The Lottery of Life

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THE

LOTTERY OF LIFE.

VOL. I.

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THE

LOTTERY OF LIFE.

BY

THE COUNTESS OF BLESSIN6T0N.

After loog stoniMt and tempnCs oveiMowugy
ThfeSaBM at iM^th his joyous ftcedoch deare:
So whas as Foftone all her splght bath showDO,
Some bUfllul houn at last roust needes appeare*
Else should aSHetad wtghts oftthnes despecre.

IN 'FHREE VOLUMES,
VOL. L

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER.

OBEAT HARLBOBOUOH STREET.
1642.

^^O- Disitized by Google

PHINTKO BY WILLIAM WllvCOCMSVIt. ROLUI MTlLDIJtOS. PBTTKM LANK,

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CONTENTS.

VOL. I.

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE
VERONICA OF CA8TILLE

•^-^.,

V

3

. •«. .

. 281

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THE

LOTTERY OF LIFE.

VOL. I. B

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

CHAPTER L

Born of humble but honest parents, I was so
fortunate as to attract the notice of Abraham
Mortimer, a retir^ banker, who had purchased
a large estate, on which was the small farm
occupied by my father, Richard Wallingford.
Mr. MoYtimer had married late in life, and lost
the object of his affections, who died soon after
giving birth to an only son. The child was
little less than idolized by his doting parent ;
and, when old enough to have a preceptor, it
was suggested that a play-fellow, to share his
lessons, might excite emulation, while a com-
panion in his exercise would tend to give him
more pleasure in them. I, then in my twelfth

B 2

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4 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

year, was selected to fill this post. I had often
attracted the notice of Mr. Mortimer as he rode
hy the door of my father, who was his tenant,
and who having three other children, and not
heing in affluent circumstances, was not unwil-
ling to accept the kind offer of his landlord, to
undertake the education of his son, and after-
wards to place him in some reputable profession.

Percy Mortimer, unlike the generality of only
sons, was wholly unspoilt hy the indulgence of
his father. Good-tempered, kind-hearted, and
generous, he hailed the acquisition of a com-
panion of his own age with delight, and soon
became fondly attached to me, who regarded
" the young master,'* as the child was styled,
with the warmest affection.

The emulation excited between us never
engendered an envious feeling in the breasts of
either. The commendations lavished on Percy
by his doting father, were even more gratifying
to me than to the object of them ; and often would
Percy interrupt the eulogiums, by reminding
his parent that I merited them quite as well as
he did. The only interruptions to the happi-
ness I enjoyed, originated in the contemptuous
treatment I not unfrequently experienced from
the servants of my benefactor.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 5

"Many come up !" would Mrs. Tumbull,
the fat housekeeper, say, often loud enough to
be heard by me, as she beheld us mount our
ponies together, " if it isn't queer to see a
trumpery farmer's son treated for all the world
like the young squire, and not the least differ-
ence made between them."

" Set a beggar on horseback and he'll ride

to the ," chimed the butler. " Well, I

hope master won't have no cause to repent his
generosity, or to remember the old saying about
pulling a rod to whip himself.'*

" Some people have the luck of it," resumed
Mrs. Tumbull. " Now, if master had taken
your little boy, Mr. Manningtree, I'd have
thought it quite nafral like, seeing as how
you've served in the family so long ; and I'm
sure he's a nice spirited little fellow, and so I
have thought ever since he broke the gardener's
windows for forbidding him to touch the fruit,
and set his dog at the beggars' children."

" Why, yes, Mrs. Tumbull, I must say as
how Billy is as sharp a chap as a man can see
in a ride of twenty miles. Why, he knocked
out a tooth of widow Browning's son t'other
day, and has boxed half the boys in the school,

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O THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

as their black eyes bear witness. Though I say
it, as shouldn't say it, Billy is as cute a boy as
any in the parish ; ay, and would be as good-
looking a boy, too, only for his bandy legs, that
little cast he has in his eyes, and his hair being
so red."

" As for a cast in the Aeyes, Mr. Manning-
tree," observed Mrs. Tumbull, " there's many
a one as thinks it a beauty ; and as for red
hair, does'n't it bring white skin with it?"

Now, be it known that Mrs. Tumbull squinted,
and had very red hair, which the butler had
totally forgotten, when he referred to their being
detrimental to comeliness.

" Oh I in a woman^ Mrs. Tumbull, they
certainly are a beauty, of that there can't be a
doubt ; for only look at the picturs of Teeshin,*
I mean of them there pretty creturs, who have
not so much clothes on as might be wished,
owing, I suppose, to chintz, muslin, and cotton
not being so cheap when he painted as these
articles are now."

" Fye, Mr. Manningtree! don't mention such
things. I'm sure I never go into the breakfast
room, to take orders of a morning, without

• Titian.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 7

being ashamed to meet master's eye, on account
of that there Wenus, who is loUopping, half
dressed, and them other plump creturs as is
bathing in a river."

" Faith 1 Mrs. TurnbuU, I never look at 'em
without thinking of you."

" For shame I for shame I Mr. Manningtree ;
don't go for to mention such a thing ; what
would people say if they heard you ? I've been
a married woman, Mr. Manningtree, a matter
of twenty-five years, and poor Thomas Turn-
bull, peace he to his soul, never said no such
thing in his life."

" May be he never saw a Teeshin pictur,
Mrs. Tumhull ? if he had, he could not help
seeing the likeness."

" Now, I declare, Mr. Manningtree, you
make me all no how, indeed you do — for shame I
But we was a talking about that there young
chap, Dick Wailingford, I think as how he
takes on, and gives himself great airs."

" So do I, Mrs. Tumhull. He's a cunning
fellow, too ; and I can't ahide cunning people."

" No, nor I neither, Mr. Manningtree."

" Why, would you believe it, the day after
James, the new footman, came, the young master
was mad because he had not cleaned the shoes

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8 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

of Master Richard (a$ we are told to call him) ;
for I had been telling him, the evening before,
as how he was only the son of a poor trumpery
farmer, as was taken in out of charity, to divart
the young squire. Well, when the young chap
finds his shoes dirty, what does he do but begins
cleaning 'em with his pocket handkerchief and
some water, when in comes Mary, housemaid,
and tells him, it is a shame for him to dirt the
room after such a fashion, and that it was easy
to see he was not a gentleman bom, or he wou'd
not go for to do such a thing as to clean his
own shoes. Mary, housemaid, spoke so loud,
that the young master heard her, came into the
room, ordered her to leave it directly, and then
sent for me, and said, * If ever any one neg-
lected to clean the shoes of Master Richard, he
would tell his papa, and get them discharged.'
Would you believe it, Mrs. Turnbull, that there
young hypocrite turns round in a jifiy, and says,
he hopes Master Percy won't say another word
about the matter, for that he doesn't mind doing
every thing for himself, just the same as he'd
have to do, if he was in his father's house;
and then the young master goes up to him, and
puts his arm round his shoulders, quite like a
brother, and says, * But you sha'n't, my dear

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 9

Richard ; the servants shall wait on you the
same as on me, that they shall ; so mind what I
say, Manningtree, or Pll tell my papa.'"

" Did I ever? — no, I never heard of such
doiugs. No good will come of it, Mr. Man-
ningtree.**

The good temper, for which I always had
credit, and the desire of not giving trouhle,
which I invariahly evinced, were insufficient to
conciliate the good-will of the servants of my
patron, and many were the slights and humi-
liations they endeavoured to inflict on me, but
which this same good temper of mine, and a
certain portion of good sense, not often met
with in people of my age, lightened the sense of.

Time passed rapidly on, and we had each now
completed our nineteenth year. Percy was to
be entered at Christ Church College, as a gen-
tleman commoner, and I was to be placed as a
clerk in the banking-house of Mortimer, Alli-
son and Finsbury, in which my benefactor was
still a sleeping partner.

" How I wish you were coming to Oxford
with me, my dear Richard," said Percy to me,
a few days before the separation, to which both
looked forward with so much dread.

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10 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

" I too wish it/' answered I, " more, much
more, than I can tell you; but your father
wills it otherwise,"

** Greatly as I shall regret our separation,
Richard, I prefer it to having you entered as a
sizer at Christ Church ; that I could not bear,
brought up as we have been like brothers."

<* I should feel no humiliation in it, dear
Percy," said I, "for though you have ever
treated me as an equal, I have not forgotten
the difference in our stations: the poor farmer's
son knows that his cannot be the same path as
that traced for the son of his generous bene-
factor."

" That is precisely the only fault I ever have
had to find with you, Richard. You are ever
reminding me of a kindness on the part of my
father, that has been amply repaid by the ad-
vantages I have derived from the example of
perseverance and application which you have
given to his half — nay, more than half-spoilt
son, who without it, might have been now a
dunce, and disappointed his too indulgent
father's expectations."

Percy Mortimer entered Christ Church a
few days after the above conversation ; and on

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 11

the same day, I left the ahode in which I had
passed so many happy days, and hecame an in-
mate in the banking-house of Messrs. Mortimer,
Allison and Finsbury, in Mincing -lane. I
had never neglected my parents, or sisters and
brothers, during my residence at Mr. Morti-
mers. The pocket-money, and gifts so libe-
rally supplied to me by Percy, were nearly all
transferred to my family ; and whenever I could
snatch an hour from my own studies, or the
recreations of my companion, which I was ex-
pected to share, it was devoted to the instruc-
tion of my brothers and sisters. Of these, one
amply repaid the trouble and pains I had taken
for her improvement, the 'gentle and pretty
Margaret, who applied herself with diligence
to the tasks I assigned her. To her, now in
her fourteenth year, I transferred the few books
I coidd call my own, consisting of Goldsmith's
"Abridged Histories," Milton's "Paradise
Lost," Thompson's " Seasons," and the " Spec-
tator," and having taken an affectionate leave
of my family, I bade adieu to the country.

Great was the disappointment I experienced
on my arrival at the dingy house in Mincing-
lane, where I was henceforth to take up my
residence. Impressed with a vivid notion of

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12 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

the grandeur of London, the little I had seen of
it in my passage through the crowded streets of
the citj, accorded so little with my pre-conceived
ideas, that I sank hack into the coach in which
I haa seated myself and placed my luggage on
leaving the stage-coach, disheartened and op-
pressed hy the sense of loneliness peculiar to a
stranger on the first entrance into a crowded
capital, in which, among the dense masses of
people he sees moving about him, he knows not
a single face, expects not to see a single hand
held out to welcome him with a kindly pressure,
or a familiar voice to greet his ear. The dingy
banking-house in Mincing-lane achieved the
gloom that was stealing over my feelings ; and,
as I paid the coachman the sum demanded,
(being only thrice the amount to which he was
entitled,) and asked a surly-looking porter who
stood at the door to assist me in removing my
luggage into the dwelling, I experienced a sad-
ness and sense of isolation, to which I had been
hitherto a stranger. Cold and formal was the
reception given to me by the partners of the
bank, to one of whom I presented a letter of
introduction from Mr. Mortimer. They eyed
me with scrutinizing glances, then exchanged
looks, in which little of approval was visible.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 13

and the effect of which was not calculated to
exhilarate the depressed spirits of a stranger
like myself.

" As you are probably fatigued by your jour-
ney, you can retire to the apartment prepared
for you,** said Mr. Allison, "and to-morrow
you will enter on your duty. The porter will
show you your room."

I felt thankful for permission to retire, and,
bowing, hastened to avail myself of it ; but my
gratitude was diminished, when I saw that the
hour of closing the bank had arrived, as all the
clerks were withdrawing from their high stools,
and hurrying away with an activity that denoted
their satisfaction at being released from their
daily uninteresting toil.

** I thought you were the new clerk, when
you asked me to help you in with your trunk,"
said the porter, when I requested him to show
me my room.

" You were never afore in Lunnun, I take it?"

" Never," answered I.

** I guessed as much, when I seed you give
that there coachman three times more than his
fare. You mustn't do that, for its no use what-
somever being himposed on, and only gets a man
laughed at."

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14 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE,

"I thank you for your advice," replied I,
and the civility with which I said so, made John
Stebbings (who be it known to our readers had
a passion for giving advice), my friend for life.

" You will find Mrs. Chatterton, the house-
keeper, a very good and tidy woman; and, pro-
vided you keeps good hours, and is regular at
meals, she will make you very comfortable," said
John Stebbings, as he conducted me up stairs.

He opened the door of a very gloomy room,
in which was a table laid for dinner ; and, seated
by the fire, a respectable looking elderly woman,
with considerable remains of beauty, who, with
spectacles on nose, was busily employed in knit-
ting a stocking.

" Here be the new clerk, Mrs. Chatterton,"
said John Stebbings, raising his voice to a very
loud key.

"What do you say, Mr. Stebbings?" an-
swered the old dame, turning round leisurely.

" This here young gentleman he's the new
clerk," repeated Stebbings, in the tone of a
Stentor.

" Why don't you speak a little louder, Mr.
Stebbings ? — I never hear a word you say."

" Speak a little louder indeed ; why, hang me,
if the old lady don't get deafer and deafer every

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 15

day," and, approaching close to her ear, he bel-
lowed rather than spoke, " This here he's the
new clerk."

" Then why couldn't you say so at first, Mr.
Stebbiogs?"

" As if I didn't. Well, it surely is a great
misfortune to be deaf. I wouldn't be deaf for
all the world, — that I wouldn't," said John
Stebbings.

" How do you do, young gentleman ?" said
Mrs. Chatterton, civilly, and with a most bene-
volent smile: "your bedroom is prepared for
you, and dinner will be served up in a few
minutes. This way, if you please. What did
you say your name was ?"

" Richard Wallingford, ma'am."

"What?"

" Richard Wallingford, ma'am," and I spoke
louder than I had ever spoken before.

" Speak a little louder, young man ; it's very
strange no one will speak loud enough at pre-
sent to be heard. When I was young, every
body spoke loud enough."

" Ay, ay, I warrant me you weren't as deaf
as a post then, as you are now," said John Steb-
bings, as he proceeded towards the door, with
my trunk on his shoulders ; and scarcely had

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16 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

he uttered the remark, when, coming in con-
tact with a chair which he had not observed,
and which had been left out of its place by Mrs.
Chatterton, who had been winding cotton on
its back, he stumbled over it, and fell to the
ground, while the trunk, coming on a pile of
plates placed before the fire, crashed them in
pieces.

" Was there ever such a man?** said Mrs.
Chatterton, " always breaking and falling over
every thing I Why can't you wear spectacles,
John Stebbings? You're as blind as a bat,
that you are ; but you won't allow it — ^you're so
obstinate.*'

" No more blinder than my neighbours,**
growled John Stebbings, "and not deaf into
the bargain, as some of us be,*' and he began
rubbing his leg, which had sustained some in-
jury by its contact with the chair.

" Bless me I if he hasn*t broken a dozen of
plates. What will the^rm say, when they see
four shillings down again for plates ?*'

" I've broken my shin, and that's worse nor
the plates,** muttered Stebbings; "but that
comes of putting chairs out in the middle of
the room to throw people down.**

" Here*s a glass of cordial, it will do you

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 17

good, Mr. Stebbings/' and the old lady opened
a cupboard, and poured out a glass of some
liquid which she handed to Stebbings, who
nothing loth, drank to her good health, while
she murmured, " 'Tis a pity he*s so blind, poor
man ; I wish he would wear spectacles :" and he
having emptied the glass of its contents, turned
to me and remarked, that ** there was not a
better-hearted woman alive than Mrs. Chatter-
ton, and it was a great pity she was so deaf.''

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18

CHAPTER 11.

The bed-chamber allotted to me, though small,
and furnished in the most homely style, was
clean, an agreeable fact which Mrs. Chatterton
called on me to remark, as she installed me in it.
" Here is soap for you, young man, — good
old brown Windsor soap. The firm allows a
cake a month to each clerk, which is ample for
those who are not so stupid as some are, who
forget it in the wash-hand basin. Such people
never come to much good ; for how can a man
take care of great things, who begins by for-
getting small ? Here is a chest of drawers for
your clothes, and a boot-jack for your separate
use. The firm are very liberal in allowing a
boot-jack to each room. You are the only clerk
who has a bed-chamber to himself; and, there-
fore, this boot-jack belongs exclusively to this

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 19

room. I have had the initials of the firm cut
on it, M. A. F. ; it prevents mistake. I will
leave you now, and order dinner to be served ;
in five minutes more it will be on the table.
You will just have time to wash your hands,
and smooth down your hair. Hold the candle,
Mr. Stebbings, if you please, not so close to my
cap for fear of fire. I wish you would wear
spectacles, indeed I do."

" And 7, and every one else who knows you,
wish that you would have a speaking-trumpet,"
muttered John Stebbings. '* How droll it is she
can find out that I can't see so well as I could
forty years ago, but she can't discover that she
is as deaf as a post.*'

The ringing of a bell announced that dinner
was served before I had completed the arrange-
ment of my hasty toilette ; but I hurried to the
room in which I had previously seen the table
laid, and found that five clerks and Mrs. Chat-
terton had already taken their seats at it. A
substantial piece of boiled beef and carrots
smoked on the board, and a dish of potatoes
flanked the opposite side.

" Gentlemen, this is Mr. Richard Walling-
ford, the new clerk," said Mrs. Chatterton, and

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20 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

each of the five clerks looked inquiringly at
the new comer, and nodded to me, but without
speaking, their mouths being too full for speech.
Mrs. Chatterton helped me to a substantial slice
of beef, and added to it a supply of carrots that
might have satisfied the most voracious appetite.

*^ Gentlemen, how do you like your fare ?"
demanded she ; a needless question, as the avidity
with which the huge slices disappeared from each
plate save mine, bore ample testimony to the
approval of the dinner. " I hope, young gentle-
man, you like your beef? Our butcher is con-
sidered one of the best in Leadenhall-market,
and my mode of having it boiled has always
given the greatest satisfaction."

" You need not give yourself the trouble to
scream yourself hoarse by attempting to make the
old lady hear," said a young man whose dress,
air and manner indicated a desire of being consi-
dered a smart, if not a pretty man too, but whom
nature had wholly unfitted for enacting the part.

" What does Mr. Bingly say ?" asked Mrs.
Chatterton, " something civil I am sure." The
simplicity and goodness indicated by the ques-
tion set the table in a roar, while the said Mr.
Bingly, moving his lips as if speaking, looked at

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 21

Mrs. Chatterton as though he was addressing
her, a piece of mockery that still more increased
the laughter of the junior portion of the party.

** I see you are all laughing ; and I dare say
something pleasant has been said, but strange
to say, I have only caught a word here and
there in all that Mr. Bingly has uttered. I
wish people would speak a little louder. When
I was young, every one spoke louder, and I
never used to miss a word of what was said.''

