Emily Moreland, or, The maid of the valley

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EMILY MORELAiND;

MAID OF THE VAIiIiBY.

BY HANNAH MARIA JONES,

itUTHORK-S OF ROSAIINB WOOOBRIDGE, STRANGE113 OF THK GtBN, THE ■;rgnoijlR RIHQj
ORETN^ CREFN, THE VICTIM OF FASHION, Ac. &C. Ac

Jjovr was our pretty cot, our tallest rose

Pecp'd at tho chamber window. We could heaT,

At silent noon, and eve, and early morti.

The sea's faint niunnur. In the open air

Our myrtles t'lossom'd, and across tlie porch

Thick jasmines cluster'd. The little landscape rcimd

Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye.

It was a spot which you might aptly call

• The Valley of Seclusion.' CoiisarauE-

XiONSOM-i

Printed by C Bav«ej, Duke Street, IJnc.oln»s Ton Fields,

FOR GEORGE VIRTUE, IVY LANE, PATERNOSTER FOW

BATH-STREET BRISTOL; AND ST. VINCENT 8TKEET, LJyEl'PUOr.

EMILY MORELAND

CHAPTER I.

And as she reach' d her father's door,
SJie stood, as she would stir no more I
• 4f « • • » *

Then sunk, and on his threshold cried,
Oil, lay me in my grave !"

I Ji E deep solemn tones of the neighbouring church
clock were proclaiming the hour of midnight, and
the broad yellow harvest moon was riding in un-
clouded majesty, shedding her silver light over every
flower and tree, when the aged inhabitants of a small
cottage in the Vaie of 8t. Clare were roused from
their peaceful slumbers, by the low wailing of a fe-
male voice, which sounded immediately under the
casement of their chamber.

"Listen, Reuben! do you not hear?" exclaimed
the old woman. " Do you not hear that sound ? It
must be my child, returned to her poor mother ! Oh,
yes, I am sure it was her voice, that wakened nie from
a dream, in which 1 saw her standing by my side, as
ItJooming and innocent as when she left us."

'•You are dreaming still, my good \v; i;:an," re-

4 EMI I, Y M O R R r, A N n .

piled iier husband, with a heavy sigh; " I heard no
sound like a voice, I was awakened by some unusual
noise, and I thought 1 heard a female loudly sobbins^
and weepinj^; but it was hushed, before I could "

"Hark!" interrupted his wife, who had been in-
tentlv listening for the sound which had interested
her, without paying any attention to what he said.
"Hark! there it is again! — and there is an infiint,
too! Gracious Heaven, what can it mean?"

"Mother, dear mother, have mercy on me!" ex-
claimed a feeble voice, in the accents of despair.
" For my poor baby's sake, have pity on me! For
the l«)ve of Heaven, do not deny me a shelter, or it
will perish!"

Agonised with terror, surprise, and grief, the un-
happy parents hurried from tlieir bed.

"My Marian, my child!" exclaimed the father,
ijnclosing the casement, while Mrs. Moreland, who
was younger, and more active tiian her husband,
hastened towards the staiis, to admit the poor wan-
derer.

Overcome, however, wilJi agitation and surprise,
her trembling limbs refused their support, and she
sank on the foot of the bed, imploring tlie scarcely
less agitated fatlicr to hasten to their child — " Their
ior.ii-lost, unhapny Marian!"

Reuben Moreland needed no second adjuration.
He had long forgotten the faults vvhic]i had estranged
liis «diild from her happy home, and mo^^t ardently
had he longed for the moment that showld restore
her, repentant and wretched, as he knew she would
be, to his arms.

EM II.V MO II KLAN I). D

A fev> iiioiuents only elapsed before the door wan
opeiied, and the trembling" Marian, with an infant in
her arnjs, stood before her father.

For an instant she gazed at him in silence, with a
look of wild agony, which terrified him; the next, she
was en her knees at his feet, imploring, in incoherent
and broken accents, the pity and forgiveness of her
parents.

*' My child I my child!" exclaimed the agitated
Moreland. raising- her hastily from the ground, " I
do pity thee — I do forgive thee— and from this mo-
ment "

His voice failed, and he burst into tears, while
Marian s cold and pallid face (rendered more ghastly
in appearance by the pale moonbeams, which fell
full upon it) sank upon hhs shoulder, and witli diffi-
culty he bore her and the poor infant, who was now
fully awakened, and added by its fi^eble cries to the
distress of the moment, into the kitchen, where she
was received with open arnis by her transported mo-
ther, who seemed to forget, in the joy of her return,
all the distressful circumstances attendant on it.

*' My child! my child! — blessed be this day!" she
exclaimed. " How have I prayed to see thee onco
more! But let me take the poor baby, for thou
ttemblest so. Reuben, she is chilled by the night
air; try if thou canst kindle up the embers; there is
still a Ji*tle vvine in the bottle, and, if it is made hot,
it will revive her."

The cold and almost insensible girl was now care-
fully placed in the chair that was usually her mo-
ther s seal, the child trken from her, and every mears

() EMII.Y MORELAND.

resorted to, to show that she was indeed welcome to
her long-deserted home.

For a few moments, Marian remained with her
eyes t^losed, and appearing scarcely sensible of the
cares of her parents; but, at length, she unclosed
them, and gazed round the room, and then alternately
at her parents.

" Merciful Providence !" she exclain>ed, at length,
" thou hast listened to the prayers of a lost, wretched
creature, and restored her to those, whom if she had

never quitted ^Oh, my father, my dear mother,

can you indeed pardon your lost, ruined, disgraced
child ? And will you succour and protect the poor
infant, whom she has brought into the world, to share
her shame and misery, and who will soon have no
other friend than you?"

The old man sobbed aloud, unable to utter a
word ; while the afflicted mother, pressing the ema-
ciated form of her still affectionately beloved child
'n her arms, exclairaed-

" I will, I do forgive every thing I Only compose
yourself, and remember, you are now with those who
have ever pitied and loved — even when they most
condemned you. Come, my Marian, do not give way
to this despair, but raise your head, and take the
wine your father has warmed for you. It will do
you good, and a few hours' rest will restore you "

" Never, dear mother!" interrupted Marian, em-
phatically, " never, in this world, shall I rest again !
In the grave is niy only hope of peace ; and my every
wish, on this side that welcome refuge from shame
and sorrow, is now fulfilled, in thus receiving your

KMILY MOREKANO. 7

pity and forgn\enft*s, and beholding my poor infant
safe in your protection."

Unable to reply, Mrs. Moreland endeavoured to
stifle her agitation, by attending to the child, which
she had taken from her husband.

"The poor babe is chilled by the night air, and
hungry too, perhaps," she observed, opening the
shawl in which it was wrapped.

" It is indeed, dear mother, for many weary hours
have passed, since I was able to procure her a little
milk, and 1 have no other nourishment to give her."

" Thank goodness, there is plenty of fresh milk in
the house!" replied the tender-hearted old woman;
" I will feed it directly." And she imniediateiy
began to prepare some food for the little innocent,
soothing it, at the same time, by all those endearing
epithets she had been used to apply to her own chil-
dren.

Tears, the first the unhappy Marian had shed for
many weeks, burst in torrents from her eyes, at this
proof of maternal kindness and affection; and when
her father, scarcely less agitated than herself, raised
the cup of wine to her lips, and, in tones of the ut-
most tenderness, entreated her to try and swallow it,
she threw her arras arouna nis neck, and sobbed upon
his bosom.

" Do not thus afflict yourself, my child," whispered
her affectionate parent. " Let us, from this moment,
endeavour to forget the past, and look forward to
hours of future peace and contentment."

** Peace, my dear father," cried Marian ; " oh,
never can this wretched heart know peace, until its

8 EMILY MORFLAND.

aching tlirobs are stilled in the orave ! Oh, no, there
only can the degraded, dishonoured Marian hope to
escape the remorse, to bury the stain, which must
poison every moment of her life, while she remains
on earth!"

The afflicted parent replied not to this elTusion of
a wounded spirit — he only again, in a faltering
voice, entreated her to take a little of the cordial
which he had prepared for her; and Marian, lifting-
it to her lips, swallowed it, with all the eagerness of
one who had long been destitute of proper nourish-
ment.

The poor infant — a lovely female, not more than
three months old — soon seemed to feel the effects of
the tenderness with which it was treated, and smiled
upon its kind protectress, as if grateful for the suc-
cour it had received, until it sank into a sweet
slumber.

Somewhat revived by the wine she had taken,
Marian was now able to reply to her mother's anxious
questions. " She had come from London," she said,
" by the coach ; but had been so ill on the road, that
she had been obliged to stop at a little roadside inn,
for five weeks, which nearly exhausted her little
stock of money ; and she was, as soon as she was able
to walk, compelled to the arduous attempt of reach-
ing her final destination on foot.

" For the last three days, I have made very little
progress," continued the poor sufferer ; ** the dear
baby seemed to grow heavier, and every mile increase
in length, though I was approaching the end cf my
journey; but I prayed that i might live to receive

EMIT/Y M OH EL AND. 'f

the blessing and Ibrgiveness of my injured, yet be-
loved parents, and deliver my child to their protec-
tion— and my prayers were heard!"

*' And did not." exclaimed her mother, " did not
the hard-hearted wretrh, who "

" Silence!" interrupted the old man, authorita-
tively. " Let us not, at this moment, indulge resent-
ful feelings. May the same Merciful Power, that
conducted our long-lost wanderer to her home again,
soften and amend his heart!''

"Amen! amen!" ejaculated Marian, clasping her
hands, and raising her eyes, with the most emphatic
solemnity.

" She had better now try to get a few hours' sleep,"
observed the old man, striving to speak with firmness,
and making a sign to his wife to check the emotion
which her daughter's expressive look and action had
powerfully excited.

Marian would have objected — she could sleep very
well, she said, in the large chair and she knew her
mother could not, at that time of night, prepare a
bed without considerable trouble.

"It is already prepared, my child," returned the
tender mother. " I knew that this hour would come —
that my Marian would some time return to the arms
of her parents; and, from the moment of our taking-
possession of this cottage, there has been a room and
a bed prepared to receive you."

" Oh, wound me not, my mother, by such unmerited
;dndness!" exclaimed the repentant daughter, while
tears of agony again forced themselves down lier pale
cheeks " Far, oh, far better could 1 benr Ihe n-

1. V

JU EMILY MOUELANtt

pioacliesS, which my heart tells me I desei vr,
than "

"I will not suffer you thus to exhaust your strength
with unavailiui^ recrimination, my child," interrupted
tlie old man; "retire to bed, and, for all our sakes,
endeavour to compose yourself to rest."

Marian attempted to rise, and obey the mandate
of one whose will had ever been indisputable with
his little household, because it had ever been most
gentle, just, and reasonable; but, overcome with
weakness and fatigue, she sank down, and it was only
with the united assistance of her tender parents that
she was enabled to reach the little room which was
appropriated to her.

" It is not such as you have been accustomed to,"
ol>served her mother, seeing her glance round, as
they seated her at the side of the neat white-curtained
bed; but hfr husband darting a look of reproof at
her, she added, "yet you will, I hope, sleep as com-
fortably as if you were in your own pretty room at
the Parsonage."

"Ah, my mother! — and for me — for your ungrate-,
ful child, you have been driven from that dear spot,
and condemned to a comparatively confined "

"We are content, my child," in-terrupted her fa-
ther. "The change in my situation lias never given
me a moment's uneasiness, except for the cause of it ;
and now that will, I trust, be speedily eft'aced from
all our remembrances. It is true, I sometimes feel
that my sphere of usefulness is rather contracted, but
we must submit to the will of Heaven !

Marian was silent, but the look which she fixed ou

EMILY MORELAND- 11

her falher, as he quitted her chamber, bestov/ing-, in
a calm voice, a parting benediction on her, spoke
more than words.

In a few minutes, the tired wanderer was laid in a
comfortable bed, and her sleeping babe beside her ;
while the sorrowful mother returned to her husband
in the kitchen, to communicate her fears that their
unfortunate child was indeed returned, as she had
said, only to die in their arms.

*' She is wasted to a shadow !" she observed, burst-
ing into tears, and has a dreadful cough. " Oh,
Reuben, how can you wonder that I curse the wretch
who has reduced her to this, and covered our heads
with shame ! How can you yourself refrai-n "

"Because I leave vengeance to the Almighty,"
returned her husband, with solemnity. "Will in-
temperate words and empty maledictions restore the
innocence, or save the life of our child ? No, Martha
— to his own conscience, to the reproaches of that
still small voice, which sooner or later will make it-
self heard, let US leave the destroyer; and if it is the

will of Heaven that our poor penitent "" The

father's feelings triumphed over those of the Chris-
tian philosopher, and, unable to conclude the sen-
tence, he leant his head on his hand, and wept aloud.

It was now his wife's turn to be the comforter, and
so effectually and forcibly did she paint the evils that
would attend their unfortunate daughter, if she lived ;
the constant sense of shame and degradation, >vhich
a mind so sensitive as hers could never shake off: the
hopeless loneliness in which she would be left, should
they be taken from her, and the silent reproach which

12 EMILY MORELAND.

their altered circumstances must convey to her;— •
so naturally and truly did she depict all this, Iha*
the fond father was compelled to acknowledge that
there was no hope for his once happy and blooming
child, but the grave.

The morning dawned, and found the afflicted jra-
rents still conversing of their long-lost darling — but
in low whispers, lest they should disturb her slum-
bers. Two or three times the anxious mother stole
on tiptoe to the chamber door to listen ; but all was
calm and still, and she breathed only a mental
prayer, that the sweet sleep her Marian was snjoying,
might re-invigorate her exhausted frame.

" I will walk cut for a short time, wh'ie you pre-
pare the breakfast — for I feel feverish, and the pure
morning air may perhaps remove it," observed the
old man.

The wife assented, and immediately commenced
busying herself to make every thing neat and com-
fortable, before the poor invalid should awake.

Fresh eggs, cream, butter from her own little
dairy, and wheaten bread of her own making, were
all set out in the nicest order, upon a cloth white as
snow. The best tea-things Avere taken from the cor
ner cupboard, and all was duly arranged for the
morning's meal, before the husband, who had been
"•athering water-cresses from the brook which ran at
a short distance from the house, returned.

"Marian used to be fond of water-cresses," he ob-
served, " perhaps they will tempt her to eat a good
breakfast."

The mother sighed. She thought of the time when,

EMILY MOUEIiVNl).

IS

With cheeks blooming- as the rose, and eyes sparkling
like diamonds, their beloved child had been used to
trip out at early dawn, with her little basket, antt
return laden with the treasures of the brook, which
was at a much greater distance from their former
habitation, than that to which her husband had new
resorted.

" I wish she would awake," observed the latter,
looking- at the clock which ticked in the corner; " it
is nearly eight, and i promised to visit the poor wo-
man, Dame Dawson, by this time; she will think 1
neglect her ; and I should be sorry if, even in ap-
pearance, my own cares and troubles should make
me indifferent to those of my fellow creatures."

Another long pause ensued, and both began to
grow uneasy, though unwilling to own it to each
other. At last, the voice of the baby was heard, and
Ihe old lady started up with alacrity, observing, she
would fetch it down, and give it the bread and milk
she had prepared, while its mother dressed herself.

Scarcely, however, had she time to reach the bed-
side of her daughter, when a succession of the most
heart-rending* shrieks reached the ear of her husband,
and, as fast as his trembling limbs would allow him,
he ascended the stairs.

A sinffle glance at the bed confirmed his worst
fears — Marian was dead ! She had died apparently
without any of those pangs or convulsive throes which
usually attend the awful change from time to eternity.
Her eyes were closed, as if in a tranquil sleep, and
the infant still lay on her arm, in the position in
which her mother had left it; the other arm, vying

14 • EMILY MORELAND.

in snowy whiteness with the bed linen, was thrown
carelessly over her head; and, but for the deathly
- hue, the fixed expression, and the icy coldness of that
sweet face, lovely even in death, the agonised parents
might still have hoped that she would again awaken
to their caresses.

Alas, too soon were they convinced, that life had
for ever fled the inanimate form, which, for so many
years, they had watched over with such fond solici-
tude! The pride, the solace, the occupation of their
life, was gone ; and, forgetting all the topics of con-
solation with which they had so recently endeavoured
to fortify their minds for this event, the afflicted pa-
rents bewailed, in almost frenzied accents, the Joss oe
their darling.

The feeble cries of the poor babe, who felt the loss
of that warmth and nourishment which it had derived
from its mother, at last had the desirable effect ot
attracting the attention of its now only friends.

"We must not neglect the poor infant, Martha,"
observed the old man, putting it into his wife's arms.

" It will require all your care to supply the loss "

He paused, unable to proceed, and tlien casting
another glance at the pallid face of his lamented
child, hurried down the stairs, observing, as soon as
he could command his voice, that he Avould go to
the next cottage, and request the woman and her
daughter who inhabited it, to come over and assist
in the performance of the necessary duties.

Having stilled the child's cries by satisfying us
hunger, and shed a torrent of tears en its innocent
unconscious face, the bereaved mptUcr returned to

EMII.Y MORELAND. 15

♦he chamber which contiiined the remains of hei
fondly-cherished child.

" Poor murdered victim !" she exclaimed, as she
bent over the lifeless form, *' thou hast found an early
refuge from all thy sorrows ! Would that thy de-
stroyer could now behold thee ! Could he see thee
thus, and not feel that the hour of retribution must
comer"

The sight of a minature, which half-revealed lay
on the marble breast, that no longer throbbed be-
neath it with agony, as it was wont to do, at this
moment attracted her sight ; and, with trembling
hands, and half-averted eyes, she drew it from its
concealment. Alas, too well she knew the features,
which the painter's art had so strikingly delineated.
The fine, open forehead ; the even-arched eyebrows ;
the insinuating smile, which played around the hand-
some mouth, and disclosed the fine set of teeth within ;
the luxuriant glossy hair, black as the raven's wing ;
in short, all that had rendered the face and person
of Reginald de Cardonnel so faultless and atti'active,
were there faithfully depicted.

The wretched mother gazed on it with agony.
Her first thought was to trample it under her feet,
and thus destroy tne last memorial of the man who
had bereaved her of her child ; but a chain of curious
workmanship secured it round the neck of the corpse,
and, before she could disengage it, cooler reflection
suggested the propriety cf preserving it for tlie in-
fant, v/lio would probably possess no other memorial
of the father who had deserted her, and destroyed
her hapless mother.

*' It will be aleiit yet an eloquent lesson to her.

16

EMILY MORELAND.

should she live to wommhood," she exclaimed, "to
distrust the brightest appearances; and to believe
. that, under every charm and grace that can adorn
man, may be concealed a black, designing, unfeeling
heart. Alas, how could my Marian suspect it, when
even her parents believed that the object of her in-
nocent affection was the most exalted, as he was the
most fascinating, of human beings ? Smile not so like
him, my babe," she continued, addressing the uncon-
scious infant, whom she held in her arms, " lest I
forget that you are the child of my lost Marian, and
remember only that you are the offspring of the most
accomplished villain that ever disgraced human na-
ture!"

The voice of her husband, speaking to the women
M'hom he had brought with him, aroused her from
these painful reflectio^is, and gladly she resigned her
innocent charge to Su-^an, the youthful daughter of
their neighbour at the cottage, who, with tears of
native feeling, received the interesting trust, and,
with a tenderness and care far beyond what could be
expected at her years, soothed and supplied all its
little wants, so as to prevent its being, even for a-
moment, a burthen or pain to those on whose protec-
tion it was now thrown.

In the secluded valley in which the parents of the
unfortunate Marian Moreland resided, there were
few who were calculated by education and manners
to console or assist them in their present affliction.
I5y ail, however, to whom the former curate of Ar-
lington, the present cottager of St. C!lare, was known,
the purest sympathy was evinced.

It was the time ^harvest, and upon the abundant

KMILY MORELAND. 17

produce with which his few acres of ground wei&
loaded, Reuben Moreland depended, in a great mea-
sure, for a comfortable support for the ensuing year.

Grief and anxiety, however, rendered him in-
different to the blessings which Nature had bestowed
on him, and the golden ears of corn would still have
continued standing, had not the respect, which the
cottagers felt for him, induced them to take more care
for him, than he was capable of taking for himself;
and, with a grateful heart and tearful eyes, he saw
his little store, by the united exertions of his neigh-
bours, cut down and safely housed from all danger.

"Life is worth preserving, while one can preserve
the attachment of such hearts as these," he softly
whispered, as he returned from witnessing the com-
pletion of their labours, for which they refused to
receive even his thanks. " I will pray that mine may
be spared, to be useful to these simple, honest crea-
tures; and in their happiness and pleasures will I
endeavour to forget the sorrows which have banished
mine for ever !"

Exactly ten days from her arrival at her father s
cottage, the remains of the hapless Marian were con-
signed to their native earth.

Nearly the whole population of the hamlet, which
was scattered along the valley, and on the sides of
the hills, met together in the parish church, on this
melancholy occasion. Marian was not personally
known to them, but the sad story of her dishonour,
and her parents' distress, had been generally spread
among them. They knew that some circumstances,
connected with her seductioi., bad induced her upright
1. i>

18 EMILY MO R ELAND.

and honourable father to relinquish the curacy m liich
he had held for many years, at a distant part of tlio
country; but her sudden and melancholy death had
eflaced from their memories her errors, and, while
the young with tears deplored her fate, the older
ones pointed out how insufficient were beauty, sense,
and accomplishments, to secure happiness, unless to
them were added humility, prudence, and a thorough
confidence in those whom experience had made
wise.

With calm resignation painted in every expressive
look and gesture, the venerable Moreland followed
the bier, which was carried by six young men, who
had offered their services for the purpose, and who
were preceded by twelve young females, neatly clad
in white. On the right hand of her father, and some-
times leaning on him for support, came the afflicted
mother, vainly endeavouring to imitate the serenity
of her husband, and at intervals bursting into the
most heart-rending sobs, as her tearful eyes rested
on the coffin. At a little distance followed the im-
mediate neighbours of the respected Moreland, and
among them was one, who, though unconscious of
either sorrow or shame, excited the greatest interest
in the minds of all present. This was, — the living-
record of its father's dishonour, and its mother's
shame, — the infant of the lost Marian, smiling, in
happy unconsciousness, in its nurse's arms.

In this order the mournful procession moved,
slowly and silently, along the winding path which
led to the summit of one of the green hills, that shut
out this secluded valley from the more thickly in-

EMILY MORELANl). ID

habited country which surrounded it. They had
now only one field to cross, before they would enter
the turnpike road, on the opposite side of which lay
their final destination. In this field, therefore, be-
neath the shade of a wide-spreading beech, and at
only a few paces distant from the gate through which
they were to pass into the road, the bier was rested ;
and the young men and women, placing themselves
in a circle round it, commenced (according to the
custom of the country) a hymn suitable to the solemn
occasion.

There were several sweet and powerful voices
among the singers, and the perfect silence, and the
romantic situation they had chosen, gave additional
interest to the pathetic and solemn strain.

The bright rays of the setting sun, streaming
through the foliaged canopy above them, glittered
on the plate which declared the name and age of the
inhabitant of" the narrow house," which was placed
in the midst of the group, and, with clasped hands
and streaming eyes, the bereaved parents stood lis-
tening to the sacred strain, which was intended to
administer hope and consolation.

The first stanza was just concluded, when the eyes
of some of the assemblage were attracted by a gen-
tleman riding at fdll speed down the turnpike road,
followed by a servant in livery. Again the singers
commenced, and, slackening his speed, the stranger
seemed to listen with interest and pleasure. He drew
nearer to the gate, and, discovering the occasion of
the sounds he had heard, alighted gently from his
hc«s3, and advanced towards the sorrowing group

20 EMILY MORELAND.

Scarcely, however, had he approached near enough
to discern the features of the principal mourners,
when he suddenly paused, and a paleness resembling
that of death overspread his face, while he stood as
if transfixed to the spot, unable either to advance or
recede.

"Excuse me, sir, you seem to be taken ill," ob-
served an elderly man, who stood outside the group,
and consequently nearest him.

The stranger gasped for breath, as he accepted the
farmer's offered arm. " Tell me, only tell me," he
faintly articulated, pointing to the coffin, with a look
and gesture expressive of the most horrible antici-
pation— "Who is it "

The man looked at him with astonishment — " Do
you mean, sir, who is it we are carrying to the grave ?
It is a poor young creature — the only child of yonder
afflicted couple, w ho was enticed away from her home
by a villain, and "

The stranger fell, from his supporting arm, upon
the grassy turf; and the wondering rustics, as they
crowded round him, uttered a thousand conjectures
on the cause of this strange incident.

To Farmer Wilson, however, who had marked the
changes in the stranger's countenance, as he gave
him the explanation he had required, the cause of
his agitation was no longer a mystery ; and, rightly
foreseeing that should Moreland, or his wife, recog-
nise the man who had destroyed their peace, and
sacrificed their child, it would bitterly aggravate
their distress, he entreated two or three to assist him
in removing the stranger to some distance, and then

EMILY MORELAND. 21

to proceed with the funeral, without waiting to finish
their hymn.

The' motion, however, seemed to revive the
wretched De Cardonnel, and, freeing himself from
their hold, he rushed towards the coffin, and threw
himself on his knees before the sorrowing parents,
who, totally absorbed in their grief, had not observed
what was passing around them.

For a moment, they looked wildly at each other
and at him, as if doubting the reality of his appear-
ance, while he vainly endeavoured to utter a sentence.

" What do you want here?" exclaimed Moreland,
at last, sternly repulsing him ; " she is beyond your
power — In the grave, even your arts and spells must
be powerless; and, if you are come "

" Wretch ! monster I dare you intrude yourself, at
such a moment?" interrupted the mother, passion-
ately. " Dare you approach that refuge, where the
innocent you have destroyed finds that repose which
you can never know ! No — even beyond the grave,
your crimes shall pursue you, and the spirit of my
murdered child shall rise up in judgment agains
you!"

Two or three of the young men, who had stooa
almost petrified with amazement at this scene, now
interfered, and strove to remove the wretched De
Cardonnel; but he resisted all their eflbrts, and
throwing himself on the coffin, he declared that he
would share the grave of his lost love — his Marian !

" Unhappy man !" exclaimed Moreland, " your re-
pentance comes too late! The unfortunate victim
of your pass'ons is at rest for ever from the evils

9>

EMILY MORELAND.

which you brought upon her! JLet it be yom con-
solation, as it is mine, that they are so soon termi-
nated, and that she did not live to " He paused,

overcome by the agony which was expressed in the
countenance of De Cardonnel. " It is not by this
intemperance, Mr. de Cardonnel," resumed More-
land, with more calmness, " that you can prove the
sincerity of your repentance; nor is it at such a mo-
ment as this, that I can converse with you as I could
wish. Retire, therefore, I entreat you, — and, in the
language of Holy Writ, let me say to you, * Go, and
sin no more.' "

Reginald de Cardonnel arose, but he scarcely
seemed conscious of wnat was passing, until he beheio
the bier lifted from the ground, and the procession
again formed in the same order as before. With a
look of the deepest despair he clasped his hands, as
he gazed upon the coffin, and then rushing to the
other end of the field, threw himself on the green
turf, and hid his face till the melancholy train were
out of sight.

The serenity and resignation, which had hitherto
marked the conduct of Moreland, were sadly shaken
by this unexpected incident. He reasoned, he acted,
as a Christian, submissive to all that was appointed
by the will of Providence — but he felt as a man, and
a father; and when he beheld the coffin lowered into
its narrow habitation, and heard the clods rattle on
its lid, he bur}»t, for a moment, into loud lamentations
for the loss of her, whom he had fondly thought would
have been the comfort of his old age, and have fol-
lowed him to the grave.

EMILY MORELAND. 23

The poor mother, totally overcome with the sight
of his grief, as well as the burthen of her own, sank
almost fainting into his arms ; and, if there had been
any thing wanting to complete the despair of Regi-
nald de Cardonnel, it would have been supplied,
had he been present to hear the imprecations which
were bestowed on his conduct, by those who now
beheld and sympathised in the affliction of the in-
jured parents.

The grave was closed — Moreland and his weeping
wife cast a lingering look, as the grave-digger
placed with care the smooth green sods over the
spot, and then, supported by their humble friends,
all emulous to administer consolation by their sym-
pathy and attention, returned to the home, which
now appeared more lonely than ever.

From Farmer Wilson, who, led by humanity as
well as curiosity, had remained with Reginald de
Cardonnel, they learned, that he had continued for a
considerable period totally insensible, either to his
(the Farmer's) or his own servant's entreaties that he
would arise, and endeavour to reach the house to
which he was proceeding, when he was so unex-
pectedly arrested by the mournful sight which had,
at least for the present, made so deep an impression
on his feelings.

One circumstance, however, the Farmer concealed,
because he was fearful that he might incur censure
from Moreland, though he felt he had acted from
the best motives. At the moment the funeral train
were passing through the gate, his eye had been
caught by Susan, who was his own niece, bearing the
child of Marian in her arms.

U4 EMILY MORELAND.

A Signal with his finger brought the girl lo his
side.

" Wait a little, Sue," he observed, " thee wilt be
time enough, if thou walk'st quick — and I want the«
a moment."

Susan seemed instantly to comprehend his motive,
but her imagination went even further. " He will
may be want to take the baby away with him," she
observed, with a look of alarm, and pressing the child
closer to her bosom, " but you will not let him,
uncle, though it is his own, and as like him as two
cherries are like one another ? Mercy forbid she
should be like him in her actions I"

" Foolish wench, what dost think he could do with
a helpless baby like that ? No, no, I only want to
make him feel like a man, for the poor little thing,
and do his duty by it ; for it would be a shame that
the poor old man should be burthened with its main-
tenance, though I know he will do his best for it."

Susan was silent, but she grew rather impatient
at the time that elapsed before De Cardonnel could
be roHsed from his recumbent posture.

Her uncle had himself fetched the servant, who had
hitherto stood with the horses in the road, regard-
ing with surprise a scene he could not at all com-
prehend ; for he had understood that his master was
a total stranger in that part of the country, and could
not, therefore, conceive why he sliould be so deeply
interested in the rustic funeral. Upon the Farmer's
representation, however, that it would be advisable
to get his master away from the spot, the man had
tied his horses to the gate, and accompanied the
Farmer to the place where De Cardonnel still laid.

FMILY MORELAND. 25

** My mistress, Sir, will be alarmed at our not
meeting her at the place you appointed," observed
the man, in a hesitating tone.

De Cardonnel started on his feet, as if electrified
at the sound — " She must not know of this," he be-
gan— but, observing the keen eye of the Farmer,
jSxed on him, he suddenly paused.

*' I hope, young gentleman, you are not trying to
deceive any other poor young lady," said the Farmer,
sternly; " for, if I thought- "

" No, no, no !" exclaimed De Cardonnel, with ve-
hemence, " I am a wretch, but I Oh, no, Julia

knew — she was not deceived !"

The man again interposed, apparently fearful lest
his master should still farther expose himself to the
rustic, whom he wondered dared take such liber-
ties with one so proud, so impetuous, as De Car-
donnel.

" May be you are married ?" observed the Farmer,
who was not to be daunted by the reproachful looks
of the servant. " God help thee, poor babe !" he
continued, taking the child from Susan's arms; '• if
that be the case, I fear there is but little hopes of
his doing Lis duty by thee,"

De Cardonnel cast an eager glance at the babe,
and burst into tears — " It is her own ! — her very
self!" he exclaimed. "I need not be told that it

is the child of Marian, of my "

" It is your very own, and the picture of you, you
bad man !" interrupted Susan, sobbing, as she has-
tily snatched the child from her uncle, as if fearful
thai De Cardonnel should touch it ; " but you don't
2. E

2<' E.MIKV MO 11 BLAND.

deserve," she continued, " that such a baby as this
should ever call you father ; and, if she lives to be a
womanj I hope she will treat you as you deserve,
for her poor mother's sake."

" Don't be so hasty, girl," observed the more
calm and deliberate Farmer, looking earnestly at
De Cardonnelj who was still contemplating the fear
tures of the infant : " Don't thee be so hasty ! He
will, I hope, make amends, as far as he can, to the
poor child, for the loss of her mother ; for he can't
but feel that it is he who has deprived her "

" Do not thus harrow up my heart I" exclaimed
De Cardonnel, impetuously, " I will do all — every
thing — that can be done ! Would to Heaven that I
could recal the past ! But this dear babe, at least,
shall have no further reason to condemn me. I will
not attempt to remove her from the care of those,
who, I am sure, will be to her all the most tender
parents can be ; but I can, at least, prevent their
feeling her a burthen now ; and, at a future period,
her proper establishment in the world shall be my
most solicitous care. To you, my kind friend,"
he continued, more particularly addressing Farmer
Wilson, " I will entrust this, for present use ; per-
haps it will be better you should keep it until a
proper opportunity occurs. At this moment, Mr.
Moreland's proud spirit, his justly offended feelings,
would probably induce hira to reject what, never-
theless, he must feel it to be my duty to bestow."

" I will do as you desire," replied the Farmer,
softened by De Cardonnel's impressive manner ;
*• but, if he should refuse it altogether you had best

EMILY M () 11 E li A N D .

give the some direction, that I may let you know, and
return the money."

" I will write to you, if you will give me your ad-
dress," returned De Cardonnel, after a moment's
hesitation.

Not a little proud, apparently, of his trust, the
Farmer wrote, in a leaf of De Cardonnel's pocket-
book, the necessary direction ; and the latter, having
imprinted a fervent kiss on the lips of the babe,
which Susan no longer withheld from him, mounted
his horse, and rode slowly on, Wilson having tAvice
repeated — " You will please, Sir, to recollect how
much YOU have given me— just twentv-five pounds.'

CHAPTER 11.

He sent the maid his picture, girt

With diamond, pearl, and gold,
And silken paper, sweet with musk.

His gentle message told.

The words ha whisper'd were so soft,

They won her ear and heart.
How soon will she who loves believe*

How deep a lover's art I

Ancient Legend.

At a very early period of life, Reuben Moreland,
the younger son of a noble family, had committed
the very common, but, in the opinion of his friends,
unpardonable, offence of marrying for love — his
bride possessing neither wealth nor high birth, whicl*.

28 EMILY MORELANW.

in their opinions, were indispensable requisites for

happiness.

He had, just before his marriaoe, entered into noly
orders, and possessed, through the interest of his fa-
ther, a very fair chance of rising high in the sacred
profession; but the disappointment and consequent
resentment of the latter, at his son's imprudence,
knew no bounds, when informed of the marriage;
and, from that moment, Reuben was left to make his
own way in the world.

The father of the lovely and innocent girl, who
had tempted Moreland to the inconsiderate step of
marrying, before he had the means of providing, even
in the humblest manner, for a wife, was a simple,
uneducateu man, whose sole worldly Avealth was the
secluded cottage, and the few acres of ground at-
tached to it, which we have spoken of in the fore-
going chapter, as being, at the period our history
commenced, inhabited by Moreland and his wife,
now fast sinking into the vale of years.

They v.ere then, however, young, sanguine, and
most ardently attached to each other; and though,
for the first twelve months, Reuben Avas indebted to
the father of his Martha for their Joint support, still
they loved on, and hoped for better days.

At the end of that time, Moreland accidentally
learned that a fellow collegian, not very remarkable
for any distinguishing traits of disposition or character,
but considered by his acquaintance a passable, gooci-
natured fellow, had been inducted Rector of the va-
luable living of Arlington, about thirty miles from
his (Moreland's) present residence, and that he was
'»! want of a curate to assist in his new office.

EMILY MORELANDj 29

To him, therefore, Moreland wrote, stating his
circumstances, and offering his services, which were
immediately accepted ; and, in a few weeks, he found
himself comfortably settled with his Martha in a
neat and pleasantly situated house, at a convenient
distance from the Rectory, and in possession of the
annual stipend of one hundred pounds a year, for
which he soon found he was expected to perform the
whole duty of the living, as the Rector seldom re-
sided there more than a few weeks in the year.

Reuben Moreland, however, was too moderate
and unambitious, and, we may add, too deeply im-
bued with the true spirit of his holy calling, to repine
at his lot. At first, indeed, he felt a little mortified
at the airs of patronage and superiority which Doc-
tor Robinson, the Rector, assumed towards him;
particularly when he considered his former pliancy
and deference towards him at College ; yet time and
reflection taught him to regard with indifference this
proof of weakness, and littleness of mind, and for
which he was more than compensated by the uniform
respect and consideration of his parishioners.

The first four years of Moreland's wedded life
were passed without any incident worth recording,
except the successive births and deaths of two fine
boys, who were both " but shown and snatched away"
from the disappointed, but not repining, pastor and
his wife.

One of Moreland's favourite projects, for the em-
ployment of that time which, in spite of his duties of
preaching, marrying, christening, and burying, some-
times: hung heavy on his hands, was the education of

^ti' EMILV AIOIIELAND.

a cliiit]; and he therefore gladly nud gratefull3 ac-
cepted the oiFer, which, soon after the death of his
second boy, was made to him through the medium of
the Rector, to undertake the entire charge of an
orphan of high rank, with an allowance which his
conscientious feelings tempted him to remonstrate
against, as extravagant and unnecessary. This, how-
ever. Doctor Robinson himself overruled, and, at
the age of three years, Reginald de Cardonnel be-
came the object of the Curate and his wife's most
solicitous care.

The orphan and helpless situation of the infant
Reginald, secured to him Mrs. Moreland's tenderest
affection, while ner husband delighted in marking
those traits in the disposition of his young charge,
which indicated, he fondly hoped, every virtue he
::ould Avish to see adorn his mature age.

A few months only elapsed, after Mr. Morelan
had undertaken this important charge, when his
Martlia again promised him an increase of family;
•md, on the very flay that the youthful Reginald at-
tained his fourth year, the Curate's paternal feeling
'.vere gratified by the' birth of a daughter.

" I am almost g-ad it is not a boy," said Morelano,
as he sat with Reginald on his knee„ a few hours after
the important event, " for I should, perhaps, if it had
lived, been partial, and "

"She will just make a beautiful wife for Master
Reginald," interrupted the garrulous old nurse, who
was exhibiting the baby, and expatiating, with pro-
fessional eloquence, on its beauty, and its supposed
resemblance to its parents.

^i^ui

'/iez^^ i7€aim€yAie^ i^/^^k^i^Yy/w^t Zs^al'

'MlcZ,

ai<-^.'

Jrnim'. Fiil'lish^ay ty ff^.Tirtue^. 2^. JiyZaru:.:

EMILY MORET.ANn ^J

Mr. Moreland's smile vanished, and for some mi-
nutes he appeared lost in reflections, which, to juds^e
from his countenance, were not of the most pleasant
nature, and which terminated in his starting up to
leave the room.

" There, kiss your pretty little wife, sir, before you
go," said the nurse, holding the baby to Reginald.

The usually placid Curate actually frowned, and
hastily drew his young charge away; and, muttering
something about " silly old gossips," which fortu-
nately did not reach the ears of the consequential
old lady, he hurried the boy out of the room.

Though a woman of no very extraordinary abili-
ties, Mrs. Moreland, who had lain quietly watching
her husband during this scene, intuitively compre-
hended all his feelings , and, from that moment, the
Curate was never again annoyed by a recurrence to
the same idea. The term " sister," indeed, which
the little Reginald was soon taught to apply to the
baby, seemed to banish all thoughts of the possibility
of any other connexion from the minds of Moreland
and his wife; and Marian, as she grew up, though
occasionally, by accident, reminded that Reginald
owed his birth to a different source to that from which
she sprang, scarcely allowed her thoughts to dwell,
for a moment, on the painful conviction that he was
not in reality her brother.

Reginald de Cardonnel, though the heir to large
estates, and the descendant of a noble family, stood
singularly alone in the world ; for, with the exception
of a sister of his mother; (v. ho, at the period he was
{)laced with Mr. Moreland, had gone with her hus-

0§ EMILY MO R ELAND.

band to India, where the latter held a high ofliciai
station,) he could not claim a single relative; and
Marian, whom her father purposely kept in ignorance
of connexions who had for years appeared to have
forgotten him and his family, often innocently ob-
served—

" It is no -wonder that you and I, and my father
and mother, love eack other so dearly, for we have
no relations to divide our love."

Scarcely, however, had Marian attained her four-
teenth year, when this dream of love and happiness
was interrupted. The Rector, who, in his annual
/isits, had expressed himself perfectly satisfied with
Moreland's care of his ward, and as regularly paid
the yearly allowance for his education and support,
now announced that it was his wiil, and that of Sir
James Dorriugton, his uncle by marsiage, and his
sole guardian, that Mr. Reginald de Cardonnel
should finish his studies at Cambridge.

This event was not unexpected by Moreland, and^
indeed, had been frequently mentioned by him to
Reginald, as not merely probable, but almost certain.
Marian, howeyer, who couid scarcely bear with
patience the thought that any one should possess a
control over Reginald, superior to her father's, heard
thii annunciation with undisguised displeasure and
oorrow ; though it never seemed to occur to her mind,
until her father '.ithout any reserve spoke of the
certainty that this was a final parting, that henceforth
Reginald would have another home — > ould form
new connexions — and, in short, that in all probability
he would soon cease to feel or a. -knowledge the

EMILY MOREl.AN U. 33

humble Curate and his family as his parents o.id his
sister.

Marian was thunderstruck! She was, for the first
time, inclined to consider her father as cruel and un-
just; and Reginald soon contrived to confirm this
impression ; for, with all the fervency of youth, he
protested that the whole world united could never
change his present feelings, and Marian believed him.
m defiance of her father's prognostications.

Reginald unwillingly obeyed the mandate ttiat
separated him from his early friends, who, witii un-
feigned sorrowj saw him depart ; and with as sincere
pleasure received him, when the vacation, and Doc-
tor Robinson's permission, left him at liberty to de-
vote a few weeks to them.

Six months' absence, and his having during thai
period mingled in more varied society than were to
be found in Moreland's limited circle, had greatlj
improved the manners and appearance of him whom
Marian had before thought perfection itself. She
was never weary of looking at him, or of talking
about him ; and Reginald, while he smiled at her
artless innocence, and contrasted it mentally with
the affectation and sophisticated manners of some
females he had lately met with, and who were
considered, by his companions, superlatively elegant
and attractive, was equally undisguised in his admi-
ration of her increased stature, her womanly appear-
ance, and the progress she had made in the few ac-
complishments which she had an opportunity of ac-
quiring. With secret uneasiness Mr. Moreland lis-
tened to all this, and on surveying the expens've pre-
2. F

34' EMILV MOUELAND.

st'Kts which Reginald had brought for Marian, he
openly reproved him for his extravagance.

" You are doing a serious mischief, I fear, Regi-
nald," observed the Curate, when his daughter had
left the room ; " these expensive baubles will pro-
bably beget, in my poor girl's bosom, a love of finery
and useless decoration, wliich neither her present
circumstances or future prospects warrant. She has
hitherto been content in her loAvly station — Beware,
therefore, how you, from mistaken kindness, en-
courage tastes and propensities which can only serve
to make her unhappy and discontented, when she no
longer possesses the means of gratifying them."

" That will never be, while I am alive!" inter-
rupted Reginald, warmly. " Of what value would
fortune be to me, if Marian did not share it? No,
my dear father — for such I will still consider you —
such I hope, at no very distant period, to have a right
to call you "

Mr. Moreland hastily interrupted him—" Regi-
nald, if you value my regard, I may say, my affection
— if yoii respect my peace of mind — you will never
again hint at such a subject ; and, above all, I re-
quire your solemn promise that, to Marian, you will
never breathe a word that can raise such an idea in
her mind ! You are both as yet children — you know
not even your own minds — and still less do you know
the prospects and intentions of your friends. This,
however, I know, — that, not only in their eyes, but
in the general opinion of the world, I should be con-
demned as having, from motives of self-interest, con-
nived at an<l encouraged an attachment, the object

BMILV MORELAND 35

of which is so unequal to what yju have a right in
expect."

"Marian would do honour to the most exalted
station," returned Reginald, angrily; " and, if I am
not allowed to think of her as the partner of ray fu-
ture life, I will swear that "

' I will not suffer any such resolutions in my pre
sence, rash boy !" interrupted Mr. Moreland, sternly ;
" but I insist that you now listen, and attend to my
unalterable determination. You are now nearly
nineteen; consequently, you have only two years to
pass, before you will have arrived at that perioa,
when the law considers your reason sufficiently ma
ture to direct your conduct. For those tvi'o yeart
you must remain a stranger to this house; or, if we
meet, it must be in the presence of Doctor Robinson
to whom I shall, without reserve, relate the motive?
of my conduct. Hear me out,'' he continued, seeing
Reginald about to interrupt him. " If, at the perioa
1 mention, you should still retain the same feelings
towards my daughter, I will no longer oppose them
though then she will be only seventeen, and too young
to enter immediately into so serious and important a
contract as that of marriage."

"You could not, — surely, would not — be so un
seasonable as to impose a further penance," observed
De Cardonnel, impetuously.

" Stop till the time of trial arrives, my dear boy,
before you begin to plead for indulgence," replied
Mr. Moreland, smiling. " If, indeed, you rigidly
adhere to my terms, I may be tempted then to take
your hard case into consideration; but theif is one

;i6 EMILY MORELAND.

stipulation, which I expect your solemn promise to
adhere to — that, under no pretences or circumstances,
you will attempt any clandestine correspondence
with Marian. You will write to us, I hope and trust,
as frequently and unreservedly as you have hitherto
done J but Marian must be still considered and ad-
dressed as your sister only."

Without hesitation, Reginald gave the desired as-
surance. He respected Marian, he said, too sincerely,
to wish to induce her ever to act in a manner that
would sully her innocence, and debase her self-esteem ;
and such, he felt, must be the tendency of all clan-
destine proceedings.

"My own— my noble boy!" exclaimed Mr. More-
land, grasping his hand with enthusiasm, " continue
but such as you now leave me; and with the most
heartfelt pride and pleasure shall I perform my part
of the contract, when you shall be entitled to
claim it."

Though determined to be satisfied, and to confide
in De Cardonnel's submission to his dictates, the good
Curate felt relieved of considerable uneasiness, when
the period arrived for the return of the latter to
Cambridge.

Marian, though sincerely sorry to part with him,
had now brought herself to regard his absence as
merely temporary, and felt therefore considerable
surprise at the extreme reluctance and emotion with
which he bade her farewell; nor could she at all ac-
count for the gloomy look with which he listened to
her, when she talked of their next meeting, and pro-
mised to practise incessantly on the guitar he haa

'y/i^e^ yy///?'/ /7(v/' //'fU ///^^v//v/ //////

-VV/-V//// //V/.'v r

> ry ^'^//A///// r,/y //f/ //</f'(/

EMILY MORELAND. 37

brought her, that she might be able to play and sing
all his favourite songs perfectly.

" Only promise, Marian, that you will let no one
usurp my place in your heart!" exclaimed Reginald,
passionately, " and I will try "

Mr. Moreland hastily interposed — " Promises can-
not bind the affections or feelings, Reginald; and

Marian is yet too much a child to " He paused,

fearful that he was leading the latter to draw in-
ferences which had, he was convinced, never yet en-
tered her unsuspicious mind.

Marian's reply, however, completely removed this
fear.

" Do you, then, think me so weak and ungrateful,
my dear father," she observed, '• that any new friends
or acquaintance could efface my affection for my
brother? No, even if Reginald should, as you have
sometimes hinted, forget the friends of his childhood,
I should still feel for him as I do now."

*' And be you also assured, Marian," returned De
Cardonnel, " that no power on earth can ever change
my sentiments towards you!"

" Come, come," interrupted Moreland, attempting
to laugh, " come, I must put an end to this nonsense;
for, while you are uttering your romantic and sen-
timental protestations, two or three hours of daylight
will be wasted away, and Reginald will stand a
chance of being lost in the dark, before he reaches
the first stage."

Reginald looked reproachfully at him, again kissed
Marian, and, as if to sanction his so doing again,
railed her his dear, his beloved sister, and then

r.MILY >rORKLANI>.

jumped into the chaise which was to convey him from
her, for a period she little suspected.

The next vacation arrived, before a thought en-
tered Marian's mind that Reginald would not pass
it with them; she had, indeed, wondered that the
letter, which they received from hirn about three
weeks previous, contained not a single allusion to
their approaching meeting; but she felt highly in-
dignant and offended, when, on making the remark
to her father, he replied —

"Surely, my dear child, you cannot be so unrea-
sonable as to expect Reginald to devote all his holi-
days to us ? It is probable that he has formed some
engagement, which will prevent his visiting us at all,
this summer."

Marian, liowever, was certain he would come ; and
she was not undeceived, until they received a letter
from him, dated from London, by which they learned
that he was spending his few weeks of liberty with
Doctor Robinson, and had been highly gratified by
the sights of the Metropolis, though he should have
relished them much more, had Marian enjoyed them
with him.

"Oh, then, he has not quite forgotten me!" ex-
claimed Marian, bursting into a passionate fit of
tears.

" Who is unjust and cruel to Reginald now, Ma-
rian ?" demanded Mr. Moreland, gravely ; " but, my
dear girl, you must learn to moderate your expecta-
tions. Your friend is now of an age to enjoy and to
require other society than ours."

Marian's tears increased for some miiiii'es ''"'

EMILY MORRT.ANT). 3J>

priie at last came to her relief—"! will think no
more about him," she observed, dryin"- hei eyes.
'• No, if he never comes again!— and 1 beg, my dear
father, that you will tell him so, in your reply to his
letter; and tell him, too, that I am very glad he has
had so many pleasures lately."

Mr. Moreland smiled and sighed in the same breath,
as he gazed fondly in lier glowing and animated
face ; but he did not promise to comply with her re-
quest; and, as if by mutual consent, the name of
Reginald was seldom uttered, except when his letters,
which were pretty regular, brought him forward on
the tapis.

In secret, however, Marian spent many hours in
conjecturing the alterations which would probably
have taken place in his person and manners, before
she should see him again; and not a few tears were
shed over the presents he had made her, and at the
recollection of the warm protestations which accom-
panied the precious gifts. But Marian was no longer
a child; — she no longer indulged the delusive idea
that Reginald was to her only a beloved brother;
and the consciousness of the folly and impropriety
of her attachment to him, induced her to study to
conceal it.

Thus passed away a year and a half of Reginald's
banishment. To Mr. Moreland, during the first few
months, he had often privately written, entreating
him to revoke the cruel determination he had formed;
but the Curate was inexorable, though he yielded to
him so far as to refrain from communicating to Doc-
tor Robinson what had passed, and left Reginald to

40 EMILY MOR ELAND.

frame what excuse he thought fit, for his continued
absence from Arlington.

The last half year of De Cardonnel's residence at
Cambridge commenced, and Moreland, who was be-
ginning to anticipate its termination with considera-
ble anxiety, was surprised by observing in the news-
paper an announcement of the return of Sir James
Dorrington and family from India, with the addition
that the King had been pleased, in reward of his long
services, to create Sir James a peer, by the title of
Lord Dorrington.

" It is highly probable, then," he observed aloud,
after reading the intelligence to his wife and daugh-
ter, as they sat at breakfast " It is highly probable
that my predictions will be verified! Reginald de
Cardonnel will forget the humble inhabitants of Ar-
lington, in the splendor of these new connexions, and
we shall see him no more."

" This, then, accounts," he added, after a thought-
ful pause of some minutes, " for his having neglected,
for the first time since he quitted us, to write, to say
where he had spent his vacation, or how he had been
entertained. I knew, indeed, that it was not with
Doctor Robinson, who is confined at Bath, with a
severe attack of the gout ; for I received, a fortnight
ago, a letter from the Doctor's valet, to inquire if
Mr. de Cardonnel was or had been at Arlington, as
his master had some important information to com-
municate, and knew not where to write to him."

"Howstrange!" observed Mrs. Moreland, "where
in the world could the boy have hidden himself?"

" Oh, it could not be expected that d gay young

EMII^Y MORET.A ND. 41

man would consent to doze away all his time Avith
such a peevish old proser as the Rector," observed
Moreland, assuming a levity he was far from
feeling.

" Then why, I wonder, did he not come here ? I
am sure I long to see him," returned Mrs. More-
land, with her usual simplicity.

Marian, who, during- this conversation, had sat in
the most pitiable confusion, unable to raise her eyes
to meet those of her father, now let the, tea-cup fall
from her trembling hand : and, in the bustle this
occasioned with her neat and careful mother, escaped
the observation she dreaded.

In her anxiety lest the tea should have scalded
her darling, and her secondary fear that it would
stain the new buff gown, which was so remarkably
becoming, Mrs. Moreland forgot Reginald de Car-
donnel, and all that was connected with him. The
Curate silently resumed the newspaper, and Marian
eagerly seized the excuse of changing her gown,
to retire to her own room, there to shed the bitter
tears, which a consciousness of her own unworthi-
ness, and the deception she had been guilty of
towards her doting and unsuspecting parents, ex-
torted from her.

No one, indeed, could better account for the neg-
lect and concealment of Reginald de Cardonnel than
herselfo

Nearly two months prior to this period, the Cu-
rate had been called from home by the sudden death
of Mrs. Morel and's aged father, who breathed his
last in the cottage in which he was born, and to
2. G

42 EMILY MORELAND.

which he was so much attached, that he would not
leave it, even to reside with his beloved and only
child, to whom he bequeathed it, and the land at-
tached, with a strict injunction that it should not be
sold, but descend, after her death and her husband's,
to their daughter.

The necessary arrangements which this event de-
manded, detained Mr. Moreland for some weeks ;
and, during that absence, Marian was left more to
herself than was usual. Her mother, from her
notable disposition, which always suggested some
employment in her little household, seldom having
time or inclination to accompany her in her rambles.

From one of these rambJes, then, Marian was re-
turning alone, when she was respectfully accosted
by a stranger, who, putting a letter into her hand,
intimated that he should wait on the morrow, at
the same hour, and on the same spot, for an answer,
and then hastily retreated.

A single glance at the superscription informed
Marian who was the writer of the epistle thus mys-
teriously delivered ; and the consciousness that she
should do wrong in thus receiving it, kept her for a
few moments in suspense. She would call back the
man, and refuse to receive it,~but he was already
out of sight. Jt would be best, then, to take it to
her mother, and tell her how she came by it ; but,
while she still delayed and hesitated, her fingers
had almost unconsciously broken the seal. Her eye
rested on a passionate appeal to her feelings, and
those feelings were now too strongly excited, io
listen to the dictates ot prudence.

EMILV MOEELAND. 43

With trembling emotion she learned from this
spistle, that, far from having deserted, or become
indifferent to her, Reginald was positively inter-
dicted by her " unfeeling and cold-hearted father,'
from either seeing or writing to her ; and that, un
able to bear any longer the miserable fear and sus-
pense he endured, as to the state of her affections —
fearing, indeed, that she might, by his absence and
apparent neglect, be induced to bestow, on some
one more favoured by her father, the precious boon
without which he declared he would not, and could
not support existence, — he had thus ventured to
break through the barrier which Mr. Moreland'^i
worldly prudence interposed betAveen them, and
entreated her at least to relieve the insufferable tor-
tures of suspense, by replying to him with candour.

" If you decide against me, Marian," he con-
cluded, " I will not promise to bear that decision
with fortitude ; but, at least, you shall never hear
my complaints ! What my feelings will be, should
you, on the contrary, condescend to assure me that
the affection, you once declared unalterable towards
Reginald de Cardonnel, is still unshaken by the
arts that have been practised against him — what
those feelings will be, Marian, no words can paint!"

Marian read this letter with astonishmejit ; what
were her father's motives, for acting so cruelly and
deceptively, as she considered it, she could form no
idea — for Reginald had left that totally unexplained
In an evil hour she replied to this passionate effn-
sion, and, with equal sincerity and imprudence, de-
clared, that not even the onviction of his unwor-

44 EMILY MORELAND

thiness had been able to shak. the affection she
entertained for Reginald de Cardonnel. At the
sauie time s.ie entreated him to explain, if possible,
t^ hat had prompted her father to act so contrary to
his usual character.

With shame and confusion in her countenance,
she repaired to the spot appointed by De Cardon-
nel's emissary, and in silence delivered her reply,
which the man received with the most visible satis-
faction.

Marian returned home ; — for the first time, she re-
joiced in her father's ibsence, for she felt that she had
done wrong-, and she felt, too, a secret consciousness
that her father must have had some strong reasons
for acting as he had done, and could not have been
guided by mere caprice and tyranny, as Reginald
had insinuated. A thousand times she was on the
point of revealing to her mother all that had oc-
curred, but still she lingered and hesitated, until it
was too late ; for Reginald, encouraged by her let-
ter, came himself.

Scarcely could Marian recognise, in the elegant
and fashionable young man, who stole unperceived
into the arbour where she was reading, in the spa-
cious garden attached to the Parsonage, — scarcely
could she believe, until she heard his voice, and felt
his ardent embrace, that it could indeed be Regi-
nald de Cardonnel,

Alas! far more altered in mind and piinciples, than
in person, Avas the former companion of her child-
hood. Reginald was no longer the noble ingenuous
youth, whose cheek would have crimsoned at the

EMILY MO RELAND. 4.J

slightest imputation of dishonour. His youth, his
large allowance, and his fascinating and vivacious
manners, had made him sough tafter at Cambridge,
alike by the thoughtless, the profligate, and the de-
signing of both sexes ; and his easy disposition, and
want of knowledge of the world, made him but too
prone to adopt the habits of the one class, and become
a dupe to the craft of the other. Before he had been a
year at College, the handsome De Cardonnel was as
distinguished for his extravagance and dissipated ha-
bits, as those of much longer standing. He demanded
an increase of his allowance from Doctor Robinson,
who refused him, and, six months after, was startled
by the demands of half the tradesmen in Cambridge,
with whom the young heir had found credit.

The Doctor paid them — wrote a very pompous
letter, full of common-place admonitions and prog-
nostications of the consequences of such conduct —
but there his care for his ward ended ; for the
Doctor hated trouble of all sort ; and Reginald,
having thrown his letter into the fire, proceeded with
fresh eclat in the profligate career which he had en-
tered into.

Still, however, he could not disguise from himself
that this was not the road to happiness. Often amid
the nightly revel, when the point of his repartees,
the wit of his hon mots, or the refined indelicacy of
his double cntendres had set the room in a roar and
excited his companions to applaud him " to the very
echo ;" often, at such moments, would his imagina-
tion paint the look of sorrow and reproach with
which his more than father vi^ould behold him, could

46 EMILY MORELAND.

he look in, and see him the hero of such a scene ;
and still oftener did he turn with disgust from the
meretricious arts of the females with whom he now
associated, to muse over the image, which his mind
still faithfully retained, of the beautiful, the pure
the innocent Marian Moreland.

It was under the influence of one of these transient
fits of satiety and repentance, that he suddenly re-
solved to break through what he considered the
arbitrary restriction which Mr. Moreland had im-
posed, and ascertain whether Marian still retained
her affection for him.

" If she really loves me," he observed, " she will
easily be persuaded to be mine immediately ; and,
once married, I shall be enabled effectually to shake
off these ruinous habits."

Marian's answer, we have already said, was as
propitious as he could desire ; and Reginald, throw-
ing aside all restraints, without a moment's hesitation,
set out for the neighbourhood of Arlington, with his
servant, — the man to whom he entrusted the delivery
of his letter to Marian.

For two or three days, he remained concealed in a
cottage, at a short distance from the Curate's house;
the inhabitants of which he effectually bribed to
silence by his profuse liberality.

Marian, half repenting what she had done, and
suspecting that her correspondence with Reginald
would not end with her reply to his letter, kept close
to the house, lest she should again encounter the lat-
tcr's messenger, and again be tempted to act contrary
to her better judgment.

EMILV MOUELANU. 47

lles^inald, however, by means of his spy, sooji ascer-
tained that her hours were chiefly passed in the ar-
bour which his own hands had reared for her ; and
there he contrived to secrete himself, at a time when
he knew her mother was always busily employed in
her household cares. To prevent the effects which
his too sudden appearance might have on her, he
placed on her little work-table an elegant and striking
miniature of himself, which he had sent for her ac-
ceptance, at an early period of his residence at Cam-
bridge; but which had been returned by her father,
without mentioning it to her.

He had not been long in his hiding-place, before
she entered the arbour, and had scarcely thrown her-
self in a pensive attitude on the rustic seat, before
she discovered that her retreat had been intruded
on. With trembling emotion she gazed on the well-
remembered features, and then darted a conscious
and inquiring glance around. Reginald was, in an
instant, by her side, and, with passionate kisses, stifled
the reproof she was about to utter.

Marian wept, as much with joy as alarm, at the
impropriety of thus tacitly consenting to a clandestine
intercourse ; but Reginald's arguments and entrea-
ties, enforced as they were with all the ardour of the
most vehement eloquence, soon overpowered all her
reluctance and demurs.

The interview was repeated, and solemn vows ol
fidelity exchanged ; but Marian's innate feelings of
delicacy were not so soon conquered as Reginald had
anticipated; and, tnough she half consented to be-
come his wife, without waiting for the sanction of

48 EMILY MORELAND.

her father, or his (Re^^inald*?) friends, she wonld
not listen to his plan of immediate elopement.

Reginald returned to College ; but, the moment the
Vacation commenced, he was again an inhabitant of
the cottage at Arlington. Marian had now gone too
far to retreat, and hour after hour v^as passed in the
arbour, until, in a fatal moment, she forgot her pa-
rents, her honour, all the world but Reginald and
love.

Still Reginald declared that nothing but an union
with her could save him from despair and ruin, and
still Marian believed him ; but he departed again for
Cambridge, without making any positive arrange-
ments for the event, which he yet talked of as certain
to take place; and Marian was left to the misery of
her own self-reproaches, and the dread of a discovery
by her injured and deceived parents.

It was these feelings which overwhelmed her, when
her father casually mentioned the arrival of De Car-
donnel's relatives from India; but a still more ago-
nising discovery awaited her. She found that she
was likely to bring into the world a pledge of her
shame ; and, overcome with terror, she wrote to her
betrayer to come and save her from distraction, by
immediately fulfilling his promise.

A plan for her elopement was immediately con-
certed by Reginald, who waited a few miles off, while
his servant carried it into effect; and, in the dead of
the night, Marian, with a beating heart and trem-
bling steps, crossed the humble threshold of that
dwelling, which ehe was doomed ncvfr to gee
again.

^^irrjhr, I'lM.

EMILY M()iU:l- A Nl). 40

" V^hat will not woman wiien she love&?
" Yet lost, alas, who can restore her.'
" She lifts the latch, the wicket moves —
" And now the world is all before hei !"

Reginald's soothina;; assurances, his protestations
of eternal love, and the prospects he held forth, that
a short time would see her restored to the arms of her
parents, freed from all reproach— for who would dare
affix a stain upon the name of his wife — gradually
dispelled the violent agitation she ffelt ; yet Marian
could not banish the tortures of self-reproach, when
she pictured to herself the terror and consternation
of her parents when they should discover her absence,
which she had not attempted to explain, lest, as
Reginald had suggested, some clue might be afforded,
and they might be traced, before that ceremony,
which was to remove all her shame and terror, could
be performed.

For the first two days, while they were still on the
road, Reginald talked incessantly of their future
happiness, — of the arrangements of the establish-
ment which he should for-m^ as soon as he came of
age,— and of the pleasure he should enjoy, in intro-
ducing his Marian to scenes which she yet knew only
by description; and the credulous girl, lulled into
complete security, never suffered a fear to intrude
that these specious promises would not be fulfilled.

A lodging had already been provided by the ser-
vant, who had been sent on before; and Marian, for
the first few days of her i-esidenco in London, had no
reason to complain of inattention on the part of
Reginald, who devoted nearly tli? whole of his time
3. H

50 EMILY MORELANl).

to her. She could not, however, be blind to the
alarming fact, that on each succeeding day he ap-
peared less disposed to talk of that event, which was
alone wanting, she thought, to complete her felicity.
Never did Reginald now voluntarily recur to that
subject, which at first seemed constantly to occupy
his mind; and when, at last, compelled to speak of
it, by some observation of Marian's, it was as inevi-
tably postponed for the present by the difficulties
arising from their being both minors.

Marian's bright prospects vanished — she began to
doubt and fear; and those doubts and fears soon
settled into dreadful certainty. Reginald's visits
became less frequent, and of shorter duration ; and
when, driven to desperation by her apprehensions,
she ventured to remind him of his promises, and of
the misery her parents must be suffering, his answers
were so unsatisfactory and evasive, that the poor lost
one at once beheld all the horrors of her fate !

Fainting with anguish, she sank into a chair, and
DeCardonnel, unable to bear the sight of the misery
which he had not honourable resolution sufficient to
remove, rushed out of the house, to vhich he did not,
for some weeks, return.

To the careful and motherly kindness of the good
woman of the house in which she was fortunately
lodged, Marian owed the preservation of her life and
reason; which were both near being sacrificed, in
the first moments of her dreadful despair. No en-
treaties, however, could prevail on her, grateful as
she felt, and unreserved as she was, on every other
point, with her kind friend and nurse; no arguments

EMILY MORELAND 51

were sufficient to induce her to disclose the name or
residence of her parents, whom she acknowledged
she had cruelly deceived and deserted.

" While they are uncertain of the fate of their
child," she replied, ''they will judge the best of her;
but never let them have the misery of knowing that
she left them voluntarily; — that she disgraced and
polluted their happy home, and believed the specious
tales of a villain, who dared to infuse into her cre-
dulous mind the belief that her father, whom she
considered the most perfect of human beings, was
unjust, capricious, and tyrannical."

Mrs. Neville, the kind-hearted woman in whose
care she had luckily fallen, soon ceased to press
her on a subject, which she found invariably irri-
tated the wounded mind which she was anxious
to heal ; but, in her other efforts for the service of
her interesting charge, she was more successful ; for,
after infinite pains and search, she succeeded in dis-
covering the residence of De Cardonnel, whose real
name, family, and connexions, she learned from the
unconscious Marian, while in a state of complete
mental distraction.

Determined not to lose a moment's time, in repre-
senting; to the deceiver the situation of his unfortu-
nate victim, Mrs. Neville, on the very same evening
that she ascertained that Mr. de Cardonnel was re-
siding in Portland Place, at the mansion of his uncle,
(Lord Dorrington,) proceeded thither.

The night wa'^ wet and stormy, but the good wo-
man disregarded all considerations but the success of
her «rrar.d : and it was no' until she found herself

03 EMILV MORELAND.

in the splendid hail, and exposed to the inipiutent
stare of the lazy domestics, who were lounging
about in it, that she felt the slightest dismay at her
own humble appearance. To her inquiry, whether
Mr. de Cardonnel was within, she could get no deci-
sive answer. No one knew, or would know; but, at
length, she was told that his servant would be there
presently, and then she could inquire.

For nearly an hour she continued standing unno-
ticed, except by an inquisitive glance, when any of
the numerous tribe of domestics entered the hall,
who had not seen her before. At length she beheld
the same man descending the staircase, who had at-
tended Dc Cardonnel at her house, and had engaged
the lodj^ings for him, in the name of Stanley ; and,
darting towards him, she, in an authoritative tone,
desired him to tell his master, Mr. de Cardonnel, that
she Vf'ished to speak with him.

The man looked surprised and alarmed, but he re-
solutely protested that Mr. de Cardonnel was gone
out for the evening.

" Then 1 will remain here till he returns," replied
(he old woman, with determination, seating herself
on a bench ; " for I am resolved not to close my eyes
till I have seen him."

It was in vain Vincent (the servant) tried to per-
suade her from this resolution, or to induce her to
enter a room, (he door of which he opened ; the
more anxious he was to remove her from the hall,
the more certain she became, iu her own mind, that
he was fearful of h?r seeing De Cardonnel, for whon;.
she doubted not, the elegant carriage, which had

EMILY MOftELAND. 53

just (IravvJi up to the door, as she entered, was now
waiting

Finding entreaties and persuasions useless, Vin-
cent at length resorted to force; and, after a short
whisper with another man, who wore Mr. de Car-
donnel's livery, they each seized her arms, and, as-
suming an air of levity, observed, " that she should
not sit there, at the risk of catching her death, but
should come where there was a good fire, and a glass
of wine to comfort her;" at the same time attempting
to hurry her down a long passage, apparently lead-
ing to the servants' offices.

The old lady, however, who was a stout, sturdy
Avomaji, violently resisted this attempt to thwart her
purpose; and she was still struggling and exclaiming,
when De Cardonnel descended the stairs, conducting
n most splendidly dressed and beautiful young female.

At sight of Mrs. Neville, — who had caught hold
of one of the pedestals, which supported statues
bearing lamps at each side of the foot of the stair-
case, and resisted every effort to remove her, without
dashing it to pieces, — at the first glance of her angry
countenance, Reginald would fain have retreated ;
but his fair companion's curiosity was not so easily
eluded. With an air that showed she was accus-
tomed to command, and expected implicit obedience,
she exclaimed —

" What is the meaning of this? Who is this wo-
man, and why are you treating her so rudely ?"

Vincent looked at his master, as if doubtful what
to say ; while the latter, turning alternately red and
pale^ fiastily replied —

'' 1 know the woman, Julia. iShe has nothin"- to

54 EMILY MOIIELAND.

say that is calculated for your ear. — Leave her to

luy servants, and I will "

* No, Sir, I will say what I came here to say,"
exclaimed Mrs. Ne\ille, in almost breathless agita-
tion, " I will tell you, in the hearing of this lady,
that you are a vile deceiver, and that the poor young
creature, whon) you have destroyed and deserted, is
dying at my house !"

"Julia, dear Julia, pray do not attend to the
M'ild ravings of this maniac!" exclaimed De Car-
donnel, endeavouring to draw the beautiful girl,
who stood transfixed to the spot, towards the hall
door, at which the carriage still stood.

With an air of haughty superiority, however, she
repulsed the effort, and commanded Vincent and the
other man to release Mrs. Neville, whom they still
held; then calmly desiring the laiter to follow her,
without bestowing a look on the enraged and morti-
fied De Cardonne], she returned up the stairs,
leaving him to proceed in the carriage, or stay, as
he thought proper.

" What is the matter, Lady Julia," said a lady,
who hastily rose from a couch, on which she was in-
dolently reclining.

Lady Julia burst into an hysterical fit of tears,
and, regardless of her elegant dress, threw herself
on the sofa, hiding her face in the pillow ; while her
liat, loaded Avith the most valuable feathers, and
looped with diamonds, fell totally unregarded on the
ground; and the splendid reticule, which had been
hanoing on her arm, was tossed, with childish petu-
lance, to the other side of the room.

•' Who are you, woman ?~and wh f do you follow

EMILY MOREI.AND. OO

my daughter ?" exclaimed the elderly lady, stamping
her foot with the most imperious air, as she fixed her
eyes furiously on Mrs. Neville.

" Do not scold her, mamma — but shut that wretch,
Reginald, out ! — Lock the door — do not let him come
in ! I will never see his face again !" sobbed Lady
Julia, raising herself up on her beautiful white arm,
which was encircled with a splendid armlet, which at
that moment caught her eye.

Hastily unclasping it, before her mother could pre-
vent her, she threw it on the ground, and stamped
on it, with all the force her delicate foot and thin
satin shoes would allow.

" Do not destroy the jewels, my child ! Are you
frantic ?" exclaimed her mother. " If Reginald has
offended you "

" I will destroy every vestige of the wretch !" ex-
claimed the enraged beauty. " Would that it were
his false heart, instead of his hair, tliat 1 could thus
throw into the flames !" and, with a violence which
seemed to render her mother afraid of interfering,
she tore the braid of glossy hair from the jewels in
which it had been set, and threw it upon the fire,
th^n sank again upon the sofa, as if to smother llie
violence of her passion.

•'Can you explain tlsis scene ?" demanded the
mother, addressing the half-terrified Mrs. Neville,
who had remained slandiiig near the door.

" Yes — she can tell yuu that Reginald has seduced
some poor gi.'l, while he has been pretending that he
could noi exist out of my sight l" exclaimed Lady
Julia ; " and now he is tired of her, and has left her

56 EMILY MORELANI).

to die in distiess! And, if I had nianiej iiim, 1
suppose I, too, should have been neglected and de-
serted ! But I will die first !" and again she sank
down, and renewed her violent sobs.

" And is it upon this errand you are come, to dis-
turb the peace of my family, and work upon the sen-
sibility of my daughter, in favour of some artful,
low creature, who, I dare say, has taken advantage
of my nephew's youth, and "

Mrs. Neville could bear this no longer. '' Excuse
my interrupting you. Madam," she observed, " but
I cannot hear you go on, under such a mistake. The
lady, in whose behalf I have come here, is, for aught
I know, as well born — I know she has been as well
bred— as any here. She is, too, as young and beau-
tiful as that lady ; and, could you see her "

" And pray where is this paragon ?" demanded
Liady Dorrington, without relaxing, in the slightest
degree, from her imperious manner. " Could she
not come herself to accuse Mr. de Cardonnel, if she
has any reason so to do ?"

" I have already said that she is not likely to sur-
vive the discovery of Mr. de Cardonnel's baseness
and treachery. She is in an advanced state of "

" I want no further explanations, good woman,"
interrupted Lady Dorrington, with a scornful air,
'^ and I desire that you will take some proper oppor-
tunity of applying to Mr. de Cardonnel, if he has
neglected to make a proper provision for this yor.ng
woman ; whoever she is, of course, she has a right to
demand it ; but it would be more to her credit, and
yours, too, to keep such aflairs as secret as possible.

E M 1 1, Y M O a E r. A N I) . 07

\ou see how you have disht'ssed my dau«^}iter —
tnough, indeed, it is very \viong- of her, to suffer
herself to be thus ovetcoiiie, for a mere bagatelle.
Young men of fortune will transgress in this way ;
and, as it is plain tills has happened previous to his
seeingyou, my dear Julia," (turning to her daughter,)
"and he has, even by this a\ Oman's account, discon-
tinued his visits, I cannot think that you ought so
seriously to resent the affair."

During this unfeeling and unfeminine speech, Mrs*
Neville's surprise and agitation had completely con-
founded her ; but, at the conclusion of it, she hastily
opened the door, and, with a look the most expres-
sive of contempt she could assume, was on the point
of quitting it, when a gentleman, whose louring brow
betrayed that he was in some measure acquainted
with the subject under discussion, entered.

" I am ashamed. Lady Dorrington," he exclaimed,
" that either you, or your daughter, should, for a
moment, condescend to enter into an investigation of
this kind, or suffer a woman of this description to re-
main an instant in your presence. Reginald has
acquainted me with the whole affair— and I am re-
joiced to find that he has escaped the snares which
have been laid to entrap him ; and that the punish-
ment has fallen on the heads of those, who would
have taken advantage of his youth and inexperience.
The blame, it appears, is less attributable to the
girl, than to her artful ai.d ambitious parents, who
are rightly served for their foily and cupi-lilv, 1
have taken the settlement of the affair iuiu ii!\ own
hands, however; and I will take carc' (iial Mv. da
3. i

58 EMILY MOUELAND.

Cardonnel shail not be imposed upon. He must, of
course, make a provision for the child, if it lives, and
defray all reasonable expenses."

" Put up your money, Sir," exclaimed Mrs; Ne-
ville, who saw, from the manner in which he cfm-
cluded the last sentence, and the production of his
purse, that he was about to insult her still further.
" Keep your money," she proudly repeated, " for
well I am convinced she would sooner die than -be
indebted to you ! Happy, indeed, anj 1 that she is
spared hearing what I have this night heard, — ihe
ricli and titled relatives of a base profligate, vinai-
cating his conduct, and trying- to crush still more the
unfortunate victim of his arts. Let him many your
daughter — the connexion will be a suitable one ; for
with none, but hearts hard and unfeeling as his own
— none, but such as "

" Hold your tongue, woman, or I will have you
punished for your insolence !" vociferated Lord Dor-
rington, while his lady, affecting extreme alarm, re-
treated to the fire-place, and laid hold of the bell-
rope ; and Lady Julia darted, from her beautiful dark
eyes, looks which were intended to awe the resolute
Mrs. Neville into utter nothingness.

Neither Lord Dorrington's threats, or the looks of
the ladies, however, effected the slightest change in
Mrs. Neville's unceremonious mode of speaking ; and
she continued to paint, in their true colours, the
conduct of the Nabob and his family, with a hardi-
hood which seemed absolutely to paialise them, and
render them incapable of stopping her, either by per-
miasion or force, — until, M length, exhausted with

EMIIiY IIORELAND. 5J»

her own emotions, she felt it necessary to make a
retreat.

Leaving the astonished party, therefore, to their
reflections on the truths she had uttered, she delibe-
rately walked down stairs, and returned home, almost
heart-broken, with the conviction that there was, in-
deed, no hope remaining for her unfortunate charge.

To her utter astonishment, however, on the fol-
I'^wing morning, she was summoned from the cham-
ber of the hapless Marian, to receive Mr. de Car-
donnel, who had still sufficient feeling left, to be
seriously impressed with her representation of the
danger of the victim of his passions.

" I have come, Madam," he observed, " to atone,
as far as possible, for the treatment you met with
yesterday; but "

Mrs. Neville hastily interrupted him ; she cared
nothing for what she had herself suffered, she said ;
but she earnestly hoped he was come to render jus-
tice to the poor girl, who had been so shamefully
betrayed and deceived.

De Cardonnel entreated her patient attention to
what he had to plead in his own behalf, — and what
woman could ever resist the insinuations of his
tongue ? — Mrs. Neville listened to his artful and
plausible extenuation of his conduct, and was finally
brought to acknowledge, against her better judg-
ment, that it was not possible for him to do that,
which not even impossibilities ought to have pre-
vented. He convinced her that he could not marry
Marian ; and she, of course, could not object to the
arrangements he proposed, to render her life, should

60

EMII,y MORELAND.

she survive her present illness, as coiufoitahle »:?
possible. All that had passed, therefore, it waa
agreed should be suppressed ; and Mrs. Neville
undertook to prepare Marian to see him, and to
learn, by degrees, from his lips, the fatal truth— that
they r.'.ust separate for ever.

Marian received him with calmness ; but it was
plain that she no longer indulged delusive hopes.
She was anxious to conciliate his favour, for the
poor babe which she was about to bring into the
world, and which, sh? felt convinced, would soon
have no parent but him ; and she therefore suppressed
every reproach, but those her pale cheek and faded
form so eloquently spoke.

Mrs. Neville faithfully kept the secret of her inter-
view with the Dorringtons, and her knowledge of De
Cardoimel's intended marriage, until after the birth
of Marian's child ; but when, three weeks after this
event, she beheld the account of the splendid nup-
tials of the heiress of Lord Dorrington with her
cousin, Reginald de Cardonnel, she considered it
absolutely necessary to interdict any future visit
from the latter, and to demand from him the fuifii-
nient of his promises of future provision for the
helpless mother and her infant.

Before, however, she could see her boncvoleut
exertions crowned with success, Mrs. Neville's use
ful and harmless life was closed by a sudden and
violent disorder ; and Marian, dispossessed of her
home, at the same mojiient learned tlie ternsination
of every Itope ajicl every prospect for her chihi, in
hearing- that De Cardonnel was married

EMILY MO RET- AND. 01

In the first frenzy of despair, the most desperate
ideas entered her mind : and, with her infant in her
arms, she rushed out of the house, without any cer-
tain aim or destination. In this distracted state she
continued to wander for some hours, unconscious of
the road she was taking-, or the observation she ex-
cited, unMl her bodily strena^th became so exhausted,
that she was compelled to look round for some place
where she might rest for a few moments. She had
taken, almost instinctively, a road which led com-
pletely away from the busy city, and all its noisy
appendages ; and she found herself in a green shady
lane, which, but for the many scattered dwellings
that met her eye on every side, she might have fan-
cied was the very spot where she had delighted, in
her childhood, to wander, with Reginald by her side
assiduously conning the lessons which her infantine
frolics alone had power to divert him from.

The delusion was complete, when, at the far end
of the lane, she beheld a neat and unpretending cot-
tage, standing- in the midst of a garden, and almost
hidden by the profusion of flowering shrubs and fra-
grant Ciii5ibers, with which it was surrounded and
overgrown.

Exhausted and overcome with emotion, Marian
sank on the green baiik which skirted the road. A
shower of welcome tears relieved the burning of her
brain, and softer ideas took possession of her mind.
Could she secure to her child the protection of her
onc€' fond parents — could she out fetl secure that
they would shield it from neglect and poverty, — she
should die happy : and .veil sbe knew that she should

tKS EMILY MO U ELAN J).

die, for it was impossible she could live to see their
sorrow and resentment for the ills she had suffered.

With the kind assistance of the inhabitants of the
cottage, which had so powerfully affected her feel-
ings, she recovered sufficiently to return to the late
Mrs. Neville's house; and, having- made the neces-
sary arrangements, was about to quit London for
ever, when she was surprised by a visit from Vincent,
the servant of De Cardonnel, who entered unan-
nounced, as she was, with pain and difficulty, com-
pleting her preparations for her journe-y.

He had evidently learned her intentions, for, with
very little circumlocution, though still affecting tho
most profound respect, he introduced the subject of
his visit to Arlington; and expressed his regret that
the good and benevolent Mr. Moreland had quitted
that place.

Marian started — she had hitherto paid little at-
tention to him; had scarcely, in fact, seemed to re-
collect who he was, or to be curious to know with
what view became; but now she eagerly attended
to him, while he explained that he had been informed
that some high words had passed between Doctor
Robinson the Rector, and Mr. Moreland ; that the
former had accused his Curate of endeavouring to
entrap the last hope and heir of a noble house intu
an unbecoming and unequal marriage; and that Mr
Moreland had retorted with such severity, that a
separation had been the consequence, and the latter
had quitted Arlington forever.

Marian was distracted at this account; she knew
not now where to go, or what to resolve on : and, to

EMILY MORELAND. (Vi,

complete her despair, Vincent dared to insult her
with an offer of making her his wife, and even ven-
tured to insinuate that it was with his master's con-
currence that he did so.

It was fortunate for the hapless girl that this inso-
lent proposal roused every spark of pride and resent-
ment in her composition, and prevented her feeling.
in its full force, the information respecting her pa-
rents which he so abruptly conveyed, with a view,
she was now convinced, to delay her journey, which
must for ever put an end to the schemes he had
formed.

A few hours' reflection convinced her, that in the
humble cottage in the Vale of St. Clare, which was
now her father's sole possession, she should find those
dear parents who had often, in her presence, recalled
with complacency the happy hours which, previous
to, and during the first year of their marriage, they
had passed under its roof.

Thither, therefore, the betrayed and deserted
Marian resolved to proceed, without delay ; but, be-
fore she could accomplish her journey, sickness, as
we have already related, arrested her progress; and,
with infinite difficulty and suffering, the resigned and
patient wanderer reached the desired haven, to ter-
minate all earthly woes and cares with the rapturous
feeling, that she had secured to her innocent child,
her unconscious Emily, the protection of her fond
and forgiving parents.

04

EMI LY MORELi^M O

CHAPTER III.

Thou ar( so fair, so ejtcellently framed,
There is such mind in thy soul-breatiiing eye,
As if its ['iirer Iwjnie in heaven it claim'd,
And thence alotie could draw its witchery.
Thy voice has sucli a soothing melody,
• •»«»»»*

Methinks, as on thy jierfect form I gaze,

In t>e'ice should be tliy patlis.

In pleasantness thy ways. Anonymous,

From the funeral of their lost Marian, Morelar. d
and his wife returned to their humble home, sorro^^-
fui but not despairing". They had parted with her
but for awhile, and, if there were pains to suffer,
trials to overcome, before they should be re-united,
Marian was free from them ; to their share must they
all now fall. With a thoughtful and presaging look
at the infant Emily, who was sleeping on Susan's
knee, Moreland made this observation in silence.

" She will live, I hope, to be a comfort, and not a
sorrow to you," replied his humble friend, Wilson,
who had accompanied them home, and was leaning
over the back of his niece's chair.

Mr. Moreland almost started at the interpretation
which Wilson's natural acuteness had enabled him
to affix to his only half-formed thought ; but he made
no rtply, except by a deep-drawn sigh; and the
honei-t well-meaning- Farmer, having charged the
youthful nurse to be careful in the execution of he.
duty, as she valued his favour or protection, soon

■ EMILY MOREI.AND. (55

after departed, leavin£f to some fitter opportunity
the relation he had to make of De Cardonnel's gifts
and promises

Several weeks elapsed, and he could not gain re-
solution to mention a name and subject that Mr.
Moreland evidently shrank from. Hearing- from
Susan, however, that he was somewhat straitened for
money, in consequence of the expenses of his daugh-
ter's funeral, Wilson thought this an excellent op-
portunity to bring forward the deposit, which Mr. de
Cardonnel had made for the benefit of the infant
Emily.

For this purpose he called upon Mr Moreland^
and, after nursing the infant for some time, and
praising its beauty and liveliness, he ventured to
recur to their interview with the father, on the day
of the funeral.

" By-the-by, Sir," he observed, drawing from his
pocket the purse which De Cardonnel had given him,
" by-the-by, I had forgotten to mention that I have
something to deliver to you, for the poor little dear,
that her father gave me; and who has so great a
right, as I said to my Dame when I got home,— who
can have so great a right to provide for the child, as
its own father?"

Moreland looked surprised and angry, but, in a
moment checking the emotion, he observed — " You
have done wrong, my good friend, in receiving any
thing from that man ; but never can I consent to be
indebted to his charity for the support of this poor
babe ! So long as I live, it shall never want ; and T
will trust in Heaven to furnish the means of providing
3 K

66 EMILY MORELAlVn.

for her hereafter, without stooping to the cruel maity
to whom, I hope, she will never owe any more than
her existence. Put the money in your pocket, frit'nd
Wilson — and, if you should have no opportunity of
returning it to the donor, let it be a fund to administer
to those whose necessities require it in your neigh-
bourhood."

The Farmer looked dissatisfied and sorrowful.
He could not but consider it as unnecessary scrupu-
lousness and delicacy, in Mr. Moreland, to refuse ac-
cepting what he had a just right to demand; but the
latter was too firm and decided in his manner, to ad-
mit of his appealing against the determination he
had expressed ; and, after a long pause, during which
his eyes had been earnestly fixed on the smiling child
he still held in his arms, he returned the money into
his pocket, with a sudden brightening of countenance,
that seemed to imply he had, at last, settled it in his
own mind to his satisfaction.

"I will keep this money," he observed to his wife,
when he returned home, and related what had passed
— " I will keep this money, till the child is old enough
to have it herself; and, if the father sends any more,
(which I dare say he will,) I will save it all up for
her ; and it may be the means of getting her a good
husband, poor thing! — for, though love is all very
well to begin the world with, you know. Dame, a
little money helps to keep love warm."

The Dame, who, with a much less warm heart, and
a much warmer temper, than her husband, possessed
an infinitely larger stock of what is called prudencfij
perfectly acquiesced in the propriety of this resoiu-

EMILY MORELAND. 6t

tion ; and the money, carefully sealed up in the purse,
with the name of "Emily Moreland" written upon
it, was deposited in the Farmer's strong box.

As the Farmer had expected, at the end of six
months a remittance, to the same amount as the sum
he had already in his hands, was received by him
from Mr. de Cardonnel, who earnestly requested
that Farmer Wilson would, from time to time,
favour him with some intelligence of Mr. Moreland
and his family.

To this communication the Farmer, with infinite
difficulty, and incessant application to his son, (a boy
about twelve years old, on whom he had bestowed
what he called " a good edicafion,^^) for the correct
spelling of certain words, framed an answer in the
following terms : —

" Honoured Friend,

" I received your kind letter, with the money,
safe ; and am very glad to find you still continue
to lay to heart the evil you have done, and keep in
the mind to do your duty by your child ; as, indeed,
you can do no less — seeing the manner in which you
treated her poor mother ; which, though I don't wish
to say anything disagreeable, was certainly the cause
of her death ; and so, it seems, good Mr. Moreland
thinks, for he would not, on no account, accept of
the money you gave me — though, poor man, I be-
lieve times be hard enough with him, at this present
writing. However, as you disposed it with me, for
the good of the poor child, I shall make bold to keep
it for her ; and, by the time she is able to make use

TO EMILY MORELAND.

of it, it will have mounted to a very pretty penny,
to begin the world, if so be as nothing happens to
poor Mr. Moreland, to make her want it before, —
which is likely enough, for, the Lord knows, he has
had sorrow enough to break his heart, and has never
held his head up, since he laid his poor daughter in
the grave. No more— for the matter of that — has
the poor mother, but looks as pale and thin as a
ghost.

" I have no more to say at present, but that 1
shall always be glad to hear from you, and do hope
and bust that you will forsake your bad ways, and
pray for forgiveness of your sins, and be always
kind and dutiful to the poor little child ; and so I
conclude,

" Your dutiful servant to command,

" Isaac Wilson.

" To ReyiTUild de Cardoruiel, Esq.
" Portland Place, Lqiu^qh."

For four years after this auspicious commence-
ment of a correspondence, honest Isaac yearly re-
ceived a letter from Mr. de Cardonnel, which inva-
riably inclosed a bank note for either the present or
future use of Emily Moreland, as the Farmer might
think fit, or see opportunity. After the first letter,
however, Mr. de Cardonnel was very laconic in his
epistles, never mentioning Mr. Moreland or his wife,
and confining himself to merely inquiring whether
the child was still living and well.

" I dare say he would be glad to hear she was
dead," observed Dame Wilson, looking earnestly at

EMILY MORELAND. 69

the blooming Emily, who was now able to find her
way tc " Daddy Wilson's," as she called him, by
herself; and was as frequently to be found there,
after the Farmer's hours of labour were over, as at
her grandfather's cottage.

" I hope not — I hope he is not so hard-hearted,"
returned the Farmer, stroking back the thick ches-
nut curls, which fell over Emily's white and open
brow, as she leaned against his knee, and looking
fondly in her face. " I am sure," he continued,
" could he once see her pretty ways, and hear her
sweet tongue call him ' Father !' he would be a sa-
vage if he didn't love her !"

" Who are you talking of, Daddy Wilson ?'*
asked the little prattler, looking inquisitively in his
face, " not about me — because I have no father, you
know, but you, and grandfather, and "

" Hold your tongue, child, you don't know what
you are talking about!" interrupted Dame Wilson, in
her sharpest tone, which never failed to make Emily
shrink closer to her friend the Farmer, and grasp
his hard hand still tighter with her soft little fingers.
" I suppose," continued the Dame, again addressing
her husband, " he thinks, if such a thing was to hap-
pen, he should have all his money back again."

" To be sure," returned the Farmer, without
scarcely seeming conscious of the question, or the
answer he gave.

Dame Wilson's looks declared that she by no
means coincided in this prompt decision of her hus-
bfnd's, and she was about to commence a very warn*
ar«fument on the subject, when the Farmer put a

70 EMILY MORELAND.

sudden stop to it by taking Emily in his arms, and
walking out of the house.

Emily was at this period entering lier fifth year,
and this was the last time that Reginald de Cardonnel
wrote to the Farmer, or evinced any interest con-
cerning the child of Marian Moreland.

Wilson felt disappointed ; two hundred and fifty
pounds was a very pretty sum, certainly, but it was
not, in his opinion, equal to what Emily had a right
to expect ; and he should have liked, too, that her
father should have bestowed a little of his love, as
well as his money, on the sweet child.

He wrote to De Cardonnel, painting, in his homely
terms, the beauties of her person, and the sweetness
of her disposition and manners ; but the letter re-
mained unanswered, and he was too much discou-
raged to make another attempt.

The grief of Mr. Moreland and his wife, for the
fate of their unfortunate daughter, had now settled
into a calm and chastened remembrance of her mani-
fold virtues and graces ; and, with tender delight,
they beheld those qualities gradually unfolding, in
the bud which she had bequeathed to their fostering
care. Yet even these pleasurable feelings were not
unmixed with pain, as their grandchild was most e.ni-
nenlly gifted with those two fatal possessions, which
had ruined her mother ; for, even to a greater degree
than had rendered Marian so attractive, was Eniily
distinguished for beauty, and that sensibility, with
out which beauty is cold and powerless. To tnese
native attractions, accident enabled Emily to add ac-
quirements, which her protectors had neither the

EMILY MOREI \ND. ?1

Wish, not the means, of placing within her reach ;
and which, while they gave all the polish of ease and
elegance to her lovely person and manners, detracted
nothing from that native simplicity and innocence
which rendered her so irresistibly alluring.

Emily was nearly eight years old, when, in the
course of one of her journeys from her grandfather^s
cottage to Wilson's more substantial farm-house,
which stood nearly on the brow of one of the high
hills which shut in the secluded valley of St. Claie,
she suddenly came behind a lady, who, seated in a
negligent attitude on the grass, was sketching some
of the principal features of the lovely landscape that
lay before her.

Over similar productions of her mother's, which
were carefully treasured by Mr. Moreland, Emily
had often sighed, and wished in vain that she could
thus transfer to paper the beautiful scenes, which,
young as she was, often induced her to loiter for
hours in the neighbourhood of the valley.

Age and sorrow had dimmed the eyes, and enfee-
bled the hand of Mr. Moreland, too much to allow
him to become her preceptor ; and Emily was com-
pelled to renounce all hope of emulating her mo-
ther in the delightful art which so strongly excited
her admiration.

Anxious, therefore, to observe the progress of the
lady in her pleasing employment, she stole, with
fairy steps, behind the tree, under the shade of which
the former was sitting ; and there, with suppressed
breath and sparkling eyes, continued to watch the
rapid progress of the pencil, which portiayed, with

iZ EMILY MOIIELAND.

sa:h faithful precision, all that was so familiar to
her eye, but which she still delio;hted to gaze on.

There were the trees where her grandfather had
constructed a rustic bench, and where he so often
talked to her of her mother ; and now there was the
dear cottage itself, peeping out in one corner of the
paper, and Emily could hardly suppress the ex-
pressions of her delight and gratitude to the stranger,
who, she thought, had made her pretty home look
even prettier.

" Oh, that some cot like that for me would smile i"

repeated the strange lady, in a tone of silvery clear-
ness, yet with a slight accent that betrayed she was
not a native of England.

Emily forgot the drawing, forgot all but that the
lady sighed so heavily, as if she was in grief, and
that the line she had repeated, from one of grand-
papa's favourite poets, seemed to indicate that she
was friendless.

To introduce herself to the stranger, and to per-
suade her to go home with her to one whose heart
was ever open to succour the afflicted, became
now Emily's supreme wish ; but timidity kept her
standing in susj>ense, when a little spaniel, which
was generally her companion in her daily walks,
but had now, by accident, been left at Ik me, hastily
bounded up the hill, in search of its youthful mistress,
and, discovering at once her hiding-place, darted
without ceiemony over the lady's portfolio, and im-
plements for drawing, and with the most unbounded
caresses testified its joy at the rencounter.

EMILY MOUELANO. 73

The lady gazed in silent aston/.^hment at the
blushing- Emily, who, with native grace, apologised
at once for the rudeness of Clara and herself.

" But I do so admire drawing," she observed,
" though I cannot dravv,that I could not help peep-
ing^ over your shoulder; and I am sure dear grand-
papa would be so pleased to see our little cottage,
and the roses, and jessainints, and lime trees, and all

that you have done so beautifully If you would

come with me to our cottage," she added, looking
up in the stranger's face, with one of her sweetest
smiles, " we should all be so proud and so happy,
and we would try to make you happy too."

The stranger looked at her with the most intense
interest expressed in every feature, while a thou-
sand thoughts seemed rushing through her agitated
mind.

" I will go with you, my sweet child," she at
length replied, " and for one day try to forget — try
to be happy !"

Who was now so proud and so happy as Emily,
as, with an earnestness that defeated her intentions,
she assisted to collect the scattered pencils, brushes,
and designs, which Clara's rough gambols had
thrown into disorder. " I will carry it," she ob-
served, placing the cumbersome portfolio under her
little arm, " I often carry mamma's, when we take
It to the shade of the lime trees, grandpapa and I."

" You have, then, a mother to watch over you .'
Happy, happy mother !" exclaimed the lady, with
emphasis.

Emily's bright smile faded, and a gush of warm
4. u

74 EMILV MC RELAVD.

tears rendered h-er for some moments unable to arti-
culate. At length, however, the lady understood
that she had misapprehended her lovely guide.
*' She had no mother — her mother lay in the church-
yard, which the lady must have passed, in her way
to the spot where they had met."

*' And your father, my sweet girl? " said the lady,
in a tone of earnest inquiry.

Emily's cheek crimsoned — " My father is far away
— I do not know why," she said, " but he never
comes to see me."

The stranger made no remark in reply to this, but
Emily saw the tears trickle down her cheeks, and her
own burst forth, though unconscious why they did so.

" My sweet girl, do not — do not weep !" exclaimed
the lady, " youinake my heart sad !"

The deep sigh with which this was uttered, proved
the truth of the assertion ; and Emily checked her
tears, and tried to smile, as she desired her companion
to look at her grandfather, who was crossing the stile
to meet them.

The cheek of the fair stranger flushed, and a look
of timid apprehension evinced her fear that she
might not be as welcome to the friends of her youth-
ful companion, as the latter seemed to anticipate.
Mr. Moreland's first greeting, however, dissipated
this fear ; — it was at once kind, respectful, and un-
affected.

His eye glanced towards the portfolio, which
Emily still carried — " 1 need not express any sur-
prise. Madam," he observed, " at seeing you in this
secluded spot ; for, to the eye of an virtist, our little

EMILY MORELAND. 73

valley, circumscribed as it is, certainly presents many
charms."

"It is a lovely, beautiful place!" returned the
lady, gazing around her with increased complacency.

" That is a high compliment from you, Madam,
who, if I mistake not, are a native of a land cele-
brated for its delightful scenery."

The stranger blushed, then turned pale, and sighe
deeply as she replied — " I am an Italian — but never,
even in my own dear country, have I seen a sweeter
landscape ; a spot which has more charms for one
who seeks repose, and would forgot the treacherous,
deceitful world !"

"And have you, too, young lady, so soon found
cause to contemn the world ?" said Mr. Moreland,
gravely.

The stranger did not speak ; but she raised her
large dark eyes to his, with a look at once so sweet,
so sad, and yet so resigned, that it went to his heart ;
and, pressing the hand which she had unaffectedly
offered him at their first greeting, the good old man
endeavoured to wean her thoughts from the melan-
choly turn they had taken, by adverting to Emily's
wish of acquiring an accomplishment, which it was
no longer in his power to impart to her.

" It would be a delightful task," observed the
stranger, thoughtfully, and in her native language^
as if speaking only to herself, and pursuing the cur-
rent of some idea which his remark had excited.

Mr. Moreland had travelled in Italy, previous to
his marriage ; and the stranger was at once startled
and deeply affected at hearing herself addressed in

7(> EMIl.Y MORELAND.

the pure harmonious accents of her native country f
but still more was she gratified and interested, v, hen
she discovered that her new friend had visited tlte
land that s^ave her birth, and that a period of lhirt\
years had not effaced the vivid recollection of its
beauties and delights.

Before they reached the cottage door, at which Mrs,
Moreland (whom Emily, bounding on before them
like a fawn, had already apprised of their new guest,)
was waiting to receive them, Rosalia Orsini, by
which name the stranger announced herself, and Mr.
Moreland were as completely familiarised to each
other, as if they had been friends for years.

Proud, justly proud, of her husband, her grand-
daughter, and, perhaps, a little proud of the excel-
lent management which gave to their humble cot-
tage such an air of neatness and simple taste, Mrs.
Moreland's liking for her visitor increased with
every commendation which the latter bestowed on
the objects that engrossed so large a share of her
thoughts ; while Mr. Moreland, in retracing with
the lovely Italian the happy months he had spent in
visiting the " sweet south," forgot all that had oc-
curred since those joyous days, to silver his hair and
wrinkle his brow.

The sun was sinking behind the hills, before Ro-
salia Orsini thought of quitting society so congenial
to her mind, or Emily had recollected that she must
part with the beautiful lady, whose hand she fondly
retained in her own, as she stood by her side, listen-
inff, with silent attention, to the animated conversa-
tiou which seemed to aiford so much delight t« her

EMILY MOUELAND. ti

grandfather. At length, however, the fair stranger
hinted at the necessity of retiring, and inquired the
nearest way to the little village where she had taken
up her temporary residence.

Mr. Moreland was astonished. Too Avell bred to
ask a question, on a subject which had, nevertheless,
more than once recurred to his mind, he had come to
the conclusion that his new friend, from her superior
manners and appearance, must be a visitor at some
gentleman's seat in the neighbourhood; and that a
caniage was, in all probability, waiting at some ap-
pointed spot, to convey her home. What, therefore,
was his surprise to find that this young, beautiful,
and accomplished female, was travelling alone, and
unattended even by a single servant ; and that,
having been struck with the beauty of the surround-
ing scenery, and feeling also the necessity of a few
days' rest, after considerable fatigue, she had resolved
on remaining at the little inn where the coach, in
which she was journeying towards London, had
stopped to change horses, and which was about three
miles from Mr. Moreland's residence.

Emily's beautiful eyes filled with tears, at the first
indication that her new friend was going to leave
them ; and a long soft whisper to her grandfather
revealed at once her sorrow, and her wishes that he
v/ould press the beautiful lady to stay with them.

Mr. Moreland's eyes consulted those of his good
dame, and the result was, a cordial invitation to re-
main, for as long a time as she pleased, with them, if
she could reconcile herself to their humble mode ot
life, and scanty accommodations.

78 EMILY MORELAND.

Signora Orsini was agitated beyond utterance *bi
some moments, and Mrs. Moreland, literally taking
silence for consent, slipped away, to commence im-
mediately the necessary preparations for her guest's
accommodation.

Emily was in raptures;— at one minute she was
bustling about by the side of her grandmother, at-
tempting to assist her in laying the best white quilt
over the bed, and adjusting the muslin drapery, with
which the old lady had decorated the dressing-table;
and the next, she was again at the side of the object
of her admiration, listening, with sympathy and ten-
derness in her mild eyes, to language which she
imagined conveyed a tale of sorrow, from the tears
with which it was delivered, and those with which it
was listened to by her grandfather.

The kindness, the confidence, with which she was
treated, had drawn from the unfortunate Rosalia
Orsini a full detail of the causes which had made her
an alien to her country, and a wanderer, without
friends or home, in a land, to the manners and
language of which she was almost a stranger.

The narrative could not raise her in Mr. More-
land's estimation, for he had already been convinced
that her mind was as noble as her manners were
pure and unaflected ; but he was gratified at learn-
ing, from her own lips, that no taint of weakness or
frailty had blurred the fair page of her history, and
that, though she had suffered, greatly suffered, it
was not that she had deserved to do so. He was re-
joiced, too, to find that, though far from rich, Ro-
salia was not destitute, but possessed a competency,

EMILY MORELAND 7.9

for a mind like hers, which could despise or view
with indifference the pomp and trappincjs of wealth ;
and a little, as he candidly acknowledged, selfish feel-
ing mingled with his more exalted ones, as he learned
that, from henceforth, she was free to chuse her
dwelling-place, and that hitherto she had met with
none possessing such attractions as the Vale of St.
Clare.

With such a friend and companion for himself, such
a preceptress for his grandchild, Mr. Moreland felt
his retreat would, indeed, have gained inestimable
value ; and though he was not quite so sanguine as
Emily, in supposing that Signora Orsini could be
content with the confined accommodations of their
humble cottage as a permanent residence, he thought
there would be little difficulty in procuring, in the
neighbourhood, a retreat which would suit both her
wishes and circumstances.

Farmer Wilson, indeed, had two pretty pleasant
rooms, which had been built purposely to accommo-
date a rich relation, who used to spend some weeks
every summer with them, until, in a fit of dotage, he
married his cook-maid, and was thenceforth compelled
to exchange the charms of the Vale of St. Clare
for a rustic villa at Paddington. This fatal event
having completely put an end to Dame Wilson's
hopes of a fat legacy, the rooms had ever since been
kept closed, or only opened to air and preserve the
neat and good furniture, which he had presented to
them, in return for their attention to his whims and
oddities. A hint from him (Mr. Moi eland) to the
Farmer would, he knew, be sufficient to ensure Sig-
nora Orsini being received as an inmate, upon very

^<(^ EMILY MORELAND.

moderate terms ; and though Dame Wilson possessed
not one of the most amiable and pleasant tempers in
the world, she was an excellent domestic manager,
and the Signora would be too independent of her, and
too much above her, to be annoyed by her failings.
The point was therefore settled in Mr. Moreland's
mind; and on the following morning, before his guest
had left her comfortable bed, he walked over to the
farm, and introduced the subject which had occupied
his thoughts the greater part of the night.

Mrs. Wilson pursed up her thin lips with one of
her demurest and sourest looks, and, before her hus-
band could reply, she observed, " that it was rather
a pertklar sort of thing to take in a single young
woman ; and one, too, who, coming from foreign
parts, couldn't have no friends nor relations to look
after her character "

" That's the very reason, Dame, why she ought to
be kindly treated," interrupted the Farmer, with
more decision than he usually assumed. " That's
the very reason that she wants a comfortable home
and kind treatment, because she's got no naVral
friends, and is a stranger in a strange country !"

" Ah, but " began Mrs. Wilson, in the sharpest

key of her sharp voice, but again her wise and pru-
dent remarks were doomed to be interrupted ; for
Mr. Moreland, with more austerity than ever she
had seen him wear, declared, that if Mrs. Wilson
felt any kind of doubt, or hesitation, as to the eligi-
bility of the proposal he had made, he could easily
find some one less scrupulous, or, at least, more dis-
posed tc place confidence in his recommendation.

"1 do not ask it of you as a favour," hecTstinued,

EMILV won ELAND. 81

" because the lady I wish you to accommodate, pos-
sesses ample means to remunerate you, for all she
will receive; though I certainly should feel oblig^ed
by every particular mark of kindness and attention
paid to one, who, as Isaac justly observes, has a
greater claim on our feelings, from the circumstance
that she is far removed from all allied to her by the
ties of kindred. I will not, however, press what ap-
pears to be inconvenient or disagreeable to you,
particularly as I know that I can procure for her,
instantly, the little cottage which David Evans built
for his mother, and which has stood empty since her
death. It will only want a little additional furni-
ture, to make it exactly what my friend would wish,
and therefore I will step over at once, and arrange
with him."

Mrs. Wilson was confounded and humbled — too
narrow-minded and sordid to appreciate justly Mr.
Moreland's character, and impatient of that supe-
riority before which she could not but feel her "spi-
rit rebuked," (though raised, as she considered, by
her husband's comparative wealth and importance,
infinitely above the inhabitant of the cottage in the
valley,) she had intended only to magnify the obliga-
tion she should confer in yielding to the wishes of the
latter, and to display her own wisdom and prudence, —
acquired, as she often boasted to her gossips, by seven
years' residence in the kitchen of a gentleman's house
in London — " I've served a 'prenticeship," she used
exultingly to observe, " in the only place where
there's any thing to lam; and the deuce is in it if I
don't know a little more than a parcel of country
4. u

^2 EMILY MORELAND.

bumpkins, who ve never been more than a day's
journey from their nests!"

In the present instance, however, the wise woman
found that she had overstepped her mark; and, hard
as it was to humble to the object of her dislike, she
was obliged to submit to it, rather than let Davy
Evans run away with the prize she had affected to
despise, but which, in reality, she felt would make a
very desirable addition to her strong box.

All preliminaries were now, tlierefore, arranged
to Mr. Moreland's satisfaction, and the latter re-
turned, with a light step and cheerful heart, to the
cottage, where he found the breakfast on the table,
and smiling faces to welcome him to it.

Signora Orsini heard with gratitude the result
of his morning visit; and Emily, though she was at
first rather disappointed that her new friend was to
be separated from her, even by the short distance be
tween her grandfather's cottage and Daddy Wilson's,
soon became reconciled by the reflection that she
could go there when she pleased, and stay as long as
she liked.

" That is, if you will not be tired of me, and tell
me I am troublesome, and ought to be at home, help-
ing my grandmother, as Dame Wilson does some-
times," she observed, whon communicating this plea-
sant arrangement to her friend.

The Signora smiled, and looked at her, as if she
doubted the possibility of her being troublesome,
while Mrs. Moreland gravely remarked that she sup-
posed that was when she interfered too much with
Dame Wilson, who liked to have every thing her
own way.

EMILY MORELAND. 8^

'' No, indeed, grandmamma — sometimes, it is be-
cause I want Daddy Wilson to sing * Robin Hood
and the fat Friar,' when she wants him to reckon
how much the eggs and the chickens, and the butter
and cheese, will fetch next market-day — and I know
he don't like it at all," replied Emily; " and some-
times it is when I ask William all about the storm
that he was in, when he went to sea; and she don't
like that, because he lost all the money that she
trusted him to carry with him, to put in the great
Bank in London ; and then William tells her that
she ought to be thankful that his life was saved,
when so many poor creatures were drowned. But
she's a hard-hearted woman, for she says that he will
never do her half the good that her two hundred
pounds would have done her in her old age, though
he is her only child, you know, and such a good-tem-
pered lad, too ! And one thing I dislike her for, more
than all, is, because she is so cross and surly to the
poor people who sometimes come to beg a little
milk, or a bit of bread and cheese, — though she has
such plenty ; and she says my good Daddy Wilsoh is a
fool, for listening to them ; and that nobody would give
him any thing, if he wanted it! though that wa wicked
story, for I and grandpapa, and all of us, would give
him any thing in the world ; and so I told her one day :
— but she only said 1 was a pert little hussy, and had
nothing to give, any more than those who were bring-
ing me up, to turn up my nose at my betters !"

"Betters, forsooth!" repealed Mrs. Morelai.d,
who was the only one of the little party who had felt
any resontfnent at this exposition of Dame Wilson's

84 EMILY MORELANI).

unauiiabie qualities — "lietters!" slieiepeaieti, •' who
does she call your betters? — Not her ignorant con-
ceited self, I hope; for, if she does, I shall soon let
her know "

" Pshaw, pshaw, my good woman !" interrupted
Moreland, who had in vain endeavoured by his re-
proving- looks to silence this angry recrimination,
" you must not encourage a child like Emily to fancy
herself superior, or even on an equality with a wo-
man of Dame Wilson's age and experience. It can-
not be supposed that our notable neighbour can
always feel disposed to bear with patience Emily's
wild and childish freaks, which Isaac's good-nature,
as well as his son's, leads them too often to encou-
rage; but the old woman, probably, has as much
good-wiil towards her as either, at heart; and Emily
must learn to bear, without resenting, such petulant
expressions as those she has repeated, and which I
would rather she should have forgotten altogether."

Emily's downcast look and tearful eyes evinced
the impression which this rebuke, gentle as it Avas,
had made on her sensitive mind ; and Signora Orsini^
though by no means prepossessed in favour of her
intended hostess, by this natural and simple delinea-
tion of some of the prominent traits in her character,
contrived to shift tlie subject altogether, by mention-
ing the necessity of her return to the Inn, where her
portmanteau was deposited, in order to defray her
expenses there, and have it removed to Dame Wil-
son's apartments, which were to be ready for her by
the evening.

'^I'o Emily*s great delight, Mr. Moreland proposed

EMILY MORELANI). 85

that they should accompany her, the latter leniark-
inu^, with a smile, that he could not venture to en-
counter the impatience for her return, which he
knew her absence would occasion in more than one
bosom.

With strict injunctions from Mrs. Moreland not
to delay on the road, as she should have their dinner
ready precisely at two, which was an hour later than
their usual time, they departed; Emily fondly hang-
ing on one arm of her new friend, while the other
was given to Mr. Moreland.

Their path lay close to the house which was hence-
forth to be the residence of Signora Orsini ; but, a»
Mr. Moreland had promised Mrs. Wilson that he
would not introduce the latter until all was in order
to receive her, she was content with reconnoitring
her intended home from the outside, and declared
herself delighted with its situation, and the neatness
and order which were so striking in the appearance
of the house, garden, &c.

" Cleanliness and industry are Mrs. Wilson's re-
deeming qualities, for a host of petty faults," ob-
served Mr. Moreland, who saw that Emily was at
some distance, replying to the salutation of a pet
lamb, which had descried her, and came bounding
to the gate to meet her. "1 would not," he con
Jnued, " encourage in my little girl the propensity
to set forth the unamiable propensties of our neigh-
Dour; but, I must confess, she is a woman whom it
is impossible to like. To you, however, 1 have no
doubt she will be civil and attentive, and that will
be sufficient for your comfort."

86 EMILY MORELAND.

Emily rejoined them, observing, with a sorrowful
look, that she knew neither Daddy Wilson nor Wil-
liam were at home, " for poor Flora, (the lamb,) was
quite hungry : and she did not dare go to ask the
cross old Dame for some breakfast for the poor thing,
though she wouldn't feed it herself, if they stayed
all day," she added, with tears in her eyes at the
thought.

Signora Orsini's assurance that they would bring
some bread for her favourite, on their return, soon
banished this transient cloud from her brow ; and her
vivacious remarks kept both their faces decked with
smiles, until they came in sight of the churchyarc',
where a plain marble slab, with only her name and
age carved on it, distinguished the spot where Marian
Mo4'eland rested from all her sorrows.

Emily's step became thoughtful and sedate, and
her beautiful blue eyes were turned, first upon the
silent memorial of a mother, Avhom she had been
taught to love and to regret, and then rested upon
her grandfather, whose lips quivered with strong
but restrained emotion.

Emily crept softly round to his side, and pressed
hi? withered hand between her own, with a beseech-
ing look, as she tried to draw him gently forward, w
the path which led close along the skirts of the hum-
ble lesting-place.

The quick eye of Signora Orsini had instantly se-
lected the unostentatious memorial from the ruder
and more rustic ones that surrounded it; but it was
not until, stepping forward, she read the simple in-
tjct iption, that she was aware of the chord that was

EMILY MORELAND. S?

now SO painfully vibrating in the bosom of her con-
ductor.

Not a word was spoken, or could be spoken, by
either; but Moreland's heart gratefully thanked her
for the silent tear, which she gave to the fate of one
so young, so beloved, thus doomed ^ematurely to
the grave; and Emily's gentle glance told her that,
young as she was, she too could feel and acknowledge
her sympathy.

" At some future period, my dear," said Moreland,
m a low voice, when they had proceeded some dis-
tance from the spot which had awakened such painful
feelings, " I will relate to you the short but sad his-
tory of her, who was the delight, the pride, of her
fond parents' hearts; and whom my memory, at this
moment, places before me, innocent, beautiful, and
engaging, even as that living representative of her,
who alone remains, at once to console me for her loss,
and to remind me of the cause of it. How can I look
at that lovely child," he continued, glancing at
Emily, who was now preceding them, the narrow
path not allowing her to keep her station by her
grandfather's side — " how can I see her, possessing
all the qualities that distinguished her hapless mo-
ther, and not tremble for her safety ? Tremble at
the apprehension that some barbarian may be tempted,
by those very qualities, to consign her, like my Ma-
,ian — my murdered Marian -to shame, to despair,
to death!"

Deeply affected, yet unable to offer consolation lo
sorrows which .-^he felt no human counsel could as-
suage, »o>alia Orsini replied only by a sigh, raising,

88

EMILY MORELAND.

at the same time, her expressive eyes to Heaven, as
if invoking celestial aid, to soothe the wounded spirit
of the bereaved father.

" Yes, it is. there," solemnly responded Moreland,
to this silent appeal for him. " It is only there 1 can
look for con9olation; and tremblingly, humbly, en-
treat for protection to the child whom, in all human
probability, I shall soon leave, without any other
protector, or, at least, such feeble ones, as will be
but a poor defence against the snares and temptations
of the world!"

It was at this affecting moment that Rosalia Orsini
vowed never to desert the lovely girl, who, uncon-
scious of the interest she excited, but still pensive
and thoughtful, from her observation of her grand-
father's emotion, was walking slowly on, turning
every minute an anxious eye upon the countenance
which she had often beheld clouded with melan-
choly, but never so agitated as at the present mo-
ment.

" I am," observed the Signora, in her own har-
monious language, " I am but young, it is true, and
without connexions in that world which I have bade
adieu to for ever; unless, indeed — but no, I will not
suffer myself any longer to indulge a hope! — This
valley must, therefore, henceforth be the boundary
of my wishes; but should Emily, at any future
period, require my care — though long distant be the
day in which she will lose one so much m.ore compe-
tent and powerful to protect and watch over her
welfare — yet, should that day arrive, and the effort?
of Rosalia Orsini can avail her, in the busy aiul

RJMU.y MORELAND. 89

treacherou-5 world, she will never shrink from a duty
which she here voluntarily swears to perforin I*'

A benevolent smile, at the entnusiasm and warm
feeling of his young friend, brightened Mr. More-
land's pensive features; and Emily, who was atten-
tively watching the expression of his countenance,
though unable to comprehend what was passing,
eagerly hailed the omen of returning tranquillity,
and, with all the happy thoughtlessness and buoyancy
of childhood, renewed her harmless frolics, and gam-
boled with her favourite Clara, as though her vivacity
had never received check or interruption.

The village of St. Clare, though not boasting
more than twenty houses, and those mere labourers'
cottages, with the exception of the parsonage house,
the apothecary's, the inn, and " the shop," as the
extensive store was called, from which the whole
neighbourhood was supplied with every article of
either luxury or necessity, which their own culture
could not produce, was quite a new world to Emily,
who had never before travelled so far, and seemed io
think the congregation of so many houses and peop-le
together, quite a subject of wonder. She was highly
entertained, too, with the arrival and departure of
the stage coach, and its motley assortment of passen-
gers; and it was almost with regret that she quitted
the parlour window of the inn, from which she beheld
so many (to her) novel sights.

Keeping the turnpike-road, as more convenient to

the man who carried the Signora's baggage, than

crossing the fields, the little party arrived at Farmer

Wilson's front gate, just as the Farmer and his son

4. N

90 EMTLY MOREL AND.

vere alighting from their horsts, having been to the
market-town on business.

The frank yet respectful welcome with which the
Farmer saluted them, and the modest reserve of the
young man, highly prepossessed Signora Orsini in
their favour; and, having seen her luggage carried
into the house, and discharged the porter, she pro-
ceeded with Mr. Morelandj to pass the remainder of
the day at the cottage, without having been intro-
duced to Dame Wilson, who was still busied in dust-
ing, and sweeping, and scolding her maid; and, not
wishing to be seen in her mob nightcap and checked
apron, was content with reconnoitring her intended
inmate tnrouffh the chamber window.

CHAPTER IV.

Oh, but ill,
When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart
Bears its first blow ! It Icnows not yet the part
Which life will teach — to suflfer and be still ;
And, with submissive love, to count the flowers
Which yet are spared. Mrs. Hemans.

Rosalia Orsini, at thd titiid she became an in-
habitant of the Vale of St. Claire, was not appa-
rently more than twenty-five; and possessed, most
eminently, that letter of recommendation — a beauti-
ful and intelligent countenance, and a particularly
dignified and elegant form.

EMILT MORELAND. 91

Sorrow and suffering had, it was true, robbed her
theek of its bloom, and dimmed the lustre of her fine
black eyes ; but there were moments, when, alive only
to the excitement of present pleasure, she forgot the
painful past, and shone forth with all the brilliancy
of her best and happiest hours.

To the inhabitants of the secluded and solitary
cottage in the valley, she became, from the first mo-
ment of her residence among them, an invaluable
acquisition ; while Emily, ever ardent in her attach-
ments, soon learned to estimate truly, as well as to
love and admire, her accomplished friend and pre-
ceptress.

Two years glided rapidly away, unmarked by any
occurrence of importance; but, at the termination of
the second, Mr. Moreland's health began very visibly
to decline, and with pious resignation he looked for-
ward to an event which he felt was inevitably not
far distant, and to which he endeavoured to reconcile
his afflicted family.

So gradual, however, were the approaches of the
insidious disorder which was undermining his frame,
that they still indulged the fond hope that he would
eventually conquer it ; and he was still in this fluc-
tuating state, when Signora Orsini learned, through
the medium of a newspaper, which was regularly
forwarded to her from London, some information,
which, after dreadfully agitating her for some hours,
occasioned her sudden departure from the valley, no
one knew whither, but Mr. Moreland, by whose ad-
vice and assistance she seemed to be guided.

This was an event which Emily had never eoDtem-

92 EMILY MOREL ^ND.

plated; and her grief and astonishment knew no
bounds, when she found that her friend was actually
gone^ without even promising when she would return,
though her musical instruments, her implements for
drawing, and a great part of her clothes, being left
behind, seemed to ensure her coming back. She had
taken no formal adieu, either; for she had supped
with them on the preceding evening, without men-
tioning her intention of commencing her journey at
daybreak the following morning. Yet. when Emily,
hurrying over her breakfast of bread and milk, has-
tened to Farmer Wilson's, she found the nest deserted
— its tenant flown.

"Did she say nothing at all about me?" inquired
the sobbing girl, after the first emotion of surprise
had subsided.

" Yes, Miss, she said you was to go on with your
lessons, the same as if she was here," returned Dame
Wilson, in a sharp tone ; " but, in my mind, it w ould
be much better you should be laming to milk a cow,
or manage the dairy, than to be spending your time
on such flim-flams as madam can teach you! What
will be the good of your parley -vousing, and thrum-
ming and singing, like a play actress, without you
had a fortin, and was a born lady^^ instead of '*

"Instead of what? Instead of what?" demanded
Isaac, who had entered unobserved behind her.

" Bless me, you need not snap one's head off"!" re-
plied the startled Dame, " I was not going to say any
harm."

** You had better not," returned the Farmer,
eulkily, and, beckoning Emily to follow him, he pro-

EMILY MORELAND. 93

ceeded to the garden, to show her a beautiful myrtle
in flower, which the Signora had purchased in the
village, when he had accompanied her in the morn-
ing to the coach, and desired it might be placed ex-
pressly under Emily's care, until she returned.

"You are sure, then, she will come back?" in-
quired the latter, beginning to feel somewhat re-
assured.

"Yes, as sure as can be," returned the Farmer;
"and she told me to tell you, that she would write
to you yourself, if she was detained long."

Emily's tearful eyes sparkled at this proof of con-
sideration for her ; and the thought that she was con-
sidered of importance enough to have a letter written
expressly to her, seemed to be her chief consolation
for the loss of her "dear Signora."

Regardless of Mrs. Wilson's sour looks and ill-
natured sarcasms, she visited her friend's apartments
every morning, and practised, over and over, the
lessons she had given her, or read attentively the
books which she had marked for her perusal.

A whole month, however, passed, before any in-
telligence from the Signora, further than a short note,
addressed to Mr. Moreland, assuring him of her safe
arrival in London, reached the valley; and Emily
began to fear that she was forgotten, when her doubts
and suspense were terminated by William's bringing
from the post office, when he returned from market,
a letter addressed to " Miss Emily Moreland."

Emily's heart fluttered so violently that she could
scarcely thank William for bringing it, or satisfy the
Farmer's anxious inquiries, when she opened it,

94 r.MlLV MOREL AND.

whether '* Madam" was well, and coming back soon;
but, having at length glanced through the important
epistle, she replied satisfactorily to both questions^
and then flew off to show her prize at home.

" Stop, Miss," observed William, as she was scam-
pering out of doors; "in the first place, here is
another letter for your grandfather, and, in the second
place, you promised to give me something, if I
brought you one to-day."

" What shall I give you ? Tell me, quickly, dear,
dear William, for I am in such a hurry," replied
Emily, with her eyes still fixed on the letter.

" Well, then, give me a kiss, for it is a long time
since you have condescended to bestow one on me,
though you did not use to be so particular."

Emily stared at William with astonishment; his
cheek was flushed, and his eyes looked wild, but
family scarcely knew what intoxication meant, and
she never suspected what was the fact, that her old
playfellow had been drinking too freely at the mar-
ket. She recollected, however, the Signora's obser-
vations about preserving a dqe distance between
herself and William, and hesitatingly replied —

'^ I have not grown particular, William,— but what
was all right and proper, when 1 was but a child, you
know, would not be so now,-^now I am a woman,"
she added, with a laugh.

" Pshaw 1 that is all lu nsense !" returned William,
angrily; "but I know who has put such notions into
your head, and is teaching you, more ^nd more every
day, to hold yourself above them th^t are yoor true
friends ! Mother has often told me hpw it would be ''*

EMtLV MORELAND. f»3

*' i am sure your mother is very wrong, then," re-
turned Emily, with warmth, " for I love you all, as
dearly as ever, and always shall love you ; so now
shake hands, and be friends, and to-morrow I will
bring you that pretty poem that I told you of, that
describes a shipwreck almost as well and as naturally
as you do."

William did shake hands, but all his manoeuvring
could not tempt Emily to join him in a game at romps,
as she had been used to do ; and, as he followed her
down the garden, declaring he would go home with
her, she dexterously slipped through the gate, closing
it after her; and then, with the speed of a fawn,
bounded along the sloping path, and was soon out of
sight.

Breathless with the speed she had ejterted, she ar-
rived at the cottage, outside the door of which her
grandmother was seated, in the shade, enjoying the
pure breeze, and nimbly plying the spinning wheel)
which served to fill up, usefully and pleasantly, hours
which would otherwise have hung heavy on her handsk

"1 have got a letter at last!" exclaimed Emily,
with sparkling eyes. " Read, dear grandmother,
read!" and she threw her white arms round the old
lady's neck, as the latter, putting on her spectacles,
prepared to obey her.

" It is a pretty letter — a very pretty letter," ob-
served Mrs. Moreland, after she had, for Emily's
satisfaction, read it aloud — " and it contains very
good and affectionate advice ; and yet, my dear child,
I almost wish, sometimes, that you had never seen
this Signora Or&ini."

96 EMILY MORELAND.

Emily looked at first astonished, and then angry,
at this observation. "Now that is very naughty o
you, and just like that good-for-nothing William
Wilson, and his cross old mother, who is always try-
ing to persuade him that the dear Signora is spoiling
me, though, I am sure, I was a thoughtless, rude,
ignorant little girl, when she came here; and all I
do know, she has taught me."

Mrs. Moreland sighed heavily, but she did not re-
ply ; and the entrance of her husband, to whom Emily
instantly communicated the pleasure which she had
received, put an end to the conversation, which, how-
ever, young as she was, was not soon forgotten by
the intelligent girl.

