—” and he seemed uneasy whenever St Aubyn left the
bedside.

This chamber of death was not at all cheered by those quiet, yet
touching attentions which sickness usually insures; and St. Aubyn could
not help contrasting it with the sick chamber of his mother. He had
found Mrs. St. Aubyn, whose manners had always been kind and
unoffending, surrounded by all the little comforts which her sick state
required. Her servant and her nurse were tender and attentive, her
neighbours and friends assiduous and profuse in their offers of service;
and all that could be done to save and assist her had been done even
before he arrived. But no such anxiety, no such actively kind feelings
had been called forth in Mr. Hargrave’s family and acquaintance, by his
sudden and mortal illness.

The violence and obliquities of his temper had alienated all hearts from
him; and as it was soon ascertained that his recovery was impossible,
his servants and dependants, no longer actuated either by fear or hope,
administered to his wants with apathy and neglect; and like the beasts
in the fable, trampled on the lion when dead, whom living they dreaded
to encounter. While Mrs. Beaumont, the lady who was going to sacrifice
her daughter to Mr. Hargrave, believing that he had made a will in
favour of the latter, did not wish to have his life preserved, and
therefore gave no orders to that purpose; and the servants, who loved
St. Aubyn as much as they disliked their master, felt their indifference
towards him increased by their resentment at his having resolved to
marry, in order to injure the interest of his nephew.

But as soon as St. Aubyn arrived the scene changed; the first tears
which he shed over the restless bed of the invalid, softened their
hearts towards him also; and when he ordered the same physician to be
sent for who had attended his mother, blaming at the same time their
remissness in not having sent for him immediately, his orders were
obeyed with the most exemplary alacrity, and all that attendance could
do for the sufferer was instantly put in action.

Mr. Hargrave appeared evidently disturbed and angry when Mrs. Beaumont,
the mother of his intended wife, came into the room; and when with
officious civility she offered to shift his pillow, or give him any
medicine, he waved her from him with a sort of horror, and would take
nothing from any hand but that of his nephew. Here again was a triumph
for St. Aubyn! His years of patient forbearance, and the fulfilment of
painful duties, had won for him even the affection of this strange,
wayward, and misanthropical relation; and at that awful moment when
ourselves and others appear to us as they really are, St. Aubyn’s
virtues rose in full remembrance before Mr. Hargrave, and he coveted and
enjoyed to receive from him those affectionate aids and attentions which
forcibly spoke that all his unkindness was forgotten, and his cruelties
forgiven.

The next day he grew evidently weaker and weaker, and seemed in great
pain because he could not articulate what he wished to say; but towards
evening he grasped St. Aubyn’s hand repeatedly, and indistinctly
uttered, “You—all—love—you—give—all—yours.”—In a day or two after
it was St. Aubyn’s mournful task to close the eyes of his last surviving
relation.

St. Aubyn, now accompanied by the medical attendants and the
confidential servant, made a strict search for a will; for though what
his uncle seemed struggling to say implied that there was no will, and
he consequently would inherit every thing, yet he could not believe
that, in his anger for his disobedience, Mr. Hargrave had not willed
away his fortune from him. But he was mistaken. No will could be found.
Therefore, after writing to the Cumberland and London bankers to inquire
whether they had a will in their custody and receiving an answer in the
negative, St. Aubyn was convinced that his uncle meant him to be his
sole heir, and he proceeded accordingly.

Poor St. Aubyn! How often, while reflecting on the immense possessions
which now were his, did he recollect Mr. Egerton’s expression, as he
grieved by the cold corse of Clara Ainslie! “It comes too late!” said he
in the bitterness of his heart, when he found that the long-expected
living was his; and the same expression often hovered on the lip of St.
Aubyn, for the same consciousness throbbed powerfully at his heart.

As Mrs. Beaumont had not offered to leave the house, and St. Aubyn, out
of respect to his uncle’s memory, wished to show her and her daughter
every possible civility, he suffered them to continue his guests, and
three days before the funeral was to take place he requested an
interview with the ladies.

Mrs. Beaumont was a vulgar, unfeeling, tyrannical, avaricious, rapacious
woman, and she had forced her mild and timid daughter to sacrifice
herself for riches to an old and unamiable man; knowing too, as she did
so, that her daughter was engaged to another whom she loved with the
tenderest affection. Nothing could exceed Mrs. Beaumont’s anger and
disappointment when she heard that no will could be found; and she did
not scruple to hint that wills had been known to be spirited away; for
she knew that Mr. Hargrave’s chief motive for marrying was pique against
his nephew; and she flattered herself that, when every thing was fixed
for his marriage with her niece, whom he met with during his last
journey to London at the house of his broker, he would have made a will
immediately in her favour. This idea had made her contented with the
very paltry settlement of five hundred per annum, which this rich man
offered her daughter, being much too wise not to make it his young
wife’s interest to behave well to him, that his will might remedy the
scantiness of the settlement. But Mrs. Beaumont was apt to flatter
herself, and her disappointments were of course frequent and violent.

When St. Aubyn waited on her, she was still so angry that he expected
she would every minute declare that it was a scandalous shame his uncle
should have presumed to die before he married her daughter; and she
certainly did say she had never met with such usage before in her life.
But seeing St. Aubyn looking at her daughter with admiring eyes, she
changed her tone; and wisely considering that the nephew would make a
much better son-in-law than the uncle, she took care to let St. Aubyn
know that a marriage with Mr. Hargrave was much against Miss Beaumont’s
will; for, like all young women, she would have preferred a _young_ man.
Then followed a detail of all her daughter’s qualifications to render
the marriage state happy; and when it was ended, she had the pleasure of
seeing St. Aubyn take her blushing and distressed child by the hand, and
request a private conversation with her in another room, whither he
conducted her. But while the delighted Mrs. Beaumont was saying to
herself, “Ay; I am the woman to manage after all; let me alone; I am
always sure of my market,” St. Aubyn, with many apologies for the
liberty he was taking, requested to know whether it was really against
her will that the engagement with his uncle was entered into? And the
poor girl with many tears assured him, that she would much rather have
died than have been the wife of Mr. Hargrave.

“May I now venture to ask, if there was any man whom you preferred?” And
her silence, her downcast eye, and blushing cheek evidently told that
there was.

“Your silence answers my question sufficiently,” replied St. Aubyn; “and
I can only excuse to you my freedom in asking you the question, by
telling you my reasons for it.—Had death delayed his summons to my poor
uncle only a short time, you would have been enabled, by independence,
to resist in future any attempt of your no doubt fond, but mistaken
parent to force you into a hated, and, in my mind, unprincipled
marriage; and marriages of such a nature are so abhorrent to my
feelings, that I will always do all in my power to prevent them.
Therefore, for my own sake, my dear Miss Beaumont, I beg you to accept
from me a deed of settlement of two hundred a year on you for life.” He
could not go on; for the poor girl, overcome with his generosity,
interrupted him with such clamorous expressions of feeling, that it was
doubtful whether he must not have summoned her mother to her assistance.
St. Aubyn had heard from his uncle’s physician a very high character of
this poor girl; and wishing to free her from the tyranny of her mother,
of whom report spoke ill, he resolved to give her what he could not
possibly miss from his income, in order to insure her the independence
which she deserved. He felt also still more inclined to serve her, when
he learnt that she was in love; and suspected that poverty might be the
cause that that love was hopeless. As soon, therefore, as she recovered
her composure, he asked her if her lover (politely saying that he
concluded she was beloved in return) would have any objection to take
orders; and the artless girl, thrown off her guard, replied, “Sir, Mr.
Alton has been in orders some time.”

“Alton!” cried St. Aubyn; “Alton! Was he of Trinity College, Cambridge?”

“He was, sir; and I have often heard him mention your kindness to him.”

This information delighted St. Aubyn, for he found the lover of Miss
Beaumont was that very Alton whom he used to defend against the vulgar,
low-life banter of Popkison and his friends. St. Aubyn then informed her
that he had long esteemed her lover, and that he now liked him still
better for the choice that he had made; assuring her at the same time,
that when the incumbent on a living in his gift was dead, (and he was at
the point of death,) he would bestow the living on Mr. Alton.

“And now,” added he, while Miss Beaumont could only weep her thanks, “do
you wish that I should tell Mrs. Beaumont all that has passed?” And as
she gladly acceded to this considerate offer, he led her back into the
room where they had left her mother.

Mrs. Beaumont was quite amazed to behold her daughter in tears, and
reproved her for her folly in spoiling her pretty eyes. But when St.
Aubyn told her that he had taken the liberty to request Miss Beaumont’s
acceptance of two hundred pounds a-year for life, she thought it proper
to squeeze a few tears into her eyes too, and to thank him for his
generosity, which, in her heart, she could scarcely help suspecting was
owing to a qualm of conscience for having suppressed a will. St. Aubyn,
then, instead of hinting, as she hoped he would do, his wish to
cultivate her acquaintance, in order to forward his intended suit to her
daughter, began to plead the cause of Mr. Alton; which threw Mrs.
Beaumont into a most violent passion, and she declared, she wondered at
her daughter’s want of spirit, for that with two hundred pounds a-year
in her pocket, “who knew but that she might marry well!”

“But, madam, how do you know,” replied St. Aubyn, “that I shall give
your daughter this potent two hundred a-year, if she does not marry this
identical Mr. Alton, my friend, to whom I destine a very fine living,
now on the point of being vacated?”

“Oh! cried Mrs. Beaumont; “your friend! Mr. Alton is your friend, is he,
sir? Oh! that alters the case entirely; and I shall be happy to call my
daughter Mrs. Alton as soon as she chooses.”

To be brief; St. Aubyn having made a short will, but according to the
dictates of justice, affection, and benevolence, wisely considering that
things of such importance should never be delayed a day, and having in
that will settled the two hundred pounds a-year on the future Mrs.
Alton, set off for France, buoyed up only too often by the idea that
perhaps something had occurred to break off the engagement between Emma
and Balfour, and thereby preparing for himself all the _bitterness of
disappointment_.

But while he is on his way to Paris, let us return to our heroine. She
had passed a quiet fortnight at Montmorenci, during which time she had
been visited by Mrs. Castlemain, Mr. Egerton, and Mrs. Felton, who had,
she observed, an air of great anxiety, and was very desirous of knowing
how soon her marriage was to take place; when, just as she was preparing
to return to Paris, Fanny Balfour, and her governess also, became
alarmingly ill, and so did the other inhabitants of the chateau; and in
three days’ time it was known beyond dispute, that the disorder was that
terrible scourge, the scarlet fever. Emma, who was busily employed in
nursing Fanny, was excessively distressed on hearing what her complaint
was, because she well knew the anxiety of mind that Mrs. Castlemain and
Mr. Egerton would feel at knowing that she was exposed to such danger,
especially as her grandmother had a decided horror and fear of
infection, which her good sense could scarcely keep in any bounds. But
hoping that neither they nor Balfour would learn the true state of the
case, she wrote to them to say that Fanny Balfour was too unwell for her
to think of her leaving her yet, and to wish that they would delay their
next visit till she was better. In the meanwhile, she took upon herself
the office of chief nurse both night and day.

It was several days before Fanny was declared entirely out of danger;
and the disorder left her so weak, that she still required attentive
nursing. But in the meanwhile the public papers had not been so discreet
as Emma; and her affectionate friends and her impetuous lover had both
read in the newspaper that an infectious fever had broken out in the
chateau de Montmorenci! Mrs. Castlemain, though she had received a
letter from Emma only the day before, expressing herself to be in
perfect health, could scarcely retain her senses, at the idea of the
danger she was in; and affection getting the better of all personal
fear, she insisted on going to Montmorenci immediately. But Mr. Egerton
fancying that in the present state of her feelings, she would be almost
sure to catch the disorder, if she breathed the infectious air, insisted
on being allowed to go alone to fetch back Emma to Paris; and to this
proposal Mrs. Castlemain reluctantly agreed.

As soon as Emma saw what was published, she expected a summons to Paris,
and was consequently on the watch for the arrival of her grandmother’s
carriage. Therefore, when she saw it approaching, she ran down stairs to
prevent its coming near the door, and also to forbid whoever was in it
to alight. Mr. Egerton, though charmed to see her so well, was quite
agitated at beholding her, and conjured her to let him convey her
immediately to Paris.