The beef and vegetables having been removed
by a stout and active maiden who acted in
the capacity of cook and parlour-maid, a huge
wedge of Cheshire cheese, flanked by a foaming
tankard of ale, was placed on the table, and the
glasses of the party being filled from it, Mrs.
Chatterton proposed the health of the firm.

" I have drunk this same toast, young gentle-
man, for forty years, and make a point that it
should be drank here every day. And a good
right we have to drink the health of the firm, for
there is not a better in the city of London."

Mr. Bingly now taking his glass in hand,
looked respectfully at Mrs. Chatterton, and bow-
ing his head to her, gravely said — " I heartily
wish, old Mother Chatterbox, that you, and your
everlasting pieces of beef and dry cheese, only

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22 THE LOTTKRY OF LIFE.

fit to bait mouse-traps with, were far away/*
and he raised the glass of ale to his lips.

" Thank you, Mr. Bingly, you are always
polite, I must say," and elevating the glass to
her mouth, " I wish you the same.'*

The happiest repartee ever uttered by a wit,
never produced more laughter than did the
answer of Mrs. Chatterton, who again ex-
pressed her desire that people would speak as
loud as they did when she was young. Of the
four other clerks seated round the board, two
were elderly men, of grave and reserved man-
ners, and two were about the age of Mr.
Bingly, whose style of dress and behaviour,
they evidently emulated. They waited to see
whether he would patronize the new comer, be-
fore they extended any friendly encouragement
to me, while the two elderly clerks seemed
scarcely conscious of my presence.

" I am for the play,'* said Mr. Bingly, if you
like to go, Mr. — what did you say your name
was?"

" Wallingford," answered I.

" I'll conduct you."

*' I am obliged to you, but I prefer remain-
ing at home."

"You are right, young man, — yes, quite

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 23

right,*' observed the two elderly clerks, and
they looked graciously at me.

" What I not desire to see Miss Tree, and
Kean, or Miss Helen Faucit and Macready ?
Ton my soul I the acting of these great stars
quite electrifies me. They are fine creatures.**

*'What do you think of the acting in the
early scenes, Bingly ?*' asked one of the elderly
clerks.

" Think 1 why very fine, monstrous fine to
be sure, but why do you ask ?"

^* Because, as you only go at the half-price,
I thought it likely you may never have seen
them.**

A laugh on the part of Bingly*s imitators
followed this remark.

" If I were you, I would for once put together
the sums for two admissions of half-price, and
see the whole piece, if only just for the novelty
of the thing.**

** Ha, ha I not so bad, *poti my soul, not so
bad I** and Bingly affected to laugh.

The table being now clearedj I rose to seek
my bed-room, for the purpose of arranging my
clothes and books, and having placed them in
order, and written a letter to my friend Percy
Mortimer, I returned to the sitting-room, where

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24 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

I found the two elderly clerks busily engaged
in a game of chess, Mrs. Chatterton knitting,
and two of the young men occupied in reading^
two well-thumbed and soiled novels, from the
next circulating library. Mr. Singly had gone
out.

" If you wish to converse, Mr. Wallingford,"
said Mrs. Chatterton, " I will have great plea-
sure in a little sociable chat with you; but I
must beg of you to speak louder.''

A suppressed titter from the young men,
marked that they were not so deeply interested
in the novels they were perusing, as not to be
aware of what was going on in the room.

" You see Mr. Murdoch and Mr. Burton,'*
continued Mrs. Chatterton, "playing chess at
the same table, and on the same board where
they have played for the last forty years. Night
after night there they are, never weary. I
wonder they can go on for so many years with-
out being tired of it."

" Well, that's a good'un, however," said one
of the young men, " when here has she been
knitting stockings, day after day, and night
after night, for nearly as long a period as they
have played chess; yet she wonders they can be
amused with their game."

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 25

" It is wonderful how time flies/' resumed
Mrs. Chatterton, ''and so I often think, when
I look over and see Mr. Murdoch and Mr.
Barton seated in the same spot, and engaged
in the same amusement year after year ; and,
would you believe it, Mr. Wallingford, it some-
times seems to me as if it was impossible that
it could be thirty-five years since I first saw
them sitting there, every thing appears so exact-
ly the same, — except that people don't speak so
loud ? When we always do the same things,
and at the same hours, it makes the time pass
quite pleasantly, though I can't get Mr. Bingly
to think so. Ah, well I he'll come to my opinion
when he grows older, — that he will. Doing
the same thing at the same hours, keeps people
young much longer, I can tell you. Why, I
declare, except that Mr. Murdoch has lost all
his hair, and his front teeth, and is grown so
very corpulent, I don't see much change in him ;
and, as for Mr. Burton, only that he wears that
light-coloured wig, instead of having his head
nearly bald, as it was when I first saw him, and
his having lost his flesh and got lame, he is just
the same man he used to be thirty-five years
ago. I, too, am very little changed. Indeed,
my friends tell me they don't see the least altera-

VOL. I. c

Digitized by VjOOQIC

26 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

tion, which shows what a fine thing it is to be
always doing the same thing. Up at six in the
summer, and seven in the winter — off to Lead-
enhall-market thrice a-week in winter, and
every day in summer, by eight in the morning ;
home by nine — break£ast on the table by five
minutes after. In the kitchen to look about
dinner at ten — see the rooms are perfectly
cleaned at half-past ten — scold Kitty. Look
over the linen at eleven, repair whatever may
require mending. Read the Morning Post at
twelve, and at one o'clock sit down comfortably
to my knitting. At two, Kitty brings me a
mouthful of cold meat, a slice of bread, and a
glass of beer; and, at half-past two, I take
up my knitting again until dinner-time, after
which the evening passes just the same as you
see. O I it's a great blessing to have the time
pass so pleasantly, — isVt it, Mr. Richard? I
dare say you were very sorry to leave your vil-
lage, because you knew every face and step
aroimd the place, and every one knew you?
Now, the city of London seems to me to be mj/
village. I know every shop, and every owner
of a shop, from Mincing-lane to Leadenhall-
market — ay, and in the market too, I know
most of the folk, and they know me : and you

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 27

could not feel more strange in the streets to-
morrow, than I should were I to find myself in
the Tillage where I was horn."

" He's fairly in for it,'' said one of the young
clerks to the other. <' I'll be blessed if she aint
coming to her visit to her native village : you'll
see she'll tell him the whole story."

"He'll never be such a spoony as to sit
listening to it," answered the other.

" But you heard nearly the half of it."

"Ay, that was because I was a stranger,
and not up to the old girl's long yams."

" You were a stranger, and she took you in,"
whispered the other, loud enough to be heard
by me, who felt somewhat abashed at finding
myself considered as a victim to the garrulous
Mrs. Chatterton, although the evident good-
nature of the old lady induced me to lend her,
what it was plain she received as a compliment,
a patient hearing. Tea being now served by
the active Kitty, who, with it, brought a supply
of buttered muffins, that might have satiated
the appetite of a Dando ; Mrs. Chatterton
busied herself in pouring out the " beverage
that cheers, but not inebriates," the steams of
which sent up a grateful odour. Even the
chess-players left their game, and Messrs.

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28 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

Thomas and Wilson, their well-thumbed novels,
to partake this evening repast; and when I saw
the rapidity with which muffin after muffin dis-
appeared, and cup after cup was replenished, I
no longer felt surprised at the copious supply
provided by the indefatigable Kitty. At half-
past ten o'clock, the party retired to their sepa-
rate chambers, but not before Mrs. Chatterton
reminded me, that at five minutes after nine,
breakfast would be on the table.

dbyGoogk

29

CHAPTER III.

When I awoke the next morning, I was sur*
prised to find, on opening my window, that a
dense yellow fog precluded the possibility of
seeing any object from it, save a few tall chim-
nies crowned by lurid-coloured, conical-shaped
pots, rising from the mis-shapen roofs of the ad*
jacent houses. Nothing could be more gloomy
than the prospect of this ** darkness visible,''
offering a dreary contrast to the wide-stretch-
ing domain of Oak Park, with its huge old
trees, beneath which the deer loved to nestle,
and the sleek cows and snowy fleeced sheep
cropped their daily food. The density of the
atmosphere impeded the freedom of my respira-
tion, and damped the natural tone of cheerful-
ness of my mind, but I soon reasoned myself
into better spirits; and when I entered the

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30 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

eating-room» receiyed the matinal greetings of
Mrs. Chatterton, with assumed if not real
cheerfuhiess.

" What weather 1 there never was any thing
like it," said Mr. Murdoch.

" So you have said every similar day for the
last thirty-five years, and we have had many
such days,*' replied Mr. Burton.

" Would you believe it, I was obliged to pay
a Unk-boy to light me home last night ?** ob-
served Mr. Bingly ; " and in the theatre, the
fog was so thick that one could not see across
the house.*'

<' You are finding fault with the butter again,
Mr. Bingly," said Mrs. Chatterton ; "but if s
no use, there is no better to be had at present,
I can tell you."

« Not I," answered Mr. Bingly, " I'm tired
of finding fault. I really believe the old woman's
nose is as blunt to the sense of smelling as her
ears are to that of hearing ; for if she coiUd
smell, we should not have such stuff as this,"
pointing to the pat of butter to which he had
helped himself.

Messrs. Thomas and Wilson were too busily
occupied in discussing the toast, and washing
it down with large cups of tea, to join in the

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THE LOTTEKY OF LIFE, SI

remarks, rather than conversation, of the other
clerks.

At length, the morning meal heing concluded,
and Mr. Murdoch having looked at his huge
silver watch (which res^nhled a turnip in form
and size), he announced that the moment was
arrived for entering the office, to which he led the
way. The apartment was of considerable dimen-
sions, and nlang it was ranged a long line of
counters, with desks, before which stood high
stools, waiting their daily occupants. Mr. Mur-
doch pointed out the one designed for me, and
I seated myself before a huge ledger open on
the desk, while that grave functionary explained
to me the duties I was expected to discharge.
Lamps were lighted through the apartment,
but even with the aid supplied by them, it was
still gloomy and dingy, the lurid flame casting
its dull light over the countenances of the clerks
seated, at the desks, and on those who kept
continually making their entries and exits, as
well as on the heaps of golden coin, which the
cashier was serving out with a sort of shovel,
to meet the demands of the several busy-looking
men, who presented checks to him. Every
one appeared intent on business ; even Bingly
seemed to forget the pleasures of half-price

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32 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

attendance at the theatre ; Thomas and Wilson
looked as if they never had devoted an evening
to a novel; and Murdoch and Burton forgot
the fascination of chess, while, with spectacles
on nose, they looked o^er unwieldy books, and
made entries in them.

At ten o'clock the partners, or theyfrm, as
Mrs. Chatterton loved to designate them, took
their station in an inner room, each seated
before a desk, and deeply interested in the
perusal of the morning papers. Into this sanc-
tum only the privileged customers of the house
were admitted ; and a tolerably accurate guess
of the state of his banking-book might be made,
from the coldness or cordiality with which each
visitor was greeted, as well as by the politeness,
or hrusqueriet of the individual himself.

Though a novice, I was soon enabled to form
a conclusion that the civilest, best dressed,
and most gentlemanlike-looking men, were not
those who received the most attention from the
Messrs. Allison and Finsbury ; and that these
gentlemen, in turn, were treated with much less
politeness by certain plainly dressed, stem-look-
ing men, chiefly of the ages of from fifty to sixty,
who walked unceremoniously into the sanctum,
excluded the view of the fire firom the partners.

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. S3

by standiDg with their backs turned to it —
and kept their hats on, according to English
practice.

The creaking of the eyer-opening door, the
hum of voices, the frequent coughs, and still more
frequent half-suppressed yawns and sneezes, the
rattling of money, and the sounds of a multi-
plicity of pens scratching the paper they were in-
diting, never ceased for a moment ; while, from
a distance, came the mingled noises peculiar to
the eastern portion of the modem Babylon ; all
of which produced a sensation of dulness and
drowsiness on my spirits, that I felt it difficult
to repel.

At five o'clock came the accustomed reprieve,
and gladly did I welcome it, though the society
assembled in Mrs. Chatterton's room offered
little to interest or amuse me. The dinner
table presented precisely the same aspect as on
the previous day, the only difference being, that
a voluminous leg of boiled mutton usurped the
place previously assigned to the beef.

Dinner being concluded, I sought the privacy
of my chamber, for the purpose of writing to
my benefactor, Mr. Mortimer, and also to my
father. So great and sudden had been the
change in my mode of life within the last forty-

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34f THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

eight hours, that I felt as if weeks, nay months,
had elapsed since I had left the country. All
was new and strange to me, while the habits
of those among whom I found myself thrown,
seemed to be as little changed by my presence,
as if a new piece of furniture, instead of a
new companion, had been introduced into the
chamber.

There was something dispiriting in the con-
sciousness of this indi£Perence, — a consciousness
experienced more or less by every individual on
first entering a circle of strangers, but more
especially a circle in which the politeness and
good-breeding peculiar to polished society is
not known, and the absence of which leaves the
natural egotism of men more openly exposed.
I gave a sigh to the recollection of my late
happy home, and remembered, with a lively sense
of gratitude, the cordial kindness ever extended
towards me by Percy Mortimer. A summons
to tea interrupted the pensive reverie in which,
after having sealed my letters, I indulged.

The large, well ventilated, and comfortable
apartment, surrounded with well filled book-
cases, in which my friend Percy, his preceptor
and myself, were wont to pursue our studies,
was brought before my mind's eye. The plea-
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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 35

sant conversation that followed our readings,
and the observations that illustrated them, re-
curred yividlj to my memory, and when the
knock at my door recalled me to the actual
present, the contrast it presented saddened me.

The evening meal being despatched, and the
inmates of Mrs. Chatterton's apartment having
resumed their usual occupations, I felt as wholly
alone as if I were the sole occupant. But I
was not long suffered to remain in the state of ab-
straction into which I had fallen ; for, with the
good-nature peculiar to women, and which even
in the humble class to which Mrs. Chatterton
appertained, is seldom lost sight of, that good
person, looking up from her interminable knit-
ting, beckoned me to draw nearer to her side.

" You seem mopish like, Mr. Richard,**
said she. '' And no wonder. Ah I I can feel
for you, that I can, at finding yourself among
total strangers. Every one experiences this at
first, but some how or other, one gets used to
it at last ; and then (though you will hardly
believe this at present) one gets so accustomed
to the place and people with whom one Uves,
that when one goes back to where one spent
one's youthful days, it seems more strange than
the place one left."

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36 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

•* He's in for it, TU be blessed if he a'int!"
said Wilson to Thomas, in a voice audible to
every individual in the room, except the deaf
Mrs. Chatterton.

" Yes, I give him joy of the long story,**
answered Thomas, and both tittered as they
resumed their well-thumbed novels.

" Well, Mr. Richard, I wasn't always as you
see me now," said Mrs. Chatterton, clearing her
throat in a manner that indicated a preparation
for a long story. " No, Mr. Richard ; I was as
brisk and lively a girl as you'd see in a day's
walk, and in our village of Buttermuth— did you
ever hear of Buttermuth, in Hertfordshire ?"

A nod of dissent on my part supplied the
place of words.

" Well, — I'm sure I wonder it is not more
generally known, — folk used to say that there
was not many girls like Lucy Mildred. My
name was Lucy Mildred before I married, for
I was called after my grand-aunt, as good a
woman as could be found in all Hertfordshire.
I always loved Buttermuth, and every tree and
hedge in it, as if they were living creature^.
Ay, Mr. Richard ! and I loved the people too,
even old cross Dame Parsons, as she used to be
called, who never allowed a single creature to

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 37

come within reach of her, without giving him,
or her, advice. Often and often used she to
stop me to tell me what to do, and what to leave
undone ; and sure enough it was very tiresome,
especially when I was in a hurry ; and most of
the young folk used to run away from her, and
tell her to keep her lectures for the long days,
but I never did so, but used to wait patiently and
thank her, though I thought that she must have
nothing to amuse her, or she would not pass all
her time in giving advice, moreover when so
few would listen, and still fewer would follow it.
There couldn't be a merrier girl than I was,
when just as I turned nineteen, my mother got
a letter from a sister she had in London, saying
that her husband having died, and she having
no children, and being well to do in the world
like, she wished to have one of her nieces sent
up to keep her company. Betsy, my eldest
sister, had been some time married, so she could
not go, and Sarah was engaged to be married in
a few months, so father and mother thought it
best to send me^ though the notion of parting
with me, made them very sad. From the
moment I heard I was to go, I became fonder
of my father, mother, and sisters, than ever I
had been before, though, God knows, I always'

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38 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

loved them dearly ; and as for the place, I locked
on every tree and flower with regret, for I
thought I'd be fer away when the leaves were
falling, and that I couldnH be there to rejoice
when they came out fresh and beautiful again in
the spring. The very birds seemed like friends ;
and many a tear I shed when I bade good-bye
to those I had known since I was bom, but
above all, to my parents and sisters. When I
took leave of Dame Parsons, she blessed me.
* You were always a good girl, Lucy Mildred,*
said she, ' and were never in a hurry, like all
the other foolish girls in the village, who never
will wait to hear a word of advice. Take this
guinea, and with it my counsel never to do any
thing in haste '''

" The old un has attended to the counsel,*'
said Wilson.

" * Always listen to your elders, and never
think you don't want advice.'

<' I'd have filled the coach had I put into
it all the presents that were made me by
the neighbours — cakes, oranges, apples, pin-
cushions, purses, and ribbons, — but I'm antici-
pating my departure.

" When I awoke the morning I was to leave
home, — I had cried myself to sleep the night be-

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 89

fore, — and heard the cock crowing, and thought
that I should no more he awakened hy the
sound, I hegan to weep afresh; and when I
looked on Sarah, who was asleep hy my side,
and saw the tears were still on her eye-lashes,
I felt as if my heart would hreak. And the
bright daylight was shining through the white
dimity curtams, and the dew was sparkling on
the honeysuckle and roses that grew against
the casement, and the old walnut-tree chest of
drawers, that I had so often rubbed, looked as
polished as Mr. Bingly's boots — oh I I felt a love
even to the poor old furniture, every article
of which, even now though fifty-six years are
passed since then, appeared to me as dear
fiiends, from whom it was pain to part. The
sobs I could not restrain, awoke Sarah. For a
moment she looked surprised ; but then came
the recollection that we were to part, and she
fell on my shoulder and wept.

" • How I should Uke, dear sister,' said she,
' to see the chamber in which you are to sleep
in your new home — the bed, the pattern of the
paper, the curtains, and even the tables, chairs,
and chest of drawers — for then I could fancy
every thing about and around you. You will
know at t^ertain hours that I am in our old

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40 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

room, thinking of you, looking at all the objects
familiar to our eyes since we were little chil-
dren, all of which will remind me of you, and
this is some comfort ; but until you write me
every particular about your room, I sha'n't know
how to picture you to myself in your new
abode,* and poor Sarah's tears broke out afresh.