In silence Mr. Moreland read the letter which was
addressed to him, from Signora Orsini; and, after a
few minutes' reflection, observed, that he was glad
to find their amiable friend would rejoin them in a
week or two. " I shall be easier and happier," he
thoughtfully observed, " when she is here ; for I feel
my strength hourly decay, and her presence will be
both an assistance and a consolation to you, should
my presentiments prove correct, that I shall fall with
the leaves, which are already beginning to lose their
glossy green."

Mrs. Moreland took off her spectacles, wiped
away the tears that rendered them dim, and again
put them on, to gaze intently on the pale features of
the beloved partner of her heart ; while Emily, weep-
ing without restraint, thiew herself inlo his arms,
and, in almost inarticulate accents, expressed her
hopes that her dear grandfather would not die.

KMILY MORRLAND. 97

The old man gently pressed her to his heart, ag he
calmly pointed out the necessity of being resigned to
an event, which, in the course of nature, must hap-
pen in a few years, and which, even now, could not
be considered as premature ; and then, with a view
of changing the melancholy current of thought which
his observation had excited, he recurred to Signora
Orsini's letter.

Too deeply, however, had his prophetic words
affected the sensitive Emily, for her to recover her
spirits, and the evening passed in thoughtful melan-
choly on all sides ; and, though the fond g,irl read
over the letter again, before she went to rest, she
thought more of her grandfather than the writer,
and felt, deeply felt, that even the amiable and ac-
complished Signora could never be so dear, or so
valuable, as the protector she was about to lose.

The leaves, which Mr. Moreland had pointed out
as emblematical of his own destiny, were already
rustling in the breeze, and beginning to curl in
circling eddies beneath Emily's feet, as she softly
paced up and down the garden, before Signora
Orsini returned to her home.

Mr. Moreland was no longer able to join his dar-
ling, even in these short walks ; and, with learful
looks, the latter watched by the side of his couch, or,
stifling her grief, in obedience to his counsels, be-
guiled his sick and weary hours by reading to him,
or singing his favourite anthems, which the Signoia
had taught her.

She was thus engaged, when Rosalia Orsini, who
hid arrived late the preceding night, unexnecledly
3. o

98 EMILY MORELAND.

entered ; and, if she beheld with so»'row the altera uoii
which disease had already Wrought in her valuable
i'riend, and the pervading melancholy which that
alteration had occasioned, in the countenances of his
little household, they were not less struck with the
sad traces of grief and suffering, which were visible
ill her hollow cheek and wasted form.

For some moments, no one but Mrs. Moreland
could utter a word. Age and long suffering had
blunted in her that excessive sensibility, which,
though it enhances the pleasures, doubles every pain
to its unfortunate possessor With comparative calm-
ness, therefore, she was cnauled to welcome the Sig-
nora's return, at the san.e tiuje expressing a hope she
did not feel, that her presence would be the means
of reviving Mr. Moreland's strength and spirits.
" Though vou are sadly altered yourself, njy dear,**
she observed, " and look as if you wanted good nurs-
ing, and our good air, to set you up again."

A faint flush was visible in the Signora's cheek for
a moment; but she tried to smile, as she replied, that
she hoped her coming would be the signal for a
general restoration. The effort, however, was too
painful — the flush faded into deadly paleness, and
her voice choked, before she could finish the sentence.

" I need not ask you a single question, my dear,
as to the result of your journey — I see that your
hopes have been all frustrated ; and I earnestly trust
that henceforth you will try to forget that you have
ever even indulged such, and, if possible "

" 1 will do all that is possible, my dear sir,*' inrer-
rupted iiosalia; '* 1 will henceforth cease to talk, or

EMILY MORELAND. 99

even, voluntarily, to think of the past, a^id will look
only to the future for consolation."

*•• Jt is to the future we must all look for comfort
and recompence for the sufferings of this transitory
state," returned Moreland, with emphasis.

His friends felt the application, and looks of sad
and mournful meaning were exchanged between
Emily and Signora Orsini.

*' Why should you be so averse," continued Mr.
Moreland, *' to hear an event spoken of, which is
inevitable. I feel that every hour I am hurrying to
the last, and I would wish you to accustom your-
selves to contemplate the approaching change with
the same serenity I feel."

Emily, unable longer to conceal her grief, rushed
out of the room, to give free vent to her overchaiged
heart ; and when, at length, having dried her tears,
she returned, she found her grandfather engaged in
earnest conversation with the Signora, in her native
language, in which she (Emily) was not yet suffi-
ciently proficient to understand more than that it
related to herself, and that her father was more than
once alluded to.

Emily was now old enough to comprehend that
some painful mystery was connected with the history
of her surviving parent, whose name she was for-
bidden to mention, or even to recur to his existence ;
and she felt, therefore, deeply interested in discover-
ing what was the purport of the directions, which
her grandfather was evidently giving respecting- hhv..
She could only understand, however, that in tlie
event of certain circumstances occurring to the Sijj-

100 EMILY MORELANB,

nora, this now interdicted parent wai to be applied
to, to take charge of his daughter.

Eniil\'s heart beat high, at the bare idea that there
existed a possibility of her ever seeing and being ac-
knowledged by one, whom she could not reconcile
herself to believe, could be so very, very unamiable,
though he had unfortunately fallen under her grand-
father's displeasure.

The entrance of Farmer Wilson, who regularly
attended every evening, since Mr. Moreland's con-
finement, to render what little services he could, put
an end to the conversation ; and Emily, who returned
with the Signora to her residence, and remained all
night with her, in vain endeavoured to introduce the
subject V, hich was still uppermost in her thoughts.

Exactly a week after Signora Orsini's return, Mr.
Moreland calmly resigned his life into the hands of
his Creator. So entirely unexpected was this event,
at the moment it happened, that Emily was eagerly
describing to him the gay appearance of a party of
sportsmen, whom she had that morning encountered
in the valley, one of whom had accosted her, and,
lifter : ome c rs> ry inquiries respecting her con-
nexions in the neighbourhood, had presented her
with the fruit of his morning's sport— a pair of fine
pheasants.

She had not, however, concluded her narrative,
and her animadversions on the cruelty of killing such
pretty ct\aiu.es as the pheasants, which her eyes
were fixed on, with the big tears trembling on their
fair lids, when her grandfather suddenly extended
Jus arms towards her, and, before she had time even

EMILV MORRI-AND. 10

♦b call for assistance, laid his head on her shoulder,
and, with a deep sigh, expired !

Emily's terror and grief, at discovering the loss
she had sustained, were at first violent in the extreme ;
but Signora Orsini's gentle admonitions, and the
silent fortitude with which she beheld her grand-
mother submit to her bereavement, at length pre-
vailed ; and, though she still wept over the insensible
form of her beloved parent, and contemplated with
ag'ony the features which were never more to smile
upon her, she no longer refused to be comforted, or
" sorrowed as one without hope." Her assumed for-
titude, however, was put to a severe test, when she
beheld the preparations for the removal of her de-
parted friend to his last mortal habitation ; and her
audible sobs excited the pity of all, whom respect
for one, whose life among them had truly deserved
these testimonials, had drawn together to witness the
funeral.

Too much absorbed in grief to notice those around
her, Emily leant on the Signora's arm, unconsciotijji
of the notice or the pity she excited; but, deeply as
Rosalia was affected, it did not escape her observation
that there was A person present, who, though he ap-
peared as a stranger, and an indifferent spectator,
was evidently somewhat more than either. She saw
that he avoided the possibility of being observed by
Mrs. Moreland, who, contrary to her friends' advice,
had persisted in being present at the distressing
ceremony; and she remarked, also, the eagerness
with which lie pressed near to Emily, when the
latter advanced to the edge of thcj g-ave, to (ake

102 EMILY MORELAND.

one painful look at the coffin, before the earth should
hide it from her sight. ^

The same grave which had received his daughter,
was now opened to admit the mortal remains of
Moreland ; and Emily, as her aching eyes glanced
into the dreary receptacle, instantly comprehended
that the mouldering coffin which she there beheld
was her mother's.

The discovery seemed to add fresh poignancy to
her grief, and she withdrew again, to conceal herself
behind her grandmother, that she might not aggra-
vate the not less heavy, but more chastened affliction
of the latter.

The stranger, who thus attracted the Signora's
observation, was a tall, elegant man, in the prime of
life; yet bearing, in his handsome and strongly
marked features, very evident marks of the ravages
of either dissipation or ill healtli. There was an in-
definable expression in his eye, which, though, at the
present moment tempered by the interest he evidently
took in the mournful scene, impressed Rosalia with
the idea that it was to the former cause, that his pal-
lid and sunken cheek, and his evidently attenuated
form, were to be attributed; and she shrunk with
distinctive dislike, as she was convinced he preme-
ditaiedly contrived to approach quite close to her
and Emily. Her surprise, however, was increased,
when, at the conclusion of the ceremony, Farmer
Wilson, who was supporting the widow of his de-
ceased friend, turned round to look fo- the latter,
and, as his eyes encountered those of the stranger,
started as if they had met those of a basil'sk.

EMILY MORELAND. 103

The stranger, who did not appear until that ino-
inent to have recognised the supporter ofMrs. More-
land, turned hastily away, and tried to assume an air
of indifference; but Farmer Wilson was too acute
and intelligent to be easily baffled ; and the glance
which he gave, from the object of Rosalia's curiosity,
to Emily, at once confirmed the suspicion she had
formed, that in the person now before her she beheld
the father of her interesting charge — Reginald de
Cardonnel !

All that she had heard or anticipated of this per-
son at once rushed into her mind, as she again turned
to gaze upon him ; but De Cardonnel was gone,
and, following the direction of Wilson's eyes, she
saw him hurrying through the churchyard gate, ac-
companied by a boy, who appeared nearly of the
same age as Emily.

" It was a strange thing!" observed honest Isaac,
the moment he had an opportunity of speaking to the
Signora alone; "a very strange thing, wasn't it,
Madam, that he should happen to come into this part
of the country, just at this time; for I don't believe
he has ever visited it since, as 1 have often told you,
he came just in time to see the poor thing that he had
murdered laid in her grave. I wonder how he felt,
when he saw her coffin to-day; for, I dare say, he
did see it, as I understand he had been lingering
about the church-yard a long while before we came
there."

"His feelings certainly could not be very enviable,
my good friend, ' replied Rosalia ; " yet I am re-
joiced, for his own sake, that he still possesses sufI?-

Iftii KMILY MORELAND.

cient sensibility to feel an interest for his child, and
respect for her protectors, which, I think, was proved
by his conduct to-day."

"'• It is odd, too," replied the Farmer, " that he
should never have made any inquiries after her, for
so many years; but, I suppose, he has a family by
this time, and had almost forgotten this poor neo-
lected one ; though, I'm thankful to say it, she has
had better advisers and guardians than he would
have ever made."

The Signora thought so too — yet she almost
wished, as she learned that Mr. de Cardonnel was
on a visit at a relation of his lady's, only six miles
off, that Emily could be made more perfectly known
to, and secure her interest in the heart of one, whose
protection she might, some time or another, stand in
need of.

The commands and wishes of her deceased friend,
Mr. Moreland, were, however, too sacred to be wil-
fully broken. He had expressly desired her to make
known to Emily, at a proper time, the history of her
unfortunate birth ; but to discourage, as much as
possible, any wish of the latter to hold any corres-
pondence with her father. If, indeed, circumstances
were to compel Signora Orsini to quit England, or
oblige her to resign her charge, and Mrs. Moreland
should not be living, there was no one to whom she
could so properly delegate her trust, as to De Car-
donnel, if he would accept it; but most earnestly did
Mr. Moreland pray that this moment might nevei
arrive.

tt'aithful to ihe trust reposed in her, the Signora

FMILY MORELAND. 105

carefully concealed from Emily the circumstance of
her father's presence at the funeral ; and Wilson, to
whom Mr. Moreland had been equally perspicuous
in stating his wishes, was as prudent and as silent
respecting an event which, he properly observed,
could only make the poor child uneasy, without
doing her any good. He acknowledged, however,
to the Signora, that he felt greatly disappointed,
when, after some days passed in expectation of hear-
ing of or from Mr. de Cardonnel, he learned, on in-
quiry, that the latter had left Oldbury Hall, where
he had been visiting, and had returned with his lady
and family to London.

" He cares nothing about the poor child!" ob-
served honest Isaac, with a sigh, " and therefore it's
a good thing. Madam, that we didn't mention him
to her."

In this the Signora perfectly agreed, and, in a
short time, Reginald de Cardonnel was as little
thought of, or mentioned, by the inhabitants of the
Valley of St. Clare, as he deserved to be.

The increasing infirmities of Mrs. Moreland, who,
though she appeared not to grieve very deeply for
the loss of her husband, never after regained her
usual cheerfulness and activity, induced Signora
Orsini to accede to her wish that the latter should
reside entirely at the cottage, with her and Emily.

There were other reasons also why such a change
had become desirable : for poor Isaac Wilson, in
consequence of an in. prudent exposure to cold and
wet, had been seized with a fever, which left him in
n state of mental iraberility, almost approaching to
5 V

1m

EMILY MORE LAND

sficonfl childhood; and his termagant wife, whose
temper was rendered still sourer and more ungovern-
able, by the extravagance and ill habits which her
son William had falleH into, contrived, now she had
the sole authority in her hands, to make the abode
of the Signora, whom she had never liked, most truly
uncomfortable.

Emily was more rejoiced at this arrangement than
she liked to avow, even to her friend Rosalia; for
the conduct of William Wilson, whenever she met
him, in her visits to the former, at his father's house,
was such as excited in her mind feelings of mingled
disgust and terror; and as her poor old friend Isaac
was no longer in a situation to receive either benefit
or consolation from her visits, she was most happy
in being released from the necessity of going to the
Farm.

Emily w as now nearly sixteen, and the beauty and
native vivacity, which had made her so irresistibly
admired as a child, were beginning to ripen into the
still more fascinating and more polished charms of
womanhood.

She was rather below the middle height in per-
son, but so faultless in form and proportion, that no
one who beheld her could wish her other than she
was. Her complexion was that clear and transparent
olive, which so peculiarly harmonizes with the nar-
row arched brow, the oval face, and intelligent fea-
tures of the Grecian style of beauty.

There were some, indeed, who thought Emily
Moreland too pale to be perfectly beautiful ; but it
was only those who had never seen her animated b)

EMILY MORELAND. 107

pleasure, or glowing with the impulse of that keen
sensibility, which, when kindled, added brilliancy to
those eyes, that, even in repose, shone with lustre
outvying the diamond, and deepened the faint blush
on her cheek into the brightest and purest hue of the
rose.

The bad habits into which William Wilson had
unhappily fallen, had, perhaps, quickened his per-
ception of Emily's personal beauties, while they were
every hour lessening his esteem and admiration for
those mental charms and virtues, which as eminently
distinguished her.

Emily was not wholly devoid of vanity— what
beautiful woman is?— but she was too pure, and too
innocent, to feel flattered by such homage as Wil-
liam Wilson offered to her charms ; and, though she
pitied and mourned the state of degradation to which
he had fallen, she felt heartily rejoiced when shf
was no longer exposed to the unpleasantness of meet-
ing with, and being obliged to hear his compliments
and professions.

William, however, was not disposed so easily to re-
linquish the views he had formed ; and, though treated
with the most repulsive coldness by Signora Orsini,
who hadseen and heard too much,in the last few months
of her residence at the Farm, not to feel the necessity
of keeping him at a distance, he continued to take
advantage of Mrs. Moreland's partiality for the son
of her good old friend Isaac, and her ignorance of
the worst parts of his character, and was often a
troublesome visitor at the cottage, though prevented,
by the care of the watchful Signora, from being any
j>'3culiar annoyance to Emily.

EMILY MORELAND.

With rothing of more consequence than this 1©
disturb the peaceful inhabitants of the cottage, the
time passed on till Emily attained her seventeenth
year; on the very anniversary of which, a blow was
suddenly struck, which for awhile demolished the
whole fabric of domestic peace and happiness.

CHAPTER V.

Sceneseof my childhood, the breath of your flowers
Is loaded with memories too {)ainful for blisfs !

I'litiids of my childhood, there's gloom in your bowers,
Oh,^wbere are the bright-beaming glances I miss?

The injunctions of the deceased Mr. Moreland, that
the mystery of Emily's birth, and the desertion of
her fixther, should be concealed from her, until Sig-
nora Orsini should consider her mind and under-
standing sufficiently matured and firm to bear such a
communication, had been strictly attended to, both
by the former and Mrs. Moreland ; to the latter,
indeed, any recurrence to the circumstances which
had occasioned the loss of her still-regretted Marian,
was too painful to be borne with equanimity; and
the considerate and kind-hearted Emily never ven-
tured to hazard an inquiry that would revive recol-
lections which occasioned such pain to her venerable
relative. But to the Signora she was less reserved,
on a subject which frequently recurred to her
Uiind, with all the pangs oi uncertainty and suspense ;
and the latter, considering that her younir ^'-iend and

KMILY MORELAND 109

pupil had fully attained the period which MrvMori*-
land had assigned, as proper for the communicaiion,
at length complied with her request.

Seated under the shade of the spreading trees,
which shrouded the cottage from the evening sun,
and sufficiently removed from the aged mother of the
sad subject of her tale, to prevent her observing and
sharing in the emotion it excited, Rosalia Orsini re-
lated, to her tearful and trembling auditor, the
mournful history of her mother's sorrows and her
father's guilt, almost in the very words in which it
had been narrated to her, by the anguished father,
who was now sleeping in the same grave with his
ruined and murdered child, and adding, if possible,
still greater interest to the pathetic story, by placing
in Emily's hands the lettery and papers, which had
been found after Marian's death by her sorrowing
parents, and which more fully displayed the baseness
and cruelty of Reginald de Cardonnel, than the most
eloquent narrative could have done.

Emily gazed, with tear-swollen eyes, on these tran-
scripts of her parents' sentiments and feelings ; she
tried to read them, and as she recollected that her
father was still in existence, tried to hope that he
was not so guilty, so cruel, as the Signora repre-
sented ; but again she remembered, that the very
hope reflected on her mother, and, in an agony of
grief, she relinquished the attempt to peruse the
letter she had unfolded, and to which she beheld,
for tlie first time, the name of her father appended.

" Let me prevail on you to defer, till to-morrow,
my beloved girl, the perusal of these sad evidences of
the truth of my narrative,' observed the Signora ;

110 EMILY MORELAND.

" you are already so agitated, that it will be scarcely
possible to avoid exciting the observation of your
grandmother, and you are aware that her spirits are
already greatly depressed."

Emily yielded to her friend's request, and the
packet was returned to the latter, who immediately
rose and entered the house, to deposit it in her desk,
from which she had taken it.

She was scarcely gone, before Emily observed that
a small slip of paper, which had escaped Rosalia's
observation, had fallen on the turf at her feet, and
she could not resist the impulse to read it, when she
saw that her mother's initials were appended to it.

It was an attempt to embody in verse some of the
painful feelings and presentiments which oppressed
the unfortunate Marian ; and Emily, viewing it with
all the partiality of a daughter, conceived it of suffi-
cient value to be treasured in her bosom, to be again
perused, when unobserved by her cautious friend.

The lines were addressed to a friend, who had
offered the unfortunate writer two wreaths, one of
roses and lilies, and the other of laurel, and were as
follows : —

" No, if thou twin'st a wreath for me,
Of yew and cypress let it be —

Fit emblems of my fate :
The rose and lily now would be
To me an idle mockery,

The laurel come too late.

• The rose and lily symbols are
Of all that's young, and gay, and fair)

And I — what ara 1 now?
The laurel whicli, in life's gay spring,
I fandly, vainly, hoped to win,

Aias, 'iwuuld crush my brew I

EMILY MORELAND. Ill

•* Then weave the yew and cypress wreath,
For soon this aching heart, beneath

Their shade shall cease tc beat ;
The rose and laurel long be thine.
The grave's sad emblems only mine —

For me alone they're meet."

It was not possible that Emily could easily shake
off the melancholy feelings which the knowledge of
her parent's history had created ; but she succeeded
in dissembling, before her grandmother, the oppres-
lion which hung upon her heart, and retired early
to her bed, that she might indulge the painful
thoughts which could not be banished from her
mind.

It was now the middle of summer, and the weather,
for some days, had been oppressively hot and sultry.
Emily lay opposite to the little casement, through
which she could see the dark heavy clouds, which
betokened an approaching storm, gathering slowly
and silently over the tops of the hills ; but tired
nature at length overcame even the tumult in
her mind, and, scarcely thinking of that which
was gathering abroad, so soon to scatter terror and
destruction, she sank into a profound sleep, from
which she was awakened by a confusion of sounds,
of which she could discern nothing distinctly, but the
voice of her grandmothe. calling loudly for help

Emily was on her feet in an instant, and the heat
and suffocating smoke, which burst in at her little
window, left her not a moment in doubt what had
occurred. The small rick of hay, which was to pro-
vide for the winter subsistence of their cow, had
been tired by the lightning, which was now mingting

112 EMILY MORELAND.

its vivid blue light with the red glare of the flames,
while the heavy peals of thunder which rolled jver
their heads, together with the violent gusts of wind,
that every moment seemed to shake the cottage to its
foundation, and bowed the lofty trees around it to
the very ground, rendered the scene still more
awfully terrific. Scarcely had she reached the bed-
side of her terrified grandmother, and, with the as-
sistance of Signora Orsini, succeeded in getting her
out of bed, before they discovered that the wind
was bringing with it large flakes of the burning hay
towards the cottage.

" The thatch — the roof will be on fire in a few
minutes !" exclaimed Mrs. Moreland, clasping her
hands, and tottering with trembling limbs to the win-
dow," and then," she continued, turning an anguished
look on Emily, " then all will be over !"

" Emily, my child," exclaimed the Signora^ in ac-
cents that betrayed the alarm she felt, " you are not
dressed — hasten to put your clothes on — I will assist
your grandmother. "

Emily flew to her own room, and, before she had
finished her hasty toilet, her grandmother's fears
were realised — the thatch was in a blaze — and they
were compelled to abandon their habitation, leaving
nearly all they possessed in the world a prey to the
devouring flames.

Unable to move from the spot to which they had
conveyed the now hapless Mrs. Moreland, Emily
stood, with pallid cheeks and aching heart, by her
s*de, silently watching the progress af the destructive
element ; but it was not until the\ were surrounded

EMILY MOREI^AND US

by the alarmed inhabitants of the neighbouring- cot-
tages, (who had hastened to give their assistance,
though alas^ too late !) and heard their pressing
offers of an asylum for them, that the distressed girl
fully comprehended the nature of the calamity that
had befallen them.

Among those who were now engaged in deploring
the ruin they beheld, one of the loudest was William
Wilson ; but Emily could not help observing, that
M'hen a discussion took place, as to where the suffer-
ing Mrs. Moreland could be best accommodated, he
shrank back in silence, and made no offer of that,
which was certainly the most eligible for her — his
father's house.

The Signora, however, knew that the apartments
she had occupied there were still empty ; and, though
she did not like Dame Wilson, she considered that
ner poor friend would be more at home, and better
accommodated there, than she could be in any of the
small cottages, the owners of which were so anxious
to have her for their guest.

Without hesitation, therefore, she made the pro-
posal to William, though somewhat surprised that
it had not occurred to him, who was ever so forward
in his professions ; and, as he could offer no objection
to such a reasonable proposition, particularly as the
Signora, aware of the mercenary disposition of his
mother, took care to tell him that she herself still
possessed ample means to pay for all that they should
require, it was concluded that Mrs. Moreland should
be conveyed thither immediately — the men under-
taking to carry her in the chair, supported by pillows,
6. Q

H4 EMILY MOUELAND.

which the Signora had, at the first alarn), conveved
into the little summer-house ai the bottom of the
garden, which now afforded them shelter from the
storm, which had destroyed almost every other ves-
tige of their pleasant habitation.

Resigned to any thing that was proposed to her,
Ihe aged mouruer was conveyed to the farm-house,
which she had never visited, since the master of it
had been unable himself to welcome her.

The news of the fire, together with her fright at
the storm, had roused Dame Wilson from her bed,
and the sound of the voices of those who were ac-
companying the houseless sufferers, brought her to
the gate, long before they reached it.

" So, I suppose this is your doings — bringing them
here !*' she exclaimed, in a harsh tone to William,
who had hastened on to apprise her of their approach.

Emily, who overheard this ungracious salutation,
could not distinctly hear William's reply; but it
seemed to have some little effect on his mother, who,
ivith more civility than usually distinguished her
manners, advanced to meet the mournful group, ex-
pressing her hope that Mrs. Moreland had received
no other injury than the fright.

" 1 shall never recover it!" returned the poor old
lady, with a deep sigh-—" 1 shall not trouble you
long — and 1 know Isaac will not refuse me a shelter."

"Ah, poor man, he would be sadly hurt, could he
understand what has happened," replied Mrs. Wil-
son, " but it's no use to disturb him, poor soul ! — for
his memory is (piite gone, and lie talks (juite at
Kandom."

SMILY MORELAND 115

Mrs. Moreland sighed, as much for her poor old
friend as herself; but, though she had heard this sad
account of hira, she looked at the vacant chair, which
Isaac had been used to occupy by the kitchen fire-
side, as if she expected to see him there.

The kind-hearted and officious attendants of the
sufferers, having seen them in safety, now took
their leave, being well aware that they were not
looked upon with the most pleasant eyes by Dame
Wilson, who was sadly discomposed by the intrusion
of so many dirty feet into her clean kitchen.

The Signora now accompanied Mrs. Wilson, to
prepare the bed, which she had been used to occupy,
for Mrs. Moreland, who was completely exhausted
by the terror and fatigue she had undergone ; and was
no sooner left alone with Emily, than, leaning her
head back on the pillow behind her, she fell into a
profound sleep.

The small candle, which the thrifty Dame had
placed on the high mantel-piece, shed but a dim
light in the large kitchen, and Emily felt her spirits
sink still lower, from the gloomy appearance of the
place, where she used once to be received with cordial
welcome. The silent tears coursed each other down
her cheek, as she sat gazing on the pallid face of her
only surviving Relative, thus, in her old age, deprived
of her peaceful and comfortable home, and thrown
upon the charity of one kind friend, for the present,
at least, if not for longer than Emily could at pre-
sent foresee

She was uneasy, too, at being compelled to ren)aia
under the same roof with William Wilson, who wan

116 EMILY MORELA^D.

now gone back to see what could be saved fioin Ihe
ruins of the cottage ; and, among- other feelings of
regret, she was deploring the loss of his father's pro-
tection, when a door, that led from the kitchen to
the back staircase, was softly and slowly opened, and
Emily, with surprise and horror, recognised, in the
pale face that was cautiously thrust forward, and the
hollow eye that gazed round with a look of anxious
scrutiny, the altered features of her poor old friend,
Isaac Wilson.

" Emily !" he softly articulated, while a ray of
satisfaction seemed to gleam in his countenance,
" Emily, I want to speak with you. I have long
wanted to see you, but I am kept a prisoner in
my own house — and they say I am mad ; but I am
not mad, though I am not what I used to be ; and
how should I, when my own flesh and blood rebel

against me, and treat me like a child ? And but

I am losing time, and I may not have another op-
portunity. She forgot to lock me into the room, in
her hurry, and I heard your name mentioned, and 1
know, too, that she is in Madam Orsini's room — so,
I suppose, she is coming back ; and I am glad of

that, for she is very good and kind but what was

I saying?" He put his hand to his head, as if to
recal his thoughts to the point from which they had
wandered, and then resumed — " I know, now — I
wanted to tell you that there is a sum of money,
which your father sent me for you, locked up in my
strong-box, with your name on it ; and I wish you
would ask for it, and get it into your possession : for
William is very idle and extravagant, and every

fiMlLY MORELAND. 117

thing is going to wreck and ruin ; for his mother
lets him have all his own way; and, perhaps, I have
been thinking, but I don't know — I hope not — your
money may go, too, when I am gone !"

Emily listened with astonishment to this address,
which was delivered with a strange wildness of look
and tone, though it appeared coherent enough in
matter.

'^ Does not my grandmother know this ?" she de-
manded, glancing her eye towards the still sleeping
Mrs. Moreland.

" No," returned Isaac, " though I have not time
to tell you why, I have never trusted her with the
secret — I wish I had trusted no one — for those who

have Hush ! I hear her coming — do not betray

that you have seen me, for if you do '*

Mrs. Wilson's shrill voice approached nearer, and
Isaac, in alarm, retreated up the stairs, closing the
door softly after him.

" Is she asleep," demanded Mrs. Wilson, looking
at Mrs. Moreland, as she entered, " why, who were
you talking to ?" she exclaimed, suspiciously glancing
around, " I am sure, I could swear I heard a voice,
as I came along the passage — didn't you, Ma'am ?"

Unconscious of the importance attached to the
subject, the Signora, to whom she addressed this
question, replied in the affirmative ; and Emily
could only evade further remarks by observing, that
it was not improbable she had been speaking, though,
in the harassed state of her mind, she was uncon
Kcious of it.

" Oh, then, you were talking to yourself ?'"* returned

118 EMILY MORELAND.

the Darne, looking at her with a scrutinising and
suspicious glance.

Emily remained silent — for she could not bring
herself to utter a diiect falsehood ; and the Signora,
without observing her embarrassment, relieved her by
speaking of the propriety of waking Mrs. Moreland,
and inducing her to retire to bed.

" I will do any thing you wish," observed the
poor old woman, when they succeeded, with dif-
ficulty, in arousing her.

Mrs. Wilson shook her head — " She would rather,"
she observed, " see a person cry, and take on, when
in distress, than seem so quiet and indifferent ;" and
the Signora, as she assisted the object of their atten-
tion to bed, felt that the observation was not en-
tirely misplaced in the present instance ; for Mrs.
Moreland, resigned and calm as she appeared, was
evidently very ill ; and Emily, who, with her friend,
watched the remainder of the night by the bedside
of her aged relative, soon learned from Rosalia's
looks that another affliction, in all probability,
awaited her.

Their fears were but too well founded. Mrs.
Moreland continued to grow hourly weaker and
weaker, and in less than a month, her prediction,
that her distress and terror would prove her death,
was verified ; and Emily beheld her last natural
protector laid in the grave.

It was not merely the sorrow of losing one so de-
s^^rvedly dear to her, that now pressed so heavily ou
the youthful Emily ; she felt, in all its force, the
melancholy state in which she was now placed, with-

EMILY MORELAND. 119

out one natural tie in the world, and totally uncer-
tain what might be her future fate. She knew no-
thing of Signora Orsini's family ties, and, though
she appeared perfectly independent of any con-
nexions, she might not always remain so ; and then,
perhaps, she (Emily) might appear in the light of an
intruder. But, even were not this to happen, her
friend was certamly not rich, and she sfiould be
sorry to be a burthen to her. Such were the
thoughts that passed, in her desponding moments,
through Emily's mind.

During the illness of her granamother, and her
consequent affliction at her loss, she had thought but
little of any other subject, though, as she sometimes
casually heard the name of poor old Isaac mentioned,
the recollection of her transient interview with him,
and his assertion, that her father had deposited some
money for her with him, would recur to her mind ;
but she thought less of what concerned herself, and
which, in fact, she could scarcely believe had any
foundation but in the chimeras of her poor friend's
brain, than she did of the means of rescuing the lat-
ter from his imprisonment— for such evidently he
was enduring; since, in no one instance, did Emily
again see him, though she frequently visited the
kitchen, as much with a view of observing whether
he was allowed to join the family at their meals, as
to avoid giving Mrs. Wilson more trouble than was
necessary.

Isaac, however, was never there ; nor could Emily
have known that he was still in the house, but that
she, more than once, heard his voice in his own room.

120 EMILY MORELAND.

apparently engaged in violent contention with his
son, whose threats and abuse she could distinctly
understand were occasioned by his father's refusal
to comply with some request, that the latter con-
sidered unreasonable.

Once, only, Emily ventured to observe, (in addition
to the daily inquiry as to his health,) that she thought
it must be very prejudicial to him, to remain so many
hours alone, as he must necessarily do, as long as he
confined himself to his room.

" It is better than exposing himself, and making
himself a laughing-stock, by talking nonsense, and
acting like a fool!" replied Mrs. Wilson, in a surly
tone.

" But that could not happen with those who are
his friends," returned Emily; " neither you or I
should feel inclined to make him a laughing-stock ;
and it is possible that society and exercise might
gradually restore both his health and his mind to a
proper "

"You are very clever, no doubt, Miss Emily," in-
terrupted Mrs. Wilson, with a malicious smile ; " but
as I don't think you quite clever, or quite old enough,
to perscribe better than Doctor Rawlings, I shall
fellow his advice and my own knowledge, though
you may think little of it."

Emily saw it was useless to persevere in an effort,
which only irritated without convincing ; and might,
indeed, be injurious to the individual whom it was
intended to benefit. To Signora Orsini, however,
she now communicated what had passed on the night
of the fire, and her suspicions that some other motive

EMILY MORELAND. . 121

than regard for the poor old man*s health was the
cause of his seclusion.

Rosalia was at once surprised and interested; but
she did not hesitate to believe, that the story the old
Farmer had told respecting- the money was correct,
as it fully corresponded with various hints which he
had dropped in the course of conversation, of his being-
in possession of some secret, which would prove ad-
vantageous to Emily. She determined, therefore,
without delay or prevarication, to apply to Mrs.
Wilson on the subject, though she had but little
hopes of inducing her to act honestly, without having
recourse to some more powerful measures than mere
persuasion.

To Emily, however, it appeared of much more
consequence to devise some means of relieving poor
old Isaac from his melancholy situation ; and the im-
portant consideration that they could only learn from
him the exact sum which was withheld, and the cir-
cumstances under which it was received, determined
Signora Orsini to submit to a short delay, in the hope
of obtaining- an interview with him

In pursuance of her advice, therefore, Emily en-
deavoured to lull Mrs. Wilson into security, by ab-
staining- from even mentioning the name of her hus-
band, and aflfecting- not to observe the ill-conduct
and vicious habits of her son, whom she appeared
particularly desirous of recommending to the formei,
on every occasion.

This was a hard task to Emily, who, though she
felt a reluctance to avow to her friend what she con-
sidered almost a degradation to acknowledge to her-

122 EMILY MORELAND.

self, was convinced that William Wilson and hb
mother entertained hopes that she regarded the for-
mer with sufficient partiality to bestow on him her
hand, were she not restrained by the pride of the
Signora (whom they both detested) from following
her own inclinations, and persuaded to indulge more
ambitious views.

More than once, when Emily had found it neces-
sary to repress the freedom and confidence of Wil-
liam's manners towards her, in the presence of his
mother, she had been compelled to listen to hints of
this nature, and denunciations of hatred towards her
whom she now felt was, indeed, her only true friend;
and she revolted from giving even a tacit encourage-
ment to their presumption, by seeming to be blind to
those faults, which were every day being strengthened
by habit, in one whom she had certainly once es-
teemed as a brother, but who had long since forfeited
every claim to her favourable consideration.

There were moments, indeed, in which William
Wilson appeared sensibly alive to his own degrada-
tion; and, more than once or twice, Emily heard him
avow to his mother his resolution of breaking off all
his dissolute connexions, by either enlisting into a
marching regiment, or going to sea ; but to both these
expedients his mother was decidedly opposed, and
Emily could not misunderstand her hints that it
would be far better that he should get married, and
settled at some distance, where he would return to
his former habits of sobriety and industry.

A sigh, and a glance at Emily, who, though she
aifected not to see it, could not entirely avoid betray-

KMILY MORELAND. 123

iug her consciousness of what was pointed at, was
generally William's only reply to this prt dent ad-
vice; but the fit of contrition seldom lasted many
hours, and Emily generally discovered that their
conversation had ended in his mother's supplyin<^
him with the means of returning to his old haunts,
to dissipate his melancholy, and lay in a stock for
future repentance.

A month had elapsed from Mrs. Moreland's de-
cease, before Emily could collect resolution to visit
the now ruined spot of her former residence ; but the
suggestion of the Signora, that it might yet be re-
stored to its pristine state, — should she be fortunate
enough to succeed in obliging Mrs. Wilson to make
restitution, or should Isaac be sufficiently restored
to health, to resume his place in the world, — raised
a train of thought in the mind of the affectionate girl,
which led her, almost unconsciously, to the wicket
gate of the little garden, which, partly burned up and
withered by the flames, and the remainder trodden
down and defaced by the feet of those who had been
led by curiosity or interest to visit the ruin, presented
a spectacle of devastation from which the dejected
and sensitive Emily turned away, with bitter tears.

*' Another spring may restore all your flowers, my
dear girl," observed Rosalia, who easily guessed the
source of her tears.

Emily turned her eyes disconsolately towards the
blackened and mouldering walls, which alone re-
mained of that pretty neat dwelling, where she had
passed so many happy hours; but she thought less
of the ruined cottage, than of those whose kind hearts

194 EMILY MORELAND.

and benevolent dispositions had made 't the abode
of peace and happiness.

" Life has no second spring," she softly murmured,
as, with a deep sigh, she unfastened the wicket, and
passed into the garden, followed by her friend, whose
own feelings were too intense to allow her to oft'ei
any consolation.

Fragments of the furniture, which was nearly all
destroyed, were laying about among the ruins, and
Emily's tears flowed faster than ever, as she picked
up a piece of half-burned wood, which she immediately
recognised as having been a part ot the spinning-
wheel, which had formed her grandmother's principal
pleasure and occupation, up to the fatal night, which,
it might be said, had closed all her occupations and
pleasures in this world.

She was still standing amid the ruins, her eyes
mournfully fixed on this sad memento of days for
ever gone by, when she was surprised by the sudden
barking of her little spaniel, which was still the con-
stant attendant of her rambles; and, on looking
round, to ascertain the cause, she discovered that a
stranger, who did not seem to observe her vicinity
to him, was leaning over the palings of the garden,
as if contemplating with pity and compassion the
devastation he beheld.

Emily stood, for a moment, silently observing one
whom she had never yet seen equalled for manly
beauty, and intelligence of look and feature.

The stranger was a tall slender youth, apparently
about eighteen or nineteen, and, though clothed in a
plain rustic dress, possessed such a commanding look

EMILY MORELAND.

12 J

and form, that no one who beheld him could doubt
his being of much superior rank to the style in which
he appeared. His large and brilliant dark eyes were
of a somewhat pensive cast, though the smile with
which he regarded the puny efforts of' the little
spaniel to intimidate him from entering the grounds,
over which the faithful animal still seemed to con-
sider himself the guardian, was at once playful and
animated.

"Who can it be?" said Emily, softly; but she
looked round in vain for an answer, for the Signora
had wandered to some distance in the orchard, which
was at the back of the cottage.

"Poor fellow!" said the stranger, opening the
wicket, and trying to coax the dog to come near to
him ; " poor fellow ! what are you doing here,
alone ? Are you come to look at your former home,
or are you seeking your former friends?"

The spaniel, as if conciliated by the sound of his
voice, now ceased its noise ; but, instead of comply-
ing with his invitation to advance, he retreated to-
wards the spot where Emily still stood, sheltered by
the ruined wall ; and the young man, with his eyes
fixed on the dog, continued to follow it, until his
progress was arrested by his discovering the fair mis-
tress of the little animal.

For a moment he remained undetermined whether
to advance or recede, while Emily, with a confusion
she could not account for, stooped to caress the
spaniel.

"I ought, I believe, Madam," observed the stran-
ger, smiling, " to apologise for my intrusion ; but

126 EMILY MORELAND.

you will, I am sure, believe me, when 1 say, that I
had not any idea of the treasure, which this little
animal seems to be so faithful a guardian of. I was,
indeed, influenced by curiosity to follow him, ima-
gining it possible that he had belonged to the former
inhabitants of this now desolate spot, which I re-
member to have seen some few years back, and
admired with all the enthusiasm of boyhood, ' for then
is the age of admiration !' "

*' It was, indeed, a sweet place!" said Emily, in a
faltering voice, and averting her head, in order to
conceal her tears.

The young man was silent for a moment, and then,
in a voice still more soft and insinuating, said, " I am
afraid I am more inexcusably intrusive than I at first
apprehended. I am fearful that I am trespassing
upon sorrows," glancing at her mourning dress,
*' which have some connexion with this scene of de-
solation. Yet, if it were possible for me to offer

if, as a stranger, I could dare hope "

The sudden appearance of Signora Orsini, who
entered through a breach in the ruined wall, close to
which he was standing, interrupted his address; and,
evidently disconcerted and confused, he bowed to
the latter, who regarded him with the most intent
and earnest looks.

^' Who is it?" she abruptly exclaimed. " Tell
me, pray tell me, who are you? — and what has
brought you here?"

The young man looked astonished — and Emily,
who beheld, in the pale cheek and agitated look of
her friend, sufficient cause for alarm, though uncon-

\

A /takers, j.i ■

MHIFIBEIR^T JLlEglLUIE

EMILY MORELAND. 127

scious what could have occasioned it, endeavoured
to explain that the stranger had been unpreraedi-
tatedly drawn to the spot, by the appearance and
gambols of Clara.

" It is strange ! I could scarcely have known— and
yet the age !" murmured Rosalia, still keeping her
eyes intently fixed on the now crimsoned face of the
youth. " Will you, Sir," she continued, trying to
assume a firmer tone, " will you satisfy my feelings —
my curiosity, I should say, — by explaining who you
are, and how you came to be in this part of the
country?"

The stranger's agitation evidently increased, and
Emily thought there was something like haughtiness,
if not resentment, in his manner, as he replied —

*' I certainly, Madam, cannot refuse to comply
with so reasonable a request — though it is rather
awkward to be myself the formal historian of my
birth, pai'entage, education, pursuits, occupation,
&c. &c. If it will be any satisfaction, however, to
you, I willingly inform you that I am the adopted
son of Lord Hazleden, my parents having died
during my infancy, and bequeathed me to his care.
So, at least, I am taught to believe. For the rest —
my name is Herbert Leslie, and I am at present
merely on a pleasurable excursion, to visit some
friends, who reside seven or eight miles from hence.
A wish to see the country, unembarrassed by the
forms and constraints of the sphere of life in which I
am (however undeservedly) placed, and a sportive
desire to surprise the famiJy I am on my road to
isit, by my unexpected appearance, were my chief

128 EMILY MORELAND.

motives for appearing- in a garb, which you may,
perhaps, think not exactly accordant with the account
I have given of myself; and which I shall certainly
regret assuming, if it have the effect of prejudicing
either you or — " glancing at Emily, and gracefully
bowing — " that lady against me."

" Was ever tale with such a gallant modesty rehearsed ?"

thought Emily, as she courtesied in reply to his
compliment, with a smile, which, though half re-
strained by timidity, was nevertheless exactly such
as was calculated to assure the handsome and fasci-
nating stranger, that he had no reason to fear her
decision in his favour.

Signora Orsini seemed to recover her self-posses-
sion, and her naturally kind and pleasing manners, as
the young man concluded his explanation.

" Forgive my seeming rudeness. Sir," she observed,
offering him her hand ; " you will, I am sure, pardon
it when I tell you, that I was so powerfully struck
with your resemblance to one, very nearly and dearly

connected with myself; one, who " she brushed

away the tear which was stealing down her cheek,
and, after a short pause, added — " I need not, I am
sure, ojffer any other plea in excuse for my abrupt-
ness, than again to assure you, that the resemblance
between you and the person I allude to is so striking,
that, incredible and impossible as it certainly is, that
there could exist any connexion between you, I can-
not even yet divest myself of the idea that you were
the unfortunate offspring of a fatal marriage, and

EMILY MORELAND.

129

that youi object here was to introduce yourself as
such to me."

" It is singular, certainly," observed the stranger,
with a look which evinced the deepest interest in the
slight hints the Signora had let fall ; "were the per-
sons or person to whom you allude, natives of Eng-
land? J would not be impertinently curious — but it
is natural, unconnected as I am by all ties of blood,
that I should feel Yet, I am ridiculous, in suffer-
ing myself to be thus led into the regions of romance,
by a mere casual resemblance of feature or counte-
nance ! The history of my birth is too common, and
too devoid of mystery, to allow me to doubt its ve-
racity.'"

*' I will reply to your question at once, to set your
doubts at rest — if my hasty remarks should have
raised any. They were not natives of England,

though one was for some time resident here ; and

bui we will, if you please," she continued, her voice
faltering, and her whole look and manner evincing
the deepest distress, " drop a subject, which I can
never bear to contemplate. Emily, my dear girl, I
have alarmed and distressed you," she continued,
turning to the latter, who had indeed beheld the
emotion of her beloved friend with the deepest sym-
pathy: " Come," she added, trying to re-assume her
usual vivacity, " it is time to dismiss this sombre hue
from our minds, and contemplate, with delight and
gratitude, the blessings thiit are yet left us.

*' * l-ife Iiath iis rliarms : — yes, though my heart

Ha'i moiiin'd its glitleiing prospects all o'erthrown ! —
■ Has blerl with bitt'rest agony to part
Wuh those it lovpil. — Yes, though I've known

6. 8

130 EMILY MORELAND.

Neglect and penury ; — felt the keen smart

Of disappointed Iio])«s, and heaved the bitter groan

For feelings slighted, confidence abused : — Yet stiU

Life hath its charms; and I can gaze around,

Enraptured with this world of beauty, till,

My sorrows all forgot, my heart will bound

With pleasure, and ray eyes will fill

With tears of gratitude, and ev'ry sound

Seem sweet ; and ail helow — above.

Speak to my heart of beauty, light, and love.' "

The words, the sentiments, were her own ; and
Emily felt, that, however little merit they might
claim as a poetical composition, they had, in her
eyes, the greatest recommendation, — that of being
the faithful transcript of an amiable and feeling
heart.

Mr. Leslie seemed to think so, too ; for his manners
towards the Signora became still more respectful and
animated; and Emily, in becoming an interested
listener to, and participator in the conversation that
ensued, gradually lost that timidity and reserve
which were foreign to her natural character ; and,
in this instance, she would fain have persuaded her-
self, had been only created by the novelty of her in-
tercourse with one so superior and refined as the
stranger.

A casual remark from the latter, respecting the
place they had just quitted, (for they had now left
the cottage garden, and were slowly proceeding
along the narrow path, which wound gently round
one of the swelling green hills that overlooked the
Vale, until it terminated at the gate of the Farm,
which was now their home,) drew from the Signora
a simple but pathetic detail of the calamitous event,
which had deprive f them of their loved dwelling.

EMILY MORELAND. 131

" My poor Emily," she continued, " has to-day,
for the first time, visited the scene of our former
happiness ; and, though I agree with her in believing
that it can never be to us what it has been, yet I am
willing to hope, and to inspire her with hopes, that
we may soon be enabled to restore the cottage to all
its former beauty and usefulness.

Mr. Leslie looked as if he would have asked what
obstacles could retard the immediate execution of
this design, had not the fear of being considered in-
trusive or inquisitive, prevented him. He therefore
only hazarded, in reply, an inquiry, how long they
had resided in that sequestered spot ; and learned,
with evident surprise, that Emily had passed all her
(as yet short) life there; had never been beyond
the limits of a day's journey in the neighbourhood,
and had never hitherto wished or sighed for other
scenes or other pleasures, than that small boundary
afforded her.

" Yet it were pity that such a flower should

' Blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desart air ;' "

murmured Leslie, addressing himself to the Signora,
who glanced on him a look full of arch meaning, as
she replied, pursuing the metaphor —

" ' The hnmble violet,
Which blooms in secret 'neath yon hedge-row's shade.
Dies if transplanied to a richer soil.' "

"I deny your inference," returned Leslie, blushing
and smiling at the same time " I do not mean to

)32 EMII.Y MORELANl).

say that culture could improve the beauty, or the
sweetness of your secluded flower ; but, surely, it
might "

" More of this hereafter," interrupted the Sig-
nora, who saw that Emily, though she had not heard
the whole conversation, felt confused from the con-
sciousness, which was excited by Leslie's glance,
that she was the subject which had given rise to it.

"We are taking you out of your road. Sir," ob-
served the Signora, abruptly stopping, as they reached
the brow of the hill. " Yonder," she continued,
pointing to a path which branclied oft' to the left,
" yonder is the direct way to the village through
which you must pass, if, as I understand you, you
are on your way to Clare Hall."

" That is certainly my final destination," returned
Mr. Leslie; "but the evening is already so far ad-
vanced, and and, if I dare avow it, I am so un-
willing to renounce the charms of your society, that,
unless you absolutely forbid it, I shall defer my
journey till to-morrow, and attend you, at least as
far as the door of your mansion, even if I should be
sure that it would be inhospitably closed against my
admittance."

" A pretty modest way of asking for an invita-
tion," observed Rosalia, smiling; " and, as I cannot
handsomely get off, I suppose 1 must even submit to
bear with your company at our tea-table."

Mr. Leslie looked all animation, and declared
himself all gratitude, for this "condescension," as he
termed it.

*' I am afraid,' observed the Signora, half se-

EMILY MORELAND. 133

riously, and half in jest, " that I am committing a
sad breach of etiquette, in thus alloAving your visit,
without a formal introduction ; but, as I have had
but little experience in Vusage du beau tnonde, in
England, I hope some allowance will be made for
me, should I be acting incorrectly."

" You are not a native of England, then. Madam,"
observed Leslie. " I have been debating with my-
self that point, for the last ten minutes; for, though
your English tongue is so perfect that it would de.-
ceive any one, there is a certain tone, which, to those
who have visited Italy "

"Ah, you have, then, been in my own — my still dear
native land," interrupted Rosalia, with vivacity;
" and you have, perhaps," she continued, " gazed
on the scenes where my happy happy childhood was
passed, and which I must now never hope to revisit,"
She passed her hand over her brow, as if to veil the
agitation this thought excited; and then, after a
short pause, looking earnestly at Leslie, said — " I
cannot hear you talk of Italy in that voice, and with
those well-known features, without too faithfully
recalling scenes and events, which I wish to forget,
if possible, for ever! It is a strange coincidence —
most strange ! But, tell me, what were your induce-
ments to visit Venice ? You said you were at Venice,
did you not ?"

" VVhy, certainly, I resided for more than a month
in the city ofa hundred isles," replied Leslie, "though
I am not aware that I mentioned it before. It was
only natural, however, that you should think it im-
possible that a traveller could visit the land of the

134 EMILY MOIIEL vNl>.

pleasant south, without seeing- its chiefest pride and
wonder."

Signora Orsini was silent — her thoughts were
wandering amidst the marble columns, or gliding
along the silent waters of her native city; and Leslie,
deeply sympathising in the feelings, which spoke so
intelligibly in the tears and sighs which Rosalia in
vain attempted to check, endeavoured to conceal his
observation of them, by addressing some remarks to
Emily, on the beauty of the prospect which lay be-
fore them.

The hours which Leslie passed in the society of
Emily and her protectress, appeared to fly with
winged speed, to more than one of the party ; and
all seemed to feel regret, when the hour of separa-
tion arrived.

" You will not, I hope, refuse me admittance, if I
should again wander into this neighbourhood, during
my (I am now afraid) short stay at the Hall?" ob-
served Leslie, as he arose to accompany William
Wilson, who had undertaken to be his guide to the
village where he was to rest for the night ; and who
had been twice to the parlour door, to signify his
fear that the gentleman would stay till it would be
too late to get into the George Inn, or any wher-e
else, before Leslie could prevail on himself to utter
the final adieu.

" We shall certainly expect to see you, pour prendre
conge, before you return to London," replied the
Signora, with frank cordiality, but, at the same time,
with a look and manner which said, you must not
expect any further indulgence.

EMILY MORELAND. IS'J

Leslie hesitated — but William again impatiently
pressed his departure, and the former, raising botli
the fair hands he held to his lips, repeated his •' good
night," and followed his dissatisfied and murmuring
fi^uide.

CHAPTER VI.

Alas, misfortune's cloud unkind,

May summer soon o'ercast ;
And cruel Fate's untimely wind

All human wishes blast.

Logan.

The meeting- with Herbert Leslie was a new era in
Emily's life, and, for the first two or three days, her
friend Rosalia only smiled at the warmth and inge-
nuousness with which she expressed her feelings,
when speaking of him ; but when, at the end of a
week, she began to calculate the probability of a
speedy visit, on the supposition that he would not
stay much longer at the Hall; — when she beheld her
anxiety about her personal appearance, which, at
other times, she never studied beyond the most per-
fect neatness and propriety ; and, above all, when she
surprised her contemplating, with sparkling eyes and
glowing cheeks, the now- withered violets which
Leslie had gathered for her on their way, — the Sig-
nora began to think that she had acted imprudently,
in allowing the visit of this interesting and accom-
plished vountf ros'P and to hope that he would, in

136 EAIl LY JJOIl KLAM).

the gaieties of Clare Hall, forget the humble inhabi-
tants of the farm ; and, by neglecting to perform his
promise, nip in their bud these indications of youth-
ful affection.

Unsuspicious of the revolution which had taken
place in her friend's mind, the innocent Emily again
wondered, " whether Mr. Leslie would come to-day,"
as she stood at the bow window, which commanded
a considerable distance of the road which he must
come, from the place of his present residence.

" Do you, then, depend so religiously upon his
promise, or our attractions, my dear," observed the
Signora, " that you think it impossible he may return
to London, without bestowing a thought on those
who, as the mere acquaintances of a few hours, can
scarcely have a right to expect that he will turn so
far out of his direct road, for the sake of a ceremonial
leave-taking? For my own part," she continued,
V, ithout appearing to notice the consternation which
was visible in Emily's countenance, " 1 should be, I
confess, more surprised at itis keeping- his promise^,
than his omitting so to do; for, among the gay and
brilliant company which, I understand, are assembled
at the Hall, it would be vanity to suppose it probable
that a fashionable young man, as Mr. Leslie is, would
not find sufficient attractions to banish such humble
individuals as you and 1 from his memory."

Emily scarcely knew what she felt, as the Signora,
with an assumed air of indifference, concluded her
speech ; and, without seeming to think it required an
answer, began to arrange her drawing materials on
the table, for her morning's avocation, dciiM

EMILY MORELANJ. 137

Anger, surprise, niortilication, and a tumult of in-
definable feelings were swelling in the poor girl's
bosom, at this unexpected overthrow of her hopes.
Could the Signora be unjust, or was she herself un-
reasonable in expecting that one, who seemed all
truth, and candour, and ingenuousness, would act
consistently with that character ? It was true, she
knew but little of the world, or of men's hearts. She
sighed, as she recalled the lesson which her unfortu-
nate mother's fate had impressed on her memory, to
distrust the fairest appearances ; and yet, never — oh,
never could she believe that the impress of truth and
sincerity, which was stamped on Herbert Leslie's
features, or the open-hearted frankness which marked
his manners, could be assumed, to disguise a light, a
frivolous, or a deceptive mind !

"He will come — I know he will!" she involun-
tarily exclaimed aloud.

The Signora looked up from her drawing, with
well-dissembled surprise. " And if he should not,
my dear girl, we shall neither of us break our hearts,
I trust, at his neglect," she observed.

"Oh, no, indeed! I am sure I should not care, if
I were never to see him again !" replied Emily, while
her heightened colour and faltering voice contra-
dicted the assertion. "Only," she continued, " for
the sake of his own character, I should wish him to
keep his word — especially as he made so great a point
of gaining your permission to come, and seemed to
take so great an interest in our comfort and happi-
ness." ^i-''! -ii^-*^-

•' Alas^my dear girl, you have not as yet had, an
a. T

138 EMILV MOREL AND.

1 earnestly hope you never will have, much expe-
rience in the hollowness of those professions, whici
eyery man of fashion and gallantry thinks it necessary
to offer, to a young and beautiful female. I say,
beautiful — because I rely too much on your good
sense, to fear that your knowledge that you possess
Nature's bounty in this respect, will do you any
harm ; and because, too," she added, smiling, " I
cannot doubt, that, if your looking-glass had not be-
fore told you the flattering- tale, Mr. Leslie's eyes
would have revealed it. Why that sigh and blush,
Emily? It is as natural that, at his age, and with
his disposition, he should admire you while present,
as that the next beauty he meets should efface you
from his recollection."

Emily sat quietly down to the (able, and drew out
her work ; and her friend, thinking that she had al-
ready said enough to damp any unreasonable expec-
tations, contrived soon to change the subject; not,
however, without breathing a secret wish, that Leslie
might never come to defeat her prudent admoni-
tions.

" He is precisely," she reflected, " as far as can be
judged from so superficial an acquaintance, the man
whom I should select for my beloved girl; but,
situated as they both are, it would be madness and
folly to encourage such feelings for a moment, even
if he should really be as much prepossessed in hef
favour, as my innocent Emily evidently is in his."

For many days after this conversation, Emily was
silent, pensive, and thoughtful ; but, to Rosalia's
great satisfaction, Herbert Leslie no longer formed

EMILY MORELAND. 130

the theme of her conversation ; and when week after
week passed away, and he came not, as she had pre-
dicted, she could not but feel that she had acted
prudently, in preparing Emily's mind for the disap-
pointment.

" So, the great folks at the Hall are all gone to
London, Miss!" observed Dame Wilson, as she was
one day laying the cloth for dinner.

The Signora was reading, but she slily raised her
eyes from the book, to see what effect this intelligence
had on her young friend. To her great satisfaction,
all was calm and serene in that expressive face; and
the resumed her book again, as Emily, in a ibeerful
Vv)ice, replied —

" I suppose they are like other birds of passage,
flown off, for the winter, to a climate more con-
genial."

" I should have thought your fine spark, that's
been staying there, mout have come \o bid you good
bye, and thank you for your civility," rejoined the
Dame, in a tone of affected good humour, but real
malevolence.

"Indeed ! — then you and I thought alike, for once,"
returned Emily, smiling with irresistible archness at
the Signora, v/ho had again raised her eyes to the
bright intelligent face, which was now more than
usually animated.

" Yes, indeed," observed Mrs. Wilson, who was
evidently determined to leave no part of her new*
untold; "but it don't want many guesses to find out
why he didn't !" she added ; " for he's a-going to be
"Quarried to a great lady that was down there, tli.

140 KMILY MOUELANl).

Ijord Mayor of London's daughtei, 1 believe she is.
Howsomever, let her be who she will, he's to have
her weight in golden guineas, as soon as they're mar-
ried ; and she's none of the lightest, I can assure you,
for I seed them both in the pheaton, as they drove
down the road ; and a comely piece she is — only she's
a good bit older than him; and, for my part, I can't
think what she could see in such a boyish chap, and
one, too, that's only been bred on charity, I hear,
when she mout have had the picking and choosing
among lords, and dukes, and barrowknights, with such
a for tin. ^'

"Mercenary, too, and at his age!" said Emily,
addressing herself to the Signora, who, though she
felt inclined to doubt that there was any real foun-
dation for the tale she had just heard, could not sup-
press a feeling of disappointment, at this trait in the
character of one, whom, though policy induced her
to suppress it, she secretly respected.

" I suppose he was afraid of making Madam jea-
lous, if he came here," added Mrs. Wilson, who felt
angry that her previous observations had been so
coolly received; "for Jenny Dobson, who's been
helping at the Hall, ever since she and the old gen-
tleman her father corned down, says as how she
couldn't a-hear him out of her sight."

" What a delectable life he is likely to lead, with
such a fascinating and amiable partner!" observed
Emily, shrugging her shoulders.

" Quite as good and pleasant as he deserves," re-
turned the Signora, with real and undisguised con-
tempt.

EMILY MORELAND. 14J

" Lauk! why you wouldn't have the young man
give up such a chance, to marry "

*' I am no Avay interested in Mr. Leslie's decision,
Mrs. Wilson," interrupted the Signora, with more
than her usual dignity and reserve, " and I shall be
much obliged if you will hasten the preparations for
our dinner."

Disappointed in her aim, in the repetition of this
exaggerated tale, Mrs. Wilson flounced out of the
room, leaving the Signora and Emily to discuss the
character of Herbert Leslie at leisure; which they
did, with this deviation from their usual conversa-
tions respecting- him, that the Signora was more
inclined to be hasty and ajigry, and to accuse him of
inconsistency, than Emily, who declared that she
pitied, while she could not help despising- one, who
could barter the heart's best aff*ections for g^old.

It was not without a considerable struggle that
Emily had attained the calmness and indifference,
which had at once surprised and delighted her friend
and protectress. To say that she had fallen in love
with Herbert Leslie, during an interview of only a
few hours, would be folly. Emily knew not what
love was ; but it was the fiist time she had ever been
in the society of a well-educated and agreeable young-
man, — one, too, whose taste and sentiments seemed
to coincide so entirely with her own, and whose sen-
sibility and feeling-, she thought, could not be
doubted. It was painful, therefore, to think that
she had seen him for the last time ; but still more
painful to be obliged to believe, that the warm inte-
rest and sympathy he had expressed for her and ber

142 EM) LY MO IF,;, AM).

friend Rosalia, had been mere words of course, no
sooner uttered than forgotten. But it was too plain
that this w as the case, and Emily, as she reluctantly
acknowledged it to herself, felt mortified at her own
credulity, which had been easily deceived by a fair
and specious outside, and resolved never again to be
so duped, but henceforth to believe men to be, what
the Signora sometimes, in a fit of petulance, evidently
occasioned by painful and harassing recollections,
called them, "selfish, deceptive, and unfeeling all !"

She heard, therefore, with little pain, and still less
surprise, the tale which Mrs. Wilson, who had been
terribly startled and alarmed at Mr. Leslie's intro-
duction, had so triumphantly repeated ; and the ill-
natured old woman conceiving, from Emily's indif-
ference, that she had been mistaken in her conjectures
respecting- (lie " proud conceited spark," as she gene-
rally styled him, made no farther atten.pt to mortify
her by the repetition of the stories she learned from
her acquaintance at the Hall.

In one respect, however, Emily felt the inconve-
nience of the suspicions Mrs. Wilson had entertained ;
for, emboldened by the removal of what she had
sense enough to perceive, should she be correct,
would prove an insuruiouniable ol)stacle to her son's
pretensions, the old dame again commenced her sys-
tematic attempts, not only to recommend her son to
Emily's favour, but to contrive to give him frequent
opportunities to plead his own cause ; and, harassed
and humiliated beyond measure by iht perseverance
of both mother and son, Einiiy at length found her-
eelf compelled to acknowledge to the Signora, what

EMILV MORELAND. 143

she had hitherto so carefully concealed, that not the
slishtest suspicion had arisen in the bosom of the
latter.

" But, my dear child," she exclaimed, when Emily,
her cheeks glowing with anger and shame, explained
to her why it was that she declined walking alone,
Av hen the former was slightly indisposed. " My dear
girl, why have you tacitly encouraged this presump-
tion, by keeping it from me !" •

Emily could only acknowledge, what she felt was
the fact, that she considered herself so degraded by
being the object of such an attachment, that she was
unwilling to speak of it. " Besides," she continued,
" I have thought that my steady refusal to listen to
such language, and my resolutely avoiding to see him
for a moment alone, would induce both him and his
mother to drop their persecution of me. I find,
however, that I am mistaken, and that my forbear-
ance only encourages them. Last night, indeed, the
Dame contrived to trepan me into an interview with
William, by pretending to show me a new brood of
chickens, which my favourite hen had hatched in the
granary ; but I had scarcely got there, before Wil-
liam entered, and, before I had time to retreat, the
old woman muttered some excuse for returning to
the house again, and I was compelled, almost by
force, to listen to his protestations and entreaties.
. deed, he went so far as to swear, that, if I would
accept his offer, he would destroy himself and
^le, too ; and, though I cannot for a moment suppose
that he has any serious intention of acting so despe-
rately, I became so much alarmed, that I resolved no
konger to concerl his conduct from you/'

144 EMILY MORELAMJ.

Rosalia affected to treat the threats of this mis-
guided young' man with contempt ; but she could not
conceal from herself, that unless Emily were speedily
removed from her present situation, she was likely to
meet with much uneasiness and annoyance on this sub-
ject. How to remedy it at the present moment, how-
ever, she knew not ; for her own remittances had been
most unaccountably delayed; and the small sum,
which Mrs. Moreland had possessed at her death,
had been nearly all expended in her funeral. The
produce of the few acres of land, which were now
Emily's property, having- been bequeathed to her by
her grandfather, after the death of his wife, had
been nearly all consumed by the fatal fire ; and, in-
dependent of all other sources of uneasiness, the Sig-
nora was now suffering considerable anxiety, from
the apparent uncertainty of a fresh supply, when the
trifle she had still left should be exhausted. /ov.oil

Unwilling to give pain to Emily, whose naturally
lively spirits were yet depressed, from the recollection
of the loss she had sustained, the Signora had not, in
the most distant manner, alluded to her embarrass-
ments; and, totally unused to the management of
money, and almost ignorant of the value of it, Emily
never even conjectured that it was the cause of the
increased dejection and anxiety, which was visible in
her friend's looks and manners. Now, however, it
was, though almost inadvertently, betrayed; for, in
the regret the Signora expressed that they could not
immediately quit a place which had now lost all its
attractions, Emily discovered that there must exist
some cause, that she was unacquainted with, to pre
vent her friend from acting as she wished.

em'ily moreland 1 15

*' I have only one motive for wishing to remain
here," she observed, " and that is, the hope that some
opportunity may enable me to be of service to poor
Isaac, which, independent of all selfish considera-
tions, would be to me i.ie greatest satisfaction;
but "

Rosalia interrupted her — " I cannot see, my dear
child," she observed, " how our remaining here is
likely to forward that object ; on the contrary, I
firmly believe that our residence here has been the
means of injuring him, and increasing the restraint
in which he is kept. But it is no use to regret this
at the present minute, since there exists no possibility

of remedying it. If, indeed " She paused, and

seemed to be deeply reflecting on some alternative,
which she did not care to name.

Emily's eyes were earnestly bent on her pale and
careworn face, and a suspicion of the truth, for the
first time, flashed across her mind. " Will you allow
me to ask, dear Signora, what is the obstacle that is
so imperatively opposed to our leaving this place?"

The Signora tried to smile. — '' Can you not guess,
my dear girl," she replied ; " but do not alarm your-
self too much — it will, I hope and trust, be speedily
removed ; for I have this morning written again to
my agent in London, and I cannot think I shall be
long without receiving a satisfactory answer. If I
should, however, — but I will not anticipate evil
All will yet be right, I know — I am sure it will!"

Emily's looks bespoke her consternation and re
gret at this new evil The kindness, the more than
maternal feeling, which had prevented her expe-
7. u

146 EMII-Y MORRLAN'D.

riencing, in the most remote degree, the misery of
dependence, had yet never effaced from her memory
the consciousness of her obligations to Signora Or-
sini ; but, having been accustomed to see the latter
in the possession of every comfort, without any effort,
or subject to any uncertainty, she had never reflected
on the source from vrhence they were derived, or
calculated on the probability of its being interrupted.
Now, however, she felt — severely felt, that even her
kind and benevolent friend was not placed beyond
the reach of uneasiness and misfortune; and still
more severely did she feel, that she was herself add-
ing to the care and anxiety which the latter was en-
during, and that, too, apparently without a hope of
being able to requite her. At this moment, the
recollection of Isaac Wilson's assertions, and the
thought that she might relieve all her kind friend's
uneasiness, could she prevail on Mrs. Wilson to ac-
knowledge the truth, rushed into her mind ; and,
without giving herself time for reflection, lest her
courage should fail her, she went instantly in search
of the old woman, whom she found busily employed,
as usual, in her domestic affairs, and particularly
sullen and repulsive, in consequence of having
learned from William his ill success with Emily the
evening before, to which cause she attributed his
having been absent all night, and still remaining so.

" I have a favour to ask of you, Mrs. Wilson,"
said Emily, trying to speak very calmly, but betray-
ing, by her blanched cheek and heaving bosom, the
agitation she so much wished to conceal.

Mrs. Wilson, however, was skimming her milk,

KMILY MORELAND. 147

and, probably, calculating how many pounds of but-
ter she should be able to send to market, and she did
not raise her eyes, as she sulkily replied — " You are
very ready, I know, Miss, to ask favours, and 1 have
very often been fool enough to put myself out
of the way to grant them ; but I don't see that I get
much gratitude, and, perhaps, I shan't be so easy
again as I have been."

" I trust, however, that you will not now refuse
me," returned Emily, gaining courage as she pro-
ceeded ; " indeed, you cannot, I think, well, as I
have hitherto never mentioned the subject, though it
would have been only just and proper, if I had done
Ro. To come to the point, however, at once— I want
you to advance me ten or twenty pounds, as may be
most convenient, of the sum which was deposited in
Mr. Wilson's hands for my use. Of course, it was
intended that I should draw it, when I had a neces
sity for it; and as that time is now come "

" Money I — ten — twenty — pounds, — Miss Emily!'
faltered Mrs. Wilson, turning pale, " I really don't

understand you — I know nothing about What

can have put such a thing into your head ? — It
couldn't be William, I am sure, because he knows
very well— that is, he cannot say that I have any
money of yours, I'm sure!"

" William has never mentioned the subject to
me," replied Emily, coolly, "though 1 have been
several times on the point of speaking to him about
it, when he has made a parade of his great gene-
rositj, in offering me his hand, after my heavy loss.
It is, however, of very little use, Mrs. Wilson, to

148 EMILY MORELAND.

affect ignorance, or attempt to baffle my claims, as I
shall certainly take proper means to enforce them, if
you persist in refusing the reasonable request 1 make.
I have, as I said before, an immediate necessity for
some money — if you will, therefore, oblige me, I
shall consider it as a favour, and will not press for
the remainder of the sum, until it is convenient to
you to pay it, or my friend Isaac recovers, when, I
am well convinced, all will be properly settled."

" So, then, I suppose you have seen that poor
crackbrained, foolish, old creature — and he has put
this fine whim into your head!" observed Mrs. Wil-
son, eagerly seizing the idea which the last sentence
had unfortunately suggested.

" You must, I am sure, be perfectly convinced that
your vigilance has been too successfully exerted,
Mrs. Wilson, to allow that," replied Emily, with
pointed emphasis. " I have, indeed, been long
anxious to see my poor old friend, and am certain,
that, if he still retain any memory or understanding,
he will not hesitate to avow that my claim is perfectly
just. You will, however, think better than to deny
it, when you recal to your recollection that the per-
son who deposited it in his hands is still living, and
will, of course, be easily brought forward to
prove "

" He can't prove notliing !'''' exclaimed Mrs. Wil-
son, " he can't even prove that he was your father —
for your mother died without so much as mentioning
his najiie; and, even if he could jurove that he sent
any money to my poor foolish husband, how can he
or you move that it wasn't laid out for you, or given

EMILY MORELAND. 149

to your grandfather, who was none so rich, but what
he might be glad enough to get hold of something
towards the maintenance of his daughter's- "

"You have admitted quite enough, Mrs. Wilson,
to prove, at least, your knowledge of the transaction,"
interrupted Signora Orsini, who had been an unob-
served auditor of nearly the whole of the conversa-
tion, which, though she thought it rash and ill-timed,
and would fain have prevented it, yet, nevertheless,
did not think it politic to interrupt, after its com>
mencement, until (her fears being roused by Mrs.
Wilson's look and manner) she came forward, just
in time to prevent the outrage she was meditating
against Emily's feelings.

Mrs. Wilson stood for a moment paralized by the
Signora's appearance and manner; but rage, at being
apparently overreached, soon overcame all other
feelings, and she broke out into a torrent of abuse,
from the hearing of which the Signora hurried Emily
away.

"There is no alternative now, my dear child,"
observed the former, when they had entered their
own apartments, and secured themselves from the
intrusion of the irritated termagant, whose voice,
however, pursued them even to this retreat; "we
must only now think of devising some means of quit-
ting this place; for it will be impossible to exist
under the same roof with this furious woman, espe-
cially if I should incur any debt to her, which must
be the case, should my expected remittance fail ot
arriving."

Emily shuddered at the bare prospect of such a

150 EMILY MOREL AND.

thing. ^' What can be done, dear dear Sigaora,"
she exclaimed, " tell me — cannot I sell the fields, the
cottage!" She burst into tears, at the thoughts that
rushed into her mind — " Any thing, every thing must
be sacrificed!"

"My dear child, do not thus agitate and unneces-
sarily alarm yourself," returned the Signora, " though
embarrassed at the present moment, by the failure
of a supply which I had so regularly received, that
no fear ever entered my mind, and therefore I had
neglected to make any provision against such an ac-
cident, I have still sufficient valuables left, to prevent
any fear of distress. My only anxiety is, how to
make them available. We are at such a distance
from any town, and I have lived so retired, that I
am probably unknown, even by name, to any one in
the neighbourhood who might be disposed to assist
me, if my very awkward situation were known to
them. It is so unpleasant and embarrassing, too, to
introduce oneself with a long story, where the hearer
can have no preconceived interest. Yet," she con-
tinued, after some minutes' reflection, " the new
Curate looks very gentle and good, and, upon such
ample security as I could leave, I should think he
would not hesitate — at least I should have the benefit
of his advice; and, though he is but a young man,
he probably knows more of the world than I do, and
could suggest some method. I will write to him, my
dear "

And without delay she seated herself at her escri-
toire. Emily blushed and hesitated — she would have
offered some opposition to tl is proceeding, \,ut she

EMILY MORELANn 15

knew not >vhat to say, nor hardly what were her
motives for not wishing the young clergyman to be
chosen as her friend's adviser.

The fact was, that she had, more than once, felt
somewhat confused and oppressed by the Curate's
eyes being fixed on her, with very unequivocal marks
of admiration, when she had casually encountei^d
him on her way either to or from the church, where
she regularly attended, and to which he had been
recently appointed. Once, too, they had met at the
bedside of a sick cottager, to whom Emily had been
administering the comforts which Signora Orsini's
benevolence supplied, and whither the Curate, it
appeared, had come — not only in the performance of
his sacred function, but also with the humane inten-
tion, in which he had been forestalled, of supplying
the bodily wants of the poor widow.

Very few words had passed between them on this
occasion, for the young man seemed to be withheld,
by some nameless emotion, from uttering those com-
mendations which his eyes spoke; and Emily had
modestly fled from hearing her own praises from the
lips of the poor woman, who declared that, but for
that dear young lady, she must have perished in want
and misery.

It was these recollections that now seemed to offer
a sufficient reason why Mr. Evelyn (the Curate)
should not be the person applied to. It savoured
too much of vanity, too, she thought, even to hint at
her objections, and she continued to blush and hesi-
tate, until her friend's note was written, in which,
liter stating that some unexpected circumstances

152 EMILY MOREIiAND.

had arisen to occasion temporary embarrassment, the
Signora requested the favour of an interview with
him, in order to beneht by his advice; being, al-
though some years a resident in England, and indeed
of that neighbourhood, almost as much a stranger to
the customs and inhabitants of the country, as when
she first entered it.

" Are you not satisfied with it, my child ? Have I
said too much, or too little? — or what are your feel-
ings on the subject?" she demanded, after having at-
tentively watched Emily's expressive countenance,
while she perused what she had written.

" Oh, no — it is impossible to have worded it bet-
ter," returned the latter, " only I could have wished
— If it could be done without the interposition of a
stranger — It is so mortifying ; and besides, my dear
Signora, you have given no answer to my proposition.
I know that Farmer Fairland wished much, at one
time, to rent the land which belonged to my dear
grandfather, and I think it is very probable he would
purchase it, and "

" To put a stop at once, my dear girl, to a scheme
which could not, under any circumstances but your
own actual necessity, receive my concurrence," in-
terrupted the Signora, " I must tell you, that you
have not the power of disposing of the property,
until you attain the age of twenty-one, of which
period you now want I be! eve nearly four years; so
set your little heart at rest, on that subject. No,
my dear child," she contir ued, more seriously, " not
while I possess the means of providing food, raiment,
and lodging, shall you ever give out of your own

EMILY MORELAND. 15?

nands the power, or renounce the hope of one daj
becoming again the happy and contented resident of
your own little property. In this case alone," she
continued, putting- into Emily's hand a very beautiful
ivory box, which she had before seen, but, from the
Signora's deep sighs and silence, as she expressed her
admiration of it, had conjectured that it contained
some memorials of former times, which she was un-
willing to recur to — " In this case alone," she re-
peated, " are articles of value sufficient to ward off
the attacks of poverty for a considerable period,
though I should be sorry to sacrifice them; — but I
do not fear it; — the failure of my remittance can, I
am convinced, be only temporary, and, should I be
compelled, for a time, to part with these relics of by-
gone times, I do not indulge a fear that I shall be
eventually able to redeem them. You may look at
them, my child," she continued, observing that Emily
deposited the box on the table without opening it;
" they are the only remaining memorials of a family
now nearly extinguished, and a pride and splendour
which has been long humbled in the dust!"

Emily opened the box, less from curiosity than the
desire of averting her eyes from the painful sight of
her friend's emotion, which she knew she could not
bear to be observed, considering it a proof of weak-
ness which she ought long since to have conquered.

The contents, however, soon irresistibly fixed her
attention. They were a necklace, bracelets, and
earrings, of diamonds, of very antique fashion, but
sparkling with the purest splendour. A locket, more
modern in form, but set round with similir gems, and
7 X

154 EMILY MO a ELAND.

containing two locks of hair; one of bright auburn,
the other, a glossy black. But that which rivetted
Emily's eyes and admiration, were the miniature re-
semblances of two females, in one of which she re-
cognised the beautiful dark eyes and features of the
Signora, at an early period of life ; but never had
even her fancy created such an image of perfect love-
liness as the other presented ! The eyes, of the
deepest blue, seemed to beam with light and life;
and the profusion of auburn ringlets, hanging in the
most graceful disorder o-ver a neck and shoulders of
the purest symmetry and hue, gave to the whole the
most bewitching air imaginable.

" What a lovely creature ! what eyes ! and how
beautiful the smile, that seems, while you look at it,
almost to part the coral lips!" she exclaimed, in in-
voluntary admiration — " Can it be possible that such
a being ever existed, except in the painter's fancy?"

" Laurentina Orsini was as far superior to that por-
trait of her, as animation and intelligence could make
her," returned the Signora, in a melancholy tone.
" It was, indeed, impossible to do justice to her
charms."

" She was a relative of yours, dear Signora," ob-
served Emily, in an inquiring tone ; " for, inde-
pendent of the name, I can trace a striking resem-
blance between these two," pointing to the portrait
of Rosalia herself.

"She was my eldest, my only sister," replied the
Signora.

Emily did not venture to ask another question —
for she was well aware that there were some mourn-

EMILY MORELAND. 155

ful circumstances connected with the history of Sig-
nora Orsini's family ; and, wishing not to revive the
recollections too powerfully in her friend's bosom,
she returned the miniatures to their case, without any
farther observation, and was about to close the casket,
when the Signora observed —

" There is another picture, which you have not
looked at, Emily ; but which I wish you to see, to
convince you that the vilest passions, that can debase
and deform humanity, may be veiled by the fairest
and most attractive features. Look at this," she
continued, unfolding an envelope of black crape,
which laid at the bottom of the casket, and had es-
caped Emily's observation.

Emily did look at the picture, which her friend
thus introduced, with surprise — for the features of
the young man which it portrayed were beautiful,
and the large dark eyes beamed with intelligence and
spirit.

" That man was — is, I may say, for in all proba^
bility he still burthens this earth with his crimes —
an execrable monster, insensible to the common feel-
ings of humanity — a mean, mercenary, cowardly vil-
lain!"

Emily felt more than surprise — she shuddered with
horror, as she gazed on the features, which she could
almost fancy assumed a dark malignant smile, as she
contemplated them. A moment after, they struck
her as strongly resembling some one whom she had
seen. She held the miniature in a different position,
and, after a moment's observation, exclaimed aloud —

*' Now I remember who it is ! It is Mr. Leslie,

156 EMILY AIORELAND.

t ) whom this bears such a striking resemblance — onlj
his forehead is higher, and his smile more open ; and
there is a more pensive expression in his countenance
than in this, which looks al vivacity."

"•' You are right," returned the Signora, " the like-
ness is most surprising; and will account to you for
the emotion I betrayed, when first I beheld that
young man. There were other points of resemblance,
indeed, equally striking. The tones of his voice, his
figure, his very walk, seemed formed on the same
model ! Yet it could only be accidental, and, let us
charitably think, that the resemblance extends no
farther than to the person. There is, I hope, but
one Molini in existence!"

" Yet you must acknowledge that the similarity
extends somewhat farther," replied Emily, "when
you recollect that Herbert Leslie stands already con-
victed of being deceptive and mercenary."

Rosalia seemed startled by the observation — " It
is, indeed, too true," she returned, with a sigh,
" that is, if we can credit Mrs. Wilson's tale ; but let
us dismiss this mournful subject, my dear girl, which
has led me farther than I intended, and quite from
that which introduced it. You are now convinced
that I possess sufficient resources to banish any im-
mediate fear of poverty, and to prevent my applica-
tion to Mr. Evelyn raising in his bosom any con-
temptuous feelings ; for, no doubt, he will be a bet-
ter judge of the value of these diamonds, than you
seem to be, from the slight notice you have bestowed
on them."

Emily -iniled at her friend's pretended reproof;

EMILY MORELAND. 157

but she almost immediately after sighed, as she ob-
served, that she could not be expected to be a very
accurate judge, since she had never possessed, or even
seen, a single article of the sort, except the chain
(which she constantly wore round her neck, because
it had been taken from her mother's, at the time of
her death,) and the miniature which was then sus-
pended to it, but which she did not wear, because she
could not contemplate it, without remembering too
keenly the errors of the original.

*' How are we to send this note, my dear child?"
observed the Signora, again recurring to her intended
application to the young Curate.

Emily was at a loss, but she recollected the grand-
daughter of the poor woman in whose cottage she
had met Mr. Evelyn, and who, she knew, would
gladly oblige her by taking the letter to his house.

" There is no fear, I hope, of your meeting young
Wilson on the road," observed the Signora, anxiously,
as Emily hastened to put on her bonnet and shawl.

Emily started — but she almost immediately recol-
lected that the widow's cottage lay in the opposite
direction to the road which led to the haunt of Wil-
liam and his associates ; and she replied by mentioning
this circumstance, adding, " Besides, there is very
little fear of his returning: so soon, for his excursions
are generally now extended to two or three days.
1 hope, however, that I shall get out without seeing
Mrs. Wilson, for T am absolutely afraid of again
encountering her violence."

'^ We will endeavour to ascertain whereabouts
she is," observed the Signora, cautiously openings

158 EMILY MORELAND.

the sitting-room door, and listening for the shrill ac-
cents of the old woman's tongue, which was seldom
silent. " You are safe, my dear girl, for she is up
stairs — I can distinctly hear her. I suppose uhe is
lecturing the poor sick man, and endeavouring to
ascertain how you have learned the secret with which
you so astounded her."

Emily uttered an expression of pity and regret for
her poor old friend, who was thus exposed to the
persecution of a fiend; and then, conscious she could
in no way, at the present moment, assist him, glided
out of the house, and flew down the path that led
into the valley, and in the direction of the widow's
cottage.

It was a gloomy afternoon, and now almost the
close of autumn; and, as she slackened her speed, to
gaze down upon the ruined cottage which had once
been her humble and happy home, she felt her heart
sink with a variety of melancholy forebodings. The
poor widow's habitation lay nearly half a mile be-
yond it, and Emily, as she continued slowly to ad-
vance, kept her tearful eyes fixed on the blackened
and roofless walls, close to which her path lay.

All was silence around her, except the moaning of
the blast, which every now and then swept away, in
showers, the dry and rustling leaves, which were
scattered in the now almost deserted path. She
paused when she reached the wicket, to give a look
at her ruined garden, now overrun with weeds ; and,
as she shivered with the increasing chilliness of the
cold wind, she recollected that just such an evening
as this, and just at this time of the year, she had lost

EMILY MORELANn. l5'3

her first friend — her grandfather; and from thence
could date the commencement of sorrow and misfor-
tune, which she had before known only by name.

How often, at this season of the year, had she as-
sisted him to clear away the leaves which were then,
as now, thickly strewed over the beds of flowers,
which he cultivated with such care I How often had
they been compelled to resign their pleasant seat in
the little summer-house, to retreat to the scarcely less
pleasing comforts of the warm fireside ! She raised
her eyes to look at the rude but tasteful retreat, which
alone survived the general wreck, and started, with
a feeling almost of terror, as she fancied that she be-
held, in its now darkened recess, the figure of some
one laying on the wooden bench which still remained
there.

"Yet why should I fear?" she reflected, the mo-
ment after, " for, if there is any person there, it is
not likely that it is any one who would harm me !
Probably, it is one of the lads belonging to some of
the neighbouring cottages, who has visited the
orchard for the sake of the fruit left on the trees
when they were gathered, and is fearful I shall blame
him ; or, tired with his labour, has gone to sleep, in
that cold and now comfortless spot. I will not disy
turb him, if it is so," she continued, as she turned to
leave the gate, which she had not unclosed; but, the
next moment, the intruder sprang on his feet, and,
before she could advance many paces, had seized her
arm, and, in an imperious tone, commanded her to
stop and listen to one whom she had driven to ruin
and destruction.

160 EMILY MORELAND.

It was William Wilson who now stood before her,
and Emily trembled less at the rudeness of his salu-
tation, than at the wild and desperate expression of
his countenance.

"What are you here for? and why do you talk so
madly, William?" she demanded, attempting- to con-
ceal her fears under an assumed calmness. " Your
mother is, as usual, fretting at your absence, and
believing" that you are with your old companions.
Do, pray, go home and convince her to the contrary,
and let me go on ; for I have no time to spare, neither
can it do any good, to allow you to repeat what I
have told you, many times, I can never listen or
assent to."

" I have no home ! Do not talk to me of home !"
he exclaimed. " I might, indeed, have had a happy
home, if you had not been so proud and cruel ! I
have been laying yonder, ever since the morning,"
he continued, pointing to the summer-house, " and
thinking how happy I might have been, if you had
consented to be my wife. Before this time I could
have had the cottage rebuilt, and every thing in
order, with the money that has been spent in mad and
foolish rioting; and now see what I am by this time!
A reward is offered for me as a murderer, and, when
you see me dragged to a shameful death, you may
say, ' This is all my work!' "

Emily stood aghast with terror. She gazed, unable
to speak, at his wild and haggard countenance, in
which she read, too plainly, that this was not a mere
picture, to terrify her. She looked at his hands, as
if she expected to see on them the blood of his victim ;

EMILY MOUELAND. 161

and then, as if suddenly remembering that she was
in his power, and recalling, too, the horrible threats
he had so lately uttered towards her, she made a
violent effort to free herself from his g^asp, and es-
cape.

It was, however, the weak and futile effort of a
trembling fawn, to escape the powerful grasp of the
lion, which has seized it for his prey ; and, uttering
a piteous supplication for mercy, she sank on her
knees before him.

"What are you afraid of, Emily?" he exclaimed,
raising her from the ground. " Do you believe me
such a cold-blooded villain, that I would take your
life? Yet 1 have done worse — for I have robbed
you of the money that ought to have secured you
from want, and which would have made us both happy
and comfortable, if you would have listened to me!
But it is now too late to think of what might have
been ! I must only think of what is to come ! I shall
never have you for my wife, riow, Emily, there's no
hope of that! I couldn't expect it now, even if 1
should be able to get out of the country, and save
my life, which is more than I expect ! Indeed, I
can't go, without money — and, even if mother has
got a, few pounds left, which I do believe she has,
for all her canting and swearing that she hasn't — I
don't know how to get hold of the old woman, for I
dare not come home, as they'll be sure to be after
nie there I I suppose they have been," he continued,
after a moment's silence, looking steadfastly in
Emily's face, " and you thought to have me fast,
when you advised WiC io txo there!''

?. Y

IC\2 EMILY MORELAND.

"Good Heavens! what do you niean, William?"
exclaimed the agitated girl, " I know nothing — have
heard nothing — nor do I believe that any intelligence
respecting you had reached your mother, when I left
the Farm. Do me justice, William — you know well
that I would willingly serve and assist you, if it were
in my power. But this horrid acknowledgment —
your appearance — and this melancholy place, alto-
gether, have almost deprived me of sense or reason!
Tell me what has happened, and what I can do to

serve you, and, if even the worst should be true— "

She shuddered and was silent, overcome by the horrid
thoughts that rushed into her mind.

" Come with me, then, into the summer house, and
I will try to recollect, and to tell you what you may
do," returned William, seizing again her reluctant
hand, which she had contrived to release from him.

" No, no, no — not there!" exclaimed Emily. "I
cannot go there — but I will stay here with you, and
hear all!"

" And so expose me to be seen from the top of the
hill, and be dragged to prison?" interrupted Wil
liam, in a reproachful tone. "No one would think
of searching for me in this direction, I dare say; but,
if you persist in keeping me here, some one who
knows me may pass, and then good-bye to every
thing!"

Emily hesitated for a moment — " I will trust you,
William," she at length replied, with firmness. "I
will believe that you will respect me, as the child ot
those whose kindness and regard you so often ex-
perienced in your boyish days; and vho regarded

EMILY MORELAND. 163

you as my friend and protector, when they should be
taken from me!"

"And so I would protect you, Emily — you know
1 would, with my life!" returned William, as he led
the way to the little summer-house; "and, but for
your own obstinacy and pride, I should now be in a
situation to do it. And, after all, why should you
think yourself above me ? I don't want to reflect
upon you, because there's none of us can help the
faults of our fathers and mothers — but, at any rate,
my birth would be thought as good as yours, if not
better, any day ; for, as mother often says, there's no
gentleman that would think you a match for him,
even if you had a fortune, much less "

" This was not the subject which I came here to
discuss, William," interrupted Emily, with calmness,
but her pale cheek crimsoning with shame and indig-
nation at this unfeeling allusion. " I understood
that you thought I could render you some service,

or I certainly should not have consented to — to "

She hesitated, fearful of exasperating him ; and
William, with bitter emphasis, rejoined —

" You would not have consented! — You must, you
shall consent to hear me ! It is the last time, I dare
say, that I shall trouble you, and I will have my own
way now, if I've never had it before!"

Too much alarmed at the increasing fierceness of
his manner, to persist in remonstrating with him,
Emily could only venture to remind him, that, if he
detained her too long, some one would probably
come in search of her, and that a discovery of his
situation must then inevitably ensue.

lb'4 EMILY MORELAND.

"Who would come, then, to look after you,^^ he
replied, "except, indeed, your * dear Signora?' And
I just wish she would come across me, in the humour
1 am in now — I'd tell her a little of my mind, I can
assure you ! I know well what I owe her — and, if I
didn't pay ofFsome of the old scores before we parted,
I wish I may "

" Don't, pray don't give way to such mistaken feel-
ings, William !" interrupted Emily ; " but try to col-
lect your thoughts, and tell me what has happened,
and what I can do to assist you."

Thus reminded of the actual circumstances in
which he stood, and which the vindictiveness of his
feelings had, for a time, banished from his recollec-
tion, William seemed for a moment to sink into des-
pondency.

" I must have a drop of comfort!" he at last ob-
served, smiling; but with so wild and desperate an
expression, that Emily felt more shocked than even
at the ferocious look which he had worn but a few
moments before. " I must have something," he re-
peated, " to raise my courage — So here goes ! — Emily,
to your hcaUh and happiness, whatever my fate may
!:e!"

Emily would fain have remonstrated against the
in.>r{iinate draught that he took from a bottle, which
he produced from a small recess in the summer-
house, and which had been constructed by her grand-
father, to hold occasionally a few books, her drawing
apparatus, &c. ; but she was too fearful of offending
him; and, after a short pause, as if to collect hiaself
for the narrative, he retired farther into the c ; er,

EMILY MORELAND. 1(>0

as if to conceal his countenance from her view, aiul
commenced his detail of the causes which had \ed
him to his present miserable situation.

CHAPTER VII.

Thou knovv'st me not! —
My days are nunibei'd, and my deeds recorded.

Byron.

" I TELL you what, Emily," he commenced, " we can
none of us help the faults of our parents, as I said
before; and the truth is, that my mother, though

s)ie is my mother, is no better than or, rather, I

ought to say, is not so good as she ought to be.
Father was always a foolish man in giving her so
much of her own way, as he did ; but, there was one
thing he would be master in,— and that was, in keep-
ing the money himself. The old woman is a great
deal too fond of money — that's the truth! And she
was always contriving ways and means to cheat him,
and add to her own savings, which were pretty con-
sid rai/lo.

" You have heard often enough of my being ship-
wrecked, and all that, but you didn't know that the
money that was then lost, I was carrying up to Lon-
don, to stow away, unknown to father. When it
was thought that I had gone to the bottom, with the
rest of the poor fellows, the secret somehow came
out ; and father lever properly forgave either of us.

J66 EMILY MORELAND.

Not that he cared about the money, as he said, but
it was the system of fraud and deceit, which we had
carried on so long — but this is neither here nor there,
only there's other things connected with it, so that 1
may say it was the beginning of all my sorrows.
Well, to go on with my story — mother always thinks
the money went to the bottom of the sea, though I
was saved ; but, the truth was, I had secured it about
me, so that not a copper was lost ! Before, however,
I had time to write and ease her heart, I found out
that one of the boat's crew that had picked me up,
and brought me safe into port, was an old schoolfel-
low and acquaintance, though some years older than
me. He was the son of a shopkeeper in our town
here, and had run away, through some scrape he got
into, before he was out of his 'prenticeship. You may
be sure, I was glad enough to see a face that I knew,
at such a distance from home. Besides, Tom Wil-
liams was a fellow that every body liked, though he
was always a 'nointed dog ; and, it seemed, he was
just the same as ever — cared for nothing, so he could
have his pleasure ! To make short of my story, Tom
carried me into company, that, before many hours
were over my head, had lightened me of a good part
of my (or, I should say, mother's) guineas. 1 was
terribly down, when I found what I'd done — but
Tom soon cheered me up, and put it in my head that
I'd a right to spend what was most likely intended to
be mine, some day or another. So I went on,
making the money fly, and wrote down home that
I'd saved nothing but my life. The old folks be-
lieved the tale, and father sent me ten pounds to

EM1I>Y MORELAND, 167

bj'iiiis^ me home ag'ain, and reward those who had
saved my life. I needn't tell you that all the old
woman's money was spent, before I got back to the
Farm; but that wasn't the worst! — Tom Williams
was tired of the life he led at Falmouth, and wanted
to come home, where he thought he needn't work
quite so hard. So he got me to tell a long story to
his father, about his bad health, .and his sorrow for
past tricks, and the devil knows what beside, — so
the old man sent for him, about a fortnight after I
came home.

" Tom went on pretty steady at first, though he
would draw me in sometimes, when I met him at
market, and then father's money often paid the
piper; and, what between that and mother's pilfer-
ings, the old man found that the Farm didn't bring
in nothing like the money it formerly did; how-
ever, this I will say, Emily, that you might have
weaned me altogether from such doings; but you
was above looking at me, latterly, and that often
drove me to town, when I wouldn't have gone!
Williams has got a sister, as great a devil as himself
— and they two used to encourage me to every
thing that was bad. Becky Williams is a good-
looking girl, though no way to compare with you ;
however, she made up for that, by persuading me
that she was very fond of me, and, though I

never thought of marrying her Well, I see you

don't waat to hear this; but, the fact is, I soon
ff^und that her liking to me was a dear bargain ; yet
1 was so proud of being thought a good-natured, gene-
rous fellow that I humoured all her extravagant

168 EMILY MORELAND.

whims, and 1 wasn't very nice how I got the money.
Mother had often hinted to me that father had a
good round sum under lock and key ; and I knew, if
she had her share, she would not be very scrupu-
lous; but we couldn't manage it no way, till he was
taken ill, and then we didn't stand on much cere-
mony about helping ourselves! I then found out,
too, why the old woman was so anxious about get-
ting me married to you ; for a good part of the mo-
ney in the strong box, it seemed, belonged to you.
And she thought, if once you were my wife, it would
settle that account ; and, if the old man died, she
could keep it all. But I was too deep for her; and,
though I swore that I wouldn't tell you what, it
appeared, was yet a secret to you — I also swore, that
not a shilling of yours should be touched !

" But what's the use of oaths and resolutions,
when a- fellow's hampered, as I was! Father got
better, and began to think of business again — I'd
pretty well sunk my share of the cash belonging to
him — and mother was determined not to refund hers.
So what to do, to hide the robbery, we didn't know;
till, at last, the old woman bethought herself of
opening the packet belonging to you, which was
sealed up, and taking a part out, to supply what we
had taken. I was very unwilling, at first, but she
over-persuaded me, and I managed to take out a
hundred pounds, and seal it up again, so that he
shouldn't suspect it had Loen opened.

" The old man, however, though he didn't find us
out, begaTi to talk to mother about acquainting your
grandmother with the little store he had in hand for

EMILY mokeland; \(i9

you, as he thought she wouldn't be so prcud as to
refuse it, now the poor old gentleman, Mr. More-
land, was gone ; and we were driven to our wit's
ends, to know what we should do ! The old man was
still weakly, and sometimes a little childish ; and
mother — who has got no more heart than a stone —
at last proposed that we should give out, that the
fever had taken away his senses, and so keep him
shut up all his life.

'"■ I was a little bit startled at this proposal, but 1
soon consented : and we have managed so well, that
not a soul, but our own stupid maid, Jenny, has
seen him besides ourselves, ever since!"

Emily could have contradicted this assertion, bu(
she remained silent, and he proceeded —

" I'd got my mother into my power now, and, you
may be sure, I didn't stand over nice about what ad-
vantages I took ! In short — it's no use to mince the
matter — all your money is gone, Emily ! She says,
I've had it all — and I can't disprove it — for I've been
so mad and desperate, that I took no account, as long
as she let me have what I wanted, at the minute.

*' I don't say anything as to what I did with it, for
that's no use — but, however, I've been pretty well
gulled and duped, I know that; though, I don't
know how it was, I was never properly deceived—^
for I knew that both Tom Williams and his sister
were mercenary and selfish; and now comes the
worst part of my story! — Stop, I must have another
drop of brandy, and then I'll finish it!"

Again he took a large draught from the bottle,
while Err. ily, pale, trembling, and horror-struck, sa^
8 z

170 EMILY MORELAND

devoid of motion, and almost of respiration, as he
proceeded to finish the revolting- tale.

" You know — though I don't suppose you do,
either — but it is pretty well known, that old Wil-
liams (Tom's father) was worth a good bit of money,
and that he knew how to keep it; for Tom, with all
his cunning" and manoeuvres, could never get a
shilling- out of him, beyond what he allowed him as
wages for taking the place of shopman, and Becky
was no better off.

" I couldn't conceal from them where my stores
came from, and, when it was all spent, it set them
upon wishing and contriving to ^ei at their father's
hoard, which they knew he kept in a bureau in his
own room, till he'd got sufficient to pop it in the
Bank ; when he always took it there himself.

" Tom would have contrived to pick the lock of
the bureau, but he knew the old man would directly
suspect him, and he would have been bundled out
again, without mercy, and perhaps not find sufficient
booty there to compensate him.

" Two days ago, however, I was at the old haunt,
when Tom told me that his sister had accidentally
overheard that his father had seventy or eighty
pounds in his bureau, and would, in a few days,
make it up a hundred, when he would deposit it with
his other savings. ' It would be a fine prize for us,
Bill, if we could finger it,' he observed. I said,
' Ves, — but how is it to be done?' — ' I'll tell you
what Beck and I have been planning,' he replied : —
' You know his room-window looks into the back
yard, and he relies so much upon the dog, whose

EMILV MORELAND. i71

kennel is close under the window, that he never
fastens it. Now, you know, Tiger is so used to
your nightly visits to Beck, that he would be no hin-
drance to your getting into the old man's room ; and
you can easily disguise yourself, so that he won't
know you. He's a terrible old coward, and won't re-
quire much to frighten him into giving up his rhino,
and I'll take care that he shan't give any alarm, till
you're safe off!'

" Well — I gave in to this pretty scheme, and
laughed, with the two dutiful children, at the
thoughts of the fright the old chap would be in, when
he saw a man in the room.

" Last night was appointed, — I got into Becky's
room first, pretty early, and she tied a piece of
crape over my face, and gave me a large bead to hold
in my mouth, to alter my voice. I then put on an
old sailor's jacket belonging to Tom, and, leaving
them to wait in their own rooms till all was over,
crept into the yard.

" Tiger, however, did not know me, and began to
bark most furiously, till I spoke to him in my own
voice, and he then came and licked my hand. I
waited a few minutes, to see if his noise had disturbed
the old man, — but all was quiet, — and I had got
upon the shed, and had opened the sash, before he
heard me.

" There was a rushlight burning in the chimney —
and, before I could set rny foot on the floor, the old
man was out of bed, and running, as I thought, to-
wards the chamber-door. I was after him as quick
as lightning ; but he had already caught up a pistd

172 EMILY MORELAND.

which lay on he bureau — ' Now, rascal, he cried
out, ' surrender as my prisoner, or I will shoot
you !'

" I had dropped the bead out of my mouth, and I
forgot that he would know my voice, when I an-
swered— ' If you will let me go, I will swear never
to molest you again!' — * Wilson ! — Bill!' he cried
out, as if struck with surprise. The pistol was low-
ered, and he seemed, for a second, to forget that he
held it. I saw my advantage, and, rushing on him,
wrenched it out of his hand. o'l/i^Mc,

" ' You are in my power, now,' said I, ' and, with-
out you swear on this Bible,' taking the one that
always laid by his bedside, ' that you will keep this
night's work a secret, 1 will take your life!' — ' I
will die sooner than protect such a villain from his
just punishment !' said he ; ' but you dare not fire !
Here is my boy coming to protect his father ! Tom,
Tom,' he cried out, * Tom, come and see what '

" I didn't give him time to finish his speech, for I
was mad — desperate ! I don't know what I was —
but this I do know — that the pistol was fired, — the
old man fell with a groan, — I heard the voices of the
two hypocrites at the door, — and I jumped out of
the window, and escaped !

" And now I've told you all, Emily," he continued,
after a long pause, during which the horror-struck
and terrified girl could utter no sound but convul-
sive and heart-rending sighs : " If the old man »s

dead," he continued, " I should think — I don't
know, but I should think I may escape suspicion ;
unless, indeed, which I've thought more than once,

EMILY MORELAND. 173

they have planned to give me up, to prevent any
suspicion of themselves."

Emily shuddered — " Can there be such monsters ?
— and a daughter too !" she exclaimed ; " but, surely,
they could not think — they could not know "

" They must have known that the old man had
loaded pistols in his reach," replied William, "and
they knew, too, that I was desperate, and half mad
with liquor ! What can I think, then, but the
worst ?"

" But why do you linger here ?" exclaimed Emily,
suddenly recollecting herself. " It will soon, per-
haps "

'* I want to learn whether the old man is dead,"
interrupted William, impatiently, " for if he is, and
there has been no inquiry made for me at the Farm,
all is safe, and I will come home to prevent suspi-
cion. Now, you can serve me, Emily, by letting me

know 1 have trusted my life in your hands, and

it won't do to shrink now ? Why do you clasp your
hands, in such despair ? A little while ago, you
were forward enough with your promises, but when
I point out what you can do "

" I will do any thing, every thing, only pray let
me go quickly, — for I dare not think — I dare not stop
here !" exclaimed Emily, wildly ; " and if it should
be known, too, that I have seen you ! "

The sound of voices, evidently coming nearer to
them, at this moment interrupted her.

William started up — " Dare to betray me," he
exclaimed, " and my blood be on your head !"

Emily could not speak — she sank back on the

174 EMILY MORELAND.

seat, and closed her eyes, as a faintness like death
came over her. The voices approached still nearer
but she looked not up, until the cheering and well-
known accents of Signora Orsini met her ear.

The recollection of William's threats against her
friend rushed instantly into her mind. She gazed
wildly round, expecting to meet the same ferocious
look with which he had before expressed his wish
that he might meet with her, whom he considered
his enemy — but she was alone — the wretched being,
whom she at once detested and compassionated, was
gone ! With a strength that only terror and agony
could inspire, she flew out of the summer-house,
and down the walk of the garden ; and, with an in-
coherent exclamation, seized the arm of her friend,
who had just reached the little gate, and began to
force her way towards their home, before she well
comprehended that the Signora was alone, or unpro-
tected. '-

" My dear child," exclaimed the Signora, in
alarm, " what is the matter with you ? Why have
you stayed here, and why "

" Come home, pray come home, and I will tell
you ! — No, no, I forgot, — I must — I dare not — pray
do not ask me ! Only come home, it is not safe to
stay here, indeed it is not !" exclaimed Emily, look-
ing anxiously round, and then, for the first time,
discovering that there was a gentleman with the
Signora, who seemed to be attentively watching her.

" Who is this ? What does he want, my dear Sig-
nora?" she added, in a suspicious whisper.

'' What in the world possesses you, my child ? '

EMILY MORELAND. 175

replied the Signora, something- has aUirmed yon.
And, though you say it is unsafe to remain here, yet
I found you lingering here, apparently in no hurry
to quit the spot. Recollect yourself, Emily, you
are perfectly safe. This is Mr. Evelyn, the gentle-
man that we were so anxious to see. A circumstance,
which will shock you to hear, though you are not
personally concerned in it, has brought him to Mr.
Wilson's, and-^ "

" I know it all ! Poor Isaac, it will be his death !"
interrupted Emily, scarcely conscious what she was
saying.

" You know it, Emily ! You have, then, seen '*

" Do not ask me whom I have seen !" exclaimed
Emily, still hurrying on towards their own home,
though her trembling limbs would scarcely support
her.

" Pray do not thus agitate yourself. Miss More-
land," observed Mr. Evelyn, gently drawing her
arm through his own, " but let us go home, and then
you will be able to explain."

" No, no, I can never explain," returned Emily.

Mr. Evelyn again entreated her to be silent, and
endeavour to collect her thoughts ; and the Signora,
taking her other arm, they walked towards the Farm.

Emily glanced in at the kitchen window as she
passed, and shuddered when she beheld the wretched
mother seated in a chair opposite. The light of the
candle, that stood on the table by her, fell full on her
pale and ghastly features, and showed the deep fur-
rows of her brow, contracted by ir tense and painful
thouffht. f

176 EMILY MORELAND.

She ought not to be left thus to herself!'* ex-
claimed the pitying Emily.

" She will not allow any one to speak to her, ' re-
plied the Signora, " and angrily rejected Mr. Eve-
lyn's attempt to console her."

The comparative security and comfort of their own
apartment, restored, in some measure, Emily's com-
posure, though she still trembled, and looked dread-
fully pale.

" And now. Miss Moreland, that we are safe from
interruption, let me entreat you not to suffer any
extorted promise, or mistaken motives of humanity,
to induce you to conceal what has passed," observed
Mr. Evelyn. " Your own safety, indeed, demands
that you should reveal it, if you have any know-
ledge of this wretched young man ; since the law
allows no feelings of that kind to excuse what is
considered as a participation of the crime ; and your
even concealing that you have seen him, would
subject you "

Emily's ghastly and fixed look induced him to
pause, and the Signora, taking her hand, in the most
soothing terms entreated her to say whether she had
seen William Wilson, or not.

" I expect, every instant, that the officers of jus-
tice will arrive, to search for the unhappy and guilty
young man," observed Mr. Evelyn. " You will
then, probably, be obliged to answer their ques-
tions ; and, should you attempt to prevaricate, or
elude their inquiries, I tremble at what you may be

exposed to ! I know not, indeed It would, I

fear, be compromising with my own duty, to conceu^

EMILY MORELAND. 177

what 1 have reason to believe, — that you know the
retreat ofthe murderer."

" No, no, I do not !" exclaimed Emily. " I saw
him, it is true — but he fled at your approach, and is,
T hope, far from that spot by this time."

Mr. Evelyn shook his head. " You have suffered
your gentle and compassionate nature to be imposed

on," he observed. " I fear, too yet no, it cannot

be possible that you feel any nearer interest in "

He paused, and Emily's cheek reddened at the
insinuation which it was evident he meant to convey.

*' I can answer for Miss Moreland, Sir, on that
point," replied Signora Orsini. " She is certainly
interested in the fate of this unhappy young- man.
She has been accustomed to consider him as her bro-
ther, and his father has ever been her most zealous
and active friend ; you cannot, therefore, be sur-
prised, that, though she detests and abhors his
crimes, she is anxious, at least, not to become an
accessary to his destruction."

" Is the poor man — is Mr. Williams indeed dead?"
inquired Emily, with earnestness.

Mr. Evelyn replied in the negative. He had vi-
sited him, it appeared, in the exercise of his holy
function, and had been present when he recovered his
speech sufficiently to reveal that it was to William
Wilson, his son's chosen companion and friend, that
he owed his death-wound.

" I hope I do not judge harshly," continued Mr.

Evelyn, " but I really thought, in spite of the

affected surprise and horror which the son and

daughter of Williams expressed, that they were no!

8. 2 a

178

EMILY MORELAND

unacquainted with the person who had assailed their
father; and the old man's coolness towards both of
them, seemed to say that he was not deceived. This,
however, at present rests with themselves ; but, if
this youngs man should be taken "

The noise of contending voices interrupted this
remark, and Emily heard, with increasing terror,
that the officers of justice were come.

Again she was exhorted by Mr. Evelyn to be
frank and candid, in replying to the questions that
would be asked ; but the silent look of agony which
the Signora cast on her, as she pressed the cold hand
she held to her heart, acted much more powerfully
on her feelings than the Curate's remonstrances, and
she exclaimed, in a hurried tone

" Well, let them come — 1 will tell them where 1
saw him, and that is all they can have a right to
expect !"

In a very few minutes the house was filled with
people ; some of them, friends of the injured Mr.
Williams ; and others, those who had known and
respected Isaac Wilson, and were now lamenting the
shame and sorrow that had fallen upon his grey hairs.

A formal search was commenced through the
house for the delinquent, though it seemed a pretty
general opinion, that home was the last place tha<
William Wilson was likely to visit, or be found at.

Pale and silent, Emily sat in a corner of their own
apartment, the Signora screening her as much as
possible from observation ; and Mr. Evelyn standing
up before her, apparently from the same motive ;
until, on the entrance of a young man, whose agi-

EMILY MORELAND. ] 79

tated and perturbed countenance betrayed his deep
interest in the affair in hand, the former beckoned
to him, and, addressing him by the name of Wil-
^ams, said,

" It is useless to waste your time here, for I un-
derstand, from this young lady, that, an hour or two
ago, she saw and spoke with the person you seek."

'' Did he say What could he say ?" exclaimed

Williams, in an agitated tone, and approaching
close to Emily, who shrank with horror from him.

" Where was it you saw him, Miss ?" demanded
another man, pushing forward, and thus relieving
her from the necessity of replying to one whose very
look seemed to wither 1 er heart-strings.

In a low and trembling voice, Emily explained
how she had chanced to see him : and, in a few se-
conds, the whole party were on the way to the
ruined cottage, though they acknowledged there
was little hope, from the darkness and gloominess ot
the night, that they should discover him, even if he
remained in the neighbourhood of that secludea
spot.

For more than an hour, Emily sat in the most
pitiable state of alarm and expectation, listening to
every sound that was borne on the evening breeze :
— now fancying that she could hear the triumphant
shouts of the successful pursuers of the wretched
William, and then imagining she heard his voice
reiterating, in sullen whispers, the denunciation
with which he had left her. " If you betray me,
my blood be upon your head !" It was in vain that
the Signora tried to \v thdraw her thought* ^om

180 EMU.Y MORELAND.

thij one point ; she had no thoughts, no ears, for any
one else ; and Rosalia herself, suffering more than
she could express, or Emily suspect, at length sank
also into silence, which was only interrupted, from
time to time, by the deep sobs or loud exclamations
of the wretched mother, to whom Mr. Evelyn was
aaain endeavouring: to administer consolation and
support. ' ' • ■ •

They were still in this situation, Emily sitting
with her hand locked in that of her friend, when the
sound of a strange foot, in the passage which led from
their apartments to the other part of the house,
made them both recoil with horror ; and, before
either could speak, poor old Isaac Wilson, looking
like the ghost of his former self, tottered into the
room.

Relieved from the dreadful apprehensions which
had seized her, Emily started from her seat, and,
laying her hand on the poor old man's, exclaimed —
" My dear old friend, what has brought you here ?
Did you know we were here ? But sit down — I am
so, I was going to say, overjoyed to see you ;
but "

She gazed earnestly in his still placid and con-
tented face, and instantly read, in its serene expres-
sion, that he was yet ignorant of the blow that had
fallen on him, and thought only of the pleasure of
seeing her, and being restored, even for a moment,
to liberty. Emily burst into tears, as she made this
discovery, and the old man, in a low voice, inquired
why she cried.

" Whit has been the matter in the house, uiy dear

<1

F.MILY MORELAND. 181

child ?" he said, " and who was it that unlocked my
door, and left it open, without speaking a word ? I
was all in the dark, and could not see them ; and 1
am so weak, and have forgotten my way about the
house, so that I've been a long time getting here.
There is somebody talking to the old woman in the
kitchen, but I did not go in, for I thought some one
was here, because I could see the candle shine
against the laurel bushes, and I guessed it was either
Madam Orsini, or my dear child."

Emily looked at the Signora; she knew not how
to evade the old man's questions, and she trembled,
too, at the recollection, that if the throng, who were
gone in pursuit of his son, returned there, the whole
truth must burst at once upon him, and perhaps en-
tirely upset the feeble intellects which cruelty and
neglect, even more than sickness, had weakened.

She had no doubt that some one of his former
friends, actuated by either curiosity or suspicion,
had taken advantage of the confusion to hasten to
the old man's room, but had been prevented from
entering, by the sudden rush out of the house in pur-
suit of the criminal, which they had immediately
joined ; but she knew not how to account to him for
these strange occurrences, without betraying the
truth; and the Signora seemed equally averse to
hazard the effect of such melancholy intelligence.
At this embarrassing moment, Mr. Evelyn re-en-
tered the room.

Isaac's attention was now entirely fixed by the
stranger, and while in a whisper he inquired of Emily
who he was, Signora Orsini contrived to explain to

182 EMILY MORELAND.

the young cltvrgyman, that the poor, infirm, and
emaciated creature he beheld, was the once active
and happy Farmer Wilson, and that he was still
ignorant of the dreadful situation in which his son's
crimes and extravagance had placed him.

Mr. Evelyn addressed him with kindness ; and
Isaac, whose respect for the church and its ministers
had ever been a prominent trait in his disposition,
rising from his seat, attempted to make his best bow,
as he replied, " I am very happy, indeed, to see you
at the Farm, Sir, though I cannot make you so wel-
come as I used to make Mr. Watson, your predeces-
sor, who often favoured us with a call, to taste our
ale, and new bread and cheese. But, since I've heen
ill," continued Isaac, with a deep sigh, " every thing's
strangely altered, and I hardly should know my own
place again, I dare say, if I should get about in it,
though I suppose that won't be allowed."

" Why should it not be allowed, or what can pre-
vent it, Mr. Wilson, if you feel yourself competent
to the task ?"

The poor old man sighed again — " I don't know,
but I am sure I should be better, if they would let
me try to do a little, and not lock me up."

" They shall not do it — no one shall oppress or in-
jure you — I will take care," interrupted Mr. Eve-
lyn, with generous warmth.

" Ah, but my son — he is so violent and head-
strong," rejoined Isaac, with a melancholy shake of
the head ; " and, to tell you the truth," he conti-
nued, " I would almost as soon be shut up for ever,
as be bullied and frightened by him, — though he shall

EMILY MORELAND. IS3

never frighten nor persuade me out of what's right ;
— and, by-the-bye, that brings to my mind some-
thing I want to talk to you, Sir, about — now I've
got an opportunity. Emily, my dear, will you leave
me and Madam," meaning the Signora, whom he
always called by that title, " together for a little
while, and try and keep the old Dame from coming
to interrupt us ?"

*' I will take care she shall not do that, by locking
this door," observed Mr. Evelyn ; " but it will be
preferable, perhaps, for Miss Moreland to go into
the garden, if she feels strong enough, than to visit
Mrs. Wilson, who had better be left to her own
thoughts."

Emily gladly assented to this, for from the mount
at the bottom of the garden she could see a long way
down the path into the valley, if the night was clear.
She guessed what was the subject which poor Isaac
wished to discuss in her absence, and felt it an addi-
tional proof of the natural kindness and delicacy of
his feelings, that he refrained from alluding to the
sad story of her birth, in her presence. " Poor old
man!" she mentally exclaimed, " he little suspects
how useless is the precaution he is taking !"

Again her distracted thoughts wandered to the
wretched culprit, who was perhaps, even at that
moment, heaping imprecations on her head, for hav-
ing betrayed the place of his retreat ; and, with
clasped hands and aching heart, she stood upon the
mount, straining in vain her eyes through the dark-
ness, to discover whether there were any unusual
lights or movements in the valley beneath her.

She was still standing, lost in sispense and dis-

fi84 EMILY MORELAND.

quietude, when she thoight she heard a rustling
sound along the wall over which she leaned ; and,
with increased palpitation, she listened and gazed,
till she became certain that she could discover some
one stealing along under the wall, as if anxious to get
round unobserved to the back door, which led to the
kitchen. She could not hesitate a moment to be-
lieve, that it was the guilty and wretched William
she beheld ; and the recollection that he said he was
without money, and could not leave the place,
darted into her mind.

She forgot, at that moment, all his crimes — she
saw in him only the poor hunted wretch, whose
steps were tracked by his pursuers, to revenge them
in his blood ; and, without giving herself a moment's
time for reflection, she flew through the garden to
the kitchen door.

The miserable mother was seated by the low and
glimmering fire, — the only light she would aftbrd
herself, when she was not at work, — and her apron,
thrown over her head, concealed her features, and
rendered her unconscious of Emily's approach, till
the latter stood beside her.

" You must go instantly to the back of the garden
wall," whispered Emily, in accents so tremulous,
that the old woman, throwing the covering from her
head, stared at her without apparently comprehend-
ing her.

Emily's terrified look and significant gesture re-
vealed wliat her words failed to do, and Dame Wil-
son, seizing her arm, exclaimed *' He is here ! or

perhaps you know that he is taken !"

" No, no — follow me," replied Emily; " and, if

EMILY MORELANIi* 185

you value his life, do not detain him one moment
longer than is necessary !

The way through the fold-yard, and the outside of
the wall, was nearly thrice the distance that Emily
had come across the garden ; and, when the latter
reached the outside of the gate, she could plainly
discover the wretched culprit, still cautiously creep-
ing along under the shadow of the wall; and point-
ing with her hand, to direct the mother to the same
object, she ran back again into the house, and reach-
ing her own bed-room by the back flight of stairs,
threw kerself, in breathless agony, upon her knees.

A latent fear that she was doing wrong, in thus
endeavouring to facilitate the escape of the guilty
William, the personal terror she had suffered, and
the horror which the narrative of the criminal had
excited, combined with the preceding agitation she
had suffered, had completely exhausted her strength,
and she remained, with her head resting against the
foot of the bed, unable to move, or scarcely even to
think, for nearly an hour, until she was roused by
Rosalia, who, having sought her in vain in the gar-
den, had in considerable alarm come there to look
for her. .-! loy't'i

" My dear girl," she exclaimed, " why have you-
remained so long in the dark and cold ? Mr. Evelyn
has been so alarmed, that he has gone off to seek for
you, imagining that you have been induced " '-.■■

Emily interrupted her, by faintly asking which
way he had taken, unconscious of the time that had
elapsed since she had seen William, and only appre-
hensive that he might discover him.

8. 2 b

IS6 EMILY MOIIDLAND.

;,. The Signora looked at her with surprise — "Of
what consequence can it be, my dear child, which
way he is gone, since you are here safe? But,
come, let us go down, for I have left poor old Wil-
son alone; and, though I have secured him from in-
terruption by locking the door, he is frightened, 1
can see, to be left alone."

. Emily tried to rise and obey her, but her limbs
trembled so violently, that she could not stand,
while a cold shivering fit evinced that the malady
extended farther than to her mind.

Alarmed at her appearance, her friend now hur-
ried her into bed, and left her, to pi'epare some whey,
in order to compose her to sleep.

Emily's whole thoughts were now occupied with
the fear that Evelyn, whose officious interference
she could scarcely feel grateful for, would discover
that William was in the neighbourhood, and that she
had seen him again ; but those fears were removed,
when the Signora shortly after informed her, not
only that the former was returned, but that the
party, who had gone in search of the criminal, had
given up the pursuit until the morning, convinced,
from his perfect knowledge of the neighbourhood,
that it was useless to seek him in the darkness of
the night.

Relieved thus from her most pressing apprehen-
sions, Emily endeavoured to comply with her friend's
earnest entreaties to compose herself to sleep ; but
it was in vain that she courted the aid of that sweet
oblivious antidote to care and anxiety. Images of
horror and dread hovered around her, and distracied

EMILY MORELAND. 187

her, whenever she closed her eyes ; and, when the
Signora stole softly into the room, to see what effect
her prescription had taken, she found her with eyes
glistening, and cheeks glowing with fever.

CHAPTER VIII.

My early friend ! oh ! thou alone

Shalt listesi to its farewell tone !
Oh ! thou canst tell what tremors start —
How bounds — how reels — how sinks the hearty
When friends long join'd are doom'd to part,

Their meeting all unknown. Howixi.

Several days passed before Emily recovered suffi-
ciently to leave her room, and, during that time, the
most incessant search was kept up to discover the re-
treat of William Wilson. This, however, Signora
Orsini concealed from the former, contenting her-
self with assuring her that no traces had been, or
appeared likely to be discovered of the unfortu
nate and guilty young man, who, she hoped, wouIa
live sincerely to repent, and endeavour to atone for
the crime he had committed. Emily learned, too,
with great satisfaction, that old Williams, the man
whom he had wounded, was still living, and that
there were some hopes of his recovery ; and though
that circumstance would not have altered the crime
of his assailant, if he had been taken, it would at
least relieve his conscience from the dreadful idea of

188 EMILY MORELAND

having taken the life of a fellow-creature, and sent
him to the great tribunal, with all his sins upon his
head, " un'nointed, unannealed."

The heavy blow which had fallen upon Mrs. Wil-
son, rendered the exposure of her conduct towards
her husband, and his consequent release from her
tyranny, a matter of comparatively little import to
her ; and, indeed, the benevolent Evelyn, who took
upon himself the task of informing her that Isaac
was no longer in confinement, nor should again be
subjected to the restraint which his enfeebled state
had given the opportunity of imposing, in pity to
her already miserable feelings and degradation,
avoided, as much as possible, censuring her conduct,
6nly giving her decidedly to understand, that he
should himself personally take care that her husband
should be properly treated for the future.

Emily, therefore, had the satisfaction of seeing her
old and trusty friend, the honest Farmer, once more
restored to his old station at the kitchen fire-side,
and able to give directions for the management of
his affairs, though it appeared doul)tful whether his
bodily strength would ever be sufficiently renovated,
to allow him to resume his former activity.

The crest-fallen and wretched mistress of the Farm
shrank from encountering the eyes even of her own
servants, who all rejoiced in the change of autho-
rity, and for several days confined herself to her own
room, under pretence of indisposition ; but her habits
of active industry and domestic vigilance soon ren -
fjered this seclusion unbearable to her, and she re-
lumed to take her former share in the administration

EMILY MOnELAND. 189

of affairs, on the very same day that Emily quitted
her sick chamber ; Isaac, with his usual good-na-
ture and love of peace, consenting- to this arrange-
ment, without even uttering a single reproach to
her.

The intelligence of his son's bad conduct, and its
consequences, though it grieved and affected him,
when it was cautiously and gradually revealed to
him by Mr. Evelyn, served to create very little sur-
prise in his mind. " He had long been prepared for
the worst," he said, ".for he knew that the course of
life William had long led, and the total want of
principle he had displayed, in his conduct towards
himself, must terminate in bringing him to shame
and disgrace.

Emily, however, with whom he conversed (when
he visited her in the Signora's sitting-room, as soon
as she was able to receive him,) more unreservedly
than he had done with any one else, could easily
discover, that, though he endeavoured to appear
resigned and tranquil, he was in reality deeply
anxious and uneasy respecting the fate of his un-
happy son.

" He was once a good and a dutiful child," he ob-
served, " and, but for bad counsels and bad com-
pany, might still have remained so ; but, even as he
is, when I think of him, wandering without a friend,
Of, perhaps, even money to keep him from starving,
my heart is almost broken ; and yet it would be harder
s'.ill should he be taken, and "

Emily gently interrupted the course his thoughts
livere taking, and tried to infuse a hope, which she

190 EMTLY MORELAND.

could scarcely herself indulge, that the guilty object
of his paternal anxiety, roused by the dreadful situa-
tion in which his crimes had placed him, might yet
gain some secure asylum, and, by future good con-
duct, endeavour to redeem his past errors.

*' You are very good to excuse him, my dear, you,
whom he has tried to ruin, I may say ; for, if I had
died before all this came to light, you would have
lost, it seems, every farthing of the money your fa-
ther trusted in my care ; and, indeed, now it will be
some time before I shall be able to make it good to
you ; for, though the old woman has managed the
Farm well enough, since she has had it in her own
hands, yet he has contrived to draw so much, partly
with her leave, and partly without, that it will be a
long time before I can set matters straight again.
However, you may depend upon it, my dear, I will
do what is right by you I" :

Emily had in vain attempted to interrupt this
explanation ; poor old Isaac was determined to go
on in his own way, nor would he suffer her to reply,
when he found that her object was to assure him
that she should never trouble him for the money,
bul should ever feel in his debt, for the kindness she
had received from him

" The money is your^", child, and should be ho-
nestly paid, if you were worth ever so much," he
replied ; " but, when I know that you have nothing-
else in the world to depend on, it makes me the more
anxious to do it as quickly as possible. However,
you've a kind friend in Madam Orsini, and I know
she won't let you feel the want of it 1"

EMILY MOREI.AND. 191

Emily sighed — for the observation reminded her ot
the Signora's present embarrassment and uneaoiness,
which had almost escaped her memory, amid the
more pressing troubles which had occupied her
thoughts.