“I feel as I ought,” replied Emma, “the kindness which dictates this
request; but I am not the less resolved to refuse compliance with it.”

“To refuse!”

“Yes. Would you have me so base and so selfish as to leave my young
friend here at a time when she wants my assistance; and, in order to
procure very problematical safety to myself, (for perhaps I should carry
the seeds of the disorder away with me,) run the risk of spreading
infection, and of infecting both you and my grandmother, and all the
inhabitants of our hotel? No, my dear sir, thanks to you, far from me
has ever been, and ever shall be, such sordid selfishness.—I am at my
post, and never will I desert it;” while Mr. Egerton, though agonized at
her probable danger, forbore to combat what his principles told him was
just, and with a heavy heart returned again to Paris.

I will not attempt to describe the anxiety which he and Mrs. Castlemain
experienced while the disorder lasted; and during six successive weeks
it kept breaking out in different persons; consequently, Emma was
obliged to remain where she was, lest she should, by removing, carry
infection along with her.

During that period, Balfour had come over twice, and the first time he
had with difficulty been prevented entering the house, and insisting on
helping Emma to nurse his sister; but meeting him at the gates, she had
at length succeeded in bringing him to reason, and had even prevailed on
him to let three weeks pass before he came again.

His father, meanwhile, had come through Paris, and was gone to a lodging
at Versailles, the air there being thought better for him than that of
the metropolis; but he had been too ill to see any one on his way, and
he still remained very much indisposed, though better, he believed, for
the change of air.

When Emma had been at _Montmorenci_ about a fortnight, an East Indian
family took apartments in the castle; and in about three weeks after, an
elderly mulatto woman, their servant whom illness had detained at Paris,
joined them there when the fever was at its height.

At this time, so many both of servants and their masters and mistresses
were ill of the disorder, that they had not nurses and attendants
sufficient; and it was difficult to prevail on any new ones to come, so
great was the panic occasioned by the disease. It is not to be supposed,
therefore, that when the poor mulatto became in her turn attacked with
this terrible disorder, she could receive proper attendance while
persons of more consequence and more use than herself required it
equally.

Dr. M——, a very skilful English physician, was regular in his
attendance at the chateau, and Emma gave her friend nothing without his
advice and approbation.

One morning, recollecting that she had forgotten to ask him a question
of some importance, she lay wait for him on the landing-place which
communicated with the mulatto’s room, and as she stood there she
overheard the following conversation in French:—

“Then you think this poor Indian is so bad that she must die?”

“I think,” said Dr. M——, “poor creature, that she must die, because
she cannot, I find, have attendance sufficient to save her. If you could
get some good nurse who can be depended upon to sit up with her
to-night, which is the crisis of the fever, and who can get medicine and
wine down in large quantities, she might live; but I cannot sit up
myself, as I must perform that duty by a patient at Paris; therefore, I
fear, the poor woman stands a bad chance for her life.”

Emma now heard the voice of the mulatto, who, in the hoarse impeded
utterance of disease, said in broken English,

“Ah! I must die, for nobody cares for and comes near poor Lola!”

Dr. M—— hearing this, kindly spoke words of encouragement to her; then
turned away in some emotion, being conscious how fallacious were the
hopes he gave.

Emma met him as he left the room, and drew from him a statement of the
mulatto’s case, like that she had overheard; but she found that though
she had the fever worse than any one, the constant care of one night
alone might give a favourable turn to the disorder. She then asked the
question she wanted relative to Fanny Balfour; and finding that she was
so well that she did not want her attendance, she went to bed, though it
was noon, and soon fell into a sound and refreshing sleep.

It was evening before she awoke, and she found that Dr. M——, anxious
about some of his patients, was come to visit them again. Emma
immediately arose, hastily dressed herself in a long white bed-gown,
and, fastening up her fine hair under a close morning cap, stole out of
her room, and unseen took a seat by the bedside of the mulatto; being
resolved to sit up herself with the poor neglected Lola.

Dr. M—— started with surprise when he saw Emma, who, with firmness not
to be overcome, assured him, that as he believed attention might save
the poor woman’s life, and she was able and willing to afford that
attention, she should consider herself as accessary to the death of a
fellow-creature if she did not do all in her power to save her; “and,”
added she, “as I have already adjusted her pillow for her, and given her
some drink, I conclude that I have incurred sufficient danger to make it
a matter of no moment whether I remain here or not.”

Dr. M——, rendered silent by respect for feelings so virtuous and
benevolent, ceased to make any further objections; and having given Emma
his directions in writing, she hung them up against the chimney piece
along with her watch, that she might implicitly obey the instructions
she received; and he took his leave, having promised to account for her
absence to Fanny Balfour and her governess.

“Who are you?” said the mulatto, looking earnestly at Emma as she
offered her a medicine at a stated time.

“I am your nurse,” she replied, “and you must do as I bid you.”

“You! Oh! what a pretty nurse!” Then, without much difficulty, she
swallowed the medicine, though not before Emma, wisely concluding that
she would be more likely to obey her if she knew she was a lady, and not
a servant, told her she was a lady of fortune who liked mulattoes, and
therefore came to nurse her. But during the greater part of the night,
her delirium ran so high, that Emma could not without difficulty get
down the necessary quantity of wine and physic. In the middle of the
night, Emma finding sleep only too likely to overpower her, and that
reading increased her drowsiness, was at first at a loss what expedient
to fix upon in order to keep herself awake; at length she resolved to go
in search of her brush, and rouse herself by brushing her hair. Like her
poor mother’s, her hair was of a rich auburn, thick, waving, and glossy;
and whenever she let it loose over her shoulders, as Agatha often wore
hers, her likeness to her mother became unusually striking.

She was busily employed in the above-mentioned office, when she heard
the mulatto talking very loud; and fearful lest she should attempt to
get out of bed, as she had once done before, she threw down her brush
and ran to the bedside, where she saw the poor woman sitting up in the
bed in the height of delirious agitation; but as soon as the mulatto
looked on her, she gave a loud and fearful shriek, and hid her head
under the bedclothes, ever and anon lifting up her head, and saying,
“Go, go! Pray don’t kill me! Go, go! take her away, take her away!”

The noise brought one of the nurses from the next chamber into the room;
and Emma, while this woman stayed by the bed, twisted her hair under her
cap again; and feeling chilly as morning began to dawn, she threw a red
shawl round her, and, dismissing the nurse, resumed her station.

“Is she gone? is she gone?” whispered the mulatto, looking fearfully
round; and Emma asked her whom she meant.

“Oh! I know! but I will not tell;—a terrible lady!” Then, examining
Emma’s face and dress minutely, she said, “No, it was all a dream; and I
am easy.”

By the time she expected to see Dr. M—— Emma had, with unwearied
perseverance, forced the poor creature to take all the medicine and all
the wine that he had ordered; and when he came, she had the
inexpressible satisfaction of hearing him declare that the pulse was
fallen from 140 to 130, and that she had, to the best of his belief,
saved the mulatto’s life.

“And now,” said he, “go and do all you can to save your own more
valuable life;—go and lie down, that if you persist, as I see you will
do, in watching half another night, you may be prepared to encounter the
fatigue.” And Emma, with a light heart and self-approving conscience,
obeyed him.

In another week or ten days, the fever seemed to have done its worst,
and no fresh person was seized with its symptoms; while, whether she had
had the disease in her infancy, or from whatever cause, Emma herself as
yet remained in perfect health.

But to return to St. Aubyn.—As soon as he reached Paris, he set off for
the hotel of Mrs. Castlemain, and, I believe, never recollected that
Mrs. Felton was in being. His intimacy with that lady was owing to her
having had art enough to draw from him the secret of his love, and
cunning enough to indulge him in talking of it; by which means he
preferred her society to that of any one; while she flattered herself
that it was very common for the confidante of a passion to become the
object of it. It was true, that he refused, in a fit of jealousy, to
accompany her into Flanders, but not jealousy of _her_. The truth was,
that he had heard Sir Charles Maynard had followed Emma from K——, and
was her declared lover in London; and, when Mrs. Felton, finding Sir
Charles a passenger in their boat, pressed him to join them on their
Flemish tour, he owned to Mrs. Felton, that the society of a man who
might one day or other succeed with Emma, was so insupportable, that he
should proceed directly to Paris. As love for Mrs. Felton, therefore,
had nothing to do with the motives that led him to associate with that
lady, it is not to be wondered at that he should go to the Rue de la
Concorde rather than to the Rue Vivienne. But on his way thither he met
an English acquaintance, who was that odious being, a male gossip, and
one of those idlers and loungers who will, if they meet you, insist on
bestowing their tediousness upon you.

“Which way are you going, St. Aubyn?” cried this man.

“To the Rue de la Concorde.”

“Oh! well, I don’t care if I go that way, too.”

Then, seizing St. Aubyn’s arm, he began to tell him all the French and
English gossip he had heard since he had been gone.

“So,” said he, “I suppose you know the match between Balfour and Miss
Castlemain is entirely off!”

“Off!” cried St. Aubyn, breathless with emotion.

“Oh! yes, quite. Egad, death was very near getting the lady, for she has
been at Montmorenci all the time the bad fever has been raging there.
However, she has escaped, and is coming soon to Paris, I believe.”

St. Aubyn waited to hear no more; but rushing hastily from his
astonished companion, he returned to his hotel, to write a letter to
Emma, at Montmorenci. The letter, though almost incoherent from emotion,
told her that every obstacle to his explanation of whatever had appeared
ambiguous and capricious in his conduct towards his friends at the White
Cottage was now removed, and there was not a secret of his heart, that,
if allowed to see her, he would not reveal to one who always was, and
ever would be, the sole unrivalled object of a passion ardent and
eternal, even while it appeared entirely hopeless; but that now, as he
understood, she was again _free_, he flattered himself that she would
allow him to endeavour to win her affections from his now discarded
rival. This letter he put in the post, directed to the Chateau de
Montmorenci, and with a beating heart he went to the Hotel des
Etrangers, and inquired for Mr. Egerton.

He found him and Mrs. Castlemain together, and amazed beyond expression
at his appearance and his emotion; for he could not speak; but seizing
Mrs. Castlemain’s hands he pressed them to his lips and burst into
tears.

“I conclude from your dress, what has happened,” said Mrs. Castlemain
kindly.

“No, not all,” replied St. Aubyn. “I have lost both my mother and my
uncle;” and Mrs. Castlemain thought in her heart he was a very fortunate
person. He then begged to see Mr. Egerton alone, who immediately
withdrew with him.

St. Aubyn then, as succinctly as possible, explained to him the reasons
of his conduct; while Mr. Egerton interrupted him:

“I thought so,—I knew your reasons when explained would redound to your
honour. But, O that ever Emma should have been so rash and
inconsiderate!”

“Rash! what do you mean?” cried St. Aubyn turning very pale.

“That Emma is irrevocably engaged to Balfour!”

“And I was told,” faltered out St. Aubyn, “that that affair was entirely
at an end, or I certainly should not have written to her at
Montmorenci!”

“And have you done so?”

“Yes, just before I came hither.”

“Poor, lost Emma!” exclaimed Mr. Egerton wringing his hands; “how she
will lament her hard fate! for I know but too well that her heart is
still fondly yours!” Mr. Egerton, when he had uttered these words,
earnestly wished he could have recalled them; but he could scarcely
repent of them when he saw the joy they had given St. Aubyn, and heard
him say, that he hoped Emma would feel the impropriety and dishonour of
marrying Balfour, if in her heart she preferred him.

“There is one chance for you,” said Mr. Egerton, after a pause; “I know
that she will, on every principle of honour and justice, show your
letter to Balfour, whom she will see to-morrow, and tell him whatever
feelings that letter has revived in her bosom; and on his decision, in
consequence, depends your fate.”

St. Aubyn, then, too much agitated to pursue the subject further, tried
to divert his attention by describing all that had passed since he saw
him at the Palace. But he declined seeing Mrs. Castlemain again, as she
was, Mr. Egerton said, very fond of Emma’s marriage with Balfour, and
would be greatly distressed at the straggle which she would foresee in
Emma’s mind between love and honour. St. Aubyn, therefore, returned to
his own hotel, and endeavoured to fortify his mind against the dreaded
morrow.

