Volume 1 Chapter 1
I was sixteen then. It happened in the summer of 1833.
I lived in Moscow with my parents. They had taken a country house for the summer near the Kalouga gate, facing the Neskutchny gardens. I was preparing for the university, but did not work much and was in no hurry.
No one interfered with my freedom. I did what I liked, especially after parting with my last tutor, a Frenchman who had never been able to get used to the idea that he had fallen ‘like a bomb’ (comme une bombe) into Russia, and would lie sluggishly in bed with an expression of exasperation on his face for days together. My father treated me with careless kindness; my mother scarcely noticed me, though she had no children except me; other cares completely absorbed her. My father, a man still young and very handsome, had married her from mercenary considerations; she was ten years older than he. My mother led a melancholy life; she was for ever agitated, jealous and angry, but not in my father’s presence; she was very much afraid of him, and he was severe, cold, and distant in his behaviour. . . . I have never seen a man more elaborately serene, self-confident, and commanding.
I shall never forget the first weeks I spent at the country house. The weather was magnificent; we left town on the 9th of May, on St. Nicholas’s day. I used to walk about in our garden, in the Neskutchny gardens, and beyond the town gates; I would take some book with me — Keidanov’s Course, for instance — but I rarely looked into it, and more often than anything declaimed verses aloud; I knew a great deal of poetry by heart; my blood was in a ferment and my heart ached — so sweetly and absurdly; I was all hope and anticipation, was a little frightened of something, and full of wonder at everything, and was on the tiptoe of expectation; my imagination played continually, fluttering rapidly about the same fancies, like martins about a bell-tower at dawn; I dreamed, was sad, even wept; but through the tears and through the sadness, inspired by a musical verse, or the beauty of evening, shot up like grass in spring the delicious sense of youth and effervescent life.
I had a horse to ride; I used to saddle it myself and set off alone for long rides, break into a rapid gallop and fancy myself a knight at a tournament. How gaily the wind whistled in my ears! or turning my face towards the sky, I would absorb its shining radiance and blue into my soul, that opened wide to welcome it.
I remember that at that time the image of woman, the vision of love, scarcely ever arose in definite shape in my brain; but in all I thought, in all I felt, lay hidden a half-conscious, shamefaced presentiment of something new, unutterably sweet, feminine. . . .
This presentiment, this expectation, permeated my whole being; I breathed in it, it coursed through my veins with every drop of blood . . . it was destined to be soon fulfilled.
The place, where we settled for the summer, consisted of a wooden manor-house with columns and two small lodges; in the lodge on the left there was a tiny factory for the manufacture of cheap wall-papers. . . . I had more than once strolled that way to look at about a dozen thin and dishevelled boys with greasy smocks and worn faces, who were perpetually jumping on to wooden levers, that pressed down the square blocks of the press, and so by the weight of their feeble bodies struck off the variegated patterns of the wall-papers. The lodge on the right stood empty, and was to let. One day — three weeks after the 9th of May — the blinds in the windows of this lodge were drawn up, women’s faces appeared at them — some family had installed themselves in it. I remember the same day at dinner, my mother inquired of the butler who were our new neighbours, and hearing the name of the Princess Zasyekin, first observed with some respect, ‘Ah! a princess!’ . . . and then added, ‘A poor one, I suppose?’
‘They arrived in three hired flies,’ the butler remarked deferentially, as he handed a dish: ‘they don’t keep their own carriage, and the furniture’s of the poorest.’
‘Ah,’ replied my mother, ‘so much the better.’
My father gave her a chilly glance; she was silent.
Certainly the Princess Zasyekin could not be a rich woman; the lodge she had taken was so dilapidated and small and low-pitched that people, even moderately well-off in the world, would hardly have consented to occupy it. At the time, however, all this went in at one ear and out at the other. The princely title had very little effect on me; I had just been reading Schiller’s Robbers.
Chapter 2
I was in the habit of wandering about our garden every evening on the look-out for rooks. I had long cherished a hatred for those wary, sly, and rapacious birds. On the day of which I have been speaking, I went as usual into the garden, and after patrolling all the walks without success (the rooks knew me, and merely cawed spasmodically at a distance), I chanced to go close to the low fence which separated our domain from the narrow strip of garden stretching beyond the lodge to the right, and belonging to it. I was walking along, my eyes on the ground. Suddenly I heard a voice; I looked across the fence, and was thunder-struck. . . . I was confronted with a curious spectacle.
A few paces from me on the grass between the green raspberry bushes stood a tall slender girl in a striped pink dress, with a white kerchief on her head; four young men were close round her, and she was slapping them by turns on the forehead with those small grey flowers, the name of which I don’t know, though they are well known to children; the flowers form little bags, and burst open with a pop when you strike them against anything hard. The young men presented their foreheads so eagerly, and in the gestures of the girl (I saw her in profile), there was something so fascinating, imperious, caressing, mocking, and charming, that I almost cried out with admiration and delight, and would, I thought, have given everything in the world on the spot only to have had those exquisite fingers strike me on the forehead. My gun slipped on to the grass, I forgot everything, I devoured with my eyes the graceful shape and neck and lovely arms and the slightly disordered fair hair under the white kerchief, and the half-closed clever eye, and the eyelashes and the soft cheek beneath them. . . .
‘Young man, hey, young man,’ said a voice suddenly near me: ‘is it quite permissible to stare so at unknown young ladies?’
I started, I was struck dumb. . . . Near me, the other side of the fence, stood a man with close-cropped black hair, looking ironically at me. At the same instant the girl too turned towards me. . . . I caught sight of big grey eyes in a bright mobile face, and the whole face suddenly quivered and laughed, there was a flash of white teeth, a droll lifting of the eyebrows. . . . I crimsoned, picked up my gun from the ground, and pursued by a musical but not ill-natured laugh, fled to my own room, flung myself on the bed, and hid my face in my hands. My heart was fairly leaping; I was greatly ashamed and overjoyed; I felt an excitement I had never known before.
After a rest, I brushed my hair, washed, and went downstairs to tea. The image of the young girl floated before me, my heart was no longer leaping, but was full of a sort of sweet oppression.
‘What’s the matter?’ my father asked me all at once: ‘have you killed a rook?’
I was on the point of telling him all about it, but I checked myself, and merely smiled to myself. As I was going to bed, I rotated — I don’t know why — three times on one leg, pomaded my hair, got into bed, and slept like a top all night. Before morning I woke up for an instant, raised my head, looked round me in ecstasy, and fell asleep again.
Chapter 3
‘How can I make their acquaintance?’ was my first thought when I waked in the morning. I went out in the garden before morning tea, but I did not go too near the fence, and saw no one. After drinking tea, I walked several times up and down the street before the house, and looked into the windows from a distance. . . . I fancied her face at a curtain, and I hurried away in alarm.
‘I must make her acquaintance, though,’ I thought, pacing distractedly about the sandy plain that stretches before Neskutchny park . . . ‘but how, that is the question.’ I recalled the minutest details of our meeting yesterday; I had for some reason or other a particularly vivid recollection of how she had laughed at me. . . . But while I racked my brains, and made various plans, fate had already provided for me.
In my absence my mother had received from her new neighbour a letter on grey paper, sealed with brown wax, such as is only used in notices from the post-office or on the corks of bottles of cheap wine. In this letter, which was written in illiterate language and in a slovenly hand, the princess begged my mother to use her powerful influence in her behalf; my mother, in the words of the princess, was very intimate with persons of high position, upon whom her fortunes and her children’s fortunes depended, as she had some very important business in hand. ‘I address myself to you,’ she wrote, ‘as one gentlewoman to another gentlewoman, and for that reason am glad to avail myself of the opportunity.’ Concluding, she begged my mother’s permission to call upon her. I found my mother in an unpleasant state of indecision; my father was not at home, and she had no one of whom to ask advice. Not to answer a gentlewoman, and a princess into the bargain, was impossible. But my mother was in a difficulty as to how to answer her. To write a note in French struck her as unsuitable, and Russian spelling was not a strong point with my mother herself, and she was aware of it, and did not care to expose herself. She was overjoyed when I made my appearance, and at once told me to go round to the princess’s, and to explain to her by word of mouth that my mother would always be glad to do her excellency any service within her powers, and begged her to come to see her at one o’clock. This unexpectedly rapid fulfilment of my secret desires both delighted and appalled me. I made no sign, however, of the perturbation which came over me, and as a preliminary step went to my own room to put on a new necktie and tail coat; at home I still wore short jackets and lay-down collars, much as I abominated them.
Chapter 4
In the narrow and untidy passage of the lodge, which I entered with an involuntary tremor in all my limbs, I was met by an old grey-headed servant with a dark copper-coloured face, surly little pig’s eyes, and such deep furrows on his forehead and temples as I had never beheld in my life. He was carrying a plate containing the spine of a herring that had been gnawed at; and shutting the door that led into the room with his foot, he jerked out, ‘What do you want?’
‘Is the Princess Zasyekin at home?’ I inquired.
‘Vonifaty!’ a jarring female voice screamed from within.
The man without a word turned his back on me, exhibiting as he did so the extremely threadbare hindpart of his livery with a solitary reddish heraldic button on it; he put the plate down on the floor, and went away.
‘Did you go to the police station?’ the same female voice called again. The man muttered something in reply. ‘Eh. . . . Has some one come?’ I heard again. . . . ‘The young gentleman from next door. Ask him in, then.’
‘Will you step into the drawing-room?’ said the servant, making his appearance once more, and picking up the plate from the floor. I mastered my emotions, and went into the drawing-room.
I found myself in a small and not over clean apartment, containing some poor furniture that looked as if it had been hurriedly set down where it stood. At the window in an easy-chair with a broken arm was sitting a woman of fifty, bareheaded and ugly, in an old green dress, and a striped worsted wrap about her neck. Her small black eyes fixed me like pins.
I went up to her and bowed.
‘I have the honour of addressing the Princess Zasyekin?’
‘I am the Princess Zasyekin; and you are the son of Mr. V.?’
‘Yes. I have come to you with a message from my mother.’
‘Sit down, please. Vonifaty, where are my keys, have you seen them?’
I communicated to Madame Zasyekin my mother’s reply to her note. She heard me out, drumming with her fat red fingers on the window-pane, and when I had finished, she stared at me once more.
‘Very good; I’ll be sure to come,’ she observed at last. ‘But how young you are! How old are you, may I ask?’
‘Sixteen,’ I replied, with an involuntary stammer.
The princess drew out of her pocket some greasy papers covered with writing, raised them right up to her nose, and began looking through them.
‘A good age,’ she ejaculated suddenly, turning round restlessly on her chair. ‘And do you, pray, make yourself at home. I don’t stand on ceremony.’
‘No, indeed,’ I thought, scanning her unprepossessing person with a disgust I could not restrain.
At that instant another door flew open quickly, and in the doorway stood the girl I had seen the previous evening in the garden. She lifted her hand, and a mocking smile gleamed in her face.
‘Here is my daughter,’ observed the princess, indicating her with her elbow. ‘Zinotchka, the son of our neighbour, Mr. V. What is your name, allow me to ask?’
‘Vladimir,’ I answered, getting up, and stuttering in my excitement.
‘And your father’s name?’
‘Petrovitch.’
‘Ah! I used to know a commissioner of police whose name was Vladimir Petrovitch too. Vonifaty! don’t look for my keys; the keys are in my pocket.’
The young girl was still looking at me with the same smile, faintly fluttering her eyelids, and putting her head a little on one side.
‘I have seen Monsieur Voldemar before,’ she began. (The silvery note of her voice ran through me with a sort of sweet shiver.) ‘You will let me call you so?’
‘Oh, please,’ I faltered.
‘Where was that?’ asked the princess.
The young princess did not answer her mother.
‘Have you anything to do just now?’ she said, not taking her eyes off me.
‘Oh, no.’
‘Would you like to help me wind some wool? Come in here, to me.’
She nodded to me and went out of the drawing-room. I followed her.
In the room we went into, the furniture was a little better, and was arranged with more taste. Though, indeed, at the moment, I was scarcely capable of noticing anything; I moved as in a dream and felt all through my being a sort of intense blissfulness that verged on imbecility.
The young princess sat down, took out a skein of red wool and, motioning me to a seat opposite her, carefully untied the skein and laid it across my hands. All this she did in silence with a sort of droll deliberation and with the same bright sly smile on her slightly parted lips. She began to wind the wool on a bent card, and all at once she dazzled me with a glance so brilliant and rapid, that I could not help dropping my eyes. When her eyes, which were generally half closed, opened to their full extent, her face was completely transfigured; it was as though it were flooded with light.
‘What did you think of me yesterday, M’sieu Voldemar?’ she asked after a brief pause. ‘You thought ill of me, I expect?’
‘I . . . princess . . . I thought nothing . . . how can I? . . . ’ I answered in confusion.
‘Listen,’ she rejoined. ‘You don’t know me yet. I’m a very strange person; I like always to be told the truth. You, I have just heard, are sixteen, and I am twenty-one: you see I’m a great deal older than you, and so you ought always to tell me the truth . . . and to do what I tell you,’ she added. ‘Look at me: why don’t you look at me?’
I was still more abashed; however, I raised my eyes to her. She smiled, not her former smile, but a smile of approbation. ‘Look at me,’ she said, dropping her voice caressingly: ‘I don’t dislike that . . . I like your face; I have a presentiment we shall be friends. But do you like me?’ she added slyly.
‘Princess . . . ’ I was beginning.
‘In the first place, you must call me Zina?da Alexandrovna, and in the second place it’s a bad habit for children’—(she corrected herself) ‘for young people — not to say straight out what they feel. That’s all very well for grown-up people. You like me, don’t you?’
Though I was greatly delighted that she talked so freely to me, still I was a little hurt. I wanted to show her that she had not a mere boy to deal with, and assuming as easy and serious an air as I could, I observed, ‘Certainly. I like you very much, Zina?da Alexandrovna; I have no wish to conceal it.’
She shook her head very deliberately. ‘Have you a tutor?’ she asked suddenly.
‘No; I’ve not had a tutor for a long, long while.’
I told a lie; it was not a month since I had parted with my Frenchman.
‘Oh! I see then — you are quite grown-up.’
She tapped me lightly on the fingers. ‘Hold your hands straight!’ And she applied herself busily to winding the ball.
I seized the opportunity when she was looking down and fell to watching her, at first stealthily, then more and more boldly. Her face struck me as even more charming than on the previous evening; everything in it was so delicate, clever, and sweet. She was sitting with her back to a window covered with a white blind, the sunshine, streaming in through the blind, shed a soft light over her fluffy golden curls, her innocent neck, her sloping shoulders, and tender untroubled bosom. I gazed at her, and how dear and near she was already to me! It seemed to me I had known her a long while and had never known anything nor lived at all till I met her. . . . She was wearing a dark and rather shabby dress and an apron; I would gladly, I felt, have kissed every fold of that dress and apron. The tips of her little shoes peeped out from under her skirt; I could have bowed down in adoration to those shoes. . . . ‘And here I am sitting before her,’ I thought; ‘I have made acquaintance with her . . . what happiness, my God!’ I could hardly keep from jumping up from my chair in ecstasy, but I only swung my legs a little, like a small child who has been given sweetmeats.
I was as happy as a fish in water, and I could have stayed in that room for ever, have never left that place.
Her eyelids were slowly lifted, and once more her clear eyes shone kindly upon me, and again she smiled.
‘How you look at me!’ she said slowly, and she held up a threatening finger.
I blushed . . . ‘She understands it all, she sees all,’ flashed through my mind. ‘And how could she fail to understand and see it all?’
All at once there was a sound in the next room — the clink of a sabre.
‘Zina!’ screamed the princess in the drawing-room, ‘Byelovzorov has brought you a kitten.’
‘A kitten!’ cried Zina?da, and getting up from her chair impetuously, she flung the ball of worsted on my knees and ran away.
I too got up and, laying the skein and the ball of wool on the window-sill, I went into the drawing-room and stood still, hesitating. In the middle of the room, a tabby kitten was lying with outstretched paws; Zina?da was on her knees before it, cautiously lifting up its little face. Near the old princess, and filling up almost the whole space between the two windows, was a flaxen curly-headed young man, a hussar, with a rosy face and prominent eyes.
‘What a funny little thing!’ Zina?da was saying; ‘and its eyes are not grey, but green, and what long ears! Thank you, Viktor Yegoritch! you are very kind.’
The hussar, in whom I recognised one of the young men I had seen the evening before, smiled and bowed with a clink of his spurs and a jingle of the chain of his sabre.
‘You were pleased to say yesterday that you wished to possess a tabby kitten with long ears . . . so I obtained it. Your word is law.’ And he bowed again.
The kitten gave a feeble mew and began sniffing the ground.
‘It’s hungry!’ cried Zina?da. ‘Vonifaty, Sonia! bring some milk.’
A maid, in an old yellow gown with a faded kerchief at her neck, came in with a saucer of milk and set it before the kitten. The kitten started, blinked, and began lapping.
‘What a pink little tongue it has!’ remarked Zina?da, putting her head almost on the ground and peeping at it sideways under its very nose.
The kitten having had enough began to purr and move its paws affectedly. Zina?da got up, and turning to the maid said carelessly, ‘Take it away.’
‘For the kitten — your little hand,’ said the hussar, with a simper and a shrug of his strongly-built frame, which was tightly buttoned up in a new uniform.
‘Both,’ replied Zina?da, and she held out her hands to him. While he was kissing them, she looked at me over his shoulder.
I stood stockstill in the same place and did not know whether to laugh, to say something, or to be silent. Suddenly through the open door into the passage I caught sight of our footman, Fyodor. He was making signs to me. Mechanically I went out to him.
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
‘Your mamma has sent for you,’ he said in a whisper. ‘She is angry that you have not come back with the answer.’
‘Why, have I been here long?’
‘Over an hour.’
‘Over an hour!’ I repeated unconsciously, and going back to the drawing-room I began to make bows and scrape with my heels.
‘Where are you off to?’ the young princess asked, glancing at me from behind the hussar.
‘I must go home. So I am to say,’ I added, addressing the old lady, ‘that you will come to us about two.’
‘Do you say so, my good sir.’
The princess hurriedly pulled out her snuff-box and took snuff so loudly that I positively jumped. ‘Do you say so,’ she repeated, blinking tearfully and sneezing.
I bowed once more, turned, and went out of the room with that sensation of awkwardness in my spine which a very young man feels when he knows he is being looked at from behind.
‘Mind you come and see us again, M’sieu Voldemar,’ Zina?da called, and she laughed again.
‘Why is it she’s always laughing?’ I thought, as I went back home escorted by Fyodor, who said nothing to me, but walked behind me with an air of disapprobation. My mother scolded me and wondered what ever I could have been doing so long at the princess’s. I made her no reply and went off to my own room. I felt suddenly very sad. . . . I tried hard not to cry. . . . I was jealous of the hussar.
Chapter 5
The princess called on my mother as she had promised and made a disagreeable impression on her. I was not present at their interview, but at table my mother told my father that this Prince Zasyekin struck her as a femme très vulgaire, that she had quite worn her out begging her to interest Prince Sergei in their behalf, that she seemed to have no end of lawsuits and affairs on hand — de vilaines affaires d’argent — and must be a very troublesome and litigious person. My mother added, however, that she had asked her and her daughter to dinner the next day (hearing the word ‘daughter’ I buried my nose in my plate), for after all she was a neighbour and a person of title. Upon this my father informed my mother that he remembered now who this lady was; that he had in his youth known the deceased Prince Zasyekin, a very well-bred, but frivolous and absurd person; that he had been nicknamed in society ‘le Parisien,’ from having lived a long while in Paris; that he had been very rich, but had gambled away all his property; and for some unknown reason, probably for money, though indeed he might have chosen better, if so, my father added with a cold smile, he had married the daughter of an agent, and after his marriage had entered upon speculations and ruined himself utterly.
‘If only she doesn’t try to borrow money,’ observed my mother.
‘That’s exceedingly possible,’ my father responded tranquilly. ‘Does she speak French?’
‘Very badly.’
‘H’m. It’s of no consequence anyway. I think you said you had asked the daughter too; some one was telling me she was a very charming and cultivated girl.’
‘Ah! Then she can’t take after her mother.’
‘Nor her father either,’ rejoined my father. ‘He was cultivated indeed, but a fool.’
My mother sighed and sank into thought. My father said no more. I felt very uncomfortable during this conversation.
After dinner I went into the garden, but without my gun. I swore to myself that I would not go near the Zasyekins’ garden, but an irresistible force drew me thither, and not in vain. I had hardly reached the fence when I caught sight of Zina?da. This time she was alone. She held a book in her hands, and was coming slowly along the path. She did not notice me.
I almost let her pass by; but all at once I changed my mind and coughed.
She turned round, but did not stop, pushed back with one hand the broad blue ribbon of her round straw hat, looked at me, smiled slowly, and again bent her eyes on the book.
I took off my cap, and after hesitating a moment, walked away with a heavy heart. ‘Que suis-je pour elle?’ I thought (God knows why) in French.
Familiar footsteps sounded behind me; I looked round, my father came up to me with his light, rapid walk.
‘Is that the young princess?’ he asked me.
‘Yes.’
‘Why, do you know her?’
‘I saw her this morning at the princess’s.’
My father stopped, and, turning sharply on his heel, went back. When he was on a level with Zina?da, he made her a courteous bow. She, too, bowed to him, with some astonishment on her face, and dropped her book. I saw how she looked after him. My father was always irreproachably dressed, simple and in a style of his own; but his figure had never struck me as more graceful, never had his grey hat sat more becomingly on his curls, which were scarcely perceptibly thinner than they had once been.
I bent my steps toward Zina?da, but she did not even glance at me; she picked up her book again and went away.
Chapter 6
The whole evening and the following day I spent in a sort of dejected apathy. I remember I tried to work and took up Keidanov, but the boldly printed lines and pages of the famous text-book passed before my eyes in vain. I read ten times over the words: ‘Julius Caesar was distinguished by warlike courage.’ I did not understand anything and threw the book aside. Before dinner-time I pomaded myself once more, and once more put on my tail-coat and necktie.
‘What’s that for?’ my mother demanded. ‘You’re not a student yet, and God knows whether you’ll get through the examination. And you’ve not long had a new jacket! You can’t throw it away!’
‘There will be visitors,’ I murmured almost in despair.
‘What nonsense! fine visitors indeed!’
I had to submit. I changed my tail-coat for my jacket, but I did not take off the necktie. The princess and her daughter made their appearance half an hour before dinner-time; the old lady had put on, in addition to the green dress with which I was already acquainted, a yellow shawl, and an old-fashioned cap adorned with flame-coloured ribbons. She began talking at once about her money difficulties, sighing, complaining of her poverty, and imploring assistance, but she made herself at home; she took snuff as noisily, and fidgeted and lolled about in her chair as freely as ever. It never seemed to have struck her that she was a princess. Zina?da on the other hand was rigid, almost haughty in her demeanour, every inch a princess. There was a cold immobility and dignity in her face. I should not have recognised it; I should not have known her smiles, her glances, though I thought her exquisite in this new aspect too. She wore a light barége dress with pale blue flowers on it; her hair fell in long curls down her cheek in the English fashion; this style went well with the cold expression of her face. My father sat beside her during dinner, and entertained his neighbour with the finished and serene courtesy peculiar to him. He glanced at her from time to time, and she glanced at him, but so strangely, almost with hostility. Their conversation was carried on in French; I was surprised, I remember, at the purity of Zina?da’s accent. The princess, while we were at table, as before made no ceremony; she ate a great deal, and praised the dishes. My mother was obviously bored by her, and answered her with a sort of weary indifference; my father faintly frowned now and then. My mother did not like Zina?da either. ‘A conceited minx,’ she said next day. ‘And fancy, what she has to be conceited about, avec sa mine de grisette!’
‘It’s clear you have never seen any grisettes,’ my father observed to her.
‘Thank God, I haven’t!’
‘Thank God, to be sure . . . only how can you form an opinion of them, then?’
To me Zina?da had paid no attention whatever. Soon after dinner the princess got up to go.
‘I shall rely on your kind offices, Maria Nikolaevna and Piotr Vassilitch,’ she said in a doleful sing-song to my mother and father. ‘I’ve no help for it! There were days, but they are over. Here I am, an excellency, and a poor honour it is with nothing to eat!’
My father made her a respectful bow and escorted her to the door of the hall. I was standing there in my short jacket, staring at the floor, like a man under sentence of death. Zina?da’s treatment of me had crushed me utterly. What was my astonishment, when, as she passed me, she whispered quickly with her former kind expression in her eyes: ‘Come to see us at eight, do you hear, be sure. . . . ’ I simply threw up my hands, but already she was gone, flinging a white scarf over her head.
Chapter 7
At eight o’clock precisely, in my tail-coat and with my hair brushed up into a tuft on my head, I entered the passage of the lodge, where the princess lived. The old servant looked crossly at me and got up unwillingly from his bench. There was a sound of merry voices in the drawing-room. I opened the door and fell back in amazement. In the middle of the room was the young princess, standing on a chair, holding a man’s hat in front of her; round the chair crowded some half a dozen men. They were trying to put their hands into the hat, while she held it above their heads, shaking it violently. On seeing me, she cried, ‘Stay, stay, another guest, he must have a ticket too,’ and leaping lightly down from the chair she took me by the cuff of my coat ‘Come along,’ she said, ‘why are you standing still? Messieurs, let me make you acquainted: this is M’sieu Voldemar, the son of our neighbour. And this,’ she went on, addressing me, and indicating her guests in turn, ‘Count Malevsky, Doctor Lushin, Meidanov the poet, the retired captain Nirmatsky, and Byelovzorov the hussar, whom you’ve seen already. I hope you will be good friends.’ I was so confused that I did not even bow to any one; in Doctor Lushin I recognised the dark man who had so mercilessly put me to shame in the garden; the others were unknown to me.
‘Count!’ continued Zina?da, ‘write M’sieu Voldemar a ticket.’
‘That’s not fair,’ was objected in a slight Polish accent by the count, a very handsome and fashionably dressed brunette, with expressive brown eyes, a thin little white nose, and delicate little moustaches over a tiny mouth. ‘This gentleman has not been playing forfeits with us.’
‘It’s unfair,’ repeated in chorus Byelovzorov and the gentleman described as a retired captain, a man of forty, pock-marked to a hideous degree, curly-headed as a negro, round-shouldered, bandy-legged, and dressed in a military coat without epaulets, worn unbuttoned.
‘Write him a ticket, I tell you,’ repeated the young princess. ‘What’s this mutiny? M’sieu Voldemar is with us for the first time, and there are no rules for him yet. It’s no use grumbling — write it, I wish it.’
The count shrugged his shoulders but bowed submissively, took the pen in his white, ring-bedecked fingers, tore off a scrap of paper and wrote on it.
‘At least let us explain to Mr. Voldemar what we are about,’ Lushin began in a sarcastic voice, ‘or else he will be quite lost. Do you see, young man, we are playing forfeits? the princess has to pay a forfeit, and the one who draws the lucky lot is to have the privilege of kissing her hand. Do you understand what I’ve told you?’
I simply stared at him, and continued to stand still in bewilderment, while the young princess jumped up on the chair again, and again began waving the hat. They all stretched up to her, and I went after the rest.
‘Meidanov,’ said the princess to a tall young man with a thin face, little dim-sighted eyes, and exceedingly long black hair, ‘you as a poet ought to be magnanimous, and give up your number to M’sieu Voldemar so that he may have two chances instead of one.’
But Meidanov shook his head in refusal, and tossed his hair. After all the others I put my hand into the hat, and unfolded my lot. . . . Heavens! what was my condition when I saw on it the word, Kiss!
‘Kiss!’ I could not help crying aloud.
‘Bravo! he has won it,’ the princess said quickly. ‘How glad I am!’ She came down from the chair and gave me such a bright sweet look, that my heart bounded. ‘Are you glad?’ she asked me.
‘Me?’ . . . I faltered.
‘Sell me your lot,’ Byelovzorov growled suddenly just in my ear. ‘I’ll give you a hundred roubles.’
I answered the hussar with such an indignant look, that Zina?da clapped her hands, while Lushin cried, ‘He’s a fine fellow!’
‘But, as master of the ceremonies,’ he went on, ‘it’s my duty to see that all the rules are kept. M’sieu Voldemar, go down on one knee. That is our regulation.’
Zina?da stood in front of me, her head a little on one side as though to get a better look at me; she held out her hand to me with dignity. A mist passed before my eyes; I meant to drop on one knee, sank on both, and pressed my lips to Zina?da’s fingers so awkwardly that I scratched myself a little with the tip of her nail.
‘Well done!’ cried Lushin, and helped me to get up.
The game of forfeits went on. Zina?da sat me down beside her. She invented all sorts of extraordinary forfeits! She had among other things to represent a ‘statue,’ and she chose as a pedestal the hideous Nirmatsky, told him to bow down in an arch, and bend his head down on his breast. The laughter never paused for an instant. For me, a boy constantly brought up in the seclusion of a dignified manor-house, all this noise and uproar, this unceremonious, almost riotous gaiety, these relations with unknown persons, were simply intoxicating. My head went round, as though from wine. I began laughing and talking louder than the others, so much so that the old princess, who was sitting in the next room with some sort of clerk from the Tversky gate, invited by her for consultation on business, positively came in to look at me. But I felt so happy that I did not mind anything, I didn’t care a straw for any one’s jeers, or dubious looks. Zina?da continued to show me a preference, and kept me at her side. In one forfeit, I had to sit by her, both hidden under one silk handkerchief: I was to tell her my secret. I remember our two heads being all at once in a warm, half-transparent, fragrant darkness, the soft, close brightness of her eyes in the dark, and the burning breath from her parted lips, and the gleam of her teeth and the ends of her hair tickling me and setting me on fire. I was silent. She smiled slyly and mysteriously, and at last whispered to me, ‘Well, what is it?’ but I merely blushed and laughed, and turned away, catching my breath. We got tired of forfeits — we began to play a game with a string. My God! what were my transports when, for not paying attention, I got a sharp and vigorous slap on my fingers from her, and how I tried afterwards to pretend that I was absent-minded, and she teased me, and would not touch the hands I held out to her! What didn’t we do that evening! We played the piano, and sang and danced and acted a gypsy encampment. Nirmatsky was dressed up as a bear, and made to drink salt water. Count Malevsky showed us several sorts of card tricks, and finished, after shuffling the cards, by dealing himself all the trumps at whist, on which Lushin ‘had the honour of congratulating him.’ Meidanov recited portions from his poem ‘The Manslayer’ (romanticism was at its height at this period), which he intended to bring out in a black cover with the title in blood-red letters; they stole the clerk’s cap off his knee, and made him dance a Cossack dance by way of ransom for it; they dressed up old Vonifaty in a woman’s cap, and the young princess put on a man’s hat. . . . I could not enumerate all we did. Only Byelovzorov kept more and more in the background, scowling and angry. . . . Sometimes his eyes looked bloodshot, he flushed all over, and it seemed every minute as though he would rush out upon us all and scatter us like shavings in all directions; but the young princess would glance at him, and shake her finger at him, and he would retire into his corner again.
We were quite worn out at last. Even the old princess, though she was ready for anything, as she expressed it, and no noise wearied her, felt tired at last, and longed for peace and quiet. At twelve o’clock at night, supper was served, consisting of a piece of stale dry cheese, and some cold turnovers of minced ham, which seemed to me more delicious than any pastry I had ever tasted; there was only one bottle of wine, and that was a strange one; a dark-coloured bottle with a wide neck, and the wine in it was of a pink hue; no one drank it, however. Tired out and faint with happiness, I left the lodge; at parting Zina?da pressed my hand warmly, and again smiled mysteriously.
The night air was heavy and damp in my heated face; a storm seemed to be gathering; black stormclouds grew and crept across the sky, their smoky outlines visibly changing. A gust of wind shivered restlessly in the dark trees, and somewhere, far away on the horizon, muffled thunder angrily muttered as it were to itself.
I made my way up to my room by the back stairs. My old man-nurse was asleep on the floor, and I had to step over him; he waked up, saw me, and told me that my mother had again been very angry with me, and had wished to send after me again, but that my father had prevented her. (I had never gone to bed without saying good-night to my mother, and asking her blessing. There was no help for it now!)
I told my man that I would undress and go to bed by myself, and I put out the candle. But I did not undress, and did not go to bed.
I sat down on a chair, and sat a long while, as though spell-bound. What I was feeling was so new and so sweet. . . . I sat still, hardly looking round and not moving, drew slow breaths, and only from time to time laughed silently at some recollection, or turned cold within at the thought that I was in love, that this was she, that this was love. Zina?da’s face floated slowly before me in the darkness — floated, and did not float away; her lips still wore the same enigmatic smile, her eyes watched me, a little from one side, with a questioning, dreamy, tender look . . . as at the instant of parting from her. At last I got up, walked on tiptoe to my bed, and without undressing, laid my head carefully on the pillow, as though I were afraid by an abrupt movement to disturb what filled my soul. . . . I lay down, but did not even close my eyes. Soon I noticed that faint glimmers of light of some sort were thrown continually into the room. . . . I sat up and looked at the window. The window-frame could be clearly distinguished from the mysteriously and dimly-lighted panes. It is a storm, I thought; and a storm it really was, but it was raging so very far away that the thunder could not be heard; only blurred, long, as it were branching, gleams of lightning flashed continually over the sky; it was not flashing, though, so much as quivering and twitching like the wing of a dying bird. I got up, went to the window, and stood there till morning. . . . The lightning never ceased for an instant; it was what is called among the peasants a sparrow night. I gazed at the dumb sandy plain, at the dark mass of the Neskutchny gardens, at the yellowish fa?ades of the distant buildings, which seemed to quiver too at each faint flash. . . . I gazed, and could not turn away; these silent lightning flashes, these gleams seemed in response to the secret silent fires which were aglow within me. Morning began to dawn; the sky was flushed in patches of crimson. As the sun came nearer, the lightning grew gradually paler, and ceased; the quivering gleams were fewer and fewer, and vanished at last, drowned in the sobering positive light of the coming day. . . .
And my lightning flashes vanished too. I felt great weariness and peace . . . but Zina?da’s image still floated triumphant over my soul. But it too, this image, seemed more tranquil: like a swan rising out of the reeds of a bog, it stood out from the other unbeautiful figures surrounding it, and as I fell asleep, I flung myself before it in farewell, trusting adoration. . . .
Oh, sweet emotions, gentle harmony, goodness and peace of the softened heart, melting bliss of the first raptures of love, where are they, where are they?
Chapter 8
The next morning, when I came down to tea, my mother scolded me — less severely, however, than I had expected — and made me tell her how I had spent the previous evening. I answered her in few words, omitting many details, and trying to give the most innocent air to everything.
‘Anyway, they’re people who’re not comme il faut,’ my mother commented, ‘and you’ve no business to be hanging about there, instead of preparing yourself for the examination, and doing your work.’
As I was well aware that my mother’s anxiety about my studies was confined to these few words, I did not feel it necessary to make any rejoinder; but after morning tea was over, my father took me by the arm, and turning into the garden with me, forced me to tell him all I had seen at the Zasyekins’.
A curious influence my father had over me, and curious were the relations existing between us. He took hardly any interest in my education, but he never hurt my feelings; he respected my freedom, he treated me — if I may so express it — with courtesy, . . . only he never let me be really close to him. I loved him, I admired him, he was my ideal of a man — and Heavens! how passionately devoted I should have been to him, if I had not been continually conscious of his holding me off! But when he liked, he could almost instantaneously, by a single word, a single gesture, call forth an unbounded confidence in him. My soul expanded, I chattered away to him, as to a wise friend, a kindly teacher . . . then he as suddenly got rid of me, and again he was keeping me off, gently and affectionately, but still he kept me off.
Sometimes he was in high spirits, and then he was ready to romp and frolic with me, like a boy (he was fond of vigorous physical exercise of every sort); once — it never happened a second time!— he caressed me with such tenderness that I almost shed tears. . . . But high spirits and tenderness alike vanished completely, and what had passed between us, gave me nothing to build on for the future — it was as though I had dreamed it all. Sometimes I would scrutinise his clever handsome bright face . . . my heart would throb, and my whole being yearn to him . . . he would seem to feel what was going on within me, would give me a passing pat on the cheek, and go away, or take up some work, or suddenly freeze all over as only he knew how to freeze, and I shrank into myself at once, and turned cold too. His rare fits of friendliness to me were never called forth by my silent, but intelligible entreaties: they always occurred unexpectedly. Thinking over my father’s character later, I have come to the conclusion that he had no thoughts to spare for me and for family life; his heart was in other things, and found complete satisfaction elsewhere. ‘Take for yourself what you can, and don’t be ruled by others; to belong to oneself — the whole savour of life lies in that,’ he said to me one day. Another time, I, as a young democrat, fell to airing my views on liberty (he was ‘kind,’ as I used to call it, that day; and at such times I could talk to him as I liked). ‘Liberty,’ he repeated; ‘and do you know what can give a man liberty?’
‘What?’
‘Will, his own will, and it gives power, which is better than liberty. Know how to will, and you will be free, and will lead.’
‘My father, before all, and above all, desired to live, and lived. . . . Perhaps he had a presentiment that he would not have long to enjoy the ‘savour’ of life: he died at forty-two.
I described my evening at the Zasyekins’ minutely to my father. Half attentively, half carelessly, he listened to me, sitting on a garden seat, drawing in the sand with his cane. Now and then he laughed, shot bright, droll glances at me, and spurred me on with short questions and assents. At first I could not bring myself even to utter the name of Zina?da, but I could not restrain myself long, and began singing her praises. My father still laughed; then he grew thoughtful, stretched, and got up. I remembered that as he came out of the house he had ordered his horse to be saddled. He was a splendid horseman, and, long before Rarey, had the secret of breaking in the most vicious horses.
‘Shall I come with you, father?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he answered, and his face resumed its ordinary expression of friendly indifference. ‘Go alone, if you like; and tell the coachman I’m not going.’
He turned his back on me and walked rapidly away. I looked after him; he disappeared through the gates. I saw his hat moving along beside the fence; he went into the Zasyekins’.
He stayed there not more than an hour, but then departed at once for the town, and did not return home till evening.
After dinner I went myself to the Zasyekins’. In the drawing-room I found only the old princess. On seeing me she scratched her head under her cap with a knitting-needle, and suddenly asked me, could I copy a petition for her.
‘With pleasure,’ I replied, sitting down on the edge of a chair.
‘Only mind and make the letters bigger,’ observed the princess, handing me a dirty sheet of paper; ‘and couldn’t you do it today, my good sir?’
‘Certainly, I will copy it today.’
The door of the next room was just opened, and in the crack I saw the face of Zina?da, pale and pensive, her hair flung carelessly back; she stared at me with big chilly eyes, and softly closed the door.
‘Zina, Zina!’ called the old lady. Zina?da made no response. I took home the old lady’s petition and spent the whole evening over it.
Chapter 9
My ‘passion’ dated from that day. I felt at that time, I recollect, something like what a man must feel on entering the service: I had ceased now to be simply a young boy; I was in love. I have said that my passion dated from that day; I might have added that my sufferings too dated from the same day. Away from Zina?da I pined; nothing was to my mind; everything went wrong with me; I spent whole days thinking intensely about her . . . I pined when away, . . . but in her presence I was no better off. I was jealous; I was conscious of my insignificance; I was stupidly sulky or stupidly abject, and, all the same, an invincible force drew me to her, and I could not help a shudder of delight whenever I stepped through the doorway of her room. Zina?da guessed at once that I was in love with her, and indeed I never even thought of concealing it. She amused herself with my passion, made a fool of me, petted and tormented me. There is a sweetness in being the sole source, the autocratic and irresponsible cause of the greatest joy and profoundest pain to another, and I was like wax in Zina?da’s hands; though, indeed, I was not the only one in love with her. All the men who visited the house were crazy over her, and she kept them all in leading-strings at her feet. It amused her to arouse their hopes and then their fears, to turn them round her finger (she used to call it knocking their heads together), while they never dreamed of offering resistance and eagerly submitted to her. About her whole being, so full of life and beauty, there was a peculiarly bewitching mixture of slyness and carelessness, of artificiality and simplicity, of composure and frolicsomeness; about everything she did or said, about every action of hers, there clung a delicate, fine charm, in which an individual power was manifest at work. And her face was ever changing, working too; it expressed, almost at the same time, irony, dreaminess, and passion. Various emotions, delicate and quick-changing as the shadows of clouds on a sunny day of wind, chased one another continually over her lips and eyes.
Each of her adorers was necessary to her. Byelovzorov, whom she sometimes called ‘my wild beast,’ and sometimes simply ‘mine,’ would gladly have flung himself into the fire for her sake. With little confidence in his intellectual abilities and other qualities, he was for ever offering her marriage, hinting that the others were merely hanging about with no serious intention. Meidanov responded to the poetic fibres of her nature; a man of rather cold temperament, like almost all writers, he forced himself to convince her, and perhaps himself, that he adored her, sang her praises in endless verses, and read them to her with a peculiar enthusiasm, at once affected and sincere. She sympathised with him, and at the same time jeered at him a little; she had no great faith in him, and after listening to his outpourings, she would make him read Pushkin, as she said, to clear the air. Lushin, the ironical doctor, so cynical in words, knew her better than any of them, and loved her more than all, though he abused her to her face and behind her back. She could not help respecting him, but made him smart for it, and at times, with a peculiar, malignant pleasure, made him feel that he too was at her mercy. ‘I’m a flirt, I’m heartless, I’m an actress in my instincts,’ she said to him one day in my presence; ‘well and good! Give me your hand then; I’ll stick this pin in it, you’ll be ashamed of this young man’s seeing it, it will hurt you, but you’ll laugh for all that, you truthful person.’ Lushin crimsoned, turned away, bit his lips, but ended by submitting his hand. She pricked it, and he did in fact begin to laugh, . . . and she laughed, thrusting the pin in pretty deeply, and peeping into his eyes, which he vainly strove to keep in other directions. . . .
I understood least of all the relations existing between Zina?da and Count Malevsky. He was handsome, clever, and adroit, but something equivocal, something false in him was apparent even to me, a boy of sixteen, and I marvelled that Zina?da did not notice it. But possibly she did notice this element of falsity really and was not repelled by it. Her irregular education, strange acquaintances and habits, the constant presence of her mother, the poverty and disorder in their house, everything, from the very liberty the young girl enjoyed, with the consciousness of her superiority to the people around her, had developed in her a sort of half-contemptuous carelessness and lack of fastidiousness. At any time anything might happen; Vonifaty might announce that there was no sugar, or some revolting scandal would come to her ears, or her guests would fall to quarrelling among themselves — she would only shake her curls, and say, ‘What does it matter?’ and care little enough about it.
But my blood, anyway, was sometimes on fire with indignation when Malevsky approached her, with a sly, fox-like action, leaned gracefully on the back of her chair, and began whispering in her ear with a self-satisfied and ingratiating little smile, while she folded her arms across her bosom, looked intently at him and smiled too, and shook her head.
‘What induces you to receive Count Malevsky?’ I asked her one day.
‘He has such pretty moustaches,’ she answered. ‘But that’s rather beyond you.’
‘You needn’t think I care for him,’ she said to me another time. ‘No; I can’t care for people I have to look down upon. I must have some one who can master me. . . . But, merciful heavens, I hope I may never come across any one like that! I don’t want to be caught in any one’s claws, not for anything.’
‘You’ll never be in love, then?’
‘And you? Don’t I love you?’ she said, and she flicked me on the nose with the tip of her glove.
Yes, Zina?da amused herself hugely at my expense. For three weeks I saw her every day, and what didn’t she do with me! She rarely came to see us, and I was not sorry for it; in our house she was transformed into a young lady, a young princess, and I was a little overawed by her. I was afraid of betraying myself before my mother; she had taken a great dislike to Zina?da, and kept a hostile eye upon us. My father I was not so much afraid of; he seemed not to notice me. He talked little to her, but always with special cleverness and significance. I gave up working and reading; I even gave up walking about the neighbourhood and riding my horse. Like a beetle tied by the leg, I moved continually round and round my beloved little lodge. I would gladly have stopped there altogether, it seemed . . . but that was impossible. My mother scolded me, and sometimes Zina?da herself drove me away. Then I used to shut myself up in my room, or go down to the very end of the garden, and climbing into what was left of a tall stone greenhouse, now in ruins, sit for hours with my legs hanging over the wall that looked on to the road, gazing and gazing and seeing nothing. White butterflies flitted lazily by me, over the dusty nettles; a saucy sparrow settled not far off on the half crumbling red brickwork and twittered irritably, incessantly twisting and turning and preening his tail-feathers; the still mistrustful rooks cawed now and then, sitting high, high up on the bare top of a birch-tree; the sun and wind played softly on its pliant branches; the tinkle of the bells of the Don monastery floated across to me from time to time, peaceful and dreary; while I sat, gazed, listened, and was filled full of a nameless sensation in which all was contained: sadness and joy and the foretaste of the future, and the desire and dread of life. But at that time I understood nothing of it, and could have given a name to nothing of all that was passing at random within me, or should have called it all by one name — the name of Zina?da.
Zina?da continued to play cat and mouse with me. She flirted with me, and I was all agitation and rapture; then she would suddenly thrust me away, and I dared not go near her — dared not look at her.
I remember she was very cold to me for several days together; I was completely crushed, and creeping timidly to their lodge, tried to keep close to the old princess, regardless of the circumstance that she was particularly scolding and grumbling just at that time; her financial affairs had been going badly, and she had already had two ‘explanations’ with the police officials.
One day I was walking in the garden beside the familiar fence, and I caught sight of Zina?da; leaning on both arms, she was sitting on the grass, not stirring a muscle. I was about to make off cautiously, but she suddenly raised her head and beckoned me imperiously. My heart failed me; I did not understand her at first. She repeated her signal. I promptly jumped over the fence and ran joyfully up to her, but she brought me to a halt with a look, and motioned me to the path two paces from her. In confusion, not knowing what to do, I fell on my knees at the edge of the path. She was so pale, such bitter suffering, such intense weariness, was expressed in every feature of her face, that it sent a pang to my heart, and I muttered unconsciously, ‘What is the matter?’
Zina?da stretched out her head, picked a blade of grass, bit it and flung it away from her.
‘You love me very much?’ she asked at last. ‘Yes.’
I made no answer — indeed, what need was there to answer?
‘Yes,’ she repeated, looking at me as before. ‘That’s so. The same eyes,’— she went on; sank into thought, and hid her face in her hands. ‘Everything’s grown so loathsome to me,’ she whispered, ‘I would have gone to the other end of the world first — I can’t bear it, I can’t get over it. . . . And what is there before me! . . . Ah, I am wretched. . . . My God, how wretched I am!’
‘What for?’ I asked timidly.
Zina?da made no answer, she simply shrugged her shoulders. I remained kneeling, gazing at her with intense sadness. Every word she had uttered simply cut me to the heart. At that instant I felt I would gladly have given my life, if only she should not grieve. I gazed at her — and though I could not understand why she was wretched, I vividly pictured to myself, how in a fit of insupportable anguish, she had suddenly come out into the garden, and sunk to the earth, as though mown down by a scythe. It was all bright and green about her; the wind was whispering in the leaves of the trees, and swinging now and then a long branch of a raspberry bush over Zina?da’s head. There was a sound of the cooing of doves, and the bees hummed, flying low over the scanty grass, Overhead the sun was radiantly blue — while I was so sorrowful. . . .
‘Read me some poetry,’ said Zina?da in an undertone, and she propped herself on her elbow; ‘I like your reading poetry. You read it in sing-song, but that’s no matter, that comes of being young. Read me “On the Hills of Georgia.” Only sit down first.’
I sat down and read ‘On the Hills of Georgia.’
‘“That the heart cannot choose but love,”’ repeated Zina?da. ‘That’s where poetry’s so fine; it tells us what is not, and what’s not only better than what is, but much more like the truth, “cannot choose but love,”— it might want not to, but it can’t help it.’ She was silent again, then all at once she started and got up. ‘Come along. Meidanov’s indoors with mamma, he brought me his poem, but I deserted him. His feelings are hurt too now . . . I can’t help it! you’ll understand it all some day . . . only don’t be angry with me!’
Zina?da hurriedly pressed my hand and ran on ahead. We went back into the lodge. Meidanov set to reading us his ‘Manslayer,’ which had just appeared in print, but I did not hear him. He screamed and drawled his four-foot iambic lines, the alternating rhythms jingled like little bells, noisy and meaningless, while I still watched Zina?da and tried to take in the import of her last words.
‘Perchance some unknown rival
Has surprised and mastered thee?’
Meidanov bawled suddenly through his nose — and my eyes and Zina?da’s met. She looked down and faintly blushed. I saw her blush, and grew cold with terror. I had been jealous before, but only at that instant the idea of her being in love flashed upon my mind. ‘Good God! she is in love!’
Chapter 10
My real torments began from that instant. I racked my brains, changed my mind, and changed it back again, and kept an unremitting, though, as far as possible, secret watch on Zina?da. A change had come over her, that was obvious. She began going walks alone — and long walks. Sometimes she would not see visitors; she would sit for hours together in her room. This had never been a habit of hers till now. I suddenly became — or fancied I had become — extraordinarily penetrating.
‘Isn’t it he? or isn’t it he?’ I asked myself, passing in inward agitation from one of her admirers to another. Count Malevsky secretly struck me as more to be feared than the others, though, for Zina?da’s sake, I was ashamed to confess it to myself.
My watchfulness did not see beyond the end of my nose, and its secrecy probably deceived no one; any way, Doctor Lushin soon saw through me. But he, too, had changed of late; he had grown thin, he laughed as often, but his laugh seemed more hollow, more spiteful, shorter, an involuntary nervous irritability took the place of his former light irony and assumed cynicism.
‘Why are you incessantly hanging about here, young man?’ he said to me one day, when we were left alone together in the Zasyekins’ drawing-room. (The young princess had not come home from a walk, and the shrill voice of the old princess could be heard within; she was scolding the maid.) ‘You ought to be studying, working — while you’re young — and what are you doing?’
‘You can’t tell whether I work at home,’ I retorted with some haughtiness, but also with some hesitation.
‘A great deal of work you do! that’s not what you’re thinking about! Well, I won’t find fault with that . . . at your age that’s in the natural order of things. But you’ve been awfully unlucky in your choice. Don’t you see what this house is?’
‘I don’t understand you,’ I observed.
‘You don’t understand? so much the worse for you. I regard it as a duty to warn you. Old bachelors, like me, can come here, what harm can it do us! we’re tough, nothing can hurt us, what harm can it do us; but your skin’s tender yet — this air is bad for you — believe me, you may get harm from it.’
‘How so?’
‘Why, are you well now? Are you in a normal condition? Is what you’re feeling — beneficial to you — good for you?’
‘Why, what am I feeling?’ I said, while in my heart I knew the doctor was right.
‘Ah, young man, young man,’ the doctor went on with an intonation that suggested that something highly insulting to me was contained in these two words, ‘what’s the use of your prevaricating, when, thank God, what’s in your heart is in your face, so far? But there, what’s the use of talking? I shouldn’t come here myself, if . . . (the doctor compressed his lips) . . . if I weren’t such a queer fellow. Only this is what surprises me; how it is, you, with your intelligence, don’t see what is going on around you?’
‘And what is going on?’ I put in, all on the alert.
The doctor looked at me with a sort of ironical compassion.
‘Nice of me!’ he said as though to himself, ‘as if he need know anything of it. In fact, I tell you again,’ he added, raising his voice, ‘the atmosphere here is not fit for you. You like being here, but what of that! it’s nice and sweet-smelling in a greenhouse — but there’s no living in it. Yes! do as I tell you, and go back to your Keidanov.’
The old princess came in, and began complaining to the doctor of her toothache. Then Zina?da appeared.
‘Come,’ said the old princess, ‘you must scold her, doctor. She’s drinking iced water all day long; is that good for her, pray, with her delicate chest?’
‘Why do you do that?’ asked Lushin.
‘Why, what effect could it have?’
‘What effect? You might get a chill and die.’
‘Truly? Do you mean it? Very well — so much the better.’
‘A fine idea!’ muttered the doctor. The old princess had gone out.
‘Yes, a fine idea,’ repeated Zina?da. ‘Is life such a festive affair? Just look about you. . . . Is it nice, eh? Or do you imagine I don’t understand it, and don’t feel it? It gives me pleasure — drinking iced water; and can you seriously assure me that such a life is worth too much to be risked for an instant’s pleasure — happiness I won’t even talk about.’
‘Oh, very well,’ remarked Lushin, ‘caprice and irresponsibility. . . . Those two words sum you up; your whole nature’s contained in those two words.’
Zina?da laughed nervously.
‘You’re late for the post, my dear doctor. You don’t keep a good look-out; you’re behind the times. Put on your spectacles. I’m in no capricious humour now. To make fools of you, to make a fool of myself . . . much fun there is in that!— and as for irresponsibility . . . M’sieu Voldemar,’ Zina?da added suddenly, stamping, ‘don’t make such a melancholy face. I can’t endure people to pity me.’ She went quickly out of the room.
‘It’s bad for you, very bad for you, this atmosphere, young man,’ Lushin said to me once more.
Chapter 11
On the evening of the same day the usual guests were assembled at the Zasyekins’. I was among them.
The conversation turned on Meidanov’s poem. Zina?da expressed genuine admiration of it. ‘But do you know what?’ she said to him. ‘If I were a poet, I would choose quite different subjects. Perhaps it’s all nonsense, but strange ideas sometimes come into my head, especially when I’m not asleep in the early morning, when the sky begins to turn rosy and grey both at once. I would, for instance . . . You won’t laugh at me?’
‘No, no!’ we all cried, with one voice.
‘I would describe,’ she went on, folding her arms across her bosom and looking away, ‘a whole company of young girls at night in a great boat, on a silent river. The moon is shining, and they are all in white, and wearing garlands of white flowers, and singing, you know, something in the nature of a hymn.’
‘I see — I see; go on,’ Meidanov commented with dreamy significance.
‘All of a sudden, loud clamour, laughter, torches, tambourines on the bank. . . . It’s a troop of Bacchantes dancing with songs and cries. It’s your business to make a picture of it, Mr. Poet; . . . only I should like the torches to be red and to smoke a great deal, and the Bacchantes’ eyes to gleam under their wreaths, and the wreaths to be dusky. Don’t forget the tiger-skins, too, and goblets and gold — lots of gold. . . . ’
‘Where ought the gold to be?’ asked Meidanov, tossing back his sleek hair and distending his nostrils.
‘Where? on their shoulders and arms and legs — everywhere. They say in ancient times women wore gold rings on their ankles. The Bacchantes call the girls in the boat to them. The girls have ceased singing their hymn — they cannot go on with it, but they do not stir, the river carries them to the bank. And suddenly one of them slowly rises. . . . This you must describe nicely: how she slowly gets up in the moonlight, and how her companions are afraid. . . . She steps over the edge of the boat, the Bacchantes surround her, whirl her away into night and darkness. . . . Here put in smoke in clouds and everything in confusion. There is nothing but the sound of their shrill cry, and her wreath left lying on the bank.’
Zina?da ceased. (‘Oh! she is in love!’ I thought again.)
‘And is that all?’ asked Meidanov.
‘That’s all.’
‘That can’t be the subject of a whole poem,’ he observed pompously, ‘but I will make use of your idea for a lyrical fragment.’
‘In the romantic style?’ queried Malevsky.
‘Of course, in the romantic style — Byronic.’
‘Well, to my mind, Hugo beats Byron,’ the young count observed negligently; ‘he’s more interesting.’
‘Hugo is a writer of the first class,’ replied Meidanov; ‘and my friend, Tonkosheev, in his Spanish romance, El Trovador . . . ’
‘Ah! is that the book with the question-marks turned upside down?’ Zina?da interrupted.
‘Yes. That’s the custom with the Spanish. I was about to observe that Tonkosheev . . . ’
‘Come! you’re going to argue about classicism and romanticism again,’ Zina?da interrupted him a second time.’ We’d much better play . . .
‘Forfeits?’ put in Lushin.
‘No, forfeits are a bore; at comparisons.’ (This game Zina?da had invented herself. Some object was mentioned, every one tried to compare it with something, and the one who chose the best comparison got a prize.)
She went up to the window. The sun was just setting; high up in the sky were large red clouds.
‘What are those clouds like?’ questioned Zina?da; and without waiting for our answer, she said, ‘I think they are like the purple sails on the golden ship of Cleopatra, when she sailed to meet Antony. Do you remember, Meidanov, you were telling me about it not long ago?’
All of us, like Polonius in Hamlet, opined that the clouds recalled nothing so much as those sails, and that not one of us could discover a better comparison.
‘And how old was Antony then?’ inquired Zina?da.
‘A young man, no doubt,’ observed Malevsky.
‘Yes, a young man,’ Meidanov chimed in in confirmation.
‘Excuse me,’ cried Lushin, ‘he was over forty.’
‘Over forty,’ repeated Zina?da, giving him a rapid glance. . . .
I soon went home. ‘She is in love,’ my lips unconsciously repeated. . . . ‘But with whom?’
Chapter 12
The days passed by. Zina?da became stranger and stranger, and more and more incomprehensible. One day I went over to her, and saw her sitting in a basket-chair, her head pressed to the sharp edge of the table. She drew herself up . . . her whole face was wet with tears.
‘Ah, you!’ she said with a cruel smile. ‘Come here.’
I went up to her. She put her hand on my head, and suddenly catching hold of my hair, began pulling it.
‘It hurts me,’ I said at last.
‘Ah! does it? And do you suppose nothing hurts me?’ she replied.
‘Ai!’ she cried suddenly, seeing she had pulled a little tuft of hair out. ‘What have I done? Poor M’sieu Voldemar!’
She carefully smoothed the hair she had torn out, stroked it round her finger, and twisted it into a ring.
‘I shall put your hair in a locket and wear it round my neck,’ she said, while the tears still glittered in her eyes. ‘That will be some small consolation to you, perhaps . . . and now good-bye.’
I went home, and found an unpleasant state of things there. My mother was having a scene with my father; she was reproaching him with something, while he, as his habit was, maintained a polite and chilly silence, and soon left her. I could not hear what my mother was talking of, and indeed I had no thought to spare for the subject; I only remember that when the interview was over, she sent for me to her room, and referred with great displeasure to the frequent visits I paid the princess, who was, in her words, une femme capable de tout. I kissed her hand (this was what I always did when I wanted to cut short a conversation) and went off to my room. Zina?da’s tears had completely overwhelmed me; I positively did not know what to think, and was ready to cry myself; I was a child after all, in spite of my sixteen years. I had now given up thinking about Malevsky, though Byelovzorov looked more and more threatening every day, and glared at the wily count like a wolf at a sheep; but I thought of nothing and of no one. I was lost in imaginings, and was always seeking seclusion and solitude. I was particularly fond of the ruined greenhouse. I would climb up on the high wall, and perch myself, and sit there, such an unhappy, lonely, and melancholy youth, that I felt sorry for myself — and how consolatory where those mournful sensations, how I revelled in them! . . .
One day I was sitting on the wall looking into the distance and listening to the ringing of the bells. . . . Suddenly something floated up to me — not a breath of wind and not a shiver, but as it were a whiff of fragrance — as it were, a sense of some one’s being near. . . . I looked down. Below, on the path, in a light greyish gown, with a pink parasol on her shoulder, was Zina?da, hurrying along. She caught sight of me, stopped, and pushing back the brim of her straw hat, she raised her velvety eyes to me.
‘What are you doing up there at such a height?’ she asked me with a rather queer smile. ‘Come,’ she went on, ‘you always declare you love me; jump down into the road to me if you really do love me.’
Zina?da had hardly uttered those words when I flew down, just as though some one had given me a violent push from behind. The wall was about fourteen feet high. I reached the ground on my feet, but the shock was so great that I could not keep my footing; I fell down, and for an instant fainted away. When I came to myself again, without opening my eyes, I felt Zina?da beside me. ‘My dear boy,’ she was saying, bending over me, and there was a note of alarmed tenderness in her voice, ‘how could you do it, dear; how could you obey? . . . You know I love you. . . . Get up.’
Her bosom was heaving close to me, her hands were caressing my head, and suddenly — what were my emotions at that moment — her soft, fresh lips began covering my face with kisses . . . they touched my lips. . . . But then Zina?da probably guessed by the expression of my face that I had regained consciousness, though I still kept my eyes closed, and rising rapidly to her feet, she said: ‘Come, get up, naughty boy, silly, why are you lying in the dust?’ I got up. ‘Give me my parasol,’ said Zina?da, ‘I threw it down somewhere, and don’t stare at me like that . . . what ridiculous nonsense! you’re not hurt, are you? stung by the nettles, I daresay? Don’t stare at me, I tell you. . . . But he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t answer,’ she added, as though to herself. . . . ‘Go home, M’sieu’ Voldemar, brush yourself, and don’t dare to follow me, or I shall be angry, and never again . . . ’
She did not finish her sentence, but walked rapidly away, while I sat down by the side of the road . . . my legs would not support me. The nettles had stung my hands, my back ached, and my head was giddy; but the feeling of rapture I experienced then has never come a second time in my life. It turned to a sweet ache in all my limbs and found expression at last in joyful hops and skips and shouts. Yes, I was still a child.
Chapter 13
I was so proud and light-hearted all that day, I so vividly retained on my face the feeling of Zina?da’s kisses, with such a shudder of delight I recalled every word she had uttered, I so hugged my unexpected happiness that I felt positively afraid, positively unwilling to see her, who had given rise to these new sensations. It seemed to me that now I could ask nothing more of fate, that now I ought to ‘go, and draw a deep last sigh and die.’ But, next day, when I went into the lodge, I felt great embarrassment, which I tried to conceal under a show of modest confidence, befitting a man who wishes to make it apparent that he knows how to keep a secret. Zina?da received me very simply, without any emotion, she simply shook her finger at me and asked me, whether I wasn’t black and blue? All my modest confidence and air of mystery vanished instantaneously and with them my embarrassment. Of course, I had not expected anything particular, but Zina?da’s composure was like a bucket of cold water thrown over me. I realised that in her eyes I was a child, and was extremely miserable! Zina?da walked up and down the room, giving me a quick smile, whenever she caught my eye, but her thoughts were far away, I saw that clearly. . . . ‘Shall I begin about what happened yesterday myself,’ I pondered; ‘ask her, where she was hurrying off so fast, so as to find out once for all’ . . . but with a gesture of despair, I merely went and sat down in a corner.
Byelovzorov came in; I felt relieved to see him.
‘I’ve not been able to find you a quiet horse,’ he said in a sulky voice; ‘Freitag warrants one, but I don’t feel any confidence in it, I am afraid.’
‘What are you afraid of?’ said Zina?da; ‘allow me to inquire?’
‘What am I afraid of? Why, you don’t know how to ride. Lord save us, what might happen! What whim is this has come over you all of a sudden?’
‘Come, that’s my business, Sir Wild Beast. In that case I will ask Piotr Vassilievitch.’ . . . (My father’s name was Piotr Vassilievitch. I was surprised at her mentioning his name so lightly and freely, as though she were confident of his readiness to do her a service.)
‘Oh, indeed,’ retorted Byelovzorov, ‘you mean to go out riding with him then?’
‘With him or with some one else is nothing to do with you. Only not with you, anyway.’
‘Not with me,’ repeated Byelovzorov. ‘As you wish. Well, I shall find you a horse.’
‘Yes, only mind now, don’t send some old cow. I warn you I want to gallop.’
‘Gallop away by all means . . . with whom is it, with Malevsky, you are going to ride?’
‘And why not with him, Mr. Pugnacity? Come, be quiet,’ she added, ‘and don’t glare. I’ll take you too. You know that to my mind now Malevsky’s — ugh!’ She shook her head.
‘You say that to console me,’ growled Byelovzorov.
Zina?da half closed her eyes. ‘Does that console you? O . . . O . . . O . . . Mr. Pugnacity!’ she said at last, as though she could find no other word. ‘And you, M’sieu’ Voldemar, would you come with us?’
‘I don’t care to . . . in a large party,’ I muttered, not raising my eyes.
‘You prefer a tête-à-tête? . . . Well, freedom to the free, and heaven to the saints,’ she commented with a sigh. ‘Go along, Byelovzorov, and bestir yourself. I must have a horse for tomorrow.’
‘Oh, and where’s the money to come from?’ put in the old princess.
Zina?da scowled.
‘I won’t ask you for it; Byelovzorov will trust me.’
‘He’ll trust you, will he?’ . . . grumbled the old princess, and all of a sudden she screeched at the top of her voice, ‘Duniashka!’
‘Maman, I have given you a bell to ring,’ observed Zina?da.
‘Duniashka!’ repeated the old lady.
Byelovzorov took leave; I went away with him. Zina?da did not try to detain me.
Chapter 14
The next day I got up early, cut myself a stick, and set off beyond the town-gates. I thought I would walk off my sorrow. It was a lovely day, bright and not too hot, a fresh sportive breeze roved over the earth with temperate rustle and frolic, setting all things a-flutter and harassing nothing. I wandered a long while over hills and through woods; I had not felt happy, I had left home with the intention of giving myself up to melancholy, but youth, the exquisite weather, the fresh air, the pleasure of rapid motion, the sweetness of repose, lying on the thick grass in a solitary nook, gained the upper hand; the memory of those never-to-be-forgotten words, those kisses, forced itself once more upon my soul. It was sweet to me to think that Zina?da could not, anyway, fail to do justice to my courage, my heroism. . . . ’ Others may seem better to her than I,’ I mused, ‘let them! But others only say what they would do, while I have done it. And what more would I not do for her?’ My fancy set to work. I began picturing to myself how I would save her from the hands of enemies; how, covered with blood I would tear her by force from prison, and expire at her feet. I remembered a picture hanging in our drawing-room — Malek-Adel bearing away Matilda — but at that point my attention was absorbed by the appearance of a speckled woodpecker who climbed busily up the slender stem of a birch-tree and peeped out uneasily from behind it, first to the right, then to the left, like a musician behind the bass-viol.
Then I sang ‘Not the white snows,’ and passed from that to a song well known at that period: ‘I await thee, when the wanton zephyr,’ then I began reading aloud Yermak’s address to the stars from Homyakov’s tragedy. I made an attempt to compose something myself in a sentimental vein, and invented the line which was to conclude each verse: ‘O Zina?da, Zina?da!’ but could get no further with it. Meanwhile it was getting on towards dinner-time. I went down into the valley; a narrow sandy path winding through it led to the town. I walked along this path. . . . The dull thud of horses’ hoofs resounded behind me. I looked round instinctively, stood still and took off my cap. I saw my father and Zina?da. They were riding side by side. My father was saying something to her, bending right over to her, his hand propped on the horses’ neck, he was smiling. Zina?da listened to him in silence, her eyes severely cast down, and her lips tightly pressed together. At first I saw them only; but a few instants later, Byelovzorov came into sight round a bend in the glade, he was wearing a hussar’s uniform with a pelisse, and riding a foaming black horse. The gallant horse tossed its head, snorted and pranced from side to side, his rider was at once holding him in and spurring him on. I stood aside. My father gathered up the reins, moved away from Zina?da, she slowly raised her eyes to him, and both galloped off . . . Byelovzorov flew after them, his sabre clattering behind him. ‘He’s as red as a crab,’ I reflected, ‘while she . . . why’s she so pale? out riding the whole morning, and pale?’
I redoubled my pace, and got home just at dinner-time. My father was already sitting by my mother’s chair, dressed for dinner, washed and fresh; he was reading an article from the Journal des Débats in his smooth musical voice; but my mother heard him without attention, and when she saw me, asked where I had been to all day long, and added that she didn’t like this gadding about God knows where, and God knows in what company. ‘But I have been walking alone,’ I was on the point of replying, but I looked at my father, and for some reason or other held my peace.
Chapter 15
For the next five or six days I hardly saw Zina?da; she said she was ill, which did not, however, prevent the usual visitors from calling at the lodge to pay — as they expressed it, their duty — all, that is, except Meidanov, who promptly grew dejected and sulky when he had not an opportunity of being enthusiastic. Byelovzorov sat sullen and red-faced in a corner, buttoned up to the throat; on the refined face of Malevsky there flickered continually an evil smile; he had really fallen into disfavour with Zina?da, and waited with special assiduity on the old princess, and even went with her in a hired coach to call on the Governor-General. This expedition turned out unsuccessful, however, and even led to an unpleasant experience for Malevsky; he was reminded of some scandal to do with certain officers of the engineers, and was forced in his explanations to plead his youth and inexperience at the time. Lushin came twice a day, but did not stay long; I was rather afraid of him after our last unreserved conversation, and at the same time felt a genuine attraction to him. He went a walk with me one day in the Neskutchny gardens, was very good-natured and nice, told me the names and properties of various plants and flowers, and suddenly, à propos of nothing at all, cried, hitting himself on his forehead, ‘And I, poor fool, thought her a flirt! it’s clear self-sacrifice is sweet for some people!’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I inquired.
‘I don’t mean to tell you anything,’ Lushin replied abruptly.
Zina?da avoided me; my presence — I could not help noticing it — affected her disagreeably. She involuntarily turned away from me . . . involuntarily; that was what was so bitter, that was what crushed me! But there was no help for it, and I tried not to cross her path, and only to watch her from a distance, in which I was not always successful. As before, something incomprehensible was happening to her; her face was different, she was different altogether. I was specially struck by the change that had taken place in her one warm still evening. I was sitting on a low garden bench under a spreading elderbush; I was fond of that nook; I could see from there the window of Zina?da’s room. I sat there; over my head a little bird was busily hopping about in the darkness of the leaves; a grey cat, stretching herself at full length, crept warily about the garden, and the first beetles were heavily droning in the air, which was still clear, though it was not light. I sat and gazed at the window, and waited to see if it would open; it did open, and Zina?da appeared at it. She had on a white dress, and she herself, her face, shoulders, and arms, were pale to whiteness. She stayed a long while without moving, and looked out straight before her from under her knitted brows. I had never known such a look on her. Then she clasped her hands tightly, raised them to her lips, to her forehead, and suddenly pulling her fingers apart, she pushed back her hair behind her ears, tossed it, and with a sort of determination nodded her head, and slammed-to the window.
Three days later she met me in the garden. I was turning away, but she stopped me of herself.
‘Give me your arm,’ she said to me with her old affectionateness, ‘it’s a long while since we have had a talk together.’
I stole a look at her; her eyes were full of a soft light, and her face seemed as it were smiling through a mist.
‘Are you still not well?’ I asked her.
‘No, that’s all over now,’ she answered, and she picked a small red rose. ‘I am a little tired, but that too will pass off.’
‘And will you be as you used to be again?’ I asked.
Zina?da put the rose up to her face, and I fancied the reflection of its bright petals had fallen on her cheeks. ‘Why, am I changed?’ she questioned me.
‘Yes, you are changed,’ I answered in a low voice.
‘I have been cold to you, I know,’ began Zina?da, ‘but you mustn’t pay attention to that . . . I couldn’t help it. . . . Come, why talk about it!’
‘You don’t want me to love you, that’s what it is!’ I cried gloomily, in an involuntary outburst.
‘No, love me, but not as you did.’
‘How then?’
‘Let us be friends — come now!’ Zina?da gave me the rose to smell. ‘Listen, you know I’m much older than you — I might be your aunt, really; well, not your aunt, but an older sister. And you . . . ’
‘You think me a child,’ I interrupted.
‘Well, yes, a child, but a dear, good clever one, whom I love very much. Do you know what? From this day forth I confer on you the rank of page to me; and don’t you forget that pages have to keep close to their ladies. Here is the token of your new dignity,’ she added, sticking the rose in the buttonhole of my jacket, ‘the token of my favour.’
‘I once received other favours from you,’ I muttered.
‘Ah!’ commented Zina?da, and she gave me a sidelong look, ‘What a memory he has! Well? I’m quite ready now . . . ’ And stooping to me, she imprinted on my forehead a pure, tranquil kiss.
I only looked at her, while she turned away, and saying, ‘Follow me, my page,’ went into the lodge. I followed her — all in amazement. ‘Can this gentle, reasonable girl,’ I thought, ‘be the Zina?da I used to know?’ I fancied her very walk was quieter, her whole figure statelier and more graceful . . .
And, mercy! with what fresh force love burned within me!
Chapter 16
After dinner the usual party assembled again at the lodge, and the young princess came out to them. All were there in full force, just as on that first evening which I never forgot; even Nirmatsky had limped to see her; Meidanov came this time earliest of all, he brought some new verses. The games of forfeits began again, but without the strange pranks, the practical jokes and noise — the gipsy element had vanished. Zina?da gave a different tone to the proceedings. I sat beside her by virtue of my office as page. Among other things, she proposed that any one who had to pay a forfeit should tell his dream; but this was not successful. The dreams were either uninteresting (Byelovzorov had dreamed that he fed his mare on carp, and that she had a wooden head), or unnatural and invented. Meidanov regaled us with a regular romance; there were sepulchres in it, and angels with lyres, and talking flowers and music wafted from afar. Zina?da did not let him finish. ‘If we are to have compositions,’ she said, ‘let every one tell something made up, and no pretence about it.’ The first who had to speak was again Byelovzorov.
The young hussar was confused. ‘I can’t make up anything!’ he cried.
‘What nonsense!’ said Zina?da. ‘Well, imagine, for instance, you are married, and tell us how you would treat your wife. Would you lock her up?’
‘Yes, I should lock her up.’
‘And would you stay with her yourself?’
‘Yes, I should certainly stay with her myself.’
‘Very good. Well, but if she got sick of that, and she deceived you?’
‘I should kill her.’
‘And if she ran away?’
‘I should catch her up and kill her all the same.’
‘Oh. And suppose now I were your wife, what would you do then?’
Byelovzorov was silent a minute. ‘I should kill myself. . . . ’
Zina?da laughed. ‘I see yours is not a long story.’
The next forfeit was Zina?da’s. She looked at the ceiling and considered. ‘Well, listen, she began at last, ‘what I have thought of. . . . Picture to yourselves a magnificent palace, a summer night, and a marvellous ball. This ball is given by a young queen. Everywhere gold and marble, crystal, silk, lights, diamonds, flowers, fragrant scents, every caprice of luxury.’
‘You love luxury?’ Lushin interposed. ‘Luxury is beautiful,’ she retorted; ‘I love everything beautiful.’
‘More than what is noble?’ he asked.
‘That’s something clever, I don’t understand it. Don’t interrupt me. So the ball is magnificent. There are crowds of guests, all of them are young, handsome, and brave, all are frantically in love with the queen.’
‘Are there no women among the guests?’ queried Malevsky.
‘No — or wait a minute — yes, there are some.’
‘Are they all ugly?’
‘No, charming. But the men are all in love with the queen. She is tall and graceful; she has a little gold diadem on her black hair.’
I looked at Zina?da, and at that instant she seemed to me so much above all of us, there was such bright intelligence, and such power about her unruffled brows, that I thought: ‘You are that queen!’
‘They all throng about her,’ Zina?da went on, ‘and all lavish the most flattering speeches upon her.’
‘And she likes flattery?’ Lushin queried.
‘What an intolerable person! he keeps interrupting . . . who doesn’t like flattery?’
‘One more last question,’ observed Malevsky, ‘has the queen a husband?’
‘I hadn’t thought about that. No, why should she have a husband?’
‘To be sure,’ assented Malevsky, ‘why should she have a husband?’
‘Silence!’ cried Meidanov in French, which he spoke very badly.
‘Merci!’ Zina?da said to him. ‘And so the queen hears their speeches, and hears the music, but does not look at one of the guests. Six windows are open from top to bottom, from floor to ceiling, and beyond them is a dark sky with big stars, a dark garden with big trees. The queen gazes out into the garden. Out there among the trees is a fountain; it is white in the darkness, and rises up tall, tall as an apparition. The queen hears, through the talk and the music, the soft splash of its waters. She gazes and thinks: you are all, gentlemen, noble, clever, and rich, you crowd round me, you treasure every word I utter, you are all ready to die at my feet, I hold you in my power . . . but out there, by the fountain, by that splashing water, stands and waits he whom I love, who holds me in his power. He has neither rich raiment nor precious stones, no one knows him, but he awaits me, and is certain I shall come — and I shall come — and there is no power that could stop me when I want to go out to him, and to stay with him, and be lost with him out there in the darkness of the garden, under the whispering of the trees, and the splash of the fountain . . . ’ Zina?da ceased.
‘Is that a made-up story?’ Malevsky inquired slyly. Zina?da did not even look at him.
‘And what should we have done, gentlemen?’ Lushin began suddenly, ‘if we had been among the guests, and had known of the lucky fellow at the fountain?’
‘Stop a minute, stop a minute,’ interposed Zina?da, ‘I will tell you myself what each of you would have done. You, Byelovzorov, would have challenged him to a duel; you, Meidanov, would have written an epigram on him . . . No, though, you can’t write epigrams, you would have made up a long poem on him in the style of Barbier, and would have inserted your production in the Telegraph. You, Nirmatsky, would have borrowed . . . no, you would have lent him money at high interest; you, doctor, . . . ’ she stopped. ‘There, I really don’t know what you would have done. . . . ’
‘In the capacity of court physician,’ answered Lushin, ‘I would have advised the queen not to give balls when she was not in the humour for entertaining her guests. . . . ’
‘Perhaps you would have been right. And you, Count? . . . ’
‘And I?’ repeated Malevsky with his evil smile. . . .
‘You would offer him a poisoned sweetmeat.’ Malevsky’s face changed slightly, and assumed for an instant a Jewish expression, but he laughed directly.
‘And as for you, Voldemar, . . . ’ Zina?da went on, ‘but that’s enough, though; let us play another game.’
‘M’sieu Voldemar, as the queen’s page, would have held up her train when she ran into the garden,’ Malevsky remarked malignantly.
I was crimson with anger, but Zina?da hurriedly laid a hand on my shoulder, and getting up, said in a rather shaky voice: ‘I have never given your excellency the right to be rude, and therefore I will ask you to leave us.’ She pointed to the door.
‘Upon my word, princess,’ muttered Malevsky, and he turned quite pale.
‘The princess is right,’ cried Byelovzorov, and he too rose.
‘Good God, I’d not the least idea,’ Malevsky went on, ‘in my words there was nothing, I think, that could . . . I had no notion of offending you. . . . Forgive me.’
Zina?da looked him up and down coldly, and coldly smiled. ‘Stay, then, certainly,’ she pronounced with a careless gesture of her arm.
‘M’sieu Voldemar and I were needlessly incensed. It is your pleasure to sting . . . may it do you good.’
‘Forgive me,’ Malevsky repeated once more; while I, my thoughts dwelling on Zina?da’s gesture, said to myself again that no real queen could with greater dignity have shown a presumptuous subject to the door.
The game of forfeits went on for a short time after this little scene; every one felt rather ill at ease, not so much on account of this scene, as from another, not quite definite, but oppressive feeling. No one spoke of it, but every one was conscious of it in himself and in his neighbour. Meidanov read us his verses; and Malevsky praised them with exaggerated warmth. ‘He wants to show how good he is now,’ Lushin whispered to me. We soon broke up. A mood of reverie seemed to have come upon Zina?da; the old princess sent word that she had a headache; Nirmatsky began to complain of his rheumatism. . . .
I could not for a long while get to sleep. I had been impressed by Zina?da’s story. ‘Can there have been a hint in it?’ I asked myself: ‘and at whom and at what was she hinting? And if there really is anything to hint at . . . how is one to make up one’s mind? No, no, it can’t be,’ I whispered, turning over from one hot cheek on to the other. . . . But I remembered the expression of Zina?da’s face during her story. . . . I remembered the exclamation that had broken from Lushin in the Neskutchny gardens, the sudden change in her behaviour to me, and I was lost in conjectures. ‘Who is he?’ These three words seemed to stand before my eyes traced upon the darkness; a lowering malignant cloud seemed hanging over me, and I felt its oppressiveness, and waited for it to break. I had grown used to many things of late; I had learned much from what I had seen at the Zasyekins; their disorderly ways, tallow candle-ends, broken knives and forks, grumpy Vonifaty, and shabby maid-servants, the manners of the old princess — all their strange mode of life no longer struck me. . . . But what I was dimly discerning now in Zina?da, I could never get used to. . . . ‘An adventuress!’ my mother had said of her one day. An adventuress — she, my idol, my divinity? This word stabbed me, I tried to get away from it into my pillow, I was indignant — and at the same time what would I not have agreed to, what would I not have given only to be that lucky fellow at the fountain! . . . My blood was on fire and boiling within me. ‘The garden . . . the fountain,’ I mused. . . . ‘I will go into the garden.’ I dressed quickly and slipped out of the house. The night was dark, the trees scarcely whispered, a soft chill air breathed down from the sky, a smell of fennel trailed across from the kitchen garden. I went through all the walks; the light sound of my own footsteps at once confused and emboldened me; I stood still, waited and heard my heart beating fast and loudly. At last I went up to the fence and leaned against the thin bar. Suddenly, or was it my fancy, a woman’s figure flashed by, a few paces from me . . . I strained my eyes eagerly into the darkness, I held my breath. What was that? Did I hear steps, or was it my heart beating again? ‘Who is here?’ I faltered, hardly audibly. What was that again, a smothered laugh . . . or a rustling in the leaves . . . or a sigh just at my ear? I felt afraid . . . ‘Who is here?’ I repeated still more softly.
The air blew in a gust for an instant; a streak of fire flashed across the sky; it was a star falling. ‘Zina?da?’ I wanted to call, but the word died away on my lips. And all at once everything became profoundly still around, as is often the case in the middle of the night. . . . Even the grasshoppers ceased their churr in the trees — only a window rattled somewhere. I stood and stood, and then went back to my room, to my chilled bed. I felt a strange sensation; as though I had gone to a tryst, and had been left lonely, and had passed close by another’s happiness.
Chapter 17
The following day I only had a passing glimpse of Zina?da: she was driving somewhere with the old princess in a cab. But I saw Lushin, who, however, barely vouchsafed me a greeting, and Malevsky. The young count grinned, and began affably talking to me. Of all those who visited at the lodge, he alone had succeeded in forcing his way into our house, and had favourably impressed my mother. My father did not take to him, and treated him with a civility almost insulting.
‘Ah, monsieur le page,’ began Malevsky, ‘delighted to meet you. What is your lovely queen doing?’
His fresh handsome face was so detestable to me at that moment, and he looked at me with such contemptuous amusement that I did not answer him at all.
‘Are you still angry?’ he went on. ‘You’ve no reason to be. It wasn’t I who called you a page, you know, and pages attend queens especially. But allow me to remark that you perform your duties very badly.’
‘How so?’
‘Pages ought to be inseparable from their mistresses; pages ought to know everything they do, they ought, indeed, to watch over them,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘day and night.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do I mean? I express myself pretty clearly, I fancy. Day and night. By day it’s not so much matter; it’s light, and people are about in the daytime; but by night, then look out for misfortune. I advise you not to sleep at nights and to watch, watch with all your energies. You remember, in the garden, by night, at the fountain, that’s where there’s need to look out. You will thank me.’
Malevsky laughed and turned his back on me. He, most likely, attached no great importance to what he had said to me, he had a reputation for mystifying, and was noted for his power of taking people in at masquerades, which was greatly augmented by the almost unconscious falsity in which his whole nature was steeped. . . . He only wanted to tease me; but every word he uttered was a poison that ran through my veins. The blood rushed to my head. ‘Ah! so that’s it!’ I said to myself; ‘good! So there was reason for me to feel drawn into the garden! That shan’t be so!’ I cried aloud, and struck myself on the chest with my fist, though precisely what should not be so I could not have said. ‘Whether Malevsky himself goes into the garden,’ I thought (he was bragging, perhaps; he has insolence enough for that), ‘or some one else (the fence of our garden was very low, and there was no difficulty in getting over it), anyway, if any one falls into my hands, it will be the worse for him! I don’t advise any one to meet me! I will prove to all the world and to her, the traitress (I actually used the word ‘traitress’) that I can be revenged!’
I returned to my own room, took out of the writing-table an English knife I had recently bought, felt its sharp edge, and knitting my brows with an air of cold and concentrated determination, thrust it into my pocket, as though doing such deeds was nothing out of the way for me, and not the first time. My heart heaved angrily, and felt heavy as a stone. All day long I kept a scowling brow and lips tightly compressed, and was continually walking up and down, clutching, with my hand in my pocket, the knife, which was warm from my grasp, while I prepared myself beforehand for something terrible. These new unknown sensations so occupied and even delighted me, that I hardly thought of Zina?da herself. I was continually haunted by Aleko, the young gipsy —‘Where art thou going, young handsome man? Lie there,’ and then, ‘thou art all besprent with blood. . . . Oh, what hast thou done? . . . Naught!’ With what a cruel smile I repeated that ‘Naught!’ My father was not at home; but my mother, who had for some time past been in an almost continual state of dumb exasperation, noticed my gloomy and heroic aspect, and said to me at supper, ‘Why are you sulking like a mouse in a meal-tub?’ I merely smiled condescendingly in reply, and thought, ‘If only they knew!’ It struck eleven; I went to my room, but did not undress; I waited for midnight; at last it struck. ‘The time has come!’ I muttered between my teeth; and buttoning myself up to the throat, and even pulling my sleeves up, I went into the garden.
I had already fixed on the spot from which to keep watch. At the end of the garden, at the point where the fence, separating our domain from the Zasyekins,’ joined the common wall, grew a pine-tree, standing alone. Standing under its low thick branches, I could see well, as far as the darkness of the night permitted, what took place around. Close by, ran a winding path which had always seemed mysterious to me; it coiled like a snake under the fence, which at that point bore traces of having been climbed over, and led to a round arbour formed of thick acacias. I made my way to the pine-tree, leaned my back against its trunk, and began my watch.
The night was as still as the night before, but there were fewer clouds in the sky, and the outlines of bushes, even of tall flowers, could be more distinctly seen. The first moments of expectation were oppressive, almost terrible. I had made up my mind to everything. I only debated how to act; whether to thunder, ‘Where goest thou? Stand! show thyself — or death!’ or simply to strike. . . . Every sound, every whisper and rustle, seemed to me portentous and extraordinary. . . . I prepared myself. . . . I bent forward. . . . But half-an-hour passed, an hour passed; my blood had grown quieter, colder; the consciousness that I was doing all this for nothing, that I was even a little absurd, that Malevsky had been making fun of me, began to steal over me. I left my ambush, and walked all about the garden. As if to taunt me, there was not the smallest sound to be heard anywhere; everything was at rest. Even our dog was asleep, curled up into a ball at the gate. I climbed up into the ruins of the greenhouse, saw the open country far away before me, recalled my meeting with Zina?da, and fell to dreaming. . . .
I started. . . . I fancied I heard the creak of a door opening, then the faint crack of a broken twig. In two bounds I got down from the ruin, and stood still, all aghast. Rapid, light, but cautious footsteps sounded distinctly in the garden. They were approaching me. ‘Here he is . . . here he is, at last!’ flashed through my heart. With spasmodic haste, I pulled the knife out of my pocket; with spasmodic haste, I opened it. Flashes of red were whirling before my eyes; my hair stood up on my head in my fear and fury. . . . The steps were coming straight towards me; I bent — I craned forward to meet him. . . . A man came into view. . . . My God! it was my father! I recognised him at once, though he was all muffled up in a dark cloak, and his hat was pulled down over his face. On tip-toe he walked by. He did not notice me, though nothing concealed me; but I was so huddled up and shrunk together that I fancy I was almost on the level of the ground. The jealous Othello, ready for murder, was suddenly transformed into a school-boy. . . . I was so taken aback by my father’s unexpected appearance that for the first moment I did not notice where he had come from or in what direction he disappeared. I only drew myself up, and thought, ‘Why is it my father is walking about in the garden at night?’ when everything was still again. In my horror I had dropped my knife in the grass, but I did not even attempt to look for it; I was very much ashamed of myself. I was completely sobered at once. On my way to the house, however, I went up to my seat under the elder-tree, and looked up at Zina?da’s window. The small slightly-convex panes of the window shone dimly blue in the faint light thrown on them by the night sky. All at once — their colour began to change. . . . Behind them — I saw this, saw it distinctly — softly and cautiously a white blind was let down, let down right to the window-frame, and so stayed.
‘What is that for?’ I said aloud almost involuntarily when I found myself once more in my room. ‘A dream, a chance, or . . . ’ The suppositions which suddenly rushed into my head were so new and strange that I did not dare to entertain them.
Chapter 18
I got up in the morning with a headache. My emotion of the previous day had vanished. It was replaced by a dreary sense of blankness and a sort of sadness I had not known till then, as though something had died in me.
‘Why is it you’re looking like a rabbit with half its brain removed?’ said Lushin on meeting me. At lunch I stole a look first at my father, then at my mother: he was composed, as usual; she was, as usual, secretly irritated. I waited to see whether my father would make some friendly remarks to me, as he sometimes did. . . . But he did not even bestow his everyday cold greeting upon me. ‘Shall I tell Zina?da all?’ I wondered. . . . ‘It’s all the same, anyway; all is at an end between us.’ I went to see her, but told her nothing, and, indeed, I could not even have managed to get a talk with her if I had wanted to. The old princess’s son, a cadet of twelve years old, had come from Petersburg for his holidays; Zina?da at once handed her brother over to me. ‘Here,’ she said,’ my dear Volodya,’— it was the first time she had used this pet-name to me —‘is a companion for you. His name is Volodya, too. Please, like him; he is still shy, but he has a good heart. Show him Neskutchny gardens, go walks with him, take him under your protection. You’ll do that, won’t you? you’re so good, too!’ She laid both her hands affectionately on my shoulders, and I was utterly bewildered. The presence of this boy transformed me, too, into a boy. I looked in silence at the cadet, who stared as silently at me. Zina?da laughed, and pushed us towards each other. ‘Embrace each other, children!’ We embraced each other. ‘Would you like me to show you the garden?’ I inquired of the cadet. ‘If you please,’ he replied, in the regular cadet’s hoarse voice. Zina?da laughed again. . . . I had time to notice that she had never had such an exquisite colour in her face before. I set off with the cadet. There was an old-fashioned swing in our garden. I sat him down on the narrow plank seat, and began swinging him. He sat rigid in his new little uniform of stout cloth, with its broad gold braiding, and kept tight hold of the cords. ‘You’d better unbutton your collar,’ I said to him. ‘It’s all right; we’re used to it,’ he said, and cleared his throat. He was like his sister. The eyes especially recalled her, I liked being nice to him; and at the same time an aching sadness was gnawing at my heart. ‘Now I certainly am a child,’ I thought; ‘but yesterday. . . . ’ I remembered where I had dropped my knife the night before, and looked for it. The cadet asked me for it, picked a thick stalk of wild parsley, cut a pipe out of it, and began whistling. Othello whistled too.
But in the evening how he wept, this Othello, in Zina?da’s arms, when, seeking him out in a corner of the garden, she asked him why he was so depressed. My tears flowed with such violence that she was frightened. ‘What is wrong with you? What is it, Volodya?’ she repeated; and seeing I made no answer, and did not cease weeping, she was about to kiss my wet cheek. But I turned away from her, and whispered through my sobs, ‘I know all. Why did you play with me? . . . What need had you of my love?’
‘I am to blame, Volodya . . . ’ said Zina?da. ‘I am very much to blame . . . ’ she added, wringing her hands. ‘How much there is bad and black and sinful in me! . . . But I am not playing with you now. I love you; you don’t even suspect why and how. . . . But what is it you know?’
What could I say to her? She stood facing me, and looked at me; and I belonged to her altogether from head to foot directly she looked at me. . . . A quarter of an hour later I was running races with the cadet and Zina?da. I was not crying, I was laughing, though my swollen eyelids dropped a tear or two as I laughed. I had Zina?da’s ribbon round my neck for a cravat, and I shouted with delight whenever I succeeded in catching her round the waist. She did just as she liked with me.
Chapter 19
I should be in a great difficulty, if I were forced to describe exactly what passed within me in the course of the week after my unsuccessful midnight expedition. It was a strange feverish time, a sort of chaos, in which the most violently opposed feelings, thoughts, suspicions, hopes, joys, and sufferings, whirled together in a kind of hurricane. I was afraid to look into myself, if a boy of sixteen ever can look into himself; I was afraid to take stock of anything; I simply hastened to live through every day till evening; and at night I slept . . . the light-heartedness of childhood came to my aid. I did not want to know whether I was loved, and I did not want to acknowledge to myself that I was not loved; my father I avoided — but Zina?da I could not avoid. . . . I burnt as in a fire in her presence . . . but what did I care to know what the fire was in which I burned and melted — it was enough that it was sweet to burn and melt. I gave myself up to all my passing sensations, and cheated myself, turning away from memories, and shutting my eyes to what I foreboded before me. . . . This weakness would not most likely have lasted long in any case . . . a thunderbolt cut it all short in a moment, and flung me into a new track altogether.
Coming in one day to dinner from a rather long walk, I learnt with amazement that I was to dine alone, that my father had gone away and my mother was unwell, did not want any dinner, and had shut herself up in her bedroom. From the faces of the footmen, I surmised that something extraordinary had taken place. . . . I did not dare to cross-examine them, but I had a friend in the young waiter Philip, who was passionately fond of poetry, and a performer on the guitar. I addressed myself to him. From him I learned that a terrible scene had taken place between my father and mother (and every word had been overheard in the maids’ room; much of it had been in French, but Masha the lady’s-maid had lived five years’ with a dressmaker from Paris, and she understood it all); that my mother had reproached my father with infidelity, with an intimacy with the young lady next door, that my father at first had defended himself, but afterwards had lost his temper, and he too had said something cruel, ‘reflecting on her age,’ which had made my mother cry; that my mother too had alluded to some loan which it seemed had been made to the old princess, and had spoken very ill of her and of the young lady too, and that then my father had threatened her. ‘And all the mischief,’ continued Philip, ‘came from an anonymous letter; and who wrote it, no one knows, or else there’d have been no reason whatever for the matter to have come out at all.’
‘But was there really any ground,’ I brought out with difficulty, while my hands and feet went cold, and a sort of shudder ran through my inmost being.
Philip winked meaningly. ‘There was. There’s no hiding those things; for all that your father was careful this time — but there, you see, he’d, for instance, to hire a carriage or something . . . no getting on without servants, either.’
I dismissed Philip, and fell on to my bed. I did not sob, I did not give myself up to despair; I did not ask myself when and how this had happened; I did not wonder how it was I had not guessed it before, long ago; I did not even upbraid my father. . . . What I had learnt was more than I could take in; this sudden revelation stunned me. . . . All was at an end. All the fair blossoms of my heart were roughly plucked at once, and lay about me, flung on the ground, and trampled underfoot.
Chapter 20
My mother next day announced her intention of returning to the town. In the morning my father had gone into her bedroom, and stayed there a long while alone with her. No one had overheard what he said to her; but my mother wept no more; she regained her composure, and asked for food, but did not make her appearance nor change her plans. I remember I wandered about the whole day, but did not go into the garden, and never once glanced at the lodge, and in the evening I was the spectator of an amazing occurrence: my father conducted Count Malevsky by the arm through the dining-room into the hall, and, in the presence of a footman, said icily to him: ‘A few days ago your excellency was shown the door in our house; and now I am not going to enter into any kind of explanation with you, but I have the honour to announce to you that if you ever visit me again, I shall throw you out of window. I don’t like your handwriting.’ The count bowed, bit his lips, shrank away, and vanished.
Preparations were beginning for our removal to town, to Arbaty Street, where we had a house. My father himself probably no longer cared to remain at the country house; but clearly he had succeeded in persuading my mother not to make a public scandal. Everything was done quietly, without hurry; my mother even sent her compliments to the old princess, and expressed her regret that she was prevented by indisposition from seeing her again before her departure. I wandered about like one possessed, and only longed for one thing, for it all to be over as soon as possible. One thought I could not get out of my head: how could she, a young girl, and a princess too, after all, bring herself to such a step, knowing that my father was not a free man, and having an opportunity of marrying, for instance, Byelovzorov? What did she hope for? How was it she was not afraid of ruining her whole future? Yes, I thought, this is love, this is passion, this is devotion . . . and Lushin’s words came back to me: to sacrifice oneself for some people is sweet. I chanced somehow to catch sight of something white in one of the windows of the lodge. . . . ‘Can it be Zina?da’s face?’ I thought . . . yes, it really was her face. I could not restrain myself. I could not part from her without saying a last good-bye to her. I seized a favourable instant, and went into the lodge.
In the drawing-room the old princess met me with her usual slovenly and careless greetings.
‘How’s this, my good man, your folks are off in such a hurry?’ she observed, thrusting snuff into her nose. I looked at her, and a load was taken off my heart. The word ‘loan,’ dropped by Philip, had been torturing me. She had no suspicion . . . at least I thought so then. Zina?da came in from the next room, pale, and dressed in black, with her hair hanging loose; she took me by the hand without a word, and drew me away with her.
‘I heard your voice,’ she began, ‘and came out at once. Is it so easy for you to leave us, bad boy?’
‘I have come to say good-bye to you, princess,’ I answered, ‘probably for ever. You have heard, perhaps, we are going away.’
Zina?da looked intently at me.
‘Yes, I have heard. Thanks for coming. I was beginning to think I should not see you again. Don’t remember evil against me. I have sometimes tormented you, but all the same I am not what you imagine me.’ She turned away, and leaned against the window.
‘Really, I am not like that. I know you have a bad opinion of me.’
‘I?’
‘Yes, you . . . you.’
‘I?’ I repeated mournfully, and my heart throbbed as of old under the influence of her overpowering, indescribable fascination. ‘I? Believe me, Zina?da Alexandrovna, whatever you did, however you tormented me, I should love and adore you to the end of my days.’
She turned with a rapid motion to me, and flinging wide her arms, embraced my head, and gave me a warm and passionate kiss. God knows whom that long farewell kiss was seeking, but I eagerly tasted its sweetness. I knew that it would never be repeated. ‘Good-bye, good-bye,’ I kept saying . . .
She tore herself away, and went out. And I went away. I cannot describe the emotion with which I went away. I should not wish it ever to come again; but I should think myself unfortunate had I never experienced such an emotion.
We went back to town. I did not quickly shake off the past; I did not quickly get to work. My wound slowly began to heal; but I had no ill-feeling against my father. On the contrary he had, as it were, gained in my eyes . . . let psychologists explain the contradiction as best they can. One day I was walking along a boulevard, and to my indescribable delight, I came across Lushin. I liked him for his straightforward and unaffected character, and besides he was dear to me for the sake of the memories he aroused in me. I rushed up to him. ‘Aha!’ he said, knitting his brows,’ so it’s you, young man. Let me have a look at you. You’re still as yellow as ever, but yet there’s not the same nonsense in your eyes. You look like a man, not a lap-dog. That’s good. Well, what are you doing? working?’
I gave a sigh. I did not like to tell a lie, while I was ashamed to tell the truth.
‘Well, never mind,’ Lushin went on, ‘don’t be shy. The great thing is to lead a normal life, and not be the slave of your passions. What do you get if not? Wherever you are carried by the tide — it’s all a bad look-out; a man must stand on his own feet, if he can get nothing but a rock to stand on. Here, I’ve got a cough . . . and Byelovzorov — have you heard anything of him?’
‘No. What is it?’
‘He’s lost, and no news of him; they say he’s gone away to the Caucasus. A lesson to you, young man. And it’s all from not knowing how to part in time, to break out of the net. You seem to have got off very well. Mind you don’t fall into the same snare again. Good-bye.’
‘I shan’t,’ I thought. . . . ‘I shan’t see her again.’ But I was destined to see Zina?da once more.
Chapter 21
My father used every day to ride out on horse-back. He had a splendid English mare, a chestnut piebald, with a long slender neck and long legs, an inexhaustible and vicious beast. Her name was Electric. No one could ride her except my father. One day he came up to me in a good humour, a frame of mind in which I had not seen him for a long while; he was getting ready for his ride, and had already put on his spurs. I began entreating him to take me with him.
‘We’d much better have a game of leap-frog,’ my father replied. ‘You’ll never keep up with me on your cob.’
‘Yes, I will; I’ll put on spurs too.’
‘All right, come along then.’
We set off. I had a shaggy black horse, strong, and fairly spirited. It is true it had to gallop its utmost, when Electric went at full trot, still I was not left behind. I have never seen any one ride like my father; he had such a fine carelessly easy seat, that it seemed that the horse under him was conscious of it, and proud of its rider. We rode through all the boulevards, reached the ‘Maidens’ Field,’ jumped several fences (at first I had been afraid to take a leap, but my father had a contempt for cowards, and I soon ceased to feel fear), twice crossed the river Moskva, and I was under the impression that we were on our way home, especially as my father of his own accord observed that my horse was tired, when suddenly he turned off away from me at the Crimean ford, and galloped along the river-bank. I rode after him. When he had reached a high stack of old timber, he slid quickly off Electric, told me to dismount, and giving me his horse’s bridle, told me to wait for him there at the timber-stack, and, turning off into a small street, disappeared. I began walking up and down the river-bank, leading the horses, and scolding Electric, who kept pulling, shaking her head, snorting and neighing as she went; and when I stood still, never failed to paw the ground, and whining, bite my cob on the neck; in fact she conducted herself altogether like a spoilt thorough-bred. My father did not come back. A disagreeable damp mist rose from the river; a fine rain began softly blowing up, and spotting with tiny dark flecks the stupid grey timber-stack, which I kept passing and repassing, and was deadly sick of by now. I was terribly bored, and still my father did not come. A sort of sentry-man, a Fin, grey all over like the timber, and with a huge old-fashioned shako, like a pot, on his head, and with a halberd (and how ever came a sentry, if you think of it, on the banks of the Moskva!) drew near, and turning his wrinkled face, like an old woman’s, towards me, he observed, ‘What are you doing here with the horses, young master? Let me hold them.’
I made him no reply. He asked me for tobacco. To get rid of him (I was in a fret of impatience, too), I took a few steps in the direction in which my father had disappeared, then walked along the little street to the end, turned the corner, and stood still. In the street, forty paces from me, at the open window of a little wooden house, stood my father, his back turned to me; he was leaning forward over the window-sill, and in the house, half hidden by a curtain, sat a woman in a dark dress talking to my father; this woman was Zina?da.
I was petrified. This, I confess, I had never expected. My first impulse was to run away. ‘My father will look round,’ I thought, ‘and I am lost . . . ’ but a strange feeling — a feeling stronger than curiosity, stronger than jealousy, stronger even than fear — held me there. I began to watch; I strained my ears to listen. It seemed as though my father were insisting on something. Zina?da would not consent. I seem to see her face now — mournful, serious, lovely, and with an inexpressible impress of devotion, grief, love, and a sort of despair — I can find no other word for it. She uttered monosyllables, not raising her eyes, simply smiling — submissively, but without yielding. By that smile alone, I should have known my Zina?da of old days. My father shrugged his shoulders, and straightened his hat on his head, which was always a sign of impatience with him. . . . Then I caught the words: ‘Vous devez vous séparer de cette . . . ’ Zina?da sat up, and stretched out her arm. . . . Suddenly, before my very eyes, the impossible happened. My father suddenly lifted the whip, with which he had been switching the dust off his coat, and I heard a sharp blow on that arm, bare to the elbow. I could scarcely restrain myself from crying out; while Zina?da shuddered, looked without a word at my father, and slowly raising her arm to her lips, kissed the streak of red upon it. My father flung away the whip, and running quickly up the steps, dashed into the house. . . . Zina?da turned round, and with outstretched arms and downcast head, she too moved away from the window.
My heart sinking with panic, with a sort of awe-struck horror, I rushed back, and running down the lane, almost letting go my hold of Electric, went back to the bank of the river. I could not think clearly of anything. I knew that my cold and reserved father was sometimes seized by fits of fury; and all the same, I could never comprehend what I had just seen. . . . But I felt at the time that, however long I lived, I could never forget the gesture, the glance, the smile, of Zina?da; that her image, this image so suddenly presented to me, was imprinted for ever on my memory. I stared vacantly at the river, and never noticed that my tears were streaming. ‘She is beaten,’ I was thinking, . . . ‘beaten . . . beaten. . . . ’
‘Hullo! what are you doing? Give me the mare!’ I heard my father’s voice saying behind me.
Mechanically I gave him the bridle. He leaped on to Electric . . . the mare, chill with standing, reared on her haunches, and leaped ten feet away . . . but my father soon subdued her; he drove the spurs into her sides, and gave her a blow on the neck with his fist. . . . ‘Ah, I’ve no whip,’ he muttered.
I remembered the swish and fall of the whip, heard so short a time before, and shuddered.
‘Where did you put it?’ I asked my father, after a brief pause.
My father made no answer, and galloped on ahead. I overtook him. I felt that I must see his face.
‘Were you bored waiting for me?’ he muttered through his teeth.
‘A little. Where did you drop your whip?’ I asked again.
My father glanced quickly at me. ‘I didn’t drop it,’ he replied; ‘I threw it away.’ He sank into thought, and dropped his head . . . and then, for the first, and almost for the last time, I saw how much tenderness and pity his stern features were capable of expressing.
He galloped on again, and this time I could not overtake him; I got home a quarter-of-an-hour after him.
‘That’s love,’ I said to myself again, as I sat at night before my writing-table, on which books and papers had begun to make their appearance; ‘that’s passion! . . . To think of not revolting, of bearing a blow from any one whatever . . . even the dearest hand! But it seems one can, if one loves. . . . While I . . . I imagined . . . ’
I had grown much older during the last month; and my love, with all its transports and sufferings, struck me myself as something small and childish and pitiful beside this other unimagined something, which I could hardly fully grasp, and which frightened me like an unknown, beautiful, but menacing face, which one strives in vain to make out clearly in the half-darkness. . . .
A strange and fearful dream came to me that same night. I dreamed I went into a low dark room. . . . My father was standing with a whip in his hand, stamping with anger; in the corner crouched Zina?da, and not on her arm, but on her forehead, was a stripe of red . . . while behind them both towered Byelovzorov, covered with blood; he opened his white lips, and wrathfully threatened my father.
Two months later, I entered the university; and within six months my father died of a stroke in Petersburg, where he had just moved with my mother and me. A few days before his death he received a letter from Moscow which threw him into a violent agitation. . . . He went to my mother to beg some favour of her: and, I was told, he positively shed tears — he, my father! On the very morning of the day when he was stricken down, he had begun a letter to me in French. ‘My son,’ he wrote to me, ‘fear the love of woman; fear that bliss, that poison. . . . ’ After his death, my mother sent a considerable sum of money to Moscow.
Chapter 22
Four years passed. I had just left the university, and did not know exactly what to do with myself, at what door to knock; I was hanging about for a time with nothing to do. One fine evening I met Meidanov at the theatre. He had got married, and had entered the civil service; but I found no change in him. He fell into ecstasies in just the same superfluous way, and just as suddenly grew depressed again.
‘You know,’ he told me among other things, ‘Madame Dolsky’s here.’
‘What Madame Dolsky?’
‘Can you have forgotten her?— the young Princess Zasyekin whom we were all in love with, and you too. Do you remember at the country-house near Neskutchny gardens?’
‘She married a Dolsky?’
‘Yes.’
‘And is she here, in the theatre?’
‘No: but she’s in Petersburg. She came here a few days ago. She’s going abroad.’
‘What sort of fellow is her husband?’ I asked.
‘A splendid fellow, with property. He’s a colleague of mine in Moscow. You can well understand — after the scandal . . . you must know all about it . . . ’ (Meidanov smiled significantly) ‘it was no easy task for her to make a good marriage; there were consequences . . . but with her cleverness, everything is possible. Go and see her; she’ll be delighted to see you. She’s prettier than ever.’
Meidanov gave me Zina?da’s address. She was staying at the Hotel Demut. Old memories were astir within me. . . . I determined next day to go to see my former ‘flame.’ But some business happened to turn up; a week passed, and then another, and when at last I went to the Hotel Demut and asked for Madame Dolsky, I learnt that four days before, she had died, almost suddenly, in childbirth.
I felt a sort of stab at my heart. The thought that I might have seen her, and had not seen her, and should never see her — that bitter thought stung me with all the force of overwhelming reproach. ‘She is dead!’ I repeated, staring stupidly at the hall-porter. I slowly made my way back to the street, and walked on without knowing myself where I was going. All the past swam up and rose at once before me. So this was the solution, this was the goal to which that young, ardent, brilliant life had striven, all haste and agitation! I mused on this; I fancied those dear features, those eyes, those curls — in the narrow box, in the damp underground darkness — lying here, not far from me — while I was still alive, and, maybe, a few paces from my father. . . . I thought all this; I strained my imagination, and yet all the while the lines:
‘From lips indifferent of her death I heard,
Indifferently I listened to it, too,’
were echoing in my heart. O youth, youth! little dost thou care for anything; thou art master, as it were, of all the treasures of the universe — even sorrow gives thee pleasure, even grief thou canst turn to thy profit; thou art self-confident and insolent; thou sayest, ‘I alone am living — look you!’— but thy days fly by all the while, and vanish without trace or reckoning; and everything in thee vanishes, like wax in the sun, like snow. . . . And, perhaps, the whole secret of thy charm lies, not in being able to do anything, but in being able to think thou wilt do anything; lies just in thy throwing to the winds, forces which thou couldst not make other use of; in each of us gravely regarding himself as a prodigal, gravely supposing that he is justified in saying, ‘Oh, what might I not have done if I had not wasted my time!’
I, now . . . what did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I foresee, when the phantom of my first love, rising up for an instant, barely called forth one sigh, one mournful sentiment?
And what has come to pass of all I hoped for? And now, when the shades of evening begin to steal over my life, what have I left fresher, more precious, than the memories of the storm — so soon over — of early morning, of spring?
But I do myself injustice. Even then, in those light-hearted young days, I was not deaf to the voice of sorrow, when it called upon me, to the solemn strains floating to me from beyond the tomb. I remember, a few days after I heard of Zina?da’s death, I was present, through a peculiar, irresistible impulse, at the death of a poor old woman who lived in the same house as we. Covered with rags, lying on hard boards, with a sack under her head, she died hardly and painfully. Her whole life had been passed in the bitter struggle with daily want; she had known no joy, had not tasted the honey of happiness. One would have thought, surely she would rejoice at death, at her deliverance, her rest. But yet, as long as her decrepit body held out, as long as her breast still heaved in agony under the icy hand weighing upon it, until her last forces left her, the old woman crossed herself, and kept whispering, ‘Lord, forgive my sins’; and only with the last spark of consciousness, vanished from her eyes the look of fear, of horror of the end. And I remember that then, by the death-bed of that poor old woman, I felt aghast for Zina?da, and longed to pray for her, for my father — and for myself.
The End
Volume 2 CHAPTER I.
“Then sweetly in seraphic strain returns,
From ev’ry farthest arch, and highest cell.”