She could not doubt, indeed, from the perfect un-
derstanding which evidently existed between her
friend and Mr. Evelyn, that all present fears and
embarrassments were removed ; but, independent of
the knowledge that this was but a temporary relief,
her former scruples and demurs, as regarded the
young Curate, were rather strengthened than de-
creased ; and she beheld, with a dissatisfaction she
could neither conquer, or justify to her own feel-
ings, the hourly-increasing intimacy between him
and her friend Rosalia.

*' What an amiable young man he is !" said the
latter, when, on the second evening of Emily's con-
valescence, he bade them adieu, after spending se-
veral hours with them — " How just and noble are all
his sentiments ! how kind and benevolent his dispo-
sition !" she continued, looking at Emily, as if ex-
pecting her to concur in these praises.

Emily could not deny the merits of the young
Curate, but she assented so languidly to the Sig-
nora's warm commendations, that the latter instantly
observed it. " You do not seem to think so highly
of Mr, Evelyn as I do, my dear girl," she re-
marked ; " yet, if I mistake not, he entertains to-
wards you feelings which demand, at least, your gra-
titude in return."

'* I shall never, I hope, be eithei unjust or ungrale-

W2 EMILY MORELAND.

ful," replied Emily, colourings " but, I confess, I
have been somewhat tired, this evenings, of Mr.
Evelyn's attentions. I will tell you candidly, dear
Signora, that I do not wish to encourage them ; and,
besides, he seems to me to be too familiar — too con-
fident— too much at home, considering I have only
known him, as I may say, for a few hours."

" But you must remember, too, dear Emily, that
he has been my almost constant companion since you
have been confined, and that I have been under the
necessity of confiding to him circumstances which
have given him a right to consider himself on the
footing of a friend," returned Rosalia ; " and as to not
wishing to encourage the attentions which he shews
to you, what reasonable objection could you possibly
oppose, my dear girl, to such an unobjectionable —
such an advantageous offer, if he should make it ?"

" I am sure, I earnestly hope he never will put
me to the trouble of finding reasons," returned
Emily ; " but of this I feel convinced, that, if ever
I do marry, which, with my present feelings and
prospects, does not appear very probable, it will not
be to Mr. Evelyn." o

The Signora remained silent a few moments, as if
reflecting on what she had htard. " This is really
unaccountable, Emily," she at length observed;
" but I will not attempt to argue you out of such
an unreasonable prejudice This, however, I will
say, and seriously — that, from all I have seen of Mr.
Evelyn, I consider that you would be acting madly
and blindly, were you to refuse him, if he honours
YOU with the offer of his hand."

EMILY MORELANn. 193

Emily was both surprised and hurt, at the warmth
with which her friend spoke on this subject ; but she
refrained from replying, Avisely considering that so
many circumstances might arise to prevent such an
offer being made, (even allowing that Mr. Evelyn's
attentions warranted her in believing that he enter-
tained any serious intentions towards her,) that it
would be folly to hazard offending her best friend,
by opposing her. The subject was, therefore,
dropped ; but Emily felt, with extreme sorrow and
vexation, that, in proportion as Mr. Evelyn in-
creased in her friend's estimation, (which it might
be said he did, every hour that he passed with her,)
the latter seemed the more inclined to press upon
her consideration the advantages and happiness
which must inevitably result from an union with
him.

Emily, indeed, could not deny that the offer, to
a girl in her circumstances, was most unexception-
able. Mr. Evelyn was young, handsome, well edu-
cated, and well principled ; his connexions were
most respectable ; his situation in life fully adequate
to any expectations she could or ought to form ; and
yet Emily could not love him. He was, she thouglit,

too precise, too solemn, too- in short, he was

not Herbert Leslie — and tlia/, was, after all, the
grand secret. Indifferent as she appeared, and as
she believed herself to be, to Leslie, he formed the
standard in her imagination of what she could love,
and Evelyn fell far, very far, short of that.

The inquiries Avhieh Mr. Evelyn had, through
some of his connexions in London, set on foot, res-
9 2c

194

EMILY MORELANDc

pecting the house through whose agency Signora
Orsini received her remittances from Italy, proved
most unfavourable and discouraging. The princi-
pal partner was said to be absent on business, and
the other disclaimed all knowledge of Signora Or-
sini's demands.

" I would advise your friend, therefore," wrote
Evelyn's correspondent, " to lose no time in coming
up to town, and applying personally. If she does
not, I am afraid she will be put off, until there will
be a final blow to the house of Zachelli and Co.,
and she will then have to take her share with other
creditors, and, eventually, get next to nothing."

" What would you recommend me to do, my
kind friend ?" demanded Rosalia, after reading this
advice.

Evelyn, to whom this question was addressed,
replied, that, in his opinion, only one course could
be adopted — to comply with his friend's suggestion,
and set out at once for London.

The Signora looked at Emily with an air of per-
plexity, which Evelyn seemed immediately to com-
prehend.

" Miss Moreland will, undoubtedly, be perfectly
safe here," he observed ; " but, should you be de-
tained long, this place will appear very dull to her.
Fortunately, I expect my mother and sister to arrive
to-morrow, or the next day, on a visit of a few
weeks, to the Bachelor's cottage. This will, I hope,
obviate any objection that might exist to our young
friend's removing thither, for the term of your ab-
sence. 1 have just room to accommodate her com*

EMILY MORELAND. 193

fortably ; and my mother and Edith will, I kr ow,
he delighted at such an acquisition. They were
already prepared," he continued, in a softened and
somewhat confused tone, " to do justice, if, indeed,
that is possible — to Miss Moreland's merits, and — "

" What say you, Emily, to this truly kind and
friendly proposal ?" interrupted the Signora, who
saw, in the clouded brow of the latter, sufficient in-
dication of the impatience and dislike with which
she listened to this indirect avowal of Evelyn's
hopes and wishes, to fear that she would too hastily
reject the offer he had made. " Do you not think
that it would be infinitely preferable that you should
pass the interval of my absence, (as I must, it seems,
go,) at the Parsonage House, than remain alone, in
this solitary place?"

Emily blushed and hesitated. She knew not how
to avow her decided dissent from the suggested
plan, without openly offending both her friends ;
yet, to accept it, she thought, would be to give a
decided encouragement to hopes, which she felt it
impossible she could ever realise.

Of the motives of Mrs. and Miss Evelyn's intended
visit, which she recollected he had, but a few weeks
before, mentioned as not likely to take place till the
following spring, she could not entertain a doubt.
Evelyn, indeed, had almost in plain terms declared,
that he had bound himself never to take a wife, who
had not received his mother's previous approbation.
He had openly insinuated, that this promise alone
prevented his formally requesting the Signora's per-
mission tc address her young charge ; and the latter

190 EMILY MORELANIJ.

had pointed it out to the passive, but not approving
Emily, as a further and most convincing proot of
the strict integrity and rectitude of his principles.

Under the influence of this recollection, therefore,
Emily determined, however painful to differ so di-
rectly from her truly maternal friend, that she would
remain at the Farm, and not be introduced to Eve-
lyn's mother and sister, as one whom he was secure
of having, whenever he found it convenient or pro-
per to take her.

The Signora looked more angry than she wished
to avow herself, when Emily, in a gentle but firm
tone, declared, she preferred remaining at the Farm,
under the protection of her friend Isaac ; and poor
Evelyn's countenance sufficiently betrayed his mor-
tification, though she softened, as much as possible,
her refusal, by pleading her scarcely re-established
health, her want of spirits, and her habits of seclu-
sion, which rendered her timid and awkward in the
society of strangers, as the motives of her refusal.

" It is that very timidity and inexperience, which
will form your chief recommendation, in the eyes of
my mother," observed Evelyn, with warmth. " She
has a perfect horror of modern line ladies, I assure
you ; and even thinks her own Edith, though she is
both gentle and modest, somewhat too bold and con-
fident, because she sometimes suff'ers her vivacity
and natural spirits to carry her beyond the bounds
of that reserve which the good lady's very old-
fashioned education considers necessary and be-
c ming.

" Vou are doing yoiu' best now, I think, Mr. Eve-

EMILY MORELAND. 197

iyn, to frighten me at the thoughts of meeting youf
mother," observed Emily, laughing ; "for you must
not think 1 am always the quiet and harmless little
girl I appear to you now. On the contrary, I can as-
sure you, that my natural disposition is rather wicked,
and I am somewhat given to mischief, as the Sig-
nora will, I am sure, testify ; and though sufficiently
conscious of my own awkwardness and want of po-
lish, to be shy of encountering strangers of superior
breeding, I am afraid I should want but little en-
couragement, to let them see that it is only confi-
dence I want, to be as saucy and mischievous as any
fine lady of them all."

'" You can never betray any qualities, that will
render you otherwise than charming," returned
Evelyn, with a look which fully seconded his words ;
" and I should be surprised and wounded, indeed, if
my mother, with whose opinions and feelings I never
yet, in a single instance, varied, should in this instance
differ from me."

" You must, at least, allow me to retain the possi-
bility of gaining her good opinion, by keeping at a
prudent distance," replied Emily, with more gravity.
" I shall, indeed, feel honoured by the approval of
one so rigid in her opinions of female duties as Mrs.
Evelyn ; but, beyond that approbation, I can enter-
tain no views. In the circumstances and situation in
which I am placed, I know not how soon I may be —
that is, I can have no decided views for the future.
The friendship of such a lady as Mrs. Evelyn is cer-
tainly most desirable; but-^you are aware, of course,
Mr. Evelyn, that I am, at the pro ent moment, totally

IQQ EMILY MOBELAND.

dependant oil Signora Orsini; and should any cir-
cumstances arise, to induce her io vvithdraw her pro-
t.QQtipnj or even to repent that she had so far afforded

" Pardon me, Emily — Miss Moreland, I should
h^ye s,iid," interrupted Evelyn, with considerable
agitation, " I cannot but see that you are cool — that
you are vexed at the proposition I have made ; but
\j^hich, I am satisfied, was accordant with the wishes
o^your — I may say, our friend. I will not affect to
deny, that my peace of mind, my whole happiness,
d^p,ends on you, and on niy mother's opinion of you.
I will not pretend to say, that 1 could have courage
i|Q>^t ifl opposition to her wishes ; but, on that head,
I have not the slightest fear. I cannot, for one in-
s,taiit, doubt that the sight of you — a few hours' ac-
quaintance only, with your mind and disposition,
would dispel every lurking prejudice — would, iq
sh,ort, convince her that I had discovered a treasure !
Why do you look so impatient, dearest Emily ?
Siuffer me to call you by that sweet na,me, which is
ever on my lips, as its possessor is ever present to my
he^rt."

" I cannot, indeed I cannot, Mr. Evelyn, listen to
this language," exclaimed Emily. " Do not think
n\e ungrateful, or unjust to your merit, when I say
that 1 can never consent to be introduced to your
mother, in the light in which, \t is plain, you have
represented me. I have no wish — no intention, at
present, but to remain as I am. Indeed, there are
many many reasons why I should resolve never to
indul^^e 1 am very, — you know I am, Mr. Evelyn,

KMILY MORELANT). llX)

very unforlunately situated; but, so long as the Sig-
nora continues to regard me with kindness, I cannot
be unhappy or discontented. You have, I will can*
didly tell you, for I wish to act with perfect sincerity
— you have, by attentions which I never can, which
I never did, encoui'age, given rise to the first feel-
ings of disunion that ever occurred between ray
friend and me. It will be kind, it will be generous,
and it will add, if possible, to the respect I feel for
you, if you will, by voluntarily withdrawing those
attentions, heal the breach, which must else, I fear,
je inevitably widened beyond the possibility of a
cure. One cannot control the heart, Mr. Evelyn ;
and I feel that, sooner than act contrary to the im-
pulse of mine, I should submit to even the loss of
that affection which now fbrrtis my only happiness
and blessing."

"Cruel girl!" exclaimed Evelyn, "what do you
require of me ? And with what mortifying energy
do you endeavour to enforce your assurance, that you
hate me!"

" Hate you ! No, I never said — I never thought 1
hated you, Mr. Evelyn ; on the contrary, as a friend,
as a brother, I can esteem and value you. I honour,
I admire your character — I should be most unjust
and ungrateful, indeed, if I did not ; — but the senti-
ments I feel for you are not such as "

" Such as you have felt, undoubtedly, for some
more fortunate and favoured individual than myself,
Miss Moreland," rejoined Evelyn, in a tone of re-
sentment. " Yet, I know not how it is, either you
must have strangely deceived Signora Orsini, or she

200 EMILY MOUELANI).

has deceived me; for she assured me, your allecUotis
were totally disengaged. I thought, indeed, that vou
were so unconnected, that "

** It is quite useless to prolong this conversation,
Sir," interrupted Emily, who felt that she had a right
to be offended at the tone he had assumed. " I know
not," she continued, " that I am bound to give any
explanation of the motives which have prompted my
wish to decline your particular attentions; but, to
prevent any unpleasant discussion with Signora Or-
sini, I will assure you, that she was perfectly correct
in asserting that my affections are disengaged. They
are so — but it is not in my power to bestow them on
you."

Mr. Evelyn's looks brightened a little. " I may,
then, I feel I may, Emily, yet indulge a hope, that
ray respectful attentions, my devoted affection, may,
in time, make some impression in my favour. I know
it would be the height of vanity, to expect that you
can feel for me what I have done towards you, from
the first moment I beheld you. Yet, I must flatter
myself, that time-^ "

^' Never, Mr. Evelyn. I cannot mislead you, or
encourage hopes that I am confident can never be
realised !"

The re-entrance of Signora Orsini, who had left
the room on purpose to afford Evelyn the opportunity
of making this declaration, put an end to Emily's
earnest and energetic assurances ; but the looks of
the latter evinced that he by no means despaired of
eventually altering her determination; and the Sig-
nora was, for a moment, deceived intoihe belief that

EMILY MORELAND.

all was settled as she wished. A second glance at
Emily's countenance, however, undeceived her; and,
with evident anxiety, she demanded, what they had
concluded on, respecting the proposed visit to the
Parsonage House.

*' Miss Moreland is inexorably determined to re-
fuse my suit, Madam," returned Evelyn, "and re-
main here; though I must, with all due deference to
a lady's decision, observe, that I think she entirely
fails in the plea she alleges for it."

" I cannot doubt that," returned the Signora, with
an air of vexation; " for my own part, I think it a
very ridiculous and quite indefensible decision ; but,
of course. Miss Moreland is at liberty to act as she
thinks proper."

Emily's eyes filled with tears. It was the first time
her friend Rosalia had directly condemned an act of
hers, or spoke of her by the title she now applied to
her; and she felt her dislike to Evelyn increase, for
having been the cause of their difference.

Signora Orsini would not, however, pretend to see
her emotion, and, appearing to consider the matter
as finally settled, she began to converse with Mr.
Evelyn, respecting her journey, which she purposed
to commence the following morning.

" It is so long," she observed, "since I visited
London, that it is by no means improbable that the
only persons, whom I can claim as acquaintances
there, may have left their house; and if so, I shall
be compelled to reside at the coach inn, as it will not
be worth w hile to take lodgings for the short time I
shall remain. If, indeed," she added, with a des-
9 2d

202 BMILY MORELANl).

pondent look, " I should be so unfortunate as to find
ray worst feais realised — it will be necessary that Ii
should make arrangements to remove thither entirely,
since there only can I hope to succeed in turning:
those acquirements to advantage, which have hitherto
been merely a source of amusement, but must hence-
forth supply the means of subsistence."

Evelyn seemed not to have contemplated thjs pror
bability. "And Miss Moreland," he observed, in a;
faltering voice, looking at Emily, who had walked
to the window to conceal her agitation —

"Miss Moreland, will, I suppose, accompany me,"
returned the Signora, coolly.

" Yes, to work fpr you — to save you, if possibly,;
from every mortification, every degradation,!" ex-
claimed Emily, bursting into tears, and throvving
herself into the Signora's arms. The latter was,eyir-i
dently affected, but she merely observed, that sh(?^
hoped there would be no occasion for any sacrifice
on either side.

" It would, however, be much less painful to me,
Emily," she softly whispered, "to sulfer alone, and
to know that you wepe well provided for."

Emily pressed her fair hand on the mouth of her
friend, with an imploring look; and Mr. Evelyn, who
had walked away, to conceal the emotion which her
ardent and unaffected manners had excited in his
bosom, now returning, prevented any continuation
of the s ibject, and he soon after arose to take his
leave.

^' You will allow me to breakfast with you, dear
Madam, fiiul accompany you to the coach," he oh-

IflUlLY MORTELAKI).

served; '*this evening, of course, will be devoted to
pr^aring for your journey."

Emily's looks almost expressed her impatience at
this hint. " He will not leave us a moment to our-
selves," she thought; but, to her great satisfaction,
Rosalia only acceded to the former part of his speech,
and did not, as she expected, press him to pass the
evening also with them, and he departed.

For some time, the Signora appeared lost in deep
thought; and Emily, who dreaded a renewal of the
discussion which was so unpleasant to her, remained
also silent, though her looks, as she from time to time
gazed on the Signora, proved that she deeply pat*-
took of the uneasiness of the latter. At length, the
silence was broken by Rosalia, who observed, that it
would be necessary she should make some communi-
cation to Farmer Wilson, respecting her intended
absence.

"It is fortunate, also," she continued, " that, as
you are obstinately bent on remaining here, you will
have a female near you, in whom you can confide.
You do not, I believe, know that your old friend and
attendant, Swsan, is expected here hourly. Isaac
intended an agreeable surprise to you; for he told
me it was to be a secret, that he had received a letter
from her, announcing that the lady, with whom she
has lived so long, has lately died at Bath, and left
her an annuity, which will enable her to live com-
fortably among her friends here. She Waited only
to receive the first quarter of her annuity, and some
arrears of wages, and shontcl then immediately com-
mence her journey hither, to quii her native village
no more."

204 EMILY MORELAND.

Emily was, indeed, agreeably surprised; for,
though she had not seen Susan since she was quite a
child, when the latter left St. Clare, to travel with
an invalid lady, yet she still retained the most perfect
recollection of her kindness, and extreme fondness
for herself, of whom she had taken the sole charge,
during her infancy. It was with some difficulty that
her friends had prevailed on her to accept a situation,
which separated her from the object of her attach-
ment; but Mr. Moreland, who had strongly recom-
mended her to the lady, prevailed by his persuasions,
and Susan quitted the valley with an aching heart,
for she left behind her more than one, to whom that
heart was most truly and tenderly attached

Her cousin, William Wilson, was nearly of her
own age; and not only the whole neighbourhood,
but even the Farmer, had seemed to think that they
were destined for each other; and William's attach-
ment to his pretty cousin Susan was no secret to any
one.

Mrs. Wilson, however, had formed higher views
for her son; William, too, soon began to think as she
did, and poor Susan was doomed to "weir the wil-
low;" but she bore it all very meekly and quietly,
never blaming her inconstant lover, who, she said,
would never do anything that was wrong, only he
ijad let the old woman get the upper hand of him.

Emily, however, knew but little of this; yet still
the thought struck into her mind, how deeply poor
Susan would be afflicted, when she should learn the
painful circumstances which had rendered the aged
father's home so cheerless, and his future prospects
so honeleoc. For her own sake, she sincerely rejoiced

EMILY MORELAND. 205

in the prospect of once more seeing the friend of her
infancy; but she felt that poor Susan would be sadly
disappointed, in the expectations she had most pro-
bably formed, of passing her time in comfort and
cheerfulness at home.

" You have, it appears, completely rejected Mr.
Evelyn's offer of introducing you to his mother and
sister," resumed the Signora, " though, I have every
reason to believe, it was with that sole view that he
prevailed on them to expedite their visit, by three
or four months."

Emily replied, with mildness, that she had not
been so ungrateful as to reject the offer of an intro-
duction which must confer honour on her. She had
only objected to appearing before them in a cha-
racter which she felt could never belong to her.

" It is useless to disguise it, dear Signora — I never
can, I never shall, become the wife of Mr. Evelyn ;
and 1 could not be blind to the fact, that they are
prepared to meet me in that light."

The Signora uttered an exclamation of impa
tience, but Emily's mournful and deprecating look
disarmed her anger.

*' I hope, my dear girl," she at length observed^
" that you will never have reason to repent, that
you have thus thrown away an eligible opportunity
of securing yourself from most of the evils, at least,
of life ; or, rather, I will still indulge a hope that
you will, upon further reflection, see the folly of
permitting mere nonsensical and romantic ideas tlius
fatally to affect your true interest. Till I return^
therefore, I will say no more on the subject ; — it is

son t;mily morel and

probable," s1»e added, with a deep sig^h, '•'' that 1
may then Jiave some more powerful arguments to
^ffer/'

Thankful for even this respite, Emily did not at-
tempt to prolong the conversation; and the remainder
of the evening being occupied with the necessary
preparations for the Signora's journey, she escaped
hearing even the name of Evelyn, which was now
become so obnoxious to her.

A night's reflection, however, did not seem to
have operated very much in her favour, in Mr. Eve-
lyn's mind; for his manner, when he made his ap-
pearance, precisely at the hour the Signora had
appointed, was more cold and formal than usual
towards her ; and, indeed, he seemed studiously to
avoid shewing her any attention, and addressed him-
self, as much as possible, to her friend.

•' How I wish he would fall in love with the dear
Signora !" thought Emily, as she sat silently ob-
serving them. " He :s not so much younger than
her, and she is still, I am sure, a very beautiful and
charming woman. She cannot either, as she says to
me, form any reasonable objection to such a propo-
sition.'

An arch smile, which she was totally unconscioiitj
of, played on Emily's lip, at the thought; it imme-
diately caught the eye of Mr. Evelyn, whose resent-
ful look made her start, as she accidentally glanced
from her friend Rosalia's countenance to his.

" You are fortunate, Miss Moreland, in discover-
ing such pleasant food for meditation," he observed,
in a low tone j " at the very moment, too, when your

EMILY MORELAND. 207

companions were discussing a subject which, it
might be naturally supposed, would inspire very
diflTerent thoughts."

Emily saw that the Signora was occupied at her
desk, and did not seem to attend to them, and she
replied, with some asperity — " I do not feel myself
bound to explain to you. Sir, what was the subject
of my thoughts at that moment ; but I will tell you,
that it was of sufficient importance, in my mind, to
render me quite inattentive to what you were sayr
ing ; perhaps it was quite as well, until you learn to
exercise a little more regard to my wishes and feel-
ings, than now distinguishes your conduct."

Evelyn would have apologised and explained,
but Emily felt too much irritated against him to
afford him an opportunity of so doing, as long as she
could prevent it. Unfortunately, however, as she
thought, his accompanying the Signora to the coach
gave him a plea to call on his return, which shr could
not refuse ; and, apparently aware that she would
not voluntarily grant him a similar opportunity,
Mr. Evelyn again entered into a long and elaborate
discussion of his feelings and sentiments, which only,
as she candidly told him, had the effect of addition-
ally confirming her in the belief, that her rejection
of him was final and decisive.

" There is some mystery in this. Miss Moreland,"
he passionately exclaimed, as she rose, for the third
time, to remind him that it was nearly the hour at
which he had said, on his first entrance, he had some
profesriional duty to attend to. " There is some

208 EMILY MORELAND

mystery," he repeated, snatching up his hat, " but I

will discover it, and "

" And — what, Mr. Evelyn ?" said Emily, with
firmness. " I will not attempt to mortify you by
insinuating," she continued, in an ironical tone,
" that, irresistible as you seem to think yourself,
there may exist other causes in my eyes than pre-
engagement, to induce me to refuse you ; but I
would caution you not to dare, in order to satisfy
your own self-love and vanity, — not to dare, I will
repeat, surmise aught injurious to my character,
even for verity and candour. I can scarcely be-
lieve," she added, in a lower tone, " that it is to
Mr. Evelyn, the kind, benevolent, charitable Mr.
Evelyn, I am under the necessity of addressing this
language ; but, I trust, reflection will show you the
injustice, as well as the folly of your conduct ; and,
until that period arrives. Sir, I shall bid you fare-
well !" Ai.d she walked out of the room, leaving
the angry and disappointed lover, to execrate his
own folly and impatience.

KMILY MORELAND W9

CHAPTER IX.

Oh, fly, 'tis diie Suspicion's uiien.
And, meditating plagues unseen,

The sorceress hither bends ;
Behold — her torch in gall imbrued;
Beholo- -her garment drops with blood,

Of f overs and of friends.

Akenside.

The spirit which had supported Emily in her inter-
view with Mr. Evelyn, soon sank when she was left
alone, coolly and dispassionately to reflect on her
situation. Should the Signora either succeed or fail
in the object of her present journey, she foresaw that
she must expect a renewal of the persecution that
had commenced, on the subject of Mr. Evelyn's pre-
tensions. If, indeed, she failed, and was in reality
reduced to comparative poverty, Emily felt that it
would appear the height of ingratitude and madness,
to refuse an offer which would give her the power of
repaying the obligations which she acknowledged to
her friend. " And yet," she mentally reflected,
*' what chance of happiness could I have with a man,
who would accept, from compulsion, the hand which
my heart denied him !" She thought of the descrip-
tion which he had so animatedly given of his mother,
and a hope that the proud old woman, who evidently
considered her son as a match for the most exalted,
would awaken in him a kindred spirit, and induce
him to reject, with scorn, the idea of suing to one so
much beneath him for acceptance. " And yet, what
0 2 E

210 EMILY MORELAND.

a wayward heait is mine!" she sighed, "for, in
reality, what have I to object to this young man,
except that he is a little too solemn and sententious,
and too well satisfied with himself and his acquire
ments, and his precise, starched, old-fashioned mother,
whom he quotes upon all occasions !" The sigh was
succeeded by a smile, as she fancied the disappoint-
ment of the old lady, whom she was determined to
believe rigid, forbidding, and morose, coming, with
her spectacles on her nose, and all her faculties
sharpened for observation, to take a survey of her
son's intended wife; and then finding the bird had
preferred its liberty, and, just as they thought to pop
it into the cage, had spread its wings and flew away.

Emily, however, was obliged to confess to herself,
that, for once, she had been uncharitable, when she
beheld Mrs. Evelyn, who arrived two days after Sig-
nora Orsini's departure, and was, on the following
morning, introduced to the former by Mr. Evelyn.
The old lady was, indeed, rather reserved and ob-
servant in her manners, but her mild placid features
beamed with benevolence and kindness; and Emily
blushed fbr herself, as she listened to the sweet and
gentle accents of her voice.

Edith Evelyn, the daughter of this amiable woman,
was about the same age as Emily, and, though pos-
sessing very slight claims to personal beauty, was both
pleasing and attractive in her appearance and manner.

Nothing beyond mere common-place conversation
passed in their first short interview; but Emily,
though determined beforelKind to resist every ap-
proach to intimacy, had not resolution to refuse wiien

EMILY MORELAND. 211

Mrs. Evelyn pressed her to spend the following day
at the Parsonage House.

" He cannot, surely," she thought to herself, when
they were gone, *' have acknowledged to them, what
has passed between us, or they would show some re-
sentment in their deportment towards me." She
was, however, mistaken. Mr. Evelyn had confided
to his mother the mortifying rejection he had met
with ; but the good old lady viewed her son with too
partial eyes to believe, for a moment, that any young
woman, whose affections were not pre-engaged, could
long persevere in treating him with indifference ; and
she therefore resolved to act as if she knew nothing
of what had passed between them.

The offer of Mr. Evelyn, to wait on her in the
morning, and conduct her to his house, had been re-
jected by Emily, decidedly, yet as mildly as possible ;
and the former, in pursuance of his mother's advice,
forbore to press the request, as soon as he saw it was
not agreeable to her.

The morning proved clear and fine, though cold;
and Emily, (refusing old Isaac's offer of walking part
of the way with her, observing that there could be
nothing to fear, in a walk of three miles,) set off, in
better spirits than she had felt for some time.

There had been a slight frost in the night, and
every shrub and tree was glittering in the sunshine,
as she passed lightly along the few fields that lay
between the Farm and the high road. She paused
more than once, to gaze around her, and admire the
bright and beautiful scene ; but, at length, she
reached the last stile, and, as she crossed it, heard

212 EMILY MORELAND.

the village clock strike one. The appointed dinner
hour was two, and she had promised to be there early
-" I shall not impress the old lady with any favourable
opinion of my punctuality," she thought to herself,
** if I do not quicken my pace a little." She walked
briskly on for another quarter of a mile, without
meeting any one ; but, at length, the heavy tramp of
a man's foot was heard along- the hardened road.
She looked up, expecting to see some of the neigh-
bouring rustics, to all of whom she was known. But
it was a man of somewhat superior appeaiance, as to
dress, than any of them; but, as she slightly glanced
at his face in passing, she thought it was some one
whom she had seen before, though she could not re
member where.

The man courteously touched his hat, and Emily
returned his salutation.

He stopped, as if encouraged by this to speak,
thouffh it was not without embarrassment in his
countenance. " I think I am not mistaken. Ma'am —
you are Miss Moreland, are you not?"

Emily replied in the affirmative — but it was in a
faltering tone, and with trembling limbs ; for she re-
cognised in the stranger, as soon as he spoke, the in-
famous and unprincipled Williams, — the companion
and seducer of William Wilson !

" Do not be alarmed, Miss," he rejoined, observing
her evident emotion. " 1 do not wish to ask you any
unpleasant questions — but, as I have understood that
you were the last person that saw poor Bill Wilson,
and had some conversation with him "

"I had," said Emily, with marked emphasis, "I

EMILY MOBELAND. 213

had a long conversation with him, nor did he con-
ceal "

" I've no doubt he made out a good story," inter-
rupted the man, with evident confusion, " though it
would have done him very little good. Miss More-
land, if he'd been taken. However, I never wished
that — and, though I was obliged to join against him,
I can truly say that it was clean contrary to my
wishes."

" I have no doubt of it," returned Emily, disdain-
fully ; " but why all this to me ? You cannot suppose
that I take any interest in your feelings."

" No, certainly, Miss, you know nothing of me,
nor I of you; for Bill was cursed shy of ever talking
about you, though Becky often plagued him about
you; but I have been a good many years away from
these parts, and only knew the name of Moreland ;
and 1 little thought that my sister had such a rival,
for he always pretended "

** It is of no consequence to me what he pretended,
or you believed," interrupted Emily, haughtily;
" but I would wish you now clearly to understand,
that William Wilson never received from me ih&
slightest encouragement, to form any pretensions to
me, that could clash with your sister's. And now,
Mr. Williams, I trust, our communication is at an
end; for, I will candidly tell you, that I know too
much of the causes and promoters of William's
crimes and misfortunes, to wish to see you again."

" I see how it is!" exclaimed Williams, with ve-
hemence, all the bad passions of his nature struggling
in his countenance. " The rascal was fool enough

214 EMILY MORELAND.

to 1 guessed as much^ — I only wanted to ascertain

it clearly! But I defy both him and you ! Even if
you were to come forward with your story, I am not
such a fool as not to be prepared for it; and neither
you nor the devil himself could prove that I had any
hand in it; and nobody would think much the better
of yoUj for trying to clear your sweetheart, as every
body thinks him, at the expense of the innocent !
But I'll tell you what, Miss Moreland," and he ap-
proached close to her, and, clenching his hand, as-
sumed a threatening attitude — "you had better, for
your own sake, keep your knowledge to yourself;
for I'm not one of the kind to put up with an injury
quietly; and if I hear a syllable of this matter
breathed, or even that you have told that you have
had any conversation with me, I swear, solemnly,
that your life shall be the sacrifice ! Tom Williams
never yet suffered any wrong, without revenging
himself! And it won't be those beautiful eyes, that
look so scornfully at me, nor those rosy lips, which,
I dare say, are ready to call me every bad name they
could utter, that will save you from this — " unclosing
a knife, which he had deliberately drawn from his
pocket, " if you utter one syllable against me !"

Emily shuddered with terror, though she endea-
voured to conceal her emotion, under an appear-
ance of calmness and contempt of his threats. " You
have a much better security for my silence," she con-
temptuously observed, " than your empty threats
could impose. I have hitherto concealed my know-
ledge of the part you and your sister acted, partly
because I considered that, as you have said, even

RMILY MORELAND. 215

your conviction could not benefit the unfortunate
wretch whom you have made your tool and dupe ;
and because I did not wish to increase the sufferings
of your injured father, by exposing the conduct ot
his worthless and ungrateful children."

" You are very ready with your remarks, I think,
Miss Moreland," returned Williams, with a look of
deep-seated malice, that increased Emily's dismay
and abhorrence ; and, when she attempted to pass
him, and proceed on her road, he placed himself be-
fore her, observing, that he should not let her go,
till he had some better security for her silence.

" Let me pass, instantly," she demanded, indig-
nantly, " or, depend on it, no consideration shall
shield you from exposure !"

" Let me first whisper another little secret in your
ear," he replied, with a fiend-like smile. " The
place where Bill Wilson is, at this moment, is known
to me ; I know those who have seen and conversed
with him, within the last three days ! Breathe but
a word, therefore, respecting me, and you shall soon
have the satisfaction of hearing that he is safe in the
hands of justice ; and let him and you both see what
good your accusing me will do !"

Emily heard this intelligence with the deepest
sorrow, for, though she was far, very far, from feel-
ing, towards the unfortunate and guilty young man,
the sentiments his detestable seducer seemed to im-
pute to her ; yet the thought of his forfeiting his
life, horrid and abhorrent as was his crime in her
eyes, was most revolting and painful.

She had not, however, time to utter any reply to

216 EMILY MORELAND.

the diabolical wretch, who appeared to enjoy her
consternation, for that moment she beheld, advancing
down the road towards them, Mr. Evelyn and his
sister, who had evidently come part of the way, pur-
posely to meet her.

The quick eyes of her companion instantly disco-
vered that the persons who were approaching wei'e
known to Emily, and, without uttering another
word, except " Remember !" — he darted over a
stile, and was out of sight in a moment.

It would have been difficult, at the moment
Mr. Evelyn, his sister, and Emily, met, to have told
which of the three countenances betrayed the most
consternation and dismay.

" We seem to have come very mal d, propos,
Miss Moreland," uttered Evelyn, with difficulty.

Emily could scarcely reply — " Oh, no, indeed — I
am most happy, truly happy, to see you. I have, in-
deed, sincerely repented that I refused your kind offer
of fetching me ! I will never again hazard so long
a walk alone — yet I thought that I was so secure i"

" You have been insulted, alarmed, Emily!" in-
terrupted Evelyn, with vehemence. " Who was the
wretch ? But it is, perhaps, not yet too late to in-
tercept him !" — and he darted away, in the direction
Williams had taken.

" Hear me, Mr. Evelyn ! For mercy's sake, hear
me' Do not attempt to follow him ! The attempt
will be 1 am lost, if you go !"

She sank, fainting, into Miss Evelyn's arms, and
the sight of her situation, rather than her words, in-
stantly brought Evelyn back to her.

EMILY MORELAXD. ;Sl7

It was some time beforCj with the a,d of the ter-
rified Edith's smelling bottle, she recovered suffi-
ciently to recollect her situation, and make an effort
to free herself from Evelyn's ar»ns, who, as he pas-
sionately strained her to his bosom, called upon her,
by every kind and endearing epithet, to revive and
bless him, once more, with the sound of her voice.

" I am better," returned the blushing girl, again
trying to escape from his embrace. " I am, indeed,

much better only let us go from this place. I

am so very cold !" She shuddered, more from the
remembrance of what she had suffered, than the
effects of cold; and Evelyn, passing his arm roun.-i
her waist to support her, while she leaned on his
sister, on the opposite side, moved on without at-
tempting to utter another question.

Long before they reached the Parsonage, the
anxious Mrs. Evelyn had descried them from the
window ; and Emily again felt the torture of being
obliged to reply to questions, which she dared not
answer with truth and candour.

" She has been dreadfully alarmed, that is evident.
Madam," observed Evelyn ; " but let us get her into
the house, that we may pursue the wretch, who
escaped only because I had no suspicion that Miss
Moreland was not voluntarily listening to what he
was saying to her. She w ill give me some clue to

his discovery "

"No, no— I cannot! He is let him go!

Punishment will, some time or other, overtake him ;
but I can do nothing !" exclaimed Emily, incohe-
rently.

10. 2 F

218 EMILY MORELAND.

Mrs.. Evelyn exchanged a look with her sdu^ which
expressed at once surprise and suspicion ; but she
said no more, until she had placed her on the sofa
in the parlour, and prevailed on her to take some
hartshorn and water

" You had better leave us, Charles," she observed,
in a low tone, " there may be reasons, which prevent
her revealing before you "

Eveljn instantly took the hint, and left the room.

" Now, my dear Miss Moreland," observed Mrs.
Evelyn, " I trust, for your own sake," laying a
strong emphasis on the words, " and for the sake of
society, if this man "

" Will you forgive me, dear Madam, and judge
of my conduct with charity and candour, if I tell
you, at once, that there are reasons why I cannot
reveal what has passed ! There are some circum-
stances connected with that man, which render it im-
possible that "

" You have said quite sufficient. Miss ?»Ioreland,"
returned Mrs. Evelyn, coolly. " I feel, certainly,
that I have no other claim than that of a very re-
cent acquaintance, on your confidence ; but I would,
if possible, impress on your mind, that mystery and
conceahnent, in the conduct of a young female, are
seldom unattended with danger — never can be sepa-
rated from disgrace."

Emily started — she was about to reply, with that
natural spirit which always revolted from unjust ac-
cusation, but a moment's reflection restored her
equanimity. '"^ I cannot, Madam," she replied,
" expect from one, who, ycu truly observe, is but a

EMlLr MORELANIJ.

219

very recent acquaintance, and, I am convinced, but
very imperfectly acquainted with my character, the
roost implicit confidence in the rectitude of my con-
duct and intentions; but I have heard it asserted,
that the voice of truth speaks with irresistible force
to those in whose bosoms she makes her residence.
I cannot doubt, Madam, your honour and sincerity ;
and to those qualities I appeal for belief, when I
solemnly declare, that, in the recent transaction,
which has, and probably will occasion me so much
uneasiness, I feel that I do not deserve the slightest
t^hadow of blame^ but Am deeply entitled to your
pity."

" I cannot doubt you, Miss Moreland," returned
Mrs. Evelyn. " It is impossible to doubt your si«-
cerity, though I cannot but think you are misled by
some romantic notions.'*

Emily shook her head.

Mr. Evelyn re-entered the room, and Emily ex-
erted her utmost efforts to regain her composure,
though she could not but see, that, whatever his mo-
ther might believe, he was far from being satisfied
with her conduct.

The day, which Emily, in spite of her former pre-
judices, had anticipated so much pleasure from, passed
away very hea^aly. She could neither forget her
unpleasant interview with Williams, nor avoid seeing
that it was constantly present to the thoughts of her
companions; and she was more than once confused
and distressed, by some pointed remark of Mrs. Eve-
lyn's, on the subject of mystery and concealment in
the conduct of females.

220 EMILY MORELAND.

Sofiie casual allusion to her first introduction to
Sijnora Orsini, brought on a number of questions
from Mrs. Evelyn, as to the history and connexions
of the former. Emily candidly avowed that she knew^
as little of the one as the other. " There were some
painful circumstances," she observed, " connected
with the Signora's former life, which distressed her
to speak of, and therefore she had never pressed hei
on the subject."

Mrs. Evelyn *s countenance became still more
clouded ; and she looked at her son, as if to reproach
him with having deceived her, in his representation
of Signora Orsini's situation.

" Mr. Moreland, I suppose, was better informed,
in this respect, than yourself, my dear," she gravely
observed, " or he must have shown a strange Avant of
caution, in confiding you to the care of a female,
under such suspicious circumstances."

Emily's cheeks glowed with resentment — " No one
who knows Signora Orsini, Madam," she observed,
" would, for an instant, indulge a suspicion of her
beins: other than the most exalted and amiable of
her sex. 1 know not what she thought proper to
confide to my dear grandfather, respecting her his-
tory ; but I am sure, that, had he never known more
than he saw of her conduct, he would have acted just
as he did."

Mrs. Evelyn smiled — but Emily saw it was rather
in pity of her weakness and credulity, than in appro-
bation of her feelings; and this discovery, on her
part, did not tend to revive those sentiments of re-
spect and cordiality, which she had, on their first in-

EMIZiY MORELAND. ^l

t«rview, felt disposed to accord to the former. Tlie
only one of the family party, indeed, with whom she
could feel perfectly at ease, was Edith Evelyn ; but,
though the sprightly, good-humoured girl did and
said all in her power, to render Emily as comfortable,
and as much at home, as she could, it was very evi-
dent that she was constrained and checked by her
fear of her mother, who seemed to regard, with a
watchful and jealous eye, the intercourse between
her daughter and one, whom she was but too much
disposed to regard with suspicion.

Most heartily did Emily rejoice when the hour of
separation arrived, even though she was compelled
to allow Mr. Evelyn's attendance home.

*' I know not whether there exists any real cause
for alarm. Miss Moreland," he observed, as they were
about to commence their walk ; " but I have provided
myself" (showing her a large stick) " with the means,
at least, of protecting you. For my own part, I have
hitherto considered myself in perfect safety, in my
long and often lonely walks."

" I hope you are so still," returned Emily, ob-
serving he looked to her for an answer; " but, at any
rate, it can do no harm to be always properly prepared
to resist violence, if it is prudent to resist at all."

Evelyn appeared disappointed, that his observation
had drawn from her no definitive declaration, as to
whether he had cause for apprehension; and Mrs.
Evelyn's maternal anxiety instantly took alarm.

" If you think there is any cause for fear, Miss
Moreland," she observed, "it will be advisable that
my servant should also accompany you."

S22 EMILY MOR£LAND.

Evelyn angrily objected to this, and Emi/.y, though
she would have gladly accepted the attendance of the
servant, who, she thought, might be some check on
her companion, and prevent his renewing a subject,
which she did not wish again to be brought into dis-
cussion, was compelled, by her desire to relieve Mrs.
Evelyn's evident alarm, to declare " that she had no
reason to fear any interruption; nor did she believe
that there existed the slightest cause to suppose, that
Mr. Evelyn need feel himself otherwise than secure,
as formerly."

'* You can have no motive for saying this, unless
you were convinced of it, Miss Moreland," replied
Mrs. Evelyn; "and I will trust implicitly to your
assurance, and feel as little impatience as I possibly
can, for Charles's return."

Emily was on the point of saying, that she would
willingly exchange the attendance of Mr. Evelyn for
that of the servant, and thus put an end to all fear
on the part of his mother ; but the evident impatience
and anger with which he heard the proposal, dis-
couraged her from saying any more, and, having
again repeated her belief that there was no cause for
fear, they departed.

No sooner were they alone, than all the reserve
and coolness, which had marked Mr. Evelyn's man-
ner in the presence of his mother, vanished, and Emily
was compelled to listen to his fervid assurances of
unalterable attachment.

"I will not, I cannot believe, my adored Emily,"
he observed, " that there can be aught in your con-
duct, or connected with you, that should discourage

EMILY MORELAXD. 223

me from indulging the hope of one day calling you
my own. I acknowledge that, during this uncom-
fortable and vexatious day, there have been moments
that I have feared that you had been drawn into a
connexion — into a secret attachment — which must
annihilate my hopes ; but reflection has told me that
I wronged you. Your own candid, innocent coun-
tenance declares you incapable of deceit, and though
T can in no way satisfactorily account for the circum-
stance, or, at least, for the mystery and silence you
preserve, respecting the occurrence which took place
this morning, I am willing to confide implicitly in the
rectitude of your conduct and intentions, though, I
confess, I am grieved beyond measure that you think
it necessary to preserve a secrecy, that injures you in
the opinion of one, whom I have every reason in the
world to wish should view you with "

Emily rather impatiently interrupted his harangue.
" I should, certainly, Mr. Evelyn, wish to stand
well in your mother's opinion, because it can never
be a matter of indifference, what a respectable, and,
I have no doubt, an amiable woman thinks of me;
but I cannot suffer you to mislead yourself — and I
again repeat, that it is impossible for me to feel any
sentiments reciprocal to those you avow, but which,
I earnestly hope, you will henceforth endeavour to
forget."

" Never, Emily ! I shall never feel otherwise than
I do at this moment," returned Evelyn, with energy.
" Yet, if I thought — if I knew — that your heart was
already given to another — and if that other were one
likely to secure your happiness — 1 would never
breathe a word of my own feelings again. No, Emily,

224 EMILY MORELANI

— I wf ulcl endeavour to prove, at least, that I wi3
worthy of your love, if I could not obtain it."

Emily was silent — she could not but feel grateful
for this disinterested declaration ; but Evelyn spoke
again of his mother's prejudices and suspicions, and
the favourable impression was destroyed.

Provoked and irritated beyond the power of con-
cealment, she replied, to his entreaties tliat she would
look upon Mrs. Evelyn as her best friend, by assuring
him, that she had no wish to conciliate one whose
uncandid disposition she despised ; and Evelyn, who
considered his mother a paragon of excellence, felt
so offended at Emily's unqualified censure of her,
that the remairider of their walk w as passed in silence,
and they parted, at the threshold of her dwelling,
with barely the interchange of common civility.

"Thank goodness, 1 hope I am rid of the trouble-
some fellow, and all who belong to him!" she ex-
claimed, as she hastily shut the door upon him, and
ran into her own apartment, where a cheerful fire
seemed to welcome her return, from constraint and
formality, to the comforts of home and liberty.

" So much for my first introduction into society;
at least, society of my own sex," she (^ontinued, seat-
ing herself at the table, on which Mrs. Wilson had
placed the candle she had lighted, observing, that she
did not expect her home so soon, or she should have
laid the cloth for supper

" I do not feel inclined to eat, thank yoj," replied
Emily ; and Mrs. Wilson was about to quit the room,
saying, that she should go to bed, wh«n, suddenly
turning round, she exclaimed —

" Oh, I forgot to tell you that a man has been here,

EMILY MORELAND. 225

who said he had a letter for you; but he wouldn't
leave it with me; and said he would call in the morn-
ing."

Emily was astonished and agitated. Who could
it be from? The Signora was not likely to send ih
such a manner; and yet, who else could have occa-
sion to write to her? She would have asked a thou-
sand questions, as to the appearance of the stranger —
what he said — and whether Mrs. Wilson was sure
that he really had a letter for her — but the latter,
who was apparently offended at the man's having
refused to entrust her, seemed determined to give no
satisfactory answer.

She knew not what sort of a man it was, for it was
dark when he came into the kitchen, and asked ab-
ruptly for Mi\s Moreland; and she knew only that
he had a letter, because he said so — though lie
wouldn't say who he was, or where he came from.

"I don't believe he was a stranger though^" she
continued; "because I found he had been round to
the windows of your room first; and, when he found
that all was dark, and nobody there, he came in a
great hurry to the kitchen-door, and asked where
you were gone? I told him you were gone to Mr.
Evelyn's, — and then he asked me a power of ques-»
tions about Mr. Evelyn, and whether he was court-
ing you, and if I thought it likely he would marry
you."

"And whdt did you say?" demanded Emily, with
extreme surprise, and almost breathless with a thou-
sand contenc'ing feelings and thoughts, that rushed
intof her mind.

10. '^ «

220 EMILY MORELAND.

" I said, that 1 didn't know what right he had
to ask me such questions — I wasn't used, I told him,
to say all I knew or thought about such things. Mr.
Evelyn might, or he might not, intend to ask you the
question ; but I thought, if he did, it would be a fine
thing for one that had "

*' I don't wish to bear any more," interrupted
Emily, angrily; "nor can I think, Mrs. Wilson, that
you acted consistently with your usual prudence, ia
talking in such a manner to a perfect stranger; and,
pray, where was your husband during this conver-
sation, for I cannot believe he would have joined
in it?"

Mrs. Wilson entered into a long and angry vindi-
cation of herself ; but she compensated Emily, in some
measure, for the mortification she had endured, by
communicating the intelligence that Susan had ar-
rived, and that Isaac was now gone with her, to visit
one or two of her old acquaintances. She forgot, in
a moment, all her anger, and all her uneasiness at
the stranger's visit; but Mrs. Wilson was not now
in a humour to answer her inquiries as to how Susan
looked, what she said, &c; and Emily was obliged to
postpone the gratification of her interest and cu-
riosity, until the return of her old friend, whose joy
at seeing her could scarcely be confined within the
bounds of moderation.

*' Good gracious!" she exclaimed, "can it be pos-
sible, that this is the same Emily, that I nursed when
she was a babe ? And yet there are the same eyes
ana eyebrows, and the same sweet, smiling, rosy lipsi
that I used to kiss a thousand times in a day; but

EMILY MORELAND. 2i2t

what an old woman I must be grown, without suk-^
pecting it.

"* Nor would any one else suspect it, I am sure,
dear Susan," replied Emily, smiling, ** for time ap-
pears to have stood still with you ; and, except being
rather thinner and paler than you used to be, I set
but very little difference in you."

Susan sighed — " I have had a good deal to fret and
vex me, lately," she replied. " I have lost a very
good and kind mistress, and I have been both dis-
tressed and annoyed by But I won't think, now,

of melancholy subjects ! What is passed, cannot be
recalled — and we must only hope that the future
will be better!"

The clasped hands and uplifted eyes of poor old
Isaac, proved how deeply he felt this remark, though
l^^inily scarcely knew whether it was intended to ap-
ply to the subject which had occasioned all his sorrow,
or whether it alluded to some other unfortunate cir-
cumstances, in which Susan had been interested.
The moment, how ever, that they were left alone, her
doubts were terminated; for Susan, with tears in her
eyes, began to speak of William Wilson, and the sad
course of life which he had fallen into.

" You will be surprised, I dare say, to hear, Miss
Emily," she observed, " that I have seen that unror-
tunate young man, within the last three months."

Emily was indeed surprised, and Susan went on to
relate, that she was returning from a walk in the
neighbourhood of Bristol, where her late mistress's
family resided, when she was struck with the appear-
ance of a young man, in sailor's clothes, ivho, after

22$ fiMlLY MORBLAND.

looking attentively at her for a few minutes, and
turning first red, and then pale, addressed her by
name, inquiring if she ' had quite forgotten her poor
cousin William ?* I thought my heart would have
burst — he looked so wan and miserable ; and when
I asked hipi what had happened, and how long he
had left St. Clare, he burst into tears, and told me
never to mention the name of St. Clare to him, for
he had quitted it for ever.

" I took him home with me, for the lodgings were
now my own ; and there I heard from him a story,
that almost drove me out of my mind. ' If it had
been any one but you, Susan,' said he, ' I should not
have dared to make myself known ; but, though I
know I did not behave to you as I ought, I know
your good heart too Avell, to fear that you will
betray me !'

" God knows, I would have died sooner than have
betrayed him ! But I was terrified to death, every
moment that he stayed, after I understood what had
happened. I soon found that he had come to Bris-
tol, in hopes of getting on board a ship, as a sailor ;
but he had very little hopes of succeeding, and pro-
posed to go to Falmouth, only he was without
money.

" 1 ^ave him ten pounds, which was all I could
raise at the moment, as the executors had not then
ettled with me ; and the money 1 had previously
saved, 1 had bought into the Bank ; but this seemed
quite a fortune to him, and he almost overwhelmed
me with his gratitude. All I thought of, was to get
him off J for I was afraid some discovery would take

EMILY MOREL AND.

2i9

place of who he was, and that would ha>e been
bringing both of us into trouble.

" Well, at last, he went, promising- me that he would
leave Bristol at day-break next morning, and not
write to me till he had got a ship, and was in perfect
safety. I thought there could be no fear of his act-
ing imprudently, after the severe sufferings he had
endui-ed, and his seeming-sorrow for his faults ; but
yet I felt uneasy, and wished that I could know, to
a certainty, that he was gone.

" Three days, however, had only passed over, be-
fore I was called down to speak to a man, who, the
landlady said, seemed intoxicated, and she therefore
did not like to let him come up stairs.

" My heart failed me — for I thought directly of
William — and, sure enough, it proved to be he ;
and, as she had said, quite inebriated. He began a
long nonsensical story, to account for his being still
in Bristol, and ended with declaring that he could
not brinff himself to leave Eng-land and me. If I
would consent to have him, and go to America, he
had an excellent opportunity of settling there.

" You may think, dear Emily, how I felt and
looked at this offer ; even if I had not known, from
his own lips, the life he had been leading, it was
not likely that I could, in a moment, forget all his
slights and disdain, when I was poor and humble.

" I tried, however, to be as mild and gentle as I
could, though I would not give him the slightest
encouragement to believe I should ever change my
deteimination towards him. Oh, Emily, how dread-
fully docs vice alter people ! I could never have

230 EMILY MORELAND.

believed that William could have uttered the shock-
ing language and threats that he did, when he found
that I was not to be made a dupe, by his pretended
love. However, to make short of my story, I was
obliged to buy his absence, by raising a few more
pounds for him ; and, at last, had the satisfaction of
knowing that he was gone, having employed my
landlady's son to see him safe off, by the coach, to
Falmouth. I have not since heard of or from him;
but I have had many uneasy moments, from the fear
that he would not, evrn now, quit England; but
would remain until his money was spent, and thus
be disabled from going at all!"

Emily was grieved at this account, though she had
anticipated even worse, from her knowledge of Wil-
liam's violent disposition. She commended, how-
ever, Susan's prudence, in having made his quitting
Bristol the only terms on which she would grant him
further assistance; and she was still better satisfied
at finding that she had concealed from him her in-
tention of making St. Clare her future residence.

EMILY MOUCLAND. 231

CHAPTER X

Oh, enviable, early days.

When dancing Pleasure'B thougbtleas max*.

To care, to guilt, unknown ;
How ill exchanged for riper times.
To feel the follies and the crimes

Of others, or my own. Burns.

Subjects of more importance had nesnly banished
Mrs. Evelyn, and all connected with her, from Emily's
mind; but when, on the third day after her visit to
the Parsonage House, she received a letter from Sig-
nora Orsini, in which she spoke so much of Mr. Eve-
lyn, she began to reflect that it was rather singular,
that she had neither heard from, or seen, any of the
Curate's family.

'^ Were it not that I know it would grieve the
dear Signora," she reflected, "how happy should
I be, to think that they had entirely dropped me;
but that it would grieve her, I can have no doubt;
for, even at the distance she now is, she seems to think
more of Mr. Evelyn, and his family, than any other
subject."

Of her own afliiirs she spoke but distantly, though
sae seemed to entertain little apprehension of all
being eventually settled to her satisfaction; and that
at no very distant period; as the partner, whose ab-
sence had occasioned the temporary disarrangement
of afllairs, was hourly expected to arrive in town.

The receipt of this letter, which came in the ordi-

232 EMILY MOREL AND

nary way, by post, once more brought forward the
subject of the stranger, who had called during her
v^sit to the Parsonage, under the pretext of having
a letter to deliver to her. Nothing more had been
heard or seen of him ; and, though the subject had
often been discussed, between herself, Farmer Wil-
son, and his niece, no reasonable conjecture, as to
who he really could be, or what was his business,
occurred to either of them.

Emily, indeed, more than once, thought of Herbert
Leslie ; yet she knew not why, if he did think proper
to call on her, he should assume any mystery or con-
cealment. " It is scarcely probable, though, that he
recollects the inhabitants of St. Clare," she reflected ;
'' and if, as I suppose there is little doubt, he is mar-
ried " She broke off abruptly from the train of

thought which was rising in her mind, by asking
Susan some questions, which led to a long conversa-
tion on the fine places and great folks which the lat-
ter had seen and lived among, and of which subjects
she was always delighted to talk

Emily longed to ask her if she had ever, during
her residence in the great city, heard or inquired
aught respecting Mr. de Cardonnel. The word
" father," she could never bring herself to utter,
though she never forgot that it Was his due. Susan,
however, she thought, seemed to avoid any observa-
tion that could lead to the mention of his name ; and
Emily's feelings at length overcoming all reserve,
she herself ventured to put the question she had sa
long wished to ask.

" I can tell you but little good of him, my dear,"

EMIL^ MOKELAND ^H'li

returned Susan, with a sigh, and a blush, which
seemed to be caused by some unpleasant recollections.

" You do know, then, that he is living, dear Susan,"
rejoined Emily, her cheeks glowing, and her bosom
beating, at being thus allowed to speak of one, whose
name she had never even uttered to any other person.

" 1 will tell you all I know, my dear child," re-
turned Susan, '' if you will have patience. It is
nearly twelvemonths ago, that my mistress was on a
visit, far a few weeks, to a relation in Gower Street,
Bedford Square, in London. The lady of the house
was a widow, with only one daughter, a very pretty
girl, not more than sixteen ; and I had not been in
the house more than two days, before I found this
young lady. Miss Julia, was carrying on a love-affair,
unknown to her mother.

" I felt sorry, because she was a good-humoured,
thoughtless girl, with no fault, that I could see, but
a great deal of vanity ; and I was very sure this gen-
tleman, let him be who he would, could mean no good
towards her, or he would have come at once to her
friends, and not have been carrying on a correspon-
dence through the servants, all of whom he had bribed
lo assist him. I soon learned all the particulars from
the housemaid, and 1 found that the young lady had
been accidentally met by her lover in tlie Park ; that
he had watched her home, written to her, and that
she had only hitherto been preven ed, by her mother's
domestic habits, and great care of her, from having
had an isterview with him. < He has been here once
iu livery, as a visitor to Thomas, our footman,' con-
tianed Kitty, the girl who was telling me all this,
10. 2 n

vS34 EMILY MOUCLAND.

' and a fine handsome gentleman lie is, though a good
deal older than our young lady ; but he was as
generous as a prince, and, indeed, Thomas says he is
either a lord or a duke, though he was as free among
ps in the kitchen, as if he had really been no more
than a footman. However, as if the devil would
have it so, Miss Julia could not get out of her mo-
ther's sight, even to speak to him for a minute; and
so he was obliged to go away, quite disappointed;
but, now you are here, they'll manage better, I
warrant.'

" Not if I can help it, thought I ; for I was sure,
if he was a nobleman, and not a very young man
either, he could have no good intentions towards the
young lady ; but I pretended to laugh, and IhiiLk it
very clever to outwit the old folks; and so, by hint-
ing to Miss Julia that I had found out her secret, I
got the foolish, vain girl to tell me every thing herself,
and then I promised I would assist her, if I could.

" It was accordingly planned by Mrs. Kitty, that
Jhe gentleman should come to the house as my bro-
ther, just arrived from the country ; for, though Mrs.
Westwood, Miss Julia's mother, would not suffer
any visitors to her maid-servants, she would not, of
course, interfere with me.

" I had always the privilege of sitting in a httie
back parlour, as my mistress did not wish me to as-
sociate with London servants; and it was arranged
that Mr. Claridge, as he called himself, should be
shown in there, and sit with me, till Julia could find
an opportunity of coming down stairs; when I was
<ko leave them, and keep watch on the stairs, to pre*

EMILY MORELAND. 335

ve:it erther my mistress^ or Miss Julia's mother, in-
terrupting them.

*" 1 hate treachery — but I thought I waa doing the
unsuspecting girl a real service, in exposing the de-
signs of her lover ; and, therefore, as soon as all was
settled, and we had received Mr. Claridge's answer
from Thomas, (who alone knew who he really was,
though he kept the secret faithfully,) I revealed the
whole affair to my mistress, begging her to break it
to Mrs. West wood, and concert with her what was
best to be done.

" The poor lady was thunderstruck — but oegged
of me to go on with it all, and only just give her the
signal, the moment Miss Julia came into my room, if
he was there.

" I shall never forget how my heart did bounce,
when I heard the area-bell ring; and, presently,
Thomas opened my door, and told me, loud enough
for his mistress to hear, if she was listening, that my
brother wished to speak to me. I could scarcely get
out the words 'Tell him to walk in;' and I almost
wished I'd had nothing to do with it; but in walked
a fine tall handsome man, and, glancing round to see
that no one but myself was there, observed — ' You
have managed admirably, my dear, and here is the
reward 1 promised you.'

** I could have found it in my heart to have thrown
the guinea, which he squeezed into my hand, at his
head , but that would have spoiled all — so I laid it
on the mantelpiece, for I could Uiit l)iing; myself to
ptti it in my pocket

*' He came Eear Mic fire, and 1 lighted a candle.

236 EMIJLY MORELAND.

which stood ready on the table, while he asked me,
in a whisper, if I thought it would be loiv^ before
Julia came down. I said, shortly, 'No;* for I did
• not like to talk more than I could help, nor did I
look in his face, until he said, in a very free, familiar
tone — * You are confoundedly handsome, my dear,
and, even if I should not see your young lady, 1 think
I shall not consider my time thrown away, if you will
be her substitute.*

"I was holding the candle in my hand, and the
light fell full on his face, as I raised my eyes, to give
him a look of contempt; but you may easily imagine,
Emily, though I cannot describe, what I felt, when
I instantly knew the features to be those of Mr. de
Cardonnel. 1 could not be mistaken — for how often
had I, in secret, gazed at the portrait of him, which
your poor mother had worn round her neck : besides,
I had seen and conversed with him; and 1 remem-
bered the very tones of his voice.

" ' What is the matter, child?' said he. 'Am I so
frightful, that you stare and turn pale?'

" ' No,' I replied, with spirit, ' but, if your coun-
tenance were an index of your mind, you would be!
Do you remember the name of Moreland?'

" ' Moreland !' he exclaimed, turning as pale as
myself; " but, before I had time to utter another
word, Miss Julia, all bustle and flutter, and tremor,
glided into the room.

'' I shall spoil all, thought I, if I am too precipi-
tate ; so I put my finger on my lips, as if to assure
iiirn of my lilencr. and left them; but his reception
of her was so diflferent to what she had expected,

EMILY MOREL^M). 237

that poor Julia stood as if doubtful whether it was
her impatient lover she beheld.

" In less than two minutes, I\Irs. Westwood and
my mistress were at the parlour door, and 1 entered
with them, to enjoy the defeat of the unprincipled
man, whom I had thus been the means of circum-
venting.

*' He was evidently prepared for the storm ; for, I
suppose, my looks had betrayed me; but you may
imagine Mrs. Westwood's rage, and poor Miss
Julia's confusion, when, on her requiring of him an
explanation as to who he was, and what were his
intentions, I related, in his presence, all that I kne^v
of him, neither aggravating or softening his conduct.

" ' And the wretch is married, too !' exclaimed
Mrs. Westwood. ' Oh, Julia, see to what insult
you have, by your imprudence, exposed yourself!'

"' Do not make me appear worse than I am,' said
Mr. de Cardonnel. ' I am married, it is true — but
to one, who — '

" ' Do not dare to insult us with an explanation !*
exclaimed Mrs. Westwood, * but instantly leave the
house !'

** He did as he was desired, seemingly glad to get
off so easily, and, as he passed me, observed —

" ' I have to thank you, it seems, for this ; but I
do not blame you — you are a good girl, though I — '
I would not listen to another word, nor would 1 ac-
cept the purse he offered me, nor shake hands with
him, as he asked me to do, when he reached the
door.

" I heard afterwards, through Mrs. Westwood's

2'J8 EMILY MORELAND.

inquiries, that he lived very unhappily with his lady,
though he had, by her father's interest, been made ti.
lord, and was quite a great man ; that he was lead-
ing a sad dissipated life; and that his lady was as
extravagant as himself; but, fortunately, they had
no children, and therefore nobody would suffer for
their follies but themselves.

" They had been abroad for live or six years, and
had only just come back, because the lady's father
was dead, and they had got money to pay their debts,
and go on in their old way again."

Emily heard this recital with pain; for, though
she had never any reason to respect her father, she had
always flattered herself that time would correct the
error of his ways, and teach him to look back Avith
remorse on the actions of his youth.

" I am, indeed, alone in the world," sighed Emily,
as she reflected, that, with such a character, there
existed not the slightest hope of his ever being awa-
kened to those feelings which her kindred to him,
and her desolate situation, ought to inspire. Hea-
ven had, however, granted to her more than one
kind and disinterested friend, and she felt that,while
she possessed so many blessings, it would be ungrate*
ful to repine for those which were withheld.

EMll.V MO R ELAN 3. 2']9

CHAPTER XL

Aa6, oh, how changed at once — No heroine he e,
But a weak woman, worn with grief and fear

RoorRs

Soothed and amused by the society of her early
friend, Emily soon forgot the melancholy feelings,
which various circumstances had contributed to fos-
ter in her naturally cheerful mind.

Susan was never weary of looking at her, and ad-
miring the various accomplishments she had acquired,
under the skilful tuition of her more than maternal
friend ; and Emily, who had hitherto considered them
merely as sources of innocent amusement and occu-
pation, began sometimes to think that the former was
right in the regret she often expressed, that such
talents should be wasted in seclusion, and deprived
of that admiration which was justly their due.

With all Susan's boasted knowledge of the Avorld,
she was, in reality, almost as much a stranger to its
true character, as the innocent and credulous girl, in
whose ear she delighted to pour forth the fancied
fruits of her experience.

She had known one or two instances where youth
and beauty, even without the other advantages which
Emily possessed, had been the passports to fortune
and rank ; and she persuaded herself that it would
be impossible the darling object of her admiration
could fail in securing the same advantages, could

240 EMILY MORELAVD.

she but be once properly introduced into the sphere
of life, for which she believed Nature had intended
her. It was in vain that Emily protested she was
perfectly content in her present situation ; in vain
that she recalled to herself, and reminded her too-
partial and weak-minded friend, what had been the
most ardent wish of her beloved and regretted rela-
tive, the venerable Mr. Moreland; Susan still re-
turned, with fresh energy, to her favourite theme,
and Emily sometimes caught herself involuntarily
sighing at the thought, that fate had inexorably ex-
cluded her from those dazzling scenes of pleasure
and enjoyment, which the former so glowingly de-
scribed.

A very short residence at the Farm had been suffi-
cient to prove to Susan that she had deceived herself,
in supposing that a quiet and easy life, in the place
where her early youth had been spent, was all that
was necessary to secure her happiness. She had
been too long accustomed to active and changeful
life, not to feel that the monotony of that she now
led was tiresome and oppressive.

" I cannot help wondering," she observed to
Emily, within a week after her arrival, " I cannot
help being quite surprised, how I used to pass my
time here, when I was a girl, and never seen)ed to
have a moment unemployed. Now, I absolutely
don't know what to do with myself; for, though I
am never tired of hearing you play and sing,
and looking at your drawings, yet 1 cannot he
doing either but a small share of the day, and still
less can I return to all my old employments ; so that

EMILY MORELAND. 241

I reully begin to think but then, to be sure,

every thing- is greatly altered, as well as myself.
Of those friends that I have left, few are improved
by time ; even my poor uncle Wilson is grown
peevish and obstinate ; and the old woman is ten
times sourer, and more conceited and ever ; and he,
who used to make the house so pleasant with his
merry songs and good humour, that even smoothed

the cross old Dame's wrinkles Oh, Emily, how

my heart aches, when 1 sit down to dinner with
the'ii, and miss him from where he always used to
place his chair, right opposite to mine, and think
what he has become, and what perhaps his fate may
be ! If it was not for you — I am sure I should wish
that I had never come back to St. Clare, where
there is so little prospect of being happy, or even
comfortable."

Emily, into whose mind no thought of weariness
of her situation had ever entered, felt astonished, at
first, at her friend's complaints ; but a frequent re-
currence to, and recounting of, the pleasure she had
enjoyed during her residence in the great Morld,
soon effaced Emily's surprise, and seemed to render
the discontent of the former perfectly natural.

A formal note from Mr Evelyn, requesting to
know whether Miss Moreland had received any com-
munication from Signora Orsini, brought forcibly,
and more unpleasantly than ever, to Emily's remem-
brance, the plans and wishes of the latter, for her
settlement in life.

*' Evelyn has, I hope," she sighingly reflected,
" had sense enough to relinquish views which could
11 2 I

24S EMIIiY MORELAND.

never be realised ; yet what prospect have 1, but
of passing my life in "

She paused, and blushed at the course her thoughts
were taking ; yet it could oot but be an honourable
wish, to raise herself into notice and eminence, by
the exertion of those talents which, she was assured,
were infinitely superior to what had been possessed
by many who had attained the highest distinction.

A reply, as cold and formal as his own inquiry,
was Emily's only notice of Mr. Evelyn's communica-
tion ; and she heard, with secret satisfaction, from
the boy who carried the note, that the folks at the
Parsonage House were all busy, preparing for the
ladies going back to their own home.

" So, then, thus has ended all poor Evelyn's san-
guine speculations of the result of that similarity
of character, sentiment, and disposition, which he
fancied he had discovered, bet.veen me and these
vaunted and idolised relatives !" reflected Emily,
half-smiling, and half-mortified, at the total neglect
with which she was treated, by those whom she was
certainly disposed to consider with respect and
esteem.

A feeling of embarrassment came across her mind,
as she remembered that she should be obliged to ac-
knowledge to her friend the Signora, how differently
the interview, which the latter had so anxiously an-
ticipated, had terminated, to what she had hoped and
expected.

The Signora, indeed, had confidently prognosti-
cated, that the sight of Emily would be quite suffi-
cient to remove any Itirking prejudice in the brea^

EMILY MORELAND. 243

of Mrs. Evelyn ; and Emily felt for the grief and dis-
appointment, which, she knew, her account would
occasion.

A blow much more severe, however, than that
which she regretted to inflict on her sensitive friend,
was at this moment about to fall on Emily ; who,
too soon, had reason to regret that she had, by the
indulgence of an unreasonable aversion, forfeited
her claims to advice and assistance, which, in such an
exigency, would have been truly valuable.

The letter, which cost her so much trouble tc
write, and which she felt would, after all, be most
unsatisfactory, to her to whom it was addressed, was,
after an interval of a few days, returned, inclosed
in a cover, in which was merely written, that the
Signora Orsini had quitted England, but for what
part of the Continent, or whether she intended to re-
turn, was not known.

Emily had scarcely power to read these inconclu-
sive and mysterious lines. The sight of her own
letter had been sufficient to awaken the utmost ter-
ror in her bosom ; and when, at length, she was able
to comprehend the intelligence that was thus con-
veyed to her, she felt almost thankful to be thus, as
it tvere, relieved from the vague fears and appre-
hensioi.s which had assailed her. Every moment's
reflection, however, brought with it additional con-
viction of the greatness of the misfortune that had
befallen her.

That the Signora had voluntarily resolved to
abandon her, she could not, for an instant, believe.
ll'jt the whole history of her amiable friend was in-

244 EMILY MORELAND.

volvcd in mystery. Emily knew not what were ih©
cruel circumstances, which had rendered her an
alien to her native country ; and still less could she
be enabled to judge of the imperious necessity,
which alone, she was convinced, could now have
induced her to desert, without even a line of ex-
planation or adieu, the friendless girl who relied so
entirely upon her protection.

" And those circumstances, whatever they are,
may prevent her ever returning !'' she exclaimed,
weeping bitterly.

" I always thought how it would be," observed
Mrs. Wilson, whom Susan had, in her first moments
of terror, on seeing Emily's death-like appearance,-
called to her assistance — " I was sure," continued
the old woman, "from the first moment that she eA^er
come into my house, that there was no good at the
bottom; and I'll be bound that she has given that
busy-bodying Mr. Evelyn, good reason to remember
her ! Not that I'm a bit sorry for him — for he de-
serves all he's got; for poking his nose into every
body's business ! But I knew very well where the
money came from, all at once; after Madam had
been fretting and stewing, and pinching, for three or
four weeks, because her money didn't come as usual
from London !"

" Mr. Evelyn has more than ten times the value of
the money he advanced, in his possession," returned
Emily, indignantly, and suddenly recollecting the
transaction which had occasioned Evelyn's introduc-
tion. " Mr. Evelyn," she added, " would have very
little reason to repent his accommodating the Sig-

EMILY MORELAND. 245

nora, were he allowed to retain the valuables which
she placed in his hands !" ...[

The old woman's malice was defeated, but she did
nol, care to acknowledge it ; and she continued to
mutter her dislike, and contempt of such " fine, fini-
kin, outlandish madams," as she styled the Signora,
until she was plainly told by Susan that she had bet-
ter Isave the room.

" I don't know," rejoined the malicious old wo-
man, " that anybody has a better right to stay in
these rooms, than myself ; at least, I should like to
know who is likely to pay the rent of them, for the
time to come."

" I will," replied Susan, passionately, *' as long as
Miss Moreland occupies them ! So now, I hope, you
are satisfied on that point, and won't intrude any
more where you arn't welcome."

Mrs. Wilson was about to renew her spiteful com-
ments on what had occurred, but the hasty entrance
of her husband, who had just heard that Emily had
been taken ill, prevented her; and she hurried away,
to avoid the reproof, which she knew he would not
spare, if he were made acquainted with her conduct.

" What, in the world, my dear child, has hap-
pened?" inquired the honest Farmer.

Emily ourst into tears, and Susan, as briefly as
possible, explained the intelligence Miss Moreland
had received.

" And is this all ? " observed old Isaac. " Never fret,
m} dear child, she will come back, if she lives, I am
sure — I am certain she will ! Never tell me that she
could have the heart to desert one who has been as

246 EMILY MORELAND.

dear to her as her own child ! Something or another
has happened, to oblige her to go in a hurry; but
you will hear from her, depend upon it, as soon as
she can write to you; and recollect, dear child, that
you are with friends, who are as anxious for you, as
even the lady herself — no disparagement to her,
neither! Cheer up, then, my dear, for, be sure, it
won't be long before you will have a letter from her,
at least."

Emily did endeavour to cheer her spirits with this
hope, but other fears than for herself presented them-
selves to her mind. She could not doubt that some
tragical circumstances had thrown the Signora from
her proper sphere in life ; and how could she hope
that those, which had now so suddenly occasioned
her departure, were not of the same complexion.
Her friend might be at this moment suffering the
bitterest anguish, and that, too, perhaps without one
sympathising friend to console, or to assist her !

" What is the use of fancying such things. Miss
Moreland?" observed Susan, to whom she communi-
cated the source of those bitter tears, which suddenly
betrayed her feelings. " You can do no good, even
if the worst that could be has happened, by fretting
and making yourself ill!"

Emily felt surprised at the tone in which this was
uttered ; it was totally unlike the kind and sympa-
thising manner which had hitherto marked her con-
duct; but the fact was, that Susan felt not a little
jealous of the influence which the Signora seemed to
possess over not only Emily, but all who knew her, —
with the excepticn of Mrs. Wilson.

ElVULY MORELAND. 247

Her unexpected elevation to independence, had
made Susan consider herself a person of some im-
portance; and the affection with which Emily had
welcomed her return, had increased her own good
opinion of herself, to rather an enormous height. It
was, therefore, no smail mortification to her, to dis-
cover that the Signora, of whom she had only heard
slight mention, was in reality the first object in
Emily's estimation, and regarded as an almost super-
natural being by the Farmer, who had been, even
more than the former, a daily and hourly witness of
her unostentatious charity and benevolence.

A very few words, however, from her well-meaning
and kind-hearted, but weak companion, soon betrayed
to Emily the cause of the alteration, which had, at
first, surprised and alarmed her; and though she did
not cease incessantly to think of, and pray for the
safety and happiness of her absent friend, she was
careful of betraying to Susan more than she could
avoid, and endeavoured to wait with patience for the
communication which she and the Farmer concurred
in believing they had every right to hope and expect.

The following Sabbath brought her and Mr. Eve-
lyn once more together; for Emily felt that it would
be impious, to suffer worldly feelings to interfere
with her public duty to her Ci'eator. Determined
to appear as indifferent as possible, she made no effort
to avoid the Curate, who, as soon as the service was
terminated, approached to express his fears that she
was not so well as usual.

" You have looked dreadfully pale, ever since you
entered your seat," he observed, with an air of in-

248 EMILY MORELAND

terest, which seemed involuntarily to get the better
of the constraint which he had imposed upon himself.

Emily replied by observing that she had been
much distressed by some intelligence she had received
respecting Signory Orsini.

" And am I, then, considered so little your friend,"
returned Evelyn, with an air of mild reproach, " that
you would not call me to your assistance, in the mo-
ment of distress? How could you know that I might

not be able to suggest 1 have, indeed, from the

first, been fearful that the affair, which occasioned
our friend's absence, was likely to terminate less fa-
vourably than she anticipated."

" I know not how that has been settled, or whether,
indeed, it was brought at all to a conclusion," re-
plied Emily, mournfully; " but what I have to tell
you is, I fear, of even more importance than the loss
of the poor Signora's property."

Mr. Evelyn was all surprise and curiosity-; but the
fear of awakening, too powerfully, the agitation
which was visible in every turn of Emily's expressive
countenance, and thus exciting remark and attention
among the groups who had composed his congrega-
tion, and who were now anxiously observing his
manners and actions, restrained him from asking
another question at the present moment.

" Will you allow me to call on you at t^ie Farm,
an hour hence?" he observed. " I have a visit to
pay to a sick man, in the village, immediately, or J
would ask to attend you home. You will, however,
1 dare say, be better satisfied with your present com-
panion," glancing at Susan, who had been attentively

EMILY MORELAND. 249

surveying him during this conversation, and felt not
a little mortified at his apparent neglect of her con-
sequential little person, decorated, as it was, with
all the finery that her mourning for her late mistress
would permit her to wear.

Emily would not allow herself to notice this last
hint, but merely said that she should be glad to see
him, as soon as his leisure would permit ; and, without
even seeming to notice that there was another person
present, he bade her adieu.

" And so this is the ' kind-hearted, charitable par-
son,' that my uncle praises up to the skies !" observed
Susan, after a long pause, during which Emily had
walked slowly and pensively along, reflecting on the
perplexing and affecting intelligence which she had
to communicate.

*' And do not you think him deserving of such high
praise?" demanded Emily, rather anxious to hear
whether Susan's opinion was conformable to her own.

" I think he may be a very good man," returned
Susan, "but, I am sure, he is a very formal, proud,
conceited, disagreeable one; and no more like the
gentlemen that used to visit my poor dear mistress,
than chalk is like cheese. I don't really believe that,
among them all, there was one that would not have
talked to me, as familiarly, aye, and with as much
respect, too, as if Id been born a lady, instead of
just glancing a proud look, as much as to say, ' I
know you are nobody of any consequence, and don't
think you worth speaking to,' as this upstart parson
did, just now, and then marching off, without so much
as condescending *.osay ' Good morning,' or anything
11. 2 k

250 EMILY MORELAND.

else. I am sure, there was one young gentleman,
who lodged in the same house with Mrs. Methuen
and me, at Bath. — Mr. Leslie, his name was — Mr.

Herbert Leslie Why, in the name of goodness,

dear Emily, what ails you ? Why did you start so V

"Start!" reiterated Emily, blushing still deeper,
" did I start? But, pray go on, I was not aware that
I started. Do not let me interrupt you, I beg — It
was a mere nothing — of no consequence in the world,
I do assure you."

"Of no consequence!" repeated Susan, " and yet
you are colouring and trembling, and breathing as
short, — what could I have said — I am sure I did not
think that you cared about this Mr. Evelyn, or what-
ever his name is, enough to be angry at any thing 1
could say — besides, perhaps, after all "

"Mr. Evelyn," interrupted Emily, somewhat im-
patiently, " had, I assure you, nothing to do with the
emotion, the agitation, or whatever you call it, which
you fancied you discovered."

"Fancied," returned Susan, with increased cu-
riosity; "it was no fancy, 1 am sure, though you
won't acknowledge what was the cause of it, and I
cannot, for the life of me, guess! 1 don't even know
what I was talking about."

" You were speaking of the respect with which
you were treated by some young gentleman, who lived
in "

" Oh, aye, Mr. Leslie," interrupted Susan, recol-
lecting herself. " Yes, he was something like a gen-
tleman— for he never passed me on the stairs, or in
the hall, without touching his hat, and kindly in-

qmVHig alter my poor mistress, though he never saw
her, for she was confined to her bed before he came
to live there; and, one day, he said so kindly, " Mrs.
Methuen is very fortunate, I think, in having so care-
ful a nurse ; but you must take a little care of your-
self, too, Mrs. Susan, for those rosy cheeks are be-
ginning to lose some of their bright colour!"

Kmiiy smiled and blushed again; — the smile was
at the vanity which was so apparent in Susan's repe-
tition of tliis common-place speech, the blush she
could scarcely interpret herself.

" I am afraid," she replied, looking archly at her
talkative friend, " I am afraid this Mr. Leslie made
a deep impression, with his gallant compliments ; but,
perhaps," she added, in a graver tone, "he was al-
ready engaged, or married."

" Oh, no — I heard from his valet that he had left
his friends, and was in great disgrace, about some
rich lady that they wanted him to have; but he could
not fancy her, and so he plainly told them. But sure,
my dear Miss Emily, you do not think I would be so
foolish as to set my heart on anybody so much above
me, as he was ; though, if ever a man was formed to
catch women's hearts, he was ! Such eyes, such teeth,
and the sweetest smile — though he was a bit of a rake,
too, according to Mr. Allen's account. Mr. Allen
was his valet, and a very well-behaved, personable
man, too; but they left Bath, all in a hurry, and,
the week after, poor dear Mrs. Methuen was ordered
to try the Hot Wells at Bristol, and there she died,
almost immediately; so I thought no more about
Mr. Leslie, or Mr. Allen either."

252 EMILY MORELAND.

Fortunately, Susan did not look at Miss Moreland
during this explanation of her acquaintance with
Mr. Leslie, whom she had not the slightest suspicion
the latter had ever seen, or had any knowledge of.

Emily's glowing countenance and sparkling eyes,
indeed, forcibly betrayed the interest she took in the
subject on which Susan had so diffusely expatiated;
and, for a few minutes, every thing was forgotten,
in the pleasure she felt that Herbert Leslie was not,
after all, unworthy of the high opinion she had
formed of him.

" Yet he cares nothing about me," was the next
thought ; " and, certainly, so far he stands convicted
of deception ; for, assuredly, his manners, his senti-
ments, his words, as well as looks, conveyed to the
Signora and me, were not those of a mere indiiFerent
acquaintance; and yet, how did he act?"

The recollection was sufficiently mortifying, to re-
move all unseemly expression of pleasure from a
countenance, which had, but a short time before,
worn the deepest impression of melancholy ; and now
speedily resumed its pensive expression, while Susan,
totally unsuspicious of the flutterings she had caused
in the heart of her companion, again reverted to her
censures of the consequential Curate, or "parson,"
as she contemptuously styled him.

They were scarcely seated by their own fireside,
before the subject of her animadversions entered;
and Emily soon read in his countenance his dissatis-
faction at the presence of a third person, for Susan
gave no indications of any intention to quit her seat.

"You have some intelligence Iq conim anicate, my

EMILY MORELAND.

253

dear Miss Moreland," observed Mr. Evelyn, speak-
ing to Emily, but looking hard at Susan, as if to
hint that her presence vras neither necessary or de-
sirable.

The little woman, however, undauntedly retumed
his disdainful glance, and kept her seat ; and Emily
arising, drew from her desk the enclosure of the let-
ter she had received, with its concise intelligence.
Mr. Evelyn's countenance changed as he read it.

" This is indeed astonishing, and to me perfectly
incomprehensible; perhaps, however, you," looking
earnestly at Emily, " possess some clue to conduct
which, I confess, appears most extraordinary and
inexplicable."

" I am in as total ignorance, Sir, as yourself," she
replied, " what could have occasioned such a hasty
step, on the part of my friend ; nor have I as yet re-
ceived a single line, in elucidation of this painful
mystery."

" Have you written, to make any inquiries of the
agents, whom the Signora professedly left this place
to visit ?" inquired Mr. Evelyn.

Emily replied in the negative. She had, in fact,
forgotten the precise address of those persons ; and
an unwillingness to apply to Mr. Evelyn, though she
did not now assign that motive, had been the real
cause why she had not sought the information from
him, which, though she knew he could give, she had
very little hopes would prove of much importance.

*' I will myself write immediately," he observea

bastily, " that is, if I have your permission so to do."

Emily readily assented <o this proposition, and.

354 EMILY MOR ELAND.

without ielay, he placed himself at her desk, and
commenced writing.

*' I can't think what could hinder your writing
yourself, my dear," whispered Susan, in a petulant
tone ; " I'm sure you can write a much better letter
than such pot-hooks and hangers," (casting a con-
temptuous side-look over Mr. Evelyn's shoulder, at
the paper before him,) " as he is scribbling."

Emily could not repress a smile, though she wished
to suppress her companion's flippancy, which, she
was afraid, would lead her to offer some impertinence
to one whose character she really respected, though
she could force no warmer sentiment towards him.
She almost wished, however, that she had, as Susan
said, written it herself, when she read the diffuse
epistle, in which Mr. Evelyn had contrived so to
blend his own feelings with those of Miss Moreland,
whom he made, however, the ostensible inquirer
after Signora Orsini, describing their mutual un-
easiness and distress, at the uncertainty in which
they were left respecting their mutual friend, that
no one who saw the letter would have hesitated to
conclude, that there existed a perfect sympathy and
understanding- between Mr. Evelyn and Miss More-
land. She could not, however, reasonably find fault
with it, and it was accordingly sealed and directed,
before it was recollected that it was not post-day,
and that it must, therefore, be inevitably delayed
anotlier day, before it could be forwarded to its
destination.

A variety of surmises, as to the piobable cause of
S -nora Oisini's hasty departure, and the proba-

EMILV MOREI.AND. 255

hility of her speedy return, now occupied Mr. Eve-
lyn and Emily ; and Susan, though most unwillingly,
was compelled still to remain silent, from her utter
incompetency to enter on a subject to which she was
an entire stranger. At length, Avhat she considered
a lucky thought struck into her mind, and, turning
round, with a laugh, she observed

" Now, suppose, after puzzling and tormenting
your two wise heads, as you have done, ray foolish
one should have hit on it, what would you say?"

*' I should say, that you would at once disprove
the proverb, which says that 'two heads are better
than one,' " replied Emily, somewhat disconcerted
at Susan's familiar mode of expression, which had
made the proud and sensitive Mr. Evelyn at once
shrink up as it were into himself, and withdraw the
chair, which he had contrived to place between her
and her companion, several paces backward.

Susan, however, was too full of her notable dis-
covery, to observe, or at least to resent these indica-
tions of dignity, and she proceeded — " Well, then,
I'll tell you what strikes me : — I suspect, that this
Signora What-d'ye-call-her had run away from a
husband, when she first came to settle here, and that
either he, or somebody belonging to him, has found
her out, through her going to this Italian's, that she
called her agent, and so has packed her off, nobis
bolus, as they say in France, to her own country
again. Because, you know, nobody but a husband,
or somebody that had his authority, could prevent
her writing a line or two, if she did no more — just
to let you know that she was safe. If, indeed, she

256 EMILY MORELANI).

was really so anxious about you, as you seem to
think "

" And which every action of her life, but this last
most inexplicable one, has proved," interrupted
Emily, sighing.

"Well, may be so, my dear — I am sure I don't
wish to undervalue one of whom I know nothing,"
rejoined Susan ; " besides, 1 certainly do think, she
was prevented by force from writing, because, as you
say, she has left so much valuable property in this
gentleman's hands "

"In my hands !" exclaimed Mr. Evelyn, starting,
and looking at Emily for an explanation. " Surely,"
he added, after a moment's pause, " Miss Moreland
did not — does not — I should say, think so meanly of
me, as to suppose that I consented to accept such »
security, for the trifling assistance which 1 was fortu
nately enabled to render to her friend?"

" Oh, then, after all, the lady has been prudent
enough to take all that she well could take, along
with her!" observed Susan, with an air of triumph,
which Emily thought both ill-timed and ill-natured.

" I certainly might have been made the depository
of some very valuable jewels," rejoined Mr. Evelyn,
without condescending to notice Susan's remark,
*' but there was, too evidently, the stamp of noble
birth and feeling in Signora Orsini, to allow me, for
a moment, to doubt the perfect truth and correctness
of her statement, without even looking at what she
offered, in proof of her intentions to repay me. 1
am sorry, however, now, very sorry, I acknowledge,
that I declined the charge; since, probably, they

EMILY MOflELAND. 257

^ould be much safer in my hands ttian in her
own. Heaven forbid!" he added, with solemnity,
as if suddenly struck with some awful and alarming
thought — "Heaven forbid, indeed, that her having
with her property of such a description and probable

value, should have tempted any one Tell me. Miss

Moreland," he added, in an agitated voice, " have
you any reason to think, or do you, in fact, know
whether that wretched young man — poor Wilson's
son, I mean — was aware of what the Signora pos-
sessed— or is likely to find her out, should he be in
London ?"

** Which, I will answer for, he is not — at least, I
think — I am almost sure," added the incautious
Susan ; but, immediately catching the meaning of
Emily's expressive look, she added, " It is not likely
I should know arty thing about him, but I cannot
believe he would go to London."

" You probably have some especial means of
judging where he would go to?" replied Mr. Eve-
lyn, upon whom the significant look, which had
passed between her and Emily, had not been lost.
*' I must confess, however, that I have such a diffe-
rent impression on the subject, that if I were con-
vinced he knew, as I said before, that Signora Orsin

carried with her such property, and but I alarm

you. Miss Moreland, and, perhaps, without occa-
sion." '" " '" "' ■'*'' ' '

Emily was, indeed, alarmed ; so atarmed that she

could scarcely keep herself from fainting; though she

had no reason to believe that the Signora's possession

of such property had been made known to any indi-

11. 2 L

258 EMILY MORELAND.

vidual besides Mr. Evelyn and herself, until since
the latter's departure. The antipathy which Mr.
Evelyn's proud and reserved air had raised, at first
sight, in Susan's bosom, was not, it may be easily
conjectured, decreased by the idea he had i^uggested
respecting her cousin, towards whom, in despite of
all she knew of his conduct, she could not help feel-
ing some slight remains of the partiality with which
she had once regarded him.

It was, therefore, with difficulty Emily prevented
her betraying to Farmer Wilson what Mr. Evelyn
had said on the subject ; for Susan, thinking only of
gratifying her anger, by shewing the latter how little
deserving the good Curate, as he called him, was of
the praises he so lavishly bestowed on him, wholly
overlooked, in her passion, the pain she would inflict
on the already deeply wounded and sorrowing father.

^' People can talk and preach finely in a pulpit,"
she observed, looking spitefully at Mi. Evelyn, "but
one good action proves more than a thousand fine
words !"

Mr. Evelyn looked his calm disdain at this obser-
vation, and Emily's beseeching look again implored
her forbearance. It required, however, very little
argument on the part of Susan, to convince the for-
mer, when they were left alone together, that Mr.
Evelyn had displayed very little of that charity
which ought to be a distinguishing characteristic of
his sacred profession, in communicating such a hor-
rid idea, even if he had sufficient grounds for be-
lieving it well founded. But Emily was aware thai
Mr. Evelyn had come t'l the knowledge of maM\ facta.

EMILY MORELANDc 25S

connected with William Wilson's conduct, which
Susan knew nothing of; and she felt that, however
unlikely or improbable it was, that such an event as
the former had suggested, could have occurred, he
could hardly be condemned for any opinion he might
form of the wretched young man, whose evil propen-
sities were so well known to him.

Day after day passed, without a single word of in-
telligence from the quarter whence it was so earnestly
looked-for and expected ; Emily's impatience and
anxiety increased with every hour, and dismal gloomy
days were followed by restless and terrifying nights.

Mr. Evelyn, in despite of Susan's sour looks and
tart ansAvers, was a regular attendant, every morning
and evening, under the pretext of anxiety for the
Signora, but evidently feeling quite as much, if not
more, anxiety for Emily, whose health was very
visibly affected by the mental uneasiness she en-
dured.

" It is plain to be seen, my dear," observed Susan,
one evening, after he was gone, " it is too plain to
escape any one's observation, that, with all his pride
and consequence, the parson has lost his heart ; but
I hope you will think yourself as much above him, as
he thinks himself above other people."

Emily sighed, for she felt, deeply felt, how little
reason she had to arrogate to herself any superiority.
Conscious, however, that Susan would consider any
observation of that kind as indicative of a disposition
to encourage Mr. Evelyn's addresses, she made no
reply ; and the latter proceeded, without interruption,
in a long and vehement tirade against the Curate,

2t)U EMILY MORELAND..

which was only ended by his appearance, an hour
before his usual time.

" I have at last received a reply to my letter to
Signor Rosano, my dear Miss Moreland," he ob-
served ; " but it contains very little — indeed, no satis" ,
factory intelligence."

" We know nothing of the connexions or private
affairs of the lady calling herself Rosalia Orsini,"
wrote the man of business, " but acted, merely as
agents for the house of her bankers at Venice, in
transmitting to her the sum of two hundred pounds
yearly. Some circumstances, of no import to relate,
occasioned a temporary stoppage in those payments,
and, it seems, she came to London in consequence,
and called two or three times at our counting-house.
At her last visit, I had just returned from Venice,
and I immediately paid into her hands the arrears
due to her. 1 perceived that she appeared very ill
and low-spirited, but did not think myself warranted
in asking any questions, as I had no acquaintance
with the lady. She went from my house in a hackney-
coach, and I have never seen or heard any thing of,
her since."

This communication only increased the surprise
and anxiety which Emily felt at her friend's unac-
!ountable absence; since it was scarcely probable
that she, at that moment, contemplated leaving
England, for the country which Signor Rosano had
so recently quitted, without mentioning it to him ;
and yet, by comparing dates, it seemed evident that
she left London on the following day.

" It is idle and useless to waste time in conjee-

EMILY MOUELAN 1; 261

f lire," observed Mr. Evelyn, aftei a long pause of
reflection, " I will go to London myself — It will be
the only way of acquiring any thing like certain in-
formation !"

Emily's grateful tears alone spoke her sense of the
obligation he was about to confer ; for she could not
but feel, that his wish of relieving her mind from its
present distress, was the prevailing motive for this
resolution, though there was no doubt that he felt
the most friendly interest in the fate of Signora
Orsini, for whom he uniformly professed, and evi-
dently felt, the greatest respect.

" There is no necessity for me to delay my jour-,
ney a single day," he observed, " as I fortunately
have no engagements on my hands ; and should my'
stay be likely to be prolonged beyond the week, I
can easily write to Mr. Sutton, and request him to
officiate for me. I will, therefore, bid you adieu at
once, Miss Moreland, as I shall have just time to call
at the Parsonage, and then hasten on to meet the
coach, which will pass through Newport at five this
evening."

- Emily's readily-offered hand, and cordial " Heaven
protect you, and grant that your exertions may be
attended with success!" seemed to inspire Mr, Evelyn
with increased energy, and she felt herself obliged
to .withdraw her eyes from his ardent gaze, as he still
held her hand, without seeming to recollect that it
w^s necessary to relinquish it.

A diadainfuj, toss of the head from Susan, accom-
panied with a significant look at the watch, which
hung over the mantel-piece, reminded him of his

262 EMILY MORELAND.

error ; and with another warm pressure, he sutf'ered
Emily to draw her hand away, and, giving only a
silent bow to Susan, departed, having promised to
Avrite, the instant he gained any intelligence that
could throw a light upon the mystery which had oc-
casioned them so much uneasiness.

" This is truly friendly conduct, indeed !" observed
Emily, the moment he had quitted the room.

" Friendly, indeed !" retorted Susan, with a sneer.
*' It is all very fine, to appear mighty disinterested,
and so forth; but, if the truth was to be known, I
fancy he is more concerned about his money, than
any thing else."

Emily was hurt, — for, though no very ardent ad-
mirer of Mr. Evelyn, she had seen too many proofs
of his almost romantic disinterestedness, and had been
too often compelled to admit and admire the eleva-
tion of his mind and feelings, to believe, for an in-
stant, that he was swayed by any such mercenary
reasons as Susan assigned for his present conduct.

" Twenty, or, perhaps, thirty pounds — for I don't
suppose it could be much less," continued Susan,
observing the dissatisfaction which Emily's counte-
nance so forcibly expressed, and guessing the cause
of it ; "I say, twenty or thirty pounds is no small
sum for a poor Curate to lose, all at once. Why, I
should not wonder if it is not nearly half of his in-
come for the year !"

" Mr. Evelyn is not a poor Curate,'" replied Emily,
calmly, " nor does he depend solely on his profes-
sion ; as I have reason to know that he possesses
independent property But, even if he were poor,

EMILY MORELAND. 263

1 do not believe the idea you attribute to him would
have ever entered his mind, or that he would be
guilty of veiling his own interested and mercenary
motives, under a pretended extraordinary exertion
of friendship and feeling."

" Ah, now I see how it is," observed Susan, " and
therefore I may as well hold my tongue; but, when
you have seen as much of the world as I have "

Emily was well aware that this customary phrase
would lead to the customary long dissertation, which
she had heard so often, that she was completely
weary of the subject; but she contrived, in this in-
stance, to avert it, by making some trivial inquiry as
to the time Mr. Evelyn would arrive in London,
which, as it afforded Susan another opportunity of
displaying her knowledge of any subject connected
with the Metropolis, prevented her being angry at
the interruption.

CHAPTER Xll.

Ah, why should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate ?
Hers, what no wealth can buy, no power create !
A little world, of clear and cloudless day,
Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by decay.

Rogers.

In less time than Emily could have expected even a
letter from Mr. Evelyn, that gentleman made his
appearance at the Farm ; and the former, reading in
his countenance that his mission had failed, in trem-

264 EMILV MORELAND.

bling anxiety besought hiiu to tell her, at once, the
worst.

" I have nothing- to tell you, my dear Miss More-
land," he replied; *' so pray do not alarm yourself.
But sit down, and, in charity, give me some tea,
while I relate to you the result of my long and tire-
some journey."

Convinced, from his manner, that nothing very
serious had come to his knowledge, Emily prepared
to comply with his request, and Mv. Evelyn pro-
ceeded—

" The first visit I made, ort my arrival in London,
was to the^ agent, Signor RosanO; but from him I
could learn not one paiticular, respecting our lost
friend, more than his letter had conveyed.

" He acknowledged, indeed, that he knew some
misfortunes had rendered it necessary for the Sig-
nora to seek an asylum in England ; and that her
residence here had been kept a profound secret from
such of her own country as were in the habit of
visiting, or being connected, in the way of business,
with him.

" It seemed, also, that, at thee time she had last
called on Signor Rosano, there was a person with
him, who immediately recognised her, and made very
particular inquiries respecting her. ' I declined,
however, answering any questions,' continued the
Signer, * and, as she did not seem to observe him, 1
cannot suppose that he had any influence onher con-*
duct, which certainly appears very singular.'

" 1 know not whether this man was deceiving me,"
continued Mr. Evelyn; " but he would give me no

EMILY MORELAND. 2G5

clue to find out what this person was ; he said that
he merely came on a trifling aflfair of business, which
did not render it necessary for him to ask even his
name ; all he knew was, that he was a native of Italy,
and had known the Signora Orsini some years before,
in that country.

" Here, then, the connexion was lost to me, if there
was any connexion between this stranger and Sig-
nora Orsini's abrupt departure; and from thence I
hastened to the apartments she had occupied, in the
neighbourhood of Russell Square.

" The people there could only tell me that she
had been visited by a stranger on the morning that she
had departed, whose appearance seemed to occasion
in her great agitation and surprise. He had re-
mained with her more than two hours, and, imme-
diately on his departure, she had announced her
intention of going oflf instantly to Dover, in order to
sail by the first packet, as the wind was then fair.

" * But did she leave no message or letter?' I ex-
claimed, with surprise.

*' ' There was no time for her to write. Sir,' re-
plied the mistress of the house ; * for she would not
even wait to have her portmanteau properly packed,
but tumbled every thing, any how, into it; and, in-
deed, to tell you the truth, I think she was so upset
by something she had heard, that she did not very
well know what she was about, and never thought
of messages, or any thing else.'

*' A long story, about her sorrow at losing such a
nice lady so suddenly," continued Mr. Evelyn, " was
all the woman had further to add ; and, after a few
13. 2 m

tlGH EVIILV MORELANI).

hours' quiet reflection, and consulting- a friend, to
whom I communicated the cause of my hasty journey
to London, I was unwillingly obliged to come to the
conclusion, that no chance remained of my obtaining
any further intelligence; and that 1 must return,
satisfied that I had ascertained, beyond a doubt, that
the Signora had voluntarily quitted England, and
apparently forgotten that she had left behind her
any one to whom her unexplained absence would
occasion serious uneasiness."

Emily was by this recital relieved of all fears
for the safety of her friend; but she felt, forcibly
felt, that she had little to hope from one, who could
thus cruelly neglect to save her from the pain and
uneasiness she had suffered.

" A single line," she tearfully remarked to Mr,
Evelyn, " would have relieved me from the terror
which she must be aware her sudden disappearance
would create in me; and, indeed, she might have
written that one line, if even it had been in one of
the intervals which must have occurred on her road
to Dover ; for, whatever might have been her in-
ducements or her wish to travel with speed, the
horses that conveyed her must have stopped some
time on the road, and then, surely, she might have
profited by the opportunity. But she has forgotten
ihe poor girl who has been accustomed to behold in
her a mother !" she continued ; " other feelings and
interests have banished me from her mind, and, per-
haps, I shall never more behold her!" She paused,
overcome with the thoughts that crowded into her
mind; and Mr. Evelyn, after a moment's struggle,

EMILY MORELAND. 267

apparently with some unpleasant recollections, once
more brought forward the suit she had before so de-
cidedly rejected.

Distressed beyond measure at his perseverance,
and feeling that he had taken rather an unfair ad-
vantage, in renewing his addresses just as he had
conferred a very great obligation on her; at a mo-
ment, too, when the consciousness of her deserted
and forlorn situation pressed so heavily on her;
E-mily could scarcely summon courage to reply with
that decision which she felt to be necessary; but she
was prevented by the entrance of Susan, who had that
day accompanied her uncle on a "jaunt of pleasure,"
as she called it, and who was now returned laden
with a heap of finery, which she was so anxious to
display for Emily's approoation, that she for some
time overlooked Mr. Evelyn's presence, and even
when she did recognise him, seemed, until reminded
of it by Emily, totally to forget the important subject
which had occasioned his temporary absence.

" Well, and how is it all settled, my dear?" she
at length demanded ; throwing, at the same time, a
large tawdry shawl, one of her purchases, over
Emily's shoulders, " to see," as she observed, " what
a beautiful candlelight pattern it was."

Emily blushed at her levity, as she replied, that
Mr. Evelyn had only succeeded in ascertaining that
Signora Orsini had really quitted England.

" Oh, then, she's not murdered, for the sake of her
valuable property !" she sneeringly remarked. " I
can't think, for my part, how such horrible fancies
can come info people's heads. There's my uncle

208 EMILY MORELAND.

been trying, I believe, to frighten me out of my wits,
all the way we jogged home, by a long rhodomon-
tade about some man, that he has seen lurking about
the Farm at night ; and who ran away every time

that he came near Oh, no, my dear, it is not the

person you think," she continued, comprehending
the significant gesture by which Emily secretly at-
tempted to silence her ; " for I asked uncle, and he
said it was a man at least a head taller, and with
very dark hair and whiskers — quite a gentleman,
indeed, in appearance, he thought; though the poor
old man is growing so childish, that he takes it into
his head he must be a thief, or a robber, or a some-
thing or another. ' Who knows, uncle,' said I,
' that it is not some sweetheart, or at least somebody
that has fallen in love with either Emily or me, and
is watching an opportunity ' Oh, gracious good-
ness, what was that? If I didn't see somebody close
to the window, peeping through the curtains! Oh,
mercy, I am properly punished for laughing at my
poor old uncle, as I did to-night. As sure as can be,
he was right — and we shall be all murdered in our
beds — for it was the horridest-looking monster !"

Emily, whose pale face had sufficiently betrayed
the terror she felt, now ventured to raise her eyes to
Mr. Evelyn's face, and found his looks fixed on her,
with an expression of horror and scorn intermingled,
which sufficiently betrayed his opinion of the sup-
posed robber's errand there.

All that had before arisen, to excite suspicion in
his bosom that she encouraged a clandestine inter-
course with some one. rushed at once into her nind;

EMILY MORELAND. 269

ana a blush of the deepest scarlet succeeded to the
ashy paleness which Susan's vehement exclamations
of terror had occasioned.

" I believe I have completed my commission,
Madam," observed Evelyn, rising' and formally bow-
ing, while his agitated countenance and faltering
voice forcibly contrasted with the calmness he at-
tempted to assume. " If," he continued, " at any
future period you should need my services, you will
find me, at all times, ready to afford them. In the
present instance, I see they are not required."

" Lord, Mr. Evelyn, sure you are not going to
leave us, just at this minute, when we are frightened
almost to death ; and ray uncle, too, is gone down to
Lambert's cottage, and won't be back these two
hours ! And suppose that great tall black man was
to come back!"

**^ You need be under no apprehensions," returned
Mr. Evelyn, contemptuously. " Miss Moreland is
not, I am sure, alarmed at the prospect of this terri-
ble man's return!" and, without vouchsafing ano-
ther look at the indignant and trembling Emily, he
caught up his hat, and quitted the room.

" What in the world is the matter with the fel-
low!" exclaimed Susan, who had, for the moment,
forgotten her terror in surprise at his manners.

Emily was silent — for she felt no small share of
resentment against Susan, whose levity and folly, she
considered, had been the means of exciting, or at
least reviving, suspicions so inimical to her reputa-
tion and feelings. She was almost, indeed, inclined
to believe that the whole of Susan's apparent ter-

270 EMILY MORELAND.

ror had been counterfeited, and that she had not seen
any person at the window ; but had merely said so,
to create disturbance. But this idea w^s soon con-
troverted by the evident terror of Susan, and the
distrustful glances which the latter from time to time
cast towards both the door and the window.

*^' Let us go to the kitchen, till uncle comes back,
dear Emily," she at length observed; "my aunt and
her new maid are both there, and we shall be safer
than at this distance from them; and, I declare, I
tremble so that I am ready to faint ! What a brute
that parson must be, to leave us unprotected, in this
manner ! Well, I only hope, if the man is a thief,
that he will meet him, and terrify him, as w ell as
take his money."

'^ Did you, really, distinctly see a man at the
window, Susan?" inquired Emily, " or was it not,
do you think, mere fancy, occasioned by the story
your uncle had been telling you?"

" Good gracious ! do you think I am so weak and
foolish as that!" exclaimed Susan, angrily. "No,
indeed, I assure you, I saw him as plain as I see you
now, with his face close to the glass, looking towards
Mr. Evelyn ; and, the moment I screamed, he darted
off like an aiTow. If the parson had had any courage
at all, he would have followed him, and made him
give an account of himself."

Emily most earnestly v/ished he had done so, for
she felt conscious that the result must have been
favourable to her; but she would not utter a word
that could encourage Susan's dislike of the Curate,
and she therefore contented herself with merely en-

EMILY MQRELAND. 271

deavouring to re-assure the latter, whose fears seemed
to increase with reflection.

" For though," she continued, " I did make that
iboiish speech about sweethearts, I never, for a mo-
ment, seriously thought it likely ; because you know,
my dear, you have never had an opportunity of see-
ing, or being seen, by any one who was likely to fall
in love with you; and as to me, gracious knows,
though I've joked and laughed with many, yet I
never gave any man serious encouragement, since I
left St. Clare and the only one I did really like ; and
it would be foolishness, indeed, to think that any
person would come such a distance as this, without
encouragement."

Emily thought so, too, and yet she could not ba-
nish a sudden thought, which Susan had unconsciously
given rise to in her bosom.

She remembered Herbert Leslie's avowed habits
of wandering about the country, and she also remem-
bered that he was, according to Susan's account, still
at liberty to follow the bent of his inclinations. Yet,
if they had led him to visit the Farm, why should he
be deterred from doing so openly? — Why should he
thus lurk about, and shun investigation into his mo-
tives?

Again she questioned Susan, as to her observation
of the intruder, whom she declared she had so dis-
tinctly seen ; but the fears of the latter had magnified
him into a gigantic figure, with horrid savage-look-
ing features, and eyes that, according to her account,
sparkled with malice.

" It could not be Herbert Leslie," thought Emily,
" and yet, who ebe could it be ?"

079

EMILY MORELS M».

Again Susan's fit of terror was renewed by s<>nie
fancied or accidental noise, and Emily wat oblij^ed
to yield to her entreaties, and accompany her to the
kitchen, where they found the old Dame busily ply-
ing her knitting needles, as usual, by the fire-light,
and the tired servant girl nodding over hers, in an
opposite chair.

"What new figary is in the wind, now, to bring
you both here?" she exclaimed. ''I'm sure some-
thing extraordinary must have happened, to occasion
me the honour of a visit, when my husband is not in
the way."

" I wish he was in the way now," replied Susan,
putting her candle upon the table, and creeping in
between her aunt and the fireside ; " I wish he would
come home ; for Emily and I are almost frightened
to death, at seeing a man at the parlour window."

" A man ! — who in the world could he be ? Did
you see him ?" she demanded, looking at Emily, who
replied in the negative, while Susan proceeded to
give a still more exaggerated and terrific account
than her previous one, of the alarming vision she had
beheld.

The old woman's natural shrewdness, however,
instantly detected the folly of her niece's statement:
and she seemed disposed to treat it as an entire fa-
brication, when the Welch girl, who had been roused
from her sleep by the terrific tale, observed, that she
had seen an odd-]ooking strange man down in the
valley, when she went to drive the cows up, at
dusk.

" I did pid him goot night," continued the girl,
"pw/ I couldn't tall what he did say; and he had a

EMILY MORELAND. 273

cteat cloak, that he did wrap apout him, and made
him look so pig as a giant !"

" There, now, didn't I tell you — and yet I know
you didn't believe half I said — but now, I hope, you
are convinced !" burst triumphantly from Susan, who
beheld, in this relation, a perfect confirmation of her
exaggerated statement.

Emily, however, saw nothing in the girl's observa-
tion, which could warrant any alarm at the appear-
ance of the stranger; for it was evident he had not
shunned her observation ; and his wrapping his cloak
around him, was easily to be accounted for, as the
night was sharp and piercing.

The Farmer at this moment entered from his visit
to Lambert's cottage, with whom he had been dis-
cussing the price of pigs, &c. at the day's market,
over a jug of ale, until it had been so often re-
plenished, that he was considerably elevated beyond
his usual pitch.

All Susan's terrors, and wonderments, and con-
jectures, were immediately laid before him ; but
Isaac's knowing shake of the head, at once convinced
Emily that he did not believe the man to be a robber.

" Pooh, pooh, I tell thee what — I know all about
it!" he observed; "and thee need'st not frighten
thyself at all about him, Susan; for it's only a poor
gentleman, that's crazed for love, and wanders about
not quite right in his head; but he's as harmless as
a dove, and wouldn't hurt man, woman, or child ;
and he's a very good-looking personable man, too,
considering, and speaks as soft and as sweet, aye, as
3iiy little Emily herself! And as to his eyes looking^
12. 2 N

274 EMILY MORELAND.

malicious, why he's got as fine a pair oi aparklers as
you would wish to see!"

" And where have you seen him ? and where does
he live? and what brought him peeping in at our
window, to-night ?" demanded Susan, all in a breath.

*' Oh, I'm not going to tell you every thing, in-
deed!" replied the Farmer. "I can keep a secret
better than that, I hope; but he has been living at
Lambert's; and I don't believe he has any evil in-
tentions towards you, or any body else ; — and so go
to bed, and dream of "

" I shall do as I please about that," interrupted
Susan, pettishly catching up the candle ; " but I can
tell you this — It's not much like a gentleman, to come
peeping into people's windows — and so I shall tell
your mad friend, if I see him."

The account which Isaac had given of the stranger,
(whose mal d, propos appearance at the window had
occasioned so much uneasiness and misconstruction,)
while it excited feelings of sympathy in Emily's
mind, effectually removed all personal apprehension,
or vague ideas as to the identity of him who had oc-
casioned them.

With Susan, it was matter of great rejoicing that
they had thus effectually got rid of Mr. Evelyn's
society ; yet she could not shake off the terror,
which the supposed evil intentions of the intruder
had created in her mind ; and the circumstance con-
tributed materially to increase the dislike she had
already taken to the country, and her longing after
the delights of the Metropolis.

Ashamed, however, to acknowledge that she had

EMILY MORELAND. 275

SO soon changed her mind, as to the future disposi'
tion of her life, she contrived to attribute ail her dis-
content and wavering to Emily's account, anxiously
watching every expression of gloom on the counte-
nance of the latter, and settii g down every sigh, as
occasioned by the monotony of the life they led. At
length, she came to the direct point.

"• I had almost sworn never to see London again,"
she observed, " but I think I must alter my inten-
tion, for your sake, my dear Emily ; you are pining
yourself to death here, without a hope of a change;
whereas, in -London, something or another new is
always starting up. Besides, there will be so much to
see, for you that know nothing of the world, that I
am sure you would soon be as cheerful and happy as
you used to be."

The colour rushed into Emily's ciieeks at the sug-
gestion. " I should be sorry," she replied, " if you
were to subject yourself to any inconvenience, or
expense, on my account ; yet I acknowledge that my
present situation is very irksome to me, nor do I
see any hope of amending it, while I remain here.
In London, 1 might, perhaps, be enabled to turn to
some account the advantages which I owe to the
kindness and care of my lost friend ; yet I should
shrink from encountering scenes so new and strange,
without the protection of some more experienced
friend ; and "

" Say no more, my dear," interrupted Susan, with
an air of importance, which almost obscured the
kindly feelings that beamed in her eyes during
Emily's speech ; " I am already decided, and we will

270 EMII>V MO ft ELAN n.

begin our preparations directly. Yet 1 should have
liked you to have had a new hat ; and your pelisse
is very old-fashioned, tlioujj^h it is a «»;.)od colour. I
hate to travel in shabby clothes, for we don't pay a
farthing; less, and are treated as if one was no
body, by the coachman and innkeepers, and the rest
of them on the road."

Emily smiled at her friend's ideas of a^reatness ;
but she objected decidedly to any attempts to im-
prove her wardrobe , conscious that Susan's taste
and hers would be completely at variance in the
article of dress ; and perfectly satisfied with the
ample provision, which her indulgent and partial
friend the Signora had made for her. in that re-
spect.

Susan, however, was not easily persuaded out of a
matter, on which — as, indeed, on most others — she
considered herself a much nmre competent judge
than Emily ; and the latter was obliged to compro-
mise by agreeing, that if, on their arrival in London,
she should find that there was any necessity for in-
creasing or altering her wardrobe, she would be
guided by her in doing so.

Nothing now remained, but to communicate to
Isaac Wikon the i)la:i she had formed. Emily felt
that this was a most unpleasant task ; but Susan
shiank from it, and she was therefore compelled to
make it known herself.

Isaac heard her with astonishment, which would
scarcely allow her to go on, as she attempted to point
out to him the folly and impossibility of her con-
tinuing as she was at presejit, and the probability thai

EMILY MORELANO. 277

she might, in London, establish herseli in a respect-
able and comfortable situation.

" But Mr. Evelyn don't know anything about
this, does he?" demanded Isaac, when she ceased
speaking. " I thought, I am sure, that I should soon
see you at the Parsonage House — for every body sees
that he dotes upon you, and it's all over the place
that you are going to be married directly ; but, if
this is the case, I was sadly mistaken "

" You were, indeed, I assure you, totally mis-
taken," interrupted Emily. " Mr. Evelyn is nothing
— never has been anything — more than a common
acquaintance to me."

The old man looked disappointed. " I can't doubt
your word, child," he replied ; " but I was in hopes
that it was only some lover's quarrel, and that it would
be made up yet ; but, if what you say is true, it is all
over, and I may as well hold my tongue, though I
wish Susan had been at the bottom of the sea, in-
stead of coming here to put such thoughts into your
head. If you are determined to go, I must see what
I can do about getting you some money ; for liunnun
is a poor place without a good lot of cash, and I
shouldn't like you "

Emily interrupted him. " I do not want money,

at present ; at least " she stopped short, from

the painful thoughts that forced themselves upon her
mind.

" I tell you what, my dear," replied the Farmer,
*' I don't want to hurt you, nor disparage Susan, be-
cause she's always been a good girl, and I know she
has a sincere kindness for you ; but, at the same time^

<JV» EMiLY MOREL AND.

let me advise you not to put too much trust in her
talk and promises. She means well, T know ; but,
after all, she is but a poor weak woman, and a great
deal too apt to fancy herself very clever and know-
ing. As to the money affair, I shall settle that —
because, I am sure, it would neither be fitting-, nor
right, that you should be left to depend on her, when
you have money of your own ; and, indeed, I may as
well give you, at once, what I have put by for you,
though I didn't think you would have wanted it so
soon. Howsomever, by the time this is spent, I dare
say I shall have as much more ready for you ; at
least, I'll take care you shan't be put to any incon-
venience, or want a few pounds. Now, my dear
child, 1 won't hear any objections, because the money

is your own, and I am only sorry that Hush !

say nothing, but put up the notes — here is the old
woman coming, and she knows nothing about "

Emily did as he desired, and the Farmer renewed
his remarks on the dangers and difficulties which
awaited novices, in their first introduction to the
Metropolis.

Under any other circumstances, Emily would have
been diverted at the great knowledge of the place
he was describing, which Isaac's cautions displayed ;
all the dangers he placed so formidably in array,
being precisely such as there was little or no possi-
bility a female, especially an educated and delicate
one, could meet with.

•' So, then, you me going, Miss," observed Dame
Wilson, with a look of satisfaction, which she in vain
endeavoured to veil under a pretence of sorrow.

EMILY MORELAND. 279

Emily coolly replied in the affirmative.

" Well," rejoined the old woman, " I don't know
that you could do better. London is a fine place,
and the only place in the world for them that have
got their fortunes to make in the world, and but little
to begin with, as you may say,"

The calm smile with which Emily listened to this
observation, the purpose of which she but too well
comprehended, seemed to irritate still further the
malicious propensity of Mrs. Wilson, who imme-
diately entered into a dissertation on the disappoint-
ment which often attended young women, who set
themselves up too high, and were above getting an
honest living by industry and humility to their
betters.

" Pshaw ! don't let us have any more of this
rubbish !" observed Isaac, angrily. " Miss Emily
wants none of your instructions, I am sure ! As to
her going to London, I only hope it may turn out
for the best, though 1 would much rather she'd have
stayed here."

Emily endeavoured to assume a cheerful tone, as
she laughingly observed, that he would perhaps see
her come back, a great lady, in her coach and six,
like Patty the milkmaid, who went to London to
seek her fortune, and whose history he had so often
sung to her, when she was a child ; but old Isaac's
melancholy look, and the tear that stole down his
furrowed cheek, rendered her unable to sustain her
attempt at gaiety, and she ran off, to acquaint Susan
with the re-!ult of her communication.

The necessary preparations for their journey were

280 EMILY MORELAND.

soon completed, and, the evening before the ap-
pointed period of their departure, Emily walked out,
to take a last farewell of the scenes of her childhood.

A thousand melancholy recollections of the past,
and forebodings of the future, occupied her mind, as
she slowly lingered in the path which led to the
ruined cottage, where her happy childhood had been
passed ; but every other feeling was absorbed in
surprise, when, on reaching the garden gate, she dis-
covered that some diligent hand had been employed
in clearing the garden, and renewing, as far as pos-
sible, its pristine appearance. At this moment, to
her surprise, a man came out of the little tool-house
on the opposite side of the garden, with a spade in
his hand ; and she immediately recognised Lambert,
the man at whose cottage the mysterious stranger had
/erfided.

He approachedher with asignificant smile, and pre-
vented the inquiry she was about to make, by saying,
— " I dare say you be surprised, to see the old place
springing up again. Miss ; but the gentleman that
has been living at my house took great delight in it,
and used to work for hours, early in the morning,
when nobody was about to see him ; and I promised
him I wouldn't let every thing go to wrack and ruin,
when he was gone So I've just come to do a little
bit to it myself, you see, as I've a spare hour."

Emily was indeed greatly surprised ; but she did
not like Lambert, whose forwardness always dis-
gusted her, and she therefore declined enlering into
any conversation on the subject ; but making him a
r>nial1 nresent, and hinting tl' >t she would rather he

EMILY MORELAND. 28J

should defer his intention of digging up one of the
flower beds at present, she walked on towards the
summer-house, where she had passed some of the
happiest hours of her life.

The same hand which had been so busy in the
garden, was also visible here ; for the vine had
been newly nailed up over the trellis-work, and all
looked as if it had been recently occupied by some
one. Some pieces of written paper, torn to frag-
ments, were scattered on the ground, and Emily's
quick glance soon discovered a small volume lying
in the recess, which had been originally constructed
for the purpose of such deposits.

She eagerly opened it, and found that it was a
volume of poetical selections, and in the first page

was written — " The gift of Julia Dorrington to "

All Emily's skill and penetration, sharpened as
they were by her ardent desire to ascertain who this
book had since belonged to, were insufficient to en-
able her to decipher the name which followed, and
which had been purposely erased, or rather blotted
out. But the name of " Julia Dorrington" brought
with it a train of new thoughts and reflections. It
was the name of the rich and beautiful female, whose
charms had stifled the last lingering remains of
honour in the bosom of Reginald de Cardonnel, and
steeled his heart against the claims of Marian More-
land. It was " Julia Dorrington," who had beoome
the then envied, the since neglected and deserted
wife of that unprincipled libertine ; and on whom
was it so likely she should have bestowedsuch a gift as
this book, as on th*? man who then possessed her hpsrt.
12. 2 o

282 EMILY MORELANl).

li^mily endeavoured to discover if there was any
date, which could lead to a conclusion; but, though
she turned over every leaf, nothing of the kind re-
warded her search. The blush, however, which had
deserted her cheeks, and had been succeeded by the
paleness of deep emotion, at the thoughts which had
rushed into her mind, again revisited them, at dis-
covering the name of " Emily," recently written
under the following poetical sketch.

" There first I saw her —

Her dark and eloquent eyes, mild, full of fire,
'Twas Heaven to look upon ; and her sweet voice,
As tunable as harp of many strings.
At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul."

Again her conjectures were all put to flight. " It
could not be her father, who had written this magical
word. It was not like the sober feeling of a parent,
to apply this animated description to his child. And
yet "

Most unwillingly she quitted her retired seat ; but
the sound of the church clock reminded her that she
had already been absent much longer than she had
intended to be, or than Susan would think reasonable.
kt first she hesitated what to do with the volume
tvhich had occasioned her so much speculation ; but
she considered that it was not probable that the
stranger who, by Lambert's account, had quitted
that part of the country, would return to reclaim a
book, which he had perhaps totally forgotten. It
would be spoiled, if it were left there any length of
time ; or, perhaps, be taken away by some one^ to
whom it would be of no use; and, at length, she d€-

EMILY MOJIELAND. 283

cided on taking it with her, trusting to chance to
enable her to return it to its owner.

With a heavy heart, Emily quitted a spot so de-
servedly dear to her; and, on the following morning,
bade adieu to St. Clare and its inhabitants, leaving
to Isaac the task of informing Mr. Evelyn of her de-
parture, and of the motives which led to it.

Every thing was new to Emily; and the bustle of
their departure from the inn, and the timidity she
felt at being seated opposite to a fashionably-dressed
young man, who was their only travelling companion,
prevented her giving way to those emotions which
her parting with Isaac excited. Neither Susan or
the stranger ever possessed any portion of that re-
serve and timidity which kept Emily silent, and they
soon engaged in a conversation, in which plenty of
laughter and noise supplied the deficiency of wit and
sense.

Emily said nothing, unless immediately applied to
for her opinion ; but she was not inattentive to what
passed, nor could she help feeling that the stranger's
abundant pretensions to rank and fashion, harmonised
very poorly with the occasional vulgarity of his
manner, and his ignorance of the meaning of words,
which he sometimes most ludicrously misapplied.

At first she was led to believe that his doing so was
the effect of design, and intended to ridicule Susan's
consequential assumptions, on subjects of which she
was profoundly ignorant; but further observation
convinced her that she was mistaken, and that it was
really " in sober sadness," that he was committing
the blunders which sounded at once so laughable and

284 EMILY MOUELAND.

pitiable in her ear, that she more than once caught
herself actually blushing for iiim.

Mr. Gilbert, however, for so he announced himself
to be called, was far from participating in this in-
genuous feeling. Enveloped in the impenetrable
armour of self-sufficiency and assurance, he dashed
on through thick and thin, shrinking from no subject
which could possibly be brought forward, and settling
all as much to his own satisfaction as to that of the
lady, who was evidently quite fascinated with his
prodigiously fashionable display, and assumed great
connexions.

" I declare," he observed, " I don't actually believe
any of my friends will know me, when I get to town !
I am so horribly behind-hand with the fashion ; but
I've been rustificating among the Welsh mountains,
for the last three months, just to oblige a partic'^lar
friend, who has got a seat down there, and there
wasn't a tailor w'thin fifty miles, that could make an
article fit for a gentleman to wear. So I was obliged
to put up with the things I carried down with me,
rather than submit to be made a Goth or a Wandal,
as Lady Maria says."

This, as was intended, drew from Susan a very
complimentary observation on his appearance, in the
course of which she contrived to let him know, that
she was a tolerably sufficient judge of fashion, having
only a few weeks since (juitted Bath, at that time,
the rendezvous of ail that was gay and elegant.

" I intended myself to have spent the winter at
Bath," returned Mr. Gilbert, " but my friend, the
Honourable Mr. Hawkins, was so pressing, that I

EMILY MOHEJ AND. 285

could not resist his remonstrances^ though I'va been
piao^uily dull, and couldn't have held it out, I am
sure, but for Lady Maria, who is uncommon gay and
witty. Such a creter for fun and frolic ! She's very
handsome, too, quite an Adonis, I do assure you ;
but, somehow^ or another, she arn't exactly to my
fancy. Vvn yery particular \n my taste; and yet, as
Jack Hawkins used to say, he couldn't think what
I could find to object to. I must confess, I was sorry,
because I really believe the poor girl was fond of a
certain person that shall be nameless. However,
she's going either to the Continent, or to France, or
Italy, or some of them places, and I hope it will all
wear off — for, 'pon my soul, I couldn't bring- my mind
to think of matrimony, just at present!"

Emily could scarcely suppress the expression of the
contempt she felt for this unmanly braggart ; and
even Susan's faith in her new acquaintance seemed
shaken, and her flippancy checked for a short time;
])ut again the wish of showing off, though not pre-
cisely in the same way, prevailed, and Avith silent
mortlHcation Emily listened to the confidential in-
tercourse which was gradually established between
them.