Emma, meanwhile, as she was preparing her mind to consider her union
with Balfour as at no very distant period, (lord Clonawley having
expressed a wish to see his son married and settled before his death, an
event which his increasing infirmities made only too likely to occur,)
received St. Aubyn’s letter. With perturbation not to be described, she
gazed on the well known characters, and, having perused the contents,
sat for some moments in a state of seeming stupefaction. But uppermost
of all her feelings seemed the joy of knowing she was so tenderly
beloved; for every jealous thought vanished before the assurance of that
word never pledged to a falsehood; and though St. Aubyn did not allege a
single fact in his own justification, he was already, to the
well-motived confidence of Emma, completely justified. But though the
first moments were moments of pleasure, the succeeding ones were those
of agony and despair.

At length she resolved, as Mr. Egerton had said she would do, to show
Balfour the letter, and own to him all the feelings it had called forth.

After a night of restless anguish, she arose, and was told that Mr.
Balfour awaited her in the parlour. As soon as she appeared, he ran to
her, alarmed at her discoloured cheeks and swelled eyelids; and she
answered him by putting St. Aubyn’s letter into his hand.

“Well, madam,” replied he, when he had read it, “what is this given to
me for? Surely you cannot yet hesitate between Mr. St. Aubyn and me?”

“I wish you to decide,” faintly returned Emma; “for I own to you, that
this surety of his fidelity and entire innocence, has revived in their
full force, my former feelings in his favour.”

“Shame on you then!” replied Balfour, with fiercest indignation. “Where
is your surety for this gentleman’s innocence and fidelity? Does he even
condescend to name a single proof of this vaunted innocence? But you,
forsooth, merciful and credulous being, are no sooner informed that he
is tired of his Mrs. Felton, (his convenient mistress,) and wishes to
return to you, but you, condescending creature, are ready at his beck,
to receive him again into favour, forgetful of the sacred claims of one
who never loved any other woman than yourself, and whose honour and
tenderness you have never had any reason to doubt.”

What could Emma oppose to arguments so plausible as these? Not that she
knew St. Aubyn’s word was as sacred as the oaths of others; for he would
be justified in answering that she only spoke from the partiality of a
fond woman; and she could not but feel, that, all the circumstances
considered, her ready acquiescence with the wishes of St. Aubyn, (which
could only be the result of her discarding for ever the faithful lover
before her, who told her he was convinced the pretence of her being free
was only made as an excuse for his temerity in addressing her,) would be
a degradation which pride and delicacy most powerfully forbade; and
after a long, long struggle with her feelings, she told Balfour, whose
deportment was more that of a maniac than of a rational being, that she
hesitated no longer, but was willing to attend him to the altar as soon
as they returned to England.

“When, then, shall we return to England?” said Balfour, his eyes
sparkling with delight at this triumph over St. Aubyn.

“In four days’ time, if my friends can get passports so soon, and are
willing to go,” replied Emma. And Balfour left her immediately, to
expedite the means of their departure.

As soon as Balfour was gone, she wrote to Mr. Egerton, feeling that duty
now forbade her to address St. Aubyn. She begged him to tell the latter
that her engagement with Balfour had never been broken off, and that a
very short time would make her his wife. More, every good feeling
forbade her to say; except, that she wished the companion of her
childhood and her youth as happy as he deserved to be, and greater
welfare she could not wish him.

In another letter to Mr. Egerton, under the same cover, meant for his
eye alone, she was more communicative. She told him all that had passed
between her and Balfour, and her determination and wishes in
consequence; but owning that she believed all St. Aubyn’s declarations;
and that, convinced too late that her first choice had been wise, and
her second rash, she must request that in future the name of St. Aubyn
should never be mentioned before her, nor the reasons of his conduct
explained, as she was resolved to avoid every chance of having emotions
excited which most militate against her duty to a fond and confiding
husband. Mr. Egerton obeyed her wishes, and read the whole of her letter
to St. Aubyn, (I mean that designed for his perusal,) except that part
which mentioned that a very short time would make her the wife of
Balfour. That overwhelming intelligence he had not the heart to
communicate to him.

Mr. Egerton’s sufferings were certainly next in degree to those of St.
Aubyn; and even Mrs. Castlemain herself, who, by the death of Mr.
Hargrave and Mrs. St. Aubyn, saw her sole objections to him as a husband
for Emma entirely removed, felt the sincerest pity for his distress, and
almost wished Emma had never met Balfour.

Soon after Emma had written her letter to Mr. Egerton, she retired to
her room to dress; but feeling her head considerably oppressed by the
anxiety and watchfulness of the preceding night, she resolved to walk in
the garden, in hopes that the air might revive her; and, throwing on a
long, white wrapping-gown, she put her intention in execution. As the
wind was high, and she walked rapidly backwards and forwards, the comb
that fastened up her hair soon fell to the ground, loosened by the wind
and the exercise, and her long tresses floated on her shoulders. At this
moment she looked up at one of the windows, and saw at it the woman of
colour; on which she was about to bow to her with a smile of
congratulation on her being well enough to get up; when the smile was
checked by a violent scream from Lola, who seemed, on seeing her, to
shriek and fall back in the arms of her nurse. Emma immediately ran up
stairs to inquire what had agitated her. She found the mulatto full of
emotion, which increased still more on her entrance into the chamber,
and she overheard her say, “But is that indeed the blessed angel who
saved my life? Tell me, answer me,” cried she, fixing her wild eyes on
Emma—”Who are you? What’s your name?”

“My name is Emma Castlemain,” she replied.

“But your mother’s name, your mother’s name!”

“My mother’s name was Agatha Torrington.”

“‘Tis she, ‘tis she,” cried the mulatto, clasping her hands and falling
on her knees; “and I did not see your mother in a dream, but you awake.
O blessed angel! you saved my life, while I did all I could to injure
you, and your poor mother!”

Emma, at first, thought she was again uttering the rhapsodies of a
disturbed brain; but, on reflection, she was convinced that she beheld
the _woman of colour_ who had been employed by her father to deceive
both her mother and her grandmother; and, as she gazed on her with this
consciousness, she almost shrank from the being whose success in
deceiving Mrs. Castlemain had been productive of such pernicious
consequences to her much injured parent. But when she recollected that
the poor penitent, agitated, and ignorant wretch before her had only
obeyed the will of her master, and that the crime, therefore, had been
chiefly that of her father, she felt all her resentment vanish; and when
Lola earnestly entreated her forgiveness, she granted it with as much
solemn earnestness as it had been implored. But it was not from any
compunction for the mischievous falsehoods she had uttered that Lola’s
conscience was haunted by the image of Agatha, and wounded by the
certainty of the misery she had occasioned. Had the result of her
obedience to her employer been what she expected, and that Danvers, on
casting off Agatha, had resumed his connexion with her, or not taken
another wife or mistress, she would never have thought of Agatha, or the
probable result of her falsehoods, again. But Danvers, as soon as she
had answered his purpose, paid her a small sum of money, and insisted on
her returning to India by the next ship, as servant to a family to which
he recommended her; and she also at the same time discovered, that
Danvers was on the point of marriage with a lady, but one whose name and
address she could not learn; else, it is most likely, she would have
informed her, in revenge, that he had a wife living. But to India she
was forced to return unrevenged, and haunted by feelings of painful and
compunctious pity for the victim of Danvers’s cruelty; who, as his first
wife had been, was endeared to her by the conviction that she, like
herself, had been deserted by him when his passion was extinguished.
Vainly did she then wish that she had not obeyed Danvers, and
endeavoured to learn whither Agatha had fled; and often very often had
her dreams been haunted by the image of Agatha, as with wild eyes, pale
cheek, dishevelled hair, and almost terrifying violence of mien and
gesture, she had addressed Danvers on that fatal day, when, leading his
little boy, she had followed him into her presence. It was no wonder,
therefore, that in her delirium she should mistake Emma for Agatha, when
with hair falling loosely on her neck she had approached her bedside;
nor that on beholding Emma in the garden, dressed in every respect as
Agatha was when she had seen her, she should experience emotion and
surprise sufficient to occasion the scream which had led Emma to her
apartment. Emma, indeed, had scarcely seen her since the night that she
had watched by her bedside, as the mulatto had been in a state of mental
derangement almost ever since her fever had left her; and it was
therefore now for the first time that Lola had a perfect view of her
“pretty nurse,” and that “blessed angel,” as she always called her, who
had, she was told, been the preserver of her life.

“But where is the poor lady, your mother?” cried Lola.

“Dead!”

“Dead! Did she die from the sorrow I helped to occasion her?”

“No, she lived many years after; but on this very painful subject I must
beg not to be questioned.”

“And that poor lady, her mother, is she dead too?”

“No; she is now at Paris.”

“Then perhaps I may see her, and ask her pardon also,” said the mulatto
with great eagerness.

“Perhaps you may,” returned Emma, starting from a reverie; for it had
occurred to her, that the singular coincidence that had thus made her
acquainted with a being who had been one of the agents of Agatha’s
destiny, might lead her to some knowledge of her father’s fate, and
connexions, and perhaps clear away the stain upon the honour of her
mother; for Emma had never believed in the report of his death. Still
terror, lest she should hear her father was living, and too infamous for
her not to shrink with horror from being acknowledged and claimed as his
daughter, made her hesitate for a while to put the necessary questions;
and before she had resolution to do it, the mulatto, overcome by the
violent emotions which she had experienced, became again deranged, and
was for some days too ill to be seen or spoken to.

In a short time the passports were obtained, and Mr. Egerton and Mrs.
Castlemain left Paris in the carriage of the latter, Emma having
preferred meeting them on the road, to joining them at Paris, owing
perhaps to a fear of seeing St. Aubyn by chance. Accordingly, attended
by Fanny Balfour, who had obtained leave to accompany her to England,
while her governess joined her sisters at Versailles, Emma set off with
Balfour in a landaulet and four, and Mrs. Castlemain had once more the
happiness of pressing Emma to her bosom, endeared to her by a long
separation, and by the danger which she had dared and surmounted.

The mulatto was so ill and so delirious when Emma left Montmorenci, that
she could not bid her farewell; but she left a kind message for her, and
a considerable present, as a proof of her entire forgiveness of her
conduct towards her poor mother.

But now, in full view, and approaching nearer and nearer every day, was
that trial, whose magnitude Emma was not conscious of before, and from
which, now she was conscious of it, she shrank with agony and dismay,
wondering, as she did so, that she could have been blind so long to the
true state of her motives and her feelings, and have disdained to profit
by the calmer reason of that admirable friend, who had vainly but
conscientiously held up the mirror to her heart. She saw herself on the
point of marriage with a man whose addresses, whatever were his charms
and his talents, she was now conscious that she should never have
admitted, had she not been influenced, however unconsciously to herself,
by the suggestions of wounded self-love, wounded pride, irritated
jealousy, and female pique; in short, by all those pernicious impulses
to action, which, however called, are all to be resolved into one master
feeling denominated Temper. But it was too late to retract, even though
she felt her health impaired by the corrosion of her mind, especially as
when, on her asking Balfour how he could think of persisting in his
design of marrying her now she was become a sickly, pale, nervous being,
he tenderly replied, because her sufferings endeared her the more to
him, and that no one could prove to her so good and affectionate a
nurse, as the husband who doted on her with the truest and best
principled affection!

“Well then,” replied Emma faintly smiling, “I will no longer hesitate to
name a day for our union.” And it was fixed for the day after this
conversation took place. On which Balfour wrote to his father, informing
him of the near approach of his happiness, he having sometime before
caused articles to be drawn up preparatory to a regular marriage
settlement; and Mr. Egerton wrote to St. Aubyn informing him, as he
promised to do, that the day was really _fixed_, but sparing him the
unnecessary pang of knowing that before he received the letter the
ceremony would be over.