* But there is one way, dear sister,' said she,

* by which we can be together, in spirit at least,
and that is by kneeling down, night and mom*
ing, at the same hour to pray, as we have been
used to do from our infancy. Promise me that
you will never forget to do this, for it will be
my greatest consolation when you are far away.'

*^ I promised, and we knelt down that moment
and prayed; and, though the tears streamed
down our cheeks, we felt consoled. Prayers
are blessed things, Mr. Richard, for young and
old. They often comforted me in my youth ;
and now, when age has laid its heavy hand on
me, they lighten my spirits."

" What a spoony the fellow must be," whis-
pered Wilson to Thomas, " to listen to old
Mother Chatterton's twaddle."

" Ay, ay, but he'll soon be too wise for that,"
answered Thomas.

"Yes, Mr. Richard," resumed the old wo-

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THE LOTTERY QF LIFE. 41

man, "prayers are indeed blessed things, for
they lead oar minds to the absent, to the dead;
and those we have mourned for do not seem
quite lost : it is while we are prating for them
that we have the liveliest hope of meeting them
again."

dbyGoogk

42

CHAPTER IV.

" But to go back to my story," resumed Mrs,
Chatterton, the next evening. — " At last the
stage-coach stopped at the Black Bear, which
was but a short distance from our cottage, and
the horn sounded to tell us we must part, and
we all arose, and embraced each other over
and over again, and my mother and sisters ac-
companied me to the coach-office. How many
times did my poor mother tell the coachman and
the guard to take care of me ; though sister
Betsy expressed her wonder at such fears, and
declared that she would be very glad to under-
take a journey of twice the length, and by her-
self; for what could happen in a good stage-
coach, and with a steady driver ? Betsy was
always a very di£Perent person from Sarah, and
not half so much liked by the family ; neither

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE, 43

did she show much affection to any of us, heing
wholly taken up with her husband, and a slave
to her love of good eating.

*' How anxiously my dear mother looked at
the three passengers who were already seated
in the coach, and expressed her hopes that they
would be kind to her poor child. Many of the
neighbours came to see me off, and each brought
some little token of regard. My mother and
sisters clasped me in their arms by turns, until
the guard hurried me into the coach, and in a
minute more it rattled off, while I stretched
forth my head from the window, and saw the
dear ones I had left, standing on the same spot,
weeping bitterly. Is it not strange, Mr. Rich-
ard, that I can remember that moment as well
as if it happened an hour ago, though many
things that only occurred a few years back have
escaped my recollection ? — Is it not strange ?

" * Don't take on so, young woman,' said an
old man with a sour face, and wearing spec-
tacles, who was seated opposite to me ; ' ifs no
use whatsoever to cry, for it will be all the
same in a hundred years hence.'

" * Let her have her cry out, it will do her
good,' remarked an elderly woman at my side ;
' it's only the youthful that can shed tears so

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44 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

freely ; and a time will come, when this poor
young thing may wish to be able to cry as she
does now/

" * For my part, I can't see the good of cry-
ing/ observed a young man who had a pale hce
and weak eyes ; ' if people leave old friends, they
must hope to find new ones; and, to my think-
ing, new friends are much the pleasantest/

" • You'll not think so when you have lived
longer in the world,' answered the old woman.

" * There you happen to be wrong,* said the
young man flippantly, * for I have lived more
in the world, though not half so long, as you
have.'

" * It's to be hoped you have profited by it,'
replied the old woman.

'^ ^It will be all the same in a hundred years
hence,' rejoined the old man.

'' * It will not be all the same, and a man of
your years should not put such heathenish no-
tions into the heads of young people,' said the
old woman, somewhat angrily.

" * And what notions pray, would you think
it right to put into their heads instead?' asked
the man with spectacles.

*' * Ay, ma'am, tell us that?' asked the young
man.

Digitized by VjOOQIC

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 45

" * I would put into the heads of the youthful,
that on their own good or evil conduct, depends
what their fate will he here and hereafter.*

" * I thought as much,' answered the young
man superciliously.

" * I hope you wiU always think so,' said the
old woman.

" ' But, if I should not ?'

" * Why, then, it will be all the same in a
hundred years hence,' rejoined the old man.

** The elderly woman was about to enter into a
discussion on this point, when the coach stopped
at an alehouse to take up a parcel, and she in-
stantly forgot her desire of refuting the opinions
of her adversary, and asked for a glass of water,
which she kindly put to my lips, saying, * Drink
this, my dear, it will do you good.'

" There was something so motherly in the
action, and in the mode of it, that it recalled
similar acts of kindness often experienced from
my own mother, and brought the tears afresh
to my eyes ; but I no longer felt so strange and
deserted like as before, now that one of my own
sex, and a respectable looking woman too,
seemed to take such an interest in me.

" * You'll soon forget the country, when you

dbyGoogk

46 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

have once seen what a delightful place Lunnon
is,' said the young man. * I can't hear heing
out of it long, though I do make the folk stare
when I go home into the country/ and he looked
complacently at his dress. * How they do ex-
amine the cut of my clothes, and the shape of
my hat when I go to church.'

** * More shame for them,' remarked the elderly
woman, ' for when people go to the house of God,
they ought to think of other matters than dress,
and such like foolish things.'

** * It will be all the same in a hundred years
hence,' observed the old man.

" * No, it will not be all the same,' said the
elderly woman angrily, * and you may find it
won't be, to your cost ; you ought not to put
such thoughts into the heads of young people,
if you are so weak as to entertain them your-
self.'

" * Weak 1' reiterated the old man, * what do
you call weak ? I am a philosopher — a free-
thinker.'

" * I'm sorry for you,' said my new acquaint-
ance, sighing deeply ; * but I suspected as much.
Then you are weak indeed I God bring you to
a better state of mind.'

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 47

" * Pm a bit of a freethinker myself/ said
the young man, and he pulled up the collars
of his shirt, conceitedly>.

" ' Do you know what a freethinker means ?^
demanded the old woman.

'* * To he sure I do — ' hah! hahl hahl know
what it means, indeed ; that's a good idea. Why,
it means a person who is not afraid of doing or
saying what he thinks fit, — in short it is — it is
a sort of a philosopher, as this gentleman very
properly explained.'

" * 1*11 tell you what / think it means,' replied
the elderly woman. ' A poor weak vain mortal,
who not having sufficient understanding to com-
prehend the greatness and goodness of God,
doubts or denies his power.'

" ' You think, then, that I shall suffer here-
after for my freethinking ?' asked the young
man, with a contemptuous smile.

" * I judge not, lest I be judged,' answered
the old woman ; < but I believe, that if not here-
after, you will suffer on earth, for as you can-
not expect to escape from the trials and sorrows
to which all are bom, what consolation can you
hope for them, or where look for patience to sup-
port them, if you disbelieve in a future state —

dbyGoogk

48 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

a state where the wicked cease from trouhling,
and the weary are at rest ?'

" * It will he all the same in a hundred years
hence, that is my consolation/ said the old
man.

" * Yes, it will he all the same in a hundred
years hence,* repeated the young man. At this
moment we hecame suddenly sensible that the
coach was moving with a frightful velocity, and,
as we were descending a very steep hill, we all
became apprehensive of danger — * O Lord I O
Lord I we shall he killed,* exclaimed the young
man, his face growing ghastly from the force of
terror ; the old man grasped the holder at the
side of the coach and clung convulsively to it,
his countenance expressing all the agony of
fear, while the old woman fervently recom-
mended herself to the protection of heaven.
We had nearly reached the bottom of the steep
hill, when the coach was overturned, and I lost
all consciousness of what occurred, until I
found myself on the road side, supported by a
woman, who was applying cold water to my face
and temples, from which blood was streaming,
occasioned by some cuts from the shattered
glass of the coach-window, with which it had

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE, 49

come Tiolently in contact. The old man was
extended on the ground, groaning from the pain
of a broken leg, the young one was bemoaning
the fracture of his left arm, and the elderly
woman, who had dislocated her wrist, and was
severely bruised, was returning thanks to God
for having escaped so well.

" * My leg, my leg 1' exclaimed the old man.
* Pm sure it is broken in two or three places.
Never was there any thing like the pain I
suffer.*

"*My arm is much worse,' groaned the
young man. ' No one can have an hidear of
the excruciating torture I endure.'

" • Let us thank the Almighty that we have
escaped with our lives,' said the old woman.

** * Thank God indeed,' murmured the would-
be philosopher, * for a broken leg.'

<<'Yes, and for a broken arm,' added the
young man ; ' I see nothing to be thankful for.'

" * Can you not be consoled by the reflec-
tion that it will be all the same in a hundred
years hence?' asked the old woman, somewhat
sarcastically. * This is the consolation of phi-
'iusophy is it ? just what I thought. It enables
you to mock religion, and the dependence on
Providence which it inspires, but it cannot

VOL. I. D

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50 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

teach you to support pain, notwithstanding your
constant boast, that it will be all the same in a
hundred years hence.'

'' ' Get me conveyed to the next inn as
speedily as possible, and dispatch some one for
a surgeon,' said the would-be philosopher, writh-
ing with pain, and turning from the calm, but
searching glance of the old woman.

'* ' Yes, take us to the next hinn as quick as
you can', rejoined the young man. ' You can
have no hidear what my sufferings are, and some
people,' and he looked angrily at the old woman,
'are so spiteful, that they have no pity for other
people when they have had their precious limbs
broken.'

" * You wrong me, for I see you allude to me,'
observed the old lady, * gladly would I afford you
any relief in my power, but I wished you to
become sensible of the weakness, as well as
wickedness of the principle avowed by our fel-
low-traveller.'

'< ' Don't mind her, let her talk on ; it will be
all the same in a hundred years hence. — Oh I
my leg, my leg, will no one support my leg?'

" * / will', said the . old woman and she
extended the only hand which the accident per-
mitted her to use, and with the utmost gentle-
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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 51

ness and tenderness, supported the shattered
limh, while four men placed the groaning free-
thinker on a door, in order to remove him to
the inn. A surgeon was called in, and the old
woman refused to allow him to examine her
wrist, until he had set the fractured limbs of
her fellow-travellers.

^' We pursued our journey to Lond<m alone,
the two men being unable to proceed, and the
rest of the route passed without accident, the
exoellent old lady giving me the best advice, and
a cordial invitation to visit her in Gracechurch-
street, where she resided. She took me in a
coach to my aunf s dwelling, for my relation
having waited herself at the coach-office for
nearly an hour in expectation of my arrival, had
returned to her home, leaving instructions for
me to follow her in a hackney-coach ; but my
new friend would not trust me alone, so took
me herself to my aunt's, into whose arms she
confided me, promising to pay me a visit in a
few days."

** Now comes the history of the London ad-
ventures,'' said Wilson to Thomas, ^< was there
ever such a proser in the world as Mother
Chatterton?"

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52 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

" What did you say, Mr. Wilson ?*' asked the
old dame.

'* I said/' answered Wilson, speaking as loud
as he could, " that I could listen for ever to
your story, it is so very entertaining,'' and he
thrust his tongue into his cheek, and winked at
Thomas.

" *Tis very kind of you, I'm sure, to think
so," replied Mrs. Chatterton, with a look of the
utmost complacency.

" I hope you'll not leave out a single circum-
stance that took place after your arrival in Lon-
don," said Thomas, slily ; " for it would he a
pity for Mr. WaUingford to miss any thing in
such a lively story."

** Indeed you are too flattering, Mr. Thomas.
I was afraid you'd he tired of hearing it."

" Never, Mrs. Chatterton, never. It's much
more amusing than the history of Clarissa Har-
lowe. Why, you have not told it to us more
than eight or nine times. Do you rememher^
Wilson, how often she has set us to sleep
with it?" The last remark was uttered in a
low tone of voice.

" Bless me 1 it's nearly twelve o'clock," oh-
served Mrs. Chatterton. " Well, how time flies!

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 53

i did not think it was so late ;'* — and having
rang for the maid, who officiated in the various
services of cook and parlour-maid, she retired
to her chamher, civilly wishing good-night to
her companions.

"I do not wonder at your looking tired,"
said Wilson, '*for the old woman's story is
enough to set any one to sleep : I am surprised
you can listen to it."

" You would find it much more amusing to
read a novel," said Thomas, *' and you could,
moreover, close it when you were tired, which
can*t be done with Mrs. Chatterton's clapper."

<* Mrs. Chatterton is an excellent and kind-
hearted woman," observed Mr.. Burton, who
had that moment won his party at chess, and
was consequently in unusual good humour:
^^yes, Mrs. Chatterton is a highly respectable
person, and merits the attention which Mr.
Wallingford shows her, — ay, and which reflects
credit on him," resumed Mr. Burton.

dbyGoogk

54

CHAPTER V.

One day so exactly resembled another in the
domicile in which I now found myself, that I
felt disposed to acknowledge the truth of Mrs.
Chatterton's observation on the effect of a
monotonous routine of existence. My mind
became sobered down to it ; and I could have
&ncied that I had been weeks, nay, months,
instead of days, an inhabitant in the dingy
mansion in Mincing-lane. In the evening, Mrs.
Chatterton resumed her drowsy reminiscences,
to which I listened with a patience, if not with
an interest, that won her regard. Letters from
Percy Mortimer proved, that amidst the occu-
pations and amusements of his college life, he
had not forgotten his humble friend, to whom,
with all the frankness peculiar to his nature,
he poured out his feelings as unaffectedly as

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE, 55

when we rambled together through the park, at
that pleasant home to which my thoughts so
often reverted.

" Well, sir,^ said Mrs. Chatterton, next even-
ing, taking up her knitting and narrative to-
gether, •* we left off my story at the point of my
arrival in London. My aunf s reception was
less cordial and affectionate than I had antici-
pated ; and this coldness made me think still
more firequently of those dear relations whom I
had left behind. I was continually dreaming
of them, and pining for the green fields, and
the songs of the birds, the fresh air that used
to stir my hair and make my brow feel so cool,
but above all, for my mother and Sarah. My
aunt cared nothing about the country, and had
no pleasure in talking of it, which prevented
me from opening my heart to her, so I felt so'
solitary that I could not reconcile myself to my
new abode. If s a sad thing, Mr. Richard, to
live with those who have no interest about what
one is always thinking of, and to be obliged to
keep one's thoughts locked up in one's own
heart, when one is longing to be able to tell
them to those who could sympathize with us.

'* Mrs. Elrington, for that was the name of
my female fellow-traveller in the coach, came

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56 THE LOTTEUT OF LIFE.

often to see me, and my aunt allowed me some-
times to go and spend an evening with her.
There I met a young man, her nephew, who
was a clerk in the firm of Mortimer, Allison
and Finshury, and who always spent the Si^
bath with her. He was the handsomest young
man I had ever seen ; had eyes as dark as a
sloe, but so mild withal, that his glances
moved me, whenever — and it was very often — I
found his eyes fixed on mine. His hair was a
bright glossy brown, and curled beautifully;
and his teeth were for all the world like newly-
blanched almonds. Then he had a voice so
musical, the tones of it still dwell in my ears as
fresh as if heard only an hour ago.

"Well, well,** and Mrs. Chatterton wiped
her eyes, " it is strange I never can speak of
him without tears. This fine young man, Mn
Richard, soon began to think that his aunfs
house was never so pleasant as when I was in
it, yet he loved her as tenderly as if she were
his own mother. He remarked how my heart
yearned for the country, and would continually
draw me out to speak of it He took a lively
interest in all I told him about our garden at
home, and the flowers that filled it ; and this
made me like him all the better. Then his aunt

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 57

used to tell me how kind and attentive he was
to her, and what a good hushand she was sure
he would make ; and I began to think so too,
though still I maintained a maidenly reserve
with him, because I had often heard my mother
say that a young girl ought never to let a man
know that she liked him, until he had made aa
offer of marriage. One day, it was my birth-
day, he brought me a present ; and that gift,
though it was biit a trifling one, gave me more
pleasure than any I had ever received before.
It was a flower-pot, with a fine double wall-
flower in it. Nol Mr. Richard, 1*11 never
forget the effect produced on my mind and
heart, by that wall-flower. From that moment
to this, I have never smelt a wall-flower without
thinking of him ; and though he has been above
thirty-five years in his grave, the perfume of it
brings him back to my memory, as fresh as if
we only parted yesterday. He had heard me
say how much I liked a large wall-flower close
to my bed-room window at home, and was it not
thoughtful of him to remember it? Another
thing was strange, — which was, that from the
day he gave me that wall-flower, it seemed as
if he was one of those dear ones at home, for I
could not think of them, without his being

d3

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58 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

mingled with my thoughts ; and, as I was con-
tinually thinking of them, so he too was con-
stantly in my mind — I watered my wall-flower,
and watched it, as never flower was watched
before. I used to wash ofi^ the black spots that
were continually falling on it, and almost weep
that it should be so dis%ured. Oh I the odour
of that poor flower changed the whole place ;
for when it stood on my window-sill, and that
a little gleam of sunshine used to penetrate be-
tween the chimnies and slanting roofs of the
adjoining houses, I used to forget how dreary and
dingy was the aspect of the spot, and was carried
back in imagination to the garden at home by
the perfume of my poor wall-flower. I used to
sit thinking of my mother and of Sarah ; ay,
and to tell the truth, of him too, who gave it
to me, whenever I could find time.

*' My aunt was a little disposed to jealousy,
and soon began to think that I liked Mrs.
Elrington better than herself. She found many
excuses for preventing me from going to see her
half so often as I was invited ; and whenever
Mrs. Elrington mentioned her nephew, which
she often did, and always with praise, my aunt
would shake her head, and say, she was sure
he was like all other young men, no wiser or

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 59

better than he should be. This used to hurt
poor Mrs. Ehington's feelings very much, but
mine still more ; and I felt my cheeks bum
while my aunt was railing against young men
in general ; but especially against those amongst
them who were spoilt by doting mothers or
aunts.

<' Mrs. Elrington, too, though a most esti-
mable woman, had always a great desire of
correcting the opinions of those she conversed
with, and would often find fault with those of
my aunt, who, having a high opinion of her
own wisdom, could ill brook having it called in
question. By degrees, a coolness grew between
the two old ladies-^Mrs. Elrington used to
say, that Mrs. Appleshaw was an uncharitable
woman, who thought ill of every one ; and my
aunt used to say, that Mrs. Elrington was half
a methodist, and much addicted to correcting
those who were much wiser than herself.