During the day, Lord Borrowdale’s attentions to Julia were public and unremitting, while the infatuated, unhappy Edmund witnessed it all in growing sorrow of heart. Had he then, he asked himself, already yielded to a passion so irrational, so dishonourable?—No. He was not quite so mad—quite so base. Had he not always loved Julia? loved her when she[2] was a child—when there could be nothing questionable in the nature of his attachment?—Certainly he had, sincerely, fondly loved her.

Julia, too, in the course of the day, felt a little uncomfortable; she thought that, notwithstanding the friendly conversation of the morning, Edmund, some how, did not seem satisfied. He was not cheerful, he was not frank and obliging as usual; he was not, in short, the least like himself! Could it be, that he fancied he had been but coolly received on his return? Frances and herself used always to make such rejoicing when he came home; but that was when they were children. And yesterday, there was such a hurry with company—yet, possibly, Edmund might have thought it proceeded from silly pride, because there were strangers by, or some such worthless feeling![3] She longed for an opportunity of speaking to him kindly on the subject, and doing away with such an idea, if indeed it existed. But he now rather seemed to avoid her, while Lady Susan always happened to be speaking to him just when she was intending to do so.

At dinner, Lord Borrowdale handed in Julia; for Lord Morven appeared to think it necessary to resign in his favour. Not so Henry, who not only secured the place on the other side of our heroine, but contrived to engross much of her conversation. This was but poor consolation to Edmund; it argued indifference to Lord Borrowdale, certainly; but then Henry, though without title, was at least nearly her equal in birth, being her own cousin. And it was possible—barely possible, that she might be attached to him: he had been at home once or twice when it had not been in Edmund’s power to[4] return. His observations this morning might have been prompted by jealousy.

After dinner preparations were made for a sail on the lake. Edmund observed Lord Borrowdale, from the moment they left the house, eagerly secure to himself the care of Julia. He, however, walked on the other side. But Lady Susan, passing them as they arrived at the place of embarkation, ran on the gang-board alone; then, stopping half way in alarm, and balancing herself with difficulty, yet refusing the aid of the bargemen, she called on Captain Montgomery for his assistance, declaring he was the only person who understood boats, and that she should not consider herself safe in any other hands. The gallant Captain could not disobey the summons, nor, having obeyed it, avoid continuing his especial protection to the lady; while Henry coming up[5] at the moment, drew Julia’s arm over his with all the freedom of cousinship. The boats, after crossing the lake, coasted along beneath the shade of trees, which hung from the steep rocks almost into the water, while the bare mountain tops, towering far above, were canopied by the heavens, and again reflected in the clear lake, where yet another sky appeared as far beneath.

“This—this is the spot!” exclaimed Mr. Jackson, “to try the effect of the echoes.” They had arrived, as he spoke, opposite the opening to a little valley. A chain of stupendous mountains arose on either side, and one of a conical form, partly shrouded in a white mist which had rolled up from the lake, terminated the far perspective.

The rowers lay on their oars, and the French-horns commenced an air. Immediately,[6] a gigantic voice from within the steep side of the nearest mountain took it up; the next joined in, and the next; but each less loud, till the receding echoes, in journeying round the lake, reached rugged Borrowdale: there they seemed broken off for some seconds; but soon a distant clamour arose, as proceeding from the thousand mountain tops of that desolate region: the sounds were flung further and nearer, then succeeded each other more rapidly, then became slower in their repeats. At length they came forth again, and continued travelling round the lake on the opposite side; but now, increasing in loudness as they once more approached the boats, and loudest when they reached the mountain which formed the second portal to the little valley already described, and in front of the opening to which the boats still lay. Then fainter, and fainter[7] notes proceeded up the vale, and, at length, at its furthest extremity, died away altogether.

After a pause of perfect silence, to ascertain that no return of the echoes could be expected, Julia was eagerly called upon to sing. She asked Edmund to join her in the echo duet, and smiled as she spoke to him. Half his unhappiness vanished in a moment, and the song commenced. The tones of Edmund’s voice were full and firm. His singing, however, derived its principal charm from his manner, which had in it so much of truth and nature, that you could almost fancy him one addressing you with no object but to persuade by the purport of his words; while the mere inflexions of the voice, in sympathising with that purport, unconsciously formed themselves into varied and melodious harmonies.

[8]

As for Julia’s voice, it chanced to be one of those wonders, rare as the blow of the aloe! Cultivation had, of course, not been spared; but it was its native power and unexampled compass which were so remarkable. Its variety of capabilities too delighted, for in soft or playful passages, its tones had, as we have somewhere remarked, an almost infantine sweetness. On the present occasion, the scenery, the music, the effect of the echoes, all were inspirations; and the notes which escaped from her lips, gradually arose, till imagination could fancy them travelling on above the clouds, and the listeners felt an involuntary impulse to look upwards, as in pursuit of them. Then, as the air varied, the voice would suddenly fall full and plump on the truest and richest harmonies below, while the higher tones were repeated far above by now receding, now[9] approaching echoes. Soon did the whole wild region round about seem peopled by invisible beings; wandering voices called from every pointed crag of every mountain top; while the steep-sided rock, near which the boat still lay, appeared to contain some dark enchanter, who, all the time in hurried and mysterious accents, spoke from within. Even every little tufted island seemed to have its own, one, wild inhabitant; for each, from some projecting point or hidden bower, sent forth a voice, however faint in its tone or inarticulate in its utterance. Julia’s enthusiasm arose so high, that she not only exerted every power of her extraordinary voice, but, when she had concluded, forgetting how considerable a part she had borne in the general concert, she cried, “Beautiful! beautiful!” in absolute extacy at the echoes.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaimed Edmund[10] at the same moment, meaning, probably, Julia’s singing, but certainly not his own.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” repeated the voice of thunder from within the adjacent perpendicular rock.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” ran along the invisible orchestra above. Frances could keep her countenance no longer at the self-gratulations of the performers, visible and invisible; she laughed out, and a merry peal from all the echoes followed immediately.

“This is too bad,” cried Mr. Jackson, starting, (to the great endangering of the boat,) from the attitude of delighted attention in which he had, since the commencement of the song, remained motionless, “this is too bad, to break up the delicious spell with such a farce as this!”

The sun was now near setting: a homeward course was therefore proposed; and[11] the breeze being favourable, a sail was spread, which, not only greatly assisted the rowers, but added much to the picturesque appearance of the gay barge in which our party sat, as, quitting its coasting position, it dipped like a white winged sea-bird into the dark bosom of the lake, and crossed to the Keswick side.

When they were about to land, Edmund paused a moment to consider whether he ought not to leave Julia to the care of Lord Borrowdale; but she happened at the moment, to point out a well remembered landing-place, beneath an overhanging bower of branches, reminding him how often he had rowed Frances and herself to the spot, and remarking further, a little path, sometimes discernible, among the trees in which they used to walk. Such are the important events which change the resolves of lovers! He gave up all thoughts of the[12] sacrifice he had meditated; hastened to assist her out of the boat; and, as she stepped on the beach, drew the hand he held over his arm, and walked on unconscious of an accident which followed immediately, and which we shall here describe. The hold of the boat-hook on the roots of a stump giving way, the boat was sent, for a few moments, a-drift; and not only was the bargeman, who stood with one foot on the edge of the boat and the other on a projecting piece of rock, precipitated into the water, but so also was Lord Borrowdale, who was, at the instant, in the very act of leaping ashore to join our heroine. This caused such immoderate laughing among the rest of the gentlemen, and so much pretty terror among the ladies, that Edmund and Julia were not missed till they became quite separated from the party. A most inviting path lay before them, which, after[13] ascending for a time, descended a steep and wooded slope, to an overarched opening through the trees, just where a single plank crossed a little stream, at a considerable height from the water.

Arrived on this rustic bridge they stood, the beauty of the scene suspending the hand of Edmund, which he had laid on a little paling gate at its further extremity, with the purpose of opening it, as it formed the barrier between our wanderers and a fresh cut hay-field.

The sun was so low in the horizon that the little mounds of grass which every hand was hastily throwing up for the night at the far end of the meadow, cast their lengthened shadows across half its extent, while the setting beam was still bronzing their tops, together with the faces, garments, and implements of the rustic groups employed around[14] them. At the same moment a full moon, just rising to view on the opposite verge of the heavens, was glittering through the branches of some dark firs that terminated the prospect in that direction.

Julia, who had several appropriate speeches ready, had been all day only waiting for an opportunity to say them; for she had reasoned herself into a belief that it would be dreadful to let Edmund think himself neglected for newer or gayer objects; but, some how, all this preparation had made a thing so simple in itself, as joking Edmund for being affronted, seem quite awful; and in consequence, her heart was beating so fast, that she was waiting for it to stop before she could begin to speak.

“Edmund,” she at length contrived to say, turning and offering her hand; but the foolish fluttering of her heart redoubled, and she[15] stopped short. Edmund started, caught the offered hand, and, puzzled and delighted, pressed it to his lips. She laughed, blushed, and drew her hand away, saying—

“I see, Edmund, you are silly enough to be quite jealous.”

This was rather an unfortunate choice of expression; for Edmund, colouring to excess, began to stammer out—“I—me—oh—a, I have a—I—”

“I dare say you think,” continued Julia, who had no suspicion of the kind of jealousy, which on mention of the word, had presented itself to Edmund’s fancy—“I dare say you think we did not appear as glad to see you as usual, when you arrived so by surprise yesterday; but you came in in so hurried a manner—and—among so many strangers—that—that—”

[16]

“Indeed, Julia, I—you—” again stammered Edmund.

“I am sure none of us intended to be unkind,” continued Julia, “—or less glad, I mean, of your safe return.”

“You are too good to be unkind to any one, Julia,” said Edmund, with a sigh. Julia still fancying his manner seemed strangely dissatisfied, began to feel offended in her turn, and a rather awkward pause followed. At length, she compelled herself to make another effort, and said, with a reasoning tone—

“You cannot suppose, Edmund, that any of your friends at Lodore regard you less, merely from your having been a few years from home! Indeed, if you could know how highly, both grandmamma and Mr. Jackson always speak of you, you would not think so!” He made no[17] reply; for it was neither grandmamma nor Mr. Jackson that he was thinking of.

“I believe,” she added, trying to laugh, “it really was all I had heard about ‘Captain Montgomery, the gallant Captain Montgomery!’ which made me find it so difficult to imagine Edmund, who used to play with Frances and myself here in these woods, and the said terrible Captain fighting the French and destroying the Turks on the high seas, one and the same person!”

“Ungentle employment, it must be confessed!” he replied, with a faint smile.

“Oh—I don’t mean that,” said Julia, “I—But really, Edmund, I think,” she added, gravely, “I have made you apologies enough to restore any reasonable being to good humour.”

“You make me apologies!” he commenced:[18] but Julia, as she turned from him, with something of indignation at his supposed obstinacy, forgetting the narrow plank on which she stood, slipped her foot, and would certainly have fallen into the water had he not caught her in his arms, and lifted her to sure footing. Julia, partly from alarm, and partly from the previous exertion of her spirits in saying so much, was a good deal overcome, and even shed tears. The sight of these threw Edmund off his guard. “Would to heaven, Julia!” he exclaimed, “that I were indeed your brother! entitled to the happy privilege of guarding one more precious than life from every danger! of sheltering one dearer than happiness itself—from every sorrow!”

Thunderstruck at his own rashness, he ceased. A smile through her tears was Julia’s reply; for, as she was not expecting, or thinking[19] of a love speech, she understood from what had been said, only that friendship and good humour were restored, and Edmund become more like himself. A long silence, however, followed: when Julia at last said, in rather a hesitating manner, and at the same time with an effort at playfulness, “Frances and I have always called you brother, you know, can you not fancy yourself such, and take as good care of us as if you were really our brother?”

This was a trying appeal; and the beating of Edmund’s heart, (closer to which he imperceptibly drew Julia’s arm as she spoke) shewed him that he must not trust himself with the use of language. Another silence, therefore, followed, and they walked slowly on. In a little time, Edmund, as if thinking aloud, gave, perhaps, unconscious utterance to what seemed to be the result of his meditations, saying:[20] “No, no!—it cannot be required of me, to root out the permitted affections of childhood from my heart!—It were too impossible!—too unnatural!”

“And who wishes you to do so?” asked his companion, with a quickness that shewed how little she understood his feelings.

At this moment, the rest of the party came in sight at some distance; and Edmund, as if fearful of interruption, turned suddenly round, and, in hurried and agitated accents, said, “Julia! you permit me to feel for you the affection of a brother! you permit me, you say, to evince that feeling by care of your welfare, your safety, your happiness. Should I ever be so unfortunate as to extend to what may seem presumption on your goodness, the dear, the sacred privilege—check—but do not, do not utterly condemn me!”

[21]

He paused a moment for breath, then, with effort, recommenced thus: “Your family is the home of all my affections! Could it be—should it be otherwise? Yet, in cherishing those affections, so natural, in my circumstances, so inextinguishable, there may occur moments when I may be tempted to forget that I myself stand alone, must ever stand alone, an unconnected, a nameless stranger!”

Here the joining of the party as they came up, laughing and recounting Lord Borrowdale’s adventure, put an end to this dangerous conference. Its results, however, coloured the future destinies of both the young people. If Edmund had previously formed safer resolves, they were now lost in the belief that Julia was in no danger of discovering in him, or sharing herself any sentiments, exceeding the bounds of that friendship which it was, (under the circumstance,)[22] but right and natural should subsist between them; while any deficiency (he argued with himself) in the manifestation of brotherly regard on his part, would require the very explanation it was his duty not to make. He must, therefore, shew her every silent, unpretending, affectionate attention; every mark of brotherly regard; while his own imprudent passion must lie for ever buried in his own bosom!

He must indeed correct its mad and wild intensity! The habit of being in her society, would, he hoped, assist him to do so! would moderate the extraordinary effect that society now had upon him! would enable him to sober down his feelings into those of a truly affectionate brother, really solicitous for the welfare of a sister he sincerely loves.

CHAPTER II.
“Sudden was the trembling joy
Of my soul, when mine eyes, lifted to seek
The bounding deer, have met thy secret gaze,
Mighty king, fairest among thy thousands!”

The interview described in the concluding pages of our last chapter, re-established, though certainly on very mistaken grounds, a kind of confidence between our hero and her who had ever been the darling of his childhood; banishing the momentary estrangement to which the first birth of a still fonder attachment had given rise.

[24]

It seemed to be now understood on both sides that they were to be quite brother and sister; and, accordingly, under the pleasing illusion, Edmund henceforward paid and Julia received every devotion that a growing and blinding passion could suggest, except open declaration: yet did confessions pass from heart to heart every time their eyes met, while their understandings pretended to know nothing about the matter; for each of them took care not to ask themselves any questions on the subject as long as they felt so perfectly happy as they now did in each other’s society. Even the attentions of Lord Borrowdale soon almost ceased to pain Edmund: he could distinctly see that they were, at least, indifferent, if not annoying to Julia; and, though he did not dare to ask himself why, the conviction was a source of infinite joy to him!

[25]

The gay mornings of the regatta, dinner company every day, and dancing every evening continued for some time, while the very public attentions of his said lordship towards our heroine; and the jest, or, as it is technically phrased, the quiz about our hero and Lady Susan, tended to blind every one to the growth of the deep rooted attachment which was thus hourly possessing itself of every feeling and faculty of heart and of soul in Julia and in Edmund. Yet still were they brother and sister; and, in their own opinion, behaving with the greatest prudence; for love was not once mentioned by Edmund, and, as to Julia, she never even thought of it, she only felt it!

“How good, how amiable it is of Julia,” thought Edmund, “to be so kind to a friendless stranger!”

“Who could be unkind to Edmund!”[26] thought Julia. “The gentleness of his manners win upon one so; the expression of his countenance is so interesting; his very smile is so nearly allied to melancholy that any one, with the least feeling, must dread the idea of causing him a moment’s pain.”

He, for his part, could not long deceive himself as to the nature of his own sentiments; but he thought there was no harm in cherishing them, while he could flatter himself that because he was not declaring he was concealing them. Or, had he thought otherwise, the temptation was, perhaps, too strong to be resisted.

He could not be blind to the pleasure with which Julia received every little mark of silent attention from him, and the blissful sensation which glowed within his breast at such moments was not to be foregone at the faint[27] instigations of a judgment bewildered by the influence of an absorbing passion. Yet he certainly fancied, that it was only his own futurity he was sacrificing for a dream of present felicity. Whatever he sometimes felt Julia’s feelings to be, he undoubtedly always thought them the generous friendship she had promised him should ever be his; and he thus reasoned with himself, that, as she had distinctly permitted him to feel and declare a brother’s affection for her, it was to be expected, that she would receive with complacency those unpretending marks of regard which belong peculiarly to friendship. And, as Frances was often even more openly kind in her manner to him, all was, of course, as it should be. As to himself—it was no matter about himself! he even felt a kind of satisfaction in thinking, that when he could no[28] longer enjoy the delirium of happiness under the dominion of which he now existed—when the hour of separation must come—why, then his misery should be as wild, as unlimited as his felicity was now! still would he watch for the dangerous smile, and when its light began to dawn on the features of Julia, he would have opened his heart to its intoxicating influence, had instantaneous death been the immediate and foreseen consequence. She often observed a shade of melancholy on the brow of Edmund, but she also observed that it gave way to sunny joy when a look, a word, or a smile of hers was directed towards him. To possess the power of giving happiness in a manner so easy and so innocent, to one for whom she did not deny that she had, all her life, had a very tender sisterly affection; to possess such a power and not to use it was[29] not in the affectionate nature of Julia. She did exert it every day, every hour, and when she saw Edmund’s countenance light up with a beam caught from her smile, she felt a degree of pleasure that sometimes startled her; but she never ventured to ask herself whether or not all this was to lead to any ultimate results. Sometimes indeed, she recollected, with a sensation of panic, that Edmund must again leave Lodore House, must again return to the sea, to hardships, to dangers; and then she would strive to banish the scaring thoughts that crowded in upon her, but the next time she addressed Edmund, there would be a tenderness in the accents of her voice, a something indefinable in the expression of her eyes, that would shake his whole soul to its foundation, bewilder his every thought, undo his every resolve, and place him, passive as it[30] were, in the hands of a fate, at once too overwhelming and too delightful to be resisted.

Meanwhile, the whirl of gaiety, the noise of merriment, was still going on around them. Frances was the ringleader of the quizzers of Lady Susan, and her ladyship evidently liked being quizzed, so that Frances did not think mercy necessary. The subject did not amuse Julia near so much as it did her sister, but then, Julia was always of a graver cast. As for Edmund, he considered the whole business so complete a jest, that he took it very good humouredly, and received Lady Susan’s attentions with great politeness. He even found it necessary, not unfrequently, to dance with her ladyship, or hand her in or out of a room, a carriage, or a boat, when he saw that she had actually been left for him. Sometimes too, he coloured and looked, involuntarily, towards[31] Julia, when pert young ladies told him, that they looked upon him as no better than a married man! He coloured too, and more deeply, when men told him that, faith, he might make his fortune if he were not the most egregious blockhead in existence. That Lady Susan had fifty thousand pounds, was one of the best connexions in the kingdom, and a very pretty young woman beside, a thing scarcely to be looked for where so many other advantages were combined. Even Mrs. Montgomery and Mr. Jackson, agreed together, but privately, that Edmund was fortunate in the probability there was of his making so desirable a match.

They determined that it was best to let matters take their course, and not to say anything about it to Edmund. They also agreed that the subject was much too delicate to be mentioned to either Lord or Lady Arandale, who[32] must themselves see what was going on. Lord and Lady Arandale, however, saw only that their daughter flirted a little, (a thing they were very well accustomed to see,) for the quizzing, which was the chief part of the business, was, of course, kept within decorous bounds in their presence. Julia, when the subject was long dwelt upon by others, sometimes felt not quite comfortable, (without, however, asking herself why,) and this uneasiness, slight as it was, vanished the moment she met the eye of Edmund, or that he spoke to her, on the most indifferent topic.

But to return to Mrs. Montgomery and Mr. Jackson, they were so extravagantly partial to Edmund themselves, and had for so many years strengthened each other in the belief that there was no doubt of his being the son of a noble family; no doubt, in short, of the truth of the statements in the nurse’s letter; that they did[33] not see the impropriety of a match between him and Lady Susan in the glaring light in which it would have been viewed by most others. They thought their inward conviction that his birth was equal to her ladyship’s, when joined with his own great merit, his amiability in private, and high standing character in public life, quite sufficient to outweigh the trifling circumstances of their never having been able to discover, exactly, who he was; and of his having no property but his captain’s pay, and his fifteen thousand pounds prize-money. What Mrs. Montgomery might have thought of all this, had the subject been brought nearer home by the knowledge that it was to Julia Edmund was attached, it is hard to say; for the best of us can seldom judge impartially when we ourselves, or those we love, are concerned. There are few mothers who do not expect their sons[34] to marry such women as, were they their daughters, they would not give to such men as their sons. But Mrs. Montgomery was spared all alarm respecting the intimacy between her grand-daughters and adopted son, by Edmund’s supposed sudden admiration of Lady Susan, commencing on the very evening of his arrival; and the fuss, as we before observed, which every one had since made, about their mutual attachment.

There was also another blind to Mrs. Montgomery’s penetration, in the marked and troublesome attentions of Henry to his cousin Julia, beside whom he was generally to be seen, while Edmund, by the contrivance of others, was dancing with or handing about Lady Susan. Mrs. Montgomery, in short, was very uneasy about it, and even lectured her nephew on the subject: for she knew how disagreeable[35] such a thing would be to Lord L?. Lord Borrowdale, too, who would have been a perfectly eligible match, was equally marked in his attentions; yet it was impossible to say, which Julia preferred: she generally smiled and looked happy, and this was all that could be ascertained. The lovers the while, strange to say, had taken no alarm, if we except Edmund’s first day or two of endless fears; since which, a tacit, and, to themselves, unacknowledged conviction of each other’s affection, had grown up in the heart of each, keeping peace within in spite of all outward occurrences. The miseries of doubt, the tortures of alternate hopes and fears, were, alas! reserved for a future stage of their attachment.

Edmund, indeed, was a little disturbed, one day, by Mrs. Montgomery’s asking him, which he thought Julia received with most favour, the[36] attentions of Lord Borrowdale, or those of her cousin: adding, how much she disapproved of Henry’s conduct in the business; and requesting that Edmund, when they returned on board, would give him leave of absence as seldom as possible. “For,” continued the old lady, “I have heard many sensible people say, that the sympathy which cousins naturally feel towards each other as relatives, is very apt to become love, (or, what is just as mischievous in its consequences, to be mistaken for it,) if young persons are allowed to be too much together. Now Lord Borrowdale, though a match of which her father would perfectly approve, is not, you know, near so handsome as Henry; who certainly has,” she added, with a sigh, “a great look of poor Maria.” She next adverted, but slightly, (having determined not to discuss the point at[37] present,) to Edmund’s own prospects with respect to Lady Susan. He had either fallen into a reverie, or he thought the subject too ridiculous to be treated seriously; for he merely said, with an air of great indifference, and in reply to more than one hitherto unanswered observation of Mrs. Montgomery’s, “Oh, ma’am, that, you know, can never be any thing but a jest.” Immediately after, however, changing his manner, he broke forth into an energetic, and almost passionate speech on the impossibility of one situated as he was, one who had no home, no country, no kindred; who knew not to what rank in society he belonged; who had not even a name, but by courtesy, and who, therefore, could not bestow one; ever thinking of marrying any being, however dearly, however fondly cherished their idea might be to the latest moment of existence!

[38]

All this was said with much feeling; for Julia was in every thought; while Mrs. Montgomery heard in it no denial of his attachment to Lady Susan; but, on the contrary, an implied confession of how much he regretted the obstacles which stood in the way of their union. She was beginning to say something, intended to raise her desponding favourite a little, in his own opinion, when the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Lord Borrowdale.

Edmund left the room half awakened from his dream of bliss; and, therefore, far from happy. The uneasy feeling, however, lasted but till he had found Julia; met her eye, and seen her smile; and then vanished with a celerity, which none can understand but those who have felt the powerful, internal evidence, a look can convey.
CHAPTER III.
“What moves thy spirit thus?”

Julia often happened to walk out before breakfast. Sometimes Frances was with her, and sometimes not; but Edmund always happened to join her.

One morning the three were walking together; the sisters, with their usual friendly familiarity, leaning each on an arm of our hero, whom they always treated as a brother; when Frances began, in a laughing manner, to ask him how soon his marriage with Lady[40] Susan was to take place. Edmund tried to smile, but sighed very heavily.

“No! so it is really serious!” cried Frances. Julia too, commenced a sort of sigh, but, as soon as she was aware that she had done so, she closed her lips, that the breath might descend without sound. Edmund, on whom, as we have just observed, she was leaning, felt the slight movement, and was strangely gratified; not that he presumed to assign any cause to the sigh.

“You know, Frances,” he said, in reply to the question about Lady Susan, “that business is completely a jest! I wonder, by the bye, her ladyship is not offended at being made the subject of a jest. But, were it otherwise,” he continued, with solemnity, “were she indeed the object of an overwhelming passion—were she indeed the being whose looks,[41] whose words, whose smile gave value to each moment of existence—were she in short the object of a first love, which you know they say cannot be torn up without carrying with it the very fibres of the heart itself, and leaving it incapable of future energy; (I do not say that I should attempt to eradicate the sentiment, no, I should cherish its very miseries as preferable far to the barren waste, the joyless void of a heart weaned from love;) but such feelings, whatever it might cost me to suppress them, should never be permitted to pass my lips, while mystery hung over my birth.”

“But may you not be loved for your own sake, Edmund, whoever you are?” said Frances, “and for the sake of the high character you have established for yourself, as Mr. Jackson says? I am sure I could not love you better, nor grandmamma, nor Julia, nor Mr. Jackson,[42] if you turned out to be the eldest son of his Majesty, and rightful heir to the throne of Great Britain!”

Edmund looked round involuntarily towards Julia, but her eyes were on the ground.

“I hope, Frances,” he said, in a mournful tone, “that I shall always possess the kind regard of the friends you have named. This hope, indeed, is and ever must be the only solace of my isolated, and, in all other respects, hopeless existence!”

“Don’t speak that way, Edmund, you make me quite melancholy!” said Frances, the tears starting into her eyes, as she held out her hand, which Edmund snatched and kissed.

“You hope!” said Julia, in a tremulous tone, in which was something of reproach. She looked up for a moment as she spoke, and Edmund saw the glistening of tears in her eyes also.

[43]

“I am sure,” he said, “of every thing that is noble, every thing that is generous, every thing that is kind.”—“That last word, Edmund,” said Julia, interrupting him, “is more like the language of the friend you ought to feel yourself among us.”

“Besides,” said Frances, continuing the former part of the subject, “grandmamma and Mr. Jackson, you know, think it quite certain that you are the son of a noble family.”

“Still, all is mystery!” he replied, mournfully, as his thoughts reverted to the disgraceful possibility which had of late haunted his imagination, that of his being yet proved the child of criminal, though, perhaps of titled parents. “In short,” he continued, “a being, such as I am, must drag out existence, a solitary wanderer, unconnected with any,[44] but by the ties of charity, of compassion.” After a pause, which neither of the sisters had voice to interrupt, he re-commenced—

“Duty, Frances, must soon again call me from the too happy dream I have lately enjoyed. Sometimes, indeed, in an hour of peace, I may, I shall, return to happy, happy Lodore, the dear paradise of my childhood; and from the generous friendship there granted me, derive gleams of felicity! snatches of a joy that will render the rest of life, perhaps, more dark.” He was silent a few seconds, then added, “Yet so precious will such moments ever be to me, that I shall hold them cheaply purchased by the dreary wretchedness that must precede and follow them!” Julia’s tears flowed silently. Frances’s too, were again starting into her eyes. “Nay, Edmund,” said the latter, “there is something more than usual[45] in the matter! this love, this First Love that you speak of so feelingly, I fear is a serious business after all! for you never were in love before, I suppose. But, indeed, you need not grieve so much; for I know—that is—at least—I have no right, perhaps, to betray such a trust—but still—I am perfectly certain that—that you will not be refused.”

“For heaven’s sake what are you talking of, Frances?” exclaimed Edmund, colouring excessively, while Julia turned deadly pale.

“I am saying,” replied Frances, “that I am sure, Lady Susan will not refuse you: she thinks you—so——”

“Lady Susan!” repeated Edmund, in a voice of disappointment. “She certainly never will, Frances,” he added, “for I shall never have the folly, or the presumption, to put it in her power to do so. You know I[46] have just explained to you that I can never marry—at least—But I may say never; for it would indeed be wildly romantic to hope that I ever shall be enabled, even to seek to do so, consistently with honour, and my own—wishes! the word is too inadequate. And were I, by the most unlooked-for circumstances, placed at liberty—am I to—to have—the vanity to—But you are leading me on to speak too much of myself, Frances; which is always, you know, a dangerous, as well as an unbecoming topic.” He ceased, and all three walked on for a time in silence. At length Julia said, in a low tone—

“Why should it grieve you so much, Edmund, not to—to marry? I don’t think there is any occasion for every one to be married! Now, I—for one—never intend to marry.” Edmund started, and looked round.

[47]

“You, Julia!” he said. “Yes,” she continued, dropping her eyelids, “I am very happy,” and here a sigh contradicted her assertion, “loving the friends I have loved all my life——” “All your long, long life!” ejaculated Edmund, with a smile and a sigh. “And I cannot imagine,” continued Julia, “beginning now to love a stranger; or suppose any thing so absurd as the possibility of setting up a new image in my heart, to be worshipped above all that have hitherto inhabited there! Oh no! that, indeed, can never be.”

“So,” interrupted Frances, laughing, “we are to understand that there is an old image set up there already! (a first love, I suppose, as Edmund calls it.) Is it then his lordship? or our amiable and interesting cousin? It would indeed be a charity to love him, for I am sure no one else does.”

[48]

“Oh! you know Frances, I—don’t mean—I mean, one’s own friends,” said Julia. “Now ask yourself: could you ever love a stranger, as you love those you have loved all your life? As you love me for instance?”

“A stranger,” said Frances, considering, “no, certainly, not while the stranger continued to be a stranger.”

“Well Henry, you know, is no stranger, so one of my guesses may be right, or perhaps you like Edmund better—I am sure I do.”

Edmund had remained perfectly silent; for a few seconds, he had actually been stunned by the extacy of an irresistible conviction that Julia was saying, as plainly as words could express it, that she loved him, and that she never would or could love any one else! But, on her appeal to Frances in reply to the interruption of the latter, his short lived transport[49] faded. “She alludes to the gentle ties of relationship,” said he to himself, “and having known no feeling but that of calm and gradually formed affection, she cannot even imagine any other.” A momentary pang indeed shot across his heart, as Frances alluded to Henry; for Julia might have loved him all her life, if she loved him at all; but he was not, as Frances observed, a character very likely to inspire love. Then her manner, the expression of her eyes, the tones of her voice; how different, when she addressed himself, from what they were when addressing her cousin! This was, however, a subject not to be too closely examined, though it served for the present to banish all painful thoughts respecting Henry.

“They talk, you know,” said Frances, “of love at first sight!” “Oh!” replied Julia, “such people must either have no real friends,[50] and therefore no real affections, or be, themselves, incapable of feeling a real attachment!”

“What do you call a real attachment?” asked Frances. “Why, one founded on—on—having all one’s life known, that the—friend—one loves unites every quality that is noble and estimable, not only in one’s own opinion,” replied Julia, blushing deeper and deeper at each word, “but in that of those, whose judgment one respects, with all that is gentle, kind, and amiable towards oneself!” Edmund felt an almost irresistible desire to press her hand as she said this, nor could he be quite certain that he did not do so. “It was Mr. Jackson,” she added, in a hurried manner, “that was explaining the subject the other day. He said, you know, Frances, that it was because we are formed to find perfect happiness hereafter in loving absolute perfection, that we[51] experience so much delight in attaching ourselves, in this life, to what, on earth, comes nearest to perfection! And what can we know of the perfections of a stranger?”

“Why, not till we discover them,” replied Frances, “but then, should they prove greater than those of our older acquaintances, by your own argument of loving best what comes nearest to perfection, the stranger must deserve and obtain our preference.”

“Oh! impossible!” exclaimed Julia.

“What is impossible?” asked Frances. Julia made no answer, and Frances, after a moment or two of silence, enquired of Edmund, if the Lancer whom they had observed driving his curricle round the lake yesterday evening, were the same they had seen at the Regatta. Edmund looked in her face without[52] meaning or reply. His thoughts had been too differently employed to be so easily brought to bear on the identity of a Lancer. “You see,” said Frances, “he is thinking of his First Love. We ought not to tease him with questions on less interesting subjects. I have been considering about it, Edmund,” she continued, “and I cannot see what harm it would be for you to be married to Lady Susan, when it would make you both happy.”

“Lady Susan!” repeated Edmund, “I am not thinking about Lady Susan, I assure you, Frances!”

“Indeed!” said a soft voice from behind, followed by immoderate laughter from several persons. Our trio looked round, and beheld Lady Susan herself, accompanied by Lord Borrowdale, Lord Morven, and Henry. “We[53] have caught the gallant Captain speaking of your Ladyship at least,” observed Lord Borrowdale.

“Which, in my opinion, argues thinking,” added Henry.

Edmund, not knowing well how to get out of the scrape, joined the laugh, and said, he believed he must plead guilty—of what, he left it to the imagination of his accusers to determine.

Lady Susan seemed to think it was of being in love, and that with herself; for she smiled, addressed our hero frequently, and was particularly obliging to him all the morning. Lord Morven, who did not seem much to relish the scene, asked, without addressing any one in particular, who that dashing fellow was who drove along the margin of the lake yesterday evening as they were boating. “The same,”[54] answered Lord Borrowdale, “who made himself so conspicuous during the regatta, splashing through the crowd in his curricle.”

“I am aware of that,” rejoined Lord Morven, “but I mean to enquire if any one knows who the young man is?”

“That no one I believe can make out. The name is Beaumont; but he has not brought any introductions, and has, I understand, declined the acquaintance of some persons who, taking it for granted that he was of the noble family of that name, wished to call on him.”

“He is not then, it would seem, very consistent,” said Henry, “for he literally scraped an acquaintance the other day with such a fellow as Lawson, (my aunt’s man of business,) for the express purpose of asking to be introduced at Lodore House.”

“He shows his good taste,” said Lord Borrowdale,[55] with an appropriate glance towards the group of ladies.

“He appears,” observed Lord Morven, “to have a tolerable taste in most things: his horses are beautiful animals, and his dogs the finest I have seen!”

“Is he not rather pleasing-looking himself too?” asked Frances; “I thought so, as well as one could see passing. Did not you think so, Lady Susan?”

“Indeed I did not look at him,” replied her ladyship, glancing at Edmund. “So,” said Henry, with a sneer, “the fellow drives about to some purpose it would seem.” “To a most enviable one, certainly!” remarked the compliment-loving Lord of Borrowdale.

“Pray, can any one tell what brought him into this neighbourhood?” asked Lord Morven. “They were obliged,” answered Lord[56] Borrowdale, “to send from Whitehaven to Carlisle for military, to quell a very serious riot of colliers, headed too, it seems, by one of the fair sex, who, I understand, leads her party in fashion of an equestrian amazon, and who had, they say, proceeded in triumph through every street in Whitehaven, terrified the poor quiet magistrates, overturned the carts of potatoes going down to the shipping for exportation, and, in short, lorded it over the whole population till the arrival of the dragoons.”

“How very well he plays the flute!” said Frances.

“Yes,” said Henry, “and what good care he took to keep his boat within hearing of our party, these several evenings on the lake.”

“I dare say it was quite by accident,” rejoined Frances; “and how picturesque the[57] effect was,” she continued, turning to Lady Susan, “of the little skiff with its one white sail, appearing and disappearing round points of rock; the one reclining figure playing on the flute, the two dogs seated, one on each side, listening with profound attention, till at some dying cadence, pointing their noses upward, they would utter a long and piteous wail! while the rapt musician himself seemed unconscious not only of their wild accompaniment, and that of all the echoes far and near, but even of his own performance.”

“He thought himself a perfect hero of romance, I have no doubt,” replied her ladyship.

“Well!” cried Frances, “I do not think there was any appearance of affectation about him.”

“Whoever he is,” rejoined Henry, “he had better not wander about these woods in his[58] long feathers, or I shall be apt to shoot him in mistake for a pheasant.”

“Henry, you had better take care what you do!” said Frances. “You are much too fond, let me tell you, of killing of every kind.”

“Talking of shooting, what have you done with that fine setter of yours, St. Aubin?” asked Lord Morven.

“Shot him!”—“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“The rascal leaped up on me with his dirty feet, after I was dressed for dinner, the other day.” “Shame! shame! Henry!” exclaimed both the sisters, at the same moment. “Too bad, faith,” cried the gentlemen.

Frances began to tell Henry that nobody would ever love him, he was so wicked. He affected to laugh, and whispered Julia as he passed, loud enough, however, for Edmund, who was on the other side, to hear. “What[59] do you say to that, Julia?” At the same time, accompanying his words with an insidious look of tender, confiding enquiry. She was astonished, but had not presence of mind to reply: and even Edmund, at the time, only thought Henry impertinent. The party had now arrived in front of the house.


CHAPTER IV.
“Here the bright diamond and the ruby take
The rose’s form; and the deep amethyst
The violet; while the modest pearl blends
Its moonlight lustre with the sunny gem.”

While all were taking their places at the breakfast table, Lady Susan was so obliging in making room for every one, that at last she found herself seated next to our hero. But, alas! Julia was on his other side. To do him justice, however, he helped her ladyship abundantly, too abundantly indeed to many things she did not want: he even had the unparalleled[61] generosity to offer her, and that with a sudden start of recollection, his cup of tea when she had one of her own; he also turned and begged her pardon, more than once, when it was not to him she had addressed herself.

“You see,” whispered Lord Borrowdale, who, for lack of room near Julia, had seated himself on the other side of Lady Susan, “poor Montgomery is so bewildered by the radiance of your ladyship’s smiles, that he actually does not know what he is doing.”

Lady Susan sighed and smiled, and tried to be of his lordship’s opinion. The following plan, which had been in agitation ever since the arrival of the Arandales at Lodore House, was now finally arranged. In short, Mrs. Montgomery, after many objections, at length consented to her grand-daughters accompanying their uncle’s family, back to Ayrshire, for about[62] a month. Captain Montgomery, and Mr. St. Aubin were invited to join the party. The Euphrasia being still in dock, our hero quickly assented to a proposal, by which he was to enjoy a continuance of Julia’s society.

“Julia!” exclaimed Frances, on receiving a message from a servant, “our poor little friend, Gotterimo! Oh, may we have him in, grandmamma? It will be so amusing!” “And I dare say every body will buy something from him,” added Julia.

“He is, I believe, a deserving poor creature,” said Mrs. Montgomery. “Shall we gratify the girls, and admit him?” she added, turning to Lady Arandale.

Lady Arandale, of course, assented, and orders were given accordingly. A young man, of a neat diminutive figure, now entered. His eyes sparkled with hope at the sight of so large[63] a company; while, at the same time, a kind of bashfulness flushed his cheek and flurried his manner. The girls saw this, and felt for him.

“Here, will you open the boxes on this table, Mr. Gotterimo?” said Julia; and while he was doing so, she observed, that when the first flush, called up by his entrance, went down, the poor creature’s countenance assumed an anxious and saddened expression.

“I hope,” she added, “you had good success in Bath?” “Yes, madam,” he answered, with some hesitation; then added, “it was first year, madam—every ting must have begin, madam.” This led to further enquiries, and a dismal tale of having been robbed by his partner, of the savings of his whole life.

Our breakfast party felt much commiseration for poor Gotterimo; and commenced making purchases as a means of affording, at[64] least, temporary assistance. The sale of his goods raised the spirits of our poor little friend, who soon became all activity in displaying, and eloquence in recommending each shining article in his sparkling collection. A chain was admired by Edmund for its resemblance to a cable, and was purchased by Julia. Lord Arandale’s eye accidentally fell on a musical box. Gotterimo set the air playing immediately.

“Is it not rather slow in the time?” said the Earl.

“Oh, de slow time, it do make listen!”

“I should prefer something less dismal,” said his lordship.

“So ’tis, sir! De quick time, it do make dance!” and, while he spoke, with nimble fingers he was winding up a curious seal which now began to execute a more lively air.

[65]

“That is pretty!” said the Earl. Gotterimo proffered the seal to his lordship.

“The articulation of the box is superior,” observed Lady Susan.

“Dis be more superior,” cried Gotterimo, presenting the box to her ladyship. “The seal is the prettier thing,” persisted Lord Arandale. “If you vil please, sir, bote be de best,” pursued Gotterimo, offering both. Here every one laughed. The little man looked round him enquiringly, then, rallying, said—“So ’tis, sir, de seal be de best beautiful! de box be de best music!” and he added, smiling sheepishly, “every ting be de best fen it bring Gotterimo de money!” This was logic not to be resisted, and the Earl took both, together with watches, seals, and chains, for three or four absent nephews; while Lady Arandale selected handsome presents for as[66] many absent nieces. Thus went on a brisk sale of poor Gotterimo’s goods, when Mrs. Montgomery, happening to cast her eye over the contents of one of the jewel boxes, which lay open, her attention was fixed by a curious mosaic ring: she caught it up and examined it with a much deeper interest than it seemed to merit. Gotterimo, believing she was admiring the workmanship of the article, silently undid the clasps of a small morocco case, and placed it open before her. It contained the set of mosaics to which the ring belonged: her countenance changed; and Julia remarked that movement of her head which always indicated strong emotion. Mrs. Montgomery turned the centre medallion. On the back part of the gold rim was engraved Maria, her sister’s name, and the mark by which they used to distinguish between their necklaces. She[67] turned deadly pale, and was only prevented sinking to the ground by the united support of Julia, Edmund, and Frances.

The moment Mrs. Montgomery recovered, she called for Gotterimo, and enquired, anxiously, where, when, and how those ornaments had come into his possession. “Dem be second hand, Madam,” he replied; “I have buy dem of a gentleman in London.” The name Gotterimo could not immediately call to mind. He had seen the person in question but once. In reply to the question of what sort of looking gentleman the person was, he said, “he vos tall and good look; look angry fen he no please, and have de loud voice.” Our little jeweller, however, offered to make “enquiry” of a friend of his, to whom, he said, “de same gentleman have sell de grand old plate, and de great many[68] picture, and de big box of de old fassion moneys.” The purchase of the necklace had been lately made; but all that Gotterimo knew further of the person who had sold it to him was, “that he have rob and cheat so many tradge people; and have hire de big house in ? Place, in London, to make dem tink him grand gentleman;” but that when he, Gotterimo, last left town, “de house vas empty, vid de bill ‘To Let, Furnish,’ on de vindow.” All now remembered to have read a recent account in the papers of the said swindler and his associates, with their assumed names.

The mosaics were purchased, and Gotterimo, after receiving considerable charitable donations, dismissed; while Mrs. Montgomery’s agitation of spirits was, at length, in some degree composed, by Mr. Jackson’s reminding[69] her that the necklace must have been parted with many years ago, by those of whom she thought; and that, its having since passed into the hands of a knot of swindlers, was by no means a remarkable circumstance.
CHAPTER V.
… “On the shadowy margin
Of the lake, in a spot sequester’d.”

“Can that noise be the bagpipes?” said Frances to Julia, trying to look from an upper window in one of the turrets of Arandale Castle. But no object immediately near the building could be discerned from windows situated as were those of this apartment. The more removed prospect, however, was rich and magnificent. Woods, which seemed interminable, every where met the eye; with, here and there, an opening among their ranges, displaying a[71] grassy avenue which ran along till lost again in the far perspective of grove meeting grove. In some of those avenues stood herds of deer, looking around them with an air of the most stately security; in others, even hares and rabbits were sometimes seen to venture from under cover, cross a path, and disappear again, whilst innumerable cawing rooks, continually passing and repassing each other’s heavy flight, hovered over all the summits of the trees; and in their branches sat gay plumed peacocks, uttering, from time to time, their wild cry. To complete the picture, one of the grassy avenues already described, terminated in a smooth, still sheet of water, an arm of which was crossed, at a considerable height, by a light bridge of iron work; while, on its glassy surface, sailed two snow white swans, the sole visible inhabitants of this their watery realm.