When Mr. Egerton and Mrs. Castlemain left Paris, St. Aubyn, knowing the
cause of their return to England was the intended marriage, too wretched
to remain stationary, mounted his horse, and rode towards the south of
France, for no other purpose but to ride away from himself, if he could;
and conscious occasionally of no pleasure but what resulted from the
power his wealth gave him of relieving the distress which occasionally
met his view on the road. He had, however, one source of enjoyment which
he could impart to no one, but over which he brooded in solitude, like a
miser over his treasure. And that was the assurance which had escaped
Mr. Egerton, that Emma loved him! In vain did St. Aubyn say to himself,
that if she loved him, she could not be happy with another man.
Imperious love got the better of generosity; and when he dwelt on this
idea, he felt that his misery diminished. But, as I before observed,
this source of pleasure, honour and delicacy both, forbade him to impart
to any one; therefore he avoided Mrs. Felton, with whom he formerly used
to find relief in talking of his love, as he was happier alone than he
could be in communicating to her his feelings, now he could divulge only
half of them; and withstanding all that lady’s almost frantic
solicitations to an interview, he convinced her at length, that her
hopes of succeeding Emma in his heart, were, at present at least, even
more groundless than ever.

At length St. Aubyn, being impatient to hear some news from England,
returned to Paris, and received Mr. Egerton’s letter! Well indeed may
the true lover be said,

                   “To hope, though hope were lost.”

St. Aubyn, till he received that letter, had unconsciously flattered
himself that something might happen to prevent the marriage; but now
that the day was fixed, and that, though Mr. Egerton did not say so, by
the time that he received that letter the ceremony might perhaps be
over, he felt, from the anguish of his disappointment, the extent of the
hope he had indulged, and he traversed Paris from one end to the other,
too full of restless anguish to remain in his own apartment,
experiencing the acutest of all misery, save that which springs from the
agonies of remorse. So keen were his pangs that they seemed to change
for a while his mild and compassionate nature, giving him feelings of
petulance and hardness of heart, to him before unknown, and making
creation itself appear “nothing hut a pestilential congregation of
vapours.”

After long and almost unconscious wanderings, St. Aubyn found himself at
midnight in the gardens of the Thuilleries; but as the sound of its
trickling waters was painful to his feelings, he left the gardens, and
turned his steps towards the Place de la Concorde. The night was stormy
and starless; and at another time the quick emotions and busy fancy of
St. Aubyn would have led him no unmoved wanderer over that scene of
recent horrors and of guilt. The murdered great, the murdered good,
would at another time have passed in rapid succession before his almost
startled memory, and the oblivious dust would again have seemed reeking
and red with the blood of the innocent and the unfortunate.

Absorbed either in misery or happiness must they be who can pass over
the place where the guillotine stood, in the solemn silence of night,
without a thrill of horror which probably no other spot in the creation
can call forth. St. Aubyn was indeed absorbed in misery, and he forgot
his youth, his talents, his possessions; and the wish to sink unnoticed
into a quiet grave, was the only one that his sick soul delighted to
indulge.

Being unable to retire to his hotel, as rest did not await him there, he
turned his steps from the Place de la Concorde to the neighbouring
Champs Elysées, and was just hailing the congenial gloom of its tall
trees, when he heard a quick footstep behind him, whose solitary tread
alone broke the deep stillness of night. St. Aubyn instinctively turned
to face the danger, if any danger was nigh; and a feeble voice, in very
imperfect French, exclaimed, “Charity, sir; for God’s sake give me some
relief.” St. Aubyn, with all the savageness of grief, replied, that he
had no money; and angrily bade the man begone. But he had scarcely
indulged this sudden effusion of temper, so unlike his usual habits,
before he bitterly repented of it, and was just going, in the words of
Esdras, to exclaim, “Sufferer, what aileth thee, and why art thou so
disquieted?” when the poor man faltered out in English, “O God, what
will become of me, and all of us!”

“Ha! A countryman too!” cried St. Aubyn. “My poor fellow, tell me what
you want, and what I can do for you;” and that love of life, which
anguish had for a while suspended, re-returned immediately with the
consciousness of being able to do good, and the inclination to put that
ability in practice.

As soon as tears would allow the poor youth to speak, he told St. Aubyn
that he, his mother, and sisters were starving, and his father in a high
delirium; while for want of money, he could procure his unhappy parent
neither food, medicine, nor advice.

“Well, well, I will remedy all these miseries,” cried the revived St.
Aubyn; and seeing some lights still glimmering in the Hemeau de
Chantilly,[7] he led the way thither, desiring the young man to follow.

It was as he expected. The company who had assembled there had nearly
all departed, and the owners of the house were very glad to dispose of
what remained of their provision. The woman at the bar, seeing the
greedy eye with which the youth regarded a dish of ham that stood by,
desired him to take a piece, and St. Aubyn authorized him to eat all
there was. He devoured the whole in an instant, in a manner so ravenous,
as to call a tear into the eye of St. Aubyn, (who read in this a sad
proof of the truth of his story,) and make the French woman exclaim,
“Mon Dieu! que ce pauvre enfant a faim!”[8]

As soon as the poor youth had in a degree satisfied his hunger, and
drunk two full goblets of the vin du pay, St. Aubyn desired to be
furnished with a small basket, into which he put cold fowls and wine;
then paying for all the different articles whatever the lady’s
conscience allowed her to ask, he desired the now-elated young man to
take the basket on his arm, and to show him the way to his father’s
habitation. It was in the Rue Boulois, the very centre of Paris; and in
a miserable garret, up three pair of stairs, St. Aubyn beheld a woman
and three girls attempting, but with great difficulty, to confine down
in his bed a man in all the violence of delirium.

“Joy, joy!” cried the youth as he entered; “I have brought you food,
wine, and an angel!” Then, setting down and opening the basket, the
hungry and eager group leaving the invalid, and too ravenous to wait,
began to tear in pieces the relief that was set before them. The mother,
however, had more self-command, and began to bless and thank St. Aubyn
in the fulness of a grateful heart; while he put several questions to
her relative to the state of her husband, and, writing a note to his
servant, directed the son to carry it immediately to his hotel, and
bring the man back with him.

St. Aubyn was now obliged to assist in confining the invalid, who was
continually addressing some invisible object; “Ah, rascal!” he
exclaimed; “so you pretended not to know me, did you? But I knew you,
though you are grown so old, and so ugly, and are become a great man;
and I will be revenged! I’ll ‘peach! So look to it! Here it is, here it
is!” So saying, he took an old dirty pocket-book from under his pillow,
and with a grin of maniacal defiance, hugged it, and hid it in his
bosom.

This language, and this action, were repeated so often, that St. Aubyn
at last asked what the pocket-book contained; but the wife assured him
she did not know, and that it never was out of her husband’s possession.

“What does he mean, think you, by ‘peaching?” said he.

“I do not know,” replied the woman; “I am sure I wish I had never seen
his face; for I suspect he has done something that lies very heavy on
his conscience.”

“Woman,” said St. Aubyn, sternly, “it is not for you to judge your
husband. And whatever crime he may have committed, he is now a severe
sufferer, and by you, at least, ought only to be considered as such.”

Here the unhappy wretch began to rave again; and the eagerly-attentive
St. Aubyn fancied he heard him utter names familiar to his ear. Again he
spoke, again St. Aubyn listened; and at length was sure that he was not
deceived; while breathless with agitated expectation, he hung upon the
words of the unconscious speaker.

“Yes, yes,” cried he, “I know you well, Miss Torrington! Agatha
Torrington! Ha, ha, ha! I was revenged, but don’t say I crazed you; I
did not do it. And that fool Jones! But that rascal to refuse me money,
and pretend not to know me! In black and white, you rascal, I have it, I
have it, I have it!” Then, again was the book hugged and hidden; and St.
Aubyn blessed the hour which led him to that spot; for, having heard
every particular of Agatha’s history, he had no doubt but he beheld that
Cammell, who had been bribed by Danvers to destroy the registry of his
marriage. But had he really destroyed it? St. Aubyn suspected not; and
that the pocket-book contained it, Cammell having preserved it probably
in order to extort money from Danvers wherever he should meet him. It
seemed, then, that Danvers was _not_ dead, and that Cammell met him,
recently met him. Where then, and under what name, was the father of
Emma to be found? And before St. Aubyn lost sight of Cammell, he was
resolved to ascertain this fact; while sweet to his soul was the
certainty that he should be able essentially to serve the woman he
adored.

“Who are those people that he is talking of?” asked St. Aubyn.

“I am sure I don’t know,” said the woman, sulkily; “but for this last
month he has done nothing but talk of some man who refused to give him
money the other day, and against whom he has sworn to be revenged; while
often he has started from his sleep, talking of one Agatha Torrington.”

“Pray, what is your name?” said St. Aubyn. The woman hesitated, and
answered, in some confusion, that their name was Williams.

“No, it is not,” replied St. Aubyn, looking at her steadily. “Your name,
I am convinced, is Cammell.”

“Who speaks to me?” cried the invalid. “Who wants Cammell?” And the
wife, assured that all further concealment was vain, dropped the food
she was conveying to her mouth, and in a tone of terror exclaimed, “I
see, sir, you know all about us; but pray, pray, sir, be merciful!”

“Did you,” asked St. Aubyn, “ever hear your husband talk of having torn
from a book the registry of a marriage?”

“Never, when in his senses; but very likely you will hear him talk of a
marriage-register in one of his raving fits.”

“Have you,” said St. Aubyn, who saw the poor wretch sink back exhausted
on his pillow, “have you any objection to my opening that pocket-book?
for I have heard enough to induce me to set a guard on your husband, in
order to bring him to justice for an act of a most wicked nature, by
which he has greatly injured some of the dearest friends I have.” The
terrified woman, falling on her knees, begged he would do as he thought
proper; and St. Aubyn, getting possession of the pocket-book, had the
inexpressible delight to draw forth from it, doubled in many folds, and
each fold ready to fall in pieces, the registry of the marriage of
George Danvers and Agatha Torrington; with the date and every thing
perfect. There would now, then, he believed, be no difficulty in
publicly proving Agatha to be the lawful wife of Danvers, as Mr. Egerton
had in his custody the letter from Jamaica to prove the day and hour
when the first wife died; therefore the date of the marriage register
would show, beyond dispute, the truth of what Agatha had always
asserted, that when Danvers led her to the altar, his wife had been dead
three weeks!

“Thus, then,” thought St. Aubyn, “have I been the instrument to clear
the fame of Mrs. Danvers from even a shadow of suspicion; and to prove
that much-injured woman worthy to be the daughter of Mrs. Castlemain,
and the mother of Emma!” For St. Aubyn felt, as every virtuous and
unsophisticated Englishman must feel, that a stain on the chastity of
its females, is a blot on the proudest escutcheon of the proudest
family, which not even the splendour of royal descent and royal
alliances can ever obliterate.

By this time the youth had returned with St. Aubyn’s servant, whom he
instantly despatched with a note describing Cammell’s disorder to Dr.
M——, he himself resolving not to leave the house till he had learnt
where Emma’s father was to be found.

In a short time Dr. M—— arrived; and having given his patient a
composing medicine, he soon sunk into a profound sleep, from which Dr.
M—— assured St. Aubyn that he would probably recover in a sane mind.
But it was nine the next morning before Cammell awoke. However, when he
did wake, St. Aubyn’s tedious watchfulness was well repaid; for he
appeared quite calm and sensible, though most alarmingly weak. He seemed
excessively terrified at seeing a stranger, and turned pale as death on
missing his pocket-book.

“Compose yourself, said St. Aubyn, mildly, “and look on me as your
friend.”

He then told him why he came, what discoveries he had made, and finally
that the torn leaf was in his possession; while the poor abject wretch
humbly begged for mercy at his hands.

“I am not able to grant it,” said St. Aubyn; “but I think that as you
were, in this affair, only the agent of a greater villain still, one
whom I hope to make as penitent as yourself, I trust that you have
nothing to fear; but you I must make all the reparation in your power,
by telling me where I can find Mr. Danvers.”

“Mr. Danvers!” cried Cammell. “There never was such a person. To be
sure, his christian names were George Danvers; but his surname was
BALFOUR, and he has been many years LORD CLONAWLEY!”