The stranger, however, with all his foppishness
and garrulity, was evidently more than a match for
Susan in cunning; and he contrived, without dis-
closing a single particular respecting himself, beyond
his avowed assumption of the rank of a gentleman,
to draw from the former every essential circumstance
of her situation in life; her object in travelling to
London ; and her total want of connexion in thai
place.

286 EiMlLY MORELAND.

It was very evident, too, to Emily, that he was
fully competent to discover, if not to take advantage
of, her friend's weakness of intellect, and total want
of caution ; and it yet remained to be seen, whether
he had any purpose to answer, in the manner in
which he addressed himself to her reigning foibles.

Wearied with the incessant nonsense which she
was compelled to listen to, her head aching from the
want of sleep, and the jolting of the coach, to which
she was so totally unaccustomed, Emily sighed a
hundred times during the night, for the quiet repose
of her own chamber; and, until she replied with an
asperity she seldom felt, or indulged, was continually
annoyed with some coarse joke ; such as — " Don't
sigh, but send, Miss; and if he won't come, take me
instead;" or something of the same level.

As his conversation, however, with Susan became
more particular and confidential, his notice of Emily
relaxed, until, wholly unnoticed by either of them,
she shrank still closer into the corner, and endea-
voured to abstract her thoughts from all that was
passing around hei.

Morning broke, and both Mr. Gilbert and his
talkative companion, tired out, at last, dropped off
to sleep, while Emily, though sick and shivering,
found some relief in gazing through the dim glass at
the fields and hedges, and sometimes was gratified
by the sight of a neat white cottage, in which her
fancy pictured the inhabitants enjcying that calm
repose for which she sighed in vain.

The sun v/as shining brightly, and the sight of the
husbandmen and labourers, plodding along the road
lO their several occupations, had diversified iUfi

RWILV MORELAND. 287

p^ene for more than an hour, before Emily's compa-
nions began to shake off their slumbers.

Emily dreaded to hear Mr. Gilbert recommence
his tiresome and unmeaning' garrulity; but sleep
seemed somewhat to have sobered him, and, though
he was still evidently desirous of cultivating the
intimacy he had commenced with Susan, he was far
less intrusive and egotistical than on the preceding
day.

With extreme dissatisfaction and dismay, Emily
heard him repeatedly allude to a future intercourse,
which he seemed to reckon upon as settled ; and
which was to be cemented by an introduction to his
mother and three sisters, whose friendship, he pro-
mised, would be instantly accorded at his recommen-
dation.

Already she began to think of the Farmer's pre-
dictions and cautions, and already she began almost
to repent that she had so rashly engaged in a project^
which, she feared, would bring on her mortification
and sorrow, if not disgrace; but it was too late to
retract, and she could only hope and pray, that, be-
fore they arrived at the end of their journey, some-
thing would happen to break off the threatened con-
nexion.

Poor Emily's evil star, however, was destined at
that moment to have the ascendancy; and when the
stage-coach stopped in Holborn, she had the morti-
fication of hearing a hack sent for by Mr. Gilbert,
into which he stepped, along with them, and they
were driven, by his direction, to a very showy millif^
ner's shop, in the neighbourhood of Oxford Street,

288 EVllLY AlORELAND.

where he said he could procure them proper and
respectable apartments.

Emily trembled, as she heard the sum which her
friend agreed to pay, for the handsomely furnished
rooms to which they fvere shown ; but she was some-
what consoled by hearing her decline to take them
for any specific period, determining;, in her own
mind, that she would exert her utmost influence to
prevail on her not to embark in an expensive mode
of life, to which she knew her finances were unequal.

The officious and persevering Mr. Gilbert, having
seen them, as he expressed himself, " quite at home
and comfortable," at length, to Emily's great relief,
quitted them ; and the latter, deferring all her
observations to a future opportunity, gladly retired
to the bed which was prepared for her, and, exhausted
by fatigue, soon forgot either that she was in Lon-
don, or the mortification which had attended her
entrance into it.

It was dark before she awoke sufficiently to recollect
the novelty of her situation, and with some difficulty
she contrived to find her clothes, and dress herself.
She opened the chamber-door, and listened, forget-
ful almost which way she was to take; but the well-
known laugh of Susan almost immediately saluted
her ear, and, guided by its sound, she crept down
the stairs, and opened the door of the sitting-room,
where, to her surprise, she beheld, seated at the tea-
table, and " quite at home," Mr. Gilbert, and two
smart vulgar-looking girls, who she readily conjec-
tured were hi? sisters.

Shivering, pale, and dejected, Emily advanced

EMILY MORELAND> 28^

almost close to the table, before she was seen, or at
least noticed, by any of the jovial party: but her
melancholy look, and the coldness with which she
replied to Mr. Gilbert's inquiries, seemed to restore
Susan, in some degree, to her recollection, and she
commenced a long apology to Emily, for apparently
neglecting her, saying that she intended to send her
tea up to her room, supposing, from her being an
inexperienced traveller, that she would not be suffi-
ciently recovered to rise.

" I should certainly have preferred remaining in
my own room," returned Emily, " if I had been
aware that you had company; but, imagining that
you were as fatigued as myself "

" Oh, no, my dear — I am not such an inexperienced
traveller as you are," interrupted Susan^ forcing a
laugh.

'" Anybody may see that," observed Mr. Gilbert,
echoing the unmeaning laugh, *' for you look as
blooming and fresh as ever; while Miss What's-her-
name looks as pale and dismal as a stewed witch !"

" La, for shame, Augustus!" exclaimed one of
the young ladies, " I declare, I never heard any
thing so unpolite in my life!"

" You're a deal more unpoliter, Miss," replied
the brother, with an angry glance, " and I desire you
vjon't take no such liberties with me!"

A contention now ensued between the brother and
sister, from which Emily shrank, with so much con-
tempt and disgust visible in her countenance, that
both parties suddenly stopped short, as if conscious
liiey were betraying and exposing themselves.
13. " 2 p

290 EMILY MORELAND.

Susan, too, looked grave and disconcerted; but a
whisper from Mr. Gilbert, of which Emily only
caught the words "envious" and "jealous," pro-
nounced with great emphasis, soon restored the smiles
to the face of the former, and the business of the tea-
table proceeded without further interruption.

" And so you've never been in London before,
jjfem?" observed one of the young ladies, drawing
her chair close to Emily, who very briefly replied that
she had not.

" Dear me, well — I declare — I quite envy you —
you will have so much to see, and so many pleasures
that will be quite new to you ! Now, I've seen every
sight in London, and sometimes I'm so tired of every
thing, that I wish I could run away into the country,
and live quite solitary."

" I cannot say that I have any inclination to live
quite solitary," replied Emily, smiling, " but, I con-
fess, I feel already that I should be very glad to be
back again."

"La! what before you've seen the Theatres, and
Astley's, and the Panorama, and the Exhibition,
and Vauxhall, and the Parks, and Kensington Gar-
dens, which will soon be filled, if the weather keeps
fine? Oh, you don't know half the delightful places
you have to see yet!"

"And which it is probable I never may see," said
Emily, when the communicative and voluble young
lady paused to take breath.

" La, my dear ! why not ?" demanded Miss Gilbert,
or rather Miss Matilda, the other sister claiming the
title of seniority, " why, my brother has already en-

EMILY MORELAND. 29T

gaged Mrs. Wilson for Drury Lane, to-morrow
night, and Covent Garden on Monday ; and then, on
Sunday, we shall of course go to the Park, if it's fine ;
and, surely, you'll never go to mope yourself to
death, at home!"

Emily was about to say that she certainly should
not consider herself included in Mrs. Wilson's ar-
rangements, but she caught the eyes of the latter
fixed upon her, with a look of anxiety and kindness,
and she could not bring herself to utter a word which
might mortify and wound her feelings. She there-
fore merely replied, that her joining in the pleasures
they projected would depend on circumstances; and
then, turning to her friend Susan, endeavoured, by
speaking to her, to put an end to the importunities
of Miss Gilbert, who, though apparently good-na-
tured, was not of the sort that could ever assimilate
with her.

With all her folly and vanity, which constantly
made a dupe of her better sense, Susan possessed
sufficient discernment to discover that her new ac-
quaintances were not exactly what they wished to
be thought. The flattery and attentions of the bro-
ther, added to a tolerably good person, and very
dashing appearance, had rendered her wilfully blind
to his very evident assumption and ignorance ; but this
veil could not be cast over his sisters, who, though
equally smart and gay, were obviously of a class which
could make no pretensions to fashion or gentility.
The contrast, indeed, between them and Emily, even
though the latter was in complete dishabille, and
silent and dispirited, was so striking, that the pre*

292 EMILY MORELAND.

suming and flippant Gilbert himself seemed to feel it,
and accordingly treated the former with much more
respect than he had before been inclined to shew her,
while Susan, whose natural habits of deference, and
real affection for her, had again resumed their in-
fluence, attempted, by every means in her power, to
compensate for her transient neglect and forget-
fulness.

Ever grateful and considerate, Emily in her turn
exerted herself to appear contented and even cheer-
ful, and the evening passed off better than she had
anticipated ; the whole of the party, with the ex-
ception of the former, engaging at cards, and thus
leaving her uninterruptedly to the enjoyment of the
fireside and her own thoughts.

*' What would the dear Signora think?" she re-
flected, as the boisterous mirth and exultation of the
winners, or the snarling contentions of the losers,
reminded her of the society into which she was thus
strangely thrown.

The reflection brought with it a long train of
regrets, and fears, and conjectures, from which she
was not aroused, until a sudden pause in the noise
a.round her discovered that she was the object of
their earnest attention ; and, hastily drying the tears
which were coursing each other down her pale
cheeks, she replied to Mrs. Wilson's earnest interro-
gation, " that she was well — though her spirits
were depressed, she could scarcely tell why."

" Well, that is strange !" observed Mr. Gilbert,
" for the air of London has generally quite a dif-
ferent effect upon most young ladies ; for my own

EMILY MORELAND. 293

part) if I travel any distance from the dear place,
I*m sure to have the blue devils — but I no sooner
g;et back within the smell of the smoke, than they
fly off, and ' Richard's hisself again V "

Emily did not reply to this effusion, and one of
the Misses observing, " that taking notice of people,
when they were nervous and low spirited, only made
them worse," the card-party took the hint, and re-
sumed their game, in which they soon became too
much interested, even to bestow any attention on
one who was so little suited to them.

The hour of parting, at length, to Emily's great
satisfaction, arrived, and, after abundance of chat-
tering anticipation of the pleasure which they were
to derive from their visit to the Theatre on the fol-
lowing evening, and several attempts to draw from
Emily a decisive promise that she would be of their
party, the visitors departed.

CHAPTER XIII.

Ail, fair delig'hts, that o'er my soul.
On Memory's wing, like shadows fly !
Ah, flowers, which Joy from Eden stole.
While Innocence stood smiling by !
But cease, fond heart, this bootless moan —
Those hours, on rapid pinion flown.
Shall yet return, by absence crowned,
And scatter livelier roses round.

COLERIDGI!

Nearly the whole of the following day was passed
by Mrs. Wilson in bed, recruiting from the fatigues

S94 EMILY MOREL AND.

of her journey, and probably avoiding- also, by thdl
means, a discussion from which she seemed to shrink,
as to the acquaintances she had formed.

Emily, indeed, had resolved, if the subject was in-
troduced, so as to give her a fair opportunity, that
she would freely declare her opinion. She felt that
it was almost impossible for her to be too fastidious
or exact in the choice of her society; but she could
make allowances for Susan, who had hitherto been
so much confined by her attendance on her mistress,
that she would naturally be anxious to enjoy those
pleasures which she had been so long denied. At
the same time, there was something about the Gil-
berts, which, independent of their vulgarity and ig-
norance, convinced her that they were far from bein;^
fit associates, even for her friend Susan, and much
less for her. The time, however, for dressing- for the
play arrived, before Emily could get an opportunity
of saying a word on the subject.

"What do you intend to wear, my dear?" inquired
Susan, with a look of solicitude, which Emily could
easily interpret.

" It will be no disappointment to you, I hope," re-
turned Emily, " that I intend staying- at home. I
am not, in fact, sufficiently recovered from fatigue,
nor can I sumraop spirits to enter into the pleasure
of such an entertainment; besides, 1 really "

^' Well, my dear, I won't try to persuade you,"
interrupted her friend, evidently anxious to avoid a
discussion, the subject of which she was well aware
of. "On Monday, however," she continued, as she
was leaving the room, " I hope you will not object."

EMILY MORELAND. 295

"I will tell you candidly, at once," commenced
Emily, but, before she could complete the sentence,
the bird was flown, and she saw no more of her until
she was full dressed, when she just looked in to say
" Good evening," Mr. Gilbert and the Misses being
already at the door, in a hackney coach, waiting for
her.

'^What shall I say to them for you, my dear?" she
observed, running to catch a hasty look at herself in
the glass, and evidently delighted at the reflection
of her charms.

" Just what you please," returned Emily, with an
air of indifference. " I do not consider myself at all
bound either to apologise or account to them, I as-
sure you."

Again Susan was off, and Emily, taking a book, sat
down quietly to pass the hours till her return.

It could not be supposed that, at her age, and with
her disposition, Emily was indifferent to the thought
of visiting the Theatre. It was, in fact, a treat she
anticipated with great satisfaction; and she felt, for
the first half hour or so, rather dull and dissatisfied;
but the certainty that she was acting properly, soon
consoled her for what, as she reflected, would per-
haps be only a temporary deprivation ; and she soon
became so interested in the volume she was reading,
that she forgot the play and its visitors, and looked
up with surprise when a young woman entered to
inquire if she wished the cloth to be laid for
supper.

"What time do the Theatres close?" inquired
Emily.

296 EMILY MORELAND

"**Oh, ma'am, they won't be ove.' for these two
hours, at soonest," replied the girl; "and then, per-
haps, Mrs. Wilson won't be at home for two hours
more, because Matty Gilbert told me that they were
all to go to her mother's to supper, and they're sure
to keep it up very late."

" Indeed! then you know the Gilberts well?" ob-
served Emily.

"Oh, yes. Ma'am," replied the girl, with a sig-
nificant smile; " they are cousins of mine. Mrs. Gil-
bert and my mother are sisters; though,since they
have been up in the world, and mother has been left
to struggle with a large family, and cannot alford to
dress and dash as they do, they can scarcely conde-
scend to notice us for relations. Matty and I, indeed,
are always good friends, for she is not so proud and
upstart as Miss Joanna and Miss Gilbert, as their
mother calls her ! But it is all the old woman's fault,
as my mother says, for she has brought them up to
think so much of themselves, though their father and
mine were both of the same trade, and both kept
butcher's shops in Clare Market; only my father
died very young, and then my mother was left to do
the best she could. But, as mother says, the money
that old Gilbert left can't last for ever ; and then
the girls, if they don't get married, or Mr. Augustus
don't marry a fortune, as they think he will "

" But is Mr. Gilbert in no trade or profession ?"
interrupted Emily, who was anxious to learn all she
could on the subject.

** Oh, dear, no — he has tried two or three things, but
nothing would do ; though, I believe, he has got some-

EMILY MORELAND. 297

thing to do now, as a rider to a tailor, a cousin of his
father's."

This was a term which Emily did not comprehend,
but the young woman explained it by saying that a
" rider" was a person who went through the country
collecting orders and bills for tradesmen.

" He pretends," continued the girl, " that he's only
been out on pleasure; but Mrs. Trenchard says she
knows, from good authority, that's what he has been
doing, for these last three months, with his conceited
talk about Lord This, and Lady T'other, who, I
dare say, would hardly look at him, or speak to him."

Emily thought this was a very probable conjecture,
and such as completely explained all that she had
been unable to comprehend ; and, having listened
patiently to the poor girl's complainings of the scorn
and insolence with which Mr. Augustus treated her,
she dismissed her, observing, that she would not
trouble her about supper, as it seemed improbable
Mrs. Wilson would return till late.

The confidence which was thus established between
Emily and Ellen, who was an apprentice to Mrs.
Trenchard, was highly prized by the latter; and on
the following morning, Emily was entertained,
during the greatest part of her breakfast time, with
anecdotes of the Gilbert family, all of which were
confirmatory of their extravagant habits, and inor-
dinate propensity for pleasure. The foolish old mo-
ther, it seemed, fancied her children were all so
beautiful and accomplished, that it was impossible
they could fail to captivate, wherever they were seen,
and was thus rendering them tota ly unfit for tlie
13. 2q

208 EMILY MORELAND.

Situation for which nature and fortune intended
them. Two of the girls had, it appeared^ had a good
opportunity of marrying respectably, soon after their
father's death; but the old woman turned up her
nose at the bare mention of a tallow-chandler, and a
baker; and the foolish girls being persuaded into the
idea that they ought to look higher than to trades-
men, they rejected their suitors, and set up at once
for fine ladies.

Mr. Augustus, however, had always been a pro-
fessed Adonis, and the fine gentleman of the family,
having, from his boyhood, quite disdained his father's
occupation, and the air of Clare Market. For this
refinement he was indebted to an aunt, who had taken
him, in his infancy, to the more classic purlieus of
Kennington Common, where she lived upon an an-
nuity of a hundred a year, bequeathed to her by a
single old gentleman, whose housekeeper she had
been for some years.

At her death, however, the young gentleman found
himself obliged to return home, with only about fifty
pounds, the old lady's savings, and a plentiful stock
of assurance and conceit, to make his way in the
world; for his father, the old butcher, declared that
he would never advance a farthing, to aid him in
making a greater fool of himself than he now wasj
and, unless he consented to put on an apron, and
learn to assist in the business, he should not have a
shilling of the money that had been made in it.
Fortunately, as the young man thought, the old man
died suddenly, before he had time to alter his will,
aa he had threatened; and Mr. Augustus found him-

EMILY MORELAND. ' 291)

self free to consult his inclinations, with a luoiet} of
his father's property, amounting to about seven hun-
dred pounds, to assist his speculations, which Avere
nothing less than captivating and marrying some
heiress, who could raise him to the acme of his am-
bition— a horse and groom, a morning lounge in
Bond Street, and the Theatres in the evening.

Ellen, however, hinted that she believed he was
beginning to moderate his ambition, his pocket being
very low ; and Emily could not but comprehend the
significant hint which was given her, that Mr. Gilbert
would not think Mrs. Wilson very undesirable, if, as
was supposed, she possessed a tolerable property.

Emily had surmised as much, even before Ellen
spoke of his present views; but she determined that,
at least, her weak-minded friend should not fall into
the trap, without an effort to save her. She was,
however, obliged to promise secresy to Ellen for the
present, as she said that her mistress and Mrs. Gilbert
were dear friends, and Mrs. Trenchard would never
forgive her, if she heard she had said anything about
them.

"You had better let them go on for the present,''
observed Ellen, " and I shall be sure to hear evary
thing from Matty; and then, when you think it is
tijiie to open Mrs. Wilson's eyes, we can contrive
some way of bringing it all out."

Emily smiled at the mingled cunning and simplicity
of the poor girl, who was so desirous of revenging
Mr. Gilbert's numerous insults and slights, by defeat-
ing his matrimonial plot; but she looked graver,
when, after a great many blushes and hesitations^

300 E M I L V M O U i: li A N D.

Ellen a\()\vtnl tliat she had once reffiirded Auffustus
with very difleient reelini>s — he had been, in fact,
her professed admirer in secret, having pretended
that his mother's ambitious views alone prevented
liis open avowal of his aflection ; but, encouraged by
her simplicity and trusting confidence in him, he had
at length dared to insult her with proposals of a very
difl'erent nature; and, when she indignantly spurned
them, liad ridiculed her presumption, in supposing
he ever intended to make hei h's wife.

" lie told me," continued the poor girl, sobbing,
" that as it was necessary for every man of fashion to
have a mistress, he had intended to bestow that
honour on me; but, if I was such a simpleton, he
should make anotlier choice; and that I should bit-
terly repent n)y folly, when I sat at the corner of the
shop window, sewing till my fingers were sore, and
my eyes ached, while he dashed by in a curricle and
pair of greys, with a smart girl by his side!

" 1 can't tell you how I abused him. Miss More-
land — 1 know I said a great many spiteful things of
liim and his family, and what their pride and vanity
would all come to; but who could help it, provoked
and insulted as I was?"

"Who, indeed!" thought Envily, who felt hei
contempt for the would-be-fop changed into hatred
and disgust, at this proof of his total want of feeling
or principle. " And did you not make his conduct
known ?" she demanded. >

" Only to Matilda," she replied, " who had known
all about our meetings, and walks of a Sunday, and
who thought, as well as me, that he really liked me;

EMILY MOllELAND. 301

but when she reproached him, he coolly told her that
he had no more liking for me than any one else, only
he thonght that I was a good-looking, shewy girl,
and would do credit to his taste, if he brought me
out. Matty w-as ready to tear his eyes out," con-
tinued the poor girl, " but she knew she should get
into sad trouble, both with her own mother and mine,
if it were found that she had encouraged our pro-
ceedings ; so we were both forced to hold our tongues,
though she gives him a rub whenever she can, and
he hates her like poison, because she tells him that
his treatment of me will come home to him."

The sound of Mrs. Trenchard's sharp voice, as
she left her bed-room, where she regularly indulged
until nine, while her apprentice supplied her place
below, recalled poor Ellen to a recollection of the
time she had lost in relating her mortification and
disappointment, and she hurried away, leaving Emily
to reflect on the baseness and heartlessness of the
being, who, she feared, had already gained but too
great an ascendancy over her friend Susan.

Her brow was still ruffled with these reflections,
when Susan, who had not been many hours in bed,
entered the room, looking pale, haggaid, and dis-
contented. Emily expressed her fears that the night's
dissipation had not done her any good.

" Why, indeed, 1 don't feel very well, this morn-
ing," she replied ; " but, the fact is, I could not
sleep, after I got to bed."

" I am sorry foi that," returned Emily, " for, I am
sure, you must be very much exhausted by so many
hours '*

3('2 EMILY MORELAMI).

'• Oh, I should not care about that," she hastily
replied ; " but, the truth is, I was very much vexed
last night by some remarks about you."

" Me !" returned Emily, with surprise, " who
could possibly think it worth while tq say any thin^
about me ?"

" Why, the Gilberts seem to think. Miss More-
land, that you set yourself quite above them and me,
and they asked me a good many questions about
you ; and, at last, it came out, that it was at the
house of a near relation of Mrs. Gilbert's that your
poor mother lodged, when she was in London, and
they knew all the whole story ; and, indeed, I could
not help thinking with them, that it is a little hard
that you should consider yourself so much above me
and my company !"

" Above your company, certainly," returned
Emily, proudly, " I do and ever shall consider my-
self; but never above one who has been what you
have been to me, Susan ! As to what such people
as the Gilberts may say, or think, respecting my
poor "

She burst into tears of mingled sorrow and indig-
nation ; and Susan wept also, from the conviction of
her own folly, in having been drawn into an ex-
posure of Emily's situation i and thus, by an ill-
grounded resentment, exposed her to the petty con-
tempt and malice of people, who, she could not con-
ceal from herself, were so completely inferior to her,
that no comparison could or ought to be drawn.

" I wish 1 had never seen these Gilberts !" she at
last observed, " for y )ur sake, my dear, that I do !"

EMILY MORELAND. 303

" And I sincerely wish so, for your own," replied

Kmily, calmly, " for I much fear, that " She

paused, afraid of infringing her promise to Ellen,
and Susan's self-conceit instantly took fire.

"• As to myself, Miss Moreland, I think I am ar-
rived at sufficient years of discretion, and have
enough experience of the world, to know how to
choose my company ; and though the Gilberts may
not suit you, who have been brought up so cleverly,
they are quite good enough for me, I assure you."

" T doubt it, I doubt it, very much, Susan," replied
Emily, warmly ; " there are very few, I fear, whom
1 should think good enough for such a heart as
yours ; and, I am sure, the Gilberts are not among
those few. I hope that you will never find to your
cost that I am right."

Susan remained silent ; but Emily saw that what
she had said had made some impression on her
mind ; and, fearful of weakening it by saying more,
she endeavoured to change the subject, by asking-
some questions relative to the entertainment she had
received the preceding evening.

" It was a very fine play," replied Susan, in a dis-
consolate tone, " and we had a capital seat in one of
the dress boxes ; but I did not enjoy it as I should
have done, if you had been there ; and I believe it
was my talking so much about you, and wishing so
often that I could have persuaded you to come, that
set them on to "

" Well, never mind, my kind friend," interrupted
Emily, whose grateful feelings were completely
aroused by this avowal, " we will say nothing more

304 EMILY MORELAND.

on that head ; and, though I cannot promise you to
like or love these people, I will promise, if it will
be any gratification to you, that I will go witli them
and you on Monday."

" You are a good dear girl !" returned Susan, com-
pletely conciliated by this assurance, which Emily
half repented at the moment she uttered it, so much
did she dislike to make her first entree in public with
the Gilberts.

The day was passed in comparative comfort, for,
except a short call from Mr. Gilbert in the course of
it, to inquire if Mrs. Wilson was quite well, and had
caught no cold, during which Emily was, as she
considered, fortunately engaged in her chamber, un-
packing and arranging her trunks, none of the new
acquaintance made their appearance.

Susan's manner, however, Emily thought, did not
seem improved by this short visit ; she was colder
and more constrained than was natural to her, and
Emily sighed from the painful conviction that the
art and flattery of this worthless young man were
every hour gaining increased ascendancy over Susan's
mind.

" What do you think Augustus had taken in his
head, my dear ?" observed the latter, abruptly, after
a long reverie, in which she had evidently been re-
calling something to her mind.

Emily smiled, as she replied, " that it was scarcely
possible that she could guess" — she was about to
add, " wha might enter such a head ;" but she re-
pressed the latter part of the sentence, and Susan
rejoined,

EMILY MORELAND. 305

** Why, he thought, from my wearing black, and
rallingmyself Mistress Wilson, that I must of course
be a widow. It was, to be sure, very foolish of me,
for I certainly am not too old to keep the title of a
maiden, and Miss Wilson would sound as well every
bit as Mistress. He vows and declares, indeed, that
he will never call me Mrs. Wilson again."

Emily tried to smile, but she sighed at the same
time, for the foolish vanity this speech betrayed ; but
Susan was busily engaged at the glass, trying on a
very fascinating new cap, which Mrs. Trenchard had
sent up as the very last fashion, and, during the dis-
cussion on its merits which ensued, the previous sub-
ject was forgotten.

A walk through Bond-street and Piccadilly, just
at the fashionable hour, was Emily's first introduc-
tion to the sights and gaieties of London, and agree"
ably occupied nearly the whole of that portion of
the day which she was accustomed to call '' after-
noon," but which she learned, from her companion
and guide, she must henceforth consider as " morn-
ing," there being no such word in the vocabulary of
the fashionable world.

At first, the novice found herself considerably an-
noyed by the numerous groups of idlers who passed
them, from whose inquisitive stare not even the ex-
treme plainness and simplicity of her appearance
could protect her ; but the repeated assurances of
her companion, that there was nothing more than
common in this, which was only a habit, somewhat
re-assured her; and the novelties which met her
view, on every side, in the shops, the equipages, the
13. 2 tt

31)6 EMILY MORELAND.

sometirae'S elegant and often outre dresses of the
females, soon suflSciently attracted her attention, to
render her less sensible of this annoyance.

She was, however, somewhat mortified by finding
her companion recognised, and familiarly, though
not disrespectfully, greeted by more than one livery
servant i and she almost instinctively shrank behind,
when one, in a flaming livery, with a gilt-headed
stick, almost as big as himself, joined his old ac-
quaintance, and walked by her side down the street
a short distance, to talk of what had occurred, while
they were residing in the same hotel at Bath.

The gentleman of the shoulder-knot had, how-
ever, discovered that Emily's old-fashioned straw
bonnet concealed a very beautiful face ; and, evi-
dently considering her as of no higher stamp than
her companion, and being, besides, a professed con-
noisseur in beauty, he turned two or three times to
address some common-place remarks to her, whose
blushes he probably attributed to bashfulness, and
a proper sense of the high honour his notice con-
ferred on her.

It was precisely at one of these moments, that
Emily, turning away her eyes to avoid his saucy
stare, met those of Herbert Leslie, fixed upon her
with a look of such surprise, and almost contempt,
as drove the bright blush from her cheek, and made
her gladly catch hold of Susan's arm for support.

"What is the matter, my dear?" exclaimed the
latter, loudly.

Emily could not utter a word, and the young man's
levity instantly subsiding, he exclaimed — " Good
heavens! slm will faint— let us take her into a shop."

EMILY MORELAND. 307

Emily, however, withdrew from the support he
would have afforded her, and, uttering^ some confused
observation that the unusual bustle and noise had
made her giddy, she attempted to walk rapidly on^
not trusting herself to look whether Leslie was still
observing her.

But the faint sickness which had seized her, would
not go off, and she was compelled to yield to Susan's
loud entreaties, and enter the nearest shop, where
she was instantly accommodated with a seat and a
glass of water, which soon had the desired effect of
relieving her.

*' Zounds ! I must run — I am five minutes past my
lady's time!" exclaimed the servant, who had been
very solicitous for her recovery. " I wish 1 could
have seen you safe home ; but Mr. Stevens, I am
sure," looking at the master of the shop, " will let
his boy run for a coach, for I would not advise you
to attempt to walk."

Mr. Stevens was all civility — " He would do any
thing to accommodate any friends of Mr. Thomas,"
he said, and Mr. Thomas, after a short whisper with
Susan, ran off to attend his engagement, as he
called it.

Emily soon, however, declared herself perfectly
recovered, and, having waited till the persons whom
curiosity, or perhaps humanity, in some instances,
had induced to loiter round the shop door, had dis-
persed, in consequence of finding that there was
nothing very serious to attract them, she thanked
the master of the shop for his civility, and, taking
Susan's arm, departed. But it was in vain that she

DOS EMILY MOllELAND.

tried to raJly her spirits, or even to collect her
thoughts, sufficiently to reply to Susan's questions
and remarks. Afraid to raise her eyes, lest she
should encounter those which had had so powerful an
effect upon her, she scarcely knew how she reached
home ; and, on entering Mrs. Trenchard's shop, she
threw herself into the nearest chair, quite exhaustea
with the exertion she had made.

" What a beautiful creature 1" exclaimed a bold,
highly-rouged, fashionable-looking woman, staring
Emily rudely in the face, " yet it looks more like
a statue of marble, than a creature of flesh and
blood!"

" She is ill. Ma'am," returned Susan, somewhat
indignantly; " come, Emily, my dear, rouse your-
self, and let us get up stairs."

" Is Miss Moreland ill?" exclaimed Ellen, who
at that moment came from the back of the shop, with
some article of dress, for the inspection of the lady.

'' Moreland ! Moreland ! — I should know that
name, and those features!" exclaimed the latter,
thrusting Ellen, who was anxiously approaching
Emily, on one side.

" She has never been in London, Ma'am, till
within the last few days, and therefore I think you
are mistaken."

" I am not mistaken, though — for just so she
looked, and just at her age She is from the coun-
try, you say? — what part? — where does she come
from? — and who does she belong to?"

Susan was about to reply, but Emily, who seemed
to have heard only the last question, burst into tearSj

EMILY MOilELAND. 309

and softly exclaiming— "Who, indeed I" — attempted
to reach the stairs, which, however, she could not
accomplish, without the assistance both of Ellen and
Susan.

" I am better now — I wish I had not gone out — I
wish I could stay here for ever, and never see any-
one again !" she passionately exclaimed, as soon as
she was seated in their own apartment.

" I hope you don't suffer yourself to be hurt by
the remarks of Lady Haviland!" observed Ellen,
*' every body knows she's half mad ; though, since
his lordship and her are come to live together again,
she seems a good deal better than she used to be ;
but she's as full of whims as an e^g is full of meat,
as Mrs. Trenchard says."

Emily, however, had been too severely hurt and
mortified, before she saw Lady Haviland, to pay
much regard to what she had said, though it had
struck upon a chord in her bosom, which never failed
to vibrate most painfully. Her thoughts were fully
occupied by Herbert Leslie, and his expressive look ;
and she was glad when the conversation which had
arisen between Susan and Ellen, respecting Lady
Haviland, was concluded, and she was left to herself.

"What a strange destiny is mine !" she exclaimed,
scarcely conscious that she spoke aloud, until Susan,
somewhat resentfully, observed, that, though it cer-
tainly was not exactly what could be wished, still
there was not so much occasion to fret, as might
have been.

" I am not inclined to Iret or repine, my dear
friend," returned Emily, recollecting herself, " nor

310 EMILY MORELAND.

am I ungrateful for the good that is still, left me;
but 1 have been vexed and mortified — I cannot, in
fact, explain — but you will forgive me — I am yet
but a child in the world. A little more experience
will fortify my mind against such trifles, for, after
all, it is but a trifle that has discomposed me now."

" It was, indeed, not worth notice," replied
Susan, who imagined she spoke of I^ady Haviland's
observation, " though, if it had not been that you
were so ill, and I was anxious to get you up-stairs, I
would have given her a good set down for her rude-
ness, even if I'd known she was a titled lady ; though,
1 declare, I thought she was a lady of a diff'erent
description, from her bold look and manners."

Not very solicitous to undeceive her, Emily suf-
fered her friend to continue her declamation against
Lady Haviland's rudeness, until the dinner was
placed on the table, and, not unpleasantly to either
party, changed the subject.

Anxious to gratify her kind friend, Emily tried to
eat, and to appear composed; but the bitter wound
her pride and feelings had received, was still smart-
ing, and Susan's casual allusion to Thomas, " Lady
Derwent's smart footman," as she called him,
seemed to tear it open afresh. She could not doubt
that Herbert Leslie had supposed her the voluntary
companion of the gentleman in yellow livery and
silver lace — " And yet, what need I care?" she re-
flected, " what is Herbert Leslie to me, or why sho uld
his opinion be of more consequence than that of the
most perfect stranger?"

Again she fried to rally her spirits, and discuss,

EMILY MORELANI). 311

with her companion, the novel sights she had wit-
nessed, even in this short excursion ; but, though
she could not succeed in talking gaily herself, she,
at least, set Susan's tongue in motion on a favourite
subject, and the latter continued to expatiate, with-
out being conscious that Emily was scarcely aware
even that she was talking, until she was obliged by
actual weariness to desist.

The indisposition which was still too visible in her
countenance to be doubted, on the following morning
afforded Emily an undeniable pretext for declining
the proposed walk in the Park, for which the Miss
Gilbert's very early made their appearance. Susan,
indeed, would, without any affectation, have evi-
dently preferred remaining with Emily, whose pale
looks and sunken eyes seemed to give her considera-
ble uneasiness ; but the latter, aware that it would
be a great sacrifice, resolutely insisted that she
should be better, if left alone ; and the new scarlet
shawl and leghorn bonnet were at length put on, and
Susan departed.

Emily's indisposition and solitude, which had been
so much dwelt upon while she was present, were
soon, however, forgotten; and she was left to enjoy,
unmolested, her own reflections, until a late hour in
the evening, when the return of Ellen, who had been,
it appeared, to pay her usual Sunday visit to her
mother, restored her (Emily) once more to the reality
of her situation, which had almost been forgotten,
in melancholy retrospections of the past, and visionary
forebodings of the future.

"Is it not almost tea-time, Ellen?" demanded
Emily, after assuring her that she was much better 5

3)2 EMILY MORELAND.

a fact, which her pallid cheeks and swollen eyes were
far from confirming.

Ellen stared — " Why, good gracious, Miss More-
land," she replied, " is it possible that Mrs. Trenchard
has been so neglectful, as not to send up, to know
whether you chose to have tea ? Why, it is past
nine, or you would not see me here — for I never
come till it strikes nine. But, I suppose, Betsy is
not at home, and Mrs. Trenchard is too great a per-
son to come herself to wait upon you, as Mrs. Wilson
is out."

Emily coloured and sighed. It was something so
entirely new to her, to be considered, or to consider
herself, as subordinate to Mrs. Wilson, that she for
a moment revolted from the thought; though she
well knew, the good-natured and good-hearted girl
meant not to inflict pain or mortification, by her
heedless remark. Ellen, however, had flown to fetch
the tea equipage, and, before she returned with it,
Emily had overcome all the sensations of mortified
pride, and was as calm and smiling as ever.

Whilst she was taking her tea, Ellen, whose time
(as she observed) was now her own, continued to
entertain her with anecdotes of the Gilberts, who
were, she said, much nearer the end of their gay
career, than she had imagined ; for her mother had
found out that the old woman was getting deeply
into debt, wherever she could. " So, I suppose,"
she continued, " they will hardly be able to hold out
much longer, — without, indeed, Mrs. Wilson is

foolish enough but, I beg your pardon. Miss

Moreland, I forgot •"

Emily smiled; but, l)cfore she could reply, tho

EMILY MORELAND. 313

voices of the Gilberts, in high glee, were heard on
the stairs, and Ellen retreated by another door, to
avoid meeting them.

After the first inquiries after Miss Moreland's
health, and an assurance from Miss Gilbert that they
could hardly prevail on Mrs. Wilson to finish her
tea, she was so anxious to return to the invalid, a
long dissertation on the pleasure they had enjoyed,
and the fashions they had seen in their afternoon's
excursion, followed.

" Mrs. Wilson has been so stared at, and so ad-
mired," Miss Gilbert observed, "that her and her
sisters stood no chance with her."

Emily's eyes spoke, pretty intelligibly, her disgust
at this coarse flattery, which the object of it received,
however, with great complacency, merely replying —

" Aye, my dear, but then you should recollect
that I have the recommendation of novelty ; now,
you, I dare say, regularly frequent the Park."

" Yes, yes, they have been seen there, till they are
as w ell known, and as little noticed, as the sentry-
boxes at the gate," replied the brother, with a horse-
laugh at his own wit.

" That's just like you, Augustus," replied Ma-
tilda, with one of her most significant looks.

" Mrs. Wilson did not tell us, though, that she
had a beau in town !" interrupted Miss Gilbert,
with a sly glance at Emily.

" Pooh, nonsense, I tell you it's no such thing,"

replied Susan, smiling, with an exp-ession of gratified

vanity. " The gentleman that spoke to me was, 1

a^ure you, only a common acquaintance ; and, in-

14. 2 s

314 EMILY MOIIELAND.

deed, hardly that; though he always behaved very po-
litely, when we met. I little thought, indeed, that
he saw us yesterday, when you were taken so ill,
my dear," turning- to Emily ; " for he came up to
me in the Park, and asked me if the young lady he
saw with n.e, in Piccadilly, was quite recovered."

" It was not very polite, however," observed Mr.
Gilbert, with an air of pique, " for him to see you
in such distress, and keep out of the way, instead of
coming to your assistance."

" I suppose he thought we had quite sufficient
assistance without him," observed Emily, trying to
conceal her vexation and confusion, by assuming an
air of indifference.

" I understood you was by yourselves," rejoined
Mr. Gilbert.

" Oh, no — there was a young man — a person whom
I knew something- of," observed Susan, hastily, con-
fused in her turn, lest her great friends the Gil-
berts should discover the rank in life of her ac-
quaintance.

A long silence succeeded this avowal. Mr. Gilbert
was evidently surprised, and alarmed, at the disco-
very that Mrs. Wilson was not so entirely uncon-
nected and unknown in London, as he had imagined;
and the latter felt conscious that there was a mys-
ttiy, which she did not wish to exist, yet knew not
how to explain, without betraying what she was
so anxious to conceal.

Emily was silent — for she was recalling to her
mind all the vexatious circumstances connected with
this occurrence, and yet feeling half gratified with

EMILY MORELAND. 316

the solicitude which had prompted Herbert Leslie to
inquire after her.

"^ I think I have seen the y o mi g feller, somewheie
or another," observed Mr. Gilbert, with an air of
consequence ; " but I know many people by sight,
though I can't remember their names.'

"His name is Leslie," observed Mi's. Wilson ;
" but, I assure you, you are quite out, if you think
he's any beau of mine"

" Well, he's a very handsome, elegant, young
man," added Miss Matilda Gilbert, " and nobody, I
am sure, need be ashamed of owning his acquaint-
ance, let him be who he will."

" Oh, he's a real gentleman, I assure you,** re-
joined Mrs. Wilson, hastily, " and keeps his ser-
vants and horses ; at least, he did, when he was at
Bath."

" How he stared at Matilda and me !" observed
Miss Gilbert, looking at herself, with a self-satisfied
air, in the glass.

" Yes, indeed, if he'd really been a sweetheart of
mine, I shouldn't have been best pleased at the look
he gave you. Miss Matty,'* observed Mrs. Wilson,
smiling.

" Me ! La, how can you say so ?" returned Ma-
tilda, her eyes brightening, and the rouge deepening
on her cheeks.

" I'll be hanged if he wasn't quizzing her fright-
ful bonnet," said the elder sister, with a spiteful
look at Matilda, who was really a pretty girl, though
spoiled by the art and affectation which were em-
ployed to set off. as she supposed, her natural
charms.

316

EMILY MORELAND

Emily thought, at the minute, and it was not
V, ithout some uneasiness that she made the reflection,
that it was very probable that Herbert saw more to
look at in Matilda, than her frightful bonnet, which,
by the bye, though not so fashionable as her sister's,
became her extremely well, and gave additional
loveliness and archness to her gipsy features.

" I don't know whether it was my bonnet, then, or
Mrs. Wilson, that was the attraction," replied Ma-
tilda, with a provoking smile, " but I can tell you
this, that the gentleman sent a person to watch us
home ; for I saw him speak to a young man, and
look at us, and, just as we were going in-doors, 1
turned round and saw the young man standing at
the corner ; and, after we got up into the drawing-
room, I peeped out, and he was just passing, and
looking at the number on the door."

" And more shame for you, Miss, to encourage
him by looking out," observed Mr. Augustus,
sharply; " but I don't believe a word of it at all, or
else you'd have bragged before — for I'll be bound
you fancy he's in love with your ugly face !"

Disgusted with the rising contention, which Emily
now comprehended the secret motive of, and angry
that the name of Herbert JLeslie should be thus
brought in by such people, she endeavoured to give
a turn to the conversation, by inquiring, with an
assumed laugh, " If they could find no one in the
park worth noticing, but this Mr. Leslie ?"

" Well, that's just the cleverest thing I've heard
Miss Moreland say yet," observed Mr. Gilbert, with
an appro\ ing air; " for I'm sure, by the fuss that's

EMILY MORELAND 317

made about him, one would think this Leslie 'vas
quite something extraordinary ; and, instead of that,
he's a mere nothing- of a feller^ with his cravat tied
in the fashion of twenty years ago."

Emily's contemptuous smile seemed not entirely
lost upon the self-sufficient fop, who in vain tried,
by humming a tune, and slapping his boots with his
stick, to disguise his confusion ; while Miss Gilbert
and her sister, not heeding his remark, continued to
descant on Mr. Leslie's person, the colour of his
eyes, his teeth, hair, &c. until Emily began to dis-
play such evident signs of weariness, as could not be
disregarded; and the party, in consideration of her
indisposition, separated for the night.

" How strange !" observed Susan to herself, after
sitting for some time, silently gazing on the fire,
without apparently recollecting that she had a com-
panion.

" What is strange !" enquired Emily.

" Oh, only, my dear, that Mr. Leslie should never
speak yesterday, when you were with me ; and to-
day, he slipped away from a whole party of gentle-
men, to follow and speak to me."

Emily did not think it strange at all, but she
merely replied that she could form no judgment on
the subject, and it was soon dismissed for one much
more congenial to Susan's heart — Mr. Augustus
Gilbert, whose soft speeches and flattery had made
so deep an impression, that Emily saw that any ob-
servations she might make to his disadvantage,
would be very unwelcome. She was, therefore, as
cautious as possible, in reply to her friend, who,

318 EMILY MORELAND.

evidently doubtful aud suspicious, even of her owli
prudence_, was yet not willing- to listen to anything
that could impeach it ; and would fain have drawn
Emily into giving a favourable opinion of one, whom
the latter more than suspected was deserving of a
very opposite one.

" I am never very hasty in forming a decided
opinion of any individual," observed Emily, in reply
to her questions. " The very limited society to which
I have been confined, has not afforded me much op-
portunity for observation. Mr. Gilbert may be a
respectable young man ; but, certainly, his education
has been sadly neglected, and "

" His education is, at least, equal to mine," inter-
rupted Susan, hastily ; " that is to say," she added,
as if recollecting the full import of her observation,
" I mean, that T am not capable of understanding
where he is deficient, though you may be. But there
ought to be some allowance made — he was an only
son, and quite a spoiled child ; and, he says himself,
he plagued his father so, in finding schools for him,
that would humour him, and put up with his ways,
that the old man, at last, gave up the thought of
making him a scholar, and let him do as he liked."

A long pause ensued, during which Susan seemed
anxiously waiting to hear what Emily had further
to urge.

*' I will tell you at once, candidly," observed the
latter, at last, " I am very well convinced — nay, I
have reasons to know, Susan, that you have formed
an erroneous opinion of these people, from their
dashing appearance, and the consequence they as-

EMILY MORELAND. 349-

sume. Do not be angry with me, my dear friend,
when I heg, I entreat, that you will be on your guard,
tnd not enter into any engagement with that man,
who, I am fearful, indulges hopes and designs "

" Which you would not have found so very shock-
ing. Miss Moreland," interrupted Susan, sarcas-
tically, "if it had been you they had been fixed on;
but there's no accounting for tastes, you know ; and
so it happens that he sees more attraction in me than
in you, which, I confess, is not very flattering to a
young lady, who has been taught to think herself
above all the world for beauty and accomplishments."

Emily's indignation was only exceeded by her as-
tonishment, at this observation. A moment's reflec-
tion, however, during which Susan, avoiding meet-
ing her eyes, and evidently half ashamed of what she
had said, had been lighting her candle to retire to
bed, induced her to suppress all reply, which could
betray her feelings. She, therefore, only observed,
that such an accusation was totally unworthy of an
answer, and, coolly returning Susan's " good night,"
they parted.

Emily, however, could not think of sleep; she felt
that all hopes of remaining with Susan, until some
opportunity off*ered of improving her condition, were
at an end ; for she could never tamely submit to in-
sult and insolence, and that she was certain would
be her lot, should Mr. Gilbert maintain the ascen-
dancy he had already acquired over the mind of her
former friend.

" Yet I will not leave the field to him, without at
least one effort to open her eyes to the ruin she will

320 EMILY MORELAND.

bring upon herself, should she persevere in forming
this unfortunate connexion," she reflected; and, with
this determination, she sat down to write to Susan a
full explanation of her feelings and intentions.

*' If this young man is what he pretends to be," she
observed, after some introductory remarks, " he will
not hesitate to give you some more satisfactory re-
ference as to his circumstances, &c. But, even then,
should all prove correct, I am sorry to say it, he is
the last person I would select as a husband for my
friend; and, for I will not deceive you, he is the last
whom I could voluntarily make a companion. Con-
vinced, therefore, that our remaining together can
only be productive of uneasiness to both, while you
retain your present feelings, I have deternuned to
separate at once; and, before you receive this, shall
have secured myself a home, suitable to my humble
circumstances and expectations."

Before Susan had quitted her pillow, Emily,
dressed as plainly as possible, had ventured out alone,
having first made some inquiries of Ellen,^ respecting
the different streets in the neighbourhood.

She had, however, many more difficulties to en-
counter in her attempt, than she had reckoned upon ;
and she was about to turn, despairingly, away from
a door,where a neat quaker-like woman had answered
her inquiry, by saying, with a shake of her head, that
she never let her apartments except to gentlemen ;
Mhen attracted, as it appeared, by the expression of
Emily's countenance, the woman observed, in a
friendly tone —

**Thou canst look, if thou wilt, at a room which

EMILY MORELAND. 321

I have vacant; but I am doubtful thou wilt think
the accommodation not equal to thy wishes."

" I want nothing but cleanliness and comfort," re-
plied Emily, gently, as she followed her up the stairs,
which were as white as scouring could make them.

The old lady made no reply, but ushered her into
a small chamber, the furniture of which was stu-
diously plain, but neat and clean to the utmost par-
ticularity.

" This is exactly what I should wish," observed
Emily, looking round her with a feeling of comfort,
such as she had not experienced since she had left
the Valley of St. Clare ; " what are your terms,
Madam, for this room? 1 should give but little

trouble, for I must learn to " She paused,

unable to conclude the sentence.

" I have always had seven shillings a Aveek for this
room," observed the old lady, '*but, if thou and I
can agree, I will take six of thee."

Emily thought this very reasonable; she would
not have objected, indeed, to the first-named sum,
but prudence whispered her to be silent on that
subject.

"And, now, 1 must know what are *hy means to
pay this sum, and what occupation thou followest? —
or what friends thou hast to depend upon ? — for thou
art very young to be left to thyself."

Emily with difficulty suppressed her tears, as she
replied, that she was at present without occupation.
It was her intention, she said, to ofi'er her services,
as a governess or teacher in a school.

'■' The means of paying you, Mo jam, this will
14. 2 T

322 EMILY MOn ELAND.

ensure you," she continued, taking from her purse
one of the four five-pound notes which Farmer Wil-
son had given her; "you can, if you please, keep
that in your possession ; though, I will candidly tell
you that I hope, before I have remained as long
with you as that will pay for, I shall be better pro-
vided for."

" I hope so, too," returned the old woman, gazing
wkh her piercing eyes still more intently in Emily's
face; "but thou hast friends, of course, to recom-
mend thee — without friends, I fear "

The tears, which had stood in her downcast eyes,
rolled down Emily's cheeks, as she replied, that she
knew not that she possessed any friends who could
advance her pi!rposes. " I am not quite destitute,
either, of friends," she continued, summoning up her
spirits, and trying to smile; "but they are not in
circumstances to benefit me much, in the way I pro-
pose to adopt."

"Thou art not, T hope, rashly undertaking this,"

replied the old woman, " thy father and mother "

" I have neither, Madam," replied Emily, with
deep emotion, " nor any relative living, to whom I
am accountable. When I spoke of friends, they were
such as chance, not nature, has given me."

The old woman took off her spectacles, wiped them,
and again gazed in her face, before she replied — " I
will trust to thy tale, for thy face voucheth for its
truth; only one thing thou must understand — I will
have no company keeping, no idle young people here,
nor gadding abroad at late hours. My hou^e is, as
thou seest it, plain and homely, but quiet and of

EMIT. Y MO RE LAN I). 323

good repute. There are only two staid elderly men,
who are never out after ten at night, and thou must
comply with the same rules, if thou abidest with me."
Emily's spirit somewhat recoiled from the dicta-
torial tone in which this was uttered ; but she con
sidered that it ensured her a safe and respectable
home, and this determined her to accept the offer.

" I do not fear giving- you any dissatisfaction on
those points, Madam," she replied, " and will there-
fore consider myself as settled."

" And when wilt thou come ? and where art thou
now abiding?" inquired the old woman.

Emily replied, that it was uncertain whether she
took possession that evening, or the following day,
but that w ould be the extent of her stay, in her pre-
sent residence ; and, having named Mrs. Trenchard's
as her abode, she bade the old woman good morning,
and was about to leave her, when the latter called
her back.

"Surely, thou art not going to be so foolish, as to
trust thy money in the hands of a stranger?" she ob-
served. "Thou art, indeed, but a child — but thou
should'st know better how to take care of what is so
necessary in this world."

Emily would have declined taking the note, but
the old woman was resolute, and the affair was at
length compromised, by the latter's depositing one
pound in its stead.

With a I'ghter heart than had beat in her bosom
since her arrival in London, Emily retraced her steps
to Mrs. Trenchard's, where she found Susan in great
surprise and consternation, awaiting her at the

324 EMILY MORELAND.

breakfast table. The coldness and petulance, which
had distinguished her manner on the preceding even-
ing, had entirely vanished, and, grateful for the
anxiety which her countenance, as well as words,
betrayed, Emily could not resolve to hurt her feel-
ings by avowing, at once, what had been the object
of her ramble. She, therefore, evasively replied that
she had been looking about her a little, observing,
with a forced smile, " You knoAV, my dear Susan, it
will not do for me to sit down by the fire side, and
indulge all my countrified terrors of London streets,
and Lrondon dangers — 1 must learn to encounter them
all by degrees, or how can I ever expect to get my
living among them?"

" Don't talk so, for goodness' sake?" replied
Susan, her eyes filling with tears. " Get your living,
indeed ! Do sit down, and take your breakfast, and
teli me where you have been."

" Seriously, then, I cannot tell you that, except
that I have been up one street, and down another,
still keeping Oxford Street in view, and thus coming,
as you see, safe home again. But," she added,
after a pause, " I will not deceive you — 1 had an ob-
ject in view, and, before many hours are passed, I
will explain to you what that object was."

Susan looked as if she would have pressed for an
immediate explanation ; but Emily's manner seemed
to discourage her, and she only observed, that she
knew the latter would never do anything that was
not right and proper, and would therefore wait her
own time.

" I have promised to go out with the Gilberts, this

EMILY MORKLAND. 'it*

morning;," she observed, in a careless tone, but with
something- like confusion in her looks. " I suppose
it is useless to ask you to go with us, but, recollect,
you engaged to go to the Theatre to-night, and you
cannot now, with that bright colour in your cheeks,
plead illness as an excuse."

Emily hesitated — " It will be the last, as well as
the first time," she thought to herself, "and it will
look ill-natured, and a refinement upon prudery, if
I refuse."

Susan looked rather mortified at even this slight
hesitation, but Emily's assurance that she would be
ready at the appointed time, restored complacency
to her features, and she retired to prepare for her
morning's excursion.

Susan's eyes glistened with pleasure, when, on
entering Emily's bed-room, to bid her farewell for
the morning, she found her employed in looking over
the few ornaments she possessed, and selecting such
as she considered most appropriate, it being the first
time of her laying aside her mourning habit.

"Ah, now, that's something like!" exclaimed
Stisan. " I shall have some hopes of you, now ; and,
after all, Emily, you must allow that it would be
downright nonsense, to come up to Liondon, and set
yourself quietly down by the fireside, where you can
neither see or be seen, any more than you could at
St. Clare."

Emily could not deny the truth of this; but she
sighed deeply at the mention of that beloved spot,
Avhich, deprived as it was now of its greatest attrac-
tions, was still inexpressibly dear to her; and Susan

326 EMILY MORELAND.

proceeded, almost unheeded by her auditor, to detail
all the advantages which must, according to her, arise
from the hitter's dismissing from her thoughts and
countenance that melancholy which had hitherto ob-
scured them, until, reminded by the clock that she
had already exceeded the hour of her engagement
with the Gilberts, she hastily broke off, with an in-
junction to Emily not to be afraid of dressing too
smart, as the Gilberts intended to be very dashing
indeed.

" Matilda's head runs on nothing but Mr. Leslie,"
she added; "but 1 rather think, my dear, between
you and I, she would stand but a poor chance by your
side, either witli him or any one else."

It was fortunate that Susan was quitting the room
at the moment she uttered this, or the contempt and
indignation which Emily felt, at being thus classed
with one of the Gilberts, as a candidate for Herbert
Leslie's admiration, would at once have destroyed
all the harmony which now subsisted between them,
and have betrayed, probably, the interest, which, in
spite of all her resolutions of indifference, she could
not help still feeling towards her former friend.

The task of selecting and arranging was suspended,
and Emily, leaning her elbow on the table, sat for
more than an hour, recalling to her memory every
circumstance connected with one whose fascinating
and impassioned manner, on his first introduction to
her at St. Clare, formed such a striking contrast with
his subsequent neglect and indifference.

"Matilda Gilbert, indeed!" she repeated to her-
self, in a tone of contempt, which betrayed fully her

EMILY MORET,AKD. 327

consciousness how little she haa to fear from such an
insignificant girl, were there not other causes for that
change of sentiment, which Herbert Leslie's altered
manners and long neglect betrayed.

Ellen entered to receive her directions for dinner,
and Emily started, at discovering how long she had
been engaged in reflection on a subject which she
had often resolved never to think of again.

" So, you are going to the play with them, Miss
Moreland?" observed the latter, as she was laying
the cloth.

Emily replied in the affirmative.

*' Matty is half wild about somebody that fell in
love with her, she says, in the Park yesterday," con-
tinued the girl. "She just ran in this morning, to
tell me, and ask me whether I thought you would
go to-night. I suppose, she is afraid of your taking
her new beau from her; so she will not be much
pleased, to find that you are going."

Emily's cheeks crimsoned as she hastily replied —
" Why, surely, she has not the vanity to suppose that

Herbert Leslie 1 mean the gentleman that — She

does not expect him to be at the Theatre?"

Ellen stared in surprise — "I did not know," she
at length observed, " that you were acquainted with
the gentleman. Miss Moreland t nor I don't know
anything about his going with them to the play; but
1 know she came here, coaxing Mrs. Trenchard to
let her have a wreath of flowers, unknown to her
mother; though, I can tell her, Mrs. Trenchard
won't trust her mother, any more than her, again, for
they have run a larger bill now than ever they'll pay."

328 EMILY MOHET.AiVO.

" Well, but whiit did she say about, the Theatre?"
interrupted Emily, inipatiepitly.

*' Oh, she oiily said to me, slily, that she'd got a
new beau — such a handsome man, that she had met
in the Park, yesterday ; so I thought, by her anxiety
to have the flowers, that she expected to see him to-
night, thouffh I did not understand he was a friend

5 7 o

of yours, but thought it was some acquaintance she
had picked up in the Park."

*' He is no friend of mine, I assure you, Ellen,"
returned Emily, recollecting herself, and assuming
a tone of indifference ; " but, as I happen to know that
he is in a very different sphere of life from the Gil-
berts', I felt surprised at the idea of his associating
with them."

" Oh, dear, there's no saying how gentlemen will
stoop, to answer their own purpose," returned Ellen,
with a sagacious look. " Matilda is certainly a very
pretty girl, and it won't be the first time that plans
have been laid "

Emily rather petulantly interrupted her — " I do
not want to hear any more of the history of people
who are so totally indifferent to me as the Gil-
berts !" but, almost immediately, observing that her
remark had confused and hurt the poor girl, she
added, in a gentler tone — " I have just now so many
subjects of more importance to occupy my mind,
that I can scarcely bestow a thought on what does
not at all concern me."

Ellen looked as if she scarcely credited this asser-
tion, though she observed, " that, certainly, they
were not much worth thinking about ;" and, anxious

EMILY MOttELANI).

3'^

to make some reparation, for the hastiness of her
manner, Emily requested Ellen's acceptance of a
very pretty pair of ear-rings, which had been given
her by the Signora.

A less gift than such a piece of finery as this,
would have secured pardon for a greater offence
with poor Ellen, whose means of procuring such
articles were much inferior to her inclination ; and
she departed, exulting in her acquisition, and leav-
ing Emily in such agitation of mind as scarcely left
her power of reflection.

Could Ellen's hint be founded in reality ? Could
Herbert Leslie be a seducer, and Matilda Gilbert
the object of his views ? She recollected what the
latter had said, respecting his having employed some
one to follow them home ; and, connecting it with
the circumstance of Matilda's anxiety to appear to
advantage in the evening, she was led to conclude,
that the latter had seen him since, and probably ap-
pointed a meeting at the Theatre. All that she had
laid out for her own appearance was instantly thrown
aside, and, with a look of the deepest chagrin and
vexation, she sat down, determined that she would
not go at all.

In a few minutes, a second thought occurred — she
would go, to let him see how much she despised his
conduct ; she would go, if it were only to have an
opportunity of putting the thoughtless girl upon her
guard against him, for she was certain he could
have no honourable intentions towards one, who,
after all, possessed only personal attractions, and
was distinguished for nothing else but silline^ and
14 2u

330 EMILY MORELAND.-

afFectation, rendered bearable only by an appearance
of extreme good-nature.

Mrs. Wilson returned in time to swallow a lat*;
and hasty dinner, and Emily's hurried and absent
manner escaped her notice.

" Do you expect any one beside the Gilbert
family, to accompany us this evening ?" inquired
the latter, trying to assume a very indifferent air.
Her voice, however, betrayed the interest she felt
in the inquiry, and Susan looked at her with sur- i
prise, as she replied —

" Only a young man, that is paying his addresses
to Caroline Gilbert, the sister that you have not
seen, but who is sufficiently recovered, she thinks, to
go with us to-night. But what reason had you for
asking, my dear ? We shall be quite safe, even if we
had only Augustus to protect us ; for he is so well
known to the people about, that there is no danger
of our being molested."

Emily was silent, for she did not wish to own the
true motive of her inquiry, and, in a few moments,
they separated to dress.

Though scarcely conscious that she did so, Emily
bestowed unusual pains on her appearance ; and her
friend Ellen, seemingly equally concerned that she
should appear to advantage, devoted the half hour
allowed her for tea, to assist her in dressing.

" Oh, how beautiful you do look now ! You have
got such a bright colour, and your eyes sparkle so,**
she observed, stepping back, and surveying Emily
with looks of unfeigned admiration.

'* You are a little flatterer," replied the latter,

:.:n:ilL¥ MvD^aijfV^iMB;

EMILY MORELAND 3-il

gmiling-, " and I doubt if 1 shall receive as great a
conipliineiit from any one else, to-night. Mrs Wil-
son, for instance, will I know find fault, because
I have not made myself smarter."

" I'm sure I dont know what could improve
you," returned Ellen, " except, indeed, a coronet
of flowers for your hair, which is rather too plain for
the fashion. Do let me fetch you two or three from
the shew-room to look at — they are so beautiful, and
so becoming !"

Emily had not time to utter a negative before she
had flown down stairs, and as quickly returned with
a box of flowers.

" There," she observed, as she placed a wreath of
©arnations, most beautiful and delicate in colour and
construction, on her head ; " There ! can any thinji^
look more lovely, or contrast more delightfully with
your glossy dark hair, than they do ? And they
give you such a noble look, too ! Oh, pray do have
them !"

Emily laughed at the eagerness with which her
officious attendant pleaded for this addition to her
appearance ; but she could not but acknowledge, as
she surveyed the eff'ect in the glass, that they really
were ornamental and becoming ; and she was on the
point of deciding to keep them, when she recol-
lected that she had not yet ascertained their price.

" Half-a-guinea," returned Ellen, " and that is
considerably less than what we have charged for
similar ones, within this week. Lady Haviland paid
a guinea and a half for two, exactly the same, on
Friday, when you saw her in the shop."

332

EMILY MORELAND.

'' Yes, but, my dear girl, half-a-guinea is more than
I can afford to throw away, for an article which it is
possible, and probable, I may never wear again,'*
replied Emily, beginning to unfasten the flowers.

Susan at this moment entered.

" Oh, what a beautiful coronet ! — don't take it
off, my dear, for it is impossible you can place it
on to better advantage. You look delightfully,
indeed !"

Emily did not immediately remove the flowers,
but she declared, with an air almost of regret, that
they were too expensive for her to purchase.

Susan, however, insisted that they were an abso-
lute bargain — as cheap as dirt — when she heard the
price; and Ellen declared that it would be quite a
sin and a shame to take them off, they added so much
to the brilliancy of her appearance.

Emily glanced her eye towards the glass, and
thought again of Herbert Leslie — the box was
closed, though a feeling of reproach and vexation,
at her own weakness and extravagance, entered her
mind, as she drew the half-guinea from her purse ;
and this uncomfortable feeling was still more in-
creased, when Ellen observed, with an air of
triumph —

" I am so glad you have got them — for it's the
very wreath that Matty Gilbert wanted, and Mrs.
Trenchard would not let her have it."

" I am sure then I would not have had it, if 1 had
known that," returned Emily, whose proud spirit
lecoiled from anything that looked like petty triujsjph
or malice.

EMILY MORUr.AND. i333

Ellen made a signal to her to be silent, as Mrs. Wil-
son had re-entered the room ; and Emily was allowed
no longer time to hesitate, for the Gilberts were
already in the sitting-room, and she was obliged to
follow Susan down stairs, where they were waiting
to take tea, before their departure for the Theatre.

The eyes of the three Miss Gilberts, their brother,
mother, and the gentleman who accompanied them,
were all intently fixed on Emily , as she entered the
room, and, with somewhat more than even her usual
dignity, returned their salutations.

To such of the party as she had not before seen —
the old woman. Miss Caroline, and her admirer Mr.
Osborne — she was formally introduced by Mrs. Wil-
son, whose natural consequence seemed not a little
increased by the evident impression which Emily's
appearance and manners made upon her new ac-
quaintance.

" I can't think how Shakespeare came to insert,^*
observed Mr. Gilbert, staring at Emily through his
eye-glass, " that a beautiful woman needs not the
aid o{ hornament. I'm sure Miss Moreland contra-
dicts him flat — for I never saw her look to such ad-
vantage as she does now she's dressed."

" Aye, they say, ' fine feathers makes fine birds,' "
observed Mr. Osborne ; " beg your pardon. Miss-
meant no offence — hope none is taken. It's only a
way I've got — must have my joke, if I lose my friend
— mustn't I, Carry?"

" La, Mr. Osborne, why do you ask me ?" returned
Miss Caroline, to whom tiiis appeal was made;
"you're always applying to me, and it looks so very
articular."

334 EMILY MORELAND.

"Particular! m ell, you know I mean to bepai-
ticular! you wouldn't have me be particular with
anybody else, would you? — because, if you do, say
so at once, and here's a young- lady that looks very
good-natured, and I dare say we shall agree very
well together, don't you think we shall. Miss?"

Emily shrank back timidly, and scarcely knowing-
how to reply to the vulgar familiarity and assurance
of this new addition to the jjolished circle into which
Susan's folly had introduced her ; but she was spared
the necessity of speaking, by Miss Caroline's reply-
ing, with an air of perfect self-sufficiency, "that she
should be very glad if he could find any young lady
that would be troubled with such a bear, and take
him off her hands." uj '•;;;■) I. ' ;

"Jealous — for two-pence half-penny!" observed
Mr. Osborne, chuckling, and rubbing his great red
hands with an air of delight. " You shall see how
I'll plague her, now. — I'll make her as mad as a fury,
by pretending to make love to you," jogging Emily's
elbow.

" Oh, I beg you will not make me instrumental to
your barbarity. Sir," returned Emily, smiling con-
temptuously at the air of self-conceit which shone
in his fat rosy face.

" Oh, lord, bless you, it's only fun ! — She knows I
arn't serious — It's only a way I've got," replied Mr.
Osborne, very seriously.

Emily, however, retreated from him, and made a
place for herself between Matilda Gilbert and her
mother, who were both observing her in silence.

"Well, and how do you like London, Ma'am?"
inquired the old woman, whose coarse voice and

EAllLY MORKLAND. 335

masculine manner were even more repellant and un-
attractive than her looks, which were not very deli-
cate or inviting.

Emily made some very slight answer to this in-
quiry, which was delivered in a manner that evinced
no kind o»f interest, but a mere desire to say some-
thing, by way of commencing a conversation.

It was, however, soon prevented by Mr. Osborne,
who, placing himself behind Emily's chair, observed,
" that he was not going to be tricked in that manner.
Carry had turned him over to Miss Moreland, in the
presence of all ihem witnesses, and he should stick
by the bargain."

" Carry and you are always falling out before com-
pany," observed Mrs. Gilbert, with a laugh which
was succeeded by a half-concealed frown, and ex-
pressive glance of reproof at her daughter.

" That's as much as to say, we make it up behind
people's backs, I suppose," replied the facetious Mr.
Osborne; " but, 1 assure you, that is not my way —
is it. Carry?"

Carry, however, had received her mother's hint,
and she affected to look so pensive and discontented,
that, hastily whispering to Emily — " It won't do, will
it, to carry the joke too fai' — she's been very ill
lately, and I don't want to hurt her," he retreated,
to the great satisfaction of the latter, who, relieved
from his troublesome familiarity, and determined, if
possible, to make herself comfortable, for the few
hours she was obliged to pass in society so new and
so unsuitable to her, addressed herself to Matilda,
oKserving, that she seemed out of spirits, but she

3yC EMILY MOREL 8lND.

hoped the entertainment of the evening »vould revive
her.

"Oh, I don't care a farthing for the play, I can
assure you," returned Matilda, " and I know I look
quite a fright, don't I? I have got such a cold, and
that always makes me such a figure, I hate to go
out."

" I wonder you can tell such falsehoods, Matty,"
observed the eldest sister, " for, I am sure, I never
saw you more eager than you were to-night, to go
anywhere. Indeed, Carry said she knew you had
got tiomething in your head beside the play, or you
wouldn't have been so anxious and eager to go.'*

Matilda blushed as she angrily disclaimed any par-
ticular motive, and Emily's assumed vivacity va-
nished, as Herbert Leslie and Ellen's insinuation
came again into her head.

CHAPTER XIV.

To you my soul's affections move.

Devoutly, warmly true ;
My life has been a task of love.

One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith is o'er,

If still my truth you'll try ;
Alas, I know but one proof more —

I'll bless your name, and die ! Moore

Tme first act of the play, which was " The School
for Scandal," was just concluding, as the party, with
whom Emily was so reluctantly associated, entered
the box appropriated to them ; it being considered

EMILY MORELAND. 337

by Ml. Augustus Gilbert, who was the arbiter
elegantiarum, the very acme of vulgarity, to be seen
in the Theatre before the commencement of the per
formances.

The splendour of the house, the gaiety of the sur-
rounding company, and the entire novelty of all she
beheld, was sufficient to engross Emily's whole at-
tention, and render her for awhile forgetful of the
unpleasant fears and expectations which had occupied
her, on their way to the Theatre.

The second act commenced, and her attention be-
came riveted to the stage; and, though sometimes
annoyed and disturbed by the loud whispers of her
companions, she was soon so much delighted and
interested, that she did not observe that the very cir-
cumstance she had anticipated and dreaded, had
taken place. Herbert Leslie was there — had recog-
nised, and from an adjoining box was watching her
every look and action.

" There's my beau ! I thought he would be here !"
observed Matilda Gilbert, leaning across Emily, to
spoak to her sister Caroline.

" Where ! what the gentleman that you met in
Hyde Park ? Is that him ? Lord, what a handsome
fellow !" replied the latter.

Emily involuntarily turned her eyes in the same
direction, and encountered the expressive ones of
Herbert, fixed full on her.

Matilda's exulting tone was suddenly exchanged
for one of extreme discontent ; for she could not mis-
interpret the mutual emotion which this exclian;;^
f glances occasioned.

15. 2%,

3^ EMILY MORBLAND.

" How I do liale (o he crammed up in a corner, in
this manner," she observed, " where one can't get
near, to speak to anybody (hat one cares about.
You miajht let me sit there, Caroline, if you had any
good-nature."

" No, indeed, I'm very comfortable, I assure
you, and 1 shan't chanj^e," was the complaisant
reply.

" Will you have my place ?" inquired Emily,
who was seated between the sisters.

Miss Matilda looked as if she scarcely believed her
serious, thouijh she accepted the offer without hesi-
tation ; and Emily, again endeavouring to fix her
attention lo the stage, turned entirely away from the
rest of the party, and in quite an opposite direction
to that in which IVlr. Leslie was placed.

In a few minutes she heard some one enter the
box, but she resolutely avoided looking- round.

The voice, however, could not be mistaken. It
was Herbert Leslie, who was professing his pleasure
at seeing her companions, and hoping they were well
entertained.

Every voice was instantly raised to reply, and
Emily blushed at the intense anxiety which was
visible in the whole family, to promote the views
which they supposed induced Mr. Leslie to come
among them.

A general move w as made, to enable him to seat
himself by Matilda, who, however, seemed not alto-
gether satisfied that she was really the object of
attraction, and was evidently watching Emily's
countenance, while she replied to his inquiries.

BMILT MORELAND. S39

Mr. Leslie seemed quite at his ease, and talked
away, in the gayest style, to her, though Emily could
fancy it was rather in a vein of sarcasm than com-
pliment that he remarked upon her appearance. At
last came the dreaded observation, which compelled
her to take some notice of him.

" You have not yet introduced me to your fair
neighbour," he observed, in a tone sufficiently audi-
ble to reach Emily's ear. " Who is she ? Not one
of your sisters, I think, by the features."

" Dear me, I thought you knew Miss Moreland,"
returned Matilda, "she is a friend of Mrs. Wilson's,
and, I'm sure, I could have sworn you were ac-
quainted !"

" Indeed," returned Mr. Leslie, " I must confess
that I should draw a very different conclusion, from
appearances ; but do pray try your influence with
the young lady, to induce her to favour me with a
glance, that I may ascertain whether I have any
claim upon her former friendship."

Emily's indignation at the levity with which this
was uttered, superseded every other feeling, and turn-
ing suddenly round, she observed — " It would be
affectation in me, Sir, to pretend not to have heard
what you have said — I have only to observe, that I
have no wish to rank Mr. Leslie among my friends
j)r acquaintances."

" Well, to be sure, how rude !" exclaimed Ma-
tilda, while Leslie, apparently lost in thought, but
entirely unabashed, kept his eyes fixed on Emily's
glowing face, which was now again turned lo the
stage, though she was totally unconscious what nae
passing there.

340 EMILY MORELAMD.

" Then you did know Miss Moreland all the
while, you deceitful thing !" continued Miss Mi-
tilda, tapping him affectedly on the shoulder.

" You hear she disclaims me altogether," replied
Leslie, making an effort to resume his vivacity.

" Oh, I dare say, she has some good reasons for
it," interposed Miss Gilbert, who was sitting im-
mediately behind Emily. " It isn't always pleasant,
or convenient, to be known ; and, I dare say, Mr.
Leslie understands it all very well."

Emily turned round involuntarily, yet most
anxiously, to observe the effect which this malignant
speech had upon the person to whom it was ad-
dressed, and beheld Leslie's fine eyes fixed on the
speaker, with a look of mingled surprise and contempt.
'' Upon my word, you give me credit for much
greater penetration than I possess, Madam," he
gravely observed. " I confess myself completely in
a labyrinth at the present moment ; and most uncer-
tain, where I thought myself most sure."

" There's one thing I'm sure of — that we shall be
hissed, in a minute, for making such a noise," ob-
served Matilda, in a tone of pique.

Leslie seemed to recollect himself, and addressed
something to her in a whisper, which had the imme-
diate effect of restoring her good humour.

At the conclusion of the third act, Mr. Leslie ab-
ruptly quitted his seat, and, without any apology,
left the box. The ladies' tongues were immediately
in motion, and Mr. Leslie was declared " a rude,
impertinent, consequential fellow," by all but Miss
Matilda, who was too much interested, although
disappointed, to pronounce so hasty an opinion.

EMILY MORELANO. 341

Emily could scarcely refrain from smiling, but the
train of her thoughts was soon interrupted by her
friend Susan, who having been seated at some dis-
tance, with Mr. Augustus Gilbert, had not heard
what had passed between Leslie and her.

" What is this tale Mr. Osborne has been telling
me, about your being an old sweetheart of Mr,
Leslie's, my dear ?" she inquired. " It is only some
of his rhodomontade, 1 suppose — for, as I told him,
if you were acquainted with Mr. Leslie, you must
be very sly indeed, never to have mentioned it
to me."

" I never saw Mr. Leslie but once before our
coming here," replied Emily, calmly.

" There, now, you see what nonsense you have
taken in your head !" exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, turn-
ing to Mr. Osborne, and forgetting, at that moment,
that Emily had not been with her, when she had
previously met Mr. Leslie ; and, therefore, her having
seen him, even once, required some explanation.

'^ There, Matty, cheer up, child !" whispered Mr.
Osborne, loud enough for Emily to hear, " things
are not so desperate as you fancy ; but, I'm sure, if
you don't look a little pleasanter, you'll never catch
him, for your looks are enough to turn all the cream
in a dairy sour."

The re-entrance of Mr. Leslie, however, at this
moment, had a much more powerful effect on Miss
Matilda's countenance than this elegant remon-
strance ; but, to the great discomfiture of all, he
contrived to evade their attempts to seat him in his
former situation by Matilda's side, and dexterously

342 EMILY MORELAND.

slipped himself into a vacant place, immediately be-
hind Emily.

" Are you inexorably determined to disown me ?'*
he softly whispered, leaning over her shoulder.
" At least, if you will allow me no other privilege
of ancient friendship, you will suffer me to inquire
if the Signora Orsini is quite well, and if she too
is as barbarously inclined towards me as yourself."

" I have not seen the Signora for some months,
Sir," returned Emily, scarcely able to repress the
tear, which this unexpected inquiry forced into hei
eyes.

" I am sorry to hear it, very sorry," observed Les-
lie, with emphasis. " Forgive me, but I am afraid
you will find few whose friendship can be an equiva-
lent for the loss of hers."

" 1 have not, I trust— at least, I know I have not
deserved to forfeit her friendship," replied Emily;
" the Signora is, unfortunately, absent from Eng-
land.'' Her voice faltered at the recollections that
rushed upon her mind, and Leslie, in a gentler tone,
added —

" Indeed, I had some suspicion that was the case;
but is it possible that she could make no better ar-
rangement than pardon me, I am fearful of offend-
ing you, and " looking at the Gilberts, who were

all attention, though endeavouring to look very in-
different and unconcerned, " this is not a place where '
I can say what I would. Will you allow me to see
you alone, to-morrow, at any time you please?"

Emily hesitated and blushed — but the recollection
of his lonjr noirlect and indiffcrace ruhsed into her

EMILY MORBT.ANU. 343

mind, and she coolly observed that she must decline
any such proposal.

" I understand you, Miss Moreland," replied Les-
lie, in a resentful tone, " I had, indeed, for the mo-
ment, forgotten that — but, can it be possible that Mr.
Evelyn can be so negligent "

"Mr. Evelyn !" repeated Emily, in surprise, turn-
ing full round upon him, " What — who — has autho-
rised, or how did you know "

" It is of little consequence how I know it, Miss
Moreland," rejoined Leslie, gravely; "but this I
can solemnly affirm, that, had 1 seen you safe under
his protection, I should never have intruded myself
upon your recollection ; nor will I do so any longer,
if you will satisfy me that your present situation is
perfectly comprehended by him, and has his entire
sanction."

" I can assure you. Sir, that I do not consider Mr.
jd^velyn's sanction any more necessary than any other
person's," observed Emily ; " and why you should
suppose it so, is to me a complete mystery."

" I can trust the evidence of my own eyes, Emily —
pardon me, 1 should have said Miss Moreland — but,
as I said before "

The loud repetition of "Silence!" from several
voices near them, reminded both Leslie and Emily
where they were; and tlte latter again turned to-
wards the stage, though her mind was now such a
complete chaos, that it was totally impossible for her
to derive the smallest entertainment, or even com-
prehend what was passing.

•* Will you give me leave to speak to Misd More-

344 EMILY MORELAND.

land a moment, Sir ?" said Mrs. Wilson to Leslie,
the minute the curtain dropped, and just as he was
about to renew the conversation which had been in-
terrupted. Leslie arose, and Susan came directly
behind Emily.

" Do you observe that tall, handsome man in the
stage-box, who is, every now and then, looking this
wTiy through his glass?" she inquired.

Emily was not long in ascertaining the person she
meant. " Yes, I see him — who is he ?" she demanded,
with a trembling anticipation of the reply; for the
features, even at that distance, and altered as they
were by time and dissipation, were too striking not
to remind her forcibly of those which were engraven
on her memory.

*' Do you remember the story I told you of a young
lady, who had, but for me, been taken in by a gen-
tleman, whose name was no stranger to you '*

" Yes, too well — but, surely — I hope that it is not
so! In pity, Susan, do not keep me in suspense!'*
replied Emily.

" Then, as surely as you and I sit here, that is the
identical young lady who sits by his side, and that is

himself your father!" she added, lowering

her voice still more.

Emily gazed and shuddered, till she felt her sight
grow dim, and the loud throbbings of her heart sink
into deadly faintness; but Susan did not observe the
change, for she was employed in descanting on the
cruelty of Mr. de Cardonnel, as she still called him,
and the folly and wickedness of the girl, M'ho had
deserted her respectable home and affectionate pa-

EMILY MORELAIfD. 345

rent, for a life of infamy and vice. After I had taken
such pains, too, to open her eyes," she continued,
*' and had told her how he treated your poor mother."

Emily could bear no more — " Pray let me pass —
let me go home!" she repeated, rising, and gasping
for breath.

" Go home !" exclaimed two of the Miss Gilberts,
** what, when we came expressly to see the new pan-
tomine, which everybody is in love with ! Impossible !
Besides, we have no coach waiting, and '*

" What is the matter ?" interrupted Leslie, press-
ing forward from the back of the box, to which he
had retired, in order not to intrude on Mrs. Wilson's
communication to Emily. But the sight of the pale
countenance and agitated look of the latter, rendered
any reply to his question unnecessary, and, without
paying the slightest attention to the Gilberts, he
exclaimed — "You are ill, Emily, let me support you
— or shall 1 get you a glass of water, while your
friend— "

Emily again faintly articulated her wish to return
home immediately, and Leslie flew off to send for a
conveyance, while Susan, forgetting what had caused
Emily's indisposition, or even apparently that she
was ill, continued to express her astonishment and
ulmost indignation that the latter had never told her
that Mr. Leslie was an acquaintance of hers ; and Mrs.
Gilbert very significantly observed, that she believed
it would not be the last discovery Mrs. Wilson would
make of the kind.

" Well, to be sure, what deceit !" exclaimed Ma-
tilda ; " and to think I should be made such a dupe
15. 2 Y

346 EMILY MOHELAND.

of, as lo let him get out of me that we should be here
to-night, and whereabouts we should set.^'

*'It serves you right," returned Augustus, ''you're
always taking it into your head that men have fallen
in love with you !"

*' And if you had a proper spirit, you would not
let her be made a fool of, without resenting it !"
interrupted one of the other sisters.

Leslie re-entered the box, and they were all
silent, Matilda scornfully turning her back, to mark
her resentment.

" I have borrowed a friend's carriage," he ob-
served, *' where shall I tell the servants to set you
down ?" addressing Mrs. Wilson.

*' You had better let me go home with Miss More-
land," said Mrs. Gilbert. " I know you have set
your mind upon seeing the pantomime ; and, be-
** sides," she added, in a lower voice, " Augustus
will be quite miserable, if you go."

Augustus's languishing look confirmed this asser-
tion, and Emily in vain endeavoured to rid herself
of the company of Mrs. Gilbert, who was now doubly
disagreeable to her, from the malignant remark she
had recently made, and the hypocritical assumption of
kindness, which she now thought it politic to put on.

Leslie's looks plainly expressed his discontent at
this arrangement, which, however, he did not know
how to object to.

" I will assist you. Miss Moreland," exclaimed
Mr. Augustus, officiously stepping forward, and
offering his arm, as Emily arose from her seat.

Leslie, however, with very little ceremony, placed

EHttLV MORELAJrb. 3$7

her hand through his arm, and observing—^* You
had better take care of that lady, Sir," nodding to
his mother, led the way through the lobby.

Her whole thoughts engrossed by what she had re-
cently beheld, Emily paid but little attention to
Leslie's remarks ; but, when he pressed her to
allow him to call upon her, she replied, " It cannot
have escaped your observation, Mr. Leslie, that
these people are already offended at the discovery

that you that there exists any acquaintance Ije-

tween us. Could they know, indeed," she added, iii
a tone of more vivacity, " how very little reason I
have to pride myself on the circumstance, it ^tould
at once, I should think, silence "

"What do you mean. Miss Moreland?" inter-
rupted Leslie, with animation. " It may, indeed, be
no subject for you to pride yourself on, that, in one
short interview, you excited feelings in my bosom
which neither time, absence, or even the conviction
of your total indifference to me, and attachment to
another, have ever weakened ! These, indeed, you
n»ay consider trifling circumstances, but to me -"

"Will you go to my house. Miss Morelatid ?'* in-
terrupted Mrs. Gilbert, trying to assume a tone of
tenderness, " I think it will be much better than
going to Oxford Street ; particularly as I shall be
puzzled to get home from .thence, — unless, indeed,
this gentleman will be kind enough to direct his
servants to set me down at my house."

" Certainly, if Miss Moreland wishes to go home."

'* Oh, yes, that is exactly what I wish— I would,
indeed, rather go home alone ?" observed Emily,
hastily.

348 EMILY MORELAND.

" Oh, depend upon it, I shan't leave you, without
you are quite recovered," returned Mrs. Gilbert ;
" but shall I trouble you, Sir, to tell my girls that
they will find me at home.

" That gentleman. Madam, I presume, intends re-
turning to the Theatre," replied Leslie, coolly look-
ing at Augustus ; " I have another engagement to
attend to."

•/ Mrs. Gilbert looked disappointed, and was about
to remonstrate ; but Leslie again addressed himself
to Emily, whose heart was fluttering at the declara-
tion he had just made.

" I shall certainly take the liberty of inquiring
after your health, to-morrow," he observed ; '' even
a total stranger would not be denied that privilege,
if he had been a witness of the indisposition, which is
still so evident in your countenance and trembling
frame."

They were now at the steps of the carriage —
Leslie assisted her in, and, in a low tone, bade her
adieu; then, coolly bowing to Mrs. Gilbert, made
way for her son to perform the same office for her,
while he gave some directions to the servants whc
attended.

" Try and find out who the carriage belongs to,
and don't be stingy, but give the men a shilling or
two," observed Mr. Augustus, putting his head into
the carriage, just as it was going to drive off

Emily sank into the corner, so totally engrossed
with what she had seen and heard, that she scarcely
heard her companion's remarks upon the beauty of
the carnage, the richness of the livery, the brilliancy

EMiLY MORELAND. S49

of the k-inps, and her reiterated assertions that she
should never relish getting into a filthy hack again.

" Goodness me ! if we ar'n't in Oxford Street al-
ready!" she at length exclaimed ; " well, to be sure,
how we have dashed along ! And how that spiteful
old devil, Mother Trenchard, will stare, when she
finds who's a-stopping at her door, in such a grand
set-out ! I suppose, Miss Moreland, there's no occa-
sion for me to stay with you, as you seem quite reco-
vered."

Emily eagerly replied that she was quite well,
though her pale cheek contradicted the assertion.

" Well, I'll just get out with you, my dear, and
see you to your room — the servants, I dare say, won't
object to wait for me," she replied, as the carriage
stopped.

Emily, however, disclaimed all wish of giving
additional trouble, declaring that she was quite
strong and well, and that Ellen would assist her.

Ellen was already at the side of the carriage, and,
though evidently surprised at seeing who it con-
tained, her anxiety for " her dear Miss Moreland"
got the better of her curiosity, and she scarcely
noticed Mrs. Gilbert, though the latter, deter-
mined that she should observe her in her dignified
station, very condescendingly inauired how her
mother was.

" Oh, very well, thank you, I believe," returned
Ellen, hastily. " Do, pray, dear Miss Moreland,
lean on me — how you tremble !"

Emily tried to appear very firm, and bade Mrs.
Gilbert good night, — a ceremony which, in her con-

350 EMILY MORELAND.

templation of her new consequence, the latter had
forgotten.

" Dear, dear, what a change!" exclaimed Ellen,
as soon as Emily was seated in her own room, " you
looked so blooming and beautiful, when you went
out, and now here you are, come home again, just as
you did the other day, looking as if you were sinking
into the grave."

" Oh, how I wish that I was there, for then I should
find rest!" exclaimed Emily, bursting into tears.

Ellen's tender heart melted at this sight, and she
wept also, though unconscious why she should do so.

" How I do wish I could do any thing to serve or
comfort you!" she, at length, observed. " I am
sure it is very hard that one so kind and considerate,
and that has been brought up so, as I'm sure you
have, should be unhappy and without a friend, too —
except such a one as me, that can do you no good.
As to Mrs. Wilson, I can see plainly, she's too much
taken up with those Gilberts, to care about any one
else."

Emily had, indeed, been forcibly struck with the
indifference and coldness of Susan, who appeared hear-
tily glad to get off from accompanying her home, and
had scarcely seemed to notice her, when she departed

*' It is time, indeed, my good girl," she observed,
as she leant on Ellen's shoulder, " that I should shake
off this weakness, and exert my independence. To-
morrow, I shall leave this house, Ellen; and I hope
and trust you will see me, some day, in a very dif-
ferent situation — one in which I can show you how I
value your disinterested kindness!"

EMILir MORELAND. 351

£llen*s tears increased — she did not like the
thought of Miss Moreland's going, though she hoped
it was for her benefit.

*' If I should never see you again," she observed,
** I am sure I shall always pray for your prosperity;
for, I am certain, nothing in this world can be too
good for you ; and, if it was only to mortify the Gil-
berts, I should glory to see you in the station you
ought to be, and mistress of a carriage and servants,
and every thing that could make you happy!'

Emily smiled through her tears at the simple girl's
definition of happiness, and Ellen, suddenly recol-
lecting herself, exclaimed —

" By the-bye, Miss Moreland, how curious it was
that Lady Haviland should be present a second time,
when you were taken ill — I suppose she recollected
you again, and lent you the carriage."

"Lady Haviland!" repeated Emily, in surprise.
'* I did not see her ladyship. Indeed, Ellen, it was
a gentleman who accommodated me, and I under-
stood it was the carriage of a friend, which he had
borrowed."

** Oh, indeed, well that might be," replied Ellen,
" but it was Lady Haviland's carriage, for I spoke
to the footman, who often comes here, with orders
from his lady. I could hardly believe my eyes,
when I saw old Madam Gilbert's fat ugly face
popped out through the window; and, whoever
the gentleman was, I think he'd get in fine disgrace
with my lady, if she was to know that he had put
the butcher's greasy wife into her carriage. I don't
suppose she would hardly condescend to go into it

352 EMILY MORELAND

ajT-ain for she's the proudest and most fantas*

tical woman that ever lived, though she's not bad-
hearted, if she takes a fancy to any body."

Emily paid but little attention to this character of
Lady Haviland — she was thinking of Leslie, and re-
calling to her mind something Susan had hinted, but
not distinctly, of some mysterious circumstances con-
nected with him and some lady of high rank. She
had been too fearful of betraying the interest she
felt in the subject, to question her at the time; but
the apparent intimacy which existed between him
and this Lady Haviland, recalled them now with
double force to her mind. " Was, then, the appa-
rently honourable and ingenuous Leslie a professed
libertine? — and, if so, should she not be worse than
impruaent, to allow him the privilege even of a
friend, as he had called himself?" She would not
see him — she would leave the house, the first thing
in the morning, and thus prevent even the possibility
of her resolution to avoid him being shaken by his
fascinating and persuasive manners ; and, with this
determination, she dismissed Ellen, and retired to
bed, just in time to avoid Susan and her party, who
returned from the Theatre a few minutes after she
had left the sitting-ro3m.

BMILY MORET.ANU. 35S

CHAPTER XV.

Love's clierish'd gift, the rose he gave, is ftded t
Love's blighted ilower can never bloom a<>;ain.
Wee|), for thy fault, in heart and mind degiaded,
tVeep, if thy tears can wasii away the stain.

Anow.

During the whole night, Einilv's thoughts were
divided between her uneasiness at the disclosure
which she was compelled to make, of her intention
to leave her friend Susan, and the grief which her
discovery of her father, under such circumstances,
occasioned her. The necessity of exerting herself,
however, at length aroused her. She had but a few
hours left, to make every necessary preparation ; but
every thing was arranged, and she was ready, before
Susan arose.

The first glimpse of the latter's countenance, as
she entered the room, where the breakfast was laid,
convinced Emily that something had greatly dis-
turbed her temper; but she did not keep her long in
suspense, for the very first words she uttered, were a
reproach for duplicity, in having concealed her inti-
macy with Mr. Leslie.

" For such a young girl. Miss Moreland, and one,
too, brought up as you have been, I must say," she
observed, " that you possess more art than I could
have believed possible! Indeed, I am heartily sorry
that ever 1 was the means of bringing you to London,
though 1 little thought, when you talked so seriously
|5. 2 z

354 EMILY MORELAND.

of the opportunity which a visit to London would
afford you, of getting into some way of living gen-
teelly— I little thought, I say — what you had in view,
and that I and my friends should be made such dupes,
by one *'

" I cannot suffer you to proceed in this strain,
Susan," interrupted Emily, calmly, but firmly. " If
there is any intention of making a dupe of you, it is
entertained by those whom you call your friends, and
to whose kind offices, I am quite aware, I am indebted
for this insult. To put an end, however, to all un-
pleasant contention or recrimination between us, I
will at once acquaint you with my intention to leave
you, and put in practice that for which alone I came
to London."

" Leave me, Miss Moreland!" she exclaimed, with
astonishment, " in the name of goodness, what do you
mean?"

" I mean exactly what I have said," returned
Emily. " I have taken an apartment, which* will
better suit my circumstances and intentions, than the
mode of life which you have adopted, and which, I
confess, has been completely opposite to what I ex-
pected. Not that I mean to find fault "

"No, indeed, I should think not!" exclaimed
Susan, her face flaming with passion, avid yet evi-
dently in extreme confusion, " I should think, indeed,
you are the last person that ought to find fault; for,
I am sure, I have behaved handsomely to you ; and
if I choose to spend my money, and enjoy myself '*

" I have neither the wish nor the right to interfere,"
observed Emily, when she paused, from utte?

EMILY MOREL'AND. 356

inability to command her voice. '* I have, indeed,"
«he continued, "• no intention of so doing, though, for
your sake, and for the remembrance of that kindness
with which, until now, you have ever regarded me^ I
could have wished to have possessed sufficient in-
fluence with you, to induce you to pause, before you
plunge too far to recede. Before we meet again, we
may probably both be ditferently circumstanced;
but, be that as it may, be assured, whenever you feel
disposed to claim it, I shall be most happy to renew
our former friendship."

The forced calmness with which Emily uttered
this, was about to yield to a passionate flood of tears;
out she was suddenly recalled to a feeling of her own
dignity, when Susan, after a few moments' reflection,
observed in a contemptuous tone,

" This is exactly what I was told would happen !
1 am hot deceived. Miss Moreland, with all your fine
speeches ! I know, very well, what and who is at
the bottom of this ; and I can only tell you, that I
think it would much better become you to look to
your own conduct, than to be making remarks upon
mine. Mr. Leslie, I dare say "

" I beg, I insist," exclaimed Emily, with passionate
indignation, " that you do not introduce that person's
name again to me! The time will come, when you
will be convinced of the injustice you are now guilty
of; but let me, as the last — the only — favour I shall
ever ask of you, request that you do not degrade me
in his eyes, by letting him see the suspicions you have
formed, or rather that have been infused into your
mind. He nill be here, most probably, this morning;

350 EMILY MOREI.AND.

and let me entreat you, if ever I was dear to you,
that you will not breathe a syllable, either of ivhat
has now passed, or what has been sujjgested to you,
by people who are interested in parting us, and who
will, I hope, when they find they have their wish,
suffer my name to be forgotten. I have now only
one thing to arrange, and that must be done as quickly
as possible, as I wish to avoid encountering the per-
son whose name, I hope, I have heard for the last
time. What I allude to," she continued, after a
moment's pause, to recover her composure, " is the
settlement of my share of the expenses of our journev
to London, and our residence here. It never was
my intention to burthen you with those expenses,
and therefore 1 shall insist on paying a fair share of
the money you have expended."

** I won't have a farthing, Emily — Miss MorelanH J
I won't touch a single halfpenny of the money!'' ex-
claimed Susan, with vehemence. " If you don't
mean to insult me, you will put it back. You well
know, that it was friendship, and nothing else, that
induced me to ask for your company to London; and,
if anything has happened to alter your views ''

" Not on my part — do me justice, Susan — I am still
unaltered," interrupted Emily; "my purposes, my
wishes are the same, as when at the Farm we first
conversed on the facility which a residence here
would afford me to accomplish them. It is you, Susan,
that are changed — not changed, either — for I be-
lieve, firmly, that your heart is still kindly disposed
towards me, though you suffer your understanding
to be the dupe of "

EMILY MORELAND. 357

A footstep on the stairs, and a voice, which her
fears induced her to think must be Leslie's, caused
her to pause in the middle of her intended vindication
of herself; and, hastily throwing upon the table one
of the notes she had taken from her purse, without
waiting to see whether Susan either observed or ac-
cepted it, she retreated through the bed-room, and
was already hurrying on her bonnet and cloak, before
she reflected that she had bade adieu to the last re-
maining friend of her infancy, for ever!

Ellen '.« exclamation—" Dear, dear, surely you are
not realhj going, now, for good!" first recalled her
wandering thoughts.

She tried to smile, as she replied, " That she hoped
it would be for $rooc?," but the effort was too much
for her exhausted spirits, and she was obliged to sit
down, and give way to the tears which a sudden re-
collection of the important step she was taking, forced
from her in showers.

" Dear ! how sorry I am ! I hope it was not what
I foolishly said, that has hurt you," observed Ellen.

Emily could not reply, for her tears drowned her
words; and the poor girl, in alarm, entreated her to
let her go and fetch Mrs. Wilson.

*' I'm sure," she continued, " if she sees how dis-
tressed you are at the thoughts of ffoins: "

Emily interrupted her, to assure her that she was
mistaken — there were other causes for her tears.
" Besides," she continued, in a doubtful tone, " Mrs.
Wilson is engaged— there is a stranger with her —
is there not?"

Ellen replied in the alRiniative. " 1 have not seen

358 EMILY MORELANd.

him," she said, " but one of the girls told me, that a
gentleman had just gone up-stairs to Mrs. Wilson,
and that you had run out of the opposite door, as she
showed him in. I guessed you were here," continued
Ellen, " and that was the reason I made an excuse
to bring up the shawl you left down-stairs; but I
little expected to find you in this manner!"

Emily started up — " Will you oblige me by send-
ing for a coach, instantly?" she observed, while the
bright colour flashed into her cheeks, at the proba-
bility of what might arise, in this interview between
Leslie and her weak-minded friend, whose discretion,
in attending to her request of silence, she very much
doubted.

*' I can call a coach from the stand in an instant—^
for there are plenty opposite our door," observed
Ellen ; " but are you really, really determined to go ?"

" Do not delay a minute, there's a good girl," re-
plied Emily, hastily tying her bonnet, " I will follow

you."

Before the coach could drive up to the door, sne
was on the step, and, in another instant, had sunk
back in the corner of it, to avoid the looks of sur-
prise, which her extraordinary and agitated appear-
ance had excited, both in the shop through which
she had hastily rushed, and in those who were passing
along the pavement.

The trunk was brought down, without any inter-
ruption from Mrs. Wilson ; and Emily, before she
could well believe she had really left her, was driven
up to the door of her new residence.

The old lady looked, Emily thought, more sour

EMILY MORELAND. 359

and repulsive than on her first visit; and she grum*
bled terribly at the coachman's dirty shoes, which,
in spite of his enforced scrape at the door, left their
print on every step of the newly-scoured stairs.

" My Gemini! if every body was so perticler as
you, I don't know how the world would go on," ob-
served the man, laughing; "but I hope you won't
be so cross with this pretty young lady, as you are
with me."

The old woman muttered a dissatisfied remark,
from which the man seemed to understand that she
was no friend to pretty faces; and Emily retreated
and closed the door of her little room, to avoid hear-
ing the contention which seemed likely to arise, from
his disposition to jocularity, and her crabbed retorts.

The stairs were all cleaned down again, though
not without abundant exclamations, before Emily's
privacy was interrupted.

She had been sitting without taking off either bon-
net or cloak, disconsolately musing, exactly where
the old woman had left her, and she neither spoke
nor moved at her entrance.

'* What is the matter with thee, child?" she de-
manded, looking somewhat more kindly. " Can I get
thee any thing ? — or wilt thee come down and sit
awhile in my room, while I put a fire here, and
make it comfortable?"

Emily started up, and tried to assume a more
cheerful air, as she replied, with thanks, that she did
not want any thing, for she had just breakfasted.

" Breakfast !" repeated the old woman, in a tone
of surprise, " why dost know that it is past noon? I

360 EMILY MORELAND.

hope thou art not going to keep such hours here, of,
I am sure, if thou dost "

Emily smiled, as she interrupted the intended lec-
ture by observing, " that she had always been accus-
tomed to early hours ; but the friends she had been

with " She paused, and the smile was converted

to a sigh.

" I should expect such /n'ends would be very un-
fitting a young woman, who has her livelihood to
get," observed the old woman; " but I am going to
the market, to provide dinner for my lodgers, against
they return from the city. If thou wilt that I bring
with me what thou wilt need, I will do it."

Emily thankfully accepted the offer, but she in-
curred two or three reprimands for thoughtlessness
and extravagance, from the profuseness of the orders
she gave.

" Thee know'st, I fear, but little of the means of
husbanding the little thou hast," she observed;
" but, if thou wilt be guided "

" I am most anxious to be so, dear Madam," re-
turned Emily, in one of her gentlest tones, "pray act
for me, as if 1 was your own daughter, who '

The poor old woman's furrowed countenance un-
derwent a sudden convulsive movement ; she sank
into a chair, and hid her face with her hands, while
her bosom heaved with violence, until a flood of
tears burst forth to relieve her.

Emily was deeply aflected by this unexpected dis-
play of feeling, the source of which she easily con-
ceived to have arisen from her unguarded expression
having reminded the poor woman of a daughter,

EMILY MORELAND. 361

whom she had, perhaps, lost under some peculiar
circumstances of affliction. She attempted to offer
some consolation, but the old woman pushed her
angrily away.

" Don't speak to me — thou knowest not what thou
sayest!" she exclaimed. " -Let me alone!"

Emily felt hurt and disappointed, but she did not
reply; and the old woman, having wept for some
minutes in silence, suddenly dried her eyes, and ob-
serving that she should be late, if she did not go at
once, hurried down the stairs.

" And I am now, indeed, alone in the world, left
to struggle and think for myself!" Emily repeated to
herself, as she looked round her small apartment.
The thought pressed too heavily to bear indulgence,
and she endeavoured to drive it, and all the train it
brought with it, away, by unpacking and placing in
the drawers all she could now call her own. This
task, however, was soon completed, and again she sat
down, unable to resist the melancholy that over-
powered her. " How many dull, unoccupied hours
might she not have to pass in that place, before she
could attain her object of active employment!" This
reflection brought with it others, not less unpleasant
and embarrassing. How many difficulties and re-
buffs might she not encounter, even in her pursuance
of the object she had in view, and how valuable now
would be the advice of a friend, capable of directing
and recommending her.

Again Leslie rushed into her mind, but she was
determined to look at only what she conceived she
had learned of the dark side of his character, and
16. 3 A

362 EMILV MOREL.AND.

forget the looks, the manner, the eloquence, which
had taken her fancy prisoner, and would have almost
tempted her to despise the suggestions of her under-
standing.

" I shall never see him again, — I hope," she added,
after a long pause, and with a deep-drawn sigh,
which more than half contradicted the assertion.

She was still, however, dwelling on the same sub-
ject, when the unlocking of the street-door warned
her of the return of her hostess, and she hastily wiped
away the tears, which had, almost unconsciously,
strayed down her cheeks. Scarcely could she refrain
from expressing her surprise at the complete trans-
formation which the old lady's countenance had un-
dergone, during this short absence. All traces of
grief had vanished, and she was full of bustle, ac-
tivity, and importance. An account of what she had
expended for Emijy was rendered to the utmost far-
thing, in spite of the assurances of the latter that it
was quite unnecessary ; and the tea, sugar, bread,
butter, &c. were all carefully deposited in their
several places — the old woman, all the while, des-
canting on the necessity of order and economy.

" The man w ill bring thee coals and wood, in a
little time," she observed, " and then thou canst light
a fire, and make thyself at home and comfortable."

Emily sighed at the name of " home and comfort;"
it had been some time since she had known either the
one or the other; for comfort had fled with that dear
friend, of whose present circumstances or fate she
was still in ignorance ; and, with her, home likewise
ha J vanished; for she could ntver feel herself at

EMILY MORELAND. 3G3

home, \^ here she was conscious she was (onsidered as
a dependant.

The task of making a fire was so entirely new,
that it occupied her rather an unconscionable time,
and she had nearly given up the affair, at last, as
hopeless, when the old woman entered to bring the
fire-irons, which had been kept down stairs for fear
of rust, and afforded her the necessary assistance and
instructions; not, however, without many admo-
nitions to be more careful of wood, which was a A^ery
dear article, and sundry pettish observations on the
unnecessary " litter'" she had made with the coals.

Emily began to feel her spirits sink lower than
ever, at the prospect of being condemned to associate
only with one whose mind seemed so totally absorbed
in the petty cares, which she had hitherto been to-
tally unaccustomed to consider as necessary. She
sighed heavily, as she obeyed the old woman's in-
structions in putting back a part of the wood into the
closet, and the latter, seeming instantly to compre-
hend her feelings, observed in a friendly tone, and
laying her hand on hers —

" When thee hast lived a little longer in the world,
and hast seen as many of the turns in it as I have, thou
wilt feel that attention to little things is as necessary
as to great ones. So, do not be angry, with one who
wishes thee to profit by her experience, without feel-
ing the pain she did in gaining it."

Emily's heart melted at the voice of kindness in
which this was uttered, and she gratefully pressed
the withered hand which was laid on hers, while she
renmrked, in a tone between tears and smiles, that

364 EMILT MOIIELAHD.

she had been hitherto £ spoiled child, ai d had much
to learn as well as unlearn.

The old woman nodded kindly to her, as she left
the room, and Emily attempted to put in practice the
lesson of content and resignation which she had been
preaching to her own heart, by seating herself by
her little fireside, and endeavouring, by diligent ap-
plication to a piece of ornamental work, which she
had begun at the request of Susan, and still intended
for her, to prevent those melancholy thoughts which
would, however, still steal in and dim her eyes with
tears, and compel her to relinquish it for a few mi-
nutes, to recover herself.

The quiet and loneliness which seemed to prevail
in the house, so contrary to what she had been ac-
customed to, contributed to foster the depression of
her spirits. She pictured to herself the cheerful con-
versations, the instructive and entertaining occupa-
tions, which had made the time so short and so plea-
sant, while she enjoyed the protection and society of
Signora Orsini. The delightful walks, the mountain
scenery, the fragrant and blooming garden, too, for
what were they exchanged ? She glanced her eyes,
disconsolately, through the window, from which no-
thing but the tops of the houses, red tiles, and smoking
chimneys, were visible, and again sighed bitterly at
the contrast.

A loud knock at the street-door roused her from
these painful reflections, and for a moment, forgetful
that her retreat was unknown to any one, she listened
with anxiety to the sound of a voice, which she fancied
itrongly resembled Herbert Leslie's,

EMIl.Y MORELAND* 365

The ddor, however, was closed, and all again'
silent, and Emily, blushing for the folly which thus
connected Leslie with every occurrence, again sat
down to her work, resolving, for at least the hun-
dredth time, that she would never think of him again.

"Wilt thee come down, and take thy tea with
me?" inquired her hostess, putting in her head at
the door; " thou art strange and lonely, I dare say,
in this room."

Emily gladly complied with the invitation ; she
felt that she was indeed " strange and lonely," and
that any society was, at that moment, preferable to
her own thoughts.

The clean hearth and cheerful fire seemed to re-
vive her spirits, as the old lady kindly seated her in
the best place, and drew the tea-table, with the old-
fashioned tea equipage, all ready set, close to her.

There were few hearts which could be impene-
trable to the graces and gentleness of Emily More-
land's manners; and that of Mrs. Inglis, her hostess,
though fenced round with the thorns and brambles
of forms and habits, was not hard by nature. All the
sourness and suspicion which had, at first, made her
manner so repulsive, gradually disappeared, and she
entered into conversation as freely and unreservedly
as she had before been the contrary.

Emily had suspected that Mrs. Inglis had lost a
daughter, and that some distressful circumstances had
attended that loss ; but she now heard, from the poor
old woman's full heart, the particulars of her be-
reavement.

" Martha," she said, " had always been more lively

366 EMILY MORELAND.

and gay, than the tenets of the sect to which she be-
longed tolerated. But she was as innocent and harm-
less, as the lamb that frolics by its mother's side in
the field," observed Mrs. Inglis, her dim eye lighted
up with maternal pride, as she recalled the image of
her darling to her memory, and endeavoured to des-
cribe her to Emily, whose tears, more than her words,
declared her sympathy in the fond mother's affliction.

" I know it was sinful, it was wicked," she conti-
nued, '' to look with pleasure and satisfaction at the
outward beauties of the person — but 1 have sat, for
hours, looking at her fair face and sweet smiles, and
the glossy hair, which, though her father, who was
very strict, would have cut close, and combed straight,
would still turn into ringlets, and curl round her
neck and forehead.

" She was just turned of sixteen, when her health
began to be very delicate; and her spirits, that we
had been so often obliged to check and reprove, all
at once seemed to fail, and she would sit for hours,
without seeming to notice any body, but as if she was
lost in thought; yet, if I asked what ailed her, she
would deny that any thing was the matter, or that
she was changed — but what can deceive a mother's
eye?

" There was a young man, whom, in his infancy,
we had often foolishly and presumptuously talked
of, as a husband for our Martha. His mother was a
widow of the same persuasion as ourselves; and
Edward Redmond, her son, was intended to succeed
his father in his business, when he should be old
enough. Ho was three years older than Martha,

EMILY MORELAND. 367

and, as bis mother used to look to my husband for
counsel and assistance in her worldly affairs, the
children, as well as ourselves, were often together.

" Edward was more serious and thoughtful than
my Martha, and sometimes I was grieved iu my
heart, when neighbour Redmond would shake her
head at Martha's innocent gambols, and tell her that
her Edward would not behave so unseemly, nor
would he like her, if she did not change her deport-
ment.

" Edward, however, with all his seeming sanctity,
was scarcely eighteen before he betrayed symptoms
of a turn of mind, which not only gave his mother
great uneasiness and sorrow of heart, but occasioned
us, particularly my husband, who, I have said, was
very strict in principles and conduct, to look with
coolness and suspicion upon him.

•"' He became a constant frequenter of ' places of
amusement,' as they are called; he entirely deserted
our places of meeting; the plainness of our apparel,
our very speech, were become odious to him ; and,
to complete all, he signified to his mother his desire
of becoming a soldier, or, as he called it, ' a defender
of his country.'

" I was sorry for the boy, and T was sorry for my
friend, whose heart was nearly broken; but it never
entered my mind that 1 had most cause to grieve for
my own child, who was silent whenever Edward
Redmond was mentioned. It did come into my
mind, once or twice, that she did not seem to consi-
der his conduct so heinous as it really was, but I was
fearful of searching into her thoughts, and fearful,

368 EMILY MORELAND.

too, of bringing upon her the anger of her father,
who, I knew, would never pardon her, should she
attempt to defend the boy.

" As I told thee, however, she pined away soon
after this happened, though I then little suspected
that she thought more of Edward Redmond than any
other companion of her childish days, which could
scarcely be said to have passed awaj'.

*' Trouble and affliction came upon me all toge-
ther : — my husbandj in one day, lost his friend and
brother, and a great part of his substance, which he
had ventured in his hands, and with which, conside-
rably improved, he was returning from America,
when the vessel was wrecked, and all was lost,

" This was a sad blow to our comfort, and, per-
haps, it was his own inward grief that made the
father less quick-sighted to the alteration in our
child. Altered, however, she was, and much did I
grieve that our narrow circumstances would not
allow me to take the advice of a friend, who thought
that sea-bathing and change of air would restore her,
as she appeared to be consumptive.

" When I returned home one evening, after a
conference with the friend who had given me that
advice, she looked, I thought, more pale and wan
than ever, and I could not help betraying- my fears
and my sorrow. She looked up at me with surprise,
when I sat doivn, and, bursting- into tears, bewailed
my po ferty, which prevented me from taking- the
means to restore her to health, for she had herself
seemed to favour the idea of going- into the country
She guzed on me or a moment, with such a look as

EMILY MORELAND. 369

1 can never forget, and, throwing herself on her
knees, she said, clasping her hands with strong agony,

" ' Oh, mother, mother, do not heap coals of fire
on my head, with this kindness ! I am a wretch, a
guilty wre-tch, that deserves neither pity nor assis-
tance. Oh, let me die, let me die, before '

" My husband came into the room at this minute,
and something like a dread of the truth rushed into
my mind, though all was darkness and confusion ;
but he was a stern man, and I feared lest my child
should incur his reproof. I tried to raise her, but he
darted forward, and, seizing my hand, threw it away,
and came between us.

" ' Let her be !' he cried, ' She is no more thy
child nor mine ! Let her seek assistance from the
man who has humbled her, and brought shame upon
our name !'

" Martha sank down upon the floor, and I forgot
every thing but that she was my child, and in distress.
I struggled, I prayed to him, to let go his strong
hold, and let me assist her, but he was resolute ; he
forced me out of the chamber, and into my own,
which he locked upon me.

" Oh, what did I feel, as I heard him return into
the room, in which 1 had left my poor child. I lis-
tened for the sound of his voice, lifted up in up-
braidings against her — but all was silent ! And then
I thought that it could not be real — that all she had
uttered was the effect of frenzy and delirium — and,
after all, what was the guilt of which she accused
herself? She had, perhaps, in her fear of her father,
magnified some trifling transgression. It might be
16'. .3 B

370 EMILY xMOllELAND.

that she had been seduced into one of those fault?
which her gay disposition rendered her prone to,
hut it was impossible she could be what her words
implied. Sinful wretch that I was, almost did I
feel, at the moment, inclined to blame the restraints
that our religion imposes, and which I thought had
disturbed my child's mind !

" I cannot tell thee half I thought or said, for I
continued to talk, though no one replied to me.
Darkness came on, and still my husband came not
to release me. I was now angry, as well as grieved
— I called, but in vain, for there was none to reply
to me. At length, I heard a loud knocking at the
street-door, and I recollected that Sarah, our only
handmaiden, had been sent for to her mother, and
that there was no one in the house but my husband,
my child, and myself.

" I know not what terror came over me, when 1
found that no one went to open the door ! I was in
the back part of the house, but my screams reached
the ears of the person at the door, and in a few mi-
nutes it was broken open, and I was released.

" I rushed to the room where I had left my child —
I was in darkness, but I knew the spot where 1 had
last seen her — and there I found her — still, cold —
a senseless corpse ! Yes, my gentle, lively, innocent
girl had lifted her own rash hand "

*' Pray, for pity's sake, spare yourself!" ex-
claimed Emily, who beheld with terror the agony
which distorted every feature of the wretched mo-
ther, as she repeated this dreadful tale.

'* \ can scarcelv tell thee what fcllowed," she cou»

EMILY MORELAND. 371

tinned, '' but I know that I was roused from one
horrible feeling by another— the sight of ray husband,
in a slate of total insensibility, sitting on a chair op-
posite the body of his child. His reason, his recol-
lection, even his speech was gone, and he never re-
covered these faculties, but lived for several months
in a state which rendered the approach of death a
blessing even to me, bereft and childless as I now
was.

" After what I have already told thee, it is almost
needless to say that I soon discovered it was to Ed-
ward Redmond all these miseries were owing. He
had found means of seeing my child, when I had
thought him far distant and forgotten by her ! He
had poisoned her mind against her parents, had in-
troduced her to scenes which her naturally gay dis-
position made her but too well relish ; and, finally,
he had succeeded in destroying her principles, as

well as 1 will not dwell upon it ! He is gone,

where his victims preceded him, to the judgment-
seat of Him who knoweth the secrets of all hearts.
May he find there, the mercy which he denied and
despised here !

" I could scarcely have wished my child to have
lived, overwhelmed as she was with shame and mi-
sery ; for she had discovered, that the triumph of her
seducer was no sooner completed, than he became
the husband of one who possessed that in which
only she was, as he said in one of his vile letters, de-
ficient— a fortune.

" ' I love you, Martha, and only you,' he wrote,
* but love will not enable us to live upon air. My

372 EMILY MORGLAND.

mother has discarded nie. The profits of ray com-
mission as a lieutenant will not pay my tailor's bill,
and how, then, could I support a wife, who brings
me nothing but her charming self? Be reasonable,
my beloved, and consent to my plan — the widow's
fortune will bestow all that is wanting to our hap-
piness. You have nobly cast aside some of your
foolish scruples, and do not now stop halfway in the
course, when the prize is sure.'

" This letter completed her despair. She re-
plied to it by writing to the woman to whom he al-
luded, but she treated her with contempt, and mar-
ried him immediately.

" The fate of my child and her parent, however,
awakened remorse in his bosom. He found, teo late,
that money would not stifle the reproaches of con-
science, and the means he took to drown its voice
increased the sting. For four years he lingered, the
wretched victim of his own vices — and now he, too,
is forgotten in the grave, except by her whom he
bereaved of all that she loved upon earth — loved
too much ! — for that sin am I now punished !"

Emily could offer no consolation, for the subject
was one which came too near her own heart ; but the
memory of her mother was sacred with her — she
could not betray her weakness, nor could she dwell
on the cruelty of him to whom she owed her being.
Sincerely, however, did she compassionate the feel-
ings of the unhappy mother, and truly did she feel
the value of that pious resignation, which had
enabled her to surmount the sorrows which would
have been sufficient to have overwhelmed a mind

EMILY MORELAND. 373

vmsupported by religion ; though she could not
avoid feeling that it would, in all probability, have
been better for the unhappy girl whose fate she
lamented, had that religion been less austere and
rigid in its forms.

A long pause of gloomy contemplation followed,
M'hich neither seemed inclined to interrupt ; but
both started when the kitchen-door was opened, and
a tall precise-looking man entered.

" I beg pardon for my interruption," he observed,
drawing back ; " but I have rung twice, and I felt
surprised that I remained unanswered."

Mrs. Inglis bustled upon her feet, and acknow-
ledged her inattention.

" It is the first time, since I have been in the
house, that such a circumstance has occurred," con-
tinued the gentleman, still looking with curiosity at
Emily, " and I was really alarmed. I see, however,
you have a fair excuse," and he bowed to Emily,
with old-fashioned gallantry, and a smile at his own
wit.

Mrs. Inglis looked grave, and fidgeted towards
the door, as she observed that she would bring up
the tea-kettle, which she knew was what he wanted,
in a minute.

" Oh, I am not in a hurry ! Do not let me disturb
you and this young lady from her tea," he observed,
approaching still farther into the room, " I can wait
very well, for a few minutes."

Mrs. Inglis, however, would not resume her seat ;
and the stranger, equally determined, as it appeared,
not to be repulsed by her evidert wish to get rid of

374 EMILY MO R ELAND.

Ijini, ol)servecI, "Indeed, sooner than be the means
of disturbing your comfort, I would forego my tea
;ilto»cther ; though, I confess, I am a regular tea-
drinker, and never so much enjoy it as when I take
it with the ladies."

Mrs. Inglis looked still more repulsive. She was
evidently divided between her fear of offending a
good lodger, and her dislike of the gallantry which
he appeared inclined to display; and the latter,
taking advantage of his known importance to his
landlady, seemed inclined to consult no other feeling
than the gratification of his inclination.

*' A very cold day. Miss, for the time of year," he
observed, addressing Emily, who very distantly re-
plied in the affirmative.

" I assure you, I felt it very keen, sitting still for
some hours in a counting-house, without fire — though
it is but a little place, either."

Emily did not reply at all to this gratuitous infor-
mation, and, after a short pause, during which she
felt conscious that he was looking at her, and endea-
vouring to hit upon something which would force
her into a reply, Mrs. Inglis again, somewhat sharply,
observed, that the water in the kettle was boiling to
waste.

" You forgot that, just now," returned the gentle-
man, smiling, " and can you wonder that I should,
when I have the same excuse?"

Emily did not smile at this second allusion to her-
self, and the intruder, with a very profound bow to
her, departed.

" I am glad he did not nsk thee any questions,

EMILY MORELAND. 375

which could betray to him that thou art an inmate
of this house," observed Mrs. Inglis, when she re-
turned.

Emily did not reply, but she felt rather surprised
that there should exist any motive for concealment
of the circumstance.

" I could not have thought that friend Townsend
could have been so troublesome," continued the old
lady, after a short pause of apparent reflection ;
" but it is the first time he ever entered this room,
or was forced to wait, and now I cannot conceive
how I could have been so lost, as not to hear his
summons."

Emily thought it both natural and excusable, con-
sidering the subject which occupied her attention at
the moment ; but she felt much more surprised at the
effect which custom had wrought \n her hostess, who,
in her habitual attention and occupation, seemed to
have entirely forgotten the agitation which had, so
short a time before, shook her whole frame.

" I am afraid I am an intruder. Madam," observed
Emily, who thought there was an approach to the
resumption of that snappishness and austerity which
had distinguished the manner of Mrs. Inglis, when
she had first seen her.

" I do not think thee an intruder," returned the
old lady, " but it would, perhaps, be as well if thou
wert to go to thy own room for an hour or two, till
friend Townsend goes out for the evening. I will
tell thee when he is gone, and then, if thou likest the
company of an old woman better than thine own,
thou canst come down here again."

37G EMILY MOREI/AND.

Emily felt uncomfortable at this imposed restraint
— it argued, she thought, no good of the character
of Mr. Townsend, to be thus cautious and distrustful
towards him ; and she could not anticipate wiih much
satisfaction a residence in a house, where it was ne-
cessary to conceal it. But, unwilling to give offence
to her positive, and rather too-assuming hostess, she
returned to her own apartment, resolving that, as
Mr. Townsend appeared to depart and return at re-
gular and stated periods, she would take care to
avoid all unpleasant remarks, by confining herself
to her own apartment, when he was likely to be at
home.

Long before she had anticipated, Mrs. Inglis came
to invite her down, observing that she could bring
her work and her candle, and that would save her
burning her own fiyre ; proceeding, at the same time,
to take off the coals, which Emily had jult before
heaped on the grate.

Emily blushed at her own want of economy, su
necessary in her situation ; but she had been antici-
pating, with something like satisfaction, having a
comfortable fire to return to when she quitted Mrs.
Inglis for the night, understanding that she retired
regularly at ten o'clock to bed.

"There, that will do!" observed the old lady,
after demolishing carefully every vestige of fire,
** now you will have nothing to do, when friend
Townsend knocks at the door, but to take thy candle
and go up to bed."

Emily quietly assented, and in a few minutes was
comfortably established with her work at the fire-side.

EMILY MORELAND. 377

The old lady produced her knitting, and for some
time they continued industriously to employ them-
selves, in silence. Mrs. Inglis's eyes, however, were
oftener employed in gazing at Emily than on her
work, and a frequent deep sigh, that broke from her
bosom, betrayed the melancholy complexion of her
thoughts.

Emily forgot her own troubles ; forgot all that
was unpleasant or repulsive in her companion's
manners and disposition, in her earnest and unaffected
desire to soothe the sorrows which she so truly com-
passionated. She endeavoured to lead her to subjects
which she thought might detach her mind from those
which now pressed upon her; but there were so few
ideas common to both, that it was almost impossible
to sustain a connected conversation ; and, after se-
veral ineffectual attempts, she was compelled to re-
linquish the hope of interesting her, and relapse into
unsocial silence, till the loud knock and ring of the
bell announced the return of the obnoxious Mr.
Townsend, and, in obedience to the previous arrange-
ment, she retired to her room.

The second day of her residence was but a repe-
tition of the first, and the third was still more irk-
some, for the weather was too wet to allow Emily
to go out, and Mrs. Inglis was occupied with her
washing, and so cross and petulant that she would
scarcely bear speaking to.

Emily had finished her work, and she tried draw-
ing; but the recollections that employment brought
with it, were too poignant, and she relinquished the
pencil in despair.

16. 3 c

37H EMILY MORELAND.

The few books she possessed were turned over and
over, without being able to engage her attention.
All were " flat, stale, and unprofitable," for her
thoughts were wandering to other subjects, and for
two or three hours she sat lost in reflection, and for-
getful of all but the past — the happy — never-to-be-
recalled past !

The sound of a heavy footstep, though evidently
approaching with caution her apartment, recalled
her to recollection. She started up, and, for a mo-
ment, stood undecided whether she should reply to
the gentle rap that demanded admission. " Yet what
should I fear?" she reflected, "since I know Mrs.
Inglis is at home, and within hearing."

The door was opened, and surprise and anger were
both sufficiently legible in her countenance, when
she beheld the same person whose assiduities had ap-
parently given Mrs. Inglis so much dissatisfaction,
on the first evening of her (Emily's) residence
there.

"Then I am right?" he observed, with a smile of
satisfaction. " Excuse me, my dear Miss, but I sus-
pected you occupied this room, though Mrs. Inglis
tried to make me believe otherwise ; and I was de-
termined to ascertain whether I was right, in spite
of her cross looks."

Emily hesitated how to reply, her natural timidity
preventing her uttering all her resentment would
iave dictated; and the gentleman, taking advantage
of her hesitation, advanced towards her with a fa-
miliar smile.

"You and I must be better acquainted, my dear,"

EMILY MORELAND. 379

he observed, *' for you are just what I admire — shy
and quiet — and I dare say we can manage "

An indignant look stopped him short in the middle
of his sentence. " I beg you to understand, most ex-
plicitly. Sir," replied Emily, "that I decline all ac-
quaintance with you, and am not at all ambitious of
your admiration — particularly for qualities I do not
possess. I am neither so ' shy,' nor so ' quiet,' as you
express it, as to bear with insult, though 1 am willing
to believe it is not intended. I hope this is the last
time you will need such a hint."

Completely abashed at her manner, (so different
from what he had been accustomed to, and expected
to meet, in a companion of Mrs. Inglis's,) the poor
man, in spite of his natural self-conceit, stood con-
founded and abashed.

" I am. very sorry. Miss," he at length commenced,
" if I have said or done any thing to offend you. All
I wished was to make myself agreeable, and —
and "

" There is only one way,' Sir, to render yourself
agreeable," replied Emily, scarcely able to restrain
a smile, yet looking very grave and reserved ; " and
that," she continued, " is by returning to your own
apartment, and forgetting altogether my being in this
house."

The good man looked, or tried to look, very tender
and gallant, as he replied, " that the last part of her
commands it was quite urtpossible to comply with ; she
must allow him to think of her, if he was forbid to
see her." But her reserved look checked his gallant
effusions, and she closed the door upon him, before

380 EMILY MORELAND.

he had well turned from it. in a manner which could
leave him no doubt that she was serious in her inten-
tion of keeping him at a distance.