[72]

“It is the bagpipes, my Lady,” said Alice Smyth, “the housekeeper told me to tell your ladyships, that that was the way your ladyships would know when breakfast was ready. The old piper walks up and down under the windows, playing highland tunes all the time of breakfast, which my Lady Arandale makes herself every day at ten o’clock, and never waits for any body, but sends all away again at eleven, let who will or will not come down.”

“And does her ladyship make no allowance for the first morning after a long journey?” said Frances, (for they had all arrived at Arandale but the night before); “I declare my limbs are quite stiff. But we had better make haste, or, by Alice’s account, we shall have no breakfast,” she continued, taking her sister’s arm.

As they passed along the galleries above,[73] and across the halls below, numerous domestics pointed out, in silence, the way to the breakfast room. On their entrance, a general move took place among the gentlemen, though only the family party, each offered or pointed out a seat or seats. It so happened, that Julia took one offered by Edmund, who seated himself beside her, and began silently placing within her reach, every thing she could possibly want.

Lady Arandale sat at the head, Lady Susan at the foot of a long table; the one filled tea, the other coffee; and, in the intermediate space appeared the usual hot rolls, toast, eggs, etc. of an English breakfast, reinforced by the Scottish addition of crisp leaves of oaten cake, thin as writing paper, together with comfits, marmalade, and all sorts of[74] sweetmeats. Lord Morven presided at a side table, abundantly covered with savoury pies, cold meats, and dried fish; while Lord Arandale seemed to have the sole possession of a third and lesser one, where he alone was eating of a certain preparation of oatmeal, called in Scotland, porridge.

“You have quite forsaken your post, Captain Montgomery,” said Lady Susan. “I beg a thousand pardons,” exclaimed Edmund, starting up, “I thought I had filled all the cups.”

“Indeed!” replied her ladyship, in a tone of much pique, “Oh, pray be seated,” then, affecting a laugh, and closing her eyelids quickly once or twice to disperse a tear that might else have betrayed her mortification, she added, “you did not then, let me inform you, fill[75] even one. Nay, do pray sit down!” she continued, as Edmund made another attempt to rise, “I have completed my task with very little fatigue, I assure you, though you were so much shocked at the idea of my undertaking it.” Lord Morven, a wing of pigeon suspended on his fork, looked round at his sister with a broad and silent stare. She blushed, and addressed, successively, Henry, Frances, and Colonel Morven, without waiting for an answer from any of them. Edmund coloured, and Julia, who had neither been addressed nor accused, but by her own conscience, coloured also.

Lord Arandale, having dispatched his first course, joined the general table to finish his repast with some of the good things it afforded. Plans of amusement for the day now became the general topic; Julia and Frances[76] begged that they might be permitted to explore some of the beauties of the grounds, which, from their windows, promised so much. Lady Susan proposed a visit to her cottage; it was one of those imitations of a real rustic habitation, which, situated in some delightful retirement in the midst of extensive pleasure grounds, were the fashionable playthings of the great young ladies of the day. A spinning wheel was always a part of the furniture, and a proficiency in its use a necessary accomplishment to ladies possessing these rural boudoirs. Her ladyship’s proposition seemed agreeable to every one; particularly as the walk to the cottage led through much of what was most interesting in the grounds. Immediately after breakfast, therefore, the whole party assembled in front of the castle to commence their ramble.

Lord Arandale saying that he would show[77] Julia the way, drew her arm over his; Lord Morven offered his to Frances; Henry joined Colonel Morven; Lady Susan walked alone; and Edmund, who on first setting out had intended to walk at the other side of Julia, felt himself obliged, in common politeness, to step forward and join the lady who had no companion. He did not, however, intend to offer his arm, as he meant to avail himself of the first favourable opportunity for desertion. But her ladyship struck her foot against the stump of a flower root, then limped a step or two, and next came in contact with a loose stone: in short he found it impossible to evince a suitable concern for such accidents, without saying something about an arm. Lady Susan accordingly took his arm; laughed at her own giddiness, confessed her want of a guide; “Though,” she added, “here I ought rather[78] to be yours, instead of making myself so troublesome.” Edmund said, very coolly, as he thought, that he was happy in being useful; reproached her ladyship in due form for misnaming the pleasure of being so, a trouble; and proceeded to hope that she had not suffered materially from his negligence, in the first instance. There was something so soothing, so persuasive in Edmund’s manner and voice, at all times, that common politeness from him, possessed an almost dangerous charm; and her ladyship was willing to be deceived.

Such a manner must be the result of suppressed feeling, thought Lady Susan; but she remembered the coffee: yet, might not even that, she asked herself, be one of the strange inconsistencies of love. Her spirits began to rise; and her good humour, never long absent, returned. She introduced sentimental subjects, and frequently[79] spoke in so low a tone, that Edmund was obliged to stoop towards her to gather the meaning of what she said; so that to those who walked behind them, they appeared to be engaged in very earnest, and very interesting conversation. They turned off into a narrower walk; and the next time Edmund looked over his shoulder, which he did rather oftener than Lady Susan liked, not one of the rest of the party was any where to be seen.

“Your ladyship should certainly know the way here,” said Edmund, hesitating, and slackening his pace; “but we have either left them all very far behind, or taken a wrong path.” “This is the prettiest way to my cottage,” said her ladyship, “to which they will all certainly bend their steps, by whatever walk they may have gone round.” Accordingly, our advance couple proceeded onward uninterrupted[80] through delightful solitudes. Her ladyship grew more and more romantic; many of her opinions, many of her very expressions were in perfect unison with the secret sentiments of Edmund; though those sentiments had, it must be confessed another object; Edmund’s replies, therefore, were frequently bursts of feeling suddenly checked; he was often silent, and sometimes sighed.

Lady Susan no longer doubted. There was a struggle in her bosom between natural modesty and a generous wish to reward the attachment of one, who was kept silent by honourable and manly motives.

By this time they reached the cottage. It was all that was rural; thatched, of course, and overgrown with jessamine, honeysuckle, and ever blowing roses. Buried in the deep woods that surrounded the castle, it had a little[81] paled in garden and a small space of green, clear in its front; and, at the foot of the green, ran a little rivulet with a plank thrown over it, to form a rustic bridge. Tamed pheasants strayed about instead of barn-door fowl, a kid was tied to the paling, and a sheep with two lambs fed on the little plot of grass before the door.

Her ladyship having, with Edmund’s assistance, crossed the plank, caressed each of her favourites as she passed them, and, leading the way through the little garden, opened the latch of the cottage. All within was perfect rusticity: the furniture consisted of a small dresser with a few delf plates, a corner cupboard with some common looking cups and saucers, a deal table, a few wooden chairs, a low three legged stool, a spinning wheel, a kettle and some dried herbs suspended from the ceiling, some bright tin utensils arranged on nails against the wall[82] over the chimney-piece, and a small looking-glass hung at the side of the latticed window.

Lady Susan became silent and absent; went to various repositories of grain and fed each of her pets; Edmund, of course, assisting. When she had finished, she seated herself on the three-legged stool, and began to spin with great assiduity and quite a practised hand. Edmund, whom she had requested to take a chair beside her, sat for some time in silent admiration of her performance. Suddenly, she lifted the toe of the foot that had kept the wheel in motion, and suspended the little white hand over the fore finger, of which the thread had been passing. “This spot, you see, Captain Montgomery,” she said, “is my plaything; yet, how happy might people be whose all it was!”

“Certainly!” he replied with much energy,[83] instantly making Julia in imagination its mistress, and himself her partner for life: “Here is all that unsophisticated nature calls for; and, in the society of an object beloved, how seldom would the outer world be remembered!”

Her ladyship blushed and sighed; but Edmund’s thoughts were full of another image, and the blush and the sigh, which else might have spoken volumes, were unnoticed by him. A considerable pause ensued. “It certainly is madness,” said Lady Susan at length in a low voice, and with some hesitation, “It certainly—is—madness, to sacrifice realities to opinions, and those opinions not our own!”

“Oh, most assuredly!” replied Edmund, “when such is the case; but when our own opinions, our own sense of all that is honourable, just, grateful, are in direct opposition to our own feelings of all that:”—he recollected[84] himself, broke off suddenly, and coloured: not that he apprehended being misunderstood; he rather dreaded that he was too well understood, and conscious that he thought of Julia while he spoke, feared he had inadvertently betrayed sentiments it was so incumbent upon him to conceal. “Yet—yet—” said her ladyship, “if—if the object—of an attachment so tender, yet governed so entirely by honourable principles, is willing to wave imaginary, in favour of real superiority?”—and she held out her hand.

Edmund first stared at the hand; then, scarcely conscious of the mechanical movement, took it in his. “For heaven’s sake, what do you mean, Lady Susan?” he exclaimed, changing colour twenty times in a minute; for, still possessed with the one idea, and too little of a coxcomb to be ready to believe[85] her ladyship seriously attached to him because idle people had jested on the subject, the thought crossed his mind in the confusion of the moment, that Lady Susan must be in the confidence of her cousin, and must be expressing her belief that Julia returned his attachment.

Lady Susan spoke again,—“It would be mere affectation in me, Captain Montgomery,” she said, “to pretend blindness to the state of your feelings, and I respect the motives that have prevented their open declaration—” Her ladyship looked down, paused, and trembled excessively. Voices were heard without. The party passed the paling gate, and moved along the little walk of the garden. Lady Susan looked in alarm towards the door, coloured very deeply, and said, in a hurried tone, and with a kind of smile that struggled with a few tears of mingled pleasure and shame, “It is[86] rather hard, that I should have it to say, half unasked after all; yet, in favour of your motives, which I honour, I will say it—I am yours!” At this moment, the whole party flocked in, and filled up the little cottage room. Lady Susan snatched away her hand, which Edmund had been too much puzzled to resign, and resumed her spinning in a state of overwhelming confusion. Edmund stood rooted to the spot, looking and feeling, if possible, still more confounded; his colour mounting gradually as his perception of the truth cleared up, while his countenance became filled with expressions the most inexplicable!

Lord Arandale, fortunately for Lady Susan, was too busy speaking to Julia about some of the beauties of the grounds to observe his daughter. But he addressed an ear that heard little of what he said. Julia, during the walk, had[87] been wishing that Edmund would join them. She had observed him when going on before the rest of the party with Lady Susan, and, seemingly engaged in a conversation so earnest; and she had, even then, felt a slight unacknowledged sensation of uneasiness.

On entering the cottage, the first object that met her eye was the eye of Edmund. For the first time its expression did not banish every shadow from her thoughts, did not bring sunshine to her heart. It had never before had a meaning that she had not felt, at least, (if not exactly understood,) and felt with a too dangerous consciousness of delight; now his eye wandered from hers without an answering look. Lady Susan, too, how extraordinary was her expression! Julia became in one moment, though she had no time to ask herself why, miserable! entirely miserable! It was a kind[88] of wretchedness, too, that she had never before even imagined. It puzzled—it alarmed her. A hopelessness came over her heart, that in all her grievings over the thoughts of Edmund’s going away, she had never known. Though she had never formed any other plan but that Edmund was to be her friend, her brother, she his friend, his sister; this had all been, while the bare idea of ever being other than the first in his affections, had not once presented itself to her imagination as even possible; but now, unaccustomed as she was to analyze subjects of love and marriage, there was something in the circumstances of the two conscious beings before her, which seemed obviously to set up a living, breathing object between herself and Edmund. Why such should be any obstacle to brotherly and sisterly regard still subsisting between them, she did not particularly enquire;[89] yet all the stores of love and happiness that she had been collecting from infancy, seemed now to have been swept away in one single moment. She continued, however, to hang on the arm of Lord Arandale, and to answer any direct questions put to her as well as she could. After examining and admiring the cottage and grounds, the party at length returned to the gravel-sweep before the castle.

A curricle, with a gentleman driving, and a lady seated beside him, was now seen approaching. “Here is Lady Morven at last,” said Lord Arandale, letting go Julia’s arm, and advancing towards the new arrival.

“Matilda, I declare!” cried Lady Susan, hastening forward with her brother, who, on their return from the cottage, had, in a very marked manner, insisted on her taking his second arm. Edmund, who had walked in silence[90] on the other side of Julia, pondering partly on her altered manner, and partly on his own late adventure; when Lord Arandale withdrew his support, took up her hand, softly, and drew it over his arm; bending forward, at the same time, as if anxious to catch a view of her countenance. She kept her head, however, carefully turned in a contrary direction, and the moment they reached the steps, without speaking or looking round, withdrew her arm, glided away, and hurried up to her own room. Yet, such is the weakness of the heart that loves, that she had felt less unhappy during the few seconds her arm had rested on that of Edmund.

Julia’s conduct and feelings on this occasion, were certainly very foolish, but it must be remembered that she was scarcely eighteen; that she had been brought up in perfect[91] seclusion, a seclusion too of sentiment, where, from five years old, she had never seen, or even heard any thing of life, but within the one domestic circle, in which all that was thought of, was tender mourning for the one that was lost, and tender cherishing of the few that were left. It is not then surprising that those few, and the first place in their hearts, should be romantically valued by one whose opening mind had thus, in every stage of its developement, been strongly impressed with the one idea, that all the rest of the world must be for ever strangers to her, in comparison of those who had, in this exclusive manner, possessed her earliest affections. And when, in addition to all this, the spell of a first love had fallen on a heart so prepared, could much philosophy be expected?

CHAPTER VI.
“Is this a madness that is upon me?”

The party we left at the door, reinforced by a number of newly arrived nephews and nieces of my lord’s and my lady’s, were by this time entering the great drawing-room, at the further end of which Lady Arandale was seated on a sofa, arranging, on a table before her, the presents she had brought for her nieces. From out of the entering group, one lady, whose precedence seemed to be undisputed, came forward towards Lady Arandale. It was Lady[93] Morven. She was very tall, and very slight with long thin limbs, a small head, a little round face, deeply pockmarked, small grey eyes, scarcely any nose, and a small mouth without any lips. She was highly rouged, and dressed both fashionably and extravagantly; and her figure, though totally without form, had an air of grace as well as of elegance. The first salutation over, she flung herself on a sofa opposite to that occupied by Lady Arandale.

“And pray, Matilda, my dear,” said the last named lady, “why did you not come to Lodore after all?”

“La! ma’am, I had nobody to drive me.”

“Had na’ ye, yier coachman, my dear?”

“You know, I can’t bear any body’s driving but Graham’s; and the wretch thought fit to fall out of his curricle the very day he was coming over to take me: so there I have had[94] him, with his arm in a sling, lounging about at Morven Hall, ever since: quite a bore, I assure you!”

“Your ladyship does me in-fi-nite honour!” faintly drawled out Mr. Graham, from the depths of a repose-chair, well furnished with down pillows, in which he had established himself. “Cruel—the distance,” he continued, letting fall word after word, “which divides me—from—so much goodness—Pray—Lady Morven—are the cushions—on that—sofa—mul-ti-tudinous?”

“Yes, there are a good many,” replied her ladyship, and as she spoke she made room for him, adding, “had you not better come over?”

“I am meditating the exertion of a removal shortly,” he rejoined, “but just—at present—it is quite—impossible: I am—absolutely in—elysium—enjoying—the very first sweets of an[95] attitude—the most deliciously easy, in which—I had ever—the good fortune—to place myself.”

“And pray,” asked Lady Arandale, “was this nursing of Mr. Graham’s wounds, a tête-à-tête business?”

“Yes,” replied Lady Morven, “except a parcel of the girls, you know,” (the girls were all above twenty) “and that creature, Sir Archibald Oswald, harmless as usual, though more mad, I think, than ever!”

“Which is that, Graham or Lady Morven, who does Sir Archibald Oswald the honour of naming him?” demanded a voice, in the tones of which a slight tincture of affectation was blended with melancholy and melody. It arose from a yet unseen personage, of whose arrival no one seemed to be aware, and who, reclining on a chaise-longue in the recess of a[96] distant window, was sheltered from observation by a large circular stand of exotics. Lady Morven started on her seat with a sort of rebound. The young people smiled, and tittered a little. Lord Arandale looked at them and frowned.

“Are you there, my good friend?” he said, going towards the reclining gentleman, who, at his approach, slowly and reluctantly arose.

“Ye may weel ask whilk it was that spack, Sir Archy,” observed Lady Arandale, who prided herself on speaking broad Scotch. “It is vara true, there is nae telling the voice o’ the one, fra that o’ the other.”

“Why,” drawled Lady Morven, “I quite admire Mr. Graham’s accent, and therefore I make it a point to speak like him.”

“Your ladyship is too good!” articulated the drowsy subject of this compliment. Sir[97] Archibald by this time stood quite erect, answering some polite enquiries of Lord Arandale and Lord Morven, who seemed desirous to unite in shewing a peculiar degree of courtesy to this guest. Edmund stood alone, observing with much interest the appearance of Sir Archibald, the peculiar and melancholy melody of whose voice had first drawn his attention. His figure was tall, well proportioned, and had an air of dignity. He seemed little more than fifty; but very grey for that age. His hair was parted on the forehead, and fell on either side of the face so long, and with so little regard to present modes, as to resemble that of one of the ancient bards. His countenance, though its beauty was almost defaced by the deepest furrows of affliction and premature old age, still retained the outlines of fine features,[98] to which the melancholy that predominated in its expression, gave much interest.

Lord Arandale summoned Edmund by a look, and presented him to Sir Archibald, saying, “This gentleman, Sir Archibald, can talk to you on your favourite subject, of naval affairs, better than most people.” Edmund now joined the group, and while taking a part in the very incoherent conversation that was going on, observed, with much compassion, that the fire which awakened animation from time to time, called into the eye of the evidently unfortunate being before him, varied from wild to gloomy, and from gloomy to wild, but never once expressed pleasure; indeed it was when he attempted to smile that the light was wildest: and how instantaneously, how darkly did the cloud that thus had opened but for a moment, close again!

[99]

“What a wreck is there!” said Lord Arandale to our hero, as Sir Archibald and Lord Morven left the room together. Edmund looked a sort of enquiry, which the Earl answered thus: “Gambling, gambling it was which ruined him, as it has done many others.—There is a man who, twenty-five years since, possessed a property of twelve thousand per annum, in this county, where he was well known and much respected by us all;—now he has not sixpence in the world. He lives in the Isle of Man; his poor wife is broken-hearted, they say; and his boy is bringing up without education or prospects. It was the birth of that child to an inheritance of ruin, which, I believe, unsettled poor Oswald’s mind. When he is sane he remains on the island in the strictest retirement; but, when he wanders in mind, he wanders in body also, and throwing himself[100] into any fishing smack or boat that happens to be on the coast, wherever he may chance to be landed on the main land he makes his way to this neighbourhood, visits the houses of those with whom he used to associate in his days of prosperity, seems unconscious that any change has taken place, and wears, wherever he goes, such clothes as are left for him in his room. Sometimes he enters the house where he once was master, fancies it still his home, and acts the host with all the graceful politeness for which he was once remarkable, treating the family now residing there, and any company they happen to have with them, as his guests.”

“He looks to great advantage when he is here,” said Lady Morven, “Alfred’s clothes fit him so well.”

“Did your ladyship ever happen to see him at the Laird of Moorland’s?” enquired[101] Mr. Graham, who had now got to the sofa on which Lady Morven lolled; “the laird, you know, is very short, and very fat, and you never saw such a figure as Sir Archibald makes in his clothes!”

“Misfortunes, even when they are, as in this instance, the results of the sufferer’s own imprudence, still are bad subjects for merriment,” mournfully observed Lord Arandale, to whom the attempt to cast ridicule on his unhappy friend seemed very unwelcome. “You see, Montgomery,” he continued, turning to Edmund and leading him apart, “what gambling will bring a man to! It was,” and he lowered his voice and looked towards Henry to see that he was not within hearing, “it was that horrible St. Aubin, (that young fellow’s father,) who ruined poor Oswald. I believe too,” he added, “that Oswald was very sincerely[102] attached to poor Maria before she made the unfortunate choice she did; and that disappointment had its share in throwing him into bad habits.”

“What is the cause,” asked Edmund, “of the interest Sir Archibald seems to take in the Navy?”

“He did belong to the profession in very early life,” replied his lordship, “and was fond of it, I believe; but left it when his father and elder brother died. In his lucid intervals, I understand, he wishes very ardently to get his boy afloat; but no one, you see, likes to take charge of a lad so unfortunately situated. It would be attended, too, with some share of expense; for poor Oswald has not even the means of fitting him out; and Lady Oswald’s relatives, who are very powerful, have never pardoned her the misfortunes she has brought[103] on herself; for Oswald was nearly a ruined man when the marriage took place; she, however, had been previously engaged and attached, and would not break it off.”

Edmund was so forcibly struck by this melancholy relation, that he made no immediate reply. He thought of what he himself had been when a boy; of what he might have been at this day had no benevolent hand been stretched forth in his behalf. His resolution was taken, but he made no allusion to it at the time, and retired to dress pondering the subject: for the half hour bell was ringing, and all the party dispersing on the same important errand. Frances and Lady Susan, who had all this time been busily engaged in a distant window in seemingly very confidential conversation, were the last to part.

CHAPTER VII.
… “The lovely light of Innisfail,
Hides within her shadiest bow’r and weeps.”

When Julia heard Frances approaching, she was, for the first time in her life, guilty of artifice; she snatched up a book, and appeared to be busily engaged reading. Frances rang the bell, then went towards a looking glass, and began to take pins out of her dress.

“Do you know, Julia,” she said, “I think that Edmund and Lady Susan will be married after all!” Julia pretended not to hear, and in[105] reality did not see, (correctly at least) for the words on the open page before her seemed quitting their ranks, and mingling in one disorderly maze. This however was of little importance, as she had held the book upside down from the first.

“I can’t but think of all Edmund’s resolutions,” pursued Frances, laughing, and continuing the preparations for her toilet, without noticing the effect of her information upon Julia. The entrance of Alice here put an end to the subject.

“What shall we wear to day, love?” asked Frances.

“Wear——?” repeated her sister.

“Yes, what dress shall we wear?”

“Oh—whatever you like, love.”

“Bless me, my Lady!” cried Alice, “what do you want of your nightcap?” Julia snatched[106] off the half-arranged cap, and flung it on a chair, colouring, and replying in evident confusion, “I declare I forgot, I thought we were going to bed.” Frances laughed so immoderately, that it gave Julia time to recover. She made a strong effort, aroused her faculties, and, to a certain degree, composed herself. The labours of the toilet completed, the sisters descended; Lady Arandale was seated on a sofa with Mrs. Morven, an elderly lady, the wife of a brother of my Lord. Lady Morven and Mr. Graham were lounging on an ottoman, talking about nothing, and apparently fearful of exhausting their slender stock of ideas by any extravagant expenditure, seemed trying which of them could articulate the slowest. Henry was standing in a window, flirting with no less than three of the Misses Morven. The fourth Miss Morven was seated on a sofa with[107] a Mr. Gordon; Edmund and Lady Susan stood in a very distant window, in deep conversation; and, in another and nearer window, stood Lord Arandale, General Morven, a brother of his lordship, Lord Morven, Colonel Morven, and two Messrs. Morven, in conversation with Sir Archibald Oswald. Julia and Frances entered, and some family introductions were made, during which, Sir Archibald left the circle of gentlemen which had surrounded him, approached the sisters, and stood gazing at them.

“Poor Sir Archibald was always a great admirer of beauty,” observed Lord Arandale, aside to the General, “and still, I think, it seems to possess a sort of soothing power over his exasperated feelings.”

“Perhaps,” said the General, “(though I don’t think either of the girls like their aunt,)[108] he may perceive that degree of family resemblance in Julia, which has, sometimes, so powerful an effect on the disordered imagination.”

“He was so young,” replied his lordship, “that I should think he could scarcely remember her.” “It was a boy’s love, certainly,” said the General, “but it was, I believe, a first love, which, they say, leaves an indelible impression.” “It is fortunate that he does not seem to perceive Henry’s terrific likeness to his father,” observed the Earl. By this time, Julia was seated, and Sir Archibald had taken a footstool, placed it at her feet, and seated himself upon it. He looked up mournfully in her face for a few seconds; and then, to the surprise of every one, commenced giving utterance to a low murmuring sound, which gradually swelled into the rich harmonies of a very old song,[109] all the changes of which were performed with the most perfect melody of voice, and to which a pervading melancholy, diversified by occasional starts of wildness, gave indescribable interest. All became silent listeners: not a whisper broke the spell; till the growl of the gong was heard, then its roar, like that of beasts of prey.

Sir Archibald ceased, listened, arose; and without appearing aware of his own late performance, offered his arm to Julia: and all this with quite the air of a man of the world; his manners, at the moment, were even tinctured with that slight degree of affectation, which, once was one of his youthful foibles; while they bore no mark whatever of the deranged state of his mind.

Lord Arandale handed down Mrs. Morven; the General, Lady Arandale; Mr. Graham,[110] Lady Morven; the Colonel, Frances; Henry took two Misses Morven; Mr. Gordon, the other two Misses Morven. Edmund next, led Lady Susan from the recess of the window. This last couple were first waited for at the drawing-room door, and then followed to the dining-room by Lord Morven, who seemed to view his sisters’ flirtation with much more severity of aspect, than he manifested towards his wife’s.

Lady Susan did not smile once, in the whole course of dinner; a thing never known before.

Edmund was silently and respectfully attentive to her ladyship, but also grave. Julia received, with absent passiveness, the politeness of Sir Archibald, wondering the while, why Lady Susan did not look happy! The rest of the party were very gay.

During the dessert, Sir Archibald asked Lord[111] Arandale, in a careless manner, how the pretty Mrs. Miller did. The Earl was at a stand for a few moments; but, throwing his recollections back some five and twenty years, he answered: “well, I believe—a beautiful creature she was,” he added.—“Was!” repeated Sir Archibald; “no accident, I hope has befallen the lady?” “Not any, to my knowledge,” replied the Earl. Then addressing Mrs. Morven aside, he added, “only, that the suns of twenty or thirty summers have withered the fresh bloom, and the snows of as many winters, whitened the bright locks of pretty Mrs. Miller; but poor Oswald, I see, is thinking of our adventure with that fair dame, as of a business of yesterday. How mysterious is the power of association!” And the Earl smiled, though with a mixture of melancholy, at his own recollections. Mrs. Morven requested a[112] translation of the smile. “Shall I tell that good story, Oswald?” said Lord Arandale. Sir Archibald had become absent again, and replied only by a bow. Much curiosity, however, being expressed by the ladies, to hear what had been announced as a good story, the Earl was prevailed on to commence the following relation.

“Oswald and myself were a pair of wild fellows, in those days,” he proceeded; “we happened to be riding together one fine morning, how long since I shall not say; when, passing through the village of Irvine, we saw seated in a window at work, but dressed gayly enough, a very beautiful young woman, no other than this said Mrs. Miller. We knew not, of course, who the lady might be, so went to a shop nearly opposite, to ask the question. Here we learned that the fair object of our enquiries,[113] was the young wife of the old minister. We drew off, and put our horses’ heads together, to consult on the measures to be adopted next.

“Old Miller, said I, will esteem it not only a compliment, but an eternal obligation, if I call on him; and I can take any friend with me, you know, that I please. We rode to the door, sent in our names, and were admitted into a small, smoky, dirty parlour; the inside of which I shall never forget. The perfumes of a lately removed dinner, of which a certain fragrant vegetable, and a no less odoriferous liquid, had evidently formed component parts, were overpowering; especially to people who had been just galloping their horses over the fresh heath of the open moorlands. The old minister, in his worsted hose and red nightcap, (but I shall not attempt to paint him,)[114] met us, boo, booing, and returning thanks to my lordship for the honour conferred on him and his peur hoose, by my lordship’s visit; and declaring, with another boo to Oswald, that ony friend o’ my lordship mon be welcome.”

Lord Arandale could imitate the Scotch accent very well, when giving humour to a droll story. “‘Your daughter, I suppose, Mr. Miller,’ I said, bowing to the lady. ‘My wife—Maistriss Miller—gin yier lordship has nay objection.’ ‘You are a fortunate man, Mr. Miller,’ I said; ‘such wives are not to be had every day,’ and I bowed again to the lady, who smiled. ‘Ye mauna pit nay sic notions intil woman’s heade, my Lord,’ said Miller; ‘Meg kens vara weel hersel, that she could niver heve evened hersel tle a Minister, gin he hed been a young calant, at hed time tle[115] look about him for a mair befitting spoose.—Bit as a christian man, I ken ’at we awe come o’ Adam and Eve; and se, Meg, if she behave hersel, will di vara weel for me.’ Oswald, mean while, was making some pretty side speeches to Mrs. Miller; so that the old fellow, beginning to perceive that our visit was to his wife, not to himself, after fidgeting and looking foolish for a few minutes, seemed struck with a sudden thought, in pursuance of which he played us such a trick, as never was, I believe, practised before on two gay fellows like ourselves.

“‘My Lord,’ he said, with mock solemnity, ‘this is just oor hoor for femily preyer, whilk I niver defer for ony carnal interruption.—Yier lordship, hooiver, will heve nay objection, tle join yier voice tle oor devotions; as, truly, this visit, marking yier personal respeck for yier[116] minister, hath proven.’ So saying, and without giving us time to take any measures of self-defence, he fell on his knees and began to pray aloud. The lady knelt down also, and, faith, we were taken so by surprise, that if we did not absolutely kneel, we stood with our faces in our hats, resolving not to call again at that hour. The prayer was unmercifully long; extemporary, of course, and consisting chiefly of earnest supplication for grace to withstand all temptation to such errors as he thought fit, in his christian charity, to suspect were, just then, the besetting sins of his congregation. What a cordial we found the air, even of the street, when at last we got into it; which we did the moment the amen had been pronounced. In a day or two, however, we called at quite a different hour; but had not been seated many seconds, when the old fellow told us,[117] with a sly ironical smile, that we surely had the gift o’ prophecy, for that we were just in time again for his family prayer. Accordingly he was about to kneel as before, but this being rather too much of a good thing, we made our escape, and gave up the acquaintance both of Maistriss and Maister Miller. Take notice, however, young men,” continued the Earl, addressing himself particularly to his family circle, “I do not mean to offer this conduct of my own and my friends as an example for your imitation; it was highly improper, though in our own justification, I must add, that we had no worse intention than to frighten the old fellow a little, and excite the vanity of his wife; as, what we, in our wisdoms, considered a just penance for his having helped himself to one so much too young and too pretty for him.”

[118]

During the comments which followed, Sir Archibald caught the sound of Henry’s voice, which had the exact tone of his father’s, particularly in a laugh. He glanced his eye in that direction, and now seemed to see young St. Aubin for the first time, though he was seated exactly opposite to him. Clouds gathered on Oswald’s brow, and he directed across the table looks so fierce and so portentous, that the whole company became alarmed. The ladies rose to retire, and Lord Arandale, during the move which their exit occasioned, gave Henry a hint to keep as much as possible out of Sir Archibald’s view.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Yes, once did resolution fail.”

As it was still day-light some of the ladies walked to the gardens, others strolled about near the doors; Lady Susan disappeared without speaking to any one; Frances went to seek her; Julia flung herself on a sofa in the great drawing-room, which she found quite deserted. She lay so much absorbed by her own meditations, as to be unconscious of the lapse of time. It became quite dark. Every thing was still about her. At length she heard a[120] very soft step approaching through the ante-room, and a figure in black appeared within the door, which was half open. It held in its hand a long white wand tipped with flame: it glided on with a step, now that it was on the deep Turkey carpet of the drawing-room, quite noiseless: it touched branches and candelabras with its magic wand, and left floods of light behind it: it proceeded through the glass doors of a green-house, at the further end of this spacious apartment, and continued crowning with radiance lustres that hung, at certain intervals, over the centre walk, till the whole long perspective became a dazzling maze of real and reflected illumination. Julia’s eyes admired and, mechanically, followed what they beheld long before her comprehension was aroused to any understanding of what was going forward: at length she smiled as she[121] recollected that such had been her abstraction, that, for the first few moments after the entrance of the figure, she had viewed it and its operations with as much of almost superstitious astonishment as if she had never before seen a decent old butler, who was too well-bred to wear creaking shoes, light up a drawing-room.

She arose from the sofa, passed the man on his return through the great room, entered the greenhouse, proceeded along the centre walk between rows of orange trees, and in a blaze of light, till the white marble footway, branching off in two directions, led round on both sides towards a kind of arbour of sweets, which was screened from the entrance and principal walk by the intervention of an immense circular stand, crowded from the marble[122] floor to the glazed roof with numberless exotics. Here she seated herself.

The artificial day that reigned around, the excess of brilliancy resembling enchantment, the very intensity of light, seemed, if not literally shelter, at least security from sudden intrusion, by giving proof at once that none were near, and certainty that none could approach unseen.

“I wonder,” mentally ejaculated Julia, who by this time had renewed her meditations, “why she did not look happy!” She paused, and a tear or two fell. “Is it possible that he can love a stranger better than those he has loved all his life?” she thought, and a feeling of something like reproach passed through her mind. Then came a series of kindly recollections, making it very difficult to believe that this could be the case. Then she called to[123] mind, how Edmund always used to say, he never would marry; and how she, too, had determined never to marry. She reflected on this subject for some time; then asked herself a question, but very vaguely indeed; for she did not venture to give it the form of words, even in thought: the purport, however, was as follows:—if Edmund had ever said, that to be married to her was absolutely necessary to his happiness—what would have been her reply? A deep blush was all the answer she gave herself. She sat, unconscious of outward objects, till she felt her hand softly taken. She started, and looked up: Edmund stood before her. “Dearest Julia!” he said, “there has so evidently been some anxiety on your mind, some depression on your spirits, all this day, that I cannot resist taking, perhaps, an unwarrantable liberty, and entreating you to tell me what[124] it is that thus distresses you?” She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, and made no reply. “Did you not promise,” he continued, “to permit me to call myself your friend, your brother? and is not confidence the privilege of friendship?” And he seated himself beside her, still retaining the hand he had taken.

“I don’t wish, Edmund,” she said, her face averted, “to hear you talk like a stranger about taking the liberty, and all that kind of thing: it only makes me more unhappy.” “More unhappy!” he repeated.

“But, you know,” she continued, “when you wished so very much for my friendship, Edmund, it was when you first came home; now—you will probably—be—everyday—making so many new friends—that—perhaps—” “New friends!” cried Edmund.—Then, quite thrown off his guard, he added passionately;[125] “what are all the new friends—nay, all the friends the world contains—what the whole world itself to me, in comparison of you, Julia! My earliest, my kindest friend?” he added hastily, fearful he had gone too far.

The assurance of a friendship so exclusive, so much in unison with her own ideas on the subject, and still more the tender and agitated tone in which words so kind were uttered, banished every thought of Lady Susan, and in one moment restored Julia to perfect happiness. For reply, she only lifted her eyes to his. Their expression seemed to him, at the moment, to justify him in pressing her hand to his lips, though afterwards he thought he had done very wrong. So much accustomed was Julia, however, to consider the establishment of perfect confidence between herself and Edmund, as quite necessary and right, that in all this[126] she saw but the kind reconciliation of friends, and never dreamed of being surprised, as some more experienced ladies might have been, that no fuller or tenderer declaration followed, neither apology, for having approached so near to such.

She now felt quite certain that Edmund still loved her better than any one else in the world; and, therefore, she was happy. He thought his secret still safe, because he saw he had not given offence: indeed he saw more! Suspicions, delightful suspicions fluttered at his heart. He watched the brightening of her features: yes, he could not refuse to admit the flattering, the intoxicating conviction, that the more his love betrayed itself, the happier Julia evidently was! Thoughts like these ought to have filled him with sorrow and repentance; but they did not—they caused a joy that no[127] words can paint! and this was not a moment to resist its influence. He was gazing upon the countenance of Julia, she had just looked up to express kindness and confidence, tears of pleasure had started into her eyes, and now she was looking down again perhaps to hide them; but they were stealing into view over cheeks that glowed with an animating, a beautifying confusion, which could not be termed a mere blush, for it visibly betrayed conscious happiness as well as bashfulness.

Words that, while possessed of reason, he had determined never to utter, literally trembled on his lips. But honour, gratitude, principle, flew to his aid, and rescued him from the eternal remorse, which, in a mind like his, must have followed an avowal of sentiments, it was so much his duty to conceal. He was enabled to be silent—but to withdraw his eyes from the[128] contemplation of the lovely being before him, to close his heart against the dangerous bliss that contemplation afforded, was impossible!

Music now struck up in the great room; and at the same instant several persons entered the greenhouse. The next moment they were approaching along the centre walk, and calling Julia. Our heroine answered and made her appearance. Edmund, still trembling from the late agitation of his feelings, followed in silence. But when he saw the gay group gathering round Julia, he was struck with the sudden apprehension of her dancing with some one of them; and, at this time, he could not view such an event, without a degree of horror, very disproportionate to the importance of the subject. He hastened therefore to her side, offered her his arm, and whispered something, probably a request to dance with him, as they immediately[129] accompanied those who had come in search of them, into the drawing-room, where quadrilles were forming.

Thus was Edmund preserved from further risk of an imprudence, which, in addition to the endless repentance it would have cost him, might have taught even the inexperienced Julia the necessity of treating him with more reserve. Hitherto, her affectionate heart, in its enthusiasm, had ever been ready to reproach her with estrangement and unkindness, when she experienced but the natural timidity inseparable from the feelings which were hourly growing upon her; so that the very parts of her conduct, which most strongly proved those feelings to be more than friendship, were by her, not unfrequently, considered as deficiencies in the frankness and confidence due to a friend, the companion of childhood; one, too, so delicately[130] situated, who thought himself so much obliged; who might mistake a reserve, very proper towards strangers, (by whom Julia meant, all the world, except her grandmamma, Frances, Edmund, and Mr. Jackson,) for pride, for haughtiness, for a reminding him of his situation—No! that thought was not to be endured! At the present moment, however, her heart having been just lightened of an inexpressible load of sorrow; of the first doubt it had ever known of Edmund’s affection, she waited not to define its movements, but joined the dance, feeling as if she moved on air, though in an unusual flutter of spirits. Whilst he, as he led her to her place among those who stood in all the pride of rank and title, birth and fortune, felt his heart sink within him; and, as he gazed upon her thus removed, as it were, to an incalculable distance, from the nameless[131] dependant on the bounty of her own very family, he wondered at the mad presumption that, but the moment before, had possessed him!

Yet as from time to time she smiled and spoke to him, joy stole again into his bosom, and he experienced an undefined species of happiness during the remainder of the quadrille. As soon as it was over, however, and before Julia had taken her partner’s arm to leave the set, Henry came up to her, and asked her to dance the next with him. She could not well refuse, and the moment she consented he drew her arm over his, and led her away to a vacant end of the room, where, as they walked up and down, he suddenly broke silence, saying, in a rude sort of half whisper, “You don’t suppose, Julia, that Lord L. will consent to your marrying this picked up fellow! this Edmund! and I can tell you, the[132] manner in which you are behaving, will end in his being forbid my aunt’s house, and indeed the houses of all your friends and relatives.” If ever Julia’s colour mounted, now it flew to cheek and brow; yet, indignant as she felt, such was her terror lest Edmund should chance to hear one of those shocking words, that she caught Henry’s hand, and entreated him to lower his voice. At the same moment she looked involuntarily towards Edmund, and saw that he observed her; while Henry, grasping the hand that she herself had laid on his, carried it to his lips. She dreaded to provoke him by withdrawing it either as quickly or as angrily as she felt inclined to do; and he held it fast, with the most malicious satisfaction in her dilemma, which he perfectly understood; while, as if to mortify her the more, he kept up, by countenance and manner,[133] a sort of dumb show of tender solicitude. She, however, forced back her presence of mind, and, in an under tone of suppressed vexation, trying at the same time to look dignified and as angry as her youth and natural gentleness would permit, said, “do not for a moment imagine, Henry, that I dread your rude, impertinent remarks on my own account, but take care you do not let one word be heard, which can wound the feelings of Edmund. As for the motive of my anxiety on this point, if you are not capable of understanding it, remain in ignorance of it, or judge it what you please! It is to my father, not to you, sir, that I shall give an account of my actions.”

“Mighty fine!” he replied; “but, Julia, if my anxiety for you proceeds from my own attachment, and, I suppose I may presume[134] where Edmund does, you cannot be surprised that I should not wish to see you throw yourself away; but I believe,” he added, with a sneer, provoked at the evident scorn depicted on Julia’s countenance at the mention of his own attachment, “you are tolerably safe, as the gallant Captain Montgomery happens not to be at leisure to accept your ladyship’s proffered affections, being otherwise engaged.”

It is wonderful how many times in the course of the evening Julia repeated over to herself the two words, “otherwise engaged.”

“The world is come to a pretty pass,” continued Henry, “when two titled ladies are pulling caps for a fellow without a name!” Julia’s bosom was swelling with indignation, pride, and anger; she was dying to give them utterance, but she felt that, now, she dare not trust herself to speak, while her fingers, in[135] despite of her utmost efforts, being still held, as in a vice, she could not disengage herself without a publicity she wished to avoid. Indeed, Henry seemed careless how roughly he treated the delicate little hand thus imprisoned in his; for now, as at all times, for reasons best known to himself, he was more intent on persuading others that he was well with his cousin, than on really making her believe that he loved her.

At this moment Sir Archibald, who had been standing with his arms folded at a little distance, came hastily forward, and seized Henry by the collar, crying out—“Villain! villain! villain! have I found you at last?” Henry disengaged himself, and turned on his assailant, with a look of pale rage so horrible that, had time and place agreed, no less than a mortal struggle seemed likely to ensue.

[136]

Julia uttered a scream of terror: all was in a moment confusion and consternation. Lord Arandale, however, interfered, and finally prevailed on his nephew to leave the room for the evening; explaining to him in hasty whispers, as he almost forcibly led him aside, that Sir Archibald, from the bewildered state of his mind, was evidently unconscious of the lapse of time, and must in consequence have mistaken him for his unfortunate father, against whom he had but too just cause of complaint, and to whose memory a discussion of the subject would be by no means creditable.

Julia stood trembling, and, for a moment, alone; the next, Edmund was at her side. He saw that there were tears in her eyes. He offered his arm to lead her to a seat. She took it with a heavy sigh, but avoided his look of enquiry. He felt much less happy than he had[137] been. Why had she caught Henry’s hand? Why had she suffered him to press hers to his lips—and retain it, too, so long? Why had she looked so deeply interested in what he said? And what was the cause of her present emotion?

Every one had of course been much alarmed; several of the young ladies had fled into the greenhouse, whence they now peeped through the glass door. Lady Morven was near fainting, and Mr. Graham was unable to assist her.

Some one proposed music as the most likely thing to calm Sir Archibald’s excited nerves, he was so fond of it. One of the Miss Morvens was prevailed upon to return to the drawing-room and play an air on the pianoforte—it had no effect. Lady Arandale requested Julia to sing; she at first wished much to decline, but Lady Arandale pressed her request,[138] and Julia felt that it was necessary to consent. Sir Archibald was still walking up and down with hasty and uneven strides, leaning on the arm of Lord Arandale; Julia’s song commenced. Sir Archibald’s violent gesticulations gradually became less frequent; his step, as she proceeded, became slower, his countenance less furiously agitated. By insensible degrees he approached, and, at length stood with folded arms, immediately before our heroine.

Julia exerted, on this occasion, but a small share of the power of voice which she possessed; yet, every one was delighted with the magical effect the then state of her own feelings gave to a pathetic air. By the time the song came to its conclusion, Sir Archibald was standing almost directly beneath the great centre lustre, just so far removed from its[139] immediate perpendicular, as to admit of its strong flood of light streaming full on his face and figure. His attitude was still the fixed one in which he had hitherto listened, but now he seemed unconscious of the presence of any one. His perfectly white hair was made more remarkable by the brightness that shone upon it; his countenance was calm, every passion being stilled, every effort laid aside, while an expression of woe, of hopelessness, such as can proceed only from the utterly broken heart, had settled on every thus relaxed feature, and large tears, which glittered in the strong light, were silently rolling over his cheeks.

An absolute stillness reigned throughout the apartment for some moments, when, supper being announced, it was agreed, almost in[140] whispers, that they should retire quietly to the eating room without disturbing Sir Archibald; leaving a servant at the drawing-room door to observe his movements.
CHAPTER IX.
“The hell informed passion, avarice.”

“Really,” said Lady Morven, as she lolled back in her seat at the supper table, after asking Mr. Graham to help her to some wine and water, “my nerves can’t stand such alarms! and I dare say you are quite ill too, Mr. Graham.”

“This is the first time Sir Archy has shewn symptoms of violence,” observed Lady Arandale, “hitherto he has been quite harmless, an object more of commiseration than of fear.”

[142]

“I must, I believe,” said Lord Arandale, “be under the necessity of requesting my nephew, Mr. St. Aubin, to take a few days sport with some of the neighbouring gentlemen, while Sir Archibald remains here; for never shall my door,” and he spoke with the honest energy of good feeling, “be closed against the shattered remnant, in mind and in body, which still exists of poor Oswald—the once gay companion of many a merry, many a thoughtless hour, spent, some of them beneath his own hospitable roof, where, even I, may have possibly, though innocently, contributed my share to his ultimate ruin!” Then, addressing our hero in particular, he continued, “At the age of fifteen he was his own master, and at that early period commenced the career of folly, dissipation, and gaming which led, finally, to his destruction. St. Aubin was one[143] of the set,” he proceeded, lowering his tone; “it was he who drew him into high play, and who won from him the principal part of his estates, unfairly too it is generally believed. There was some agreement also, about the winner paying the loser’s then existing debts; but when St. Aubin got possession he sold the estates, or his interest in them, to Jews, and disappeared, leaving Oswald to answer his creditors as he might. There were informalities in the sale, it is thought; but however that is, or was, the Jews keep possession, and Oswald has not a title or paper of any kind to shew: St. Aubin, on various pretexts, had got all into his own hands. Poor Oswald’s state of mind, too, adds greatly to the difficulty of clearing up any part of the unfortunate business. In some of his ravings he declares vehemently that he staked but his own[144] life use, and that, could he find the villain St. Aubin, and make him produce certain papers, his boy, (Oswald’s boy I mean,) would enjoy the whole property at his father’s death.”
CHAPTER X.
“And are ye gone indeed, ye happy hours,
When our course in the chace was one; when we
Changed the words of love beneath thy shadiest
Woods, Oh Cromla?”

Julia entered her room, arm and arm with Frances, pondering in what words she should ask a certain question, which she meant to put to her sister, as soon as Alice should retire; for Henry’s remarks had aroused again some of the painful suspicions, which Edmund’s soothing attentions had so lately laid asleep.

Frances made many droll critiques in French[146] on Lady Morven, Mr. Graham, &c. &c. Forced, unmeaning smiles were Julia’s only replies.

At length, both the sisters’ heads were laid on their downy pillows, and Alice had left the room. Still Julia had not determined in what precise words to put her important question; besides, though the candles had been extinguished, there happened to be an impertinent bit of trundling coal among the embers of the fire, which sent from its side a bright flickering blaze, and caused a most obtrusive light to enter the bed, by means of a small, neglected opening between the foot curtains; and, until it should be quite dark, Julia did not wish to speak.

Frances put her arms about her sister’s neck, kissed her, and bade her good night. Julia returned the good night with equal kindness,[147] as was their custom. She was again silent. At last the blaze went out, and the room became nearly dark.

“What—was that—you were saying—to me—when we were dressing for dinner, Frances—about—about Edmund, you know?”

“What!—What?”—said Frances, with a start, for she had just dropped asleep.

“What—was it you were saying—I say—before dinner, you know?”

“Saying! About what?”

“About—about Edmund, you know.”

“What about Edmund?”

“Oh, you know, about him and Lady Susan, you know.”

“Oh, about their going to be married!” said Frances, rousing herself to enter fully, as it were, into the amusing subject; then, with animation, and a voice of confidence, she continued,[148] “I really think it will take place; and he is certainly very fortunate; for she has a cheerful, happy temper, and her affection for him is truly generous and disinterested!” The darkness covered Julia’s changing colour, and her starting tears, also, which she now gulped down, as she replied, “Her affection indeed! What can her affection be, in comparison of those who have loved him always!”

“Do you mean any one in particular?” asked Frances.

“No—” replied Julia, “that is—yes. I mean, you and I, you know.” “Certainly,” said Frances, “we have loved him always; but then, you know, we are not going to marry him.”

“No, I suppose papa would not think it right, if we were,” said Julia.

“You may be sure of that!” replied Frances.[149] “It is very plain, from his letters, and from what grandmamma and Mr. Jackson said the other day, about Henry’s nonsense, what sort of people papa intends us to marry.”

“I shall never marry any one while I live!” said Julia, with great earnestness.

“You can’t tell, you know, Julia,” replied Frances; “you may happen to fall in love; and if you do, it will be desperately! for you know how enthusiastic you always are, about any one you care for!”

“Fall in love with a stranger, indeed!” exclaimed Julia. Then, after a momentary pause, she added, “do you think yourself, Frances, that Lady Susan can possibly love him as well as—as we do?”

“Why, I dare say,” replied Frances, “if any thing should prevent their being married, that Lady Susan would forget him by and bye,[150] whereas you and I shall always have the same regard for Edmund, that we have had for him all our lives. But, on the other hand, there is Lady Susan going to waive all about his unknown birth, that some people, you know, are so ill natured about. She says, his own nobility is more to her, than any he could derive from all the ancestors that ever were in the world.”

“Did she say so to you, Frances?” asked Julia.

“Yes,” replied her sister, “and she is going, she says, to give him, most cheerfully, her hand, her heart, and her fifty thousand pounds, in preference to many of the first young noblemen in the kingdom, among whom she might choose; and you and I are not going to do all that for him, you know!”

Julia sighed heavily, and made no immediate[151] reply.—In a little time she said, “Do you think, Frances, you could do so much for Edmund?”

“Why, I don’t know,” replied Frances; “though I certainly love Edmund next to you and grandmamma, yet I have no particular wish to be married to him; for I can love him just as well, you know, when he is married to Lady Susan. But you, Julia, who were always so enthusiastic, would you like now to sacrifice so much for him?”

“I could do any thing for those I love!” said Julia, in a scarcely audible whisper, and blushing, though none could see her.

“Oh, that is, you mean, if it were absolutely necessary to their happiness!” rejoined her sister. “I should not like, either, to make poor Edmund unhappy! But then, you know, it is not necessary to his happiness; for he wishes himself to be married to Lady Susan.”

[152]

“But are you sure of that, Frances?” asked Julia, as recollections crowded in upon her mind, “are you sure of that? for I am certain it is impossible for him to love Lady Susan, or any one, as much as—as he loves—that is, seems to love—those he has always loved.”

“I know,” said Frances, “that there cannot be a more amiable or affectionate disposition in the world than Edmund’s; yet, still he never showed me any such excessive sort of love, that he could not love another person as well, or better, I suppose, if he were going to be married to them! But, to be sure, you were always his favourite. I remember when we were children I used to be vexed at it sometimes, but since we have been grown up, I don’t mind people loving you best, because I know you deserve it.”

[153]

Julia wept on her sister’s breast, and persuaded herself that her tears were those of gratitude and tenderness, caused by Frances’ kind expressions. In a little time she said, “But how are you sure, Frances, that Edmund wishes to be married to Lady Susan?”

“Because he asked her to marry him, when they were in the cottage this morning! She told me so herself, just before I came up to dress for dinner, you know.” Julia asked no more questions; nor did she utter another word that night. Frances went on explaining about Lord and Lady Arandale knowing nothing of the matter, as yet, and what Lady Susan meant to do to obtain their consent, &c.; but having the conversation all to herself, she soon began to articulate slowly and with frequent unnecessary pauses, and, finally, fell asleep: upon which, Julia began to draw her hitherto[154] suppressed sighs audibly. She wept for a time with bitterness. She thought for hours. When she recollected looks or words of tenderness she wept afresh; but, when she called to mind such circumstances as Edmund’s having, at any time, taken her hand in his, or pressed it to his lips, she blushed till her cheeks seemed to burn, and wondered how she could ever have permitted any thing so very wrong: she had always called him brother Edmund, certainly; but she ought to have remembered that he was not really her brother. She then asked herself the following startling questions:—If her feelings for Edmund and her conduct towards him had hitherto been guided by the friendship of a sister, why should they not be still the same? what change had taken place in their relative situations? This candid mode of treating the subject puzzled her not a little. At length she[155] tried to persuade herself that friendship, or even sisterly regard for one who loved their friend or sister better than any one else in the world, was a very different thing from friendship for one who felt a stronger affection for some other object. “And does Edmund, then, really love Lady Susan better than he loves me?” Her tears now flowed again, and, wearied out, she fell asleep, without having come to any conclusion but that she was wretched, and that all the recollections which, hitherto, had given her pleasure, now gave her pain.

As soon as reason had abdicated her seat, fancy ascended the throne. Confusion succeeded, and the busy turmoil of weary imaginings, and painful contrarieties, robbed sleep of her healing balm. Wanderings alone on starless nights—Dreary wildernesses in the blaze of noon, without one living object to be seen—Crowded[156] ball-rooms—Edmund leading Lady Susan past to join the dance, with a countenance so changed, so cold; and all interspersed with short glimpses of Lodore and happy childhood: till, at length, by the time she ought to have been awaking in the morning, her dream (not from “foregone conclusions,” but from outward causes,) took the following form. She thought she saw Edmund and Lady Susan coming towards her in one of the shrubbery walks at Arandale. She tried to avoid them, but could scarcely move an inch at a time. They overtook her. Edmund, she thought, to her utter astonishment, put one arm round her, and drew her towards him; while the other, she now perceived, was around Lady Susan. Amazed at this audacious freedom, and especially indignant at such partnership in love, she struggled to free herself, and, with almost a bound,[157] awoke. Arms really were around her, laughing eyes were close to her’s, and a soft voice named her. But it was that of Frances, who had, all this time, been trying every means, but hitherto in vain, to awake her sister; so heavy was the late sleep induced by the anxious thoughts of the night, and the busy dreams of the morning. Indeed it was not quite two hours since Julia had first closed her eyes.

“Bless me,” cried Alice, as she entered the room, “can that be the bagpipes for breakfast, and it has only just gone ten! Well, I thought my Lady Arandale would have taken a sleep this morning, after being up a matter of half the night.”

“Were we so much later than usual then?” asked Frances.

“Much as common, my Lady,” replied Alice; “but when the men went in to take the supper[158] things away, my Lady and my Lord, both, were so busy with Mr. Edmund, Captain Montgomery, I should say, that they were sent away again, and not rung for, for two hours. I wish all may be true that was said in the hall,” she recommenced, after having assisted her young ladies to dress for some time in silence; “for Mr. Edmund is one that every body loves; and I, for one, should rejoice in his good luck—and think it nothing so strange, neither; though the old butler put himself in such a passion, and said that Lady Susan was a wife for the first duke in the land—and—”

“I have told you before, Alice,” said Julia, making an effort to conceal her real feelings under the mask of pettishness, “that you are not to repeat the conversations of the hall-table in our room.”

“I beg pardon, my Lady, but I only meant[159] to say as how my Lady Arandale came to be late. But I am sure I repeated nothing: neither what my Lady Susan’s maid said, nor what my Lady Arandale’s maid said, nor what my Lord’s man said, about the time they were at Lodore, nor all I said myself about the power of money that Mr. Edmund had won from the French, and about what a nice, handsome young gentleman he was;—but for just a kind wish for one that every one loves, I didn’t think it would have given offence.”

“You can never give offence by wishing well to any one, Alice,” said Frances, “but it was not necessary to repeat what other servants said: that was all. I suppose,” she added, in an under tone to her sister, as they went down stairs together, “he was asking papa and[160] mamma’s consent, last night. And after his fine resolutions, too!” she added, laughing, “never to think of marriage till he had discovered all about his birth, name, and so forth.”
CHAPTER XI.
“She will wait in vain thy return.”

At breakfast, Sir Archibald was again the subject of conversation. “He is still late to his breakfast,” said Lady Arandale, “and when he does come he will tack but one cup o’ coffee, without sugar, cream, or bread; so totally have his excesses destroyed his stomach!”

“How dreadfully broken down he is in appearance, since I last saw him!” observed the General.

“Well,” said Lord Arandale, “poor Oswald[162] was once, I think, the handsomest fellow in Scotland! Do you remember how well he used to sing, General?”

“His voice is still peculiarly melodious,” said Lady Susan, who was looking as grave as she had done at dinner the day before; though Edmund was seated next to her, and, seemingly, paying her very solicitous attention.

“How poor Maria could have given St. Aubin the preference,” continued his lordship, “I cannot imagine; Oswald, however, married a very elegant woman—one of the Ladies Allan. Your friend, Lord Fitz-Ullin’s first wife,” he added, turning to Edmund, “was one of the sisters. The Fitz-Ullin family seem to have modelled their conduct towards poor Lady Oswald, by that of her own more immediate relatives: indeed it is not improbable that they[163] may have by this time forgotten her very existence; for the death of her sister, and Lord Fitz-Ullin’s second marriage, have, for many years, sundered the connecting link: while a feeling of pride, very natural, I allow, but which Lady Oswald certainly ought to have sacrificed to the good of her child, has hitherto, I apprehend, prevented her making any direct claim on their notice.”

The mention of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s family as connected with the Oswalds, made a lively impression on Edmund’s mind. That the friendless, destitute boy, whom he had been planning to protect and assist with all the limited means he could command, should possess legitimate claims on his powerful and kind patron, and on his young friend, Oscar Ormond, opened new and flattering prospects for the son of poor Sir Archibald, of which[164] Edmund was determined not to lose sight. The friendless, the destitute seemed to him as more peculiarly his brethren than the rest of mankind. Nor was this a parade of sentiment with Edmund, even to his own heart; it was rather an involuntary emotion, upon the impulse of which he frequently acted before he had considered what were his motives. His affectionate and gentle nature yearned for the tender family sympathies of which his peculiar circumstances deprived him; and he sometimes took a melancholy pleasure in thinking that he thus belonged to a large family, namely, the unfortunates. Henry entered the breakfast-room looking very pale.

“There is no one missing now but poor Sir Archibald,” observed Lady Arandale. The butler came in with a supply of hot rolls. Her ladyship enquired if any one had been in[165] Sir Archibald’s room this morning. The man answered that he believed Sir Archibald had left the castle, as he had gone out very early. “If he has gone off in this sudden manner,” observed Lord Arandale, “it is probable that a lucid interval has arrived; for at such times he always hastens to his miserable retreat in the island; avoiding most especially those old friends and associates whose society he seeks when his mind is in an unsettled state. I do not know that I have ever seen on his countenance that expression of utter woe, unmingled with cheating phantasies, which it wore last night, except on the approach of reason; before which it is feasible to suppose that all the airy visions of the madman flee away, reducing our poor friend to the unalleviated consciousness of his actual situation. Young men!” continued the Earl, looking[166] round at his nephews, who were busily engaged in eating cold pie, “surely I need not, no one need preach against gambling in this neighbourhood while such a beacon light is placed on high to warn all off the rock on which poor Oswald became a wreck! Aye, a piteous wreck indeed!” he added, murmuring to himself, and moving his head slowly from side to side, as Mrs. Montgomery sometimes did, for it was a family symptom. Then, after a moment’s pause, addressing Edmund in particular, he said: “This will make some little alteration necessary in the arrangements we concerted last night. You have breakfasted, I believe, Captain Montgomery?” Edmund assented. “Will you come with me, then, to my study?” Edmund arose and accompanied his lordship. Most of the party quitted their seats about the same time; and Frances said[167] to Julia, as they walked together towards a window: “It seems Edmund has got over all his mighty objections to matrimony!”

“Yes—they are in a wonderful hurry, it would appear,” said Julia. “But what can Sir Archibald’s going away have to do with their arrangements?”

“I cannot imagine,” replied Frances. “Perhaps Edmund is about to turn out to be Sir Archibald’s son.”

“Sir Archibald’s son, you know,” returned Julia, who had inwardly studied the subject in all its bearings, “is mentioned as a boy; besides, he is living with Lady Oswald in the Isle of Man; and never was lost or found in infancy, as Edmund was.”

“That is true!” answered Frances, “that won’t do—but he must be some way related to[168] Sir Archibald, (for what my uncle said, must mean something,) and in that case, I dare say, they will consent to the marriage.”

Julia looked at Lady Susan, and again wondered why she did not look happy.

“That is a good lad, that Captain Montgomery,” observed Lady Arandale. (Lad is a term applied by elderly Scotch ladies to all men of all sizes and ages, not quite as old as themselves.) “He has made a good sum of money, it seems,” continued her ladyship, “and will make a very good use of it, I dare say.” Lady Susan coloured slightly, and told Henry he had eaten no breakfast. “Are you all prepared for the race-course, young ladies?” inquired Lady Arandale. “We had better arrange how the carriages shall be filled.”

[169]

“There is my barouche for any one that likes,” said Lady Morven, “for I shall positively go in the curricle with Graham.”

“We can accommodate two ladies,” said Julia, “if Henry and Captain Montgomery ride.” It was the first time she had named Edmund, Captain Montgomery, and the sound of her own voice pronouncing the words, startled her.

“There is no scarcity of carriages, my dear,” replied Lady Arandale; “there is my barouche, and my lord’s chariot, and the family coach, and the General’s barouche, and all the young men’s curricles and nondescripts; I only mean to plan how the several parties may like best to be disposed of. As for my Lady Morven’s barouche, I advise that none who regard their necks may trust themselves with her horses.”

[170]

“La! ma’am,” interrupted Lady Morven, “who would drive any thing but blood-horses!”

“I fancy, my dear,” returned Lady Arandale, “my Lord drives as good horses as your ladyship; though they are not mad ones! It was but the last races, you know, that one of your ladyship’s leaders killed an unfortunate boy.”

“I beg your la’—ship’s pardon a thousand times,” observed Mr. Graham, “but that certainly was the boy’s own fault.”

“How so, pray?”

“Why, the boy should have staid at home, and, I will venture to affirm, that Lady Morven’s leader would never have hurt him! Really such creatures should keep themselves from under the feet of people of fashion.”

“It happened on the king’s highway,” retorted Lady Arandale, “and people of fashion[171] have no right to infest that with animals dangerous, or even inconvenient, to the poorest of his Majesty’s subjects. And as for my Lady Morven, if she takes my advice, she will appear on the ground in my barouche, rather than in an open carriage with any gentleman.”

“La! ma’am,” cried Lady Morven, “if I had used my own barouche, I should have sat in the dicky seat with Graham, and made him drive!”

“Well, my dear, if your husband chooses to give you your own way,” said the old lady, “I shall not interfere.”

“I give Morven his own way, and he gives me mine. That’s all fair, you know.”

Lady Arandale, without vouchsafing further reply, desired her daughter and nieces to get ready, as the carriages would all come round in half an hour.
CHAPTER XII.
… “Teach my youth to mix with heroes.”

Meanwhile we shall just step into the library, and see what Lord Arandale and Edmund have been about.

“We may now, I believe, consider matters settled,” remarked his lordship, as he folded a letter, which Edmund having perused, had just returned to him. “I know what are her ladyship’s wishes, and I can, I think, answer for her cheerful consent. Indeed, she will, I make no doubt, rejoice in having found such a friend and protector for her child.”

[173]

“Your lordship’s good opinion is truly flattering!” replied Edmund, “and I hope, when the well being, and I may, perhaps, say happiness through life, of a young and innocent being, are committed to my keeping, I may not undertake the charge, with light or careless ideas of its responsibility.”

So, as Frances would say, they really are going to be married!

“With your principles, Captain Montgomery, there can be little doubt of your fulfilling well any duties you take upon yourself. If the boy is tolerably well disposed, he has every chance, in such hands, of turning out an honour to his profession: though it can fall to the lot of but few to adorn it quite as brilliantly as Captain Montgomery has done!”

Lord Arandale is speaking of young Oswald, Sir Archibald’s boy; and the letter which he[174] has just finished folding, he is, we perceive, now directing to Lady Oswald, the boy’s mother. In fact, Edmund had applied to his lordship the night before, for the purpose of having it thus arranged. He felt a delicacy, as a total stranger, in obtruding his offers of service on Lady Oswald, and had requested Lord Arandale to take, (on the plea of his long friendship for Sir Archibald,) nominally, the lead in the business, by addressing a letter to her ladyship, saying, that he had now an opportunity of placing her son in the Euphrasia frigate, commanded by Captain Montgomery; and stating that the attending circumstances were particularly favourable, as young Oswald would thus have an opportunity of forming a desirable intimacy with his cousin, Lord Ormond, who was the particular friend of Captain Montgomery; and of becoming[175] personally known to Lord Fitz-Ullin, who, it could not be doubted, would take an interest in the advancement of so near a connexion, when thus placed within the sphere of his observation. On the strength of a lady not understanding those matters, the gentlemen ventured to enclose a bank bill for a moderate sum, as advance of pay to Mr. Oswald for his fitting out.
CHAPTER XIII.
“Bright are his yellow locks and sparkling eyes,
And beaming features all, in the fair glow
Of youth.”

The letter being despatched, Lord Arandale and Edmund rejoined the ladies who were collecting in the drawing-room. Edmund looked into every recess of every window, and cast a glance over every group, but evidently saw not the object of his researches. He passed on to the greenhouse, and at length discovered Julia and Frances collecting some flowers. He went towards them, offering to assist them; for he[177] had been so much engaged with Lady Susan and Lord Arandale during breakfast, that he had scarcely spoken to Julia that morning.

“How is it possible,” said Frances, laughing, “that amid your important arrangements, you can spare time for an occupation so trifling?”

“Our important arrangements, as you call them,” replied Edmund, smiling in his turn, “are all completed.”

“Indeed!” said Frances, “and papa and mamma’s consent obtained?”

“Why! what do you know about it, Frances?” asked Edmund, with some surprise, and colouring at the idea that his benevolent purpose should be thus made public.

“Oh, we know quite well, I assure you,” she replied playfully.

“Let me do that for you, Julia!” said Edmund,[178] starting forward to assist her he named, in plucking a branch of geranium, which she was very awkwardly attempting to reach.

“Good Heavens, Julia! what is the matter?” he exclaimed, catching up her hand; for in presenting the flower he had just pulled, he perceived that her countenance expressed the utmost wretchedness; and that her tears, in despite of an evident struggle to suppress them, were falling fast. She turned away, drew her hand forcibly out of his, and hurried to a further part of the greenhouse. He thought of the hand he had seen her give to Henry; permit him to retain so long, and even raise to his lips; and a vague sensation of pain and dread came over him. He followed her, however; he found her hastily drying her eyes. Again she endeavoured to avoid him.

“I have no right,” he said, detaining her,[179] “to demand your confidence, Julia; perhaps, I am guilty of impertinence in thus seeking it—withhold it, if it must be so; but do not make me miserable, by seeming not only unhappy, but seriously offended with me!” His voice and manner renewed Julia’s habitual feelings of tenderness.

“I have no desire to make you miserable, Edmund! I wish you, sincerely wish you all happiness,” she replied, in a scarcely audible voice, “but do not speak to me now; do not speak to me, just now!”

He endeavoured to take her hand, and was about to reply; but she shrunk from his touch, and hastened, as for refuge, into the midst of the company in the drawing-room. He followed, and stood near her in silence. Frances had quitted the greenhouse, as soon as she made her laughing speech to Edmund, and, consequently,[180] without perceiving her sister’s emotion.

At this moment Colonel Murray, of the Moorlands, was announced. He led by the hand a fine boy of about twelve or thirteen; with fair, curly, glossy hair; fair skin, glowing cheeks, soft hazel eyes, and a sweet open expression of countenance; the mouth and smile, as was afterwards universally observed, very like Edmund’s. He was dressed in the uniform of one of the Highland hunts, and carried in his hand a cap and plume, like young Norval’s.

“This is Arthur Oswald, the son of our friend Sir Archibald,” said the Laird, presenting him to Lord Arandale.

“Indeed!” cried his lordship, taking the boy’s hand, and glancing a look towards Edmund, which was answered by one of intelligence on his part. “I am truly happy to see[181] him—fine little fellow! How did you leave your mamma, my dear? Well, I hope?”

“She was quite well when we came away,” he answered, “but that’s a good while now.”

The Laird explained, that Arthur had been brought over to the mainland by his father, who had left him at his, the Laird’s house, since his first arrival. The Laird added, that he was taking Arthur with him to the races, and had called at Arandale, for the purpose of joining himself, if permitted, to their agreeable party. He might have said, further, but of course he did not, that he had furnished Arthur with the becoming dress he wore on the occasion. Every one noticed the young stranger in some kind or complimentary manner; and Lord Arandale, presenting him particularly to Edmund, asked him if he should like to be a[182] sailor. The boy answered, with quickness and energy, that he should indeed.

“Then, this gentleman,” said the Earl, “will take you with him, and teach you to be a sailor; and a good and a great one, if you follow his example.”

Edmund had already taken Arthur’s hand, drawn him towards him, and seemed as it were, to appropriate him. The boy now looked up in his face, as if for a confirmation of what Lord Arandale had said. Edmund smiled kindly; and Arthur answered the smile by that genuine mark of a child’s confidence, a soft pressure of the hand that held his. Edmund felt at the moment, notwithstanding the strangeness of Julia’s manner, that it was impossible to be quite miserable, while one has the power of doing any good. This pleasurable impulse[183] called up the natural ambition of the heart to be happy; and, scarcely conscious why, he turned to Julia, but found, what he had never found before this morning, that he could not meet her eye. He moved a step or two, which brought him near her. He addressed some remark to her; she answered without looking up, affecting to be very busy searching for something in her reticule.

It must have been, thought Edmund, the imprudence with which I last night betrayed my feelings, which has thus, upon serious consideration, offended her; though, at the time, she did not, certainly, show displeasure. And he sighed heavily. She now raised her eyes, with involuntary quickness, to his face. She had never seen so much unhappiness there. She looked at him, for the space of a second, with a mingled expression of surprise and tenderness,[184] which he could in no way comprehend. Edmund stooped, and, on pretence of looking over her shoulder out of a window facing which she stood, he whispered softly:—“I see, Julia, that the presumption of my manner, last night, has offended you; justly, I allow; but have some compassion for an involuntary error! Some pity for—for——” The low and hurried accents of Edmund; the confused state of Julia’s own feelings; the busy voices of the rest of the party; all prevented her hearing more than a few occasional words, from which she collected, only, that Edmund saw her change of manner, and sought to know the cause. This, of course, she could not explain. “Soon, I must return to sea,” he continued, finding he could obtain neither look nor word; “for what foreign station, or for how many years, I know not! Possibly, I may never see[185] you again, Julia. Do not, then, by a resentment so determined, so unforgiving, embitter the few short moments to which I would fondly cling, as the only solace of my solitary, and hopeless existence!” This last sentence, which, from the growing warmth of his manner, was uttered in a somewhat more audible tone than the rest, was all that Julia had distinctly heard.

“Your solitary and hopeless existence, Edmund!” she exclaimed, with a look and voice of astonishment.

“Yes, Julia; such feelings as mine must be hopeless! it is the only apology that can be made for their presumption.”

“Lord Arandale has refused his consent,” thought Julia, “and shall I add to his evident affliction? I imagined him perfectly happy! and that he had found means to be so, independent of all his first friends; or I could[186] never have been so unkind to him.” At the conclusion of this reflection, she looked up with an expression that, for a moment, almost restored him to happiness.

The company were now filing off, on their way down to the carriages. Edmund and Julia were the last in the room. She paused, gave him her hand, and said:—“I once promised you to be always your friend! I renew that promise now; and I know I can also answer for the unshaken continuance of Frances’s kind regard. Will this, in any degree, console you, Edmund, under those mortified and disappointed feelings, of which you speak so bitterly?” And she spoke a little bitterly herself.

“Oh, yes! It will—it must—it does!” he exclaimed, pressing the offered hand to his lips. She drew it gently away; but took his arm as they followed the rest of the party. If[187] he considered it so very wrong even to hope, she thought, why did he ask her to marry him? and Lady Susan, herself, had told Frances that he had done so.

Edmund was, or at least believed that he ought to have been, cheered in one point of view; for Julia appeared to be reconciled to him, appeared to have pardoned his rashness: but, he was saddened too: indeed, there was a peculiar dreariness about his present feelings; for it now seemed to him, that they fully understood each other, and that Julia had forbid him to hope. Yet, he thought, he had never hoped. What was it, then, of which he now deplored the loss? Some undefined, unacknowledged expectations, must have been founded on the pleasure he had so often, with intoxicating delight, marked in Julia, when he had, by look or word, betrayed some part of[188] that love, he thought it his duty not to declare; till his birth should be distinctly ascertained; a contingency which, when put in high spirits by a smile, he had, sometimes, thought by no means improbable! Now, Julia knew, (he believed,) the full extent of his love; and she had showed any thing but gratification. She had, it is true, mingled with her displeasure at his presumption, a generous compassion for his sufferings; and she had offered him, mournfully, but kindly, friendship as a consolation for the hopelessness of the passion she had yet decidedly checked. And was not Julia’s friendship an inestimable treasure? Was he not an object of regard, of affection to her?—Oh, how delightful that idea; were it not blasted by the thought, that he must, one day, see her bestow warmer, dearer, fonder feelings on another! on some one, who having[189] all else that this world can give, must have their abundance crowned by the bliss of possessing Julia’s love! Or should she ever be Henry’s? He looked on her as he asked himself this question; but he thought of the mountainous waves of the sea in a storm, and, for a moment, felt the sinful wish that he might be overwhelmed by them, ere so terrible an apprehension should be realized!

Julia, as she descended the stairs, and stepped into the carriage, wondered how Edmund could love a comparative stranger, as Lady Susan certainly was, so much as to be rendered thus unhappy on her account: but he was unhappy, and therefore she would never be unkind to him again! She could not, it was true, have the same pleasure in feeling that excessive friendship for him now, as when she thought her friendship was all the happiness he desired:[190] yet, if it was all the happiness he possessed, it should never be taken from him.

Before the company quitted the drawing-room for the carriages, a trifling circumstance occurred, which we omitted mentioning in its place. We shall, however, relate it now, as it may hereafter be remembered with interest. At the time that Edmund, as we have already described, moved towards Julia, Henry happened to take up nearly the same relative position with respect to Arthur, which our hero had filled the moment before. The boy, who had not noticed the change, laid hold of the side of Henry’s coat, very gently; and having long had the habit of thinking and speaking of his father with a degree both of seriousness and of mystery, on account of his unhappy state of mind, he said in a whisper: “But where is poor papa?”

CHAPTER XIV.
“They proudly brook the bit and rein, yet yield
The arching neck to page’s soft caress.”

The carriages, as is the custom at the Ayr races, drove to a stand-house, the upper story of which consists of one large room three sides glass. Here all the female part of the best company collect, while the gentlemen, in general, at least the younger ones, ride about the course, and, from time to time, join their parties in the stand-house, fraught with intelligence respecting the horses, &c. All was new[192] to the sisters. Every equipage that drove up, produced enquiries as to who those were descending from it, &c.

“Blair is riding this way, I see,” said Colonel Morven to Frances, “he is going to behave prettily, and hand Mrs. Blair and his daughter out of the carriage. Mrs. Blair is a very charming woman!”

“Which did you say was Mr. Blair?” asked Frances.

“Mr.!” repeated the Colonel, “pray do not insult my friend Blair, by calling him Mr.! we have no such appellation among our Scotchmen of any consequence.” “What, then, is his title?” demanded Frances. “No actual title.—He is Blair of Blair—the head of an ancient family, and must not be mister’d like a nobody!” Another barouche drove up. “Here comes Auchencru’s carriage,” said the[193] Colonel. “Is that Mrs. Auchencru stepping out now?” asked Frances. “Mrs. Oswald,” said the Colonel. “Why, did you not say the name was Auchen——something?” “The name of Oswald’s place is Auchencru, and, in Scotland, you must always call men by the names of their places;—not so their ladies.” “I see I must never speak to or of any one while I am in Scotland!” cried Frances.

“Oh! who is that?” said Frances, now directing his attention towards a remarkably handsome young man, who was riding past. The same person was, at the same moment, pointed out to Julia by Lord Arandale, who had been describing the company to her. “That is,” said the Earl, “the Marquis of H?. Now, Julia,” he added, laughing; and lowering his voice, “that would be a conquest worthy of those beautiful eyes!”

[194]

Julia scarcely perceived the person pointed out: her beautiful eyes, as her gallant uncle was pleased to call them, were following the figure of our hero, as he rode with a group of other young men. She was well accustomed to Edmund standing before her, sitting beside her, or leaning on the back of her chair; and, to looks and whispers, dangerous enough in such situations; but Edmund at a distance; and busily occupied with other objects and other people, was something quite new: she felt, without exactly defining the feeling, as if he were less at her disposal than usual; yet she thought him handsomer, and more graceful than ever. He did look to particular advantage; for, though a sailor, he was very fond of riding, had learned well and practised much when a boy, and never since that period missed an opportunity of enjoying an exercise in which he took great delight. He[195] had also, on becoming possessed of an independent fortune, made a point of procuring first rate horses; so that the animal he now rode, was one of the finest on the ground.