At this dreadful intelligence, St. Aubyn was for a moment speechless
with horror; but he at length exclaimed, “Perhaps it is not yet too
late! Lord Clonawley the father of Emma, and of ——!” Then, learning
from the astonished Cammell that Lord Clonawley was at Versailles, he
told his servant not to lose sight of Cammell, but remain where he was
till he saw him again. He then ran to his hotel, ordered a horse to be
saddled, and set off full speed for Versailles.

“And who knows,” said St. Aubyn to himself, “but that the present Lord
Clonawley may not be the man in question?”

Lord Clonawley’s mind was little prepared for the dreadful trial which
awaited him. Though he had often inflicted misery he had never
experienced it, except when he lost the mother of his daughters, a wife
whom he had tenderly loved.

When St. Aubyn arrived at Versailles, he desired to be shown to Lord
Clonawley’s lodgings; while the hope he had indulged when he began his
journey vanished entirely now the moment of explanation was at hand.

Having sent in to inquire for Lord Clonawley, the servant returned,
saying his lord begged to see him instantly; for, on being told that a
stranger in great agitation desired to see him, he feared something had
happened to his son, and therefore resolved to admit him immediately.

“I beg pardon, my lord, for this intrusion,” cried St Aubyn on entering,
“but may I beg to know where Mr. Balfour now is?”

“Sir!” replied Lord Clonawley, much relieved in mind on hearing this
question, “my son is in England, and at this moment,” parental affection
lighting up his face as he spoke, “and at this moment, sir, he is one of
the happiest of men;” (here St. Aubyn’s heart misgave him;) “for, by a
letter just received from him, he informs me that he was the next day to
be united to the woman of his affections.”

St. Aubyn, on hearing this overwhelming intelligence, reeled to a chair,
and hid his face with his hands.

“What is the matter, sir?” exclaimed Lord Clonawley, little anticipating
the wretchedness he was about to experience. “You seem distressed.”

“I am indeed distressed,” cried St. Aubyn, raising his head; “but
wretched as I am, your fate is far more terrible than mine.”

“This is strange, mysterious language, sir; and from a stranger too,”
replied Lord Clonawley, alarmed yet irritated.

“Answer me, my lord,” returned St. Aubyn; “had you not a child, a
daughter, by Agatha Torrington?”

“By what right, sir, do you ask that question?”

“Question me not, but answer me, my lord! Your fate hangs upon your
answer; and I conjure you, by all your hopes of pardon for your crimes,
to answer me truly.”

And Lord Clonawley, awed and influenced, in spite of his haughtiness, by
the air and words of St. Aubyn, replied,

“I had a daughter by Agatha Torrington, but not born in wedlock.”

St. Aubyn’s indignant eye momentarily reproved the despicable falsehood;
but its fire was as instantly quenched in tears of anguish as he
uttered, “Lord Clonawley, terrible is the retribution that has overtaken
you! for your DAUGHTER, by Agatha Torrington, is, in all probability, at
this moment, the wife of your SON!”

“Who are you,” demanded the wretched man, terrified and averse to be
convinced, “that dare to come hither to distract me with
impossibilities? My son’s wife is the daughter of Mrs. Castlemain.”

“The granddaughter, my lord, bequeathed to her on her deathbed by the
unfortunate Agatha. Mrs. Torrington’s name became Castlemain on her
second marriage; and as you had deprived your child of her rightful
name, her grandmother gave her hers.”

Lord Clonawley, on hearing this, could doubt no longer, but sat the
tearless image of hopeless woe, not being so fortunate as to lose in
happy forgetfulness the sense of suffering.

“But perhaps it is not too late,” suddenly cried St. Aubyn, struggling
against despondence.

“Perhaps not,” answered Lord Clonawley reviving;” the marriage has once
been delayed by the illness of—of the lady.”

“Enough!” cried St. Aubyn. “At all events I set off for England as soon
as ever I can get a passport. But let me first inform you, sir, that I
have _here_ (showing it as he spoke) the registry of your _marriage_
with Miss Torrington, and that CAMMELL is in my custody.”

Lord Clonawley gazed at him with added horror and amazement, but spoke
not; and St. Aubyn continued;—

“Therefore, before I go, I expect that you, in a letter to Mr. Balfour,
which I shall deliver into his own hands, acknowledge Agatha Torrington
to have been your lawful wife, and Emma to be your legitimate daughter.”

Thus lord Clonawley at once beheld himself not only detected in all his
guilt, but fully punished for it; and convinced that unconditional
compliance was his only resource, he wrote the letter required, received
St. Aubyn’s address in London,—and in a moment after St. Aubyn set off
for Paris.

It was lucky, perhaps, for his intellects, that his passport was
expedited as it was, and that in a much less time than could have been
expected, he was on his road towards England; having previously
witnessed the last moments of Cammell, and received his dying
confession.

When he reached Boulogne, he found a packet ready to sail; but just as
he was going on board, the wind completely changed, and he was forced to
return to his hotel. But motion being better for him than rest, and
Calais at no great distance, he again took horses, and reached Calais in
a few hours.

The wind, however, still continuing contrary, he resolved not to go to
bed, as to rest was impossible, but to walk up and down the pier till a
favourable breeze came up. It did so about day-break, and at length St.
Aubyn hailed the fast-approaching shores of England.

But to return to lord Clonawley, who, after St. Aubyn was gone, feeling
himself unable to remain sole depositary of his sad secret, summoned his
daughters into his room, and went through the painful and mortifying
task of owning to them his past guilt, and informing them of its
terrible results. At present he had not the heart to tell them they were
born of a marriage which he had contracted during the existence of his
second wife, and that therefore Emma was his only legitimate daughter.

Three days after St. Aubyn was on the road to England, the mulatto,
being restored to health and sanity, inquired why Emma had left
Montmorenci so suddenly; and, on being informed that she was gone to
England to be married, she fervently prayed that the blessed angel, as
she always called her, might have a husband as good as she was. She then
asked the name of her husband, and being informed that he was the
honourable George Frederic Balfour, only son of lord Clonawley, she
uttered a scream of horror, and jumping out of bed, insisted on setting
off for England directly. The bystanders concluded she was again
delirious, and did not alter their opinion when she added that she must
go to prevent incest, as Balfour and Miss Castlemain were brother and
sister. But the nurse, who had witnessed her recognition of Emma, was of
a different opinion, and so were they all, when the mulatto becoming
more calm, produced _proof_ of the truth of what she asserted. However,
they convinced her that it was too late to prevent the union; but as
lord Clonawley was at Versailles, it was judged right by the mulatto’s
mistress, that she should go over and inform him of her discovery.

Accordingly, one day, while lord Clonawley, in all the horrors of
remorse and despair, was pacing with feeble yet agitated steps his
solitary apartment, the mulatto, in spite of the servants, forced open
the door and tottered into his presence.

He knew her instantly; though time in the one, and time and vice in the
other, had impaired in both that beauty of person, which in both had
been the means of misery and guilt; and as lord Clonawley raised this
self-condemned accomplice from the ground, addressing her by the kind
appellation of “Is it you, my poor Lola!” he turned away his head, and
gave way to a violent burst of anguish and remorse.

Lola was immediately convinced, by this kind greeting, so different from
the one which she expected to receive, that lord Clonawley already knew
what she came to inform him of; for nothing but misery and horrors great
as these, were, she thought, likely to have so softened the destroyer of
Agatha.

“I see, I see,” said Lola, “that you know all I came to say; and that
_blessed angel_ is indeed the wife of her brother!”

“No; God forbid!” cried lord Clonawley, “there is yet a ray of
hope,—and——”

“Indeed!” cried Lola; then falling on her knees in transport, she
blessed God for having saved from destruction the dear preserver of her
life!

“Whom do you mean,” asked lord Clonawley impatiently, “by the blessed
angel, and the preserver of your life? Do you mean my daughter, my poor
injured Emma?”

“I do,” replied Lola. Then, with all the eager animation of gratitude,
and the eloquent exaggeration of her race, she detailed to lord
Clonawley his daughter’s beauty, and her active virtue; her generous
nature, and her compassionate forgiveness; while the feeling of parental
pride, which would, under other circumstances, have led the agitated
parent to exclaim, “And this is MY child!” was checked in lord Clonawley
by a consciousness too agonizing for expression. At the same time, as
the slave of selfish passions can only be made to feel deeply through
the certainty of incurred privations, his regret for his guilty conduct
towards Agatha and her child, was rendered doubly acute by the idea,
that if that child was capable of volunteering, and incurring a
dangerous and a painful duty from the mere benevolent wish of saving the
life of a distressed and _unknown fellow-creature_, what would she not
have done for a sick, a helpless, and a long-suffering _parent_! And as
he thought this, most painfully did he contrast his deserted and
disowned daughter with his owned and cherished children. Bitterly did he
remember how often Harriet and Mary Ann, though good and affectionate
girls, had left him to the care of hired nurses, on pretence of being
worn out by one night of watchfulness; and bitterly did he regret that
the self-denying and benevolent being, who had so kindly watched by the
bedside of an infected menial, was one whose tender offices he should
have had a right to claim, had he not been deaf to every demand of
affection, of justice, and of honour. And amply, injured and unfortunate
Agatha, did thy child’s virtues revenge thee on the vices of its
unnatural father.

“Oh, Lola!” cried lord Clonawley, “think what I endure at the idea that
this angel, as you call her, has probably been brought up to hate me,
and will never deign to see or to forgive me!”

“You don’t know her,” cried Lola eagerly; “she forgave me, I tell you,
and I doubt not but she will forgive you. Write to her, I say,—write to
her.” And lord Clonawley, in all the anguish of a contrite spirit, did
write to Emma, and felt his mind relieved by the effort.

At this moment he received St. Aubyn’s letter announcing his being
landed at Dover; and both he and the mulatto felt a little comforted by
the news.

But when lord Clonawley had despatched his letter, he resolved to follow
it as soon as he could in person, not only because he was unable to bear
the suspense he must undergo till he could hear from St. Aubyn again,
but because he flattered himself, that if his letter produced any effect
on Emma’s heart, he might, by being ready on the spot, induce her to see
him, and pronounce his pardon in person. He immediately, therefore, got
all things in readiness for his journey, and was soon on his road to
England.

But to return to St. Aubyn, who, on reaching Rochester, happened
unfortunately, while waiting for horses, to take up a paper, by which he
received a terrible confirmation that every hope of arriving in time was
vain; for he read in that paper as follows:

“Yesterday was married by special license at St. George’s,
Hanover-square, the honourable G. F. Balfour, to Emma, grand-daughter of
the honourable Mrs. Castlemain.”

But he endeavoured to give himself courage to proceed, by the reflection
that such paragraphs were often false, and only anticipations; and in a
degree revived by this nearly frantic hope, he had courage to pursue his
journey. When he reached London, he drove instantly to Balfour’s
lodgings; and almost too much agitated to be intelligible, he asked for
Mr. Balfour.

“My master, sir,” replied the servant with a look of great and
complacent meaning, “is gone to church.”

“To church!” said St. Aubyn.

“Yes, sir, to be married; he has been gone about twenty minutes to St.
George’s, Hanover-Square.”

I will not attempt to describe St. Aubyn’s feelings at hearing this,
while agitated nature vented and relieved itself in a passionate flood
of tears. He did not then come too late! and he passed from absolute
despair to hope.

“Drive to St. George’s church,” cried St. Aubyn. But as the motion of
the post-chaise was not rapid enough for him, he opened the door, jumped
out, and in a few minutes was at the church-door.

“I _must_ come in,” he exclaimed to the man who opposed his entrance, “I
come to Mr. Balfour from his father Lord Clonawley. And stop me at your
peril!”

On hearing this, the man dared to oppose him no longer, and he walked up
the middle isle. The minister who was officiating had just got to the
words, “If any of you know cause or impediment, why these two persons
are not to be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are now to declare
it;” when St. Aubyn appeared in sight, loudly exclaiming, “I do”—and
advanced to the altar.

At sight of him the same apprehension was felt by all who knew him;
namely, that St. Aubyn, distracted by the loss of Emma, was come thither
in a fit of frenzy; but this idea vanished, when the latter, premising
that he came thither deputed by Lord Clonawley to forbid the marriage,
presented his father’s letter to Balfour, desiring him to read it
immediately.

Then, while Balfour, pale and trembling, perused the unwelcome contents,
St. Aubyn, as much agitated as himself, turned to Mrs. Castlemain.