The thought of what Mrs. Inglis would say, if she
discovered that he had been to her, had scarcely
darted into Emily's mind, before she heard the sharp
voice of the old lady, uttering some expression of
astonishment at seeing him there. Emily could not
hear his answer, but she awaited with impatience
the visit, which she had no doubt she should receive
from her hostess, whose resentment, she believed,
would be equally excited with her own. But, to
her great surprise, Mrs. Inglis did not come up stairs
for more than an hour; and then, though she spoke
immediately of Mr. Townsend's intrusion, seemed to
make very light of it, and spoke of him as a very
good-hearted man, though somewhat self-satisfied
and consequential in his manner,

" He is possessed, too," she observed, of plenty of
that, without which there is no living in the world;
and, if he tells the truth, he has none who hare any
claim upon him, for he is without friend or relation
in the world."

" Then he is truly pitiable'" observed Emily, with
a deep sigh; " that is, if he has a heart to feel the
want of those connexions."

Mrs. Inglis did not reply, but invited Emily to take
her tea down stairs ; and the latter, feeling the soli-
tariness of her own apartment the more irksome from
the late intrusion, readily consented.

The tea-things were not removed before M«.
Townsend, though with somewhat more of deference

EMILY MORELANI). 381

and respect in his manner than before, made his ap-
pearance with some trifling excuse ; and, to Emily's
great surprise and dissatisfaction, Mrs. Inglis did not
seem to discourage his attempt to enter into conver-
sation.

The unfavourable state of the weather, the pro-
bability of a cold and wet spring, and the dirtiness
of the streets in the city, were severally discussed
without Emily's having uttered a word, or appearing
to take any interest in the conversation. At length
Mr. Townsend ventured to address her particularly,
by asking what part of London she had been most
accustomed to.

" I have been in London only three weeks, Sir,"
replied Emily, with coolness.

" Oh, dear, then you have seen very little of it yet,
I suppose ?" he returned.

Emily merely assented to this observation by a bow,
and Mrs. Inglis added,

" Ah, it will be well for thee, perhaps, if thou
seest no more than thou hast seen. There is little
good to be learned, but much evil to assail thee, in
this place."

*' It is a bad place, indeed," rejoined Mr. Townsend,
" without a proper protector. 1 hope, however, that
is not your case. Miss ?"

Emily hesitated — she knew not how to reply to
this home-thrust; and Mrs. Inglis immediately ob-
served, that she was sure, if that were the case, she
had much better have remained in the country.

Unused to the tone of implied superiority which
both her companions assumed, Emily's usual spirit

382

EMILY MORELAND.

anJ pride seemed to forsake her, and she turned
away, unable to conceal the tears which evinced her
wounded feelings.

" I hope nothing I have said," Mr. Townsend be-
gan, but, before he could finish the sentence, Emily
arose and left the room, without replying to Mrs.
Inglis's observation that she had not finished her tea.

In a few minutes, the old lady followed her — " I
am sorry, my child, if I hurt thy feelings," she ob-
served; " 1)ut 1 will tell thee, candidly, that neigh-
bour Townsend is very anxious to learn thy history.
He was, like me, taken at first sight with the modesty
and gentleness of thy looks. He is, as I told thee
before, a man of good substance, and without kin-
dred or friends, and he is arrived at an age which
renders him more to be relied on and trusted than a
\oung, thoughtless num. He is fearful, he says, that
tliou art in distress, and, if thou wilt trust him with
Ihy history "

" I am in no distress, my dear Madam, that Mr.
Townsend can alleviate," replied Emily; " nor have
] any history to communicate, farther than that death
liaving deprived me of my natural protectors, who
were unable to make any permanent provision for
me, I am under the necessity of ei^deavouring to pro-
vide for myself. This is really all I have to commu-
nicate, and I hope will put an end to all suspicion or
conjecture on my account."

" But wilt thou tell me from what part of the
country thou hast come, and who and what were th\
friends?" said the old lady. " I do not ask thee
because I suspect thee, or from mere curiosity ; but,

EMILY MORELAND. 383

1 will tell thee at once, that friend Townsend re-
gards thee with a very favourable eye, and a candid
explanation to him may "

" I cannot consent, Madam, to give any farther
explanation, with the view of cultivating Mr. Town-
send's good opinion," replied Emily, blushing, with
a mixture of shame and vexation, at the insinuation
which it was plain Mrs. Inglis meant to make. " I
think, indeed," she continued, resuming all the pride
of her nature, " that I have quite sufficiently ex-
plained my actual situation ; but it has been from
deference to you, and not from any view of gaining
Mr. Townsend 's good opinion, which is, and ever
will be, a matter of perfect indifference to me."

" He will be sorely grieved to think so," replied
Mrs. Inglis, half smiling at the decision of her man-
ner; " however, I will faithfully report to him what
thou sayest, though, I think, thou art in the wrong,

to be too hasty in rejecting " Emily shook her

head impatiently; the subject was, indeed, too re-
pugnant for her to enter into any discussion; and
Mrs. Inglis, after inviting her to come down-stairs
again, as soon as he should be gone out, which she
would know by hearing the street-door shut, left
her to herself.

This was a new and unexpected source of mortifi-
cation; for Emily felt very fearful that the confirma-
tion she had herself given, of her unprotected and
isolated situation, would not have the efifect she
wished, of totally discouraging Mr. To wnsend's views.
There was something, too, in his looks and manners,
which was far from prepossessing her in favour of the

384 EMILY MORELAND.

rectitude of his principles; and though it was very
evident he had engaged Mrs. luglis in his favour, by
his profession of honourable and upright intentions,
Emily felt a secret, an unaccountable distrust of him,
which made her sincerely regret the chance which
had thrown her in his way.

Unwilling, however, to appear ungrateful for the
kindness which she was sure prevailed in Mrs. Inglis's
heart towards her, she hastened down-stairs, as soon
as she heard the signal of Mr. Townsend's departure ;
and, to her very great satisfaction, his name was not
mentioned in the conversation that ensuea, in the
course of which Emily unreservedly detailed the
means she intended to adopt, of advertising, &c. and
the old lady promised, unasked, to accompany her to
the place proper for her purpose, on the following
day.

" And if I should not succeed," said Emily, with a
sigh, " I have no immediate fears of want, as I have
a sum sufficient for my necessities for a considerable
period ; and, besides, I think I could, by my acquire-
ments in ornamental works of different kinds, secure
enough to satisfy my moderate wants and wishes."

" It would be a pity that one so desirous of being
honourably independent, should ever want encou-
ragement," said a strange voice behind her, " yet, if
you have no other recommendation, young lady, than

merit, I much fear you will find Pardon me, I

ought rather to apologise for having intruded upon
your counsels, than thus have introduced myself by
discouraging your hopes, and damping your ex-
pectations."

I

EMILY MORELAND. 38i>

Emily arose, with diffidence and respect, to return
the courteous bow of the stranger, who was a tall
venerable-looking man, whose bronzed complexion
and mutilated arm at once betrayed his profession,
even had he not been attired in a faded naval
uniform.

"Will you forgive me?'* he continued, respect-
fully taking Emily's hand, and again bowing, as he
did so. " It was an impulse which I could neither
resist or reason upon, to listen to the sentiments
which were delivered in so impressive, and, I will
add, attractive a manner. If, however, I am very
much to blame, I cannot consent to take the whole
on myself; for my good Dame Inglis was a partner
in my crime, as she saw me at the door, and did not
discourage me."

** I was too well aware of the value of thy friend-
ship, not to be anxious to secure it for one, who, I
believe, deserves it," returned Mrs. Inglis, in a voice
of strong emotion.

The stranger raised his finger, as if to enjoin
silence. " I am not going to talk >f thy good deeds,"
replied Mrs. Inglis, impressively " Every one who
knows thee will soon discover thee."

" Will you give me a cup of tea, and let me sit
down ? for I have stood all this time upon my lame
leg, and, I assure you, it reminds me that I have no
business to tax its services any longer, after a wal'
of seven miles," returned the gentleman, smiling.

Mrs. Inglis hastily bustled to accommodate him
with the easy chair, while Emily, with the natural
kindness of her disposition, removed the carpeted
17. 3 D

vB6 EMILY MORELAND.

btool, on which a favourite cat belonging to Mrs,
Inglis had been seated, and placed it so that he could
rest his swollen leg upon it.

" You are desirous, I see, of completely subduing
my heart," observed the stranger, smiling ; " but I am
fearful that you are a coquette, for I believe I am
not the first captive you have made in this house."

The last observation was made in a tone evidently
designed not to reach the ear of their hostess, who
was bringing down, from her corner cupboard, the
additional china cup and saucer, to accommodate her
evidently welcome guest. " Any other conquest I
have made, Sir," replied Emily, returning his inqui-
sitive look with one of the most perfect candour,
" has been, I assure you, alike unwished and unwel-
come."

Captain Fortcscue (for so her new acquaintance
was called) returned a look of intelligence, which
said he could believe her, and the subject was
dropped.

" I little thought what an addition the good dame
was about to make to our society, M'hen she told me,
on the morning that I left town, that she had let her
vacant apartment; but I was so hurried then, that I
made no inquiries, nor did I think of mentioning the
circumstance, until it was broached to me by my com-
panion at dinner to-day."

" I should have mentioned it myself, as soon as 1
thought thou wert rested from thy fatigues," replied
Mrs. Inglis briefly.

'' Ah, you are very considerate, I know, my good
old lady; but do you not think I ahall sooner forget

EMILY MOKELANU. 387

my aches and pains, in your and this young lady's
society, than moping over them up-stairs alone?"

" I know that thou never rememberest thine own
infirmities, when thou canst alleviate the pains of
others," replied Mrs. Inglis; "and I was willing
that thou should'st have time to rest and nurse thy-
self."

" Nurse myself! no, faith, not I, while I can hope
for the services of two such skilful nurses as you and
this young lady — I beg her pardon, I have not yet
been formally made acquainted with the name "

" My name, Sir, is Emily Moreland," returned
the latter, blushing with unaffected modesty.

"Moreland!" repeated Captain Fortescue; "ft
is a name 1 have reason to respect — one of my best
and dearest friends was named Moreland. It would
appear almost romantic to indulge the idea, yet I

cannot help fancying Will you tell me, my dear,

who was your father, or grandfather, for it is more
likely that he should have borne that relationship ?"

Emily briefly explained her regretted grandfa-
ther's name and situation in life, and Captain For-
tescue, with pleasure sparkling in his eyes, ex-
claimed

" Then, my prepossessions did not for once deceive
me — for I fancied, the moment I looked at you, that
you strongly resembled some one whom I had for-
merly known, though it is so many years since Reu-
ben Moreland and I met, that, until you mentioned
your name, it did not occur to me that it was his fea-
tures to which yours bear so marked a resemblance
Poor Reuben, 1 recollect well how I used to envj^

388 EMK.Y MOREl, A>fn.

him his fine complexion and features, f>f which, how-
ever, he always appeared totally unconscious, and
used to seem quite surprised at the preference all the
girls distinguished him witli, while I was overlooked,
or only mortified with repulses. But he is dead, you
say? — Gone to that world, to which I am hastening
after him!"

A long and serious pause ensued — " My old friend,
then, left a son," at length observed Captain For-
tescue, "since your name tells me "

Emily hung down her head, while blushes of the
deepest scarlet betrayed her confusion.

"What have 1 said, to occasion this?" observed
her companion. " I would not, for the world, give
you a moment's pain, yet 1 see I have touched a
chord that is discordant to your feelings. I will ask
only one more question — Is your father living?"

"He is living!" returned Emily, in a faltering
voice, "but he is not the son of Mr. Moreland. My
mother was his daughter, and I bear her name — be-
cause— " and she burst into tears, " I have no legal
right to any name !"

Captain Fortescue paused for a moment, unable
apparently to comprehend her; but the truth, at
length, flashed upon his mind.

"Poor child! I understand you,'* he at length
replied, " and my poor friend, Moreland, then, was
so unfortunate in his child — but is she living?"

" My mother was one of the best and most amiable
beings that ever existed," returned Emily, warmly;
'*and, except in that offence, which she expiated
with her life, never gave her parents one moment's

EMILY MORELAND. 389

pain ; and, in that instance, she was the victim of
treachery!" She stopped, unable te command her
voice to proceed, and Captain Fortescue, kindly
taking her hand, entreated her to be calm, and to
believe that he would be the last to wound her sen-
sibility, by reflecting on the memory of her mother.

" But, my dear child," he continued, "let me ask
}ou, does not this man endeavour to lessen the evil
he has brought upon you, by protecting and support-
ing you? If he does not, he is doubly a villain —
and, old as I am, I would tell him so, be his station
what it may."

" Some years have elapsed," replied Emily, sigh-
ing, "since he evinced any interest in my welfare.
At the present moment, I know not whether he is
even aAvare of ray existence ; and, I am sure, he little
suspects that I am so near as to have seen him within
a few days."

"Seen him!" repeated Captain Fortescue, "and
without making yourself known to him?"

Emily replied in the affirmative — " Why should I
remind him of a circumstance, which must cause him
to blush before his child ?" she observed. " Neither
will that respect I owe to the memory of my mother,
allow me to feel towards her destroyer with kindness,
even though he is my father. No, I shall never so-
licit the notice of one who has hitherto treated me
with inclifference and neglect."

"And whom, then, have you to depend on, my
child?" inquired the Captain. " Your observations
would lead me to conclude that your grandfather
and his partner "

390 EMILY MORELAND.

Emily's agitation increased — " Alas !" she replied,
clasping her hands, " they are both laid in the silent
grave, and I am without a friend in the world ! Yet,
I will not despair — Oh no, I will hope that "

"Hope every thing, my dear child," interrupted
Captain Fortescue; "and never again, while Ned
Fortescue is living, say that you are without a friend !
But you must be unreserved with me — you must can-
didly tell me what is your situation, and what are
your plans — and then I shall be able to judge what
course to pursue for your benefit."

Emily commenced an unreserved and unaffected
detail of all that had occurred, to occasion her pre-
sent destitute and friendless situation; but, though
she descanted, with all the partiality of friendship,
on the good qualities and accomplishments of the
Signora Orsini, and dwelt most emphatically on the
maternal kindness and care with which she had
watched over and fostered her, it was very evident,
from Captain Fortescue's look and mannei', that she
had failed in impressing him with a very favourable
opinion of her absent friend.

" I am afraid, after all, my dear, that this Signora
was, to use a common but very significant phrase,
' No great things.' It is seldom, indeed, that a fe-
male can have any honourable motive for assuming
the veil of mystery and secrecy, as far as relates to
her own history; and I really think, that, far from
regretting the loss of this lady, you ought to rejoice
that she has herself freed you from your dependance
upon her. You think me uncharitable, and I do not
blame you for feeling grateful to one who certainly

EMILY MORELAND 391

appears, whatever her real circumstances or history
may be, to have behaved with kindness towards you.
I have, however, lived long enough in the world, my
dear, to know that I am warranted in what I have
asserted."

Unwilling as Emily felt to concede a single point
which could militate against that respect which she
was certain her friend Rosalia's conduct had, at every
period of her eventful life, merited, still she could
not oppose the observation of Captain Fortescue;
and, though her countenance expressed her dissent
and dissatisfaction, she remained silent; but when
Mrs. Inglis, who, though busied with the duties of
the tea-table, had listened with evident interest to
the conversation of her guests, enforced by some re-
mark the opinion Captain Fortescue expressed,
Emily felt it impossible to restrain the dictates of her
heart, and she entered into a vindication of her absent
friend, which, if it failed to convince her auditors, at
least impressed them, still more deeply, with the
conviction of her own ingenuousness and upright
disposition. The perfect candour and openness, too,
with which she spoke of her present resources and
future hopes, had its due weight both with her hos-
tess and her new friend ; and the latter, with equal
sincerity, observed, that, " though he feared she was
rather sanguine in her expectations, and that a life
of dependance would present many difficulties and

sorrows that she nosi did not foresee "

''A life of dependance, Sir!" reiterated Emily.

" Is that term applicable to "

" I know what you would say, my dear child," in-

392 EMILY MORfiLAND.

terrupted Captain Fortescue, " and perhaps, indeed
without doubt you are strictly correct ; your services
would, in reality, free you from all obligation to
those with whom you would engage. But, alas! in
this strange world, you will meet with but few who
can understand, or will act, upon this principle; and
you will find that, if necessity compels you to accept
a subordinate station, you must submit to many mor-
tifications which, at present, you can form no estimate
of. Do not, however, let my remarks dishearten
you — they are intended only to prevent your raising
your expectations too high — a fault which is very
natural at your age."

Emily's spirits sank still lower at this remark ; al-
ready her apprehensive mind began to suggest the
obstacles which Captain Fortescue had thus hinted
at; but the latter, after assuring her that he would
exert all the influence he possessed, and direct her
exertions where they might be most likely to promote
her plans, contrived to divert her attention from her
own immediate cares and circumstances, by speaking
of a subject which could not fail to interest her — the
youthful days and character of her revered grand-
father, Reuben Moreland.

I

EmiLY MORELANH. HO'J

CHAPTER XVI.

-The time arrives, the dangerous time,

'When all those virtues, opening novF so fair.
Transplanted to the world's tempestuous clime.

Must learn each passion's boisterous breath to bear.

Mason.

Equally delighted, the one in listening to, and the
other in repeating, anecdotes of him whom both alike
esteemed and appreciated, the time passed unheeded,
until the now well-known knock and ring of Mr.
Townsend, occasioned Emily to start up, and, seizing
the candle, she was about hastily to retreat, but was
prevented by Captain Fortescue, who, with evident
astonishment, exclaimed —

" Why this haste. Miss Moreland ? There is no
necessity, I trust, for you to avoid any one — much
less a quiet old bachelor, like Mr. Townsend!"

Emily blushed and hesitated, but Mrs. Inglis had
already let him in, and she heard his voice in the
passage, inquiring if Captain Fortescue was returned.

" He has not been out," returned Mrs. Inglis, very
laconically.

" Oh, then I shall find him up stairs," rejoined
Mr. Townsend.

" No, he is in the kitchen," replied Mrs. Inglis,
though evidently with reluctance.

" In the kitchen !" — Mr. Townsend stepped hastily
back, though his foot was on the stairs, and opened
17. 3 B

394 EMILY MORELAND.

the door; but it is impossible to describe the look of
vexation and surprise with which he beheld Emily
and her companion, who was holding her hand, and
trying to prevail on her to reseat herself.

" Upon my word, you seem very comfortable here !"
he at length observed, advancing into the room.
" I declare, I am quite sorry to interrupt you, I am
sure "

" It is a sorrow you could have easily prevented,
my good friend, if there existed a necessity for it ;
but it fortunately happens that your presence is no
interruption to me, and, I hope, not to Miss More*
land?" looking inquisitively at her.

Emily very gravely replied that it could be no in-
terruption to her, as she was just on the point of re-
tiring for the night ; and, having lighted her candle,
she wished Captain Fortescue good night, and, bow-
ing distantly to Mr. Townsend, left the room, evi-
dently much to the dissatisfaction of the latter, who
would have made a faint attempt to detain her, but
was discouraged both by Mrs. Inglis and Captain
Fortescue's looks.

In a few minutes, Emily heard them both retire to
their own sitting-room, which they inhabited in com-
mon, and, almost immediately after, Mrs. Inglis came
up to her.

" Wilt thee have any supper, child ?" she observed,
in a tone of unusual good-humour. " I thought thy
6re would be extinguished, and I came to ask thee
to return to mine. Thou wilt not be disturbed, fo"
neither of thy two new friends will leave their room
again to-night."

EMILY MORELANS. 395

Emily saw that to refuse would be to offend, and,
with a light step, she followed the old lady down
again, though she almost repented it, when, as she
passed the dining-room door, she heard Captain
Fortescue, in a tone of anger, say — " I desire, Sir, I
may hear no more remarks of this kind! I have
already told you that she is the daughter of an old
friend of mine, and I will now further tell you, that
I consider her under my protection."

Mrs. Inglis had stopped on the stairs at the com-
mencement of this speech, uttered in a tone so un-
usual to Captain Fortescue, and she now turned a
look, aghast with surprise, on Emily.

" Surely they will not disagree, after living so
peaceably for years together!" she observed.

" I hope not," returned Emily, anxiously.

Mrs. Inglis led on, and Emily lost Mr. Townsend's
reply, which she was most anxious to hear.

All Mrs. Inglis's good-humour had vanished, be-
fore the supper cloth was spread, and the frugal
meal of bread and cheese placed on it.

'^ I shall be truly sorry," Emily observed, ''if I
should be the means of creating dissensions between
friends."

" I should be sorry, too," replied Mrs. Inglis;
" friend Fortescue is a truly humane and kind-
hearted man, and to his benevolence I am indebted
tor almost all I possess. To his recommendation,

also, I owe but I will hope that they will not be

so unwise, as to differ on such a trifle."

Emily could again only hope so, too; and Mrs.
Inglis, after repeatedly opening the door, to listen

390 BMILT MORELAND.

whe:her she could hear their voices, at length sat
down with the expressed hope that all would yet
turn out for the best. " And if it does not, at least
I have meant for the best," she added, in a lower
tone, " though I have broken through all my resolu-
tions, in taking a female into the house."

Emily felt the half reproach, but, conscious it
arose more from the petulance of temper than any
want of right feeling, she suffered it to pass without
reply.

The following day passed without her seeing
either Captain Fortescue or Mr. Tovvnsend; the
former, she understood from Mrs. Inglis, was con-
fined to his room with a cold ; and the latter, though
he had inquired after her, did not make any attempt
to renew his intrusive attentions.

The weather, which had confined her to the house,
and rendered her situation so gloomy, now became
fine and clear ; and Emily, feeling that she had no
longer an excuse, even to herself, for delaying the
unpleasant task, proceeded at breakfast, (a meal
which she now regularly took with her hostess, nei-
ther of the gentlemen rising so early,) to make some
inquiries as to the mode necessary to be pursued, in
order to insert an advertisement in one or two of
the newspapers. She found, however, that Mrs.
Inglis was as uninformed as herself on the subject.

" But I will ask friend Fortescue," she observed,
"when 1 carry up his breakfast; and he will, I dare
say, be able to give thee proper directions."

Emily had already written what she thought pro-
per and necessary, to make known her wishes for a

EMILY MORELAND. 397

situation ; and she now liastened to equip herself for
lier morning's walk, against the hour Avhen Captain
Fortescue should arise, and g-ive her the necessary
directions. This task was soon completed, and she
was sitting in anxious and melancholy reflection,
when the door of the kitchen softly opened, and Mr.
Townsend entered.

" Are you alone. Miss Moreland ?" he asked, look-
ing cautiously round.

Emily replied in the affirmative, adding, however,
rather hastily — " Mrs. Inglis will be here. Sir, di-
rectly; she is only attending Captain Fortescue."

" I know it," he replied, with a significant look;
" and I know, too, what she is conferring with him
about. When I was passing the chamber-door it was
open, and 1 heard your name mentioned ; so I thought
it no harm just to listen a bit. Now, I've got some-
thing to offer for your consideration, my dear, that I
think will be better worth your while than shutting
yourself up, and burying yourself alive, as one may
say, in a school, or dancing attendance upon some
fine lady, that will treat you worse than a favourite
cat, or a lap-dog ! So, don't go and throw your money
away upon advertising, but just consent to meet me,
after business is over — say, four o'clock — at any spot
you please, between this and the Royal Exchange,
and we will talk further. Here I cannot say any
thing, without being interrupted and dictated to like
a school-boy."

" Excuse me. Sir," replied Emily, blushing- and
hesitating, between fear, resentment, and timidity.
" Excuse me — I can have no secrets from my friends,
Mrs. In2:Hs and Cantain Fortescue, they "

398 EMILY MORELAND,

" Pooh, don't be a silly girl ! What do such old-
fashioned frumps know of the world," he replied,
*' or what can they do to assist you, beyond mere
talk and preachment ? I don't ask any thing- unrea-
sonable— only hear what I've got to propose. There,
now, there's the old woman coming — promise to
meet me, there's a good girl !"

Emily retreated from his familiar manner, and
would have angrily replied, but Mrs. Inglis was
already at the door ; and Mr. Townsend, giving
Emily another significant look, hastily passed out,
observing that he should be late in the city.
• "And who has kept thee, I wonder," observed
Mrs. Inglis, looking after him with a dissatisfied air.

" Not me, I assure you. Madam," returned Emily,
with spirit, " for, you may rely upon it, his atten-
tions are far from welcome or pleasant to me."

" Thou art quite right, child," replied Mrs. In-
glis, " though yesterday I should not have said so ;
but the wickedness and deceit of men are beyond
conception I I thought that he meant faithfully
and uprightly towards thee ; and that, though he is
thine elder, his offer of taking thee for his helpmate
was too advantageous to be slighted ; but I have
since learned from one, whose lips would not utter a
falsehood, that he has no such intentions. He seeks
only to draw thee into a snare, and I hope "

Emily smiled contemptuously as she observed,
that, novice as she was, she was perfectly aware
what Mr. Townpend's intentions were.

" But we will not waste another thought on him."
she continued, " what does Captain Fortescue say
on the subject I mentioned ?"

EMILY MORELAND. 399

" He wants to see thee first," replied Mrs. Inglis,
'* and is now putting on his clothes, for that purpose.

In a few minutes, his bell announced that he had
left his chamber, and Emily followed Mrs. Inglis tc
the sitting-room.

Captain Fortescue looked much worse than he
acknowledged himself to be, but he was much con-
cerned that he could not accompany her to the city ;
and he would have insisted on her having a coach,
but that Emily assured him that she was actually
unwell for want of her usual walks, and was not the
least afraid of walking alone. Having, therefore,
received from him full directions how to proceed, she
was about to wish him good morning, when he
stopped her, observing, that he had something more
to say, but must first be assured that she would not
feel offended, but consider it, however mistaken, as
the dictates of friendship towards her.

" You make such a formal preparation, my dear
Sir," replied Emily, smiling, " that you half frighten
me from listening to you ; but I hope you do not re-
quire an equally formal assurance, that I shall be
most happy to receive your advice on any subject."

" I would only then, my dear, caution you against
Mr. Townsend. I know that, precise and old-
fashioned as his appearance is, and temperate as his
life appears to be, he is at bottom an unprincipled
rake, to whom every fresh face is an attraction. I
know, too, that he has endeavoured to impose upon
Mrs. Inglis that his intentions towards you are
honourable, though he has never scrupled to avow
to me that no consideration on earth should tempt
him into matrimony, and

400 BMII.Y MORELAND.

" But, my drar Sir, you do not, I hope, think so
despicably of me, as to fear that I should, for an
instant, give encouragement to the attentions of such
a being as Mr. Townsend ?'* interrupted Emily, her
face glowing with humiliation at the thought.

*' I do not fear his fascinating manners, or the
charmp of his person," replied Captain Fortescue ;
" but it is necessary, also, to be on your guard
against artifice and cunning; and that, I know, he
possesses in an abundant degree. In transactions
between man and man, he is what the world calls a
just and upright man; but with woman he holds no
faith : with them it is his maxim, as with soldiers in
war, that every stratagem to gain a victory is
allowable !"

Emily's eyes sparkled with indignation, but Cap-
tain Fortescue, satisfied with the hint he had given,
turned the conversation by again speaking of the
way she must take, and exhorting her to be careful,
bade her good morning.

With less trouble and difficulty than slie had
anticipated, Emily found her way to the Strand,
though neither her eye nor her ear were yet suffi-
ciently accustomed to the bustle, the hurry, and the
apparent confusion of the crowded streets, to pre-
vent her feeling considerable annoyance.

She had studiously avoided, in her dress, all that
could attract the attention of the passers-by ; but
her large bonnet and thick veil could not so entirely
obscure her beautiful features, as not to attract con-
siderable notice ; and, more than once in the course
of her walk, she was distressed by the perseverance
with which she was followed and observed, by those

BMILY MORELAND. 401

to whom her evident diffidence, and desire to elude ob-
servation, were even greater charms than her beauty.

At length, however, she reached the office of the
newspaper which Captain Fortescue had recom-
mended ; but her vexation and surprise were un-
controlable, when, just as she was turning into the
door, a heavy kand was laid on her shoulder, and
the discordant voice of Mr. Townsend sounded in
her ears.

" I thought I should catch you I" he exclaimed,
*' and yet I was almost about to give it up, for I've
been walking up and down till I'm quite tired, wait-
ing for you ; as I knew, if you did come, it would be
to this office, because it is Fortescue's favourite
paper, and, indeed, I believe he has a hand in writ-
ing for it sometimes ; but I don't mind the trouble
I've taken, as you have come at last."

Emily had been unable to interrupt him in his gra-
tulations of himself on his success, but she now very
coolly observed, that he had taken very unnecessary
trouble, as she was fully determined to have no
communication with him, to which Captain Fortescue
was not a party.

" But you shall listen to me now," he replied,
very peremptorily interfering to prevent her enter-
ing the passage.

" Let me pass. Sir, instantly," said Emily, an-
grily, " this is both insolent and unmanly."

*' I only want to prevent your throwing your
money away in this foolish advertisement, for I am
sure I could prevail on you, if you vould only hear
me, not to think of going to service."

17. 3f

402 EMILY MORELAKD.

" To service !" repeated Emily, indignantly.

" Yes, child, what is it better that you propose ?
Ah, you don't know what you are running your head
into — and don't you think, now, that a nice little
house, and a servant or two at your command ; a ride
out in a gig in the country on a Sunday, and "

" 1 insist 1 will not be insulted in this man-
ner !" exclaimed Emily, passionately wresting her
hand from him, and darting into the office, heedless
where she was going, or what was thought of her
appearance, so that she escaped from the hateful
being, whose very looks seemed an insult to her.

Several gentlemen were in the office when she
entered, who beheld her with looks of surprise and
curiosity, and one courteously made way for her to
come up to the desk.

The confusion and agitation of her spirits, how-
ever, were such that, on taking out her pocket-book,
in which she had deposited the draught of the adver-
tisement, she mistook the paper, and presented him
with one on which was written, in the hand-writing
of her deceased mother, the name and address of her
father, Reginald de Cardonnel, Sir James Dorring-
ton's, Portland Place.

The man to whom she handed it, read it aloud,
before she comprehended the mistake she had made.

" What is this. Ma'am— a death ?" he demanded.

" Oh, no, no — that is wrong— give it me, pray,"
she exclaimed, in a faltering voice, " that is not the
paper, and, with a trembling hand, she received it
from him, and began to search her pocket-book for
the right one

EMILY MORELAND. 403

The man turned away, and began to converse with
a gentleman who stood near him. while the one who
had receded to make way for her, observed, in a
compassionate tone —

" You are agitated, Madam — allow me to hand
you a seat; perhaps, in a few moments, you will re-
collect what you have done with the paper, which
appears of so much importance."

" It is of little importance. Sir," replied Emily,
*' though the loss of it, at this moment, is awkward.
It is merely an advertisement," and again she com-
menced an investigation of the contents of her pocket-
book. " How provoking !" she at length exclaimed,
observing the gentleman seemed to await the result
of her search with considerable interest, " How very
remiss I have been ! I must have left it behind me !"

" Probably, you can recollect the heads of it, and
I will write a fresh one for you, if you have no ob-
jection?" observed the gentleman.

Emily coloured and hesitated — her pride, for a
moment, revolted from thus exposing her situation
in life to a stranger ; and the gentleman, seeming
immediately to understand her reluctance, dre>^
back, apologising for having made the proposal.

" She is about to advertise for a husband, perhaps,' '
said one of the others, in a whisper loud enough tj
reach Emily's ears.

Emily no longer hesitated — "If you will have the
goodness, Sir, I will trouble you," she observed,
addressing the gentleman who had made her the
offer; "for ray hand," she continued, "trembles so,
that I fear I could not write intelligibly."

404 EMILY MORELAND.

The stranger bowed, and taking pen, ink, una
paper, placed himself so as to screen her from the
observation of his companions, while he wrote what
she dictated.

" Moreland is quite a knight-errand !" observed
the man who had before made so insolent a remark
upon her.

Emily started at the name of Moreland, which she
immediately comprehended was the appellation o»'
the gentleman who was so kindly disposed towards
her. For a moment, she forgot what she was about,
and cast an anxious glance at features, which strongly
reminded her of one who had borne the same name —
her revered grandfather.

There was, in fact, just such a resemblance as
might be expected, between a son and his father;
and Emily's fancy was already busy, forming a thou-
sand conjectures respecting the individual before her.

" You have not yet decided what address to affix,"
observed the stranger, raising his eyes to her face,
with a smile.

"My name is Moreland," she replied; "Emily
Moreland — but it will be sufficient, I suppose, to
affix the initials E. M. ?"

It was now the stranger's turn to be surprised.

" Emily Moreland !" he repeated, " that is sin-
gular. There has been more than one female of my
family who have borne that name — yet it is not pos-
Rible!"

" It was the name of my grandfather's favourite
sister, I have been told," returned Emily, in-
genuously.

EMILY MORELAND. 405

"Your grandfather!" replied the stranger, "may
I ask who, or what he was?"

" The chief part of his life was passed as the Curate
of Arlington — his name was Reuben Moreland," re-
plied Emily.

The gentleman's eyes sparkled—" I have, then,
the honour to be related to you," he observed ; " for
I am the son of an elder brother of Reuben More-
land."

Emily cordially gave her hand, and returned the
look of satisfaction with which her newly-discovered
relative greeted her ; but all her exultation vanished,
when he made the same inquiry, and almost in the
same words as Captain Fortescue had done, respect-
ing her father.

Her eyes sought the ground, as she replied, some-
what evasively, " that he was living, and, she believed,
well in health."

" But — pardon me, I do not wish or intend to
wound your feelings," returned Moreland, "but, if
I may be allowed to draw a conclusion, from the
wish expressed in this advertisement, your circum-
stances are not very prosperous. Will you tell me
what and where your parents are? The descendant
of Reuben Moreland, certainly, has a claim upon
his relatives, whatever might have been the error
which separated his father from his family. Of that
I know very little, for, I acknowledge, I have
hitherto had but little curiosity respecting one, whose
existence was all that was known to me. His son,
however, ought not to suffer for his folly, let it have
been what it mi"ht."

406 EMILY MORELAND.

" My grandfather never was, never could be, guilty
of any thing that deserved the name of folly," inter-
rupted Emilvj with warmth; "but, if his conduct
rendered him an alien to his family, I feel that 1 have
still less claim to their consideration — for I am not
the child of his son — he had none — but of his deceived
and ruined daughter; ruined, because the man she
loved was too prudent to act as my grandfather
acted, and despise the distinctions of birth and for-
tune."

There was an evident struggle in Mr. Moreland's
bosom, between pride and feeling, as he listened to
Emily's agitated exposition of her situation, and
gazed on her expressive and beautiful features.

" This is a stain," he exclaimed, in a low voice,
" which I knew not existed ! But you are much too
young, to comprehend the value of those distinctions
which you seem to estimate so slightly, and yet feel
so forcibly the deprivation of. I am sorry, however,
very sorry, that a bar is thus placed between you and
those relatives, who, under other circumstances,
would, I am sure, be proud to acknowledge and assist

you."

" I want no assistance, Sir, though I thank you for
your kind wishes," replied Emily, in a tone still
prouder than his own, and recovering all the forti-
tude which the mention of her mother had shaken.
" I did not make myself known to you, with the view
of soliciting your favour, but from an impulse which
I now sincerely repent," she continued.

"You will have no cause, I hope, to repent it,"
returned Mr. More-land, in a gentler tone; " but this

EMII.T MORELAND. 407

is not a place fit for the discussion of this subject.
Allow me to recommend that you defer the insertion
of this advertisement, until you either see or heai'
from me. As the representative of your grandfather,
whose memory you appear to respect, I request
this," he continued, observing that she appeared tc
hesitate.

Emily could have remonstrated on the inconsistency
of his assuming authority in the name of one, whom
he had just before seemed to wish to disclaim all al-
liance with J but she was too timid to refuse a request
thus strongly urged, and, after a moment's reflection,
she replied, " that she would certainly await his
communication, though she could not renounce her
right to be guided by her own discretion, after all."

Mr. Moreland replied " Certainly," with more
coolness than his manners had hitherto assumed ; and
a pause ensued of considerable embarrassment on
both sides, which was terminated by Emily's rising
to depart.

*' You have not walked all this distance, and alone,
I hope?" said Mr. Moreland, resuming the kindness
of tone and look which had at first prepossessed
Emily so strongly in his favour.

The recollection of the annoying importunities of
Mr. Townsend, rushed into her mind as she replied
in the affirmative; and she cast an anxious glance
towards the door, as if to ascertain whether he was
still there.

*' Do you expect some one to accompany you
home?" inquired Mr. Moreland, immediately com-
prehending her look.

«M!LT MORELAND.

" Not with my wish or consent," returned Emily,

olushing ; " but "

" I recollect — you were greatly agitated when you
entered," interrupted Mr. Moreland; " seme one, 1
suspect, has been unmanly enough to intrude upon
your unprotected situation ; but do not be alarmed —
1 will see you safe."

Emily felt almost as reluctant to accept the arm,
which her sensitive feelings suggested was offered
her with an air of condescension, as she was to ex-
pose herself to a repetition of Mr. Townsend's low-
bred insults. Mr. Moreland's manner, however, was
too decisive to allow her to hesitate, and she there-
fore accepted it, unobservant of the look of surprise
with which she was beheld by Mr. Moreland's two
companions, who, having left the office previous to
the explanation which had taken place, at this mo-
ment only returned to it, and were therefore uncon-
scious of the tie which existed between her and her
companion.

" You are coming back, I hope, Fred. ?" observed
one of them, addressing Mr. Moreland, " for, you
recollect, the business that brought us here is not yet
settled."

" Certainly ; I only wish to see this young lady
safe," replied the latter. " I will be back as soon
as I have accomplished that, which will be only a
few minutes."

" And what will the old lady at home say, if she

knows "

" Pooh, I will explain, when I return," replied
Mr. Moreland, gravely; "you will be surprised, ;
can assure vou."

DMILY MORELAND. 409

*• More mysteries V observed the other gentleman,
smiling-; but Mr. Moreland made no reply, and
Emily, anxious to escape, hurried on out of hearing:

Mr. Moreland looked anxiously and inquisitively
around, when they reached the street ; but Mr.
Townsend, Emily's tormentor, was not in sight,
though she felt almost convinced that he V7as still on
the watch for her.

*' If I see you to a hackney coach. Miss " he

hefcitated, as if unwilling to pronounce the name;
and Emily prevented the necessity of it, by observing
that she believed she need not give him even that
trouble, as the person whom she wished to avoid was
apparently gone.

" Excuse me — I cannot feel satisfied with your
conjecture — I am too well aware of the dangers
which a female of your appearance is likely to en-
counter in this place," replied Mr. Moreland, " par-
ticularly if, as I presume is your case, she is unac-
customed to traverse the streets alone."

Emily assented to this last observation, adding —
" I am not only unaccustomed to the streets, but
almost a stranger to London, having only entered it,
for the first time, within the last few weeks."

" Indeed!" returned Mr. Moreland; " though,"
he added, correcting his expression of surprise, " I
had, at first sight, conjectured that those blooming
cheeks and diffident manners were not cultivated in
the hot-bed of London. I had forgotten, however,
in more important considerations, to ask you where
the little you have yet seen of life had been spent?"

*' I have never quitted the Valley of St. Clate,
18. 3g

410 EMILY MORELAND.

(the spot where my dear grandfather, for the last
sixteen years of his life, resided,) not even for a sin-
gle day," replied Emily; " until the loss of all my
friends compelled me to seek the means of providing
my own subsistence."

" Your mother, then " said Mr. Moreland, iu

an inquiring, yet hesitating tone.

" Died within a few months of my birth," returned
Emily, with emotion, " and her sorrowing parents
now rest in the same grave."

Mr. Moreland was visibly affected by the deep,
yet unaffected pathos with which Emily pronounced
this brief abstract of her history.

" Will you allow me to ask with whom you are
residing in Liondon ?" he observed, after a long
pause. " You have, of course, some friends here?"

" None, but such as chance has thrown in my way.
Sir," she replied. " The mistress of the house in
which I rent an apartment is a kind and respectable
woman, and there is a gentleman— Captain For-
tescue — to whom my grandfather was well known,
who was, in fact, his intimate friend in youth, and
now professes considerable interest for his forlorn
and friendless descendant."

"Captain Portescue!" repeated Mr. Moreland,
with evident surprise and agitation ; " and does he
call himself your friend ? I am sorry for it — for his
character does not stand very high in the world, I
can assure you."

Ejiiily's surprise now exceeded that of her com-
panion.— " He appears a very kind-hearted, benevo-
lent man," she observed ; "and my landlady praisaH

SMILY MORELAM!. 411

him, in the highest terras, as an universal bene-
factor."

Mr. Moreland shook his head — " There are those
in the world who speak of him in very different
terms," he replied; "and one case I could imme-
diately mention, in which his conduct towards a fe-
male has been most base and cruel. In fact, it is on
behalf of that female that I am now come to endea-
vour to trace his present residence, which he care-
fully conceals from the victim of his art and hypo-
crisy."

" It cannot, surely, be the same person of whom
we are speaking. The Captain Fortescue / mean is
a man far advanced in years," replied Emily.

"And so is the person of whom I am speaking,"
returned Mr. Moreland. " It was !?is advanced age,
and his assumption of charity and benevolence, that
seduced the unwary young woman 1 allude to, into
the net he spread for her. She was poor and humble,
when she met with this hoary villain — for such he
has proved himself! He affected to pity her situa-
tion, and gave her some employment as a sempstress,
which gained him an introduction to her home
There his kindness and attention to her aged and
helpless mother, who depended entirely on her exer-
tions for subsistence, so won on her respect and
gratitude, that when he affected to be struck with
her valuable qualities, and hinted his desire of
making her his wife, she forgot, as she said, the dif-
ference of their age, and the disagreeableness of his
person, and thought only of contributing to his hap«
piness and (hat of her mother, vvho would be thus

412 EMILY MOREFjAND.

removed beyond the fear of want. There were many
circumstances, which, had she been less simple ana
credulous, might have excited distrust in her bosom ;
but she was too confiding-, and inexperienced in the
ways of the world, though she was strictly virtuous
in principle, I believe j and, indeed, that was proved
by the arts he was obliged to resort to, in order to
complete his purpose. But I will not offend you by
repeating this part of the story— it is sufficient to say,
that he succeeded. The discovery of his baseness,
and her daughter's misfortune, was too much for the
poor old mother, and she has found a refuge in the
grave from all her afflictions ! But the daughter is
still living — and it is to compel her betrayer to pro-
vide for her, and the child she is about to bring into
the world, that I now wish to discover his residence.
The address, which he had given her, proved, like
all the rest of his conduct towards her, false and de-
ceptive ; but I had learned — no matter by what
means — that he was, in some way, connected with the
newspaper, in the office for which we have just met;
and I was endeavouring, when you entered, to elicit,
from the man behind the counter, the information I
wanted, without giving him a suspicion of my pur-
pose."

" Good Heaven, how deceitful are appearances *
1 could have pledged my life for his honour! And
Mrs. Inglis, too, how is she deceived!" exclaimed
Emily, who could no longer refuse her conviction to
her companion's assurances of Captain Fortescue's
baseness.

'* Vou can, then, it appears, give me the desired

EMILY MOKEL,ANL>. -il^

information as to this man's residence?" observeu
Mr. Moreland.

" He is living in the same house as myself," replied
Emily, " and it was from him I received the direction
to this office."

" In the same house — the mistress of it vaunting
his good deeds and benevolence? I am fearful you

pardon me, but, I think, the sooner you quit

your present residence the better," returned Mr,
Moreland. " And you Avere recommended thither,
I suppose, by Captain Fortescue, whose pretence of
having been a friend of — of Mr. Moreland's — your
mother's father — I totally disbelieve."

" Oh, no, it was there I first met Captain Fortes-
cue — he had no hand in my going thither — it was
mere chance and accident alone revealed to him who
I was."

" An accident, which, it appears, he well knew how
to take advantage of," returned Mr. Moreland, with
bitterness. "Would to Heaven," he added, "that 1
could devise some plan to prevent the necessity of
your return to this place, which, I much fear, is no
fit residence for you! And this woman — Inglis, 1
think, you called her — she is, no doubt, acquainted
with his real character, and conceals it from you, for
her own interest !"

Emily's pure and unsuspicious heart recoiled from
this sweeping condemnation of one, whom her rela-
tive could have no reasonable grounds to decide so
fcarshly upon. She had, it was true, just learned a
lesson of distrust, even of the fairest appearances,
had she wanted any other than that her own existence

414 EMILY MORELAND.

inculcated; but still it was impossible any one could
assume those emotions and feelings, which she had
seen shake the faded form of Mrs. Inglis almost to
annihilation, as she related the story of her own suf-
ferings from the perfidy of man ; and she entered
into a warm vindication of the poor old woman,
which was listened to, if not with distrust, at least
without conviction, on the part of her newly-found
relative.

" I shall not let many hours pass, before you either
hear from, or see me," he observed, without reply-
ing to what she had said respecting Mrs. Inglis ;
" but, even for those few hours, I recommend to you
caution. Distrust your own eyes and ears, if they
would lead you to place confidence in aught such a
wretch as that Fortescue can advance !"

The coach, which he had beckoned, drew up to
the pavement as Mr. Moreland finished this sen-
tence, and the necessity of a reply from Emily was
prevented.

Mr. Moreland handed her in, and having given
the coachman directions, and discharged the fare,
somewhat to Emily's mortification, though she knew
not how properly to object to it, he bade her adieu,
repeating his promise that she should hear from him
speedily.

Emily's mind was divided by a thousand busy
thoughts, during the drive to Portland Street ; but
the most unpleasant was the anticipation of meeting
Captain Fortescue — of being obliged, either to dis-
semble the knowledge she had gained of his charac-
ter, or of being compelled to account for that

EMILY MOUELAND. 415

change which she felt she ought to make, in her
conduct towards him. The intelligence, however,
with which Mrs. Inglis met her, as soon as she
alighted from the coach, totally changed the cur-
rent of her thoughts.

" I am glad thee art come, my child," observed
the latter, " for our poor friend Fortescue is, I
fear, smitten with the hand of death. He has had a
fit, from which he is but now recovered, and he has
expressed a wish to see thee. I believe he wishes
thee to write to some of his kindred, to come to him."
Emily forgot all her purposed coolness and cau-
tion, at this intelligence ; and she followed, with
trembling steps, the careful Mrs. Inglis to the bed-
side of the invalid.

"Can that countenance conceal a de-praved heart?"
was the first thought that struck her mind, as she
gazed on the pale placid face which met her view.

Captain Fortescue was sleeping, and, though his
features still bore the impress of the violent ronvul
sion which he had suffered, there was an air of piou
resignation, of sweet and patient feeling, in their ex-
pression, that forcibly portrayed the calm of a pure
and untroubled spirit.

" He bade me distrust the evidence of my own
senses," thought Emily, recurring to the caution
Mr. Moreland had given her ; " but ought I not
rather to distrust his information ? I cannot — I will
not believe that this is the death-bed of a hypo-
crite !"

The invalid opened his eyes, and their gladdened
expression evinced that he recognised Emily, and

416 EMILY MORELAMD.

was rejoiced to see her. " I am worse than when
you left me, my dear," he articulated, with difficulty
— " another such attack, indeed, as I have suffered
during your absence, will, I suspect, prove fatal to
my existence in this world ; and I know not how
soon that attack may come ! I have thought of you
a good deal, within the last few hours, and 1 could
have wished, for your sake, that my time had been
extended a little longer — but the will of Heaven be
done!"

He paused to recover breath, and Emily's tears
flowed freely, as she continued to hold the cold
hand which he had extended towards her.

" I have some relatives," he at length continued,
" whom I should wish to see, as soon as possible;
partly because I esteem them^ and partly that 1 think
an introduction to them may benefit you. Will you
open that desk, my dear ? You will find the neces-
sary materials for writing what I shall trouble you
with."

Emily obeyed, and a few lines, calculated to pre-
pare his relatives, without alarming them more than
was necessary, were written, according to his dicta-
tion. They were addressed, as he desired, to his
niece Eliza.

" You will find a direction card in that drawer,
my dear," observed Captain Fortescue. " It has
the name and address of Mrs. Evelyn, my sister, on
it. I cannot give you the directions, properly, for
1 have not visited her since she removed, but the
card will inform you how to direct the letter."

Emily started at the name, but, in a few minutes.

EMU.Y MOIIEL.AND. 417

the card was found, and in the neat, delicate, and
formal hand-writings, she immediately recognised that
of Eliza Evelyn ; her brother having- repe-atedly,
with excusable pride and fraternal affection, showed
her (Emily) the letters which were addressed to him
by his sister, as only to be equalled by Emily's own
writing.

It was not without infinite vexation and mortifi-
cation that she reflected on the probability of her
present circumstances being made known to the
Evelyns, from whom, of all people in the world, she
wished most to conceal herself; partly because she
felt convinced that the mother and daughter would
consider her as deservedly punished for her re-
jection of Mr. Evelyn's proposals, and partly be-
cause she gave credit to the latter for sufficient feel-
ing and sensibility, to be hurt at knowing the altera-
tion which had so unexpectedly taken place in her
prospects.

It was impossible, however, to leave Captain
Fortescue in his present situation, or, at least, while
he appeared anxious for her to remain ; and she
could only hope that she might see him sufficiently
recovered, before the arrival of his relatives, to
enable her to enter into the subject of her own con-
nexion with, and wishes to avoid them, and thus
prevail on him to abandon the intention which he
hinted at, of endeavouring to interest them in her
favour. But her hopes did not appear likely to be
realised ; for the Captain's disorder seemed to in-
crease with every hour, and she felt too much in-
terest in those more serious cares which appeared to
18. o H

418 E M 1 L Y M O H E L A N D.

occupy his attention, to venture to intrude upon him
the subject of her own situation.

All that had been uttered by Mr. Moreland, de-
rogatory to the character of the sufferer, was com-
pletely disregarded and forgotten by Emily, as she
beheld the resignation with which he bore the severe
attacks of pain, and the amiable solicitude he dis-
played, lest he should afflict those around him, or
give them more than necessary trouble.

In the intervals of pain, Emily read to him, and
when he was unable to attend to her, his earnest and
anxious look seemed to implore her not to leave him.

The evening closed in, and the medical gentleman,
who had been called to him, announced that a fa-
vourable change had taken place. It was likely, he
said, that the deep sleep into which he had fallen
would last for some hours, and he recommended that
the utmost quietness should be observed.

Emily closed the curtain, and sat down to await
the appearance of Mrs. Inglis, who had been called
away by some domestic occupation, and had entreated
her not to leave the chamber until her return.

All tho events of the day passed in review, in her
mind, as she sat leaning her head on her hand, when
those reflections were interrupted by the entrance of
some one whom she supposed to be her hostess.

" I am glad you are come," she observed, in a low
voice, and hastily rising to prevent the latter ap-
proaching the bed, to disturb the patient ; but her
surprise and confusion rendered her for a moment
motionless, when, by the faint light of the candle
which was placed on a table at the farther end of the

rMILY MORELAND. 419

room, she recognised the features and figure of JVlr.
Evelyn.

It was evident that he did not, at first, know who
it was that addressed him — but Emily could not re-
main long" concealed — her reply to his first question
made him start. His eyes, which had been anxiously
turned towards the bed, were now intently fixed on
her features, and, in a faltering voice, he exclaimed —

" Good heavens ! can it be possible ? Is it, indeed,
really Emily — Miss Moreland— that I behold? How
am I to understand this mystery ?"

" There is no mystery attending my appearance
here, Sir," returned Emily, endeavouring to speak
with calmness. " Chance has made me an inmate of
the same house as Captain Fortescue; and his kind-
ness to me, as well as his former friendship with my
grandfather, gave him every claim to my attention.**

" May I flatter myself, too, Emily, that the know-
ledge of his alliance with me did not lessen the "

" 1 knew not. Sir, till within these last few hours,
that Captain Fortescue was related to you," inter-
rupted Emily, gravely.

Mr. Evelyn looked disappointed, and, when he
again spoke, it was to inquire her candid opinion as
to the chance of his respected relative's recovery.

Emily repeated what had been recently said to her
on the subject, and IMr. Evelyn then explained to
her that his mother and sister were below, with Mrs.
Inglis, awaiting his report of Captain Fortescue's
situation, before they ventured to visit him.

*' You will accompany me to them?" he observed,
looking earnestly at Emily. " I am sure my mother

420 F.MILY MOHELAND.

will be most grateful to you for your kind attentionsi
here; and, as to former occurrences "

He hesitated, as if struck by some painful recollec-
tions ; and Emily, coolly withdrawing the hand which
she had given him, only because she was fearful it
would look like affectation to refuse his proffered
one, observed that she neither wished or sought any
recompence, beyond the gratification of her own feel-
ings, for the trifling attentions she had been enabled
to bestow on Captain Fortescue.

" In fact," she continued, blushing and casting
down her eyes, " if Mr. Evelyn considers me entitled
to any consideration from the circumstance, he will
fully repay it by ab'^taining from mentioning my
name to his mother and sister, on the present oc-
casion."

Evelyn sighed — " It is, I see, useless to hope,
Miss Moreland," he observed, "that time or circum-
stances should change your determination to regard
with dislike those who, in spite of every reason to
the contrary, still feel, I am convinced, the deepest
interest in your welfare. I will, therefore, if it is
your wish, avoid mentioning that I have seen you,
though it is scarcely probable that Captain Fortescue
Avill remain silent on the subject; and the name of
Emily Moreland is, I assure you, too deeply im-
pressed on the mother's as well as the son's me-
mory, to be heard with indifference, or without the
wish of inquiring farther respecting her who bears it."

" I am truly grateful for Mrs. Evelyn's kind re-
membrance of me," replied Emily, with emotion,
« but "

SMILY MORELANO. 421

Mrs. In^lis entered, and interruptea the confe-
rence— " Thy mother is anxious," she observed, " to
know if she may be permitted to come up?" address-
ing Mr. Evelyn-

Emiiy stole out of the room, before either of tbem
could observe her intention, and retired to her own
apartment, anxious only to escape the observation
of the correct and cold-hearted Mrs. Evelyn.

An hour elapsed, and she remained undisturbed;
and, with great satisfaction, she concluded that Mr.
Evelyn had attended to her request, and refrained
from announcing to his mother his discovery of her
residence there,

" There is a man, who calls himself a friend of
thine, in the room below," observed Mrs. Inglis,
abruptly entering the chamber, with a candle in her
hand, which she raised to Emily's face, as if to scru-
tinise the expression of her features, while she an-
nounced this visitor.

Emily started, more at the altered expression of
her hitherto kind hostess's looks and manner towards
her, than at the intelligence she had communicated.

" Did he say his name was Moreland?" she de-
manded, scarcely conscious what she was saying.

" No— how could he say that?" replied Mrs.
Inglis, with asperity. " It is not long since I heard
thee avow thou hadst no kindred living! Thou art
known already, it seemeth, to more than are willing
to acknowledge thee— but it is beyond probability
that "

" I know not, Madam," interrupted Emily, " what
can have occasioned these observations — but I wish.

422 EMILY MORELAVD.

at once, to put xn end to them. You allude to Mrs.
JEvelyn- -T am, certainly, known to her, and I would
willingly decline all further acquaintance, either
with her or her family. My reasons for this, I am
not bound to give ; but I dare fearlessly assert, that
I have never acted so as to disgrace the notice she
has been pleased to bestow on me. As to the person
who now waits to see me, he is, if I cojijecture
rightly, a near relative of mine, whose existence I
certainly knew not of, until within these last few
hours. If you distrust this assertion, you are wel-
come to be present at our interview."

Mrs. Inglis looked doubtful ; she seemed as if she
wished to believe, yet had reasons to distrust the
assertions she had just heard.

" It is strange," she, at length, observed, " that
thou should'st not mention to our friend Fortescue
thy knowledge of his kinswoman; and, still more
strange, that she should be so particular in her in-
quiries respecting thee, yet refrain from asking to
see thee. Indeed, I will tell thee plainly, that she
appeared greatly disturbed at hearing thou wert an
inmate of this house; and I heard her say to her son,
that she earnestly hoped and entreated that he would
not seek to see thee again — but I forget that this
man is waiting to see tnee, and he does not appear
to be one who will very patiently await thy leisure."

Emily hastily followed her down stairs, and, to her
great surprise and confusion, beheld Mr. Moreland
in conversation with her troublesome persecutor, Mr.
Townsend, who, it appeared,had just returned from
his usual evening exc jrsion.

EMII.r MORE I, AND. 423

" I acknowledge, Sir, I was somewhat doubtful of
the assertion, that Captain Fortescue was ill; but I
cannot suppose you have any reason for wishing to
prevent my having an interview with him. I shall,
therefore, postpone the business I had with him."
At this moment, Mr. Moreland caught sight of
Emily, and, suddenly pausing, he turned to her,
and kindly taking her hand, observed — " You have
not yet recovered, I see, from the agitation of this
morning. I am afraid, indeed, that my visit is pre-
mature— but I have felt so anxious "

He looked round at Mr. Townsend and Mrs.
Tnglis, as if to give them a hint that their absence
would be desirable; but the latter was detained by
suspicion and curiosity, and the former for a moment
remained transfixed by astonishment, and the fear that
Emily had or would reveal his insolent importani-
ties to the haughty stranger, for such Mr. Moreland
had appeared to him, though his address to Emily
was gentle and kind,

Emily's thoughts, however, after the first moment
of surprise at seeing him there, were engrossed by
subjects of more importance than the contemptible
being who now absolutely trembled before her; and
Mr. Townsend, at length seeming to comprehend
that his absence was wished for, retired, followed by
Mrs. Inglis, who could no longer devise any plau-
sible reason for remaining in the room.

" I almost wish I had deferred my visit till to-
morrow," observed Mr. Moreland, leading Emily to
a seat, " for you look quite ill ; but, upon my return
home, 1 found with Mrs. Moreland a relative whose

424 EMILY MORELAND.

name you probably have heard— Lady Rachel More-
land. T communicated your unfortunate situation
to her, and was happy to find that she perfectly
agreed with me, as to the necessity of your being
immediately removed from it. Lady Rachel is a
very amiable woman at he.\rt, though her manners
are somewhat cold and stately ; and to one who sets
apparently but little valae on the forms and dis-
tinctions necessary to be preserved in society "

(Emily blushed at the implied censure, though
scarcely conscious she deserved it) — " her ladyship
may, perhaps, at first, appear repulsive. Her in-
tentions and actions, however, are ever such as do
her honour ; and this, T think, you will acknowledge,
when I tell you that it is her wish to receive you
under her own roof and protection."

Emily's voice faltered as she tried to express her
gratitude for this condescension ; for such she saw,
kind and considerate as Mr. Moreland's manner was
towards her, he wished her to consider this purpose
of his relative.

" There is one circumstance which it is necessary
I should mention, though I fear it will pain your feel-
ings," he resumed, after a considerable pause,during
which he had been attentively watching the expres-
sion of her beautiful and speaking features. " You will
forgive my recurring to the unhappy circumstances
of your birth, my dear girl, — but you must be aware
that your bearing the name of Moreland will give
rise to inquiries, which it will be impossible for Lady
Rachel to reply to. Our connexions are numerous,
and it would oxcite their desire of knowing who you

EMILV MORELAND 425

really were, if you were introduced by the name of
our family. Those unhappy circumstances which I
have alluded to, would then, in all probability, be
brought forward, and both you and ourselves would

feel severely the disgrace 1 cannot bear those

tears, Emily — I feel, as deeply as yourself, the pain
1 am obliged to inflict — but I will only add a few
words more. You must be aware, my dear girl,
that you have no legal right to the name you have
hitherto borne ; and it will, I hope, be no great sa-
crifice to comply with Lady Rachel's only stipula-
tion, in return for a certain and respectable pro-
vision for your life — I mean, that of renouncing your
present appellation."

Emily tried to reply, but tears choked her utter-
ance ; never had she so deeply felt the humiliation,
the disgrace, as Mr. Moreland had said, which a mis-
judging world attaches to the innocent oftl^pring, for
the crime of the guilty parents.

A pause ensued, during which Mr. Morelana
seemed scarcely less agitated than herself.

"What shall I say to Lady Rachel ? he at length
observed, taking Emily's hand ; " not," he conti-
nued, in an earnest tone, " not, I hope, that an
adherence to romantic and visionary notions induces
you to refuse a real and substantial good ?"

" Oh, no," replied Emily, striving to resume her
usual calmness. " Oh, no — you will, if you please,
Sir, say to her ladyship, that I accept with gratitude
her intended kindness,and am henceforward entirely
at her disposal. The name she is pleased to bestow
on me, I shall henceforward adopt. Of course, that
18. 3 '.

42(5 EMILY MORELAND.

of — of — " she hesitated a moment, and then witn
forced calmness added, " of my father, would be as
improper as that I have hitherto borne?"

"Certainly,' replied Mr. Moreland, "that has
occurred to both her ladyship and myself. It mat-
ters not, therefore, what you call yourself; but that
is a card which her ladyship desired me to give
you, with the intention, if you do not object, of con-
sidering it as yours."

Emily's tearful eyes could scarcely read " Miss E.
Russell" written on it ; but she felt it was, indeed,
of little consequence, as Mr. Moreland had said,
what she was called, and it was therefore decided
that she should deliver that card as hers, when she
should call on Lady Rachel, which Mr. Moreland
fixed for twelve precisely, on the following day.

" It is late," he observed, looking at his watch :
" I will not detain you any longer from that rest,
which is, I am sure, absolutely necessary to you, and
which I hope you will uninterruptedly enjoy. I
must not have you," he added, smiling, "discredit
the description I have given of you to Lady Rachel.
She is, — rather oddly, you will think, for an old maid,
who are generally judged to entertain very different
feelings, — but she is particularly partial to seeing
handsome faces about her; and I have absolutely
known her reject the services of a female domestic,
merely because Nature had been unkind enough to
bestow on her a homely set of features."

Emily tried to smile at this novel trait of charac-
ter, and the implied compliment of Mr. Moreland ,
but it was only an effort, for her heart was weighed

EMILY MOIIELAN U. 427

down with heavy anticipations of the future, and
deep regrets for the past; and the only moment of
satisfaction that it could be said she felt, during this
interview, was that which terminated it, and left
her free to indulge, unobserved, her own medita-
tions and feelings on what had passed.

CHAPTER XVII.

Lovely Nature is expell'd,

And Friendship is romantic held ;

Then Prudence comes, with hundred eyes,

The veil is rent — the vision flies I

The sallies of the soul are o'er,

The feast of fancy is no more,

And ill the banquet is supplied

By form, by gravity, by pride. Loc.iN.

The hour appointed for Emily's visit to her in-
tended patroness arrived, without her reflections on
the strange turn her affairs had taken, or her antici-
pations of the future, being interrupted by any one.
She had, indeed, on her first rising, ventured down
stairs, to inquire how Captain Fortescue had rested
during the night; but though the answer she re-
ceived from Mrs. Inglis was satisfactory, as far as it
regarded the invalid, who, she said, was considerably
better, the manner in which the reply was given,
was any thing but pleasing; and Emily, at once in-
dignant and hurt at the feelings which evidently
pervaded the mind of Mrs. Inglis, retired to her own

428 EMILY MOR ELAND.

room, without attempting to ask another question,
(>r enter on the subject of her own affairs and
prospects.

For the first time, she contemplated her intended
Aisit with exultation, rather than fear and distasto,
which the slight sketch Mr. Moreland had given lier
of Lady Rachel's character had raised in her mind ;
r.nd, for the remainder of the morning, she tried to
] anish every other feeling but that of hope and con-
fidence, in the new prospects that presented them-
selves to her.

As the hour, however, drew near, fear and trepi-
dation, as to the result of this first interview, gra-
d ually gained the preponderance over more agreeable
anticipatio'ns; and when the coachman of the hack,
which, in compliance with Mr. Moreland's hint, she
had taken, let fall the massy knocker of Lady Ra-
chel's mansion, and threw open the coach-door, she
shrank back into the corner of the seat, unable to
command her spirits sufficiently to attend to the in-
vitation to alight, from the jolly good-looking por-
ter who had taken her card.

There was something, Emily thought, rather
ambiguous in the civilities of this consequential per-
sonage, who, having discharged the c^ach, ushered
her into a parlour, observing that he would let her
know when his lady was ready to receive her.

Emily's spirits sank still lower, as she seated her-
self in the large, gloomy- looking, and comfortless
room to which she had been ushered.

It was a spacious, old-fashioned, dark-wainscoted
room, without a single ornament to relieve (he eye

KMILY MORELAND.

429

which wandered round its bare walls. The furniture
looked primeval with the mansion ; and the closely
curtained and blinded windows, excluding all view
and nearly all light from without, increased the
heaviness and gloom of all within.

Emily felt an oppression almost to sickness, as the
thought of her light and pleasant chamber at St.
Clare, where the tendrils of the woodbine, which
she had herself planted and wooed to wind round
her casement, chastened without obscuring the
bright blaze of day.

She would have risen from the couch on which
she was seated, and tried, by walking up and down
the ample room, to have aroused her sinking heart;
but the stillness that prevailed around her, rendered
even the slightest movement so audible, that she
startled even at rising from her creaking seat, and
sat down again with a trepidation, which the next
moment she laughed at, without being able to conquer.

From this unenviable state she was at length re-
lieved by the summons of a tall, solemn-looking
footman, whose deferential manner was, in Emily's
opinion, scarcely a compensation for the sly glances
with which he surveyed her from head to foot.

" The whole household," thought Emily, as she
turned her burning cheek away, and beheld two or
three female domestics peeping, with looks of eager
curiosity, over one another's shoulders, from the half
unclosed door of a room opposite to that which she
was quitting, "are already, it seems, acquainted that
a new dependant is coming to share the favour of
their mistress."

430 EMILT MORELAND.

The thoughts that rushed into her mind, at once
dispelled all the timidity and fear which, a moment
before^ had made her head feel dizzy, and her steps
unsteady; and she entered the room where Lady
Rachel was waiting to receive her, with a look so
elevated, yet modest, that the latter involuntarily
arose from her seat, and had returned her respectful
salutation, before she apparently recollected the
difference of stations between herself and her visitor,
and sank again into her chair, motioning, at the
same time, to the latter to sit down on one which
was placed opposite to her.

Lady Rachel Moreland, if she ever possessed any
personal charms, had long outlived them. She was
a tall, spare, angular figure, w ith a complexion of
the darkest hue ; large, severe-looking grey eyes,
that seemed to search into the very heart of those
she conversed with, while the masculine hooked
nose, and, indeed, the whole contour of the features,
contradicted the assumed smile in which the mouth
was constantly dressed, and which appeared adopted
to display the only charm of her face — a set of fine
white teeth.

" Sit down, Miss Russell," said her ladyship, gra-
ciously waving her hand.

Emily's blush deepened at this immediate appli-
cation of the new name, to which her ear was not
yet accustomed.

The footman closed the door, after receiving some
order from her ladyship, to which Emily, whose
beating heart was bounding high in her bosom, did
not attend.

E M 1 L V M O U t r, A N D .

4^)1

A pause of some njomcnts succeeded. Emily was
in vain trying- to quiet the tumult of her spirits ; and
Lady Rachel was engaged in contemplating features,
which even Envy itself could find no fault with.

" There is a striking family resemblance, certainly,' '
said Lady Rachel, drawing up her erect form to a
still more perpendicular height, and surveying her-
self in a large mirror opposite.

Emily would not see the folly and vanity of this
observation, but in a faltering voice replied — " May
1 be allowed, Madam, to hope that resemblance may
plead in my favour with your ladyship, and induce
you to forget the disqualifying circumstances at-
tendant on " She paused, unable from the agi-
tation of her spirits to proceed.

" Compose yourself, ray dear," observed her lady-
ship, in the same cold manner in which she had first
addressed her, " I did not mean to hurt your feel-
ings, by alluding to a circumstance, which it will
be as much my wish and interest as yours to bury in
oblivion. I can only, in fact, wonder at the impru-
dence and folly, which, in conferring on you a name
to which you could have no claim ; and, indeed, if
J rightly understood my kinsman, Mr. Moreland,
(though the fact seems scarcely credible,) openly
bringing you up as a descendant of the Moreland
family, perpetuated the shame and infamy which an
unworthy member had brought upon it."

Emily almost gasped for breath — Could it be her
dear, her revered grandfather, whom she thus heard
stigmatised with folly and imprudence?— Her re-
ejretted mother, who was pronounced unworthy and

432 EMILY MORELAND.

infamous ? Tears of the bitterest anguish iseemed to
scald her cheeks as they fell, while -Lady Rachel
proceeded to lament the possibility that the secret
of Emily's birth might be revealed, and load with
shame all those connected with her. " What would
the world say," she observed, " if it could know "

Emily arose, and interrupted the unfeeling- and
unfeminine observation — " I will spare you. Madam,
the possibility of the mortification you anticipate, by
declining the honour your ladyship offered me, of
your protection. You will do me the justice to re-
collect that I did not intrude myself upon you, or
make any claims upon the family which are so
anxious to reject me !"

" Sit down, child — sit down, Miss Russell." re-
peated Lady Rachel, with evident trepidation. " Do
not mistake my observations — they were not intended
as any reflection on you. How, indeed, could you
be considered blameable, who are yourself the
heaviest sufferer from other's faults ? No, no, my
dear, be assured you have mistaken my meaning ;
and happy, most happy shall I be, if, by the advan-
tages which my fortune and protection can confer on
you, I can compensate for the evils that have been
brought upon you by those faults.

" My cousin Moreland has told me all the parti-
culars of your situation, and I dare say you feel, as
well as me, the necessity of your immediate removal
fiom it. Under these circumstances, I have already
«>iven orders to my housekeeper to prepare a bed-
room for you ; and I hope this will be the last time
that either of us will feel any necessity for recur-

EMILY MORELAND. 433

ring to those events, which make it impossible for me
to present you to my friends in your real character.
I have told my people that you are the orphan
daughter of some early friends, who have been dead
some years ; and this account of yourself I must re-
quest you to bear in mind, that my servants consider
you as the orphan daughter of a deceased friend,
and that they are instructed to treat you with the
greatest respect."

Emily bowed her thanks, and Lady Rachel, rising
from her seat, with a stately step crossed the room,
and unlocked a small escritoir, from which she took
a paper.

" I did not exactly understand your present situa-
tion, as to pecuniary affairs, Miss Russell," she ob-
served ; " but it is possible you may have contracted
some debts — if that is the case, the inclosed note will,
I hope, enable you to discharge the obligation. If
it should not be sufficient- "

Emily withdrew the hand which she had stretched
forth to take the paper, before she was conscious of
its contents.

" I am obliged to your ladyship," she observed,
*' but I have really no necessity to tax your bounty.
The sum I brought up from the country is yet unex-
hausted. I have been a tolerable economist, for I
was too fearful of incurring obligation "

" A convincing proof of your prudence," inter-
rupted Lady Rachel, in a tone of approbation. " I
commend you, I assure you, highly ; for, without
proper prudence and economy, even the most ample
resources must be inadequate to our expenses. I
19. 3 k

434 EMILY MORELAND.

have myself a tolerable income, yet I have so many
demands on it, that were I not, as you say, * a to-
lerable economist,' I should soon find myself em-
barrassed."

The paper was returned unopened to the escri-
toir, and Lady Rachel, ringing the bell, desired
that Mrs. Morgan should attend, and conduct Miss
Russell to her room.

" You can then, my dear," she observed, '^ return
and make what arrangements you think proper, for
the removal of your trunks, &c. only taking especial
care that none of my servants may obtain any clue to
your lodgings, or discover the change of your name."

Glad to be, by any means, released, Emily readily
followed Mrs. Morgan up stairs, to the room ap-
pointed for her, which, however, was very little in
unison with the pomp and state which Lady Rachel
assumed, and to the gloomy space, and dark heavy
furniture of which, even her own little room at Mrs.
Inglis's seemed preferable.

There was a small dressing-room adjoining, how-
ever, which was somewhat more cheerful and moder-
nized; and Emily heard with pleasure that this was
to be appropriated solely to her use.

" I've done my best to make it comfortable for
you. Ma'am," observed the housekeeper, " for my
lady leaves every thing to me; and, I assure you,
I've no small charge on my hands."

Emily expressed her thanks, though she could not
help being struck with the second-hand airs of im-
portance, of this copyist of Lady Rachel's stateliness.

*' You haven't been long in London, I believe,

BMILV MORELAND. 485

Madam?" said Mrs. Morgan, twinkling her little
grey eyes in Emily's face, with a look of curiositv
and expectation.

" No," was the concise answer, and given in a
tone of reserve which was intended to repress any
further observation.

It had not, however, the effect intended, for
Mrs. Morgan rejoined — " Aye, so I understood from
my lady. Miss, though she didn't exactly say what
part of the country you came from."

Emily turned a deaf ear to this hint, and, having
finished her survey of her intended apartments, she
observed, that she had some little business to tran-
sact, before she should take final possession of them.

Mrs. Morgan looked as if she would have liked to
have learned all the particulars of that business ; but
Emily's look and manner seemed to awe her into
silence, and she led the way down stairs, without
uttering another interrogation ; and, having inquired
of the porter which way she must take to Oxford
Street, from whence she knew she could easily find
her way to Mrs. Inglis's, Emily bade adieu, for the
present, to the gloomy mansion, which was to be her
future residence.

Mrs. Inglis's taciturnity and sour looks seemed
increased by Emily's absence ; and she scarcely vouch-
safed a reply, when the latter, following her into the
kitchen, demanded if she was at leisure, as she wished
to speak to her.

• Tho 1 canst say what thou needest say," re-
turned the old lady, beginning to take down the
china, from a cupboard which she was clearing out;
" but I have no time for idle con\ ersation."

436 EMILY MORELAND.

" I want only to tell you, Ma'am, that I am going
*o leave you, and to thank you for your kindness
to me. I am indebted to you," she added, taking
out her purse, " for one week's lodging, as I leave
you without the notice I agreed to give of my in-
tentions."

" Well, but thou art not going to-day — so sud-
denly, art thou?" demanded Mrs. Inglis, relaxing
somewhat from the asperity with which she had be-
fore spoken.

Emily replied in the affirmative — and the old lady,
fixing an earnest and penetrating look on her coun-
tenance, observed —

" Well, well, I have no right to question thee — ■
nor, perhaps, any reason to regret thy departure; —
yet I do hope that the step thou art about to take is
in the right path, and that thou wilt not listen to
evil counsel, but prefer the toils of honest industry
to the flowery enticements of vice, which will inevi-
tably lead to destruction. Our friend Fortescut
will be indeed surprised at thy sudden departure,
for "

The voice of Mr. Evelyn, which Emily imme-
diately recognised, interrupted the old lady's exhor-
tation ; and, making a sign to the latter not to be-
tray that she was there, she retreated behind the
screen, which was placed between the door and the
fire.

" My mother wishes to see you in the sick room,
Madam," observed Mr. Evelyn, as he entered, " the
invalid fancies himself so much better as to have oc-
casion to employ you as cook, instead of nurse; and
she wants to debate the point with you."

EMlliY MOilELAND. 437

" I will come to her in a moment," returned Mrs.
Jnglis, seeming as anxious to prevent his^ discovering
Emily there, as the latter herself.

Mr. Evelyn still stood, hesitating apparently how
to address her on the subject which occupied his
thoughts.

" Your house is a very quiet one, Madam," he at
length observed. " I do not think I have heard a
voice or a step this morning, since your male lodger
went out."

" No," replied the old lady, " there has been no
one in the house since breakfast, except myself, and
I have been as quiet as possible, that I might not
disturb thy kinsman."

" Miss Moreland is out, then ?'* said Mr. Evelyn :
" Does she spend much of her time from home ?'

" No, she has never been out until yesterday, since
she came here," returned the old lady; " but she is
about to leave roe entirely, in a few hours."

" Good heavens, this is sudden!" returned Eve-
lyn. " I hope, my good Madam, that you have not
been prejudiced by "

Emily darted from ner concealment — " I will not
take any unfair advantage, Mr. Evelyn," she ob-
served; " and, though I do not think myself obliged
to account to any one for my actions, T will still so
far do justice to your friendly feelings towards me as
to tell you, that the exchange I am about to make,
is to the house of a relative — a lady of rank — who
has condescended to offer me her protection."

" I am most happy to hear it," replied Evelyn,
with warmth. " You cannot doubt — I am sure you
cannot — that I am most anxious for your welfare.'*

438 EMILY MORELAND.

Emiiy courtsied, and, before Evelyn could devise
any means of detaining her, which his look spoke
his wish to do, passed onwards to her room, to pre-
pare for her final departure.

A very short time was sufficient to make every
necessary arrangement, and, anxious to get away
without another interview, she softly glided down
stairs, to inquire if Mrs. Inglis could recommend any
one ta carry her trunks, &c. to the coach-stand,
which was but a short distance from the house.

" And why wilt thou not have a coach to the
door at once?" inquired Mrs. Inglis, with a look of
suspicion. " Is it that thou fearest it should be
known where thou art going to sojourn?"

Emily's cheek flushed with anger at this insinua-
tion. " It is not that I have any cause for fear," she
replied; "but there may be reasons — I know not
why I should hesitate to avow, that there are reasons
— why I wish my future situation to remain a secret
from some in the house."

" From thy real friends, I am apt to think," replied
the old woman, shaking her head ; " but it is of little
avail, I know, what I can say — so I will fetch the
man who comes here of a morning to clean shoes, and
thou canst employ him, if thou likest."

Emily thought every moment an hour, while the
old woman was gone; but she remained uninter-
rupted, until her return with the man, who, pursuant
to her directions, conveyed her trunks down stairs,
and from thence to the coach-stand, from whence she
was driven to Lady Rachel Moreland's residence.

" My lady breakfasts precisely at twelve. Miss,"
baid the housekeeper, w!io received her on her ar-

EMILY MORELAND. 439

rival, when she was about to leave Emily for the
iiight, " and she desired me to say, that she expects
to find you in her dressing-room when she comes
doven, as she always observes the strictest punc-
tuality."

Emily's heart sank within her at this address.
There was nothing very particular in the communi-
cation— but she thought the servant's manner bore
the air rather of delivering an order for her attend-
ance, than a piece of information; and she felt that
it would have been more delicate, if Lady Rachel
Moreland had conveyed the information herself.

" Yet what business have I, the outcast of society,"
she exclaimed, with a bitter shower of tears, '* a
being without a name — dependant on charity — what
right can I have to indulge such feelings ? No, I
must henceforth endeavour to bend my mind to my
situation, and submit, without murmuring, to the

lot which not my own follies " She checked the

thought, which would have reflected on the mother
whose memory, in spite of the one sad error, which
had exiled her from society, and consigned her to an
early grave, she still held in reverence; and, throw-
ing herself on the bed, endeavoured to lose in sleep
the consciousness of the sad change in her situation,
since the happy times when, a simple rustic maid, she
ranged without restraint through her native valley,
plucking the wild flowers, whose uncultivated sweet-
ness were the truest and fittest emblems of herself,
or listening, with clasped hands, her large dove-like
eyes turned with earnest attention to his face, to the
instructions which her beloved grandfather con-

440 EMILY MORELAND.

sidered necessary for her future welfare. How would
he have recoiled, could he have known that the be-
loved object of his care was, at no very distant
period, to become the dependant on those proud and
rigid relations, whose names he so cautiously abstained
from introducing, even when drawn, by her (Emily's)
innocently inquisitive questions, into giving some
detail of his former life.

The Signora, too — her whose very gifts were al-
ways so bestowed as to make the donor appear the
person obliged, rather than the receiver, — what
would she think of the mixture of ostentation and
meanness, which distinguished not only Lady Rachel
Moreland herself, but apparently prevailed through
the whole arrangement of her household ?

Always accustomed to early rising, and possessing
less temptation than usual to remain in her dismal-
looking, uncomfortable bed, Emily, as soon as she
heard some one stirring in the house, endeavoured
to find her way down to the room where Lady Ra-
chel and her had sat on the preceding evening, and
where her eye had been caught by something which
she wished to examine at her leisure.

It was the minature of a young man in a hunting-
dress, with his hand on the head of a spaniel; but
though the style of the painting was so eminently
different, and the age much earlier than that of the
resemblance which she had seen in the possession of
her friend the Signora, yet the features were the
same. They were so strongly marked, that it was
impossible to mistake them.

The more Emilv examined them, the more she was

EMILY MORELANl). 44t

convinced they were the same she had seeii before;
but her surprise and observation of this picture had,
for a moment, abstracted her thoughts from the pro-
found attention which Lady Rachel conceived the
wise aphorisms she was uttering-, respecting prudence,
conduct, proper economy, &c. required; and, sur-
prised that her auditor did not instantly reply when
she paused, having nearly exhausted her breath, she
observed —

" Rut T hope I need say no more on this head. Miss
— a — a — Russell — though, unfortunately, you have
not been brought up in the very best school for the
acquirement of that knowledge and wisdom, so ne-
cessary in your peculiar situation."

The last words fell on Emily's ear, without her
being conscious of their connexion with Lady Ra-
chel's previous exordium, though she could not but
fully comprehend their degrading application ; and
her dreams of Italy, the Signora, and all connected
with the portrait, vanished at the austere look and
sharp voice of her future patroness, as she observed —
" When you have finished your critical observations,
Madam — for such, I presume, they are, as I cannot
suppose you have any particular interest in those
pictures — when you have quite finished, 1 say, I will
request your attention for a few minutes, if it will
not very much distress and fatigue you."

Emily apologised — but the apology seemed worse

than the offence, for the old lady remained sulkily,

or, as she would probably have styled it, dignifiedly

silent, for some moments, and then, to Emily's great

19. 3l

442 EMIKY MOREfiAND.

satisfaction, commenced speaking- on an indifferent
subject.

To return, however, to Emily's morning visit to
the portrait, which she was so desirous and deter-
mined to inspect. The shutters were closed when
she entered the room, and, with some difficulty, she
found her way to one of the windows, the heavy
bar of which she, for a time, in vain essayed to
move.

" I shall be obliged noAV to return, without accom-
plishing my intention," she thought: "and, after
all, what folly it is — I- shall have plenty, unfortu-
nately, 1 fear, too many opportunities of contem-
plating those remarkable features."

At the very moment, however, of relinquishing
her project, and just as she was turning away from
the shutter, her hand touched the spring of the bar —
it fell with a heavy crash, and a shrill bell, which
had been attached to it, now added its sound to that
which seemed, to poor Emily's ears, to reverberate
through the large half-furnished room like thunder.

Emily stood in the middle of the apartment, uncer-
tain whether to endeavour to retreat to her own room,
or to brave the inquiries which, she rightly judged,
would follow this invasion of the household's morn-
ing repose ; for, though she had distinctly heard one
step pass her chamber door, before she ventured to
leave it, yet the silence that reigned through the
house, as she descended the stairs, had convinced her
that the greater part of Lady Rachel Moreland*3
eslablishnien* were still indulging in sleep.

EMIliY MORELAND.

443

She had, however, no time for retreat — for, on
turning her head, she discovered the face of a rude
country-looking njan, with a candle in his hand, which
he held inquiringly forward into the room, while he
wisely kept his body outside the door.

" I have got thee fast, however, whether thee beest
thief or ghost ; and there thee shalt stay, till steward
comes to ax thee thy business !" he exclaimed, though
his terrified look and receding posture gave no very
convincing proof of his courage. " Nance shan't
laugh at I any more for a coward, I'll be bound,"
he continued, " for I'll see now if we cannot stop
thy gammocks ! Aye, ring away, my lady, it isn't
the first time this ghost, or witch, or whatever she is,
has made thy bell tingle — though 1 never before
knew her to play her tricks in broad day-light, and
that's the reason, I s^pose, she can't get away now, aa
she did when 1 met hei on the big staircase."

Ever alive to impressions of mirth and ridicule,
Emily could no longer forbear giving way to the fit
of laughter which, in spite of her awe of the invinci-
ble gravity of Lady Rachel Moreland, and her
solemn household, seized her: and when the half-
dressed domestics, whom the pealing summons of
their mistress had frighted from their beds, two hours
before their usual time, arrived at the scene of action,
they found the half-terrified, half-doubtful Peter,
still guarding the door; and their new inmate. Miss
Russell, whom all the rest had seen, almost convulsed
with laughter, at the notion he had taken of her
being, as he said, a witch or a ghost, and the truly
comic and ridiculous gestures which accompanied his

444 EMILY MOU ELAND.

avowed intention of detaining her to give an account
of herself.

"What is the meaning of this, you booby?" ex-
claimed the steward, forgetting his usual delibera-
tion, and seizing poor Peter by the collar. " Is it
you that has raised all this disturbance, and terrified
my lady almost into hysterics?"

Emily's mirth was stopped- — she was desirous at
*>nce to save the simple, terrified Peter from an im-
putation which might, perhaps, cause him the loss of
his place ; and she was awed into silence by the an-
ticipation of the lectures on decorum, and all the
et ceteras, which, she doubted not, would be set in
array against her, as soon as her formal relative
should learn the cause of the noise which had created
so much disturbance.

A very few words from Emily, explained the mys-
tery of her appearance. The steward bowed, but
very sententiously expressed his fears that the alarm
would have a very sad effect on his lady's nerves.

"I am very sorry for it," said Emily, colouring,
as she passed him, chagrined, however, more at his
manner than his words ; but, before she could reach
her own chamber, a summons to the bedside of Lady
Rachel absorbed all other feelings than those of im-
patience and vexation, at the lecture she knew she
was about to encounter ; and she entered the room
with a look which, probably, was more expressive of
those sensations, than that deference to which Lady
Rachel had been so implicitly accustomed.

The o d lady was raised in bed, propped with pil-
lows, enveloped in a whole host of dirigy flannels,

EMILY MORELAND. 445

and with cheeks pale as death ; while her maid, with
oflicious attention, kept applying a smelling-bottle
to her nose, and wetting her temples with a hand-
kerchief.

'*' Come here ! — what is all this i What could in*
duce you to be prowling about the house, at this
time of the morning ? What did you expect to dis-
cover?— what, I say, did you think to find? Oh,
that I was ever persuaded, by that mad-headed
nephew of mine, to act so contrary to common sense,
as to admit into my establishment a person of whom
I know nothing ; and who, the very first morning, is
found roving about the house ! What were you
going to open the window for?"

" To admit the light," replied Emily, very coolly
and laconically ; " and to reply. Madam, to all your
questions at once, I merely went to that room, be-
cause I could find no amusement in my own, until
your hour of getting up. 1 am sorry that my habit
of early rising has created so much disturbance, but
I can only say, it was totally unintentional, and that
I am quite unconscious of any desire to give ofi'ence."

The dignity with which she spoke, the bright flush
of indignation burning on her fair cheek, and her
eyes sparkling as she glanced at the lady's-maid,
who whispered something in Liady Rachel's ear,
seemed to make an impression in her favour, in the
old lady's mind.

" Pshaw, you are always taking some wise whim
in your head!" she replied, in a peevish tone. The
maid shrank back disconcerted, darting a look of no
very pleasant import at Emily, and the old lady
continued, addressing the latter,

446 EMILV MORELAND.

" For the future, Miss Russell, you will be so
good as to refrain from breaking through the estab-
lished rules of my household. You can return to
your room — I shall reserve what I have further to
say, till a future opportunity."

" What are the established rules ?" thought
Emily, with a smile of contempt, as she curtseyed
and left the room ; " to lie down, and rise up, at
the word of command, I suppose !"

" Miss, — Miss !" exclaimed a voice, in a loud
whisper, as she ascended the staircase.

Emily looked over, and beheld Peter, to whom
she had been such a source of mystery.

" I do humbly beg your pardon, Miss," he conti-

tinued, looking very imploringly, " but "

' " Oh, it is granted, I assure you," returned Emily,
smiling, but anxious to cut short the conference,
lest she should be accused of another breach of
decorum.

" I ha' got another favour to ax, Miss," said
Peter, as Emily ascended another stair.

She looked back — " Be quick, then, my good lad,
for I am hurried," she replied, rather impatiently.

" It be for you to speak a good word for me to
our lady, for stewai'd swears as I shall go, and I
hav'nt a friend in Lunnun, only my poor old mother
down at St. Clare, and I sent her almost all my half-
year's wages, for all Miss Nance sulked "

" St. Clare !" re-echoed Emily, " why, surely,
you cannot be Peter, the son of Mary Jenkins, the
old widow at Bramble Cottage ?"

" Oh, dear, I be the very same !" exclaimed Peter,
ready to burst into tears, at the recollections this

nMILr MORELAVD. 44*7

mention of his native place excited. And, lauk-a-
mercy, it never can be Miss Emily Moreland that I
do see ! Yes, it is — Oh, all's right now, I ben't
afeard — but they told me some other name, and said
you was come from foreign parts."

" And you must not betray that you know me,
Peter," whispered Emily; "I am called Russell
here, and am obliged to forget St. Glare altogether ;
and, if you wish to keep your place, you must do the
same."

Peter stared in silent astonishment, and Emily,
giving him half-a-crown, observed — " Be silent and
cautious, Peter ; and, if I can befriend you, depend
on it I will."

The opening of a door now sent her off, with the
speed of a fawn, to her own room ; and Peter re-
treated by a different direction, murmuring, however,
as he went — " Forget St. Clare ! that's a thing,
quite unpossable ; and I'm sure I don't know how I
shall keep my tongue within my teeth, if I hears 'em
abusing Miss Russell, as they called her, as I did
just now in sarvanfs hall, and know all the while
it's my Miss Moreland, as they're becalling."

448 EMILY MORELANO.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Who is she that winneth the heart of man, that siibdueth
him to love, and reigneth in his breast ? Lo, yonder she
walketh in maiden sweetness, with innocence in her mind,
and modesty on her cheek. She is clothed with neatness ; she
is fed with temperance ; humility and meekness are as a
crown of glory circling iier head. Dodsley.

The hours, till Lady Rachel's appointed one for
breakfast, passed very heavily away, and Emily felt
that, after the light supper of the preceding night,
she should have no objection to the substantial com-
forts of a good breakfast table, long before the
striking of the third quarter, by the old house clock
on the stairs, warned her that it was time to attend
Lady Rachel's levee.

The eld lady was not yet visible, when Emily
was admitted by the constant attendant on her per-
son, Mrs. Morg^an; and the former viewed with
dismay the scanty preparations for a meal, which she
had been some time anxiously anticipating.

It was true, the small portion of coffee was en-
shrined in silver, and the shavings of bread and but-
ter, for they could not be called slices, were placed
in exactest order on a plate, of the finest old china;
but Emily felt that would have little effect in allay-
ing the appetite which long fasting had given her.

She thought of the substantial brown loaf, the

EMILY MOREL (^ND. 449

fresh eggs, and the thick cream, which used to render
her breakfasts at St. Clare a substantial as well as
pleasant meal.

The door, however, was thrown open, and Emily's
visions of good living all vanished at the stern and
austere air with which Lady Rachel returned her
salutation in silence, and seated herself at the break
fast table.

" I will thank you. Miss Russell, to pour out the
coffee," she observed. " I am unused to the task,
and my maid, poor thing, has been so affected by the
state your unaccountable conduct reduced me to,
that her hand trembles too much to allow her to
take her usual office. I dare say, however, you have
been pretty well used to wait on yourself, so the
effort will not fatigue you much."

Emily tried to smile at this petty insinuation,
which was rendered the more galling by the pre-
sence of the tall footman, whose looks and manners
had before offended her, and who would, of course,
now feel himself still more privileged to treat her
with familiarity.

The single egg, which he brought in a small silver
saucepan, was placed by the fire, and he withdrew ;
while Emily, whose hand really trembled so from
insulted feelings that she could scarcely perform the
office, proceeded to make the breakfast.

" Softly, softly. Miss Russell," exclaimed the old
lady, as she was about to sweeten her coffee, " you
do not seem to have learnt many lessons of economy,
at your cottage in the mountains, or you would
have known there is sufficient for two or three cups ;
19. 3 m

450 EMILY MORELAND.

or, perhaps," she added, with a sneer, " your grand-
father's fortune did not admit of the use of such
luxuries as coffee and sugar ?"

" My dear grandfather always found sufficient for
the indulgence of every reasonable want and wish,
Madam," replied Emily, the tears starting to her
eyes.

" Oh, dear, yes — I forgot — he came, I think, into
possession of the splendid fortune of the woman he
married, some years before he died," returned Lady
Rachel, with affected recollection ; " and, pray,
ivhat did she do with it, at her death — left it, I sup-
pose, to her own low relations, and turned you upon
the charity of your father's friends ?"

Emily's tears were dried up in an instant — " My
grandmother. Madam, I am certain, never for a mo-
ment indulged a thought that 1 should be indebted
to any one, but the kind and liberal friend, of whose
protection accident alone has since deprived me. I
am sure, an introduction to my grandfather's rela-
tiveSy'' laying a strong emphasis on the word, " was
the very last idea that would have entered her mind ;
and, in fact, until my accidental meeting with Mr.
Moreland, I knew not that there existed any one on
whose kindness I could have any claim. She never
mentioned the name of Moreland, except as belong-
ing to her adored and respected husband."

" Indeed — then, I must tell you, that it was not to
her credit to behave so contemptuously towards a
family^ who were never disgraced till she entered it."

" You did not know my grandmother, Madam, or
you could not say so," replied Emily, enceavouring

EMILY MORELAND. 451

to conquer her indignation, as her beautiful eyes
rested on the then cadaverous and contracted features
of Lady Rachel, who from some cause, apparently
beyond mere family pride, though that appeared the
ostensible reason, was evidently dreadfully agitated.

" Know her I" she repeated, with a look of aver-
sion, " no, the creature knew better than to intrude
herself upon me, though, I am told, she dared to say
that she pitied me. She — the low, despicable wretch
— dared to say she pitied Lady Rachel Moreland,
the descendant of a family, whose pure blood had
been uncontaminated by a single plebeian alliance,
until Reuben Moreland forgot his duty, and dis-
graced and ruined himself for ever !'

Emily was silent, from mere surprise, at the vio-
lence of Lady Rachel's manner — her eyes seemed to
glance with supernatural fire, and big drops of per-
spiration stood on her brow. Pity now superseded
every other feeling in the gentle girl's bosom.

" Forgive me. Madam," she began, " I did not
know "

" Know — what should you know ? What was
there for you to know?" interrupted Lady Rachel,
furiously. " They never dare say — I never put it
in their power "

" Will your ladyship allow me solemnly to assure
you, that I never heard your name from the lips of
my lamented relatives. It was, therefore, impossi-
ble that they could reveal, even had it been in their
power, any thing obnoxious to your ladyship."

Lady Rachel seemed struck with the mildness and
firmness of Emily's manner.

452 EMILY MORELAND.

" I do not blame you, girl," she observed, '•' foi
what you could have nothing to do with, and I am
wrong to indulge these unbecoming feelings ; but
recollections rushed on my mind at that instant, which
never fail to overcome my fortitude."

A suspicion, at this moment, for the first time,
'arted across Emily's mind, that she comprehended
the source of Lady Rachel's emotion. She recol-
lected that, between her grandfather and grand-
mother, on one of the anniversaries of their wedding-
day, which they always devoted to peculiar festivity,
she had heard a conversation, which, though she
could not entirely comprehend it, excited consider-
able curiosity in her mind.

On the old lady affectionately regretting th«
good her husband had forfeited for her, he ex-
claimed— " Good, — Martha ! That came not from
your heart, or I am grossly deceived in you ; for I
never thought you estimated mere rank and riches
as good, unaccompanied by the virtues of the heart,
which can alone render them blessings to others.
She possessed none— she was proud, repulsive, ava-
ricious, and selfish !"

" Hush ! hush !" interrupted his affectionate wife,
placing her hand on his mouth, " I never yet heard
thee speak so harshly of any one, and she ought "

The sight of Emily, who had stood all this time
unobserved, now interrupted the conversation ; and
the latter, though she wondered to whom it related,
that it could have excited so much asperity, soon
forgot it, until the sight of Lady Rachel's violence,
and the corresponding traits which Emily had already

EMILY MORELAND. 453

discovered in her character, confirmed the idea that
it was her of whom Mr. Moreland had spoken, and
the rejection of whose alliance had been the cause
of the latter's estrangement from his family.

A short silence followed ; Lady Rachel took up
her cup of coffee, and Emily unconsciously followed
her example.

The old lady's natural peevishness almost instantly
returned, and banished from her countenance every
appearance of the feelings which had so lately shaken
her whole frame.

" I suppose I am expected to boil my egg myself?"
she observed, looking disdainfully at the saucepan,
which remained standing where the servant had
placed it.

Emily started up — she was ever anxious to oblige,
and she forgot, at that moment, every thing but the
age and infirmities of the frail being before her, and
hastened to boil the egg, with an alacrity that seemed
to make some impression on her companion, as she
relaxed sufficiently from her dignity to observe, that
she hoped Emily had rested well.

" As well. Madam," replied Emily, " as the some-
what extraordinary and agitating events, which have
made so surprising an alteration in my circumstances,
would permit."

Lady Rachel seemed inclined to take this as a
compliment, and observed, with an attempt to smile,
** Ah well, my dear, I hope we shall get over these
sentinientals in a short time, and then we shall go on
smoothly. I have got a great many little jobs that a
young active woman, like you, will soon get through;

454 EMILY MORELAND.

but which have been laying- by, because my maid's
poor eyes have failed her. Indeed she is, like her
mistress, a g^ood deal the worse for wear, though her
attachment to me induces her to exert herself beyond
her strength."

Emily only bowed. It was, indeed, impossible
that she could otherwise assent to Lady Rachel's
praise of her attendant, whose countenance, even at
the minute she was pretending to feel most, betrayed
that she was incapable of what she made such pre-
tensions to.

Emily had conceived a strong prejudice against
this woman, and she gladly changed the subject,
though it was succeeded by a dissertation on the evil
of departing from established rules, &c. occasioned
by the events of the morning, which was scarcely
more pleasant to her.

" You can find, perhaps, something to do among
your own clothes. Miss Russell," observed the old
lady, when their scanty breakfast was concluded.
" I have some orders to give, that will occupy half
an hour, and then I shall expect to see you down
stairs."

Emily was glad to escape, even to the dark and
comfortless solitude of her own dismal room ; and,
lost in reflection on all she had seen and heard, would
probably have forgotten that her stay there was
limited to half an hour, had she not been reminded
by the entrance of a housemaid to make the bed,
who, in answer to her inquiry, replied that Lady
Rachel was gone down to the drawing-room.

Thither, therefore, she hastened, and found her

EMILY MORELANI). 455

ladyship already seated at a large table, which was
covered with pieces of old silk, gauze, &c. &c.

"I was just going to send up for you. Miss Russell,"
she observed, " for you are five minutes beyond your
time, and I always expect punctuality from my es-
tablishment."

Emily could scarcely bring herself to murmur an
apology ; but Lady Rachel proceeded, without look-
ing at her, in her investigation of the faded finery
which lay before her.

" You are something of a milliner, I suppose ?" she
continued; "for most young ladies, now-a-days, I
believe, contrive to dress themselves by the aid of
their needles, if they are not taught to use them in
any more useful way."

Not knowing how to answer, never having made
essay of her talents in this way, Emily only replied
by taking up another piece of silk, and asking what
it was her ladyship wished to have done.

" Why, I will describe to you, if you can compre-
hend me, a turban which Lady Louisa Derraot, the
fashionable dame of the present day, had on at the
Opera the night before last, and which attracted
great admiration."

Emily sat down to listen patiently to the most mi-
nute, and therefore the most frivolous and ridiculous,
description of the folds of gauze and satin, the bows
of ribbon and tissue, and the flow of tassels trimmed
with fringe, which, when it was finished, she compre-
hended as little of, as when it was begun.

The satin, however, that was to be the principal
material, was to be selected ; and, after considerable

456 EMILY MOKELAN&.

hesitation, and trying the effect of the different
colours in all sorts of lig^hts, Lady Rachel chose a
bright scarlet, contrasting- it beautifully, as she said,
with a deep blue gauze for trimmings, to which, in
order to make it more striking, was added a quantity
of tarnished gold fringe.

" Can it be possible," thought Emily, as she looked
at tlie worn and withered face, which Avas bent so
eagerly over the paltry finery, " can it be possible
that a woman of this age can intend to exhibit herself
in such a head dress as this will be ?" There was no
time to hesitate, for Lady Rachel was impatient for
her to commence operations ; and Emily, scarcely
knowing what she was about, having selected all the
satin and gauze of the favoured colour, requested to
know where she could find a pair of scissars.

" Dear me, I should have thought you were pro-
vided with such things!" observed Lady Rachel,
crossly. "It does not argue much for jour good
housewifery!"

" I have a pair up stairs, which I will fetch,
Madam, if you will allow me?" returned Emily,
mildly.

" Oh, yes, and so waste half the remainder of the
morning! No, you will find a pair, I believe, in
that box."

Emily readily found them ; but she was somewhat
surprised at the contents of the box, consisting of the
coarsest tapes, cottons, &c. very unlike the usual
furnishing of a lady's work-box.

*' What in the world are you about, Miss Russell ?
Are vou going to cut the satin to pieces, without

EMILY MORELAND. 457

making a shape ?'* exclaimed Lady Rachel, in a tone
of alarm, which made Emily start, and utter a con-
fused apology.

The necessary materials for the shape were now
produced, and Emily, anxious to please, if possible,
proceeded to measure the old woman's head, with as
scientific and interested an air as she could possiblj
assume.

" Remember, the curls I wear behind, when I am
dressed, will make a difference, Miss Russell/' ob-
served the vain and weak Lady Rachel.

Emily thought of her grandmother's neat cap, with
its border plaited round her face, which was only
gently touched by time into slight lines, while the
rosy hue of the cheek had not deserted it, but had
faded a few tints only, and on the ever placid and
sniling mouth was as fresh as ever. The contrast
Mas striking, though Lady Rachel, Emily knew,
could not be much older than her regretted relative ;
for care and violent passions had indented the onte
smooth and open brow of the honourable lady into
deep furrows, and her thin and withered lips looked
as if no colour had ever visited them.

A deep sigh, at the recollections which this contrast
excited in her mind, betrayed to Lady Rachel that
her thoughts were not so intently fixed on the scarlet
satin turban, as she had imagined.

" I am afraid you are making sad havoc, Ma'am,
with your scissars there!" she observed, in a sharp
tone.

Emily started from her reverie, to enter into a de-
fence of the mode in which she had cut the satin.
20. 3 N

4I;8 EMILY M DRET^ANI).

"Well, well, do go on with it, — and pray don't
loiter, to sigh and look so sentimentally piteous, aa
you did just now. I expect that odious made-up doll,
old Lady Haycraft here, in a short time, and I should
like to mortify her a little about this turban, for some-
thing rhe said to rae, when we were admiring Lady
Louisa's. She won't know, if you mind what you
are about, but that it has come from St. James's
Street ; for, though she pretends sometimes that all
her millinery comes from there, I know sho is too
stingy to afford half their price ; but goes there,
stealing their patterns, and then keeps her maid up
all night, to copy them, that she may make her friends
believe that she has purchased the cap or bonnet, or
whatever it is, that they admired the day before, but
thought such an extravagant price. And then she
drawls out, in her detestable tone, ' It's a dear
bauble, I know, for I don't suppose it will make up
again, when it is dirtied; but I must have my whim,
if 1 take it in my head !' Oh, I know her — she can't
deceive roe — for my maid got the whole of it out of
hers, and the woman declared to her mistress that
her poor eyes were quite ruined, with working at
nights."

" Good heavens, can it be possible that vanity can
render people so unfeeling, as to require a fellow-
being to sacrifice themselves for its gratification!"
exclaimed Emily, who felt no incliTiation to make
any reply to the former part of Lady Rachel's infor-
mation respecting Lady Haycraft, but was seriously
indignant at the concluding part.

Ladv Rachel did not seem to think this, however,

KMILY MOUlir,ANU. 459

worthy of further observation ; she therefore com-
menced some remark on the flow of the long- piece of
gauze, which was to fall on the left side, while on the
other a larg-e ostrich feather, Emily now found, was
♦o be placed, so as to wave gracefully over the
head.

rt was with much pain, and not without several
times meeting with a sharp reproof for her want of
attention and comprehension, that Emily at length
fulfilled all Lady Rachel's directions; and the head-
dress, which looked much better, as to the brilliancy
of the colours, than she expected, was completed.

Lady Rachel tried to look very composed and
dignified, but the pleasure with which she contem-
plated this trumpery was very visible in her counte-
nance, though she did not condescend even to ex-
press her satisfaction with Emily's efforts, farther
than by saying —

" Aye, I see, with a little instruction, you will
soon be able to do a job of this kind cleverly."

A loud knock at the door occasioned the turban
to be hastily snatched off; — for the vain old woman
had been, for several minutes studying, before the
glass, the most graceful way of placing it on her
head.

The cap she had worn was instantly replaced, but
at that moment her eye was caught by the shreds of
silk and gauze, which were scattered about.

" What are you dreaming about, fool ?" she ex-
claimed, in a tone that almost petrified Emily;
*' you know well that I do not want that woman to
linow tills is your making, and you are actually put

4C0 E A! 1 1. Y M O 11 E L A N !) .

ting it before her eyes! Do cram them undtr the
sofa — any where — and don't stare at me so stu-
pidly!"

Emily hesitated a moment — she was strongly
tempted to walk out of tho room, and leave the arro-
gant old woman to dispose of her finery how she
could ; but prudence prevailed, and she assisted her
in hiding the obnoxious shreds, &c. which was
scarcely effected before the door was opened, and
Lady Haycraft was announced.

" You cruel creature, I thought you promised to
spend the whole morning with me !" exclaimed Lady
Rachel, advancing, with both hands extended, to
meet her dear friend ; " and now you will have but
two hours to bestow on me, for I know the Totter-
tons always dine at four, and, I suppose, you have
not tried to get off that engagement ? By the bye —
how ridiculous it is that people like them should ad-
here to such a custom !"

*' It is ridiculous and troublesome too," replied
Lady Haycraft, with her eyes fixed on the turban,
which her friend had thrown aside, with a well-coun-
terfeited air of indifference, " but, I assure you, I
should have been here an hour ago, had I not for-
gotten to give my servant orders not to admit any
one, and the stupid fellow suffered those wild girls,
the Duchess of Plumstead's two daughters, to come
up, and I positively could not get rid of them, till I
fairly turned them out."

" Indeed I I did not know you were on visiting
terms," replied Lady Rachel, evidently piqued at the
iionour which she thought the visit of these " wild

EMILY MORELAND. 461

jrirls," as Lady Haycraft familiarly called them, had
conferred.

" Oh, dear, yes — I am ot the Duchess's party to
the Opera, to-morrow — but you do not visit her, I
believe ?" replied Lady Haycraft.

Lady Rachel concisely returned a single negative,
and the two dear friends sal down together on the
same couch, side by side.

Emily had remained standing all this time, nearly
concealed by the screen, and evidently unobserved
by the visitor, whose eyes, as soon as she perceived
her, expressed at once surprise and curiosity.

A low whisper from the latter was answered by
— " Oh, nobody, only a young woman from the
country, whose father I knew something of, and who
was of a good family ; so, this girl being destitute, I
have offered her an asylum."

" Ah, you are always so kind and considerate !"
drawled Lady Haycraft, with a tone and look which
completely betrayed the insincerity of her assertion.

Emily sat down, her face glowing from what she
could not avoid hearing, so audibly was Lady Ra-
chel's speech uttered, but still retaining sufficient
self-possession and calmness as to be enabled to meet
Lady Haycraft's inquisitive looks with firmness.

A conversation commenced, in which the foibles
and failings of a number of individuals, with whom
both the ladies were evidently on terms of the
greatest intimacy, were freely commented on. Dis-
gusted with their falsehood and hypocrisy, Emily
tried to turn her attention from their conversation,
by looking through the window near which she was

462 EMILY MORLLAND.

seated ; but Lady Rachel soon shewed her deter-
mination at once to prove the dependant state of her
new inmate, and to keep the latter in constant em-
ployment.

" I will thank you, Miss Russell, to go to my
dressing-room, and ask my maid for a clean hand-
kerchief, and bring with you the muslin that lays on
the chair. It will be a nice little job for you."

Emily left the room, but not until she heard Lady
Haycraft say — " Upon my word, poverty there does
not seem to have brought humility with it ! your
new dependant walks with all the state of a tragedy
queen."

The door was already opened, and Emily lost
Lady Rachel's reply ; but she had heard enough to
complete the mortification she had before suffered
from the latter's manner, and she stood for some mi-
nutes on the landing-place, endeavouring to conquer
the bitter tears which indignation and wounded
pride had occasioned. To increase this mortifica-
tion, the favourite maid, whom she had expected to
see in the dressing-room, at this moment came in an
opposite direction, and, with a look of affected com-
miseration, inquired if any thing had happened.

" My dear lady arn't ill, is she. Ma'am ?" she
added, in a tone of hypocritical alarm.

Emily replied in the negative.

" Dear me, then I can't think what can have given
you cause to cry — for, I'm sure, my lady's kindness
to you, and the comfort of being in such a house as
this, after "

Emily's eyes flashed fire at the insolent tone in

EMILY MOREIiAN D 463

wliich this was uttered, and the woman, apparently
awed by the look, suddenly stopped.

" Your lady wants a clean handkerchief," ob-
served the former, calmly.

** Very well, Ma'am, I will get her one,'-' replied
the pert dame, trying to resume her former confidence.

" I will take it with me," said Emily, following her
towards the dressing-room.

" Well, at any rate, I will bring it to you — you
need not trouble yourself to come for it," she
replied, with more civility than she had hitherto
shewn.

Emily stood a moment at the staircase window,
but she suddenly recollected the muslin she had been
ttiso desired to bring, and she quick!) followed Mrs
Morgan towards the dressing-room, to fetch it.

At the door, however, she paused, for it was half
unclosed, and through the aperture she distinctly
saw the same tall footman, who had excited her
dislike, seated at the table at which they (Lady Ra-
chel and herself) had breakfasted — the newspaper in
his hand, his legs carelessly stretched out, and a
bottle, glasses, and some sandwiches placed before
him.

" I could hardly keep this fine madam out, 1 as-
sure you," said Mrs. Morgan, just as Emily, unob-
served by either, stopped with feelings of the greatest
surprise at what she beheld.

" It's confounded provoking," returned the man,
" that one's little stolen moments must be intruded
on, by a prying minx like this."

" Yes, and we shall never be safe now, you may
depend on it — for my lady — — "

4G4 EMILY MOUELAND.

At this moment she turned towards the door, with
the handkerchief, which she had taken from a drawer,
and beheld Emily.

" I want the muslin that is on one of the chairs,"
observed the latter, coolly, without noticing the man,
who had started in confusion from his chair.

Mrs. Morgan turned pale, and hesitated, as she
placed in Emily's hand the article she had asked her
for, from the chair by the door. She did not speak,
however, and the latter had nearly reached the
drawing-room door, when she overtook her.

" Miss Russell — Ma'am," she observed, in a fawn-
ing tone, "shall I beg a favour of you? Don't
mention to my lady that anybody was with me in the
dressing-room — because, you see. Ma'am "

" Certainly, I shall not, unless Lady Rachel asks
me ; which, I dare say, is not very probable. In that
case, of course, 1 must "

" Oh, dear, she won't ask. Ma'am — and, I'm sure,
you're too good-natured and considerate "

Emily interrupted the compliment by la}ing her
hand on the lock of the drawing-room door, which
she had by this time reached; and the now humbled
favourite, evidently only half satisfied by the con-
cession she had gained, turned away with a look of
malice, which did not escape Emily's observation,
though she only smiled at its (supposed) impotence.

Lady Haycraft was in the midst of a long tirade
against her own maid, whom she had detected in
some petty offence, when Emily re-entered the room ;
and the latter could scarcely conceal a smile at the
praises with which Lady Rachel loaded her own fa-
vourite, Mrs. Morgan, in reply — declaring that she

EMILY MOUEI-ANl>. 405

believed the faithful creature way so devoted to her,
that she had no thoughts for any one else in the world,
and would sooner die than see her injured or de-
ceived.

*' Yet, in spite of her vigilance," she continued,
" and watching that I should not be imposed upon,
1 have been so unfortunate as to get robbed, two or
three times, by dishonest servants, though I could
not prove which, or who it was. However, I took
the wisest course — for I sent them all off together,
except Morgan, and my own footman, through whose
ridelity I discovered the theft."

Emily felt astonished at the facility with which,
it was evident, this worthless pair deceived and duped
their credulous mistress; but she soon forgot the
subject altogether, in attending to the directions
L/ady Rachel commenced, as to the running tucks,,
and placing trimming on the clear muslin skirt, which
she had brought down stairs.

" It is one that I had taken to pieces, that it might
be clear-starched," she observed, turning to Lady
Haycraft, "and it is not worth while sending it to
my dress-maker, to pay half-a-guinea for making it
up again, if I can get it decently done, though I
don't know what sort of a workwoman Miss Russell
will prove, for I have had no specimen as yet."

Emily's eyes involuntarily glanced towards the
turban, which lay on the table opposite, and glaringly
proved the falsehood of this aisertion ; and Lady
Haycraft's quick sharp look instantly followed hers,
and as instantly seemed to comprehend the whole
affair.

20. 'io

466 EMILY MORELAM).

'* Indeed!" she observed, jumping up, with an at-
tempt at juvenile activity and cheerfulness, " then I
am quite mistaken — for I have been really si^''"^
her credit for the construction of this stylish affair!"
taking the turban in her hand, and twirling- it about
with a smile of assumed contempt.

" The most fashionable and expensive milliner in
London would not be very well pleased, 1 think, if
she heard your compliment," returned Lady Rachel ;
"but, I really think, there is nothing about that
turban that looks like home-manufacture, which, of
all things, I detest. Though, I confess, if I thought
Miss Russell could come near to this," taking the
turban, which her friend was still narrowly surveying,
and placing it on her head, with an air of conscious
satisfaction, as she walked to the glass — " I acknow-
ledge, I say, that I should be glad to save the shame-
ful sum I am charged for the indulgence of my whim,
in having a turban like the one worn by Lady Der-
mot, the night before last, before they could be
adopted by those who would fain be fine, but have
not spirit enough to draw their purse-strings to pay
for it."

Lady Haycraft bit her lips. It was evident, she
took the sarcasm which was intended for her, but she
was determined to be even with her dear friend.
" 1 can't think," she observed, " how you prevail on
your tradespeople to make up second-hand materials.
Dupin, my milliner, looks cross if I purchase new
ones, for she thinks it is robbing her of her profit;
but she absolutely abused me, when I asked her to
use some crape that had been made up before."

EMILV MOUELAND. 46»

Lady Rachel tried in vain to conceal her vexation.
She had flattered herself that at candlelight it would
not be discovered that her gay satin and gauze were
not quite so fresh as could be wished; and she had
overlooked the certainty that her dear friend's " ferret
eyes," as she frequently called them, would inevitably
discover the fact sh,e so wished to conceal.

" I never asked any questions about it," she ob-
served; "but my milliner knows I am too good a
customer, not to think it her interest to oblige me ;
and besides, though you have found out, or rather
guessed, because you knew I had satin by me of this
shade, there is not one in a thousand that could de-
tect that these materials were not new."

" My dear friend, where is your glass, for good-
ness'sake? No — no — I did not mean you to turn
to the looking-glass, though you certainly look very
killing in it ; but just take it off, and examine it with
your eye-glass, and you will see that your work-
woman has been careless enough to leave even some
of the ends of the old silk that it had been sewed with,
and has placed a frayed piece in the most conspicuous
part, as if she was determined your economy should
not escape any one."

Lady Rachel turned round, pressed her thin lips
together, and darted a look of fury and reproach at
Emily, for her carelessness, which had thus enabled
Lady Haycraft to triumph over her.

"Another lecture, I suppose," thought Emily
striving to appear unconcerned and indifferent, as
she proceeded with her occupation.

* Let me see what you are about, Ma'am !" ex-

468 EMILY MOIIELAND.

claimed Lady Rachel, snatching the work rudely out
of her hand. " You seem," she continued, " to have
hut a poor notion of these sort of things — that tuck
is, at least, a quarter of an inch too far from the
bottom. " It is surprising," she continued, turning
to Lady Haycraft, " that people, who have nothing
to give their children, should not make them useful,
instead of giving them a parcel of flimsy accomplish-
ments, that can only serve to fill their heads with
ridiculous notions of their own superiority, and render
them totally unfit for the state they are destined to
be placed in."

" It is a pity, indeed," replied Lady Haycraft, in
a sarcastic tone, " but, under your scientific instruc-
tions, I cannot doubt that Miss — Miss What's-her-
name will soon improve! I can't think, indeed,
where you yourself acquired so much knowledge in
the sublime mysteries of gown, cap, and turban
making; for, really, you give your instructions in
such a truly workman-like, or rather, I should have
said, workwoman-like manner, that any one, who did
not know Jjady Rachel Moreland, would swear you
had served an apprenticeship to the trade! Now, I
am such a careless creature, that I scarcely know
one part of a dress from another ; and I am sure,
if I was condemned not to have a new one, till I
could put it together, or point out how it was to be
done, I should be obliged to wear this old dress to
tatters."

Lady Rachel was forced to feign a laugh, to con-
ceal her mortification and rage, which were every
mouient growing more uncontrollable.

EMILY MORELAND. 4(1^

*' What an abominable rattle you are!" she ex-
claimed, in accents of assumed mirth, which were
strangely contrasted with the expression of her coun-
tenance. "But, really, my dear, yc u do give your
tongue strange liberties; and any one but an inti-
mate friend like me By the bye," (suddenly re-
collecting herself,) " have you heard any thing par-
ticular, respecting Sir Jeremy Wilmot?"

"No!" returned Liady Haycraft, with a look of
extreme curiosity and interest — " Have you?"

" Only ray maid informed me, when I asked her,
this morning, if she knew what the church bells were
ringing for so merrily, that it was in honour of Sir
Jeremy, who had this morning married his house-
maid."

Lady Haycraft turned as pale as the thick plaister
of rouge she wore on her cheeks would let her —
"'Impossible! I won't believe it . He could not be
such a fool, I am sure he could not!" she ejaculated,
with vehemence.

"Why not?" demanded Lady Rachel, with a ma-
licious smile. " He is not the first !"

" No — but — but — " stammered Lady Haycraft,
" I always thought him a man of sense, and "

" Come, now, confess the truth," interrupted Lady
Rachel, with a smile of triumph. " Has not Sir
Jeremy been making pretensions in a higher quarter?
Ah, I see how it is! Well, I am really sorry!
Russell," (addressing Emily,) "ring for a glass of
water — Lady Haycraft is faint, I can see. My dear
creature, I would not have said a word, for the world,
if I*d have known you felt so seriously ; but I really

470 EMILY MORELAND.

thought it was mere flirtation between you and Sir
Jeremy, and, indeed, I felt quite angry when I heard
a gentleman say to Lady Dorcas at her rout the
other night — (I was sitting behind the screen, and
he did not observe me,) — * Who is that courting our
friend Sir Jeremy so furiously, that the poor little
man seems absolutely frightened, and shuffles about,
at every word he speaks in reply to her, as if he was
afraid of being drawn in to say something which may
be construed into an acceptation of her?'

" 'What a scandaliser you are !' said Lady Dorcas,
(you know, my dear, what a malicious creature she
is,) ' I am sure you can't mean Lady Haycraft, for
she is old enough to be his mother ; and too prudent,
I'm sure, to act in the manner you describe!'

" ' I know nothing about her prudence or her age,'
replied the gentleman, smiling, ' but this I do know,
that I have been laughing, this half hour, at Sir
Jeremy's attempts to extricate himself from her toils.
At one time, indeed, 1 thought it was all over with
the poor fellow, and that he would inevitably be
trapped, for she began to attack him on his weakest
side, and I saw he had a terrible struggle to resist
an invitation to dine with her, and taste a curry of
her cook's preparing, which she declared was su-
perior to any thing of the kind to be met with in
England, as her cook had lived seven years in India,
and possessed the true receipt for making it in the
same manner as it was served up at the Governor-
general's table every day. Poor Sir Jeremy licked
his lips at the very idea, and his miserable yellow
countenance relaxed into a smile; — but the lady,

EMILY MORELAND. 471

unfortunately, hinted with a t/?nder look that she
would take care that it should be a t^te-ci-tite dinner,
that nothing- should interrupt his enjoyment, and the
little man flew off" again at a tangent, and pleaded
prior engagements for six weeks to come.' "

'^ What an excellent memory you must have, my
dear friend'." observed L/ady Haycraft, bursting into
a violent fit of laughter ; " but, do you know, that a
memory now is the most vulgar thing in the world.
It was only last night that my friend the Duchess
was saying, that nobody thought of taking the trouble
of remembering what had passed, or of learning any
thing now, but actors and such sort of people, who
are obliged to it. Apropos^ my dear Lady Rachel,
do you know I have often thought, and, indeed, have
heard it remarked by other people, that you would
make an excellent actress. You have not only the
requisite of memory, as you have just proved — but
you have such a capital command of countenance!
Now I, fool-like, always betray myself, if I attempt
to dissimulate, or act a part foreign to my real senti-
ments."

The two friends looked at each other with eyes
which, in spite of every effort, betrayed the rage and
animosity which at that moment swelled both their
bosoms.

Emily, however, who was attentively observing all
that passed, with a mixture of surprise and disgust
at the malice and hypocrisy which was so visible in
their conduct to each other, could not but allow that
Lady Haycraft, far more than her " dear friend,''''
deserved to be considered as possessing the qualities

472 EMII.Y MORELAND.

of an actress — for she still preserved the calmness
and assumed nonchalance of her manner, and was
thus enabled to triumph over her not more irritated,
but less collected friend^ who could no longer com-
mand either voice or recollection to continue the
warfare. Her lips, white with pa&sion, quivered
when she attempted to speak, and her whole frame
shook with agitation.

Really alarmed at her situation, Emily, though
she anticipated a repulse, ventured, in a whisper, to
inquire whether she should do any thing to assist her.

L<ady Rachel looked earnestly at her, as if to as-
certain whether she really meant what she said.

Emily's looks, however, were so ingenuous, and
the tears which stood in her mild eyes spoke a lan-
guage so incontrovertible, that even Lady Rachel
could not doubt her sincerity, and, in a more affable
tone than usual, replied —

" No, thank you, my dear, I have got a slight re-
turn of this morning's attack — but it is going off, I
think. If it does not, I will try the same remedy,
presently, ' The Balsamic Drops,' which are in my
room."

" My dear soul, are you not well ?" exclaimed
Lady Haycraft, in a tone of affected alarm and com-
miseration; "and you have been ill, too, before I
came, and never mentioned it — while I, with my
usual flightiness, imagined, because 1 found you so
busy with your new turban and the rest of the gew-
gaws, that you must be quite well, and never thought
of inquiring. I see now, however, that you look
dreadfully! You must — indeed you must — take more

EMILY MORELANU. 473

rare of yourself ! Let me advise you, not to think
of going out to-night, but go to bed and nurse your-
self. I will send you Lady Morgan's last new novel,
which you were yesterday wishing to read, and which
I got this morning at the library, and your young
woman here will read to you, to beguile the time,
and, in a few days, you Avill, 1 dare say, conquer
these horrid nervous feelings."

" Oh, 1 am quite well, already, I assure you,"
returned Lady Rachel, in a sprightly tone, and
glancing a look of intelligence at Emily, in \yhose
expressive countenance she now read her utter detes-
tation of Lady Haycraft's hypocrisy, " I am quite
recovered, indeed," she added, " and hope to enjoy
almost as pleasant an evening as you will with the
party you are going to join.*'

" Oh, the horrible set ! And, I declare, I had
quite forgotten the engagement. MonDieu!'^ look-
ing at her watch, " I shall scarcely have time to
dress, I declare ; and the old fellow will look as
surly as a dog, if I am not there in time ! I must be
off, poz. So adieu, au revoir, au revoir f^ With
assumed girlishness she started from the sofa, and
flew out of the room.

*' There, there is a pretty specimen of friendship !
What do you think of it. Miss Russell ?"

" Think, Madam," returned Emily, with em-
phasis, " I have been so astonished by what I have
seen and heard, that I scarcely know what to think ;
but, I am sure, if this is a specimen of fashionable
life, I hope I shall never have any thing to dy
with it."

20. 3 p

474 EMILY MORELAND.

" Ahj indeed, you are far happier out of it, if you
can but think so, and conform to your situation."

Emily suppressed the sigh which was rising to her
bosom, as she bowed assent to this doctrine.

" I have given her something to brood upon, how-
ever," observed her ladyship, after a few minutes'
silence, during which it was plain she was reviewing
in her mind the occurrences of the morning.

"Sir Jeremy," she continued, smiling triumphantly,
" was her last hope, and I have managed matters so
well, that he was let into her true character, before
he had gone too far to draw back ; and in despair, as
he said, of ever meeting a sincere woman in the rank
of life he wished to choose from, he hurried home, and
made an offer of his hand and fortune to his house-
keeper. I need not say, he was gladly accepted —
and though I certainly did not anticipate this ter-
mination, I could not but rejoice, when I heard, last
night, of his firm determination to be tied to Molly,
or Betty, or whatever her name is, this morning !

" I did not intend," continued her ladyship, " to
have told her a word about it, until we met in pub-
lic, in order that I might enjoy more fully her mor-
tification. But her insolence and envy to-day
aggravated me so much, that I could no longer sup-
press it ; and I have the satisfaction of knowing, that
I have, at least, spoiled her day's diversion and her
night's rest."

" Was she, then, really attached to this Sir
Jeremy, Madam," inquired Emily, who scarcely at
that moment knew which most to despise — Lady
Rachel, or her friend

EMILV MORELAND. 475

**" Attached T' returned the latter, in a sarcastic
tone, " to be sure she was — who would not be — who
possesses only just income sufficient to enable her
to keep up the appearances she has all her life
been accustomed to, when the object of her attach-
ment can shew a rent-roll of at least seven thousand
a year, and boasts that he can decorate his bride
with jewels, to the amount of seventy thousand
pounds, on her bridal day ? By the bye, I wonder
whether his Mopsa wore them to-day ! It must have
been a laughable sight, if she did ; but I shall hear,
when Frazer calls, for he was to accompany the
happy and well-assorted pair to church. But, to re-
turn to Lady Skinflint, as she is called by her ser'
vants, and Sir Jeremy.