While Julia was thus observing him, he singled from the group, and gallopped across the course at full speed; the foremost of the many who, as usual, crowded to reach the winning-post in time to witness the result of the heat. “Who is it?” “Who is it?” proceeded from numerous voices. “A Captain Montgomery,” said one. “Captain Montgomery,” said another. “The famous Captain Montgomery?” enquired an elderly gentleman, “he who behaved so well in the engagements of * * * * and * * * * and * * * * with the fleet under Lord Fitz-Ullin?” “The same,” replied a second old gentleman. “How gracefully he sits his horse!” exclaimed a young[196] lady. “And did you observe,” she continued, “when he rode by slowly a little while ago, how very handsome he is?”

“Yes, I saw him at the time you speak of: he leaned one hand on the back of the horse, and looked up at the stand as he was passing. I saw him bow to some ladies in the next window,” she added, lowering her voice.

Here the conversation was interrupted by a sudden exclamation of terror from Julia.

We left our hero galloping towards the winning post. Henry had also been attempting to reach the same point from another and a nearer part of the course, and his horse had flung him just at the moment when Edmund came up; so that the latter’s immediately leaping down to assist had been mistaken by Julia for his having also fallen. Edmund heard her exclamation, and, looking up, saw the expression[197] of alarm on her countenance. He knew that he had not been in any danger, nor was he conscious that he had appeared to be so: he could not, consequently, take any part of the compliment to himself. Henry’s danger then, he thought, has been the cause of all this agony of dread! He recollected the emotion she had shewn the evening before, when Sir Archibald’s violent behaviour had threatened the safety of Henry. As he ascended the stairs of the stand-house, Henry followed close behind, and, the next moment, both the young men were beside Julia. Henry insidiously thanked her in an under tone, but loud enough for Edmund to hear; while she, from a consciousness of the true source of her emotion, coloured deeply, without replying or raising her eyes. This was not lost on poor Edmund; neither was the look cast towards him[198] by Henry, and which seemed to say, “I see you have discovered our secret: do not betray us!”

The Marquis of H? now rode towards the stand; and, looking up, bowed to Lord Arandale, who, addressing Julia in the same jesting strain as before, said, “My poor friend is desperately wounded! I saw it in that one upward glance.”

The Marquis now entered, and on being introduced to our heroine, established himself near her, and began to converse with much ease and grace, while his whole manner evinced the liveliest admiration for his fair companion.

Between the heats it is not unusual for some of the company on the stand to indulge in the variety of a drive round the course. The Arandale party now prepared to do so. With the help of a little man?uvring on the part[199] of Julia; such as pretending not to hear the Marquis’s “allow me!” and adjusting her scarf and veil to avoid seeing his offered arm, and totally disregarding all Henry’s speeches; it happened that Edmund, among so many competitors, was the fortunate individual who handed Julia down stairs. As they descended, she said, quite suddenly, “I thought at first, Edmund, that you too had fallen. How glad I was when I saw that you had only leaped down to assist Henry!” A thrill of joy passed through Edmund’s heart. The next moment he was obliged to resign her to the Marquis, who stood at the carriage door handing in the other ladies of the party. But Edmund was again happy! All his former sources of affliction vanished instantaneously. It seemed as though this last overwhelming flood of fears had carried with it, as it ebbed, all other painful[200] feelings. She did not prefer Henry to him. She had evidently wished to show that she did not. In this moment of inward sunshine, even the long perspective of futurity looked bright! Though honour now forbade his seeking the hand of Julia; though a sense of self-respect forbade her now listening to any avowal of his love; his birth might yet be proved to equal hers: and then—

These thoughts presented themselves to the mind of our hero as he rode beside the Arandale barouche, an arm leaning on the window, conversing with Julia in the most animated manner, to the great envy of a host of rivals, who were riding before, behind, and beside him; endeavouring, in vain, to introduce their horses, heads between the spirited animal on which he was mounted and the carriage. Whilst the consequently unequal movements of the said[201] animal, kept alive a certain interest, an ever dawning though as often repelled anxiety on the countenance of Julia, while she tried to answer his remarks with perfect composure, with which, it must be confessed, he had the barbarity to be delighted.

CHAPTER XV.
“Wherever Fingall lifts his spear, there will
Hidal’n be, and taunt him to mortal strife.”

Lord Arandale, as Lord Lieutenant of the county, took the lead in all that was going forward; and, desirous to promote the festivity of the scene, he gave to his numerous friends and acquaintance the additional entertainment of a splendid luncheon, laid in tents.

His lordship also made it a point with his whole party, to dine each day at the public ordinary, and attend the ball each evening.

At the door of the hotel, which furnished[203] the ball-room, Henry contrived to hand Julia out of the carriage, and in consequence he conducted her up stairs. On the way, he asked her to dance with him. She was previously engaged to Edmund, to the Marquis of H?, to Lord Morven, and to several others; for more sets than it was probable she should dance during the evening. This excuse, however, she did not take the trouble of making to Henry, but merely told him, with firmness and some severity of manner, that she would not dance with him, as she felt much offended by the style of conversation he had taken the liberty of adopting towards her, the evening before.

“I tell you what, Julia!” he replied, leading her with much longer steps than she found quite convenient, round the side of the room, which was as yet unoccupied, “I know all[204] your secrets, as well as if you had thought fit to make me your confidant. I know that you are in love (and you ought to be ashamed of yourself) with this Edmund, this Captain Montgomery, Captain Nobody! Although, as I told you before, he chooses to prefer Lady Susan Morven, forsooth, to your ladyship! You had better get Frances to join you, I think; strip all hands, and see who he’ll throw the apple to! That however is your affair, but this I can tell you, if you treat me with insult on his account, and let such a fellow see that you do so, I know how to be revenged! and I will be revenged!”

“How dare you, Henry,” said Julia, almost breathless between indignation and mortification, “how dare you address such language to me! I shall let grandmamma know, and you shall never be allowed to speak to me again!”

[205]

“Not quite so fast, madam!” retorted Henry, “you shall say, and you shall do what I please, and only what I please; or, I repeat it, I’ll have revenge!” She was about to speak again, with a lip, the expression of which already evinced scorn for his threats.

“Hear me!” he continued, preventing her, “you are well aware, Julia, that there are subjects which must be sore ones to Edmund. I will thrust these upon him in the most indelicate manner; in short, I will insult him, and before other men too, past all endurance; till I compel him to a quarrel, which shall end by ending one of us! In such a case, should your favourite escape with life, which is not very probable, he will never be able to shew his face again among our family.” Julia looked up, petrified with horror and astonishment. He answered the look, which had seemed to say,[206] “Is it possible?” with, “Yes! I will do it;” and his eyes remained fixed on hers, till she shuddered at their unshrinking expression. Yet she felt as if compelled by some spell to continue her gaze meeting his, and suffer him to read every thought that was passing in her mind.

At length, after a painful pause, endeavouring to assume a firmness, which she was far from possessing, she replied, “I repeat it, Henry. It is not to you that I shall render an account of my conduct. For yourself—merit toleration, (if you can,) and, for peace sake, I will shew it you.”

Henry’s eyes flashed with rage for a moment, then, bowing, he answered with a sneer, “Lady Julia L. is pleased to condescend!” and, looking at her insolently from head to foot, he laughed with an expression which it was impossible to comprehend, yet which, evidently,[207] had some horrible meaning; and, snatching up her hand, he almost crushed the delicate fingers together ere he again released it; saying, as he did so, “Julia, you little know what is before you! Faith, I cannot help laughing,” he continued, “when I think how you shall change your tone one of those days.”

At this moment Edmund singled from a group at the further end of the room, and approached. He came to claim Julia’s promised hand for the set now forming; and Henry, for this time, walked away without disputing it. How gladly did she take the offered arm of our hero; she literally clung to it. He felt her tremble, and turned towards her with a look of anxious enquiry. She begged him to take her out of the room, and get her a glass of water. No sooner had they escaped the danger of general observation by reaching the gallery, along[208] which but an occasional straggler passed, than she burst into a passion of tears. She suffered Edmund to take her hand, and even, unconsciously, returned the pressure of his; as, notwithstanding the painful suspicions renewed by what he had just seen, he tenderly entreated to know the cause of her tears.

“Do not ask me, Edmund! do not ask me!” was all she was able to say. Edmund was confounded; for, strange as were all the circumstances, there was, at the moment, an unguarded tenderness in her voice and manner, which seemed to convey almost conclusive evidence of attachment to himself. Yet, was it not Henry who had caused her emotion? Edmund had observed the deep interest with which they had conversed; he had seen Henry take her hand, the hand he now held; and he dropped it at the recollection.

[209]

As soon as Julia was able, they returned to the ball-room, Edmund again enduring all the doubts, all the tortures of a passion, debarred from explanation with its object.

They joined the set. The form of our heroine glided along through the mazes of the dance, and was followed by the eyes of the enamoured Marquis of H?, who stood, with folded arms, contemplating the perfection of her figure, the unconscious grace of her movements, the lustre and profusion of her bright hair, the softness of her hazel eye, the mantling glow on her cheek, and the richness and sweet expression of her lips as they smiled, when, from time to time, she answered or addressed her partner; for, notwithstanding her late agitation, she could not be Edmund’s partner, hear his voice, and feel the kindness of his eye, and not smile! An affection so long[210] cherished as was hers, an affection which the heart cannot do without, induces, thus, a secret devotedness of every feeling which we are often ashamed of even to ourselves, yet with which we are unable to contend. In short, Julia was already bringing her mind to contemplate, as a species of happiness, the idea of being even a consolation to Edmund. She determined that when she went to her room at night, she would ask Frances, who seemed to be in Lady Susan’s confidence, all the particulars about this business between her ladyship and Edmund. He had said that he had no hope, and therefore, at any rate, he was not going to be married to Lady Susan. Julia could, herself also, remain unmarried; and then they could, according to her original plan, love each other as friends all their lives. While these reflections passed across the mind of[211] Julia, the quadrille concluded, and the Marquis lost not a moment in claiming her promised hand for the next.

He had indeed, at the very first glance, been captivated by her peculiarly luxuriant style of beauty, and he had, subsequently, short as had been the acquaintance, contrived to gaze and meditate himself into a passion of the most absurdly extravagant kind; while, not admitting a doubt of his own success, he made up his mind, that our heroine should be the future Marchioness of H?; and, accordingly, now led her towards the set, with almost triumphant feelings. These, however, being under the check of perfect good breeding, so far from giving anything offensive to his manners, rather served to render them animated and agreeable. His admiration, too, though so lately excited, was perfectly sincere;[212] and as passion, however transient, while it lasts, speaks with the irresistible voice of nature, his mode of expressing himself could not fail of possessing a certain charm, as he whispered soft speeches, in terms as ardent and unequivocal as the newness of his suit would permit. He was not a little disappointed therefore, at the absolute indifference, nay, almost unconsciousness evinced by Julia’s absent manner and languid smile; for she was thinking of Lady Susan, of Edmund, and more than all, of Henry’s threats, and what ought to be her own future conduct.

In the course of the evening, the Marquis perceived also, and not without some anxiety, that he was likely to have to contend with a numerous host of rivals; not one of them, ’tis true, was quite his equal either in rank or fortune, but a creature so young as Julia was, might[213] disregard such considerations. He finally determined therefore to secure Lord Arandale’s interest, by letting him know his intentions that very night.

Colonel Morven too, by this time Frances’s declared, though by no means her received admirer, found it not quite so easy to appropriate her hand in the dance, or her ear at the supper table, as he had done while none but the family party were present. In short, the sisters were well known to be joint heiresses to the great estates of Lord L?, and, that such were the settlements, that his lordship could not cut off either of his daughters from an equal share of the inheritance, even if such daughter married in direct opposition to his wishes. In addition to these reversionary charms, it was equally well known, that Julia, in a very few months, would be in actual[214] possession of her Scotch estate. This property lay in the immediate neighbourhood, its beauties and its value were well known to all. Both the sisters also possessed the not quite valueless though less valuable attractions of youth and beauty; with the charms of perfect freedom from affectation and perfect newness to life; for such was the seclusion in which they had been educated, that, till very lately, they had not only never acted a part on life’s stage, but never been even spectators of any scene beyond the limit of the fireside circle at Lodore. And here, the dramatis person? had generally been confined to grandmamma, Edmund, Mr. Jackson, Henry, and themselves, the depth and continuance of Mrs. Montgomery’s mourning of the heart having, since the death of Lady L?, nearly excluded all other society.

Can it then be wondered at, if the Ladies L?, with so many circumstances in their favour formed, to the gentlemen at least, the centre of attraction?
CHAPTER XVI.
“Speak on, Comala trembles, but she hears.”

The scene of gaiety and flattery had closed for the night. The sisters had retired to rest. Alice and light were dismissed; and Julia commenced her intended enquiries. But Frances had now little information to bestow. Lady Susan’s first confused and unconnected confidence had been made immediately on their return from the cottage the day before. After they had all dressed for dinner Frances had observed Edmund and Lady Susan conversing for a considerable time apart. Julia also had[217] observed them. From that time Lady Susan had been an altered creature; she had not once smiled at dinner. Julia had noticed this also. After dinner Lady Susan had gone alone to her cottage, where she had remained for near an hour. On her return the traces of tears had been visible on her countenance. She had declined entering on the subject, and even requested Frances, who had attempted to introduce it, never again to mention it; and to bury what she had already told her for ever in her own bosom! This would certainly look as if she either had, on reflection, thought it prudent to retract her consent to marry Edmund, or been required to do so by her parents.

How many anxious moments had Julia been spared, could Lady Susan have brought herself to confess that her first confidence had been[218] founded on error; that Edmund had never meant to declare love for her; that she had misunderstood him in the interview at the cottage; and that he had sought a subsequent one to explain, in as delicate terms as he could devise, that his heart was devoted to another. But no such explanation having been made to Frances, it was not in her power to remove her sister’s uncomfortable reflections on this point; while, in addition, Julia had now a new source of uneasiness: Henry’s horrid threats having filled her mind with images of terror, which she had neither courage nor knowledge of the world sufficient to brave. She must never again, she feared, venture to reject his conspicuous, and now more than ever hateful attentions with the spirit and decision which her own feelings dictated. She should be compelled henceforth to admit them[219] with passiveness at least; or, might he not require of her to receive them with seeming pleasure. Had she not that very evening been obliged to submit to his taking her hand from Edmund’s arm, and leading her, with a triumphant smile, to the dance; after she had told Lord K., in Edmund’s hearing, that she was too much fatigued to dance again? What must Edmund think of this? And Henry, she saw, had no delicacy; for he had always taken pains to make his attentions most remarkable when Edmund was present. Should she complain of his conduct to her grandmamma—but if she did, her grandmamma could not keep him from quarrelling with Edmund—and, besides, the subject was one upon which, for many reasons, (unless, indeed, there were no other means of preventing danger to Edmund,) she should rather be silent. She[220] must just only therefore endeavour not to provoke Henry’s horrid vindictive temper: though it was so disagreeable to have him always near her, and to have others—that is—other people think, perhaps, that she wished it.
CHAPTER XVII.
… “Oh! I will
Never sleep again! My waking mis’ry
Were peace to this—and yet it was not sleep.”

Our hero, on his pillow, instead of seeking rest from the hopes and fears, the distracting anxieties of the day, commenced again, in fancy, the busy scene. The undisguised admiration of the Marquis for Julia had awakened new terrors; his addresses would be approved of by all her friends. Edmund shuddered to think of the consequences to which such approval might ultimately lead; yet imagination would[222] go forward, devising new tortures, till he leaped from his bed, threw open his window, and strove to force his thoughts into some other channel.

The remembrance of the mysterious understanding which seemed to exist between Julia and Henry, next arose like a spectre, and laid its icy grasp on every warm fibre of his heart. The pang, however, was but momentary; this subject had not yet fastened on each faculty, with the withering, lasting hold it was one day destined to possess. It was reserved for time and absence to weaken the blissful, internal evidence, derived from look, voice, manner; and to strengthen into certainty and misery every vague suspicion to which any untoward coincidence had ever given birth. At present, the very circumstances necessarily connected with such suspicions, led,[223] by the association of ideas, to a vivid recollection of some of the latest, and strongest proofs of tenderness, he had himself ever received from Julia. He now dwelt on these, till he yielded again to the delightful hope, that she really loved him, although she had thought it necessary to check his mad declaration of a passion, which could never meet with the sanction of her father. If then she loved him, surely she would not marry another! No, she would reject this Marquis of H?? And, as to Henry, she must have rejected him already! The emotion she had shown when conversing apart with him, must have been occasioned by regret at being obliged to give pain. He therefore returned to his pillow, and busied himself in recalling every look, every word, on which his hopes of being secretly beloved were founded. Fear and doubt vanished, and fancy, for a few[224] blissful moments, pictured the realization of all his hopes.

But hope, on such a subject, was not consistent with honour, with duty—how then could a virtuous mind cling to it with unalloyed felicity. Conscience spoke, and demanded a sacrifice!—a sacrifice which the heart knew not how to yield! His secret wishes now seemed his accusers; and dear as they had long been, he next strove to deny, even to himself, their actual existence. But the compromise was not accepted; still conscience repeated, that it was his duty to fly a temptation, which he evidently had not strength to resist. Should the discovery of his birth never be made; or, when made, should it not prove such as to give him pretensions to Julia’s hand; was it consistent with honour and right feeling, that he should, during the period of uncertainty, endeavour[225] to gain her affections—perhaps succeed in so doing! But this thought again bewildered, again left him incapable of a rational reflection, or a right resolve.

Such is the mental warfare, such the wild rebellion of will, which lays waste the peace of him, who suffers the voice of passion to mingle in the counsels of conscience.

Edmund slept; still undecided, and in his dreams endured once more a recapitulation of each anxious feeling, and unfinished conflict.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“Weary not with thy vain words her whose faith
Is Fingall’s.
… Why should these eyes behold it?”

As the sisters were descending to breakfast, Frances returned up stairs for some violets which Alice had with great difficulty procured for her, and which she had forgotten on her dressing table, while Julia proceeded towards a room their party had occupied the evening before. But on entering and perceiving Henry seated alone reading a newspaper, and no appearance of even preparation for breakfast, she[227] was about to retire. “You may as well stay where you are, I think,” said Henry. “If it was Edmund that was here you would not be in such a hurry to make off.” Fearful of irritating him after his alarming threats of last night, poor Julia directed her steps to the furthest removed window, and stood looking out. Henry continued reading for some time. Edmund’s voice was heard in the hall calling to a favourite dog. Henry suddenly rose, approached Julia, knelt on one knee before her, and took her hand. She was surprised; for, when alone with her, he was not in the habit of troubling her with any affectation of tenderness; and she was particularly sorry that he had chosen the present moment. Before she could remonstrate, or succeed in disengaging her hand, she heard footsteps; and, looking up, saw Edmund advancing along the[228] gallery towards the door, which she had left open for the purpose of rendering her unwilling interview with Henry as little of a private one as possible. Our hero looked into the room, hesitated for a moment, and retired. Henry, after throwing a glance over his shoulder, rose carelessly, and, without taking the trouble of explaining his late movement, looked out of the window and whistled. Julia, with tears starting to her eyes, at length assuming courage, said: “Henry, I will not endure this persecution! I will complain to grandmamma, and write to my father too; and you shall not be allowed either to trouble me, or to—to—injure any body else.”

“You had better, I think,” he replied, “publish to the world your disgraceful attachment to a beggarly upstart—and who, to do him justice, has not sought it. And, as to[229] either Lord L?, (if he were at home,) or my aunt not allowing me to quarrel with Edmund, (which is, of course, what you mean by—injuring any body else,)” mocking her voice and the hesitation of her manner, “I’d be glad to know how they’d prevent it? I may be called to account afterwards, you think; but I’ve told you before, and I tell you again, that, if I am provoked, no consideration for consequences shall prevent my being revenged at all hazards. As to your ever marrying me or not, you may please yourself; but I shall take devilish good care——”

“You know very well, Henry,” she interrupted, now speaking firmly and scornfully in spite of all her fears, “I never will marry you!”

“I know no such thing!” he rejoined, with a repetition of the laugh and the look which[230] the evening before had made her shudder, and which now again caused her blood to run cold. “But I know this,” he continued, “that you shall never marry Edmund; and further, that I will not be openly insulted with impunity; nor will I suffer such a fellow, forsooth, to triumph over me! So hate me in your heart, if you choose; but, at your peril, (or rather at his peril,) show it before him! Recollect that hanging me, (if you could do it,) won’t restore him to life after I have blown his brains out! Your mother little thought,” he continued, insolently opposing the attempt she was now making to escape his presence by standing between her and the doorway, “your mother little thought, I say, when she brought in the beggar brat, and washed him, that she was preparing a husband for her eldest daughter!—the Lady Julia L?!—heiress to thirty-three[231] thousand per annum! Worth taking better care of than that, faith! A windfall for his betters, I can tell him!” Julia could listen no longer: she passed him with a determined effort, and literally fled from the apartment, with, however, the loss of a scarf which Henry caught at as she was departing. Thus concluded poor Julia’s last struggle for liberty: henceforward she never dared to disobey or disoblige her insolent cousin.

CHAPTER XIX.
“I mourn’d the huntress of Cromla, the sunbeam
Of beauty; who must no more on our hills appear,
But rise on the waves of the north, to light
The stranger’s hall.”

“Have you any commands to Mrs. Montgomery, my Lord?” inquired Edmund, who was writing at a small table, while most of our party were engaged at a larger one with breakfast.

“Oh yes!” said Lord Arandale. “Pray tell her that I shall send Lauson over to the Craigs: indeed that I shall go there myself, after the races.”

[233]

Julia and Frances now entered.

Shortly after, rising and going towards Edmund, he bent over the table and said, in an under tone, “I wish you would just tell my sister (it will save me a letter, and I am much hurried) that the Marquis of H? has declared his intention of making proposals for Julia, (in due time,) and that, I think she had better write to Lord L?. I wish he could be at home. Yet, the connexion is so very eligible that all unnecessary delays should be avoided. Julia’s own pretensions, in fact, rank so high, that the peerage affords few that can be termed equal matches for her. Her affections cannot be pre-engaged?” he added, in a sort of consulting whisper. “Henry behaves very foolishly; but, I should hope, there was no attachment on her side. The thing, however, must be put an end to!”

[234]

Lord Arandale returned to the breakfast table, and left our hero, as he supposed, writing. Julia was the only person who observed that he remained in the very same attitude, and without the slightest motion, till the carriages drove up. She contrived in the general move, to pass near the table at which he sat, where, pausing a moment, she said, “Are you writing to grandmamma, Edmund?”

He had been quite pale when she first approached, and evidently had not observed her. He started at the sound of her voice, and looked at her without appearing to comprehend the purport of her enquiry, but made no reply. “Are you writing to grandmamma?” she repeated, “because, I wish——” He examined his paper two or three times from top to bottom, and then replied, “I—was—”

Henry came up at the moment, and, offering[235] to Julia his arm, which she now dare not refuse, hurried her to the carriage. She perceived, with much vexation, that he wore, drawn across his breast, the scarf he had snatched from her. He continued, in defiance of a whispered remonstrance on her part, to sport it for some hours. He knew that Edmund was well aware to whom the scarf belonged. At length, Lord Arandale perceiving what was going on, insisted on the scarf being resigned. The Earl restored it himself to Julia, with a reproachful glance; to which she replied, that the scarf had been both taken and worn without her permission.

“Men seldom take liberties they do not expect will, at least, be pardoned,” replied his lordship, with some severity of countenance.

Why Henry should be thus anxious to have it supposed that he was acceptable to Julia,[236] while he took so little pains to become really so, is a mystery which time only can solve.

Our hero did not appear on the stand that day; although he was seen riding at a distance on the course. At the ordinary he went in to dinner without taking charge of any lady. At the ball, indeed, he was again to be found near Julia. After a few languid attempts at conversation, however, he seated himself beside her in perfect silence, till the Marquis of H? coming towards them with a gay and delighted air, claimed her hand for the first set. She stood up to dance, and Edmund almost immediately left the room.

When Edmund retired that night to his own apartment he took himself severely to task: he could assuredly acquit himself of deliberate efforts, intentions, or even wishes to gain Julia’s affections beyond the limit of friendship; yet[237] he had in every moment of temptation yielded to intoxicating hopes; and to attempt to distinguish between such hopes and wilful wishes he found was mere sophistry: he determined therefore to fly without again beholding Julia. As yet, her innocent heart believed all its feelings friendship. She would think him unkind, ungrateful, and forget him, without suffering any of those terrible contentions of spirit which he endured. He dare not sleep, lest he should awake under the dominion of a less virtuous impulse.

Without therefore retiring to bed, even for an hour, he commenced instantly and hastily his preparations for departure, confusedly ruminating the while:—What was he about to do? Could he leave Julia thus, to the persecutions of Henry, to the persuasions of the Marquis? and he drew his leg out of the boot[238] into which it had been half way introduced.—But he was confident, he told himself once more, for the hundredth time, that she had already rejected Henry, and that she would reject the Marquis of H?. His foot again entered the boot top, and, now, completed its descent.
CHAPTER XX.
… “The troubled night pass’d away,
And morning returned. The shaggy mountains
Shew’d their grey heads; the blue face of ocean
Smil’d, and the white wave was seen tumbling round
The distant rock. I climbed the narrow path,
And stood on the cliff’s high brow.”

Our hero’s sacrifice was not quite so great as he imagined, the ball of the last night being the concluding one, a circumstance he had not considered.

Having written two notes of farewell, one to Lord Arandale, and one addressed to Julia and Frances jointly, our hero left Ayr, just[240] before daybreak, riding, and without a servant. After forming, we suppose, very proper determinations respecting his route, he unfortunately forgot to communicate his plans to his horse; and, suffering the reins to lay very loosely on the animal’s neck, himself fell into a deep reverie.

His Bucephalus, thus left to his own devices, happened to perceive a gap in the boundaries of the high road, which particularly caught his eye, as it not a little resembled the approach to the race-course. He turned in accordingly on a rugged piece of moorland, and looked about him. Nor right, nor left, nor straight before, offered other prospect than a wide extent of close cropped sod, plentifully sprinkled with loose stones, and diversified here and there by pools of water and patches of heath; the horizon every where the only visible boundary;[241] while on the extreme edge of this monotonous waste, the just risen sun stood in lonely majesty.

Uninteresting as all this may appear, it seemed to please Bucephalus mightily: he made wide his nostrils, snuffed the morning air, twice swung his neck, to try the length of his rein, and then set out at full speed. The road, or rather path he took, pursued a gradual ascent for some time, when suddenly the spirited animal stopped short and snorted, on which, Edmund perceived that he had reached the brow of a hill, or rather edge of a precipice; whence, looking down an abrupt and wooded descent, a valley presented itself, far below, possessing a species of beauty in some respects peculiar to the spot. A small river or rivulet, ran close beneath the overhanging cliffs which formed the opposite side of the valley. Its[242] stream varied in breadth; its banks were rugged and irregular, while its course frequently divided and reunited, forming many of the most picturesque spots, into little islets. On most of these, as well as on many projecting points of the bank, stood, what, from this distance at least, had the appearance of ruined towers: some round, some square, all moss grown; some bearing small trees on their summits, and in the crevices of their sides, and almost all having their own large old tree or trees, standing close to them. The grassy carpet of the vale was of a green peculiarly vivid. The opposite cliffs were thickly wooded in every aperture; while, here and there, smooth brows of good pasture land, dotted with grazing cattle, appeared on their summits. The valley at one end opened on an extent of flat country, terminated by a distant chain of mountains;[243] at the other it admitted a view of the sea, discernible between two bold headlands, the furthest and highest of which was crowned by a single tower, that appeared destined to reign over all those more humbly situated in the vale beneath. Tempted by the beauty of the prospect, though not sufficiently acquainted with the country to know where he now was, Edmund directed his horse to take a rather dangerous looking, very narrow road, which by running along the side of the precipice, lessened the steepness of the footing, while it promised to lead him into the midst of the region he had thus been for some moments contemplating.

As he gradually drew nearer and nearer the curious scene that lay beneath him, and, at length, accomplishing his perilous descent, entered the valley itself, and approached those[244] objects which he had at first thought were numerous ruins, they in general began to assume somewhat of a different appearance, and, finally, on coming up to each, to his great surprise as well as disappointment, they one by one, proved to be but deep sided, perpendicular rocks; looking, however, as ancient as though they had in the time of Noah, resisted the retiring waters of the flood, when all more yielding substances had been borne along the narrow channel of the glen, into the sea.

He now crossed the river by means of a single arched bridge, much overhung by the trees of the opposite bank, under the thick cover of which it immediately led. Through this copse he rode for a time and then emerged just at the foot of the headland, the lofty summit of which bore on high that which he could now ascertain to be the only real tower of all he had in[245] imagination so designated. Rock over rock, with wood between, shelved and projected, till how the building itself was to be reached seemed an impenetrable mystery; there did not appear to be nearly space enough to conquer so perpendicular an ascent by any windings of the road he still pursued. He next passed a lodge-gate, which was opened by a little bare-footed girl, who stretched first the one side on its hinges, then the other, though our hero had meanwhile passed through. At a second gate he demanded if he might pursue his course through what thus seemed to be an approach to some nobleman’s or gentleman’s place, though, as yet, he could discern no residence. He was answered in the affirmative, and proceeded till, having got round to the further side of the headland, a part of the height of which he had meantime, by a gradual ascent, achieved,[246] he came suddenly in view of a magnificent castellated mansion, apparently surrounded by an extensive richly wooded and beautifully diversified demesne, some of the grounds of which, on one side, descended by an inclined plane to the sea, and the whole of which had been screened from view during the former part of his ride by the much greater height of the side nearest the valley, on the rocky pinnacle of which, at an elevation far above that of the castle, and surrounded up to its very base by wood, still appeared conspicuous the same single tower which from the first had attracted so much of his notice. Seeing a lad on the lawn, who was employed rolling the newly mown grass, Edmund gave him his horse, demanding to whom the place belonged, and if the family were at home? The lad first stared awkwardly, and when about to reply was prevented doing[247] so, coherently, by the unruly movements of the animal committed to his charge. Our hero, however, on ascertaining that the family was not at home, without waiting to repeat the former part of his question, turned into a footpath among the trees, which promised to lead in the direction of the said solitary tower.

He soon found himself in a maze of gravel walks and abrupt turnings, the ascent so steep as to be often indispensably assisted by flights of irregular stone steps. On each shelf of the rock, lately so much above his head, his feet now found a path; though one secured from the precipice only by a superabundant growth of shrubs. On the side of the cliff immediately over the sea it was sometimes quite terrific to peep through the slender defences of a honeysuckle or jessamine at the foaming billows dashing in far below on a wild and rocky beach. At[248] length arrived at the goal of all his labours, he entered the long seen, and, at a distance, formidable-looking tower, and found it fitted up within as a conservatory and well supplied with exotics in full bloom. Of these he plucked, mechanically, a few of the finest blossoms, then sighed and desisted, as the remembrance smote on his heart that he could not now, as he had been wont, present them to Julia. He thrust, however, those he had collected into his own bosom; he could not throw away what had once been, even in thought, associated with her. Near this building the last of the shelving paths tapered off gradually, till there was no longer footing. The rock rose behind it more than perpendicularly—it overhung; while, in front, there was now no defence whatever, not a shrub, not so much as a tuft of grass, or even moss, to break the treacherous surface of the polished flint.

[249]

On the furthest portion which it was possible to occupy of this perilous spot, was placed a rustic seat; on this Edmund flung himself, and rested his eyes with a peculiarly desolate feeling on his old friends and companions, the waves of the sea. They seemed pressing after each other, and all, as it were, crowding towards the foot of the steep cliff from the summit of which he thus viewed them. He smiled bitterly: to his distempered fancy they appeared hastening forward to welcome his return amongst them, with a fierce and boisterous species of delight, very uncongenial to the softer emotions in which he had of late so much too frequently indulged.

“Yes,” he ejaculated, “the bosom of the deep is indeed my only home! the wide waste of waters my comfortless domain! To spread desolation around me with fire and with sword! to[250] bring death and misery in my train! to send destruction and despair in the whirlwind before me! these are my daily duties! these my domestic joys!” He paused, then proceeded: “If once there were—friends of the friendless—those who—could—could pity—fate has torn them from me! Nay worse—I must tear myself from them! I must seem ungrateful, unkind—I must teach those who might have loved—to forget me—or—be a villain!” He hastened to add, for certain words in the last sentence were shaking his best resolutions. “Yes, a villain!” he repeated. “Is he less who, wrapped in mystery, without a name, without a home, without a country, would ensnare the innocent affections of one unknowing of the world, unable as yet to judge what may one day be her own appreciation of its honours or even of its prejudices?” After a moment’s pause he[251] pronounced firmly, “I must never see her more!”

He now sunk back in perfect supineness. All the purposes of existence seemed at an end for him. By his own free will act, he had quitted love and happiness for ever. He felt every power of resistance weakened by the supernatural effort. The image of Julia, hallowed, endeared, like that of a departed friend, presented itself in a new, and, if possible, tenderer light. Were he now, he thought, to behold that smile again, where would be the restraints of duty? Forgotten! Utterly forgotten in the tumultuous joy of such a moment! And had such felicity been his but yesterday?—Good heavens! yesterday!—And now!——

Fatigued by contending thoughts, he now strove not to think at all; at length, as he lay in the reclining position, induced by the languor of[252] despondency, the dashing of the waves began to sound more distant than before, and a slender creeping plant, which hung from the rock immediately above his head, was, during momentary and flitting visions, mistaken for some part of the rigging of a ship, and then seen no more. In fact, not having been in bed the night before, and having, ever since, suffered great agony of mind, he was now so completely exhausted, that a sort of torpor was gradually taking possession of his senses.

This, after some time, deepened into a sound and refreshing sleep, which lasted for several hours. Towards the end of his protracted slumber, our hero began to dream that he was in heaven. Yet, sublimely as he had sometimes conceived of the glories of that abode of the blessed, he could see nothing but clear sky every where; not even the angels, though he[253] heard them singing, (one of Julia’s songs too,) and, precisely with her voice. The voice ceased; and then the general music of the spheres seemed to arise all round him! By degrees he became sensible that the music was real; and that his eyes, which had been for some seconds partly open, were gazing upwards at the bright blue sky, which from the circumstance of his lying on his back, was necessarily unvaried by any other object. He started to his feet a little too suddenly, considering the dangerous position he occupied, and of the particular nature of which he had, at the moment, no precise recollection. Fortunately, however, being uncommonly active, by a powerful effort, and a snatch at the creeping plant before mentioned, he was enabled to recover his balance. He observed where he was, called to mind the wanderings which had brought him there, and[254] acknowledged to himself, that he must have slept. So far mysteries were cleared up. But the music he still heard, and now he assuredly was awake! He walked a little way, in various directions, in the hope of discovering the musicians; but from the effect produced by the circular form of the rock, the occasional waftings of the breeze, and the mazy labyrinth of the paths, it was impossible for him to decide whether he approached, or retreated from the sounds.

After descending, however, till he was two or three shelves lower, it became evident that the swell of wind instruments was fuller, though still he could not tell in what direction it came. While listening to discover this, his ear caught the hum of voices. He moved on, it became more distinct; and through it he could even distinguish the very uncelestial sound of knives[255] and forks clanking on plates. Edmund, notwithstanding, felt something like a responding inward emotion; for he had not yet breakfasted, and it was now two o’clock.

He still moved on, and now the noise of the voices, &c. seemed to arise, actually from below the spot on which he stood. He performed a species of pirouette, looking the very personification of bewilderment. Then stood some seconds motionless. Then, as though smitten by a sudden inspiration, pushed his head and one shoulder through the tangled clusters of an interposing honeysuckle; and, holding firmly with the contrary arm, around the slender and yielding trunk of a young mountain ash, about which the flowery screen had entwined itself, he leaned forward, and beheld, on a broad part of the shelf or terrace of rock next below the one on which he himself[256] stood, a long luncheon table, with a large company seated at it. Crowns of hats, cauls of bonnets, and figures, foreshortened to excess, afforded no very sure criterion by which to ascertain whether or not any of the party were known to him. The voices too, were so blended with each other, and with the music, and with the aforesaid clanking, that they brought no certainty of any thing; yet, as he looked and listened, he could not divest himself of the idea, that all was familiar to his eye, and to his ear. While impelled by increasing curiosity, he strained forward in rather an imprudent manner, one of the blossoms which he had collected in the conservatory, and placed loosely within the breast of his coat, now, assisted by his bending attitude, found its way out, and descending lightly as a thistle-down, rested on the bosom of a lady, who immediately lifted up her face[257] to see whence it came. What was Edmund’s astonishment, when he saw the features of Julia; and what was hers, when she, so unexpectedly, beheld Edmund in his most strange and perilous situation, hanging over her very head. She pronounced his name, and continued looking up, with as much terror as surprise, till the whole company following the direction of her eyes, with one accord, gazed upwards.

A general roar of laughter proceeded from the men; and several pretty little screams from the ladies.

“Leap it, Edmund!” cried Henry. “Oh, don’t! don’t!” involuntarily exclaimed Julia. “I wonder if he could!” said Frances, looking half amused, and half alarmed.

“How funny it would be!” cried the Misses Morven.

[258]

“Take the path to the right, Montgomery, and come down to us,” said Lord Arandale. Edmund disappeared from above, and, in a few minutes, joined the party below. He made his way immediately to Julia and Frances, who each extended a hand to him at the same time, making room for him between them. “This is unexpected happiness, indeed!” he said, as he sprang into the offered seat. He looked delighted, he even laughed, though hysterically, as he trembled from head to foot, with uncontrollable emotion.

“You know where you are, I suppose, Montgomery?” said the Earl. “Not I,” answered Edmund, “further than that my present situation is a very enviable one!” This he said with an air of light gallantry, which concealed tolerably well both the reality and the extravagance of his feelings.

[259]

“You do not know then that this place is the Craigs?” rejoined the Earl. “We are all here to day, for the express purpose of displaying its beauties to Julia and Frances, who have never had an opportunity of visiting it before. We are to attempt the top of the rock, as soon as we have fortified ourselves by luncheon.”

“I have seen many of its beauties,” he replied, “but without knowing where I was. My horse, in fact, brought me here this morning, while I was thinking of something else.” Then, too much confounded to talk any thing but nonsense, and too much exhilarated to be silent, he addressed Julia, enquiring if she were aware that the building on the top of the rock was a conservatory. She replied in the negative.

“Allow me then,” he rejoined, with seeming[260] playfulness, but breathless from agitation, “allow me to be the first to present you with an offering of its sweets!” As he spoke, he took the remainder of the flowers from his bosom, and gave them to Julia; experiencing, at the moment, an indescribable delight in reversing, as it were, the feeling with which he had placed them there. This was mere trifling; but such was the effect on Edmund’s spirits of all this happiness restored, and without any fault of his too, just at the very moment when he had resigned it all, that, under the intoxicating sense of the present pleasure, he scarcely knew what he said or did; or how sufficiently to enjoy so much felicity while it lasted; for through it all there was a vaguely recognised idea, that it must pass away. Julia took the flowers with a smile, not at all calculated to sober Edmund’s transports, and[261] placed them (of course without thinking what she was doing,) in so enviable a situation, that they were followed by the eyes of our hero, and gazed upon, as their delicate blossoms visibly vibrated to each pulsation of Julia’s heart, till he wished himself, not “a glove upon that hand,” but a fair blossom, &c.

“We are very much obliged to your horse, Captain Montgomery,” said Lady Arandale, “as it is to him, it seems, we owe the pleasure of your company; and now we shall certainly not allow you to escape again till after our ball.” Edmund bowed assent. Several of the party asked him if, in his wanderings, he had discovered the bower of the concealed musicians. He described how much they had puzzled his researches. Julia told him (and her voice, which so lately he had scarcely hoped to hear again, thrilled through his heart[262] as she spoke the unimportant words) that this had all been contrived by Lord Arandale, as an agreeable surprise; that his lordship had privately sent on musicians, directions to the housekeeper, &c.; and then, when they were all on the way between * * * * and Arandale, he had, very innocently, proposed that they should look at the Craigs, as it lay but a couple of miles from the direct road.

“I dare say,” said Frances, “that Edmund was in the secret, and that he just came on before to be a part of the surprise.”

Julia looked at him to see if this were true, but the question her eyes had intended to ask was forgotten, something in the expression of his producing a sad confusion of ideas just at the moment.

“I am sure he surprised me in a most especial manner,” drawled out Lady Morven.[263] “And quite astounded me,” said Graham, in exactly the same tone. “Forgetting, I was not the fortunate tenant of a repose chair, I had a narrow escape of falling through this jessamine, and going over the immeasurable cliff!”

“Fye, don’t talk so, you creature,” said Lady Morven.

“I was more surprised than any one else, I am sure,” said Miss Morven; “if I had not caught hold of this rose bush, and pricked all my fingers, I should certainly have gone over!”

“And I, if it had not been for this sweet-briar, that has scratched all the back of my neck!”

“And I, only for this honeysuckle, though one branch broke off, and frightened me so!”

“And I, I’m sure, if Mr. Gordon had not just put out his arm and saved me!” Thus had all the Misses Morven escaped. “The[264] ladies mean, that Captain Montgomery is the most agreeable part of the surprise,” said the Earl, good humouredly. The Misses Morven tittered assent. Frances questioned him as to how his joining them had really happened.

He gave as circumstantial an account of his morning adventure as the flutter of his spirits would permit. When he described the situation of his late couche, and how he had started to his feet, without remembering where he was, Lady Arandale seriously reprimanded him for his thoughtlessness. All the Misses Morven were clamorous; Lady Morven said he might really have fallen on the centre of the luncheon table, and frightened them all to death! Frances scolded him with tears in her eyes. Julia alone did not speak, but she looked round, became pale, and the next moment red. The blood rushed from and to the heart of Edmund[265] with a corresponding ebb and flow. After a pause, as though to change the too engrossing subject, thus implied by the silence of both, he asked her abruptly, if she had sung since she had been at the Craigs? One song had been attempted, at Lady Arandale’s particular request, to try the effect of an echo.

Luncheon ended, the whole party proceeded towards the handsome castellated mansion already mentioned, to view the fine collection of pictures it contained.
CHAPTER XXI.
“I look’d around, and all was gone.”

We left our party crossing the now well rolled lawn towards the house.

On their arrival at the great door, which was open, a strange scene presented itself in the entrance-hall, in the centre of which stood a short fat gentleman looking with much astonishment at a little thin old woman, who, from her long, tapering, stomachered waist occupying one half of her height, her full petticoats spreading like a hoop; her short sleeves and mittens; her hair,[267] white as though it were powdered, drawn up over a high sugar-loaf shaped cushion, and her small cap on the top of all—resembled much one of the figures in the frontispiece of an old play book. Her diminutive features had nothing remarkable about them, but the little reddish knob or button at the end of her nose, which seemed placed there expressly to support her spectacles. These, in visible hurry and trepidation, she was adjusting with one hand, while, with the other, she was grasping the fat gentleman’s arm, and, at the same time, exclaiming as with looks of terrified amazement she scanned his appearance, “Ye dinna pretend to tell me, sir, that ye are Maister Lauson!” The fat gentleman affirmed that he certainly was Mr. Lauson. The little woman seemed of opinion that she knew better, and maintained that he was not.

[268]

The advance of the entering party, and the Earl, addressing the fat gentleman by the name of Lauson, seemed to complete the dismay of poor Mrs. M’Kinley, the housekeeper, for such was the name, and such the quality of the little woman. “Lauson! Lauson! Lauson!” she reiterated, clasping her hands, “wha iver heerd o’ sick a thing!—Jean!” she cried next, “Jean! Jean! Jean! Some on ye caw Jean!” A hard-working looking woman entered. “Hear ye to that, Jean!” said Mrs. M’Kinley, “hear ye to that! yon Maister Lauson! Heard ye iver the like o’ that?”

“Yon short gentleman?” enquired Jean, as soon as her awkward courtesies to our party were over. “Nay, yon’s nane o’ Maister Lauson. Maister Lauson’s a taw weel lookt gentleman, no’ the least like yon gentleman.”

[269]

“Tall or short I am Mr. Lauson,” said Lauson very sulkily, for the Messrs Morven had laughed out, and the Misses Morven were tittering evidently at his expense.

Lord Arandale desired there might be no more noise, assuring Mrs. M’Kinley that the gentleman, whose identity she seemed so unwilling to admit, not only was, beyond a doubt, Mr. Lauson, but that he was at the Craigs that day by his, the Earl’s, particular desire, to give him the meeting for the arrangement of some business respecting serious repairs, which he understood the park walls required.

“Now, madam,” said Lauson, “you’ll not dispute my Lord’s word, I hope.”

“Yeer no going to tell me,” exclaimed Mrs. M’Kinley, looking wilder than ever, “that yon was the deevil at cam here and cawd himsel Maister Lauson, and brought my ain[270] keys we him, and my ain lables on them, and took aw the things awa we him!”

“As to its being the devil,” replied Lauson, “I shall not dispute that; but it certainly was not Mr. Lauson.”

“What can she mean?” said the Earl.

“And did ye send naybody then?” eagerly demanded the poor woman. On being fully assured that no person whatever had been sent to the Craigs, or authorized in any way to demand of her any thing of which she had the charge, “Then,” she cried, first clasping her hands for a moment, then flinging her arms to their utmost extent asunder, “aw is gane—gane—rifled—robbed—lost—ther’s naything left in aw the hoose!”

An explanation was called for. Mrs. M’Kinley flung herself on her knees in the midst of the hall, and, calling on heaven and Jean to[271] witness the truth of all she should say, after much that was too incoherent to relate, gave the following account, though more frequently interrupted by her hearers than it is necessary to notice.

“It was a fine moonlight night aboot a month syne, and I was sitting at the window o’ the hooskeeper’s room, (it looks front, ye ken,) and I catched a glympse o’ some-ot like tle a carriage coming roond the hill. I could na credit my ain een, so I looked again, and it turned in among the trees. Weel, said I to Jean, wha can be coming tle this lone place at this time o’ night? It’s a while yet till the young mistress be at age; and I’m no expecting that ony o’ the femely will com’ doon afoor then, if they com’ then it sel. Ye mind that, Jean?” “Weel enough,” said Jean. “The carriage,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley,[272] “for it was a carriage sure enough, com’ oot o’ the wood again, and sweeped along the lawn, and up it com’ to the door, and ain o’ the sarving men, (for there were twa,) jumped doon and made sick a thundering rap as gar’d the hale hoose resound; the t’other man jumped doon, and opened the carriage door——”

“But what has all this to do, my good woman,” interrupted the Earl, “with the house being, as you say, rifled and robbed? The robbers did not drive up to the hall door in their carriage, I suppose!” “Aye, bit they did, tho’!” cried Mrs. M’Kinley, wildly. “Bit hear me oot,” she continued, “hear me oot, I say! and then dee what ye will wee me! Weel, I hasted roond, and was standing i’ the haw, by the time the hoose door was opened. A taw, weel-looked, vara weel-dressed, elderly gentleman gits oot o’ the carriage, and coms[273] intle the haw in a great bustle, cawing oot wid a lood voice, ‘I hope you have got fires there!’ Then he hurries up tle ain o’ the parlour doors, and, finding it locked, he turns roond angrily, saying, ‘How is this! Where is Mrs. M’Kinley?’ What was I to think o’ sick impudence, if he was no Mr. Lauson himsel?” Here the young men had another laugh at Lauson. “I stood forward,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “and courtesied tle him. ‘What is the reason you have not things in some order, madam?’ said he. I was no expeckin ony body, sir, said I. ‘Did you not receive my letter from Keswick, ordering you to have things in readiness?’ No sir, I answered, I had no accounts since my last remettance from Mr. Lauson. ‘Very odd,’ said he, ‘however, here! open these doors! and get fires immediately in one of the rooms—whichever is[274] most comfortable. And, d’i hear, send in coffee—I hope you have got something in the house for supper?’ There is a lettle cold meat, sir, said I. ‘That won’t do,’ sais he, ‘you must get something hot.’ You can have a foul, sir, said I. You mind picking the foul, Jean? ‘Aye, to be sure,’ said Jean. And so he’d have the foul,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “‘And take care,’ he sais, ‘you have a well-aired bed, and have a good fire made in my room immediately—and, here! come back!’ for I was going, ‘when I have had coffee, do you attend me here for further orders!’ For, before this,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “I had opened one of the parlours for him, and followed him in. ‘You know, I suppose, that I am Mr. Lauson?’ he said. No, sir, said I, I did not know it before, sir. ‘Well you know it now, ma’am,’ he said.” The young men[275] laughed. “And wha could misgee the words o’ a gentleman wha took se mickle upon him!” said Mrs. M’Kinley, with an appealing, but still wild look at the fairer part of her audience, “and sae I did as I was bidden, and when his sarving men had brought oot the coffee things, I went in for my orders. He was standing wide on the hearth-stane, we his back tle the fire, and his twa hands in the pockets o’ his breeks, haudding aside his parted coat, for a’ the warld like lord and maister e the hoose.”

“He then talt me,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “that he had com doon tle see safely removed the plate, coins, books, pictures, &c. &c.”

“The devil he did!” cried Lauson.

“But of course, you did not let him touch any thing?” said the Earl.

“Hear me oot! Hear me oot!” exclaimed Mrs. M’Kinley, deriving courage from despair. “They were to be aw removed, he said, tle[276] the hoose in toon, that was preparing and furnishing, again Lady Julia should be at age—”

“What an audacious villain!” exclaimed the Earl. “But you did not, I say, allow him to remove any thing?”

“Every thing! Every thing!” cried Mrs. M’Kinley, with vehemence: “didna I tell yee, awe was gane thegether? And I helped to pack them mysel’!”

“Why, woman, you must have been mad!” said his lordship. “Mad or not mad,” she replied, “I’ve geen him every thing! Sae hear me oot, and then, as I said afoor, di what ye will we me! I desarve hanging, and I can git ne war!”

“Well, well! say on, say on,” said the Earl.

“If I geid up the things in good order,” she continued, “he wad gee me, he said, receipts for every thing; mentioning that they were so, that I might no be accountable for ony[277] damage the things might sustain i’ the carriage. And he said further, that to avoid the chafing o’ land carriage, aw was tle gang by long sea, in a vessel whilk was now aff the coast. Bit what maist of aw convinced me, at he could be nebody else bit Maister Lauson, was, at he took oot on his port mantle, aw the keys o’ the hoose.”—“The keys?” interrupted the Earl. “False ones, of course,” said Lauson.

“Na sick a thing,” she rejoined, “bit the vara keys themsel and labeled, as I mysel had labeled them, when I geed them tle yeer lordship and Maistriss Montgomery: sae, what was I te think? Nor did the steward, nor the gairdinir, nor the gamkeeper, at sleeped i’ the hoose for security, iver think o’ misdooting at the gintleman was Maister Lauson.”

“A pretty business indeed,” ejaculated Lauson. “A very serious one, I begin to fear!”[278] said the Earl. “A very unlikely one” said Lauson, rattling something in his pocket as he spoke. “But come, madam, finish what you have got to say, and then I shall beg leave to put in a word. It’s only necessary to give some people rope enough, and they will hang themselves—that I see!”

“He geed me the keys o’ the buke-cases,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “and bad me tle hay the books aw dusted, and that there wad be people here i’ the morn’s morn, at wad undertake the packing o’ the pictures. And sae he desired particular at they should be carefully tane down, and weel wiped ready soon i’ the morn.”

Many were here the ejaculations of astonishment at such audacity.

“And sae,” continued poor Mrs. M’Kinley, “I was up we the daw; and aw the next day was spent we packing, and I helped every thing we my ain hands; and signs by, I hev hed sick[279] a pain i’ my back iver sine, at I’m no fit tle stand straight!”

No one scarcely could avoid laughing at poor Mrs. M’Kinley’s thus claiming merit to herself for the active assistance she had given the plunderer.

“It’s no a laughing matter,” said she bitterly. “Bit hear me oot, and I care na what coms o’ me after! Weel, towerds the glooming then, sure enough, a boat cam fray the ship at we had seen nigh to the shore aw day; and it pot in amang the rocks, just below the woody cliff yonder. And up the sailor-men com, bowling through aw the shrubbery walks, and doon they carried aw the kists and boxes.”

The Earl and Lauson looked at each other: there was no ejaculation strong enough for this climax.

“And when they were tacking oot the[280] last o’ them,” continued Mrs. M’Kinley, “I followed mysel through the trees, as far as the view seat, and sat mysel doon; and by cam Maister Lauson.”

“I’ll prosecute you if you use my name,” said Lauson.

“As he cawd himsel at least,” she added.

“So, Mrs. M’Kinley,” he said, “I am going with the ship mysel, to see all safe,” and he passed on. “Weel, I looked after him, and after the kists, and doon on the water, for the moon was up, and all was clear as day; and the ship was lying, and I seed the boat put fray the land and gey toward it; and I seed the kists quite plain, lifted oot on the boat, and drawd up the side o’ the ship, ain by ain, till I coonted the last on them; and then they drawd up the boat also. A weel, a weel, thought I, and noo it’s aw ower, it’s been a queer sudden business, amaist[281] like tle a dream. And I gade back ti the hoose; and found Jean sweeping up the strey; and sae I helped her to shut the doors and the windows; and we sat doon by the fire, and thought the hoose mayne lanely like, (the men folk was no com in tle their suppers) than we had thought it, aw the years at we had had the care on’t.”

“You should certainly have shut your doors and windows a little sooner, my good woman!” said the Earl.

“Here’s locking the stable when the steed is stolen, with the vengeance,” said Lauson.

“Hear ye te that, noo!” cried Mrs. M’Kinley, “hoo he threeps me doon; just as if I was na wratched enu awready. It’s easy prophesying when the prophesy is oot! I may be feul, and mad, and aw the rest on’t; bit I’m no sick a feul at I need to be talt noo, at the things wad aw be better i’their places, nor i’[282] the hands o’a thief and a robber! Bit hoo was I to ken at he was a thief? Did’na he caw himself Maister Lauson, and I kent at his lordship did’na think ye a thief, or he wad’na ha’ geen ye his business.”

“Don’t be noisy, my good woman,” said the Earl, but mildly; for he made charitable allowance for the excited state of her feelings. “And pray when did all this happen?” he continued. “Aboot a month syne,” she replied. “Bit the receipts will show.” “What receipts?” asked Lauson.

“Did’na I tell ye, at he geed me receipts for ivery thing?” she replied, with much asperity; at the same time beginning to rummage her pockets. “To be sure I hey them!” she murmured; and the longer she was in finding them among the varied treasures she successively drew forth, and in her agitation alternately[283] took from one pocket, and put into the other, the more frequently she repeated, “to be sure I hey them!”

At length, with trembling hands, after frequent wiping of her spectacles, which her fast falling tears as often dimmed, she selected from the chaos a tied up parcel, containing receipts for every thing, all signed with the name of Lauson, and in a hand which was a very tolerable imitation of his.

Lauson exclaimed against the daring act of forging his name; swearing that whoever had done so, should swing for it! “And as for your long story, madam,” he continued, turning to Mrs. M’Kinley, “I shall quickly prove it all a pack of lies! Here are the keys, labels and all, in my own coat-pocket,” and thence he accordingly produced them. “Now, it’s a likely story,” he continued, “if a highwayman-rascal had been able to get possession of them[284] out of Mrs. Montgomery’s japan cabinet, at Lodore House, that he would have run the risk of putting them there again, after they had served his turn; and from thence I took them with my own hands, only three days since.”

Exclamations of wonder here followed. The Earl cast a very angry glance at poor Mrs. M’Kinley. She was thunderstruck: she could not deny that those were indeed the keys, yet protested that her former statement was notwithstanding gospel truth!

Affected by her tears and protestations, Julia declared her belief of poor Mrs. M’Kinley’s innocence, however inexplicable the circumstances might be.—“Well,” said the Earl, at length, “as you, who are most interested, wish it, we shall at least consider her innocent till she is proved guilty.”

Mrs. M’Kinley wept like a child, fell at[285] Julia’s feet, and begged she would miss-caw and abuse her, aw at iver she could, and no break her heart by sick goodness. When the surprise had at length a little subsided, many spacious apartments were visited; and the picture gallery in particular; which, bearing on its now naked walls the numerous traces of departed frames of various shapes and sizes, gave thus a silent and melancholy testimony of how great a loss had been sustained. Edmund reminded Lord Arandale, that a clue might be found to some useful discoveries, in what Gotterimo had said of the London swindler having sold to a friend of his, plate, pictures, coins, &c.

His lordship requested the gentlemen to be present while he examined the rest of the servants. The ladies walked on towards the view-seat.
CHAPTER XXII.
“Oh! who can speak what all can feel!”

Julia and Frances, during the straying and waiting which ensued, happened to wander into a path which separated them from the rest of the young people.

“Do you know, Julia,” said Frances, “that I have become of late a great judge of love?”

“And pray how has that happened?” asked Julia, trying to laugh.

“Why, it is in consequence of all those new lovers that you and I have had of late. I now understand the business perfectly. I know[287] their ways of looking, and their ways of sighing, and their ways of lowering the voice.—There is no describing it, you know; but, in short, I now understand it perfectly.”

“You will, at this rate, become quite a dangerous member of society,” rejoined Julia, with another effort to laugh.

“What a novice I must have been but a few days since,” continued Frances, “to have been so taken in as I was by that business between Edmund and Lady Susan. Why, he no more loves her (nor ever did,) than I do that stick, Sir Philip!—That she loves him, indeed, I have no doubt.”

Julia’s heart beat so fast, that she made several attempts before she could articulate the following words: “Then why did he wish her ladyship to marry him?”

“That is what puzzles me,” replied Frances,[288] “I think there must have been something strange in the business; Lady Susan did say a good deal about his being so modest in consequence of his want of rank, that she feared she had been obliged to meet him more than half way.”

“But why meet her any part of the way, if he did not wish it?” said Julia.

“He might, you know, have been dazzled by the great advantages of such a marriage,” replied Frances. “Or been induced by her ladyship’s evident preference to mistake his own feelings. But, however that may have been, of two things I am now certain: the one, that he does not love Lady Susan; the other, that he does love you.” She paused, but Julia made no reply. “Yes, Julia,” Frances continued, “I am convinced that he loves you in the most extravagant, the most passionate, the[289] most enthusiastic manner! Oh, it is so plain to be seen in every thing!”

Julia was still silent; but she pressed her sister’s hand, involuntarily, as if thanking her for the joyful emotions her words were exciting. “In short,” continued Frances, “he loves you with my love and the Marquis’s put together, if you can imagine what sort of a love that would make. And I am sure he is breaking his heart because he knows papa will never consent to your marrying him. I wish,” she added, “he did love Lady Susan—don’t you, Julia?” Julia made no immediate reply. “I say, Julia,” repeated Frances, “don’t you wish it was Lady Susan that Edmund loved?”

“Why no—don’t you think it would be very unamiable of him to love a stranger better than those he has always loved, ever since they were children?”

[290]

“Unamiable?—Oh, I don’t know,” said Frances; “but I am sure that loving you will make him very unhappy!”

“Why?”

“Oh, you know, because papa will never allow you to marry him.”

“But—but can’t—can’t we always have a great regard for each other without—without marrying?” asked Julia.

“Oh, a regard, yes,” said Frances, “but I think that poor Edmund would be much happier, if he loved Lady Susan, and were married to her, than he will be loving you, and going to sea, and you marrying the Marquis, or some such person.”

“That I will never do!” said Julia, with sudden energy.

At this moment Edmund appeared coming towards them. Julia hastily put up her parasol,[291] though the walk was perfectly shady. The parasol entangled in every branch, and she as hastily took it down again.

Edmund now joined them, and offered an arm to each. Colonel Morven, however, whom they soon encountered, interrupted this arrangement, declaring that the walks were too narrow for three, and requesting Frances to take his arm. Thus they proceeded, with the rest of the party, towards the rock conservatory.

Julia was unusually silent, but there was something in her manner more dangerous, if possible, than ever to Edmund’s right resolves. So true is it, that nothing can pass in the minds of those we love, without our knowing, at least, that there is something passing. And of what nature that something was, seemed in the present instance to be recognised, for he, too, became silent, yet, during that silence, both felt[292] a conviction of each other’s affection, stronger perhaps than any they had before known.

How often, how very often, when distance, both of time and place intervened, was the impression received during that, to both, for ever memorable day remembered, and attempted to be renewed, severally, by both; how often inwardly appealed to! How often called upon to contradict proofs, to bear down facts! But the misery of this species of evidence is, that though at the moment the most entirely convincing, it fades in absence to a mere dream of the imagination; and while, with strange inconsistency, we find the greatest aggravation of our suffering, in the fear that we never did possess that of which we are thus lamenting the loss, we still do lament, and with the bitter feelings of those entitled to complain, that they have been bereft of all!

A pretty general meeting of stray couples now took place in the conservatory, and many were the observations made on our hero’s perilous couche. After viewing various other beauties of the place, our party, at length, agreed that it was time to proceed to Arandale, which they reached without further adventure.

Their arrival was soon followed by that of the Marquis of H?, and such other guests as were not of the immediate family circle.

CHAPTER XXIII.
… “In vain the sun hath set:
Light, his glorious attribute, remains,
And, in sportive triumph, takes ten thousand
Shapes.”
“The enchanter’s thunders roll afar, subside—
Now roll again, and murmur o’er the wave.”

The gala of the evening was to commence as soon as dusk, with illuminations, fireworks, and various entertainments out of doors, and to conclude with a masked ball, and unmasked supper within the Castle.

The woods, as far as the eye could reach on either side of the grand approach, and also in the vicinity of the walks leading to the lake[295] and to Lady Susan’s cottage were festooned with coloured lamps, and, at an early hour, filled with groups of company. Lady Susan’s cottage itself was illuminated in a simple style; while, to the great delight of the peasantry and tenantry, who were permitted to peep in at the window, her ladyship, dressed in a rustic garb of stuff, with ribbon tucks, sat by a bright fire spinning with great industry. The trees were purposely left without lamps to a certain distance round, and at the back of the little thatched building, which, with its one window lit up as if to contribute its humble mite to the great public rejoicings, and its open door emitting a stream of firelight, had a singularly picturesque appearance.

Julia, supported by Edmund on one side and the Marquis of H? on the other; and[296] Frances by Colonel Morven and Sir Philip Barton Jones, moved, with a crowd of others, towards the lake, where wonders awaited the curious spectator. The trees which surrounded, and even dipped their branches into this fine sheet of water, were thickly and beautifully hung with coloured lamps, which, reflected in seemingly unfathomable depths, shone like the stars of an inverted sky. The long, light iron bridge which crossed a narrow arm of the lake was also illuminated with much taste and variety. On this our party, with a number of the select company, took up their position: the situation being elevated, and commanding, therefore, a good view of all that was to be seen.

The Earl had contrived a more animated representation of the engagement, of which this fête was to celebrate the anniversary, than[297] could have been produced by the hackneyed mode of transparencies.

He had had a number of pleasure boats fitted up and rigged exactly as men of war, with their sides artificially raised, to admit of their seeming to have one, two, or three tier of guns, according to their ratings. Of these, two hostile fleets now appeared on the lake, man?uvring not far from each other. The admirals, on both sides, exhibiting their three stern lights, signalizing their respective squadrons; and, from time to time, turning their broadsides in full view, lowering their mimic ports, which were lighted up within, and making thus an ostentatious display of their triple row of guns. Edmund absolutely laughed like a child at the pompous airs they assumed so well.

“Capital! capital!” he exclaimed. Arthur, who stood near him, was delighted. Many[298] were the questions put by the ladies to Captain Montgomery. He explained every movement as well as he could for laughing: but to him, who was accustomed to wield the fearful engines of real destructive warfare thus imitated, the proud airs of those little vessels were irresistibly amusing. While to Julia, and all such as had never seen any thing greater, the representation was growing quite imposing. Indeed, the longer it was gazed upon, the better became the deception; for the imagination and the eye both began to allow distance for the deficiency in size, and, as the engagement seemed about to commence, the whole moving scene assumed much of reality and consequence.

Henry, too, as a naval character, had become the oracle of another circle of ladies at a little distance; for, on the present occasion, he did[299] not feel much inclined to place himself in immediate comparison with our hero.

Now a few signal-guns were fired: this was followed by a pause, almost awful: when a brisk cannonade commenced along the line of battle, on both sides. One English frigate, in particular, made herself very conspicuous. But Edmund’s power of giving information seemed suddenly quite exhausted; or he was so much engaged pointing out Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin’s vessel, and explaining his signals, and what had been from the first his intentions, that he was quite deaf to all questions respecting the frigate. What would have become of the unsatisfied and increasing curiosity of the ladies, it would have been difficult to say, had not an elderly gentleman in naval uniform informed them, that the remarkably situated vessel which had drawn so[300] much of their attention, and which might well be termed the heroine of the day, was the Euphrasia, commanded by Captain Montgomery. He then proceeded to eulogize the gallantry, general character, and even the private virtues of the said captain.

“You, sir,” he added, addressing Edmund, “who seem so well acquainted with Lord Fitz-Ullin and his plans; you must have met with Captain Montgomery, I should think? There is not a man in the service whom Fitz-Ullin values more, or rather perhaps, I should say, so much.” Edmund, no longer able to feign attention to other subjects, bowed, and smiled, at the same time casting an appealing look around him, as much as to say, “Will no one release me out of this dilemma?” The stranger stared. The Marquis good naturedly interposed, and said, “I believe, sir, you have[301] been all this time putting Captain Montgomery very much to the blush.”

“Have I then the honour of addressing Captain Montgomery?” said our naval friend, first bowing, then adding, “allow me, sir,” he shook Edmund most cordially by the hand.

Julia’s enthusiastic heart glowed while it palpitated. How insignificant now appeared inherited titles, when compared with the exalted name Edmund had obtained for himself! How dimly now shone, mere, reflected hereditary splendour, unsustained by great actions on the part of the individual himself, when compared with the inherent, self-existent glory of the founder of nobility! She could not love Edmund better; but henceforward, instead of being afraid and ashamed of her feelings, she would be proud of her preference for such a character! She was sure she should now have courage[302] to own it to her father. Then, a sudden thought of the dangers attendant on so brilliant a career; dangers which, at the moment, seemed passing in review before her eyes; dangers which might, on any day or hour again recur, struck a panic to her heart, and occasioned an involuntary movement, which, had she not checked it instantly, would have been a gentle pressure of the arm on which she leaned.—Edmund started—suspended his breathing for some moments—and then relinquished, with a blush at his own folly, a presumptuous surmise which had crossed his mind. But he drew the arm that leaned on his closer to his side though so gradually, that there seemed no impertinence, scarcely intention in the act; or, rather, it might be supposed to have been induced by the necessity of taking some such precaution against the perpetually passing and re-passing crowd.

[303]

The fire of the mimic fleets was now slackening; the smoke clearing away, and the French vessels lowering their colours, amid the shouts of the delighted multitude. Some of the disabled ships of the enemy were now seen to drift to a certain distance from the rest of the fleet, where, instead of burning or blowing up, in the common mode, they immediately became the sources whence issued fireworks, curious, various, and brilliant in the extreme. During this beautiful exhibition, “Rule, Britannia!” was played in magnificent style on board the English fleet: the Earl having placed, for that purpose, one of his favourite musicians in each mimic vessel, so that the little fleet might thus form a complete band. When the harmonies on the water died away, they were answered by “God save the King!” from another band of equally excellent performers,[304] who were concealed among the woods, at the distance best calculated for effect. At these sounds, such of the company as were of a rank to be indoor guests, returned to the Castle; while the remaining crowd were entertained in lit up tents, in which confidential servants presided: some personating prize agents, and distributing, not only refreshments to the people, but the Earl’s bounty, under the name of prize money. This latter immunity, however, was extended only to such as had wit enough to humour the sports of the evening, by assuming the characters of sailors, or sailors’ wives; for it was Lord Arandale’s object to add as much as was in his power to the well merited popularity of a service, so vitally essential to the glory, and very being of the nation.


CHAPTER XXIV.
… “Some sport
Amid the waves, like monsters of the deep,
And some, among the foliage of the groves.”

All now assumed their fancy dresses. Julia, Frances, and the four Misses Morven, were, by Lord Arandale’s wish, habited as sea-nymphs.

The principal covering consisted of a long clinging robe of a bright green. Around the bust was wrapped white gauze, of the slightest texture; its folds so arranged, as to resemble, as much as possible, the crested foam of ocean; from which, the head, neck, and arms, seemed, as it were, emerging; while a part of[306] the same drapery fell over one shoulder, and floated loosely behind the figure, like the line of light on divided waters. Through various parts of the dress was twisted bright scarlet coral, intermingled with tufts of sea-weeds, bound together by clusters of the most brilliant emeralds, seemingly unset, and mixed with small shells, to give their grouping a natural appearance; while over all were scattered costly pearls, innumerable, neither strung nor set. The feet and ankles, in particular, were entirely encrusted with ornaments of this mixed description, as if the accumulation had been collected, by treading the rocks and caverns of the fathomless deep, among Neptune’s hidden treasures.

The very long fair hair of the sisters, worn quite loose, was peculiarly becoming to this costume. It hung around in a shower of[307] brightness, as though sunbeams were gilding the light spray with which, sportive movements through the watery element, thus partially covered, as with a sparkling yet transparent veil, each lovely vision. This group did not wear masks; as they were to assist in receiving the company.

A small ante-room, the first of the suite thrown open on the present occasion, was fitted up to represent a cave. Before its entrance lay irregular masses of rock, on which were seated some of the Misses Morven, in their sea-nymph attire, combing their dishevelled locks with branches of coral, and singing the while, like the Syrens of old; till, on the approach of guests, they would dart off with looks of well feigned wildness, into the mouth of the cave; serving thus by their mockery of flight, as guides to the company. The interior[308] of the cave was decorated with coral, growing out of the crevices of the rock, and budding with precious stones; slender sea-plants gracefully pendant from each projecting point; every variety of magnificent shell, from some of which seemed to proceed strains of the wildest music, like the notes of Eolian harps; whilst others sent forth sounds, resembling the rushing of mighty waters. Under foot shone golden sands, promiscuously strewn with pearls and variegated pebbles; while fragments of spar and many-sided crystal, containing concealed lamps, being the only visible sources of light, gave to the whole a magical effect. Here, in picturesque attitudes, reclining on couches of feathery and rainbow tinted seaweed, appeared the principal figures of the group. They too were singing, but in sweeter strains than those without, and in harmony[309] with the thrilling breathings, still proceeding from the shells.

On the entrance of the guests, led in by the flying Misses Morven, the recumbent nymphs, gracefully moving their arms in time to the soft music, by looks and gestures indicated the way through each recess of the cave to an outlet at its further extremity, which led into the next reception room.

The advancing company now found themselves in a seeming grove of fine old oaks, the stems of which were entwined, and the branches festooned with laurel. Triumphal wreaths of the latter material were also borne aloft in the joyous dance by a group of wood-nymphs, wearing on their heads, crowns, and over their shoulders, garlands of roses, with which were intermingled leaves, both from the forest tree and its triumphal wreathings; signifying,[310] that if we would have the gentler blossoms of our gardens flourish, the oak and the laurel must be cultivated.

All who entered the grove in naval uniform, were conducted by two of the nymphs to an open space among the trees; where Lady Susan, in the character of Britannia, was seated on a beautiful throne, curiously carved in marble to represent the white cliffs of Albion; canopied by oaks, and sheltered, on either side, by a luxuriant growth of laurel; the steps of the throne, subject waves spell bound to the stillness of stone, by the presence of their awful mistress; while on one of them stood Triton, with his conch at his lips, in the attitude of awaiting command. The rich harmonies of “Rule, Britannia!” meantime filled the air every where; as though the old oaks themselves had been the performers; for, while the deeper tones[311] seemed to come mellowed from within the imprisonment of their knotted trunks, the softer ones were heard whispering at large among the waving of their lofty tops.

Each claimant being led to the feet of Britannia, she took a laurel wreath from the hands of her attendant nymphs, and, with a gracious smile, (a triumphal flourish from the conch of Triton at the same moment proclaiming the act,) placed it on the brows of the hero.

In the great room appeared a motley crowd in the costumes of all the nations under heaven; so that, on first entering, a traveller’s eye would have been reminded of the great mart at Gibraltar.

Lord Arandale had requested that all officers should wear uniform; Edmund could not, therefore, without incurring the charge of affectation, avoid compliance.

[312]

Habited, accordingly, in his full dress, or roast beef coat, and (for things could not be done by halves) decorated with every star and garter he had ever won, he made his appearance in the marine cave. But, having fatally neglected the precaution taken by the wise Ulysses against the voices of Syrens, he found it quite impossible to proceed further; and, indeed, seemed to be so much at home among the sea-nymphs, that landsmen, as they passed, were induced to make many witty comments, vowing they would never again compassionate sailors, on the score of their privations.

They had heard, indeed, of mermaids, and read of Syrens; but, as the former were proverbial for a very uninteresting peculiarity of form, and the latter were called, by Johnson, sea-monsters, they had no idea that the rocks[313] and caves of old ocean were inhabited by such water angels as those they now beheld.

Lady Morven appeared as a Sultana, dressed in all that could be devised of magnificence. Having some taste, her ladyship made many deviations from the hackneyed costume—wearing one, the groundwork of which, instead of being of the strong and unbecoming colours generally adopted, was of white satin; though that pure fabric was nearly covered with rich highly raised embroidery of the most brilliant hues, mixed with gold. Both tunic and petticoat were deeply bordered and fringed with gold, and the latter adorned with peculiar richness up the front, where the opening of the former displayed it to great advantage. The trowser and open hanging sleeve were of course not forgotten, while the numberless claspings, fastenings, and loopings, bracelets and armlets, with the superb zone and stomacher, necklace and crescent, all of jewels, chiefly brilliants,[314] brought together such a concentration of dazzling rays, that, when over all was flung a veil of a material so transparent that nothing of it could be seen but the beautiful miniature flowers, embroidered in gold and bright colours, with which it was sprinkled; those flowers, as the moving of the invisible drapery caused them to float around, seemed so many painted and glittering butterflies, following and fluttering in the blaze of light emitted by so much splendour. The bird of paradise too, worn in front of the turban, and sustained by the crescent of jewels, was thus so severed by their lustre from all that seemed tangible, that he appeared hovering above the bright vision, as doubtful where to alight. Her ladyship leaned on the arm of Mr. Graham, who had assumed the dress of a Sultan, on being assured that it would not be required of him to do any thing but loll on an ottoman.

Next appeared a group consisting of an old[315] blind man, selling matches, and led by a dog—an excellent figure; a little girl, driving a wheelbarrow of apples, and calling them vociferously; and a middle-aged woman, crying the last dying speech of the latest executed murderer. Now a group of Circassian slaves; now a number of naval officers, arm and arm; now many curious groups of wandering musicians, ballad singers, and pedlars of various countries. Herds of foreign peasants; then came Turks, Jews, May-morning dancers; these last, children; their queen, a lovely little creature, leading a lamb by a wreath of roses, while the gaily decorated pole, with its many garlands, showered the fragrance of fresh flowers wherever it passed; then a group of archers of the Royal Edinburgh Society. In short, enumeration would be endless. Next appeared a set of gypsies, one of the figures very good—an old man with grey hair, and bent double, leading an excellent imitation of[316] a small donkey, animated within by a little boy, and bearing on the centre of the sack, which was thrown across its back, an infant in wax, seemingly just able to sit in a little heap, by help of the old cloak, drawn tight about it; the deception complete. This group took the liberty of making a halt for a short time in the grove, where, under one of the old trees, they pitched a tent, and from a projecting branch of another, at a little distance, suspended a kettle, under which they set fire to some exquisite perfumes, in the form of faggots; while one of the youngest and prettiest of their party sat on the ground, blowing the embers to a flame, without other means than her own rosy lips; till, smoke and all, the gipsey encampment formed a very picturesque object.

Among the gipsies were some amusing fortune-tellers, but these latter were all thrown into shade by the striking figure of an Indian[317] juggler, who came in soon after, quite alone. He was tall, and dressed in long loose black robes. Instead of passing on, he paused before the party in the cave, waved his wand, and looked fixedly at them. His countenance was covered by a peculiarly hideous black mask, through which his eyes flashed with a supernatural ferocity, assisted by fiery regions of stained crystal around the apertures. He made signs that he was dumb, but that he wished to show Julia her fortune, and immediately passing his wand between her and Edmund, waved to all to make a clear space; then drawing a circle round Julia, pointed to it and to Edmund, stamped with his foot, and seemed to forbid his passing the magic boundary. Edmund made several laughing attempts to enter the circle, but the juggler as often interposed his wand and stamped again. The juggler next taking Henry by the arm, placed him beside Julia within the circle.[318] “So, I am to be the happy man, it seems!” said Henry, carelessly taking the hand of his cousin. She appeared not to like the jest, and hastily endeavoured to withdraw her hand, but he held it fast, giving her a glance which made her tremble. The juggler now displayed a ring, which he gave to Henry, who placed it on Julia’s finger so suddenly, that she was not aware what he was about to do, and said, “This is my wife.” At the same moment, the words, “This is my husband,” proceeded, or seemed to proceed from the lips of Julia, in a voice loud and distinct, though unlike that in which she usually spoke. “No! no! no!” she cried instantly, in her own voice, flinging off the ring, and darting out of the circle.

“Yes! yes! yes!” said a voice from beneath the ground on which they stood. “Yes! yes! yes!” repeated voices from within the rocks on every side, successively, and finally from[319] above their heads, till the last sound seemed lost in distance. The juggler, the while, pointing with his wand, now here, now there, still indicating the spot whence the voice seemed to proceed.