“It has been my blessed lot, dear madam,” said he, “to be the instrument
to save those I most love from destruction! and in addition I am enabled
to assure you that the fact of your daughter’s marriage is established
beyond a doubt; here is the registry of that marriage, (presenting it to
her,) and here the dying confession of Cammell himself, and——” here
his voice and strength began to fail——”Lord Clonawley owns your
beloved Emma to be his legitimate daughter, by ——” Then, exhausted by
several nights devoid of rest, and passed in misery and fatigue, he sunk
into the arms of the person who stood near him, and was conveyed in a
swoon into the vestry. Meanwhile his words had excited in his auditors,
Balfour excepted, surprise the most unbounded and feelings the most
varied. To Balfour, his father’s letter had already told the same; but
Balfour’s feelings had, unlike those of Mr. Egerton, Mrs. Castlemain,
and Emma, nothing of pleasure mixed with agony, except that of joy and
thankfulness at being prevented the commission of a crime; he even
sometimes doubted the fact of Emma’s being his sister; which however his
previous knowledge of her history, and now the testimony of Mr. Egerton,
confirmed too strongly for him to doubt any longer; and unable to bear
the various emotions that assailed him, he attempted to leave the church
alone. But this Mr. Egerton would not suffer; and accompanying him to
his hotel, he did not leave him till he was composed, and his sister
Fanny was come to bear him company. Mrs. Castlemain and Emma, during
this time, were anxiously awaiting the recovery of St. Aubyn; while
Emma, though at a loss to guess how St. Aubyn had been the means of
saving her from an incestuous marriage, felt happy at owing her
preservation to him; and both ladies mingled, with pious thankfulness to
heaven, blessings on their earthly friend and preserver.

It was therefore with almost overwhelming agony they found, on St.
Aubyn’s recovering from his fainting fit, that his eyes were wild, and
his language incoherent; and that, not knowing any one about him, he
raved of not getting to England in time; and was evidently so ill, that
Mrs. Castlemain conveyed him to her own lodgings, and desired a
physician to be sent for immediately. It was some days before St. Aubyn
was conscious of his happiness in being nursed by Mr. Egerton and Mrs.
Castlemain with even parental tenderness; while Emma, unseen, hovered
near the bed that contained the being endeared to her heart by every tie
that can bind one fellow-being to another.

At length St. Aubyn’s danger was over, and he once more recognized the
friends who, worn with anxiety, hung over his restless pillow. Emma’s
happiness amounted almost to agony; and she wondered what was become of
those internal _intimations_ of approaching _dissolution_ which she had
contemplated with such calm complacence, just before she fixed the day
to be married to Balfour. The marriage day had been fixed as for the
morrow, when Balfour wrote to his father; but Emma’s health had yielded
at length completely to uneasiness of mind; and on the morning fixed for
the wedding, she was declared to be suffering under that painful
disorder, a low and nervous fever.

When she recovered, however, she persisted in marrying Balfour; for she
felt a conviction, perhaps _dear_ to her mind, that she should not long
survive the union, and she thought it her duty to let Balfour call her
his before she died, as his persevering tenderness still desired to
obtain this privilege. Weak, faded, and, in her own opinion, dying, she
was therefore conveyed to church, and was about to pronounce the most
sacred of all vows, when she was so happily prevented, and by a
circumstance which in a few hours restored her love, and even her hope
of life; and in a few days, that is, as soon as St. Aubyn was declared
out of danger, her delighted friends saw colour restored to her cheek,
and spirit to her eye.

As soon as St. Aubyn was sufficiently recovered to bear conversation,
Mrs. Castlemain, who had hung over his sick bed with even a mother’s
tenderness, and bathed his unconscious face with many a tear of
affectionate alarm, could no longer restrain her expressions of
gratitude to him, for the signal services he had been enabled to render
her, and those most dear to her; and she listened with painful interest
to his explanation of the circumstances which led to it. When he had
ended his narration, she exclaimed, “there is one way, Henry, and only
one, in which I can ever hope to reward you; and it shall not be my
fault, if all the happiness that is in my power to bestow, is not yours,
whenever decorum warrants it.” So saying, she left the room, and
returned with Emma; then joining their hands, she said with great
emotion,

“There, Henry, plead your own cause, and believe me that to witness your
union with that object of my fondest care, will give me the highest
happiness which an anxious parent can experience; for to whom can a
parent confide the welfare of her child with such confidence of securing
it, as to a man whose whole life has been an exemplary series of duties
fulfilled!”

It cannot be supposed that Henry pleaded his cause in vain; and day
after day glided by unheeded, while mutual and satisfactory explanations
took place between the lovers. Still, as Emma had been so recently on
the point of marriage with another, it was thought only proper that a
year should elapse before she became the bride of St. Aubyn. When St.
Aubyn was well enough to go out in the carriage, his first airing was to
Kensington.

Emma had taken the earliest opportunity after her return to England, to
call on the Orwells, and introduce Balfour to them as her future
husband. Mr. Egerton, and she herself, had informed them by letter of
her approaching marriage; but as it was not a subject on which either of
them was fond of dilating, the good old couple had not heard enough of
the intended bridegroom to satisfy either their affections or their
curiosity; and they were particularly anxious to know whether Balfour
was that handsome, benevolent-looking young man who had called on them
and would not tell his name.

Accordingly they were delighted to see Mrs. Castlemain s carriage stop
at their door, and Mr. Orwell eagerly ran out to receive his welcome
visiters; while Mrs. Orwell, seeing from the window that the gentleman
on whose arm Emma leaned was tall and blooming, readily believed what
she wished, and concluded that Balfour was the identical unknown, who
had so much charmed both her and her husband. Hastening therefore to the
door, she eagerly exclaimed, “Well! this is just what I——” but there
she paused, for Balfour turned his face towards her, and with a look of
disappointment she made him a cold courtesy; while Emma, conscious of
what the old lady was about to say, and understanding the change in her
countenance, hastily passed her, and, complaining of fatigue, leaned her
head for a moment on the side of the sofa.

This visit to the Orwells was short, for Balfour was impatient to be
gone; but it was long enough to convince Mrs. Orwell that Emma was not
in love with the man whom she was going to marry, and with great
bitterness did she inveigh against Mrs. Castlemain’s cruelty in
sacrificing her granddaughter for the sake of a title; while Mr. Orwell,
though he angrily reproved his wife for what might be unjust suspicions,
could not help entertaining similar ones himself, and he reluctantly
owned that Emma looked alarmingly ill.

But now feelings of a very different nature awaited them. Emma had
previously informed them, that she was coming to introduce to them her
friend, Mr. St. Aubyn, to whom they all owed so much.

Impatiently, therefore, was this visit expected; and when in the pale,
languid, but happy-looking invalid, whom Mrs. Castlemain and Emma fondly
supported, and whose looks they affectionately watched, the Orwells
recognised their unknown visiter, they exchanged looks of triumph and
delight, and Mrs. Orwell could not help exclaiming, “Ay, this is just
what I wished to see, and I am not disappointed _now_.”

When their guests departed, after a long and satisfactory visit, Mr.
Orwell, as he re-entered the house, exclaimed, rubbing his hands, as he
always did when he was particularly gratified, “Well, old woman, I hope
you are pleased _now_; and that our dear young lady is enough in love,
and looks happy enough to satisfy even YOU?”

One morning, St. Aubyn received a letter, forwarded to him from
Ibbetson’s Hotel, the address which he had given to Lord Clonawley. It
was from that unhappy man, and contained the unexpected intelligence
that he was arrived at a hotel in Albemarle street, and begged to see
St. Aubyn immediately; but adding, that having driven to his son’s
lodgings, as soon as he reached town, where Balfour’s grateful anxiety
made him remain till St. Aubyn was declared out of danger, he had had
the happiness to find he was not married, and that that dreadful
punishment for his offences was remitted. I shall observe here, that the
already _improved_ Lord Clonawley had made one of his daughters transmit
this good news immediately to the _poor anxious Lola_.

St. Aubyn had only been abroad once since bis illness. It was,
therefore, on that account, and on many others, thought proper that Mr.
Egerton only should go to him; and with a heart full of indescribable
emotion, he prepared himself for an interview with the destroyer of
Agatha, and the father of her deserted child.

It was late in the evening before Mr. Egerton returned; and never had
either St. Aubyn, or Emma, or Mrs. Castlemain beheld him so deeply
affected as he now was. For he had been endeavouring to awake a sinner
to repentance; he had been listening to the painful narration of a life
of profligacy. The profligate too, was the father of the child of his
adoption and his love!

“However,” thought Mr. Egerton, “his son, luckily for him, was never
long enough with his father to be corrupted by his example; and the
future Lord Clonawley will, I trust, be an honour, instead of a disgrace
to his family!”

But even for Lord Clonawley, Mr. Egerton, who, like all good men, was
indulgent to the faults of others, could make considerable excuses.

His father, a man of family, but of small fortune, married his mistress,
a woman taken from the dregs of the people; but he kept his marriage a
secret many years, and brought up his son, though born in wedlock, in
the obscurity and humble education usually attendant on illegitimate
children. The young man, therefore, instead of associating with his
father’s, lived with his mother’s relations; instead of passing his time
with gentlemen, was the companion of men whose manners were as vulgar as
their morals were depraved. When he was eighteen, his father, having
owned his marriage, gave him a private tutor, and at twenty sent him to
College; but he had not one feeling or principle of a gentleman, on
which to found the conduct of one, though his discernment, and his
talents of imitation, soon taught him the necessity and the power of
acquiring a gentleman’s manners.

Shortly after his leaving the University, he was summoned to join his
father in India, where he married, and remained a few years. Soon after,
by the death of three persons, who were even in the prime of life, Mr.
Balfour senior saw four lives only between him and the title of
Clonawley, and there was only one life between Balfour and the
succession at the time of his father’s and mother’s death, which was at
the period of his rupture with Agatha. The fortune, therefore, which
Agatha was heiress to, held out too remote a temptation to him to
influence his conduct towards her, as a greater fortune would soon, in
all likelihood, be in his grasp; and as he was most passionately in love
with another woman, he was resolved to spare no villany to obtain
possession of her. When he saw Agatha at the race-ball, he had dropped
his surname, and was known by his christian name alone, in order to
avoid a prosecution, with which he was threatened, for having seduced a
farmer’s daughter, in which guilt Cammell had assisted him; and while he
was supposed on the continent, he was on a visit to one of his
profligate friends. Captain Bertie, who was in his secret, and kept it
most sacredly. The name of Danvers, he thought it advisable to retain,
even when the idea of a prosecution was dropped; but after he had
married his third wife, he owned his real name, telling her and her weak
father, as they were sailing to Jamaica, where the latter had large
plantations, that as he was next heir to a title, he concealed his name,
that he might be sure his daughter did not marry him for the sake of his
rank; and soon after he became Lord Clonawley. His son, meanwhile, was
left in England, under the care of a tutor, of rigid morals, though not
fitted to form the temper and correct the selfish habits which Balfour
had contracted in childhood. Still, however, the outline was good, and
only the filling-up defective; and Balfour certainly had none of his
father’s vices.

Mr. Egerton found from Lord Clonawley’s discourse, that he had tenderly
loved his third wife, whose sweetness of temper had won his affection;
but that Agatha, instead of soothing, had always irritated him; and by
the reproaches of her wounded pride, and her dictatorial, contemptuous
manner, had changed all the passionate fondness which her person and her
talents had first excited in him, into fear and aversion. Such were the
bitter fruits to Agatha of an uncorrected temper.

Still, never without painful remorse, had Lord Clonawley remembered
Agatha; and terror lest he should hear that some harm had happened to
her and her child, in consequence of his desertion, had always prevented
him from making any inquiries concerning them, in order to ascertain
whether the mother of Agatha, in consequence of his letter, had received
her and the little Emma to her favour and protection.

Bitterly now did Lord Clonawley lament the turpitude of his conduct
towards her; and he listened to the narration of her despair, her
poverty, her industry, her sufferings, and her death, with agonies that
completely revenged her on her betrayer.