" Though I saw Mrs. Elrington's nephew
much less frequently than during the first year
of our acquaintance, I thought of him every
day more and more ; and he, too, felt similarly,
and used to tell me so, whenever, and it was but
seldom, he could snatch a moment to whisper to

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60 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

me, when his aunt or mine were looking another
way,

'* At length, one day Mrs. Elrington came
to my aunt's house. The moment she entered
I guessed there was something more than com-
mon in the visit, for she wore her hest cloak,
bonnet, and gown. She said, she wished to
speak alone with my aunt, who told me to go
up to my room. How my heart beat, and how
my cheeks burned ; T counted every minute, and
long enough they seemed, until, after having
waited an hour or so, I heard Mrs. Elrington
go away; but as I was not called down, I
remained in my room until dinner was ready.
My aunt's face was very red, which boded no
good, as it always denoted when she was in an
ill-humour. The meal passed nearly in silence,
but she carved the joint of meat before her
with an air of impatience, found fault with the
maid who waited on us, helped me, as if she
would have rather not, and gave nothing to her
favourite cat.

*' No sooner was dinner cleared away than
she looked at me with a stem glance, and asked
me if I knew what brought Mrs. Elrington to
her house that day ? I answered that I did not ;

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 6l

upon which she said, * that the impudence of
some people was surprising, when a poor clerk
in a banking-house proposed to marry her niece ;
and his aunt, forsooth, thought him entitled to
do so — ^nay, more, came herself to make the
offer/

" You might have knocked me down with a
feather, so overcome was I by this news. I
trembled at my aunt's anger, grieved that she
should think the proposal presumptuous ; but,
nevertheless, the joy of knowing that I was
indeed beloved, and sought by the man who
occupied so much of my thoughts, was upper^
most in my mind.

" * Why, how is this?' said my aunt, * you
don't seem the least surprised or vexed at the
folly of that stupid Mrs. Elrington, or her block-
head of a nephew I '

" Think, Mr. Richard, of her calling Henry
a blockhead I — * Indeed, aunt,' said I, * that is
to say — I don't know whether — I mean — that
perhaps *

•• * The girl is positively crazy I' interrupted
my aunt < What does all this mean ? You
don't know — that is, you do know, and pro-
bably authorised this piece of impudence.'

** < Indeed, aunt,' said I — but I could get no

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62 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

farther, for my tears flowed so fast I could not
speak.

'^ * What is the girl crying about?' asked
she ; * I suppose the next thing you will iell
me is, that you are in love, as they call it, with
this silly young chap ? It's no use crying, I can
tell you, for I will have no niece of mine making
a fool of herself. / never was in love, and why
should you be* I should like to know ? Hand-
some is that handsome does. If this stupid
young man had a comfortable independence to
support you, and leave you free from want at
his death, you might be in love as much as you
like, for then you would have some excuse for
liking him ; but a poor clerk, forsooth, I never
heard of such a thing I '

'* The thoughts conjured up in my mind by
the notion of the death of the man I loved, — ^for
the probability of so sad an event, I had never
for a moment previously contemplated, - made
my tears flow with increased bitterness.

<< * You may cry until you are tired,' said my
aunt angrily, ' but you shan't make a fool of me,
I can tell you. You shall not see this silly young
man, or his old fool of an aunt, any more, if I
can help it ; for I won't have a niece of mine to
come on the parish when she is left a widow,

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 6S

with perhaps half-a-dozen troublesome ugly lit-
tle children to look after.'

'' ' But, dear aunt,' said I, though I trembled
so much I could scarcely speak; * he may not
die before me, he is healthy, aunt.'

'' ' Don't talk nonsense, child ; every woman
who has common sense should look forward to
the death of her husband ; ay, and prepare for
it, before she marries, /did so, and insisted
on having a comfortable provision before I con-
sented to wed Mr. Appleshaw. If you are de-
termined to fall in love, which I now begin to
believe, let 991^ choose the man ; though even
then you would act more wisely by not falling
in love, for men take advantage when girls are
such fools as to like them, and always make a
poorer provision for them.'

^' * But I know, aunt, I could not live if I
had the misfortune to lose a husband I loved.'

^< * Mddle-de-dee I don't tell me any such
nonsense. Live indeed I as if grief ever killed
any one. You are a silly girl, and know nothing
of the world. Listen to my advice, and you
will profit by adopting it. Never think of any
man who cannot leave you a comfortable provi-
sion. There is old Mr. Dobson round the
comer, who is as rich as a jew, I have noticed

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64 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

him looking at you very often as if he admired
you. He would make an excellent match ; or
there is Mr. Milderton, who keeps the tobacco-
nist's shop in Bishopsgate-street, and who could
settle a good round sum on you. In case you
marry him, you need not change the mark on
your clothes, as the M. will still serve, and this
will save a good deal of trouble.'

" The recollection of the odour of my poor
wall-flower, brought in opposition to the nau-
seous smell of the tobacconist's shop, and the
contrast of the owner of it, whose violent squint
and lameness I had observed when my aunt
had two or three times paused to converse with
him as we passed his door, renewed my tears,
which so enraged my aunt, that she told me I
was an obstinate, disobedient, self-willed fool;
and that, if I ever again saw the silly young
man I was making such a fiiss about, she would
send me back to the country. This threat
alarmed me, for I could not bear to think of
leaving the place where the man I loved dwelt.
It was something to be in the same city, to
know there was a possibility of seeing him in
the street, even though I dared not speak to
him, and this was better than going wholly out
of his reach.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 65

"The followmg Sunday, the first ohject I
saw on entering the pew in the church which
my aunt firequented was my poor Henry seated
opposite, and I tremhled from head to foot
lest my aunt should also see him. Luckily,
she was so short-sighted that she never noticed
him. How my heart heat when I saw that he
had a sprig of wall-flower in the hutton-hole of
his coat ; and how hot I felt my cheeks grow,
when he pressed it to his lips, and gave me
such a tender look. I never took my eyes off
my prayer-hook again until the service was
over ; for I thought it would he sinful indeed,
to give my attention to any thing hut God in
his own temple— still the thought of Henry's
being there was a comfort. Our prayers were
mingling together heneath the same roof, our
hearts were lifted up to the Almighty, and. this
was a blessing. My aunt never perceived
Henry ; but unfortunately, Mr. Milderton, the
tobacconist did, and lost no time in informing her
that the young man whom he saw coming to her
house sometimes, had been to church the Sunday
before, and never took his eyes off her niece.

'' ' Oh I the cunning baggage never to have
told me of this,' said my aunt; 'I'll soon send
her into the country, that's what I'll do; ay,

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^ THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

and leave her there, too, until she forgets that
there young chap/

<* I was an unwilling listener to the conversa-
tion between Mr. Milderton and my aunt ; be-
ing seated at work in a small back room, sepa^
rated only by a thin partition from the one she
occupied, and verified the truth of the old proverb
that listeners never hear good of themselves*

*' ' Don't blame your niece too much, she is
young and inexperienced, and it may be that she
never evensawthat theyoungman wasatchurch.'

" * Don't tell me, Mr. Milderton, about her
being young and inexperienced; as if her being
so was not an additional reason for consulting
me, and taking my advice in every thing ; and
as to her not seeing that the stupid young man
was at church, PU warrant me, she saw him
before she sat down in her pew, ay, and planned
the meeting too. Tm a woman, Mr. Milderton,
and know well enough what passes in the minds
of those young fools.'

'' < All I can say, Mrs. Appleshaw, is, that
she never took her eyes off her prayer-book
during the whole service, or the long sermon.'

<< < Fiddle-d&Kiee I you are a simpleton, Mr.
Milderton, and don't understand women as well
as I do. Why, they can see even when their

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THE LOTTEar OF LIFE. &J

eyelids are cast down, better than men can when
their eyes are wide open. Yes, she shall go into
the country, that she shall.'

** Before I knew Henry, how joyful would
this resolution of my aunt have rendered me,
for I longed to see my old home again, and
thought of little else : but now to leave the place
where he dwelt, the place where I might hope to
see him» even though the happiness of conversing
with him was denied me, made me miserable.
Mr. Milderton had no sooner taken his depar-
tare, than my aunt summoned me to her pre-
sence, and announced her determination that T
should return to my parents the next day, add-
ing, that she would write a few lines by the post
forthwith, to prepare them for my reception.

'* < I command you not to let that silly woman,
Mrs. Elrington, know that you are leaving
town,' said my aunt ; ' and as to her stupid
nephewy much as I have had reason to be dis-
satisfied with you, I do not think quite so ill of
you, as to suspect that you would write to him.^

" The rest of the day was occupied in pack-
ing up my clothes, listening to the advice, min-
gled with reproaches, of my aunt, aud indulging
in melancholy reflections. How often did I
reproach myself for feeling so indifierent to the

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68 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

prospect of meeting my fkmily — a prospect that,
were it not for my affection for Henry, would
have filled me with delight, while now, I could
think of nothing hut my separation from him.

" When at night I retired to the little bedroom
in which I had so oftpn thought of, and dreamt
of him, I could no longer control the tears I
had checked in the presence of my aunt. 1
looked again and again at my poor wall-flower,
and pondered whether it would be possible to
take it with me to the country ? but as my aunt
had declared her intention of accompanying me
to the coach-o£Sce in the morning, I knew I
could not venture to carry the flower-pot with-
out its being seen by her, and leading to some
disagreeable comment ; and to put it in my box
would be impossible. While I was watering
the flower with my tears, Anna, the servant of
my aunt, entered the chamber on tip-toes, and
without shoes, and softly closing the door, told
me not to speak above my breath, lest her mis-
tress should hear us.

" * Ah, miss V said the good-natured girl,
* how sorry I am that you are going, for it was
a pleasure to have some one in the house as
could smile, or say a civil word to one ; for, as
to missis, she does nothing but scold from

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OP LIFE. 69

morning till night ; and I am sure, miss, it's a
blessing to you, as has friends to go to, while
I,' and here poor Anna's tears streamed, ' am
an orphan, and bound by the parish to missis,
so she may scold me as much as she likes, and
I can't help it'

'* Having spoken a few kind words to the
poor girl, she asked me what I meant to do
with my wall-flower ?

*^ ' I know, miss, you won't like to leave it
here, for I've noticed you often and often look-
ing at it so lovingly, just for all the world as I
used to look at a poor sparrow I once caught*
and kept for many months, until that wicked
spiteful cat of missis killed it one day. I never
knew what it was to have any thing to love,
until I got that poor bird, miss, and I thought
my heart would break when I lost it. I was
thinking, miss, that when you are gone, the
first time missis sends me out any where,
I could take the flower, pot and all, to Mrs.
Elrington, and tell her, with your love, to take
care of it for your sake.'

" I was delighted with Anna's project, for by
it Mrs. Elrington would become acquainted
with my departure, and Henry would learn it
from her. I could have hugged the good girl

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70 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

for the offer, and gladly consented to avail my-
self of it, though conscience whispered that by
so doing I evaded the commands of my aont ;
nor could all the sophistry with which I tried
to reason myself into the belief, that as the pro-
ject had not originated with me I was not to
be blamed for adopting it, silence my self-
reproaches.

*^ ' Yes, miss,' resumed Anna, * I'm sure and
sartain that Mrs. Elrington and her nevey will
take care of it, for I know they both like you ;
and I'll tell 'em how sorry you were, and how
you cried, when you looked at the poor flower,
and I'll just give 'em a hint — (how I felt my
cheeks glow as she added) — that it wasn't the
parting with missis that made you so sorrowful.
So you see, miss, that missis will find they can
learn you are gone, and where to also, in spite of
all her orders to me, not to take any letters for
you, or not to give you any.'

*^ Though grieved and mortified that my
aunt should have mistrusted me, I desired Anna
not on any account to tell Mrs. Elrington any
thing that could convey a notion that I was
ungrateful to my aunt ; a caution, that not only
surprised, but irritated Anna.

*' * And what had you to be grateful for,

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 71

miss?' asked she. < Didn't you do all the
needle-work of the house, which, hefore you
came, she was always obliged to put out, and
pay dear for ? Didn't you hear with all her
contrariness and scoldings, as if you were like
me, a poor orphan, put out apprentice by the
parish ? — and what has she ever done, except to
pay for the little bit of breakfast and dinner you
eat ? which is'n't worth being grateful to any
one for.'

*' I bestowed a few trifling presents on poor
Anna, emptied the contents of my purse,
amounting to three or four shillings, the re-
mains of my mother's parting gift, into her
hand, and dismissed her, overpowered with gra-
titude, and dissolved in tears.

** The thought that it was the last night I
should sleep in the same town with Henry,
kept me long from finding the repose of which
I stood so much in need, and I was in the
midst of a dream, in which he was repeating
his vows of eternal love to me, when my aunt
roused me from my sleep, uttering reproaches
on my laziness. I hurried through my dressing,
gulped down the hot tea offered me, and long
before my aunt had despatched the muffins and
buttered toast, which, as usual, she found fault

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72 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

with, while eating most heartily of them, I was
ready to set out for the coach-office.

" 'Just like you/ said she ; ' put off getting up
until the last moment, in order that I should be
obliged to half choke myself with my breakfast ;
and you will undertake your long journey with
an empty stomach, get home, looking as if I
had starved you, and then your family will
fancy you have been ill-used.'

*' * Suppose I put up a few nice sandwiches
for miss ?' said Anna, who was replenishing the
tea-pot.

" * Do so,' answered my aunt, *but prepare
them quickly, for I cannot wait: and if you
hadn't been a fool, you'd have thought of hav-
ing them ready ; but every one about me thinks
of nothing, but leaves the burden of all things
on my shoulders.' When we were entering the
hackney-coach, poor Anna could not repress
her tears.

" * God be with you, miss,' sobbed the good-
hearted girl, ^ and send you a safe journey. Ah,
miss! you are happy, for you are going to
those that will love you,' and here her tears
impeded her utterance.

" * Marry-come-up I' said my aunt. * Pray,
who gave you leave to cry, just as if you were

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 73

one of the family. What, can you know of
people loYing ? — ^you, who have neither friend
nor relation in the wide world, and only me to
depend on, who keep you out of charity.'

" * Ay, so you tell me every day, ten times
at least,' answered Anna.

•* * Does the saucy wench dare to reply to
me?' said my aunt, her cheeks growing red
with anger ; hut hefore she could vent her ire
on Anna, the hackney-coach was driven on,
and nearly the whole time we were going to the
office, was passed in reproaches on the ingrati-
tude of servants, and the pity due to those who
had the misfortune to require their services.
Our parting was unmarked hy any tenderness
on her part, and the tears shed by me, if the
truth must be owned, were given to Henry and
his kind aunt. The last words I heard her
utter as the coach rolled away from the coach-
office were, * Don't make a fool of yourself by
crying, for that will do you no good; you see I
never cry.'

'* There were only two persons besides myself
in the coach. One of these was an old man
who wore spectacles, and was exceedingly deaf ;
and the other a boy of about twelve years old,

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74 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

who seemed of an inquisitive turn, as he com-
menced a string of questions to the old man,
who only became conscious of being addressed,
when his impatient companion pulled the lapel
of bis coat, an appeal which drew forth the
confession, < lam a little hard of hearing, young
gentleman.'

" As our heavy vehicle rolled over the pave-
ment, I looked anxiously in the faces of the
persons passing along the streets, thinking that,
bv some happy chance, I might see Henry ; and
HO occupied were my thoughts by his image,
I hat I fancied every tall young man I saw, bore
y resemblance to him. When we had left the
streets, and reached the suburbs, — where lines
of small, trim-looking houses, with flower-pots
in the well-cleaned windows, and little gardens
ill front, showed that their owners aspired to
consider them rural dwellings, — I thought how
happy I should be, if married to Henry, and
established in one of these neat abodes, his good
aunt residing with us. I pictured to myself
the simple but neat furniture, the white dimity
curtains, with their gay chintz borders, the com-
fortable easy chair for Mrs. Elrington, and,
nhoye all, the quantity of double wall-flowers

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 75

with which our garden should he stocked, until
I almost fancied that to he reality which only
my fancy painted. I was aroused from this
happy day-dream hy finding my cloak pulled
hy my youthful fellow-traveller, who, when I
turned towards him, asked me — * Are you also
deaf? I have heen asking you questions this last
half-hour. How I hate having people deaf, —
don't you?'

" * It must certainly he very disagreeahle to
those who are so,' answered I.

" * O I I was not thinking of them, they soon
get used to it ; hut for those who are not deaf,
it is very enraging to be obliged to ask the same
question half-a-dozen times before one can make
oneself heard. Look at that old man; you
see he doesn't mind a bit being as deaf as a
post ; he looks as happy as if he could hear
every word that is said. Where are you going
to?'

" ' To Buttermuth,' replied I.

'* * Have you been long in London ?'

** * Yes, a considerable time.'

" * What took you to London ?'

** ' A stage-coach,' answered I, somewhat
maliciously.

£ 2

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76 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

'* ' O ! 1 donH mean how you went, but why
you went?*

" * To stay with an aunt/

*^ ' What I that cross old woman that came
with you to the coach-office ? — Didn't you hate
her? Pm sure I should. How old are you?'

« • Eighteen.'

*' * Six whole years older than I am. I wish
1 was eighteen, for then I should be done with
school. Did you not think I was more than
twelve years old ? — every body takes me to be
thirteen. What's your name?'

" * Lucy.'

" *Lucy what?'

" * Mildred.' — It would be tedious, Mr.
Richard, to tell you one half the questions this
troublesome boy asked me ; but so wholly did
he preclude the possibility of my indulging my
own thoughts, that I heartily wished myself
released from his company, and formed the
resolution, if ever again thrown into the society
of a school-boy, to affect deafness, until I could
ascertain that my freedom from that infirmity
would not expose me to the annoyance under
which I was then suffering. I had nearly lost
patience with my inquisitor, when, the coach

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 77

having stopped to change horses, an old woman
with a basket well stored with oranges and cakes
approached the window, and so wholly engrossed
the attention of my troublesome companion, that
I had a reprieve. He expended the whole con-
tents of his purse in purchasing a supply of her
cakes and fruit, and laid in a stock that might
have served a moderate appetite for several
days. He devoured the cakes so rapidly, that
even our fellow-traveller advised him to forbear,
but the counsel seemed only to urge him on,
and when they had disappeared, he had recourse
to the oranges, the juice of which left inefface-
able marks on my gown, in spite of all my efforts
to protect it from his reckless mode of satisfying
his gluttonous propensities. The motion of the
carriage, operating on his over-charged stomach,
produced the most painful effect on the youth,
and its consequence the most disagreeable one
on his unfortunate fellow-travellers. Su£Sce it
to say, that my garments were rendered unwear-
able, and the coat of the deaf man was spoilt.
He bore this annoyance less patiently than I
did; but his reproaches seemed to have no effect
on the boy, who continued to suffer from the
result of his gluttony until the coach stopped

dbyGoogk

78

TH£ LOTTERY OF LIFE.

at our village, and 1 was released from the dis-
gusting position I had occupied ever since his
illness had commenced/'

The sound of the clock striking twelve,
warned Mrs, Chatterton that it was time to
withdraw for the night ; and she, unmindful of
the sneering remarks often uttered, during the
course of her narrative, by Messrs, Thomas and
Wilson, assured me that she would continue her
little history, now that she saw how much it
interested me ; for it was a pleasure, she said,
to find so attentive a listener.