" On her first introduction to him, she was not aware
of liis substantial pretensions to her favour ; and,
seeing a little, mean, pitiful-looking, yellow-faced
old man, with a garb as mean as himself, placed next
her at table, and particularly recommended to her
notice by Frazer, who, even then, had mischief in
his head, she thought proper to be violently offended
at what she considered a designed affront.

" B^razer she dared not attack, because she knew
he was more than a match for her. The whole of
her anger and sarcasm, therefore, was levelled at
the stranger, who, accustomed to all the deference
which is usually accorded to wealth, beheld with
surprise the contempt and scorn with which he was
treated by one, who, except that she was very showy
in appearance, possessed no one attraction to account
for her assumption of superiority.

476 EMILY MORELAND.

" I really think, however, that to this conduct
Lady Haycraft was indebted for the notice he took
of her afterwards ; for he was so suspicious of every-
body's having matrimonial designs upon him, and so
afraid of being taken in, as he was used to express
himself, that he regarded every woman who treated
him with common civility as an enemy in disguise.

" Lady Haycraft's manners, therefore, threw him
entirely off his guard. He became anxious to con-
vince her that he was not altogether so despicable as
she seemed to think, and she, having discovered her
mistake, and finding him a prize worthy of some ex-
ertion to secure, acted with so much policy that he
became completely entangled in her snares ; and I
have no doubt that she would have succeeded in
carrying off the ' rich Nabob,' as he is called, but
that Frazer and I, who had watched the game
through all its movements, laid our heads together
to circumvent her.

" Frazer knew, what I did not, that Sir Jeremy
was sadly divided between his attachment to his
Blouzelinda at home, and his ambition to aggrandise
his name by a union with a woman of birth and
fashionable connexions. He knew, also, that the
Nabob Avas both vain and luxurious in his habits,
and that any offence against his consequence, or a
hint that his intended lady would oppose his present
extravagant habits, as to his table, his establishment
Sec. which, mean and insignificant as he appears,
are all of the most splendid description, would be
quite sufficient to induce him to sound a retreat.

" Frazer had, all through the affair, not only been

EMILY MORELAND. -i i 4

Sir Jeremy's confidant, but her ladyship's, who be-
lieved him most anxious to promote the match. He
therefore contrived, having previously warned his
friend of her deceit, to draw her into a conversation,
which he had placed the latter so as to overhear, in
which she fully revealed her intentions of turning" all
the little Nabob's establishment upside down, and
discharging, at least, a third of his lazy dependants.
" ' That impudent, bold-looking husseyof a house-
keeper shall go first,' she exclaimed ; ' for I detest
the very looks of her ! I saw her to-day, sitting at
the parlour window, dressed out as gay as if she was
the mistress of the mansion ; but I shall soon let her
know who is her mistress, when once I get my foot
firm on the threshold ! As to his gormandising, my
conscience would not let me suffer that to go on, as
it only serves to make him more bilious and detest-
able than he really is. I declare, I never look in his
face, but I am sick at the thoughts of the fish, flesh,
and fowl, which that ugly mouth of his devours
every day, to the injury both of his constitution and
his pocket ! — No, no, stop till I have been Sir
Jeremy's wife a few weeks, and you shall see the
reformation I will work, without the aid of a mi-
racle !'

' " Sir Jeremy shrank with horror at the tone of
triumphant security in which this was uttered. He
was attacked in the tenderest part — his person ridi-
culed, his tastes denounced, and his whole fabric of
domestic happiness threatened with speedy demo-
lition. He thought of his gentle and obliging
Blouzelinda, as Lady Haycraft had contemptuously

478 EMILY MORELAND

called her), at home — of her constant efforts to gra-
tify him, not only in the delights of his table, but in
raising his reputation for splendour and liberality —
he compared, too, her blooming face and youthful
person with Lady Haycraft's faded and made-up
face and skinny figure, which he had a full view of
at that moment, through an aperture in the folding-
doors behind which he was placed, and the result
was — that he determined to despise all the aggran-
disement of an union with nobility, and be happy in
his own way.

" ' Well, my friend, what think you of your in-
tended bride, now ?' said Frazer, when he had got
rid of my lady, and brought out the astounded Sir
Jeremy from his hiding-place.

" ' Never mention her name to me again !' replied

the little man. ' She is a tyger, a hyena — and I

but I will put it out of her power, at once, ever to
fulfil her threats ; for I will go out of town directly,
and '

" ' And she will ferret you out, and follow and
cajole you into a forgetfulness of all this,' replied
Frazer. ' Yes, yes, depend upon it, I shall yet see
her Lady '

" ' Never !' interrupted Sir Jeremy, * and, to prove
it, I will instantly get a licence, and marry one
whose affection for me, in spite of my " detestable
person," I cannot doubt; and whose gratitude will,
I am sure, ensure her attention to my comfort.'

" Frazer laughed in his sleeve, and came off, as
soon as he was gone, to communicate to me the
result of our little plot. Ho, however, totally dis-

EMILT MORELAND. 479

couraged the idea that Sir Jeremy would put his in-
tention of marrying his handmaiden into practice.
' His pride and ambition will resume their sway,'
he observed, ' as soon as his present rage and morti-
fication subside; and if they have not sufficient in-
fluence, 1 have a little secret, which I shall reserve
to the last ; but, if driven to the necessity of so doing,
I shall whisper it in his ear, and thus at once blast
all the pretensions of his Blouzelinda to the exalted
station of Sir Jeremy's lady.'

" Frazer, however, I suspect," continued Lady
Rachel, with a resentful expression of countenance,
" has been playing a double part ; but he is mistaken,
if he thinks to make me a party In the ridicule which
this monstrous match will occasion, in the circle
which Sir Jeremy has contrived to thrust himself
into; but from which, of course, he and his accom-
plished helpmate will now be excluded."

Emily could not, indeed, see how Lady Rachel
could be ridiculed, though she felt that every reflect-
ing person must despise her, for the part she had
acted, and which, it was very evident, had produced
a different result from what she had anticipated ;
though why she should be vexed at it, or even in-
terested beyond the success of her plan for detaching
Sir Jeremy from her dear friend Lady Haycraft, the
former could not comprehend.

A few moments after she had concluded her nar-
rative, Lady Rachel retired to dress for dinner ; but,
as no indication was given of its being expected that
Emily should follow her example, the latter remained
assiduously plying her needle, until the ringing of

480 EMILY MORELAND.

the second dinner-bell, when she was interrupted by
the appearance of a tall, middle-aged man, who en-
tered the room unannounced, and with the air of one
who was on familiar terms with the mistress of the
mansion.

In some confusion, Emily returned his salutation,
and then, though scarcely knowing whether she
should be right in doing so, she began to gather up
her work, intending to retire with it to her own room.
The stranger, however, with a familiar smile, en-
treated her to be seated.

" Lady Rachel, I know," he observed, " is engaged
at her toilette, and I cannot resist this opportunity
of congratulating you and myself on the success of
my friend Moreland's disinterested efforts to serve
you, by placing you under the protection of my
amiable friend. Lady Rachel Moreland."

There was a slight emphasis on the words " disin-
terested" and " amiable," which, to Emily's ear,
sounded almost like a sneer; and though by no means
inclined to defend the propriety of applying the latter
epithet to Lady Rachel, she looked up with some
surprise, at the thought that a stranger should thus
question the purity of Mr. Moreland's motives. But
her surprise was still greater that this man, whoever
he was, should be in possession of the circumstances
Lady Rachel appeared so anxious to conceal ; and,
for a moment, she blamed the imprudence of her
friend Mr. Moreland, who, she concluded, must have
entrusted him with the secret.

A second glance, however, at the stranger, (whose
eyes she then caught fixed upon her with an expres-

EMILY MOUELAND. 481

sion which brought the " eloquent blood" to her
cheeks,) recalled him to her recollection as one of
the persons who was in th« newspaper office wPth
Mr. Moreland, at the time she was so strangely intro-
duced to him, and whose levity and impertinence then
formed so striking a contrast to the kindness and con-
sideration of the latter's manner, even while he had
believed her utterly unknown to him.

Lady Rachel's visitor, indeed, was not one to be
easily overlooked or forgotten. He was very tall,
very thin, and very ill-proportioned. His face was
what many would have called handsome; but, to
Emily's mind, the mixture of insolent haughtiness
and impertinent levity which glanced from his eyes,
destroyed all impression of their brightness; while
the maliciously satiric smile, that played round his
mouth, completed the repulsive expression of his
countenance, and made him, as Emily often after-
wards thought, look like a demon exulting over the
frailties and follies of mankind, while he was studying,
at the same time, to exceed them in every species of
vice and wickedness.

More anxious than ever to escape from the society
of one, who had already contrived to render himself
so disagreeable to her, Emily now attempted to quit
tlie room ; but the stranger, with pretended pplite-
laess and affability, though real impertinence, insisted
en her remaining.

*' You were not thinking of moving, I know," he
observed, in a familiar tone. " until I came in — and,
sooner than I will be the cause of disturbing you, I
will leave the room "

21. 3 Q

482 EMTLY MORELAND.

Emily was vexed and hurt — but timidity kept her
silent, and she resumed her occupation with Lady
Rachel's g^own.

" There, ftow, that is something like good-nature
and sociability," he observed, seating himself by her
side ; " and now, pray tell me, how do you like your
new-found relative? 1 don't mean Mr. Moreland —
for all the ladies, of course, admire him — though 1
don't know what the devil they see in him !" and he
pulled up his shirt-collar, with an air that fully be-
trayed his consciousness of personal superiority. " I
mean," he continued, " the old tabby — the dignified,
high-bred, high-born Lady Rachel Moreland."

Emily's looks betrayed her contempt at this sneer-
ing speech from a man, who was come avowedly ti
visit, under pretence of friendship, the person whom
^e thus ridiculed

" Oh, I see how it is," he observed, without in the
slightest degree changing countenance, " the old girl
has been playing the amiable with you, and you are
determined to defend her; but don't you fancy that
you will recommend yourself to her, by betraying
what I have said — for she firmly believes that I think
her superior to all her sex, and woe be to those who
should awaken her from her pleasant delusion."

"You will excuse my declining to continue this
sort of conversation, Sir," said Emily, attempting
again to rise, " I should be equally culpable with —

with " She hesitated, fearful she was saying too

much, and again the stranger insisted on detaining
ber.

"You look so beautiful in your anger,'^ ne oo«

EMILY MOllCLAND. 48^3

served, " that I scarcely wish to appease it. This
lovely bloom — " and he made an attempt to touch
her cheek, which Emily indignantly resisted.

At this moment Lady Rachel, in great state, walked
into the room, but stopped short and looked aghast
when she saw how it was occupied.

*'Mr. Frazer!" she exclaimed, in a tone of sur-
prise and resentment, " I little expected this honour
to-day — I thought you, of course, accompanied the
bride and bridegroom."

" Pshaw, my dear Lady Rachel, that is all a hoax !
Sir Jeremy is not married, or likely to be, at least
to that party !"

" But is Lady Haycraft, then — " said her ladyship,
in a tone of impatience and alarm.

" Another time — by-and-bye — I will tell you all
about it."

"Russell, go to your own room," said Lady
Rachel, in a tone of insolent command — " I don't
know, indeed," she added, "why you have remained
here so long, — though, upon second thoughts, you
may as well stop, now the dinner is nearly on the
table, I dare say, and I expect no one of any conse-
quence. You, you know," turning to Mr. Frazer,
with a smile full of affectation, " are a mere nobody,
and may go or stop, just as you please. There will
he only Mrs. Lucy, Miss Sawyer, and Mrs. Morle^,
to dine with us."

" A very pretty party," replied Mr. Frazer, " and
a very sans ceremonie invitation. However, I shall
accept it, because I know you want to get rid of me."

The look that accompanied this speech indicated

484 FMILV MOttELAXD.

that he thought directly the reverse of what he said;
and Emily, while her proud little heart swelled at
Lady Rachel's mortifying behaviour towards her,
blushed for the folly of the latter, in being- deceived
by the malicious, insinuating, and time-serving
Frazer,

Lady Rachel's dinner was, like every thing else
about her, a mixture of ostentation and meanness;
but she was all dignity, affability, and attention to
her guests; and as the latter, with the exception of
Mrs. Morley, did not appear much inclined to indulge
in the delights of the table, all were in good humour.

No formal introduction of the humble dependant,
Miss Russell, ushered her to the notice of her asso-
ciates ; and the plainness of her morning dress, which
she had received no intimation from Lady Rachel,
or indeed had been given any opportunity, to change,
seemed quite sufficient to screen her from the obser-
vation or curiosity of Miss Sawyer, and her sister"
Mrs. Morley.

From Mrs. Lucy, on the contrary, who was seated
next to Emily at table, the latter was treated with
the greatest attention and kindness.

Mrs. Lucy was a woman, who, without any very
formidable pretensions to superior knowledge and
sagacity, possessed a very strong natural under-
standing, and a great share of penetration. The
silence and dejection of Emily, and the haughty
tone in which Lady Rachel addressed her, interested
the former greatly in her favour ; and, before the
cloth was withdrawn, a look which Mrs. Lucy caught
Mr. Frazer in the act of bestowing on her new ac-

FMILY MORELAND. 485

qiialntance, while pretending to press her to eat
some of the dish of which he was partaking, and
which look Emily repaid with one of undissencibled
scorn and contempt, fixed Mrs. Lucy her firm friend.

There was, indeed, a mutual dislike between Mr.
Frazer and Mrs. Lucy. Her good sense enabled
her to penetrate into his real character and designs,
and her habits of plain dealing with every one, let
their station in life be what it would, often rendered
her rather an unpleasant associate, both to the for-
mer and Lady Rachel, who though she respected
and esteemed her, and could not resolve to break an
intimacy which had lasted from the earliest hours of
cl ildhood, yet often felt her remarks very ill-timed
and annoying, and would frequently designate her
friend Mrs. Lucy as one of the rudest and worst-
bred women in the world.

Mrs. Lucy, however, was too independent, and
too anxious for her old friend's real respect, ability,
and welfare, to be deterred from expressing her
sentiments ; and though they generally met only to
quarrel, they always came together again, without
any real resentment or malicious feeling.

Mrs. Lucy, though assuming the matronly appella-
tion, which, as she said, suited best her years and
appearance, was, as well as Lady Rachel, a single
woman ; but her remaining unmarried was the etFect
of choice, not of necessity ; for she had had more than
one siiitor, to whom her refusal to listen to their ad-
dresses had given real pain ; while, on the contrary,
Lady Rachel had been more than once mortified and
humiliated bv the desertion o' those whom even her

486 EMILY MOIIELAND.

fortune and high birth, though they had at fir^t
attracted, could not reconcile to her unainiable
qualities.

Mrs. Lucy was, therefore, a contented old maid,
with not the slightest desire to lose that appellation ;
while Lady Rachel, though three or four years
her senior, was continually occupied with the desire
to get rid of what she weakly considered a stigma and
reproach.

Her pretended friend, Mr. Frazer, possessed pe-
netration enough to discover and encourage this
foible, and malice enough to make it subservient to
his amusement, and that of his companions ; but he
found a formidable adversary in Mrs. Lucy, who
never failed to make him feel tht superiority of plain
common sense and right-heartedness, over that
shrewdness, and that disposition to satire and mis-
chief, which though they may gratify, for a short
time, the unfeeling and the unreflecting, never fail
to render their possessor hated and dreaded even by
those who encourage him at the expense of others,
but shrink with terror from being themselves made
the subjects of it.

Accident had also enabled Mrs. Lucy to defeat
Mr. Frazer in his libertine designs on one of that
class, who were ever peculiarly the objects of his pur-
suit— the young, the inexperienced, and the unpro-
tected. And, though he could not openly resent her
interference, he secretly longed for an opportunity of
revenging what he called her busy, officious meddling.

With the other ladies, Mrs. Morley and Miss Saw-
yer, his gay and fashionable manners, and the devo-

EMILY MORE LAND. 4S7

lion he professed to the fair sex, were quite sufficient
to recommend him to their favour ; and on their re-
turn to the drawing-room, previously to their sepa-
rating for their different engagements for the even-
ing, he engrossed the whole attention, not only of
the two last-mentioned ladies, but of Lady Rachel
herself, by the perfectness of his mimicry of their
different friends, including most prominently Lady
Rachel's bosom companion, Lady Haycraft, and her
ci-devant admirer, Sir Jeremy, whose peculiarities
and foibles he lashed with an unsparing hand.

It was impossible to avoid laughing at his odd and
characteristic assumptions of the tone, manner, and
looks of the parties ridiculed ; yet Mrs. Lucy's ke^n
eye soon discovered that Emily's correct mind taught
her to disapprove this kind of entertainment, and
despise the promoter of it.

'' You do not seem a very warm admirer of Mr.
Frazer's talents in this way," she observed, as they
sat together on the opposite side of the room.

Emily diffidently replied that she could feel no
pleasure in what, if it were known, must give pain to
the feelings of those who were thus exposed to de-
rision. " 1 almost blame myself," she added, "for
allowing myself to be seduced, for a moment, into a
seeming participation in such an amusement."

" It will perhaps lessen your pity, my dear," re-
turned Mrs. Lucy, " for the absent parties, as well
as your self-reproach, to be told that, in all proba-
bility, in a few hours, Mr. Frazer will be delighting
them by a similar exhibition, at the expense of those
who are now applauding and admiring his buffoonery.

488 EMILY M< kMILAND.

Yes, yeSj he will ' show us all up,' as he calls it ; and,
srobably, some of us," glancing at Lady Rachel,
* in still more heightened caricature than those he is
Jiow representing."

Emily had already seen too much of fashionable
hypocrisy and pretended friendship, not to believe
that this was very probable. It did not, however,
lessen her contempt for those who thus could live m
habits of intimacy with people whom they now re-
presented, or suffered to be represented, in the most
despicable light imaginable ; and she expressed her
disapprobation in such mild yet firm language, that
Mrs. Lucy was more than ever pleased with her new
acquaintance ; and, in a warmer tone than was usual
to her cautious and equable disposition, expressed a
Aope that their next interview would neither be so
orief nor so interrupted as the present.

" My time is entirely now at Lady Rachel's disr
posal, Madam," replied Emily, casting down her
tearful eyes, as she made the humiliating avowal ;
"but, if her ladyship allows "

"Allows what, my dear?" said Mrs. Lucy, ob-
serving she paused, without scarcely knowing why
she did so. "She cannot disallow my seeing and
esteeming you, as long as you are what you appear
to be."

Emily's heart throbbed with gratitude at the kind-
ness with which this was uttered, and she warmly
returned the pressure of Mrs. Lucy's hand, which
had taken hers; but the entertainment, which had
so engrossed the rest of the party that they had not
observed the serious conversation between Emily and

EMir. V MO R ELAND.

4Sji

her new acquaintance, now ceased — the principal
actor was obliged to attend an engagement, the ladies
had to alter their dresses for their evening parties,
f»nd Emily alone was left to solitude and musing.

CHAPTER XIX.

Behold a hideous hand,

And herd of all thy minions are at hand.
Suspicion first, with jealous caution, stalks,
And ever looks around her as she walks,
With bibulous ear imperfect sounds to catch.

Smart.

Several weeks elapsed, without any variation in
Emily's monotonous situation, except an occasional
visit from Mr. Moreland, who took the opportunity,
when he knew Lady Rachel would be absent, of
calling to see the former, and endeavouring to cheer
her with the hope of better days.

" I acknowledge," he observed, one evening, as
he sat by her side, while she was diligently engaged
in her everlasting occupation of transforming by-
gone finery into more modern shapes, for Lady
Rachel, " I acknowledge that, when I introduced
you to our relative, I thought that, however un-
amiable some of her propensities, she would have
sense enough to appreciate you properly, and libe-
rality sufficient to treat you accordingly. I own I
Rm disappointed — but yet I do not despair. I have
21. 3 R

4f)0 EMI I.Y MO n ELAND.

still hopes that I shall be able to rouse her into some
geiicroiis and kind feeling- towards you, and induce
her to treat you in a manner more becoming your
education and manners. She is, however, so sur-
rounded with bigoted and prejudiced people, at
present, that I have not either power or opportunity
to say or do all that I wish. But be assured that I
will neglect no means to improve your situation,
and, in the meantime, you must endeavour to disarm
the evil of it, by putting in practice that amiable
patience and forbearance which I know you possess."

Emily could only weep her thanks for his kind in-
tentions, but her heavy sighs betrayed that she had
little hopes from his interference in her favour.

" I would not mind her peevishness and arrogance,"
she observed, " though they are sometimes almost in-
tolerable, but she treats me with so much suspicion,
and seems inclined to think I have some sinister view
in the most trivial and indifferent action. I cannot
go up or down stairs, without giving her an account
of my motives for so doing ; and if I approach a win-
dow, she asks me what or whom I expect to see in the
street, that I am looking out so anxiously. Finding
my health injured, and my spirits, of course, de-
pressed by the constant confinement to the house,
and my equally constant attention to this interesting
occupation," (trving to smile as she held up her
work,) " I ventured to say that, with her permission,
I would walk, early in the morning, in the gardens of
the adjacent square, to which she has a key, and
where I once, the only time I have ever been out of
the house since 1 entered it, accompanied her. At ;

EMILV MORELAND. 4i)l

that \isit, I saw that I should there be secure from all
fear of impropriety or intrusion, which, I am aware,
1 might meet with in the streets, and I thought she
could not reasonably object to a proposition which
would not interfere, in the slightest degree, with her
arrangements, as she has not, as yet, required that I
shall take up my needle before breakfast. Her
ladyship, however, it seems, thought otherwise, and
I was compelled to bear insinuations, and submit to
insults, which, though I could not half comprehend
the purport of the former, which seemed absolute
nonsense, and was conscious I deserved none of the
latter, I would not resent, from the consideration of
the quarter from whence they came."

Mr. Moreland rose, in an agony of passion, and
traversed the room — " I will, at least, put an end
to your confinement," he at last observed, " for I
will myself come and take you out, and let her then
ofter her objections, if she dares."

Emily, however, warmly opposed this proposition ;
she knew that M»% Moreland had strong reasons for
not wishing to disoblige Lady Rachel, and she could
not be so selfish as to consent to his involving him-
self in a quarrel with her, merely to gratify herself.

They were still engaged in this friendly conten-
tion, when the door suddenly opened, and Lady Ra-
chel, whom they had supposed safely disposed of for
the evening, entered, accompanied by her maid.

'* Get me some drops, Morgan," observed the for-
mer, without noticing Mr. Moreland's salutation.

" They are here, my lady," returned the officious
handmaid, taking a bottle from a small cabinet that

492 EMILY MORELAND.

stood near her, " I put them here this morning', be-
cause T was afraid your ladyship would want them."

" Ah, you are always attentive to my comfort, I
know," replied her ladyship, " while those, from
whom I have a right to expect kindness and atten-
tion, are generally the most forward to give me
uneasiness."

The look with which this speech was accompanied,
could leave no doubt, on the minds of either Emily
or Mr. Moreland, as to whom it was applied.

" Who has been offending you, Madam ?" said
Mr. Moreland, assuming a look of gaiety, which was
evidently very foreign to his feelings. " You know,"
he continued, " you have always a champion in me,
to avenge your cause."

" I have thought you were my friend, Mr. More-
land," replied Lady Rachel.

" And what has persuaded you that I am not so
still," said Mr. Moreland, with a severity of look
and manner, which seemed to have an instantaneous
effect on her ladyship, whose austere look was im-
mediately exchanged for one of confusion.

" I will thank you. Madam, to dismiss your ser-
vant, if you have any thing to say to me," continued
Mr. Moreland, while Emily, trembling for the re-
sult of the approaching contest, would fain have re-
treated also. Mr. Moreland, however, prevented her.
" As one of the family, you are, of course, interested
in this affair," he observed, as he re-seated her.

Lady Rachel darted a look of anger at her bold
relative, and then, observing her maid still lingering,
with a look of curiosity and surprise on her counte-

EMILY BlonELAND, 493

nance, exclaimed, — " What are you doing- here ? —
Why don't you go, pray ;"

" Your ladyship did not dismiss me," returned the
attendant, darting a side-long glance, full of malice
at Mr. Moreland, and moving slowly towards the
door.

Mr. Moreland kept his keen eye fixed upon her,
till she closed the door, and then rising he followed
her, and opened it, as if to ascertain whether she was
listening.

" Now, Madam," he observed, seating himself op-
posite to -Lady Rachel, " if you have any thing to
complain of, in my conduct, I am ready to hear and
to vindicate myself; but I am not yet fallen so low,
as to suffer your domestics to sit in judgment on
my actions, and place their own base constructions
on motives which they are incapable of compre-
hending."

" Indeed, you wrong poor Morgan," returned
Lady Rachel, in a softened tone, " she is a good and
faithful creature, though her zeal for my interest
sometimes leads her a little too far."

" And it has now led her so far as to bring you
home, and fill your head with unjust suspicions of
those who are really your friends," said Mr. More-
land, looking steadfastly at her.

" No, indeed, it was not from her I received the
information," replied Lady Rachel, hastily.

" And what was the amount of that information i"
said Mr. Moreland. " Come, Lady Rachel, deal
candidly — and, as I have been accused, it seems, let
me have a fair opportunity of vindicating myself."

494 EMILY MORELAND.

" You were accused of nothing, except being made
the dupe of an artful, designing girl," and her looks
resumed all their austerity, as she frowned upon
Emily, who, no longer able to restrain her feelings,
burst into a passionate flood of tears.

" I can no longer submit in silence, Madam,"
she with difficulty articulated, '• from no part of
my conduct, since I have been with you, have I
deserved those epithets to be applied to me ; but I
will give your ladyship no further uneasiness, for I
will "

" I will have no rash resolutions, Emily, inter-
rupted Mr. Moreland, " nor will I consent to your
allowing your enemies thus to triumph in the con-
summation of their purpose — that of driving you
from your only proper protection, that of the nearest
relative you have in existence. Besides, my own
honour is concerned in this being cleared, though I
am now very sorry that I have made you, by detain-
ing you, submit to an insult which I will pledge my
honour you have never deserved."

Emily's tears redoubled, but she was unable to re^
ply to this effusion of kindness.

" You had better retire, my dear girl," observed
Mr, Moreland, " and trust your cause in ray hands.'

Conscious that she was too far overpowered by the
previous conversation with Mr. Moreland, and her
surprise and indignation at Lady Rachel's unquali-
fied accusation, to be able to enter into the impend-
ing discussion with any advantage, Emily looked
at Lady Rachel, for permission to comply with the
former's recommendation.

EMli, Y MORKLAND. 495

" You may go, Miss Russell," saio her ladyship,
haughtily.

Emily's pride again prompted her to attempt some-
thing like a vindication of herself, but Mr. Moreland
good-naturedly inte 'posed once more, and she re
tired, to unburthen her swelling heart in her own
chamber.

"My lady sent me to desire you will come to sup-
per, Ma'am," said Mrs. Morgan, bouncing into the
room, with an impertinent air, two hours after.

E-mily raised her head from the pillow, on which
she had laid her aching and throbbing temples — " I
will thank you to tell her ladyship, that I am really
ill, and unable to attend," she replied, with coolness.

The woman's countenance wore a smile of triumph,
as she surveyed the swollen eyes and dejected looks
of the poor girl.

" Mr. Moreland will be disappointed, Ma'am," she
observed, in a significant tcne, " for he is going to
stay supper."

Emily's heart rose against this insult, but she made
no other reply than repeating her inability to attend
the supper-table; and Mrs. Morgan at length
flounced out of the room, taking with her the candle,
though the former was thus left in darkness.

In a few minutes she returned, and, in a sulky tone,
observed, that Lady Rachel wished to see tier (Emily)
for a few minutes, but would not detain her to sup-
per, if she was not disposed to stay.

It was impossible to resist this intimation, or rather
command; and, accordingly, Emily, without any
further remark; followed her impertinent conductress

4.% EMILV MOR ELAND.

to the supper-room, where she found Lady Rachc*!
and Mr. Moreland.

A very fine lobster, some potted shrimps, and two
or three other luxuries, which Euiily knew were
seldom seen at her ladyship's table, proved her at-
tention to Mr. Moreland's comfort, and would at any
other time have convinced the former that he still
ranked high in Lady Rachel's estimation ; but Emily
was not at this moment capable of making- such a
deduction. Her head swam, her eyes seemed dazzled
with the lights that were on the table, and had not
the footman, with an officiousness that she had seldom
before experienced, immediately handed her a chair,
she would have been unable to support herself.

" Eating is the best remedy in the world for the
nead-ache, unless it arises from repletion, and thai
is not your case," said Mr. Moreland, in a gay tone,
and placing before Emily the plate which Lad)'
Rachel had just sent to him.

"1 intended this for Miss Russell," said her lady-
ship, in a tone of more complacency than Emily had
ever heard her assume, when speaking of her.

Einil) had little appetite, even for the unwonteil
delicacies which were thus placed before her, but she
saw Mr. Moreland's kind entreating face, and she
tried to show her gratitude by making an effort to eat.

"You had better take a glass of wine. Miss
Russell," said Lady Rachel.

Emily bowed her thanks, for she could not trust
her voice to reply; and, inwardly wondering how
this chanire could have been broujrht about, she sat
bilently listenino^ to Mr. Moreland's sportive sadics,

EMU. V iMORELAND. 49"^

who seemed determined, by the liberties he took, tr^
show Emily that she had nothing to fear with regard
to his suffering- any diminution ofher ladyship's favour.

" Do you remember that fine young fellow whom
1 introduced to your ladyship one evening, at Lady
Edmiston's, and whom you would have fallen in love
with, but that I kindly warned you of the hopeless-
ness of such a passion, he being ' nine fathoms deep'
in "

" How can you talk such nonsense, Charles!" said
]jady Rachel, in a gracious tone. " What, or who
is it you are talking about ?"

"Well, then, in sober seriousness, do you not re-
member a young man, calling himself Herbert Leslie,
who appeared among us like a bright comet, eclipsing
all the lustre of us little twinkling stars, stealing the
hearts of all the young ladies, and turning the heads
of all the old ones, until, like the erratic wanderer
I have likened him to, he suddenly disappeared, and
was entirely lost to our admiring eyes?"

" I perfectly remember, now, the young man of
whom you speak," said Lady Rachel, while Emily,
all attention and anxiety, sat playing with her knife
on the plate, from which she was afraid to raise her
eyes, lest they should betray the interest she felt in
the subject.

" I remember, very well," continued her ladyship,
"that there were some circumstances of mystery at-
tending him, which soon began to be whispered about,
not much to the credit of his patroness. Lady Julia—
What's her name — I can never retain any of these
acw titles in my memory/'

21. 3 s

408 E M I T. Y M O II i; I. A V ( ) .

•' Go on, dear MacJam, never mind names — you
know It is not fashionable to remember names *' ob-
served Mr. Moreland; " but I should like to hear
what scandal it was, that drove the chiefest ornament
of his circle to solitude and obscurity."

" I cannot repeat half the stories that were circu-
lated respecting' him — but one thing is certain, thai
it was proved he was a mere nobody, without even
a right to the name he bore, and entirely dependant
on this same Lady Julia for the means of associating
with his superiors. It was stated, that the said lady's
husband, though none of the kindest or most exem-
plary, made some very violent efforts to support, or
rather retrieve her character; but the lady herself
indignantly scorned all explanation, even to the hero
of the tale, who, it seemed, knew no more where he
had sprung from, than the man in the moon. What
became of the young man, [ never knew— nor, in-
deed, thought it worth while to inquire — for, though
I was sorry for him, yet he certainly deserved to
suffer mortification, for his presumption in intruding
himself among his betters."

Mr. Moreland repeated the word " betters" m a
low tone, but sufficiently audible to reach Lady
Rachel's ears.

" I did not expect, Mr. Moreland, that you would
be an advocate for that fashionable equality, which
brings every butcher and baker, who has had wealtli
enough to purchase a title, among people of birth
and rank."

"Well, but, my dear Madam, Herbert lieslie is
not, nor has been proved to be, either butc/i»^r or
Ijaker," said Mr. Moreland.

" No, but we know not if ho is not even more din-
gracefully allied," returned Lady Uachel, drawings
herself up with an air of offended dignity.

"I can safely say one thing," replied Mr. More-
land, " that there is no one, however dignified, to
whom Herbert Leslie's alliance would not be an
lionour !"

Lady Rachel was silent; but it was evident that it
was only because she would not hazard another
quarrel with her relative.

Emily's heart had throbbed alike with surprise,
indignation, and pity, while her respect for Mr.
Moreland increased from her knowing that his ha-
bitual notions of the superiority and advantages of
high birth were but too much in unison with Lady
Rachel's, though his sense of justice, and his respect
for his friend, induced him to plead in his favour.
Still, however, she listened with anxiety for the
detail respecting Leslie, which it was evident the
former was about to give, when Lady Rachel's ob-
servation seemed to drive it from his recollection.

After a long pause, however, he suddenly resumed
the subject — '• And so you really have no curiosity
to know the continuation of the eventful history of
this youthful hero, who gave rise to so many romances,
while he was visible in our hemisphere?"

" I certainly should be glad to hear that he was
doing well," replied Lady Rachel, coolly.

" I cannot answer for his doing," return*^d Mr.
Moreland ; " but I can tell you, that the delightful
volume of poetry, which so electrified us a few weeks
ago, has been, with infinite difficulty, traced, through

AOO ILMlhY MOR ELAND,

the bookseller, to be the production of a solitary
recluse, living in a Welsh Cottage, and regarded by
the peasantry in the neighbourhood at once with fear,
awe, and veneration. His habits of writing or read-
ing all day, and wandering about among the hills
and valleys all night, inspired the first, and his pa-
tient and benevolent efforts to ameliorate their con-
dition, and administer to their necessities, forced them
into the latter feelings towards him.

" Influenced by either curiosity, or some more
liberal motive, a gentleman, who resides about ten
miles from the cottage where this mysterious being
has fixed his domicile, made a visit to the place; but
the stranger shut himself up, and civilly but reso-
lutely refused all intercourse. His health and
spirits, he said, alike unfitted him for society, and
the gentleman must excuse his declining an interview.

" This account, which was communicated to the
coterie whose judgment had stamped the publication
with celebrity, increased their desire to know more
of the author; and a tour Avas actually planned and
carried into execution by three of the party, for the
purpose of unkennelling (I beg youi* pardon, ladies,
for the unseemly expression) the man who could thus
renounce fame and distinction, and content himself
with such a life as his was represented to be.

*' They managed matters so well, that he never
dreamed that strangers were in the neighbourhood,
much less that they were in actual pursuit of him ;
andj after three day's watching and suspense, they
pounced full upon him, just as he was enjoying, in
imaginary security, his fitful fancies in an old sum-

EMILY MORELAND. 50l

mer-house in the garden of a ruined cottage, which
bad been destroyed by fire, and which, it appeared,
was his favourite haunt for meditation and study. I
need scarcely, I suppose, tell you, that in the recluse
was discovered our lost friend, Herbert Leslie.

" He was at once angry, pleased, and mortified at
their errand and its issue; but he firmly and steadily
resisted all their representations and persuasions to
return with them to London, and reap the benefit of
that reputation which, even as an anonymous author,
he had already secured. He entered, however, into
some arrangements with them, which will secure to
hira more substantial profit than he has hitherto
derived from the exercise of his talents, and they left
him to the enjoyment of his romantic fancies in the
ruined cottage."

" Who was this lady's husband, before he came to
his present title?" inquired Lady Rachel, renewing
the subject, without noticing Emily's emotion, or
probably attributing it to a different source.

" His family name is De Cardonnel — a name as
old as the Conquest," replied Mr. Moreland.

" De Cardonnel! — where did I hear that name
»ately, and connected with some other story?" in-
quired Lady Rachel.

Unable any longer to conceal her agitation, Emily
attempted to rise from the table — but a faint mist
swam before her eyes, her trembling limbs refused
their support, and when she recovered, she found
herself supported by Mr. Moreland, and some of the
female domestics, at an open window, while Lady
Rachel, with real solicitude in her looks, stood by
her, holding a smelling-bottle.

50fi K >J 1 '^ V M O K i; I> A N D .

'*She had better be removed to her own room,'
said Mr. Moreland. Lady Rachel assented, and,
with more kindness than usual to her, observed, that
if she (Emily) did not feel quite well in the morning,
she need not rise, but should have her breakfast sent
to her.

Emily faintly uttered her thanks for this gracious
permission ; and Mr. Moreland, as he assisted her to
the door, Avhispered — " Forgive the thoughtlessness
which thus wounded your feelings — I had at that
moment entirely forgotten what -"

"Would to Heaven I could for ever for^"et," said
Emily, with a deep sigh.

Mr. Moreland re-echoed the sigh, and Emily,
leaning on the now servile and officious Mrs. Morgan,
left the room.

How many conflicting and distracting thoughts
banished repose from her pillow that night ! At one
moment she pictured to herself the noble-minded and
sensitive Leslie, pining in solitude, and shrinking
from that w orld which could so unfeelingly visit upon
him errors of which he even knew not, till awakened
by their sneers ; and the next, her thoughts reverted
to the obscure hints which had been thrown out re-
specting the wife of her father.

She ecu Id not, she would not believe that Herbert
Leslie had ever acted contrary to those high senti-
ments of integrity and honour, which were so apparent
in his manners and conversation, yet it was evident
the world had said and thought otherwise, and again
he pitied him, as she reflected thai if this report was
known to him, what an additional bitterness it must
iuipart io Iiis sorrows.

HMILY MOR ELAND. •)()•?

Her father too, it appeared, had found little hap-
piness in the union for which he had broken all the
ties of humanity and honour; — for which her gentle
and innocent mother had been condemned to a pre-
mature grave, and for which she was herself now
sutfering all the miseries of dependance upon one
with whose mind, manners, or disposition, she felt she
could never, never assimilate.

The resemblance between her own fate and that
of Herbert Leslie struck her most forcibly; and yet
a thought would intrude, that this discovery seemed
to have removed the barrier between them.

"While I believed him possessed of wealth and
rank," she reflected, " it would have been madness

to have thought of him at all; but now " She

checked the ideas which, in spite of prudence, were
springing in her mind, and with a deep sigh added —
" Now I may regard him as a brother."

The morning found her sufficiently indisposed to
warrant her taking advantage of the per missio7i Lady
Rachel had given her, of remaining in her own room ;
and her breakfast was accordingly brought by one of
the housemaids, whom various little marks of atten-
tion and kindness had induced Emily to notice more
particularly than any of the other domestics.

" Dear me, how ill ycu do look. Ma'am !" she ob-
served, " 1 hope ycu don't fret about any thing that
nasty malicious crefer has said — for every body in the
house knows that it's nothing but lies and mischief-
making, just to get you out of favour with my lady,
who is so wrapped up in her that she thinks there's
nobody like her in the world. But she'll be found

504 EMILY Mon ELAND.

out some day — I know she will — though she and her
gentleman carry it now with such a high hand; but.
as I said to the poor lad she got turned out of his
place the other day, the wicked won't always prosper ;
and if once my lady catches her at any of her tricks,
it will be all up with her."

" Who was it, then, that was discharged ?" inquired
Emily, who had, for the last two or three weeks,
missed the humble bow and compassionate look with
which she used to be greeted by the simple rustic
lad, the widow's son, from the Valley of St. Clare.

The reply of the girl confirmed her suspicion that
it was this poor fellow, who had been sent away at a
moment's warning, for having offended the lady pa-
ramount of the household.

" It was all about you, too. Miss," observed the
girl; "for madam was going on with some of her impu-
dence about you, and the lad, who happened to over-
hear her, was so mad, that he couldn't help speaking.
— Well, one word brought on another, and at last
it came out that he'd known you before you came to
our house, though he wouldn't tell when, nor where.
Away flew madam to my lady, and in a few mirmtes
the poor fellow was sent for to the drawing-room,
and the next news we heard was, that he had been
sent off, without even letting him come to bid us good-
bye— my lady's other favourite, ' tall John,' as we
call him, being ordered to go with him to the roonv
over the stables, to fetch his box, and see him off."

Emily was truly grieved at this intelligence, which
revealed at once to her the source of those before
unintelligible hints and sneers, in which Lady Rachel

EMILY MO«ELAXr». 505

had lately indulged herself, and which the former
had felt so little applicable to herself, that she could
sometimes scarcely believe they were intended for
her. Unwilling-, however, to commit herself, by any
remark, to her garrulous informant, she merely said
that she was extremely sorry any one should suffer
on her account, or that she should have been thought
deserving of Mrs. Morgan's enmity.

" Oh, no, it isn't that she thinks what she says,
Ma'am," rejoined the housemaid, " but she wants to
keep my lady all to herself; and she's been so jea-
lous, ever since you came, that she is ready to cut
your throat !"

Emily could have assured her that Mrs. Morgan
had nothing to fear, on the score of partiality from
Lady Rachel ; but prudence again intervened, and
she merely smiled, with some bitterness, as she re-
called to her memory the numerous instances in
which the latter had evinced not only indifference,
but actual dislike.

To the influence Mr. Moreland had acquired over
her ladyship, Emily well knew, was attributable the
unusual kindness with which she had been treated
the preceding evening ; but she did not flatter her-
self with any hopes of its continuing, when his ab-
sence should have removed the stimulant, which ev4--
dently operated so forcibly on her ladyship — the wish
of appearing amiable in his eyes.

Contrary, however, to her expectations. JLiidy

Rachel received Emily, when they met, with the

same appearance of graciousness and condescension

witx. which they had parted ; and, to the great sur-

29 3 T '

506 EMILY MORELAND.

prise of the latter, she was requested to prepare her-
self, after dinner, to accompany her patroness to tVie
Theatre.

" That isj if you are well enough, my dear — for I
do not wish to put any constraint on you."

Tears started into the poor girl's eyes as she re^*
plied, that she should be happy to attend her lady-
ship, and their tite-ci-tite dinner passed off much
pleasanter than any meal that Emily had yet taken
with the stately lady of the mansion.

" By ' what strange enchantments, and what arts
withal,' can my kind friend have effected this sur-
prising change ?" thought Emily, as with buoyant
step she ascended the staircase, to select her dress
for the evening, Lady Rachel having previously,
though with rather more delicacy than she usually
expressed her wishes, or rather commands, hinted
that she expected " Miss Russell" would not make
her appearance " too conspicuous.^'

" Simplicity is the best ornament of young peo-
ple," she observed ; " but that, I trust, your own
good sense will suggest, without my aid."

Emily bowed her thanks for this equivocal com-
pliment, and determined that her ladyship should
have no cause to complain of the obtrusiveness of
her appearance. Her spirits were, however^ doomed
to receive a check; for, while she was still engaged
in selecting from her little store the most appro-
priate dress, Mrs. Morgan, with one of her usual
impertinent bounces, entered the room.

" You'll please to recollect, IVIiss What's-your-
uame, that my lady^expects to wear the blonde lact

EMILY MORELAND^

cap, that you had to make up yesterday, and it isn^t
half finished."

" If you will bring me the ribbons and flowers, I
will pin them on, and that is all that is wantinir,
and which, I think, you might easily do yourself,"
replied Emily calmly, arid without seeming to notice
her impertinence.

" Oh, no. Ma'am, I'm sure I won't touch it — there's
nobody can*t please my lady but you, of course — so
you'd best keep it all to yourself, and then it will be
sure to be right."

" Indeed!" replied Emily, looking at her with a
provoking smile, " I am very glad to hear it — so,
pray, bring the ribbons, and I will do it directly."

" You'd better come arid look for 'em yourself,"
returned the saucy domestic, ** you know best what
will suit my lady."

" Your lady has fixed on the peach-blossom gauze
ribbons, and the two large bunches of lilac, that she
purchased the other day, so I request you will bring
them," replied Emily, with decision.

Mrs. Morgan muttered something, which Emily
did not choose to hear, and left the room.

In a few minutes she returned, and uttered, in a
sulky tone, " You need not trouble yourself, Ma'am,
for my lady won't wear the cap now."

Emily smiled, but made no reply, and the discom-
fited favourite again flounced out of the room, con-
viticed, apparently, by this trifling incident, that she
had overstrained her mark, in attempting io mortify
her supposed rival.

" Don't I look frightful in this turban, Morgan ?"

608 EMILY MORELAND.

observed Lady Rachel, as Emily entered her lady-
ship's dressing-room, which she had been desired
to come to, so soon as she had finished her own
toilette.

** Your ladyship can never look frightful in any
thing," returned the wily abigail, " though I cer-
tainly do think your ladyship looks best in a cap,
pertiderly with a deep lace border, because it makes
the features look more delicater.^^

" I don't know — my features are not very mascu-
line, I think," said her ladyship, looking again in her
j^lass, and without appearing to understand Mrs.
Morgan's very evident intention of calling back to
her recollection Emily's neglect.

*' Oh dear no, ray lady, I'm sure I didn't mean to
'sinuate no such thing,'* returned the maid, in a tone
of alarm at the error she had committed, " nobody
as seer your ladyship, can "

'* Fetch me the scarlet turban that Miss Russell
jnade — I think that becomes me best," said Lady
Rachel, without noticing her maid's apologetical
flattery.

Mrs. Morgan darted out of the room, with a look
of fury at* Emily, who had stood unnoticed by her
ladyship, but who now advanced to undergo the
scrutiny of her examination.

"Oh, ycu are here, are you, child?" observed her
ladyship, glancing at Emily from head to foot.
** Well, you look very well, certainly — very well,"
she added, in a tone which very little accorded with
the words she uttered, and would have convinced the
inost indifferent and impartial hfarer, that her lady-

EMILY MORELAND.

ship would have been much more pleased to have
been able to find room for censure, than thus to be
compelled to approve an appearance which was in<^
deed fascinating. '••<!;

'^'Emily's natural delicacy of complexion and fea-
tures harmonised admirably with the dress she had
chosen, which was a light grey sarsnet, trimmed with
black velvet; and the negligee of pearls, which, with
earrings of the same, were her only ornaments, far
from contrasting, only served to show the snowy
whiteness of the neck on which it reposed. Her own
glossy and luxuriant ringlets formed the only deco-
ration of a head, the beauty of which would rather
have been obscured than increased, by what others
would have falsely called ornament.

*' You need not wait. Miss Russell," said the anti-
quated coquette, who was evidently making com-
parisons, as she glanced from Emily to the made-up
and glaring figure which her glass presented to her.

The sentence was uttered in one of her ladyship's
haughtiest and most chilling tones, and Emily, in
spite of her anticipations of pleasure from the even-
ing's amusement, so consonant to her taste, felt her
spirits flag as she left the chamber, and proceeded to
the drawing-room.

To her great surprise, she found the room occupied
by the person she least wished or expected to see —
the self-sufficient, presuming Mr. Frazer, from whose
importunate, and, under her present circumstances,
debasing attentions she had for some time been re-
leased, by his absence on the Continent.

*' Can \ believe my good fortune?" he exclaimed,

510 EMILY MOIIELAND.

flying to meet her, and taking her hand, ^hich Emily
endeavoured in vain to withdraw, " I heard," he con-
tinued, *' that you were to be of the party to-night,
and that circumstance alone induced me to stop, and
endeavour to prevail upon old Flirtilla to admit me
as her chaperone, though I shall thereby disappoint
the Marquis and Marquise of Leisbach — one of the
most delightful women, by-the-bye, that has appeared
for some seasons; and likely, with a little of my as™
sistance, to be all the rage for these twelvemonths to
come."

** It is a pity to deprive the lady of such a valuable
coadjutor," returned Emily, with a smile of contempt,
which she could not conceal.

"Oh, self, self, must be attended to first, my dear
girl," he replied, with an air of easy confidence.
*' I wouldn't miss one smile of that delightful coun-
tenance— no, not even the satirical one which you are
now bestowing on me — for all the artificial graces of
all the Marchionesses and Countesses, or even Du-
chesses, that ever lavished them to catch my favour —
and the list is pretty long, too, I assure you, in spite
of the incredulity which, 1 see, your innocence and
ignorance of the world inspires."

Emily did not only look incredulous, but abso-
lutely contemptuous, at the arrogant assumption of
this man of fashion; but there was another feeling,
still more prevalent in her mind, at that moment — a
feeling of fear, mingled with disgust at the levity and
assurance of his manner towards herself.

Unable, however, to frame an excuse for leaving
the room, where she momentarily expe?ted Lady

EMILY MOREL AND. ^H

Rachel, sha was obliged to dissemble as well as she
could, and having almost forced her hand from her
insolent companion, she endeavoured to occupy her
eyes, and avoid his, by arranging a beautiful bouquet,
which Mr. Moreland had sent from his cottage at
Sydenham, ostensibly to compliment JLady Rachel,
but in reality to gratify Emily herself, well knowing
her passion for flowers, and that she had no oppor-
tunities of gratifying it in her ladyship's establish-
ment, where every thing that was not absolutely ne-
cessary, or did not administer to her pride and osteni
tation, was strictly excluded.

"What a picture!" said Mr. Frazer, retreating
back a few paces, as if to view her more accurately,
" what would Lady Selina Mitchell, who professes
attitudinising, give — if she could possess that easy
grace and elegance, which accompanies your most
indiflferent action!"

Emily hastily threw down the flowers, and, heartily
provoked at his persevering impertinence, seated
herself at a window.

*' Beautiful, even in scorn ! How can you wonder,
angelic Emily," began her insufferable tormentor —
but, before he could utter another Avord, the bright
blush on her cheek had faded into deadly paleness,
and, with a look of the most intense agony, she threw
up the sash, to gaze after some object, which had
disappeared too rapidly round the corner of the op-
posite street, for her companion's eyes to discover
who or what it was, or even for Emily to be certain
that she was right.

*' Yet it must have been her — ^my heart tells rae it

6l8* EMILY MORELAND.

ivas!" she exclaimed, after a moment's pause; dur-
ing which she had remained fixed at the window.

"Her !" repeated Mr. Frazer, in an ironical tone,
*•' can it be one of the female sex^ whose unexpectea
appearance has excited this intense interest, which I
would give worlds to be the object of?"

" Oh, yes — it is my dearest, dearest friend ! It is
Rosalia ! Her to whom I am indebted, and I am
losing the only opportunity — Oh, if I could only
have seen her — have spoken to her — for one mo-
ment !"

*' What is her name ? — what is she like ? Tell me
quickly, my angel, and I will fly to overtake her!'*
exclaimed Frazer, snatching up his hat.

*' Rosalia — Rosalia Orsini," returned the anxious
girl. " She is above the middle size, and wears a
large veil wrapped closely over her face — you can-
not mistake her — and I shall be so — oh, so obliged
to you "

She paused suddenly, for Frazer, his large eyes
extended to their utmost limits, and his whole coun-
tenance betraying amazement and perturbation, vo-
ciferated— " Rosalia Orsini ! — When — where — how
did you meet with her, and where is she now?"

" Alas, I know not — perhaps never shall — for I
have now lost *'

" No, no, I will overtake her, if it tvas her !" ex-
claimed Frazer, darting out of the room.

In a moment afterwards, Emily saw him from the
window fly, with all the speed it was possible to use,
in the direction her friend had taken, and with a
beating heart she continued leaning out, watching

EMILY MOUET<i\TvD. 513

for his return, now hoping that she should see him
accompanied by her beloved friend, then fearing
that the latter might have turned into some house,
or taken a cross direction, as there were many small
streets opening into the broad and long one, which
she had seen her enter.

From this state of suspense she was roused by the
voice of Lady Rachel, who exclaimed, in an angry tone
— " Good heavens, Miss Russell, what indecorous
conduct, to exhibit yourself in this manner to every

passer-by! Are you aware "

" I was looking. Madam, after a dear friend, who
has been long lost to me, and who has, within these
few minutes, passed this house ; and Mr. Frazer,
who was standing at the window with me, is gone to
try to overtake her, though I much doubt — " and
Emily burst into tears, unable to express her fear
that he would not succeed.

" Mr. Frazer!" repeated Lady Rachel, with asto-
nishment and fury depicted in her countenance,
" Mr. Frazer condescend to be your messenger ! To
run, like a lacquey, after your dear friends! Upon
my word, this is quite unintelligible — quite a mys-
tery ! Besides, who authorised you, pray, to invite
any one into my house ?"

Mr. Frazer at this moment re-entered the room,
and endeavoured, by a profusion of ridiculous com-
pliments on Lady Rachel's appearance, to divert her
attention from his heated and disturbed appearance.
The old lady, however, was too much offended, to
be pacified even by flattery.

" Upon my word, you have gained an honourable
22. 3 u

514 EMILY MORELAND.

einploynientj immediately upon your return — Am^
bassador extraordinary to Miss Russell!" she ob-
served, in a sneering tone ; " but I hope you suc-
ceeded in your embassy, and that I may expect the
honour of receiving Miss Russell's dear friend, when
it suits his or her convenience."

" The lady whom I saw, or fancied I saw, Madam,
was one whose visits could not disgrace even your
ladyship," said Emily, with spirit.

Lady Rachel erected her head an inch higher than
usual, and, without answering Emily, turned to
Frazer — " Pray? did you see this lady, Mr. Frazer?"
she demanded.

" No, faith, not I — nor any one resembling Miss
Russell's portrait of her friend," returned Frazer,
with pretended indifference. " I really think she
was dreaming, or wanted to set me off on a bootless
errand, to revenge my drowsiness, which, I acknow-
ledge, has made me very ungallant; but, the fact is,
I have not been in bed these two nights, and nothing
but my desire to see your ladyship could have had
power to draw me from the comfortable couch at the
Clarence, where I had stretched my lazy length."

Lady Rachel shook her head with an air of incre-
dulity, yet she could not help a smile of gratified
vanity, which smoothed for a moment the wrinkles
of her brow. Her thoughts, however, instantly re-
verted to Emily's offence, and turning to her, she
again demanded who it was, for whom she had so
strangely forgotten " all propriety and decorum.**

*' It was the dearest, the best friend I have ever
known. Madam," replied Emily ; " the lady of

EMILY MOUELAND. ftlt5

I have spoken to your ladyship before — Signora
Orsini."

"And did you intend, Madam, to have taken the
liberty of inviting her into my house, without even
asking my permission? A person, who, by your own
representation, is involved in mystery ! A mere ad-
venturess ! I request that, in future, you will recollect
the respect due to me, before you indulge your fine
sentiments, or you will find that the companion of
such people cannot be the companion of Lady Rachel
Moreland/'

Emily was about to reply indignantly to this un-
charitable and arrogant observation, but a significant
look from Frazer withheld her, though she scarcely
comprehended why it should do so; and Lady
Rachel, turning to the latter, dismissed the subject by
making some inquiries relative to his late excursion.

'' I am told," she observed, " that our friend^ Sir
Jeremy, and his accomplished bride, are figuring away
in the first circles at Paris."

" Bah !" returned Mr. Frazer, shrugging his shoul-
ders with true French grimace, " they are both the
laughing-stock of those who go to eat his good din-
ners, and amuse themselves with ridiculing the airs
and gaucherie of ' Madame,' which are really most
amusing; and I have seen even the poor little Ba-
ronet blush up to the eyes for her, though he, you
know, was never very eminent for les graces.''^

The entrance of two ladies, who were to accompany
Lady Rachel to the Theatre, interrupted the disser-
tation on this subject, and Lady Rachel, looking at
her watch, observed that they were late.

516 EMILY MORELAND*

" I suppose, Mr. Frazer, you are going back to
finish your nap?" she observed, turning- to the latter.

" Not without your ladyship forbids my attendance
on you," he replied, with an air of gallantry, which
was quite irresistible to the antiquated coquette.

" Oh, you may please yourself," she returned,
•' though I scarcely know how we can squeeze you
in with five of us, for I have promised to take up
Miss Mitchell on our way."

" I will remain at home. Madam, if you please,"
said Emily, timidly, all her anticipations of pleasure
having vanished, in the anxiety and disappointment
she felt respecting her friend.

" No, I do not please, Ma'am," returned her lady-
ship, sharply.

Mr. Frazor protested he would be content with
the "least little corner" in the world, if they would
admit him ; and the carriage was ordered, Lady Ra-
chel forgetting all her recent ill humour, in the gra-
tification of securing such a fashionable attendant
for the evening.

A very warm pressure from Mr. Frazer's hand, as
he handed Emily last into the carriage, was evidently
intended to assure her that his indifference was en-
tirely assumed ; but the haste and coldness with which
she withdrew hers, was not very gratifying to his
vanity, and he remained unusually silent during the
drive to Covent Garden, which they entered just as
the audience were listening in the most profound
silence to the pathetic tones of a favourite actress.

The noise which Lady Rachel's party maao. in
entering their box and seating themselves, drew upon

EMILY MORELAND. 51.7

tlicm the not very pleasant regards of those who
were near them, and Emily, blushing for the insen-
sibility of her companions, hastily took her seat be-
hind Lady Rachel, without observing- that it placed
her close to one whom she wished to avoid as much
as possible — the presuming, and (to her) disagree-
able Frazer.

It was not until the act was concluded, that she
ventured to look round at the crowded audience,
and then it was more to avoid Frazer's impertinent
glances, than from any motive of curiosity.

In a very few moments, however, her attention
was fixed by a party in the pit, who were seated at
a very short distance from their box, which was in
the lower tier, and who were evidently equally ob-
servant of her.

" Could it be possible that it was her friend Ro-
salia that she beheld so near her, without the power
of communicating with her?"

The veil, which concealed nearly half the Sig-
nora's features, was for a moment thrown back, and
Emily read, in the flash of her dark eye, that she
was recognised ; but it was hastily replaced, when
Frazer, whose back had been turned towards that
part of the house, suddenly glanced round, to dis-
cover what had caused the very visible alteration in
Emily's countenance.

The look of trepidation and even of horror, with
wl'-ich this attempt at concealment was accompa-
nied, at once struck Emily with Emazement and
terror. It was evident that Rosalia knew her com-
panion, and wished to avoid him ; and she resolutely

518 EMILY MOllELANn.

averted her eyes, lest his should follow their
direction.

" Have you seen another apparition ?" whispered
Frazer, after fruitlessly endeavouring to discern the
cause of her agitation,

Emily shook her head, and tried to smile, but
Frazer was not to be so easily deceived, and he con-
tinued to watch her with the deepest attention,
though she affected to be entirely absorbed in the
stage representation.

At length, however, some observations from Lady
Rachel compelled him to withdraw his eyes, and
Emily ventured to glance towards the spot where
she had beheld her friend. She was gone, as well as
the gentleman who accompanied her, and to whom
she was speaking, w'th great animation of manner,
at the moment Emily first discovered her.

A suspicion dwelt on Emily's mind that this person
was not unknown to her ; but she had been so ab-
sorbed in her observation of the Signora, that she
had not, at the moment, bestowed a thought on any
one else ; though almost directly afterwards it oc-
curred to her, that the person, to whom the latter
was addressing herself, strongly resembled Herbert
Leslie.

A faint blush crossed her cheek, at the train of
thought to which this conjecture gave rise ; but
every other feeling was speedily effaced by disap-
pointment and sorrow, at finding that she was again
doomed to the mortification of beholding her friend,
without being able to speak to her.

A thousand conjectures, too, lose in her mind,

EMILY MORF.LAND.

519

respecting- Frazer ; but all tended to confirm, and,
if possible, increase the sentiments of dislike, ap-
proaching to abhorrence, with which she had from
her first introduction beheld him.

" Do, pray, Mr. Frazer, come and sit here, by
Lady Rachel," observed Miss Sawyer, one of the
ladies who accompanied them, " for you have nearly
knocked off my turban half-a-dozen times, stooping
between us. I can't think what could possibly in-
duce you to seat yourself behind," and she glanced
significantly at Emily.

There was no resisting this observation, seconded
as it was by Lady Rachel's looks; and Frazer was
compelled to squeeze himself into the vacant space,
which was immediately made for him, to Emily's
great satisfaction, who was now comparatively freed
from his intrusive observation, and still more trouble-
some and annoying attentions.

Indulging a faint hope that the Signora, though
she had left her seat in the pit, might still be in the
Theatre in a less conspicuous situation, Emily's eyes
now wandered anxiously from face to face, over the
whole of the audience that came within the limits of
her sight — but in vain ; no one resembling that ele-
gant form, which, however disguised, could not be
overlooked, met her view ; and she was about to re-
linquish the thought in despair, when her eye rested
on the tall figure of a man, at the back of the pit,
who was leaning against the wall, with his hat
pulled down over his brows, and his head turned in
the direction of the box in which she was sitting.

The. distance at which she was placed, made it im-
possible for her accurately to discern his features,

520 EMILY MORELAND.

but the form, though much thinner than Herbert
Leslie's, when she had seen him, blooming- in health
and spirits, in the Vale of St. Clare, strongly re-
sembled his ; and she hastily withdrew her eyes,
with a deep blush at the conviction that seemed to
flash on her mind, that she was herself at that mo-
ment the subject of his observation.

" He will think, perhaps, I mean to shun him in
his change of fortune," was the next reflection that
passed through her mind, and again she turned her
eyes towards the spot where he stood.

Herbert, for she was now convinced that it was
him, now raised his hat, as if in token of recognition,
and Emily, certain she was not observed by her com-
panions, ventured to bow in return.

In a few minutes, Herbert vanished — " He is gone
to the Signora," thought Emily, and a sensation not
altogether pleasurable darted through her mind. This
reflection, however, was almost instantly succeeded
by the idea that that warm and affectionate friend
would now have gained a clue to her situation ; and
the hope that she would not delay making known hei
own, and devising some way of seeing her, banished
all uneasy thoughts, and she resolved to trust all to
the latter, though her impatience to be rejoined
to her friend prompted a thousand fears and ima-
ginary difficulties.

There was something in the Signora's appearance,
which told Emily that she was not as happy in her
circumstances as the latter could have wished her,
and the idea brought with it a numerous train of
gloomy reflections.

'• If she is indeed reduced to poverty " Tears

EMILY MORELAND. 521

started into her eyes at the tliought — but Lady Ra-
chel turned round at the moment, for the first time
since their entrance into the Theatre, to speak — and
Emily, whose habitual dread of her caustic and arro-
gant manners was now increased by her fear of ex-
citing Mr. Frazer's observation, exerted herself to
appear unembarrassed, and reply, as was expected,
to her ladyship's question of " How she liked the
play ?" which was just concluded.

" Very much, indeed. Madam," was her answer ;
though, from the moment she discovered the vicinity
of her friends, Emily had not bestowed a thought on
the mimic scene, which, in other circumstances,
would have afforded her so much pleasure.

" I thought so," replied Lady Rachel, with a sar-
castic expression, " I thought," she continued, turn
ing to Mr. Frazer, " it was just the sort of thing to
suit Miss Russell — so much maudlin sentiment and
fuss !"

Emily coloured — she felt that her departure from
strict truth was properly punished ; but she could not
retract, and Lady Rachelgratified herself by descant-
ing on the folly of play -writers drawing such un-
natural, high-flown characters as those they had just
represented.

" Oh, they telly my lady— they tell, with the igno-
rant and inexperienced," replied Frazer, yawning.

Some friends of the latter now entered the box,
and all the airs and graces of thg ladies were imme-
diately put in requisition, to attract their admira-
tion. It was very evident, however, that Emily was
the magnet that had drawn them thither, and she
22 3 X

522 EMII.Y MORKLAND.

had the mortification of hearing Frazer reply, Iv
answer to a whispered interrogatory —

" Oh, a sort of companion — a mere country miss —
some poor curate's daughter, or something of that
sort, whom her ladyship has treated to a play."

" Hush !" said the gentleman, who had made the
inquiry that called forth this impertinent observa-
tion, and who read in Emily's expressive counte-
nance that she overheard it.

" Who do you think I saw in the house to-night,"
said one of the party, " in the true costume of the
profession he has adopted, and bearing in his coun-
tenance the fruits of his close application to its
duties ? — Who but Herbert Leslie, the ' admired of
all eyes,' the late a? biter elegantiarum!'^

" Oh, then, he has renounced the pigstye and the
dungfork," returned Frazer, " and is come now, 1
suppose, to enthrone himself over the blues, and
their milk-and-water society ! Well, the fellow is
right to do something to render himself conspi-
cuous, for he can't hope to be received among us
again, after such a blow upf^^

" Oh, I assure you, he is quite as high and dig-
nified as ever," returned the other speaker, " I
should not have thought it worth while to have
known him, but he was conducting out of the house,
just as I entered it, one of the most elegant figures
(though quite eii deshabille) that I ever beheld. I
wanted to have a peep at her face, which was con-
cealed by a large bonnet and a thick veil — so I
stopped to congratulate him on his resurrection —
l)ut I gained nothing, except haughty looks from hia

EMILY M OR EI- AND. 523

high mightiness, and a glance from a pair of black
eyes, which pierced, like a sun-beam, through the
envious cloud, and excluded all attempts at further
observation."

Frazer laughed immoderately — " Some rustic
angel, I suppose, he has picked up ! Some heroine
of the dairy, or the poultry-yard, whom he has
brought to see sights!"

" Oh, no, there could not be a doubt that she was
a woman of some consideration ! I never saw a finer
walk ! ' She looks a goddess, and she moves a queen,'
though, I suspect, she is not quite juvenile — a peu
passee, perhaps."

Frazer whispered some remark, to which the other
replied — " Very likely, and yet, I think, if that had
been the case, I should have known her ; for, once
seen, she could not be forgotten. Her very step
would distinguish her among thousands! Upon my
word, I quite envied the fellow, as he drew her arm
closer within his, and darted one of his noli me tan-
geres at me."

" Oh, she's not his wife, then, or he would have
scarcely thought it worth his while- "

One of the ladies interrupted the conversation, and
Herbert Leslie was 'soon forgotten by all but one,
whose heart had throbbed with various emotions
during its continuance. She recollected what Mr.
Moreland had said of his (Leslie's) residence at St.
Clare, and a supposed romantic and hopeless attach-
ment. Could Rosalia be the object of his esteem ?
The difference of their ages seemed to render it im-
probable,— yet the Signora was still a very beautiful

524 EMILY MORELAXD.

woman. She was more than beautiful, for she poa*
sessed that fascination of manner, and those sterling
accomplishments, without which beauty must soon
become tasteless and vapid.

"Heaven grant them happiness, if it be so!'*
thought Emily, as with a deep sigh she revolved in
her mind the circumstances which made it appear
possible.

" I would give something to know what has been
the subject of your thoughts, for the last quarter of
an hour," whispered Frazer, who was now sitting
with his back towards the audience, apparently con-
versing with his friends, but still keeping his atten-
tion fixed on Emily's varying countenance.

" I will tell you without a bribe," returned Emily;
" I was reflecting on the folly and inconsistency of
human nature, and "

She checked herself with a deep blush, for she re-
collected that she had no real tangible reason to ac-
cuse Herbert Leslie of either, and yet it was him of
whom she thought at the moment.

" I should be too happy," said Frazer, " if I could
believe that I was the subject of those thoughts —
though I am conscious "

Emily turned away, and ventured to ask Lady Ra-
chel, whose eyes were now turned towards her, whe-
ther the entertainment was almost concluded.

"You must have been rery attentive to it," re-
marked her ladyship, " not to know that — but I do
not wonder, for 1 see you are a vast deal more plea-
santly engaged!"

Emily's looks alone replied to this unjust insinua-

EMIT.V MORELAND. 526

tion, and Mr. Frazer, who now resumed his seat, soon
contrived to dispel her ladyship's cross looks.

Heartily tired of her situation, her company, and
herself, Emily rejoiced when the curtain fell; but
she rejoiced still more, when Lady Rachel, observing^
that such late hours were injurious to young girls,
gave her leave, on their arrival at home, to retire
without waiting for supper, which was to her little
more than a mere ceremony, and was, indeed, always
dispensed with, when her ladyship had company, to
which she did not wish to introduce her companion.

CHAPTER XX.

His manner was, perhaps, (he more seductive.
Because he ne'er seemed anxious to seduce ;
Nothing affected, studit 1, or constructive.
Of coxcombry or conquest. Byron.

Nearly a week passed away, and Emily received
no intimation of the Signora's remembrance of her.
nor did she once hear the name of Herbert Leslie
mentioned by Lady Rachel's visitors, though she
was, she supposed, in consequence of the remon-
strances of Mr. Moreland, now a constant partici-
pator in her ladyship's morning levees, instead of
being, as before, desired to go, or stay, at the caprice
of the lady of the house, or in deference to the rank
of the visitor.

6^6 EMILY MORELAND

Among all the numerous circle, however, there
was not one in whose conversation Emily could find
any thing to amuse or attract her, with the exception
of Captain Templeton, the gentleman whom Frazer
had introduced to Lady Rachel at the Theatre, on
the night of Emily's visit there, and who seemed to
stand a fair chance of rivalling the latter gentleman
in the good graces of her ladyship, by his constant
attendance, his adroit flattery, and the humour with
which he turned into ridicule her best friends

Emily, indeed, often felt that he went too far in
his display of this latter accomplishment, nor could
she forget his satirical delineation (on the first night
of their meeting) of his recent interview with Herbert
Leslie; but, though spoiled and corrupted by his
situation, and though very evidently a vain conceited
trifler, there were still some gleamings of higher
thoughts and better feelings, which occasionally
broke out to redeem his character in Emily's opinion,
and prevent her confounding him with the worthless
and insipid tribe with whom he was associated.

To herself he ever behaved with undeviating re-
spect— never affecting, as was the case with most of
those who intended to pay their court to Lady Ra-
chel, to overlook her presence, or if she, prompted
by that proud spirit which could not be quelled by
impertinence or neglect, attempted to shew that she
was not in general silent from incompetence to con-
verse, he, perhaps, was the only one who did no
receive her observations with either a stare of affected
surprise, or a sneer of contemptuous indifference,
towards sentiments so unlike their own. From Cap-

EMILY MORELAND. OjiT

tain Templeton, on the contrary, Emily always met
with respectful attention, and often the warmest and
most unqualified approbation ; and she could not but
feel some gratitude for conduct so unlike that which
daily and hourly galled her pride, and reminded her,
as it was intended to do, of her humble situation, and
the difference between her and those by whom she
was merely tolerated, in compliment to Lady Rachel.

There was another point, too, on which she felt she
had reason to be grateful to Templeton, and that
V as, his very evident desire to intercept Mr. Frazer's
insidious, and often insulting attentions to her,
which, though he generally attempted to conceal
them from Lady Rachel, were sometimes too obvious
even to escape her ladyship, and never failed to give
rise to a variety of sarcasms, all, however, levelled
against the innocent Emily, whose manifest dislike
of the real offender she either did not, or would not
give credit to.

Frazer, indeed, was the last person in the world
for whom Emily could have entertained a favourable
sentiment ; for, even while professing the most un-
bounded admiration of her person, and uttering the
grossest flattery which could be addressed to a fe-
male, he never failed to let her see that he remem-
bered the difference of their rank in society, and ad-
dressed her as one upon whom his attentions con-
ferred an honour. She was still the humble depen-
dant, on Lady Rachel whom he addressed, and he
sometimes appeared absolutely startled by the free-
dom with which she repulsed him.

*' There is something about that girl that I cannot

528 EMILY MORKLAND.

quite understand," he observed to Templeton, one
morning, when he had received a severe and pointed
rebuke from Emily. " If I thought she meant what
she said "

" 1 will answer for it she did," returned his friend.
*' She is all nature and truth — and, I would pledge
my life, has uttered nothing but what she felt."

" You are warm in the cause," observed Frazer,
with a sneer; "but take care your chivalrous feel-
ings do not spoil your designs in another quarter.
Lady Rachel, I can assure you, will not consider her-
self bound to be grateful, for your tender feelings
towards her attendant J" ""

" Hang the proud, arrogant, old woman," ex-
claimed Templeton, " I am never so s-ick of her dig-
nity, nor feel half so many qualms at my project, as
when I see her treatment of that amiable and accom-
plished girl, who is as much her superior in mind, as
she is in manners and person."

" Oh, I see now whereabouts you are, brave Cap-
tain! But take care that you and I don't come in
collision on that subject, or I shall certainly spoil
your fortune with the old woman, as you so con-
temptuously call her," returned Frazer. " I have
done my best to recommend you to the favour of the
mistress; l)ut, if you endeavour to supplant me in
the "

"Supplant I" repeated Templeton, with emphasis,
"surely you have not — you cannot — ^have the vanity
to suppose ''

" I supp )se that ' she is a woman, and therefore
may be wor, " interrupted Frazer ; " and I know that

EMILY MOREI.AND. 529

her situation is most galling and miserable — subjected
to the caprices and abominable temper of that old
harridan "

" My intended bride," interrupted Templeton, in
his turn, " but, pray proceed "

" Well, then, I will only say, that if the divine
Emily does not, within three months, see her own
interest sufficiently to prefer wealth and pleasure
with me, to slavery and mortification with Lady Ra-
chel Moreland, I shall think her a fool, and leave
her to her fate."

" And this is really your conscientious view of the
case?" said Captain Ten'.pleton.

" Yes, and thwart me if you dare — you know the
penalty, if you do — the loss of Lady Rachel and her
fortune!"

"Curse Lady Rachel!" replied Templeton, with
vehemence; "but that my necessities, and those of
others dependant on my fortune, cry out with such a
loud voice, I should be tempted "

" To do wliat! — to kick down wealth and promo-
tion, when it is offered you?" said Frazer. " Don't
play the fool, Templeton — shut your eyes resolutely
against the trifling encumbrance of a disagreeable
old wife, and fix your gaze resolutely on her well-
filled coff*ers."

Templeton answered not, but his gloomy and dis-
contented look showed that this was not so easy, or
so indifferent a task as hi9 friend seemed to think it.

Captain Templeton was the younger son of a noble-
man of great celebrity on the turf, who had died a
short time previous to the period of the former's in-
23. 3 Y

ofJO EMILY MOREL AND.

troduction to Lady Rachel Moreland, leaving- to his
beir an estate, so encumbered with debts and mort-
ga2;es, as to force him to give it up for a certain
number of years into the hands of trustees, while he,
with his mother and one sister, retired to the Conti-
nent, with a very limited allowance for their support.

The career of the Honourable Captain Templeton,
the youngest and most favoured child of his parents,
was, (up to the period of his father's death,) dis-
tinguished only by thoughtless dissipation and ex-
travagance. His rank, his manners, and his personal
accomplishments, rendered him a favourite with both
sexes; and his time, from the age of seventeen to
thirty-three, had been wholly divided between the
Parade, the fashionable club-houses of St. James's,
the lounge in Bond Street, Routs, Operas, Concerts,
&c. &c. &c.

He was, however unfashionable such feelings are
considered by the set with whom he associated, most
affectionately attached to his family; and the sight
of his mother's distress, and his sister's mortification,
at her fall from the proud heights of fashion to the
lowly vale of comparatively humble life, very sen-
sibly affected him.

His own situation, too, was embarrassed almost
beyond a hope of extrication. He was encumbered
with debts, which he had now no prospect of being
enabled honourably to discharge, and which, however
unwarrantably contracted, he had still feeling and
principle enough left to ivish to pay.

The expose of his noble father's circumstances, at
the time of his death, at once annihilated every hope ;

KMILY MOR ELAND. 53J

and he found himself thrown upon the world, with
little more than his commission, which he had often
declared insufficient to pay his tailor's bill, for his
means of support.

It was Frazer who first suggested to him the pos-
sibility of repairing his shattered finances by a matri-
monial speculation. Many were the fair damsels
who had, directly or indirectly, given indications of
their partiality for the gallant and handsome Cap-
tain Templeton; but Terapleton was not then a
marrying man. The fetters, he declared, were too
galling, even though forged of gold, and ornamented
with rosy wreaths by youth and beauty. But times
were changed, and Templeton began to look around
among the numerous circle of his female acquaint-
ance, to discover with which of them (possessing the
indispensable requisite) he should be likely to find
the chain of wedlock the lightest. Times, however,
were changed, for the age of romance was gone,
and, instead of love, and constancy, and so forth,
the ladies talked and thought only of settlements,
iointuie, &c. &c. or referred him to Mamma and
Papa, by whose advice they must, of course^ be
guided.

One or two, indeed, with whom he attempted now
to be a little particular, and whose beaux yeux had
formerly made him think very well of himself, were
perfectly astonished at his presumption ; and he had
almost begun to despair of his matrimonial scheme,
when Frazer pointed out Lady Rachel Moreland to
his notice.

Templeton treated the suggestion, at first, as u

553^ EMILY MORELAND.

jest. Could it for a moment be supposed that, if
even he were willing^ to submit to such a sacrifice, —
and that was quite impossible, — could it be believed
that Lady Rachel would be so supremely ridiculous,
as to listen to such a proposal ?

Frazer would answer for the lady, he replied, if
he (Templeton) would only make up his mind to be
in earnest on the subject. But Templeton could not
resolve; he could not bear even to think of the
probability of such an union, and Frazer went
abroad, without the proposed introduction having
taken place.

Daily, however, and hourly, during his friend's
absence, did Captain Templeton's embarrassments
increase. His gay companions began to look cool
upon one, who had no longer the means of vieing
with them in extravagance and dissipation. Parents
who had marriageable daughters, with independent
fortunes, shut their doors against him, whilst those
of a prison were already gaping to receive him.

On the very morning of Frazer's return, he was
arrested, and would have been inevitably condemned
to " durance vile," had not the former opportunely
arrived to his assistance.

" It is of no use, my good friend," observed the
Captain, when Frazer offered to become his bail for
the debt. " This is but the prelude to other pro-
ceedings of the like nature ; for my hungry dogs of
creditors are no longer to be put off, with either fair
words or blustering ; so that I may as well take up
my residence at once on the other side of the water.
1 have, indeed, no alternative, for I am sure to be

EMILY MORELaND 533

tapped on the shoulder again immediately. It would
therefore be folly in me "

*• You have an alternative, if you would adopt it,
that would speedily make you a freed man," said
Frazer, interrupting him.

" What is that ?" demanded Templeton.

" Lady Rachel Moreland's strong box," replied
Frazer. " I will engage that you shall be master
of it, if you will make the attempt, in less than six
months."

" But how can I stop the mouths of the Philis-
tines, in the interim?" demanded Templeton.

" What think you of my being security for you — I
believe, my credit is as yet good," said Frazer;
*' and, if I could depend on you, that you would not
shrink from your "

" I would marry Satan's daughter, if he had one,
and would give me a good fortune with her," inter-
rupted Templeton with vehemence; " fori am driven
to desperation ! But how could you have any cer-
tainty of ray success, and, if 1 should fail "

" I will deal candidly with you, Templeton," said
Frazer. " I am not so disinterested, as to run the
risk for nothing. Your debts, you say, amount to
nearly three thousand pounds? Give me a bond for
five thousand, to be paid on demand, and I will
satisfy your creditors, and enable you to carry on the
siege, which it will be your own fault if you pro-
tract, and thus keep me out of my money."

Templeton blushed for himself and his coadjutor,
though he did not hesitate to agree to the disin-
terested proposal, and the following morning was
fixed on to ratify the contract.

534 EMILY MOIIELAND.

Chance afforded Captain Templeton the opportu-
nity of bein^ introduced, the very same evening-, to
his intended prey ; and though his heart recoiled
from the vain and arrogant old woman, he stifled
all appearances of repugnance, and succeeded in
making himself so agreeable to her, as to receive a
general invitation to her house.

His attention to, and compliance with all .Lady
Rachel's whims and follies, were at first totally in-
explicable to Emily.; and she sometimes imagined
that it must be merely to gratify his talent for ridi-
cule, and place her ladyship's foibles in the strongest
point of view, that he lavished his time and atten-
tions on her. But even Emily's eyes were at length
opened, and she became convinced that he had much
more serious views, in the court he paid to her vain
and conceited relative.

Lady Rachel's treatment of Emily was the greatest
stumbling-block in his way. He had been, from
their first meeting, warmly interested by Emily's
unassuming and intelligent manners, and evidently
warm and feeling heart ; and he felt it impossible to
be always a tacit witness of Lady Rachel's injurious
conduct towards her.

Frazer had more than one reason for being averse
to his friend's interference on this subject; but Tem-
pleton would not even take his hints on the subject,
and he was at length obliged to speak out plainly,
though it was very evident that, even then, he made
but little impression ; for, on the very first instance
of her ladyship's unjust and oppressive treatment of
Emily, Captain Templeton espoused her cause so
w; mly that it seemed to awaken some not very

EMILY MORELANI). 535

pleasant sensations in her bosom, the effects of which
Emily was sure to experience, in some petty acts of
tyranny, when her ladyship and herself were alone.

Nothing, indeed, but the fear of rendering* herself
unamiable in the eyes of those whose good opinion
L/ady Rachel flattered herself she had gained, se-
cured to Emily the privileges which Mr. Moreland's
interference in her favour had procured ; but Emily's
own inclinations often seconded the wishes of her
ladyship.

Restless, disappointed, and melancholy, at the
supposed determined neglect of the friend of her
heart — angry and vexed with Captain Templeton,
for his sordid and mercenary designs towards Lady
Rachel, which became every hour more palpable —
and annoyed and disgusted with her ladyship's other
favourite, Mr. Frazer — Emily preferred even the
dismal and uninviting solitude of her own chamber,
to the society of Lady Rachel's drawing-room ; and,
for days together, her patroness and her seldom met,
except at breakfast.

The effects of this indulgence in melancholy re-
miniscences of the past, and desponding visions of
the future, were but too apparent in her pale cheek
and weakened frame; but Lady Rachel was too
much occupied with her own affairs, to bestow a
thought upon her humble companion, except how
to keep her out of sight, without betraying her mo-
tives for so doing.

Emily's assertions, therefore, that she was too un-
well to mix with company, were received rather
with pleasure, than any desire to investigate their

536 EMILY MOIl ELAND.

truth; and she continued to pine in secrecy and soli-
tude, unnoticed and apparently unremembered, by
the now gay circle that encompassed Lady Rachel
Moreland, to the total subversion of all her former
habits of economy and exactitude.

Emily, indeed, whenever she did reflect on the
subject, was astonished at the infatiiation which
could thus so totally efface those traits, which had
for so many years distinguished Lady Rachel. The
haughty dignity, the passion for saving, which had
been extended to the most minute article of her do-
mestic arrangements, were alike forgotten. New
dresses of the most expensive kind, dinners, suppers,
&LC. in the most luxurious style, superseded the pal-
try finery and the frugal fare which had so long
excited the ridicule, or balked the appetite of Lady
Rachel's visiters ; and, from " morn till night, from
night till dewy eve," nothing was thought of, no-
thing was heard, but mirth and pleasure.

The effect of this " new order of things" was not
wholly unprofitable to Emily. She was no longer
obliged to tax her ingenuity, nor weary her spirits,
with the task of re-modelling her ladyship's worn-
out silks and satins, and muslins. Her time was at
her own disposal; and, though it often hung heavily
on her hands, from her limited means of acquiring
information or amusement, stiil she considered her
present way of life infinitely preferable to the one
she had been doomed to, on her first introduction to
her protectress — if so she could be called.

From Nancy, the housemaid, to. whose kind-
hearted attentions she was often indebted, slie

EMILY MORELAND. 537

learned that the motives for the extraordinary
change which had taken place in the " establish-
ment," as Lady Rachel so constantly and ostenta-
tiously denominated her household, were pretty
freely canvassed and commented upon by its inferior
members.

*' For my part," observed Nancy, " I always say
that my lady has a right to please herself — and why
should we servants grumble ? For, if we have more
work, we have better living, and more liberty. I
am sure, I haven't seen so much pleasure for many a
long day, as I have since my lady fell in love with
this nice gentleman, who, 1 am sure, I shall like
mortal well for a master, for he speaks as free and
good-natured as any thing, when he meets me on the
stairs sometimes, and don't seem to think that ser-
vants are no more than dogs under their feet, as
some of them that come to see my lady does. There's
that Mr. Frazer, — La, how I do hate that man !
But he's grown mighty civil lately, though I know
what it's for — It's only to serve his own turn, that he
may ask all about you, and what you keep up stairs
for, and whether you have any body come to see
you, and such a parcel of fid-fad nonsense."

" I hope, Nancy," returned Emily, colouring with
vexation, " that you have more sense than to an-
swer or encourage his impertinent curiosity."

" Oh, let me alone for that, Miss Emily," replied
Nancy, with great self-complacency, " I always
take care to give him a sharp answer; and, the other
day, when he asked me if it wasn't possible to see
you for a few minutes, without anybody's knowing
23. 3 z

538 EMILY MORELAND.

it, I said — ^ Gracious me, Mr. Frazer, one would
think you were a sweetheart of Miss Russell's, only
you are a married man, you know, and I'm sure she
wouldn't have any thing to say to you."

Vexed and hurt beyond description, Emily could
»nly repeat her entreaties that Nancy would have
nothing to say to this presuming man, accompanying
her injunctions with a present of some muslin and
ribbons, to make a cap — the best method, she
thought, of ensuring Nancy's attention to her re-
quest.

On the following day, Nancy was evidently big
with some secret, which she longed to disclose ; and
Emily, whose vexation and uneasiness at Frazer's
conduct had increased with reflection, immediately
conjectured that it related to him.

Upon her first hint, however, her humble friend
spake out, and removed that suspicion, though it
raised in her bosom a thousand contending emotions.

" I will tell you all about it. Miss Emily, be-
cause I do think that it's you that's meant, and
there's no knowing what may be the consequence of
your being kept in the dark."

" For Heaven's sake, go on," said Emily, alarmed
at this prelude.

" Well, then. Miss — first of all, I must tell you,
that there have been two or three letters brought
here, directed to Miss Moreland "

**And why were they not given me, then?" inter-
rupted Emily with astonishment, and forgetting, at
that moment, her assumed appellation of Russell.

"Oh, then, they were for 5 ou," replied Nancy,

EMILT MORELAND. o3P

with a sagacious nod of her head, " and it's all true,
I dare say, that I have heard; but what a brute,
^begging your pardon for saying so, Miss,) must my
lady be, to keep you as she does, and pass you off
for a stranger, when you are her own flesh and
blood!"

"Pray, my good girl, go on with your story," ex-
claimed Emily; "what became of the letters you
speak of?"

" Why, the first two — aye, there was three, sure
enough — Mrs. Morgan desired the porter not to
take in, because she said they couldn't be for my
lady; for every body knowed her title, and there was
no such a person as Miss Moreland ; so they were
sent back to the Post Office, though I don't much
think they stayed long there, for I've had a hint that
madam sent and got 'em from there, just that she
might find out who they were really for; but this 1
don't know for a certainty ; but I do know that
she's got hold of the secret about you and my lady;
and, one day, when she was in a passion about this
wedding that is to be — for she can't bear the thoughts
of it — and well she may not, for she won't rule the
roast with quite such a high hand, and "

"But what was it she said?" demanded Emily,
who knew, if once Nancy commenced on her stand-
ing theme, the demerits of Mrs. Morgan, there
would be no bringing her to the point again.

" Why, I'll tell you. Miss, what I heard her say;
and that was, that if my lady didn't do as she ought
to do, she would expose all about her and the pre-
tended Miss Russell, and then see how her ladyship

^40 EMILY MORELAND.

would look, with her affected squeamishness and
morality — yes, that was the word — and then, Miss,
she called you a name that I won't repeat, because,
as I said, after she was gone, why should the poor
young lady be twitted with the faults of her father
and mother? But, however, I was going to tell you
about the last letter. — It wasn't brought by the post
— but a young man, dressed like a sailor, who said
he would call for an answer in two hours — this was
yesterday. The old porter was gone out, and the
new footman, that had only come the night before —
and a nice young man he is, so civil and well-be-
haved, not a bit like that upstart gentleman — but
what was I saying — Oh, — he took the letter in, and
carried it to my lady, who was with her sweetheart,
in the little drawing-room.

" I suppose she was thinking more of him than
any thing else, for she took the letter and opened it,
without looking at the direction ; but Robert, the
new footman, said, she turned all manner of colours,
before she had done reading it.

" ' Who brought this?' says her ladyship, in such
a voice, and with such a look, that the poor lad told
me he shook in his shoes, at her. He told her, as
well as he could, what sort of a person it was, and
he said, she didn't seem well to know what to do.
At last, she tore the letter, and threw it in the fire-
place.

" ' If the man comes again,' says she, 'show him
into the front parlour, and acquaint me — but mind
there is nothing left in his way — and don't suffer
him to talk to anv of the servants, if you value your

EMILY MORELAND. 541

place. I will find out the bottom of it, I'm detei-
miried.— I'll have no such correspondency carried on
in my house. — I knew, when I first took that girl
into the house, that I should have reason to repent
it — but I'll put a stop to all this.'

" Robert said that Captain Templetown looked
quite astounded.

" ' Can I be of any service to you, my dear Lady
Rachel ?' said he.

" ' Oh dear no,' says my lady, ' it's nothing of any
consequence;' and then she ordered Robert to be
sure to be in the way, about the time the man had
said he would come for an answer.

" 'Where's Miss Russell?' says she, just as Ro-
bert was going out of the door.

" You may be sure the lad stared, for you know
he hasn't seen you. Miss, nor had he heard your name
mentioned before.

" ' Who, my lady ?' says he.

" ' Oh, I forgot — Well, never mind,' says my lady,
' you attend to my orders.'

" So down came Robert, and when the young man
came, he was shown into the parlour, and my lady
came down and talked with him, for a full half hour,
Robert says; but, though he was bid to stand at the
door all the while, as if my lady was afraid of trust-
ing herself with him, Robert did'nt hear a word that
passed; and when he came out, my lady stood in the
hall herself, as if to see him clear ofl^, and then she
charged Robert and the porter never to take in any
messages or letters from him, or let him into the
house again, on any pretence whatsoever.

542 EMILY MORELAND.

*' You may be sure, Robert thought this all very
odd. So, this morning, after breakfast, he asked me
who the sick young lady was, that he saw me making
whey for, last night; and when I said you were called
Miss Russell here, and passed for an orphin daugh-
ter of somebody that my lady knew some years ago,
he laughed and shook his head. So I wouldn't let
him rest, till I got the whole story out of him, and
he said, as well as me, that it was a shame and a sin
that my lady should disown her own."

" A sailor, you said, 1 think?" interrupted Emily,
who had been in vain taxing her imagination to dis-
cover who this stranger could be, and what motive
could have induced Lady Rachel to conceal his visit.

" Yeji, Miss," returned Nancy, " he was dressed
in sailor's clothes, and had a great scar on his cheek.
Robert said, he was sure he had been in the wars, he
looked so poor and sickly."

" And Lady Rachel totally destroyed the letter,
then?" resumed Emily, whose curiosity and sus-
pense were increased by this description, in which
she could not trace the slightest resemblance to any
one known to her.

It might however be some person whom Signora
Orsini (to whom her thoughts and wishes always
pointed) had employed. It must be so — for who
else in the world was interested in her fate ?

" How cruel of Lady Rachel !" she exclaimed.

" If I thought — if I was sure " she hesitated,

unwilling to make a confidant of the garrulous
Nancy, whom, however, she warmly thanked for her
information.

EMILY MORELAND. 543

"You won't take any notice, I hope, to my lady,
Miss," observed the latter; "for, if you do, Robert
and I are both sure to lose our places, and he's been
out of a sitivation, poor fellow, these three months^
and I "

Emily interrupted her, and assured her that she
had nothing to fear on that score ; and Nancy, satis-
fied with having- disburdened herself of her secret,
withdrew, previously entreating- the former to eat
of the chicken and custard she had set before her,
and not make herself worse with fretting.

The delicacies, however, remained untouched,
when the garrulous housemaid returned, an hour
after, to remove the cloth; and Emily's swollen eyes
and agitated countenance showed how deeply she
felt the miseries of her situation.

" Oh dear, how I do wish I could do any thing to
serve you '"said Nancy, looking at her with the
deepest compassion.

Emily had, in fact, been trying to form some plan,
which would enable her to give up the protection,
for which she was required to pay so high a price.
"Anything — the most menial situation — would be
preferable to this slavery," she reflected. Mr. More-
land was out of town, or she could have confided to
him what had passed; and he would, perhaps, have
been able to suggest some method of discovering
who it was that had made this effort to see her.
He, too, might have been enabled to trace whether
the letters, which were undoubtedly intended for
her, had fallen into Mrs. Morgan's hands, and take
some method to make her restore them.

544 EMILY MOUKLAND.

Emily had twice, since her residence with Lady
Rachel, written to her old friend, Isaac Wilson ; but
she had most plainly and fully stated that he was to
direct his answers to "Miss Russell;" and it was
not likely, therefore, that they could be from him,
though she had certainly felt surprised at not hear-
ing from him. It must be the Signora who had
written to her, and, oh, how ardently did she wish
that she could see her, and confide to her friendly
bosom the sorrows in which she had now no partici-
pator, except the simple ignorant girl, who was
powerless, though willing to assist her.

" I have still," thought Emily, " a trifle left— and
1 have, too, a few trinkets, which, though I would
not willingly part with them, would at least be a
resource for some time; and, surely, I could find
some method of seeing Signora Orsini, if I were
once freed from this worse than prison."

These thoughts, which had been passing rapidly
through her mind, were now succeeded by others
less satisfactory. What would her real friend, Mr.
Moreland, think, if she, without consulting him, re-
nounced the asylum he had been so anxious to se-
cure to her, and which he seemed to think would
have so beneficial an influence in placing her in her
proper sphere of life? Her ill health, too, at the
present moment, placed an insurmountable barrier
to those exertions which she flattered herself she
was capable of making, to secure her independence ;
and the colouring which Lady Rachel might choose
to give, to her voluntary renunciation of her lady-
ship's high and mighty protection, all concurred to

EMILY MOREL AND. 545

make her pause, and, at least for tlie present, defer
the execution of the project which had suggested
itself to her mind.

Nancy was dismissed, evidently disappointed and
somewhat vexed at Emily's reserved silence; and
the latter remained sitting in a melancholy posture,
and occupied with still more melancholy thoughts,
till she was roused by the unusual sound of a knock
at her chamber-door, and, a moment afterwards, to
her great surprise, Mrs. Lucy, whose absence she
had often regretted, entered the room.

Mrs. Lucy, very properly, said nothing of the vi-
sible alteration in Emily's appearance, for the first
few minutes; but she led the latter to speak of the
causes of it herself, by kindly inquiring why she had
not, as formerly, met her at the dinner-table.

" I am too unwell, and too low-spirited to derive
any pleasure from society, or be a welcome guest
among the well and happy, ray dear Madam," said
Emily, tears starting in her eyes.

" But this place, I am sure," returned her friend,
glancing round the dark, ill-furnished room, " this
place is not calculated to restore either your health
or spirits; and Lady Rachel is highly blameable, to
suffer you to sacrifice yourself in this manner. Have
you had any medical advice?"

Emily replied in the negative, " But it is not me-
dicine that I want," she added, with a deep sigh
and a b-lush, that arose from her desire of confiding
to Mrs. Lucy the cause of her disorder, and her timi-
dity lest she should offend, or be thought presuming
by the latter.

23. 4 A

546 EMILY MOUET.ANn.

*"■ Wliat, then, do you want, my dear?" said Mrs,
Lucy. " Lady Rachel assures me that she has done
her best to remove what she calls your sullenness
and gloom; but that you have, except in one in-
stance, declined accepting her offers, and refused to
accompany her even to the Theatres- an amusement
to which I thought, from our former conversations,
you were partial."

Emily hesitated, for this was a fact which she knew
not how to answer or explain; and Mrs. Lucy, after
a short pause, added —

" I am afraid, my dear, that, like many other young
people, you have formed ideas and encouraged ex-
pectations; and that, being disappointed, you are
induced to think lightly of the advantages that are in
your power. At your time of life I was romantic
myself; and, but that I had valuable and sensible
friends to direct my conduct "

" It is the want of those that I feel and deplore,
Madam," returned Emily, with emphasis,

" I do not wish to assume too much, Miss Russell,
nor would I force myself into your confidence,'" said
Mrs. Lucy; " but it is very evident to me, that your
disease is principally mental ; and, if I can be of an>
service to you "

She paused, and Emily, encouraged by her manner,
proceeded to detail to her the particulars of her for-
mer connexion >^ith Rosalia Orsini, and the latter's
singular desertion of her; she mentioned her having
seen her in the street, and at the Theatre; and, last
of all, related Lady Rachel's treatment of her re-
specting the letters, which she had no doubt, she said,
were from her friend the Signora.

EMILV MORELAND.

547

Mrs. Lucy seemed lost in astonishment.

"This is, indeed, most shameful!" she observed,
" the reasons you have f^iven for silence, must cer-
tainly prevent my directly speaking to Lady Rachel
on the subject; yet, if it is possible for me to gain
her ear for a few minutes, I shall certainly make an
attempt to lead her to it. She has hitherto been in
the habit of placing confidence in me, and, though
there is certainly now an impediment in the way to
our usual intercourse, I do not think "

The entrance of Lady Rachel herself interrupted
this conversation, and Emily arose in confusion. It
was only the second time that her ladyship had con-
descended, since the confinement of the former, to
visit her bed-room ; and it was very evident, from
her countenance, that no very gracious or amiable
feelings had brought her now.

" Pray don't let me disturb you," she observed,
addressing Mrs. Lucy. " I merely called in to remind
you, that if you go to the Concert this evening, you
will probably like to arrange your dress, and Morgan
will show you to a dressing-room."

" Oh, I can do all I have to do here," returned
Mrs. Lucy, " if Miss Russell will allow me. I have
not had half talk enough with her yet."

Lady Rachel looked still more sour than before.
" Are you any better yet, child ?" she inquired, turn-
ing to Emily.

" Better!" said Mrs. Lucy, preventing Emily's
reply. "Is it likely she will get better, while she
remains moping to death in this dismal place ? I was
just about to propose, when you entered," she con-

f»43 EMILY MORELAND.

tinued, " that she should try what a few days' resi-
dence with me, at Hampstead, would do for her. It
seems to me, that she only wants good air, and a little
nursing, to bring her round. So, with yonr leave,
and her consent, I shall run away with her to-mor-
row morning."

There could be no reasonable objection to this
considerate proposal, but Lady Rachel seemed to
consent to it with a very ill grace; and Emily's voice
faltered, while tears of gratitude filled her eyes, as
she replied, upon being referred to, " that she should
be most happy to accept the offer, if "

" I will have no i/s," interrupted Mrs. Lucy, good
humouredly, "so I beg you will hold yourself in
readiness to join me, at eleven to-morrow morning."

" You will not go so soon as that, surely," said
Lady Rachel.

" So soon !" replied Mrs. Lucy. " I have ordered
the chaise and old Thomas to be here at nine; but,
as I wish to have an hour's conversation or so with
you, tete-il-tete, before I go, and as I think eleven
v/ill be a better hour for this poor invalid, I shall
send them to the stables for a couple of hours."

Lady Rachel looked rather silly at the mention of
a tete-a-tete, of which she probably guessed the sub-
ject; but, having premised that Mrs. Lucy must not
expect to see her out of bed at that early hour, she
added, with as good a grace as she could assume, that
she should be happy to see her in the morning, and
retired, without taking any notice of Emily, although
she knew that the latter would have no opportunity
of seeing her before her (Emily's) departure.

EMILY MOUELAND 549

" I hope 1 have not done wrongs, in pressing this
proposal, my dear." observed Mrs. Lucy, when the
door closed upon her ladyship ; " but, as I have rea-
son to think that I shall not long be a welcome visitor
here, I should perhaps, if I had neglected this oppor-
tunity of endeavouring to benefit you, have been
shut out entirely."

Emily assured her kind friend that nothing could
be more gratifying to her, than the prospect of
changing her solitary and gloomy chamber, for the
society and comfort of her (Mrs. Lucy's) residence,
and the latter, with a smile and a sigh, ob-
served—

" I fear, my dear, that my purposed conference
with Lady Rachel will not end very pleasantly to
either of us ; but I cannot consent quietly, and with-
out an effort to save her, to see my old friend made
the dupe of her weakness and folly, and the artful
and selfish schemes of others. It was, indeed, prin-
cipally with this view that I came here uninvited to-
day, and I do not repent it, for your sake, though I
acknowledge I utterly despair, from what I have al-
ready seen, of effecting any benefit to that infatuated,
foolish woman."

Emily thought so too, but she did not feel herself
called upon to make any remarks on the conduct of
one, who, with all her faults, had certainly for some
months afforded her shelter and protection. Having,
therefore, repeated her injunctions to be ready at the
appointed time, and desired her to go to bed early
and sleep well, that she might be strong, for the long
journey of to morrow, Mrs. Lucy quitted her young

550 EMILY MORELAxND.

friend, whose joy, at this promised relief fram the
monotonous and gloomy life she had lately led, was
only exceeded by her gratitude to the kind proposer
of it.

CHAPTER XXI.

The maid was haopy — but, for him, he felt
Perchance like Lucifer once felt in Eden;
She was too innocent herself, to dream of guile
In him, and all he said, believed. Anon,

Emily soon found the benefit of the change which
had taken place in her situation. From the moment
she quitted Lady Rachel's gloomy mansion, she
seemed to breathe more free; and the cheerfulness
of Mrs. Lucy's manners, the ease and comfort which
seemed to reign in her neat and well-ordered house-
hold, combined with the kindness of the mistress of
it, to make ber feel quite at home, before she had
been many days a resident there.

Without any apparent wish of overloading her
with attentions or obligations, Mrs. Lucy contrived
to keep her guest perpetually occupied and amused;
but her greatest source of pleasure was the garden,
which was stored with flowers, now springing into
verdure; and from a mount in which, she could
gaze on a prospect which at once pained and de-
lighted her, as it reminded her of her native hills
aiid valleys.

EMILY MORELANlJ. 551

A month glided rapidly away, and the colour began
to revisit Emily's cheeks, and her step to resume its
firmness; but, with increased health, the unpleasant
conviction came, that her present state of calmness
and comparative serenity could not endure for ever.

Mrs. Lucy received a letter from Lady Rachel
Moreland, in which, after a very slight inquiry as to
Emily's health, she observed, that she trusted the
latter would speedily be able to return to " her situa-
tioTi'^ as she (Lady Rachel) was greatly in want of
her assistance.

" To make the wedding-dresses, I suppose," ob-
served Mrs. Lucy, with a satirical smile, after reading
this paragraph. " What say you, my dear — are you
not all anxiety to obey her ladyship's summons, and
partake of the gaieties and festivities, that will of
course attend the celebration of this happy event?"

Emily blushed and smiled — " I cannot be so hypo-
critical as to say that I anticipate any pleasure from
my return to Lady Rachel," she replied; " yet, if I
can be of service to her, I should be ungrateful to
wish to avoid "

" I never understood, my dear, that you engaged
with Lady Rachel, to save her the expense of a
milliner or mantua-maker; and, even if you did, I
am very certain you are quite incompetent to the
duties she requires," returned Mrs. Lucy. " As your
friend, therefore, I must protest against your re-
suming your former avocations in her family. I
should be very unwilling to recommend conduct that
would even bear the appearance of ingratitude; but,
unless you are tired of tne and iny ways, I shall cer-

552 EMILY MORELAND.

tainly solicit a longer leave of absence, and let them
get over the matrimonial bustle before you return —
if you are determined on returning at all."

" Is there any alternative ?" said Emily, summon-
ing courage to speak at once on a subject, which she
saw Mrs. Lucy wished her to enter on.

" I will reply to your question candidly, Emily,"
returned the good lady. " I think there might be
found an alternative. A lady, of whom I have some
knowledge, and of whose heart I think much better
than her head, has several times mentioned to me her
wish of procuring a companion, in whose kind atten-
tions and accomplishments she might find a resource
against the many hours o^ ennui and discontent, which
now oppress her. I do not promise you that the
situation would be an absolute sinecure, for she is
whimsical, capricious, and eccentric in her notions
and habits; but, to compensate for this, she is liberal
and enthusiastic in her attachments; and, had she
not have been a spoiled beauty in her younger days,
would, 1 am convinced, have been a very estimable
woman. Some recent circumstances have induced
her to form the wish of retiring altogether from the
gay and dissipated circles in which she has hitherto
moved, and I am convinced she has sufficient deference
for my opinion, to accept any companion whom 1
should recommend, and to treat them with the re-
spect and consideration due to my friend. If, there-
fore, you are not resolutely bent on resuming your
situation with Lady Rachel, which, by-the-bye, — in
the event of the ill-assorted match, which I have no
doubt will be concluded, before vou are sufficientlv

EMILY MO R ELAND. 55?i

recovered, in my estimation, to return, — will be a very
improper situation for you, I will take upon myself
to arrange matters, both with Lady Rachel and my
friend."

Any prospect, in Emily's opinion, was preferable
to that of returning to Lady Rachel, and she ex-
pressed her perfect concurrence with any plan that
her kind and disinterested friend should propose for
her, observing only that she was most anxious to
avoid any imputation of ingratitude to her late patro-
ness, whom she should hope still to retain as her friend.

" I will tell you without reserve, my dear," ob-
served Mrs. Lucy, " that I consider I am rendering
a service to Lady Rachel, as well as you, in prevent-
ing your return to her; since I am convinced that
your society cannot be necessary to her happiness,
under the circumstances of the imprudent alliance
she is about to form. It would, indeed, be a piece
of folly, which I think she would soon repent, were
she to keep, in constant association with her young-
bridegroom, one so calculated to heighten by con-
trast the defects and disadvantages of the woman he
has married. I am not inclined to attribute the
slightest blame to either you or her husband, when
I venture to predict, that she would be jealous of
you in a month, if you were to remain as long toge-
ther; and, much as she deserves to suffer for her
folly, I should be sorry that you should, even invo-
luntarily, be made the instrument of her punish-
ment, setting aside the mortification and, perhaps,
serious injury you would sustain, from such a feeling
on her part."

24. 4 «

554 EMJ LV MORRLAND.

''It would, ii'deed, be a mortification beyond any
1 have hitherto experienced," replied Emily, "but
1 confess, Prom what I know of her ladyship's dispo-
sition, it is not an ill-grounded supposition, for I
have had many proofs of her possessing- a suspicious
temper, even when there existed not the slightest
cause to bring those suspicions into action."

Emily then went on to relate the ridiculous scene
that had occurred, on her first residence with Lady
Rachel, mentioning, at the same time, that her de-
sire to look at the picture, arose from having seen
one in the possession of a friend, so exactly resem-
bling this, in the features, that she could not but
think they were meant for the same person, though
at different periods of life.

"Indeed!" replied Mrs. Lucy; "may I ask, who
that friend was?"

" It was the same lady whom I mentioned to you as
my friend and protector. Madam, in my early days,"
returned Emily; " and who, I have reason to think,
still retains her kindness for me, though we have
been unaccountably separated."

" Was she connected with the Moreland family?"
demanded Mrs. Lucy, to whom the story of Emily's
birth, and her claims on that family, were still un-
known, the latter having studiously avoided saying
any thing which could lead to a knowledge of her
real situation, with regard to Lady Rachel. She
therefore now merely replied in the negative, and
then, observing Mrs. Lucy evidently expected some
further elucidation, added, " She is not a native of
this country, but an Italian."

EMILY MORELAND. 555

*'An Italian!" repeated Mrs. Lucy, with evident
surprise. " What was her name, or where did you

know her? It was an Italian lady, that but I

am perhaps asking questions that you are unwilling
to answer. If so, excuse me — I am aware that there
is a motive for the mystery which Lady Rachel has
always preserved, as to your birth and connexions,
and I would be the last person in the world to press
you on the subject; but what you have just said, has
awakened some recollections "

" I have no reason, dear Madam, to conceal who
the friend is, to whom I alluded," said Emily, ob-
serving- that she paused and hesitated. " Her name
is Rosalia Orsini — the last descendant, as she herself
once affectingly said, of an ancient and honourable
Venetian family."

" Rosalia!" reiterated Mrs. Lucy, " that was not

the name 1 will tell you, my dear, in part, what

I allude to — and that will explain why I expressed
curiosity on the subject. The picture you speak of,
as decorating Lady Rachel's room, was the resem-
blance of a young nobleman, a near relative of her
ladyship, not more distinguished for the beauty of
his person, than the dissoluteness of his conduct —
and, I believe, I might without injustice add, the
depravity of his heart. At an earlier age than is
usual for young men to be sent to travel, he went
abroad ; solely, I believe, from a desire, on the part
of his parents, to detach him from the ruinous habits
and society he had fallen into here. Change of
country, however, it appeared, did not reclaim him ;
and, most unfortunately, the person to whom his

656 EMILY MORELAND.

father had committed the charge of him, was ve7y
unworthy the trust reposed in him. The proofs of
this became, at length, too glaring for even Lord
Moreland to doubt, and his son was peremptorily
recalled to England.

" There was a beautiful girl, a ward of his father'.^,
at this time resident with the family. She was young,
gay, and thoughtless; and what recommended her
still more than her personal attractions to Walter
Moreland was, that she had a large fortune, inde-
pendent of all control. She was on the point of
marriage with a man in every respect suitable to her,
and who had been the choice of her father, previous
to his death ; and the wedding was understood to be
delayed only till the proper period of mourning was
passed. Not a thought, not a suspicion, it appears,
arose in the minds of the family, of any sinister event
arising to blight this promised harmony. The con-
sternation and distress that ensued may, therefore,
be easily conceived, when it was discovered, a few
days previous to the intended nuptials, that the young
lady was missing, and that Walter Moreland was the
companion of her flight.

" Pursuit was vain, for they had taken their pre-
cautions so well, that it was impossible to trace them,
until it was too late — The ill-fated girl was married
to the heartless wretch ; and the still more pitiable
young man whom she had deserted, stung to the
heart by this disappointment of his long-cherished
hopes, and the mortification of seeing himself thus
held up to scorn and derision, in a fit of frenzy put
a period to his own existence.

EMILY MORELAND. 5&t

*' Scarcely three months, I believe, had passed
away, before a new subject of uneasiness arose, to
disturb the family of this unprincipled young man,
who was now entirely freed from the control of hi?
father, by the possession of his wife's fortune. Lord
Moreland received intelligence that, previous to his
son's return to England, he had contracted an alliance
with an orphan of noble family in Italy, and that the
marriage had been legally solemnized, though under
, a feigned name and character. The information
could not be doubted — for it came from the unworthy
tutor, who had been the companion of Walter
Moreland's travels, and the abettor of his excesses
This fellow, who, it appeared, had been disappointed
in his exorbitant demands on the purse of his ci-devant
pupil, now threatened publicly to bring forward
undeniable proofs of that pupil's infamy. It was not
only the honour of the Moreland family that was at
stake, but the happiness, the fame, of the imprudent
and thoughtless girl, whom they could not but love
and pity. Lord Moreland wavered, temporised, and
at length finally succeeded in purchasing the absence
and silence of the pander to his son's vices; having
first, as he believed, ascertained that there scarcely
existed a possibility of Walter's being traced by the
injured lady, whom he had so cruelly betrayed and
deserted.

" I know not exactly how long it was after this, but
1 krow that Mrs. Moreland had borne her unworthy
husband a son, when, without any previous notice of
such an intention, and without any plea for so doing,
Walter Moreland suddenly departed for the Conti-

558 EMILY MORELAND.

nent; and, to his father's great consternation and
amazement, in company with the very man whom he
liad most reason to dread, as being fully acquainted
with his delinquency. They were absent for some
months, and the father's agony, at the reflection that
he was in some measure an accomplice in his plans,
may be conceived by those who know what pain a
naturally honourable and upright mind feels, on
finding itself entangled by one false step in the in-
tricacies of error. For nearly two years, the two
associates in vice were absent; nor did the unhappy
and deserted wife receive a single testimonial of
affection from him, or of his regard for his child. Of
his very existence she might have remained in doubt,
but for his repeated demands upon his steward for
money. These remittances were regularly accom-
panied by letters from her and his father, but they
remained unnoticed. Lord Moreland was, at this
time, in too infirm a state to allow his attempting to
follow and trace his son's steps, or his motives for
remaining abroad; and his fears of the overwhelming
consequences of a discovery to his daughter-in-law,
whom he regarded with the affection of a parent,
induced him to use all his influence with her, to pre-
vent her adopting the step her l»ve for her unworthy
husband would have prompted.

'' To one person, at length. Lord Moreland re-
vealed the secret which lay so heavy at his heart;
that person was my brother, who was bound to his
lordship, both by long and sincere friendship, and the
strongest ties of gratitude. It was impossible to
suggest any remedy for the evil , but my brother re-

E >I 1 1. F M O U E L A N D • 559

wjlved at least to know the worst, and for this pur-
pose he departed for Italy. It was long before he
could gain any clue to trace the confederates; for
the wily tutor, when he disclosed to Lord Moreland
the guilt of his son, had cautiously refrained from
giving either names or places connected with the
transaction; and the agonised father, wishing, pro-
bably, to know as little of it as he could, had not
pressed him on the subject.

" Long and weary, as ray poor brother often said,
were his wanderings in search of this " unworthy
scion of a noble stock;" but chance, at length, re-
vealed in part the secret, just as he was about to re-
linquish the pursuit in despair.

"It was at a little town, I forget the name, but it
was on the frontiers of France, that my brother
alighted, intending to pass the night at the principal
inn in the place. But I will repeat his narrative, as
nearly as possible, in his own words," continued Mrs.
Lucy, " for I have heard the mournful tale too often,
not to distinctly recollect every particular.

" ' 1 thought,' he observed, ' from the moment of
my arrival, that the host and his wife seemed to re-
gard me with an attention that I could by no means
account for; but, the moment that we were alone, in
the room to which I was shown, the man coming
close to me, with an air of mystery and secrecy, whis-
pered— ' You are an Englishman, Signor, — do you
not expect to meet some one here?'

"*No, indeed, my friend,' I replied, 'but, imme-
diately recollecting myself, 1 added, ' Do you mean
any of my countrymen ?'

560 EMILY MORELAND.

" *• The man seemed uncertain what to say, but at
length he replied—' There was an English gentleman
here yesterday, but he is gone — and I know not what
to think. He has left here a lady, who seems in deep
distress and anxiety for his return.'

*' ' Is she an Englishwoman ?' I hastily demanded.

" ' The man shook his head. ' No, Signor, she
speaks English, and seems to wish to be thought so,
but I am pretty certain she is a native of this country.'

'' ' Will you mention my arrival to her, my good
friend, and say that I should be happy to be of service
to her, if it is in my power.'

" 'A few minu tes only elapsed, before the most beau-
tiful creature I ever beheld rushed into the room,
with traces of anxiety and terror strongly marked in
every feature.

" ' Do you come from my husband ?' she exclaimed,
in broken accents. ' Oh, tell me, in pity tell me, that
he has not abandoned me — that you are come to con-
duct me to him ! And my child — my child — where
is he? Why have they torn hini from me?'

" ' I tried to soothe her, and to induce her to ex-
plain her situation, in the hope that I might be able
to assist her; but it was with difficulty I could pre-
vail on her to afford me any clue to the cause of
her distress, and then it was only in part that she
would trust me.

" ' She was the wife of an English gentleman, she
said, but there were causes why her marriage had
been hitherto concealed. But now he was going to
take her to his family in England, and for this pur-
pose he had sent her forward to the place I now be-

EMILY MORELAND. 561

held her in, under the care of one whom he thought
ais friend. ' But he is a treacherous, deceitful mon-
ster!' she continued, bursting into an agony of tears;
^ he has dared to insult me in the basest manner, and
has declared my husband has abandoned me to him,
and will never see me again. Oh, God of Heaven!
he cannot, cannot be such a monster ! Yet, his letter
— Oh, tell me, tell me,' and she hastily put a paper
into my hand — ' do I read it right ? — does it indeed
renounce me?'

" ' My first glance at this infamous letter convinced
me of what I had all along suspected, that in this
unhappy woman I beheld the wife of Walter More-
land. For, though it did not bear his signature, I
knew the handwriting too well, to admit a doubt of
its being his. She watched my countenance in silence,
while 1 read it, and when I had concluded, folding
her hands, exclaimed — '' I see I have no hope — it is
all over I'

" ' I will not conceal from you, that there is no
hope from this wretch,' I replied ; 'it is better, in-
deed, that you should know the worst at once. The
father of your husband is a just and honourable
man, and a dear friend of mine; and, till I can hear
from him, will you consent to place yourself under
my protection ? I will take care that you shall not
again be subjected to the insults of your husband's
infamous associate. I will write instantly to Eng-
land, for instructions how to act; and, if it is the
will of his father that you should proceed thither, I
will myself attend you.'

*• ' But, my child!' she exclaimed, suddenly recol-
24. 4 c

562 EMILY MCRELAND.

lecting herself, * I cannot leave the country witliout
my child ! And yet, perhaps — oh God, they have
murdered my child ! The wretch, Bessonet, told
me, before he quitted me, that the man I called my
husband was gone to England, to marry a lady of
his father's choosing, and that he would take care
that the child should never come forward to disturb
his happiness.

" ^I scarcely knew how to attempt to console her,
on a subject on which I could not but feel there
were the most powerful reasons to be apprehensive,
for I believed Walter Moreland capable of any atro-
city. I tound, however, that, even now, she was un-
willing to think the wretch so bad as he appeared,
and that her own heart pleaded, more strongly than
any thing I could say, against the probability of his
committing such an act. By degrees she became
more calm, and I learned every particular of her un-
happy story.

" Herself and a younger sister were, it appeared,
boarders in a convent, where they were receiving
their education, when Walter Moreland, whom she
knew only by his assumed name of Molini, his part-
ner in guilt, who was but a few years older, taking
the name of Bessonet, in lieu of Adderley, and pre-
tending to be his near relative. What had been
their first motive for this deception, I know not;
out, it is certain, no very honourable cause could
have prompted the disguise. It was at a religious
festival that Moreland and Adderley first saw the
tvvo sisters. They contrived to obtain an interview
with them — Walter attached himself tc the elder,

EMILY MORELAND. .063

and Adderley tried all his powers of persuasion to
induce the younger to listen to his suit; but she
was, it appears, proof against all his specious pre-
tences, and resolutely refused to grant him a second
interview. The elder, however, was completely
fascinated by Moreland's elegant person and man-
ners— She was, moreover, tired of the gloom and
seclusion of a cloister, and longed to mingle in the
gay scenes, and partake of the varied pleasures
which he described in such fascinating colours. In
spite, therefore, of her sister's tears and entreaties,
she resolved on eloping with the gallant English-
man, who, by bribery, had gained over the porteress
of the Convent to assist in their plan. On the very
eve, however, of the intended attempt, an accident
discovered it — The guardian of the young ladies
was sent for, the terrified girl was separated from
her sister, and, by threats and persuasions, induced
to consent to assume the white veil, as probationary
to her being admitted finally into the religious sis-
terhood. Moreland, fearful of the consequences
which might ensue from the knowledge of his inten-
tion, quitted the city, and, as it was supposed, the
country; and the unhappy girl, thinking hercelf
abandoned by him, submitted to her fate, consider-
ing it as an expiation of the crime, which she was
taught to believe she had committed, in listening to
the addresses of a heretic.

" ' The time of her probation was nearly expired,
and her apparent resignation had completely set at
rest all suspicion, when Moreland, who had secretly
returned to the city, once more, by the aid of golt

564 EMILY MORELANU.

and promises, succeeded in conveying a letter to her,
in ^^hich he implored her not to sacrifice his and her
own happiness for ever ; and again offered her the
means of escape, if she would fly to his arms; and
declared that, if she persisted in her resolution of
renouncing the world, that the same hour should
terminate his existence. This time he laid his plans
more effectively than before. Under the plea of in-
disposition, she was excused from attending reli-
gious service in the chapel, and many hours probably
elapsed, before her flight was discovered. At all
events, the fugitives escaped the pursuit, which
was undoubtedly raised after them. They reached
France, were united, and from thence retired to
Switzerland, where they knew they were safe.

" ' Here they remained for some months, until,
under the specious pretext of reconciling his father
to their union, Moreland quitted her, promising to
return on the wings of love, to conduct her to his
family.'

" What followed his arrival in England, I have
already related," continued Mrs. Lucy. ' It seemed,'
(my brother went on to state,) ' that during More-
land's residence in England, he contrived to keep
his injured wife comparatively happy and easy, by
his letters, in which he pleaded his father's ill health,
as the motive for not immediately communicating
his marriage. She doubted not his love, or his ho-
nour, and she waited patiently till the time should
arrive, that he could, without injury to himself,
acknowledge her claims.

" ' Moreland, by the assistance of Adderley, had

EMILY MORELAND.

565

learned, about the time he quitted England the se-
cond time, that the sister of his wife, being left by
her guardian's death at liberty, had renounced the
Convent, and was on the point of marriage with a
nobleman, who would of course enjoy that portion of
the fortune which would have been hers, had she
not forfeited it by her flight. He instantly, there-
fore, repaired to Switzerland, and by a well-planned
tale of being renounced by his father, in consequence
of his rash marriage, prevailed on her to write to
her sister, calling upon her, as an act of justice and
affection, to save her from the ills of poverty. The
scheme succeeded — a large sum was immediately re-
mitted to the banker, through whose means the cor-
respondence was forwarded, accompanied by the
most earnest and affectionate entreaties, on the part
of the sister, to let her know the place of her retreat,
that she might once more have the happiness of era-
bracing her. Under the pretext of conducting her
to a place, where she might with safety meet her
sister, — and declaring that the sum which he had
now in his possession would enable him to reconcile
his mercenary father, who only objected on account
of the loss of her fortune, to receiving her as his
daughter — the wretch prevailed on her to quit the
peaceful home which had so long sheltered her, and
accompany him to the place where I beheld her.

" 'On some specious pretext, he contrived to sepa-
rate her from the infant and its nurse, who accom
panied them; and, under the protection of Adderley,
jr, as she called him, Bessonet, she proceeded in
one carriage, while he followed in another, as she

566 EMILY MORELANU.

supposed, with the child, of which he appeared doat-
ingly fond.

" ' They reached the spot appointed for their
night's rest, but the other carriage did not come up.
She was in agonies lest some accident had happened,
in the narrow and precipitous roads through which
they had passed; but Adderley darkly hinted at
some mysterious causes, which he believed had
prompted her husband to take another road; and,
terrified, bewildered, and unable to form any reso-
lution, she suffered herself to be persuaded to go on
with him, to the place appointed for her meeting
with her sister. Long, however, before they reached
it^ Adderley's true character unfolded itself. He
dared to insult her with his pretended passion, and,
when she threatened him with exposing his perfi-
dious conduct to his friend, he boldly avowed that
he acted with his sanction, and produced the execra-
ble scrawl which confirmed his assertions.

" ' The injured lady, at first, refused credit even
to this — she declared it a vile and infamous forgery
— and it was not until she reached the spot where
she expected to find her sister, that she began to see
that she had been deliberately entrapped into a
snare, by the villain to whose keeping she had en-
trusted her honour and liappiness.

" ' I inquired,' continued my brother, ' if she could
comprehend his motives for bringing her hither, as
he might have left her still in Switzerland, and on
what pretence his vile associate had quitted her. ' I
can comprehend neither,' she observed, ' Bessonet,
indeed, told me tliat it was planned with v. view of

EMILY MOREI.AND 567

gettinfif possession of the child and the money — the
latter he might have had — but, my child! Oh, God
of Heaven, f t what purpose can he have taken my
child from me ?'

"'Again she gave way to all the agonies of
despair, and I was endeavouring to soothe her,
when the door was burst open, and u number of
rude-looking men, in whom 1 soon recognised the
Sbirri, or officers of the Inquisition, seized upon the
hapless and terrified woman, while one, who ap-
peared the superior, declared that she was their pri-
soner, having been denounced as a nun who had
broken her vows, and sacrilegiously stolen from her
Convent.

" ' She turned upon me a look of horror, which I
shall never forget. ' This, then, is the vengeance
with which that monster Bessonet threatened me,
when he left me!' she exclaimed; but she was pe-
remptorily ordered to be silent, and the man who
had before spoken, viewing me from head to foot,
demanded who I was, and what I was doing there.

" ' I produced my passport.

" ' You are an Englishman,' he observed, after
looking it cursorily over, ' probably, you are a friend
of the vile heretic, who seduced this woman to vio-
late her holy vows. You must come with us, and
answer for yourself.'

" ' God forbid,' I exclaimed, ' that I should be
the friend of such a monster! But I have no objec-
tion to answer any questions that can be put to me.
It is easy for me to prove that I have never visited
this country till within the last three months, and

odS EMILY MORE li AND

that J never saw this lady, till I met her here, by
accident, this evening.'

" ' I am glad to hear it. for your own sake,' re-
turned the man, 'but I should be wanting- in my
duty, if I suffered you to depart, without ascertain-
ing whether this is all correct. You must, therefore,
go with us.'

" ' I did not feel at all averse to this, for I thought
that my presence would be some consolation to the
wretched lady, who, with her eyes fixed, and her
features pale and rigid as a statue, seemed scarcely
conscious of what was passing around her.

" ' The men lifted her in their arms, and I was
about to follow, but was forcibly withheld.

"'You must go with those men, Signor — there
will be a carriage prepared in a few minutes,' said
the principal officer.

" ' I would have remonstrated, but he instantly
left the room, and in a few minutes I heard the car-
riage roll from the door, which conveyed the hapless
victim of cruelty and perfidy to her doom.

" ' In a short time, that which was intended for
me was announced to be ready; my portmanteau
was placed in it, and I entered the carriage, consoled
for the inconvenience and restraint, which I knew a
short period must terminate, by the hope that I
should thus learn something of the fate of the un-
happy womah who preceded me.'

" My brother, however,'' continued Mrs. Lucy,
" was deceived in this hope. He was examined and
ve-examined. and for several weeks kept in close
confinement; but '^ vvas at length evident to his m-

EMILY MORELAND. f)(i9

terrogators that he had no connexion with the lady,
or those who had participated in her crime, and he
was at length set at liberty.