“Was it not you then that said, this is my husband?” enquired two or three of the young ladies, turning to Julia. “Nonsense! nonsense!” she exclaimed pettishly.

“The fellow is a ventriloquist,” said Edmund aside to the inquisitive Misses Morven, who seemed never to have heard one before. At the same time, approaching our heroine, he offered her his arm, for she seemed to need support, and he felt, too, secretly delighted by the visible antipathy to the idea of a union with Henry, even in jest, evinced by the countenance and involuntary movements of Julia. Henry, however, drew her other hand over his arm, without even asking her permission.

“Well, Julia!” he said, laughing, “thank[320] heaven, we are married at last, and publicly enough this time,” he added, pretending to lower his voice. “Remember,” he proceeded, again raising it, and again affecting to laugh, “you can never be off, in Scotland, after saying before two witnesses, the awful words—This is my husband!”

“As I never did, however, nor ever shall say so,” commenced Julia. Henry interrupted our heroine, by observing carelessly, “that reminds me of the lady in the play, who swears to her father, never to marry her lover, after she is married to him already.”

This remark, though made with the greatest levity, shocked Edmund more than he was willing to confess, even to himself; not that, at the time, he believed it to allude to any thing more than the folly which had just passed.

“How very funny! how very funny!” said several of the young ladies. “Those sort of[321] jokes are very disagreeable, I think,” said Julia. “Oh, you don’t think it a subject for jesting upon?” observed Henry, not at all disconcerted. “Nor do I, Julia, believe me!” he added, again affecting to lower his voice.

“The part of the juggler is certainly very well sustained,” remarked Frances. “Yes, very well indeed,” said Julia, bowing to the juggler. “The company seem to be almost collected,” she added, “so I think we may now go to the great room, and commence dancing.”

Henry, thinking he had now sufficiently plagued Julia, dropped her arm, and offered his services to two of the Misses Morven. Edmund could not resist the opportunity of turning to our heroine, and saying, in a whisper—“for heaven’s sake, Julia, what does Henry mean?” “He thinks his absurdity wit, I suppose,” she replied, without hesitation. Edmund, at the moment, felt re-assured,[322] by the ready frankness of her manner, though long after, and when new circumstances had arisen, he remembered that the words of her reply were, certainly, very evasive. One of the Misses Morven begged to have her fortune told. The juggler drew the magic circle around her, and then, with his arms folded, stood motionless. The unclaimed damsel looked round to see who was to be her companion. The juggler waved his wand, as though interdicting the approach of any intruder. The spectators began to laugh; and the young lady got out of her solitary sphere, declaring that fortune-telling was a very dull amusement.

CHAPTER XXV.
“He seems to beckon thee to his cave.”

Our group at length entered the great room, where their appearance created a very general sensation, notwithstanding the immense circle already formed round a character, which, previous to their entrance, had been the centre of attraction. They could not penetrate near enough to the inner part of the ring to see what was going on; but were told by a gentleman, who was politely resigning his own place to put our heroine a step nearer promotion, that the character so surrounded was certainly the best which had yet appeared; and that, though unmasked, no one could make him out. “It would have been a thousand pities,” added[324] General Morven, whom they now encountered, “had he worn a mask; for the countenance is the best half of the jest, he looks so completely in earnest!” “And so truly anxious to commend and sell his goods,” said our first informant, who seemed to be a friend of the General’s, for they shook hands, and Generaled and Admiraled each other.

“And treats every one,” rejoined the General, “so exactly with the degree of respect which their assumed character claims.”

“The look he gave the woman selling the last dying speech, would immortalize a new Garrick!” said the General. “In short the whole thing is the most complete piece of acting I ever saw! His expression too of disappointment and astonishment is so good, when people, after looking at and pricing things, walk off without buying.”

Julia and Frances, each leaning on an arm of Edmund, had by this time, with the assistance[325] of the General and his friend, got almost to the front of the circle; whence, who should they behold standing in the centre, little thinking he was at a masquerade, and striving heart and soul to sell his fine things, but our old acquaintance Gotterimo. He was making his best bows to Lady Morven, who, in the blaze of jewels we have already described, was seated with her Sultan on a splendid ottoman. Ere, however, we proceed to relate what immediately followed, we must account for our poor little friend being found in such good company.

Having on his return to town, made some discoveries respecting the valuables pawned by the famous swindler, which, from the great interest evinced by Mrs. Montgomery in the mosaics, he thought might be of consequence to a family that had so greatly befriended him, he determined to make his next travelling speculation, attendance on the Ayrshire race meeting, and at its conclusion to proceed to Lord[326] Arandale’s castle, and give his lordship the important information. Various accidents so delayed our little traveller on the cross road, that he did not arrive at Arandale till many hours later than he intended. When he came to the lodge gates, he found them all open, and the grounds, as he proceeded, covered with lights, merry groups, &c. &c. “Dis be von fair,” thought Gotterimo; and he debated with himself, whether he should not take the opportunity of doing a little business; but, on second thoughts, he decided that an out of door fair held by torch-light, was no place to expose for sale such valuable articles as those of which his stock consisted. He continued his way, therefore, towards the Castle. This he found also lit up; while beneath its illuminated colonnade, ascending its steps, and entering its open portals, he observed a motley crowd, many of whom, as the seller of matches, were of much lower degree than himself. He[327] could, therefore, feel no scruples in entering. He saw also, in the first hall, many who appeared prepared to turn a penny as well as himself; for some had packs on their backs, some baskets in their hands with perfumery, pastry, pamphlets, newspapers, &c. He also saw as many, or more persons, whose appearance justified the hope of their making costly purchases. “Dis be de place for me!” thought Gotterimo. The crowd in the hall were moving onward, and he moved with them. “I vill just go fere I see de odder tradge-peoples go,” he thought. He observed each person, as they passed a respectable looking man in black at the foot of the stairs, present a card. This appeared to him a very regular and business-like proceeding. He determined, therefore, to do the like; and taking out one of his own cards, indicating the articles he had for sale, and the street and number of his shop in Bath, he handed it to the butler, who stood[328] receiving, almost at the same moment, so many tickets, that the nature of Gotterimo’s deposit was unnoticed.

He now ascended the great stairs without further obstacle, admiring as he went the magnificent carpets, which were spread beneath his feet on every step; the rich candelabras, which were held aloft by statues of bronze on every landing; and the splendid gold-laced liveries of the servants, who, everywhere, pointed the way, (gold in any shape, was never lost on Gotterimo). He passed through the cave, at a time when it was so much crowded, that he was not observed by his friends, the sea-nymphs; nor did he see them, so entirely was his attention absorbed, examining the pearls that lay scattered beneath his feet, to ascertain if any of them were real. Finding them however to be but imitation, he passed on through the grove to the great room. Here his ears were at once assailed with “Oystairs! Oystairs!”[329] “Who’ll buy my primroses?” “Horrible and unnatural murder!—most cruel murder!” “Ripe strawberries! Ripe strawberries!” “Large apples! Large apples! Large apples!” And now a light wheelbarrow, impelled forward with the speed of a velocipede, by as light a little girl, ran up against him and almost upset itself, by driving over his feet. Flower girls courtesied as they passed, offering for sale bunches of roses. “You be var civil, my pretty dears,” said Gotterimo, “but I no give no money for such foolish tings.”

A richly dressed group now came in view; and Gotterimo thought he might have done “de great deal of business,” if it had not been for the ungenerous interference of a noisy, obtrusive, gentleman’s hair-dresser, while he offered for sale rouge, stays accommodated to the shape, lip-salve à la rose, Sicilian bloom, whiskers, eyebrows, moustache, and ?’s invaluable solution for rendering red or grey hair a beautiful black, displaying for the benefit[330] of single gentlemen, a long list of the names of rich widows and great heiresses, &c.

Soon after this, it was, that our party, having as we have described, pressed their way through the surrounding crowd, first discovered, in the object of general curiosity, their little friend Gotterimo. He was, at the moment, as we have stated, making all his best bows to Lady Morven and Mr. Graham, the splendour of whose appearance had filled his bosom with hopes almost as dazzling as the constellation before which he worshipped. Lord Arandale now joining the group, a grand denouement took place. After much ado, the poor little intruder was got to comprehend, in some degree, his situation; at least to know that all the mob which surrounded him, consisted of ladies and gentlemen; though, why many of them should choose to appear so little like such, might not, perhaps, come quite within the scope of his comprehension.

Gotterimo’s motives for visiting Arandale[331] having been, in the first few moments, explained to the Earl, his lordship, with his good-natured smile, whispered about among his friends, the true quality of the supposed well sustained character. The buzz went round; and Gotterimo, on his progress through the rooms, to make his exit, was so often intercepted by such as wished either to oblige their noble host, or reward the little man for the amusement he had afforded themselves, that our friend’s boxes were quickly cleared of all their contents, and at prices highly satisfactory to the vendor; who, on perceiving that he obtained whatever he demanded, not from the ignorance but from the whim of the purchasers, began to think it no great sin to raise the market a little.

Immediately after the interruption occasioned by Gotterimo’s adventures, our sea-nymphs and wood-nymphs, led by Britannia herself, formed for a peculiar dance, the plan[332] of which had been previously arranged. The figure was to take in the whole of the united group; and, on a signal given by the music, the young lady’s respective partners, in whatever disguise, were to join them as they stood in their places. Young Lord K? approached Lady Susan. Sir Philip flew to the side of Frances. Henry took his place near one of the Misses Morven. Lord Morven, Colonel Morven, &c. filled up the party, till Julia alone stood unclaimed, and, at the same time, importunately beset for alms by the old blind man who sold matches. He was bent double. A profusion of white hair fell around his patched and ragged shoulders. He held in one hand his hat, crutch, and the string by which his dog was fastened, while his other hand was stretched forth with a beseeching palm, and, in the piteous and tremulous accents of extreme age, he craved her ladyship’s compassion. At length, to humour the jest,[333] she offered him a small donation. This the mendicant bent on one knee to receive, grasping, as he did so, and firmly retaining the hand that presented it in one of his, while, with the other, he flung off his disguises, and sprang to his feet the young and handsome Marquis of H?, unmasked, but dressed for Neptune, with a crown and trident, and splendid armour of gold and silver scales. The plaudits on the occasion were universal.

Edmund, who was thrown out by his absence from the breakfast table when the engagements for this dance were being formed, and who, consequently, was but a spectator, felt his arm touched from behind. He looked over his shoulder, and beheld the juggler, who, turning, made signs to him to follow; he did not, however, feel disposed to take the hint. The dumb fortune-teller pressed nearer, and said, in a low distinct whisper, “I am not what I seem: follow me, if you wish to know who[334] you are!” These words aroused Edmund. He turned and immediately followed. “It must be some impertinent jest,” he said to himself, angry at his own credulity, “yet it is just possible that—that something, that some one connected with my strange history may—may have chosen——.” The dark figure meanwhile glided as rapidly through the dense crowd, as if there had been no obstacle to its free passage. It was with difficulty just kept in view by Edmund.
CHAPTER XXVI.
“Chief mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man;
Steel, clanging, sounds on steel!”

The mysterious stranger, our hero still following, descended the great stairs, crossed the inner and entrance-halls, and went out at the great door; then, hurrying past the flaring flambeaux of the servants in attendance on waiting carriages, made for a thick grove at a considerable distance. Arrived at the grove the figure proceeded some way among the thickest of the trees. Edmund followed, for a time, in silence; at length he demanded, rather angrily, whither the fellow meant to lead him. The stranger made no reply, but continued his rapid pace towards the most[336] remote, and, by there appearing no lights in that direction, evidently the most unfrequented part of the grounds. “I will follow no further,” said Edmund, standing still, after a quick pursuit of some minutes. “If there is, indeed, any important communication which it is necessary should be made to me in private, we have been long since far enough removed from all possibility of being overheard.” The juggler stopped, and faced about. “Young man,” he said, “you may well believe that my business here this evening was not to play the idle mummery you have witnessed. Follow me, therefore!”

“If your business regards me, name it now, and here!” said Edmund. The stranger fixed his eyes on those of our hero, while, beneath his cloak, he grasped something which Edmund almost held out his hand to receive, so sure did he feel for the moment that it must be a packet of papers containing the information[337] he so much desired to obtain. The stranger’s hand appeared to hesitate. The fellow spoke again, perhaps to gain time. “The daughter of Lord L?,” he said slowly, his eyes still fixed on Edmund, “must never be the wife of ?,” he paused, drew a step nearer, then recommenced, “hereafter you shall know, of whom; at this crisis there might be danger in the discovery.”

“I will know all this moment!” exclaimed Edmund, “else why have I been led here? I will not be trifled with, sir! If your words have any meaning, explain them! If they have none, and that you have dared to make my most sacred feelings the subject of an impertinent and indelicate jest, be assured that, whoever you may be, you shall answer to me for such conduct.” So saying, he seized a firm hold of the fellow’s cloak. The ruffian turned, with a sort of triumphant laugh, grasped Edmund’s right arm with his left[338] hand, while with his right he drew a sword from beneath his cloak, and made a thrust at our unprepared hero. Edmund, however, by a single fortunate effort, disengaged himself, evaded the first thrust, drew his sword, and intercepted the second. The villain made another and another stroke, each of which our hero parried with equal success; when, the now infuriated ruffian, with a sudden leap backward and bound forward, made a direct lunge at the breast of his intended victim; which, as our hero at the instant dexterously sprang aside, came with such force on the trunk of the tree, in front of which he had stood but the second before, that the sword of his ferocious assailant was shattered to the very hilt.

Edmund, now resting the point of his weapon on the ground, commanded the man, whom he considered in no condition to resist, being disarmed, to return with him to the Castle.[339] For reply, the juggler drew a pistol from the belt beneath his cloak, and, thrusting it close to our hero’s face, fired! The steadiness of the ruffian’s hand must have been previously shaken by the force with which his sword had struck against the trunk of the tree; for the lighting charge shot perpendicularly upwards, like a sky-rocket. Throwing the pistol from him, and cursing it aloud, the villain drew out the second, levelled it better, and was in the act of pulling the trigger, when Edmund, by this time more on his guard, had the presence of mind to strike its muzzle aside with his sword. The balls flew through the trees, wide of the intended aim. The juggler stood a moment confounded, then eyed Edmund’s raised arm, as if meditating a dart at it, with the desperate purpose of possessing himself of the weapon it held. But the threatening position of the blade seemed to deter him, while, the noise of the shots having arrested[340] the attention of the nearest group of merry-makers, their flambeaux were seen, by their quick movements, to express instant alarm, crossing and recrossing each other in great confusion. Then, they separated in every possible direction, resembling wandering meteors through the surrounding darkness; while each moving star was accompanied by a voice, crying, “Thieves! thieves! thieves!” as they evidently approached, guided by Edmund’s directing call, to the spot on which he stood.

The hitherto determined ruffian now turned and fled. Edmund pursued, and was at first so close behind him, that he again laid hold of the villain’s cloak, which, however, now yielded itself a too easy captive; while its owner darted round a thick clump of wood, and was seen no more. All who came up of course assisted in the pursuit or rather search, but in vain. From the moment the fugitive was first lost sight of, no one knew in what direction[341] to seek him. Some suggested that he had most probably turned back, favoured by the shelter of the trees, and throwing off such of his disguises as might lead to a recognition of his person, joined the throng of his own pursuers. Indeed, the multitude of people on the grounds at the time was so great, that to have traced among them an unknown individual, and in the dark too, was a thing so totally out of the range of possibility, that the idea was soon given up. On the part of Edmund, certainly, with infinite regret, for he was very unwilling to resign the not irrational hope he had for a short time entertained of discovering something of his own mysterious fate; even by finding out who had an interest in his destruction. A very little reflection, however, served to convince him, that any further attempt at pursuit must be perfectly vain; for if the villain were even seized, how was he to be identified? no one had seen him[342] unmasked, and the very proportions of his figure had been concealed by his juggler’s robes. Much disappointed, therefore, our hero bent his steps towards the Castle, which the alarm had not yet reached.
CHAPTER XXVII.
… “The author of that crime,
Inconceivable—is he my father?”

Edmund, on his return to the ball room, made the best of his way, scarcely conscious what he did, to the very spot he had left; where, fixing his eyes again on the same object on which he had been gazing when called away by the juggler, he fell into a profound reverie. “What could have been the motive of the violence offered him? To whom could his existence—to whom could his destruction be of so much importance? He was not then too contemptible to have enemies!” A strange sensation, approaching to satisfaction, accompanied the thought.

[344]

The bustle attendant on changing partners, reminded him that Julia was engaged to him for the next set; he put in his claim, and was soon recalled to a sense of pleasure, for Julia was leaning on his arm. A shudder followed, however, as he thought of the mysterious words of the ruffian stranger. Again and again he told himself that they had been uttered but to throw him off his guard. While the villain spoke, had not his eye been ever watchful? had not his hand grasped the drawn sword beneath his cloak? evidently awaiting a moment of excited feeling, to strike the blow the more securely. But this solution of the affair, rational and just as it was, did not suffice to set his mind at rest. Might he not be connected with Julia’s family in some way as disgraceful to himself as fatal to his mad attachment? Might not some secret agent have been in consequence employed to put an end to his miserable existence, lest he should entail[345] disgrace and crime on all connected with him? There were then beings connected with him! Who were those beings? and where were they? A thought of horror next crossed his mind: could it have been a parent who had employed the murderer’s hand, to blot out shame with blood? and his heart shrunk from a surmise too dreadful to be dwelt upon.

It had been previously arranged that the dance now about to commence was to take place in another apartment. The couples accordingly set out; Julia and Edmund led their own party, while before, behind, and on either side, moved a consolidated crowd in the same direction; so that retreat from the relative position once taken up was quite out of the question. Our hero and heroine were, consequently, obliged to keep, for a considerable time, a very painful situation in the immediate rear of a talkative party, who, without once looking behind them, proceeded with the following dialogue.

[346]

“We seem to abound in naval characters to-night,” observed a gentleman.

“You know it is quite a naval affair,” said a naval officer.

“True; commemoration of the battle of ?.”

“The day is worth remembering, sir!”

“Is Lord Fitz-Ullin here to-night?”

“No, but Captain Montgomery is, I understand.”

“Which is Captain Montgomery?” cried a lady.

“Which is Captain Montgomery?” said a second lady.

“Who is Captain Montgomery?” with emphasis on the word who, said a third lady, who was, by her own size and weight, making way for two slim little girls, her daughters, who, by the pressure of the crowd, were squeezed into the fat sides of their mother, like the off-shoots of a bulbous root.

[347]

“That is a question not so easily answered,” replied an equally fat gentleman.

“Is he any relation of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s?” enquired some one.

“None whatever,” replied an elderly naval officer, dryly.

“Lord Fitz-Ullin, then, was merely his patron?” said a young naval officer. “Merely,” resumed the elder, “and one half the talent and spirit, shown by Captain Montgomery, would have ensured to any young man Fitz-Ullin’s favour: he is quite enthusiastic about the service.”

“Fitz-Ullin was a very gay fellow in his youth,” observed a corpulent gentleman, “and Captain Montgomery being of unknown origin, may, after all, be no very distant relation of his lordship’s.”

“Very improbable!” rejoined the elder officer, “Fitz-Ullin would give one half his paternal estates for such a son, even in the way to which you allude.”

[348]

“His lordship has a son?”

“Yes, but Ormond, though a good-natured fellow, is quite unfit for his profession.”

“Strange that, too!” puffed out the corpulent gentleman, “for he is strikingly like his father.”

“There are some officers on before us,” said one of the young ladies, “I wonder is Captain Montgomery among them!” “I quite long to see him, I understand he is so handsome,” said a third lady. “He seems to be a general favourite with the ladies,” said the younger officer: “he is to be married shortly, I hear, to Lady Susan Morven: luck that! she has fifty thousand, I’m told.” “To Lady Julia L?, I have heard,” interposed the elder officer. “I beg your pardon,” said the fat lady, “Lady Julia L? is to be married immediately to the Marquis of H?.” “A more suitable match, no doubt,” replied the elder officer; “but heiresses will sometimes please themselves, you know; and I have[349] heard, that Lady Julia L? has been attached to Captain Montgomery from her infancy; and that she is determined to marry him in spite of all her friends, as soon as she shall be of age.” Just at this particular moment, Edmund found the impelling torrent press so weightily against his fair companion, that it was absolutely imperative upon him to draw her closer to himself than she had been.

“And Lord L?’s great estates,” added the younger officer, “must go between his daughters, at his death, whoever they marry; so the gallant Captain knows what he is about, it seems.”

“He is accustomed to capturing rich prizes!” said the corpulent gentleman. A laugh followed this most original piece of wit.

“The friends,” interposed the plump lady, “can never consent to a young woman of her high connexions, throwing herself away upon a mere soldier of fortune.”

[350]

“I have always understood,” observed another gentleman, “that Lady Julia L? was engaged to her cousin, Mr. St. Aubin. Indeed I had it from one who, I think, said that he had it from St. Aubin himself; or, at least, that St. Aubin admitted it.”

All this passed among a group, who, though masked, evidently knew each other. Their arrival at the apartment they had been all this time imperceptibly approaching, and the consequent spreading of the crowd, at length enabled Julia and Edmund to hasten from the vicinity of the party, which had so long annoyed them. Edmund, notwithstanding his causes for abstraction, was aroused by topics so interesting; he thought of the strange aside speeches of Henry, during the mummery of the juggler, and longed to know how Julia would treat the subject of her supposed engagement to her cousin. As to what had been said of himself, he dare not allude to it, he dare not[351] even think of it. At length he ventured to whisper a sort of introductory sentence, in the shape of an unmeaning compliment, saying—“How enviable a lot would Henry’s be, if there were any truth in the surmises of those people!” Julia blushed, but made no reply. So absurd a report did not seem to require contradiction; and, as she was too innocent to think any compliment of Edmund’s unmeaning, his implied question was lost in the pleasure of hearing him say, that to be preferred by her would be an enviable lot; nor did she perceive that her silence and her blush had at least surprised, if not alarmed him.

The dance now commenced, and put an end to conversation. It concluded, and Edmund, as he led Julia out of the set, began to say something about the necessity he should be under, of leaving Arandale the next morning at a very early hour; in pursuance of the journey, which was this morning so agreeably[352] interrupted. At this moment Julia’s hand was claimed by Lord K?.

Previous to sitting down to supper, the whole assembly assumed an appearance of uninterrupted splendour. Every coarse or unbecoming disguise, was exchanged for its very opposite of elegance, or magnificence; every one being determined to look as well as possible unmasked. The young lady who cried primroses, proved to be the first public singer of the day; the remainder of the group of flower girls, the rest of the best set, engaged by Lord Arandale for the occasion. They performed, during supper, some of the best scenes of a favourite opera. A ballet followed, led by the pert miss of the wheelbarrow, who was an excellent dancer.

Those, however, who best knew the Earl, could perceive, notwithstanding the efforts he made to entertain his company, that during this evening of unparalleled gaiety and splendour,[353] there was a slight shade of melancholy on his brow; and a tendency, while he sat at supper, to that, scarcely observable, movement of the head, before mentioned.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“To the lake with this; and, here, take some of these:
And mingle some that grow upon the brink,
And mar the sod. I’ll bear the body hence.”
… “He is cold—Oh, he is dead!”

For once the bagpipes were not played under the windows of Arandale Castle at ten; indeed it was nearer twelve when the well known sounds were heard.

Yet late as was the hour, Edmund did not appear at the breakfast table.

His adventure of the night before with the ruffian who had obtained admittance in the disguise of a juggler, having been mentioned by Lord Arandale to Lady Arandale; by her Ladyship to Mrs. Morven; by Mrs. Morven[355] to the General; by the people on the grounds, who had witnessed a part of the business, to all the servants; and by the servants to their respective masters and mistresses, it was now universally talked of. By those we mean, who could talk; some there were, who could not trust their lips with the utterance of a single syllable. Who could thus desire the amiable Edmund’s destruction, baffled all conjecture.

There was but one rational supposition, the Earl said. The villain must have been employed by some one acquainted with those concealed facts, which had hitherto surrounded their young friend’s fate with mystery; some one whose interest would materially suffer by the development of that mystery; while at the same time there was most probably some event about to take place, which threatened to produce that development.

“Then, Edmund must be still in danger!” exclaimed Frances, starting upright from her[356] seat, and clasping her hands. Julia sat trembling, and as pale as death; but neither moved nor spoke. The butler entered with rolls. He was asked if he could be certain that no one had been admitted without a ticket. He was quite certain! He had, himself, taken the ticket of each person who passed the first hall. Even the little pedlar had presented a card, which, happening to be of similar dimensions to the tickets, he, the butler, unfortunately, had not examined at the time; and which, when examined afterwards, proved to be one belonging to the man’s shop in Bath. This was the only ticket which was not correct, of the full number issued. It was strange! Tickets had not been given to any friends to give to friends of theirs; with the exception of a very few to Edmund himself, and to Henry, for naval officers of their acquaintance.

When the subject had been thus discussed, in all its bearings, the Earl, who still looked[357] serious, and even melancholy, said, “I am not sorry that Captain Montgomery has taken Arthur with him; it would have been a sad scene for the poor little fellow! Our friend, Sir Archibald Oswald,” he added, after a solemn pause, and looking round the company, “is no more! The state of his mind will, I trust, acquit him in the eyes of heaven, as it undoubtedly must in the judgment of men; but, there is reason to fear that our unhappy friend has been accessary to his own death. His body was yesterday found in the lake by the work people who were preparing for the illuminations. Duncan very properly suppressed the circumstance, till he had communicated it privately to me; and I judged it best to permit the entertainment offered to our friends to proceed, without checking the pleasure of the company by the introduction of so melancholy a subject.”

Miss Morven thought that Mr. St. Aubin[358] was certainly a very amiable young man: he showed so much feeling. He actually turned quite pale, when her uncle mentioned, Sir Archibald’s body being found in the lake.

Many of course were the exclamations of pity and surprise. “It will be quite a change of scene,” continued the Earl, “I must send for the proper persons; and, if their verdict is, as I have no doubt it will be, insanity, I must give my poor friend a suitable funeral.”
CHAPTER XXIX.
“Each fiercely grapples with his foe.”
… “Have I then murder’d thee!”

To account for Sir Archibald Oswald’s disappearance from Arandale, and the subsequent discovery of his body in the lake, we must accompany him in a walk before breakfast, on the morning after he had evinced so much emotion the previous evening; first of a furious description, when Henry’s voice arrested his attention; and finally, of a tender and subdued nature, when, on hearing Julia sing, all violence had not only been allayed, but, unconscious tears had flowed over his haggard countenance.

[360]

Having retired without supper, and, consequently, without the excess in wine, which, with him, too frequently formed the principal part of that meal, the unhappy Oswald slept better than was his custom. He rose earlier; he felt some degree of composure; a lucid interval was probably approaching.

He wandered into the deep woods that surround Arandale Castle. The solitude they afforded was of a cheering and animated kind. Stately deer crossed his path; birds sang, and peacocks screamed in every branch, and the cawing rooks were, as usual, in busy motion, in and over the tops of all the high old trees.

The path he chanced to take, led him to the sheet of water before noticed. Our old acquaintances, the two swans, were slowly sailing on its calm surface. Half the quiet bosom of the lake was in deep shadow from the great trees, which seemed resting the weight of their branches upon it. The other half shone brightly[361] in the early sun; and every leaf, every blade of grass, which, amid so much cover, the rays of light could reach, was glittering with dew. The morning air was exhilarating. Oswald’s broken heart felt soothed by the influence of surrounding objects. He stood contemplating the scene with calmer feelings than were common to him. There was a peculiar stillness in the moment; the next, the sound of approaching footsteps fell on his ear. He looked round, and beheld, as he believed, one who had long been the object of his search, and of his hatred, coming towards him.

Oswald stamped on the earth, uttered a yell, at once of triumph and defiance. His eyes flashed with the fire of phrenzy; he gnashed his teeth; his whole countenance became distorted with the horrible rage of a maniac. Henry paused! for it was, indeed, this unfortunate son of a desperate father, whom the bewildered perceptions of the madman had mistaken[362] for that father. A father whose very memory could thus entail on his offspring, not only the wild vengeance of others, but almost a necessity in himself to become the perpetrator of crime, actual, if not intentional.

Henry saw, and endeavoured to avoid Oswald; but the unhappy being crossed his path, and seized on his throat with violence, reiterating, “Villain! villain! villain!” accusing him of deeds of the blackest dye, and calling upon him with threats and imprecations to restore the rights of his son! At first Henry, to do him justice, only sought to escape; next, only to defend himself: but when it became evident that the maniac’s purpose was to put him to death, and that, with that purpose, was coupled an insane glee at the immediate prospect of its fulfilment; and that, added to all this, Henry began to feel himself actually threatened with strangulation; his own angry passions kindled, and he put his strength to the struggle. Oswald,[363] however, having at first fastened on Henry’s cravat, maintained his hold with the ferocious tenacity of a bull-dog, and pursued his advantage with the supernatural force derived from phrenzy. There were moments when Henry gave himself up for lost! It was now that he forgot his assailant’s age and imbecility of mind, and with all the strength of youthful sinews clasped his arms round the old man’s waist, and, in a few seconds, brought him to the ground. Here the sight of Oswald’s grey hairs lying amid the grass and fallen leaves might have recalled better feelings; but even here the poor maniac’s fury was unabated: his countenance still expressed his horrible intention, and his hand still grasped the cravat of Henry. In the latter the instinct of self-preservation grew each moment more fierce.

The efforts of Oswald, even in this prostrate position, continued for a time as frantic as ever. When, suddenly, all became still: the[364] hands had relaxed their hold, and Henry gazed in mute horror and unavailing remorse on a passive—nay, a lifeless form!—himself as motionless.

“Self-defence is not murder!” he at length murmured. “Self-defence is not murder!” he repeated. But no false arguments could stifle the shocking conviction to which his suddenly cooled faculties had awakened. The conviction that a too fatal fierceness had accompanied the pressure with which he had held the fallen madman to the earth after immediate danger to himself had ceased. The vital breath, suspended by wild excitement and frantic exertion, might have, would have returned had not that cruelly continued pressure impeded the efforts of nature.

Such feelings, however, shortly yielded to a dread of the consequences of what had happened; attended thus by, at least, very suspicious circumstances.

[365]

He stood up, and looked all round him. It was solitude everywhere; and Oswald’s hat had rolled into the lake. He seized the thought, drew the body towards the margin, and pushed it in also.

It sunk, and the water closed over it. Henry gazed on the spot whence it had disappeared, till the last spreading circle had melted away; then, turned to depart. But, started and shuddered on beholding full, attentive eyes fixed upon him, as it were observing his movements! For a moment, he felt detected; but the next, recovered from his panic, for the eyes were only those of a stately deer. The animal stood at a little distance, beneath a tree; his face turned full round, his head proudly erect, sustaining the weight of his branching horns.

Henry envied him! And now striking hastily into a walk, that led towards the Castle, he debated with himself, in great agitation, whether he should mention what had happened to[366] Lord Arandale, pleading the dreadful necessity of self-defence, against a maniac, who would else have taken his life; or, whether he should remain silent, and suffer it to be supposed that Oswald had drowned himself. That such a man should commit an act of suicide could not surprise any one, and Henry, therefore, determined on the latter alternative.

It was on this occasion that he entered the breakfast-room on the first morning of the races, just as Lady Arandale was enquiring of the butler, if any one had been in Sir Archibald’s room. It was at this breakfast that Lady Susan had observed on Henry’s not having any appetite.

It may now too be imagined what his feelings of consternation must have been, when, within an hour after, little Arthur, mistaking him for Edmund, laid hold of the side of his coat, and asked him, in a cautious whisper, where his poor papa was.

The body of Sir Archibald Oswald, over which we have seen the peaceful surface of the waters close, rose again at the usual time. But before any one had chanced to visit a place so sequestered, both it and the hat had been gently borne along towards a narrow outlet, at the further end of the lake, and received into the strait, or pass, which was too confined to allow of their further progress.

And here they might still have lain, had not the work people, mentioned by the Earl, found it necessary to clear this pass.

END OF VOL. II.
Volume 3 CHAPTER I.
“I love thee not.”

We left our party concluding breakfast on the morning after the masquerade. The ladies shortly after repaired to the great room, whither they were soon followed by some of the gentlemen, among others the Marquis of H. The scene afforded a striking contrast to that of the evening before: Sir Archibald’s mysterious death, together with the atrocious attempt on the life of Captain Montgomery, seemed to[2] have given a shock to the gay spirits of all. Those who spoke at all, spoke almost in whispers, their themes murders, mysteries, and sudden deaths.

Mr. Graham, reclining on a chaise longue, was very nearly asleep, and Lady Morven was already yawning. Julia happened to enter the green-house, and was immediately followed thither by the Marquis. Wise looks were interchanged by the rest of the company. Half an hour, an hour, nay, a quarter more elapsed, but neither Julia nor the Marquis re-appeared. At length Frances entered the green-house. Lo, the birds had flown! Julia was found in her own room writing to her grandmamma.

But the Marquis’s seat at the dinner table was vacant. The servants could give no account of his lordship; but, that he had left the castle on horse-back some hours since.[3] Julia was observed to colour a little, when the Marquis’s absence was noticed.

Lord Fitz-Ullin was again at sea; and our hero had again sailed with him. A new harvest of glory was being reaped by both. Almost every column of every newspaper was filled with the movements of the fleet under the command of Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin; and in every account did the name of Captain Montgomery stand pre-eminent in the ranks of glory. No wonder then if that name often fixed the eye of Julia.

Indeed, the moment she took up a paper, it was the first word she saw! It seemed written in talismanic characters! It stood out from the page, and offered itself to her view, ere, at least, she was conscious of having sought for it. Yet there were those (and among them Lord Arandale,) who suspected that Henry was the[4] object of her thoughts, when her face and neck became suffused with blushes on her being found with a newspaper in her hand.

At length, Lord Fitz-Ullin lost his life in the achievement of one of the most brilliant of his victories. The whole nation mourned in the midst of triumph!

The papers in which, so lately, the heart-stirring deeds of the living hero followed each other in rapid succession, were now, with a mournful sameness, as chilling to the excited imagination as the still scene they represented, filled, from end to end, with the solemn lying in state of the unconscious corse, the funeral lighting of the chamber of death, the silent mourners, who watched with the dead night and day, the sombre splendours of the body’s last receptacle. The numerous banners waving their shattered remnants over it; the noiseless steps of the[5] spectators, as they approached, gazed, and passed, treading a flooring that returned no echo to their footfalls; the firing of minute guns by the forts, the lowering of their colours half mast high, by all the vessels at the Nore, and in the harbour; the muffled peal of the bells; in short, every demonstration of what was the feeling of all, in which a nation could unite its myriad tongues in one voice of woe.

In addition to the numerous attendance, professional and official, which was almost a matter of course, the mortal remains of the hero were to be followed to the grave by many of the princes of the blood, and all the principal nobility of the kingdom. Among the latter, Lord Arandale intended to take his place; and Mrs. Montgomery consented, by letter, to her grand-daughters accompanying their aunt and uncle to town on the occasion.
CHAPTER II.
… “Britain,
Well named Great! Mistress of the seas, arb’tress
Of the earth; dread of the oppressor, refuge
Of th’ oppressed; bulwark of liberty, hav’n
Of hope, standard of justice.”——
“The forms of thy sons, in sculptured story,
Shall to distant times appear, triumph’s wreaths
Their brows entwining.”——

Our party completed their journey to town late the day before the internment was to take place. Arrangements previously made by Lord[7] Arandale, had secured for them places in the cathedral. The pomps attendant on the funerals of officers of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s rank, being too well known to require description, we shall only slightly remark the impressions made on the mind of our heroine, who, for Edmund’s sake, was more than commonly interested in the solemn scene.

The procession having entered, the service commenced; the effect of the sublime parts of which, on the feelings of Julia, were such, together with the all-pervading grandeur of the music; the slow, but constant movement of the passing figures; and the still solemnity of all things else, that, yielding to the one absorbing sense of admiring awe, she seemed wrapped in a species of trance, while, from time to time, a single voice in the choir, separating itself from among the body of sound, would reach[8] her ear, pronouncing, with peculiar distinctness, some impressive sentence.

Pious enthusiasm stole over her heart, as, with thrilling sweetness, a youthful voice sang, “And now, Lord, what is my hope? truly my hope is even in thee!” Again, when the voice proclaimed, “Man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain!” how contemptible seemed the struggles of worldly ambition for the precedence of an hour! And now the voice pronounced, “In the midst of life, we are in death!” And poor Julia thought of Edmund, and of the dangers of the sea; and her heart died within her. It so happened that the countenances most immediately in the view of our heroine, were those of a number of the oldest naval officers, who were of course, in general, the oldest men, as the grey hair, thinly scattered on the brow of many told.

[9]

At the moment Julia first remarked this, voices in the choir were singing the verse, “Though men be so strong that they come to fourscore years, yet is their strength but labour and sorrow, so soon passeth it away, and we are gone.” No eye wandered, no limb was restless, while the very stillness of each motionless figure possessed expression. It was not repose; it was not listlessness; it was the fixedness of serious attention.

Many of the countenances bore the traces, not of age only, but also of hardships. Hardships endured. Wherefore? To render home a sanctuary! A sanctuary to infirmity, to infancy, to those of her own sex, to all, in short, who were unable to defend themselves! Julia’s enthusiasm arose: How beautifying, she thought, is every furrow so produced.

She pictured to herself each individual now[10] so quiescent in form; so still in feature; on the deck of his floating citadel, surmounting a tempest, or conquering an enemy.

Midnight, winter, every adventitious circumstance, crowded on her poetic imagining, of what though she had never seen, yet she had so often studied in description, that, of all subjects, it was the one most familiar to her fancy. Ship after ship arose before her mind’s eye; till, gradually, they formed themselves into an invincible bulwark around our happy isles, establishing them the throne of peace; while wild warfare desolated the outer world! “Yes,” thought Julia, “even our foes find refuge here, when oppression hunts them from their homes!” And her heart swelled with pride, that she was the native of such a land! The gradations of rank faded before this grand distinction; to be a Briton, seemed exaltation[11] sufficient! She paused a moment—“How proud a thing then to be one of those who have made Britain what she is,” whispered a small voice within the heart of Julia. At the moment her eye was fixed in a certain direction, by the moving a little forward of a figure, hitherto intercepted by an opposite pillar—it was Edmund! Her heart ceased beating, fluttered, ceased again, then beat so rapidly as to impede her breathing.

Edmund leaned against the pillar, and seemed listening attentively to the music; he had not yet perceived Julia. Her eyes dwelt on the serious and mournful expression of his noble features, with feelings, where tenderness seemed to excuse admiration, and admiration to justify tenderness. His head turned, in a degree scarcely perceptible. Their eyes met: a sudden glow covered the face of Edmund, and faded[12] instantly; a look passed, understood by both to be one of recognition, tho’ expressed only by the standing still of the eye. The time, the circumstances, were too solemn for more. A voice in the choir pronouncing, “Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts,” seemed to Julia a reproach, for the mingling of earthly feelings, which had already found a place in her bosom.

During the performance of the service, evening approached, and lights became necessary. The coffin had been placed on a platform in the centre of the church; the canopy had been removed, the pall taken off; the solemn scene, situated thus, immediately beneath the principal source of light, while all things else remained in comparative obscurity, had an effect, imposing in the highest degree. The numerous assembly of spectators, imperfectly[13] seen,—the occasional gleaming of the arms and accoutrements of the soldiers,—the shadowy perspective of the aisles,—all became tributary circumstances, lending additional impressiveness to the principal object.

There was at this time a total silence throughout the church. After some moments, the voice of the officiating clergyman was heard, singly, and solemnly, pronouncing the concluding sentences. And now, the words, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” fell on the senses with that chill, that shuddering, involuntary sympathy with the unconscious tenant of the grave, which instinct grants, while reason would withhold. The startling sounds from without, of the discharge, by signal, of artillery, were heard at the moment, and Julia was aroused from meditation on the sleep of the grave, by the awful[14] thought of the last trumpet awaking the dead to judgment.

When the firing ceased, the leading voice of the choir again arose, and floating over the solemn scene like some invisible dweller in its hallowed light, sang the inspired and inspiring words, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord! even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours.”

The organ pealed, and now a voice more solemn than the last, sang, or rather seemed to say, “His body is buried in peace!” An hundred voices at once broke forth in reply, triumphantly proclaiming, “But his name liveth evermore! his name liveth evermore!”
CHAPTER III.
“My heart is not of yon rock, nor my soul
Careless as that sea, that lifts its wide waves
To every wind! If Fingall return not,
The grave shall hold Comala!”

As Lord Arandale’s carriage returned that evening from the cathedral to Hanover-square, it was overtaken by a chariot and four, driving at the utmost speed that could be attempted in the streets of London. Some communication passed between the servants, and both equipages drew up. It being lamp light only,[16] and Lady Arandale’s shoulder and hat, while her Ladyship shook hands with, and spoke to some invisible inmate of the other carriage, effectually blocking up the window on that side, Julia could not see any thing; but she heard the voice of Arthur, crying, “Good bye! Good bye!” And that Of Lady Arandale saying, “But shall we not see you? Shall we not see you?”

The carriage, then, must be our hero’s, and he must, by a look or shake of the head, have implied a negative; for Lady Arandale spoke again, saying, “Oh, I am sorry for that! Farewell, then! farewell! You’re a good lad: Heaven bless you! Good bye, Arthur, my dear,” she added, in a more careless tone. A hand, meanwhile, was stretched past Lady Arandale to offer the farewell grasp to those within the carriage. Julia gave hers when it came to her turn; and certainly, whether[17] the invisible person was aware whose it was or not, it was held longer, and with a tenderer pressure than any other. The moment after it had been released, she at last heard the well-known voice of Edmund, though scarcely audible from suppressed emotion: it said only, “Go on.” And immediately the chariot drove away.

There was surely nothing affecting or tender in those two little words; yet, they smote on the heart of Julia like an electric shock. They were, at once, the first she had heard from Edmund’s lips for many weeks, and the signal for his present departure, it might be for years, it might be for ever!

The long-cherished feelings of tender affection for the dear speaker, vibrated to the tones of that loved voice; and long after they had passed away, did they seem to linger on[18] the sense of hearing, like the faint notes of receding music: How often had those very tones been heard addressed to herself, and saying the kindest things! Her eyes overflowed with irrepressible tears. She could have envied, at the moment, the very postillions. Yet it could not have been because those words had been addressed to them; perhaps it was, because they were going with Edmund. He must, she knew, be hastening to join his ship. He was hastening, then, to danger, possibly to death—for when we have just witnessed any impressive instance of mortality, how fragile, how precarious, seems the hold on life, of those whose lives are precious to us!

As Julia leaned back in the farther corner of the carriage, and, sheltered by the darkness, indulged in continued weeping, she[19] thought of the devotion of Marmion’s page with an admiration and a sympathy she had never felt before: not that she meditated following that page’s example.

When Lord Arandale joined the family party at their very late dinner, he told them that Captain Montgomery had mentioned to him his having made an attempt to see them that morning, knowing that after the funeral he should not have one moment at his own disposal; but that, not being aware that they would go to the cathedral so early, he had missed them. Captain Montgomery had also explained to him (his Lordship said) that his young friend Ormond (now Fitz-Ullin) was so overwhelmed by grief for the sudden loss of his father, that he was quite unfit for any exertion (he was, in fact, so ill as to be confined to his bed); and that he had,[20] therefore, particularly requested that Captain Montgomery would, during the solemnization of the funeral, represent him, by taking throughout the various parts of the public ceremonials, the place which properly belonged to the son of the late Earl. Captain Montgomery had not, consequently, been able to command a moment of his own time, while in town; and the necessity for joining the fleet with the utmost speed, was such, that a chariot and four had been in waiting for him at one of the doors of the cathedral, during all the latter part of the service.

CHAPTER IV.
“If this heart must break, why delay the stroke?
Rend at once the veiling cloud; no phantom
Of the future, can surpass the wildness
Of Comala’s fears.”
“In vain I close mine eyes, through their sealed lids,
I see his blood!”

The sisters had returned to Lodore, and passed some quiet months in its peaceful seclusion, when one morning Mrs. Montgomery, handing an open letter to her grand-daughter across the breakfast-table, said, “It is from[22] your father: we may expect to see him every day.”

Both daughters expressed pleasure and surprise; but Frances’s hand was the first extended. Julia had opened a newspaper. Her eye was glancing over its columns, and had just encountered the words, “Euphrasia frigate, Captain Montgomery.” Lord L.’s letter was read, and discussed; and during the moments of suspense thus occasioned, Julia felt her trepidation increase to a degree that warned her how little she could trust herself to peruse a paragraph containing such magical words before witnesses. She, therefore, stole from the room, carrying the paper with her. Julia was not at first missed. But when a considerable time had elapsed without her being seen, and that Mr. Jackson, who came in shortly, began to inquire for the newspaper;[23] Frances, not without feelings of alarm, which had something very near the truth for their object, sought her sister. The door was locked. Frances called softly on Julia’s name. There was no reply! She called louder still. All continued silent within! She made hasty and repeated efforts to gain admittance. At length, in accents of terror, she alarmed the house. The door was forced open, and Julia found insensible on the floor, with the newspaper lying beside her.

The paragraph she had evidently been reading, ran as follows:—

“A report has just reached us from the fleet off * * * *, that the Hurricane, Lord Fitz-Ullin; and the Euphrasia, Captain Montgomery; being detached from the squadron, fell in with a number of armed vessels of the enemy. That, the result was, as usual,[24] brilliant; but, we regret to add, that the glory obtained on this occasion, has been dearly purchased; the gallant Captain Montgomery having lost his life in the engagement. The private letter, from which our account is taken, states distinctly, that a cannon ball was seen to sweep him from the deck of his ship, at the very moment when the last of the French vessels lowered her colours. In our next, we shall be able to give the public, a detailed and official account of this affair.”

That evening, a few hurried lines arrived from Henry, written on board the tender of the Euphrasia, of which he had the command, and which was conveying the same intelligence to the fleet. They confirmed the newspaper report of Edmund’s death by a cannon-ball, at the moment when the last of the enemy’s ships struck her colours. He had been standing for[25] some time, in a very conspicuous situation; and Henry had seen the ball sweep him from the spot! Henry wrote in this haste, he said, that his aunt might not see it first in the papers. With great affectation of consideration, he requested Julia, (to whom the letter was addressed,) to take her own opportunity of breaking it properly to her grandmother; and then went on to observe, (by way of consolation,) that Edmund could not have suffered much, as he was shattered into a thousand atoms in less than two seconds!! Indeed, must have been, from the amazing height, that he, Henry, had himself seen the ball fling him into the air. Henry had been, at the time, he added, alongside in the Tender, waiting, as he had said, to convey the account of the capture of the enemy to the fleet. He had been so near, therefore, that he had seen the whole[26] transaction, as distinctly as if he had been on board the Euphrasia.

The same post brought a supplement to the paper of the morning, giving a detailed account of the engagement, and of the manner of Captain Montgomery’s death.

Of course, neither letter nor paper were mentioned to Julia.

While Mr. Jackson is opening the newspaper, and putting on his spectacles, to read it aloud to Mrs. Montgomery and Frances, in an adjoining room, and Mrs. Smyth sits at Julia’s bedside, we shall lay before our readers the circumstances, or rather private feelings, which probably led to the present rash, though brilliant affair.

At the time of Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin’s death, Edmund had found the task of consoling his young friend Ormond (now Fitz-Ullin)[27] difficult indeed. Not only was the grief of Fitz-Ullin overwhelming, but his self-reproaches were heart-rending. “He had never,” he vehemently exclaimed, “been what his father wished him to be!” He had disappointed all the hopes of the kindest, the best, the most indulgent of parents! That parent had died without the consolation of leaving behind him a son worthy of perpetuating his glorious name. How could he be careless of the wishes of such a parent! Yet he had always intended to exert himself, and become all that his father could wish; and now—now he could never do so. Edmund should have been his son: Edmund of whom he would have been so proud! Our hero, after trying calmer and more religious consolations in vain, endeavoured to arouse his friend by suggesting, that the most acceptable offering he[28] could make to the memory of his father, was to strike at once into the brilliant path his father had quitted. Fitz-Ullin’s spirit, gentle and indolent as it was in general, in its present state of excitation, took fire at the thought; but, alas! he had neither talent nor steadiness to sustain him in the high resolves which such feelings suggested. The insufficient impulse carried him into the midst of daring undertakings, and there left him, astounded at his own boldness, and pausing whether he should proceed or return. Thus, dangers were incurred, and yet, results not reached.

The business now before the public, and which took place a few months after Fitz-Ullin’s going to sea in the same fleet with Edmund, affords a striking illustration of the fatal consequences of adventitious excitement, thus operating on a naturally weak character.[29] The particulars were now read by Mr. Jackson; the sum of them was as follows:

The Hurricane, a large frigate, commanded by Lord Fitz-Ullin, being detached from the fleet off * * * *, was cruising along the coast. It was after midnight, and excessively dark, when the signals of enemies’ ships were seen in shore; but of what description the vessels were, or in what numbers, could not be even guessed. At length, the first breaking of dawn beginning to render objects a little more definable, they perceived the enemy consisted of no less a number than seven large, armed vessels.

“The young Earl, who seems,” said the papers, “to inherit the high daring of his noble father,” gave immediate orders to clear for action. In the mean time, he bore down upon the enemy, and took up, unfortunately, a far from favourable position. It was one,[30] however, in which he could bring a broadside to bear on some of the French vessels. In endeavouring to get the Hurricane into a better chosen situation, Fitz-Ullin, from the ignorance consequent on his former neglect of the service, committed so many blunders, that by the time she was anchored, it was found that she had actually got her stern to the enemy in such a position, that for some time she was exposed to their fire, while but one of her guns could bear on them.

Fitz-Ullin suddenly walked up to the officer of the marines, who was overseeing his men, as they manned the guns of the quarter-deck: “Why, you are doing nothing here, Sir,” he exclaimed.

“Nothing can be done, my Lord,” said the officer, “while the ship remains in this position.”

Fitz-Ullin turned away without reply; but,[31] a moment after, ordered the cable to be cut, and stood out to sea. The enemy, who lay close under the protection of some of their own batteries on the shore, continued stationary.

Fitz-Ullin dispatched a cutter to the squadron, desiring that the aid of a frigate might be sent him, to capture some ships of the enemy: but without mentioning their number, or the batteries by which they were protected. To his public demand he added a private letter, requesting that the vessel sent might be the Euphrasia, Captain Montgomery. The Admiral, an old friend of his father’s, issued orders accordingly.

Fitz-Ullin, when he saw the frigate coming towards him, under a press of sail, and remembered that she was commanded by the steady friend, to whose talents he so much looked up, felt his spirit strengthened, and[32] sent an officer on board, requesting, that as he had first descried the enemy, his ship might be permitted to move foremost to the attack. This was granted, of course, and he led in, in great style, the Euphrasia following. When, suddenly, and to the utter astonishment of all, Fitz-Ullin called out, “Man the cluelines! Shorten sail!” The order being obeyed, the Euphrasia, of course, passed them, envied by every officer, aye, and every sailor too, on board the Hurricane: and no wonder, for at the moment it was really a magnificent sight, to behold her advancing boldly in the very front of peril on seven of the enemy, supported by batteries on shore, now opening their fire. But in consequence of the late shifting of a sand-bank, of which the pilots were not aware, the Euphrasia, while still rapidly advancing, unfortunately ran[33] aground; and thus rooted, as it were, to one spot, became the very target at which every gun from ship or battery was instantly levelled.

Fitz-Ullin, whose wavering mind seized on the one idea of the danger he saw the leading vessel in the very act of incurring, called, “Let go the anchor!”

“Not here, for heaven’s sake!” cried the first lieutenant, running up to him, and pointing to the enemy’s ships on one side, and the Euphrasia on the other; thus indicating that their own vessel must, in her actual situation, receive the fire of both, and prevent that of their consort reaching the enemy. While this was passing, the sailors at the anchor involuntarily suspended their hands for a moment, during which, the vessel, as she was moving with some velocity through the water, shot a few lengths further ahead. The command,[34] “Let go the anchor,” was reiterated by Fitz-Ullin. The anchor now fell, and fixed them in a position which, though less dreadful than that they had just passed, was still one of more peril, and less efficiency, than might have been chosen. Such as it was, however, it was bravely maintained; for not even the contradictory orders of this, unhappily, so ill-qualified commander, could, once fighting commenced, keep British officers and British sailors from doing their duty.

The Euphrasia, in her terrible, but fortunately, very effective situation, was behaving most gallantly. She was the central object, necessarily alone, and involved in a cloud of smoke, through which the silent flashes of her guns were still seen, preceding by an awful second the loud thunders of destruction, issuing peal after peal from both her sides.

[35]

Fitz-Ullin, as the wreaths of smoke from time to time blew aside on her deck, could discern the figure of Edmund, now here, now there, busily engaged, encouraging and directing his men in all quarters.

Gun after gun, from the batteries was silenced; ship after ship, of the enemy struck; and the contest seemed nearly concluded. The Euphrasia was at length seen to pour a formidable broadside into the last remaining vessel which still displayed French colours. The fire was not answered.

Fitz-Ullin kept his eyes anxiously fixed on the moving wreaths of smoke, in which the frigate’s own guns had now again enveloped her. When these began to disperse a little, he beheld, emerging from the white vapour, at an unusual elevation, the figure of his friend; at first but faintly seen, afterwards more distinctly,[36] but still, for some seconds, itself the only palpable object. Gradually it became evident, that Edmund stood out on one of the flukes of the anchor, now partly visible, and which was made fast to the bows. He seemed endeavouring to look through the thickened atmosphere towards the enemy’s colours, as if to ascertain whether they were about to be lowered, ere he should again fire. The enemy were also partly shrouded; but her rigging and masts appeared, and shortly her colours were seen descending. At the same moment, the last gun, which was still effective, fired from the batteries.

Fitz-Ullin saw the ball enter the cloud of smoke, and, a second after, carry with it the form of Edmund! He could actually descry his friend’s feet lifted from the spot whereon they had stood. He clasped his hands over[37] his eyes, but too late—the fearful sight had been seen—it continued to float before their closed vision. He groaned with agony of mind. When he again looked, the deck of the Euphrasia, from which the smoke was fast clearing, had become a scene of evident hustle and confusion.

He saw, with breathless impatience, every moving figure collecting to a central point. He called for his boat four or five times in one minute. It came—he leaped into it—it remained without motion, for no order had been given. He pointed to the frigate, and his men pulled towards her.

While crossing the open space between the ships, the Euphrasia’s Tender passed them. A person on its deck, in a loud and distinct voice, said, “Captain Montgomery is killed!”

Fitz-Ullin shuddered. His nerves recoiled[38] from the sounds. He had himself seen his friend fall; yet the admission of the fact through the medium of a new sense, seemed capable of inflicting a new pang.
CHAPTER V.
“Who named the King of Morven?—Alas, he lies
In his blood on Lena:—Why did they tell me
That he fell? I might have hoped, a little
While, his return—I might have thought I saw him
On the far heath—A tree might have deceived me
For his form—The wind of the hill sounded
As his shield in mine ear.”

The grief of all at Lodore was so great, that Julia’s overwhelming share of it did not cause any suspicion as to the nature of her sentiments. The feeling of every one, down to the lowest servant in the house, was the same, as[40] if Edmund had really been the son or grandson of Mrs. Montgomery. Every one’s heart was full, no one had time to be sagacious.

Frances alone, though without any formal confidence, had for some time understood the secret of her sister’s heart. As soon, therefore, as Mr. Jackson had gone, and Mrs. Montgomery retired, she dismissed all attendants, and through a long and dreadful night continued to whisper to an ear, which yet seemed not to hear: “The account is not official, Julia, and Mr. Jackson does not believe it. Julia! Julia! Mr. Jackson does not believe it.” This, however, was a sort of pious fraud; for Frances, who had seen Henry’s letter, and the supplement to the paper, had herself no such hope, as her words were meant to inspire. Julia did not speak in reply; but, from time to time, by a scarcely perceptible pressure of[41] her sister’s hand, she showed there was a consciousness of the kindly efforts to offer comfort. After the lapse of some hours spent thus, she betrayed, by a slight movement, that she was watching for the day-light. As soon as it dawned, she quietly and silently left her bed. Frances, without asking any questions, folded a wrapper carefully round her sister. Julia seated herself, and became again motionless. Frances knelt beside her, put her arms about her, and watched her countenance. For a long time all was still; nothing was heard but Julia’s heavy sighs, following each other at regular intervals, and the gentle, and but occasional soothings of Frances’ voice.

At length the servants began to move about. At each slightest noise, Julia started, listened, and the throbbing of her heart became audible, increased till it shook her frame, and then, as[42] the sounds that had caused it, died away, subsided gradually, till a footstep, or an opening door, being again heard; it would again leap up, and run on with a tumultuous rapidity that scarcely left her power to breathe. This fearful state lasted some hours, when, at length, the postman’s well known knock on a door already open, was heard. Julia had disappeared before Frances had time to comprehend the nature of the sudden movement with which she had started from her seat. Frances followed, and found her in the hall, endeavouring, with fingers as powerless as those of a new born babe, to open a letter. Frances assisted to break the seal. It was from Edmund himself, addressed to Mrs. Montgomery. He was alive! He was well! When Julia, by Frances’s good management and a few hours passed quietly in her own apartment,[43] was enabled to assume something like self command, the joyful tidings were spread throughout the house. The letter, and a paper which came by the same post, were then read with eager delight by all.

Edmund, in his letter, expressed a hope of seeing them soon, if it were but for an hour; and much kind solicitude respecting their feelings, should the false report of his death reach them before this precautionary epistle. The sum of the contents of the paper, which accompanied this letter, was as follows:—

The last statement, it may be remembered, left Fitz-Ullin crossing the space between the two ships. While getting on board the Euphrasia he beheld the figure of an officer, who was busily engaged on the quarter deck, and whose proportions and air instantly riveted[44] his whole attention. The officer turned round; the countenance was Edmund’s. He was giving hasty orders for taking advantage of the tide, which was now beginning to flow. Occasionally he passed his hand across his forehead, or held it a moment before his eyes, while his officers were collected round him, earnestly recommending a few moments repose.

“I am quite well now,” he replied, “if we do not get her off this tide she will go to pieces before the next. When there is time to think of it, I shall lose a little blood,” he added, in answer to a strong remonstrance from the surgeon.

Fitz-Ullin, at the moment, rushed through the circle into the arms of his friend.

“The exertions of Captain Montgomery,” continued the paper, “to get his ship afloat, were ably seconded by Lord Fitz-Ullin and the[45] officers and crews of both vessels, and finally crowned with success.”

After which, the next object became to secure the numerous captures made in the course of that brilliant day. This was effected with much labour, by literally towing them out from under their own silenced batteries.

And when, at length, the two detached ships were seen returning from their victorious expedition, and approaching the fleet with their little squadron of prizes in tow, the hearty and general cheering with which they were received was such as baffles all description; still less would it be possible to convey any adequate idea of the enthusiasm with which that cheering was doubled and redoubled, when Captain Montgomery, who, from the accounts brought to the fleet by the cutter, was believed to have fallen, was discerned standing on his quarter[46] deck, waving his hat, and bowing, in return for the congratulations of all.

On joining the fleet, our hero learnt, for the first time, the report which had prevailed of his death, and that it had been carried to England. In consequence, he dispatched the letter to Mrs. Montgomery, which we have seen Julia and Frances, as soon as they perceived Edmund’s writing on the cover, so unceremoniously tearing open.

The paper, as might be expected, expatiated at great length on the gratified feelings with which they found themselves enabled to contradict the report of Captain Montgomery’s death. The subject, in short, engrossed every column of every public print of the day. There was scarcely room for an advertisement! Wherever you cast your eye, Captain Montgomery, in large letters, appeared before you.[47] Every figure of newspaper rhetoric was set forth: the pathetic, the heroic, the sublime, but above all, the triumphant.
CHAPTER VI.
“… It is the noble brow
Of Fingall; the kindly look of his eyes.
It is not now a shadow which deludes
My sight.—These are his hands.—I feel their warm
Pressure.”
“Has the bright tear of joy no welcome told?”

Julia, supported and advised by Frances, made great exertions to seem to partake, with a natural share of interest, in the general joy, without betraying her own peculiar emotions.

In the evening, for the sake of appearances, she ventured to leave her room. She had just[49] taken her place at the tea-table, when a hasty step was heard without.

The door flew open, and Edmund entered! Mrs. Montgomery threw over her footstool and little table, and dropped her spectacles, in hastening to meet him. She clasped him to her heart and wept! Frances, without one thought of reserve, flew into his arms, and clung round his neck, as she was wont to do when a child, exclaiming, “Dear, dear Edmund, you are safe!” And Julia trembled and turned pale, as, emboldened by the reception her sister had given him, yet colouring excessively, he approached and folded her also for one moment to his breast; for by an effort she had risen, and stood upright before her chair, though literally unable to move from it. She sunk on her seat again, but kindly smiled as she looked up through tears[50] of joy, and Edmund still retaining her hand, she returned the pressure of his, more than once, as a sort of apology, each time, for her utter failure in an attempt to speak.

“And were you not even wounded, my dear boy?” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“Nothing more than slight contusions, ma’am,” he replied; “the ball struck one fluke of the anchor, and the shock which I experienced, as I stood on the other, was more like electricity than any thing else.”

“But tell me how you came to stand on the anchor?” asked Mrs. Montgomery, “I could not comprehend one half of what the papers said about it.”

“I thought the anchor was always in the bottom of the sea!” said Frances.

“Why,” replied Edmund, to Mrs. Montgomery, after answering Frances’ interruption[51] with an amused smile, “the enemy had ceased firing, so that I thought it probable they were about to strike; and, in that case, you know, it would not have been desirable to have fired into them again, as we might have sacrificed lives unnecessarily, so that I merely ran forward to the forecastle, and jumped from thence on the fluke of the anchor, which was made fast to the bows, and where I stood waiting for the dispersion of the smoke of our own guns, to ascertain the point, of whether the last of the enemy had hauled down her colours or not.”

“Why, my dear, you are as bad as the papers!” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I hardly know what you are talking about!” Edmund laughed, and declared he did not know how to explain himself more clearly. He tried, however, practical methods; cups, saucers, snuffer-stand, sugar-tongs, &c., were all put in requisition.[52] At length, by means of the latter implement, the ladies were made to comprehend, that when the ball struck one fluke of the anchor, the shock was communicated to our hero as he stood on the other.

Here he made his meaning still more obvious, by causing the bit of biscuit, which, perched on one end of the sugar-tongs, had hitherto personated himself, to spring off with a sudden jerk. It flew—where?—in Julia’s face! and thence fell on her bosom, where it concealed itself behind the neatly plaited cambrick tucker, of a certain snowy inner garment of fine linen, and became the companion of a small gold heart containing otto of rose, and appended to a thread-like gold chain, which, any one who cared to notice such trifles might observe, Julia never went without.

This chain, if truth must be told, was, in fact, one of Edmund’s boyish keepsakes;[53] when, out of the first prize money he ever received, he brought one home to each of his little sisters. It would be a sad betraying of secrets, however, to mention how often, on subsequent returns, the course of that small shining line had been traced by the adventurous eyes of our hero, till its further wanderings were lost to view; or, how often, latterly, its trembling movement, had betrayed to his eye only, the sigh which was inaudible to all, and to all but Edmund imperceptible.

But to return, our hero made a thousand apologies for the first piece of impertinence committed by his representative. Whether its further intrusion had been observed by any one but Julia herself, we are not aware. But what will sensible people say, when we confess that our heroine actually preserved this strange likeness of a lover, and even took a sly opportunity[54] of slipping it into the interior of the said golden heart.

“And you may judge,” continued Edmund, when, after concluding reiterated apologies, he resumed his account of himself, “you may judge what force there must have been in the impetus given by the shock I received, when it flung me in on the forecastle, to all appearance lifeless.”

“And how long did you remain insensible?” asked Mrs. Montgomery, taking his hand kindly, and looking in his face, with the greatest anxiety.

“I was myself again in a few minutes,” he replied, “it was the people on the forecastle, who, when they saw me actually lifted from among them, and borne through the air over their heads, very naturally supposed I had been shot away, the same mistake it seems was made[55] by the crew of our Tender, which was at the time under orders to sail for the fleet, with intelligence of the capture of the enemy’s ships, as soon as the last should be seen to strike. But I really had not time to recollect the possibility of such an occurrence, there was so much promptitude and exertion necessary from the moment I was again on my feet, in getting the ship afloat during the flood tide.”

“You must have had a great superiority of numbers to contend with;” said Mrs. Montgomery, “the public prints describe your prizes as forming quite a little squadron in themselves, as you led them towards the fleet.”

“How much better those cakes are than our sea biscuits,” said Edmund, offering the plate to both the sisters. “It was rather a rash business!” he added, in a grave tone, turning again to Mrs. Montgomery. Then, with an[56] effort at gaiety, he continued, “such as it was, however, I owe to it my present happiness; for had not my ship suffered so severely, as to render refitting indispensable, I should, at this moment, have been with the fleet off * * * *. Fitz-Ullin too was obliged to come into port to repair.” And Edmund here entered on the praises of his friend’s good and amiable qualities with great warmth.

He was soon, however, interrupted, by the entrance of Mr. Jackson, whom the joyful tidings of his arrival had summoned. Our hero had but one day to remain at Lodore.

CHAPTER VII.
“He hath sworn falsely.”

“How do you do? how do you do?” said Henry, as, the next evening but one, he entered the drawing room, at Lodore, and stretched two fingers to each of the party. “So you have had Edmund here, I find,” he continued.

“Only for one day, poor fellow,” replied Mrs. Montgomery.

“He told me he could stay but one day,” said Henry. “The Arandales are in town, and[58] he wants to be as much as possible with them, while the ship is refitting. His hopes in that quarter are revived, he tells me,” he added, turning to the sisters, and looking, with malicious triumph, full in Julia’s face, till her cheeks tingled again, under his continued stare.

“You might have looked for a more affectionate salutation from your aunt, I think, Henry,” observed Mrs. Montgomery reproachfully, “after having been in a dangerous engagement.”

“I thought, ma’am,” he replied, accepting her offered embrace both coldly and awkwardly, “that no one cared what became of me!”

“Don’t talk idly, my dear,” said his aunt. “But how could you, Henry,” she added, “be so inconsiderate, as to write the alarming[59] letter you did, while there was any uncertainty?”

“There was no uncertainty on my mind at the time I wrote, ma’am. I was, as I believe I mentioned, in the Tender alongside, waiting to carry intelligence to the fleet, as soon as the last of the enemy should be seen to strike. Edmund was standing in a very conspicuous situation, just over me, (out on one of the flukes of the anchor;) when, bang! and in one moment I saw the ball coming towards him, and the next his heels lifted above his head, and his legs and arms going round in the air, like the wings of a windmill! I thought, of course, he must be blown into a thousand atoms! What else could I think?” he added, observing Julia’s involuntary shudder, with a look of gratified malice. “And I supposed,” he continued, still addressing his aunt, “that you would rather[60] hear it from a friend, than see the first of it in the papers. So I wrote on board the Tender, and, as soon as we joined the fleet, sent my letter by the first opportunity. I think I was very considerate! We had our order to sail, you see, the moment the enemy struck; so that I had no time to hear that he was not killed.”

“I am sure, the papers, or any thing,” said Frances, “would have been better than your letter, Henry; which was worded, I think, much in the same delicate manner that you expressed yourself just now. But you never lose an opportunity of giving pain, Henry. I dare say, if the truth was known, you took quite a pleasure in writing that cruel letter, and fancying how wretched it would make us all!—For Edmund is not like you; every body loves him, poor dear fellow!”

[61]

“Candid, at least!” observed Henry, with a sneer. “But I am always fortunate in possessing Lady Frances’s good opinion. Sailors, however, have no time to be nice,” he added. “When fellows die, or are killed, (which is the same thing, you know) we throw them overboard, and if the fighting’s done, pipe to dinner! Edmund will do as much for me, or I for him, one of those days; just as it may happen. Edmund, to be sure, is likely to kick the bucket as soon as any one, for he’s cursed rash!”

Frances saw, with kindling resentment, the pain that every word was inflicting on poor Julia.

“There is nothing of your strange jargon comprehensible,” she said, “but such expressions as are calculated to wound the feelings; those, as usual, are obvious enough.”

[62]

“If young ladies choose to volunteer their feelings for every fellow in His Majesty’s service,” retorted Henry, “they’ll have something to do now-a-days. There’s many a better man than Edmund, and that would be a greater loss to his friends too, that will feed the fishes yet before the war is over, I can tell you!” “It’s capital fun,” he added, glancing at Julia, “to see a villain of a shark, after he has followed the ship the length of a day, just make two bites of a fellow!”

“Strange notions of fun, you have, Henry,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“How should you like it to happen to yourself, Henry?” asked Frances.

“Not at all, I thank you,” he replied. “But just fancy Edmund between the rascal’s teeth, snipping him in two at the small of the waist!”

[63]

“You should not speak in that manner, Henry,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“Speaking don’t make it more likely to happen, ma’am,” he replied; “more unlikely things have happened, tho’! What do you say to a wager, Frances, eh? What will you bet, I say, that a hungry shark, don’t make a dinner of Edmund, the very next time he goes to sea?”

“Fie! fie! Henry,” interrupted Mrs. Montgomery; “this is a subject on which we have all felt seriously, too lately, to be disposed to jest upon it at present.”

“It’s not quite such a jest neither,” he answered, sulkily. “If the ball had hit him, instead of the fluke of the anchor, (as it might just as easily have done,) I maintain it, there would not have been two inches square of him left in any one piece! And what’s to prevent[64] the next ball, I should be glad to know, from hitting him, or me, or any other fellow that goes in the way of it! People must prepare their fine feelings for such things,” he continued, looking after Julia as she was leaving the room. “He has been devilish lucky, I think, to get on as he has done, and make so much money too, without getting knocked on the head long ago! But his turn will come next, I dare say,” he added in great haste, lest Julia should reach the door before it was said.

“It cannot be at all necessary to your professional character, Henry, to be either unfeeling, or inelegant,” observed Mrs. Montgomery. “What can be more the opposite of both, than Edmund; and you will allow, I believe, that he is a good sailor.”

“Yes,” said Frances, “he is certainly an[65] instance, that to be a brave officer it is not necessary to be a sea-monster! And I really do not perceive what right those have to be the latter, who cannot even offer in their apology that they are the former.” And she followed her sister with tears of vexation in her eyes.

“You should not, my dear,” said Mrs. Montgomery, as soon as the door closed after Frances, “address such expressions to your cousins, as that—‘young ladies need not volunteer their feelings to every fellow in His Majesty’s service!’ and such language, at any rate, can never be applicable in the present instance. It would indeed be very unnatural, and unamiable too, of them, if they did not feel when Edmund was in danger.”

“If you don’t mind what you’re about, ma’am, I suspect you’ll have some natural[66] feelings to manage that you won’t much like!”

“What do you mean, Henry?”

“I mean, ma’am, that Frances, who you see makes no secret of her adoration of Edmund, will be running off with him one of those days!”

“Oh dear, no!” said Mrs. Montgomery: “Frances’ undisguised affection is evidently that of a sister. Besides, I have the most perfect confidence in Edmund’s honour.”

“Oh, very well, ma’am,” answered Henry, carelessly. “As for Julia,” he added, “of course, I don’t like to see her too prodigal of her feelings to any one.”

“Henry!” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I now tell you, once more, what I have already often told you: If you persist in this indelicate display of your very misplaced, and, you must[67] be aware, hopeless attachment to your cousin, I shall consider it my duty (and it must be a painful one) to forbid you my house, till the return of her father places her under his protection.”

“I don’t see why my case should be so hopeless as you say: Julia will soon be her own mistress; and if she chooses to have me, I’d be a cursed fool not to secure such a good hit! Indeed, I tell you fairly, that as soon as she is of age, if she consents to run away with me, I shall have no scruples on the subject. She has enough for us both, and has every right to please herself!”

“I have questioned Julia, and she assures me that she neither authorises your addresses, nor returns your preference.”

“Till she is her own mistress, and can end disputes at once, she has no fancy, I dare say,[68] for being lectured every day of her life by her wise friends! However, I say nothing; time will tell!”

Here the conference ended.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Faults past through love, flavour of its sweetness.”

About a week after Edmund’s hasty visit to Lodore, the postman’s knock was heard, and no servant appearing with letters, inquiries were made. A footman replied, that Mr. St. Aubin had been passing through the hall, and had taken the letters from the man. Henry was applied to; but disappointed the hopes of all by saying, there was but one, which was for himself. “It’s from Edmund,” he added carelessly.

[70]

“And what does he say?” inquired every one, at the same moment. “An order to join, I suppose?” added Frances.

“No,” he replied.

“You are very laconic, Henry!” observed Mrs. Montgomery.

“Why, really, ma’am—I—don’t know that it is quite fair to talk of young men’s love concerns. However, my amiable cousins, I believe, know all about it; whether they have thought fit to inform you, ma’am, or not. Indeed, you saw something of it yourself. It was a foolish affair from the first: I never thought it would answer.”

“What was a foolish affair?” asked Frances.

“Oh all that fudge about your nonsuch fancying that Lady Susan Morven was to accept him, forsooth, because some people[71] have blown him up with conceit and impertinence, by choosing to make fools of themselves about him. But it seems she is married to the Marquis of H?, and Edmund, of course, is in great despair about it—that’s all!”

“I cannot believe that he ever loved Lady Susan!” said Frances.

“I have only his own word, and his own hand-writing for it,” replied Henry.

“Will you shew me the letter?” asked Frances.

“Why, do you doubt what I assert?” said Henry, angrily, and at the same time putting his hand in his pocket, to feign an intention of shewing a letter he had never received. There was one in his pocket, however, which he would have been very sorry to have shewn.

“I like the evidence of my own senses[72] best,” replied Frances, holding out her hand.

“On second thoughts,” said Henry, “I shall not shew the letter. Indeed, I don’t think it would be honourable in me to do so. By the bye,” he added, “I took a couple of papers from the man at the same time. I forgot them, I believe, on the writing-table in the library. The marriage will be in the ‘Morning-Post,’ of course.”

“My dear, what could you have been doing to forget the papers? I thought the servants were airing them,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

Frances flew for them. Julia was, or seemed to be, very busily engaged about something at her portfolio; and took wonderfully little interest in the discussion, considering the regard (in the way of friendship, we mean) which she had always professed to entertain[73] for Edmund. Frances returned with the papers. The marriage of Lady Susan Morven to the Marquis of H. certainly did appear printed in legible characters. Frances herself read it aloud. Various comments were made. Mrs. Montgomery expressed herself certain that Lord L. would be much dissatisfied with Julia for having refused so splendid a match.

“I never said I refused him, ma’am,” faltered out Julia, in a timid voice.

“He told your uncle you did, my dear,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“Did I not tell you, ma’am, that my fair cousin here would choose for herself?” observed Henry with emphasis: and going towards Julia, he leaned on the back of her chair with well-feigned tenderness of manner.

Mrs. Montgomery looked with a surprised and inquiring expression at her granddaughter,[74] who coloured to excess; for she thought of Edmund, and was also painfully aware of the false light in which Henry wished her to appear. The blush of consciousness was deepened by indignation, not the less strong that it was suppressed. She could not now say, as she had done when a child, “No, I hate Henry, and I love Edmund!” He knew she could not, and she knew that on this knowledge he presumed. A look, indeed, of resentment, she attempted. Mrs. Montgomery saw it, thought it one of intelligence, and felt alarmed.

Frances, who had turned over the paper two or three times, now exclaimed, “Oh, here is something about Edmund’s friend, Lord Fitz-Ullin; and she began to read aloud as follows:—

“It is with heartfelt grief, we perform the melancholy task of stating, that the young[75] Earl of Fitz-Ullin, whose late gallant conduct gave so bright a promise of his following in the glorious track of his father, has disappointed every hope, blighted his budding laurels, and ended his short career, by that crime of which alone the perpetrator can never repent: we mean, an act of suicide. The cause is said to be a love affair, of at least doubtful character; the rank of the lady being much beneath that of his Lordship. The female in question is, in fact, we understand, the daughter of his Lordship’s nurse; but very beautiful, and, unfortunately, brought up at a fashionable boarding school, with accomplishments and ideas quite out of her sphere. We understand, further, that his Lordship became acquainted with his fair enslaver at first as one of the young ladies of a certain fashionable establishment, without[76] being aware of her birth, or even her name, till after many rural, and, we believe, clandestine meetings had taken place; and that the attachment existed even in the life-time of his Lordship’s father; but was then, of course, kept a profound secret. The rival, whose later success with the frail fair one has caused the dreadful catastrophe above related, is no other than his Lordship’s particular friend, the——” Here Frances suddenly stopped short, and exclaimed, “Nonsense!—Impossible!”

“Go on! go on!” cried Henry, (he had read it before.)

“What nonsense!” said Frances again pettishly, as she continued looking over the paragraph to herself.

Henry snatched the paper, and after a moment’s search, went back upon and finished[77] the sentence in a loud and exulting tone, thus: “is no other than his Lordship’s particular friend, the gallant Captain Montgomery.”—“Well, faith,” he said, “it was too bad of Edmund to carry on an amour of this kind at the very time when, I know, he had hopes (however ill-founded) of being accepted, by Lady Susan.”