** And not only a pleasure but a rarity too,"
said Wilson, in an under tonej "for the old
woman never found any of us so patient under
the infliction. You surely can't be such a flat
as to find any amusement in her old humdrum
adventures?" continued Wilson, addressing
himself to me, with a contemptuous air, which
he took little pains to conceaL

*' As much, probably, as you find in the novel
which you have been reading," answered I. " I
prefer truth, however simple and unvarnished,
to fiction, unless it be the work of some author
of acknowledged merit ; and as I do not attempt
to question your right to indulge your taste.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 79

yoa will be so good as to leave me to the indul-
gence of mine."

" Well said, yoang man!** exclaimed Mr.
Murdoch, who was then lighting his hed-cham-
ber candle, and who from that hour treated
me with more kindness.

dbyGoogk

80

CHAPTER VI.

" Well, Mr, Richard, let me see, where did
we hreak off last night ?'' said Mrs. Chattertoiu

"You were just arrived at Buttermuthy"
answered I.

" And so I was, now I recollect it — thank
you, Mr. Richard, for remembering it so well.
Ah I when you come to be old, Mr. Richard, you
will find it a great pleasure to recall the days
of your youth, even though when those days
were actually passing, you might have thought
them sorrowful enough ; but time softens every
thing, and enables one to speak of events calmly,
that once filled the mind with sadness. I feel,
when relating my trials to you, as if they had
occurred to some one else, though many a tear
they cost me when they happened ; but all con-
nected with our youth, has in old age, a charm
in it, just as the recollection of summer with its

i

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 81

sunshine, blae skies, green trees, and bright
flowers, comes back to us in the dark and
dreary days of winter, and we wonder we were
not more happy when that joyous season was
ours.

** I found my mother waiting my arrival at
the coach-office, and although she looked more
j^vely than I had ever before seen her do, she
welcomed me with all a mother's tenderness.
How changed appeared our village, and every
thing around it ! The houses looked small and
mean, the place itself deserted, and our garden,
of which I had so often thought during my
absence, and given such descriptions of to Mrs.
Ebrington and her nephew, seemed to shrink
into insignificance, as I passed through its
narrow gravel walk to enter our house. The
nxnns of our cottage, struck me as having
diminished in size ; and the plain, but well
scrubbed chairs and tables looked shabby after
the smarter furniture of my aunt, and Mrs.
Ehington. The scene was altogether difiertot
from what I had expected, though in what the
difPerence consisted, I really could not tell, for
no alteration had been made during my absence.
The change was not in the place, but in me ;
and when I ought to have felt nothing but joy

eS

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82 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

at being restored to my home and kind parents
and^ sisters, a sadness, I could neither conceal
nor control, stole over me, and brought the
tears to my eyes. My mother grew more grave
as she observed my grief.

" • I fear child,* said she, * that what your
aunt wrote us, is but too true, and that you have
formed an improper attachment, your obstinacy
in continuing which, against her advice, com-
pelled her to send you back. This is a sad
blow to us, for though we should have been
heartily glad to have you with us again, yet, for
you to be sent away with only a few hours'
notice, when we, and all our neighbours thought
you were to remain with your aunt during her
life, is a very sad affair. What will people say»
or think ? Dame Parsons will be going from
house to house, talking of it, I warrant me. —
O I Lucy, my unthinking, but dear child, wliat
a pity it is that you have behaved so ill I'

** As soon as my tears would allow me to
speak, I told the whole truth to my mother,
who kissed me affectionately, and declared her
perfect belief in my statement ; and, becoming
now more composed, I unpacked my clothes,
and having changed my -dress, set off to see my
sister, whom my heart yearned to embrace. I

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 83

expected to find her the lively and fond crea-
ture I had left her, hut one glance showed
me, she was no longer the same. When I en-
tered, she was sitting hy the cradle of her child,
rocking it with her foot, while her hands were
busily employed at needle-work. She seemed
to have grown ten years older in the year and
a half I had been absent, and there was a staid,
orderly look about her, wholly unlike the gay
aspect for which she was formerly remarkable.
She made a motion to rise when she saw me,
but looking at the cradle, checked herself,
waved her hand towards me to indicate the
necessity of silence, then beckoned me to her
embrace, and having pressed me in her arms,
silently pointed to the sleeping babe^ and
whispered, * Poor dear little soul ! she is cutting
a tooth, and has not closed her eyes the whole
night.'

'* * You look, my dear sister, as if you had not
closed yours for many nights,' said I, remark-
ing her heavy eyes and pale cheeks.

** * 0 1 1 don't mind it,' replied she, * as long as
my own darling can procure a little repose in
the day. Is she not a sweet pretty creature,
sister?' and she drew aside the little white
curtain that shaded the child's face. The

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84 THE LOTTERY OP LIFE.

movement, gentle as it had been, awoke the
infant, who forthwith began to utter the most
piercing cries.

" • Don't let her see you sister/ said the
alarmed mother ; < the sight of a strange face
always sets her crying. Poor dear pet I she is
naturally the quietest child in the whole world,
but cutting her teeth plagues her so, that it
makes her quite fretful. Bless its dear, sweet,
pretty face I — there's a darling, don't cry 1' and
she dandled the screaming child, bestowing on it
the most tender expressions, and covering its
face with kisses. * Isn't your niece a beauty ?'
asked my sister. * See what laughing blue eyes
she has, and what a lovely little mouth !'

** The eyes being filled with tears precluded
me not only from judging of their colour, but
from forming a notion of their capability of
laughing, and the mouth being distended to its
utmost extent by screaming, looked any thing but
lovely when my sister called my attention to it.

** < Ah I you can't imagine what a blessing it
is, Lucy, to have a child,' and she looked at
hers with eyes beaming with afiection.

" ' How glad I am to see you again, dear
sister,' said I, and I kissed her cheek. This
involuntary endearment on my part passed un-

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THE LOTTERY OP LIFE. 85

noticed on hers, and I resumed, ' how long it
seems since we parted.'

"•Do you think so?' answered Sarah.
* Baby is now seven months' old ; and as I did
not marry until two months after you went,
and I was nearly ten months a wife before
I became a mother, you must have been nine-
teen months away. Well, I'm sure I didn't
think it had been half so long; but time
flies so fast when one has a good husband and
such a darling as this,' and she again kissed
her child. * See what a dear, sweet, nice crea-
ture she is I look at her legs, and now she is as
quiet as a lamb — ^bless her dear heart I'

" It was true the child bad ceased to cry,
and for a simple reason, the mother had stopped
its screams by filling its mouth ; but even while
greedily imbibing the maternal nutriment, the
tears still continued to flow from the ill-shaped
eyes of my sister's idol, while she nevertheless
indulged in the most lavish praises of its tem-
per, as well as of its beauty.

" < I am so glad you are returned,' said
Sarah, and I felt pleased at even this expression
of kindness, though it by no means answered
my expectations of the joy she would experience
at our first meeting after our long and only

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

separation; but my satisfaction became dimi-
nisbed wben sbe added, * Yes, I am very glad
you are come back, for I wanted so mucb to
show you my darling baby.' In fact, I discovered
that Sarah, my own dear Sarah, at parting with
whom I had wept so bitterly nineteen months
before, had now become so wholly engrossed by
her husband and child, as to regard me with
indifference, and to desire my return home
solely that 1 might see her child. She had no
interest, no thought for aught save the two ob-
jects she idolized, and was too artless to conceal
this fact. I left her cottage with a dejected
heart. This, then, was the meeting I had so
often pictured to myself, so often dreamt of,
during my absence, yet how diffisrent was it
from what I had expected it would be ! I wept
as I compared the reality with the imaginary
re-union, and finding I had no longer a place
in my sister's affections or happiness, I wished
myself back again in London, where at least I
was necessary to the happiness of Mrs. Elring-
ton, her nephew, and poor Anna, the servant
of my aunt.

" The first discovery of the altered feelings
of one on whom a person had fondly relied, and
who, from infancy, had been tenderly cherished

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 87

aod implicitly trusted in, is a severe trial to
the heart. I felt this, and while lamenting
the indifference of Sarah was persuaded that
were I the wife of Henrv Chatterton, — a lot I
considered the most hlessed in life, — mv affec-
tion for mj sister would have remained un-
changed, as I never could forget our infant
sports, and girlish confidences, when we were
«o very dear to each other. It was with de-
pressed spirits I then proceeded to my sister
Betsy, whom I found husily engaged in pre-
paring dinner for her family. The fumes from
a savoury mess seething on the fire, impreg-
nated the whole house, and hore evidence that
onions formed no inconsiderable portion of the
ingredients.

'' ^ And so here you are, sister, hack again
in the country, and right glad I dare to swear
you are, to find yourself safe at Buttermuth.
Lawk I how pale and thin you do look, to be
sure ; but no wonder, if all that folk tell me
about Lunnun be true. Why, I'm told one
never can get half enough to eat there, things
are so dear. You*D stay and dine with us, won't
you ? and a good dinner you shall have, I war-
rant you. Here's my children, see what fine fel-
lows they are,' pointing to two sturdy boys and a
girL ' Bless your heart ! they eat as much in a

88 THE LOTTERY OP LIFE.

day as their father, and he's no bad hand at a
knife and fork. Throw in a few more onions
Meggy into the stew/ addressing a red-elbowed
wench, * and add a lump of pork, it will give
richness to it, for the beef was somewhat lean.
Dear me, how nicely it smells. Don't it make
you hungry, sister ?*

" * I want my dinner,' said the elder boy ;
* and I too I' screamed the younger, in which
cry the little sister joined. * And I must have
strong ale,' said the child ; ' and I too,' reite-
rated his brother.

" * Will you be quiet, you naughty trouble-
some brats, or I'll whip you all round,' said
my sister. * They are so spoilt by their father,*
whispered she, ' that there is no bearing them.'
The children, as if anxious to prove the accu-
racy of their mother's representations, became
still more riotous and insubordinate ; and so
great was their clamour, notwithstanding the
angry reproaches, accompanied by sundry boxes
on the ears from my sister, that I was compelled
to abridge my visit and return home, with a
head aching severely from the noise of my
troublesome nephews, and the boisterous pro-
ceedings of their enraged mother.

" I found my father seated by the little oak
table which I had so often polished in former

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 89

days, and which had lost none of its brightness
under the care of my excellent mother. He was
gravely listening to her justification of my con-
duct, and embraced me afiectionately ; but, shall
I confess it, the odour of the farm-yard, with
which his smock-frock and leathern gaiters
were reeking, almost overpowered me, after
having been so long unaccustomed to it.

" ' But what is the objection to this young
chap that dame Appleshaw writes about?' asked
my father. < She says that he is a weak silly
fool, that can make no settlement on our girl
when he dies : just what she said of me when
I proposed to marry thee, old girlj yet Tve
made thee a good husband as times go, haVt I ?
and if God calls me away from thee to-morrow,
111 leave thee free from want, and what more
can any reasonable woman desire, I should like
to know ? Is this same young chap a wild 'un?
does he drink, game, idle away his time, and
torment his old aunt ?'

•* • No> dear father,' answered I, trembling
while I spoke, 'he is the nicest young man I ever
saw, — so genteel, so good, so kind to his aunt.'

" ' Ay, there it is, always the nicest young
man ; that's just what every one of them there
foolish girls always says,' muttered my father.

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90 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

" * It's just what I said about you/ rejoined
my mother, * so you need not find fault with it/

" * No, dang my buttons! if I ought, or if I
will either,' said he, and he rose from his seat
and kissed my mother's cheek. ' And so thee
said I was the nicest young man, and so good
and so genteel : come, old girl, and give us
another buss for that,' and the old man again
affectionately embraced my mother.

** * And what has this same young chap got to
live on, girl?' demanded he.

" * I never heard, father,' answered L

" * How should she know, poor thing 1' said my
mother; * I dare say she never gave a thought
to the matter any more than I did, when you
came a courting me.'

" * What trade has the young chap got to live
by ?' asked my father.

** ' He is a clerk in a great banking-house in
the city, father ; for I heard his aunt telling
mine that he had an excellent situation.'

*t t Why, then, he can't have less than from
eighty to a hundred pounds a-year salary,' ob-
served my fieither, rubbing his hands; * and the
girl of our class that wouldn't find that enough
to live decently and comfortably on, must be
more unreasonable than any child of mine is I

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 91

hope ; so I think your aunt has behaved like a
fool, and so Til tell her whenever I see her ;
and as for the young chap, if he comes down
here whenever he gets a holiday from his office,
why we'll show him we are not so great or grand
in our notions as Mrs. Appleshaw, who was
always a selfish woman : yes, wife, she always
was, so it's no use your shaking your head, and
making long faces, for I always speak my mind,
that's what I do ; and I have no notion of her
sending off our child at a few hours' notice, just
for all the world as if the girl had behaved
badly, and was about to disgrace herself and us,
and so I'll write and tell her.'

** Evening came ; and while I arranged my
things in the little bedroom formerly shared
with Sarah, the perfume of the flowers floated
in through the open window, and the song of
the blackbird and the thrush stole on my ear.
How often, when pent in my close confined
chamber in London, had I recalled all that was
now around me with a pensive pleasure, and
compared it with that gloomy little room and
its dreary prospect of slanting roo& and chim-
ney-pots, where the mewing of cats, and the
busy hum of loud voices, carriages, and carts,
alone were heard : yet now, restored to the scene

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9* THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

80 often and fondly remembered, it brought not
the gratification then anticipated, and I coold
only think of the distance that separated me
from Henry, and the little chance there seemed
to be that we should ever meet again. The
odour of the wall-flower that filled the room,
brought his image so forcibly before me, that I
could not restrain my tears ; though it seemed
strange too, that a perfume which, when in
London, always recalled my home so fondly
to my mind, could now, that I was there,
only bring back the thoughts of Henry ; and
gladly would I have resigned that home, so often
pined for when absent from it, and the balmy
air, and fresh breathing flowers of the garden,
that filled my cheerful looking little chamber,
for the gloomy one in London, with my solitary,
drooping, but well-beloved wall-flower, the gift
of Henry, and the knowledge that we were in
the same city, and might see each other, though
only at a distance. Nay, the sound of the
muffin-bell, or the milkman's cry, once consi-
dered so monotonous, would have been at that
moment preferred by me to the carols of the
birds, then giving such delightful music, be-
cause those sounds would have proved my vici-
nity to him I loved, while these I was listening

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 93

to, only reminded me of the distance that
separated us.

** Youn^ and inexperienced as I was, I felt
that the fruition of our wishes does not always
bring happiness, if indeed that hlessing ever
can be ours on earth ; and the reflection of how
often I had longed to be where I now was, yet
found not that which I had anticipated, brought
that truth home to my mind. At our homely
but comfortable evening meal, the conversation
of my parents reminded me that I had been long
a stranger at the board, for they talked only of
persons and subjects about whom and which I
had no longer any interest, while I sat silent,
thinking of the dingy little parlour of my aunt,
endeared to me by the recollection that Henry
had often been in it, and that when I partook
the repasts with her, I was always cheered by
the hope of seeing him the next day, or day
after ; or, at all events, I had the consolation of
knowing he was not far distant. How incon-
sistent are our notions, Mr. Richard I The home
of my infancy now seemed more strange to me
than the abode of my aunt ; and, if the truth
must be owned, I would have preferred support-
ing her ill-humour for sake of remaining near
Henry, than finding myself, as at present, far

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

removed from him ; and though with my parents,
discovering by their conversation that they had
got accustomed to my absence, and felt an in-
terest in objects in which I no longer expe-
rienced any.

" Day after day, succeeded by weeks and
months, passed away, but brought me no com-
fort : the hope I had indulged of hearing, if
not from Henry, at least from his kind aunt,
became fainter and fainter, and I truly felt
how 'hope deferred maketh the heart sick/
when time passed slowly by without bringing
me tidings from him so dear to me.

" The reproachful letter written by my father
to my aunt remained unanswered, so that all
ties with London now seemed broken ; and the
reflection that such was the case filled me with
sadness. How often did it occur to me to write
to Henry ; but then came maidenly pride and
modesty to whisper the impropriety and indeli-
cacy of such a proceeding. No, as he wrote not,
and, in all human probability, thought not of me,
Eooner would I let my heart break than address
him ; and that it would eventually break I en-
tertained little doubt, as what maiden, in simi-
lar circumstances, under twenty, ever does?
and as my cheek grew paler and my appetite

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 9^

failed) I used to think, that cold-hearted and
faithless as his silence proved him to he, how
would his conscience reprove him whenever he
should learn that I wa3 laid in my grave ? I
used to dwell for hours on this thought I
even selected a sunny spot in the churchyard,
near a heautiful willow-tree, where I wished to
he huried ; and I determined, that when death
was approaching, I would write a last farewell
to him, and entreat him to visit my grave.

'* In the twilight hour, as I sate alone in my lit*
tie chamber, tears would chase each other down
my cheeks, as I recalled to mind his looks, and
words, and the soft tones of his voice ; and I felt
that his tears too would flow, whenever he came
to look on the spot where I was laid, and that he
would mourn for having neglected one who
loved him so well, until the thought of his
sorrow melted me ; and then I would resolve not
to let him know my fate, lest it should render
him too unhappy. I, who had then never read
a novel in my life, had, strange to say, precisely
the same feelings and fancies that I have since
found in such bopks, which makes me think
that all young girls in love have similar ones,
which renders novel-writing an easier task to
women than to men. Though I met kindness

dbyGoogk

96 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

and affection from my family, I experienced
little or no sympathy. My father, wholly en-
grossed by his little farm, which occupied him
all day, seldom saw me^ except during meals,
wh^n he only remarked, * that the girl had lost
her appetite ; and no wonder, from having been
so long shut up in London/

** And my mother, who was busied from
morning till night with her dairy, poultry-yard
and household concerns, seemed unconscious
that aught more than a delicacy of health,
brought on by * the bad air of that smoky place
Lunnon, and which would soon pass away,
now that I was come home,' was the matter.
Anxious to conceal my depression of spirits, I
used to exert myself to the utmost, in order te
assist my mother in her daily occupations ; but
my heart was not in the task, and she used
often to remark, * Well, child, how strange it is,
you don't go about your work at all as you used
to do before you went up to Lunnon; you,
that would set about it, formerly, as brisk as a
bee, I warrant me, and would carol like a bird
all the time that the hands were as busy as
ants.'