" From that hour to this, however, I believe, no
information, as to how his fellow-prisoner was dis-
posed of, has been obtained, nor has the fate of her
child ever been known. Walter Moreland, and his
confederate Adderley, returned to England; but
his father refused ever to see or countenance him;
and, after leading a dissolute and abandoned life for
some years, he suddenly disappeared, taking with
him the remnants of his shattered fortunes, and, it is
believed, retired to a monastery abroad; having, in
consequence of a severe fit of illness, been struck
with horror and remorse at the crimes he had com-
mitted.

" His second wife, if I may so call her, had long
before sunk into the grave, broken-hearted at his
neglect and the loss of her child, which died in its
infancy — and Lord Moreland soon followed her.
That branch of the family is, therefore, now, I may
say, extinct; for though Walter Moreland's son, by
his Italian marriage, would be undoubtedly heir to
the title and estates, were he living, there appears
little probability that he will ever come forward to
claim them.

" The knowledge of this sad story, indeed, has
been confined to so few individuals, that little
chance of tracing the poor child was afforded; if,
indeed, the dreadful surmise, that it was destroyed
by its unnatural father, was unfounded.

And did you never hear the name of the unfor-
24. 4d

570 EMILY MORELAND.

tunate Italian, Madam?" demanded Emily, when
Mrs. Lucy concluded her narrative, which the latter
listened to with the deepest interest.

" I have heard it, I think," replied Mrs. Lucy,
" but it has entirely escaped my memory."

" Was it not Laurentina Orsini ?" said Emily,
with trembling anxiety.

" 1 think — I am almost certain it was," returned
her friend, " but where, my dear girl, did you
hear '

" It was the sister of my dear, dear Signora," in-
terrupted Emily, bursting into tears. " Oh, could
I but see her now ! Could I but tell her how^ deeply
I feel for those sorrows which I have so often wit-
nessed, without comprehending the source from
which they sprang."

" Was she, then, acquainted with the tale I have
been repeating ?" inquired Mrs. Lucy. " I always
understood from ray brother that it was judged best
to suffer her to remain in ignorance of the fate of
her sister, and that she never even knew the real
name or the family of the fictitious Molini."

'' How strange that chance should introduce her
to that very family !" replied Emily, forgetting, at
that moment, the assun)ed character that Lady Ra-
chel had assigned her, " and how little did my dear
grandfather suspect, when she revealed to him the
source of her sorrows, that it was a near relative
of his own, that had given rise to them."

" Your grandfather, my dear," observed Mr*.
Lucy, with surprise, " who, then, was your j^rami-
father ?"

EMILY MORELAND. 571

Emily's cheeks crimsoned, for she was conscious
she had said too much to retract her words; but
Mrs. Lucy, seeing her confusion, immediately added —

" Pardon me, my dear, 1 was inadvertently led by
your observation to ask a question, which I see gives
you pain. Forget, I entreat, that I have ever asked
it — and now let us dismiss this dismal subject alto-
gether, and talk of something else, a little more cal-
culated to raise our spirits."

Emily, however, could not so easily dismiss the
subject from her mind. She had little doubt that it
was some intelligence connected with this detail,
that had drawn the Signora so hastily from her
peaceful retreat at St. Clare ; and she formed a
thousand conjectures, some of them so wild and ro-
mantic, that she could scarcely help smiling at her
own folly, when they had passed.

The interest which Emily had taken in this story,
had almost driven from her recollection the conver-
sation which had introduced it. She felt, therefore,
almost surprised, when, on the following day, Mrs.
Lucy observed, that she must leave her to amuse
herself as well as she could, for a few hours, as she
was going to pay a morning visit to the lady of whom
she had spoken, as wishing to introduce her to.

" She will see me, I know," she observed, " if I
go alone — but, probably, if you were to accompany
me, she would take it in her head to be denied. Be-
sides, I can give her a better character of you, you
know, my dear," she added, " if you are absent,
than in your presence — lest I should shame youi
modesty."

572 EMILY MORELAND.

Emily smiled, and her friend, after numerous
charges to her to be careful of herself, and not
stay too long in the garden, as she was apt to do,
^leparte 1, observing that it was very probable she
should not be able to return till late in the evening.

" I am happy to say, I did not overrate my influ-
ence," she observed, when she returned ; " her
ladyship allowed me to make my own terms and
stipulations — among which is one, which 1 trust you
will not object to, that you shall occasionally pass
a week or two with me, when you feel so inclined,
which, I hope, will not be very unfrequently, as I
begin to feel that my visiting days are very nearly
over, and yet that I am not quite so comfortable as
I used to be, without a little cheerful society at
home."

Emily's eloquent eyes, more than her words,
thanked Mrs. Lucy for this proof of kindness, and
the good lady proceeded — " I did not make any ar-
rangements with Lady Haviland," she continued,
" as to money matters ; for I know, if she errs on
that point, it is on the score of profuseness; and
therefore I do not fear her behaving handsomely. I
thought, too, it would raise your consequence in
her ladyship's eyes, to lead her to suppose that you
rather sought protection and society, than any pecu-
niary advantage ; and I will tell you candidly, that
she is a little inclined to be haughty and tyrannical,
with people of small consequence, though, I flatter
myself, I have secured you against feeling these un-
pleasant propensities; for, though I have not much
to boast of, either in the way of wealth or ancestry,

EMILY MORELANl). 0/o»

she has always shown considerable deference ti»-
wards me, and, I believe, is fully capable of feeling
the value of a real and disinterested friend, who will
neither flatter her foibles, nor encourage her follies.
As soon, therefore, my dear, as you have received a
formal dismission from Lady Rachel, (which I have
no doubt will be the consequence of my representa-
tion to her,) Lady Haviland will be happy to re-
ceive you."

Emily felt truly grateful for the kindness which
had secured her an asylum, which, she could not
doubt, would prove infinitely preferable to the un-
gracious protection she had received from Lady
Rachel Moreland; but she felt rather startled at
finding that it was Lady Haviland, to whom she
was to become a companion — for she perfectly re-
membered that this was the lady whose abrupt and
confident notice of her, while she was living at the
milliner's, with her friend Susan, had so annoyed
her ; and she recollected, also, that it was Lady
Haviland's carriage which had conveyed her from
the Theatre, on the night she had met Leslie there.
The thought, however, that she might, through the
medium of her residence with Lady Haviland, learn
something of Leslie's present situation, and, per-
haps, have an opportunity of seeing him, and thus
be restored to her friend Rosalia, thrilled through
her heart, and at once banished ail inferior consi-
derations, and she could scarcely restrain her im-
patience for the receipt of Lady Rachel's answer.

At length it came, and though short and concise.
It was (us Mrs. Lucy remarked) as satisfactory a&

374 EMILY MORELAND.

could be wished for, since it expressed regret at
losing Miss Russell's society, without any displea-
sure at her inteation.

" Do not think I am in a hurry to get rid of you,
my dear," observed Mrs. Lucy, " if I propose that
we visit Lady Haviland to-morrow. I know the
impatience of her disposition so well, that 1 am only
surprised that she has been able to restrain it so
long-, although by coming here she would break
through her resolution of not visiting for a twelve-
month."

" Has her ladyship made such a resolution ?" said
Emily, smiling.

" You may well smile," observed Mrs. Lucy,
" but when you have known her a few months, you
will cease to be surprised at any whimsicalities from
her. Fortunately, however, they are such as seldom
hurt any one but herself."

On the following niorning, Emily dressed herself
with neat simplicity, to attend her friend ; but the
latter, after viewing her with attention, observed
that she did not feel satisfied with her appearance.

" You are not fine enough, my dear," she ob-
served, " to please Lady Haviland — and, as I know
you can make yourself smart, I shall expect you will
do so."

Emily complied with this intimation, and, imme-
diately after breakfast, they drove to Lady Havi-
iand's, whose residence was at Hendon.

They were immediately admitted to her ladyship's
dressing-room, and Emily's tremors soon subsided at
the kindness with which they were received.

EMILY MORELANU. 575

" I have been anxiously expecting you these two
days," observed the lady, rising to receive them ;
*' but I do not wonder that this young lady should
be unwilling to leave Mrs. Lucy for my dull so-
ciety."

" You want a compliment," returned Mrs. Lucy,
"or would force Miss Russell into paying me one;
but I will relieve her from the necessity of being in-
sincere, by telling the truth, that she has been much
more anxious to be introduced to your ladyship,
than I have, for the "

" Miss Russell !" repeated Lady Haviland, inter-
rupting her friend. " The name is certainly unknown
to me ; and yet, I cannot help thinking I have seen
those features before."

" Probably you have, with Lady Rachel More-
land," observed Mrs. Lucy. " I believe you know
her ladyship, and Miss Russell has been some time
resident with her."

" It certainly was not with Lady Rachel," said
Lady Haviland, still looking intently at Emily, who
blushed deeply at this embarrassing proof of her
ladyship's recollection of an interview which had
been so transient, that she had hoped it would have
been forgotten.

La-dy Haviland, however, was soon withdrawn
from the subject, on which she was not a little
curious, by the entrance of a servant, who delivered
her a note.

She threw it upon the table, with an air of vexation
— "How mal-apropos,^' she observed; "I thought
to have been quite comfortable to-day — and now,

576 EMILV MORETiANi).

Lord ilaviiand has taken it in his head to honour
me with Iiis company to dinner, tliough I have not
seen him this month. I have a great mind to say I
am engaged, and not let him come to interrupt us."

" Do not, pray do not," said Mrs. Lucy, earnestly ;
" Emily and I will return home to dinner, and to-
morrow "

" No, indeed, I will Hot consent to any such
thing," interrupted Lady Haviland; "and now I
think of it, it is perhaps lucky that you are here, for
it will prevent our having a fracas, which we should
be sure to have, if we dined tete-ci-titey

Emily did not feel her respect for Lady Haviland
much increased by this avowal, nor did she look for-
ward with much pleasure to the introduction to his
lordship.

" I must give him a good dinner," said her lady-
ship, rising and pulling the bell, " or he will be
crosser than usual — and I am sure that is quite bad
enough. Though, as he is a devoted admirer of
pretty faces, perhaps the sight of Miss Russell may
put him in a good humour. Nay, do not blush, my
love — I. was only giving you a hint not to be de-
ceived into thinking Lord Haviland one of the most
amiable men in the world, as I have heard him
called, merely because he always thinks it worth
while to dissimulate, when a beautiful woman is
present."

There was something in all this, that Emily did
not like, though Lady Haviland spoke in the most
fascinating tone, and accompanied it with the
sweetest smiles. Mrs. Lucy, too, did not look

EMILY MOREL AND. 577

pleased, and observed, that Emily had too much pe-
netration and good sense to be deceived by flattery
or fair pretences.

The housekeeper entered to receive her lady's
orders, and Emily had an opportunity of observing
that Mrs. Lucy had not exaggerated, when she spoke
of Lady Haviland's whimsical and haughty disposi-
tion; for she was so contradictory in her orders, and
so imperious when the housekeeper attempted to re-
monstrate, that the poor woman seemed scarcely to
know how to act.

"Servants are the plague of my life!" observed
her ladyship, when she at last dismissed her ; " they
are so stupid, and so determined to have their own
way, right or wrong."

Mx's. Lucy shook her head with an air of reproof,
and Lady Haviland, with a forced laugh, observed —
"Ah, I know you think me wrong, as usual, and I
am certain that you do not know what the trouble
of bad servants is. But, allons! we won't discuss
these subjects now. I want to show you what a
beautiful harp my lord, in an unusual fit of gal-
lantry, has sent me, instead of the crazy one that —
you know what — *' and she laughed; "but I have
left all that off now, and you must not tell Miss
Russell tales."

" Do not you tell her any, and, I will answer for
it, she shall not know the history of the harp from
me," said Mrs. Lucy.

" Do you play, Miss Russell ?" asked Lady Havi-
land, running her ivory fingers over the strings. " I
Ijave long ceased to play myself, except to pass away
25. 4 6

678 EMILY MOR ELAND.

a solitary hour— but I am still dotingly fond of my
favourite instrument — and. if you can play, it will
be indeed delightful."

Emily had been long out of practice, and the
thoughts of her, under whose tuition she had ac-
quired her knowledge of music, now rushing into
her mind, rendered her hand at first weak and un-
steady; but she soon conquered this emotion.

Lady Haviland was in raptures, and Emily was
still playing, and accompanying the instrument with
her voice, when the door, to which her back was
turned, opened. Her ladyship held up her finger,
in token of silence, to the person who entered; and
Emily, supposing it to be one of the servants, pro-
ceeded with her song till its conclusion, when a gen-
tleman advanced, and was about to utter, apparently
a rapturous compliment.

The words, however, died on his lips, and he stooid
as if motionless with astonishment — while Emily,
the bright colour fading from her cheek, and her
whole frame trembling with violent emotion, at-
tempted in vain to rise from her seat, into which she
sank back, and, hiding her face with her hands, burst
inio tears.

"What is the meaning of all this?" exclaimed
Lady Haviland, in an impatient tone, " Do you
know Miss Russell, my Lord? It appears "

" I never, to my recollection, beheld Miss Russell
— if that is this lady's name — before this moment,"
replied Lord Haviland, recovering himself; "but T
was struck with the sudden change in her counte-
nance, at the moment I approached her, and am now
"^ost anxious to know the cause of it."

EMILY MORELAND. 670

" I can give no reason," returned Emily, in a fal-
tering voice, " only a resemblance, a striking resem-
blance, to — to — one "

" To some dear friend, I have no doubt," said
Lord Haviland, trying to speak with perfect compo-
sure. " 1 should be sorry to think I resembled any
one whom you did not esteem, — may I flatter myself
that was the case."

Emily felt the insidiousness of the question, for
she could not doubt that her father — and that it was
her father who now stood by her side, and endea-
voured by his looks, as well as words, to re-assure her
— perfectly comprehended the cause of her agitation.
She could not, however, trust her voice to reply —
and she merely bowed in return; while Lady Havi-
land, evidently dissatisfied with this attempted ex-
planation, drew Mrs. Lucy to the farther end of the
room, and, in a low voice, conversed with her for
some minutes; Lord Haviland, in the mean time^
turning over the music books which lay scattered on
a table near him, and, as if to give Emily an oppor-
tunity of recovering herself, avoiding either to look
at or speak to her; while the latter in vain strug-
gled to repress her tears, or bring her thoughts into
any thing like composure.

" I have never yet doubted your honour, my Lord,"
said Lady Haviland, advancing to her husband, and
looking him steadily in the face; " for, bad as you
have been, and are, I do not believe you would de-
liberately utter a falsehood. Will you pledge that
honour, that neither under the name of Russell, or
any other name, you have known this lady?"

5'SO KMILY MOllELANI).

*' Then, most solemnly do I pledg:e that honojir,"
returned Lord Haviland, " that I never saw her till
I beheld her here."

"That is sufficient," said her ladyship; "and
now, my dear girl," she continued, pressing Emily's
hand, "I hope you will banish all unpleasant recol-
lections, and consider me as your firm and sincere
friend — one, who will anxiously endeavour to com-
pensate you for past misfortunes "

Emily, in faltering accents, expressed her thanks;
but she could not but recollect that it was the beau-
tiful Julia Dorrington — the fascinating female to
whose charms her mother owed, in all probability,
her ruin — and the father, to whom she herself was
indebted for nothing but the disgrace of her birth —
that now stood before her; and was it possible that
with them she could be happy ? — " This house can
be no asylum for me!" she mentally reflected, "and

yet- " She ventured to raise her ejes to Mrs.

Lucy's, and beheld in them only an expression of
kindness and compassion.

" 1 will confide to her all my unhappy story, and
be guided by her opinion," was her instantaneous
decision.

The good lady seemed as if she read her thoughts
— " Will you take a turn with me in the garden, my
love ?" she observed; " the air will perhaps restore
you."

Emily took her arm, and in a few minutes they
were seated together on a bench, far enough from
the house to secure them from all observation.

" I can almost anticipate what you would say to

EMILY MO U ELAND. 581

me, my dear girl," observed Mrs. IjUcv, after a tno-
ment's silence, " and I will tell you, also, that Lady
Haviland has penetrated your secret. She is, how-
ever, perfectly convinced that no stratagem or arts
have been practised to bring about an interview be-
tween you, and — shall I say — your father?"

Emily bowed her head in silent acquiescence, and
Mrs. Lucy proceeded.

" It would have been indeed folly to have sus-
pected that you were prepared to recognise in Lord

Haviland but I will say no more on this subject.

From her ladyship's own mouth I have repeatedly
heard the sad tale, which first poisoned her domestic
felicity. She knew not, Emily, the extent of Mr.
De Cardonnel's guilt towards your mother, when
she became his wife. She v/as young, accustomed
to the unrestrained indulgence of every passion, and
violently in love with her handsome and fashionable
cousin, and was therefore easily persuaded to what
she wished to be true. Some circumstances, how-
ever, which I am not thoroughly acquainted with,
revealed to her, soon after their marriage, that she
had been imposed upon, and that the husband to
whom she had given her heart, was in reality a
heartless libertine; but she in vain attempted to
trace the retreat of your unfortunate mother, and,
gradually, the deep impression that her melancholy
story had made on her mind, faded before new and
repeated proofs of her husband's infidelity and licen-
tious principles. I am far from wishiijg- to represent
Lady Haviland's conduct as irreproachable, Emily
— but she has had much to aggravate and provoke a

582 EMILY MOREL AND.

temper naturally violent and irritable; and that her
heart is really good, 1 hope 1 need not urge the pre-
sent instance, that her warmest wish is to render you
happy and comfortable. This, however, must be
under the impression that Lord Haviland does not,
nor will not, know the relationship between you ; at
present, it seems barely possible that he can suspect
it. It will therefore depend upon yourself to keep
the secret, if you think it advisable."

"I can have no wish, I am sure," observed Emily,

" to make myself known to one " She paused,

unable to proceed from the thoughts that over-
whelmed her.

'' That is sufficient, my dear," replied Mrs. Lucy.
** I am so well convinced of your prudence and rec-
titude, that I am sure you will do nothing wrong;
but, for your own sake, it will be necessary to be on
your guard. I will candidly acknowledge that I do
not think it exactly advisable that you should be-
come a permanent inmate of this house, but Lady
Haviland must have her way for the present, and we
must trust to time and circumstances for the rest."

Emily silently acquiesced. — She felt, indeed, that
there was no alternative ; for to have rejected the
offer of Lady Haviland, would have been to have
thrown herself a burthen on Mrs. Lucy; and she
knew, that, friendly and well-disposed as that lady
undoubtedly was, her circumstances were too limited
to allow her to indulge the natural generosity of her
disposition, to this extent, without inconvenience to
her.

More composed, but still trembling at the thoughts

E M I I> Y M O U E L A N D . 583

of seeing the features, and hearing the voice of one
whom she could not love, and dared not hate, — she
returned with her friend to the house, and on the
way was met by Lady Haviland.

" Mrs. Lucy has told you, my dear," s'he observed,
passing Emily's arm through her own, " what my
surmises are — Am I right?"

Emily faintly replied in the affirmative, adding,
" I feel that it is necessary I should give an expla-
nation of my appearing to your ladyship, and my
kind friend, under a feigned name, — if, indeed, any
name can be said to be feigned by her who has a
title to none."

" I recollected immediately," interrupted Lady
Haviland, " that I had once seen you before, and
had then been struck with your features, as bearing
a striking resemblance to some that I had seen.
You are surprised, my dear, but I once saw your
mother, though she knew me not. I visited her in
the assumed character of a friend of the good wo-
man, at whose house she was then residing, and who
had died a few days before, — and I shall never for-
get that interview, for it wrecked, for ever, my
peace and happiness, and convinced me I had mar-
ried a villain!"

" Hush! hush! do not use such harsh terms," in-
terrupted Mrs. Lucy.

" Has he not deserved them ?" replied Lady Havi-
land. " The consequence of that discovery," she
continued in a milder tone, " was a fever, which
confined me to my bed for a long time; and, when I
recovered, your mother had disappeared ; and since

684 EMILY MORELAND.

that period J have suffered so much, that I have
thought less of that sad story than I should other-
wise, perhaps, have done. But when I saw you in
Oxford Street, it rushed fresh into my mind. I made
some inquiries respecting you, but could get no sa-
tisfactory information as to who you were, though
the name of Moreland seemed to corroborate the
idea that instantly occurred to my mind. An affair,
which more immediately affected me, again banished
all others from my recollection, and you were for-
gotten until this morning, when I instantly remem-
bered where I had seen you ; and, I confess to my
shame, suspected that my friend here was in your se-
cret. I could not imagine that you were ignorant
of the title your father has so long borne, and I
thought it all a plot, which 1 was determined to
pretend not to see, until I thought proper. Your
agitation, however, and Mrs. Lucy's surprise, con-
vinced me that I was wrong, and my resolution was
immediately taken; and it shall not be my fault, my
dear girl, if you do not enjoy every advantage that
Liord Haviland's station and fortune can bestoWj
though he shall not, at least for the present, know
the just claims you have upon his protection."

Emily could not give utterance to the gratitude
she felt — all that she had seen or thought unamiable
in Lady Haviland's conduct, or manners, vanished
before this proof of her warm and exalted feelings;
and she felt that it would be her duty, as well as
inclination, to endeavour, by every attention in her
power, to console one who had evidently drank deep
of the bitter cup of affliction.

EMILY M011ELAM> 585

Tbey returned to the room where they had left
Lord Haviland, whom they found reading; but he
immediately laid his book aside, and advancing-, with
easy politeness, reproached them for having so long-
deserted him.

" You have been quite au desespoir^ I dare say,"
observed his lady, with an air of sarcasm, *^ at being
deprived of my amiable society — particularly after
such a long necessary absence; for, I have no doubt,
' affairs of state and moment' have detained you,
most unwillingly^ from visiting me for the last
month."

'• Your ladyship is quite right," he observed,
with a languid yawn, " I have been so immensely
busy in the duties of my office, that I have not been
able to spare a single day, until now, to private gra-
tification."

" Your country will owe you a vast debt, for such
amazing self-denial," replied her ladyship, with a
still stronger expression of sarcasm.

"What time do you dine?" inquired Lord Havi-
land, without appearing at all discomfited by this
observation ; " I breakfasted early, and the ride has
given me a keen appetite, I assure you."

" I ordered dinner at six," replied his lady, " for
i had no idea your lordship would favour me with
such an early visit. Shall I ring for a sandwich, for
it is only a quarter after five ?"

His lordship politely prevented her rising to touch

the bell, and Emily, whose flutterings had begun to

subside, could not but feel a sensation of surprise at

the perfect cool-breeding, which seemed to supply

25. 4 ?

686 EMTLY MORELAND.

the place of all otlier feeling on his part, towards
the woman whom, she could not doubt, he must once
have beheld with such different sentiments.

With Mrs. Lucy, Emily could plainly see, he was
on no very amicable terms; yet, even to her, he was
polite and attentive, though her manners were cold
and distant.

" Is there any news in town?" asked Lady Havi-
land, as he seated himself again.

" No, all is ' flat, stale, and unprofitable,' " re-
plied his lordship, " I don't know when I have
passed such a dull month in London, as the last has
been — not even a tale of scandal, pour passer le
terns! Oh, yes, I forgot — I have something, which
will be news probably to your Ladyship — your old
friend and admirer, Templeton, was yesterday united
in the holy bands of matrimony, with a blooming
bride of some threescore years and ten; but who
possesses the means of gilding the fetters, pretty
handsomely, 1 believe,"

" Templeton married, and to an old woman !" ex-
claimed Lady Haviland ; " and who, in the name of
all that's ridiculous, is she ?"

" I really have forgotten her maiden appellation,**
returned Lord Haviland, with an air of indifference,
*' some Lady Barbara, or Lady Ruth, or some such
antediluvian name."

" 1 think I can refresh your memory, auvl gratify
Lady Haviland's curiosity," said Mrs. Lucy, gravely.
" Lady Rachel Moreland was the name of the bride,
was it not?"

" Oh, then, you have heard of the ridiculous af-

EMILY MORELAND 587

fair?" replied his lordship. "Yes, faith, I believe
that was her name."

Lady Haviland said something in a low voice, of
which Emily only caught the repetition of the name
of Moreland — but, though it was evident her words
conveyed a reproach, which was connected with that
appellation, his lordship proceeded, without the
least appearance of discomfiture or emotion —

" I was riding down Piccadilly, and had arrived
opposite to St. James's church, when I was stopped
by the crowd of carriages, and had the supreme sa-
tisfaction of seeing the happy bridegroom hand his
lovely and blooming bride to their carriage. I must
confess, he bore his honours meekly, for he never
raised his eyes from the ground, and threw himself
back in a corner, as if he were the blushing bride,
whose thick lace veil precluded the necessity of her
being equally solicitous to avoid the eyes of the
gaping crowd."

" Poor Templeton!" ejaculated Lady Haviland.

" Rich Templeton, you mean," replied his lord-
ship, smiling.

" And poor Lady Rachel, I think I may add," ob-
served Mrs. liUcy.

*' Do you know her, Madam ?" demanded Lord
Haviland.

" Yes, perfectly well — I knew the whole family,
from my youth."

" Indeed!" was Lord Haviland's reply— but deli-
vered with an air of indifference, which showed him
perfectly callous to any hint on this subject.

Emily turned away, to conceal her agitation and

588 tMILY MOR ELAND.

disgust. She felt, more than ever, that she could
never either love or respect her father, and she bit-
terly regretted that she had thus unexpectedly been
brought to be a witness of his unamiable qua-
lities.

Mrs. Lucy and her ladyship retired to a window,
at the farther end of the room, and Lord Haviland,
for the first time addressing Emily, inquired if she
had seen the last new opera.

" I have never seen an opera, Sir," she replied,
with as easy an air as she could assume.

" Indeed — then, I presume, you have never resided
in London?" observed his lordship.

Emily briefly replied in the negative.

" May I ask, in what partof the country ?" inquired
his lordship. " There are few places now, I think,
so secluded, as to be out of the reach of dramatic
exhibitions."

" I did not say I had never seen a play, my lord,"
returned Emily, dreadfully confused by this home
question, which she was totally unprepared to answer,
and thus hoped to evade; " but your lordship spoke
of operas, and it has so happened that I have never
seen one."

" You must, at least, have had the advantage of
excellent musical instruction, and it is rare to meet
with good masters at a great distance from the capi-
tal," observed Lord Moreland.

" I have had no instruction, but from a near and
dear friend, my lord," replied Emily, ana, suddenly
rising, she terminated this embarrassing conversation
by approaching Mrs. Lucy and Lady Haviland.

EMILY MORELAND. 580

*' My lord has frightened you away, 1 suppose, vvitlj
compliments," observed Lady Haviland.

" Not exactly — but he asked me a question, as to
where I had resided, which I knew not how to an-
swer," replied Emily, in an under tone.

" Do not contradict what I shall say, and I will set
that at rest, without forcing you to invent a tale,"
returned her ladyship, in the same manner.

Dinner was announced, and Emily was, for tho
present, relieved from her fear of further inquiries.

" You speak Italian, I suppose, as fluently as Eng
lish. Miss Russell," said Lady Haviland, when the
cloth was removed, " from your long residence
abroad ?"

"Yes, Madam," replied Emily, "it is nearly as
familiar to me as my native language."

" Italy !" observed Lord Haviland, with an ex-
pression of surprise, "that accounts for it. then."

Lady Haviland could scarcely suppress a smile.
at the complete success of her plan, which, as she
afterwards observed to Emily, was the best that
could have been suggested.

" My lord's knowledge of Italy, or its language,
is so limited, that it will be very easy to keep up the
deception, even if he should be curious enough to
ask any questions, which, I dare say, he will not.
Do not think, my dear, that you will often be trou-
bled to avoid his curiosity, for, I assure you, I am
very little honoured with his company, and shall
now care less than ever to see him."

The evening passed away tolerably pleasantly, but
Lady Haviland manifested considerable anxiety tc

5(X) EMILY MORELAND.

be rid of his lordship, who, she whispered to Einily,
seemed determined to stay, on purpose to tease her.

" I don't want him to know, if possible, that you
are to remain here, at least for the present; for,
perhaps, with such an attraction, he will be coming
oftener than I wish to see him."

" What time will the moon be up to-night?" asked
Mrs. Lucy, looking at Lord Haviland.

His lordship arose hastily, as if just recollecting
that it was late.

" You do not go home of course, to-night. Ma-
dam?" he observed.

"Undoubtedly, I do," replied Mrs. Lucy; "and
I am just thinking that I ought to have given John
more definite orders, than merely saying "

"I must be going, by Jove!" interrupted Lord
Haviland, after consulting his watch. " I have
really been beguiled into staying so long, that I can
scarcely now get into town in time to keep a very
particular appointment."

Lady Haviland reiteratea the word " particular,"
with a significant smile; but her well-bred lord
affected not to observe it, and in a few minutes his
carnage was announced.

" Thank goodness, he is gone!" observed his lady;
" for I really began to be afraid that he meant to
favour me with his company to-night. We are an
affectionate pair, my love," she continued, looking
earnestly at Emily, and trying to smile; but, in an-
other minute, her feelings overpowered her, and she
burst into an hysterical fit of tears.

Emily felt deeply affected— Mrs. Lucy, however,

EMILY MORELAND. 591

made a sign to her not to notice her ladyship, but to
let her tears have their full course, and in a few mi-
nutes she recovered herself.

" It is not often 1 can shed tears," she observed,
folding her arms and walking across the room, "but,
when I do, they seem to relieve the weight that
presses at my heart."

" I shall not be tempted, though, to come often to
see you," said Mrs. Lucy, " if you treat me with
such scenes. The last time that 1 was here, you told
me that you were quite contented, and determined,
for the future, to be a sober, rational woman for the
rest of your life."

" And so I will," returned her ladyship, " but, to-
day, you must make some allowance for me. You
must acknowledge that it is not in human nature not
to feel — keenly feel — how cruelly I have been cheated

of happiness, by but I will say no more ! I only

hope that it will be some time before he comes again,
to interrupt my peace. But that I know it would
afford my enemies a triumph, I would indeed yield
to what I know would gratify him — a formal and
entire separation, and never see him again. But
your arguments have convinced me, that, in doing
so, I should only give confirmation to that "

" I shall positively run away from you, and try to
find my way home on foot, presently," said Mrs.
Lucy, " if you do not dry those tears, for the infec-
tion has already spread to Emily, and I shall "

" There, I have done — I will not say another
word on this hateful subject; and Emily will, I
know, give us ' Away with melancholy,' in her best

^92 EMILY MORKI-AND.

style, to drive away all discordant thoughts. And,
to prevent your iiidulging any uneasiness about your
old charioteer, and his nags, I will at once candidly
teli you that he has liad his supper, and gone quietly
home, and your bed-room is ready for you, whenever
you are sleepy."

" I suspected as much," said Mrs. Lucy, shaking
her head, " but I will not scold to-night, though
you deserve it."

The remainder of the evening passed away plea-
santly enough, but Emily soon discovered that Lady
Haviland was far from being- so well informed or
intelligent as from her situation in life, and tlie ad-
vantages she must have had of education and society,
might have been expected. There was, however,
considerable quickness and readiness in her manner,
which, with an abundant stock of self-confidence,
enabled her to take her share in conversation, with-
out very palpably betraying her deficiencies; and
from the smartness of her repartees, and the general
vivacity of her manners, she was generally consi-
dered a very clever, pleasant woman.

They did not separate till a late hour, and Lady
Haviland herself accompanied Emily to her cham-
ber, which was handsomely and tastefully fitted up,
as was the dressing-room adjoining.

" I have chosen this roosn for you, ray dear," ob-
served her ladyship, " because it is the farthest re-
moved from my own, and will prevent your being-
annoyed when, as sometimes happens, I am in a rest-
less mood. At any and every time, however, you
tviil consider these as your rooms, into which I shall

EMILY MORELAND. 593

not intrude, except as your visiter. One of the
housemaids will, for the present, attend you ; and,
to-morrow, I shall desire the housekeeper to inquire
for a younof woman, who will then be at your dis-
posal— entirely at your disposal."

Emily would have remonstrated against this as
unnecessary, but Lady Haviland would not hear a
word on the subject.

"As Miss Russell," she observed, " it might per-
haps have been superfluous; but as the daughter

of Well, I will not say a word more, Emily —

only I must have my own way — and so, good night !"

CHAPTER XXII.

If hinderances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But O, if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,

Take half thy canvass in. Cowper.

Emily was now settled in a home, to which the
most fastidious could find nothing to object. Every
comfoj-t and luxury surrounded her, and Lady Ha-
viland's whole wish and attention seemed devoted
to make her happy. Grateful, however, as she
really was, to her benefactress, and disposed as she
felt to excuse and extenuate what she saw that was
25. 4 G

594 EMILY MORELAND.

faulty in the conduct of the latter, she could not
avoid being sometimes pained and afllicted, at wit-
nessing the extreme violence and uncertainty of her
temper, which was often irritated by the merest
trifle into a state of madness, which hurried her into
the most unbecoming and often unjust actions.

So incessant, indeed, were her caprices, that it
was scarcely possible for the most attentive of her
domestics to comply with them ; and so tyrannical
and overbearing were her commands, that nothing
but interest could be supposed to attach them to
her. Yet, with a species of romantic folly, which
seemed to influence all her actions, she was con-
stantly lamenting their want of personal attachment
to her, and their utter selfishness and mercenary dis-
positions.

On these occasions, Emily was sometimes a suc-
cessful mediator; but, unfortunately, she had only
the same arguments to repeat, and, though Lady
Haviland could not confute them, she soon began to
show evident marks of weariness and impatience,
when they were opposed to her self-will.

Several weeks passed away, and Emily had be-
come completely at home; accustomed to her lady-
ship's eccentricities, she no longer felt either pained
or surprised, when, as was sometimes the case, she
was left, for whole days together, to seek her own
amusements and employments, while her friend was
absent upon secret excursions, from which she gene-
rally returned with evident marks of dissatisfaction
and sorrow.

Durin*- all this time, the name, which was ever m

EMII.Y MOKELAVD. 595

Emiiy's thoughts, had never been mentioned, though
her ladyship sometimes spoke, without reserve, of
friends to whom she had formerly been much at-
tached, but whom she had either lost, or who had
proved themselves unworthy of her friendship; and
not unfrequently amused herself and Emily, by
painting in lively colours the characters of her fa-
shionable acquaintance. Still the name of Leslie
was never mentioned, and Emily felt an unconquer-
able reluctance to utter it herself. She remembered
v/ith pain the scandalous tale which Mr. Moreland
had repeated in her presence, at Lady Rachel's sup-
per-table, as having been the cause of Leslie's re-
tiring from the fashionable circles, in which he had
formerly moved ; and, though she firmly believed
that the whole had originated in malice and misre-
presentation, she could not help suspecting that it
bad been, in some measure, the cause of Lady Havi-
land's evident unhappiness, which, though it might
very naturally be supposed to arise from the un-
happy terms on which she lived with her husband,
still to an interested observer, as Emily undoubtedly
was, frequently appeared to arise from some more
secret source.

Since the first day of Emily's residence with Lady
Haviland, she had never seen him whom she could
scarcely yet bring heiself to acknowledge as her fa-
ther, though her ladyship, when speaking of him to
her, regularly gave him that title. Once, in the
course of a morning's ride, he had called at his
lady's rural residence : but, fortunately, as she
thought, Emily was in the garden; and, as he did

596 EMILY MORELAND.

not stay many minutes, he did not then make the
discovery that she was residing- with her ladyship.

*' Though he did not forget," observed her lady-
ship, in mentioning his hasty visit, " to ask after
Miss Russell, and to inquire whether you were re-
siding- with Mrs. Lucy, and who you were."

" And what did you say, dear Madam ?" demanded
Emily, anxious to hear in what manner Lady Havi-
land had parried these home questions.

" Only by asking him, in return," replied her lady-
ship, " if he had any very particular motives for
wishing to know — and, in that case, advising- him to
apply to Mrs. Lucy, who, I had no doubt, could
give him a very satisfactory account of your birth,
parentage, and education. He flounced to the other
end of the room," she continued, "looking daggers
and poison; but neither his frowns nor big looks, as
I have often told him, make any impression on me ;
and so I let him walk himself into good humour
again, though my poor Persian carpet felt the ill
effects of his majestic strides, up and down the draw-
ing-room; and, after a short interval, he recollected,
I suppose, that that was not the way to accomplish
his purpose, and therefore prudently said no more
about it. He has threatened me, however, with his
company for a week or two, at the end of the pre-
sent parliamentary session ; his close attention to his
senatorial duties being his ostensible motive for re-
siding in town, though I happen to know, unfortu-
nately, that pursuits of a very different nature keep
him there. Oh, how paltry and shuffling are the arts
to which a libertine resorts, to conceal his purposes!'*

EMILY MOUELANU. 597

Eoiily sighed.

''Ah, my dear," continued Lady Haviland, " if you
knew the pains which that man has taken, the decep-
tions he has practised, the degradations and dangers
he has suffered, to accomplish his purposes, yon
would not wonder at my speaking of him with con-
tempt. And, after all, for what? For the mere
charms of a pretty face, or an elegant person, which,
like a gay and useless toy, was nu sooner in his pos-
session, than it was thrown aside and disregarded
1 do not believe that, except in one instance, which
you know, Reginald de Cardonnel ever felt any
thing resembling a serious attachment, and his va-
nity and ambition made him throw that away. Flad
he been the husband of your mother, he might have
been a different being, perhaps — but I am giving
you unnecessary pain, by recurring to this subject.
What was I talking of?"

" Of his — of Lord Haviland's intention, Madam,
of passing some time here," replied Emily ; " and 1
was about to say, that, with your permission, I would
take that opportunity of visiting Mrs. Lucy. I pro-
mised, you know "

" No, that will never do, my dear girl," inter-
rupted Lady Haviland. " 1 should die with ennui,
to be compelled to pass a week, i6te-d.-Ut€, with my
lord. I can bear to be alone — but his society is po-
sitively horrifying, without some one to help me to
bear it. Besides, he might take it in his head to
stay a month, if, as I suspect, his finances are rather
low, and he has no new object to engage his at-
tention."

598 EMILY MO R ELAN I).

Emily felt b> no means comfortable at this pros-
.pect, but she saw it would be of no use to oppose
Lady Haviland's wishes, and she tried (o console
herself with the hope that something might happen,
to change his lordship's intention.

The time, however, arrived, and Lord Haviland
signified his adherence to his proposition, by sending
over his valet to see that his apartments were pre-
pared for him.

" My lord desired me to inform your ladyship,"
said the man, whom Lady Haviland sent for into the
breakfast-room, to ask some necessary questions,
" that Mr. Frazer and Captain Templeton will dine
here, to-morrow, with my lord, at six o'clock."

Lady Haviland's countenance declared that she
was by no means pleased at this information ; and
Emily, though she had no occasion to fear meeting
either of these gentlemen, could not help showing
that she anticipated no pleasure in the proposed
party.

" I thought as much," observed Lady Haviland,
when the servant quitted the room; "but 1 shall
soon let Lord Haviland know that I am not going
to have my house made the resort of his riotous, dis-
sipated companions. As to that Frazer, I absolutely
detent him."

"And so do 1," said Emily, with particular em-
phasis.

" Do you know him?" demanded Lady Haviland,
with surprise.

Emily explained that she had seen him frequently
at Lady Rachel Moreland's.

EMILV MORELANO. 599

** Oh, yes, I forgot," observed lier ladyihip, "ho
is a sworn friend of Templeton's; and I recollect
hearing it whispered, that he was the promoter of
his intended marriage with some old dowager — but
I had so much at the time pressing on my mind, that
I paid but little attention to it."

" I should be very glad to avoid ever meeting him
anywhere," faltered Emily, looking down, and
blushing at the recollections that rushed into her
mind.

" He has not surely dared " said Lady Havi-

land, hastily, " but, be that as it will, my dear, you
need not, under my protection, fear any imperti-
nence from him."

"I do not fear him," returned Emily, with firm-
ness, "but I dislike and despise him!"

"And so do I," rejoined Lady Haviland; "but,
unfortunately, we cannot in society always avoid
those we dislike ; and, as I shall not any longer be
able to conceal from my lord that you are with me,
it will be better to act without any restraint. Frazer
knows well that I hate him ; and I think, too, that
he would not dare — nor, indeed, shall he have an
opportunity — for I will soon let him know that you

have no secrets from me, and No, it will be best,

my dear, that you should not seem to fly 'aim, for he
will soon hear from Lord Haviland that you are in
the house."

Emily would again have pressed the possibility of
her avoiding all disagreeables, by retiring to her
friend Mrs. Lucy's for a short time; but she knew
that she should oflfend, by seeming to impeach Lady

GOO EMILY MORELAND.

Haviland's judgment, and she was therefore obliged,
however reluctantly, to acquiesce, and prepare, with
as good a grace as she could assume, for the expected
party.

Ijong before the dinner-hour, Emily heard the ar-
rival of the carriage which brought Lord Haviland;
but she saw nothing of either him or his friends,
until, on the ringing of the first dinner-bell, she de-
scended, with a beating heart, to the drawing-room,
and found them with Lady Haviland, conversing
with great gaiety.

Lord Haviland's look, as he advanced to meet her
and take her hand, told her that he had been pre-
pared to see her; but both Captain Templeton and
his friend seemed for an instant doubtful whether it
was really their former acquaintance — so different
was her present healthy glowing countenance, and
her whole appearance, to the dejected, pale, spirit-
less girl, whom they had been used to see.

Templeton, however, immediately flew, in his
usual frank and easy manner, to shake hands with
her; and Emily, scarcely knowing what she said, in-
quired after Lady Rachel's health.

" Oh, she is well, quite well," he replied, hastily;
" but how little I expected the pleasure of seeing
you here to-day, and seeing you, too, looking like
the goddess of health and beauty, when 1 thought
you were pining in sickness and solitude, with that
old piece of formality, Mrs. Lucy."

"To Mrs. Lucy I am indebted for being here,
Sir," said Emily, gravely, "for her kindness first — "
She paused, recollecting that what she was about to

EMILY MORELAND. 601

Kay, would be a reflection upon his bride ; and Lady
Haviland, quickly comprehending the cause of her
embarrassment, relieved her by remarking,

'^ Mrs. Lucy is my particular friend, too. Temple-
ton ; and I shall not allow a word to be breathed to
her disadvantage, because, perhaps, her age and her
manners are not quite suitable to your youth and
gaiety."

" 'A hit, a palpable hit!' " said Frazer, in a low
voice, but loud enough for all present to compre-
hend him. " Mrs. Lucy and Lady Templeton, 1
believe, were sewing their samplers together, in the
year "

" Oh, we will have no dates," said Lord Haviland,
smiling, " you know they are quite out of the ques-
tion, with ladies' ages."

" Frazer, do you not recognise Miss Russell ?"
said Captain Templeton, pretending not to hear the
latter's observation.

" Oh, yes — but I am waiting patiently for my turn
to congratulate her on her recovery," returned Fra-
zer. " I know I stand no chance of being noticed,
while you are in the way; but, I am sure, Miss
Russell must be convinced that she has not a more
sincere well-wisher than myself."

Emily curtsied very distantly, in return for this
compliment; and Mr. Frazer, with one of his insi-
dious looks, observed, " Lady Templeton will be
quite delighted to hear how well you are looking —
for she told me, the last time I inquired after yon
that she had very little hopes of your recovering.
We wanted your services sadlv," he added, in a lower
26. " 4h

t)02 EMILY MORELAND.

tone, " to officiate as one of the bride's maidens ; for
it was a sad mortification to the youthful bride, to
be attended to church by two withered old maids,
like "

Lady Haviland interrupted him, by calling Emily
to look at some new music which her lord had brought
from town ; and the latter, glad to escape from one
she so much disliked, and feeling very little curiosity
on the subject of the nuptials, left him before he had
time to finish the sentence.

Frazer looked after her, with an expression of
countenance which immediately attracted Lord
Haviland's attention.

" I suspect. Miss Russell is not very grateful for
the admiration you feel towards her," he observed;
" but, who is she, Frazer, or wnere did you first see
her?"

" Your last question is easily answered," replied
Frazer — " at Lady Rachel Moreland's — but who
she is, I believe, is not quite so readily told. Some
of Lady Rachel's friends have good-naturedly sug-
gested that she is a very near relative of that lady;
but, I confess, I do not credit the tale — for, I think,
were she the pledge of any affaire de cceur of the
spinster's, she would either have kept her out of sight
entirely, or treated her with a little more kindness
and consideration than she did."

"Lady Rachel Moreland!" repeated Lord ilcivi-
land, with an air of reflection.

" Yes, Lady Templeton that is," rejoined FiaztT.

" I is strange," observed Lord Haviland, "l)ut I
will try if I cannot fathom the mystery ! Can it he

EMILY MORELAND. 603

possible? — and yet, the age — the features — her a<T;i.
iation — " he paused, observing Frazer's eyes fixed
upon him with a look of surprise and curiosity.

" What the devil are you driving at, Haviland?"
hfl exclairaedj finding his lordship did not proceed.

"Nothing — or, at least, I was forming conjectures
which are very vague and improbable," said Lord
Haviland.

" Tf they concern Miss Russell, do pray admit me
to your counsel; for I am very much interested, 1
assure you, in all that concerns her," replied
Frazer.

Lord Haviland shook his head, and looked gravely
and thoughtfully at his companion, who, with an air
of levity, rejoined —

"Well, never mind, I may be revenged — for my
influence with a certain lady, who is undoubtedly in
possession of the secret — if secret there be — is not
trifling. You know I have done her no small service,
in getting her a husband," (and he nodded at Tem-
pleton, with a sarcastic smile,) "and, should I be in-
clined to put her gratitude to the test, I think I
should find that she could not deny such a trifling
proof of it, if there is no personal motive for conceal-
ment."

" I have a very strong reason for being anxious on
this subject," observed Lord Haviland, gazing in-
tently at Emily, who, unconscious that she was the
subject of their conversation, was smiling at Captain
Templeton's lively remarks.

" I dare say you have," returned Frazer, with
emphasis. " She is not one who is likely to be viewed

604 EMILY MORELAND.

with indifference, by such a professed devotee to
beauty as your lordship ; and it would, undoubtedly,
be very satisfactory to find that she has no connexions
likely to "

" No, by Heavens, you do me injustice !" exclaimed
Lord Haviland — " my thoughts and motives are very
different — but I cannot explain, without recalling
feelings and events which 1 would wish for ever to
bury in oblivion."

"Lord Haviland growing sentimental!" observed
Frazer, with a sneer, " well, now, I confess, my
curiosity is roused."

The summons to dinner prevented his lordship's
reply ; and Frazer, anticipating his intention, darted
forward to offer his hand to conduct Emily to the
dining-room. Lady Haviland having taken Captain
Templeton's offered arm.

" What have you been saying to my lord, to make
him look so serious?" inquired Lady Haviland of
Frazer, who sat next her at table.

"Who — I?" he replied, with pretended surprise.
" I can assure your ladyship, you are quite mistaken
— I am as much in the dark as yourself — for the sub-
ject we were conversing on was one," (and he glanced
significantly at Emily) " not likely to inspire very
sombre ideas — unless, indeed, in those who, like me,
have a conscious sense of utter unvvorthiness," — and
he shrugged up his shoulders with affected humility.

Lady Haviland fixed her dark eyes on his, with a
look which he seemed perfectly to comprehend,
though he only replied to it by a smile, and imme-
diately addressed some observation to his friend

EMILY MORE LAND. 605

Templeton, which prevented any further remark from
her ladyship.

When they retired from table, Lady Haviland
mentioned to Emily what had passed, adding, that
she was certain something unusual had occasioned
the change so perceptible in Lord Haviland's man-
ner; for he had been, at his first entrance, particu-
larly gay and cheerful, but from the moment he had
conversed with Frazer apart, had become more
thoughtful and melancholy than she had ever seen
him.

" What could that hateful man have said about
you, my dear?" she continued, "for I know that it
was of you they were speaking, and I repeatedly
caught Lord Haviland's eyes fixed upon you at din-
ner-time, in a manner so peculiar, that he actually
blushed when he saw that I was observing him."

Emily declared her inability to account for this
conduct, unless, indeed, as she observed, Lady Ra-
chel had made some communication respecting her
(Emily) to Frazer, which the latter had repeated to
Lord Haviland. The extreme caution of her lady-
ship, however, on this subject, and the horror she had
always expressed, lest it should be known that she
had taken under her protection one whose birth she
considered so great a disgrace to her family, seemed
to render this very improbable, particularly with
regard to Frazer, whom she always spoke of as " a
very gay man," with whom it was necessary to be on
the reserve.

Lady Haviland agreed that it was unlikely, adding
— " It appears much more probable that she should

(!0G EMILY MOREL AND.

have made such a communication to her husband ; and
yet," she continued, " I am very certain that Tem-
pleton knows nothing of your connexion with the
Moreland family ; for he made some remarks respect-
ing you, which convinced me that he had not the
slightest suspicion of your real situation."

Emily's heart beat with violence, when, on the
entrance of the gentlemen to tea. Lord Haviland, by
a dexterous manoeuvre, seated himself next her on a
sofa, to the exclusion of Mr. Frazer, who was ad-
vancij.;.' 1;; ;:!C' sa sie point.

" You tofget, my lord," he observed, with evident
pique, " that Miss Russell and I are old friends, and
that I have a thousand things to tell her, that have
liappened since I last saw her."

" Not one of which I feel the least interest in, I
assure you. Sir," said Emily, with quickness.

" Indeed!" returned Frazer, " then, I must con-
clude, that, like most of your sex, you prefer new
friends to old ones."

" I have not lived long enough in the world to
make many friends,^ ^ replied Emily, "and of those I
have, few have the honour of Mr. Frazer's acquain-
tance. With the exception of Lady Templeton,
and those present, I believe I may say none, and [
have already heard that her ladyship is well and
happy."

" So, then, you really disclaim all curiosity to hear
about the bridal ceremony and the wedding dresses,"
he observed, trying to appear unconcerned at the
very evident desire she evinced, to avoid all parti-
cular conversation with him.

EMILY MORELANU. G07

" I certainly do," said Emily, smiling, " for I feel
not the slightest interest in such matters."

" Well, I dare say. Lord Haviland will find some
subject that can interest you," he replied, " and I see
that you are both anxious to be rid of me — so I will
no longer be an interruption to your entertainment,"
and he threw himself into a chair on the opposite
side of the room, from whence, with half-closed eyes,
and an assumption of total inattention, he continued
to watch what passed between Lord Haviland and
Emily.

" Frazer is no favourite of yours, Miss Russell,'
observed his lordship, who, for perhaps the first time
in his life, when seated by a young and beautiful
woman, seemed to feel at a loss how to commence a
conversation.

" I know very little of Mr. Frazer, my lord," re-
turned Emily, with timidity, " but, I confess, that
his manners do not prepossess me in his favour."

"Yet he is a general favourite with the ladies,"
observed his lordship, " and, I assure you, there are
not a few who would think themselves highly ho-
noured, were he to distinguish them as he does you."

" Indeed!" replied Emily, with a smile of incre-
dulity ; " then, I suppose, I must attribute to my oavu
stupidity the inability to discover his merits."

" Were he not my friend," said Lord Haviland,
*^ I should be inclined to think that it is your superior
penetration, which enables you to discover his waut
of them."

Emily did not reply — the tea was handed round, and,
in a few minutes, the conversation became general.

608 EMILY MORELAND.

Captain Templeton had, it appeared, passed the
honeymoon at Brighton, and he spoke with raptures
of the pleasantness of the place, the healthfulness of
the sea breezes, and the beautiful rides and walks in
the neighbourhood.

" I do not like Brighton," observed Lady Havi-
land, " because one sees there only the same set of
faces that one has been tired to death of in London.
Now, at any other watering-place, one has a chance
of meeting with some few who have the charms of
novelty, if nothing else, to recommend them; and I
recollect that, even when I spent a summer in Wales,
I was not half so tired of looking at the rosy cheeks
and black eyes, that I used to meet in my walks,
though they were all as like each other as twin
cherries growing on the same stalk, as I was when I
promenaded the Steyne, or lounged away the morn-
ings in the libraries at Brighton, amidst all the beau-
ties of the town."

"Were you ever in Wales, Miss Russell?" said
Lord Haviland, in a low voice, and looking earnestly
at I^nily.

" I have been in South Wales, my lord," she re-
plied, casting down her eyes, in extreme confusion,
" but my knowledge of it is very limited."

Lord Haviland was again silent, but it was evi-
dent that her manner had increased his thoughtful-
ness and his. interest for her, though he was appa-
rently fearful of pressing on her any farther in-
quiries.

The question he had asked, had brought into
Emily's mind a train of mournful and tender reflec-

EMILY MOR ELAND. GOi)

tions— she thought of the lovely and tranquil home,
in which lier happy infancy had been passed, and of
the friends who were now quietly reposing there —
and tears dimmed her eyes, as she turned them upon
the features of him whose vices had embittered their
days, and whom she now^ dared scarcely acknow-
ledge in her heart as her father.

" Could my dear grandfather now see me, thus
quietly seated by his side," she mentally reflected,
*' and know that 1 am, though still unacknowledged
and unknown, thrown upon him for protection and
support — and yet he could not — would not blame me
— for, guilty and erring as he is "

" What is the matter, Emily ?" said Lady Havi-
land, whose eyes had been fixed on her expressive
countenance, and immediately discovered that some-
thing had agitated her.

Emily started from her reverie, but, before she
could frame an answer. Lord Haviland observed —

" I am very unfortunate, in always exciting un-
pleasant recollections in Miss Russell's mind ; but
she must forgive me, and remember that it is invo-
untary on my part."

Emily could not reply, and Lady Haviland, who
jiad not heard her lord's apology, beckoned her to
*er.

'*' Lord Haviland's dulness seems to be quite in-
fectious, my love," she observed, " do, for good-
ness' sake, leave him to his own thoughts, and come
acre by me."

Emily gladly accepted the seat which Captain
Templeton resigned to her, and in a few minutes so
26. 4 I

610 EMILY MOUELAN'D.

far recovered herself as to join in the conversation,
which Lady Haviland's abrupt observation had in-
terrupted.

" Captain Tenipleton is dying to hear you sing^,
Emily," said her ladyship. " He has surprised me
by telling me, that neither Lady Templeton or him-
self knew of your musical talents."

" Lady Tenipleton has not hitherto been musi-
cally inclined," said Frazer, who was leaning on
the back of Emily's chair ; " but Templeton has
already introduced a grand piano-forte, and half a
dozen other instruments, to her acquaintance ; and
T should not wonder, before the next winter is
over, at her ladyship giving some grand concerts,
and, perhaps, astonishing us with her own scientific
performances."

Captain Templeton was the first to laugh at this
sally at the expense of his bride, and Emily inno-
cently added to the general mirth by observing, that
she had often regretted Lady Rachel's not being
harmoniously inclined.

" I believe, indeed, that you had good reason to
regret that there was ' no music in her soul,' " said
Frazer, significantly.

Emily did not reply to this hint — for she felt that,
harshly and unfeelingly as Lady Rachel had behaved
towards her, it would be neither decorous nor proper
to encourage any disrespectful allusions to her, in
the presence of her husband ; and it did not increase
her respect for Templeton, that he seemed by no
means to discourage his friend's sarcasms at her ex-
pense.

EMILY MO R ELAND. 611

Both Tenipleton and his friend Frazer sang, and
Emily, having conquered the timidity which in some
measure obscured her first effort, exerted herself so
successfully, that the little party were delighted.

Lord Haviland, indeed, was still serious and out
of spirits, though Frazer more than once rallied him
so severely, that he tried to force himself to join in
the gay and cheerful conversation, which filled up
the intervals of the music.

The clock struck eleven, before the party thought
of separating.

" I will only intrude once more on Miss Russell,''
said Captain Tenipleton, when reminded by his friend
that they had seven miles to ride, " Lady Haviland
has told me that she sings a simple ballad, without

music, inimitably "

Emily commenced the old ballad of " Robin
Gray,' in her sweetest and most plaintive style ;
but she had scarcely got through the first stanza,
before the breathless silence with which they were
listening, was interrupted by a low exclamation of
agony from Lord Haviland, who was seated exactly
opposite to the singer, and had now thrown himself
back in his seat, and, with his hands, concealed his
features from observation.

Lady Haviland flew to him — " Reginald, dear Re-
ginald !" she exclaimed, forgetting in a moment the
usual coldness and distance of her manner — " you
are ill — I am sure you are ill !"

" No, yes — I am — Oh, God !" and again he sank
back in his chair, while Emily, pale, trembling, and
affrighted, could scarcely conquer the impulse she

61*2 EMILY MORELAND.

felt, at that moment, to fly to his assistance. The
consciousness, however, that Frazer's eyes were
fixed upon her with a look of extreme curiosity, re-
strained her.

" I am very weak, nervous — I do not know what
ails me !" observed Lord Haviland, trying to re-
cover himself — " Do not let me alarm you, Julia,'*
and he raised the trembling hand, which his lady
had laid on his, to his lips.

" We had better retire, I think," said Frazer, in
a low voice, to Captain Templeton, " I suspect our
presence here, at this moment, is very mal cl propos,
and may prevent a very interesting deiwuement.^''

" But, Miss Russell?" said Templeton, looking at
her.

" Oh, do not mind me — pray do not — I am very —
quite well," said Emily, scarcely conscious of what
she uttered, but anxious that both Lady Haviland
and her lord should be left to the indulgence of
feelings so new, or, at least, so long suppressed. The
former, however, recovered her recollection, when
she saw the two gentlemen about to leave the room.

" I am afraid Lord Haviland is really ill," she
observed, <juitting him, and speaking to Captain
Templeton, as if requiring his advice.

" 1 hope not," replied the latter, advancing to-
wards him.

" What the devil is the matter with you, Havi-
land ?" exclaimed Frazer, in his usual familiar man-
ner. " Why you are as vapourish as a sentimental
school-girl ! I think you had better order vour
horse, and ride with us to town."

EMILY MORELANI). (j\ti

Lady Haviland's countenance instantly changed —
*' It will he the best remedy— the most effectual, I
dare say, for my lord's vapours," she observed, with
a sarcastic smile.

" No — no !" interrupted Lord Haviland, hastily,
" I will remain here, Julia, — I have been too long
a stranger to my home — but, if you will bear with
me — if you will forgive me "

" You will stay at home, and be a good boy for
the future ! There, now, I have finished the sen-
tence for you," said Frazer, with a smile of de-
rision. " Well, I confess, I could find it in my
heart to play the penitent, too, in such good com-
pany ; but as I have no hope of interesting any one
in my reformation, and can find nothing at home to
render it bearable, I suppose I must e'en be content
to go on in the old way, and make myself as happy
as I can abroad."

No one felt inclined to reply to this ill-timed sally,
which Frazer's glance at Emily rendered particu-
larly annoying, and, in a few minutes, they de-
parted.

A long pause of silence succeeded. Lord Havi-
land seemed desirous of saying something, yet knew
not how to commence ; and his lady, on whom
Frazer's insinuation had evidently not been lost,
had resumed her usual coldness and distance towards
him, and thun discouraged him from speaking.

" You are tired, my dear girl," observed her lady-
ship, looking earnestly at Emily, " and so am I — we
will therefore wish Lord Haviland good-night. 1
hope," she continued, " we shall see your lordship

614 EMILY MORELAND.

in better health md spirits to-morrow,*' — and she
placed her arm within Emily's, and moved towards
the door.

" Do not leave me thus, Julia," replied Lord Ha-
viland, holding out his hand to her.

Emily withdrew her arm, and attempted to leave
the room alone, but Lady Haviland detained her.

" Lord Haviland can have iiothinj^ to say to me,
Emily," she observed, " of wh*ch you may not with
propriety be a witness."

" I am aware of it, Julia — I am perfectly aware
of the right she has to witness my sorrow — my re-
morse !" He then drew them both gently towards
him, and leaning his head on Lady Haviland's
shoulder, gave way for some minutes in silence to the
powerful emotions that overwhelmed him.

" If I were inclined to be malicious towards you,
Reginald," said Lady Haviland, " I might require
an explanation of this scene ; but I respect Emily's
feelings too much, and I pity you — though I have
more reason to envy you — for you have found a
daughter, of whom the happiest father might be
proud — while I have gained nothing !"

'' Yes, Julia — you have gained my fervent gratitude
and admiration," replied Lord Haviland. " I know
not, as yet, how, or under what circumstances, Emily
has been introduced to your notice; but I do not the
less appreciate the nobleness of those feelings, which
have induced you to extend your protection to one
whom most women, placed in your situation, would
regard with very different sentiments. Emily, too,
1 am sure, feels this — and she will help me to be

EMILY MORELAND. Gij

thankful! She will assist her father to show his
gratitude. Oh, Julia, how deeply do I feel, at
this moment, the errors and folly of my past con-
duct— I know that I have been unkind and insen-
sible "

"We will have no retrospections, Reginald," in-
terrupted Lady Haviland; " neither you nor I have
much cause to look on the past with satisfaction;
but, if you are sincere in your wish to retrieve, as far
as possible, the happiness "

" I believe, Julia," interrupted Lord Haviland,
"amid all my errors, and I confess they have been
numerous, you have never yet had to charge me with
insincerity towards you. I have often thought, in-
deed, that hypocrisy on my part would have been an
approach to virtue, since it would have spared you
much of that pain and vexation which I know you
have felt ; but it is useless to regret what it is too
late to recal— all I would say is, that I hope you
will think I am entitled to the same credit, when I
assure you that it is my serious intention to re-
nounce those follies that have hitherto divided us,
as I was, when I once told you that I was resolved
to consult no dictates but those of my own inclina-
tions, and seek my own pleasures without controlling
yours."

The colour that mounted to Lady Haviland's
cheek, and the fire that for a moment sparkled in her
eye, betrayed that she had not forgotten the decla-
ration which he thus referred to ; but it was only the
anger of a moment, and she smiled a reply to Emily's
earnest and deprecating glance.

^IQ EMILY MORELAND.

" "V^'e have both need to forget and forgive, my
Jord," she returned. " It is not yet so late, thank
God ! but that we may both feel the advantages of
so doing — though I will not make unlimited promises
of amendment on my part — nor exact them from you.
You have, I know, formed ties, which "

" None, none, that I do not from this instant re-
nounce ! — None that 1 have not long since repented !"
exclaimed Lord Kaviland, " and none, even had that
not been the case, that your present conduct would
not teach me to repent ! No, Julia, I am sincere and
earnest in my declaration, that in my home alone will
I, for the future, seek for happiness."

" Emily looks as if she wished me to believe and
trust you," said Lady Haviland, smiling through the
tears which, in spite of her efforts to appear calm
and unmoved, forced their way down her cheeks.
" Upon her recommendation, therefore, I will

rely."

" I will not deceive either her or your confidence,"
he replied, with emotion ; " but I dare not, I cannot,
trust myself to say to Emily half that my heart dic-
tates."

" 1 shall not suffer you to say another word to her
to-night," said Lady Haviland, gently withdrawing
Emily from his embrace; "it is time, indeed," she
added, that we all seek repose. To-morrow, my lord,
1 shall beg an hour's conversation, on a subject which
you will easily guess," glancing at Emily. " It is
proper that something decisive should be done, to
secure against chance or accident, and prevent all
future inconvenience. You will, perhaps, give the

EMILV MORELAND Gil

ijubject. I allude to the beueiit of your consideration
before we meet again. Good night!"

Lord Haviland reiterated the " good night," and
Emily, unable to utter a word, returned the pressure
of his hand, and followed her friend to her dressing-
room.

" You are a little simpleton," said the latter, after
fiivino- her a short time to indulge the tears, which
relieved her swelling heart. " It is I who have the
most reason to cry, who, through your means, have
been defeated in all my fine plans of vengeance for
ujy lord's transgressions. I had flattered myself with
the hopes of making him supremely miserable, by
your means; instead of which, it appears, he is likely
to become a happier man than he has been for some
years."

" I hope so," returned Emily, with energy, " and,
1 am sure, you hope so too, and will do your best to
make him so."

Lady Haviland shook her head.
" He has caught me in a very forgiving mood, to-
night," she observed; " but I don't know — I cannot
answer for myself, how long it may last. We have
a long account to settle, and we may perhaps disagree
yet on some of the items."

" I trust — I hope — I fei-vently pray that nothing
that is past, will be allowed now to interfere with
your happiness," said Emily ; " and, for the future —

Oh, 1 am sure — I am certain "

" Go to bed, my love, and set your foolish heart at
rest, with the certainty that I am as anxious as your-
self, that your father's latter days should be happy
26. 4 K

618 EMILY MORELAND.

and peaceful. We areneither of us growing younger,
Emily; and with such a remembrancer as you con-
stantly before him, I should hope it will be impossible
that he can again err. I have a secret to impart to
yon, too, that I believe has had no little influence
on his present resolutions. He has very recently
discovered, that, though he has had attractions
enough to win a lady's heart, and even to induce
her to forget her duty, and forfeit her reputation
for his sake, he no longer possesses the power of
retaining it; and the infidelity of his chere-amie
has "

" Oh, no, I will not allow you to think that so
unworthy a motive has had any influence with him,"
interrupted Emily.

" Go to bed, I tell you — I will not positively listen
to another word from you, for you do as you please
with me/' said Lady Haviland.

Emily aff'ectionately pressed her hand to her lips,
and left her, to reflect on the occurrences of the
evening.

EMILY MORELAND. 619

CHAPTER XXIII.

Reserve and womanly pride are in her look,
Though tempered into meekness; she can brook
Unkindness and neglect from those she loves,
Because she feels it undeserved; which proves
That firm and conscious rectitude hath power
To blunt Fate's darts in sorrow's darkest hour.

A. Watts.

JbAHY Haviland breakfasted in her own dressing-
room, and Emily, whose spirits were yet fluttered by
her reflections, felt relieved when her ladyship sent
for her to breakfast with her, as she had anticipated
that she should be obliged to meet her father alone.
" These new arrangements have played sad havoc
with my night's rest, my dear," observed her lady-
ship; "I have been thinking that it will be very
unreasonable to expect Lord Haviland to confine
himself to this retired spot, and that it would be
equally unjust and cruel to deny you a share of the

amusements, which, at your age Now, don't

interrupt me, Emily — I know you are going to say-
that your ' sober wishes' would never ' stray' be-
yond your present lot ; but it would be very unna-
tural for you, not to wish for society and amusements
suitable to your age; and I know that, however
Jjord Haviland and I may be disposed at present to
play Darby and Joan, we should soon get heartily
tired of one another, without some occasional relief
to the monotony of such a domestic life. I did once

620 EMILY MOliELAND.

think, that no inducement on earth should prevail
with nie to return to London, as a residence ; but^
under the present circumstances, I have come to the
resolution, that is, if my lord approves, (for, as I am
going henceforward to be a dutiful wife, that pro-
viso is necessary,) that it will be the most prudent
and proper course to take a house there, for a few
months, at least, in the year. It will be too much to
expect that he can at once break through all his old
habits ; and, indeed, it will be absolutely necessary
for my lord to have a residence in London, during
the sitting of Parliament."

Emily could not oppose this reasoning, but she
felt no sort of sa<^isfaction at the prospect of ex-
cnanging- her present delightful home for a town life,
of which the little experience she had had, by no
means prepossessed her in its favour.

A message from Lord Haviland, to inquire if her
ladyship would admit him, sent Emily to her room
again, as soon as the breakfast was concluded ; and
she remained there, endeavouring, with her books
and work, to beguile her anxiety, as to the result of
the discussion between her father and Lady Havi-
land, who, with the best intentions in the Avorld,
she felt was yet apt to be somewhat too self-willed,
and expected too much deference to be paid to her
opinions.

It was nearly two hours before her suspense was
put an end to, by a visit from her ladyship, whose
countenance, though it bore the impression of recent
agitation, was still sufficiently expressive of satisfac-
tion to relie\e all her (Emily's) fears.

EMIT^,Y MORELAND. 621

Lady Ilaviland smiled, as Emily hastily rose to
receive her.

" I can read in your anxious look, my dear girl,
that you have been in doubt of my behaving myself
properly, in this momentous interview," she ob-
served ; " but set your little heart at rest, I have
been as mild and as forbearing as if you yourself had
been present to direct me. Lord Haviland and I
are on the best possible terms — how could it be
otherwise, when he was all humility and conde-
scension to my terms, and I determined for once, at
least, to be reasonable ? He agrees with me, that it
will be desirable to resume a regular establishment
in town, still keeping this as an occasional retreat,
and visiting our house in Leicestershire, as usual,
in the summer. We are both, however, agreed in
not launching into the extravagances of company,
&c. ; and, however our fashionable friends may
laugh, or sneer at our determination, with such
powerful reasons as we both have to support it, I
trust we shall be enabled to keep our prudent reso-
lutions. We have had more difficultv in coming' to
a conclusion respecting your introduction into the
world — both your father and myself are anxious that
you should have every advantage that it is possible,
under existing circumstances, to give you; but, as
you are already known to several of our acquaint-
ances, and would probably be recognised by many
more, \inder the name which Lady Rachel's pru-
dery bestowed on you, it seems most advisable you
should continue to bear it. Your father, however,
will take care that you shall not be considered as a

G22 EMILY MOllELAND.

dependant on any one. He intends, as soon as the
necessary forms can be got through, to settle a suf-
ficient sum on you, in the character he will bear, as
your guardian ; and the world, when it is known that
you have a fortune of ten thousand pounds at your
disposal, will be quite satisfied to regard you as you
ought to be regarded, without any very particular in-
quiries as to whence you derived it. Not a word,
Emily," she added, placing her white hand on the
mouth of the latter, "I will not hear one word in
the way of gratitude. This is merely doing you an
act of justice, which I have contemplated from the
moment that I knew you were the daughter of one,
whose wrongs never gave a more acute pang to her
dearest relative, than to her who was unconsciously,
or at least involuntarily, an accessory to them. In-
deed, Emily, to speak candidly, the sum I have men-
tioned is at my own disposal. It was once intended
to have been given to another, — one whom I consi-
dered as my own son, — one who supplied to me the
want of that blessing, which heaven has thought fit
to deny me ; but he has forfeited all claim to my
affection ! He has scornfully rejected all obliga-
tions to me! 1 cannot speak on this subject,

Emily — I know not why I should have spoken of it
at all, for it is one that I cannot bear with patience,
— but I was intending to prove to you, my dear girl,
that I have a free right to dispose of the sum in
question as I please, and that, as it has been long
set apart for a particular purpose, for which it is no
longer required, it is no loss to either your father or
mvself. The interest of it has hitherto been devoted

EMILY MORHLAXU. G'2-J

to the purpose of educating, and afterwards to
enable the young man of whom 1 have spoken, to
maintain the rank of life in which he had been
brought up — but that is all over now, and it will be
henceforth yours."

Emily's feelings were put to a severe trial by this
explanation. That it was Herbert Leslie of whom
her ladyship spoke, she could not entertain a doubt ;
and that she herself should be fated to rise on the
ruins of his fortune, that she should become rich and
independent by his condemnation to poverty and de-
pendance, seemed the heaviest infliction that could
have befallen her. With this explanation, too, ended
at once ail the hopes she had, without daring to ac-
knowledge them even to herself, secretly nounshed
with regard to Leslie. He was the enemy cf her
father — of the generous woman, who was thus load-
ing her with obligations, and who, foregoing all
petty feelings and jealousies, regarded her as a
daughter. He had treated her (LadyHaviland) with
cruelty and ingratitude, and could Emily, then, do
other than contemn and despise him ?

She would have spoken, would have tried to ex-
press the gratitude that she felt was due to Lady
Haviland, but thoughts too painful for utterance
rushed upon her mind, and she burst into a passion of
tears.

Lady Haviland regarded her, for some moments,
with silent surprise — " What am I to understand
from these tears, Emily ?" she at length observed.
** 1 cannot suppose they proceed from joy — yet what
I have said that can occasion sorrow, I know not — if,
indeed, you had known Herbert Leslie "

624 EMILY MORELAND.

" I do know him !" interrupted Emily, throwing
her arms round Lady Haviland's neck, and hiding
her blushing face on her shoulder. " I do know
him, and to find that he is unworthy — that he has
forfeited, for ever, your favour and protection — to
know that I can no longer, consistent with gratitude
and affection to you, consider him as a friend "

" Where, and how did you become acquainted
with him, my dear girl ? When did you see him
last?" exclaimed Lady Haviland, '' and how came
it that you have never mentioned his name to me
before ? Did Mrs. Lucy know that you were ac-
quainted with him ?"

" No, I never heard her mention his name," re-
plied Emily, " nor should I have done so, but that
you now spoke of him. It is a long time," she
added, in a faltering voice, " since I saw him, and
then it was only by accident."

" But you have not told me where you first saw
him 1"

" It was at my own home, in the Valley of St.
Clare," returned Emily, blushing a still deeper dye.

" And did he then know who you were ? Did he
know, I mean, the relationship in which you stood
to Lord Haviland ?" inquired her ladyship, with in-
creasing surprise.

'•' Oh, no, he does not know, at least " replied

Emily, recollecting herself, " if he does, it is not from
me — but the last time I ever saw him, he was with a
lady, the friend to whom I have often alluded as
having supplied a mother's place to me, and for
whose desertion of me I am still at a loss to account
— from her he may have heard— bjjt she. as well as

EMIT-Y MORET,AND. ()25

niysfiir, wa*^ ignorant of the title Mr. de Cardonnel —
my father — now bears. She knows him only by that
name ; nor did I, when T heard Mr. Leslie speak of
his adopted parents, snspect that they were "

" This is all perfectly inexplicable to me," ob-
served Lady Haviland, hastily. " Do, my dear

child, tell me how hecame there ; and, in short,

Emily, tell me the whole particulars of your ac-
quaintance, for I am dying with curiosity ; and I
suspect, very strongly suspect, that you can explain
much tliat has been hitherto a mystery to me, in Mr.
Leslie's conduct."

" I know very little of him, indeed. Madam," re-
turned Emily ; " but, what t do know, I can have
no reason for concealing from you."

Emily then proceeded to relate the particulars of
her first meeting with Leslie — ^^her surprise at his
never again visiting them — and her subsequent ren-
contre with him in London ; passing over, however,
as lightly as possible, her own feelings and conjec-
tures respecting iiini.

" It was you, then, for whom he borrowed my
carriage, one night, at the Theatre ?" said Lady
Haviland, Emily having purposely omitted mention-
ing that circumstance, in her relation of what had
passed there.

Emily replied in the affirmative, adding, " I little
suspected, indeed, then, who the carriage belonged
to, though my sudden illness was owing to my hav-
ing, t'or the first time, that evening, seen my father,
who was in an opposite box, and was well known
lo my companion, Susiii."

-27. 4 L

S'-'^J EjMILY moreland.

" How strange ! how very singular !" observed
Lady Haviland. " Poor Herbert, how wrongfully
did I accuse him, that night ! I believed it to be a
very different person that he had accompanied from
the Theatre, or, at least, that he had taken the
liberty of borrowing my carriage for. There was a
young lady with Lord Haviland, was there not,
Emily ?"

Emily hung down her liead, as she replied, "\es,
I believe so."

" You know it, Emily, and you know, I see, more
on that subject than you like to acknowledge. Well,
then, I will tell you, candidly, that on that evening
she was brought to the Theatre for the sole purpose
of insulting and annoying me. Your father had re-
solved on throwing aside all ties between us, and I,
foolishly and rashly, believed that Herbert Leslie
had united in the plot against me. A mere accident
betrayed to me that he had taken the carriage for a
young lady, whose description answered to that of
the female who on that night accompanied Lord
Haviland. I questioned Herbert respecting the lady
he had been seen putting into my carriage, and re-
ceived such evasive answers, that I lost all patience.
My servants informed me that her name was Gilbert,
and that they had set her down at my own milliner's,
(Mrs. Trenchard's,) but the woman denied all know-
ledge either of the name or the transaction. She
was not at home on the night in question, and her
apprentice, who must have received the lady, who-
ever stie was, had left her house, and she knew not
where to find her. [ saw there was a secret to be

rMlLY MORKT.AND. G27

kept — for Mrs. Trenchard was evidently frightened,
and knew not how to evade my inquiries; and by
other means than hers I learned that Lord Haviland's
mistress, Mrs. Byfield, as she was called, was one of
the former's best customers ; and that not only Lord
Haviland had been seen entering the house with her,
but that Mr. Leslie was a frequent visitant. Can
*you wonder, then, Emily, that I concluded it was
her he had escorted thither, on that memorable even-
ing— or that I reproached Leslie with ingratitude
and hypocrisy? His impetuous spirit was roused by
my (I now know) unjust and unfounded reproaches,
and by the epithets I bestowed on the female, whom
he had presumed to place in my carriage. I am
ashamed now to recollect half what I said — but we
parted, never to meet again ! Do not imagine, how-
ever, Emily, that this was the only source of the
division between us. Circumstances, which relate
solely to himself, had before occasioned considerable
uneasiness between us, and now they all broke out
with fresh violence. I know that I have been wrong
— very wrong — and that I acted only from a desire
to revenge, where I ought rather to have soothed;
but still his conduct has been, in some respects, in-
defensibly bad, and he deserves to suffer."

" But is it not possible, dear Lady Haviland," said
Emily, persuasively, " that you have been under a
wrong impression in those other circumstances, as
well as in this? Perhaps, if you were to investigate

calmly " She paused, fearful of betraying the

deep interest which her heart took in Leslie s favour.

" At some mo^e favourable period, Emily," re-

623 E !\1 1 L Y M O R E L A }( J) .

plied Lady Haviland, " I will tell you the whole —
but I will not promise," she added, " to be guided
by your counsel, for I see plainly to which side your
heart leans. I am not ^oing to blame you, my dear
girl, for this — I can well comprehend that to a young
girl, inexperienced as you were and are, Herbert

Leslie but I will not say another word — I am

sure you have too much good sense and good feeling
not to be convinced -"

" I am convinced, dear Madam," interrupted
Emily, with energy " I am convinced that, were 1 to
indulge a thought or sentiment that was inconsistent
with your wishes, I should be guilty of the grossest
ingratitude; but, at the same time, I do earnestly
entreat you will suspend the intention respecting the
sum which you say was once devoted to him. If he
should prove equally unblamable in other respects,
as he has done in this, you would yourself repent
having acted so hastily."

" No, Emily," said Lady Haviland, smiling, and
half-whispering) as she pressed her lips affectionately
to the cheek of the latter, " no, my dear girl," she
repeated, ^' I should, even then, have no occasion to
repent — since it would be then in my power to double
tlie value of the gift, by adding you to it. But I am
wrong, very wrong," she added, " for a moment to
indulge such thoughts, for I much fear that even you
will fail in convincing me that Herbert Leslie has
not acted shamefully and cruelly towards me."

Emily, however, did not feel so despairi.iffjy on
the su)}ject, and, with a heart lightened of half its
load, she followed Lady Haviland to the i-hrary

EMMA' M () U r. I, A \ I) . 620

» lie re lier fiilluM' had been awaiting the result of
this long and interesting conversation.

At (he door, her ladyship snddenly stopped — " It
luis jiist struck me, my love," she observed, " that
it will be as well not to mention your acquaintance
Mitli Herbert to your father, at present."

Emily readily acquiesced in this arrangement.

'^ Well, it is all settled," observed Lady Havi-
land, when they entered the room, " so you may, as
soon as you please, make arrangements for our visit
to town ; for Emily has been quite long enough se-
cluded from such pleasures as at her age she ought
to enjoy."

Euiily would fain have declared that she was per-
fectly contented with those she at present enjoyed ;
but it could not escape her observation, that Lady
Haviland, with all her professed love of retirement,
and her antipathy to fashionable society, was glad
to seize the excuse now afforded her of entering
again into the gay scenes she had voluntarily re-
nounced, and she forbore, therefore, from express-
ing her ow n sentiments.

Besides, might she (Emily) not, in London, meet
once more the friend whose idea was never absent
from her mind, even in these happy moments, when
she saw herself acknowledged by her father, and
placed, by his means, beyond the reach of w ant or
anxiety. With the image of the Signora was inse-
parably connected that of Herbert Leslie, and
Emily's heart palpitated at the indistinct visions that
il-ii^tcd through her mind.

Osi tlie following morning, Lord Haviland left

630 EM1L\ MORELAND.

them for J^oiiJon ; and Emily, all anxiety for the
narrative her ladyship had promised to give her
respecting- Leslie, soon contrived to lead her to the
subjec\

" You know, already, Emily," sVe observed, in
commencing her story, " that Herbert Leslie was
adopted by me in infancy ; but not even to himself
have I ever related the particulars which I will now
entrust to you. You will be at a loss, I know, to
comprehend my motives for this secrecy, and I am
conscious that I have done wrong ; but, to proceed : —

" The first years of my marriage, in addition to
other causes of discontent, were rendered very un-
happy by Reginald's disappointment, as well as my
own, of the hopes of a family. I was always pas-
sionately fond of children, and I envied every mo-
ther I saw, and fancied that in the caresses and affec-
tion of one of those little innocents, I should have
found a compensation for every care, and a never-
failing source of pleasure. Often and often the idea
of adopting and rearing one as my own occurred to
me, and at length an opportunity offered, which
seemed to piomise every gratification to my wishes,
without any of the inconveniences which had de-
terred^me in other cases.

" We were residing one summer at a beautiful
romantic village in Sussex, not far fr->m the coast —
1 said we, but it was principally myself, for Lord
Haviland passed but little of his time there ; and T,
being just then suffering from one of those fits of
languor and despondence which frequently drove me
to shun l\\^ society, passed most of my t'mc in waii-

^KSo^c

^/ .

////('/ [ (■ ////// // V v/ ; /r(/ // ■//// • '^ /^f // .

Zi/ndon . J-'ui'lishgd iu &. Yirt?/'' . 25, Imla/w

EMILY IWORELAND. 631

(iex'ing alone about the lovely country whit h sur-
rounded my residence. In one of those excursions,
on a very hot day in Juno, I sought refuge from the
overpowering" heat of the sun in a delightful grove,
about a mile and a half from home, in which I had
before, with a book, or sometimes no other compa-
nion than my own melancholy thoughts, thrown my-
self on the smooth green turf, and free from all fear
of interruption, reposed for hours. On this day, to
my surprise, however, I found my favourite spot
pre-occupied ; for, on putting aside the branches, I
beheld a beautiful boy, apparently Avearied with play,
buried in a profound sleep. He was seemingly about
four years old, and though dressed with perfect
neatness, was evidently, from the texture of his
clothes, not above the condition of a cottager's
child. Never, however, had I beheld so perfect an
image of infantine beauty and simplicity. It was not
mere rustic beauty either — for the features, even in
sleep, seemed to beam with intelligence, and the
limbs were moulded by the very hand of symmetry
itself. I stood gazing in silent admiration at the
little wanderer, while a sigh of regret and envy, at
the happy mother of such a child, broke uncon-
sciously from my bosom. The boy continued to
sleep, while I, seating myself at a little distance, re-
mained silently observing him. At length, he un-
closed a pair of radiant dark eyes, and fixed them
on me with a look of surprise, but unmixed witli
that bashfulness which might have been expected
from a child in such a situation.

** * Are you not afraid to be sleeping here by

Ct]2 I'-MILV MORKI.AND.

yourself, my dear?' I inquired ; ' and will not your
mother be alarmed at your being- away so long ?' '

"' No,' he replied, ' I often come here when I'm
lired, and mammy is glad to get rid cf me, because
lier head aches, and I make a noise.' '^^

'•'And where does your mammy live?' I asked.

"' If you will come with me, I uill show you.' he
replied, bounding up, and offering his hand.

" I readily accepted his invitation, anxious to know
more of a child whose manners as well as appearance
seemed so much superior to his situation.

" On my way to the humble cottage he had pointed
to as his home, I learned that he liad no father. He
did not know whether he was dead; but his mammy,
he said, was going to die ! She had told him so, and
the big tear swelled in his bright eyes as he re-
peated it.

'• ' And who will take care of you, when your mo-
ther is gone?' I asked.

" ' I don't know,' replied the child; ' perhaps, God
Almighty will — for mammy says he is my only
friend.'

" A thousand thoughts darted into my mind at this
innocent observation; and I hastened on in silence,
with my little guide.

" The cottage to which he led me, was not only of
the humblest description, but the little garden in
which it stood bore evident signs of neglect and
desolation.

" ' Mammy, here's a pretty lady come to see you,*
said the child, as he entered. The poor woman made
an elrbrt to rise from the chair, on which she was

EMILY MORELAND. 633

seated, but she was evidently in the last stajje of a
decline, and sank back again from weakness.

" 1 inquired how long she had been ill, and learned
that she had been for many months struggling with
her disorder.

" ' I have never been well, since I lost my husband,'
she continued, the tears rolling down her pallid
cheeks ; ' and, at the harvest last year, I worked
harder than I had been used to, and was out in the
fields in all weathers; and that, and grief together, I
believe, brought me into this way; but I should not
grieve at the thoughts of death, only for the sake of
this poor child.'

" ' You must trust in Providence to provide for
your child,' I observed, ' and perhaps he may, even
now, have met with a friend who is able to serve
him — You have no other family, I believe?'

" ' No, ma'am — I have none at all of my own,' she
observed ; ' for William and I had only been married
three months, when I lost him !'

" ' Who is this child, then ?' I anxiously inquired,
fearful that all my fine visions would be frustrated
by her reply ; but how was I surprised, and, I con-
fess, my selfishness delighted, by the story she re-
lated!

*' Her husband, it appeared, had belonged to a
vessel which was engaged in a contraband trade with
France, and which, the last time he had returned
from that country, had brought over a gentleman
and this child, who she believed was his own under
some strange circumstances, with which she was un-
ucouainted ; all she knew was, that he had given a
27. 4 M

634 EMILY MOIIELAND.

laro^e sum to the captain to brinj^ them oiF. They
landed safely, it appeared, and the gentleman, who
said he had brought the child away, because its mo-
ther's friends wanted to make a Roman Catholic of
it — the mother being dead — was very anxious to get
a nurse for the child, who was then quite young,
until it should be of an age to send to school ; and
William, her husband, thinking it would be an ad-
vantage, and a companion, too, for her, when he was
away, proposed that she should take it. She was at
first unwilling, she said, for her mind misgave her
that the gentleman had no great love for the child,
and perhaps only sought to get rid of it; and, if she
should have a family of her own, it would not only
be a trouble, but a burthen to her. But, when she
saw it, she said, she had not the heart to refuse, it
was such a sweet baby, and the thought struck to
her heart that it might fall into bad hands, and be
neglected and ill-treated, if she did not take it.

" The gentleman paid down five-and-twenty pounds
with it, which was to be for one year's board, he said,
and long before that time he would return; but he
had never come back, she continued, and, the very
next voyage, William was drowned, and she had
been left to struggle with the child, as well as she
could. All her friends, she said, had blamed her
for persisting in keeping it, when its own father had
deserted it, and would have persuaded her to send it
to the parish workhouse; but she could not bring
herself to take their advice, though she knew that
must be its fate, when it pleased God to call her.

*' ' But he m ist be sadly troublesome to you noiV,

EMILV MORELAND. 635

my good woman,' I observed, willing to try her, be-
fore I made the proposal which was already at my
lips. ' You are too ill to have the care and trouble
of a child, if even you were in circumstances to bear
the expense.'

" It was true, she said, that he was, sometimes,
almost too much for her, though he was a kind-
hearted little creature, and would sit, for an hour
together, as quiet as a Jamb, when she felt very ill;
'but he is but a baby,' she added, 'and one can't
always curb him!'

"'You would not fret, then, after him,' I re-
marked, ' if any person, willing and able to keep him,
were to take him from you ?'

" ' Oh, no, I should be happy, very happy !' she re«
plied; 'for then I should have nothing to do or to
think of, but to prepare for death!'

" ' You may — 1 hope you will — get well,' I replied,
*but, in the mean time, I will do all I can to render
your mind easy — I will take the child home with me,
and give you my solemn promise that he shall be well
provided for, whether you live or die, if you will
give him entirely up to me. I should like, however,
to know if you have any clue, by which he might
hereafter discover his parents.'

" She had none, she said, for with her poor hus-
band had perished all the crew of the vessel which
brought the gentleman and his child to England;
and there was, therefore, no means of tracing who
or what he was. She had, however, preserved care-
fully the clothes which the child had worn, when he
was delivered to her. They were very fine and

636 EMILY MORELAND.

beautifully made, and of a different fashion to any
she had ever seen, thouj^h she had lived servant in
several gentlemen's families, before she was married,
where the children were expensively dressed; but
these seemed more as if they had been made by some
fond and proud mother, anxious to set her child off
to the best advantage.

ff**I acknowledged the justice of this remark when,
having with my assistance reached a chest of drawers
on the other side of the room, she produced the
clothes in question, which were neatly folded, and
appeared to have been but little worn.

" I commended her for having taken such care of
them, and she added, ' You may, if you please, ma'am,
take them with you — if it won't be troubling you too
much — I am uneasy about them, because my hus-
band's mother, who sleeps with me every night, has
always been very covetous of getting them for one of
her daughters, who is married; and I know, if any
thing happens to me, they will be laid hold of
directly.'

" I took the little parcel, and, in return, slipped
into her hand a sum of money, which, small as it was
in my estimation, compared to the treasure she had
placed in my keeping, was sufficient to assure her
that I had the means of keeping my promise, with
respect to the child.

" She was overcome with pleasure and gratitude —
and I, eager to escape from her thanks, turned to the
boy, who hed stood silently listening to all that
passed, and inquired whether he would go home
with me.

KMILY MORELAND.

6:^

'^'^^"'No,' he replied, resolutely, ' I won't leave my
mammy, — who is to get the water for her, and the
sticks to make the kettle boil ?'

" ' And do you do all this ?' I demanded.

*' * Yes, and when I'm a big boy, I shall work for
her,' be replied, * and get her money.'

*' ' You are a good boy,' I replied, ' but I will gel
somebody to fetch her sticks and water, and you shall
come with me, that you may learn how to work.'

" It was with difficulty, however, and not without
a great deal of persuasion on her part, that he con-
sented to accompany me home; and then it was only
on condition that he should go to see her every day.

" I was on the threshold of the door, before I re-
collected to ask what name had been given to him,
by the unnatural parent who had deserted him.

" ' The gentleman said we might call him what av8
liked, for he had not been christened, which I thought
very odd ; so, as I found he went himself by the name
of Herbert, I called the boy by that name, and my
name being Leslie, he styles himself Herbert Leslie,
when he is asked his name.'

" With this information I departed, with my young
charge, who soon became perfectly familiar with me,
and increased, every moment, the interest I felt for
him, by his intelligent and lively observations, which
seemed to promise all I could wish or hope for, in
the child of my adoption.

" All that I did hope," continued her ladyship,
" has been realised by Herbert Leslie, except the
affection which I vainly imagined my care of him
would inspire! — But, to proceed A>ith my siory.

63S EM 1 1. Y MOREL AND.

" Accustomed to regard iny actions and pursuit**
with complete indifference, Lord Haviland, when
he visited me, paid but little attention to the history
I related to him of the child, who was now become
my darling occupation and care. He was glad, I
believe, of any thing which abstracted my considera-
tion from himself, and concerned himself no farther
about it.

" I should have told you that the poor woman, his
nurse, died a few weeks after our first meeting, and
the boy became thus, as I flattered myself, entirely
my own.

" A thousand conjectures and whispers attended
his first appearance among my friends, as they called
themselves, — but I was then young and thoughtless,
and 1 gloried in exciting their curiosity, without af-
fording them any clue to its satisfaction.

" The child had soon forgotten, in the variety of
new faces and new scenes to which he was intro-
duced, all traces of his former connexions ; and 1
have often smiled at the abortive attempts which 1
have overheard made to draw from him any eluci-
dation of the subject.

" From the servants who were with me, at the pe-
riod I took him, nothing could be learned — for they
were strangers to the country which I was then only
making a temporary stay in, and as I never after-
wards visited the spot, they could tell nothing re-
specting the former situation of the child.

" The inquiries of some of Herbert's companions,
at the school where, at a proper age, I placed him,
first excited his reflections on the subject of his birth.

EMILY MORET.AM). 639

He questioned me, and I satisfied him then by assert-
ing" that his parents were no more, and that he had
been bequeathed to me by his dying mother. To
take away, however, at the same time, all feelings of
humiliation at the idea that he was dependant on my
bounty, I told him that, though he was not the heir of
a large fortune, yet he would possess a sufficiency
to maintain his present rank in society.

" Under these impressions, and with implicit be-
lief in what I had asserted, he arrived at manhood,
and 1 was proud and gratified at seeing my iares
and affection (for I did regard him with the affection
of a mother) rewarded by talents and conduct which
would have done honour to the most noble stem. I
exulted in the title of his mother, though I some-
times sighed that I had no real claim to so proud a
distinction. But how were my feelings shocked,
when at length I discovered, that some malignant
demon had dared to impugn the purity of my mo-
tives !

*' By Lord Haviland, he had ever been treated with
kindness. — He had taken no very violent interest in
him, but he had rather applauded than blamed my
conduct towards him ; but the whisper reached Her-
bert's ear, though itwas conveyed in so indirect a form
that he could not openly apply and resent it. Lord
Haviland, too, had heard that the tongue of rumour
had been busy on the subject of Herbert's alliance
with me, and when, though I know, even then, he
utterly despised the dark hints that had been thrown
out, in one of the bitter moments which sometimes
arise- even between hearts more attached than ours,

640 EMILY MORELAND.

he dared to hint at what had been insinuated to him,
I disdained explanation ! At that moment, indeed,
I felt as if I could have been pleased that he believed
it, that I might retaliate by making him feel as I had
often felt for him. "*

" At this moment, Herbert, with feelings already
irritated by the same circumstance, unfortunately
came into the room, and Lord Haviland, provoked
at my taunts, let fall some expression which revealed
to him what had been the subject of our conver-
sation.

" Respect for me had hitherto kept him silent,
but he now not only entreated, he insisted on know-
ing all the particulars. He would have proofs — full
and satisfactory proofs — that he was not, as had been
insinuated, the child of disgrace and infamy ! I be-
came irritated, agonised, that even he should dare
to suspect me, and I remained obstinately silent to
his interrogatories respecting his birth — his father —
his mother ? Why not bring them forward, to silence
my accusers, and to put to shame those who had
dared to taint the purity of my fame, to satisfy my
husband, that he was really only the child of my
adoption, and not, as had been asserted, of my dis-
grace.

" Yes, Emily, that was the false and infamous
construction that had been put on my affection for
him I A tale had been forged, of a clandestine and
dishonourable attachment to some obscure indi-
vidual, the consequences of which had been the
birth of this boy, previous to my marriage with Re-
ginald, who had been seized on by my friends as a fit

EMILY MORF.LAND. fi41

person, from his youth and inexperience, to heal my
wounded fame.

" I need not attempt to describe the rage, the in-
dignation, which seized my frantic mind, at hearing,
from Herbert's own mouth, this slanderous tale re-
peated ! I saw — I knew that Lord Haviland gave
not the slightest credence to it ; but he felt it to be
a means of revenging himself upon me, and he se-
conded Herbert in his attempts to force from me an
explanation. With scorn and indignation I resisted
alike threats and entreaties, and dared them to be-
lieve the worst ; — but I will not conceal from you,
Emily, that a fearful thought of the impossibility,
were I ever so inclined, to clear myself, pressed
heavily on my heart. What, indeed, but my own
unsupported assertions, have I now to oppose to
those who dare suspect me ? Wounded and agonised
as I was, however, I cautiously refrained from re-
proaching Herbert with his obligations to me, for I
knew the proudness of his spirit ; but from Lord
Haviland he learned that from my own private for-
tune alone he (Herbert) derived his present re-
sources. I saw the blow was struck — but I could
not deny it; and he acted just as I expected. The
sura appropriated to him has remained untouched,
and he has, I find, supported himself, ever since that
fatal day, by the exercise of those talents which Na-
ture had bestowed upon him, and education had
fostered.

" He did not, however, then wholly withdraw from
us, but the wound still rankled, and fresh provoca-
tions arose to inflame it. A lady of birth and rank,
27. 4 N

642 EMILY MORELAND.

and fortune sufficient to have commanded the union
of all in the man on whom she bestowed her hand,
became violently in love with him. She had long
been in habits of intimacy with me, and she unre-
servedly confessed to me her attachment. She was
young, too, and not unhandsome, and perfectly in-
dependent of all control. I own I was anxious to pro-
mote the match — I knew not that his heart was pre-
engaged, and I was, perhaps, indiscreet in my zeal — 1
dared not compromise the delicacy of the lady who
had entrusted me, by betraying her avowal to me,
but I pointed out to him the prospect of success, if
he would make the attempt. His refusal was firm,
but moderate. He was not so presumptuous, he
said, as to ofter to her or any woman's acceptance a
being without fortune, without family, without even
a name which he could justly claim, or to which he
could establish any right.

" The bitterness with which he said this, roused all
my too-irritable feelings, which were increased by
my having observed that, ever since the former scene
occurred between us, he had seemed to attach him-
self to Lord Haviland, rather than to me ; and, in
public, constantly appeared as his companion. This
indeed might be, as his lordship himself once con-
descended to hint, to silence the voice of scandal,
and prove the rumour that he believed in my disgrace
unfounded; but, whatever was the motive, I deeply
resented his conduct ; and, after another attempt to
gain from me the secret I still pretended to be in
possession of — his birth and parentage — he left me,
with the avowed purpose of never again seeing or
communicating with me."

EMILY MORELAND.

643

" From that time, neither Lord Haviland, it I may
believe his solemn assertion, nor myself, have been
able to trace his steps. I have heard of him, indeed,
and I believe that he is in London at the present
moment; but he diligently shuns all communication
with the associates of his brighter days, and, I have
been taught to believe, finds, in the society of a fe-
male with whom he has been frequently seen, though
it has been in vain attempted to trace who or what
she is, a compensation for the loss of the friends of
his youth."

With the most intense interest, Emily had listened
to this detail, in which she saw, in Herbert's conduct,
more to admire and to pity, than to blame. That he
had been rash and hasty, in his renunciation of Lady
Haviland, she could not deny — but there were ex-
cuses to be found, which Emily's heart readily sug-
gested; yet the last sentence her ladyship had ut-
tered, struck a pang to her heart. Could it be the
Signora of whom she spoke ? And, if it were, could
it be possible that there existed between them any
ties beyond those of friendship ? It was in vain she
tried to persuade herself that it was unlikely— im-
probable. The Signora was, it was true, many years
older than Leslie ; but she was yet young and hand-
some enough to be an object of admiration, and her
manners and accomplishments were such as she be-
lieved unequalled. She concealed, however, her
feelings on this subject from Lady Haviland, and
spoke only of Leslie's conduct, as it related to her
ladyship.

" I acknowledge 1 was wrong in the first instance,

liMlLY MOllELANa.

Eiuily," replied her ladyship ; " but. even were 1
willing now to put him in possession of all I know
on the subject of his birth, v/ould he believe me that
I know no more — or would he not rather think the
whole a mere attempt to impose on him?"

" Herbert Leslie could never be so unjust or un-
generous," returned Emily; "but, even should he
be so, you would then have nothing to reproach
yourself with."

" 1 cannot now humble myself to confess to him
that I have been wrong," she replied.

"But will you absolve me from the obligation of
secrecy, if chance should throw him in my way?"
demanded Emily, hastily.

" You think, then, that he would not avoid you?''*
said Lady Haviland, smiling. .^^^

" I do not think he would — I know not any reason
why he should," replied Emily, blushing at her lady-
ship's remark.

" Act, then, as you think right and proper," ob-
served the latter ; " only, remember, 1 will not sub-
mit to his haughty interrogations. If he believes,
he must believe implicitly— for I will go no farther
than I have done.'*

F.MILY MORELAM>. 645

CHAPTER XXIV.

O thou, whom night and day I mourn.
Far from my sighl too rudely torn,

Yet never |)arted from my soul ;
Impatient I would ask to soe
Thee — thee alone — none, ncme but thee,

E'en though 1 died of joy beyond contr< '.

Old Song.

Never had time appeared to Emily to move with
Buch leaden pinions, as in the few days that intervened
between the period of this conversation, and the de-
parture of herself, her father, and Lady Haviland,
for London ; but when, at length, they arrived
there, and took possession of the mansion Lord Havi-
land had engaged, which was situated in Piccadilly,
and fronted the Green Park, her impatience in-
creased, as week after week her eyes wandered from
face to face, without discovering the features she so
ardently longed to see ; and she listened in vain to
hear his name mentioned, in the gay and fashionable
circle who now again thronged around Lady Havi-
land.

Among those to whom her ladyship's doors were
ever open, Emily with regret beheld Mr. Frazer,
who, though he affected, in Lady Haviland's pre-
sence, to treat her with respect and deference, yet,
whenever an opportunity occurred, he annoyed her
by his presuming familiarity, and his gross personal

646 EMILY m QUEL AND.

flattery. In vain, however, she hinted her dislike of
him to Lady Haviland — he had made himself accep-
table to her ladyship, by a thousand little services
and attentions — and his lively manners often relieved
her from the languor and ennui which usually op-
pressed her, when without company.

" I know he is a good-for-nothing, worthless fal-
low," she observed, in reply to one of Emily's re-
marks, " but one can't have every body about one
good and virtuous ; and, indeed, to confess the truth,
Emily, your ' very good sort of people' are generally
very dull sort of folks."

Emily was vexed and hurt at the levity of this re-
ply, and Lady Haviland, observing the change in her
countenance, added,

" If goodness and virtue wore always as pleasing
a form as in Emily, no one would be able to endure
the reverse, even gilded, as it often is, with an at-
tractive outside ; but, for goodness' sake, let us dis-
miss this sombre subject — for here is the very person
who gave rise to it, coming with that wicked smile
of his, that always foreruns a tale of mirth or
Scandal."

Emily would have retreated, but Lady Haviland
entreated her to stay, and Frazer, after the usual
salutations, exclaimed —

" Do go to the window, dear Lady Haviland, and
feast your eyes with an image of connubial felicity ! —
There's a pair of turtle-doves coming up the park,
billing and cooing, and looking — Oh, you must have
a look, too," catching hold of Emily, and constraining
her to approach the window— "they arc old friends*

EMILY MORELAND.' 64?

of yours, and, I am sure, you will be delighted to see
them."

Emily saw, at a moment's glance, that it was the
tall stately figure of X^ady Rachel Templeton, who,
leaning on her husband's arm, was pacing round the
basin.

Her eye, however, only rested on them a moment.
She saw Captain Templeton bow to some one on the
opposite side, and in the person thus saluted instantly
recognised Herbert Leslie.

A slight pressure of Lady Haviland's hand, which
she had negligently placed on Emily's shoulder, in-
formed the latter that she too saw who it was, for
Herbert's eyes were now raised, with a look of sur-
prise and earnestness, to the open window at which
they were standing. He bowed respectfully, and
Lady Haviland and Emily both returned the salute—
the former with coolness, but the latter with a bright
blush, and an animated look of pleasure, which did
not escape Frazer's observation.

" I did not know you were acquainted with Leslie,"
he whispered, as Lady Haviland turned away, and,
humming- a tune, to conceal her agitation, walked to
the other end of the room.

"Indeed!" replied Emily, laconically, her eyes
still following Leslie, who walked slowly on, and
once or twice turned his eyes back, as if to be certain
he was not deceived.

Emily watched him until he was out of sight, and
then relumed to her seat, her heart dancing with
pleasure. She had ascertained that Leslie was in
town — wa^ near her — and she could not doubt but

648 EMILY MOKELAND,

that, by some means, she should be enabled to see and
explain to him all her anxiety.

Frazer observed her in silence for some time, and
then taking his opportunity said, in a low voice,

*' Lord Haviland must beware, I think, of Leslie,
or he will "

Lady Haviland turned from the window, at which
she had stood for a moment, and he suddenly paused.

Two ladies now entered the room, and Emily, who
felt irritated and indignant at the manner in which
she had uttered those few words, took care that he
should not find an opportunity of again addressing;
her.

On the very following morning, however, her tor-
mentor entered the breakfast parlour, just as Lord
Haviland, with whom she had been breakfasting
alone, her ladyship still retaining her old habit of
laying in bed, was quitting it.

" 1 will be back in a quarter of an hour, Frazer,"
he observed, " but I am particularly engaged at this
moment. Do not go, however, for I have something
to say you. Emily will entertain you till I come
back."

Frazer's eyes betrayed his pleasure, as he took the
chair to which Lord Haviland pointed.

" I wanted to see you alone," he observed, " for
I have something to tell you — though I doubt whe-
ther I shall have any thanks for my trouble."

" You are conscious, perhaps, that your intelli-
gence is not worthy of any," said Emily, gravely.

" I saw Leslie last night," he continued, without
noticing her observation — *' Oh, I have roused you.

EMILY MORELAND. (349

have 1, at that name ? That beautiful blush betrays,
at least, that my intelligence is not altogether so un-
interesting as you would have inferred it to be I I
could find it in my heart to envy the fellow, — but I
am rather inclined to pity him, for his insensibility !
Would you believe it, Emily — he disclaimed all
knowledge of you, and looked as freezing, when I
expatiated on your charms, as if I had been talking
of my g^randmother."

'' Will you have the goodness to tell me what
passed, Mr. Frazer ?" said Emily, who felt convinced
that JLeslie did recognise her on the preceding day,
and also was assured that he would not deliberately
utter a falsehood.

" Faith, I have very little to tell you," returned
Frazer, " and I don't know that I should tell you
that, only I hope it will just convince you that the
fellow is not worthy consideration from you — you,
of whose notice princes might be vain, and "

" Pray, Mr. Frazer," interrupted Emily, " let me
entreat you, for once, to speak without sarcasm — I
have very particular reasons for wishing to know
what Mr. Leslie said respecting me."

" Sarcasm, Emily !" repeated Frazer ; " be as-
sured, nothing is farther from my thoughts, when I
speak of your charms. There is not a woman on
earth, who could inspire the feelings in ray bosom
that you do ! From the moment, indeed, that 1 first
beheld you "

" I will not listen to such language. Sir," inter-
rupted Emily, again. " It is insulting to me, and to
those who are my protectors, — and whom you call
28. 4 o

€)->0 EMILY MORE LAND.

your friends, — and I will not remain an instant
longer with you, unless you refrain from it."

" Well, then, I will talk of Leslie," he replied,
" for then I know you will listen. I saw him, as I
(old you, last night ; and, though we are not on the
Dest terms in the world, I gladly sought an oppor-
<unity of entering into conversation with him. Your
name was, of course, uppermost in my thoughts, and
r, with assumed carelessness, remarked that I did
not know till yesterday, that he was a friend of the
loveliest woman on earth."

" ' Who do you mean ?' he replied, ' for perhaps
you and I may differ in our ideas of beauty.'

"' I should think no one can deny the justice of
that title to Miss Russell,' t observed.

"' Miss Russell !' he repeated, 'Miss Russell — I
know no lady of that name, I assure you — but you
are, I suppose, indulging some jest at my expense.'

" I assured him that I was serious, and I also ven-
tured to say that I considered he was very ungrate-
ful, to disclaim a lady who, T was sure, was very
anxious to renew her acquaintance with him. He
still, however, persisted that he knew nothing of
Miss Russell, and, wonderful to tell, he wanted to
know nothing ; and away he stalked, with a look of
the most provoking indifference."

Emily could easily now comprehend that Leslie
was unacquainted with the change of name which
Lady Rachel's prudery had imposed upon her ; but
Frazer was the last person in the world, to whom
she could have entered into any explanation on the
subject. He was, however, evidently waiting witli

EMILY MORELAND. Gbl

anxiety her reply ; and, without reflecting for a mo-
ment on the danger of even seeming to enter into
any sort of confidence with him, she observed — " If
I could see Mr. Leslie for a few minutes, I believe
he would soon be disposed to retract his assertion. I
have, indeed, very particular motives for wishing to
have an interview with him. There is a lady," she
continued, " whom I am very anxious to see, and
with whom, I believe, he is intimately acquainted.
But I have other reasons, which personally concern
Mr. Leslie ; and, I am sure, could he but know who
it is — though he does not recognise my name "

" And do you really think I am made of flesh and
blood, Miss Russell !" interrupted Frazer ; "for I
see plainly what you are aiming at. But can you
seriously expect that I will be the means of bringing
this favoured Leslie to your feet? No, no — forbid
it, love — forbid it, friendship — for, surely, even con-
sistently Avith my friendship to Lord Haviland, I
could not do it. I feel some compunction even in
pressing my own suit, when I consider the terms
Haviland and I are on — but love, almighty love,
owns no ties !"

Emily arose in anger — " I shall leave you to ex-
plain to Lord Haviland, Mr. Frazer," she observed,
" what has rendered it impossible for me to obey his
injunction of remaining until his return. It shall be
my fault, if I again give you an opportunity of in-
sulting me."

" Stay, Emily — Miss Russell, I should say — for you
will not, I see, allow me the privilege of a friend —
I cannot, however, allow you to think that I would

652 EMILY MORELAND.

refuse to obey the slightest intimation of a wish of
yours. If you will only say when and where you
wish to see Leslie^ I will engage, as far as lays in
my power, that your wish shall be attended to. Do
not frown so upon me — I may, perhaps, be giddy
and presuming, but you have not a sincerer friend
on earth than myself; and, from henceforth, you
shall have no reason to complain of me ! Whatever
my feelings may be, I will confine them to my own
bosom — you have therefore only to speak your com-
mands."

" I have no commands, Mr. Frazer," returned
Emily, " but I certainly do wish to see Mr. Leslie,
or the lady I have mentioned, if he is acquainted
with her. If, therefore, you would say to him that
a friend "

" Could you not write a note ?" interrupted Fra-
zer ; " I will undertake it shall be delivered to him —
for I know where to meet him, though I do not
know where he resides."

" I certainly could, and inclose a letter to the
lady, which will be sufficiently explanatory," re-
turned Emily ; " if, indeed, you will be kind enough
to take charge of it."

" I would do much more to oblige you," replied
Frazer — " but I hear Haviland coming — In the
course of this evening, perhaps, you will have the
letter ready, and you can easily find an opportunity
of giving it to me, unobserved by any one."

Emily assented, and immediately, on Lord Havi-
land's entrance, retired to her own room, to address
once more her friend, Rosalia Orsini.

EMILY MORELANO. '658

It cost her infinitely less trouble to write a long-
epistle to the latter, in which, after reproaching her
with her apparent neglect and coldness, she briefly
explained what had happened since their separation,
than it did to frame a few lines to Leslie, apologising
for the liberty she had taken in enclosing the letter,
and hinting that, independent of her wish to renew
her correspondence with her friend, the Signora, she
had some circumstances to communicate, interesting
both to him and her.

The history Mrs. Lucy had related to her, which
so nearly concerned the latter, was still fresh in her
memory. She knew not how far her friend was ac-
quainted with all the circumstances, and she was
most anxious, on that account, once more to embrace
her.

Frazer fulfilled with punctuality his commission
— but Emily felt she paid dearly for the favour, in
being obliged to listen to his insinuations, and reply
to the questions by which he sought to draw from
her circumstances respecting her situation^ previous
to his first meeting with her at Lady Rachel More-
land's. How and where she had known Leslie, and
who the lady was, whom she had mentioned as
connected with the latter, were subjects which it
was evident greatly excited his curiosity ; and, ap-
parently conceiving himself privileged by the con-
fidence she had reposed in him, he was very little re-
strained by delicacy, or influenced by Emily's evi-
dent dislike to enter upon the subject, in his en-
deavours to discover all he wished to know.

Leslie had read her note, he said, with apparent

054 EMILY MORELANO.

surprise and pleasure, and requested him to say that
he would deliver the enclosure immediately.

*' Oh, then, she is in town, and I shall have the
happiness of once more seeing her ?"" exclaimed
Emily, with delight.

'What a mysterious girl you are?" observed
Frazer, " and for a female, k)o, all this rapture is
shewn ! I really am quite curious to know her, and
learn by ' what arts, what charms, what potent spells
withal,' she has contrived so to fascinate you."

Emily smiled, but remained silent ; and Frazer,
finding this would not draw from her any explana-
tion, shifted his ground, and spoke of Leslie, affect-
ing to lament his estrangement from the Haviland
family, and endeavouring to learn from Emily how
far she was acquainted with the circumstances at-
tendant on it.

All his stratagems, however, proved unavailing,
for Emily was determined not to know any thing
which was not already known to him ; and, evidently
chagrined and mortified, he at length relinquished
his attempts.

On the following morning, a note was delivered
to her, which she immediately recognised as the
hand-writing of Signora Orsini, and with trembling
anxiety she glanced over its contents.

" I received your letter with astonishment and
pleasure, my dearest Emily," she wrote. " If you
are as anxious to see me, as I am once more to be-
hold you, you will not delay one moment beyond
what is absolutely necessary, to come to No ,

EMILY MORELAND. 655

Sloane -street. I shall remain at home all day, im-
patiently expecting- you. I do not come to you,
because I am doubtful of seeing you alone, and I
could not bear that strangers should witness our
first interview, after such a long absence."

Fortunately for Emily's wish, Lady Haviland had
excused her from attending her in a long round of
morning visits; and, consequently, she was at liberty
to dispose of three or four hours without interrup-
tion or restraint, and accordingly taking her own
maid with her, she departed for Sloane-street, on foot.

It was a beautiful morning, and Piccadilly was
thronged with carriages and pedestrians ; but, with
her mind intent on her approaching pleasure, she
paid but little attention to any thing around, until
she reached the gate at Hyde Park corner, when she
was obliged to stop and look around her for an op-
portunity to cross the road safely. At this moment,
to her infinite vexation, she was accosted by Mr.
Frazer, who, expressing his surprise and pleasure
at meeting her, inquired if she was going into the
Park.

" No," replied Emily, " I am going to pass a long
morning with a friend."

" You will allow me to accompany you, as far as
you are going," he replied. " Nay, I will take no
denial," he added, reading in her countenance her
dislike to this proposition, " I cannot answer it to
my conscience, to suffer you to walk alone and un-
protected."

" 1 have not far to go " returned Emily : " and, I

650 EMILY MOIIELAND.

assure you, there is not the slightest necessity for
your troubling yourself."

" Trouble!" he repeated, " are you still to learn
that the highest gratification I can know is "

' To hear and see jo" all the while
' Softly speak, and sweetly suiile.'

" But, alas ! I have little cause to value myself on
your smiles — those are reserved for some happief
being ; may he feel their value as intensely as I do!"

Emily's looks alone declared her resentment at
these expressions, but Frazer was not to be dis-
couraged by looks, and, though she resolutely de-
clined his repeated otFer of his arm, he continued to
walk by her side, tormenting her in the same strain,
until she reached the door of the house to which the
note directed her.

" I must wish you good morning, Sir," she coldly
observed, " for I am at the end of ray walk."

Mr. Frazer glanced his eyes over the front of the
house, as if curious to know whose residence it was,
and, just at that moment, Leslie looked over the
parlour window-blinds.

The quick blush which mounted to Emily's cheek
betrayed that she had seen him, and Frazer, with an
assumed smile, but real malice in his looks, observed,
that he no longer wondered that he was considered
as an intruder. " But 1 will not detain you from
your friend. Miss Russell — though I would advise
you to be a little more candid, and a little less
prudish to me, if you expect to retain me in your
interest "

EMITA' MORELAVD. 657

Emily would have indignantly replied to this im-
pertinent observation, but the door was already
opened, and Frazer, glancing a second look at the
window, stalked haughtily away.

In another moment, Frazer — the whole world —
was forgotten, for Emily was in her friend Rosalia's
arms, experiencing, as she afterwards said, when
tears would permit her to speak, the first moment of
real unmixed happiness she had felt, since they parted
in the Valley of St. Clare.

" There is another friend, Emily, who is anxious
to renew the long-interrupted bond between you,"
said Signora Orsini.

" If I could only hope that Miss Moreland would
feel a small part of the pleasure which I do, in beings
again allowed to consider myself as her friend," said
Leslie, advancing, " I should be but too happy in
this meeting."

" I have never considered you in any other light
than a friend," observed Emily, " though circum-
stances, over which I have no control, have so long
divided me from you and my other dear dear friend,"
again throwing her arm round the neck of the Sig-
nora.

Leslie raised the hand, which, " nothing loth,'*
she had suffered him to take, to his lips ; and it was
some minutes before he thought of relinquishing, or
she of withdrawing it.

Emily had much to communicate, and much to
hear. She learned that the Signora had been in-
duced, on her first arrival in London from St. Clare,
to depart immediately for Italy, ^nd that she had
•28 4 p

658 EMILY MORFLAND.

then written to Emily, enclosing a sum sufficient, as,
she supposed, to place the latter beyond the reach of
difficulty, and to repay Mr. Evelyn what he had ad-
vanced. This remittance Emily had never received,
and, though reluctant to admit the suspicion, she
could not but acknowledge that her friend's supposi-
tion, that it had fallen into the hands of the dis-
honest and avaricious wife of Isaac Wilson, was but
too probable.

" I have reasons for conjecturing this, my dear
girl, which, when 1 have more time to waste on such
an ungrateful subject, I will explain to you," ob-
served Signora Orsini, " I will now only briefly tell
}ou, that I have seen and assisted William Wilson,
very materially, since my residence in London, and
that from him I have learned circumstances that
warrant my saying, that there is nothing she would
hesitate to gratify her avaricious disposition."

Emily, with anxiety, inquired further parti
respecting William's situation, and learned with
pleasure that he had totally renounced his former
evil habits, and was then in a respectable situation,
as mate of a trading vessel.

" Me once, while in London," continued the Sig-
nora, " imagined that he had traced your residence,
and, with a letter from me, he proceeded to the house
of a lady of the name ofMoreland "

" Lady Rachel Moreland !" interrupted Emily.

" Yes, my love, that was the title — and, though
she denied all knowledge of you, and threatened
that she would have him apprehended, and made to
give an account of himself, if he came there again,

EMILY MORFLAND. C59

she took the letter, observing, if it was intended for
any lady of the name of Mureland in that house,
it must be for her. There seems to have been a
fatality attending- my letters to you — yet, T will can-
didly tell you, that, until I received yours yesterday,
I never doubted that that one had come to your
hands ; and your silence, and the lady's denial of
you, were alike attributed to your wish of avoiding
all the connexions of your childhood — Hear me out,
Emily — I see you are hurt, that I should have en-
tertained such an opinion of you ; but how could I
otherwise account for your silence and apparent neg-
lect ? I saw you, too, more than once, shining
among the great and the gay — and seeming, I con-
ceived, too happy and exalted to entertain a thought
of the friends who were in comparative obscurity,
and I loved you too sincerely to wish to break in
Dn your happiness."

" Oh, how mistaken — how dreadfully mistaken
may those be, who judge only from outward appear-
ances !" exclaimed Emily ; " those moments, when
you believed me so happy, were the most wretched
I have ever known — and the splendour and great-
ness, which you believed had so fascinated me, con-
cealed a spirit writhing under the most degrading-
slavery •"

" Can it be possible," exclaimed Leslie, with emo-
tion, " that you have had reason to say this — and with
friends, too, who were most anxious, and would have
been most happy to "

"Recollect," interrupted Emily, "that I knew
not where to find those friends — that the most galling

S60 EMILY MORELAND.

restraints prevented my making even an attempt to
discover their situation. Gladly, indeed, should I
have hastened to my more than mother, under any
circumstances — but how much more eagerly, had I
known her retreat, should I have flown to her from
the tyranny of Lady Rachel Moreland!"

"And your present situation, Emily?" returned
Leslie, with a look of earnest inquiry.

" I should be very ungrateful, Mr. Leslie, if I were
not to say that it is every thing I could wish or desire,
apart from my dear Signora. You are aware, of
course," and she looked down, her cheek crimsoned
and her voice faltering, " you are, of course, aware
©f the ties that exist between "

" I will spare you all further painful explanation,
dear Emily," he observed, " I am acquainted with
all you would say — but it was only since I, with sur-
prise, recognised you as the companion of Lady
Haviland, that Signora Orsini and myself have come
to a full understanding on the subject. I knew the
particulars of the melancholy story, but had never
heard the name of the author of your birth — while
our friend Rosalia was, it appears, equally ignorant
of the title he now bears. In the course of the con-
versation which arose from my having seen you at
the window with Lady Haviland, I accidentally
mentioned the name of De Cardonnel, and the whole
mystery was elucidated."

" I have only one question to ask, Emily," observed
Signora Orsini, " is Lady Haviland acquainted
n'ith "

" She knows it ah, my dear friend," returned

EMILY MOR ELAND. 661

Emily. " Long, indeed, before my — before his lord-
ship knew the claim I had to his protection, she was
acquainted with it; and, with a nobleness and libe-
rality of feeling which must ever demand and receive
my warmest gratitude, she resolved to adopt me as
her daughter, and to compensate, as far as it was
possible for her to do, for the ills she had involun-
tarily aided."

The silent tears that stole down Rosalia's cheeks
proved how truly she estimated the action of which
Emily so warmly spoke ; and Leslie, turning away
with a deep sigh, observed — " For once, Lady Havi-
land has acted with strict justice, as well as gene-
rosity— her second adoption can confer on her nothing
but honour."

" No, nor her first," said Emily, expressively.
" I will not hear a word of denial," she added, spor-
tively placing her hand on his lips, "for I have a tale
to tell, which will prove the correctness of my asser-
tion. To save us both time and pain, I have com-
mitted to paper, as nearly as possible, in her own
words, a little history, which she thought proper to
confide to me^ and which I have her tacit permission
to communicate to the person most interested in it."

Leslie took the paper which she offered him, with
a look of surprise and deep emotion, and instantly
retired into the adjoining room.

During his absence, Emily heard from Signora
Orsini some particulars of her own situation. The
failure of the house, in which a great part of her
property had been placed, had, she observed, for a
time, considerably embarrassed her ; but their affairs

662 EMILY MORELANC.

had been now A'ound up, and she had reason to think
that she should be, comparatively, very little the
loser by them. She had, in fact, she said, already
received a great part of the money they had in their
hands; "and that," she continued, "with a little
exertion of my own, pointing to some unfinished
drawings which lay on the table, has placed me again
in comfort, if not affluence."

Emily expressed her satisfaction at hearing that
her friend was relieved from all uneasiness on that
score; "but," she continued, '* forgive me if I appear
curious — I will explain hereafter my motives for
asking if it was only the state of your pecuniary
affairs, which prompted your journey to your native
country ?"

" Certainly not, my dear," returned the Signora.
" I had received intelligence which led me to hope
that I had, at length, gained a r:lue to the discovery
of one, from whom I have long ?jeen separated. One,
dear and near to me in blood and in affection; but
the hope, as on former occasions, proved illusive."

" Will you not be surprised, my dearest friend, to
hear that I am — at least 1 believe myself to be — in
possession of the whole story of your domestic mis-
fortunes? Nay more, that I am acquainted with
much of which I believe you are still ignorant; and,
in addition, (which, indeed, I have little reason to
value myself upon) that the author of your calamity
was a near relative of mine, who concealed his real
name of MorelanJ under the fictitious one of
Molini."

" That wi.s, indeed, the name which the unfeeling

EMU.Y MORELAND.

wretch bore," replied the Signora, with astonisli-
inent; " but how — or where have you heard "

Emily gently interrupted her. " I will at once
relieve your anxiety by telling you all I have heard,
and nearly as I heard it/' she replied, "premising,
that it was in consequence of my having seen in Lady
Rachel Moreland's possession a picture, which im-
mediately struck me as having been taken from the
same original as the miniature you once showed me,
that raised my curiosity, and induced me to ask a
history of the person for whom it was meant, of a
friend who had been from childhood connected with
the Moreland family."

As briefly and clearly as possible, Emily proceeded
to relate the particulars which she had learned from
Mrs. Lucy of the conduct of Walter Moreland.

"My sister — my dear dear sister!" exclaimed Ro
salia, when she had concluded, and bursting into an
agony of tears. " How often have I conjectured thai
you were m some way sacrificed to the villany of
that man ! Perhaps, even at this moment, you are
lingering out a wretched life — suffering all the tor-
ments that Oh, merciful heaven ! I cannot, I

dare not, reflect on what may have been her fate —
and to her other suff'erings must have been added
those of uncertainty, respecting the fate of her child !
That child, perhaps, sacrificed by its inhuman
father!"

" Oh, no, no, do not thus uselessly torment your-
self!" exclaimed Emily. " I hope — I trust that he
could not be such a wretch!"

*' Did he not sacrifice the mother ? Did he not

664 EMILY MORELAND.

deliver her up to those whom he knew would prove
her merciless persecutors, who would, perhaps, con-
demn her to a cruel death, or to still more lingering
torments?"

Emily could offer no argument to combat this sup-
position— she was, indeed, totally unprepared for it —
for she knew nothing of the penalties which the re-
ligion that Signora Orsini and her sister professed,
inflicts on those who were guilty of a breach of its
ordinances

A long pause of painful silence ensued, which was
at length interrupted by the re-entrance of Mr. Les-
lie. His countenance bore the impression of recent
agitation, but his manners were cool and collected.

"Miss Moreland — pardon me, I cannot yet bring
myself to speak of you by another name — our friend,
I will say then," addressing the Signora, " haSj I
suppose, acquainted you with the narrative contained
in this paper?"

" No," replied the Signora, starting as from a
painful reverie, " 1 must acknowledge that I have
been so absorbed in another, a more painful sub-
ject, I hope, than any in which you are concerned,
that I had forgotten altogether the cause of your
absence."

" We will not, then, at the present moment discuss
it," replied Leslie. " Our first interview, after such
a long absence, ought not to be entirely clouded by
melancholy retrospections; and yet not altogether
melancholy," he added, with vivacity, " for to find
that she, whom from infancy I honoured and loved
as a mother, is reaPy deserving my warmest gratitude

EMILY MORRT.AXD. 665

and affection, is a cordial drop in the bitter draught
I have been compelled to take."