“It must be all false together,” said Frances.

“You are Edmund’s sponsor, it seems,” observed Henry. “You would not allow that he loved Lady Susan, so perhaps it is this other lady, or rather woman, he loves; and that he only wished to marry Lady Susan’s fifty thousand. Or, perhaps, your ladyship knows best, or possibly has the best right to know, among so many aspirants for the heart of this gallant adventurer, which is the favoured fair one!”

[78]

“No! no!” said Mrs. Montgomery, replying to the part of Henry’s speech which inferred that our hero designed to carry on an amour of inclination with one woman, and marry the fortune of another. “That Edmund may have a virtuous attachment to one or other lady, is very possible; indeed, I always thought, and so, I believe, you all did, that he liked Lady Susan. Or that he may have rivalled his friend, unintentionally, or been mistaken in the character of the lady, is also not impossible: but, that he has behaved dishonourably or unamiably, I will not, on any authority, believe! Therefore, my dear, if you know that he did hope, so lately, to be accepted by Lady Susan, there can be no sort of truth in the other affair: it must be mere newspaper conjecture.”

[79]

Mr. Jackson had hitherto sat apart, affecting to read to himself the other paper; to evince, by this seeming inattention to the conversation, his contempt of the accusations brought against Edmund. He now arose, and indignantly strode towards the fire-place. He stood with his back to it, and, in visible emotion, pronounced the words, “Contemptible falsehoods!—No;” he proceeded, after a tolerably long pause, during which he compressed his lips, and planted his heels firmly in the rug, “Licentious excitements (he would not condescend to a perverted world, by miscalling such, pleasures) have no temptations for a mind constituted like Edmund’s! His affections are of the heart: they borrow not a deceptive glow, either from the passions, or from the temper; as do those,” he added, “of but too many hot-headed, cold-hearted,[80] selfish rakes, who pass on a thoughtless world for good-natured fellows.”

“I know nothing about any body’s good-nature,” said Henry; “nor am I editor of the ‘Morning Post,’ to be accountable for whose amours may figure in its columns for the amusement of the public. All I assert of my own knowledge is, that Edmund either was, or thought fit to say he was, in love with Lady Susan Morven; that he was coxcomb enough to fancy he would be accepted; and is fool enough to be in despair about her Ladyship’s marrying a man of rank, suitable to her own.”

“Your statement, young gentleman,” said Mr. Jackson, “contains, to speak mildly, many egregious errors! Edmund is neither fool nor coxcomb! Neither was your observation, just now, more applicable: A brave[81] officer, in the regular service of his own king and country, is no adventurer!”

Julia was endeavouring to leave the room unobserved. Henry, with an unusually officious zeal of politeness, flew to assist her in opening the door. While doing so, he contrived in spite of all her efforts to the contrary, to look full in her face, with a hatefully offensive expression of perfect intelligence. His unshrinking eye stood still, till it cost Julia an effort to break the spell, and withdraw her’s. He knew what she must have felt during the late discussion; and she felt that he did so. He had often, in private, insolently taxed her with her preference of Edmund; and, so taxed, though of course she had made no confessions, she had been too proud to descend to falsehood, and deny the fact: and thus she felt that the secret of[82] her heart’s affections, which timid delicacy induced her to conceal from those she loved and respected, was laid bare to the view of him, with whom, of all the world, she had least sympathy!

Her sickening sensation, consequently, while now she endured his gaze, somewhat resembled what we can imagine might be experienced by a modest woman beneath the exulting eye of a libertine, were it possible for that eye, by its audacious stare, to dissolve the personal screen of decent clothing.

Julia was again present when the papers of the next day were read. They said, that they were very happy to state, that Lord Fitz-Ullin was only wounded, and that hopes were entertained of his Lordship’s recovery. That, strange to relate, his rival was now in close attendance on the couch of his injured[83] friend: and that, still more strange, the fickle fair one herself assisted her new lover in the task of nursing her old one.

The next paper undertook to gratify the public with curious particulars respecting a late interesting occurrence in high life. A certain young nobleman, it was now confidently affirmed, had, in the first instance, actually laid his title and fortune at the feet of a certain fickle fair one; who had, notwithstanding, perversely preferred a certain gallant captain, who, it is thought, though he had no objection to receive very unequivocal proofs of the lady’s love, had no idea of marrying her; and that the eclaircissement had taken place at the altar.

Another paper asserted, that an old woman, calling herself the mother of the lady, had rushed into the church, wrested the sacred[84] volume from the hands of the clergyman, and in the most frantic manner, put a stop to the ceremony. And further, that the said old woman had proceeded to make such confessions to the intended bridegroom respecting, it is supposed, the lady’s late connexion with the gallant Captain, as had effectually prevented the marriage. That the Earl had, in the handsomest manner, sent for his rival, and resigned the lady to him; after which, in a paroxysm of despairing love, he had gone home to his splendid residence in ? Square, and shot himself.
CHAPTER IX.
“Oh! whence is the stream of years, and whither
Doth it roll along, when it carries with it
All our joys?”

A few days more brought a letter from Edmund, addressed to Mrs. Montgomery; now it was hoped all would be explained; Mrs. Montgomery broke the seal, laid the letter open on her knee, took out her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on. But soon tears dimmed the glasses, and the old lady’s head shook a little, as on occasions of[86] deep emotion. “What can he mean?” she said, as she gave the letter to Julia, desiring her to read it aloud. Julia, on receiving it, turned extremely pale. As soon as her eyes ran over the first few lines, she trembled visibly, and cast a beseeching look at her sister.

Frances took the letter from her, saying, that she could read Edmund’s hand particularly well. She began, like the rest, by looking over the letter to herself. Soon tears were seen stealing over her cheeks, as she read on, while from time to time she exclaimed, “What can he mean? What can have happened?”

“Read aloud, my dear! Do pray read aloud!” said Mrs. Montgomery. And Frances, endeavouring to keep down the choking sensation that arose in her throat, commenced as follows:—

[87]

“I must, for a time at least, bid farewell to all; yes, even to her, who sheltered my infant head; who protected my infant years; who was my friend when I was friendless; who gave me bread when I was destitute. But I cannot—no—I cannot see Lodore again! Lodore, that home of happy childhood!

“At such a crisis of my fate, there is much I ought to say to one so dear—one so generously interested in the wretched Edmund; but, at present, I am incapable of a rational recital.

“At a future time, perhaps—but I wander—you have doubtless seen all, ere this, in the public prints. Yet, surely they were not the proper medium—Pardon me; I know not what I write—the blow has indeed been severe!

“Perhaps I deserve it all; to have hoped was madness! treachery! Yet, I did hope![88] Yes—or why my present despair? Yet was it a hope so mingled with fear and with remorse, that it was torture! Yet it was hope!—Heavens! must I believe it? Was it all a dream! a delirium! Was there nothing real? Or is friendship, then, so like love? No! within my own breast, how wide the wild distinction!

“Why then was I deceived? Oh, farewell! I go, I know not where.—But I leave England—perhaps, for ever! Yet, think me not ungrateful! Think not, that the fondest affections of my blighted heart, withered and worthless though they be, shall not for ever cling to the remembrance of the dear, dear friends, the ever to be beloved, respected, and revered benefactress of my infant years. Your unhappy Edmund.”

The letter bore no further signature; as[89] was habitual with our hero, from a painful consciousness that his second name was but borrowed.

The exclamations and interruptions had, of course, been many. The subject was now discussed by Mrs. Montgomery and Frances. Also by Mr. Jackson; for he generally came in soon after the post hour. Julia did not venture a word. Lady Susan’s marriage was agreed upon by all as, of course, the principal cause of Edmund’s “ridiculously violent despair,” as Frances pettishly called it.

Mr. Jackson, with evident mortification, was obliged to confess that he had certainly expected more sense from Edmund. He hoped, however, he added, that feelings of such boyish violence would exhaust themselves in a proportionately short time, and leave his young friend a more reasonable man for the[90] rest of his life. There might, however, Mr. Jackson suggested, be some unpleasant circumstances respecting this business which had made so much noise in the papers, in which Edmund, even without fault of his own, might find himself involved. His feelings, his name, might be painfully implicated. There might be particulars, which delicacy towards his friend rendered it difficult to explain to the public. He thought it impossible that Edmund could talk of leaving England for ever, merely on account of his disappointment about Lady Susan; that would be too irrational: though from his despairing expressions on the subject of love, it was evidently the one on which he felt most bitterly just at present.

The result of the conversation was, a determination on the part of Mr. Jackson, to[91] go up to town immediately. His assistance, or at least his advice, might be useful to his young friend.

“And give me my desk,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I will write to him. He shall come to me, foolish boy, before he takes any rash step.”

Henry had left Lodore some days since, or he would doubtless have favoured the family party with some good natured observations. He had, however, to confirm opinions of still more consequence to his plans, in another quarter—a quarter, which he had lately, by no very honourable means, discovered to have become more dangerous than ever. Had he been present, he could have resolved every mystery, and shewn all to be simple that seemed extraordinary: not that he would have done so.

Julia and Frances had been just going to[92] take a walk, when the letter was brought in; they now pursued their original intention, with an additional motive; the wish to converse together uninterruptedly. As they went out, Frances pressed her sister’s hand without speaking.

They happened to turn their steps towards the fall of Lodore. The spot is curiously sequestered, and the space on which the water precipitates itself, from an immense perpendicular height, does not appear larger, than the dimensions of a small room. The steep and rugged rock rises on three sides till roofed by the sky; the central side of the hollow square, is that over which, broken at various elevations by black projections of flinty stone, the torrent rushes; from both the other sides, mountain ash and various sort of trees, rooted in every crevice, stretch their branches across, between[93] the eye of the spectator, and the white sheet of descending foam. The fourth side, or ground facing the fall, is a steep sloping bank, thickly covered with large trees, beneath the shade of which, a narrow path leads down to the edge of the water. Here a seat is placed, on which two persons may find accommodation; and if disposed to tell each other very profound secrets, feel quite secure from the danger of being overheard; for the fall, which is exactly opposite, plunges at their very feet, with a din so tremendous, that the most attentive listener, standing at but a few yards distance, though he should see their lips in motion, could distinguish no sound of their voices, and would be tempted to fancy, they conversed but in dumb show.

Julia and Frances descended this path, and took possession of this seat. Julia instantly[94] turned, and throwing her arms round her sister’s neck, murmured in a slow whisper, “Oh! Frances, why did you say it was me he loved?”

It is a curious fact, that, in this situation, persons quite close to each other, can hear whispers more distinctly than they could the voice in its natural key. It would seem that the open tones were more prone to assimilate with the loud sounds abroad, and so become confounded with them.

“I thought so, Julia,” answered Frances, who also whispered, “and I should think so still, even by the very wording of that letter; but that I know, you have not said or done any thing of late, to change, so suddenly, any hopes he may ever have ventured to entertain, into all this mighty despair! Yet, who else has shown him a friendship that could be mistaken[95] for love? as he seems to infer. With whom else has he had time or opportunity to indulge in this ‘dream, this delirium of unreal bliss;’ of which he talks so wildly?”

Julia thought of her late parting with Edmund, and paused a few seconds: then sighed, and said,

“No! no! there has nothing passed of late to change whatever may have been the usual tenor of his feelings towards me. It must be Lady Susan he means. The expressions you speak of, Frances, must allude to the time spent in her society, both here, and at Arandale. You know, whatever intimacy there was, commenced the very first evening he danced with her; and very soon afterwards, you know, she herself told you, that he wanted her to marry him; and that she intended to do so, if Lord and Lady Arandale would give their[96] consent. Now, it is evident, that they have not consented, and that it is Lady Susan’s having married the Marquis after all, that Edmund thinks such a dreadful disappointment, such a blow, as he calls it.”

“It must be so,” said her sister.

“Yet, Frances,” recommenced Julia, “I had, some how, lost sight of the possibility of his preferring one, still, as I thought, a comparative stranger. I had contrived to persuade myself, that the whole business about Lady Susan, was either some mistake, as you once suggested, or a momentary fancy; perhaps, a feeling of gratitude for her preference; and I had dwelt with delight on the praises bestowed on him by all the world, and Mr. Jackson in particular, who is so sensible. I had thought, that I too might highly esteem—might—might—regard—with even—a great[97] share of—affection, one, whom every one seemed to admire, and whom, I knew, that you and grandmamma loved so much. And, oh, Frances! when, in the midst of the congratulations of his friends, and the high compliments paid him by every one, I have seen an expression of melancholy mix itself with his smile; and then thought, (I don’t know why, but I did think so,) that it was in my power to make him quite happy—with what feelings have I said—he shall be happy! Frances, in such moments, I have resolved to—to—be his, (that is, some time or other. And now—I, who did so resolve, am as nothing in his eyes! My friendship for that at least he knew he possessed,) is cast away, because the love of a stranger is denied. Nay, my very existence seems to be forgotten! He is going away, he says, perhaps, for ever, and he makes not the slightest mention[98] of being sorry to part, either from you, or me.”

And she stopped, vainly attempting to check the tremor of her lip, while tears, that it was useless to try to hide, were rolling silently down her cheeks. After a long pause, she added:—

“Were he happy, Frances, I might strive to forget a folly, which has existed, it would appear, only in my own thoughts; but while he is miserable, as he says he is, I know I shall never be able to feel towards him, as now I see I ought.”

This was not a spot, where warning footsteps could be heard; and Lord L. stood before his daughters, ere they were aware of his approach. He took his children in his arms. They had not beheld him since their infancy, but nature found means to make herself understood[99] without words, ere Mrs. Montgomery, who had accompanied him, had time to say, “Girls, your father.”

In the course of the evening, the newspaper account of young Fitz-Ullin having shot himself, became the topic of conversation. Lord L. treated the subject with gravity, and some degree of reserve. He said, however, that he feared there must be some foundation for a report, which was spoken of so universally, and with so much confidence. “Fitz-Ullin’s father,” he added, “they were all aware, had been his most particular friend; he very naturally, therefore, felt interested.”

When Mrs. Montgomery had left the room for the night, which she generally did a little before the rest of the party; Lord L. said to his daughters, “I do not wish to alarm your[100] grandmother, unnecessarily, by mentioning the circumstance before her, as it may not be true; but,” and he lowered his voice, “it is now reported, in town, that it was not Fitz-Ullin, but our young friend, Montgomery, who shot himself.”

Frances, fearing for Julia’s presence of mind, interposed quickly, exclaiming, “Impossible! The account of Lord Fitz-Ullin having shot himself, has been in the papers this fortnight, and grandmamma has this very day had a letter from Edmund.”

“I am really glad to hear it,” said Lord L., standing up as he spoke. “Montgomery bears a very high character; and your grandmother has, I know, a strong affection for him; for reasons,” he added, with a suppressed sigh, “which ought to weigh, at least, as much with me.” After a short pause, he continued,[101] “It is impossible to place any dependance on reports. On this very subject there are half a dozen differing in every essential point. One is, as you have heard, that Fitz-Ullin had shot himself; another says, that he was shot by his friend; and another, that he had shot his friend; while there is yet a fourth version, as I have just told you, purporting that Montgomery had shot himself. They all agree in one thing only, that a lady has been the cause of whatever mischief has taken place. I was but one day in town myself; but being very anxious about both young men, in consequence of all those reports, I called at Fitz-Ullin’s house. On demanding of the servants if Lord Fitz-Ullin was at home, and, (with an air of doubt, I believe,) how he was, they answered, as much to my surprise as relief, that he was quite well; but added, that his Lordship could[102] not see any one at present. I did not, therefore, send up my name; for, satisfied that he was well, it was quite time enough for me to see him on my return to town. I enquired of the servants, however, if they could give me any information respecting Captain Montgomery; (for I had not even his address, you know.) They looked at each other, rather strangely, I thought; and an elderly man, after some little hesitation, came forward and replied, that he had not yet received orders from his Lordship, to speak on this subject. This sounded rather strange; and, at first, made me stare at the fellow: but it immediately occurred to me, that the young men had been engaged in some foolish affair, which it was the wish of both parties, to hush up as much as possible. I therefore, as you may suppose, asked no further questions of servants.”

This was the sum of Lord L.’s information; and after many comments on the incomprehensibility of the whole affair, the family party separated for the night.

CHAPTER X.
“Brightly shines the vest o’er his widow’d heart,
The manly brow, by early sorrow touch’d,
Is bare. The jewelled cap and graceful plume,
In his worser hand, his martial’s baton
In the right, he passed mid a people’s
Sympathy!”

At breakfast, Lord L. requested that his daughters would be ready to accompany him to town, on an early day which he named.

He was evidently ill at ease at Lodore: he made every effort, however, to conceal such feelings, and assigned the following commonplace[105] reason, for the hasty departure he meditated. He had, he said, already issued cards, for what he intended should be a very brilliant affair; given for the purpose of introducing his daughters at home, to what he considered his own private circle, previous to their public presentation at court.

Ere Lord L. and his daughters departed, Mrs. Montgomery discharged the painful duty she had imposed upon herself, of informing Lord L. of every particular of Henry’s very improper conduct, respecting his attachment to his cousin. Lord L. was, at first, distressed and alarmed; but, on questioning his daughter, was so perfectly satisfied by her assurances of indifference to Henry himself, and repugnance to his addresses, that he determined to treat the young man’s presumption, with the contempt it merited. Should St. Aubin,[106] however, in future, persevere in making himself troublesome; his Lordship would, of course, forbid him his house.

A passing visit to Beech-park, prolonged by the delight the girls took in exploring its groves, so far retarded our travellers, that they did not arrive in London, till the very day, on the evening of which the projected ball was to take place.

The preparations, however, had gone on in pursuance of former orders, and every thing was found ready.

Lord L., the moment he had welcomed his daughters beneath the paternal roof, went out to call on the son of his old friend, and endeavour to induce him to join the family party at dinner, preparatory to the gaieties of the evening.

No card had been sent; for, on account of[107] all the strange reports that were current, Lord L. had determined to make the invitation in person, should he find Fitz-Ullin in a state to accept it.
CHAPTER XI.
… “Truth,
Shines on his face, like the plane of the sun!
No darkness travels o’er his brow.”
“Dignity and grace shine forth majestic:
Great nature’s ornaments!”

“I have seen Fitz-Ullin,” said Lord L., as he took his seat at the dinner table, where, for this day, sat his daughters only, “and I like him amazingly!” When the servants had retired, he renewed the subject, by saying, “Fitz-Ullin is just what I should have expected from the son of my old friend.”

[109]

Julia listened in breathless expectation, hoping to hear something of Edmund. Frances understood her thoughts, and watched for an opportunity of putting a judicious question.

“On sending up my name,” continued Lord L., “I was instantly admitted. He received me with visible emotion, and said, that had he known of my being in town, he should have waited on me. I told him, of course, that I had but that moment arrived from Cumberland. He is extremely handsome! very like his mother.”

“Did you ask if he knew any thing about Edmund?” enquired Frances. Julia pressed her sister’s hand, under shelter of the table.

“Certainly,” replied Lord L., “indeed, as soon as I had spoken to him of his father, and made some few preliminary remarks, I opened the subject, by inquiring if he could oblige me[110] with Captain Montgomery’s address. He looked somewhat confused, and said, ‘Lord L., I am very desirous to have an opportunity of explaining to you the business to which you allude.’ ‘I have no right to make allusions, my Lord,’ I replied; ‘but’—and I hesitated, ‘newspaper reports are not very satisfactory sources of information; and, it is natural that I should be anxious respecting my young friend. Indeed, at present, I do not know even where to find him.’ ‘You have every right, Lord L.,’ he said, ‘to make inquiries, and to have them answered; you are, not only, the friend of my father, but you and your family have been, the kind, the generous friends, of poor Montgomery, when he most wanted friends; to you every thing shall be explained. At present I am not quite equal to the task; but permit me to call on you to-morrow morning.’ I[111] begged he would dine with me to-day. He however declined, pleading an engagement which rendered that impossible; but saying, ‘that he should be able to get away about ten, (this evening I mean,) when, if I would permit him, he would wait on me, and bring Montgomery with him.’ As he said this he smiled, though certainly with no very gay expression; yet, his smiling at all, was quite sufficient to show that there were no mortal wounds, in short, nothing very fatal, or irremediable, in the business.

“It just occurred to me, that I would let them come, without saying any thing of the ball. The surprise was a liberty, which I thought I might take with the son of an old friend. Let me see,” added Lord L., considering, “it is now some eight or ten months since his father’s death: yet I feared, from the evident depression on his[112] spirits, that he might not be prevailed on to join us, were he aware of the gay scene which awaited him, before he was actually at the door; after which, I should think, he would scarcely turn away.

“It was very plain, that he wished, as much as possible, to avoid all mention of Montgomery; and I did not urge my inquiries, as he means to bring him with him this evening, declaredly for the purpose of some explanation. Indeed, it is clear to me, as I have all along said, that the young men have had some silly quarrel, in which, I can now perceive, Fitz-Ullin believes himself to have been the aggressor. There was a consciousness, a hesitation in his manner: I fancy he means to be vastly heroic this evening, confess himself in fault, and make Montgomery an apology in my presence. But, as I before remarked, there can be nothing very terrible in[113] the affair; for when I asked him how Montgomery was, he answered, ‘Quite well, thank you;’ and smiled again, though languidly. ‘He was not wounded then,’ I ventured to add. ‘Oh, no!’ he replied with quickness. ‘Nor your Lordship, I hope?’ I continued. ‘Why—no,’—he said, after a moment of hesitation. ‘And when you know all,’ he added, ‘you will not suspect me of wishing to injure your friend Montgomery.’

“I saw I was distressing him, so I took my departure, declaring that I entertained no such suspicions.

“Well,” added Lord L., after a momentary pause and a smile, “I trust, from the sadness of the love-stricken youth, that Montgomery has been successful with the fair source of their rivalship; for I have other views for Fitz-Ullin.

“By the bye, I saw three ladies there[114] as I passed a drawing-room, the door of which was half open. Two of them seemed to be in widows’ mourning; and the third, who appeared much younger, wore something black too, I think: but she was so beautiful, that during my momentary glance, I had no leisure to examine her dress. She was standing near the door, and seemed earnestly questioning a person who looked something like a physician. I heard him say, as he was making his exit, ‘You may rest quite satisfied; every dangerous symptom has now disappeared.’ This was as I went in, and before I had seen Fitz-Ullin; so that I expected, of course, to find him in an easy chair and wrapping gown, just recovering from a dangerous wound.”

Then it is Edmund, thought Julia, who is only recovering; and who, perhaps, may not recover after all!

[115]

“If that charming creature,” continued Lord L., “was Fitz-Ullin’s fair inamorata, and that he has been rivalled in her good graces, I am not much surprised at his despairing looks: and, certainly, he has not the elastic step, or triumphant eye, of a successful lover. We must contrive to console him, poor fellow.

“In the first place, Julia, I intend that he shall, should he arrive in time, open the ball with you to-night; after which, should he, on longer acquaintance, prove what the son of my immortal friend ought to be, I shall have no objection to his securing your hand for a longer period. Do not look so seriously alarmed, child! I certainly shall not offer it to him. The hand of Lady Julia L. is a prize which may, I think, be sought even by the sole representative of all the honours, hereditary and acquired, of the great Fitz-Ullin![116] Talking of such things, what did you do to the Marquis of H., to cure him so quickly, and so effectually?”

“Nothing,” replied Julia.

“Yes, you refused him; and that without consulting me.”

“Had I had the least wish to accept him, sir, I should have consulted you,” said Julia, “but—I did not know—that it was of any consequence—if—”

“Well, take care you don’t refuse Fitz-Ullin without consulting me,” said her father. “I have taken quite a fancy to the young man. There is sweetness of disposition, and nobleness of nature, in every expression of his countenance. And, as the son of his father, I should prefer him to the Marquis, brilliant as that connexion would certainly have been. You too, Frances,” he said, turning[117] to her, and putting aside some of the redundant curls that floated on her snowy forehead, “have, I understand, been casting loose the chains of your captives also, without consulting me. We must have a reform in this department of administration; I consider myself entitled to some (perhaps my daughters may think) obsolete privileges in the way of patronage, which, however, I do not mean entirely to waive.—There now, fly and dress yourselves, or you will be late.”

Both the girls having risen from their seats at the word “fly,” hesitated, and approached their father, as if they had wished to say, that they were not quite so undutiful as he imagined. Lord L. seemed to comprehend the manner; for he put an arm round each, and kissed the forehead of each.
CHAPTER XII.
“And wheels were rolling, and lights were passing,
And cheeks, that should have been on soft pillows
Lying, were reflected in deep mirrors;
Where locks were braiding, and gems arranging,
And plumes were waving, for the coming day.”

By the time the sisters had completed the task of adorning, the whole house was one blaze of light and decoration.

They walked through the yet vacant apartments, almost lost in the universal brightness. They were soon joined by Lord L. On arrivals commencing, he gave to each an arm,[119] and stood with them near the entrance of the first of the suit of rooms destined for the reception of company.

Crowds poured in. Lord L. felt not a little of the most amiable, and most pardonable species of pride, as each fresh party that approached evinced, either by words or expression of countenance, as the degrees of intimacy permitted, their extravagant admiration of his daughters.

The thunder of knocks, peal on peal, still echoed and re-echoed. Julia and Frances were more accustomed to that which reverberated from Skiddaw to the Screes: for though they had, as we have seen, entered some very gay circles in the country, they had not experienced any thing on this great scale before: besides, they were conscious, that they were now the especial objects of[120] notice; and at each loud sound, they shrunk closer to their father. He felt the involuntary movement; and, in a whisper, warned them not to be foolish.

Meanwhile, the first and second reception rooms had filled to overflowing; and many of the company were finding their own way into other of the apartments. A number of people had already, for coolness, entered the ball-room; and thither we shall, for the present, accompany them.

After walking up and down for a time, some began to express impatience for the commencement of dancing; and others, to conjecture with whom Lady Julia L. would open the ball. This led to observations upon, praises by some, and criticism by others, of their youthful hostesses; for who, that is worthy of praise, can escape criticism? so true is it, that a young[121] woman cannot, with perfect impunity, be remarkable even for her merits. No one could deny that they were beautiful; a motion to that effect was therefore carried, by a clamorous and unanimous vote, on the part of the gentlemen. A crowd pressing towards the dancing room, caused all eyes to turn in the direction whence it approached.

“Who is that leading Lady Julia L. towards the head of the room?” exclaimed one voice. “Who is Lady Julia L. going to dance with?” cried another. “Who is that Lady Julia L. is leaning on?” said a third. “Who is it? Who is it? Who is he? Who is he?” was repeated by many. “He is very handsome!” said the ladies. “Do you know him?” inquired the gentlemen. These questions were telegraphed from the outskirts of the standing group into the centre of the[122] moving crowd, and the answer, by numerous voices, telegraphed back: “Lord Fitz-Ullin!” “Lord Fitz-Ullin!” “Lord Fitz-Ullin!”

“Did not the papers say that Fitz-Ullin had shot himself?” inquired a gentleman.

“Yes, but it was contradicted again,” observed his neighbour.

“They say it was his friend, the Captain Montgomery, one hears so much of, who shot himself,” observed a third.

“For love, was it not?” asked a young lady.

“Oh yes, of course,” drawled out her destined partner, dropping a sleepy glance out of the corner of his eye, without turning his head; for he was an exquisite; “You ladies are the cause of every mischief, you know. You drive us poor men to distraction, and then blame us for the rash actions[123] which your own charms have caused us to commit.”

“It was not the lady’s fault!” said his partner; “she could not marry them both, you know.”

“And so she made the best division she could, you think, in accepting the one as a lover, and the other as a husband?” retorted the gentleman.

“Nonsense!” said the young lady: “but as the papers said that Captain Montgomery was the favoured lover, why should he shoot himself?”

“Cannot say, really. The quadrilles are forming; we had better take our place.”

“Lady Julia L. is vastly lovely! Is she not?” he proceeded, after they had secured their ground. The lady was wondering how Captain Montgomery, or any body else, could have been[124] preferred to Lord Fitz-Ullin, he was so handsome; and only answered, “Yes, very pretty indeed: and what a beautiful dress she has on!”

Several sets of quadrilles were now arranged, and were on the point of commencing.

“What a very handsome young man Lord Fitz-Ullin is!” said another young lady, to an ugly, stiff, old partner; who had once, of course, been young, and, by accident, the fashion; but who, by thinking himself a prize too long, had lost both those advantages.

“Possibly,” he replied; “but I was looking at the lady. Lady Julia L. is really almost beautiful enough to tempt a man to sacrifice his liberty!”

“Can that be Lord Fitz-Ullin?” said Lady D. to a certain gay Colonel, who, emerging[125] from the part of the crowd which had lately entered the room, approached her ladyship.

The Colonel was, or thought himself, handsome; and we hope, for his own sake, he was not mistaken; as, excepting his personal attractions, he had nothing but his half-pay; not even professional prospects, having taken the difference from whole to half-pay for the discharge of debts. His aspirations were now, therefore, limited to that last resource of the desperate—matrimony! Lady D. was a showy, rich, and not very old widow; a dasher, and a professed admirer of handsome men: on which last trait in her ladyship’s character the Colonel founded very brilliant hopes.

“I have seen Lord Ormond in his father’s life-time,” pursued Lady D.; “but I had no recollection of his being half so handsome! Is that really Lord Fitz-Ullin?”

[126]

“If your ladyship means the gentleman who is standing at the head of the first quadrille with Lady Julia L.,” replied the Colonel, “he is, undoubtedly, Lord Fitz-Ullin.”

“He is a thousand times handsomer,” said the lady, looking again, “a thousand times handsomer than I thought Lord Ormond at the time, though now I do remember thinking him a pleasing looking young man. What a difference three or four years have made (it was six or seven, but the lady did not choose to say so); he has now so much more character of countenance, and so fine a figure!”

The Colonel, not a little mortified, answered, “The fellow looks as if he were going to be hanged! and that, with such an angel for a partner, is quite unpardonable.”

“As the lady’s whole attention seems occupied[127] by the chalking of the floor,” said Lady D., “it is no wonder she cannot animate her partner.”

“If I am any judge of physiognomy,” said the Colonel, “his Lordship’s want of animation does not proceed from want of admiration: and, as to the lady, if she does not look up and smile, she looks down and blushes; and that is quite as encouraging, you know.”

“She is certainly too demurely-looking,” persisted Lady D.

“Her adorer probably prefers,” argued the Colonel, assuming what he intended for a very graceful attitude, “possessing this monopoly of his fair enslaver’s attention, to the danger of her Ladyship’s admiring other Adonises, as might possibly be the case, were she to dispense her glances more freely.”

“Oh,” replied Lady D., with quickness,[128] “in the case of the partner of Lord Fitz-Ullin, there can be no danger of that!”

The Colonel fell back, bit his lip, and said to a gentleman near him, in a loud and conceited tone, drawing up his eyebrows, and looking down at his own legs, “Lady D. thinks, that where Lord Fitz-Ullin appears, no one else has a chance of being looked at!—eh?”

“It is fortunate,” replied the gentleman addressed, who was also an acquaintance of her Ladyship’s, “that all ladies are not of Lady D.’s opinion. In a late very public affair his Lordship was, ’tis said, successfully rivalled by a Captain Montgomery, with whose name the papers have resounded for some time.”

“By the bye,” asked Lady D., “was it not said that Captain Montgomery, or Lord Fitz-Ullin, or somebody, had shot themselves, or something?”

[129]

A gentleman, on whose breast appeared the stars and garters of renown, now coming up, said dryly (for he too seemed of Lady D.’s coterie), “Your Ladyship is speaking of Captain Montgomery? His wounds, you perceive, have not been mortal.”

The lady looked her want of comprehension.

“Why,” continued the man of stars, “he is now standing at the head of the first quadrille with Lady Julia L. Don’t look for a moment, or they will see that we are speaking of them.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted the Colonel, “that is Lord Fitz-Ullin!—if you mean the gentleman who is dancing with Lady Julia L.”

“Are you personally acquainted with Lord Fitz-Ullin?” asked the Admiral, for such was the rank of the starred speaker.

[130]

“No, sir, but I saw him enter the room, and heard him announced as Lord Fitz-Ullin.”

“Then, sir, give me leave to say, that Captain Montgomery served with me when he was a lieutenant; and to repeat that he now stands at the head of the room with Lady Julia L.”

“The gentleman at the head of the room, dancing with Lady Julia L.,” said a consequential looking elderly man in black, pressing forward through the crowd, and nodding to Lady D., “is Lord Fitz-Ullin”——

“Sir?” said the Admiral, with a look of defiance.

“Yes, sir,” said the gentleman in black, smiling in the angry face of his opponent; “I had this very day the honour of dining with his Lordship at his own house, in company with the Dowager Lady Fitz-Ullin, Lady[131] Oswald, an aunt of his Lordship, and the very beautiful young lady, whose affair has, unfortunately, been of late the subject of so much discussion.”

“Where you may have dined, sir, or with whom, are not points for me to dispute; but,” persisted our naval hero, “the gentleman dancing with Lady Julia L. is Captain Montgomery!”

“Is Lord Fitz-Ullin,” repeated the man in black: “Pray, sir, give me leave, sir, and”——

“I will give no man leave, sir, to contradict me! I have distinctly asserted that I am personally acquainted with Captain Montgomery; and that the gentleman dancing with Lady Julia L. is Captain Montgomery: whoever asserts that he is not Captain Montgomery, gives me the lie!”

[132]

“My good friend! my good friend! why so fierce?” exclaimed a new addition to the circle, offering his hand to the Admiral as he came up.

Lady D. explained the cause of dispute; and the Admiral’s friend, laughing heartily, said, “Five minutes since, I saw Lord L. present the young man now dancing with Lady Julia L. to both his daughters, as Lord Fitz-Ullin.”
CHAPTER XIII.
“Spirit of Fingall!
’Tis Fingall himself.”

If our readers are desirous to know how this personage, respecting whose identity there seem to exist so many contradictory opinions, obtained entrance to this gay circle, and the envied hand of Lady Julia L.; nay, how it was that so many people actually believed him to be Lord Fitz-Ullin; we must lead them back, about half an hour, to when, and[134] where, we left the sisters with Lord L., near the door of the first reception-room.

Mammas told Lord L. that he ought to have allowed their girls a chance, before he thus cruelly merged all that had been bright in the hemisphere of fashion in the dazzling lustre of stars so pre-eminent. The young ladies themselves thought, that had they had as beautiful dresses on, they should have looked just as well. The downright old gentlemen congratulated his Lordship, with sincere cordiality, on the charms of his daughters. Those who still had twinkling eyes, and merry souls, wished themselves twenty years younger, and envied the present generation. The middle-aged dandies addressed well-turned compliments to the ladies themselves; and the coxcomical young ones endeavoured[135] to look quite irresistible, as they made their bows in silence.

At length, “Lord Fitz-Ullin!—Lord Fitz-Ullin!” was thundered in the hall, echoed, from servant to servant, on each landing of the stairs, and finally repeated at the door of the reception room. The reports of his Lordship’s intended marriage broken off at the altar, and of his having shot himself for love, were fresh in the minds of all; so that the idea of beholding him, appeared to create a pretty general sensation; and, at the sound of his announcement, every head turned round. Yet, when he did actually enter, Julia was not even aware of the circumstance. She had looked towards the door, her heart trembling with the expectation of seeing Edmund enter with him. And she had seen Edmund enter; but with whom she had been too much agitated to notice. The[136] appearance of our hero had shocked her. It was that of one who had received a stunning blow! All expression of feature was deadened,—all animation of air and carriage gone! He advanced with eyes scarcely raised. If Julia’s ideas had been thrown into a state of confusion on his first entrance, what was her astonishment, when her father, presenting our hero, said, “Julia, my dear, this is Lord Fitz-Ullin! Lord Fitz-Ullin, Lady Julia L., Lady Frances L.”

It was now Lord L.’s turn to be surprised. He saw both his daughters extend a hand at the same moment, while the gentleman he was in the act of presenting, took a hand of each, and, though with a pale and quivering lip, pronounced the names, Julia, Frances, divested of title.

All this had occupied but a second or two,[137] during which Lord L. had exclaimed, “My introduction has been superfluous here, I perceive!”

“Why, papa,” cried Frances, “this is Edmund!”

Julia attempted to speak, but failed. Lord L. looked his amazement, which was too great for utterance.

“It is very true, my Lord,” said our hero, raising his eyes, and making a wretched attempt to smile; “I am both Montgomery and Fitz-Ullin! and, in that double character,” he added, in a tone of more feeling, “owe a double debt of gratitude and affection to Lord L., and to—to all his family,” he attempted to say, but voice failed him. Here, notwithstanding Lord L.’s aversion to a scene, something very like one, unavoidably took place; at the commencement of which, however, his[138] Lordship had the presence of mind, to hurry the party, for a few moments, just within the doorway of a small refreshment room, which stood invitingly open at but the distance of a pace or two, and which was as yet unoccupied. Here Edmund hastily gave recitals, of some very unexpected discoveries, which the supposed Lord Fitz-Ullin’s intended marriage had brought to light, and which had proved our hero to be the only legitimate son and rightful heir of the deceased Earl. The noble conduct of the individual who was the sole sufferer, had, he explained, placed him at once in quiet possession of all his rights. In answer to Lord L.’s surprise that a clearer statement of facts had not appeared in the papers, he mentioned, that the editors had been silenced, for the present, from delicacy to the feelings of some of the parties. He seemed shocked[139] when Frances assured him, that his letter to her grandmamma, had been completely a riddle.

He thought, he said, that it had explained all that the papers had left unexplained. But, he confessed that he had had much to agitate and confuse his mind just at the time; and that he did not, therefore, know exactly what he had written; his object, however, in writing, he said, had been to mark the respect due to his revered benefactress, by giving her the earliest intimation of the wonderful change in his circumstances.

Edmund confessed that he would have turned back, and postponed this agitating interview till the next day, had he not got out of the carriage and ascended the stairs in total abstraction of mind, and literally without once looking about him till he had entered the first reception room, when it was too late to retreat.[140] Explanations ended, Lord L., as the party returned to the company, said, with assumed carelessness:—

“It is full time, I should think, for the dancing to commence. You had better take Julia out,” he added, lowering his voice, and addressing our hero, “you know how to prevail in that quarter, I dare say!”

Edmund, (whom we must in future call Fitz-Ullin,) instead of colouring became paler than before, and, without speaking, offered his arm to Julia. She took it with a sensation of panic. The strangeness of his present manner, agreed but too well with that letter, but for which, and this manner, how happy had the wonderful discoveries of this evening made her. How happy, even for dear Edmund’s sake, had it been possible not to mingle self with the thought.

[141]

As she took his offered arm, she was certain she felt him shudder; but as her own trembled at the time, she afterwards thought she might have been mistaken.

They walked up the room in silence. Confused, and pained, Julia found that she could not congratulate her companion on his good fortune with the cordial frankness which had else been natural, nor ask half the obvious questions, respecting circumstances so hastily explained, and which had brought about, thus suddenly, a state of things, that altogether appeared to her bewildered apprehension, more like a dream, than a reality. Oh how delightedly would she have dwelt, she thought, a short time since on such a subject, so full of wonder, and, which ought to be, so full of joy.

But something extraordinary, something more than sorrow in the manner of this incomprehensible[142] being, whom she must now too, call by the new, and not yet endeared name of Fitz-Ullin, seemed to have raised up an insuperable barrier between them. Even the expression of his countenance, (though still she beheld the features of Edmund) was, in all that regarded mind, or indicated feeling, utterly changed.

His presence inspired her with an almost superstitious awe! He was so like, and yet so unlike himself, that she traced the resemblance, with feelings not far removed from those with which the identity of a visitant from the grave might be recognised. And strange it is, that such identity should appal, while it portrays what, in life, would have claimed our fondest embrace.

He was indeed evidently miserable; and that idea, awakened every habitual feeling of tenderness[143] in Julia’s breast. The thought of, why he was thus unhappy, came next in the train of reflections, and, as it presented itself in the unwelcome form of his love for another, she unconsciously suffered a sigh to be audible.

Fitz-Ullin looked suddenly round; her eyes were bent downwards; and now, for the first time since he entered the room, he permitted his to dwell, for a few seconds, on that perfect loveliness which he had never contemplated, even in imagination, without a bewildering sense of delight, which rendered the lapse of time imperceptible. Julia felt his silent gaze, though she saw it not, and a thrill of pleasure accompanied the consciousness; for which weakness, however, she instantly condemned herself.

Thus occupied, our hero and heroine, arrived[144] at the head of the dancing room, forgetful of all present, while the eyes, if not of all, of many, were, as we have seen, fixed on them. But where is that radiant joy; where that sunshine of the heart brightening every feature, which might naturally be expected, at this moment, to appear on the countenance of the once humble Edmund, feeling himself, as he must now do, in every circumstance the equal of that Julia, whom he had so long thought it presumption, nay even ingratitude to love; yet loved to an excess so uncontroulable, that no power was left of concealing his passion, and to fly its object, had become his only resource.

When last he had been her partner in a scene like the present, could some prophetic voice have said, “Within a few short months shall Edmund, whose only home is the deep, have[145] wide domains and large possessions, inherited from his forefathers: Edmund, whose very name is but a borrowed right, have titles and dignities, descending through lines of honoured ancestry, and centring in him: Edmund, who knows not at what unlettered grave to mourn a father’s loss, be found the son of him whose memory has been embalmed by a nation’s tears!”

With what feelings had he hailed the wondrous prophecy! Yet, at this moment, was all the fairy-tale vision realized, and Edmund, notwithstanding, entered the mazes of the joyous dance, looking and moving like one, bewildered by the excess of mental suffering.

The laws of the figure constantly severed the hand of his partner from his, and as constantly required him to retake it; but, what with anticipating this part of the ceremony at one time, and delaying it at another, he was more than once guilty of actually deranging the order of the quadrille.
CHAPTER XIV.
… “Remorse return’d,
Torn of its inward workings she shriek’d aloud.”

Meanwhile Lady D.’s party, whom we left in high contest as to the identity of Lady Julia L.’s partner, seem to have settled that point in an amicable manner, and to be now busily occupied, listening to an oration from the old gentleman in black.

It is evident that he has been entertaining his audience with some of the particulars of our hero’s adventures when a child.

From the account which this seemingly well-informed speaker proceeds to give, it would appear that the information contained in the ill-spelt, undated letter of Edmund’s nurse,[147] was, as far as it was intelligible, true: so much so, indeed, that we recommend a second perusal of the precious document to all who may have forgotten any part of its contents.

Fitz-Ullin was, it seems, the title of the great family alluded to anonymously by the nurse. Edmund had, as the letter stated, been stolen when an infant in arms off the lawn by a strolling beggar, at a time when the family were from home. His nurse had substituted her own child, at first, to avoid blame. Afterwards, she had grown too fond of seeing her son bringing up to be a young lord, to seize, or inform against, the bold vagrant when she discovered her, as mentioned in the letter, carrying the stolen child about.

The smiling boy, described in the letter as flinging his cake out of the carriage window to poor Edmund, when on crutches, and apparently with but one leg, he begged before[148] it, was no other than our hero’s after friend, Ormond, now proved to be the nurse’s child. And the lady, who had sat with the smiling boy on her knee, thinking him her own son, and looked out, with but a passing feeling of compassion on the one little bare foot of the mendicant child, half sunk in the wet mud of the street, its little shoulders almost forced out of their sockets by its crutches, and its poor little features wearing the wan expression of premature misery, was no other than that mendicant child’s own mother, the first Lady Fitz-Ullin. This was some years after he had been stolen. Soon after this it was that poor little Edmund had been carried over to Cumberland by the said vagrant, in company with a ship-load of reapers. After the harvest he had been led about at Keswick Regatta, to excite the compassion of the company; and after the Regatta, abandoned, as we have described, by his then supposed[149] mother, the beggar woman; who, when caught in the fact of stealing linen from a hedge, was obliged to have recourse to hasty flight.

The narrator next proceeded to recount, what we already know, the particulars of how poor Edmund, on the evening of the day he had been thus abandoned, and nearly perishing with cold and hunger, was found on the borders of the lake, by Mrs. Montgomery’s daughter, Lady L.; brought home by her; and, ever since, cherished and protected by the whole family.

“And was the gentleman who is now dancing with Lady Julia L.,” inquired a young lady, “that poor little boy that was begging under the carriage window; and who is now Lord Fitz-Ullin? How curious!”

“Precisely so, madam,” replied our sable orator.

When it was mentioned that the present[150] Lord Fitz-Ullin, during all the years from childhood upwards, had, as Edmund Montgomery, been the constant, intimate companion of Lord L.’s daughters, the Colonel, addressing Lady D. aside, laid claim to some discernment.

“Well, I declare,” continued the young lady, “if I were Lord Fitz-Ullin, I should be always quite afraid I might turn out to be somebody else, some other time.”

“The proofs of his Lordship’s identity, madam,” said the important man in black, “had been carefully preserved by wretches, who hoped to have made a market of the secret; and who indeed would, as it has lately appeared, have done so, had it not been for the upright and honourable feelings of the poor young man himself.”

“But, sir,” enquired Lady D., “does Lord Fitz-Ullin intend to marry the lady, who figured in the papers lately as the cause of all the fracas?”

[151]

“Certainly not, madam!” replied the proud explainer of mysteries, who now saw himself surrounded by a numerous audience. “In the first place, madam, you must recollect, that it was not Lord Fitz-Ullin, but the unfortunate young man who was then supposed to be Lord Fitz-Ullin, who was about to marry the young lady. And in the second place, madam, the young lady is a sort of half sister of his Lordship’s.”

“Sister!” exclaimed Lady D., “surely the late Lord Fitz-Ullin left no daughter by either marriage.”

“I do not mean to say,” continued the speaker, “that the young lady, or young woman, is daughter to either of the Ladies Fitz-Ullin; she is, notwithstanding, daughter to the late Lord Fitz-Ullin, and twin sister to the unhappy young man who, for so many years, was called Lord Ormond; and who, for the last few months, has borne the title[152] of Fitz-Ullin; and who is now simply Mr., or rather Captain Ormond; and that only by courtesy: such children having in law, I believe, no right to any name but their mother’s.”

“A terrible thing for him, poor young man!” said Lady D. “He can never bear to meet any of his former acquaintance.”

“The present Lord Fitz-Ullin, however,” continued our enlightened informer, “has behaved towards him with the noblest liberality, as well as towards Miss Ormond, as the sister is now called.”

“And pray, Doctor ?, what had she been called? There was no name mentioned in the papers, I think.”

“O’Neil, the name of her mother’s husband, who was the land steward.”

“And pray who was her mother?”

“The woman was the present Lord Fitz-Ullin’s nurse, madam: and one of her apologies[153] for having substituted her own child in place of the rightful heir, when the Lady’s child (as she still calls his present Lordship) had been stolen from her was, that her own boy was a son of Lord Fitz-Ullin.”

“And what led to the discovery of all this just now? and can you tell, as you seem so well-informed, what all that was which appeared in the papers about a rivalship, and a marriage broken off at the altar, and a shooting-match, &c.”

“I can, madam:” and here the gentleman in black bowed, smiled, and took a pinch of snuff. “Indeed, I may say,” he added, while closing his box, “that I am (being a friend of the family) in some measure authorized to correct misapprehensions on this subject. We have, I believe, succeeded at last in silencing the papers; that is, since the first day or two; as soon, in fact, as Lord Fitz-Ullin had leisure to attend to any thing. It was his wish to[154] do so, from delicacy to the feelings of Captain Ormond.” For the same reasons, as well as for many others, we suspect that his Lordship would have also gladly silenced the present speaker, had that been equally possible; for, if we are not much mistaken, he is far exceeding his commission for the correction of misapprehensions.

This self-elected friend of the family is, however, very good authority; being no other than the physician who had been, and still was, in attendance on Ormond. He is one of His Majesty’s physicians, and a man of so much eminence, notwithstanding his communicative propensities, that he is in the best society.

“In the first place, madam,” continued the Doctor, in answer to Lady D.’s list of questions, “though there certainly was a marriage broken off at the altar, there was no rivalship whatever, nor the slightest foundation for such[155] a rumour. The catastrophe, indeed, was much hastened, and almost all the wild reports which have gone abroad, produced by Captain Ormond’s unfortunate passion for the young lady who afterwards proved to be his sister; and with whom he had at first become acquainted during her residence at some finishing boarding-school. So violent, indeed, was the attachment which subsisted between these young persons; strengthened, as it was, by long indulgence; for they had been secretly engaged for years, it seems; that nothing could prevent the marriage, but confession on the part of the mother. This she delayed till the last moment; in fact, till her son and daughter stood together at the altar! Then it was that rushing past them with screams like those of a maniac, and with such velocity that indeed, though every one looked round to discover whence the sounds came, (for I happened to be present, madam,) no one[156] saw her till she stood beside the officiating clergyman; when, laying one hand on his lips and spreading the other over his open book, after remaining speechless from want of breath for a few moments, during which the wonder of the beholders was very great, she shrieked aloud, in accents that rang through the whole church, that they were brother and sister! nay, that they were twins! that she herself was their mother; their wretched, sinful mother; and that the late Lord Fitz-Ullin was their father.

“The poor young man was so much affected by the scene which followed; the frantic appearance of the old woman who called herself his mother; the fainting away of the interesting, and certainly very beautiful young creature, whose hand he still held, and whom he scarcely knew whether to call sister or bride; the great change in his own circumstances too, and the sudden revulsion of his[157] feelings; that, in short, he went home, (or rather to the house which he had so long thought his home,) and shot himself!—that is, attempted to do so; indeed, did wound himself: it was his friend, the rightful and present Lord Fitz-Ullin, who was fortunate enough to prevent his completing his terrible purpose.”

Various expressions of pity and horror were here uttered by the listeners. “Indeed, the young man,” continued the speaker, “deserves well of the Earl, for his conduct on the occasion was truly noble.”

“On entering his hall, on his return from church, he was beset by the wretches, in whose hands were every proof by which his present Lordship could substantiate his claims. These they offered, for a certain sum, so effectually to suppress, that notwithstanding the wild declaration of the woman in church, the rightful Earl should never be able legally to dispossess him, either of title or property. He[158] however, spurned all such offers with the utmost indignation; and would not suffer the persons to leave his presence, till he had sent for his Lordship—I mean his present Lordship—then commonly called Captain Montgomery, and laid all the facts before him. After which it was, that the poor young man retired to his sleeping apartment, and made that rash attempt upon his own life, which I before mentioned. I had always attended the late Earl, whose friendship I had the honour of possessing. I was therefore sent for by Lady Fitz-Ullin immediately, and have, of course, visited the house, either in my medical or friendly capacity, every day since; and I have the satisfaction to say, that I can now pronounce Captain Ormond out of danger.

“I never heard any thing so shocking!” said the Admiral, in a tone of much feeling, for since the first ebullition of his wrath on being contradicted, he had become an interested listener;[159] “that poor young man, brought up to fortune, rank, title, every thing, now thrown on the world, without a home, or even a name!”

“When I last saw him,” said Lady D., “it was at his father’s table. A mild looking young man with a sweet smile. I remember he sat opposite to me, talking to a daughter of the Duke of B. I said, you know,” she added turning to the Colonel, “that this man’s countenance was not quite what I thought I could recollect of Lord Ormond.”

“The young man has been a most unhappy, and, it would appear innocent victim of the moral turpitude of others;” observed a gentleman who had not before spoken, and whose black silk apron proclaimed him a dignitary of the church. “The story affords a striking, practical revelation of the will of Him, who has ordained that misery shall be the fruit of vice;” he added, addressing a younger person on whose arm he leaned.

[160]

The general move occasioned by the breaking up of the now concluded set of quadrilles, dispersed our listening party, and sent them to seek various amusements in other parts of the gay assembly.

Immediately after Julia had gone into the dancing-room with Edmund, a handsome lively young man, not much above the middle size, but remarkably well made, came up to Lord L., with whom he appeared well acquainted. He particularly requested an introduction to Frances, which Lord L., without absolute reluctance, granted; for young Beaumont, though but second son to Lord Beaumont, might be classed among those whom Lord L. considered as proper young men, being grandson to the Duke of ?, and inheriting a large property in right of his mother, Lady Charlotte ?, his Grace’s only child. On being introduced, Beaumont requested the honour of Lady Frances L.’s hand in due form, and led her towards the quadrilles.

[161]

Whenever he addressed her, and that in consequence she raised her eyes to his face, she thought she must have seen him before, but could not remember where. A vague suspicion, however, sometimes crossed her mind; yet, if that were the case, the dress was now so different. Beaumont’s manners were very animated; and he was so assiduous to please, that Frances’s natural gaiety of heart, soon appeared with as little restraint, as if they had been long acquainted.

“This is not the first effort I have made to have the honour of being presented to Lady Frances L.,” said Mr. Beaumont, at last, with a rather conscious smile, and a little hesitation; “but I was not quite so fortunate in my former essay.”

“I thought I had seen you before!” said Frances. “Then you are the gentleman that played the flute on the Lake, and that had the two beautiful dogs, and that——”

[162]

Frances stopped short, for there was something in the sort of pleasure that Beaumont’s countenance expressed, which betrayed that he considered the accuracy of her memory as a compliment to himself. He immediately perceived that he had committed an error, which nothing but the greatest humility could rectify. With downcast eyes, therefore, he said, “he must esteem himself fortunate in possessing even dogs, worthy of being remembered by Lady Frances L.”

Frances was very near being taken in to believe that she had been guilty of a want of politeness, in having made leading personages of the dogs. She was just about to attempt some qualifying sentence, when, looking up for the purpose, she perceived, that notwithstanding the downcast eye, and assumed gravity of tone, the gratified smile was again stealing over the lips of Beaumont. She checked herself immediately, and determined never to have a good memory again.

[163]

“This excessive reserve,” (thought Beaumont, who had perceived both the first movement, and the change of plan,) “is not a bad symptom.”

“Now, I have,” he said, looking up again, and throwing as much gentleness, persuasion, and humility, into his countenance as possible, “on some occasions, at least, the most unfashionable of memories.” He then commenced a full and accurate account of every time he had but passed the Lodore house party, whether riding, driving, walking, or boating; whereabouts Frances had sat in the boat, what sort of dress she had worn, &c. At length, by his animated descriptions, he so far succeeded in throwing her off her guard, that he sometimes obtained, by a look or a smile, an inadvertent acknowledgment that he was right. Slight as was this encouragement, Beaumont already fixed his hopes upon it, so prone are young men, (even the best of them,) to egregious vanity.[164] His spirits rose, and gave to his manners an additional vivacity, which seemed to Frances quite fascinating. She almost felt sorry when the set was drawing to a conclusion, notwithstanding her impatience to talk to Edmund about all that had happened, and express her own wonder and delight, at things turning out just as grandmamma and Mr. Jackson always said they would.

The quadrille ended, she requested Beaumont to lead her towards Julia and Fitz-Ullin. This proved no very easy task, and when at length she did catch a glimpse, at a distance, of the doleful countenance of his newly elevated Lordship, she could not help saying to herself, “Well, certainly, sentimental people are, after all, sometimes, very tiresome!” The qualifying expression, sometimes, was put in after the sentence was commenced, a feeling of affection for the so long, so dear Edmund, having arisen and reproached her, for her first movement of[165] distaste at the sight of a melancholy object, just at a time, when she was so much inclined to be pleased. Her agreeable flirtation with her new acquaintance, however, was not destined to come to so hasty a conclusion, for the attempt to join Julia and her partner utterly failed.
CHAPTER XV.
“This is too much for human sufferance,
Despair, rapidly, to an early tomb
Is carrying thy youth!”

Meanwhile, our heroine and Fitz-Ullin, accompanied many others into a refreshment room, where they lingered a little, after the rest of the couples returned to the ball room.

The delay had been more on the part of Julia than of her companion; for there was an extraordinary formality and coldness about his manner, he appeared, as it were, to wait her commands. His eyes were cast down, he was silent; not even a catch of the breath was audible, though more than once a movement of the chest might have indicated, to a close observer, that a rising sigh[167] had been suppressed. “How unlike what Edmund used to be!” thought Julia. He had told her, in answer to some one of the obvious questions she had attempted during the dancing, that one of his names was still Edmund.

“A strange time this he has chosen,” she thought, “to become cold and unfriendly to his oldest friends.” Yet she tried to congratulate him on the unexpected change in his fortunes, with much of real kindness, and an effort, at least, at playfulness of manner; for, thought Julia, “I must not pretend to understand this absurd grief about Lady Susan.”

“It is a species of mockery, Julia,” he said, “to congratulate me on advantages which, however ardently desired at one period, can now but aggravate the bitterness of disappointment.”

“Oh, Edmund,” said Julia, thrown off her guard by his look and voice of wretchedness, “why will you be miserable? Did not the[168] real regard and friendship of all your early friends, long, long suffice for your happiness, and why will you suffer the disappointment of one, now you see, you—must see—never—well founded hope, to render valueless every real good.” But suddenly recollecting that her kindness was no longer generosity to the poor friendless Edmund, she checked herself, coloured, and became silent. Fitz-Ullin seemed to struggle for some time for composure, or for voice to reply.

“That one hope, Julia,” he at length articulated with peculiar bitterness of tone, “however ill founded you assure me it has ever been——”

“I assure you!” exclaimed Julia, with some surprise.

“That one hope,” he continued, speaking with effort, and from his visibly increasing agitation, without noticing the interruption, “that one hope, was all that gave life value in my eyes.”

[169]

“Indeed!” said Julia, assuming in her turn an air of coldness; and, for her, almost disdain.

“Friendship,” he proceeded, “all I have ever loved, all I have ever known, all I have ever been, are too intimately associated with that one hope, to be remembered without agony, when separated from it: all must be resigned together! Would to heaven!” he added, with energy, “I could first replace him, whom, most unwillingly, I have destined to become a wanderer from his long-accustomed home, and deprived of a rank, without which, he loathes existence, and which is valueless to me! But, poor fellow, he would not retain, for one hour, what he called my rights. Of his rash attempt at suicide, you are aware.” Julia bowed her assent. “The shocking occurrence,” he went on, “took place, as you also know, just as I was on the point of setting out for Lodore——.” That,[170] thought Julia, I did not know before; but she felt not very well able to interrupt him; nor did she deem the circumstance of any importance.

“After which,” continued Fitz-Ullin, “the imperious necessity of soothing and guarding my unfortunate friend, lest he should repeat the attempt on his life, obliged me to have recourse to writing. You know the rest, Julia.” His look and manner here, expressed something of wildness, although, in the arrangement of his words, there was a forced composure.

“I only know,” she replied, with difficulty suppressing her tears, “that that letter made me——,” she was going to have said, very miserable; but she changed her intention, and said, “gave me great uneasiness.”

“I am sorry I should have caused you pain” he replied coldly, “but I felt that such an explanation was due. And now, let me say, farewell for ever! Without this interview,[171] when thousand of miles apart—perhaps—I should have—I should not have.”

Here he broke off abruptly, and seemed to struggle with an emotion, difficult to be suppressed. Of his last speech, Julia had heard, or at least had comprehended, but the words, “Farewell for ever!” “I go,” he recommenced, with a voice so hoarse from emotion, that it literally could not have been recognized for his; “I go to-morrow to Lodore, to take a long farewell of my dearest, most honoured friend, your revered grandmother: after that, to sea; to end, I hope, my miserable career, by dying honourably in the service of my country.”

Ere he concluded, Julia, whose power of acting composure was totally gone, had covered her eyes with both her hands, and hid her face on the arm of the little sofa on which she was seated; for every thing had begun to swim before her sight, and she dreaded exposing her feelings, by, perhaps, fainting.[172] A sense of coldness passed over her cheeks, and there was a rushing sound in her ears, and a confusion in her ideas, which lasted for some time, and made her uncertain, when she did begin to revive, how long she had remained in that painful state. Yet she had, she found, preserved her sitting posture. She was even beginning to congratulate herself upon this circumstance, when she felt an arm which had hitherto, she now found, been the means of supporting her, somewhat hastily withdrawn. Nearly at the same moment, she heard an approaching step, and a moment after, one of her hands was taken, but not with Edmund’s usual gentleness, and pressed to the lips of one, who now assumed a kneeling posture, and drew her other hand from before her eyes. She looked round, and to her inexpressible surprise and horror, beheld Henry at her feet, while the figure of our hero was hastily passing out of the door-way.

[173]

When Julia believed it was Edmund, who, with a manner at which her feelings revolted she knew not why, had kissed her hand, she fancied she was shocked at his want of delicacy; but the bitterness of her disappointment, when she saw it was Henry, who had done so, showed how easily Edmund would have been forgiven.

Fitz-Ullin did not appear again during the remainder of the evening. Julia’s indignation against Henry, aroused her more effectually, than, perhaps, any thing else could have done. He answered her warmly-expressed displeasure, by assuring her, with a diabolical laugh, that she should not have to complain of his tenderness much longer.

A second set of quadrilles having by this time concluded, the refreshment-room was again crowded, and Lady Julia L. shortly led back to the dance, attended by a host of distinguished admirers.
CHAPTER XVI.
“What a change.”

When the sisters retired to their apartment for the night, Frances’ exuberantly gay spirits received a sad check; she saw at a glance, how thoroughly unhappy Julia was.

The extraordinary change in Edmund’s circumstances, was freely talked over and wondered at, even in the presence of Alice; and she ventured to express her joy on the occasion, and to comment on how delighted her aunt, and, indeed, every servant at Lodore would be, when they should hear of what had happened.

A few moments of silence followed her[175] dismissal, during which, Frances looked enquiringly at her sister.

“Well, we have had a full explanation,” said Julia.

“Indeed!” cried Frances, “and what did he say, Julia?”

“Oh, treated all the friendship, that all or any of us could offer him, with sovereign contempt!”

“Impossible! you must have misunderstood him.”

“Oh no, there was no room for misunderstanding; he was explicit enough, I assure you! Why, he was little short of angry, (as if it was my fault, that Lady Susan chose to prefer the Marquis of H.), that hope had been all, he said, that, in his eyes, gave value to existence; and he would, therefore, leave England for ever!” The firmness our heroine had been affecting, here gave way, and her voice faltered. Frances embraced her.

“Oh, and he talked all sorts of ridiculous[176] nonsense,” continued Julia, as she vainly endeavoured to check her tears, “about dying an honourable death, and said, that my congratulating him, on his late good fortune, was a mockery. I used, I am sure, to pity him, if he only looked melancholy for a moment; but really, this caricature, of sorrow, one cannot sympathise with!” Julia seems to forget a grand distinction: when she used to feel such indulgent pity for the melancholy look, she believed that love, for herself, was its source; it was quite another thing now; she could see the folly of being in despair about any body else.

“And what a time,” said Frances, “to behave ungratefully! It is certainly very unlike Edmund. Indeed Julia, I think you must have mistaken him, some way.” Julia shook her head. “We used, you know, to imagine,” continued Frances, “that it would be such a time of rejoicing, whenever Edmund was discovered to be some great person, (as[177] Mr. Jackson always said would be the case;) and now, the time is come; and we only seem to have lost our own Edmund. How could I have been so mistaken! I was absolutely certain that he was breaking his heart about his love for you: yet, if he was, this would not be the time to be in particular despair about it, just when, it is most probable, that papa would give his consent. So, I suppose, I must have been mistaken.”

Frances had had a thousand things to tell her sister about her new old acquaintance, Beaumont; but the melancholy subject they had been just discussing, and Julia’s tearful countenance, made her think it all such nonsense, that she determined not even to mention the subject.
CHAPTER XVII.
… “Why,
Did I look upon her fatal beauty!”

We said, that one of our hero’s appellations, was still Edmund. Written at full length, his names and titles are, Edmund-Oscar, Ormond, Earl Fitz-Ullin. As an infant, previous to his being stolen from home, he had always been called Edmund, to please his mother, from whose father he derived that name; but, after that Lady’s death, and the second marriage of the Earl, it became the custom of the family, to call the nurse’s boy, (who then filled the place of the stolen child,) by the name of Oscar, one to which Lord Fitz-Ullin was partial, as having been frequently borne by the representatives of the title.

[179]

Our hero remained but one day at Lodore. To Mrs. Montgomery he explained every thing, but the cause of his own feelings: the state of them he did not attempt to hide. When Mrs. Montgomery spoke of Lady Susan’s marriage, as the cause of his despairing letter, he neither confessed that it was, nor said that it was not. This conduct the kind old lady construed into a confession, that she was right. She, accordingly, after endeavouring to rally him, without being able to extort a smile, closed the subject, by gently hinting, that she had expected more firmness of mind from him: and hoping, that a little change of scene, would make him, very shortly, see things in quite another point of view.

Even Mr. Jackson, who, according to the determination he expressed on first hearing Edmund’s letter read, had gone up to town, even he had not been able to draw forth a[180] word on the subject. Once, indeed, Fitz-Ullin said, after a long reverie, and when no question had been asked: “The longer I live, Jackson, the more strongly I feel the excellent truth of your early lessons; had I always obeyed the suggestions of conscience, not only in the letter, but in the spirit; had the plain road, pointed out by duty, been resolutely trod; without waiting to inquire of passion, if there were not a flowery by-path that would, ultimately, lead to the same end; my present sufferings had possibly been, at least, less poignant than they are.”

Mr. Jackson was, for a moment, puzzled, almost alarmed. “You can only mean,” he said, “that it would have been more strictly honourable in you, to have avoided Lady Susan’s society, while your birth was unknown, and your fortune limited—Yet—as things have turned out—had her Ladyship entertained a reciprocal preference, why—”

[181]

“In your kind zeal to place me on good terms with myself,” said Edmund, mournfully, “you are becoming a sophist, Jackson! What had my sense of duty to do with events which I did not, could not foresee?”

This was a sort of admission, that Mr. Jackson had been right, in ascribing Edmund’s wretchedness to his disappointment, about Lady Susan; but nothing more was said on the subject then, or at any other time.

Fitz-Ullin, without evincing any desire to enjoy his new found rank and fortune, joined his ship immediately. He seemed to seek escape, from the mental exertion of considering whither he should fly, by thus subjecting himself to the necessity of going wherever, and doing whatever, the service should require of him. Among the particulars, respecting the discovery of our hero’s birth, which the late circumstances brought to light, it appeared that his nurse, who, when she wrote to Mrs.[182] Montgomery, thought herself dying, not only recovered and repented of her repentance, but married again, a man who would have made a market of the secret, had Ormond been without principle. This man was among the persons, who made the offers already mentioned. He undertook that his wife, the nurse, should not be forthcoming; or, that were she obliged to come forward, she should, on cross-examination, purposely so contradict herself, as to invalidate her evidence.

It was, therefore, of his own free will, that poor Ormond had resigned at once, the rank, the wealth, and the home, in which he had from infancy lived, believing them his birth-right. His twin sister, who was in courtesy called Miss Ormond, had received a very superior education, to fit her for the situation of governess.

It is a remarkable circumstance, that, in point of fact, the actual fund which had supplied[183] an education, so fatal in its consequences, was the wages of sin; the very remuneration bestowed by the munificent Earl, on the dependant he had seduced. Thus, as by a remarkable retribution, this command of money in the hands of the guilty mother, became the means of blighting the young hearts of both her ill-fated children, and bringing her own grey hairs with shame and sorrow to the grave.

The poor young woman had been settled for some years, in the capacity of governess, in a highly respectable private family, at the time that the marriage between Ormond and her was attempted; which was one of the reasons why the wretched mother was not aware how far matters had gone, till almost the last moment.

CHAPTER XVIII.
“The Monarch takes his dazzling seat.
… Nobles
Flock, to offer willing homage.”

The presentation of the sisters took place, and threw open, at once, the floodgates of dissipation: while the London season, at its height, offered all its fascinating varieties. But, to Julia, every day appeared the same. The only impression she seemed capable of receiving, from the ever changing scenes in which she was engaged, was, from all, a sense of weariness. The newspapers alone, had power to interest her; except, that she derived a melancholy pleasure from listening to the praises, by Lady Oswald, of Edmund’s generous kindness to herself, and to her son Arthur, now our hero’s cousin.

[185]

To Frances, on the contrary, all was novelty and brilliancy. She never felt so much inclined to be quite happy; and would have been so, but for her sympathy with her sister. She little thought that what so much exhilarated her spirits, was but the first approach of that desperate malady, First Love, which, in its more advanced stage, caused the fixed melancholy of Julia. Frances found a most agreeable variety, in the mode of passing her time. Mr. Beaumont, for instance, could not venture to call every day, so that the days he did call, were distinguished by that memorable event; and the days he did not, by his driving past under the windows, fifty or an hundred times in his curricle. Or, they met in the park; or, danced together at one or more of the gay engagements of the evening; or, he found his way into Lord L.’s box at the opera, or, &c., &c., &c.

Beaumont, whose hopes received so much[186] support from his vanity, on the very first evening, found that prop fail him, as his feelings became more seriously interested; and doubts and fears accumulated, as the value of the wished-for object, increased in his estimation.

We pass some splendid alliances, which, it was evident, would have been offered to Julia, but for the decided discouragement shown by her to all. Lord L. too, conscious that rank and beauty such as Julia’s, when accompanied by immense fortune, possessed claims that might, at any time, secure a suitable establishment, determined not to press upon her any choice, she did not freely make. Indeed, his answers to such as requested his permission to address his daughter, were to that effect.

We believe that, added to the above reason, Lord L. had still a lingering wish, of which he was perhaps unconscious, and for which[187] he would possibly have found it difficult to account satisfactorily. We mean, a wish to see Julia united to Fitz-Ullin; to whom he had taken an almost unreasonable fancy; considering how little he had seen of him.

As to Frances, Beaumont’s declared attentions to her, and her pleased acceptance of them, kept all others at a distance.

At length the London scene closed, and the family party returned to Lodore-House, to celebrate the birth-day, which, by making the sisters of age, placed their being heiresses to Lord L.’s extensive estates, beyond contingency; for, even in the event of their father marrying again, his whole property was entailed on the children of his first marriage; in failure of a son to go, at his death, to such daughter or daughters, as should live to be of age, and their heirs for ever. Lord L. had been too much in love when he married, to contemplate the possibility of losing his[188] beautiful young wife, and wishing to marry again. His Lordship’s lawyers, indeed, attempted to hint something of the kind; but, with a countenance of horror, the young lover had refused to listen to such cold-hearted suggestions.

Such anniversaries as the present, Mrs. Montgomery always wished to have kept under her own roof, where the actual event had taken place.

Henry had preceded Lord L. and his daughters into Cumberland; for, either accidentally or purposely, he had been too late for the sailing of the Euphrasia.
CHAPTER XIX.
“The sun had set in rich magnificence:
The west was a region of golden light,
Inscrutable in lustre, involving
The imagination in its ocean
Of effulgence: while from its distant shores
Of miraculous brightness, came floating,
On mid air, light fleeces of gold. Slowly
The silent moments stole a chill o’er this
Enchantment, the bright wand’rers disappeared;
The western paradise closed her gates;
And gray twilight, sat on the mountain side.”

The morning after the festival given for the birth-day, Mrs. Montgomery, partly from having taken cold, and partly from fatigue, felt far from well, and consequently remained in bed the entire of the day. Julia sat with her grandmother all the morning. After dinner,[190] Frances relieved guard, and begged of her sister, as the evening was fine, to take a little walk.

Lord L. was dining with Lord Borrowdale. Henry had quitted Lodore-House that morning, saying, that he was setting out to join the Euphrasia, which, it appeared by the papers, was shortly expected in the Sound.

Julia, therefore, walked out quite alone, she directed her steps towards the desolate vale, where her mother had first found poor Edmund. She seated herself. Her eyes rested on the western hill. It was topped by a few scattered trees, the grouping and even the ramifications of which, were accurately traced out by the bright glow of the heavens behind them. The eastern side of the slope was in shadow, and the woods that clothed it hung to the very waters’ edge, while the lake at its foot, reflecting the crimson clouds above, appeared a sheet of fire. The dazzle of the sun’s immediate presence being removed,[191] (for he had just dropped behind the hill,) the relieved eye could now view with delighted leisure, all the beauty, magnificence, and infinite variety of the scene, wherein, each moment, changes were wrought, imperceptible in their approaches, but in their effects, picturesque and splendid, as the most vivid descriptions of enchantment.

Amid the clouds, cloud-formed castles turreted with gold, and temples, sustained by pillars which seemed of fire, arose, spread, united, brightened, divided, and sunk again. Imagination could fancy them dissolving in the intensity of their own lustre. Where these had been, mimic vessels now appeared, of fleecy whiteness, sailing on the liquid gold. These melted next, and waves of clouds, rolling themselves together heap on heap, rose to mountains ranged across the west, and shutting out almost all its glories. Yet on their purple summits, there seemed to linger floating forms, still of[192] vivid hues, though each moment losing something of their brightness, till, gradually, they became of a sombre grey, as, one by one, they clothed themselves in mist, and, blending with the deepening shadows, disappeared. The upper sky, however, was still streaked with alternate grey and gold, which the face of the water, faithfully as a mirror, reflected. The real mountains which surrounded the lake, and the little islands which lay slumbering on its surface, had become masses of an almost jetty black, and there was little light remaining any where, when a solitary row-boat put off from the opposite shore. As it crossed one of the illumined paths, which reflected from the sky still appeared on the water, the working of its oars was, for the moment, visible, together with the strongly defined form of one who, with folded arms, stood erect at its bow. Julia certainly saw, for the moment described, as we see with the mind’s eye what crosses us in[193] thought, the boat, and the figure, for the appearance they made at the time afterwards floated on her memory. Yet she remained motionless.
CHAPTER XX.
“Whither art thou gone, fair spirit? In what cave
Of the rock shall I find thee?”

It became dark, the usual hour for tea at Lodore-house approached. The drawing-room was lit for the purpose, the tea equipage placed, and, finally, the steaming urn brought in. Still there was no person in the room.

At length Frances entered. She looked round with some surprise. She approached the table, and touched lightly, with her taper finger, the side of the tea-pot. Finding it cold, she wondered that Julia had not made tea. She rang the bell, and desired that Lady Julia might be called. Alice was sent to Julia’s[195] room. Julia was not there, but three notes were found, conspicuously placed, on her dressing table, one directed to her father, one to her grandmother, and one to her sister. They were all couched in gentle and affectionate terms. The attachment which had induced her to the present step, she said, had long subsisted. She had only waited to be of age. They should hear from her shortly, she added, when she should give them an address, by which she should get their letters, without their knowing where to find her; for that she meant to remain in concealment, till they had all pronounced her free pardon, were it for years!

This discovery produced the greatest consternation. What was to be done?—As a first step, Lord L. was sent for.
CHAPTER XXI.
“He crosses the beam on the wave.”
… “The night
Comes rolling down, the face of ocean fails,
Cromla is dark, with all its silent woods.”

We left Julia seated on the shore of the lake. She had certainly seen, for one short moment, the boat with the figure standing in it, but had, it would seem, lost again the consciousness of what she had seen, in the deep reverie of her own thoughts.

She remained on the same spot, though the darkness thickened around her, till there was scarce a ray of even twilight left.

She was at length aroused, by hearing near her the splash of oars. Looking towards the sound, she could just discern close to the[197] shore, a boat, its dark dimensions made visible by the comparative light of the water’s surface; while, at the same instant, the figure of a man, in a great cloak, which spread abroad like immense black wings, alit beside her, as if from the air. The effect was produced by the flying leap of one who, from the boat, by aid of a long pole, flung himself to land.

The next moment, Julia found herself lifted into the boat, and the next, the pole had forced the keel off the gravelly beach, and the oars were plying with an eagerness which defeated the intended purpose, for they rather glanced upon, than laid hold of the water, till a voice of thunder, with a sort of explosion, cursed the awkwardness of the rowers, and the plunges became heavier and more regular.
CHAPTER XXII.
“But little the quiet to any ear,
Of that night, or the sleep, to any eye.”

Lord L. now arrived at Lodore-house. The dreadful intelligence was given, the notes shewn. He was stunned, it was entirely incredible. He roused himself, and was incensed.

There could be no doubt that it was with Henry she had eloped, notwithstanding all her declarations of indifference towards him. These, it was now evident, had only been made to throw her friends off their guard, and gain time, till, by being of age, she was enabled to act in defiance of her father, without forfeiting her property.

[199]

While calling for his horses, he made some breathless inquiries among the servants.

No one had seen Lady Julia come in, since she had walked out immediately after dinner. Alice had attended on that occasion with her walking things. She declared that the notes were not on the table, when her young Lady went out, and that the drawers which were now open and empty were then shut; and that the jewel-box, which was now gone, was then in one of the drawers, which she had opened to take out a pair of gloves, and afterwards locked again. It would thence appear, that Julia, or some one entrusted by her with her keys, must have returned privately, previous to her final departure, and taken away such of her clothes, trinkets, &c., as she wished to carry with her.

Lord L. was now on horseback. Also Mr. Jackson, who, as usual on all emergencies, had been summoned.
CHAPTER XXIII.
“Within the cave of yonder hill.”
… “Monsters,
Cumbrous as moving fortresses, draw near.”

The boat which had borne Julia from the vale of Borrowdale, now neared a very wild part of the further shore. One of the rowers grappling the bank with a boat-hook, the boat fell alongside the rocks. The person who seemed to command the others stood up, shook the immense folds of his cloak, lifted Julia to land, and holding her trembling arm firmly within his, hurried her up the rugged coast. They were soon in a narrow valley, resembling the chasm which it may be supposed the rending in twain of a mountain might form. The stranger whistled, and was answered by a similar[201] sound, which seemed to proceed from within that portion of the mountain, which, its rough and shaggy face studded with jutting rocks, and hung with underwood, rose almost perpendicularly on their left.