** My sister Sarah had no time or thought
for any one except her husband and child ; and

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 97

when my altered looks were remarked in her
presence, always said, —

" ' Ah I wait till she has a good husband
like mine, and a sweet beautiful baby like this,'
holding up her little one, ' and she'll do well
enough, that she will. Why, Lord love ye ! /
used to be as dull and moping as she is, before
I was married ; but ever since, I have not had
time to think of any thing but how happy I am,
— ^busy all day long with keeping my house neat
and tidy, and nursing this precious little dar-
ling. Ay, get married, sister ; that's the way
to be happy, for women are of no use, except
to look after husbands and children/

" My sister Betsy we seldom saw, and when
we did, her presence afforded little gratification.
Her whole thoughts seemed to be engrossed by
the coarse and unwomanly pleasure of eating ;
and her conversation continually turned to the
subject of savoury dishes, and the best mode of
concocting them, on which she dwelt with an
unction that, to use her own phrase, made her
mouth water.

" • How strange it is, Lucy,* she would some-
times say to me, ' that after being so long in
Lunnon, you have not brought home a single
recipe for making a good dish. I wonder you

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98

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

left town without bringing a cookery-book with
you, — it would have been a great comfort to me,
who am so fond of trying my hand at new
dishes. Had aunt nothing new or remarkable
at her table, in the way of cookery ? Well, for
my part, I can't see^the good of people going up
to Lunnon, except it to be to bring down some
new inventions in the eating line. I must be
off, for we have the finest and fattest goose to-
day for dinner, that I've seen this year. I
stuffed it myself, before I came out, with plenty
of sage and onions, and it smelt so savoury,
that the thoughts of it makes me hungry/
This is a specimen of the general conversa^
tion of my sister ; judge then if her visits could
be any pleasure to me.

** I sometimes wondered that I heard not
from Anna, who was so attached to me, and
who so deeply regretted my departure from Lon-
don. She knew my address, and judging from
our conversation relative to the wall-flower,
more than suspected the anxiety I would feel to
hear what had been said by Henry and his
aimt, when she took back that cherished gift to
them. Alas I I was ignorant of an insurmount-
able obstacle to the poor girl's addressing me,
which was, that she could neither read nor

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 99

write, and so attributed to forgetfolness, that
which necessity compelled.

** My Bible now became my sole consolation.
Every moment that I could snatch from my
household cares was devoted to its perusal, and
by degrees, I found a calm resignation take
the place of the fretfulness and impatience to
which I had previously given way. No tongue
can utter — no pen describe, the soothing effect
of that blessed book on my mind I It is true,
Dame Parsons, and other neighbours of ours,
sometimes disturbed my tranquillity by their
idle questions, dictated by a prying curiosity,
with which they assailed me whenever we met.
" * So, Lucy, here you are back again with
us. Why did you leave Lunnon ? and who has
your aunt got to take care of her now?' would
Dame Parsons say. — * I w^arrant me the old lady
must miss you, after being used to you, pretty
near two years,* would another observe ; while
a third would inquire when I had heard from
my aunt, and when I intended to return to her ?'
** These questions, so often repeated, I con-
fess used to vex and mortify me ; and I, not
having sense enough to conceal it, betrayed
the annoyance I felt, and so confirmed the evil
suspicions to which my unexpected return to my

f2

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100 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

parents had given rise. Various were the re-
ports circulated through the village, as to the
probable cause of my quitting my aunt, and all
of them, as we soon learned, were any thing
but charitable towards me. Let not people
imagine that the unsophisticated inhabitants of
a rustic village, are more free from the pro-
pensity to scandal, than are those of cities, or
less prone to credit, and circulate injurious
surmises and aspersions. On the contrary, I
really think they are even more addicted to
scandal, probably because they have fewer sub-
jects to occupy their attention. I used to weep
bitter tears, when some gossipping neighbour,
professing friendly motives, would come, and
repeat to my mother the tales circulated about
relative to me. That those among whom I had
been bom and bred, and whom I had never
wilfully offended, should take a pleasure in
defaming me, grieved me so severely, that the
consciousness of my own innocence failed to
console me under these trials ; but this know-
ledge of the falsehood of the reports to my dis-
advantage taught me to extend that charity
towards others, denied to me, and rendered me
ever after incredulous to the evil reports spread
against persons similarly accused or suspected.

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 101

** Months passed away, but brought me no
tidings of Henry, or Mrs. Elrington. My aunt
never having noticed the reproachful letter ad-
dressed to her by my father, I now ceased to
indulge my hopes of ever hearing from or seeing
Henry again.

*• Winter had now set in, with its cold and
cheerless days, and long dull evenings, during
which, time seemed to creep with feet of lead,
and my spirits became even more damped than
before; when one day, a week before Christmas,
when the snow covered the ground, and the sleet
was driven against the windows, I was throwing
a few crumbs to the poor robin red-breasts
that sought shelter on the window-sill, when 1
saw a stranger open the garden-gate, and ap-
proach rapidly towards the house. He was
so enveloped in a large cloak, that muffled him
up to his chin, that not only his figure, but a
portion of his face was concealed, yet at one
glance, I recognised him to be Henry. I
uttered a faint cry, and sank breathless on a
chair, my heart throbbing so wildly, as to deny
me the power of speech, and to prevent me from
flying to open the door, to give the welcome
visitor admittance. My mother, who heard the
knock, was the first to answer the summons.

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102

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

and in reply to Henry's inquiries for me,
led him into the little parlour where I was
seated.

" To describe our meeting would be impos-
sible ; my joy and agitation too well revealed
the secret of my heart ; and his, satisfied my
mother that her child had not loved in vain, as
she had lately began to think.

" When the emotion into which we had both
been thrown by our meeting had subsided,
Henry took from his pocket a letter addressed
to my father, and handed me one from his
aunt.

" * This,' said he, pointing to the first, * was
given to me by Mrs. Appleshaw, whom I left
in good health, and whom I have latterly seen
frequently.'

" * How ! ' exclaimed I, in undisguised sur-
prise, < is it possible that my aunt has become
reconciled to you?'

" * Yes, perfectly,' answered he ; * but the
letter from her, of which I am the bearer, will
explain everything.'

^* * How long has this reconciliation taken
place?' asked I.

** * Only a short time, or I should have sooner
taken advantage of it, to hurry down to Butter-

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. lOS

muth, though hut for a few hours, as it is only
at Christinas and Easter that we are permitted
to he absent from our office in the city.'

" My father entered while Henry was speak-
ingy and stared not a little at seeing a stranger
seated so familiarly at his fire-side.

" • This, my dear,' said my mother, * is the
young man from Lunnon that Lucy told us
about.'

" • Yes, father, this is Henry,' whispered I.

" ' And right glad I am to see you down
here,' said my fsttlier, holding out his hand cor-
dially, and seizing that of Henry ; * and there
is some one else here, who is even more glad to
see you, my lad, than I am,' and he looked
archly in my face, and smiled and nodded, while
I felt my cheeks grow as red as a ros^. * Sit
you down, my boy, sit you down,' continued my
&ther. > What I old wife, have you not had the
gumption to ofier him a glass of warm elder-
wine and a hot toast in it, such a bitter cold day
as this, and after his journey? Hang it all]! the
women never think of the creature comforts,
when there is a bit of Ipve in the case ; but 111
warrant me, the young man won't be sorry to
get som'at to stay his stomach till our meal be
ready, — and hark you, my dear, let a good fat

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106 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

<< ' Mrs. Appleshaw/ said he, < did not for-
merly know me as well as she has since done ;
but she now renders me justice, and fully
approves of me as a husband for her niece,
provided you, sir, and her mother have no
objection.'

" • Who cares a fig whether she approves or
not!' exclaimed my father, angrily. ^ / ap-
prove, my wife approves, and as for the girl
herself, man, I verily believe whether we did
or not, she would continue to like you just the
same. Take her, young man, and with her
our blessing. I haven't got much else to give
her ; but a couple of hundred pounds shall be
paid you on the wedding-day, and though a
small fortune, it is better than nothing.'

" Henry seized my father's hand, which he
shook heartily, kissed my mother's cheek, and
then timidly approached to take my hand.

*' ' Give her a buss, man,' said my father,
and then for the first time my lips were pressed
by those of any man, except my father.

" How rapidly flew the hours during that
happy day ! Even now, though age has chilled
the heart then so warm, I feel that the remem-
brance of that blessed time can make it beat
quicker ; and now, in my old age, I thank God

dbyGoogk

t'ftE LOTTER* OF LIFfe. 107

thai I have shared the love, and helped to
make the happmess of an honest and worthy
man.

** I did not find time to read the letter of
Mrs. Elrington until night, hut what need had
I for any addition to my joy ? Was not Henry
there, seated hy my side, hy a cheerful hearth,
our affection sanctioned hy my parents, who,
gazing fondly on us hoth, were almost as
happy as ourselves ? Before we parted for the
night, my father read aloud the letter of my
aunt, the contents of which were as follows : —

" * My dear hrother-in-law, — Henry Chatter-
ton will he the bearer of this btter, and takes
with it my hearty, good wishes, that you and
my sister will reward his kindness to me, by
bestowing on him the hand of Lucy, of which
he has proved himself most worthy.'

" * Whew 1' said my father, screwing his lips
into a whistle, as he was wont to do when aught
surprised him. ' What's in the wind now ? So,
it is only because he has been kind to her that
he is to get our girl I Just like her, selfish to
the last. But what can he have done to change
her so ?'

" * Nothing more than any one else would
have done in my place,' replied Henry, mo-

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108 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

destlyj *but Mrs. Appleshaw overrates the
little service I was able to render her.'

" * Then she must be greatly changed, in-
deed/ observed my father ; * for I never knew
her to overrate any kindness or service rendered
her before.'

** * Pray don't be ill-natured,' said my mo-
ther, who always pleaded for her sister.

** • Have you played in the funds for her, and
doubled her fortune?— have you said amen to
all she thought right ? — and have you proved to
her, either that you will outlive my daughter,
and so preclude the necessity of a large mar-
riage settlement, or that you can make one ?'
asked mv father ; * for I know no other means
by which you could get her to write in your
favour.'

** * I have done none of these things,' replied
Henry, smiling.

** And my mother, gently chiding her hus-
bandy made him resume the perusal of his
letter.

** * I was on the eve of beggary, when this
excellent young man discovered the approaching
ruin of the house in which my property was
lodged, apprized me of it, and enabled me to
w Ithdraw my money three days before the holder

y Google

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 109

became insolvent Without his zeal, activity,
and knowledge of business, I should never have
been enabled to recover my money before the
failure of the house in question, nor could I
have procured such advantageous terms for it
as I now have done ; for, when alarmed at the
possibility of future risk, I determined on sink-
ing the whole of what I possess in an annuity
for my life, which, at my advanced age, will
give me a much better income than I formerly
enjoyed, Mr. Henry Chatterton managed the .
whole affair for me.'

*' * Just like her I ' exclaimed my father ;
' selfish to the last ; never thinking of any one
but herself, and sinking all to increase a larger
income than she requires, and when she knows
she can have so short a time to receive it : thus
depriving herself of the power of leaving a
flfuinea to those who are to come after her/

" My mother raised her hands and eyes, and
looked the sadness she did not express ; for this
news was a painful surprise to her, from having
always calculated that her children would, at
her sister's death, benefit by it.

" * And so you only won the old woman's
good will by helping her to cheat her nieces
out of their expectations?' said my father.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

* Well, I can't be angry with you, for it proves
you are not a covetous person ; but, hang me I
if ever I'll forgive her for showing she has so
little liking to my children, after my having
always been so kind a brother-in-law to her.'

" * My salary being now raised to one hun-
dred and fifty pounds a-year,' said Henry;
^ which, with prudence and good management,
will enable me to support a wife comfortably, I
have no fear for the future, and had no wish to
influence Mrs. Appleshaw in the disposal of her
property. Blessed with the possession of this
dear girl,' and he took my hand, * I have
nothing left to desire ; nor did I look for the
fortune you are so kind and generous as to say
you will bestow upon her, and which, if at all
inconvenient to you, I will readily resign.*

" * You are a generous, noble-minded fellow,'
said my father, shaking him by the hand, * and
if I had three times as much, it should be
equally divided between Lucy and her sisters.'
" The letter from Mrs. Elrington was filled
with the kindest expressions and good wishes.
She told me, that from our first acquaintance,
she desired that I should become the wife of
her nephew, but, that being so unkindly treated
by my aunt when she made the proposal, her

i

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE* 111

pride had been so hurt, that she had discou-
raged Henry from addressing me or my pa-
rents, especially as I had never written a line
to her, which she fully expected I would do.
It was only on my aunt's lately acknowledging
to Henry that she believed 1 entertained an
attachment to him, which was the cause of her
sending me back to my family, that she had
sanctioned Henry's coming to propose for me ;
and she urged me not to trifle with his happi-
ness, but to accept him at once, adding, that
one who had proved himself so dutiful a son
and nephew, could not fail to be an excellent
husband.

" A present of a neat gown-piece from this
kind woman, ws& taken out of Henry's port-
manteau, and excited the admiration of my
mother and our servant, both of whom declared
they had never seen any thing so beautiful be-
fore. My sisters and their husbands were in-
vited to come and dine with us the following
day, and came in their best clothes ; Sarah
bringing the baby with them, its cap ornamented
with a cockade of cherry-coloured ribbon, and
its frock tied with the same. Betsy and her
husband brought the two boys, who were as
noisy as possible. My sisters' husbands, vHith

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112 THE LOTTERY OP LIFE.

their coarse red faces and redder hands» looked
quite clownish near Henry, who appeared so
genteel, that I am sure Sarah could not help
seeing the difference hetween the two men.
She showed the child to Henry, and asked him
* whether he ever saw such a one in London ?'
while Betsy declared that her's were much
finer, adding, * she heard all the children in
London were poor pale-faced things, as indeed,
for the matter of that, so were the men and
women too ;' and she looked in his face, and
then at me, in a way which almost made me
angry, but I felt too happy tp give way to ill-
humour. When Betsy saw my new gown, she
seemed quite jealous, and Sarah added, * that
for her part, she did not care about finery, nor
would I when once I had a dear sweet baby
like hers, which, however, she was afraid* I
never would have if I was obliged to live in
Lunnun, where no one ever had fine children.'
I felt both ashamed and angry that she should
talk in this manner before Henry ; but I had
noticed soon after my return home, that she no
longer experienced the same attachment towards
me as formerly ; and that all her affection and
interest being centered in her husband, who
was a very selfish man, and cared little about

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THE LOTTEEY OF LIFE. 113

wounding the feelings of others. My hrothers-
in-law talked only of farming, had and good
crops, and feeding cattle ; and, seeing that
Henry was ignorant on these subjects, seemed
to consider him as an inferior being, which
greatly mortified me. In short, neither the
husbands nor the wives were disposed to show
any regard to the man who was to be so soon
their brother-in-law, and seemed displeased at
the attention and kindness with which my
fiUher and mother treated him, while his beha-
viour towards them was polite and friendly,
which I could see was all for my sake.

" Though the snow was deep on the ground,
the sun sometimes shone out for a short time,
and Henry and I would ramble out together.
Oh ! how happy we used to feel, when I would
lead him to all my favourite walks ; and, dreary
and unlovely as the country looked with its
leafless trees, he used to praise its beauty be-
cause I liked it, and had so often described it to
him when we first began to love each other. He
used to tell me how carefully he had preserved
my poor wall-flower, how often he had kissed it,
and what regret he felt that both his aunt and
himself had been absentwhen Annahad brought
it to their house. They had never after seen

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114

THE LOTTEEY OF LIFE.

her, although they wished it so much, in order
to learn every particular relative to me. And
unfortunately, their servant who saw Anna
was deaf, so did not hear the message she left
He told me how he went Sunday after Sunday
to the church my aunt attended, in the hope of
seeing me, and how miserahle he felt when she
entered alone ; yet still he thought I was left
at home to prevent his seeing me, or that I
was ill ; and *then he used to he wretched, and
walk up and down hefore my aunt's house,
thinking he might catch a glance of me at the
windows. He did not know I had left London
until he called on my aunt to inform her of the
danger her property was in, and actually be-
lieved on entering the house, that I wsa still
an inmate, and that he might be permitted to
behold me. My aunt did not seem to believe
his statement relative to the approaching ruin
of the house in which her property was lodged,
until he assured her, in the most solemn manner,
of the fact ; and though she employed him to
extricate her money, it was only when the
bankruptcy of the firm alluded to was announced
in the gazette, that she felt the extent of her
obligations to him. Then, and not till then,
did she confess to him why, and where I was

yGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 115

gone^ and sanction his visit to me; but she
made it a condition that he should not leave
London or write to me, mitil he had vested her
money in an annuity for her life. This, and
much more, did Henry tell me, interlarding
his information with vows of the tenderest love,
and so happy did I feel, that I scarcely wished
to end those blissful days of courtship, though
he was continually pressing me to name the
day for our marriage. How proud used I to
feel, as we walked arm-and-arm through the
village, before the ill-natured gossips who had
made such spiteful remarks on me, a short
time before. The news of our approaching
marriage proved the falsehood of all their re-
ports, and they were forced to admit that there
was not so genteel or handsome a young man
in the whole place as Henry.

" Every thing being arranged, I was married
ten days after Henry's arrival at Buttermuth,
and his leave of absence having nearly expired,
we set out for London the day after. What a
happy journey that was, and how kind a wel-
come did we meet with from good Mrs. Elring-
ton, who had prepared every thing for our
reception. A small cottage with a little gar-
den, at Brompton, had been taken for us, and

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116 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE,

our kind aunt had made it so neat and pretty,
that I could do nothing hut admire it when I
arrived. Henry pointed out to me a heautiful
China flower-pot, into which the old one con-
taining my poor wall-flower had heen placed,
for he would not suffer it to be transplanted lest
it should be injured, and valued the original old
flower-pot because it had been touched by me.
Our aunt Elrington brought me the keys of the
house the next morning, saying that now I was
the mistress ; but I returned them, telling her
it would be my pride and pleasure to be her
assistant in the household duties, and Henry
pressed us both in his arms, while tears of joy
started into the eyes of all three.

" * Did'nt I tell you, my dear child,' said our
excellent aunt, * even before you saw Lucy, that
she was precisely the wife I should select for
you, had I the choice of a hundred maidens ?'

" * Yes, my dear aunt,' replied Henry, * and
did I not say that unless I fell in love, nothing
would tempt me to marry ? '

" * But / knew well enough you could'nt help
loving Lucy.'