" Then I may say to Lady Haviland, that you are
convinced that you were wrong in suspecting ''

" 1 never did suspect her, Emily," interrupted
Leslie, " I was angry with her, and unhappy that she
would not give up the necessary proofs, to clear her-
self in the opinion of others — but I never doubted her
honour! I never believed myself other than the
child of her bounty — and though I did, and still do,
blame her reserve, I never insinuated even that she
had a dishonourable motive for the concealment she
practised. I know, indeed, full well that her temper
will not bear the slightest shadow of restraint or
contradiction, and I acknowledge, too, that I was
impetuous, and more peremptory than I had any
right to be. But my feelings were harassed, and my
mind distracted, by conjectures and surmises, which
it was in her power at once to set at rest; and, con-
se<H[uently, her refusing so to do, exasperated my
feelings almost to madness."

" I may, then," observed Emily, " without reserve,
assure her ladyship that you are desirous of healing
the breach between you, and will readily obey any
commands she may be desirous of imposing,"

" On one subject only can I have any reserve,"
replied Leslie, a deep blush suffusing his manly fea-
tures. " The obligations I have ignorantly incurred
to Lady Haviland, I can never hope to repay — but,
voluntarily, I can never add to them. I am now in
dependent — and by my own exertions I mu?t cob«
tinue so!"

2« 4«

Giy6 EMILY MORELAN\>.

" f am afraid this is a condition which will not be
very satisfactory to Lady Haviland,'* observed
Emily, who felt vexed at being thus foiled in the
very point she was most anxious on, that of restoring^
Leslie to those advantages which he had renounced.
" I shall not, however," she added, " say anything
to her ladyship on this subject, but leave it entirely
to you and herself to settle it."

Leslie tacitly acquiesced in this arrangement, and
again the conversation returned to what had occurred
during their separation. Signora Orsini, though
still melancholy and agitated by Emily's recent com-
munication, endeavouring to overcome those feel-
ings, and participate in the pleasure with which
Emily recurred to the scenes of her childhood — the
scene where she had first met those friends, to whose
society she was now so unexpectedly restored.

The moments glided swiftly away — Emily looked
at her watch, and with surprise and sorrow found
that she had already exceeded the period she had
proposed to stay.

" You are not going, I hope, to leave us so soon,
Emily ?" said Leslie, at the same time glancing to-
wards the window a look which involuntarily at-
tracted her eyes.

" I am obliged to be at home to dinner," she re-
plied, " as Lady Haviland is not apprised of my ab-
sence."

" I am sorry to hear it, in a double sense," re-
turned Leslie, very gravely. " In the first place, I
dm sorry to part with you so soon — and, in the ^:e-
cond, I must take (he privilege of an (.Id friend to

EMILY MORELAND. €(!R7

say, that I am very sorry that the protector you have
appointed for your walk is your own choice, and not,
as I had imagined, Lady Haviland's."

" What do you mean ? I have made no appoint-
ment!" said Emily, hastily. "Mr. Frazer, whom,
I believe, you saw with me, met me by mere acci-
dent."

" Is it by accident, too, Emily,". observed Leslie,
*' that he is now waiting to escort you home ? I have
seen fiim, within the last half hour, passing and re-
passing, at least a dozen times."

" He is a troublesome, presuming man," said
Emily, with vexation. " He has either guessed, or
learned from the servant who accompanied me, that
I should return about this time, and has taken the
opportunity of throwing himself in my way, merely
because he is curious to know the particulars of my
visit here, which he th.'nks his interference to pro-
cure me the pleasure of this interview, warrants him
to expect."

" I wish he may have no worse presumption," ob-
served L slie, significantly; "but, if you wish to
avoid him, Emily, I can easily suggest the means —
by accompanying you myself."

Emily was not at all disposed to reject an offer so
agreeable, and having promised, with Lady Havi-
land's approbation, to devote a whole day, early in
the ensuing week, she departed with her delighted
companion.

They saw nothing of Frazer during their walk,
which seemed but too short to both of them ; but, at
a short distance from the door of hi^ own mansion,

EMILY MORfiLAND.

Lord Haviland, who had been in the Park, rodf
up, and, by looks more than words, expressed his
astonishment at seeing them.

Emily, however, saw with pleasure that Leslie and
her father were not upon unfriendly terms ; and she
felt almost angry with the former, for declining hib
invitation to dinner, when they reached home.

" We dine alone to-day, if it is only your boots
that prevent you," observed his lordship ; " and, I
think, I can undertake for the ladies excusing you."

" I should not think it necessary to apologise to
such old friends," said Leslie, smiling, " for my dis-
habille ; but the fact is, I have a particular en-
gagement."

" Well, then, to-morrow ?" returned Lord Havi-
land.

" To-morrow, I shall hope to be favoured with
half an hour's conversation with Lady Haviland,
and, if she does not forbid it, I shall be happy to
make one at your lordship's dinner-table," returned
I^eslie, bowing.

" You are determined to shew your wonder-work-
ing power upon all of us, Emily," said her father,
kindly pressing her hand, as they entered. " I have
been maneeuvring, for several weeks, how to Ijring
about a reconciliation between those who ought
never to have been at variance, and you, it seems,
have brought it all about without any effort at all —
though how you became interested in it, or, indeed,
knew any thing about Leslie "

" 1 will tell you, candidly, dear Sir," interrupted
Emily, blushing and smiling, " that he is one of my

EMILY MORELAND. fi09

oldest friends — though I little suspected his acquaint-
ance with you, when chance introduced him to me in
the Valley of St. Clare."

" I must not detain you, I suppose, now, to ask any
more questions," observed Lord Haviland, " though,
I confess, you have roused my curiosity very strongly
— but the dinner-bell has rung, and I must postpone
gratifying it."

Lady Haviland, who was in the drawing-room,
and, to Emily's surprise, with Mr. Frazer, did not
ask a single question as to where she had been — but
the latter, glancing his malicious eyes over Emily,
observed that the air of Sloane-street seemed to
have a wonderful effect in brightening people's eyes
and complexions.

" I really do not observe it," said Emily, looking
full at him, " for I think I never saw you look worse,
Mr. Frazer — and I believe you have pretty well
tried the air, this morning !"

" A fair retaliation !" observed Lady Haviland,
laughing, while Frazer, though evidently discon-
certed, attempted to join in the laugh ; and Lord
Haviland, surprised at the unusual spirit Emily dis-
played, so unlike her generally mild, and, towards
Frazer, particularly shrinking, manner, seemed to
view them both with astonishment ; — nothing further,
however, was said. But to Lady Haviland, when
they retired from the dinner-table, Emily gave a
full narration of all that had passed during her
morning excursion, not concealing or extenuating
her vexation at Frazer's impertinent interference.

" He is a troublesome fellow, certainly, my love,"

670 EMILY iMOR ELAND.

observed her ladyship, in reply ; '' but I think, should
Herbert I^eslie make his amende honorable to-mor-
row, you will have little further cause of complaint.
Between Frazer and Herbert no good feeling has
ever existed — He is the only person before whom
Frazer's ' spirit stands rebuked,' and his re-estab-
lishment here, on a friendly footing, will be the
signal for the retreatof the latter."

Emily fervently hoped her prognostication would
prove correct, and having again repeated, at her
ladyship's request, all that Leslie had said favour-
able of her, they separated to dress for the Opera,
for which they were engaged, with a large party. >

To Emily's great surprise, on her return to the
drawing-room, she found that her father, who had
previously anticipated great pleasure from the even-
ing's entertainment, which was to introduce a new
singer to an English audience, now declined, under
the trifling pretext of a head-ache, attending their
party ; and that Mr. Frazer, whose company was
looked on as a thing of course, had abruptly quitted
the house, without either explanation or apology.

The latter circumstance would have been matter
of exultation to Emily, but she now scarcely thought
of it, amid the anxiety and uneasiness which her fa-
ther's manner excited in her mind.

" Do go and try, Emily, whether you have not in-
fluence sufficient with Lord Haviland, to induce
him to change his determination to stay at home/*
said her ladyship. " You will find him in the library
— where, by way of curing the head-ache, he is
writing, as busily as if his existence depended on bis

?:\llT/k' MORELAND. 671

despatch. lie has desired not be disturbed — but, as
I promised to send him some Eau de Cologne, you
can make that a pretext."

Emily entered the library with no trifling anxiety,
and it was not diminished when she beheld Lord Ha-
viland sitting at his desk, but apparently so absorbed
in thought, that he did not observe her entrance, and
never raised his head until she spoke, and then he
started and betrayed so much emotion, that she for-
got, in a moment, all that she intended to say, and
stood looking at him in silent astonishment.

" 1 thought you were gone, my dear," he at length
observed, taking up his pen, and affecting to look
busily engaged.

" We are very unwilling to go without you, my
dear Sir,'* she replied ; " and, indeed, I really think
you would find your head-ache better, in "

" I cannot go, my love," he returned, anticipating
what she was about to say ; " I have, in fact, Emily,
independent of my being far from well, some busi-
ness to settle, which must be done to-night. God
bless you, my dear ! I shall not se-e you to-night,
when you return I" — and he held out his hand to
her. It was cold and trembling ; and Emily, se-
riously alarmed, would have entreated permission to
remain at home with him, but that he returned to
his writing with a look which seemed to repress any
attempt to interrupt him.

" So you cannot persuade him ?" said Lady Ha-
viland, when she returned to the draAving-room.
" What obstinate, self-willed creatures these men
are ! And Mr. Frazer, too, he may depend upon it,
I shall not easily overlook his rudeness."

fiTS FMILY MOREL AND."

Emily was silent — a dread, a kind of undelinablt'
terror had taken possession of her mind, and she
would have given the world to have been able to re-
nounce the entertainment which she had anticipated
with so much pleasure.

Unwilling-, however, to alarm Lady Haviland, and,
indeed, unable to assign any rational cause for the
feelings that oppressed her, she followed her ladyship
to the carriage, and, during the drive, endeavoured
to reason herself into the belief that her apprehen-
sions were groundless, and that all would yet be
v/ell.

The brilliant assemblage of company, the gaiety
of her own party, and particularly of Lady Haviland,
who seemed to possess a more than usual flow of
spirits, and even the divine voice of the new singer, —
all failed to amuse her, or to banish from her mind
the recollection of her father's perturbed look, when
he first raised his eyes to her face, in their recent
interview.

To Lady Haviland's great vexation and anger, she
espied Mr. Frazer in the pit, towards the conclusion
of the performance — but he resolutely avoided look-
ing towards their box ; and even Emily felt disap-
pointed that he did not come near them, as she could
not help including him in the recent affair, whatever
it micht be. that had disturbed Lord Haviland, and
flattered herself she might have learned from him
something which would have given a clue to it.

The Opera, however, at length terminated. Ladv
Haviland's party accompanied them home to supper,
and Emily slipped away to inquire for her father

"His lordship has been in bed these two hourn,

EMII.Y MORELAND. 6/J

Ma'am," replied the servant of whom she made the
inquiry.

" Did he take any supper? Did he seem better?"
said Emily, with anxiety.

The man looked surprised — He did not know, he
replied, and his lordship's valet had gone out as soon
as his master was in bed, and had not returned ; but
he thought his lordship could not be very ill, because
he had ordered the carriage early in the morning, to
go to Hendon.

Emily knew that some vexatious circumstances
had arisen respecting the house at Hendon, and
though she felt surprised that her father should think
it necessary personally to interfere in the business,
which was in the hands of his solicitor, yet she tried
*o persuade herself into the belief that this was the
vexatious affair which had disturbed him, and, unaei
this impression, returned to the party she had left,
much easier than when she had quitted them.

The morning light gleamed through the curtains of
the supper-room, before Lady Haviland's friends
separated. Emily, restored to comparative tran-
quillity, had exerted herself to compensate for her
former dulness, and had enchanted them by singing,
again and again, the principal songs they had that
night heard at the Opera — if not with equal effect,
at least to their fullest satisfaction. And when, at
length, she retired to her bed-room, her spirits were
so overpowered with fatigue, and the previous exci-
tation they had undergone, that she almost imme-
diately sank into a sound sleep, forgetful alike of
pleasure or of care.

29. 4 II

C74 EiMlLY MOR ELAND.

CHAPTER XXV.

Vain man, 'tis Heaven's prerogative
To take, what first it deigii'd to give,

Thy tributary breath.
In awful expectation placed.
Await thy doom ; nor, impious, haste
To pluck from God's right hand the instrument of death.

T. Wartov.

From a dream, in which she was living over again
some of the happiest days of her life, in the Valley
of St. Clare, Emily was awakened by a confusion of
sounds in the chamber immediately adjoining- her
own, and which was usually unoccupied. Surprised
at this circumstance, she started up in bed to listen,
and was in an instant convinced, by hearing several
heavy and distinct groans, mingled with the sup-
pressed murmuring of voices, and the trampling of
feet, that some dreadful event had occurred ; but,
before she could form a conjecture, or have recollec-
tion even to ring her bell, her own maid, with terror
and consternation in her face, rushed into the room !

To Emily's terrified interrogation she replied by
entreating her to come instantly to Lady Haviland,
who was in fits, she said, and she really believed
would kill herself, and, every body about her.

" What has occasioned it ?" exclaimed Emily,
" VTho is in the next room ? — and what is the mean-
ing of those dreadful groans ?"

EMILY MCRELAND. <>75

" It is my poor master, Ma'am — they have brouajhl
him there, because my lady should not hear him —
and the doctor says she must not come near him yet;
but she is so dreadfully headstrong, that nothing car
persuade her to be quiet; and Mrs. Burton, her maid,
has sent me to beg you will come and try what you
can do."

In an agony of terror, Emily attempted to ask the
girl what had befallen Lord Haviland ; but her voice
failed — her head swam — and she sank down on the
foot of the bed, unable to assist in putting on her
clothes, or to make a single inquiry. Before she
could get out of the room, another deep groan was
heard, and the girl, starting, exclaimed —

"Oh, ray good gracious! the doctor is trying to
get the ball out of his side, and, if he don't, they say
he can't live an hour. Oh, what a wicked wretch
that gentleman must be, to live here, day after day^
just like a brother, as one may say, and then to "

" Who — who — what has happened? pray, teL
me!" exclaimed tho terrified Emily.

" Why, it is Mr. Frazer, Ma'am, that dined here
only but yesterday — and, whatever they could have
quarrelled about, goodness only knows! But they
went out, it seems, this morning, to fight with pistols

But, oh, dear me, how deadly pale you are! Do

pray take a little hartshorn and water, or else I'm

sure-

Emily hastily drank off a glass of water, and col-
lecting all her strength, took the girl's arm, and pro-
ceeded to Lady Haviland's room^ — the shrieks from
which prepared her for the scene she had to encounter.

l?76 EMILY MORELAND.

Lady Haviland was in strong hysterics, and it was
some time before she appeared conscious of Emily'H
presence, or that heartfelt distress, which, though it
did not vent itself in exclamations or violence, was
not less agonising than her own. At length, however,
she became somewhat more composed, and able to
listen to Emily's soothing entreaties, and her repre-
sentation of the mischief she was doing to herself, by
the extravagance of her grief.

" For my poor father's sake," she whispered, as
Lady Haviland hung round her neck, and sobbed
upon her bosom, " you must strive to be calm ! He
will, in all probability, wish to see you — and how
will it be possible that you can administer to his com-
fort, if you do not exert a little fortitude ?"

" I will— I will strive to bear it, Emily," replied
Lady Haviland. " I will try to follow your example
— but, oh, what a shock is this, at a moment when
all was smiling around me! When I was enjoying
more happiness than I have known since I became his
wife ! And now, to have him torn from me, and by
a wretch "

" Do not give way to despair," returned Emily, in
a faltering voice, " the wound, perhaps, may, after
all, not prove a dangerous one; and he may, with
our care and attention "

Her eye caught the look of Lady Haviland's maid,
who was standing on the other side of the bed. She
shook her head, as if to repress the flattering hopes
Emily would fain have persuaded herself, as well as
her friend, were well founded, and the latter, unable
to finish the consolatory sentence, hid her face with

EMILY MoRELAND. 677

her hands, and, for a few moments, gave way to the
agony of her feelings. *

" Are you not attempting to deceive me, Emily?"
said Lady Haviland. *' Do you not know that he is
dead? Oh, yes — I am sure — I am certain he is no
more — and I am thus cruelly kept in suspense!"

Again she would have relapsed into frantic impa-
tience, but that a message from Lord Haviland's sur-
geon, requesting to be admitted to see her, recalled
her to comparative tranquillity.

The solemn look of the gentleman, who was in-
stantly admitted, presaged, to Emily's anxious heart,
that he had no favourable tidings to impart.

" I will not deceive your ladyship," he observed,
in reply to Lady Haviland's agitated inquiry, " his
lordship is in great — in imminent danger ; but the
ball has been extracted, and there is a possibility, if
he remains tranquil and undisturbed, that he may
recover. His lordship is thoroughly sensible of liis
precarious state, and wishes much to see your lady-
ship—and, I suppose, that is the young lady," bow-
ing to Emily, " for whom he has repeatedly asked, I
own to you, I would rather defer the interview —
but, as it appears impossible to tranquillise his mind
without, I have been obliged, conditionally, to assent
— but I must warn you that the slightest agitation
may prove fatal, and that, therefore, it will be abso-
lutely necessary that your ladyship preserve your
calmness and fortitude."

Ijady Haviland was ready to promise any thing,
and every thing ; and Emily, suppressing her own
feelings, offered her arm to assist her to the sick room.

678 KMJLY MORELANI).

The curtains were closed, and the soilness of death
pervaded the room, in which Emily saw nothing but
the bed on which her eyes were iixed. The surgeon
motioned them to remain quiet, and then gently un-
closing the curtain, he whispered to the invalid a few
words, to which he replied, in a faint voice —

'' Let them come quickly, then, while I have yet
power to speak !"

Lady Haviland pressed forward, as if she would
have thrown herself on the bed, but Emily, exerting
all her strength and presence of mind, forcibly with-
held her, and, by looks rather than words, enforced
the promise she had made of restraining her feelings.

The surgeon beckoned them to advance — and
Emily, prepared as she was to expect the worst,
shuddered at the awful change which had taken
place in the appearance of her father.

His countenance, ghastly from the effusion of
blood which had followed his wound, was distorted
with mental and bodily pain ; and as he turned his
eyes alternately on his wife and on Emily, they ap-
peared already glazed with the film of death.

"lam going to leave you, for ever!" he mur-
mured. " 1 feel that I have but a few minutes
to live ! Oh, that in that short time I could atone —
but no, a long life would not be sufficient to atone
for the evils I have done, for the opportunities I
have neglected ! Emily, my child, pray for me —
pray for your wretched father — whose only conso-
lation, at this moment, is, that he has died in de-
fending your innocence from the aspersions of one —
but I will not now revile him— he had a right to doubt

EMILY MORETiAND. G79

my assertions. He knew, but too well, how often I
had practised duplicity to accomplish my purposes —
yet he had no right to slander innocence !"

An exclamation of pain interrupted him, and the
surgeon, who had retired with another gentleman to
the window farthest from the bed, now hastily ad-
vanced to remonstrate with his patient, for thus ex-
erting himself in speaking.

" It is of no use, Blundell — I feel I am dying," re-
turned Lord Haviland. " Julia — Emily — tell me
that you forgive me ! Oh, that I could forget, in
this hour, how many there are whose forgiveness I
need — whose curses will, perhaps, rise against me !"

Emily sank on her knees, and hid her face on the
bed, to conceal her agony ; while Lady Haviland,
forgetting all her assumed fortitude, gave way to
the most passionate exclamations of grief and despair.

It was not until this moment that Emily discovered
that the other gentleman who was present, and
whom her grief and agitation had prevented her even
bestowing a glance upon, was Herbert Leslie ; but
now slie heard his well-known voice, endeavouring
to speak peace and consolation to both the sufferer
and his afflicted wife.

To Emily, a fresh source of sorrow had arisen —
for she had learned that she had been the source of
the unhappy dispute which had terminated so fa-
tally ; and, unconscious and innocent as she was, she
still felt this a bitter aggravation of her grief.

A long pause of silence succeeded — It was broken
only by the deep sighs which, at intervals, broke from
the sufferer, and betrayed alone his consciousness of

680 EMILY MOUELAND.

his situation. The surgeon from time to time felt
his pulse, and at length whispered a few words to
Leslie, who attempted immediately to raise Emily
from the position which she still kept, while the for-
mer endeavoured to draw Lady Haviland from the
bedside, by telling her that he had something to com-
municate to her immediately^

Unsuspicious of his motive, she instantly complied ;
but Emily, who saw the eyes of her dying father
turned on her with a look of agony, resisted all Les-
lie's attempts to draw her from him.

For a moment he seemed to resume all his strength
— he stretched out his arms to embrace her, while
his eyes seemed again to resume their lustre, and he
distinctly uttered a prayer for her happiness.

Leslie stood by her side, and to him Lord Havi-
land extended one hand. He took it with emotion,
and the dying man, turning his eyes alternately from
him to his daughter, attempted to give utterance to
some words — but his voice failed — his eyes again
grew dim — and, laying his head on Emily's shoulder,
he expired !

It was some moments before Emily was conscious
that the fatal moment was passed ; but Leslie, who
felt the cold hand he held relax its grasp, gently
relieved her from the lifeless burthen, and carried
her in his arms from the room.

Again the screams of Lady Haviland reached
Emily's ear. Mr. Blundell had announced to her
the fatal truth, and, regardless of all persuasion and
remonstrance, she had again given way to all the
violence of her nature.

EMILY MORELAND. 681

Emily was calm, collected, and rational — but her
cheeks and lips were ashy pale, and the convulsive
throbs that heaved her bosom betrayed the internal
agony she sustained.

Leslie felt that there was infinitely more reason to
dread the effects of her silent grief, than Lady Havi-
iand's violent ravings, and frantic execrations on the
author of it. He had no need to exhort Emily to
fortitude, for she evidently strove beyond her strength
to repress her feelings; but he tried to excite her
tears, by speaking of the last words her father had
tittered, which were to bless her, and he succeeded.

"Shall I send for Signora Orsini, Emily?" he at
length demanded. ^^ At such a time as this, forms
and ceremonies may be dispensed with; and I know
no one who is more effectually qualified to assist and
direct you than she is."

Emily assented, and Leslie despatched a note im-
mediately to her, as well as one to Mrs. Lucy, to
whom shje knew Lady Haviland habitually looked
up for advice and assistance, in every difficulty.

By the advice of Mr. Blundell, Lady Haviland
was removed to her own room, where, overpowered
by her own violence, and the composing medicine
which the surgeon administered, she sank into a deep
sleep, and in a few minutes Emily, relieved of all
restraint, wept unreservedly on the bosom of her
friend Rosalia, whose gentle and winning manners
soothed her grief, without attempting to obtrude
upon it by common-place unmeaning consolation.

Before Lady Haviland had again returned to a
consciousness of her sorrows, her friend Mrs. Lucy
29. 4 s

682 EMILY MORELAND.

arrived; but Emily shrank with pain from the pro-
posal she almost immediately made, that they fEmily
and Lady Haviland) should leave the house, and. for
the present, take up their residence with her.

There appeared to her to be something unfeeling^
and unnatural, in thus abandoning the scarcely cold
remains of him whose loss they deplored ; but custom,
she knew, authorised it — and, as Mrs. Lucy seemed
to think it necessary that Lady Haviland should be
removed, she could not venture to oppose it, though
she secretly hoped that her ladyship would not con-
sent to the arrangement.

Emily Avas not present at Mrs. Lucy's first inter-
view with her friend; but, when she was summoned
to the chamber, she found Lady Haviland compara-
tively calm and tranquil. She had yielded, too, to
the proposal of the former, and her maid had already
began the necessary preparations for her removal.

Emily would have objected — she would have re-
quested permission to remain until the last duties
were performed to her unfortunate parent, but she
was fearful of offending, and she continued silent.

" Mrs. Lucy tells me, my love, that your friend is
with you. Perhaps, as it will be, I know, incon-
veniencing Mrs. Lucy to have so large an addition
to her family, you could go home with her for a week
or two. We shall both of us, perhaps, be better
separate."

Emily, though the proposal was not unpleasant to
her, felt rather hurt at it — for it by no means corres-
ponded with the ardent attachment to her society,
which Lady Hav^iland had hitherto professed; nor

EMILY MORELAND. (^S5

did it appear, she thought, either kind or delicate,
thus to throw her oflP, in the moment of affliction.
She, however, assented, observing that she knew Sig-
nora Orsini would gladly accommodate her.

*' You can give what orders you please to Burton,
my dear, respecting your mourning," said Lady Ha-
viland; "and she will see that they are properly
executed; and I shall trouble Herbert with the ar-
rangement of all that is necessary to be done. There
is a will, 1 understand, which was executed last night
— Herbert will acquaint you with what relates to
yourself at a proper time — but I am distressing you,
I see, though, as these things must be mentioned to
you, it is perhaps better it should be done at once.
I have myself a hard task to perform, but I must
struggle through it, as well as I can."

Emily could not utter a word — she felt that,
through all Lady Haviland's seeming kindness, there
was an unusual coldness of manner — a something
which was inexplicable, and which, probably, could
not have been seen by any other person ; but which,
to Emily's heart, spoke, in very intelligible language,
a diminution of that warm affection which her lady-
ship had hitherto evinced towards her. ^

"Why should I be surprised?" murmured Emily,
as she slowly returned to the room where she had left
her friend Rosalia and Leslie together; "she con-
siders me as the unhappy cause of her misfortune;
and, though she knows it is an involuntary fault,
which I would have died to prevent, yet she cannot
help resenting it."

Emily repeated to Herbert the message with which

(>S4 EMILY MORELAJVD.

she had been charged by Lady Haviland, that she
wished to see him, to enter into some arrangements
with him.

Leslie immediately left the room, and Emily then
communicated to the Signora her ladyship's wish that
she should become a temporary resident with her,
observing, that if it did not meet her (Rosalia's) ap-
probation, she should propose — what, indeed, would
be most correspondent with her wishes — that she
should remain in the house, until the necessary cere-
monies had taken place.

Signora Orsini, however, professed the greatest
satisfaction at the arrangement proposed by her lady-
ship, though she hesitated not to express her surprise
that she should have chosen to leave her home, at
such a moment. " But such, it appears, is the cus-
tom," she added, "and it is not to be expected that
Lady Haviland should havestrength of mind sufficient
to break through its arbitrary laws."

Emily again hinted her wish of being allowed to
remain — but this, Signora Orsini opposed, observing
that it would be a direct censure on Lady Haviland,
and also excite many unpleasant conjectures.
•She yielded, therefore, to the plan proposed, and
in a few hours the house, which had so lately been
the resort of gaiety and fashion, was deserted, except
by the few servants who were left to watch by the
lifeless remains of its late possessor.

In the society of Signora Orsini and Herbert Les-
lie, who seldom left them, except when employed in
attending to the arrangement of the funeral obsequies
of liis late friend, and fulfilling the directions cou-

r.MlLY MORELAND. 685

tained in his will, which had been written, it ap-
peared, the evening preceding the fatal event, Emily
found the greatest consolation her sorrow would
admit. She learned, as soon as she could bear to
speak of the circumstances that had occurred, that
Frazer's conduct and language had been of the most
provoking description. He had dared not only to
impeach Lord Haviland's veracity, when, urged by
the hints he had thrown out respecting Emily, his
lordship had in confidence avowed to him the rela-
tionship that existed between them — but he had like-
wise indulged in the most outrageous observations
on Lady Haviland.

Heated with wine, of which they had both taken
very freely, and aggravated by the cool, sarcastic
manner in which Frazer uttered these calumnies,
Lord Haviland forgot all bounds in his rage. Two
of the gentlemen who were to have been of the party
to the Opera, at this critical moment entered, and
Lord Haviland insisted that in their presence he
should retract the slanders he had uttered, or consent
to give him that satisfaction which alone could
expiate the affront.

It was in vain their friends, — one of whom, it ap-
peared, was Captain Templeton, — the other, a gen-
tleman whom Emily knew only by name, — interfered
to bring about an amicable arrangement, and a meet-
ing was finally agreed upon, the fatal result of which
has already been related.

Captain Templeton, it seemed, had acted as Fra-
zer's second, and Mr. Balfoi r, the other gentleman,
had been Lord Haviland's.

686 EMILY MORELAND.

*' It was a singular chance," observed Leslie, in re-
lating these particulars, " that led me, on that morn-
ing, to the very spot they had chosen for their deadly
purpose. I had been at first inclined to take my
usual morning walk, in the direction to Kensington;
but I know not what impelled me to change that in-
tention, and take the road to Hampstead. I was
sauntering carelessly along, when I was surprised at
seeing Lord Haviland's carriage drawn up at the side
of the road. I had previously passed a post-chaise,
standing in the same manner, and I was now instantly
struck with a presentiment that something extra-
ordinary had occurred.

" I demanded of the coachman, who alone was in
attendance, what had occasioned his being there;
and the man immediately replied, that he had brought
his lordship and another gentleman from town, and
they had alighted at that place, and gone over the
fields, desiring him to remain there till they returned.

" The man's manner convinced me that he, as well
as myself, anticipated something serious was contem-
plated; and I stayed not to make a single remark,
but hastily inquiring which path they had taken, I
ran as speedily as possible in that direction. Before,
however, I could gain a sight of the parties, who
Tvere separated from me by a high hedge, the report
of two pistols told me that all was over — and in ano-
ther minute I discovered a gate, by leaping which I
came close to them.

" Lord Haviland was on the ground, supported>by
his friend Balfour; and the surgeon, Mr. Blundell,
was endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed

EMILY MO R Eli AND.

687

from his wound. Frazer and Templeton were stand-
ing near him.

" The moment I approached Lord Haviland, he
said — ' Leslie, I am glad you are come to bear witness
that Frazer acknowledges himself to have been
wrong, on the subject that provoked our quarrel —
and, remember, with my dying breath I affirm, that
he was wrong — totally wrong!'

" ' I do acknowledge it,' observed Frazer, who
appeared deeply concerned at the fatal termination
of the affair, ' and I will make every reparation,
should it be in my power.'

" Templeton now urged the necessity of imme-
diately quitting the spot; and Frazer, extending his
hand to Lord Haviland, exclaimed — ' Farewell — I
hope yet that we shall meet again!'

" The sight of a man advancing from the opposite
side of the field, prevented his proceeding, and he
and Templeton made a hasty retreat to the chaise
which was waiting for them.

" With the assistance of this man, who had been
drawn to the spot by hearing the report of the pistols,
we succeeded in removing Lord Haviland to the car-
riage; and as Mr. Blundell seemed inclined to think
rather favourably of his wound, he persisted in being
carried to his home, instead of the nearest house, as
the surgeon wished. Before, however, we reached
Piccadilly, the motion of the carriage renewed the
bleeding, and all hopes soon vanished!"

Emily shuddered at this detail, which her own
questions had drawn from Leslie, and in which the
only circumstance that could afford the slightest

688 ElVni.\ MOREI.AVD.

gleam of satisfaction was the assurance that Frazer
had retracted his scandalous assertions, and had ap-
peared to repent the fatal catastrophe which they
had brought on.

Leslie proceeded to inform Emily of the contents
of the will, which had been before alluded to; and,
with the greatest surprise, she found that all her
father's personal property, together with an annuity
of two hundred a year, were settled upon herself —
Lady Haviland being, as the will observed, already
amply provided for by her jointure, and her own
private property.

This, then, was the source, Emily could not doubt,
of that coolness which she had observed in her lady-
ship's manner towards her. It was not that Lady
Haviland was mercenary — Emily had every reason in
the world to know the contrary — but she had pene-
tration enough to see that her ladyship was never so
great a friend, as when the object of her bounty was
totally dependant on her; and that to become inde-
pendent of her, or to make even an effort to be so,
was the greatest fault that could be committed. It
was not, therefore, that she considered herself ag-
grieved by the manner in which Lord Haviland had
disposed of his property — but that it had entirely
freed Emily from all dependance on her, was suffi-
cient to deprive the latter of the warm interest she
had hitherto felt for her.

Though grieved even thus to have given Lady
Haviland cause to relax in her friendly feelings to-
wards her, Emily could not but feel deeply affected
at this proof of her father's affection and considera-

EMILV MOUELAND. 689

tion for her; but from the dim visions of future hap-
piness which floated through her mind, on finding
herself thus so far removed from all precarious de-
pendence, she was soon diverted by the intelligence
which Herbert Leslie had to communicate to her,
and which he had hitherto forborne to speak of,
because he considered it unseasonable to intrude
upon her sorrows with his own hopes and expecta-
tions.

Emily's surprise, however, was only equalled by
her pleasure, when she learned that, in all proba-
bility, she had been the means of placing out of doubt
the subject which had so long lain heavy at JLjeslie's
heart, and discovering to the Signora that mystery
which had for years occupied her thoughts, and which
she had made so many unsuccessful attempts to un-
ravel— the fate of her sister's child, the heir to the
estates not only of Walter Moreland, but of the noble
house of Orsini.

The strong resemblance which Herbert Leslie bore
to the well-remembered form and features of the
Englishman, who, under the name of Molini, had
seduced her sister's affections, and finally separated
her from her friends, had, on their very first inter-
view, struck Rosalia with astonishment; and, ro-
mantic as the thought appeared, she had never ceased
secretly to indulge the hope that in him she beheld
the offspring of that beloved sister. Conscious, how-
ever, that no one but herself could feel the |brce of
this imaginary tie, she never spoke of it even to Les-
lie, who, only partially acquainted with the sad story
of Laurentina Orsini, dreamt not of theYeelings whicli
29. 4 1

G90 EMILY MORELAND.

he inspired in the bosom of her devotedly attached
sister.

To her he was bound by admiration of her superior
mind, by the congeniality of their pursuits and man-
ners, and by the most sincere gratitude for a series
of affectionate attentions, which had soothed him on
a bed of sickness, and eventually roused him, from
the gloom of apathy and despair, to useful and ho-
nourable exertion.

Emily listened with tearful pleasure whilst he re-
lated the circumstances which had led to his meeting
with the Signora, after her return to England.

" I had been," he observed, " for some months re-
siding in Sloane Street, and (though my habits, from
circumstances which I need not explain to you,
Emily, were rather unsocial and irregular) had been
treated with particular kindness and attention by
the respectable old lady whom I Ijoarded with. At
my first entrance into the house, I was her only in-
mate, and I paid but little attention when she in-
formed me one morning, at breakfast, that she had
let her first floor to a lady. ' A very handsome lady,
too,' she observed, with a smile, ' though of suffi-
ciently advanced years not to be alarmed at having a
single young gentleman in the house.'

" 1 have since recollected that she said a good deal
more respecting her new lodger's accomplishments,
manners, and retired habits — but I had no curiosity,
and took no interest in the subject. I heard some-
times the sound of a harp in the lady's apartments,
but even music had lost its charms— and I not un-
frequently retired into my little back room, and

EMIl^Y MORELAND. 691

closed the door, to prevent being interrupted in my
gloomy meditations by the strains to which I should
once have listened with pleasure.

" My incautious habits of exposing myself to all
weathers, and neglecting, in spite of the admonitions
of my good landlady, all care of my health, at length
combined with the uneasiness of my mind to produce
a very serious illness. I was confined to my bed;
and the good old lady, — who was wholly ignorant of
my former connexions, and to whom I was known
only by the name of Herbert, being determined not
to retain the appellation which Lady Haviland, in a
moment of passion, had told me I had no claim to, —
became seriously alarmed lest I should die.

" I had no apprehensions of the kind myself-~or
to speak more correctly of my feelings at that time,
I had no hopes ; and the event proved I was most
correct : — for I recovered, but so slowly, that I was
for several weeks confined from mere weakness. I
am, however, anticipating my story. I was no sooner
able to quit my bed, than my landlady began to talk
to me of the solicitude her lady lodger had shown
for my recovery. All the little delicacies which had
been offered to tempt my sickly appetite, had been,
it appeared, supplied by her; and now that I was
able to be amused, she had sent * stores of books,' as
the good old lady expressed herself, ' and whole port-
folios of drawings and prints.'

" I could not appear ungrateful for such attentions.
I turned over some of the volumes — they bespoke a
cultivated mind, and refined taste in their selection ;
but I could not read, and I closed them, for the pre-

692 EMILY MORELAND.

sent, at least. The old lady, with kind officiousriess,
spread before me one of the portfolios, and the very
first picture that caught my eye, instantly fascinated
'my attention. It was a representation of an Italian
festival — the scene, the dresses, were such as I had
seen a hundred times in that lovely and romantic
country, but these formed not its attraction to me ;
but in the lovely face and form of the female who
was leading off the merry dance, I recognised the
striking resemblance of one who was never absent
from my thoughts — need I say, Emily, that it was
yourself, who "

" I recollect the picture you speak of," interrupted
Emily, blushing and smiling, "and recollect, too,
how I wearied the dear Signora*s patience by my
vagaries, when she was sketching it — but, pray, pro-
ceed."

"You will not be as much surprised as my good
old hostess wa;^ at my sudden change, from listlessness
and apathy, to the most intense curiosity, as I hastily
turned over the rest of the pictures. At length my
suspicions received the most rapturous confirmation —
for, in one of the most finished and delightful land-
scapes, I recognised the well-known ruined cottage
in the Valley of St. Clare ; and on the margin beheld
written, in an elegant Italian hand,

' Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale.
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours.
Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.'

" I wanted not the name of Rosalia Orsini, which,
however, was annexed to this quotation from he

'2^ ?^^a,J ay yi^yz^:^nuz^^/i-' <i^}^ayn/

MOfiacrv.^tui T tj ir. iiraiA!, Z6 -l-.- ^ujm.-ISS^

EMILY MORKLAND. 693

favourite poet, to convince me that the hand of the
artist was that also of a friend.

" * Why did you not tell me,' I hastily observed,
* who the lady was, to whom I have been so much in-
debted, or did she desire you not to mention her name ?
Probably, she, like me, is ignorant who it is — but I
will go to her directly!' — and, forgetting my weak-
ness, I made an effort to rise.

" * For goodness' sake, Mr. Herbert,' exclaimed
the old lady, ' don't exert yourself in this manner —
the lady will, I ?m sure, come to you in a minute;
but you have so charged me not to let any strangers
intrude upon you, that "

" ' Tell me at once — is it Signora Orsini herself?'
I demanded, impatiently.

" ' Yes, certainly, that is the lady's name,' she re-
plied ; ' but it is such a strange name, that I can never
think of it but when I hear it, and that is the reason
1 have never called her any thing but ' the lady' to
you.'

" I could scarcely forbear blaming her stupidity,
which had so long kept me from such a pleasure as
an interview with one whom I so highly esteemed
and respected; but I concealed this feeling, and re-
questing the old lady merely to say to the lady that
the invalid, whom she had so kindly interested her-
self for, was most anxious personally to thank her,
I despatched her on her willing errand.

" In a very few minutes, Signora Orsini glided
softly into the room. T saw, instantly, that she did
not recognise, in the pale, sickly-looking being before
her, one whom she had met under very different cir-

694 EMILY MOHELAND.

cumstances; but she started at the very first sound of
my voice — her quick eye glanced from the paintings,
which still lay open on the table, to my face — and
she exclaimed, with extreme agitation — ' I cannot be
mistaken — and yet '

" ' You are not mistaken,' I observed, ' though you
see but the shadow of him who dates from his visit
to this sweet spot (alluding to the picture before me)
all the happiness and misery of his life.'

" A perfect explanation now took place, and I
learned with surprise that the intelligence I had re-
ceived at St. Clare, which had kept me from repeating
my visit, had been erroneous. Need I say, Emily
that I allude to the general report that you were
the destined wife of Mr. Evelyn. How much un-
happiness might have been spared to me, had I then
sought a confirmation from your lips I But, while I
derived pleasure from one source, I was compelled
to grief and almost despair from another — for I
learned that Signora Orsini was entirely ignorant of
your actual situation.

" She had been down to St. Clare, on her first ar-
rival in England — but she could there learn nothing,
except that you were in London, with the farmer's
niece, and that circumstance alone had induced her
to return to the metropolis. Hitherto, however, her
search had been in vain ; and, though I had seen you
more than once, I could add little that was satisfac-
tory, in the way of information ; for Mrs. Wilson
either could not, or would not, give the slightest clue
to guide me, as to what had induced you to quit her,
or in what situation you were placed.

BMILT moheland. fi!.>5

** The Signora has told you, I believe, of lior
meeting with William Wilson, and his attempts t>
find you out. It seemed, however, as if fate was
determined to baffle our every effort; and you n^ust
forgive both her and me for coming, at length, to the
conclusion that it was your wish to avoid renewing
your former connexions."

Emily shook her head, in reproof; but there was
too much to gratify her, in this detail, to allow the
indulgence of any unpleasant feeling.

" To come to my own story, from which this may
be in some measure considered a digression," resumed
Herbert. " After your departure from Sloane Street,
on that happy day which restored you to the society
of your friend, I communicated to Rosalia the ex-
planation which you had been the means of eliciting
from Lady Haviland; but I cannot describe to you
the effect it produced on her! I will not trespass
upon your time and patience now, by repeating the
whole chain of evidence which led to the conclusion
— It is sufficient to tell you, that there cannot rea-
sonably exist a doubt, that the protege of Lady Havi-
land, and the long-sought heir of Walter Moreland
and Laurentina Orsini, are one and the same person.'*

Emily had been prepared for this result — she,
therefore, expressed no surprise ; and the warm pres-
sure of the hand which he held in his, and the tear
which he kissed off her cheek, alone betrayed the
pleasure with which she heard this confirmation of
her hopes.

*' It is not the least of my gratification," continued
Herbert, after a short pause, during which feelings

696 EMILY MORELANO.

too eloquent for words had kept them both silent .
" it is not my slightest pleasure," he repeated, " that
T am thus enabled to claim the proud privilege of
relationship, already, to one who needed not that tie
to bind me for ever to her. It will," he continued,
'"'be a work of time and difficulty, without doubt, to
establish legally my claim — but Emily will not, I
know, be the last to acknowledge me a Moreland."

" Would that the whole world would as readily
admit your claim as myself!" said Emily, with
energy.

Herbert pressed her rapturously to his bosom, and
Emily found the entrance of Signora Orsini, at that
moment, a welcome relief from a scene which, under
all circumstances, she felt was becoming too par-
ticular.

*' You have, I see, anticipated the pleasure I meant
to have shared with you," observed the Signora;
" for I read in Emily's eyes that she is acquainted
with the secret which I have been dying to commu-
nicate to her."

No longer restrained by timidity, Emily freely
expressed the pleasure she felt at the prospect that
appeared of Mr. Leslie being restored to his rights.

" Do not call me by that formal name still, Emily,"
observed the latter, with animation. " Call me Her-
bert, if you like — for that, I believe, I have a legal
right to claim."

" I know not that," observed Signora Orsini,
thoughtfully. *'• It is scarcely probable that your
mother did not regularly bestow a name upon you,
while she had you with her; and that name must, o

EMILY MORELAND. 697

course — be it what it may — supersede the one you
now bear."

" Then I must still, it seems, remain a nameless
being," said Herbert, smiling-; " or, at least, as Lady
Haviland once bitterly observed, be indebted to
charity even for a name."

" Is it possible that her ladyship could have given
utterance to such an ungenerous, such an unfeeling
observation ?" said Signora Orsini.

" You have never seen Lady Haviland in what she
herself calls a downright passion, or you would not
doubt that she could utter any thing which presented
itself at the moment to her mind," replied Herbert.
*' Yet her heart is good and generous; and I know
she sincerely repented, probably the next instant,
what the violence of her temper alone induced her
to utter."

Emily felt that this judgment of Lady Haviland
was too correct to be disputed, and remained silent;
but Signora Orsini, to whom the most unamiable
traits of her ladyship's character appeared the most
prominent, was not deterred from some severe re-
marks on her conduct ; and Herbert, to whom it was
evidently painful to hear her, v/hom he had so long
considered his mother, censured with harshness, con-
trived to dismiss the subject by speaking of the course
he meant to adopt, to justify his claims, as the de-
scendant of Walter Moreland and Laurentina Orsim.

There was, he thought, one witness, who, if he

were still living, could at once decide the whole

question It was the wily, unworthy man who had

accompanied the former as his tutor, and who, ac-

30. 4u

608 EMILY MORELAND.

cording to the narrative of Mrs. Lucy, had been the
confidant and abettor of all his plans. There could
be little doubt that it was to him Walter had en-
trusted the task of getting rid of the child, who was,
after the unfortunate mother was securely disposed
of, the only bar to the new connexion which he then
contemplated ; and from Mrs. Lucy he hoped to gain
some clue to the discovery of this man's connexions,
as he could with propriety introduce the business to
her and Lady Haviland, " which, of course," he
added, " cannot be until after "

He checked himself, for his words immediately re-
called to Emily all the melancholy recollections
which had been, for a time, banished by the interest-
ing events which she had been made acquainted with.

Herbert proceeded to observe, that it v/ould, in
all probability, be necessary that Signora Orsini and
himself sJiould visit Italy, and perhaps Switzerland,
before his birthright would be fully established.
*' But, at all events," he continued, " I shall make it
the first and most important consideration, to endea-
vour to trace to certainty the fate of my unfortunate
mother. Who knows — " and his eyes sparkled with
hope and animation, " but that she may yet exist to
bless and acknowledge her son ! Recent events have
made very considerable changes in the religious com-
munities of Italy ; and my inquiries will not now, as
formerly, expose either myself, or the object of my
search, to danger. Do not look .so despondent, my
dear, dear aunt — for so 1 will call you, without feai
that my title will be disallowed by you, though the
whole world should discredit my claim — the worst

EMILY MORELAND. 699

that can result from our inquiries will be. to learn
that the beloved being, whose loss you have so lon^
deplored, is removed to that better world, where, at
least, you are sure of rejoining her."

The Signora tried to conceal the emotion his words
created — but it was in vain — tears of bitter remem-
brance forced their way, and it was some time before
either of the little party could resume theii tran-
quillity.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake.

Broad as transparent, deep and freshly fed

By a river which its soften' d way did take
In currents through the calmer waters spread.

Anon.

The remains of Lord Haviland were, after the re-
gular forms of inquiry into the cause of his death
had been complied with, committed to the tomb of
his ancestors ; and Herbert, after attending this last
mournful ceremony, waited upon Lady Haviland, to
receive her farther commands.

She received him with that kindness and confidence
which she had ever shown towards him, except when
under the influence of mistaken suspicion, and those
violent passions, which had so often, during her life,
hurried her into actions inconsistent with her real
disposition.

700 EMILY MO K EI. AN 0,

Mrs. Lucy's calm, dispassionate reasoning had coti*
inced JLady Haviland of the injustice of her resent-
ment towards Emily ; and she now spoke of the latter
with all her usual warmth and cordiality, and ex-
pressed, in strong terms, her wish to see her; but
Herbert observed, with secret satisfaction, that she
did not seem to expect that the former would become
her permanent companion, or be at all identified in
her plans for the future.

It would be necessary, she said, however painful
to her feelings, that she should return to the house
Jn Piccadilly for a iew days, in order to put Emily in
possession of the property which was now become
hers, as well as to bring all her own affairs in London
to a final settlement, as she did Hot intend ever to
make the Metropolis her residence again.

" I have not yet," she observed, " finally deter-
mined whether 1 shall go down to Dorrington
Hall," (a seat which was her own property, having
been settled on her by her father,) " or whether I
shall take advantage of my right of residing for
twelve months on the estate in Gloucestershire. I
have, you know, Herbert, some friends in that neigh-
bourhood, which will, perhaps, make that the most
desirable, and it will likewise be the most acceptable
to Mrs. Lucy, who has kindly promised to pass some
months with me, and who has many connexions therCy
with whom she will find some compensation for the
melancholy hours she must expect to pass with me."

Herbert agreed with her in thinking this would
be the most eligible plan, and, after a few minutes'
hesitation, she added —

EMILY MOBELAND.

701

" I know not, Herbert, whether Emily has ac-
quainted you with what passed between her and me.
respecting a sum of money which was formerly de-
voted to you?"

Herbert replied in the negative. Emily had, in
fact, assiduously concealed from him that her chief
motive, in endeavouring to make his peace with Lady
Haviland, was to secure to him the provision which
he had before proudly rejected.

" If that is the case, then," rejoined Lady Haviland,
" I need not enter into any further explanation, but
merely state that my intentions towards you remain
as they were before the nonsensical affair that created
the difference between us. Emily has, by her good
offices, set that at rest; and, I believe, satisfied you,
that, however impetuous and obstinate I may have
been, I have never been otherwise than your sincere
friend."

Herbert expressed, in the warmest terms, his gra-
titude for all her kindness; but, without either ac-
cepting her liberal olTer, or olTending her quick feel-
ings by a positive rejection of it, he seized the oppor-
tunity of entering into a full explanation of all that
had so recently been made known to him. The story
was sufficiently romantic and mysterious to interest
her, and engage her to the utmost in its final de-
nouement. Mrs. Lucy, who had from motives of
delicacy declined being present at this first interview,
was impatiently summoned ; and, though at first
startled and astonished at the idea that in the humble
protege of Lady Haviland she beheld the heir of the
Moreland fainiiy, she soon became convinced, even

702 LMILV iMORELAiNU.

more strongly, if possible, than Herbert, or the san-
guine and impetuous Lady Haviland, that such was
undoubtedly the fact.

Often, she said, had it occurred to her mind, even
when Herbert was a boy, that he bore a striking re-
semblance to some one whom she had known; but
she had never imajrined that it was Walter Moreland
whose handsome form and features were thus renewed
to her memory. Now, however, as she gazed at him,
and recalled to her recollection the striking traits of
that unfortunate and guilty man, she was surprised
only, as she said, that the strong; resemblance should
so long have escaped her.

In the strong interest which Lady Haviland now
took in the final development of the mystery, Her-
bert saw with pleasure that she had almost ceased to
think of her own sorrows.

She was now all anxiety to come to town, that the
clothes, which she had carefully preserved, as his
only clue to prove his identity, should any inquiry
ever be made by the parents who had apparently
deserted him, might be delivered to Signora Orsini,
to whom she was now impatient to be introduced.

Herbert could scarcely forbear smiling" at the
eagerness which she displayed to give him every in-
formation in her power, and the facility with which
she settled all that was necessary to be done.

One important piece of intelligence, however, he
learned from her: — that some relatives of the poor
woman who had nursed him were still living, near
the spot where Lady Haviland had first beheld him.

It was evident that Lady Haviland had been much

EMILY MORELAND. 703

more solicitous to indulge her whim of adopting him
entirely, and removing him from every chance of
being reclaimed from her, than of tracing his origin ;
and from these people, he flattered himself, he might
probably gain some intelligence which she had not
at the time sought fbr.

Curiosity had, it appeared, within a few years, led
her, while on a temporary visit in the neighbourhood,
to inquire whether any of the family of Mrs. Leslie
were remaining; and she had, without making her-
self known to them, ascertained that the mother and
sister-in-law of the poor woman were still living, in
the very cottage from M'hich she had, twenty years
before, removed Herbert.

With this information, and charged with numerous
kind messages to Emily and Signora Orsini, Herbert
returned to Sloane-street ; Lady Haviland having
finally settled to meet him, and the two former, at lier
late residence in Piccadilly, on that day week.

The Signora agreed with him that it would be
advisable to go immediately to the people whom
Lady Haviland had mentioned, and, on the very next
morning, Herbert was on the road to Sussex.

From the old woman and her daughter, however,
he could learn little more than what he already knew.
They remembered all the circumstances which Lady
Haviland had related, and they recollected, likewise,
the person of the gentleman who, with the child, had
slept two or three nights at their house, before he
had given the child into the charge of William Les-
lie's wife.

Herbert was convinced that this did not agree with

704 EMILY MJRELAND.

the description of Ms father, or the miniature of him,
which he now had in his possession, and which ho
showed to them, demanding if he at all resembled
tliat portrait.

Both of them very positively declared that it bore
not the smallest resemblance; and the daug-hter,
looking at the picture, and then at Herbert, added —

" I should think that was more likely to be your
own picture, Sir — for, except there's a little difference
in the colour of the hair, 't's as like you as two peas
are like one another "

Herbert smiled — " And this gentleman, (Mr. Her-
bert, as you say he called himself,) was not at all like
me, then ?" he observed.

" Oh, no — I well remember he was a very sallow,
long-faced man, with quite light hair and whiskers,

and very small sunken grey eyes But I have just

thought of it, Sir— there is an old man living at
Hastings, who was a shipmate of my poor brother's,
and was thought to be drowned when the brig was
lost, and all the rest of the crew ; but he was picked
up by a French ship, and carried back to France, and
it was as much as six or seven years before any of us
knew that a single soul was saved; and then, having
got tired of living among foreigners, old Tom Lynam
came back here, and settled at Hastings, and has got
a fishing-boat and does pretty well. Now, it's very
likely he could tell you a deal more about these mat-
ters, because he was one of the crew, when the gen-
tleman came over with the child."

Herbert stayed only to reward the mother and
daughter for this information, and immediately set

EMILY M O R E r- A N D . 705

off for Hastings, where he soon discovered the object
of his search.

The old man scratched his head, as Herbert en-
deavoured to recal to his memory the circumstances,
respecting which he wished to gain some further par-
ticulars.

" I remembers it all very well, now," he replied.
" It was the last trip, but one, that I ever made in an
English vessel — and a tight little brig she was. It
was off Bourdeaux that we took the gentleman you
speak of, and his young one, out of a fishing-boat
that came off to us; and I remember, too, how the
captain cursed and swore, when he found she'd
brought us only live lumber, instead of what we were
looking after. Howsomever, the gentleman made it
worth our while to bring him over, though I think it
was no good as he was upon, smuggling the poor
child away from its friends, and then leaving it among
strangers, as he did.

" I never, by-the-bye, rightly knowed what became
of the boy — for Will Leslie was drownded, the very
next trip, and six others. Poor fellows! I'd wea-
thered many a hard gale with 'em, and little thought
I should be the last left alive, out of 'em all !

" We never had any luck after that ere business.
It was like a judgment upon our captain, for having
any hand in it."

*' And did you never discover any clue, as to who
the child was, or where this Mr. Herbert, as he called
himself, had brought it from? I will make it well
worth your while, my friend, if you can give me the
slightest information on that point."

30. 4 X

706 EMII.Y MORELANO.

The prospect of reward evidently quickened the
man's anxiety to recollect all that he could on the
subject.

" It comes into my mind, now," he replied, " that
Will Leslie, who was a deep one, (though as good a
fellow as ever broke bread,) said to me, that it might
be the making of his fortune, if he could find out
who the child belonged to; and when we landed
again at Bourdeaux, he set his wits to work, to find
out whether there was any talk in the place about a
child missing, or any thing of that sort; and, at last,
he told me that he had traced out that a very hand-
some young gentleman, and a woman, who appeared
to be a servant, had slept two or three nights at an
inn in the city. They had a child with them, just
answering the description of the boy that we had
caried over to England — but it was taken away by
another gentleman, who didn't stay but a few hours,
and nobody knew what had become of it.

" The landlady told Will, that the servant cried a
good deal after the child — but she said it was gone
to its mother; and a few fine clothes that the young-
gentleman bought her, before he sent her off to Paris,
where her friends resided, seemed to make all right
with her.

" The landlady, who knew Will Leslie well
enough, said, that the young gentleman sailed next
day for England; and, she supposed, she should see
or hear from him again, as in his hurry he had forgot
a small writing-desk, which was in his bed-room, and
which seemed to be full of papers.

" Will wanted very badly to get hold of this box-—

EMU Y MORELAND 7(W

hut the Fienchwoman was too cunning to let him
have it — for she knew there was something in the
wind ; and, as we never went back no more — for. in
a week after this, the brig was lost, and not a soul
left but me — I can tell you no more about it."

Herbert inquired if he remembered either the sign
of the inn, or the name of the woman who then kept
it? The latter, he had quite forgotten; but the
house, which was much frequented by English sailors,
was called the Fleur-de-lis.

Satisfied that he could gain no further information,
Herbert rewarded the man ; and, scarcely stopping
to take the necessary refreshment, came by the first
conveyance to London again, to impart to his friends
the result of his inquiries.

At the appointed time, Lady Haviland was in rea-
diness to receive the Signora, Emily, and Herbert, at
the residence of the late Lord Haviland, in Piccadilly.

Emily, who had trembled at the anticipation of
this interview, was dreadfully agitated for some mi-
nutes; but the violence of the shock was over with
Lady Haviland, and her ladyship's comparative
calmness and composure operated as a salutary re-
straint on the feeling's of the former.

With Signora Orsini's elegant appearance and
manners. Lady Haviland seemed very much struck;
and, in the most flattering terms, she congratulated
Herbert and her on the discovery of an alliance,
which must be productive of such reciprocal plei
sure; while Rosalia, in her own peculiarly sweet ana
unaffected manner, expressed in return her grateful
sense of the obligations which Herbert, and conse-

708 EMi;[iY MORELAND.

queiitly herself, were under to her lad)sh p, ibi her
kindness to him.

The whole party were soon on the best possible
terms; and though Emily felt somewhat pained at
ihe formal and scrupulous manner in which Lady
Haviland pointed out the arrangements she had made,
to put her in possession of the property bequeathed
her by her father, yet, on the whole, she could not
complain of any diminution of the kindness with
which her ladyship had formerly treated her.

Herbert explained, without any reserve, the steps
he meant to pursue, to substantiate his claims, and
the information he had gained in corroboration of
her ladyship's narrative.

Lady Haviland agreed with him and the Signora
on the propriety of his proceeding to Bourdeaux
immediately, " from whence," observed her ladyship,
" you may either proceed to Switzerland or to Italy,
or return to England, according to your success in
gaining information."

Herbert's eyes rested on Emily, with a look of
thoughtfulness and regret which Lady Haviland
seemed to interpret, for she added — " You are think-
ing that I am laying a plan for a long absence, Her-
bert, but it need not be so— for, should you find it
necessary to remain any considerable time abroad,
the best way will be for Signora Orsini to give you
the meeting there. I myself would not object to a
few months' residence on the Continent; and it would
be, of course, not disagreeable to Emily, to have an
opportunity of visiting the land of song. You would
thus have all your friends about you."

EMILY MORELAND. 709

• "It is a very pleasing-, and a very flattering pros-
pect, certainly," observed Herbert, ''but there ar*
other circumstances "

" I will allow nothing to cross my humour, you
know," interrupted Lady Haviland, "and I think J
can answer for Emily, that she will throw no impp
diments in the way."

Emily was ready to attend her friends to the most
distant quarter of the globe, she observed, if they
required it; and, after a little more discussion. Lady
Haviland's proposition was finally agreed to.

In a few days, Herbert departed — and Lady Havi-
land, who began to feel tired of her proposed plan
of passing the first months of widowhood with only
Mrs. Lucy as her companion, ^prevailed on Signora
Orsini and Emily to be her visitors for a few weeks.

In the delightful walks and beautiful scenery which
surrounded St. Margaret's, as the seat was called
which Lady Haviland inherited from her parents,
Emily would, at any other period, have found sources
of the purest delight; but now, — though grateful
for the blessings she enjoyed, and often, when she
reflected on her situation, impressed with wonder
and admiration of the means by which she had been
rescued from poverty and dependence, and gifted
with friends and fortune, — she was melancholy and
restless; for her heart was with Herbert — and a
thousand tormenting fears and doubts, on his account,
poisoned her present enjoyments.

Occupied with these melancholy reflections, she
was, one night, from the balcony into which the win
dows of he>' apartment opened, enjoying- the delight-

710 EMU.Y MOKEI.ANb.

ful freshness of the breeze, which scarcely curled tfte
waters of the deep lake which flowed beneath, when
she was surprised at discovering a small boat, which
usually was moored at a boat-house about a mile and
a half from the mansion, gliding along the still sur-
face of the waters. The moon had risen, but her
light was only sufficient to reveal to Emily that the
person who guided the boat was superior in appear-
ance to any of the servants or people in the neigh-
bourhood. It was not likely, either, that, if any of
them had taken the boat to enjoy a moonlight ex-
cursion, they should approach so near to the house;
and, with considerable curiosity, she watched its pro-
gress, until it came close under where she was
standing.

The man looked up to her, as if rather desirous of
attracting her attention than avoiding it. She
thought he spoke, and, somewhat alarmed, she was on
the point of retreating into her chamber, but a mo-
ment's reflection showed her the folly of apprehend-
ing any danger, at the distance she was removed from
the person who had chosen this singular mode of
communication, and again she advanced, and, leaning
over the balcony, distinctly heard the words he
uttered.

" I have a letter for you. Madam," he observed,
"if you will throw over a string, I will fasten it
to it."

Emily drew back. What letter could be sent to
her, that needed this secrecy ? She was on the point
of uttering a refusal to receive any communication
in this clandestine manner, when the man added —

Zondow. FuilijJurd/ by &. 'Pfra^e-. 2i->.Jri' I arc.

EMILY MORELANU. 711

" It is from a person who is iu a foreign country,
and I have promised to deliver it into your own
hands — but I have been these three days trying to
find an opportunity of seeing you alone."

There was but one whom Emily could think of,
*' in ?i foreign country," who could be interested in
her — and, without a doubt, the letter must be from
Herbert, she thought. Probably, it contained in-
telligence which he was fearful of being communi-
cated to Signora Orsini too suddenly, and that had
occasioned the injunction to his messenger, to deliver
it to her alone.

With this impression, she flew back to her room
for a ribband, to which the parcel was immediately
attached; and, in a few minutes, the stranger, having
respectfully bade her farewell, rowed swiftly back
again — not, however, before the thought had oc-
curred to Emily, that, though his voice and person
were evidently disguised, they were not unknown to
her.

This suspicion was speedily confirmed, when, on her
return to her chamber, she discovered that the letter,
which formed but a small part of the parcel which
had been conveyed to her, was written by one at
whose name she shuddered with horror and aversion.

It was Frazer — the murderer of her father — the
calumniator of her own honour and innocence —
whom she had seen, and who, in his letter, avowed
that he had taken this method of beholding her, for
the last time, and of expressing to her his remorse
for his conduct, before he quitted England for ever.

Emily's first impulse was to throw the letter from

712 EMILY MORELAND.

her, with feelings of the greatest horror; but the
expressions of deep remorse and contrition, which the
very first lines conveyed, involuntarily excited com-
passion and interest in her bosom, and, with tears
blinding her eyes, and sighs convulsing her bosom,
she with difficulty read to the conclusion this heart-
rending avowal of guilt and penitence.

He had resolved, he said, to retire for ever from a
world which no longer possessed a charm for him ;
but, conscious of the deep injury he had inflicted on
her, he could not quit England under the painful
impression that he had, by the act which deprived
her of a father, condemned her also to the misery of
dependance on one so capricious as Lady Haviland.

" I know not," he continued, " whether my poor
friend (for such I will still call him) had it in his
power to make a proper provision for you; and
though T do not doubt Lady Haviland's generosity,
yet 1 know her disposition too well, not to be aware
that dependance on her is precarious, and must be
revolting to such a mind as yours. Of this, Leslie is
a sufficient example. Were he rich, I should have
no doubts of your prosperity — for I am fully aware
of your feelings towards him, and it is impossible I
can doubt your power. It was this feeling — it was
the certainty that where he was my rival, I could not
indulge a hope of success, that excited those bitter

sensations in my bosom, which led But 1 will not

pain you, or myself, by useless retrospections, but
come at once to the subject, which has for some
weeks occupied my thoughts. The sum enclosed will
ut least b? a resource from actual poverty, should

EMILY MORELANiy 713

circumstances render it necessary for you to leav*»
Lady Haviland. It may do more — it may faclitate
a union which will ensure your happiness, and that
of one whom I have ever respected, even while I felt
towards him the bitterest envy.

" Let not the thought that you are incurring an
obligation to one whom you must, I feel, reflect upon
with hatred and contempt, intrude to render this
bequest painful to you — I am but rendering you jus-
tice; and I will acknowledge to you, with shame,
that it forms but a small part of a sum which, a few
years since, was transferred from Lord Haviland's
possession to mine, at the gaming-table. Oh, Emily,
with what horror do I recal the whole tenor of my
conduct towards one, who trusted me with implicit
confidence, and who owed all the misery of his life
to ray example and evil course! And he is not the
only one — I have yet much to do in the way of repa-
ration— much still remains, that I never can expiate
Let it be my consolation — slight as it is — that to-
wards you I have done all that I can do, to repair
the injury I have committed."

It was some hours before Emily looked at the par-
cel which accompanied this letter, and then it was
with the firm determination that no necessity should
ever prompt her to make use of a shilling of the
money thus acquired. There appeared to be a con-
siderable sum, in notes — but she made no attempt to
ascertain their amount; and having again folded
them in the envelope, she sealed them ^up, and de-
posited them in her cabinet, resolving to consult Sig-
nora Orsini as to how she should dispose of them.
30. 4 Y

714 E M 1 L Y M O R E I. A N D

A surprise of a more pleasing nature awaited her,
when, at rather a later hour than usual, from the
disturoed night she had passed, she joined her friends
in the breakfast-room.

A despatch had been received from Herbert, which
conveyed the pleasing intelligence that he had suc-
ceeded in gaining possession of the writing-desk that
the old sailor had spoken of, and which contained
letters that established beyond a doubt the fact of his
being the son of Walter Moreland and Ijaurentina
Orsini, and afforded him also a clue to the manner
and place in which his mother had been disposed of.

*' There is no doubt, from the story of the old
French landlady," observed Herbert, ^' that these
important documents were left behind by my father,
under the supposition that his accomplice had taken
them with him.

" I have my suspicions, however,** he continued,
" that the desk was secreted, at the time, under the
belief that it contained something more valuable than
mere papers, which, it appeared, the old woman,
(though speaking, from her constant intercourse with
my countrymen, tolerable English,) could not com-
prehend, although she has carefully preserved them^
she says, from a presentiment that they might one
day prove of consequence; and, I believe, she has
been fully confirmed in her opinion, by the reward
which I bestovved on her."

Herbert went on to state his intention of proceed-
ing immediately to Verona, as he had reason to be-
lieve his mother had been placed in a Convent in
that neighbourhood, without any inquiry having
been instituted as to her previous conduct.

EMILY MORELAND. 715

" In fact, it appears clear to me," he continued,
' that a considerable sum of money was paid, to en-
sure her reception ; and the promise of further sums
held out, to secure her kind treatment. It is possible,
therefore, that she is still in existence, though, ot
course, the strictest measures have been adopted, tc
prevent he»r making known her situation to hei
friends. My only fear is, that the conviction of the
baseness of him to whose keeping she had confided
her happiness, and the uncertainty and suspense she
must have suffered, as to the fate of her child, may
have proved too much for her to support ; but it will
even be preferable to ascertain that her gentle spirit
has fled from a world which she had so much cause
to loathe and detest, than to imagine her still pining
amid the gloom of a cloister, uncheered by a hope of
the renewal of those ties, which she must consider
broken for ever.

" I have now to revert, with hope, to the project
which Lady Haviland suggested, of giving me the
meeting in this delightful country, as soon as I had
fixed on the most eligible plan to be pursued. I can
easily imagine the impatience which my dear aunt
must feel, while so far removed from the spot so in-
teresting to her feelings; and I would advise you,
without delay, to put in practice the plan we con-
cluded upon. I confess it is not without apprehension
and regret that I think of your taking this journey
unprotected — but I know you are an experienced
traveller. Lady Haviland, too, has more than once
visited Italy; and Emily will, I trust, not be afraid
to follow where vou lead.

716 EMIJ.Y MOHELAND.

" Write to me, therefore, immediately, and I will
make every arrangement for your comfort; or, if you
should think it advisable, in spite of my impatience I
will return, and conduct you myself. It will be only
losing a little time, and I almost reproach myself for
thinking that the sacrifice would be repaid, by the
happiness I should feel at seeing you all, and being
the companion of your voyage. I am very, very san-
guine as to its happy results — and yet I almost
tremble, lest I should excite hopes, the disappoint-
ment of which will, I feel, be, if possible, more pain-
ful to you than even to myself."

" There is but one obstacle to my immediate de-
parture," observed Lady Haviland, in a low voice
to the Signora, " 1 have brought Mrs. Lucy here for
two or three months, and half that time is scarcely
expired. New I cannot, in common decency, say to
her, ' I am going to Italy immediately, and therefore
you must either go home, or stay here alone;' for as
to my proposing that she should go with us, I know
that no inducement on earth would bring her to set
a foot out of her own country; and, therefore, to
make the proposal, would only be a civil way of tel-
ling her she must go about her business, — which is
what I would especially avoid."

The Signora could offer no counsel in this delicate
affair — but Lady Haviland was spared all further
embarrassment by Mrs. Lucy herself observing, that
she had a plan to propose, which she hoped would
prove agreeable as well as serviceable to all parties.

A young relative of hers, she said, whose growing
talents as an artist had been much admired, way on

EWILY MORELAND. 717

the point of proceeding to Italy, to study; he hud
already spent a short time in that country, but had
been recalled on the death of his mother, and was
therefore quite competent to undertake the office of
chaperon, which she was sure he would be proud to
undertake.

"It will be the very thing itself," observed Lady
Haviland, " and, in return for his good offices, I will
undertake to bear all expenses, and probably may
be able to be of farther service to him."

Mrs. Lucy looked delighted — " I will write to him,
immediately," she observed, " and prepare him to
wait on you, the moment you arrive in London,
which, of course, will be as speedily as possible."

Delighted at having so easily avoided offending
her respectable friend, Lady Haviland now only
thought of the most expeditious mode of carrying her
intentions into execution, and in two days every
arrangement for their journey was completed, and
Emily and the whole party set out once more for the
Metropolis.

Mrs. Lucy's relation, a gentlemanly, intelligent
young man, almost immediately joined them, and
making only a stay of one day and night in London,
they bade adieu to their anxio is and gratified friend,
and took the road to Dover.

718 EMILY MORELANJ>.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Back to the stirring world again,

Its tumult and its toil ;
Better to tread tlie roughest path,

Than such a haunted soil.
Oh, wherefore should I break the sleop
Of thoughts, whose waking is fo weep ?

L. E, L

Totally unusetJ to practise those lessons of pa-
tience which blunt the shafts of disappointment, and
teach us to bear, without repining, the chances and
changes of this mutable world, Lady Ilaviland was
terribly chagrined at finding that the wind was un-
favourable to their immediate embarkation ; and
Emily, after a vain attempt to reconcile her to the
inevitable delay, left her to the indulgence of her
ill-humour, and with Signora Orsini and Mr. Leigh,
their intended compagnon du voyage, w alked out to
enjoy the beauties of the surrounding scenery.

They had visited and enjoyed the view from the
top of that " beetling cliff" which the immortal
bard has so glowingly described, and were on theii
return to the town, when Emily's eye was caught by
a young man, in a sailor's dress, who was intently
gazing at them.

Though greatly altered by time, and the hardships
of a sea-faring life, she could not be mistaken in the
features — they were those of her earliest companion
— of the guilty and unfortunate William Wilson.

BMILY MORELAND. 719

Her ook of encouragement brought him in a mo-
ment to her side, and Emily was most happy to see^
in the anxiety with which he inquired if she had
heard lately from the Valley of St. Clare, that ab-
sence and intercourse with the world had not entirely
obliterated the natural feelings of affection in his
bosom.

Emily felt almost ashamed to avow that prosperity,
and more immediate calls upon her attention, had
prevented her making any particular inquiries into
the actual situation of the friend of her youth, Isaac
Wilson, and his unamiable partner. She had, in-
deed, written a full and circumstantial account of
her meeting with her father, and his recognition of
her claims on his paternal tenderness, immediately
after this event; but this letter had met the same
fate as her former ones — it remained unanswered; and
subsequent eveflts had prevented her making any
further attempts to renew a correspondence so long
interrupted.

William was evidently hurt and disappointed ; he
had been long wishing, he said, most earnestly to
revisit his parents and home.

" Not," he observed, a slight blush crossing his
cheek, " that I now need any assistance from them,
as I have for some time been very profitably and re-
gularly employed ; but I long to see (hem, and
convince them that the lessons of pain and adversity
I have suflfered, have not been thrown away. To
write, however, would have been useless, for I know
that my mother, not being able to read herself, will be
fearful of its betraying more to the old man than

720 KMILY MORELAND.

she would like, and probably equally fearful of ex-
posing my present circumstances and situation to any
one else, would, in her great prudence, perhaps put
the letter in the fire, rather than ask any person to
read it for her."

" The same motive has very likely operated with
regard to my letters," observed Emily; " but, on my
return to England, I shall speedily put an end to all
suspense on the subject, by a visit to my dear native
Valley."

"You a re about to leave England, then ?" observed
William, with a look of disappointment.

Emily replied in the affirmative, adding — " I do
not, however, expect to be long absent, and as I shall
now know where to communicate with you, you may
rely upon my making every effort to restore you to
your father's good opinion, and, if possible, to your
home."

William shook his head mournfully. " I am fear-
ful," he observed, " that I must never hope to re-
turn to St. Clare, except for a short visit, which, if
they were prepared to receive me, I might, perhaps,
accomplish, without danger of its being known in
the neighbourhood."

" You know not what I may be able to effect, if I
go down," observed Emily, smiling. " I am no
longer destitute of that which removes all obstacles
and conquers all difficulties ; and a timely applica-
tion of a little of that, together with my persuasions,
will, I have little doubt, reconcile those who might
otherwise, perhaps, be inclined to give you some
trouble."

jgfPp '* EMILV MOKEI.AND. 721

William's looks, more than his words, expressed
his gratitude. " Your situation, I know, is mate-«
rially changed," he observed, after a short pause;
" and I acknowledge, until I saw Signora Orsini, to
whose kindness and humanity I have been so deeply
indebted, I was fearful of addressing you, remem-
bering how I had been denied and insulted, when I
made a former attempt to see you, and thinking that
perhaps I should again meet with similar treatment."

An explanation now took place, and Emily learned
that William had been treated with the greatest
insolence and suspicion by Lady Rachel Moreland,
who had even descended to a falsehood by declaring
that she was authorised by Emily herself to forbid
his attempting to renew any connexion with her.

" She told me," continued William, " that you
were only anxious to forget altogether people who
could remind you of the circumstances of your early
life, and who were totally unsuited to the circle you
now moved in ; and she threw out some hints which,
rendered constantly fearful by my consciousness of
past errors, induced me to believe that you had com-
municated to her those circumstances, and authorised
her to alarm me with fears of my own personal
safety, if, to use her own expression, I should again
trouble you with my officiousness."

Emily felt not less hurt that William should have
so easily credited what he ought to have known was
so contrary to her character and sentiments, than she
did indignant at Lady Rachel's shameful and deli-
berate misrepresentation. It needed, liowever, but
few words to convince Wilson of the truth of her
31. 4z

722 E M 1 1. Y M O li E I> A MJ.

assertion, that she had never even known of hU
visit, and that Lady Rachel was the last person in
the world to whom she should have confided any
secret, which could reflect discredit on the friends of
her childhood.

The Signora and her companion, Mr. Leigh, who
had fallen behind, after the first salutation had passed
between the former and Wilson, now advanced, and
Emily learned with pleasure, in consequence of some
inquiry as to the state of the wind, that Mr. Wilson
held the situation of steward to the vessel which they
were to embark in ; and the latter seemed still more
delighted to find that the pleasure of seeing and
being restored, in some degree, to the good opinion
of one, whom he still regarded with a feeling little
short of adoration, was not to terminate with the
present minute.

In less than two hours, the little party received
the welcome summons to go immediately on board ;
and, during their short voyage, Emily had several
opportunities of conversing with her old friend, and
of seeing that he was respected by those with whom
he was associated.

To his inquiries respecting Susan, whose attach-
ment to him the former felt was rather smothered
than subdued by circumstances, she felt sorry not to
be able to reply, with any thing like satisfaction.

Emily felt that if Wilson's reformation was
(as indeed she would not allow herself to doubt)
sincere and lasting, that Susan would be much more
likely to enjoy happiness and comfort with him, who
had been the object of her first affection, and was, in

EMILY MORELAND. 728

every respect, a much more suitable match for her,
than the vain, silly, ignorant, and presumptuous Gil-
bert, to whom she much feared, however, she was by
this time united ; and she felt, too, that the possession
of an attached and affectionate wife, and a settled
home, would be the best guarantees for Wilson's
future good conduct.

Having therefore ascertained that William could,
without any great inconvenience, devote a few da\s
to a journey to London, on the return of the vessel
to England, she exerted herself to persuade him to
endeavour to see Susan, to whom she gave him direc-
tions, by which she thought he would not fail to find
her out, at the same time sending a few lines, and a
very handsome present from herself, which she knew,
though Susan was far from mercenary, would dispose
her to receive her cousin with more cordiality, and
induce her, perhaps, to lend a more favourable ear
to the representations she (Emily) made in her let-
ter, in Wilson's favour.

"Susan is then still unmarried?" observed Wil-
son, looking at the superscription of her letter.

*' 1 hope so, for your sake and her own," replied
Emily, smiling, " for I doubt if she will ever find
one likely to recompense her for the loss of her cou-
sin William, and the honour of being, at some time,
the mistress of the Farm at St. Clare."

William sighed — " 1 am afraid, Emily 1 beg

your pardon Miss Moreland, I should say," he

observed, " I am afraid that is a prospect I dare not
indulge."

" Only resolve to use your best exertions, and

724 EMILY MOKELAND

put on your best looks when you visit Susan," re-
turned Emily, smiling, " and half the battle is won.
I must warn you, however, to discard the bine
jacket and trowsers, and put on your Sunday suit, if
you go wooing — for, however your good looks in
them might please her, Susan has lived so long
among very fine folks, that she is rather fastidious
about first appearances."

" I am afraid, then," observed Wilson, " that the
Farm would be as little likely to captivate Susan's
fancy, as her humble cousin."

" I will answer for it," replied Emily, " that her
cousin, if he has but proper confidence in himself,
and she is still at liberty, will find that Susan re-
tains first impressions too forcibly to hesitate for
a moment ; — but I am afraid I am going too far, and
probably should get into disgrace for betraying se-
crets, though I am induced to do so, only in the hope
of confirming the happiness of two friends, for whom
I feel greatly interested."

" You are very good, very kind," said Wilson, in
a voice that shewed he was deeply affected ; " I
know, indeed it was no secret to me, that Susan
would once hare preferred me to the whole world,
but I was then mad enough — presumptuous enough

but I will not think of what is past. If she

(Susan, I mean) possesses a small share of those kind
feelinffs which have led you thus to restore me to
self-esteem, by proving that you still regard me as
not entirely unworthy of notice "

" Susan will, I am sure, be most happy to restore —
to see you restored to peace and happiness," inter-

EMll.Y MORELAND. 725

rupted Emily, anxious to put an end to this conver-
sation; "and, remember, if you do see her, and she
is still single, I shall blame you for a tardy wooer, it
^\ie is not your wife, when I return to England ; with-
out, indeed, you sliould wait for me to officiate as
bridesmaid."

William tried to smile at this raillery, but it was
evident his thoughts were dwelling on recollec-
tions which brought with them no sensations of plea-
sure; and Emily felt relieved when a summons from
the Captain obliged him to leave her.

The voyage proved favourable; and Emily, with
delight, beheld the sight of that shore which was to
re-unite her to one, the loss of whose society not even
her present advantages could compensate for.

Nothing worthy of record occurred during the
farther progress of their journey, until, at length,
they were gratified by the sight of Herbert, who,
with eyes sparkling with rapture he could not lind
words to express, welcomed them to his native coun-
try, for that it was such there could no longer exist
the shadow of a doubt.

The Signora's expressive features betrayed the
conflict of emotions which agitated her bosom, as she
gazed upon features which seemed to restore her at
once to the hours of youth, those unsuspicious, Iiappv
hours, when, never deeming that deceit could inhabit
a form so fair, she had gazed on the fictitious IMolini,
nor wondered that her sister should yield her whole
heart to one so eminently gifted with those ?tt»'ac-
tions, which, unfortunately, but too often, in the
gentler sex, outweigh the more sterling qualities of
heart and mind.

726 EMILY MOREL AND.

Youn^ as she was, however, at the period when
Walter Moreland, in liis assumed characte'', succeeded
in winnings the affections of her sister, Rosalia Orsini
had possessed sufficient prudence and penetration to
be doubtful of the reality of the character he at-
tempted to assume; but what avail the cautions of
the most prudent and penetrating, when opposed to
the violence of a first love in the bosom of an inex-
perienced girl of eighteen? — and Laurentina was no
more, when the destroyer of her peace and honour
first fixed his basilisk eyes upon her lovely face.

The first day or two of their re-union was devoted
to the enjoyment of that happiness which the whole
party felt, in meeting under such auspicious circum-
stances; and the examination of those proofs, which
had so providentially fallen into his possession, of the
validity of Herbert's claims to the honours and titles
of the two families of Moreland and Orsini.

Rosalia shed torrents of tears as she recognised, in
the impassioned letters addressed by the fond con-
fiding wife to her beloved husband, the handwriting
and expressive, romantic language of her beloved
sister; and, with sensations of equal horror and de-
testation, perused the deceitful expressions of ten-
derness, the sophistical reasonings and professions, by
which the pretended Molini had lulled to sleep her
suspicions, and prevailed on her to await in obscurity
his public acknowledgment of her and her infant's
claims.

The glow of ingenuous shame kindled, too, on Her-
bert's manly cheek, at these proofs of his father's de-
liberate treachery ; but, with the sanguine impetuosity
of youth, he soon turned f»om the contemplation of

EMILY MORELAND. 727

this revolting subject, to the more pleasing prospect
of being enabled to discover his unfortunate mother,
and restore her to the enjoyment of those social affec-
tions which her letters proved her so fully capable of
estimating.

Emily entered fully into all these natural and
amiable feelings. There was, indeed, so striking a
similarity in the circumstances of both, that, had no
other tie connected her to this interesting and noble-
minded young man, she would have felt herself, as it
were, interested in his fate, and regarded him as the
brother of her affections. As it was, however, every
hour passed in his society entwined more strongly
the chain which his manners, his sentiments, his per-
sonal graces, and, above all, the nameless charm
which sensibility, combined with the utmost sweetness
of disposition, threw over his most trifling action,
had, from the first hour of their acquaintance, linked
her heart firmly to his.

Regarding her as the first of created beings, and
inseparably connecting her image with every pros-
pect of future felicity, Herbert looked forward with
impatience — free, however, from doubt or anxiety —
to the period which was to confer on him that title
which was now all that was wanting to confirm his
happiness. But Emily, though superior to unmean-
ing forms, and affected pretexts for delay, still felt
that respect for the memory of him, who, little as he
had deserved her filial tenderness, was yet mourned
with all the sincerity of grief that could have been
felt by the most favoured daughter, demanded that
she should postpone the ratification of Herbert's

72S EMILY MORELANb.

happiness and her own, for some months to come.
She wished, too, most ardently wished, that the dis-
covery he so confidently anticipated, of the retreat
of his unhappy mother, should first be completed,
and that he might have the additional satisfaction of
feeling that his choice was sanctioned by the approval
of her, who could alone have the right to dictate on
such a subject.

To this indefinite prolongation of his happiness,
Herbert, however, could not consent. He should,
he said, undoubtedly be anxious that the most im-
portant event of his life should have the approval of
his mother — but it was impossible, utterly impossible,
that, in the present instance, there could exist the
slightest objection ; and if such a thing could, by
possibility, take place, he should certainly, in the
very first instance, prove a rebellious child, and con-
firm his own happiness, even at the risk of her dis-
pleasure.

"Would you not second me, dear aunt?" he ob-
served to the Signora, who had just entered the room.

" 1 think I could almost promise I would," replied
the latter, " even before I know for what it is you
would require my co-operation, so convinced am T,
that no undertaking of yours would be otherwise
than just and reasonable; and now, pray, explain —
for, to my great surprise, I read something like dis-
sent in Emily's looks."

Herbert did explain, and the Signora, while she
alternately smiled and sighed at the sanguine antici-
pation of her nephew that he should discover his
mother, perfectly agreed v/ith him that Kraily would

E M i Ti V M o u s: L A N » . 729

be very unreasonable to prolong the consummation
of an event, for which they were all anxious, from
any apprehensions of the sort she alluded to. It was,
therefore, finally decided, that, at the end of two
months from the present period, Emily should lay
aside her mourning- habits, and become the wife of
one who, in the title of her husband, conceived him-
self more honoured and happy than in the possession
of all that now awaited his acceptance.

It was not, however, without some secret uneasi-
ness that Emily frequently recalled to her mind a
circumstance which Herbert, and his and her friends
seemed totally to discard from their minds, but which
she thought that a mother, uninfluenced by the strong
partiality Signora Orsini felt for her, and perhaps
«ot possessing so liberal and unprejudiced an under-
standing, might, with some appearance of reason,
consider a sufficient objection to her becoming the
wife of a son, in whom would ur.doubtedly centre
the honours and possessions of two noble families.
She could not but remember, that, in the eye of the
world, she was the offspring of crime and disgrace —
and was it not highly probable that a mother, proud
us she would justly feel of such a son, would consider
a marriage with one of such dishonourable birth, and
comparatively Ixumble fortune, as far beneath what
she had a right to expect, or what she would expect
for him ?

The buoyant spirits of youth, however, and the
kind and flattering attentions of her friends, pre-
vented her dwelling on this mortifying theme, though
it frequently recurred to her, recollection ; but with
31. 5 A

730 EMILY MOUl LAND.

Herbert, apparently, such a thought never occurred,
to disturb for a moment his visions of tranquillity and
happiness.

Six weeks elapsed, and all the various means that
Herbert had taken, to ascertain the fate of his mother,
proved futile. His hopes began to fade — and the
Signora, though she had been less sanguine, felt, if
possible, more disappointed even than himself, and
openly avowed her conviction that her sister had
fallen a sacrifice, either to grief or the cruelties of
those into whose power she had been so treacherously
betrayed, when their hopes were suddenly re-ani-
niated, and their expectations excited, by a letter
which Lady Haviland rev^.eived from Mr. Leigh, the
young artist who had accompanied them from Eng-
land, and who had quitted them, almost immediately
after their arrival on the Continent, to proceed to
Rome, where he intended to reside for two or three
years, for the purpose of study.

Though not perfectly acquainted with the history
of Herbert, to whom he had been introduced but
slightly, on his arrival at the spot appointed for the
meeting of the latter with the party under his (Mr.
Leigh's) protection, he had from Lady Haviland
learned that his visit to Italy was principally occa-
sioned by his hope of discovering the retreat of his
mother, who had, by some untoward circumstances,
been lost to her family for many years, and it was
believed had taken the veil in some one of the nu-
merous Convents in the Italian states.

'• Recollecting, my dear Madara," wrote Mr. Leigh,
*' the circumstance you mentioned to me respecting

EMILY IMOIIELAND. 731

Ml*. Leslie, 1 am induced to transmit to you what
has accidentally come to my knowledge, which I
think it is not impossible may have some connexion
with the source of his anxiety.

" In consequence of a letter of recommendation
Ironi a friend in England, I was introduced here to
several respectable families, and in one of them was,
I confess, struck with particular admiration of a
beautiful gii]^ not more than seventeen, whose live-
liness and natural graces were only exceeded by the
loveliness of her person.

" Free and unaffected, however, as she was in her
general manners, 1 could not but be mortified at ob-
serving that she treated me with peculiar reserve, and
repelled, with a scorn which seemed quite unnatural
to her, and foreign to her real disposition, every little
attention which I offered to her.

" I was, I own, considerably vexed and chagrined —
I knew that her birth was not superior to my own,
her fortune even more humble, as she was literally
dependant on the family she resided with; and, I
acknowledge my vanity, I did not think either my
personal appearance, my education, or my manners,
were such as ought to render me despicable in her
eyes. Shall I own the truth? — I was more than half
in love with the beautiful Venetian, for such I un-
derstood she was, and, unable to withstand the strong
impulse I felt to ascertain Avhat it was that rendered
me so particularly the object of disdain, I at length
summoned courage to mention the subject to Signor
Nardini, the gentleman with whose family she re-
sided.

732 EMILV ■'MOUELAND.

"He smiled, as he assuied me that it had not escaped
either his or his lady's observation, and they had
questioned her respecting- it. ' It will be some con-
solation, perhaps, to you to hear,' added my friend,
' that it is not to you, personally, that she has any
aversion, but that she has an utter detestation of your
country, and cannot be brought to believe that there
can exist faith, honour, sincerity, or, in fact, a single
commendable quality in an Englishman.'

" ' This is, certainly, a sort of consolation,' I re-
plied, ' but I cannot help remarking, that it is the
strangest contradiction to general liberality of senti-
ment I ever met with. I have particularly remarked^
in this young lady's conversation, her freedom from
prejudice, and her superior judgment, which would,
1 should think, render her the last person in the
world thus to suffer the difference of climate or coun-
try to inspire her with contempt and aversion. Even
(which may be the case) if she has met with some of
my countrymen who have been worthless, I should
think a whole nation ought not to be condemned for
the faults of a few.'

" ' I do not believe, my good friend,' returned
Nardini, ' that Beatrice ever saw an Englishman
before she met with you. It is scarcely six months
since she quitted the Convent in which she received
her education; and, since that time, she has con-
stantly resided with my family. I rather think, from
some hints she dropped, that the prejudice which has
driven you to such despair has been imbibed from
her constant association with and attachment to a
eertain female in the Convent, named Sister Agnes,

EMILY MO U ELAND. 733

whose misfortunes, and many years of severe penance
and sorrow, it was whispered, had arisen from a love
affair with an Englishman of rank. 1 do not think
Beatrice is acquainted with the particulars of her
story, but I know that Sister Agnes had confided to
her that the chief source of the sorrow, which at
times, it appears, almost disordered her understand-
ing, and induced her to seclude herself, for weeks
together, from the society of the sisterhood, scarcely
admitting even the visits of Beatrice, whom she re-
garded with the fondest affection, arose from her
having been cruelly deprived of a son by his father,
"who had betrayed her into error, and of whose fate
she had remained, from the period of their separation,
entirely ignorant. There are many other circum-
stances of treachery and perfidy connected with this
story, I understand, which fix a stigma on others
concerned with the young Englishman, who was the
principal party in this affair; and the knowledge of
these circumstances, combined with Sister Agnes's
constant cautions and invectives against the English,
have produced an effect on Beatrice's warm imagina-
tion, which we must trust to time and a further de-
velopment of your worth to remove.'

" I assure you, dear Madam," continued Mr. Leigh,
" I thought less of Beatrice and her prejudices, than
I did of the source of them. I knew, from an obser-
vation of yours, that Mr. Leslie's father was an
Englishman of rank, who had married an Italian
lady — and, in short, the whole story — or, rather, the
few events I had learned of the story of Sister Agnes
■ — seemed so strongly to correspond with the slight

T31 EMILY MORELAND.

sketch which I received from your ladyship, of the
cause of your visit and that of your friends to Italy,
that I could not divest myself of the idea that they
Avould be found to be connected.

" I have ascertained that the Convent alluded to
is one of the order of Ursulines, situated near Velletri,
not a day's journey from Rome. It would. I under-
stand, be difficult to get an interview with Sister
Agnes, who is never seen at the grate, and has appa-
rently no connexion with the world beyond the walls
of her Convent; but, in this particular, perhaps the
name of Beatrice Da Vinci may be of service.

" I have, through my friend Nardini, learned that
the Sister parted with great regret from the lovely
and interesting girl who had been peculiarly the
object of her care, during her residence there. Bea-
trice has not yet had an opportunity of visiting her
since her departure, and I have been thinking that,
if you were to pretend a commission from her to see
Sister Agnes, you might procure an interview, which
would probably enable you to satisfy yourself whe-
ther there is any foundation for my suspicions."

The impatience and suspense which this intelli-
gence excited in the minds of the whole party, al-
lowed them not to delay for a moment their departure
for the place Mr. Leigh's letter pointed out; and,
during their journey thither, a variety of plans were
formed, and as often rejected, by means of which they
were to gain the desired information. It was highly
probable, the Signora thought, that Sister Agnes
was prevented from intercourse with strangers by
other causes than mere disinclination ; since it could

EMILV MORELAND. 735

not be expected, though twenty-three years had
elapsed since Laurentina Orsini had been lost to her
sister and the world, the remembrance of her former
errors, and the circumstances which had occasioned
her seclusion, (if this was indeed her,) were not likely
to be forgotten by the heads of the community to
which she belonged, and would, of course, occasion
her to be treated with greater strictness than those
who had voluntarily renounced the world. It was
therefore necessary to proceed with great caution, in
their efforts to procure an interview, lest suspicion
of their motives should be excited, and she should be
perhaps entirely denied to them, or withdrawn from
their reach.

After much consideration, therefore, it was re-
solved, as the safest though not the speediest plan,
that they should go on at once to Rome, and, through
Mr. Leigh's intervention, endeavour to interest the
young Signora Da Vinci in their favour, and not
only obtain farther information on the subject of
their hopes and fears, but perhaps prevail on her to
forward the object they had in view.

"If she is truly the friend of the unhappy Sister
Agnes,'- observed Lady Haviland, "she will be as
anxious as ourselves to remove what it appears she
considers the chief cause of the sorrow that still con-
sumes her, by removing her uncertainty respecting
the fate of her son; and if, as is highly probable,
she is more circumstantially acquainted with the
events of her friend's former life, it will be in her
power to terminate, at once, our suspense as to the
identity of the unfortunate recluse."

730 EMILY MOIIELANI).

Warmly and sincerely as Emily entered into the
hopes and fears that agitated the bosoms of her
friends, she could not be insensible to the pleasure
of visiting " the Eternal City," and of beholding,
with her own eyes, the wonders and beauties of which
she had heard and read such glowing descriptions.

The weather was uninterruptedly fine, and the
country through which they travelled so delightfully
picturesque, that the attention of the whole party
was frecfuently drawn off from the agitating and ab-
sorbing object of their journey, to contemplate with
rapture the charms of Nature. Emily, more espe-
cially, was rapt in wonder and astonishment — she was
never weary of wondering and admiring; and when,
at length, the postilions with exultation, from the
heights of Baceano, pointed to the cross of St. Peter's,
glittering in the sun, her eager and enthusiastic look
raised a smile even on the careworn and pensive fea-
tures of Signora Orsini.

Mr. Leigh instantly attended their summons. He
had nothing to add to the information he had already
given, but he immediately fell into their views, and
expressed his conviction that Beatrice would be dis-
posed to render them every assistance in her power.
The next morning was appointed for an introduction
to Signor Nardini, who, Mr. Leigh did not doubt,
would be happy in the opportunity of serving any
of his friends.

The intermediate hours, rendered tedious by sus-
pense, were devoted to a cursory view of soijie of
the wonders of this celebrated city; and Emily gazed
with delight and enthusiasm, not r.nmixed with re-

EMILV MO U ELAND. 737

gret, at the glories which were fast fading before
the destructive hand of time and neglect.

Signor Nardini, a gentlemanly middle-aged man,
maue his appearance, with his friend Mr. Leigh, at
. the breakfast-table of the travellers. He entered
immediately on the subject which occupied their
thoughts, and observed, smiling, that if it were pos-
sible for Beatrice Da Vinci to preserve her preju-
dices against the English nation, after being intro-
duced to the present company, he should have very
little opinion of her judgment or understanding.

'* That gentleman, however, I understand," he
continued, pointing to Leslie, " will not come within
the pale of her interdiction, as he is in reality a
countryman of hers, and, as such, of course, I shall
introduce him, with his permission."

" And does this bewitching Beatrice still continue
unpropitious?" inquired Lady Haviland of Mr.
Leigh.

He smiled —

" I am not quite au desespoir^'' he replied, " and,
1 assure you, I anticipate great things from having
you as auxiliaries. I do not suppose that she ex-
tends her aversion to the ladies of England — and,
indeed, I did flatter myself, last night, that she
seemed somewhat to regret my leaving the company
abruptly, on receiving your ladyship's note — and
particularly when she found that it was the arrival
of a lady that called me away, which I took care she
should know."

'' I confess I am very anxious to see this formida-
ble beauty, whose charms, it seemB, are quite sufii-
31. 5 B

738 EMILY MO R ELAND

cient to make you forget her insulting opinion of
vour country," replied Lady Haviland; "but, allons,
we shall see, this evening. Only remember^ I shal.
be very angry with you, if she does not answer the
expectations you have raised."

"I am willing to abide the utmost severity of your
ladyship's judgment," returned Mr. Leigh; "for,
judging of her only with the eye of a painter, and
setting quite aside all other feelings, 1 pronounce
Beatrice Da Vinci faultless, in point of personal
beauty."

" The point, then, is perfectly decided," returned
Lady Haviland, " for who will dare dispute the
judgment of one, who must, from his studies, be a
perfect judge of female beauty?"

" We shall see," observed Herbert, looking at
Emily, with an expression which seemed to say, ' I
will not allow your judgment to be perfect, unless
you acknowledge there is one, at least, who equals
your divinity.'

The hour appointed for their visit at length ar-
rived; and, with anxious hearts, the whole party
drove to the residence of Signor Nardini.

The Signor and his lady, a lively agreeable wo-
man, received them with every mark of attention ;
but both Herbert and Emily were instantly fasci-
nated by the appearance of Beatrice Da Vinci, to
whom Mr. Leigh introduced them, observing, that
he trusted he was offering a peculiar title to her
favour, when he assured her that Mr. Leslie, in spitfe
of his English name and English looks, was not a
native of England.

KMILY MORELAND. 739

A slight blush increased the brilliancy of the
beautiful Beatrice's dark eyes, as she gracefully
bowed to the strangers; but she did not attempt to
repel the insinuation which this observation conveyed,
except by a look of reproach to the speaker, which
Herbert thought spoke more of kindness of feeling
towards him than scorn.

The first glance convinced Emily that Mr. Leigh
had not overrated her charms, for she was indeed
eminently beautiful; but Herbert, as he alternately
gazed at her and Emily, was not so satisfied of her
pre-eminence over one whom he had never before
seen equalled; and before he had been half an hour
in the room, he was decided in his opinion that any
unprejudiced person would have yielded the palm
of beauty to his Emily.

The facility with which the latter conversed with
her in her native language, delighted and interested
the youthful Beatrice — yet her attention seemed,
from time to time, to be intently fixed on Signora
Orsini, who sat pale and silent, from anxious expec-
tation, fearing even to utter a word that could lead
to the subject in which all her thoughts were cen-
tered.

" You seem to look at Signora Orsini very intently,
Beatrice," observed Signor Nardini. " She is a na-
tive of the same city which claims the honour of your
birth — yet I think it impossible you could have
known her, for it is many years since she quitted
Venice."

*' I have certainly never seen the Signora before,"
replied the unconscious girl, "but her features, and

740 EMILY MORELANiy.

the tone of her voice, strongly reriind me of a dear,
dear friend, whom I would give the world to see at
this moment."

A look of intelligence passed between those who
were anxiously attending to every syllable she
uttered.

" I can easily guess who you mean," returned Nar-
dini, " but does Sister Agnes, whom you know I have
been long dying to see, that I may scold her for
spoiling you — does she really resemble Signora
Orsini?"

" She is very, very like her ; only dear Sister Agnes
is still paler, and, I should think, much older. She
is not so tall, either — and the colour of her hair is
different; but their features, and more particularly
the voice, are so alike, that I quite started when Sig-
Dora Orsini first spoke."

" Did you never hear that your friend Agnes had
a sister ?" inquired the Signor.

*^' Oh, yes — but it cannot be that lady,'* she replied,
with considerable emotion, " for dear Sister Agnes
has many times told me that she was dead — had died
broken-hearted at her misfortunes."

"She was mistaken!" exclaimed Herbert, in an
agitated tone ; " in more than one instance she has
been mistaken — for be assured that in that lady you
behold the sister she lamented !"

Beatrice threw her arms round the Signora's neck,
exclaiming, with vivacity — " Can it be possible that
you are Rosalia? And yet, I am sure it is so — for,
from the first minute I beheld you, my heart seemed
to claim you as a friend."

EMILY MORELAND. 74l

" My name is, indeed, Rosalia," replied the Sig-
nora, as soon as she could speak, " and I have every
reason to believe that, in the friend you speak of
with so much affection, I recognise the sister whose
loss I have so long lamented."

** Her name was " said Beatrice.

" Laurentina," rejoined the Signora, " Laurentina
Orsini."

" It was, indeed, Laurentina — for such she has
called herself to me; but the latter name she has
never mentioned. It was a name, she said, which,
till she brought disgrace upon it, had never been
sullied; and she was desirous not to propagate the
blot which her conduct had occasioned. Yet she was
not guilty — she was cruelly, barbarously deceived,
and I should hate and despise any one," she added,
with vehemence, " who should dare to condemn
her!"

" There is no one here," observed Herbert, taking
her hand, as if grateful for the ardour she displayed
in his mother's cause, " be assured, there is not any
one to whom her melancholy story is known, who
does not regard your friend with the deepest com-
passion for her sufferings. But of my feelings you
will be a better judge when you learn, that I am the
son whose loss you have heard her deplore, and who,
until it was confirmed from your lips, has been trem-
bling from fear that his mother had not survived her
unexampled misfortunes."

Beatrice was for some moments speechless with
surprise, but the extreme emotion she saw visible in
the countenances of all around, assured her of the

742 EMILY MOUELAND.

reality of what she had just heard, and she gave ut-
terance to the most lively expressions of joy.

*' Dear, dear Agnes !" she exclaimed, " what rap-
ture is in store for her? And yet,*' suddenly checking
herself, she added, " how shall it be told to her ? — for
she will certainly die with joy, if it comes suddenly
upon her."

''' We have dared to rest our hopes on yourself,"
replied Herbert, " to undertake that difficult task.
From your friends, and, indeed, from your own
avowal we have learned, that you are most desirous
of visiting the Convent, and "

*' I will go with you instantly," exclaimed the im-
petuous girl. " Oh, how honoured and happy I feel,
in being chosen to be the means of communicating
such joyful tidings to my dear mother, for such she
has been to me."

"It is rather too late to commence your journey
to-night, Beatrice," observed Signor Nardini, smi-
ling, " and you will need, too, some hours of sober
reflection, to prepare you for the task; for you must
be conscious that it will require considerable skill,
to avoid a too sudden disclosure of such surprising
and overwhelming events as the restoration of a sister
and a son, whom your friend has for years considered
inhabitants of the grave."

" I do not think," replied Beatrice, " that she ever
entertained a doubt of her dear Rosalia's death,
though I know not how she had been led into that
belief; but I have heard her frequently speak of the
probability that her son was living, and pray that he
might, some time or another, discover the secret of

EMILV MORELAND. 743

his birth, though she could never hope to benefit by
it, And is that Jady, too, a relative?" she suddenly
observed, looking at Emily, who had been, by the
kindest attentions, attempting to moderate the in-
tense emotions of her beloved Rosalia, at this entire
confirmation of her warmest hopes.

" She has, as yet, no legal claim to that title," re-
turned Herbert, in a low voice; "but a short period
will, I trust, enable me to present in her a daughter
to share her afi*ections."

" I understand," observed Beatrice. " She will
have reason, indeed, to rejoice at the happiness of
her son."

" And we have all reason, I am sure, to be most
grateful to our friend here," said Herbert, " to
whose warm interest in our behalf we have been
indebted for this confirmation of our hopes."

Beatrice smilirgly held out her hand to Mr.
Leigh, as if perfectly comprehending that this
would be a sufficient reward for the part he had
taken in the discovery which had given her so much
pleasure; and Herbert stole away to the side of
Emily, to allow him the opportunity of making the
most he could of her favorable disposition towards him.

The arrival of other company, whom Signor Nar-
dini had purposely delayed, till the explanation he
anticipated had taken place, imposed, in some mea-
sure, a restraint; which was beneficial to all par-
ties. Music was introduced, and Herbert, in the
enthusiastic admiration which Emily's talents and
beauty elicited, felt for a time his attention with-
drawn from any but the present enjoyment.

744 EMILY MOU ELAND.

Seated close to ♦.he side of Signora Orsini, whom
she scarcely ever quitted, Beatrice found, however,
many opportunities of conversing- with her on the
subject nearest their hearts ; and the former heard
many interesting particulars of her sister, who, she
learned, instead of supinely yielding to the indul-
gence of her grief, endeavoured, by active employ-
ment, as far as the rules of her order allowed, to
beguile it of its fiercest stings. To her, almost ex-
clusively, Beatrice had been indebted for all her
acquirements; and though, at the first entrance of
the latter into the Convent, eight years before the
present period, Sister Agnes had frequently suffered
from paroxysms of grief and regret, which had in-
duced her to seclude herself from the sight of any
human being, and, indeed, it was reported among
the sisterhood, entirely deranged her mind — Rosalia
learned with gratitude, that, in proportion as her
feelings had become interested, and her attention
occupied by her care of Beatrice's education, she
had been more composed and regular in her ha-
bits, and had even ijeen seen occasionally to smile
at the frolics of her youthful protegee^ though that
smile was frequently followed by a sigh, which
seemed to lament that she had been, even for a mo-
ment, involuntarily forgetful of her sorrows.

" Dear Sister Agnes," concluded Beatrice, with a
sigh of affectionate regret, " she has much felt, I
fear, the loss of the wild girl whom she took so much
pains with, and whose greatest merit was the sincere
gratitude and affection with which she regarded her
preceptress. Delighted as I was at the prospect of

RMILV SIORET.AND. ■«45

liberty, and anxious as I certainly felt to soe that
world of which I knew so little, I could have beem
almost content to have renounced it all, rather than
leave her; and actually contemplated requesting^
permission from my guardians to take the veil in the
same Convent, that I might avoid a separation
which, I knew, would occasion her an additional
sorrow — but her gentle remonstrances and represen-
tations dissuaded me, and I yielded to her proposal,
that I should make a trial of the world for one year;
at the end of which, if I should prefer a monastic
life, she would offer no further objection."

" Six months of that period are already passed, I
believe," said Herbert, who had felt his attention
too forcibly excited by all that concerned his mo-
ther, not to listen to every word that Beatrice ut-
tered. " Half the time is gone, and does Signora
Da Vinci still think that she could confine her wishes
within the limits of a cloister?"

Beatrice smiled — " It is hardly a fair question —
but T will tell you frankly, that I fear I could not.
I should be ungrateful to my kind friends here, and

— and No, 1 will confess the truth, even the

society of dear Sister Agnes could not now reconcile
me to the dull round of a conventual life, where

♦ Morn after morn brings the same changeless scene.' "

" I am rejoiced to hear that you have decided so
wisely," observed Herbert ; " it would, indeed, be a
shame that such charms shoivld be buried in a
cloister."

32. . 5 c

74fi EMILY MORELAND.

" It would, indeed !" re-echoed Mr. Leigh, with a
sigh, as he approached them.

Beatrice looked archly for a moment in his face,
but directly after turned away with an air of scorn
and indifFererice, which completely destroyed the
favourable impression which her first look had
created.

It was very plain, however, to Herbert, who was
perhaps the most attentive observer on this subject,
that Beatrice, in spite of her attempt to keep up the
prejudice which she had at first felt against the
young Englishman, was gradually becoming more
sensible of his good qualities and personal recom-
mendations; and the attention with which he was
treated by Signora Orsini and her friends, seemed to
have considerable weight with her ; and before they
parted for the night, Mr. Leigh feli, as Herbert
whispered in his ear, that he had no cause to despair
of overcoming her aversion.

It had been agreed, that, at an early hour on the
following morning, the whole of the travellers^ with
Beatrice and Mr. Leigh, who eagerly embraced the
offer of Herbert that he should be of the party,
should depart for Velletri ; and that Beatrice, with
Emily and Mr. Leigh for her companions, should
first repair to the Convent, whither they were to be,
at a short distance of time, followed by Herbert and
Signora Orsini, who, in the character of strangers
desirous of seeing the interior of the Convent, would,
Beatrice assured them, find ready admittance to th^
parlour, chapel, &c.

The day proved unusually gloomy for this tine

EMILY MORELAND. 747

climate, and, agitated with alternate hopes and fears,
the whole of the party, with the exception of Mr
Leigh and Beatrice, were silent and pensive.

With Beatrice, every thing she saw or heard, af-
forded matter for pleasurable animadversion and
remark; and the flattering attention with which
every word she uttered was received by Mr. Leigh,
and the perfect agreement of taste, in their admira-
tion of the surrounding scenery, seemed to render
them better friends than they had ever been.

The sun, which had not visited them with a single
beam of his bright rays during the whole of the day,
broke out with the most brilliant radiance, at the
moment they first beheld the grey spires of the Con-
vent, which it illuminated, as if with one sheet of
liquid gold.

Beatrice's eyes sparkled as she hailed the flatter-
ing omen, and Signora Orsini, after gazing with a
throbbing heart, and eyes which seemed as if they
would penetrate the massy walls which had been so
long the living tomb of her unhappy sister, threw
herself back in the corner of the carriage, and gave
way to a flood of tears. Herbert, too, was greatly
agitated, but he suppressed his own feelings, and
endeavoured to re-assure the trembling and agitated
Rosalia, by reminding her that they were now near
the termination of the suspense, the harassing doubts
and fears, by which they had been so long agitated.

At a short distance from the Convent gates, which
the carriage passed on its way to the inn at which
they were to put up, Beatrice, Emily, and Mr.
Leigh alighted, and the rest of the party drove on.

748 EMILY MORELAND.

The portress received Beatrice with (he warmest
welcome, and, to her instant inquiry for Sister Agnes,
replied that she was as well as usual, though her old
habits of melancholy had returned with additional
force, since she (Beatrice) had left the Convent.

" The good mother abbess," she added, " is dan-
gerously ill, I fear, past recovery ; and the sisters,"
she observed, lowering her voice, " are all strife and
contention, about who is to succeed her. At pre-
sent, Sister Francesca, who, you know, was always
her favourite, performs all her duties; but she has,
I fancy, but little interest outside the Convent, for
she is not of noble birth, and, therefore, I suppose,
she will soon be obliged to resign her dignity to some
one else."

" This is in some respects fortunate for our views,'*
observed Beatrice, when they were left alone in the
parlour, to which the portiess conducted her, while
she went to mention their arrival to the superior and
Sister Agnes, whom Beatrice requested most parti-
cularly might be told she was there. " Sister Fran-
cesca," she continued, "is a gossiping, good-natured
soul, who is always delighted at the opportunity of
seeing strangers; and it will be easier to conciliate
her favour, than that of our lady abbess, who is not
very indulgent, I can assure you."

Emily's heart palpitated with expectation, when a
nun entered behind the grating which stretched
across the parlour, and prevented the nearer ap-
proach of visitors; but the short, ungraceful figure,
and plump round face, which even the severity of
conventual discipline had not deprived of its rosy

EMILY MORELAND. 749

hue and cheerful smile, at once told that this was not
her whom Beatrice and Emily so earnestly expected.

It was sister Francesca, whose salutation to the
young English travellers was not less cordial than to
Beatrice.

" Holy mother, how you are grown, my child !" she
exclaimed, after the first compliments; " I declare, I
could scarcely have known you — and Sister Agnes,
how she will be surprised! She is coming directly
to see you — but you know her way — eyery thing puts
ner in a flurry, poor thing; and our dear mother,
alas! she will never see you again. She is going fast
to receive the reward of her good deeds ! I wish we
were all as well prepared — but we are sinful crea-
tures, all of us. There are fine doings about who
is to succeed her — but I do not trouble my head,
though I am afraid we shall never get one like her,
so good and kind to all. Sister Ursula, who, you

know, is aunt to the Bishop of 1 forget his

title — but no matter — she is thought to have the best
chance ; but, I don't know, the Virgin forbid I should
aspire to such an office, but there might be those
chosen who are less fitted!"

" Jealousy, vanity, and ambition, in a cloister,'*
whispered Mr. Leigh to Emily; "surely, one might
expect such feelings could find no habitation here."

Emily had no time to reply, for at that momenta
figure, which, from the bloodless countenance and
unmoved serenity of feature, might have been rather
taken for a statue of marble than a living creature,
glided slowly forward, and fixed her dove-like eyes
on Beatrice.

750 EMILY MORELAND.

" Dear, dear Sister Agnes, how I have longed for
this moment !" exclaimed the latter.

Agnes' lips moved, but Emily could not catcli a
sound she uttered. A slight emotion seemed to cross
her brow, as she apparently at that moment dis-
covered there were strangers present. She uttered
a few words to Francesca, whose chattering seemed
involuntarily to be hushed at her presence, and Bea-
trice was admitted behind the grate, and immediately
threw her arms round the neck of her beloved moni-
tress.

" We all love Sister Agnes," said Francesca, in a
low voice to Emily, in whose eyes the big drops of
sympathy had started ; " she has suffered, poor thing,
a great deal — but that was before I came here, and it
must be forgotten now."

A summons from the Abbess to Francesca relieved
them from the task of attending to her unmeaning
chat, and Emily awaited with anxiety the result of
Beatrice's communication to Sister Agnes, to whom
she was addressing some sentences, which seemed to
have roused her at once into animation, and she
darted a look at Mr. Leigh which seemed to penetrate
to his heart.

" You are from England," she observed, in an
agitated tone ; " yet Beatrice tells me that you are
her friends. Dare I trust assertions — What can
you know of me? What is it that you would tell
me?"

" They would tell you of happiness yet in store for
you — of the certain termination of all the doubt and
suspense that you have suffered for so many years,"

EMILY MORELAND. 751

exclaimed Beatrice, " but that they fear you will not
have sufficient fortitude to bear it."

" Can it be possible? Merciful Heaven, can it be
possible?" she replied, clasping her snow-white
hands, and raising them as if in adoration of the power
whom she invoked, and remaining silent for a few
moments; and then, again turning her earnest glance
on Mr. Leigh, she exclaimed — " You are not — surely,
you cannot be my "

^* I am the friend, only, Madam, of one who is now
in agonising suspense awaiting the result of this in-
terview— who implores you to bestow on him that
blessing, of which he has been so long deprived. He
was fearful of the effects of too suddenly venturing
into your presence, but he stays only for your sum-
mons "

" He is alive, then in Italy, and I shall see

him ?" exclaimed Agnes. " Oh, do not delay, for an
instant — for my heart yet doubts the possibility.
Surely, I am not deceived — speak to me, Beatrice —
tell me that this is not one of those delusions which
have so often overwhelmed my poor weak brain !"

" Will you not trust your own Beatrice, dear, dear
mother?" replied the latter — "have you not often
told me that your heart still whispered that your son
was living, and that even the thought that he might
some time discover the fate of bis mother, seemed to
enable you to bear with, and almost wish for the
prolongation of your existence?"

"And those visions which I have sometimes thought
sinful, will be realised!" returned Agnes. " I shall
see him — shall hear him acknowledge me for his

752 EMILY MORKLAND.

mother ? Oh, God, thou hast indeed heard my prayers,
and I will strive to deserve the blessing!"

A signal from Beatrice was immediately understood
by Mr. Leigh, who left the room with Emily, whose
ao-itation was too excessive to allow her to witness
the approaching interview.

Herbert was already at the gate of the Convent.
He was alone — for Rosalia's strength of mind had
entirely deserted her, and Lady Haviland had pre-
vailed on her to postpone, until Mr. Leigh's return,
any attempt to see her sister.

The first glance at Herbert was sufficient to con-
vince the anxious, expecting mother that it was her
son whom she beheld, and uttering faintly — " It is

he — it is his very self! just so did he look " She

sank, fainting, into Beatrice's arms.

Herbert was in agonies — he would have given the
world to have supported her, but the envious grate
interposed, and he could only stretch out his arms,
and, by the most endearing expressions, endeavour
to awaken her to a sense of their mutual happiness.
Sister Francesca entered, and Beatrice prevented her
exclamations by a brief explanation of the cause of
the scene she beheld.

Mr. Leigh soon discovered that the latter had not
been wrong in believing that it was fortunate Fran-
cesca was invested with authority. The good soul
was melted into tears of sympathy, but the sparkling
diamond, which Mr. Leigh contrived to insinuate
through the grate into her hand, had even a more
powerful effect than his eloquence. All fears of
future consequences vanished before this pov^erful

EMILY MORELA.VD. 753

advocate. She retired for a few minutes, to make
her arrangements to prevent intrusion, and Herbert
was admitted, for the first and last time, to the extatic
pleasure of embracing his mother, and receiving from
her lips the holy kiss of maternal love.

Agnes had revived to a full conviction of her hap-
piness— but she was too sensibly alive to the danger
that would result to her beloved son, as well as all
concerned, should this transgression of the strict
laws of the conventual life be discovered, to prolong
this indulgence many minutes. Herbert returned to
his former situation beyond the grate, and having
suffered the penance of hearing Sister Francesca,
with whispered eagerness, expatiate on the danger
she had run, which she took great pains to assure them
was from no mercenary views, they were again left
to the pleasure of unrestrained intercourse, the vo-
luble Francesca informing them she was wanted in a
hundred different places, and could not possibly in-
dulge her inclinations by remaining longer.

Another joyful surprise still awaited the trans-
ported Agnes. Beatrice was fearful of disturbing
the comparative calmness of her beloved friend, by
hinting aught respecting her sister; — but Herbert,
(or, more properly, William, for by that name it ap
peared his mother recognised him,) rightly consider
ing that, prepared as her mind was, by the excitement
it had already undergone, it would better bear the
disclosure now, than at a future period, took occa-
sion, in reply to one of the numerous questions she
asked, to mention his aunt Rosalia, as one to whom
he had, in part, been indebted for the discovery of
his birth.

32. 6 B

754 EMILY ,MOR ELAND.

His mother started — "Rosalia!" she reiterated.
*' Do I hear you aright? my sister, did you say?
Have I more wonders to hear! They told me she
was dead — that I had sent her to a premature grave,
and yet you speak of her as if "

" You have been deceived in this, as well as in
many other respects, my dear mother," returned
William, gently. " I assure you that I have seen ray
aunt very lately, and you will," he continued, seeing
she bore this intelligence with comparative calmness,
"you, too, will see her very shortly — for she has ac-
companied me from England, and is now very near
you."

"My sister — my dear Rosalia!" murmured his
mother, while tears of affection streamed down her
pallid cheeks. " How often have I bewailed her loss^
and mourned, in bitterness of spirit, that T had been
the cause of blighting her youthful prospects, and
consigning her to an early grave ! Yet she lives to
forgive me, and take from my last hours the stinging
reflection that she, who had loved me so tenderly in
this world, would appear as my accuser at the throne
of mercy."

" Are you sufficiently composed, my dear mother,
to bear to see her immediately?" inquired William.
" She is most impatient to "

" Oh, yes — I am quite, quite calm," returned Agnes.
" Do not delay one moment, lest some unforeseen
chance should dash the cup of happiness from my lips,
before I have drained it! Let me but once behold
Rosalia, and I have not a wish on earth unsatisfied."

Accompanied by Emily, who had now succeeded
in conquering the emotions of her own heart, in the

EMILV MOREI.AND. 755

hope of supporting and berfig of assistance to her
dear friend Rosalia, the latter had already reached
the Convent. The timely application of another
bribe to Sister Francesca, who viewed, with all the
delight that a child beholds a new toy, a beautiful
pearl chain and cross, which Rosalia took from her
own neck to place round that of the nun, procured
them easy admittance to the interior of the Convent)
and in a few moments Agnes was clasped in the arms
of her weeping sister, who, for some minutes, was
incapable of uttering a word in reply to her affec-
tionate endearments.

The sad change which had taken place in the once
t)eautiful and blooming Laurentina, who, as Sister
Agnes, could scarcely have been recognised, except
by those so nearly connected with her, excited
tears of the bitterest regret from her affectionate
sister.

"Wonder not that I am changed," observed the
former, "but be rather surprised, as I have fre-
quently been, that it has been possible for me so
long to sustain life, under such accumulated agonies
as I have felt— but we will not ungratefully dwell
on past sorrows, but rather rejoice in the present
moments of unlooked-for happiness !"

The hour of parting came, at length, too soon for
all — but it was impossible to trespass farther on Sis-
ter Francesca's indulgence. They were at liberty,
however, she informed them, to attend the vespers
in the church; and though they could not hope there
to distinguish Agnes from the sisterhood, yet the
certainty that they were still near her, and beheld

750 EMILY MO R ELAND.

her, though veiled from their conscious eyes, deter-
mined them to accept the invitation.

Emily had several times attended the celebration
of public worship since her abode in Italy, but she
had never felt so deeply affected, as at the solemn
chaunt of the nuns on their entrance into the chapel;
but Rosalia's emotions rose to a still greater height,
when in the single voice, which rose with overpow-
ering sweetness when the choral swell had ceased,
she recognised the thrilling strains which had so
often delighted her in happier days.

Emily was fearful that Rosalia would faint — but
the tears which streamed from her eyes relieved her,
and they remained till the conclusion of the service.

William's whole thoughts now were occupied with
the idea of getting his mother out of the Convent.
To leave her behind him, seemed impossible; but on
disclosing his wishes to his mother she declared her
determination to remain in Italy.

William was in despair — he would have repeated
his solicitations, have pointed out that vows which
were forced upon her, and which were taken under
false impressions, could not — ought not — to be con-
sidered binding; but his mother gently silenced
him.

" Do not, my dear boy," she observed, " disturb
that peace which I have with so much difficulty ac-
quired, and which the reflection of your happiness
Avill render doubly secure. Most solemnly do I now
confirm in my heart the vows which before only my
lips uttered ; and let the assurance that I have not
» wish now that is ungratified, induce you to dismiss,

EMILY MORELAND. 757

for ever, wishes which never can, never shal], for a
moment, influence me!"

The death of the Abbess, which took place before
the travellers quitted the Convent, left Sister Fran-
cesca more than ever at liberty to indulge them with
unrestrained intercourse; and Mr. Leigh having
undertaken the (to him) delightful task of conducting
Beatrice to her friends in Rome, the remainder of
the party prolonged their stay at Velletri to more
than a month, during which they daily enjoyed, for
several hours, the society of their beloved relative,
who still, however, remained firm in her resolution
to resist all thoughts of leaving her retreat.

The period which Emily had fixed for throwing
aside her mourning habit, now rapidly approached;
and William's mind became occupied with the ar-
rangements which it was necessary to form for his
union.

It was Lady Haviland's earnest wish that the cere-
mony of their marriage should be performed in Lon-
don, and, at her suggestion. Sister Agnes herself
urged the subject to her son.

It was impossible that William could offer any
reasonable objection to an arrangement so congenial
to his inclination, and having there taken leave of
her, with an assurance that his happiness would be
incomplete until he again beheld her, he returned
with his friends to Rome, from whence, after spending
a few days, in compliment to Signer Nardini and his
family, they again set out on their departure for the
port from which they were to re-embark for England,
where, after a most delightful voyage, they arrived
ip tiafety.

758 EMILY MORELAND.

Within three weeks of their arrival in London,
the public papers announced the splendid marriage
between the heir of the Moreland title and estates,
and a young lady descended from the same family.

The beauty, the taste, the jewels, and the dresses
of the bride, were all duly enumerated and admired,
and Emily smiled as she saw the consequence which
an accession of fortune had thus bestowed on one,
who, only a short period before, had entered London
with no other hope or ambition than that of being
enabled, by her own industry and talents, to secure a
humble subsistence.

The Signora soon after returned to Italy, and ob-
tained the Orsini estates; whilst Emily revisited the
peaceful Valley of St. Clare, and, in the society of
those dearest to her heart, traced over again the
scenes of her infancy. Her poor old friend Isaac,
however, did not live to welcome her whom he had
always regarded as his own child; but Emily had
forgotten none of the friends of her youth, and many
were rendered happy by her benevolence.

On the spot where had stood her grandfather's
cottage, she gave orders for the erection of a plain
but elegant house, to which, during her long and
happy life, she frequently retired from gayer scenes,
to muse over past vicissitudes, and render grateful
thanks to that kind Providence which enabled her to
surmount the difficulties which had once surrounded
her.

To her influence, too, it was owing that William
Wilson was restored to his native home, and became
a useful member of society; and, through her means

EMILY MOllELAND. 759

and interference, Susan, who had been happily con-
vinced of the utter worthlessness of the would be-
fashionable Augustus Gilbert, in time to avoid the
snare that was laid for her, consented to renounce
her town habits, and become the industrious partner
of her cousin William, whose farm was restored to
its former respectability and comfort by Emily's
timely assistance.

To her kind friend, Mr. Moreland, to whom she
was indebted for the introduction which finally led
to all her happiness, Emily was also enabled to ren-
der very material service; while, of all her early
friends, none but Mr. Evelyn and his family rejected
a renewal of her friendship.

The pride of the young curate, and, perhaps, a
softer feeling, led him to avoid every opportunity of
seeing the former object of his affection; as he could
not forget the slight Emily had shown him.

The only drawback on the first years of Emily's
marriage was the troublesome and expensive litiga-
tion in which her husband was obliged to engage, in
order to substantiate his claim to the Moreland
peerage and estate; in which, one of his most in-
veterate opponents was Lady Rachel Templeton,
who could not, it appeared, brook the idea that the
obscure girl whom she had condescended to patronise,
should be raised to an equal rank with herself; but
the decision was at last pronounced in favour of the
son of Walter Moreland and LaurentinaOrsini; and
the Earl and Countess of Moreland, William and
Emily, were at length formally acknowledged, even
by those who had most strongly opposed their claims.

760 EMILY MORELAND.

An opportunity soon occurred which enabled ihe
Countess to dispose to her satisfaction of the money
which Frazer had conveyed to her, and which his
death, soon after his departure from England, left
entirely at her disposal.

It was devoted to restoring- to comfort and re-
spectability a young female, whom his arts had se-
duced from the paths of virtue, and who still lives to
bless the hand that raised her from despair.

Lady Haviland, happy herself in the contemplation
of the happiness that surrounded her, lived to an
advanced age among her friends, enjoying, by turns,
the splendour of that sphere which their rank obliged
them to mingle in, and the comparative humility of
that, which possessed to them infinitely more attrac-
tions, in the Valley of St. Clare.

FINIS.

DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER FOR PLACING THE PLATES.

Frontispiece to face the vignette title.

Reginald became the object of their care .... to face page 30

The interview was repeated, &c 47

Marian, with a beating heart, &c 48

Portrait of Herbert Leslie 127

. Emily Moreland 331

She beheld a beautiful boy, &c 631

It was the representation of an Italian festival 692

She leaned from the balcony, &c 710

C. Bayne», Printer,
Dnl(»*«treet l.incon'''-i»i*-6elU».

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