“But you tell me she forgave me,” he repeated, “forgave and prayed for
me!” And from that idea alone he derived consolation; but he had
reparation to make to the living; and there again his punishment was
severe; for he saw himself forced to punish the children whom he knew
and loved, for the guilt he alone had perpetrated, by depriving them of
their rank and name in society; and to own publicly, as his only lawful
daughter, a child whom he never saw, and who had probably been brought
up to detest him.

Mr. Egerton left him, however, calmed and composed, and Balfour with
him, who, thinking he had better quit London, and not see Emma till he
could behold her without emotion, determined to set off on a tour the
next day. Balfour had been violent in his anger towards his erring
parent, forgetting that Lord Clonawley had something to forgive his son.

Balfour, knowing how particular his father was with respect to family
and connexions, was well convinced that, if he informed him Emma’s claim
to legitimate birth was equivocal, he would do all in his power to
prevent the marriage. Actuated therefore by the impulse of that
unyielding temper, which could not endure the slightest opposition, he
suppressed Mrs. Castlemain’s letter, explaining her relationship to
Emma, and suffered Lord Clonawley to remain in the belief that she was
Mrs. Castlemain’s daughter. Nor, till Balfour confessed what he had done
to Mr. Egerton, could the latter imagine why the discovery had not taken
place as soon as Lord Clonawley received that letter. Thus the
disingenuousness of Balfour, like all conduct of that nature, was very
near being the cause of irreparable misery; and thus was Mrs. Castlemain
convinced how judiciously Mr. Egerton thought and spoke, when he opposed
Emma’s being called Castlemain instead of Danvers; adding, “that he
never knew any good the result of deception, and praying that from this
deception no material mischief might ensue.”

“Emma,” said Mr. Egerton, “I have promised for you, that you will see
your father.”

“I am sorry for it, sir,” replied Emma, proudly, “for never can I bear
to behold the destroyer of my mother!”

“That mother,” solemnly replied Mr. Egerton, “delayed to forgive her
offending parent, till death made it impossible for her to see that
parent, and pronounce the forgiveness which she then earnestly wished to
bestow. Take warning by her mournful example, and remember that it is
not for a child to take upon itself to punish even a guilty parent!”
Here Emma, in great emotion, precipitately left the room; but, after a
long struggle with herself, she returned, and going up to Mr. Egerton,
assured him that whenever Lord Clonawley was willing to admit her, she
would be willing to visit him; and the satisfaction which her lover and
her friend expressed, amply repaid her for the conquest she had gained
over her resentments.

Mr. Egerton immediately wrote to Lord Clonawley, desiring him to fix a
day for seeing his daughter; but that very evening he was seized with a
mortal malady. Agitation of mind brought on a return of bleeding at the
lungs to which he had long been subject, and it was soon decided that
all aid was vain. Just before this news reached Emma, she received Lord
Clonawley’s letter, which by some strange chance had not yet reached
her.

Mr. Egerton, having sent an express for Balfour, who had left town two
days preceding, came to inform Emma of her father’s situation, and she
instantly exclaimed,

“Oh! how glad I am that before I received his letter, and heard of his
danger, I had consented to see him!”

“I come also to tell you,” added Mr. Egerton, “that he cannot die in
peace without beholding you, and asking your pardon in person for the
wrongs he did you.” And Emma, though pale and trembling with emotion,
eagerly begged to be immediately conducted to him.

“No, my dear child,” replied Mr. Egerton, “I will not conduct you to
him, but I will follow soon. You shall go, supported and encouraged by
the presence of that man, who was an example of filial piety himself,
and who will have a pride and pleasure in seeing you fulfil the painful
duty which filial piety now imposes on you.”

“I have informed Lord Clonawley of St. Aubyn’s claims and pretensions,
which he warmly admits and approves; and he wishes to pronounce his
dying blessing on your union.”

This intelligence softened Emma’s heart still more towards her dying
parent; and with more emotion and less reluctance she set off for
Albemarle-street, and was led by St. Aubyn to the presence of Lord
Clonawley.

As soon as he beheld her, he exclaimed, “‘Tis she! my injured wife
herself seems to stand before me!” Then, hiding his face in his hands,
he sobbed audibly and convulsively.

From the generous and feeling nature of Emma, every trace of resentment
vanished as she beheld the self-judged object before her, and no feeling
but of pity remained. Lord Clonawley at length becoming able to bear to
look at her, raised his eyes imploringly to hers, and extended towards
her his damp and meagre hand.

“Will you, can you forgive me, my child?” he faintly exclaimed.

“From my very soul!” cried Emma, throwing herself beside him.

“Thanks! thanks!” he replied in a hurried manner, “her very voice too!
and in the same sweet mournful tone as when I heard it last.”

Emma now raised herself, and sat on the side of the bed, holding her
father’s hand in hers, while her sisters leaned over him on the other
side, vainly trying to engage a little of his attention; but that
attention was now so completely riveted on Emma, that he saw not St.
Aubyn, whom he had wished so much to see, nor Mr. Egerton, who now
entered the room, and for whom he had repeatedly inquired.

The delirium of death was indeed fast approaching; and mistaking Emma
for her mother, lord Clonawley eagerly and repeatedly addressed her by
the name of Agatha, and begged her to forgive her guilty husband all his
trespasses against her.

“Pray for me, Agatha, pray for me, my beloved wife,” he wildly cried;
and Emma willing to indulge a delusion that might give him comfort, fell
on her knees, and raising one hand to Heaven, while he grasped the other
in his cold convulsive grasp,

“Merciful author of my existence,” she exclaimed, “forgive this penitent
sufferer as freely as I forgive him!”

The eyes of the dying man beamed with momentary brightness as she spoke;
then, turning to the last on her, they soon after closed for ever.

Mr. Egerton immediately desired St. Aubyn to lead Emma away, while he
remained with the poor orphans, in whose sullen grief he evidently
beheld no heart-yearnings, but the contrary, towards their new-found
sister, and therefore thought it best for the present to remove her from
their sight.

Fanny, whose spirits were too weak to bear the scene that awaited Emma,
had remained with Mrs. Castlemain, whom lord Clonawley had, luckily for
her, not wished to see; and when Emma returned, the poor girl, who loved
her tenderly, flew to her arms with every sentiment of tenderness
towards her that Emma could desire; and they together wept, though with
different feelings, the parent whom they had lost.

Lord Clonawley made a will the day before he died, in which he left only
2000_l._ each to his daughters, Mary Ann, Harriet, and Fanny; his
estates of course coming to his son, who was, as my readers must be
sensible of, the identical little boy, the only child by his first
marriage, whom he had himself introduced to Agatha. To _Emma_,
designated expressly by the name of Emma Balfour, his sole legitimate
daughter by Agatha Torrington, his lawful wife, he gave the sum of
10,000_l._

“Did you talk to my father _much_ of me?” said Emma as soon as she
recovered the violent emotion which she felt, on hearing the contents of
the will.

“I did,” he replied, “and spoke of you as I thought.”

“I suspected as much,” said Emma, bursting into tears, and hastening to
her own room, where with a trembling hand she penned the following
letter:

        “My dear sisters,

    “Our lost father, by willing to me so disproportionate a share
    of his fortune, relieved his conscience from a painful burthen.
    Now then let me relieve mine, and prove myself worthy of the
    reliance which, I evidently see, lord Clonawley placed on my
    justice and my affection. I insist on sharing equally with you
    the fortune he has bequeathed to me, and I conjure you to accept
    the offer as a proof of the affectionate regard of

                                           “Your new-found sister,
                                                     “EMMA BALFOUR.”

For this offer, which Balfour allowed them to accept, his sisters
employed him to express to Emma their grateful acknowledgments,
promising to visit her at the White Cottage on their return from
Ireland, whither they were going, with their brother, to follow the
corpse of their father.

Mrs. Castlemain and Emma then set off for the White Cottage, and Mr.
Egerton and St. Aubyn soon followed them to Cumberland.

On their road thither, as St. Aubyn was talking over his affairs, and
telling Mr. Egerton what settlements he meant to make on Emma, the
latter said,

“As I find, Henry, that you are now a much richer man than I am, I shall
trouble you to pay me the little debt you owe me.”

“A debt! my dear sir, I was not conscious that I ever owed you one.”

“Very likely,” replied the other, “nevertheless you do owe me a trifle.”

“Name the sum, that I may repay it,” cried St. Aubyn, taking out his
purse.

“Pho! not a hundred purses could contain your debt to me; you owe me
_only_ the little sum of £80,000!” and while St. Aubyn, dumb with
amazement, did not attempt to speak, Mr. Egerton proceeded to inform
him, that hearing the St. Aubyn estate was again to be disposed of, he
had purchased it for that money, meaning to restore it, either during
his life, or at his death, to its original inheritor.

Next to the possession of Emma, there was nothing so near to the heart
of St. Aubyn, as the recovery of his paternal estate; though he had
never flattered himself with being able to effect it. His delight and
his gratitude, therefore, were in proportion to this desire.

“Best of friends!” he exclaimed.

“Nonsense!” replied Mr. Egerton, “not the _best_ of friends, but a
_friend_; one who has not only the inclination but the power to prove
his friendship by his actions. You had not money enough to buy St.
Aubyn, and I had; and I am very sure that had you been me and I you, you
would have done the same.”

“Well,” said St. Aubyn, “I have only to hope that you will always
consider St. Aubyn as your own residence, and make Emma and me happy, by
accepting apartments there.”

“No,” replied Mr. Egerton, “I will never be more than your guest, and my
little cottage shall still be my _all_ of mansion.”

At length the time fixed on for the union of St. Aubyn and Emma,
arrived; and Balfour, now lord Clonawley, accompanied his sisters, when
they came to witness it; and having convinced himself that he mistook
the instinctive regard of a brother for the impulse of passion, he felt
no emotions but those of proper affection for the betrothed bride of St.
Aubyn; and now he no longer looked upon him as a rival, his heart, which
was really virtuous, and formed to love virtue, did ample justice to the
merits of his new relation.

“Every wish of my heart is so completely filled,” said St. Aubyn to Mr.
Egerton, some months after his marriage, “that I wish, and so does Emma,
to pass life between St. Aubyn and the Vale-House, and never, except for
a few weeks at a time, encounter the busy scenes of the metropolis.”

“I should approve your decision,” replied Mr. Egerton, “if you had
neither talents, virtues, nor energy enough to fit you for some public
situation of life; but when I consider what you are, and the usefulness
that you are capable of, I must condemn, as inexcusable selfishness,
those wishes which would lead you to bury yourself in retirement. I well
know that the duties of a country gentleman are many, and that you can
do much good by fulfilling those duties; but as the senate is the place
where an upright and independent man can render the greatest service to
his country at large, it is the wish of my heart, approved most warmly
by my judgment, that you should divide your time between the metropolis
and your estates, and exert in the House of Commons those powers of
mind, and that rectitude of feeling and principle, which in a country
life could only be exercised in duties comparatively of slender
importance.”

St. Aubyn, whose life had hitherto been spent in a surrender of his own
wishes to those of others, was now naturally enough inclined to live,
during his succeeding years, for his own good alone, and that of those
whom he loved best.

But at length Mr. Egerton’s reasoning, and Mrs. Castlemain’s ambition,
urged him to accept a seat in parliament; and Emma’s first child was
born in the metropolis.