" * Yes, my good aunt, and you are dearer to
me than ever, for making me acquainted with
her.'

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 117

^'The day after our arrival, we thought it
right to go and visit my aunt. We found her
full of complsuntfl of the trouble and annoyance
entailed on her by the increased expenditure
she had deemed it necessary to adopt ever since
the addition to her income^ obtained by the life
annuity.

" With what feelings did I find myself again
in that little parlour, in which I had so often
thought of Henry, and grieved at our separa-
tion; and there was he, looking all happiness, —
my friend, my husband— from whom nothing
but death could now part me.

" * I hope you have insured your life for
Lucy ?' asked my aunt ; < there is no time to be
lost in such affairs, I assure you ; for I have
known several men much more healthy-looking
than you are, Mr. Henry, carried off suddenly,
before thoy had time to make any provision for
their wives ; and now that I look attentively at
Toa, I think I discover some symptoms that
indicate a delicacy of the chest.'

"Henry, observing that I was terrified at
this remark, could not forbear from smiling, as
he assured my aunt that he never had a cough
m his life ; but she, regardless of this assertion,
urged me in the most strenuous terms not to

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118 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

allow him to postpone the insurance; *for/
added she, ' let the worst happen, hy adopting
my advice you will be comfortable when he is
gone.' The thoughts engendered in my mind
by her words, brought tears to my eyes, and
Henry, vexed at her annoying me, could hardly
conceal his displeasure. I asked her leave to
go and see my old chamber, which I felt a
childish desire to visit.

" * Certainly, if you wish it,' answered she,
* but, for the life of me^ I cannot imagine what
pleasure you can find in going into a cold room,
when you can stay here and enjoy a good
fire?'

" * Pray let me accompany you, my own l-iucy ?'
said Henry, * I should so much like to see the
room you occupied so long.'

" * There is nothing to see in it, I assure you,'
observed my aunt, * for the day after Lucy went
away I had every thing taken out of it, in order
that Anna, who I. caught crying there when
she ought to have been at her work, might not
any longer have the silly excuse she gave me,
of being made melancholy at looking at the bed
Miss Lucy slept on, and her chair, and her
table, which, though the sight of them made her
cry, yet she liked to see, just as if there was

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 119

anything to make one weep in looking at such
things.'

" Poor Anna followed Henry and I up stairs,
and cordial and affectionate was her greeting
tons.

" * Ah I Miss Lucy, — ^but I beg pardon, you
are now Mrs. Chatterton, — ^how glad I am to
see you again. And the poor wall-flower, — you
remember it, ma'am, — I'm sure I took it myself
the moment you left the house, well knowing
how missis would throw it out of the window if
she found it; but Mrs. Elrington and Mr. Henry
were both out, and though I left a long message
with the old woman who opened the door for
me, I never heard any more of the poor flower.
How sorry I was. Miss Lucy — Mrs. Chatterton
I meant to say — that I was no scholar, for had I
known how to write I would have written to
them, ay, and to yoU too, for my mind was con-
tinually bent on you. Missis is more cross and
discontented than ever, since she buys so much
more of every thing than she used to do, for we
can't eat half the provisions, and the rest spoils,
and then she grows angry, and she says that all
she wants is to spend every shilling on lierselfy
and so not leave any thing behind her, except as
much as will pay for her fixneraL No one knows

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120 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

what I suffer, Miss Lucy — Mrs. Chatterton I
mean — but next month my. apprenticeship will
be up, and if you would have pity on me and
take me into your service, I would work all day,
ay, and all night too, if you required it, to show
my gratitude.'

" We made poor Anna a present, and Henry
promised to place her in the family of a relation
of his, wherle she would be comfortable, for he
knew that if he engaged her my aunt would
consider herself ill-used by us. Cake and wine
was pressed on us by my aunt when we de-
scended.

" * Pray have some,' said she ; * don't spare
it, for there is plenty more in the house. Now
that my income is so much larger than formerly,
I have a double quantity of things brought into
the house, and not liking company, there is so
much more than I can consume, that Anna gets
more to eat than is good for her ; so pray eat
plenty of cake 1'

•* * Don't you think you would be more com-
fortable, ma'am, if you occasionally invited a
few friends to dine or drink tea with you ?' said
Henry.

♦* * Not at all ; quite the contrary ; for people
are so fond of contradicting and having their

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 121

own way» that I never feel as if I was the mis-
tress of my own house when visitors are here ;
so I prefer heing alone.'

" We took leave of my aunt, inviting her to
visit us whenever she pleased ; to which she
answered, * that she did not much like visiting.
That going in an omnihus, among all sorts of
people, was out of the question ; a cah was a
mode of conveyance unsafe and unpleasant ;
and as to hiring a coach, it was an expense that
few visits were worth the trouble of incurring/

" How closely I clung to the arm of Henry,
and how happy did I feel that I belonged to
him, as the door of my aunt's gloomy dwelling
closed after us.

" * It is not good to live alone, my dear Lucy,'
said he ; ' you see one of the consequences :
your poor aunt, for poor she is, even with her
increased income, has so long thought only of
self, that all society has now become irksome to
her ; and the addition to her fortune, instead of
adding to her happiness, by giving her the power
of assisting the less fortunate, only decreases
her comfort, by inducing a useless expenditure,
the fruits of which, she not being able to
consume, are wasted, and the waste annoys
her. Those who are not so happy as to have

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122 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE,

family ties, should form friendly relations with
deserving people ; for the heart, like the earth,
runs to waste if allowed to remain uncultivated.'
" Well, Mr. Richard, the wintw passed
rapidly away, as time always does when happily
spent, and spring hegan to manifest itself in the
budding leaves of the trees in our little garden,
and in the chirruping of the birds, that flocked
to it to feast on the crumbs we, scattered with
lavish hands for their sustenance. Henry left
his home every morning at half-past eight, and
returned to it at six. How frequently used I
to find myself looking at the clock and count-
ing the hours that must elapse before that which
would restore him to me. Yet those hours were
not idly spent, for between attending to my
household duties, working at my needle, and
preparing some little dainty with which to sur-
prise Henry at dinner, I never was unemployed.
I felt that a wife could never too much exert
herself to render his home a scene of comfort
and happiness, to a husband whose days were
spent in providing the means for her support,
and who devoted himself cheerfully to his daily
toil, while she was exempt from all labour, save
the labour of love of rendering the home he
had given her a blissful one.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 123

** Mrs. Ellington, the best and kindest of
aunts, finding how anxious I was to learn all
that she could teach, took a pleasure in show-
ing me how to do every thing that her nephew
liked; and I profited so well by her lessons,
that ' in a short time,' she declared, * I could
make puddings, pies and cakes better than her-
self; and as to preparing Henry's favourite
dishes, no cook,' she said, * could surpass me.'
The commendations of this excellent woman
urged me to exertion, for which the praises of
Henry rewarded me dearly. Our house was
the abode of peace and love ; and I felt that
every little art or industry I could use to adorn
it rendered it still more dear to liim, whose
daily toil was soothed by the happiness he found
in it. I would rise with the lark to prepare
his favourite cake for his breakfast, escort him
a little way on his road to town, and give him,
at parting, a nosegay from our own garden, that,
as he used to tell me, was the envy of all the
clerks in the office with him, its fragrance
perfuming the whole room. When the hour
approached for his return I would set out to
encounter him, and we felt as much delight at
meeting, after the separation of ten hours, as
others do after as many weeks or months. We

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124 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

used to work in our garden together in the
evenings until it was dark, then enjoy our sim-
ple evening meal with increased relish from the
pure air and exercise, and then Henry would
read aloud some entertaining and good hook,
while his aunt and I were employed at needle-
work till thehour of repose arrived, when, having
joined in prayer, we sought our pillows. Those
were happy days, and I trust in the Almighty
I received such blessings with a grateful spirit.
How often since, have I reflected on past hap-
piness, and wondered how, having tasted it, I
have been enabled to support the sad change
that followed. But * God tempers the wind to
the shorn lamb,' and He has taught me to bow
to His holv will.

** I had not been above six months a wife
when my poor aunt was found dead in her bed,
without having betrayed any previous symptom
of illness. This event was a great shock to
me ; and occurring when I was advanced in
pr^rnancy, seriously affected my health. My
mother, to whom would have devolved the fur-
niture, china and linen of her sister, had there
been sufficient money left to defray the funeral
expenses, had a useless journey to London ; for,
my aunt having acted up to her selfish principle

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 125

of expending the whole of her income, and
being on the eve of receiving the third quar-
terns payment of her annuity, which would have
become due in a week after her decease, had
only a trifling balance in the hands of her
banker. Thus, for two quarter's income she
had sunk the whole of her fortune, and not only
leflt nothing to her relations, but was indebted
to them for a portion of the expense of her in-
terment.

" But, bless me, it is late I Time passes so
fast when one is thinking of days gone by, that
I had no notion it was bed-time. I hope I don't
tire your patience out with my old story. Good
night, good night."

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126

CHAPTER VII.

The cordiality of Mrs. Chatterton increased
daily. She anticipated those little wants pecu-
liar to a young man absent from female rela-
tives ; looked over my linen, repaired it when
required, and prepared many palatable reme-
dies for colds and headaches, which she would
insist on my taking ; and, in short, acted in
every respect towards me as a parent. Her
partiality induced the good will of Messrs.
Murdoch and Burton, who, impressed with a
high opinion of her, were disposed to think
well of any one for whom she evinced a friend-
ship. The junior clerks, Bingly, Thomas, and
Wilson, were less liberally inclined. They
attributed the respectful deference which the
age and kindness of Mrs. Chatterton elicited
from me, to a sordid and artful desire of ingra-

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 12?

tiating myself in her favour, and never noticed
any instance of our mutual good understanding,
without exchanging sundry smUes and signifi-
cant glances, of which I longed for an occasion
to show my sense of resentment, without incur-
ring the disapprobation of either my kind friend
Mrs. Chatterton, or Messrs. Murdoch and
Burton.

I had now got so accustomed to the routine
of my daily duties in the banking-house, that
the confinement ceased to be as irksome to me
as at the commencement ; ' and the zeal and
attention with which I discharged them, se-
cured to me the good opinion of the partners
of the firm. Even John Stebbing, the porter,
treated me with a degree of respect he was far
from showing towards Messrs. Bingly, Thomas,
or Wilson, to whom he often held me up as an
example, saying, " Ay, Mr. Wallingford is
something like what a young man of business
should be. He never keeps any one up late at
night to let him in, as some others do, a thing
which if known to Messrs. Mortimer, Allison
and Co., would draw down their just anger.** —
Though L occasionally heard from Percy Mor-
timer, his letters were no longer as confidential,
or aa long as formerly. Always kind, there was

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128 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

a constraint and reserve in them that pained
me, and it required all my reason to make me
fully sensible that this was but in the natural
course of events ; as, thrown into the daily society
of persons of his own station in life, and with
similar habits and pursuits, it could not be ex-
pected that he should still retain the same
warmth of feeling towards one whose prospects
were so widely different, and whose destiny
was to be in a sphere so far removed from his
own. He sometimes referred to his associates,
and named lords and baronets, with whom it
appeared he passed a good deal of his time.

Shall I confess my weakness, it gave me
many a pang to find that others had taken the
place I once possessed in his regard, and some-
thing like jealousy would creep into my mind ;
but I allowed not the feeling to dwell there
long ; but, thankful for past friendship, i de-
terminecj to merit future goodwill by ever re-
taining that attachment to the son of my bene-
factor, which had been so early implanted in
my heart My sister Margaret wrote to me
frequently, and it gave me the utmost pleasure
to mark the developement of her mind, and the
progress she was making, nearly self-taught, in
those branches of education, in the first ele-

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THE LOTTERY OP LIFE. 129

ments of which I had instructed her. Mrs.
Chatterton would listen with pleasure while I
talked of Margaret ; and when I purchased a
few instructive books for her, would add some
useful gift from herself, and send kind messages.
My mother, in return, would send ^.fat turkey
or a couple of fine fowls, an attention that not
only gratified her for whom it was meant, but
conciliated the goodwill of Messrs. Murdoch
and Burton who partook of these rural dainties.
" Well, Richard,** resumed Mrs. Chatterton
the next evening, ** we left off, I think, at my
poor aunt's death, and arrival of my dear mo-
ther in London. The kind reception afforded
to her by Mrs. Elrington and my husband, and
the comfortable home in which she found me
80 happily settled, consoled her for the death
of a sister, whose want of affection had many
years been a source of pain to her. After
spending several days with us, she returned to
Buttermuth, highly satisfied with my lot, and
blessing those who rendered it so happy. We
took the faithful poor Anna into our service,
and liked her not the less, that she betrayed a
regret for the death of her late mistress that
coald hardly be expected, when the harshness
and unkindness she had experienced at her

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hands had been taken into oonsideratioD. Time
passed so fleetly, that when the Sabbath re-
minded us that a week had glided by, it seemed
as if not more than half that number of days
had elapsed. The monotdny of those peaceful
and happy days, far from being considered dull
or tiresome, lent them a charm. It was a con-
tinuous chain of pleasurable thoughts and feel-
ings, unbroken by aught that could occasion
pain ; and, like a clear and gentle stream, rolled
smoothly and calmly along. How delightful was
it to sit round the cheerful fire, my husband
reading aloud some instructive book, while I
actively plied my needle in making preparations
for the expected little stranger, every thought
and anticipation of whom sent a thrill of inex-
pressible happiness through my breast The
interest too which our good aunt took in the
habiliments, increased my attachment to her;
her drawers and presses, long unopened, were
now ransacked in search of laces and cambrick
for years unused, that they might be converted
into caps and robes for the infant; and when
Henry would put one of the little caps, with its
neat frills, on his finger, and wonder how di-
minutive a thing could contain the head of a
human being, how I longed to see the dear

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object for whom it was designed, and pictured to
myself its little face, shrouded with its pretty
lace borders. Our kind aunt, and Henry, were
never tired of admiring the bahy clothes, and
praising my skill in their manufacture. Mrs.
fibington would hope that the child might be
a boy, and like its fioither, while Henry would
pray that it might be a girl, and like me. I
see, even now, his bright eyes beaming with
affection as he bent them on my face, and re-
doubled all those attentions so gratifying to a
wife, who is about to be, for the first time, a
mother.

** At length came the time of trial, and for
smne hours my life was in considerable danger.
But it pleased the Almighty to spare me ; and
after being for some time reduced to a state of
languor, as if between life and death, the first
cry of my iniknt repaid me ten fold for all I had
endured. Ah, what mother's heart ever forgot
that cry! It touched a spring in mine that
gashed forth with unutterable tenderness, and
1 sank into a deep sleep, to awaken in eight
hours after to the blessed consciousness of being
indeed a mother.

** Who can paint the delight of pressing the
delicate velvet cheek of one's first*bom, of hear*

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132 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

iDg its gentle breathing, or even its shrill cry!
of looking at its fragile limbs and tiny features,
in each of which the doting mother searches,
and imagines that she finds a resemblance to
those of an adored husband. Well do such
joys repay her for weeks of sufieringi But
when her infant's lips first imbibe sustenance
from her breast, how indescribably delicious are
her sensations I Tears of rapture stole from my
eyes, as I felt the milky stream impelled by the
dear lips of the little being who nestled to my
heart, and saw the looks of delight with which
its father regarded us both. Every day was
now fraught with a new interest, for each
brought increased strength and beauty to my
child. When its clear blue eyes would turn
towards the candle, or sometimes fix, for a
moment, on my face, I could not divest myself
of the notion that they already could distin-
guish objects, and would almost smother it with
my kisses. But when at length the dear babe
would really notice those around him, and
learned to know his father, and me, what words
can do justice to my delight ? Then came his
smiles when played with, his attempts to ar-
ticulate, followed some weeks after by his suc-
cessful effort to say mam-ma, and pap-pa;

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 133

sounds dwelt on with a rapture known only to
a mother's heart. Then the employment of
his rosy dimpled fingers, which he would often
twist in my ringlets, hide in my hosom ; and,
last of all, when he began to walk, and would
rush into my extended arms, and crow with
pride and pleasure at the achievement, how
did my heart swell with rapture I

'* My husband doted on the baby boy, and
our good aunt lavished praises and kisses on
him, as she taught him to clap hands when his
father returned home, and to say, * Papa is
tuUf^ for papa is come. I felt my happiness
to be so great, that in the midst of its enjoy-
ment I sometimes trembled lest some unfore-
seen event should occur to destroy it I would
look around on the objects so dear to my heart,
and which constituted my felicity, until tears
would start into my eyes, and I would retire to
my chamber to prostrate myself before the
Giver of these blessings, to beseech Him to
grant me their continuance. Oh, yes I my
happiness was too great to last, and so a vague
and indiscribable presentiment often whispered
tome.

*' The first interruption to it, was the illness
of our excellent aunt. Medical advice, and a

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ISi THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

strict attention to the regime and medicines it
prescribed, failed to restore her health ; and,
after the lapse of a few weeks, it became but
too evident that we should lose from our little
circle that worthy woman, whose affection and
good sense, had so largely contributed to its
happiness. She bore her sufferings with a
patience that endeared her, if possible, still
more to us all, speaking words of consolation to
us until the last, and resigned her soul^ offering
up prayers for our happiness. Hers was, in*
deed, the death-bed of a Christian, soothed by
the hopes held out to her by Him whose pre-
cepts she had foUowed, and whose promises
disarmed even death of his terrors. How truly
edifying was the scene that death-bed presented,
and how often has the recollection of it since
comforted me I Long did we miss that mild and
cheerful face from our humble board,-Llong
turn with a sigh from her vacant chair by the
blazing hearth, whence we felt it would be like
a sacrilege to remove it : and when the pleasant
spring brought out the leaves and flowers, we
failed not to remember with sadness, that she
who once welcomed them with us, was gone for
ever from this beautiful world ; for so it still
appeared to us,^ven though we had been taught

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to know that in a brief time those fondly-loved
may be snatched from us. The death of the
old i^pears so natural an event, that though
we may truly regret the loss, the sorrow is of a
more gentle nature than when the young are
taken from us. The memory of our good aunt
was fondly cherished by us all. Her mild wis-
dom, and hopeful trust in Divine Providence,
was often referred to ; and, though gone from
this earth, her spirit seemed still to linger with
those who in life she had so fondly loved.

" Our little Henry grew in health and beauty,
—each month gave him fresh strength — and so
wrapt up were his father and I in the lovely
little fellow, that we desired no other child to
rival him in our aflfection. We kept up a regu-
lar, though not frequent, interchange of letters
with our father and mother, who, now advancing
iar into the vale of years, urged us to pay them
a visit, and Henry having obtained a fortnight's
holiday at Easter, we set out for Buttermuth.
With what pride and pleasure did I place my
boy in the arms of his grandmother, and see his
grandfather, with spectacles on nose, examine
his limbs, while he proclaimed that they were
as firm and as fat as if the child had never been
out of the country. The little darling, too.