On turning round one of the most considerable of those projections, a stream of light crossed the path a little way before them, though the source whence it came was not yet visible. They continued to approach the spot; and now a clanking of chains was heard, soon after which, they arrived at the entrance of a cavern, the interior of which was strongly illuminated by a large faggot fire.

Here a most extraordinary apparition presented itself. It was in the act of coming forward from a distant part of the cave. On reaching about its centre, it halted. It either was, or from the lowness of the roof and strangeness of the light, it appeared to be, of gigantic stature; the very shadow which it[202] cast traversed the floor, and rose over the arched side, dilating and contracting as the blazes of the faggots moved; and throwing all behind it into the deepest gloom.

The appearance we are describing, did not owe its whole bulk to one object; but whether what seemed to be the principal being of the composite monster, was male or female, mortal or devil, it was not very easy to determine. It was seated upright, and in masculine fashion, on the back of a creature little removed from the living skeleton of a horse. It wore, what seemed to have been intended, more in mockery than in modesty, for a petticoat; which piece of feminine attire being, by the mode of sitting adopted by the rider, rendered of little avail, a considerable portion of sooty coloured but fleshy limbs were visible; while arms of a like description were planted, what is vulgarly termed a-kimbo. The countenance also partaking of the Ethiop’s hue, the blackened[203] eyelids gave an additional glare to the impudent glee of the eye, and the sooty lips, spread by a grin indicative of coarse mirth, displayed teeth, to which contrast gave a dazzling whiteness; yet which served but to light up a thick-lipped mouth, the expression of which inspired a feeling of disgust it is impossible to define. The rest of the features, had a dauntless bearing, a certain fearlessness superadded to their shamelessness. This latter characteristic, indeed, pervaded the whole air of a figure, which was crowned by a mis-shapen and much abused man’s hat, worn on one side of the head. It happened to be that which was in shadow, while the brow on the side next to the burning faggots, the cheek on the same side, the chin, the swell also of the limbs, the folds of the petticoat; all, in short, which rounded or protruded, was so curiously bronzed by the golden glare of the fire-light, that the whole apparition had much[204] the effect of a great equestrian metal cast, magically gifted with life; for the horse too, if horse it might be called, partook of the partial illumination.

The animal was large boned and stood high, whilst its heavy head hanging to its shrunken neck, nearly touched the ponderous hoof of the advanced fore-foot. It was blind of one eye, and dim from behind a filmy mist, gleamed the spark of life which still remained in the other. Its shoulders were galled, its knees broken, and its gaunt and extraordinary appearance completed by the uncommon accoutrement of weighty iron chains, which hung trailing on the ground on either side.

The thus unenviably mounted rider had paused, as has been already noticed, in the centre of the cave, when our heroine and her conductor presented themselves at its mouth. On their entering, a loud coarse laugh echoed round the vault, which through all its hoarseness[205] and discordance, had just enough of the tones of a female voice, to insult every association on the subject of woman’s loveliness. Our equestrian, towards whom we fear we must in future use a feminine pronoun, kicked the creature on which she was mounted, with both the heels of her iron-shod wooden shoes. This appeared to be a signal well understood between the parties; for the wretched animal immediately commenced its operations by lifting one of its heavy hinder feet, placing it on the shaggy fetlock of one of the fore ones, and stumbling.

“Dang thee, thoo deevil!” she exclaimed, pulling him up by a bridle of rope, which served, on occasion, the double purpose of whip, never being required but about the neck and shoulders, the above noticed method with the heels, serving to enliven the hinder parts.

In a voice of thunder, the ruffian, who still held Julia’s arm fast within the folds of his[206] cloak, uttered the monosyllable, “Stop!” He was obeyed, and now received from the hands of his mounted assistant, a parcel, containing a bonnet and cloak of the commonest description. These he commanded Julia to put on; and roughly assisting in removing those she had worn for her evening walk, he flung them into the fire, where they were quickly consumed.

During the moment that intervened between the taking off one muffle, and the close wrapping of her form in the other, a painter might have found a striking subject in the uncongeniality with the surrounding scene, and contrast with the fierce and coarse actors in it, of Julia’s entire appearance. The youthful grace of her figure, simply but elegantly dressed, in that most becoming of all costumes—a summer evening home half-dress of soft white muslin; while the noble as well as lovely countenance, the fair throat, the beautiful[207] hair, were also (by the temporary removal of the bonnet as well as cloak) fully displayed. Another moment, and our heroine’s coarse disguise had converted the gentle vision into the similitude of a market-woman, or farmer’s servant. Her terrific waiting-man, who had stood in the stead of waiting-maid, on the completion of her metamorphosis, lifted her from the ground, and placed her on the shoulders of the horse, where, immediately, the rough sooty arm of the rider, with the muscles of a blacksmith, and the flesh of a woman, was wrapped tightly round her waist.

Meanwhile the two fellows who had rowed the boat entered. The glare of light which now fell on their faces and figures, shewed them to be of the same tribe of savages to which belonged the woman already described. The chief distinction was, that they wore not the sole female attribute displayed by her,[208] the petticoat. The covering substituted by them consisting of a scanty species of soot-coloured shirt and drawers, leathern aprons, and a quantity of jet black dust. Their sinewy arms were bare, the shirt-sleeve being pushed up to the shoulder, while the front part of the same garment hung loosely open down to the girdle, exhibiting an abundant growth of such covering as nature sometimes bestows on bipeds of this description, in common with the four-footed race. Beards of unchecked luxuriance covered their chins and upper lips, bushy whiskers met the beards, and the long, wild, disorderly hair of the heads, crowning all, left little that could be called face. That little was either black or blackened, and gave to the eyes, as they reflected back the fire-light, something of the appearance already remarked in those of the female: in point of expression, however, theirs, instead of the gleeful leer of unshrinking impudence which[209] characterized her’s, had the quick pursuing flash of ferocity.

“All right?” demanded the mysterious stranger, as they appeared. “Awe right!” they replied, and passed on, till their figures were lost in the darkness which veiled the distant part of the cave. From thence a clanking of chains was soon heard, and shortly after the savage forms re-appeared; but now mounted on animals so like the one already described, that an enumeration of their points would be unnecessary. One of the fellows also led a horse of a rather better description, which the commander of the party took from him, and mounted. The cavalcade now quitted the cavern.

CHAPTER XXIV.
“Wherefore comest thou, lovely maid, I said,
Over rocks, over mountains, why art thou
On the desert hill, why on the heath alone?”

Julia and her conductors proceeded at a quicker pace than the first appearance of their horses promised. Their way lay over a ridge of mountains; both the ascent and descent were rugged and dangerous in the extreme, and occupied some hours. At length Julia became sensible that they were crossing a wide common.

She looked anxiously round for some human habitation, but could discover nothing indicative of cultivation or of life, except that almost at the verge of the horizon, as well as at a considerable distance from each other, she[211] descried three great fires, close to each of which arose a single round tower, with a large mound beside it. Gradually, the party seemed to be approaching nearer and nearer to one of these towers. Julia could at length distinguish dark figures, moving between her sight and the light of the fire, which light had from the first rendered the tower a conspicuous object. She felt a slight sensation of hope revive within her, but determined to make no attempt to call for assistance, till certain that she was near enough to be heard, lest her cries should be forcibly stifled as they had been at first. They now arrived close to the tower and fire. Figures (but alas! too like those in whose hands she already was,) moved on the top of the mound, around a circle which yet none seemed to enter. Slight as was the hope which the sight of such beings could inspire, Julia now cried for help. The figures on the mound immediately whirled their[212] caps in the air, huzzaed, and as the wild sound died away, broke into brutal laughter.

Julia became instantly silent as death. Her principal conductor dismounting, lifted her from the horse, and taking a firm grasp of her arm, dragged her up the mound. It seemed formed of some loose material, which gave way under her feet, and brought her to her knees more than once.

Arrived at the top, Julia perceived that she stood on the edge of a circular opening or pit, which, from the dark vacuum that met the eye, appeared bottomless. She shrunk back, and clung, as if for protection, even to the ruffian who had led her to its verge.

At this moment, a huge dark object passed through the air over their heads with a swinging motion, and then descended over the mouth of the pit. It was a black formless machine, hollow within, and suspended from above by chains. The stranger lifted Julia[213] from her feet, placed her in it, then stepped in himself, and it instantly began to descend. He stood firmly and still held her arm, that, as she too was obliged to stand, she might not by the motion lose her balance. With an involuntary impulse of terror, she looked over the side of the machine; all below was darkness. With a despairing gaze she raised her eyes, and fixed them on the round aperture above. It appeared to lessen every moment, while the voices of those they had left on the brink grew fainter and fainter. They continued descending, and at length, a confused hum arose from below. They descended still, and gradually, the mingled din increased both in loudness and distinctness, till the clanking of chains and strokes of hammers could be distinguished, through shrieks, yells, and coarse wild laughter.

Still they descended, and now, in his usual voice of thunder, Julia’s companion uttered[214] a strange halloo, which bellowed fearfully in the narrow void to which its echoes were confined. It seemed to be a summons to hitherto invisible beings, for immediately, a glare of unnatural light appeared below, and, moving through it, fiend-like forms as black as ebony.

They received and steadied the machine as it rested on the ground, and then, on beholding what were its contents, set up loud laughter, accompanied by huzzas. The stranger looked fiercely at them, which seemed a little to check their mirth. Julia, instead of closing her eyes or fainting, was for the moment roused by despair, to a peculiarly vivid reception of surrounding impressions. And strange were the sights that met her gaze. The most fearfully gloomy vaults spread on every side; their low roofs, sustained by immense pillars of shining jet. The flooring, the walls, the roofing, every where of the same material. Long low aisles or passages,[215] branching of in various directions, some lost in total darkness; in others, the view terminated by a far perspective, dimly illuminated, and filled with moving shadowy forms, the black countenances invisible through the obscurity, while the numberless eyes, that seemed scintillations from the unearthly lights the place afforded, were scattered over the gloomy region, like stars in the dark vault of midnight. To complete the wild effect of the whole scene, these terrific beings were all busily employed excavating on every side, as if to increase the dimensions of their infernal realm.
CHAPTER XXV.
“More fire than lustre had his eye, his form
Less grace than grandeur.”
“Why am I summoned here, to mix with thine
My secret words, within the horrid cave
Of Moma?”

Near one of the entrances to ?haven, the chimneys and slating of a miserable looking row of houses, appear quite at the feet of the traveller; consequently, on a level with the road which runs along the brow of the hill, in the side of which the backs of the houses are sunk, while their faces front the valley.

About an hour after the conclusion of the events related in our last chapter, but still before day-break, a horseman approached at a rapid pace along the road just described.[217] He turned the animal suddenly down a narrow rugged abrupt descent, which brought him immediately in front of the said row of houses.

The rider stopped, and, loosing his foot from the stirrup at the side nearest the miserable dwelling, close to which his horse now stood, kicked the door. It opened, and a figure appeared, the outlines of which, as shewn by the light from behind, were easily to be recognised, as those of the female equestrian. From the length of time, however, which has elapsed, it may not be quite so easy to trace in her that bold strolling thief and beggar, whom we have seen in the very first chapter of this history, treat poor Edmund so cruelly. Yet she is the same individual. By origin she was, what in Cumberland is called, a bottom lass; the most opprobrious of terms, meaning one of those creatures, found to swarm in that region of darkness, denominated, in the country of which we speak, “the bottom.” Creatures[218] who, if they can claim a mother for the first few weeks after their birth, rarely can a father.

We are not aware that the profligate being whose history we are thus tracing back, was ever christened; yet, in some way or other, she had obtained the appellation of Jin of the Gins.

Jin, notwithstanding her lack of noble birth, happened to possess, in extreme youth, some natural beauty; and by that circumstance was promoted, at the early age of seventeen, to the rank of nominal wife to a travelling tinker. With him, for a few years, she travelled, begged, pilfered, and drank.

During this period it was that Edmund had, for the sake of his fine clothes, become her prey. Shortly after having abandoned him, she was caught in the act of achieving a more than usually daring robbery, for which she must have been hung, had she not escaped[219] from the magistrates before she could be committed to the county jail. On this occasion she returned, at about three and twenty, to her old asylum, the bottom; where, shrouded in coal-dust and darkness, she has, up to the present period, which brings her to about the age of three or four and forty, laboured at bottom-work in the bowels of the earth, and often beneath the bed of the ocean, amid hundreds of her own description.

To account for the equestrian prowess of Jin of the Gins, we must here remark, that near to ?haven, and not far from the row of houses just described, there is a broad covered way, leading down to the works by a descent so gradual, that horses, cars, and even waggons can enter by it; while daily may be seen emerging from it troops of colliers, mounted on such animals as in a late chapter we have described, accoutred too with chains which, like the traces of a just-loosed carriage-horse,[220] trail on either side, ready to hook to cars, waggons, &c.

But to return to the scene which was just commencing. The rider, in answer to whose summons we left Jin in the act of opening the door, on the threshold of which she now stood, accosted her thus, “Well, Jin of the Gins, how is it with you?”

“Nane the bether for yeer axin,” she retorted.

“Is Sir Sydney come?” continued the querist.

“Comed!” she repeated, “Aye, and maire nor him.”

Our traveller threw his bridle to the gentle groom, whistled, advanced a foot over the threshold, and paused in the act, till he heard an answering whistle from within. He then proceeded, and entering a miserably small earthen-floored apartment, on the side of the passage, stood before Julia’s late conductor. This mysterious personage was still wrapped in[221] his boat cloak. He sat leaning on a little rickety round table, whereon was placed a lantern which suffered but little of the light it contained to escape, having, in place of glass, sides of rusty tin, perforated with small holes like those of a colander.

“You have secured her, then?” said the traveller, as he entered.

“Where is Lord L.?” inquired the stranger, without rising or noticing the question put to him.

“Pursuing on a wrong track,” replied the traveller.

“Have you brought the title-deeds?” demanded the stranger, in a tone that few would have liked to have answered with a negative. The traveller unbuttoned his great coat and took off his hat. It was Henry!

“I have,” he replied, after a moment of hesitation, and slowly undoing a button or two of the inner coat.

[222]

“Give them to me, then!” said the stranger fiercely.

Henry drew a parcel of parchments halfway from his breast, then paused.

“What do you hesitate about, Sir?” said the stranger.

“I do not mean,” commenced Henry, “to sell the Craigs at present.”

“What of that?” said the stranger.

“You shall have the half of the rents,” continued Henry, in an expostulating tone, “and when, at Lord L.’s death, she inherits her proportion of his estates, then the Scotch acres may go to the hammer, and you shall have the whole of the money they bring.”

The stranger, while with his eyes fixed on the face of the speaker, he listened, had been slowly extracting a brace of pistols from his pockets, and laying them on the table.

“And pray what security have I for all this unless the title-deeds are in my own possession?”[223] he demanded scornfully, and with affected coolness. Then, with a sudden yell of rage, resembling the neigh of a wild horse, and grinning in a terrific manner, he vociferated, “Lay down the parchments, Sir!” striking the table as he spoke so violently with his clenched hand, that the lantern spun round like a child’s top; and one of the pistols leaping to the ground, went off.

Henry took the packet from his breast, and laid it down in silence.

The stranger drew it towards him, unfolded it, and corrected its tendency to relapse into its former folds, by laying his pistols on either margin, picking up for the purpose the one which had fallen. He then proceeded to open the door of the lantern, whence poured a powerful but partial light on the writings, and on his own countenance, as he bent over them in the act of examining their contents. A fur travelling cap, with a band tight to the[224] forehead, displayed, fully, features of terrific strength, and which, at the same time, presented a horrible sort of caricature of manly beauty, distorted almost to wildness by the habitual exaggeration of every desperate feeling. The scrutiny of the documents occupied some time, during the whole of which Henry stood, and was silent. The stranger having completed his task, refolded the parchments, and placed them in his breast; then, closing the lantern, and restoring thus the scene of conference to its former state of twilight, he re-charged the pistol, which had gone off in its fall, placing it with its companion in his pockets, and while doing so, said in a somewhat pacified tone: “These deeds will not enable me to sell the estate without your concurrence; though, their being in my hands, will secure me against your doing so without mine. I shall be perfectly satisfied, at present, with half the[225] rents; but, that I may have no doubt or difficulty in receiving the said moiety, you must, as soon as the marriage shall be proved——.”

“Have you procured witnesses?” interrupted Henry.

“I have: they are to meet us at ?.”

“Will they swear direct, that the ceremony was performed without unwillingness on her part, or compulsion on ours?”

“Certainly! What else are they paid for?”

“And that will be sufficient?”

“Together with the certificate of the clergyman and clerk.”

“The clergyman is my old chum—of course?” said Henry. “He would, I know, have no scruples, were she gagged and handcuffed at the altar!”

“Of course not,” replied the stranger. “But, to return to my subject: As soon as the marriage shall have been proved, so as[226] to entitle you to a legal controul over the property, you must employ a proper agent, give him sufficient powers and directions, to one-half of each year’s rent to an address through which I can receive it without reference to you, and the other half to an address by which you can receive it, without making your actual residence known (that is, should concealment long continue necessary). Have you any hope of reconciling Julia herself?”

“Not the slightest!” returned Henry. “When, indeed, she has been my wife,” he continued, “long enough to be, perhaps, a mother, she may not choose the publicity of a trial. Indeed, by that time, neither my aunt, nor even Lord L. himself, could wish, I should think, to go to extremities with so near a relation: even were the whole truth to come out. In short, it could answer no desirable purpose! Lord L. must know that his daughter would be more respectable in[227] the eyes of the world as my wife, and supposed to be willingly so, than by seeking any redress the law could then give her, were it even possible to procure full evidence that the marriage was compulsory, which I expect we shall render impossible: so that I have no fears on that score. The three notes this evening (for I left my fellow behind on pretext of bringing my luggage) passed examination. I shall, therefore, have no difficulty, while abroad, in keeping up a regular correspondence in her name with all her friends. In short, when the numberless circumstances, however trivial in themselves, which I have now for so long caused to bear on the one point, receive this last crowning evidence, there will not remain the shadow of a doubt on the mind of any one, that Julia has only waited to be of age to elope with me. I expect, in fact, that the conviction on the mind of every one will be so strong, that they will not think it necessary[228] to examine into any thing; and that one-half the precautions we have taken will prove quite unnecessary. It is not at all unlikely, too, that after a time she may, for the sake of being permitted to return to this country, and reside near her friends, consent to declare, personally, I mean, to her own family, that she married me willingly; in which case, we could take up our residence at the Craigs.”

“In short,” continued Henry, “once she is in my power, I can compel her to do any thing! How is she to help herself I’d be glad to know?”

“Fitz-Ullin is expected in the Sound, I find,” said the stranger, “what a confounded untimely blow that old beldam’s confession was! By the bye, I shall expect to be repaid the sums I have been obliged to give Jin of the Gins, to keep her silent till after your marriage; and now that she has been forestalled, (which was always what she feared,) and can[229] never get any thing from either party, her demands for compensation will be exorbitant. Those, however, you must satisfy, now that you will have funds.”

“How long is it now,” said Henry, “since she first consulted you on the possibility of making a market of her secret, without getting hanged.”

“A few weeks,” replied the stranger, “previous to that cursed masquerade at Arandale, when I wrote to you on the subject of the admission ticket.”

“That then was the first intimation you had,” said Henry, musing. “Had it not been,” he added, after a short silence, “for the fortunate chance of Ormond shooting himself, all must certainly have been lost.”

“There was too much left to chance in that business,” retorted the stranger. “That night at Arandale should have rid us of all anxiety on the subject. I ought to have answered his[230] first question by blowing out his brains! And that, before I palsied my arm with that cursed fencing! Never, certainly, were there time and place so well calculated for committing an act of the kind with perfect impunity. Since then, it has never been possible to get near him, with any thing like a chance of escape. I deserved, however, to fail for using such pitiful half measures, where so much was at stake.”

“I never thought his removal so very necessary,” observed Henry.

“Fool!” replied the stranger, “How, if the public disclosure had been made under almost any other circumstances? When can you come to ??” he added.

“I must first,” replied Henry, “join the Euphrasia, to avoid, in case of failure, any thing like proof against me. It is impossible for her to have the most remote guess who you are, so that were she even to escape, while she had not yet seen me, all would still be safe![231] In short, we had better not meet even for a moment, till we meet at the altar.”

The stranger paused, as if considering the subject; then, standing up, said, “True! you set out immediately.”

Henry replied in the affirmative; and thus they parted.
CHAPTER XXVI.
“The semblance spoke; but how faint was the voice,
Like the breeze in the reeds of the pool!”

When Julia began to recover sensation, she found herself in a reclining position, while the object on which her eyes first opened, appeared to her bewildered imagination, to be the mast of the boat in which she had so lately sat. And, indeed, the wreck of what had once been a bed, on which she now lay, having neither curtains nor top, the one naked foot-post which remained standing was not very unlike the single mast of a small boat. The apartment was without other furniture. The ceiling, or rather roofing, consisted of the inside of the slating,[233] which descending obliquely from the opposite wall, passed close over Julia’s face, and met the floor just behind her head. In the centre of the floor, which was laden with straw and dust, was an open trap door with the head of a ladder appearing a foot or two above it, while on one corner or shaft of the said head of the ladder, hung a lantern, the only source of light the apartment could boast.

The first sounds that blended themselves with the returning perceptions of our heroine, were those of a soft, and she thought, well known voice, repeating in a tone, the most heart-broken, “Poor child! poor child!” She withdrew her eyes from the contemplation of the bed, and thought she beheld Mrs. Montgomery leaning over her. But when her ideas and her sense of sight both became a little clearer, she perceived that the figure she thus beheld, was not only that of a stranger,[234] but of a being which, now that it ceased to move, scarcely seemed to live, the shadow only of a human form. Yet did the countenance possess a power over Julia like that of a spell, she could not withdraw her gaze from it. The hollow cheek, the large prominent eye, with hopelessness for its sole expression, the colourless lip, the perfectly white hair, the small and still delicate, while emaciated throat, formed a picture, which could not be contemplated without extreme pain.

Julia half raising herself, exclaimed, “Where am I? where am I? oh, where am I?” each time with increasing earnestness. Her companion was silent. “Tell me, tell me, where I am!” No reply. Again she repeated her inquiries, her voice and manner becoming wild with anxiety and dread.

A sudden, loud, and undefinable sound, accompanied by a pistol shot, was heard from below. The hitherto motionless form of the[235] silent vision shuddered universally. The faint tinge of life which was stealing over the cheek of Julia fled.
CHAPTER XXVII.
“The rending of the heart’s last cord
Was in that sound!”
“Young, as spring’s first opening rose bud lovely
And helpless as autumn’s last; blooming alone
On a leafless stalk, bent beneath the shower,
And trembling in the wintry blast.”

The Euphrasia, according to the expectation announced in the papers, arrived in Plymouth Sound. She had on board a number of prisoners, taken out of two prizes she had lately captured, but which had been so much disabled, that it had been impossible to prevent their going to the bottom. Lady Oswald, who had taken up her residence at Stonehouse for the purpose of being near a great sea-port, and having thus opportunities of sometimes[237] seeing her son, on understanding that the vessel was out in the Sound, but was to sail again immediately, went on board in a shore boat.

Fitz-Ullin had communicated with the Admiral, and had received orders (all the prison-ships being full) to proceed to Leith, and dispose of his prisoners there.

Lady Oswald had been long wishing to visit Scotland for the purpose of making enquiries respecting the property which she thought ought to be her son’s. Dread of the expenses of the journey, and the want of any friend to assist her in an undertaking almost hopeless, had hitherto delayed her project. This was, therefore, just the thing for her; she could now go to Edinburgh free of expense, and in the society of her best friend; that nephew, whose liberality was the sole support both of herself and her son. Her son too would thus be with her. Such an opportunity was[238] not to be lost! Her wishes were of course acceded to by Fitz-Ullin, and a ship’s boat sent ashore for her maid, and such apparel as might be necessary for the voyage. In a few hours the Euphrasia sailed. That night, a little before twelve, she fell in with a kind of armed smuggler, evidently bound for the coast of France. The smuggler refused to come to, or answer signals, and even attempted to make sail; a temerity which obliged the frigate to fire on a little vessel, that should have suffered herself to have been captured without making any resistance.

A few carronades, of course, overwhelmed the smuggler. Her crew immediately took to their boats, which they had lowered down on the first alarm.

As the thunder of the frigate’s guns had subsided, all sound concluded in the last faint reverberation of a cry of distress, from apparently a single female voice, on board the else[239] forsaken vessel. The smuggler was already, to all appearance, on fire at one end. Fitz-Ullin perceiving this, and hearing or fancying the cry, obeyed an involuntary impulse, and leaped into one of the boats manning to pursue the fugitives, and ordered it alongside the burning vessel.

“They have not boats enough for all,” he said, “and have left some wretches behind to perish.” The next moment he was on board, followed but by a couple of sailors, who were bold enough not to be deterred by the volumes of portentous smoke. Assisted by these two men, he searched the upper deck, calling out frequently that there was a boat alongside. No one answered, the smuggler seemed wholly deserted, and the sailors urged the necessity of returning to the boat. Fitz-Ullin bid them do so, but not feeling quite satisfied while they were getting over the side he ran below. To his infinite surprise the door of the cabin[240] was fast. He forced it. All was darkness, though the fire was increasing rapidly at the other end of the ship.

Something that lay on the cabin floor impeded the opening of the door. He stooped, and found it to be the body of one, apparently lifeless, for there was neither breath nor motion. He raised it: from the dress and its lightness, it seemed that of a very young lad. Life, however, might be but suspended, not extinct; he determined therefore to convey the unconscious object of his charitable solicitude, into the boat. The fire was fast approaching, and the smoke, in consequence, becoming suffocating. Fitz-Ullin hurried on deck, carrying the body with him: while cautiously descending to the boat in waiting, he fancied he could feel a scarcely perceptible heaving motion, swell the bosom of his hitherto lifeless burden, as though it were beginning to breathe. Arrived in the[241] boat, he laid the body with great care, partly on the bench beside him, supporting the shoulders and head across his knees; and, intending to chafe the temples, drew off a tight cloth cap, such as cabin boys wear; when, a profusion of long hair, which, but for its fairness, had not been discernible, so dark was the night, fell over his arm. Almost at the same moment, the flames of the burning vessel which had hitherto been darting singly through volleys of thick smoke, burst into an universal blaze! and, in its fierce glare, the mild features and sparkling hair of Julia, lay displayed before the astonished Fitz-Ullin, her head resting on his arm! The news of her having been carried off from Lodore had not reached him, so that his amazement was complete. To say he could not speak, would be but imperfectly to describe him; he could not think! if he had any idea, it was an undefined one, that he either dreamed or was deranged. Julia’s eyes[242] opened. For a few moments, they had no speculation in them: she looked stedfastly in his face. Then her features lit up suddenly, with a wildness of joy, of fear, and of confidence, so strangely blended, that it was almost like insanity. She caught at the hand that supported her with both of hers, clung to it, and, with the most piteous earnestness of entreaty, cried, “What is it? What is it? Oh, what is it all?”

He tried in the gentlest manner, both to calm her excessive agitation, and to make her understand that she had been just taken out of the burning vessel they were now leaving behind them, pointing towards it, as he spoke. She looked at it, first with little visible perception of what it meant; then, covering her eyes a moment, she seemed to think; then, starting, and looking all around, she said, “But where is she? Did she not come out of it too?” Fitz-Ullin explained to her, that the vessel was[243] evidently deserted by every one else, when he found her locked up in the cabin. “She was in the cabin with me!” said Julia, with alarming wildness of manner; then, clasping her hands, she cried vehemently, “Come back for her! Come back for her! oh, come back!”

Fitz-Ullin, for reply, pointed again to the mass of devouring flames which floated on the water, enlightening its dark surface to a considerable distance. Julia involuntarily stretched her arms over the side of the boat, towards the terrific object, as though she could thus assist, and remained fixed in an agony of helpless horror, unconscious of her own attitude, rendered peculiarly conspicuous by the powerful light which necessarily fell on her uplifted countenance, and the palms, and points of the fingers of her outstretched hands; whilst her figure, in the dark boat-cloak in which Fitz-Ullin had wrapped it, was lost to view.

In a few seconds, the condensed body of[244] fire, with an explosion like thunder, parted in ten thousand pieces, each and all, resembling so many flaming torches, flew upwards, and passing each other through the dark atmosphere in circling arches, descended again to the surface of the water, gleamed there half a moment, and became extinct. Pitchy darkness succeeded to the unnatural glare, which had lit up the scene but a moment before, for no vestige of the conflagration remained.

Poor Julia fortunately found, for her horror-stricken and terrified feelings, the only relief of which they were susceptible, in a passion of tears, as profusely shed as those of a child.

She clung to Fitz-Ullin with an alarming convulsiveness of grasp. In his endeavours to sooth and calm her, and the bewilderment of his exaggerated fears, for the possible consequences of the state in which she was, he, from time to time, addressed to her incoherently, all the endearing expressions he had habitually[245] used towards her in her childhood, calling her, in low breathings that no other ear could hear, his own beloved one, his own darling Julia, his own precious one, thus as it were enforcing each entreaty to her, to check the excessive trembling to which she had given way, and which, as it seemed rather to increase than diminish, alarmed him so much, that the arm with which it was necessary to support her, drew her, as each verbal persuasion to still her tremor failed, closer to the bosom in which she herself seemed to seek a shelter; while she, unknowing what she did, pressed his hand with both of hers to her heart, still beating tumultuously from the horrors of the scarcely past scene, and her sobs, for the few seconds it still took to reach the ship, continued audible and convulsive.

A scene of so much emotion was, fortunately, shrouded by the total darkness that prevailed.

[246]

Fitz-Ullin carried her himself up the side of the Euphrasia, and to the cabin of Lady Oswald; where, with the assistance of that lady and her maid, he laid her on a sofa, still wrapped in the already mentioned boat-cloak.

The consciousness of light and witnesses calmed in some degree her agitation, or at least checked those demonstrations of it into which she had hitherto been betrayed. She became passive, and lay, for a time, motionless and silent, with her eyes closed. Fitz-Ullin knelt beside her, and watched her countenance with an expression of the most serious solicitude. Lady Oswald, after the first stare of amazement, offered every kind attention in assiduous silence; only from time to time looking the wonder which would have been expressed on any occasion less surprising: so that our heroine was received, to all appearance, with as much composure as though she had been expected. She shewed tokens of[247] life, only by gently waving from her every offered restorative. She wished for stillness; she wished to yield to a consolatory feeling which had already, notwithstanding all the horrors she had so lately both witnessed and escaped, stolen over her heart; for who can, under any circumstances, receive proofs of affection from those they love, and not experience consolation? She felt that she was still dear to Fitz-Ullin; and though, apparently, scarcely alive, became capable of a train of reasoning on the subject. Her friendship, then, was not, as she had feared, valueless in his eyes! The brother-like affection he had always had for her was regaining its ascendancy. As a sister, she should once more become the first object of his tenderness, the source of his happiness, and she would be happy—yet she sighed. Lady Oswald seized the opportunity of entreating her to take some restorative. She was obliged to open her[248] eyes, obliged to raise herself, and in so doing, to withdraw the hand Fitz-Ullin had till then retained. He stood up, assisted Lady Oswald, and spoke to her ladyship, which he had not done before. The spell was broken! Julia spoke too; she thanked Lady Oswald languidly. She had no leisure to be surprised in her turn, at seeing her ladyship where she was. She tried to express to our hero her gratitude for her preservation. He begged she would not speak of his merely accidental service; requesting her to remember, that he could not be aware to whom he was rendering his assistance, whether welcome or unwelcome.

“Unwelcome!” she repeated. He had spoken with unnecessary strength of emphasis. Even Lady Oswald looked surprised.

A short silence followed; when Julia, again raising herself, began to express uneasiness about the fears and anxiety of her friends at Lodore; giving at the same time a hurried and incoherent[249] account of how she had been carried away from thence. Lady Oswald naturally expressed her wonder, as to who could have been the author of so daring an outrage.

Julia, looking down, said, she herself was at a loss whom to suspect. She would have added, that the only person to whom she could have attributed such an outrage, she had not once seen, or heard of, during the whole transaction; and that, therefore, it was that she was at a loss. But a natural feeling of modesty made her hesitate and blush. Fitz-Ullin viewed her with a searching look, which gave her uneasiness, though she could not comprehend its meaning. There was severity in his eye when he first fixed it upon her; yet, there was pity ere he removed it. During her whole recital, the gloom of his brow had deepened every moment; yet he did not express the deep resentment that might have been expected against the perpetrators[250] of such a violence. At one time, after a long reverie, he made a very irrelevant remark: observing, that Mr. St. Aubin had been to blame, in not joining before the Euphrasia sailed; for that his being too late, could not have been accidental.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“Nay, frown not thus on me.”

At breakfast Fitz-Ullin joined the ladies. The gravity of his countenance and solemnity of his manner were almost austere.

During breakfast he silently placed whatever seemed desirable near Julia, but scarcely spoke, except to answer Lady Oswald’s questions.

After breakfast he said, with some formality, that he was extremely sorry the rules of the service would not admit of his altering his course on private business; as this placed it out of his power to offer to land Lady Julia L., he therefore feared, he added, that her Ladyship would be under the necessity of proceeding to Leith. How unlike the whispers of last night!

[252]

He next spoke of the fortunate chance of Lady Oswald’s being in the ship; and finally it was arranged, that Julia should remain in Edinburgh with Lady Oswald, till Lord L. should be apprised of her being there, and come for her. Fitz-Ullin now left them.

“My dear Lady Julia L.,” said Lady Oswald, “I am going to ask a very extraordinary question; but do tell me candidly, have you rejected the addresses of Fitz-Ullin?” Julia looked at her ladyship with unfeigned astonishment. “Because,” continued Lady Oswald, “his manner is so much that of a refused lover, too proud to urge his suit, yet unable to conquer his attachment; and, if such be the case, I would so ardently, so anxiously, plead his cause. I would enumerate his virtues; nay, I would expose my own and my son’s necessities to prove the nobleness of his heart, and to obtain, if possible, happiness for one so willing to impart the precious gift to others.”

[253]

“The happiness of him of whom you speak, Lady Oswald,” replied Julia, suppressing a sigh, “is not in my hands.” Then recovering herself, she added, with forced firmness, “From our childhood we have regarded each other as brother and sister, and this habit may still tincture our manners with a something which, to those unacquainted with, or not recollecting the peculiar circumstances may seem—may appear—particular. But, as a lover, Lord Fitz-Ullin has never addressed me.”

“Then most assuredly he will!” said Lady Oswald. Julia blushed and smiled; the very sound of the words was welcome to her, while reason was compelled to reject their meaning. “You have, you say,” continued Lady Oswald, “the affection of a sister for Fitz-Ullin. If you entertain a tenderer sentiment for any other being, I have no right to inquire further; but if you do not, my dear Lady Julia, make me happy by saying so!”

[254]

“Pray then be quite happy,” said Julia, affecting to laugh; “and now let us recur no more to this foolish subject.”

Lady Oswald fell into a reverie. She was inclined to think, notwithstanding the altered manners of the one, and the contradictory assertions of the other, that a mutual attachment did subsist between them; though at present interrupted by some misunderstanding; and having arrived at this conclusion, she resolved, if possible, to become instrumental to their happiness by bringing about an explanation. A message at this moment very opportunely came from Fitz-Ullin, to say that the day was tolerably fine, and to beg to know if the ladies would take a walk on deck. They consented; and our hero came for them, bringing with him a young lieutenant, by name Lord Surrel, and son to the Duke of ?. Fitz-Ullin offered his arm to Lady Oswald, leaving the care of our heroine to Surrel.

[255]

Julia was absent and silent, and not even conscious of the animated and delighted admiration with which she as instantly as unintentionally inspired her companion. At length the conversation took a turn, which drew something more of her attention.

“How much Fitz-Ullin feels the loss of his friend, Captain Ormond,” observed Surrel, struck by the seriousness of our hero’s countenance as they passed and repassed him and Lady Oswald.

“The circumstances were, I understand, very melancholy and very remarkable,” faltered out Julia, in reply.

“Very much so, indeed!” rejoined Surrel. “You have heard all the particulars, I suppose?”

“From no better authority than the newspapers,” she answered. “It was not possible to enter on so painful a subject with Lord Fitz-Ullin. Even Lady Oswald tells me she has[256] not yet ventured to speak to him of his unfortunate friend.”

“It was certainly the loss of his sister which first unsettled the mind of Captain Ormond,” said Surrel. “Circumstanced as they were, there was something very dreadful in her death; it was so evidently occasioned by that unfortunate attachment, which had, I fancy, become uncontrollable, before they were made aware of their near relationship.”

“Miss Ormond’s illness,” observed Julia, “Lady Oswald tells me, was decline, brought on by a broken heart. Did you know Captain Ormond?”

“Oh, very well indeed!” replied Surrel; “I was his first lieutenant during all the extraordinary circumstances which preceded his death. You are aware that he died quite mad, poor fellow?”

“So the papers said,” she replied.

“When he first heard of the death of his[257] sister,” continued Surrel, we were laying off the coast of * * * *; I was standing with him on the quarter-deck the morning he received the letter, which, we suppose, brought the intelligence. He did not open it, however, at the time, but ordered his boat and went ashore, where, after commanding the crew to wait for him on the beach, he wandered up the country among the woods, and was not heard of for several days. At length, when we were beginning to fear that some fatal accident must have befallen him, he came one morning on board in a shore-boat, and without noticing his prolonged absence, gave some common orders. For a time there was no visible change, except a more settled gloom of manner. Gradually, however, his looks assumed an alarming wildness, his orders became inconsistent and arbitrary, and from having been the mildest and a most indulgent of commanders, he became quite tyrant. On one occasion when I ventured to remonstrate[258] in favour of a poor fellow whom, without the slightest reason, he had ordered to be flogged, he commanded the marines to fire on me, saying, that he would give me, while he walked the deck three times, to prepare myself. Fortunately, before he had twice walked the deck, he totally forgot the whole business, sat down on one of the cannonade slides, wrung his hands, and wept like a child! We all stole away unperceived. While we were at dinner, however, one of the youngsters ran down and told us that the captain was walking the deck, carrying a hanger in his hand, and looking very furious. While we were hesitating about what was best to be done, we heard a tremendous noise in the captain’s cabin, and hastening thither, found poor Ormond with scarcely any covering, and in the very act of flinging himself from the open window, from which he had just thrown both the clothes he had had on, and all else which was moveable.[259] We were now obliged to use force. The resistance he made, poor fellow, was terrible. He was carried on shore, where, in a few days, he died raging mad!

“Only think,” he added, “of the Admiral at * * * *, having me tried by a court martial for what he termed my insubordination; but he was a man incapable, in fact, from long habit, of comprehending the simplest elements of natural justice, and who could form no idea of any rule of right, distinct from the rules of the service. So, I was to allow a man who was mad, to flog an innocent man to death, shoot me, and fling himself out of the cabin window, merely because he was my superior officer!”

Lady Oswald, meanwhile, intent on the execution of her kindly project, made some comments to her companion on his sadness, with pauses between, hoping that he would volunteer in making her his confidant (for they walked quite apart from Julia and Surrel).[260] But Fitz-Ullin only feared she must find it cold, or made some irrelevant remark; in short, did not take her ladyship’s hints. She determined, therefore, to put the question in a direct form; and as a preparatory remark, said, “I can see, Fitz-Ullin, that you are seriously attached to Lady Julia L.”

Fitz-Ullin reddened to the very brows; but did not seem to have any answer composed; for he remained silent, and her Ladyship continued: “You have some delicacy, some prejudice, some secret reason, which prevents your urging your own wishes. Let me know all, place the business in my hands; and, I think, I shall be able to make you both (with a smile, and a peculiar emphasis on the word ‘both’) happier than you are at present.”

“Lady Oswald,” replied Fitz-Ullin solemnly, and at the same time colouring still more deeply, “whatever my feelings are, or rather, have been, I neither intend to seek, nor wish[261] to obtain, Lady Julia L.’s acceptance of my hand.”

“Nor wish to obtain!” repeated Lady Oswald.

“As a mark, therefore,” continued Fitz-Ullin, “of your kind regard for me, I must request that you will never again recur to this subject.”

“But why, my dear Fitz-Ullin, why not accept at least the assistance of my judgment ere you condemn yourself to any uneasiness of mind; for, happy you certainly are not.”

“Impossible!” said Fitz-Ullin, “I cannot! I must not! I have no right!”

“I certainly have no right to be officious,” said Lady Oswald; “but I do confess, I wish to see you happy, and I do think you would not be refused.” He smiled bitterly. “But if you really do not wish to be accepted—why—I have done,” continued her Ladyship.

He quickened his pace: then slackened it; then, discovering that it was quite too cold for the ladies, abruptly put an end to the walk.

Lady Oswald, after this conversation, thought it a necessary point of delicacy, when in company with Julia, to recur no more to the subject of her nephew.

This morning the Euphrasia fell in with a small trader, which, though bound for a port they had left behind, and having no accommodation suited for ladies, could carry a letter that, by being put into the post that evening, would probably reach Lord L. some time before the arrival of the Euphrasia at Leith, and perhaps enable him to meet his daughter there. At any rate, it would shorten his own period of anxiety. Such a letter was accordingly written and dispatched. Its contents were calculated to astonish his Lordship not a little. It spoke of Julia’s deliverance by Fitz-Ullin in terms of the warmest gratitude;[263] and naturally expressed her unfeigned wonder, as to who could have committed the outrage of attempting to tear her from her home; adding, that the only person whom circumstances could justify her in suspecting, she had not even seen.
CHAPTER XXIX.
“Oh! north wind cease,
And let me listen for his coming tread.”

Young Surrel became hourly more assiduous, and either wanted modesty to perceive that his attentions were unwelcome, or delicacy to withdraw them on that account.

The annoyance to Julia was really growing serious; when, one morning after breakfast, Fitz-Ullin placed himself near our heroine, a thing not now usual with him. While in this situation, he took an opportunity of saying to her, in an under tone, “Will you grant me a few moments’ conversation with you alone?” His late cold and constrained behaviour had made such a request so unexpected, that,[265] instead of colouring, she became quite pale, looked up a moment, and again hastily withdrew her eyes without reply.

“Do not mistake me,” he added, with rather a haughty air, “but, I shall just take Lady Oswald on deck, and having left her walking with Arthur, return and explain myself immediately.”

The proposition to walk was then made aloud. Lady Oswald had no objection, and asked Julia, as a matter of course, to accompany them. Our heroine declined; this was certainly consenting to the interview, Julia felt that it was, and coloured while she made her excuse.

Lady Oswald and Fitz-Ullin left the cabin. Julia neither moved nor breathed, till their receding steps were lost in the confused tramping, which was always going on over head.

She then drew a very long breath, and began to prepare herself. “He will return immediately!”[266] she thought. She tried to compose her spirits, but in vain: her heart fluttered like a bird trying to escape from its cage. The tramping over head increased; she turned pale. It lessened; the colour stole gradually over her cheeks again. She listened, and breathing was again suspended, and every power of life concentrated in the sense of hearing. This became so acute, that, amid all the mingled sounds of a busy deck, she could yet plainly distinguish the well known tread of Fitz-Ullin on the main deck, approaching the cabin door. A cold sensation passed over her cheeks and brow. She clasped her hands together a moment, then let one fall at her side, and rested the other on the table. But there, its trembling movement was so visible, that with hasty confusion she withdrew it; and, fixing her eyes on the ground, held down, with a fatiguing effort, the universal tremor of her frame. He entered. He stood before her. He seated himself beside[267] her. But, he made no attempt to take her hand.

One universal glow had covered her face and neck at his first approach, while she could have cried with vexation at the exposure. “You do not misunderstand me, I hope,” he said, perceiving her pitiable agitation. “You must, I think,” he continued, “be able to comprehend for what purpose I have requested this interview. You must have expected that I could not see Lord Surrel’s importunate attentions, and remain passive.”

She made no reply; but coloured, if possible, deeper than before, and looked more studiously downward; yet, Fitz-Ullin perceived the dawning of a pleasurable feeling shining through the confusion that covered as with a veil every other expression of her countenance. How can he be so foolish, thought Julia, as to be jealous of an absolute stranger, like Lord Surrel.

[268]

“I am rejoiced to perceive,” he recommenced, “that instead of being offended at my presumption, you are good enough to seem disposed to give me a favourable hearing. It was quite impossible for me not to be fully aware—not to know, in fact, what are, what must be your feelings, yet,”—he paused. So audacious, so well assured a suitor, one who was thus certain, that her preference for himself must render the attentions of any one else importunate, did not seem to need encouragement; and Julia, though the tears of shame started to her eyes, was too gentle, too fondly attached to chide; she therefore remained silent; and, (must it be confessed?) uncontrollable delight predominated very unduly over the indignation she thought she ought to feel!

“At least, I should suppose I am right?” he continued, in a questioning tone. “If so—if,” Julia at length seemed to consider some little manifestation of spirit necessary. “Most people,”[269] she faltered out, “would be offended at having their sentiments thus taken for granted; but you think, I suppose, that our long intimacy authorizes you to act as you please.”

“As I please!” repeated Fitz-Ullin, “most assuredly not as I please, but as you please. It may be, and certainly is in my power, and indeed I feel myself called upon, while you are in this ship, not to permit Lord Surrel, or any officer of mine, to make his attentions troublesome to you, in a situation where you can neither avoid his society, nor enjoy the protection of your natural friends; but, to control the inclinations of Lady Julia L?,” he added, (and with some bitterness) “is an undertaking to which I have not the boldness to aspire!”

Fortunately for Julia the stunning effects of the new and heart-chilling conviction supplied by this last speech, was so overpowering, that it gave her somewhat the appearance of outward calm. So, it was Lord Surrel’s attentions,[270] Lord Surrel’s love, simply as troublesome to her, not as interfering with his own, of which he was speaking! Here, indeed, was a revulsion of every feeling, too tremendous for Julia’s strength! Her heart utterly ceased beating, her cheeks became as white and cold as marble.

“Am I to understand then,” said Fitz-Ullin, surprised at her silence and change of countenance, “that the attentions of Lord Surrel are agreeable to you?”

Starting into momentary life, she exclaimed, hastily and eagerly, “Oh, no!”

“Then I know how to act,” said Fitz-Ullin, as rising, and bowing with a dignified and rather scornful air, he seemed about to leave the cabin; when, pausing and returning a step or two, he stopped before her, and added, in a suppressed tone, and with visible effort, “I was for a moment apprehensive that my present interference was, perhaps, as unwelcome as my unconscious intermeddling on another[271] occasion. But, in that particular at least, I trust you do me justice. I acted according to the routine of duty. It was impossible for me to know—to suppose—that some such step indeed was contemplated, I was partly aware; but of the when, and the how, you must be conscious I could have no suspicion. You acquit me then, I trust, of availing myself of a reposed confidence to play the ruffian, and using the power entrusted to me for the public good, for private and unjustifiable purposes?”

Julia was unable to attach any meaning to his words: indeed she was too miserable to care what they meant. She therefore remained with her eyes fixed on the floor without attempting to reply. “You are silent,” he recommenced; “I am conscious that I have now entered on an interdicted subject; but, though I may have transgressed the letter, I trust I have not the spirit of the interdict.”[272] She opened her lips, but, without the power to articulate, closed them again.

“The subject, I see, is painful to you,” he persisted, “but only say that, in this particular, you do me justice!”

Julia, still unable to comprehend his meaning, and still, as we have said, almost indifferent to it, yet willing to comply with any thing in the shape of a request from Fitz-Ullin, summoned all her powers to her aid, and whispered, “Yes,” but without venturing to look up. Fitz-Ullin stood gazing upon her for some moments, then sighed audibly, and quitted her without again speaking.

Julia, by the time she thought him quite gone, stole one alarmed look all round, as if to ascertain that she was really alone, then darted into the inner cabin, locked the door on herself, and remained there the rest of the day, pleading, on being summoned to dinner, a headach. When she did appear the next[273] morning her headach did not seem much abated. Lady Oswald, who met her with a meaning, and almost a triumphant smile, looked surprised and disappointed, and, after examining our heroine’s countenance for a short time, determined not to introduce a subject, of which her heart had been full all night. Surrel’s attentions were no longer troublesome.
CHAPTER XXXI.
“Winds drive along the clouds: on wings of fire,
The lightnings fly!”

It was late one hazy afternoon, when the Euphrasia made the land near the entrance of the Frith of Forth. As it did not appear possible to get to Leith that evening, Fitz-Ullin proposed to the pilots to lay-to till morning. They declared, however, that they could take the ship in by night as well as by day, the lights being sufficient to guide them. Accordingly, they stood in for port; about an hour after, when they supposed themselves still some miles from land, it was announced from the forecastle that there was a ship at anchor ahead. Almost immediately afterwards,[275] however, it was discovered that the object they were approaching was a huge rock. In the greatest confusion the ship was now tacked about, but hardly were her sails turned, when it was found that she was getting into shoal water, and at the same moment land appeared just under her lee. Fitz-Ullin now fearing that the pilots were quite unfit for their duty, gave immediate orders to let go the anchor. During the short time thus occupied, there was scarcely a breath drawn, all, each moment expecting that the ship would strike. The anchor dropt, the sails were furled, and the clouds, breaking a little, there was just starlight sufficient to enable Fitz-Ullin to ascertain that they lay between the Bass rock and Tantallon castle, in a little steep-sided bay, the mouth of which, except at one small outlet, was closed by a very dangerous looking reef. He sent a boat with the master and another officer to sound, on which it was discovered,[276] that the ship was actually anchored on a ledge of rocks; yet was it judged advisable, as there was very little wind, not to attempt quitting this perilous situation before morning; for, the clouds having closed again thicker than ever, the darkness had become quite impenetrable.

Our hero remained on deck, giving every precautionary and preparatory order, till the night was far advanced; when, much fatigued, and finding that nothing more could be done till daylight, he went below, and lay down on a sofa for a short time, leaving directions with the officer of the watch to call him half an hour before dawn. All was soon perfectly still: every one seemed to have forgotten, in “nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep,” both the dangers they had so lately passed, and those which still threatened them.

After some little time spent in uneasy reflections, a sort of stupor, occasioned by excessive[277] fatigue both of mind and body, stole over the senses of Fitz-Ullin. His slumbers were at first much broken; but, at length, after telling himself for the hundredth time that nothing could be done till daylight, they assumed somewhat more the character of repose. He had not enjoyed such quite an hour when a low murmuring sound arose, at first apparently at an immense distance, as though the lulled winds were awaking and whispering together at the furthest extremity of space: a gloomy imagination could fancy them secretly conspiring, at this dead hour of the night, the destruction of those who thus unconsciously slept. The sound grew louder.

It approached—it became a howl—it drew nearer and nearer still. At length the ominous blast, sweeping through the rigging of the vessel, shrieked wildly, and passed away. Fitz-Ullin sat upright for a moment: but the demon of the storm had sounded his signal cry,[278] and was hushed! A pause of breathless silence followed. Our hero listened for some seconds, and finding all still, concluded that some startling dream must have awakened him, and yielded again to repose. The distant murmur recommenced, increased, and grew by gusts impetuous; the howling blast drew near again, but instead of retiring as before, was pursued by another, and yet another, as it were urging each other forward, till their united and accumulated roar became, in an incredibly short time, tremendous.

Fitz-Ullin dreamed of a tempest; but for a few troubled moments, did not again awake; when, suddenly opening his eyes, he leaped up, and, bewildered by the universal uproar which now reigned, without waiting to collect his scattered thoughts, hastened on deck.

It was by this time blowing a gale, the ship beginning to labour excessively, and the darkness so impenetrable, that while his sense of[279] hearing was thus assailed on every side, his sight was strained in vain to discover any object around him, and he was made sensible of being on the upper deck only by the buffeting of the winds, and still rougher salutation of a heavy sea, which, as it passed over the ship, threatened to carry him with it; yet nothing could be done or attempted till day dawned. He remained on deck however. It was the longest hour he had ever passed. From time to time he cast impatient glances towards the east, which looked, he thought, if possible, blacker than the rest of the horizon! At length the sky in that quarter assumed a greyish cast, and gradually it became evident that objects might have been in some degree discernible, but for the thickness of the haze which covered every thing, causing a cruel prolongation of suspense. In a little time, however, one yellow streak appeared near the horizon; then the clouds broke in that[280] direction, and seemed tumbling and boiling round the spot; then, plunging among them, the rising sun was seen at last, for one moment only; it resembled a ball of fire; it seemed to roll past the opening; it disappeared again, and the dense masses of cloud closed immediately. There was now a visible increase of light. A rush of the tempest swept a part of the mist away, while the rocks, looking black and gigantic through what remained, appeared quite close to the ship, as she rode at single anchor.

The waves, notwithstanding the confined area of the little bay, rose with a tremendous swell; though so far unlike the alternate mountain and valley of the open ocean, that the whole body of water which the basin contained, seemed to swing at once to and fro with a simultaneous movement, which every time threatened to dash the frigate against the perpendicular sides of the cliff. At another moment, would the[281] hurricane seize, as it were, the helpless vessel in its stupendous grasp, and appear about to lift her from the water. She seemed, in short, the sole object of contention to the warring element; while they, in their fury, appeared resolved to tear her in a thousand pieces and part her among them, rather than give up the struggle. Fitz-Ullin saw that any effort to get out of this dangerous bay or creek, must, at present, prove impossible, as the wind blew directly in; and it was quite evident that the reef must bring them up, before sufficient canvas could be set, to give the ship headway. He summoned however the officers and crew around him, to afford them the usual privilege of giving their opinion in a case of so much emergency. Some were for cutting away the masts and making the boats ready; but this would be forsaking the post of duty too soon. Some recommended attempting to get under way; but this, as had been shown, with the wind right[282] ahead, would have been madness. Fitz-Ullin therefore rejected each of those suggestions, and finally decided on clinging, as long as the cable held, to the only rational hope which remained, that of the wind chancing to abate, or shift a little in their favour before any fatal catastrophe should take place.
CHAPTER XXXII.
“Must she then die!”
“Pitying heav’n, deprive me of mem’ry!”

The fears of both ladies had, on the evening before, been allayed as much as possible. The peculiarly hazardous situation of the vessel was of course not explained to them.

Now, therefore, though they heard the raving of the tempest, and could not avoid being alarmed, they were by no means aware of the full extent of the danger; and even fancied, (as in such cases women and children always do,) that so near land they must be comparatively safe.

Lady Oswald was in the inner cabin; Julia in the outer one; when, to her utter astonishment,[284] Fitz-Ullin entered, and with a countenance of the deepest seriousness, without hesitation or apology, approached and clasped her to his breast. He looked at her mournfully; he kissed her forehead. “Julia,” he said, “when I have done what I can for the ship, I will return to you.” He again pressed his lips on her fair brow; but now it was with a wild fervour, differing widely from the tender solemnity which had at first characterized his manner.

Lady Oswald entered. He had just time to release the passive Julia, the excess of whose surprise had so entirely suspended every faculty, that she had not even blushed. She did so now, to an excess that was overwhelming.

He grasped his aunt’s hand hastily as he hurried past her and disappeared. At the same moment, Arthur running in and throwing himself into his mother’s arms, told her, that they must all be lost.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
“The winds came rustling from their hills.”

In the gunroom, meantime, some of the officers were eating their breakfast with as much composure as if there was nothing the matter. Others there were, it must be confessed, who sipped their coffee slowly and gloomily enough; while others again, with a strange mixture of caution and carelessness, were packing up their valuables, and calling aloud the while to the steward, to keep their breakfast hot. A cold one would scarcely have been remembered on such an occasion, by a landsman.

One of the most affecting features of the hour was presented by the helpless prisoners at the hatchways, who, in profound silence, manifested[286] their anxious feeling, by crowding to the bars which fastened them down, to gain, if possible, some intelligence of what was going on; while, at every roll of the ship, they expected to go to the bottom. On the coast, on the Tantallon side, the friendly Scots had collected to the number of thousands; bringing down boats, rafts, ropes, &c. to the part of the beach on which it was generally expected the ship must be wrecked.

On the quarter-deck Fitz-Ullin walked alone, occasionally going forward to look at the cable, which, being strained to the utmost, was every moment in danger of parting; an accident which, should it occur, must be followed by instant destruction.

From the cable he raised his eyes from time to time to the vane, and withdrew them again in bitter disappointment, for the wind was still right ahead.

All things remained in this state of fearful[287] suspense, till nearly twelve at noon; when our hero, whose eyes were, at the moment, anxiously raised to the vane, saw it veer round one point in his favour. Even this slight advantage was not to be neglected for a moment: it warranted an attempt to quit a situation of so much peril.

A spring was instantly placed on the cable, which brought the ship’s broadside more to the wind; the three topsails, double reefed, were set, and the carpenter, having been previously placed ready with an uplifted axe, a single blow (such was now the tension) parted the cable, and the courses being at the same moment added, the vessel, which had been straining for way, flew through the water almost on her beam ends. While she thus rushed towards the dangerous barrier, perfect silence was observed by every one. It was generally apprehended that she must split her canvas, or carry away her masts; yet it was necessary to[288] put her under this heavy press of sail, to overbalance, if possible, the great lee-way she had, and so get her clear of the rocks. She now approached them with incredible velocity, passed them at but a few yards distance, and, shipping two or three heavy seas, weathered the reef in safety. A general shout of joy burst at the moment from the hitherto breathless crowd on the deck, and was as instantly answered by an echoing shout from the prisoners throughout the hold.

Some minutes, at least, must elapse, ere Fitz-Ullin could be justified in leaving the deck; he dispatched Arthur therefore to his aunt and Julia, with the joyful tidings, and, as soon as possible, followed him.

On entering the cabin, where both ladies now were, our hero’s countenance was covered with the glow of successful exertion. It was animated, it was even joyful! He pressed Lady Oswald’s eagerly offered hands in silence,[289] and passed to Julia. He raised one of hers and paused, as if to take breath, which he had not yet given himself time to do.

He looked in silence at her changing colour and downcast eyes, and during the moments so employed, his own expression became entirely altered. Speaking with effort, and, for the occasion, with unnatural coldness, he said, “Arthur has of course informed you that the danger is over: it is only left for me, therefore, to apologize for the rashness of which I was guilty, in giving you unnecessary alarm. And,” he added, in a lowered and somewhat faltering tone, at the same time glancing at Lady Oswald, and seeing that she was engaged by her son, “and for the expression of—in short, feelings which—which had been better unexpressed! The certainty, almost, of approaching death to both, and the brotherly affection I have from childhood been permitted to cherish, are all I can plead in my excuse.” Without[290] waiting for reply, he turned to Lady Oswald, and again hastily taking her hand, murmured something about his duties on deck, and left the cabin. Arthur followed him; and Lady Oswald’s spirits being quite exhausted, she retired to the inner cabin to lie down.

Julia was left alone. The terror and the joy also seemed over. It was all like a dream: she felt bewildered; she was unhappy too! more unhappy than she had been when each moment she expected the ship would go to pieces! She could not conceal this feeling from herself, nor that it had its source in the unaccountable alternations of Fitz-Ullin’s manner. Yet she was indignant at her own weakness! She sat for a long time motionless: a blush at length appeared on her cheek, for now fancy was pourtraying, and memory acknowledging, the scene which had taken place during the moment of extreme danger! How had she permitted, passively permitted, conduct so unwarrantable—so incredible!

CHAPTER XXXIV.
… “Blue Innistone rose to sight,
And Caracthura’s mossy tow’rs appear’d.”
“Tura’s bay receiv’d our ships.”

Here the meditations of our heroine were broken off by the sudden entrance of her father accompanied by Fitz-Ullin. The Euphrasia was by this time safely anchored in Leith roads.

Lord L? embraced his child; both were some moments silent; Julia’s weariness of heart found an inexpressible solace in a passion of tears, shed on the bosom of a kind parent. She tried to persuade herself that they were all tears of joy.

Lord L? had received Julia’s letter. Its[292] contents were not easily reconciled with those of the three notes left on her table at Lodore; but Lord L? determined to reserve the expression of any feeling of doubt he might yet entertain, for the subject of a strictly private interview; and, never to allow the world, but particularly Fitz-Ullin, to suppose that he could, for a moment, suspect his daughter of having quitted her home willingly. “I have indeed spent,” said Lord L?, in answer to a remark of Julia’s on his looking fatigued, “an anxious night and a truly terrible morning. I arrived in Leith just in time to witness the distress of the Euphrasia, on board of which, by your letter, I knew you to be. I was among those, Julia, who crowded the beach during the many hours of awful suspense, while the vessel was, each moment, expected to drive on the rocks! but now,” he added, “that things have ended so happily, a little rest will remedy all that. And[293] your preserver, my child, how shall I sufficiently thank him!” Fitz-Ullin, who, from delicacy, had left the cabin for a short time, had just returned, and now stood a little apart. Lord L?, as he spoke, looked from him to Julia, and from Julia to him, as though he would have added, “shall I reward him with the gift of the precious treasure he has preserved?”

Fitz-Ullin seemed to comprehend the look, for his eyes sought the ground, and he coloured slightly. Julia too blushed. Fitz-Ullin however continued silent. Lord L? paused a scarcely perceptible moment, then, assuming an air of dignity, which almost amounted to haughtiness, asked Julia if she felt sufficiently recovered to go on shore immediately? “We shall take an early opportunity,” he added, turning to our hero, “of expressing, at more length, our grateful acknowledgments to Lord Fitz-Ullin.” Both gentlemen endeavoured to[294] conceal their feelings by bowing very profoundly, and Julia, promising to get ready for her departure in a few moments, joined Lady Oswald in the inner cabin. Lord L? could not have been so unreasonable as to have expected that, if Fitz-Ullin did intend to propose for his daughter, he was to do so in such a moment of hurry as the present; but, there had been an undefinable something in the look and manner of our hero, which conveyed to the haughty Earl a sense, that the honour of his alliance had been tacitly declined; and, still worse, he felt an inward conviction that his secret wishes, in a moment of emotion, of which he was now ashamed, had been in some degree understood.

While the ladies’ preparations were being made, Henry came on board. After setting out for Plymouth, he had seen, by a paper he had taken up at an inn, that the Euphrasia had sailed for Leith, and he had in consequence[295] turned back to join her there. What must have been his astonishment, just as he set foot on the deck, to behold rise to view, coming up from the cabin, his cousin Julia, handed up by Fitz-Ullin! He received a glance from Lord L? which was not at all calculated to set him at his ease. His lordship, however, gave at this time, no other expression to his feelings. Henry soon became reassured; paid his compliments to Lady Oswald; and finally asked and obtained permission of our hero, to attend the ladies in landing.

Lord L?, taking Fitz-Ullin by the arm, walked apart with him a few paces, then said: “After this day, your lordship will oblige me, by not permitting Mr. St. Aubin to land again while we are in Edinburgh; to him I must ascribe this daring attempt to tear my daughter from her home, and compel her to form a union as repugnant to her own feelings, as ineligible in my eyes.” Here a pause took place; but,[296] Fitz-Ullin, though he listened with polite attention, did not reply. “As, however, my daughter does not return his attachment, I can have no scruple on the score of parental feeling, in preventing all intercourse in future.” When Lord L? concluded, our hero bowed his assent. Fitz-Ullin attended the party in his own barge to the shore, but excused himself from landing, pleading the necessity of returning immediately to his ship.

On arriving on board, he gave orders to have the pilots detained, having determined to give them into the hands of the Port Admiral, to suffer whatever punishment might be adjudged them, for having undertaken a service for which they were quite unfit. The order however was too late, the pilots had already disappeared. They had managed to get away unnoticed; it was supposed in the shore-boat that brought Lord L? on board.
CHAPTER XXXV.
… “Ye,
Children of the night, ye are seen, and lost!”

About the time that, on board the Euphrasia, Fitz-Ullin’s champagne was spreading hilarity among his officers, to whom he gave an excellent dinner in honour of their late escape, a tall, large proportioned, elderly man, in a college cap and gown, was pacing up and down by the dim light of the lamps, in one of the then best streets of Auld Reekie, immediately beneath the windows of Lord L?’s hotel. He cast from time to time impatient glances at the door as he passed and repassed. At length it opened and shewed the figure of a younger man, habited in naval uniform, and in the act[298] of taking his cocked hat from a servant in the lit up hall. The door closed again, and the officer joined him of the cap and gown. “So,” said Henry, for he was the officer, “the game is up, I fear.”

“The devil it is,” replied the person addressed.

“Is it not?” said Henry.

“Throw again,” said the stranger. They walked on for a time in silence. “Why certainly,” said Henry, “however strong their suspicions may be, they have no proofs that would enable them to take any steps against me; and as to my being forbid Lord L?’s house, and my aunt’s, whenever Julia is there, it can make very little difference, unless they absolutely incarcerate her. We now have the title-deeds, we have only to seize her person, the first opportunity that offers, and I can still compel her to retract all her declarations of having been carried off against her will.

[299]

“I wish the devil would tempt her,” said the stranger, “to take a moonlight view of the Bass Rock.”

“I can see,” continued Henry, “by Fitz-Ullin’s countenance that they have not come to any explanation, nor are they likely to do so; and her absurd infatuation about him will keep her from marrying any one else, for some time at least.”

“What, then, is Lord L?’s present belief?” asked the stranger.

“Faith,” replied Henry, “I hardly know; I believe he hardly knows himself. We had quite a scene there, just now. His lordship took me to task in rather strong terms, for my supposed misdemeanours. I replied, however, very coolly, that I should neither deny nor confess any thing, but refer him to his daughter, who must know whether she had eloped with me or not. She, of course, declared she had not. But she was evidently afraid of exasperating[300] me, therefore said very little. Lord L? showed her the three notes found on her table. She declared she had never written them. ‘Am I then to believe these letters forgeries?’ said his lordship, and he looked towards me. I met his eye with all the steadiness I could command, but remained silent. So, after a few more questions, for the answers to which I persisted in referring him to Julia, I was dismissed, having been, of course, forbid the house.”

An expression of contempt was here muttered by the stranger.

“But how did you know,” asked Henry, “that the Euphrasia was going round to Leith, and how did you gain admittance into the ship?” “I learned her destination at Plymouth: the admiral’s certificate settled the rest,” replied the stranger. “The difficulty was, to get in time to where the pilots for Leith are taken on board.”

[301]

“Who was the second pilot?” asked Henry.

“Charpantier. I have always three or four fellows, regular sworn port-pilots.”

“And did you really mean to run the ship aground?” again asked Henry.

“Most certainly!” replied his companion, in a tone indicating neither doubt nor compunction. “Why,” he continued, “I could have run her high and dry without danger to our lives, when she must have gone to pieces; and I had hands enough on the rock to do the rest.”

“Men whom you could depend upon?” demanded Henry.

“A more determined set of fellows never hauled a boat up the Bass since the time of good King James,” replied the stranger. “And our men would not have been the last,” he added with a sneer, “to have rendered their timely assistance to the distressed crew of the[302] Euphrasia; nor should Lady Julia L? have been the last of the passengers their praiseworthy exertions would have rescued from a watery grave.” Henry laughed.

“Fool!” uttered in no very persuasive tone, was the courteous rejoinder of his companion, who, now that he happened to turn while passing a lamp, displayed the same fierce features which we have seen bending over the title-deeds of the Craigs, by the light of the colliery lantern. “And, as for Fitz-Ullin,” he continued, “if he did not know his way to the bottom, he might have been shown it! Confound him! If he had not given the order to let go the anchor, in less than two minutes no power could have saved the ship!” Both personages now proceeded in silence along the street, till their figures were lost in the gloom of its further extremity. Not long after the same two figures became visible on the verge of the Salisbury Craigs, and finally[303] disappeared around the brow of the hill, a little below Arthur’s Seat, leaving the calm serenity of the scene unbroken by any living or moving object; while the distant villages, the bare hills, the waters of the Frith, the shipping in the roads, the deserted palace and ruined chapel, all slumbered silently in the clear moonshine of a summer night. And the city itself, so full of human life, where so many hearts and so many pulses at the very moment beat, presented an image as still and cold as though its piles of building, reflecting partial lights, and casting from their singularly irregular site gigantic shadows, were but the steep sides of so many masses of solid rock.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
“Arise, tell him that came from the roaring
Of waters, that Innisfail gives his feast.”

The next day Fitz-Ullin called at Lord L?’s hotel. His lordship was out; Lady Oswald and Julia were in the drawing-room. Our hero’s visit was short and formal; on his return on board, he found a note from Lord L?, containing an invitation to dinner, for that day. He hesitated, but finally he decided on going. His reception from Lord L? and Lady Oswald, was cordial; from Julia, embarrassed. After some general conversation, Lord L? drew our hero towards a window, and opened the conference by speaking of the rescue of his daughter. Fitz-Ullin, in his turn, expressed[305] warmly the grateful affection due by him to Lord L? and his family. This gave nature and heart to his manner.

Lord L? was more delighted with him than ever; and while he so felt, unconsciously looked towards Julia. He accounted, however, for so doing, by again recurring to the subject of her preservation from a fate of which he himself, he said, knew not half the horror till his last conversation with his daughter. And his lordship here mentioned, in strong terms, the repugnance evinced by Julia, to the addresses of her cousin. In fact, it was to take an opportunity of impressing this particular on his auditor, that Lord L? had drawn him aside. Then after renewing with becoming seriousness, his expressions of grateful obligation towards our hero, his lordship added, with an air of pleasantry, “Were I a monarch, Fitz-Ullin, I should say: ask what thou wilt, even unto the half of my kingdom, and I will give it thee!” Our hero,[306] instead of smiling, as might have been expected, turned deadly pale. This, however, was unperceived by Lord L?, who, returning towards the ladies arm in arm with Fitz-Ullin, stopped, perhaps unconscious of the association of ideas which had guided his steps before Julia, and, taking her hand kindly, said, “I don’t think, my child, you have half thanked your preserver!” She replied by looking up in the face, first of her father, and then of Fitz-Ullin, with the gentlest and sweetest expression possible. Yet, strange to say, the immediate effect on our hero was evidently painful. Dinner was announced at the moment, and Lord L?, making over the hand he still held to Fitz-Ullin, offered his own arm to Lady Oswald, and led her towards the dining-room. The arrangement was quite a matter of course, yet both Julia and our hero coloured.

When they had taken their places at the[307] table, Julia did not again venture to raise her eyes, while the long fringes of the downcast lids rested on cheeks from which a more than usual glow had not yet subsided. She happened to be seated beneath a peculiarly brilliant lamp, and, consequently, in the very midst of a shower of beams; so that the consciousness of want of shelter for the blushes already raised called up, each moment, new ones. The blaze of light streaming thus on her countenance, shining on each of all the light and glossy ringlets, which floated in rich profusion around her shoulders, (such was then the fashion,) and reflected by the dazzling whiteness of her neck and arms, rendered her altogether so bright a vision that any one who had sat in the dangerous vicinity might have found their eyes attracted in that direction. It was the voice of Lord L? proposing some interesting question respecting the choice of soups, which seemed to remind Fitz-Ullin[308] that his had been fixed on his fair neighbour longer than good breeding would have authorised. He had been picturing to himself, in contrast with the present, that hour of darkness and wild alarm, when that same profusion of beautiful hair that it now seemed dangerous but to look upon, had hung dishevelled over his own arm; that Julia, now so bashful, so reserved, had clung to his side as though he were all that was dear to her on earth!

Had such things been? And now was it, indeed, the same being who sat beside him, all brightness, all attraction, yet unapproachable?

During the evening, as there were no strangers present, the late extraordinary event formed the chief topic of conversation. Fitz-Ullin’s manner, while the subject was being discussed, puzzled Lord L? extremely.

Fitz-Ullin was now speaking, and seemingly[309] with effort; his eyes the while fixed on the arrangement his own fingers were making on the tea-table, of the crumbs to which they had reduced a small bit of cake, accepted probably as unconsciously as now its pulverized particles were formed into squares and circles. “He either,” continued Lord L? to himself, “is more interested than, for some reason or other, he chooses should be known, or less so than, in common gratitude to the family, and a natural feeling of regard towards the companion of his childhood, he ought to be!” What Lord L? would have thought of our hero cherishing a natural feeling of regard for the companion of his childhood had he continued the poor nameless Edmund, he did not ask himself. The next morning Lord L? and his daughter left Edinburgh.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
“Hail, light of Innisfail!”
“Sunbeam of beauty, hail!”

We shall pass over Julia’s reception at Lodore, it was so exactly what might have been expected.

No one, of course, expressed, in the presence of Mrs. Montgomery, their conviction of Henry’s guilt. From the very strange account which our heroine gave of her adventures, her hearers were disposed to suspect that, in her terror, she had mistaken a coal cellar for a coal pit. This, however, she declared could not be the case. But what traveller likes to have the most marvellous of their adventures[311] translated into mere, common place, vulgar accidents.

Mr. Jackson, however, was of opinion that, making due allowance for the exaggerations of a terrified fancy, Julia might be nearly right; as no more effectual places of concealment could be devised, than the situations described by her; nor was there any class of people, among whom an unprincipled person, could more readily find agents suited to their purpose, than the wretches in whose hands she had unquestionably been. He thought it probable, therefore, that something might be discovered by questioning, if not directly, indirectly, all sorts of persons connected with the neighbouring works; some might have been engaged in a service of the kind, whose absolute ignorance would render them liable, on being spoken with, to betray their employers unconsciously.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
“Answer vague as this but confirms her guilt.”

The next day Lord L? and Mr. Jackson, in pursuance of the plan of operations suggested by the latter, set out, at a very early hour, for Whitehaven.

When in the vicinity of the Gins, and in sight of a clump of fir-trees which shade a part of that road, their ears were saluted by loud, coarse laughter, clanking of chains, and trampling of horses.

In a few moments a troop of mounted colliers began to make their appearance, emerging from behind the trees. The gentlemen could immediately perceive that the party was headed by that far famed Amazon, called Jin of the[313] Gins. Her costume and whole appearance such as have already been described. With a countenance full of impudent glee, she was throwing occasional looks and loud speeches behind her, as, with perfect ease, she sat without saddle, and guided with a bridle of rope, apparently the same animal on which we have already seen her. Her companions were, of course, not better mounted. They, indeed, chiefly rode in couples, a male and a female on each beast, and, not unfrequently, seated back to back, with all their four heels goading the ribs of the but half-alive animal, to keep it in motion.

Lord L? and Mr. Jackson were by this time close to them, and his lordship, his countenance expressive of much disgust, was just beginning to guide his rein with a careful hand, and measure his distances with a cautious eye, for the purpose of passing through this sooty train without soil, when the whole troop, closing[314] round both gentlemen, and whirling their hats in the air, gave a loud cheer, followed by sudden silence and a simultaneous grin, which shewed at one flash the teeth of the whole party. The next moment, seeming to perceive that they were not understood, numerous voices uttered at once, “Some ’ot te drink—an ye please.”

Lord L?, as soon as he could be got to comprehend, complied with the request, and was passing on, amid three cheers louder than the former, when Mr. Jackson, addressing him in an under tone, said he felt inclined to have some conversation with those people, as it was not at all impossible that a seemingly careless question might obtain some accidental clue to information. Lord L? smiled incredulously, but checked his horse, and Mr. Jackson, adapting his language to his company, and addressing the man nearest him, said, “Have you had many people to see the Bottom lately?”

[315]

The whole troop halted and wheeled, for they had just begun to move forward. Their intrepid leader, finding herself, by this unexpected evolution, in the centre of her forces, placed the fore-feet of her beast on a mound of earth, to give herself a certain elevation above the rest, planted her arms a-kimbo, and assumed a listening attitude, “I doon’t na I’s sure,” replied the man spoken to. A second fellow here interposed with, “It’s no se lang sine Sir Sydney was doon wid——”

“Haud yeer gab, ye feul!” interrupted our Amazon, in a voice of authority. “Sir Sydney, indeed! Its lang enew sine Sir Sydney was doon! He’s no been on dry land for monny a day.”

“And pray,” inquired Mr. Jackson, who remembered the mention he had once heard of the name from the lips of Henry, “who is Sir Sydney?”

“The best friend,” replied the man who[316] had just been interrupted, “the Bottom folk hay.”

“No but a feller that’s oot on his mind,” said Jin of the Gins, with a marked impatience, which she endeavoured to screen, by increasing boldness of deportment, and repeated kicks on the sides of her charger. He, however, was in no haste to move, and the man replied again: “He may be no just quite right; bit he gives folk plenty te drink, for aw that!”

“Out of his mind!” repeated Mr. Jackson. “But did you not say, that the last time this Sir Sydney was down, he had gentlefolk with him?” Now, Mr. Jackson was quite aware, that the fellow had not yet said so.

“Gentlefolk?” repeated the man, “whough aye: ’at was the night ’at——”

Here he was again interrupted with a repetition of, “Haud yeer gab, ye feul,” from Jin, who now speaking angrily, and addressing Mr. Jackson, said, with her large sooty arm out-stretched,[317] and pointing towards Whitehaven, “Gang yeer gate, and let us gang oors: we hey ney time te clatter nonsense aboot crazy folk!”

Then, with a more determined effort than before, she forced the wretched animal she rode, to raise its unwilling head, lift its ponderous hoofs, and, finally, urged by reiterated kicks and curses, to move forward. The renewed clanking of the chains, that trailed on the ground on either side, duly accompanying her progress; while the rest of the troop, deeming some mark of courtesy due to gentlemen who had given them money to drink, set up a parting cheer, as they followed in her track; soon after which, they recommenced their own coarse jests, and loud laughter.