Varley, meanwhile, returned from his wanderings, and had embarked for
England in the same boat with Mrs. Felton, who remained in France long
after our travellers, and left it just after she had heard of the
discovery of Emma’s birth from Mrs. Fitz-Walter; who had a pleasure in
adding that St. Aubyn, to whom that discovery was owing, was supposed to
be the betrothed lover of Emma. It was with great joy, therefore, that,
when she recognized Varley, and asked why he had so suddenly displeased
his friends, and left Paris, he told her he could not account for their
behaviour, except in a way to call his modesty in question; insinuating,
very adroitly, that Emma, the pure and precise Emma, had made him such
advances as had alarmed the prudence of Mr. Egerton, and the jealousy of
Balfour. And though Mrs. Felton did not in her heart believe the tale,
she was delighted to act as if she did, and to give hints of the sort
when she arrived in England, where Varley became a constant guest at her
parties; and some confidential few he amused by mimicking Mrs.
Castlemain’s dignity, Mr. Egerton’s long speeches, and Emma’s girlish
vivacity, which, to those who did not know them, appeared admirable
likenesses. But it was at length suggested to Mrs. Felton, by a male
friend, that the youth who thus made free with the reputation of his
former acquaintance, Miss Castlemain, might be as free with his present
one, Mrs. Felton; and hearing, from undoubted authority, that he had
boasted of favours from her which he never received, and also called
her, when speaking of her, his lovely Lucy, she indignantly forbade him
her house; and as the lady, at whose house Emma first saw him in town,
was now reconciled to her, and once more become her intimate friend, she
also ceased to invite him to her conversation parties out of respect to
Mrs. Felton. Thus Varley was restored to his original obscurity, and
absence from those fashionable circles in which it was his first
ambition to shine. But Mr. Egerton, just in his wrath, did not suffer
the industrious and indigent mother to suffer for the faults of her son,
and he sent her occasionally very handsome presents from an unknown
hand.

But to return to St. Aubyn:

However averse he might originally bate been to a residence of many
months at a time in the metropolis, he could not help feeling his pride
and tenderness amply gratified while there, by the flattering attention
and admiration which his beautiful and accomplished wife excited; for it
was such as could not have called forth one angry or unpleasant feeling
in the most jealous of husbands, or most delicate of men, and was not
only a tribute to the charms of her mind and person, but to the
propriety of her conduct and her manners. Well and justly indeed, was it
said of Emma, that though any one might have fallen in love with her
before marriage, no one would have thought of doing so after it; the
highest eulogium that can be passed on a young and beautiful woman.

While the delighted St. Aubyn seemed to follow his graceful wife,
wherever she moved, with eyes of approving fondness, Mrs. Fitz-Walter
had great satisfaction in observing to her dear friend, Mrs. Felton,
with whom the St. Aubyns were on civil though distant terms,

“Was there ever such a doting husband as Mr. St. Aubyn? I am sure he is
not conscious there is another woman in the world besides his wife! and,
indeed, I do not think there is another woman in it worthy of such a
man!” and Mrs. Felton, by exclaiming,

“Ridiculous! absurd!” her only answer on these occasions, sufficiently
betrayed, that she felt all the mortification which her kind friend
meant to inflict.

Mrs. Castlemain, though much distressed at a separation from Emma, had
wisdom and self-denial enough to refuse to accompany her to London. For,
as she felt the most certain conviction that Emma was worthy of implicit
confidence, she thought it but right that she should mix in London
society without any other guard than her husband, and her own prudence.

Mr. Egerton, too, now he had reaped the reward of his own paternal care
of her, in seeing her the wife of St. Aubyn, felt that it was no longer
necessary for him to forego his own tastes and pursuits. And having no
surviving relations, or even friends, who required his society or
assistance, he resolved to pass in studious retirement, and in
benevolent exertions for the instruction and benefit of the poor in the
neighbourhood of the White Cottage, those hours hitherto passed in
superintending and accompanying his beloved pupil. But though he and
Mrs. Castlemain had persisted to remain behind in the still shades of
Cumberland, it was always with affectionate and almost painful
impatience that they awaited the hour that should restore to them their
best treasures. And when they beheld their carriages and servants
winding down the opposite mountain, the tear of ill-restrained delight
glistened in the eye of both.

“See,” said Emma to Mr. Egerton, when she returned from the metropolis
the second time after her residence there; “see, my dear sir, (giving
her little boy into his arms,) I have brought you another pupil; and I
trust that, by dint of my own watchful care, your precepts, and his
father’s example, he will be in temper and disposition all that he ought
to be.”

“You are too modest,” replied Mr. Egerton as he kissed the babe, and
returned it to its mother; “you omit to mention the probable usefulness
of your own example, as well as watchfulness.”

“Mine!” exclaimed Emma; “mine! Surely you must forget to what a violent,
headstrong creature you are talking.”

“Pardon me,” returned he; “I do remember you were once what you
describe; but I also remember how readily you undertook the difficult
task of conquering your temper, and how admirably you succeeded in it.
Sweetness of temper is often, as I have before observed, the result of a
happy conformation and perfect health, and is no more a virtue in its
possessor than beauty of person. But when a sense of duty leads the
self-judged slave of an unhappy temper to conquer that irritability,
then is good temper exalted into a virtue; and this virtue I have seen
so often exhibited by you, that I shall, if I live to see your child old
enough to understand my advice, have no scruple in holding up his
mother, as well as his father, as a model to be imitated.”

“The author of that interesting poem, The Triumphs of Temper,” observed
Mrs. Castlemain, “is of your opinion, Mr. Egerton, with regard to the
importance of good temper, for he says;

    ‘Virtue’s an ingot of Peruvian gold;
    Sense, the bright ore Potosi’s mines unfold;
    But Temper’s image must their use create,
    And give these precious metals sterling weight.’”

“I thank you, madam,” replied Mr. Egerton, “for reminding me of my
coincidence in opinion with the author of that poem; but I should wonder
if any one, who thinks at all, were to deny the truth of this sentiment.
There is no situation in life in which fine temper is not of use. In
affliction it disposes the sufferer to dwell more on the blessings it
still retains, than on those which it has lost, and thereby prepares the
mind for the influence of pious resignation. In sickness it induces
patience and quiet endurance, lest complaint should wound the feelings
of affectionate attendants; while it disposes those affectionate
attendants themselves to bear with the often provoking and ungrateful
petulance of disease; for though religion and principle may in time
clear away every obstacle to their desirable ends, the way to them is
made easy and quick at once if Temper be the guide.”

“But surely,” said St. Aubyn, who entered the room at this moment, “it
is not enough to consider what temper can enable us to do; one should
reflect how many things without its assistance one cannot do. Without
command of temper no one can be sure of always speaking truth; for many
persons, of both sexes, utter, while under the dominion of passion, what
they are glad to disown and to explain away when their passion is over.”

“True,” observed Emma laughing, “as for instance, in the Commons house
of parliament, when one honourable member gets up and begs to know
whether the honourable gentleman on the other side of the house meant
really, by such and such words, what such and such words really mean; on
which the honourable gentleman appealed to, assures the honourable
appellant, that by such and such words he did not mean what such and
such words really mean, (to translate these things into the language of
truth,) on which the honourable appellant professes himself entirely
satisfied that _black_ is _not black_ but _white_.”

“Fy, Emma, fy!” replied St. Aubyn, laughing, “this is more severe than
true; for, after all, these explanations are understood to be only modes
of speech.”

“So, so,” cried Mr. Egerton, “I see you have acquired an esprit du
corps, Henry, already, and do not like to have your respectable body
attacked even by a joke.”

“I have surely a right, sir,” returned St. Aubyn, “to insist on Emma’s
extending her remark to the Lords, and owning that respectable body to
be as liable as our own to these façons de parler, which she chooses to
call falsehoods.

“Oh! by all means,” answered Emma, “and I dare say similar scenes occur
among them as frequently as amongst you; for no doubt there is nothing
so like a commoner in a passion as a lord in one; and I beg leave to add
to the list of what one cannot do without command of temper, that one
cannot be always _well-bred_ without such self-command; for both
gentlemen and gentlewomen when angry, say and do what, for the time
being, makes them neither the one nor the other.”

“I am inclined to think also,” resumed St. Aubyn, “that one cannot
_love_ perfectly without temper. We often hear that there is nothing so
like _hatred_ as _love_; and that lovers have a great delight in
tormenting each other. Now, though I admit that love, and lovers as we
see them every day, exemplify the truth of these observations, still I
am convinced, that were the cultivation of good temper as universal as
it ought to be, these fine definitions of love, and these descriptions
of lovers, would be known no more. The truth is, that our habits of
temper and feeling are formed in childhood, and long before the passion
of love can be felt; consequently, however powerful love may be, temper
being still more so, it gives its _own_ obliquity to the _tender_
passion as it is called. And when love resembles hate, and lovers take
delight in tormenting each other, such horrors are to be explained thus;
that, in the first instance, temper has more sway over the individual so
erring than real affection; and in the second, that the lover who
torments and tyrannizes over his mistress, or the mistress who torments
and tyrannizes over her lover, would, if they could and dared, torment
and tyrannize over the rest of their species; and that they take this
liberty chiefly with one alone, because they believe that, as the
tormented being loves them, they can give way to their temper with
impunity.”

“Well, Mr. St. Aubyn,” replied Emma, “you are sure of my assent to this
doctrine; for, as I can safely declare that you never yet thought proper
to torture me in order to convince me of your love,—if I did not
believe in its truth, I must doubt the sincerity of your affection, and
that would be rather disagreeable.”

“I agree entirely, and without such an inducement,” said Mr. Egerton,
“in all that Henry has advanced.”

“But who can be always on their guard?” cried Mrs. Castlemain.
“Occasional irritability of nerves, or secret anxiety, may sometimes
overset the finest temper.”

“True,” replied St. Aubyn; “and after all, we must denominate as
fine-tempered, not those who are never out of humour, for where are they
to be found? but those who are most rarely thrown off their guard.”

“I think,” said Emma, “that Temper, like other great potentates, has her
levées and her gala days. I know, sir, (addressing Mr. Egerton,) that
you consider a revolution as a time when Temper is seated on her throne
of state, with all her ugly ministers around her. And what think you,
sir, of a contested election? That surely is one of her gala times; but
then she wears ribands, and goes about with flags and music, and looks
so pretty and so animated, and so like something very charming, that we
forget what her real nature is.”

“I am glad,” returned Mr. Egerton, “to find that you are so conscious of
the influence of Temper at elections, Mrs. St. Aubyn, as this knowledge
will enable you, should your husband ever be opposed, to keep a guard
over _your_ temper; for those only are safe from falling who are
conscious of their danger.”

“And that danger lies more in trifles than great events,” returned Emma.
“I have often heard the trials of Serena blamed as being too trivial;
but I have considered the critics on this occasion, as no attentive
observers of human nature and life; for it is very certain that trifles
irritate the temper more than things of importance; and that great
trials call for that higher order of exertion and virtue known by the
name of fortitude and resignation. But the man or woman who can support
loss of relations and fortune with dignified calmness, might very likely
give way to impatience and angry fretfulness at the carelessness of a
servant, a peevish contradiction from a relation, or a spiteful remark
from a companion.”

“True,” replied Mr. Egerton; “and I feel very happy in the consciousness
that you are thus deeply impressed with the importance of a
well-governed temper, as this impression will constantly influence you
in the management of your children. To borrow the words of a great man,

                ‘Tis not in mortals to command success.’

But you’ll do more, my Emma, you’ll deserve it. Events over which we
have no power often cloud the prospects of us all, and change our joy to
sorrow. But parents, in giving their children good habits, bestow on
them the best chance of virtuous prosperity; and good habits are gifts
which it is chiefly in a mother’s power to bestow, and what her
offspring are capable of being benefited by, even in the earliest stages
of childhood, since that is the time to begin the formation of the
Temper; for, considering _happiness_ as the goal in view, VIRTUE and
TALENT are two Arabian coursers, which, however fleet and powerful,
would never reach the desired and destined point unless managed and
guided by the hand of TEMPER.”

-----

Footnote 1:

    "Fair scenes, where Condé fixed the source of pleasure,
    One's happiness would consist in never leaving you,
    If you were not to our purse
    Still _dearer_ than you are to our heart."

Footnote 2:

should be a coward!"

Footnote 3:

"Probably the gentleman is a clergyman."

Footnote 4:

"Ah! poor credulous being!"

Footnote 5:

_Salle_ is the French word.

Footnote 6:

See Miss Plumptree's Narrative of a Three Tears' residence in France,
and also an edition of Madame de Sevigne's Letters, published in 1801.

Footnote 7:

A sort of Vauxhall in the Champs Elysées.

Footnote 8:

"My God! how hungry the poor child is!"

                           THE END OF TEMPER.
                         =Transcriber's Notes=

1. Obvious typographical errors have been silently changed.

2. Unconventional/archaic spellings have not been changed.

3. The word ingenuous(ness) was consistently misspelled ingenous(ness)
but has been changed for the benefit of the reader.

[The end of _Temper_ by Amelia Alderson Opie]