Lord L? thought the sum of information obtained, did not amount to much. But Mr. Jackson reminded him that Sir Sydney was the appellation ascribed by Henry, many years[318] since, to a very remarkable looking person, whom he, Mr. Jackson, had seen in very familiar conversation with Henry.

This certainly was a sort of clue; and Jin’s unwillingness to let the men speak, looked suspicious. It seemed highly probable that both Jin and Sir Sydney were agents of Henry’s.

The two gentlemen now proceeded to some of the overseers of the works, where they learnt that the person, called by the colliers and rabble of the Gins, Sir Sydney, was a madman who fancied the coal vessels the British fleet, and himself an admiral; and who was thence called, in derision, Sir Sydney Smyth. They next repaired to the magistrates, who, on hearing all the particulars, recommended that no alarm should be given, by any premature examination of Jin of the Gins; but, that they should wait till the man, calling himself Sir Sydney, should make his appearance, and[319] then apprehend him and all his associates together.

This plan being approved of by all parties, was adopted accordingly.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
“Who bore the murd’ring steel?
… The arrow came not
From the ranks of the foe, a nearer hand
Hath winged the shaft.”
“The upright sentence struck upon his heart.
And then sent forth a groan of agony.”

The Euphrasia was cruising off the French coast, when, one morning, Fitz-Ullin, who was walking the quarter-deck, discovered, what appeared to be a sail in shore. On using his glass, however, he perceived that there were two, the one a large privateer, the other a smaller vessel ahead, of which the privateer seemed to be in pursuit. He immediately issued orders to make all sail and give chace. In a little time the privateer was[321] within pistol-shot of the headmost ship, but, being closely pressed by the Euphrasia, she was obliged to content herself with the wanton mischief of firing one gun as she passed.

She had hitherto been to windward of the frigate, she now bore away, with the evident intention of crossing her bows, when the wind, suddenly shifting, threw her all aback. The Euphrasia shortly after came up with her, upon which, seeing no further chance of escape, she slackened sail and fell almost alongside. While the crew of the Euphrasia were busily engaged taking in their sails, Fitz-Ullin, who was looking out for the lowering of the privateer’s colours, observed some of her men pointing a long twenty-four pounder, which was placed in the centre of their deck, and which appeared to turn on a pivot. At first, he could scarcely believe that so useless a piece of cruelty could be intended; seeing them, however, actually about to apply the[322] match, he ordered the small armed party of marines to fire a volley into the midst of them. In a moment, the fellows who had been employed about the gun were swept away. This destructive piece of ordnance was afterwards found to be loaded with buck shot, old nails, and crooked pieces of iron. Had it been discharged from so short a distance, on the, just then, necessarily crowded decks of the frigate, the havoc must have been dreadful.

The privateer was now boarded, and her Captain found to be too ill to leave his berth. This circumstance, however, was not attended with any inconvenience, as it would have been necessary, at any rate, to leave the Captain in the prize, to facilitate her condemnation. The rest of the crew, with the exception of one black, for whose attendance the sick Captain sent an urgent petition, were taken on board the Euphrasia, and a proper complement of her men sent into the prize, with a midshipman[323] as prize master. By the time, however, that these necessary arrangements were completed, the aspect of the weather changed so much, that Fitz-Ullin judged it not prudent, under the possible circumstances, to entrust so considerable a prize to the care of a midshipman. Accordingly, at about ten o’clock at night, he sent Henry on board, with orders to take the command, and forthwith sail for Plymouth.

Henry finding from the midshipman whom he relieved, that every needful preparation was already made, went immediately to his cabin. He saw neither the sick captain nor his black, the first never having quitted his berth, and the second having retired to his, two hours before, neither having any thing to do with the business of the ship.

The breeze was brisk, and soon parted them many miles from the Euphrasia.

Henry had, as usual, heated his blood with[324] wine at supper, and in consequence lay tossing and restless. At length, however, about twelve o’clock, he fell into a perturbed slumber. Shortly after, he dreamed that he heard his cabin-door open softly. He started awake, and, notwithstanding the utter darkness, was sensible that something moved, though noiselessly, towards him.

The next moment he felt a hand laid, with the fingers spread open, on his shoulder, and passed from thence to his breast, as if to ascertain his exact position. He leaped up, grappled with the invisible intruder, and strove to seize the right arm, which, from its being greatly elevated above the head, he supposed to wield some deadly weapon. In the struggle they pushed through the doorway of the little cabin, into the outer one. Henry felt that, though the figure was tall, and in its proportions athletic, he was himself, he thought, the stronger, certainly the more elastic of the two.[325] Still, no effort he could make, could bend the right arm downwards. If he attempted to use both hands for the purpose, the left arm of his antagonist tightly encircled his waist, to the endangering of his footing; in so much that with his left he was obliged to clasp with equal closeness his invisible assailant. While they thus wrestled, locked in each other’s embrace, Henry, who had not had presence of mind, indeed scarcely time, to do so sooner, called out, “On deck there!” A foot was heard coming below. The vigilance of Henry’s attention was taken off for a second. The uplifted arm descended with the quickness of lightning, and a dagger was plunged, up to the hilt, in his side. He uttered a species of yell, leaped from the ground, fell, and groaned heavily, muttering from between his closing teeth: “Hell and the Devil, I am murdered!”

“Henry!” exclaimed a well known voice, rendered terrible by horror, amazement, and despair.

[326]

At this moment, the person who had been heard approaching, entered, carrying a dark lantern, which, while it left the intruder in shadow, threw a strong light on the form of Henry, writhing in agony on the ground; his countenance distorted, and his eyes still wide open. He turned them, as the light appeared, on the figure of his late violent assailant, now standing over him, horror-stricken and motionless. A frightful sort of smile divided the lips of Henry; the eyes fixed, a few convulsive movements of the limbs followed, and then, one fearful spasm, evidently the last, closed his mortal career.

“It is my son!” said the murderer.

The man who had just entered, paused and gazed on the scene before him, with an unmeaning stare. Placing the lantern, while he did so, under his arm, it glared its light upwards on his own countenance, which proved to be that of a peculiarly brutal looking black.[327] The balls of the eyes shone in the partial gleam, and the thick turned-over lips, being spread by a horrible grin, displayed a wide range of glaring white teeth.

It would have been difficult to have defined exactly the source of this wretch’s grin; for he was sufficiently in the secrets of his master to know that the murder of Henry could not have been intended. But, there was a demoniac glee at the sight of suffering and death; and surprise at the strange mistake, and curiosity to see what effect it would have on him most interested. The grin which those mixed feelings had produced, still remained on his face, and seemed to have been forgotten there, while stooping, and flaring the light across and across, over the prostrate figure of Henry, as if to ascertain that life was quite extinct, he said, as he raised himself and gave his head a knowing nod, “We must not lose the ship for this though!”

[328]

The aroused murderer snatched the lantern from him, and flinging himself on his knees beside the corse, held the light close to Henry’s pale face: paused—shuddered—closed the eyes of the dead—then the lips, which agony had left parted while the teeth were clenched; laid the lantern on the ground, tore open the breast of the shirt, placed his hand on the heart, remained for some moments motionless, holding in his breath; then, perhaps unconsciously, heaved a sigh as deep and tremulous as though it had issued from the gentlest of bosoms, and proceeded to examine the wound.

“There are two ribs broken!” he murmured to himself, as he continued the scrutiny.

“I was quite sure,” interposed the black, approaching a step, “that the midshipman I told you of, was our prize-master: I saw no other officer come aboard of us. It was your own order, that I should turn in, and keep clear of the men, and seem to take no concern in[329] what was going on, till after the first watch was relieved, and then to be sure to come on deck, and keep near the cabin-door.”

“Damnation! Damnation! Damnation!” muttered the still kneeling murderer, without withdrawing his eyes from the face of the corse, and grinding, as it were, each utterance of the word beneath his clenched teeth, ere he suffered it to pass. Then, starting up, he hastened on deck, (followed by the black,) strode towards the steersman, held a pistol to his head, and swearing he would blow his brains out if he made the slightest resistance, tied him down with cords. The same threat was used by the black, to the man who had the lookout, and whom they also tied. The desperate pair of ruffians then proceeded to the hatchways which they had previously fastened down, and ordering the remainder of the crew to come up, one by one, bound each, as he appeared, with the exception of two foreigners,[330] who volunteered to assist them in taking the ship into a French harbour.

They then altered the course of the thus recovered prize, and stood towards Brest.

The storm which Fitz-Ullin had foreseen, had been for some time gradually rising; it soon became so high as to render the privateer with so few efficient hands, very unmanageable; there was also distant thunder, and occasional flashes of lightning. The wind, however, being favourable for the French coast, they allowed the vessel to drive before it, and seemed resolved to perish rather than yield to their prisoners; for this, from the superiority in numbers of the latter, must have been the alternative, had they let them loose to obtain their assistance.

After some hours, but while it was still quite dark, they ran foul of another vessel. On board both ships, some moments of the most awful suspense followed: neither crew could be at[331] first aware, what degree of injury their vessel had sustained; nor was it immediately possible, in consequence of the darkness, to ascertain whether their dangerously near neighbour were friend or foe. They were endeavouring, through the din of the elements, to hail each other, when a peculiarly vivid flash of lightning struck and shattered the upper half of the main-mast of the privateer, while the lower part of the mast continued standing, but took fire and instantly became a blazing torch of gigantic dimensions, illuminating, from end to end, with perfect distinctness, the decks of both vessels. That of the frigate presented the usual crowd and bustle attendant on the circumstances; while that of the privateer was nearly desolate, rendering the more remarkable the figure of the murderer and that of his black assistant, standing in the glare of the burning mast, and, with looks of dismay, recognising[332] in the vessel alongside of which their own lay, their late captor, the Euphrasia.

The privateer could offer no resistance: she was of course retaken. It would be difficult to describe the horror of those who now boarded the thus twice captured prize, on finding what had happened, and discovering the body of Henry. Still less would it be possible to paint the feelings of Fitz-Ullin, when the account of the murder was brought to him.

The Euphrasia having received some injury, (being lying-to when the privateer ran on board of her,) a homeward course became desirable. As soon, therefore, as wind and weather would permit, Fitz-Ullin took Henry’s body on board, and proceeded to Plymouth. From thence he instantly wrote to Mr. Jackson with the melancholy intelligence, that he might break it to the family with proper caution.

[333]

The prize, which was very valuable, was also brought safe into port, the burning mast having been extinguished in time to prevent the spreading of the fire.

Having sent the murderers to Exeter gaol to be tried for their lives at the assizes, which were to commence in a day or two, and made whatever arrangements the duties of the service required, Fitz-Ullin set out for Lodore, whither, according to instructions received from Mr. Jackson, he gave orders to have the body of Henry conveyed. So contradictory and unsearchable are often the movements of the human heart, that, melancholy as were these duties, it is certain that our hero performed them with an activity and energy of spirit, to which he had long been a stranger. Whether it was, that tired of his self-imposed banishment, he was glad of even this mournful excuse, to renew the affectionate intercourse of early life with a family so long and so justly[334] regarded, by offering his services on the present occasion, and giving his necessary assistance in prosecuting the murderers to conviction; or, whether any other, and more mysterious springs of thought and feeling were set in motion, it would be difficult to determine.

However this was, in a few days after his landing, he was to be seen, with a countenance of seriousness, certainly, but not of despair, leaning back in a travelling carriage which rolled along the north road as fast as the united strength of four good horses could give the impetus of motion to its wheels.

He arrived at Keswick, drove through it, and shortly after a turning in the road presented Lodore House to his view.
CHAPTER XL
“Lovely pass’d the light of joy o’er thy face,
Comala! But there—like the faint beam of
The show’r, ’tis fled!”

With an almost involuntary movement he put an arm out the window, opened the door himself, kicked the steps half down, leaped over them, and, either without waiting for, or without remembering Arthur, crossed the lawn on foot and alone; while the carriage, its door flapping, its steps hanging, and its master missing, took the usual course, and drove up to the principal entrance.

No sooner had our hero passed the threshold of the half-open glass door, which had thus attracted him, than he beheld Julia. She was[336] alone, dressed, of course, in mourning, and seated at a table over which she stooped, in the act of writing or drawing. He stood; she looked up. An expression of pleasure sparkled for a moment in her eyes.

Julia, in the hurry of the moment, pronounced the name of Edmund. She had not seen Fitz-Ullin at Lodore since other names and titles had been added to that which was associated in her feelings, with the scenes and remembrances of childhood. He too pronounced her name, as, with visible agitation, he took the hand of welcome she held out. After thus naming each other, however, neither spoke again; while he examined her countenance with an earnestness, which at first pained, and at last offended her.

“Julia! Julia!” he at length said. Then burying his face in both his hands, against the arm of a sofa on which he flung himself, he added: “we are alone?” After a considerable[337] pause he looked up; Julia, to hide the confusion occasioned by so strange an address, was stooping to caress a dog of Fitz-Ullin’s, which, since its first entrance, had been importuning for notice. Our hero, with a bitter smile, arose and walked towards a window.

“Surely” he murmured to himself, “I need not wish—I need not desire—yet—nothing—nothing short of infatuation could extenuate—”

The entrance of Lord L?, followed shortly by Frances, and soon after by Lady Oswald, who was now on a visit at Lodore, put an end to this strange interview. The dreadful occurrence of the murder was fresh in the minds of all. The subject was entered upon immediately: they spoke of how severely Mrs. Montgomery had felt the shock. Particulars were minutely enquired into by Lord L?, and many comments made by each in turn. Julia, indeed, said the least; for she found that, whenever she[338] spoke, Fitz-Ullin watched every word that fell from her lips, with a kind of attention which was distressing, as well as embarrassing, and she shortly therefore quitted the room. Frances, who had done so before, now returned with a message from her grandmamma, requesting that Fitz-Ullin would go to her, as she was unable to leave her own apartment.

On obeying the summons he had received, Fitz-Ullin found his kind old friend sitting up in her bed, and Mr. Jackson and Julia with her, endeavouring to compose her spirits.

She was greatly affected on seeing Fitz-Ullin, and shed tears, which she had not before done; for there was, she said, a horror mingled with her sorrow for Henry, which would not suffer her to weep. She feared that he had died without a just sense of religion. Fitz-Ullin said, with some hesitation, that he had latterly possessed much of Henry’s confidence, and that he had reason to believe that[339] he had fixed his hopes of happiness, (in this life at least,) where no ungentle feeling could find a place—where, indeed, scarcely a temptation to err could have reached him, and where the purest Christian principles would have been daily cultivated by the hand of domestic affection; and that such ties, he should hope, no man would voluntarily seek while he continued to be the sport of unfixed opinions, or the slave of irregular habits. Julia and Fitz-Ullin left Mrs. Montgomery’s room together. As soon as he had closed the door, he stopped short, took one of her hands in both of his, and looked full in her face with an expression of tender, or rather kindly enquiry, for there was no presumption in his manner. He pronounced her name, then paused. She met his scrutinizing gaze with a countenance, first of surprise, and, finally, displeasure, withdrew her hand, and, without speaking, preceded him to the drawing-room.
CHAPTER XLI.
… “Thou standest charg’d
With murder, monstrous and deliberate!”

The next day the papers were filled with an account of the trial of the murderers of Mr. Henry St. Aubin. The murder was proved; yet, strange to say, the murderers were acquitted.

The Captain of the privateer spoke his own defence. He was, he said, a Frenchman fighting for his country. He was not, even by the laws of war, a prisoner; for he had not lowered his colours. He had as good a right to recover possession of his ship as the English had in the first instance to capture her; and if lives were lost in the struggle, it was but the fate of war.

[341]

This defence was admitted, and the midnight murderer of his own son acquitted by the blindness of mortal judgment.

The papers proceeded to state that the murderers having been remanded for a fresh trial on fresh charges, the principal was found the next morning alone in the prison with his brains beat out. The black had made his escape. The particulars were supposed to be as follows: The villains had first, it would appear, by their united strength, forced a bar of their window. From the bloody appearance at one end of the heavy iron weapon thus obtained, and the battered state of the head of the privateer captain, it was quite evident that the black had used the bar to knock down and murder his master; whom, as the wretch was his inferior in strength, he must have taken unawares. A large wound on the back of the head of the deceased, strengthened this opinion. It was supposed that the black’s motive for committing[342] this crime, must have been his knowledge of where to lay his hands on the ill-gotten wealth of his master, of which he hoped thus to obtain undisturbed possession. The papers further stated, as the reason why the prisoners had been remanded, that the magistrates had had information respecting the privateer captain having been largely concerned both with pirates and smugglers on various parts of the coast. One very suspicious circumstance was, they ascertained, clearly proved, namely, his identity as the individual who had for so many years imposed on the inhabitants of Whitehaven and its vicinity, by passing for a madman, and calling himself Sir Sydney Smyth. The very nature of the derangement he thus feigned afforded a pretext for lounging about the quays and the coast at all hours. On reading this paragraph, Lord L? and Mr. Jackson exchanged looks.
CHAPTER XLII.
“Near some fen shall my nameless tomb be seen:
It shall arise without song. My lone spirit,
Wrapped in mist, shall sail o’er the reedy pool,
And never on their clouds with heroes join.”

The body of Henry arrived. The day of the funeral came, and passed. Still the silence of Fitz-Ullin towards Julia continued, and her’s towards him was equally remarkable. Not that he now avoided her, as he had done on board the Euphrasia; on the contrary, he rather sought to be near her; but his close attention to all she said or did, seemed a sort of scrutiny, and gave her more pain than pleasure. He now indeed appeared even to court occasions of being alone with her; yet, when such did occur, he spoke little, and on indifferent[344] subjects, and maintained the air of one who expected some communication to be made to him. While Julia met his strange manner with a studied coldness of deportment, which seemed to forbid all recurrence to the past, the ungenerous determination he appeared to have formed of reading her heart, whilst he refrained from entitling himself to do so, at length aroused her to self-defence at least, if not to indignation. She was weary of the inward humiliation of feeling, that her heart beat responsive to every alternation of his manner; that the tone of his voice, the turn of his eye, could make her happy or miserable. Yet, was she still weak enough to be less positively wretched than she would else have been, from the idea that, unworthy and impertinent as his conduct appeared, she could not be quite an object of indifference to him, or he would not study her as he did. He did not watch every look, every word when Frances spoke,[345] or was spoken to. The subject, however, was one on which she now shrank from speaking, even to Frances; and one on which that kind and considerate sister felt that, it would be as indelicate as useless to speak to her. Frances did certainly more than once observe, with a warmth which Julia but too well understood, how disagreeable rank and fortune had made Edmund; with his Lady Julia L?, and Lady Frances L?, adding, “I declare I am sometimes going to laugh, only I am so angry I could almost cry; it does seem so ridiculous!”

While Julia’s manners were such as we have described, in those of Lord L? there was a daily increasing haughtiness, and in his politeness an attention to forms, calculated to remind a guest that he was not at home. Frances, too, though still friendly, was less a sister than formerly. Fitz-Ullin seemed to feel all this, for he began to talk of leaving Lodore,[346] though the Euphrasia was not ready for sea, Mrs. Montgomery, indeed, was still kind, and, while he sat at her bed-side, she would still call him Edmund, look anxiously in his face, shake her head, and tell him he was not happy. She would then rally him about Lady Susan; calling the affair his boyish disappointment. Then she would wish he could make a second choice, and give her the joy of seeing him happy before she died.

A secret association of ideas in the good old lady’s mind, would lead her to talk, very soon after, of Julia.

On such occasions Fitz-Ullin’s colour would come and go; yet, even with this affectionate friend, he continued silent. At length his spirits becoming evidently more depressed, he announced his determination of taking his departure immediately, as he wished, he said, to visit Ayrshire before the Euphrasia was ready for sea, that he might make one[347] more effort on behalf of Arthur, though with scarcely a hope of success; Lady Oswald having already made every exertion. But, young Oswald having no title to show, it was found impossible to disturb the present possessors. If, however, the title-deeds could be found, it was the opinion of counsel, that there would be no difficulty in recovering the property, as the papers themselves would shew (what was well known, though it could not be legally proved,) that Sir Archibald had no power to dispose of more than his life interest in the estates.
CHAPTER XLIII.
“When the will’s at enmity with the task before us, we love to dally in performance.”

Fitz-Ullin was now on the point of quitting Lodore. Yet he lingered. There seemed to be something that he wished to say, or do, before he went; still he did nothing, and said little. At length, finding Julia one morning alone in the library, he took a seat beside her. She trembled visibly; yet were her feelings not altogether painful: there was a strange mixture of hope. He remained for a long time silent, either mastering some emotion, or considering how to commence. “Julia,” he at last said, for, in his agitation, he forgot the title; “do not mistake me! do not suppose that I mean[349] to speak of myself, or of my own feelings; I am too well aware what yours have been, to be guilty of conduct so indelicate. Have been, did I say? rather, what I must suppose they still are, though you have, Julia, so well, so wonderfully maintained the struggle, so successfully concealed every emotion. But surely, those sentiments, however tenderly cherished their secret remembrance may be, and I confess, though such a declaration from me may seem strange, I confess that, even I, who have had so much cause to mourn that ever they found a place in your bosom, even I should not like to see you capable of the levity, of casting them thence in a moment. But, as I was about to say, surely they need not deprive me of that sisterly regard, that calm, unimpassioned friendship, which is all I ask; and which you have even so often promised me should be mine for ever. If I, too, must resign every warmer feeling, need I be deprived, also,[350] of this sweet solace, without which the burden of existence is intolerable! Julia, you look shocked, you look offended. I had not dared to have entered on such a topic—but—but—your surprising self-command deceived me: I thought you could have borne it better. And—and—I did suppose, that the bitterness of my own disappointed hopes might have been some apology; that—I might have been heard, with pity, at least.”

“Is he mad?” thought Julia. “Does he deem it necessary to apologize to me, because his lingering love for another will not suffer him to offer me more than friendship? And does he, can he mean to tell me to my face, that he has long seen my weak, wretched, mean devotion to himself, yet cannot return it? And, therefore, he would school me into moderating my attachment for him—rendering it of a calmer—nay—a less impassioned nature! Good heavens, is it come to this?”

With these thoughts passing rapidly through her mind, she had risen from her seat while he was yet speaking. She now stood, for a few moments, motionless, and covered with burning blushes; then, clasping her hands and lifting her eyes to heaven, but without suffering them, for an instant, to meet Fitz-Ullin’s, she turned, and fled the room.

Arrived in her own, she sat down, unable even to think! A summons to dinner was the first thing that aroused her, (though two full hours had elapsed). It found her cold, and pale; while her eyes were so disfigured by the traces of tears, she had been long unconsciously shedding, that she was obliged to excuse herself from appearing at dinner.

When she was next in company with Fitz-Ullin, which was, of necessity, that evening, she carefully avoided meeting his eyes, keeping her own always on the ground. She never addressed him; when he addressed her, she[352] answered, without looking up, and by monosyllables pronounced in a voice scarcely audible, and immediately spoke to some one else. Fitz-Ullin seemed conscious that he had committed some error; for more than once in the course of the evening, he found an opportunity when none were near, to entreat her pardon in a low, hurried tone. He received neither word nor look in reply.
CHAPTER XLIV.
… “How thy cheek
Doth vary! But now, with feverish glow
It burnt, kindling as thou spakest, and now
White, and cold, it glistens in thy damp tears,
Like the pale lily in the morning dew.
Oh! shake not thus my soul, Comala!”
“Tomorrow, at sunrise! so soon, so soon?”

The next day Fitz-Ullin found it impossible to be a moment alone with Julia. She fled all such occasions, with a species of terror, which astonished him. In the evening he met her suddenly in the shrubbery.

“What can I have done, Julia?” he said, snatching the tremulous hand with which she was hastily endeavouring to open a little paling gate for the purpose of turning into another[354] walk, evidently to avoid him. “Am I no longer that Edmund whom you have honoured with the name of brother, since—since before you could pronounce the word distinctly? Or can I be expected to forget, entirely, that you are still the same Julia, the same dearest, best beloved object of my earliest, and fondest affections!—” He stopped short suddenly, as though he had been betrayed into expressions he had not meant to use. Julia’s lip trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and every feature convulsed by efforts to restrain her tears.

“I see I am but adding to my offence,” he recommenced, “I but seem to you to insult feelings which ought now to be sacred; with which, you think, and justly, I ought not, on the strength of my knowledge of them, to trifle: nor do I, heaven knows, entertain such a thought! But, what have I done? why must I be denied your friendship? the continuation of your confidence? Do not mistake me![355] Mine, Julia, mine are, I repeat it, but the claims of a brother.”

Julia’s colour rose. “For heaven’s sake, what do you mean? what do you dare to mean?” she exclaimed, and wrenching her hand from him, without waiting his reply, she hastened to the house. He attempted to follow; but she waved to him, to remain where he was. That evening, Julia avoided him more than ever; and with an expression, too, on her countenance, of less gentle displeasure than she had ever before evinced. When she was leaving the supper room, he added to his good night, “I am going to-morrow; early, very early;” extending, at the same time, a hand to each of the sisters.

These words arrested the step of Julia for a moment. She yielded a trembling hand, and attempted to utter a good night.
CHAPTER XLV.
“A moment the sun stood on the mountains;
The mists of the night he roll’d from their sides,
Blaz’d, and ascended the heavens.”
“Yes—yes—It is the form of Fingall!—Now
The blast rolls it together—gradual
Vanish his stately limbs, and mingle with
The mountain mist.”

In the morning Julia stole from the side of Frances, at a very early hour, and seated herself near a window. For a time all was still. At length she heard a step in the hall, then a gentle tap at a, not very distant, room door; then, the well known voice of Fitz-Ullin answering from within with that urbanity of tone for which he was so remarkable, the servant who had told him the hour. This was[357] followed by various slight noises; then the wheels of a carriage on the gravel beneath her window; then Fitz-Ullin’s step, quitting his apartment, and crossing the hall; then the clap of the carriage-door, followed immediately by the sound of the wheels again, but in quicker motion than before. She now saw Fitz-Ullin’s travelling carriage drive away. As it turned, in doing so, she caught, through a screen of jessamine, which, overgrowing her window, concealed her, one momentary view of the countenance of our hero. It was very pale, and he was looking towards the very window so screened, with a settled melancholy of expression, which seemed to convey to Julia’s heart a presentiment that they should never meet again.

She had maintained all this time an unnatural degree of composure; a passion of tears now came to her relief. Till being reminded by a slight movement of Frances, that, should her sister awake and speak to[358] her, all reserve must, she felt, henceforward be at an end, and a contemptible weakness, for which she heartily despised herself, be thus exposed, she determined to steal out softly to the breakfast room, where, throwing herself on a sofa, she lay in all the listlessness of despondency for an hour and half, at the end of which time she was aroused by the sound of a carriage driving up to the door. Her heart palpitated violently. “What can have brought him back?” she thought. She heard a bustle in the hall, and one of the men servants’ voices calling to Alice, and enquiring if Lady Julia was up yet. Shortly after, steps approached the door of the breakfast room, it opened.

CHAPTER XLVI.
… “Her moist eye turned towards
Lena’s heath: She listen’d to the rustling blast
For the tread of Fingall. She heard my steps
Approaching; joy arose in her face;
But sorrow returned like a vapoury cloud
Spread o’er the moon, when we see it’s form still,
But without its brightness.”

Gotterimo, carrying a small box and parcel, was ushered in by Alice. Never did our old acquaintance meet with a reception so little cordial from Julia. She had fully expected to see Fitz-Ullin enter, and, possessed with that idea, had sprung from the sofa, placed herself at a table, flung open a large volume before her, and arranged the expression of her countenance, for the purpose of meeting[360] him with proper dignity. The bows and smiles, therefore, of the little pedlar but poorly compensated for her disappointment.

Unwelcomed, he approached and laid down the box and parcel. The latter, on having the silk handkerchief in which it was tied, removed, and coming in contact with the table, resolved itself into numerous loose letters, which, escaping from the piece of red tape that once had confined them, spread themselves before the eyes of our heroine. They were evidently old ones, many of them being much discoloured and abused, and the seals, seemingly, of all broken.

Gotterimo, with an air of mingled mystery and self-gratulation, said, “Dis be your ladyship box of de fine ting. I have show it to de captain, (nice gentleman is de captain!) I vos bring it to your ladyship vid dese letters, for dis reason, dat von of dem be direct to you ladyship. So I have told him, but he no[361] look. He desire me no show dem to him, nor odder person but you ladyship, because de be vid you ladyship box, and so de must belong you ladyship.”

Julia saw, by a single glance at the box, that it was that which had contained her jewels, and which had been taken out of her room on the memorable evening that she had been carried away from Lodore House. “It is certainly my box,” she said, “but where in the world did you find it, Mr. Gotterimo?”

“I have got all dese tings, madam, in a vey dat be var strange. I vil just take to mineself de liberty to tell you ladyship, if it be not von great trouble, fen you listen.”

“Oh no,” said Julia, “pray, how was it?”

“You see, madam,” he commenced, “I am now, tank to you ladyship and you good family, do var vell in de vorld. I have got, you see, de big shop dat be de broker shop, so vel[362] as mine pretty little shop for de fine ting. So, fen de prize agent people be selling de property out of de big privateer ship, I did go to buy de bargain. And so I do buy, vid odder tings, de von big chest, var cheep; and I vos tink, von day, to make mine chest var clean, and I jump in mineself, and up jump de von bottom, and in between de two bottom vos dis little box. So, fen I did open de little box, I see in it all de fine ting belong you ladyship. Oh, de did look so pretty, all in dere own place shining! de make me tink (do not be angry, madam; I shake mine head, so dat de tought might not come; but de tought vos coming vidout my leave) how much money de vould sell for. But I say to myself, no, Gotterimo, de be de fine ting of de lady dat be so goot to me; so I vill take dem to her myself. She have pay for dem before, and she sall have dem now for nottin.”

Julia’s hand, meantime, had passed lightly[363] over the loose heap of letters that lay on the table before her. As they slid aside at her touch, her eye had been caught by the hand-writing in which one, addressed to herself, was directed. Her colour had fled, and returned of a deeper dye, in almost the same moment.
CHAPTER XLVII.
“Is this soft hand thy answer? or that look,
Which, though so soon withdrawn, too gentle seem’d
For harsh denial’s herald; or that blush
Which now, o’er thy snowy beauty spreading,
Heightens all thy loveliness!”
“And when those gentle eyes, thus rais’d to mine,
Melt in my ardent gaze; yet willing not
With haste ungracious to reprove my love,
A moment tremble ere they fall again;
Oh, ’tis a feeling not of earth! ’tis one
Which man’s experience hath not taught him how
To shape in words.”

She had opened the letter, was reading, and had become so much absorbed, that she had not only ceased to hear what Gotterimo said, but was no longer conscious even of his presence. He began to perceive this, and with instinctive[365] politeness, though with a feeling of much disappointment, first became silent, and then, fearing he might be troublesome, after fidgeting a little, and coughing once or twice, left the room.

Julia, without perceiving his departure, continued reading till she had twice begun and twice finished the letter. Then, laying it open on her bosom, and crossing her hands upon it, she raised her streaming eyes to heaven. The door from the library opened: she withdrew her eyes from their upward gaze, and they rested on Fitz-Ullin. “Oh, Edmund!” she exclaimed, and hastily presenting the letter to him, she covered her face with both her hands, and leaned on the table. Fitz-Ullin glanced at the open letter, and found it to be one which he himself had written to our heroine above a year before.

“Why, Julia,” he said, “should this letter, which you have replied to so fully, so decidedly,[366] and so long since, now seem to surprise or agitate you?”

“I never replied to it! I never received it! I never saw it till this moment!” said Julia.

“What, Julia!” exclaimed Fitz-Ullin, sinking on one knee beside her, and drawing both her hands, from before her face, “do you indeed tell me that you have not, in reply to that letter, rejected the heart and hand it offers?—rejected them, too, on the plea of a prior and long cherished attachment to another, that other—the unfortunate Henry St. Aubin?”

“Oh, never! never!” exclaimed Julia, with a fervour of manner, tone of voice, and expression of countenance, which carried at once conviction and happiness to the heart of Edmund. That look, that manner, not only said, “I have not rejected,” they also said, “I will accept!” Fitz-Ullin gazed upon her for some moments in the silence of powerful emotion.[367] “Julia,” he said, at length, in a voice scarcely audible, “what a load of misery you have removed from my heart!”

She returned the pressure of his hand without affectation of reserve; but without the power to speak. “Heavens,” he continued, after a short pause, “that horrible certainty in which every sense has been spell-bound for the last twelve months of wretchedness, was then but a dream! Oh, Julia, how gladly do I awake from it!” Their eyes met as he spoke; nor were hers immediately withdrawn, though their lids trembled beneath the ardour of his gaze. The Julia and Edmund of former days seemed suddenly restored to each other after a long, long separation: each seemed to read the heart of the other, each wondered that they could have doubted the truth of the other. Both had been silent for some time. “Julia,” said Fitz-Ullin, at length, in a low,[368] entreating voice, recollecting, though it must be confessed, without much alarm, that Julia, though she had denied having rejected him, had not yet said one word about accepting him, “how can I trust to the presumptuous hopes with which my heart now throbs—how can I dare to be thus happy till you have pronounced my fate, till you have actually said that you will be mine!” Julia replied only by a look. “I may then,” said Fitz-Ullin, in a low whisper, “speak to Lord L?, as authorised by you?”

Julia breathed a very inaudible sort of a yes; and Fitz-Ullin, who, to hear the important monosyllable, had been obliged to venture his face into a very dangerous neighbourhood, expressed his delighted gratitude by as many demonstrations of the feelings that said little word of mighty consequences had inspired, as he dare well evince; but, as to what exactly[369] he said or did on the occasion, it is by no means necessary to the development of our narrative to record.

Julia no longer venturing to look up, her eyes rested, as a sort of excuse for looking down, on the open letter, which, having escaped from Fitz-Ullin’s hand, now lay on her knee. As she dwelt on the expressions it contained of passionate tenderness dictated by the pure enthusiasm of a First Love, the harrowing descriptions of poor Edmund’s struggles with his own heart, while he had believed himself an obscure and nameless being altogether unworthy of her, her tears flowed silently, except that such was the stillness of all else, that the fall of each on the paper might be distinctly heard. Fitz-Ullin watched her with inexpressible delight, fearing to breathe, lest he should interrupt her. At length, tempted by the tear, or the smile, or both, to see[370] what parts of his letter so much affected her, he approached his face nearer the paper, (for he was still kneeling,) and read with her, adding emphasis to each tender expression by a gentle pressure of one, or both the hands he still held.

“When did you write this letter, Edmund?” she at length asked.

“On the very day,” he replied, “on which I became acquainted with my birth, when poor Ormond’s rash attempt to put an end to his existence prevented my setting out instantly for Lodore, which I was, indeed, as the letter mentions, in the very act of doing when the alarm was given; for I had long enough vainly struggled with my feelings, while duty and honour forbade me to declare them; another moment of suspense, therefore, when those obstacles were removed, seemed not to be endured!”

[371]

“And did you say, then, that you received a letter in reply purporting to be from me?” asked Julia, “and——”

“I did,” answered Fitz-Ullin, “written in your name, and to all appearance your hand, and even style. I have preserved it, and can shew it you. It contains a gentle, very kindly worded, but, as I mentioned, decided rejection of the proposals made in my letter; and states, as the reason of that rejection, a secret, long cherished attachment, and engagement to Henry, to whom it declares you betrothed. It then reminds me, in the most seemingly artless and confiding manner, of many little circumstances I must myself have observed; and entreats me to keep inviolable the secret thus entrusted to me, either till you should obtain Lord L?’s consent, or, when of age, have taken some decided step. It farther requests me, not to make known to any of your family my wishes, lest they should urge your[372] acceptance of my hand. And, finally, it commands me on pain of forfeiting your friendship for ever, no more to renew the subject to yourself, by the slightest allusion to it; even in any private interview that might occur.

“On receiving this letter, I passed some days in a species of delirium; I scarcely knew what happened, but that I still continued apparently in attendance on the sick bed of Ormond; while horrible visions haunted me of every circumstance which had at any time raised for a moment suspicions of a secret understanding subsisting between you and your cousin. These were now received as fatal proofs, which long before ought to have opened my eyes. The past, with all its blissful, though presumptuous hopes, was changed in a moment into a wilderness on which I dared not look back! I know I wrote to Mrs. Montgomery, and endeavoured to observe your supposed injunction of secrecy; but, of what I said, I have scarcely[373] an idea. My letter must have been wildly and strangely worded.”

“That letter,” said Julia, and she smiled archly, though blushingly, “we all thought was written, in consequence of your disappointment, (as we believed) about Lady Susan. Her marriage, you know, took place just at that time. And that unfortunate being, Henry too,” she added, “confirmed this opinion, by declaring that he was in your confidence; and saying, that you had also written to him on the subject, quite in despair!”

Fitz-Ullin could not help smiling in his turn, at the idea of his being in despair about Lady Susan.

“On me too,” he rejoined, “Henry forced, what he termed confidence. He has even given me to read, on our last voyage, passages, purporting to be from your correspondence with himself, and containing messages to me, reiterating your injunctions of secrecy. And once,[374] he showed me a picture, which he said you had given him, asking if I thought it like. It was like, really like. Judge with what feelings I must have seen him approach it to his lips, and replace it in his bosom! A heart-sickening sensation followed, and my selfish regrets were, for a time, lost in the certainty that you had cast away the inestimable treasure of your affections on a man who did not truly love you; for, I felt that one who did, had been incapable of the indelicate display I had just witnessed.” Here Fitz-Ullin unconsciously sighed, as though the sense of present felicity had been overborne by the painful recollections which pressed upon him, then added: “After this, every circumstance, and when we met again, Julia, every look and word was misconstrued by me into confirmations of that fatal belief, which, from the moment it took possession of me, poisoned my very existence, and benumbed every faculty but that of suffering! Why, Julia,[375] in that agonizing interview in the refreshment room at Lord L?’s, such was the infatuation of my despair, that I believed we fully understood each other. You seemed to me to acknowledge, that you had received my proposals; for you even said that my letter had given you much pain; I thought of course, you spoke of this letter.”

“I meant,” interrupted Julia, “the then last one to grandmamma, which gave us all pain, it was written in so desponding a manner. But,” she continued, colouring a little, “you spoke, just now, of—of—circumstances, which had raised momentary suspicions.” This opening led to a conversation, in which the fears for our hero’s safety which had so long influenced the conduct of Julia towards her cousin, were confessed; and the system of terror practised by Henry, developed. A burst of fond and grateful emotion on the part of Fitz-Ullin followed, by which Julia was so much affected, that[376] when she tried to speak, her lip trembled, and she was unable to articulate. She tried to smile, but the struggle was too much for her: she wept and laughed alternately, till she alarmed Fitz-Ullin so much, that he would have been almost tempted to have called for assistance, could he well have withdrawn his own support. Before Julia had half recovered, Frances entered. She was tripping lightly towards the bell, to ring for breakfast; when, perceiving her sister and our hero, she stopped in the middle of the room, the very statue of surprise! Julia disengaged herself, hastily; discovering, just at this moment, that the assistance which had hitherto been so indispensable as to render it quite proper, had now ceased to be necessary. Fitz-Ullin started up, and, flying towards Frances, seemed to meditate a rather familiar species of salutation. But she stepped back. She had, by this time, made a choice of her own, and was not disposed[377] to be embraced, as formerly, only for her sister’s sake. She extended her hand, however, which he took and kissed, as with an expression of delight on his countenance which she had not seen it wear for a long period, and which looked like the sunshine of the first bright day after a dreary winter, he exclaimed, “Frances, I am now indeed your brother!”

Frances approached her sister, who threw herself into her arms, and hid her face in her bosom, whispering: “Oh, Frances, how happy I am. You were quite right, Edmund never loved any one but me!” Frances smiled archly, and looking in her sister’s face, whispered, “First Love! Julia.”

Lord L? entered the room at this moment; and Fitz-Ullin, seeing the sisters thus engaged with each other, heroically resolved on the mighty sacrifice, of tearing himself a moment from Julia’s presence, for the purpose[378] of confirming his happiness. He hastened forward, therefore, and meeting Lord L?, requested a few minutes private conversation with him. His lordship bowed assent. They retired. Fitz-Ullin, on entering the library, grasped Lord L?’s hand, and named Julia. Lord L? looked dignified, and at a loss.

“I have loved her,” said Fitz-Ullin, “from the days of childhood to the present hour!”

“What, then, could have induced you to keep your sentiments so long a secret?” said Lord L?. “But, I will confess, Fitz-Ullin——” Here the gentlemen proceeded with mutual confessions; till, being quite satisfied with the knowledge thus obtained of each other’s private opinions, they re-entered the breakfast-room, with countenances of the most perfect good humour. Lord L? sought the eye of Julia; and when he caught it for a moment, smiled with a look, which added yet a tinge to the blush that already dyed her cheek.[379] She stood in the recess of a glass-door, apart. Fitz-Ullin was soon at her side. In a low whisper, and without looking up, she said, “I should like to speak to grandmamma before we sit down to breakfast, and you may follow me.” Both glided out unperceived.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
“Ye shall part no more.”

Our hero and heroine re-entered the house by a similar glass-door, leading into Mrs. Montgomery’s dressing-room, and were soon hand in hand at her bed-side.

“My children,” said the good old lady, looking kindly at them, “how happy you both look this morning.”

“I, ma’am,” said Fitz-Ullin, “am the happiest of all mortal beings! Julia—my own Julia, whom I have loved from the moment when you first placed her, not an hour old, in my arms, that Julia—that cherished object of my earliest and fondest affections—of my First Love, and of the only love my heart[381] ever knew, or ever can know, is now mine for ever; by her own and by Lord L?’s consent—mine for ever!”

Mrs. Montgomery looked at Julia, whose blushes, as she embraced her grandmamma, confirmed what Fitz-Ullin had said. “Kneel, my children,” said the old lady, in a faltering tone. “It is as it should be!” and she rose in her bed as she spoke, and blessed them tenderly and solemnly, uniting their hands; while Mr. Jackson entering, a species of explanation was given, in which, however, the name of Henry was not mentioned. Mrs. Montgomery, detaining Julia, dismissed both the gentlemen. They, before their return to the breakfast-room, took a short walk on the lawn, during which Fitz-Ullin made Mr. Jackson acquainted with those particulars respecting the conduct of Henry, which it had been necessary to conceal from Mrs. Montgomery. Thus satisfying[382] his kind preceptor of his reasons for not only concealing his attachment to Julia, but suffering every one to believe him lost to his friends and to society, from the effects of a disappointment in another quarter.
CHAPTER XLIX.
“Keep still in fortune’s way, her unmeant gifts
Are oft the best!”

On entering the breakfast-room, they found that Lady Oswald had by this time joined the party there.

Her ladyship contrived by looks, a kind pressure of the hand, and a well-timed whisper, to shew her nephew that she was fully prepared to congratulate him on his new found happiness.

Frances had, at length, completed her journey to the bell, and by agitating it, had occasioned, though at a later hour than usual, the appearance of a steaming tea-urn, hot rolls, &c. &c. She now began to dispense the good[384] things over which she presided, and had just requested Fitz-Ullin to ring the bell for Alice to take her grandmamma’s breakfast, when the door opened, and, supported on one side by our old friend, Mrs. Smyth, and on the other by Julia, Mrs. Montgomery herself appeared. Whether it was the extreme contrast between the figures of the very old and the very young lady, or the amiable light in which youth always appears, while rendering support to the infirmities of age, or whether Julia might, for any reasons best known to herself, be really looking more blooming or more happy than usual, or whether there was any thing in Fitz-Ullin’s own thoughts which diffused a peculiar lustre over the charms of her he now viewed, almost for the first time as his own, or, whether all these causes operated together; certain it is, he found one moment to think her more lovely, more irresistibly attractive than ever, before the bustle immediately occasioned by Mrs.[385] Montgomery’s entrance, commenced. It was the first time that lady, so deservedly the object of the love and veneration of all, had left her room since she had heard of Henry’s death. Every one rose to meet her—every one hailed her approach with a joyful welcome—and even Fitz-Ullin himself, in all the hurry of his spirits, had the presence of mind to remember the great chair in which she usually sat, and to place it for her. He also succeeded in finding the foot-stool, after twice stumbling over it in the course of his researches; and was, at length, amply rewarded by perceiving, at the conclusion of his labours, that the seat next to Julia had, by general consent, been left for him.

Though the breakfast was rather a late one, seldom has there been a meal at which all who sat down to it were so truly happy. Those most interested, indeed, were almost too much so for enjoyment. The heart scarcely knows[386] how, thus quickly, to appropriate so much new found felicity: at one moment it doubts the reality of the very bliss it feels, and the next trembles at being the repository of so great a treasure.

The breakfast was ended, but no one moved; all seemed unwilling to break up so happy an assembly. Meanwhile, ungrateful world, the author, or at least the importer of so much joy, was, in the very intensity of that joy, totally forgotten, till an exclamation from Arthur, of “Oh, how beautiful!” drew pretty general attention towards the small table, on which the restored jewel box still stood open.

“That’s true!” said our heroine: “where is poor Gotterimo? I have not thanked him for his honesty in bringing back these things. I forget, too, where it was he said he found them.”

“Oh, Lady Oswald!” exclaimed Fitz-Ullin, “I forgot to mention it before, but—” and,[387] making two strides into the library, and one back, carrying a pile of parchment, he continued—“Here are the title-deeds of Arthur’s estates.” Lady Oswald was near fainting. Frances was obliged to assist in supporting her.

“Why, Fitz-Ullin! where, in the name of all that is marvellous, did these come from?” said Lord L?, eagerly examining the parchments.

“I had them of the honest fellow who brought back Lady Julia’s diamonds,” answered Fitz-Ullin.

“But where?” “And when?” “And how?” vociferated many voices.

“I met with the poor man this morning,” replied our hero, “tumbled out of a gig on the high road, a few miles from hence. A couple of fellows were about to rob, and, I suppose, murder him—” Here numerous exclamations of horror and surprise interrupted the speaker.[388] At length he was permitted to proceed. “The villains fled,” he continued, “at the first sound of my carriage-wheels; but, on driving up to the spot, I perceived a person lying on the side of the road, and desired my servants to stop and give any assistance in their power. While they did so, having ascertained that the man was not hurt, I leaned from the window, enjoying the freshness of the morning air, and began, I suppose, to think of something else; for I found, in a short time after, that the poor fellow had been throwing away many of his best bows, and repeating frequently, ‘How you do, sir?’ just under me, before I observed him. When I returned his salutation, he said, that he remembered me very well; for that he had seen me at the house of the good family, and that I was the nice Captain who had advised the lady to buy the chain. He then told me a very long story about a sea-chest, and about a box of jewels, that he knew to be the property of Lady Julia L?.”

[389]

“Yes,” interrupted Frances, “for the box is one which Julia happened to employ Gotterimo to purchase for her in town; he could have no doubt, therefore, to whom it belonged.”

“So he said,” rejoined our hero; “and that finding these parchments lying near the box, and with them some letters, one of which, he said, was directed to Lady Julia L?, he thought it most prudent to bring all to this house. On glancing at the parchments,” continued Fitz-Ullin, “which, as the little man concluded his recital, he produced and offered to me, and which bore their titles, in large characters, on their outsides, I perceived immediately their nature and importance; and decided on returning to Lodore, for the purpose of assisting Lady Oswald to establish the rights of Arthur, rendered, by the recovery of these documents, indisputable. As for the letters, I should have considered it an unwarrantable liberty in me to have examined even[390] their outsides; I therefore recommended it to Gotterimo to deliver them himself, with the box, into Lady Julia’s own hands. This arrangement made, I returned as quickly as possible, and—”

“And, on your arrival,” interrupted Lady Oswald, who was now a little recovered, “forgot the very existence of Lady Oswald, title-deeds, pedlar and all! This account of the transaction, oh learned judges, wants that consistency which is characteristic of the simple truth,” added her ladyship, much amused.

Fitz-Ullin, who was saying something aside to Julia, coloured, laughed, and replied, “I read the deeds over very attentively, I assure you, ma’am, in the library, on my first getting out of the carriage, before I came into the breakfast-room.”

“Oh then, it was in the breakfast-room you happened to forget me and my parchments,” said Lady Oswald, with a significant look.

[391]

“What have we got here?” exclaimed Lord L?, examining a packet of the parchments, which proved to be distinct from the rest, though contained within the same outer envelope of grey linen, “why, here are the title-deeds of the Craigs!”

“Indeed! indeed!” cried various voices.

Gotterimo was now called for. “He was very useful in the recovery of the pictures and plate,” observed Lord L?. “By the bye, Fitz-Ullin,” he added, turning to our hero, “did you ever hear us mention that daring robbery at the Craigs?”

“Oh, yes,” replied our hero, “I was one of the luncheon party there the day it was discovered.” As he concluded, he looked at Julia, who looked again and smiled. What multitudes of thoughts, on both sides, crowded into that moment. “Well,” said Lord L?, “it was chiefly through the means of this Gotterimo, that the things have been recovered.[392] He found out for us the persons to whom the swindler had pawned the articles, and though at the expense certainly of some of the savings of minority, we have succeeded in getting almost every thing into its place again.”

Gotterimo, who had been sent for, was now ushered in. Every one welcomed and thanked him, and commendations of his honourable and upright conduct, accompanied by assurances that his services should be handsomely rewarded, were poured upon him on all sides. The little English he possessed, was banished from his memory, bows and blushes were all the replies he could offer. The gentlemen then proceeded to question him respecting the mode of discovering the parchments, letters, &c. He could give little more information than had already been collected. After the particulars, therefore, were all recapitulated by him connectedly and at full[393] length, he was dismissed, and commended to the care of Mrs. Smyth, a destination to which he had no objection, for poor Gotterimo had lately begun to have some hopes of rendering himself agreeable in the eyes of Alice Smyth, who was already very agreeable in his eyes.

Lord L? requested Mr. Jackson to adjourn with him to the library, for the purpose of examining the packet of letters, which, having been found with the parchments, might possibly throw some light on the late mysterious business. His lordship had also the cruelty to ask Fitz-Ullin to assist them with his judgment. Our hero had just whispered a request to Julia to take a walk in the shrubbery, and had just received a smile in assent. What a disappointment!
CHAPTER L.
… “Now, unfold the mystery.”

The trio of gentlemen proceeded to their task. The first epistle which was casually unfolded, exhibited but a few lines, wide asunder, and in their purport so unimportant, that Mr. Jackson flung the letter, spread open as it happened to be, on the top of the fire, and proceeded to take up a second. Lord L?, chancing to rest his eyes on the first while the heat was causing it to roll itself up, perceived, with some surprise, that the spaces between the lines, as well as all else that had appeared blank, was rapidly becoming, as by magic, covered with bright green characters. He snatched up the paper just as the devouring flame was about to[395] envelope it, and succeeded in saving all but a small part. The green writing was in the hand of Henry; and, to the utter astonishment of all the party, addressed to his father—so long supposed dead. The contents of the letter equally puzzled and confounded our secret committee, and decided them on comparing all the hitherto unexamined, because supposed to be unimportant, papers of Henry with those before them.

They were accordingly sent for, and the letters on both sides found to present, in black ink, what appeared to be but the idle, careless correspondence of two young messmates, while, on being submitted to the ordeal of heat, they were all found to contain, in green writing, which, as it cooled, gradually disappeared again, the strange and mysterious communications, for many years, of father and son. From these letters the following wonderful discoveries were collected. The captain of the[396] privateer, the murderer of the younger St. Aubin, was shown to be the elder St. Aubin—the father of the unfortunate Henry, who was thus proved to have died by the hand of a parent! The silent, heart-broken being, who had so tenderly watched Julia, and who, there can be little doubt, met her death by the explosion of the smuggler, it appeared from all the circumstances, was the ill-fated Maria, Mrs. Montgomery’s sister. She, it seems, as well as her depraved husband, had escaped from the wreck of the vessel in which they had both so many years since been supposed to be lost.

The vessel in question, it may be remembered, had specie on board. Some of the letters contained casual expressions, from which it might be gathered, that her foundering by night was not quite accidental. And one in particular, addressed by the elder St. Aubin to the younger, contained an account of his fortunate[397] escape, as he termed it, with his black, as much of the money as could conveniently be carried, and his wife; and their landing on the coast of France. The money obtained by this very suspicious adventure seems, from many after-allusions, to have been the first setting up of the desperate St. Aubin, in his triple calling of pirate, privateer, and smuggler, carried on for so many years after, with various degrees of success.

The whole correspondence, from its commencement to its conclusion, proved that the St. Aubins, father and son, had, from Julia’s infancy, meditated, and ever since, step by step, proceeded with the plot for carrying her away, as soon as she should be of age. The spoils of her very large fortune, (rendered, by the death of Lady L? and her infant son, unalienable,) they were ultimately to have divided, while the income of the Craigs would have been the present[398] reward of their diabolical labours. Their victim, poor Julia, was to have been kept abroad, in strict concealment—the wife, by compulsion, of Henry, till cruel treatment and horrible threats should compel her to declare herself married to him by her own free choice. He was to have corresponded, meanwhile, in her name, with her family; having, it appeared, for this purpose, actually practised, for years, the imitation of her handwriting. It was also found that he had possessed himself of impressions of her seals, duplicates of her keys, &c. On the subject of his being the intercepter of Fitz-Ullin’s proposals, and the writer of Julia’s supposed rejection, there was a letter of his, which exulted in the fact, and related his good fortune in having himself taken the precious epistle, as he termed it, from the postman, and having been inspired to suspect the truth on seeing it directed to Julia, in our hero’s hand. There could be no doubt[399] that Henry was also the author of all the other forged letters.

Parts of the correspondence contained expressions and allusions which proved that the elder St. Aubin was the person who, under the name of Lauson, and assisted with keys and vouchers provided by Henry, had stripped the Craigs of all its valuables. By the produce of these it appeared the necessary funds had been raised for carrying on the desperate design on Julia herself, shortly after attempted. It further appeared that, by a curious combination of circumstances, the St. Aubins had, since a short time before the memorable attempt on our hero’s life at the masquerade at Arandale, been acquainted with the real birth of Fitz-Ullin, then known as the poor Edmund Montgomery.

The circumstances were as follows. Jin of the Gins, (whose identity with the strolling beggar, who stole Edmund when a child, is[400] not, we trust, forgotten,) had, it seems, been so long in the employ of the elder St. Aubin as a confidential agent for the concealment and disposal of smuggled goods, and the conduct of various other transactions of a like nature, that she had, in her turn, confided to him the secret of our hero’s birth, for the purpose of consulting him as to whether the said secret was, or was not marketable. She had even offered to go shares with him, provided he would assist her in making something of the business. He had, of course, dissuaded her from taking any step that might risk discovery before the marriage of Julia to Henry should be effected, after which he promised to put her in the way of extorting a sum, either from the nurse and her son for keeping the secret, or from Lord Fitz-Ullin, the father, then living, and Edmund his rightful heir, for disclosing it. All this was explained in a letter from the outlaw to his[401] son, as an argument for redoubled vigilance in the watch the latter always kept over Julia and Edmund. In the elder St. Aubin’s next letter, his fears of the consequences of Julia’s attachment to our hero seem to have been much increased by some late accounts from Henry; for he even hints at how desirable it would be to rid themselves of all apprehension of danger from that quarter, and concludes by commanding his son to procure him a ticket to the Arandale masquerade, where, by approaching the parties in disguise, he should be enabled, he says, to judge himself of the urgency of the case. This epistle left no doubt that the elder St. Aubin had acted the part of the Indian juggler. Another letter contained allusions identifying him with the false pilot, who had attempted to run the Euphrasia aground at Leith.

In an early part of the correspondence the fate of poor Betsy Park was spoken of as having[402] been untimely; but so darkly that whether the dreadful apprehensions which cost poor David his life, were well or ill founded must remain for ever involved in mystery. One of the letters of the elder St. Aubin, however, was of a very suspicious tendency, as it expressed the most unbridled rage towards Henry for having committed any folly which might ultimately interfere with the perfect legality of his projected marriage with Julia; adding, with savage ferocity, that whatever step his own imprudence had made necessary must be taken without flinching. Those letters may appear, considering the subjects of which they treat, to have been imprudently written: but the precaution of the invisible ink seems by the correspondents to have been thought all sufficient. It must also be observed that the information now obtained is collected from scattered hints darkly enough given, but elucidated on the present occasion by a comparison[403] of both sides of the correspondence, a contingency scarcely to have been anticipated. That such letters, however, were not all regularly destroyed is only one proof more, added to the many already extant, of the glaring imprudence with which vicious proceedings of every description are almost invariably carried on.

Lord L? expressed himself greatly shocked at those proofs of Henry’s depravity. “We certainly have before us,” rejoined Mr. Jackson, “melancholy evidence that he has, from a boy, lived the base tool of his desperate father, the convenient link of the outlaw with civilized society, the slave of a tyrant whom he could not love, yet, from the spell of habit unbroken from childhood, dared not resist. How he at last died by the hand of that parent, we have seen: and, that the blow by which he fell may be invested with its full portion of horror, we must remember that it was struck with[404] the intent to murder, though not to murder Henry.”

“To facilitate the retaking of his ship,” said Fitz-Ullin, “by the death of the only officer on board, was, I should think, all that the elder St. Aubin could have had in view by his wanton assassination, in cold blood, of a person he believed to be a stranger.”

Henry’s having no knowledge to whom the privateer belonged, when he went on board her as prize-master, was accounted for by an attention to dates, which showed that she had been entirely fitted out and manned, since he, Henry, had last gone to sea in the Euphrasia. Each shocking discovery had been discussed, as the letter or letters throwing light on each, had been severally perused. The final decision of the gentlemen was, that none of the circumstances should ever be mentioned to Mrs. Montgomery; and that even to Julia and Frances, the disgusting scene of guilt and misery[405] should be but partially, and gradually laid open.

Lord L? was the first to leave the library: the retrospect of past years always spread a shade over his brow, and occasioned him to seek the retirement of his own apartment. Fitz-Ullin was also hurrying away, when Mr. Jackson drew him back, and, with a countenance of the deepest melancholy, showed him a letter which he had, he said, succeeded in setting apart while examining the papers.

This letter contained allusions to the death of Lady L?, worded in a style which made it appear but too probable, that there has been some foul play.

The vengeance which the elder St. Aubin had long since sworn to accomplish, and, in its accomplishment, to render his wretched child his tool, is adverted to in evident connexion with other allusions to the immense fortune thus by the nature of certain settlements, secured[406] beyond contingency to a certain individual: expressions which, all circumstances considered, seemed scarcely to admit of other construction.

When Fitz-Ullin had finished the perusal of the lines pointed out to him, both gentlemen looked at each other for some seconds in silence. Mr. Jackson then, taking the letter from the hand of our hero, said solemnly, “With your approval, my Lord, I shall commit this paper to the flames: the surmise it suggests, is too horrible to be suffered to poison the future reflections of a bereft husband.

“If the crime which that surmise presents to the appalled imagination, has indeed been perpetrated, both the perpetrators already stand before a higher, and more unerring tribunal, than earth affords.” So saying, he flung the letter on the fire, and stood to see its last vestiges consumed.
CHAPTER LI.
“Precious is the return of that lost look
Of love.”
… “Lighten’d glows each breast with rapture,
Grateful now, too intense before!”

Fitz-Ullin, at length released, sought our heroine from room to room. That unreserved communication of sentiment with her which had been looked forward to with such intoxicating delight, was now anticipated with a sobered feeling: it was now longed for as a balm to heal a sickened, and if, in his circumstances, that were possible, an almost saddened spirit.

Julia was not to be found in the house; he therefore wandered into the shrubbery, where,[408] at the very paling gate at which they had parted on such miserable terms the evening before, he perceived her, and Frances with her. The latter, however, with a sportive air, disappeared at sight of our hero, who, the next moment, stood before Julia. Scarcely had one smile beamed on him, ere all that had almost forced the blissful explanation of the morning from its first place in his mind, was forgotten. This same smile, to Fitz-Ullin, who for so long had not had even a smile, seemed all sufficient; for the lovers now walked on in silence. By the time, however, that they had completed the round of the wood-walk, as it is called, and re-entered the shrubbery at the further end, they appeared not only to have recovered the use of speech, but to have become quite confidential, for they now held between them an open letter, which they seemed to be reading together. From an observation which our hero made as they finished the perusal of[409] the letter, it was probably the one which he had in the morning promised to show Julia, and which had cost both so much misery.

“That letter,” he said, “I cannot view without shuddering. It has so long governed my fate, that I shall never learn to consider it what it really is, a mere unimportant scrap of paper, blotted and rendered foul by falsehood!” Every hour of their past lives was now reviewed; every word, every look, adverted to; and one little spellword found, which, now that it might be spoken, reconciled every contradiction, and solved every mystery. The light, in short, of First Love, that brightest sunshine of the heart, was now flung back on the long perspective of years gone by, shedding its beams on the distant scene, and displaying, decked in their natural and pleasing colours, all those greenest spots on memory’s waste, which hopelessness had hitherto overshadowed,[410] or treachery presented through its own false medium.

Such recapitulations, however, to all but the parties interested, might seem tedious; we shall not therefore go through all; yet, were they most natural in those, whose every feeling had been for so long put to the torture, by the cruelest misrepresentations of all that most concerned their happiness. It was no wonder that they were not satisfied by merely telling their understandings, with a sweeping clause, that all was just the contrary of what it had been, or rather of what it had appeared to be; they felt that they owed to themselves, as it were, the delight of reversing each individual picture, and that hearts so long inured to suffering, required to be soothed into a confidence in their own felicity, by dwelling for a time on its details.

The scene in the refreshment room was adverted[411] to. “When you kindly spoke,” he said, “of the consolation I ought to derive from friendship, and of my disappointed hopes never having been well founded, how bitter were my feelings! I understood you to mean, coolly to inform me that, if I had ever entertained a hope of being acceptable to you, it was false and presumptuous! I almost felt resentment; for, shall I say it, Julia, I thought,” and he hesitated, “that you had not always treated me as—as honour and good feeling should have dictated to a woman, whose affections were engaged to another.”

“And I,” said Julia, colouring, “could not help thinking you very unkind and unfeeling, indeed, in rejecting, in the scornful and almost angry manner you did, my—all our friendship, and saying that the hope of being accepted by Lady Susan, (as I supposed,) was all that, in your eyes, had given value to existence!”

“Yes, Julia,” he said, “the hope I spoke[412] of was, indeed, all that in my eyes gave value to existence!”

When they had thus discussed points of tenderer interest, and at length seated themselves in an arbour particularly well calculated for the reception of lovers, Edmund, after a short silence, said, rather suddenly, “What must you have thought, Julia, of my interference about Lord Surrel?”

“I was very much obliged,” she replied.

“Why, nothing could have justified me,” he continued, “but the belief, not only of your attachment, but of your engagement, and of my being the sole person to whom that engagement had been confided. Why, what could you have supposed when I requested a private interview, and commenced questioning you on such a subject?”

Julia did not reply; but she blushed, and looked away in so hurried a manner, that a sudden thought darted across the mind of Fitz-Ullin.[413] He caught her hand, and looking in her face with the most curiously amused expression of countenance, said, “No, Julia, did you give my request the common interpretation?”

No reply from Julia; but the twisting away, or rather the trying to twist away of the hand, the deepening of the blush, the averting of the eyes, were confirmations all sufficient. Our hero could not help still smiling, while he tried to reconcile and to sooth. This, of course, offended more than it appeased, and the hand, though it had been kissed a thousand times, still manifested signs of being an unwilling captive. Fitz-Ullin was now obliged to apologize, so that all rational conversation was put an end to. Nay, he even knelt, and succeeded in making the other hand a prisoner; but notwithstanding all this humility of attitude, the countenance had, mixed with its absolute delight, a sort of triumph in the very fulness of[414] his felicity, with which Julia could not yet bring herself to be quite as well pleased, as with that expression which she had often remarked on former occasions, when, by giving Edmund the hundredth part of a smile, she had made him look humbly happy. After a short pause, however, employed in making his peace as well as he might, he renewed the conversation by saying, “And what could you have thought, Julia, of my reiterated declarations, that mine were but the claims of a brother?” This was another of the subjects on which she could not reply, and he went on. “I believed you justly shocked at the idea that you were about to be addressed as a lover, by one who knew your melancholy secret; and that, too, so soon after the terrible death of poor Henry. I hastened to do away such a suspicion; for, if I had a selfish hope, it was a distant one of course, and one which I did not, at the time, distinctly confess, even to myself. Under the[415] same false impressions I viewed, with utter amazement, the composure of countenance, voice, and manner, which you maintained, when things were said by others which I heard with terror, from the supposition that the very sounds must be shocking to your ears. When, for instance, Mr. Jackson read aloud the account of the trial, which, necessarily included the circumstances of the murder. The day of the funeral too; in short, I was thrown out of every calculation. I had expected to endure much from seeing you shed tears for one who, even in death, I could have envied any testimony of your affection; I had armed myself for this trial, severe as it must have proved, but I was altogether unprepared to find the being I had loved for the tenderness of her nature, the innocence of her heart, totally without feeling, or a consummate actress, or worse, a creature capable of having formed, from mere levity, without even the excuse of a sincere though[416] misplaced attachment, an engagement, unsanctioned by a father, and imprudent in itself.

“That I should ever be able to win the love of one whose very friendship I had lost by declaring my attachment, one whom I now appeared to inspire with dread, was a thing quite hopeless. I saw, indeed, what were Lord L?’s flattering wishes. The very idea seemed to shake the powers of my mind, to darken my judgment, madden my passions, and harden my heart; for there were moments of bitterness, in which I asked myself, should I set your feelings at defiance, and avail myself of Lord L?’s authority to obtain you! The thought was of course rejected with disdain; but, its ever having crossed my imagination, was sufficient to prove, that I was no longer master of myself.”

“I wish, Edmund,” said Julia, when in the evening the lovers again directed their steps towards the shrubbery walk, “you would tell[417] me what it was that caused your peculiar austerity of manner on board the Euphrasia.”

“Why, that is a question which I cannot very well answer, Julia,” said Fitz-Ullin, smiling and taking her hand. She persisted, however. “You must remember,” he said at length, “that I believed you perfectly acquainted with my sentiments. In the innocent friendship of your manner, therefore, I saw—what appeared to me, seeing through a false medium, the weakness, if I must say it, of a woman who could not altogether resign the admiration of, even a rejected lover. And, in a woman who was herself engaged, it seemed doubly cruel, to foster with smiles (that, to one who already loved, and believed his love known to her who smiled, must bewilder every sense; and that for the mere idle gratification of vanity,) an unfortunate passion which she could not return, which, in fact, she had already cast from her!”

[418]

“My own Julia!” he exclaimed, suddenly stopping short and taking both her hands, “you really look as much condemned as if I had brought this horrible accusation against your pure innocent self in due form; but,” he added, “you must consider that when we are very miserable, we are never very just to those who cause our suffering! Weak too as I thought your conduct, its effects were too much for my strength of mind: I felt that it was dangerous to be near you. In how different a light would all that imagination thus misconstrued have appeared, could I have suspected that it was generous pity for my supposed disappointment about Lady Susan which gave that dangerous softness to your manner, unchecked by any idea that my feelings towards yourself had ever been other than those of an adopted brother. And now, Julia, it is your turn to make confessions: do tell me what crowning of all my presumption was it, of[419] which you suspected me when, no later than last evening, your gentle nature was, at length, provoked to say, ‘What can you mean? What can you dare to mean?’” She appeared very unwilling to reply; he entreated her to tell him, at least, to what feelings of hers it was she thought he meant to allude. At length she stammered out, “I suppose—I thought—I—must have thought—you meant—my—my—regard for—for yourself.”

A delighted smile grew gradually over the features of Fitz-Ullin as he bent his head, trying to follow the downcast eyes, and catch the broken accents of the speaker. “But how then,” he whispered, “did you account for my not gladly, delightedly availing myself of—of—your—amiable condescension?”

What words Julia found, or whether she found any, in her opinion, sufficiently delicate by which to express that she had understood him to have apologized more than once for[420] not being able to return the secret affection he had discovered her to entertain for him, we cannot exactly say, for here the scene closes. No very serious misunderstanding, however, appears to have ensued, for the lovers returned to tea with perfectly happy faces, and, during that cheerful ceremony, Edmund’s delight assumed almost an extravagant cast, while Julia actually began to prefer his looking quite happy to that more humble expression of dependance on her sovereign will and pleasure for the slightest portion of his felicity, which used to gratify her so much.

The beginnings of love may be selfish, may be tyrannical, may require that vanity and thirst of power shall have due tribute paid them; but, when love is perfected, not only is vanity cast away, power and pride laid down, but self, that idol of the unoccupied heart, is forgotten, or valued only as contributing to the happiness of the being beloved! We speak,[421] of course, of that early sunbeam of life’s morning, First Love: the description here given can never be applicable to the mixed nature of the later awakened sentiment, with its thousand necessary alloys: the selfishness called into play by self-defence, the doubts of the future, taught by experience of the past; with all the calculating insinuations of interest hinting the wisdom of training the heart’s tendrils to cling to convenience.

Let the plant be love, of course, says prudence; but why not place it in the comfortable south aspect of wealth and splendour?

CHAPTER LII.
… “Choicest flowers, of every hue,
Spring forth where’er their fairy tread hath pass’d;
And magic gardens bloom around regions
Fitting for such loveliness! floating near
Music’s sweetness vibrates, with hov’ring odour,
Holding soft commune on the fields of air.”

In answer to all Fitz-Ullin’s arguments and entreaties for an early day, Julia pleaded a due respect to her grandmother’s feelings. In compliment to these it was decided that the wedding should not take place for three months. But months flew past with the velocity of days, all nature glowed with tints never seen before; every bird sang a sweeter song than formerly; particularly a thrush which had its nest in a Portugal laurel, just behind the shady seat to[423] which the lovers strolled every evening. The very climate was improved: it was never either too hot or too cold, that is, in the opinion of Julia and Fitz-Ullin. The rest of the world, we believe, found the changes of weather much such as they generally are in this, by all but lovers, sadly abused climate of ours.

Previous to the expiration of the allotted three months, the Arandale family arrived at Lodore, together with the Marquis and Marchioness of H?, Lord and Lady Morven, shortly after, the Dowager Countess Fitz-Ullin, and lastly, Colonel Beaumont, now the accepted lover of Frances.

The weddings of both the sisters were solemnized on the same day by Mr. Jackson, in the same church in which he had baptized both, and pronounced over the then unknown Edmund, that memorable benediction, with which he bestowed on him the temporary appellation of Montgomery; a name under which, as[424] Mr. Jackson this day observed, our hero afterwards reaped so many laurels, that to have laid it aside for any title but that of Fitz-Ullin, would have been rather a resignation of glory, than an acquisition of splendour.

Lord and Lady Fitz-Ullin set out immediately for the Craigs, whither they were followed shortly by a large party of their friends. Even Mrs. Montgomery, (who had resolved never again to leave Lodore House,) sustained by the renovating influence of happiness, performed the journey, and did not suffer from the exertion.

The Jews who had possession of the Oswald estates, were obliged to resign them on the production of the title-deeds. Now, therefore, that every one but Gotterimo himself had reaped the benefits of his honesty, it was high time to think of rewarding him. Mrs. Smyth, by the liberality of her mistress and the savings of her long servitude, was enabled to give Alice[425] a few hundreds. Lady Fitz-Ullin added a few more for her jewel-box, not forgetting the parcel of old letters by which it was accompanied. Lord Fitz-Ullin gave a suitable acknowledgement for the title-deeds of his wife’s estate, the Craigs, not forgetting the long lost happiness found in the bottom of the same old chest. And Lady Oswald, most willingly, paid a handsome reward for the discovery of the title-deeds of her son’s estates. Thus portioned, Alice was bestowed on our worthy little friend, who carried her forthwith to London. We are happy to add, that, from the credit which his upright mode of dealing gained him, his establishment became, in the course of time, one of the greatest in that great city.

CHAPTER LIII.
“Land of the harp! the soul of music dwells
With thee! thine every word, thy wildest thought
Is poetry; thy fields, thy groves, thy streams
Are melody! Henceforward thou shalt bloom
In the bright summer of prosperity.
Thy sovereign shall behold thee face to face,
The eloquence of truth on thy fair brow
Beaming.—Oh, he never can forget its ray!
On thy green shores, the heart’s own welcome dwells!
There, an hundred thousand greetings wait him!
There, an hundred thousand blessings greet him!”

After the visit we have already mentioned to the Craigs, a season in Town, and a quiet month or two at dear Lodore, Fitz-Ullin prevailed on Julia to accompany him to that gem of the ocean, the Emerald Isle, the land of his birth, for the purpose of visiting his extensive paternal estates in the beautiful county of ?.

Here, nature indeed had been bountiful; but her benign intentions had, hitherto, been defeated by an ill judged organization of the social system.

For six and twenty years, agents and middlemen had oppressed the hardy tenant of the soil; till, what had been courage, became fierceness; what had been humour, bitterness; and even native beauty of feature was veiled by the utterly hopeless expression, which hung on almost every countenance; while not the muscles of the face only, but the very limbs of naturally athletic men appeared relaxed. For the rewards of labour being insufficient to inspire industry, bodily fatigue was unsustained by mental energy, and the mere animal instinct of hunger remained the sole stimulus to exertion.

It had never entered the minds of this simple, almost wild people, to look to the government for justice or redress. The executive[428] power, in all its branches, was, and long had been, concentrated and personified in their imaginations under the loathed figure of a hangman; and him whom they considered as their natural protector, their landlord, leader, and hereditary chief, was out of the reach of hearing their complaints. It is not surprising, therefore, that the arrival of the happy couple, surrounded by all the splendour to which their rank and fortune entitled them, lending a ready ear to every tale of woe, and with the hand of benevolence open for the relief of every want, was viewed by all as the rising of the morning of hope, on a land long desolated by a dreary succession of stormy nights that knew no day between.

Fitz-Ullin was so forcibly struck by the marks which all around him bore, of private duties sacrificed to public ones, during the long and brilliant life of the late Earl, that his reflections and resolutions on the subject very[429] shortly became such as we may trace in a conversation which took place, a few evenings after his arrival at Ullin Castle. He was seated with his lovely Countess on the balcony of a high tower, from whence might be seen on every side, a large portion of the wide domains of his forefathers.

He had been indulging in the fond hope, justified by the then situation of Julia, that the future possessor of all he now beheld, would, ere long, enter life amid prospects delightful to the heart of a parent, and sheltered too, he trusted, under providence, from the rough blasts, which he had in infancy encountered; for Julia had promised him that she herself would nurture her own child, and never commit it to the hands of a stranger, to run the risk of enduring what its father had endured.

While these gentle thoughts dwelt in his mind, his eye accidentally rested on the smoke[430] that stole from the lowly chimneys of some cottages, which, scattered at various intervals, lay concealed among the distant trees.

As busy fancy painted the rustic group around each fire-side, a something like self-reproach smote upon the heart of Fitz-Ullin.

“How often,” he exclaimed, giving audible utterance to his thoughts, “how often have I felt enthusiasm, amounting almost to a wild species of joy, when engaged in the work of war, and, of course, of destruction; and behold around me here, the labours of peace, the power of diffusing happiness to multitudes, lying neglected and forgotten.”

“Do not say the work of destruction!” interrupted Julia, eagerly: “it never was in your nature, Edmund, to take pleasure in destroying the very worst of enemies! Say rather the work, the glorious, the indispensable work of protection; for of what avail would it be to[431] spread prosperity over the face of the land if we suffer the foe to come in and lay our labours waste?”

“True, Julia! most true!” replied Fitz-Ullin, delighted to have his favourite and habitual views of the subject thus revived. And as he spoke, he arose unconsciously, and, assuming a loftiness of carriage of which his figure was peculiarly susceptible, looked once more the hero—a character lately almost forgotten in that of the lover.

“Seen in this light,” he said, “our duty to our country is also one of the most sacred of those which we owe to our kindred and dependants, taken too on its greatest, its noblest scale! The reflections, however, which the scene before us has awakened, have had their use; they have reminded me that, in the pride of performing a selected task, gratifying to our ambition or our vanity, we must not neglect the manifold and unpretending duties[432] which surround our homes. You will allow,” he added, changing his manner from the grave to the sportive, “heroine as you are, Julia, that in the intervals of peace, at least, we ought to thatch the peasant’s hut, and see that he has grain to sow his fields—aye,” he continued, his voice and manner again becoming serious, “and a cheerful countenance when he reaps them, emanating from the consciousness that a liberal portion of all which the labour of his hands has caused the ground to bring forth shall be his own and his children’s. Nor is this more than just: large estates were small, indeed, in value to their luxurious possessor, did not the sweat of the brow of his fellow-creature render them productive.”

The impressions received by the mind of Fitz-Ullin on this evening were never effaced. In the course of promotion he became, as his father had been, Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin, and,[433] under that title, continued to reap, when called upon by the emergencies of the state, laurels as distinguished as any gained by his great predecessor; but his people at home were never forgotten. His sons and his daughters were born amongst them, and all the many silent blessings which fall from the hand of the resident landlord introduced into their dwellings. While as much of a long, blissful, and prosperous life as he could spare from his more active duties to his country, and his closer ties to his immediate family and dependants was devoted to the noble task of pleading the cause of the oppressed of his native land in the great assembly of his peers.

THE END.