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136 THE LOTTERY OP LIFE.

took an immediate fancy to the aged couple, —
would climb on their knees, pat their faces with
his fat hands, and hold up his rosy little mouth
to them to be kissed.

" * You have indeed, my dear,' would my
mother say, * brought up the child well. Why
he never cries for any thing, and always does
what you or his father tell him : how different
from your sister's children, who really are un-
bearable, everlastingly screaming for something
or other.'

" My sisters, their husbands, and my little
nephews and nieces, now four in number, came
to welcome us to Buttermuth, and never did I
encounter such noisy and troublesome little crea-
tures. '^They spoilt one of my best gowns, by wip-
ing their dirty fingers on it after daubing them
with currant-jam, and screamed with anger when
I reproved them, though in a gentle manner.

" • Don't cry, darling,' said their mother, • you
may wipe your fingers on my gown as much as
you please, for I never wear any dress that can
be spoiled. Indeed, I wonder how people who
have children ever do, for it is so natural to the
little dears to touch and pull every thing they
see, that it would be cruel to prevent them.'

" * Don't you think, sister, that your little boy

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 187

looks very delicate ? ' observed my sister Betsy ;
'I don't like that high forehead of his. There
was poor Mrs. Johnson's little boy who died
last year of water on the brain, and he had just
such a forehead.'

'* I turned in alarm to look on the beautifiil
brow of my child, for every thing alarms a fond
mother ; but its perfect form, often previously
remarked, hushed my fears, while a smile on
the lips of my husband betrayed his suspicion
that there was more malice than kindness in the
observation of my sister.

" * You should hear little Henry repeat his
lessons and his catechism*' said my mother,
proud of her little grandson's progress.

" * 0 I if you have been already setting down
the poor child to lessons,' replied Betsy, ad-
dressing me, * it is no wonder that he looks so
unhealthy. Poor child I it is a pity, tor he might
have been 9a stout and hearty as mine are, if
he had been brought up like them.'

** * How can you say he is unhealthy-look-
ing?' asked my mother ; < I never saw a finer
child.'

" * Why, look at his fairness,' answered my
sister, ' it is not, it can't be wholesome ; then
his cheeks are pink, and pink cheeks. Nurse

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138 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

Wilson sayS) are always a sign of consumption.
There was Mrs. Tomkinson's daughter, that
died of a decline last Christmas was a twelve-
month, and don't you r^uember what a bright
pink spot she always used to have on one of her
cheeks?'

" Again I turned in terror to look on the
face of my boy, and again I was reassured by
the healthful bloom on his round and dimpled
cheeks.

" * But Henry's complexion is not a spot,'
said my mother, vexed at my sister's observa-
tions. * Never have I seen a more healthy red
and white well mixed together, and not at all
like a spot.'

" * He is not at all like my boys,' replied my
sister, < only look at the diffefbnce ! '

" * There is, indeed, a difference, for they
are as brown as berries, from the sun,' replied
my mother.

" < Ay I that's what I call a healthy look ;
that's how a boy aught to be,' answered my
sister.

" When we sat down to dinner, each of her
children at once demanded to be helped, and
their demands not being attended to, they began
to scream.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 139

^ ' Do let them have something to keep them
quiet,' said their mother, * or there will be no
peace with them. Don't cry, Dick, my darling,
and you shall have something so nice.'

" • But I will cry, if I like it,' answered the
rude urchin, and he set up a scream, which was
quickly echoed by his brother and sister.

" • There they go,' said their father ; * this
is the music they regale me with every day at
their meals. I'm sure I often wish I was deaf,
to be saved from hearing their noise.'

** * How can you be so cross and unjust ? '
replied my sister, * when you know there are
not better children in the whole parish of But-
tennuth.'

** ' I know there are not more troublesome
ones,' rejoined the husband.

" * Ay, that's what I often tell my old woman,'
said my father ; * there's no peace with them ;
always screaming for every thing they see, and
tormenting every one about 'em.'

*' ' It's easy to see,' observed my sister, look-
ing spitefully at 'my boy, *that new brooms
sweep clean. The new grandchild has put my
poor little ones out of favour ; but never mind,
they'll not thrive the worse for all the faults
people find with them, and I wish other people's

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140 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

children looked as healthy as they do — that's
what I do.'

" We returned to our home, well pleased to
find ourselves again heneath its peaceful roof,
and all the better in point of health for our
visit to the country. Months passed rapidly
away. Our boy grew every day more interest-
ing, and really made a surprising progress in
his learning, considering that as yet he had no
teachers save his father and I. Often would my
husband hurry home, in order to give him a
lesson before he went to bed, and as often would
he compliment me on the intelligence and doci-
lity of the child. Henry was now able to accom-
pany me in my walks to meet his father, and
when he saw him at a distance, would bound
joyfully to meet him, leaving me far behind.

** One fine evening that we set out on our
usual walk, Henry perceiving his father ap-
proach, snatched his little hand from mine,
and ran eagerly forward. I saw him running
rapidly along, and felt all a mother's pride in
the grace and agility of his movements, when
on a sudden I heard a shriek, saw a number of
persons run, and form a circle, through which
the driver of a stage-coach was endeavouring
to force his horses, while the people hemmed

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them in on every side, uttering reproaches and
execrations. A vague sense of terror filled my
mind, and caused my heart to beat so violently,
that I could hardly move ; nevertheless I tried
to advance, and struggled through the crowd
now assembled around the coach, when, — oh t
horror of horrors I — I beheld my boy, covered
with blood, and clasped in the arms of his father.
I saw DO more, for I fell insensible on the road,
and awoke not to consciousness until I found
myself in bed in my own house, and my ago-
nized husband watching over me.

** How dreadful was the return to conscious-
ness I and with it the recollection of the ap-
palling misfortune that had befallen me. My
first burst of anguish was received on that fond
and faithful breast that had so often pillowed
my head, for my husband, clasping me in his
arms, mingled his tears with mine, while whis-
pering that we must now endeavour to console
each other, and submit with resignation to the
wiU of J7tfii, who had thought fit to send us
this heavy trial. I prayed to be let see my
child ; and though the few friendly neighbours,
who had come to offer their aid to us in this
time of trouble, tried to persuade me not to see
him, Henry bore, rather than led me to the

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142 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

little chamber where all that now remained to
me of my precious boy was laid. O God!
never shall I forget that sight I even now, after
the lapse of many a long and weary year, it pre-
sents itself to my mind's eye as vividly as when
these aged eyes beheld it.

^* There, laid on his little white bed, bending
over which I had so often watched and blessed
his slumbers, was my late blooming child, — ^him,
whom, only eight hours before, I had seen bound-
ing in life and health by my side, now cold and
lifeless, but still beautiful, even in death, the
lovely face wearing the same calm and blessed
expression, I had so frequently remarked in it
when he slept. The tender hand of his agonized
father, had removed from the hair and face
every trace of the gory stream that covered
them when I last beheld my child, and care-
fully concealed the mangled form from my view,
leaving only the head revealed. The setting
sun threw its bright rosy beams on that young,
fair, and open brow, and on those round and
dimpled cheeks, giving them a hue of life, and
even tinged with red those now pale lips, so
lately dyed with a rich crimson, that made them
resemble a parted cherry, — those lips so often
fondly pressed to mine, and which seldom

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opened without uttering words of love. The
casement opening into the little garden had
not been closed, and the breath of evening
came through it, waving the light curtains of
his little bed, and stirring the soft, silken
curls around his face. I could have believed
that my darling only slept, and that a kiss of
mine could, as it had often formerly done,
awaken him, and I bent down and pressed my
parched and burning lips on his cold and rigid
ones ; but the touch brought the conviction of
the fearful truth at once to my mind, and,
uttering a faint cry, I again found relief in
insensibility. A burning fever followed the
repeated fainting fits with which I had been
seized, and for many days, my life was despaired
of. During this malady, I was haunted by the
scene I had witnessed, and even by still more
appalling ones. Sometimes I saw my boy rush-
ing along in all his wonted joyousness ; and the
next struggling, bleeding, and mutilated be-
neath the feet of horses. At others, I fancied
that I saw a^coach borne rapidly along by fiery
steeds, and rushed forward to snatch my child
out of their reach, but in the attempt me-thought
I fell, and felt the wheels of the ponderous vehicle
crush my brain, while the dying cries of my

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144 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

boy inflicted still greater agony. It was my
husband's hand that applied the cooling be-
verage to my burning lips, and supported my
aching head during this long illness, and it was
his voice that soothed my agony, even when
unconscious of his presence. When reason
again resumed her empire, how did I deplore
the sad change that had taken place in my once
happy home. No longer did the bright face of my
child, or his dear lisping accents enliven it. I
missed him every hour, and was sometimes almost
doubtful of my own identity, when now no longer
blessed with that dear object, that lent existence
so great a charm. My husband, fearful that
the sight of the little bed, playthings, or clothes,
of our lost angel, would but serve to keep alive
the unavailing grief into which I was plunged,
had them all carefully removed and locked up,
so that not a trace remained to remind me that
I had been a mother. This absence of all con-
nected with my lost darling, made me some-
times think that all the blissful hours enjoyed
during his brief and spotless life, were but a
happy dream from which I had now awakened,
and increased, instead of mitigating my sorrow.
I would, in such moments, endeavour to recal
his image, his smiles, and his voice, to memory,

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OP LIFE. 145

in order to prove to myself that I had not always
been childless, and when I had hroaght hack
that adored face, now shrouded in the grave,
and the tones of that sweet voice, now hushed
for ever, the sense of my deprivation hecame so
overwhelming, that I have prayed for forget-
fdness.

*' Alas I ungrateful as I was, I rememhered
not, that if the Almighty had taken one bless*
ing from me, I was still rich in the possession
of another, — that Henry, the husband of my
choice, the father of our lost child, was still
spared to me, — but it is one of the peculiarities
of grief to lose the sense of what still remains
of happiness, in regret for what is lost I
would sit whole days brooding over my sorrow,
and indulging the most fantastic notions con-
nected with it. If the rain poured in torrents
against my casement, I would start with a
shudder, at the thought that it was falling on
his grave ; and so much did this idea haunt me,
that I urged Henry to have a marble monument
erected over the grassy mound in which he
was laid. I visited the spot continually, and
when sure of not being overheard, or seen,
would kneel down and kiss the icy marble, and

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146 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

address the most endearing epithets to the cold,
dull ear of death.

" My husband was now compelled to devote
a more than ordinary time to the duties of his
office, in order to make up for the days he had
been kept away by our affliction, and my long
and dangerous illness which followed it. When
he returned late in the evening, he would as-
sume a cheerfulness, that was, I afterwards
ascertained, very foreign to the real state of
his feelings, but which he put on in the vain
hope of enlivening me ; while I, absorbed in my
selfish grief, inwardly reproached him for his
want of sympathy with it, and for so soon be-
coming reconciled to the loss of the idolized
object that occupied all my thoughts.

" One evening, when I had been more than
usually depressed through the day, and my
husband and I were about to sit down to our
simple meal, I heard a noise in the room,
over that in which we were, like the falling of
somebody, and forgetful for the moment, I
started up, and exclaimed, * My boy has fallen
and hurt himself, Henry, — Henry, my darling,
come to mama I' At that moment my eyes fell
on the face of his father, and never shall I

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 147

forget its expression I Pale as marblei there
was a look of anguish in the countenance, that
at one glance, revealed all that the doting father
had suffered, and how great must have been the
effort to conceal those sufferings from me I I
rose, and threw myself into his arms, our tears
mingled, and from that moment X endeavoured
to console him, who had hitherto done violence
to his own feelings, in order to soothe mine."

H e

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148

CHAPTER Vm.

*^Mt sister Betsy and her husband came to
London in some months after this time, to
have a holiday, as she said, and see all the
fine sights. Henry invited them to take up
their abode with us, a proposal which was
not accepted until an exact calculation had
been made by them, as to whether it would
be cheaper to take a lodging and pay for
their board, or to have the daily expense of
hackney coaches or the stage incurred for their
excursions from our house. H aving ascertained
that the latter was the least expensive plan,
they came to us ; and before they were one day
beneath our roof, made us heartily wish them
safely back again at Buttermuth.

" * I did not bring any of my children with
me.' said my sister ; ^ for I thought it ivould
renew your grief to see what fine hearty crea-

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 149

tures they are. Besides, I was fearful they
might meet with the same accident that hap-
pened to your poor little hoy. Who'd have
thought of his coming to such a death, kept
tied, as he always was, to your apron string ?
but it's always the way, when children are
cooped up like that, they are sure to run into
mischief the moment they get loose. I never
heard the particulars of how it happened;
sister, pray tell me.'

*' A burst of tears, that I could not repress,
checked, for a moment, my sister's nnfeeling
inquiries ; hut they were soon renewed, nor did
they cease until she had brought me into a
paroxysm of grief.

" • Well, I did not expect to find you so little
resigned,' resumed she, * to the will of God.
You ought to be glad ; for, after all, it is for
the better ; for the poor little fellow was but a
weak, sickly child after all ; and had he lived,
would have cost you a fortune in doctors' and
apothecaries' bills. What have you done with
his clothes? they can't be any use to you now;
and I was thinking they would exactly fit my
little William, who is only a year and a half
younger than your Henry was, but who is quite
as big, if not more so.'

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150 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

^' * How strange your little dinners seem to
us,' would my sister say, when we had, at great
incouTenience to ourselves, and no little ex-
pense, changed our dinner hour, and provided
what we considered a plentiful repast. * Such
small, lean legs of muttcm and skimping pieces
of heef^ and only two miserable little dishes of
vegetables. To us, who are accustomed to
great joints of fiu meat, and a profusion of gar-
den stuff, it looks quite odd, and makes one
much more hungry to see your dinners. It is
lucky we did not bring any of the childien; for,
I assure you, any two of them-woold eat up all
that is on this table in a jifiey. Why don't you
have large ht geese or turkeys for dinner? or
even fowls ? We always have such a plenty, that
we have only to send out to the farm-yard when-
ever we wish to have poultry for dinner. Well,
for my part, I wouldn't live in Lunnon for
the world ; Tm sure Id be starved downright.
Thai your house is $o clean, it makes one feel
quite oncomfonable ; I^m always afiraid of dir-
tying it : the bars of the grate look as bright
as if there had nev^r b«» a fire in it ; the
wiadaws and the stops before the door are rub-
bed eadi mornings 1 see ; — what a waste of time,
vou have a clean table-doth every day.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 151

which is a piece of extravagance in a place
where washing is so dear/

^^ But it would be an endless task to repeat
one half of my sister's remarks on my humble
ahod« and mode of living, always delivered with
a aellK^mplacent declaration of the infinite
superiority of her own. There was no night of
the week that she and her husband did not visit
some one of the theatres, and unceremoniously
demand that a hot meat supper should be pre-
pared for their return.

** * I come back so peckish,' would she say ;
^ that unless I eat a good meal I cannot close
my eyes all night'

*' * J do not know about the closing the eyes,'
said her husband ; * but I'm sure I never
heard any one snore as you do ; supper or no
supper^ it's all the same, I can't get a wink of
sleep for the noise you make.'

'* < Me snore ? well, that's a good one, to be
sure ; why, it's ^ou that snore enough to awaken
aU the house.'

** At length, the visit of my sister and her
husband drew to a close ; but not until their
innumerable wants, and indelicate avowals of
them, had nearly exhausted my patience, and

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15«

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

considerably increased our quarter's bills to our
trades-people.

** The day previous to tbeir departure she
asked me * whether I had not observed the great
change in my husband's appearance ? He is in
a galloping consumption, you may be sure,' said
she ; * I saw it, and so did my master, the first
day we came.'

" Seeing my face become pale with apprehen-
sion, she added, * I dare say he may live some
months ; for, I have seen people linger a long
time after the doctors had given them over : but,
I think it my duty to warn you, in order that
you may be prepared for the worst ; and, after
all, it is better, as he is consumptive, that he
should be taken away while you are yet young
enough to marry again, than that he should be
left until you are grown an old woman ; and
now, that you will have no incumbrance, which
is another piece of luck, you may get a husband
well to do in the world. And I'd advise you,
when all is over, to come down to Buttermuth,
for there is Farmer Bolton, who is looking out
for a wife to take care of his children, and he
would make you an excellent husband. There's
no use in crying, sister,' continued she, obsenr-

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

153

ing the tears sbe wrong from me ; * we must all
be resigned to the will of Providence ; and it's
only flying in the face of God to be grieving at
the trials it pleases Him to send.'

" Horror-struck by the terrible intelligence
conveyed in the first part of her unfeeling dis-
course, I was scarcely conscious of all that fol-
lowed it. I sat revolving on the possibility of
my Henry's being indeed, as she represented
bim, doomed to an early death, without my hav-
ing discovered any one of the fatal symptoms
that, as she asserted, had struck her and her
husband on their arrival. I recalled with terror
any cough, however slight or temporary, with
which he had been assailed since our marriage,
and magnified it until I blamed my own blind-
ness to that which had become evident to others,
and worked myself into a state of misery and
alarm, that I had much difficulty in concealing
from my husband when he returned home. I
gazed with breathless alarm on his face as he
entered the room, and attributed the heightened
colour occasioned by exercise to the fatal ma-
lady, which my unfeeling sister had persuaded
me had marked him for an early death. Day
by day I was haunted by apprehension for him.
It was in vain that he assured me he was in

hS

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

perfect health, and that to an unprejudiced eye
every indication of it was visible in his appear-
ance. I could not for many months conquer my
fears ; and when at length I began to be con-
vinced that my alarm had been groundless, a
letter from my sister renewed my fears, by
reminding me that the insidious disease which
she felt assured my husband was labouring
under, often deceived not only the patient
himself, but those around him ; and, conse-
quently, she advised me * to prepare for the

worst.'

" But even out of evil cometh good ; for the
anxiety into which I was thrown for months
relative to Henry, did more towards lessening
the grief occasioned by my child's death, than
did all the reasoning of my friends, or my own
prudent resolves on the subject. The dread
of losing him filled every thought^ and the love
I felt for him the day we were united at the
altar, was light in comparison with that which
I experienced, when the fear of his being
snatched from me presented itself. Woman
must live in, and for another, otherwise she ful-
fils not her mission on earth ; and though its
fulfilment may entail ceaseless anxiety, and too
often misery, yet only when discharging it can

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 155

she know happiness, for then does she admi-
nister to that of another.

** About this period we received intelligence
of the sudden death of my sister Betsy's has-
band« The event was announced to me in the
following letter from her : —

*< < Who would have thought,' wrote she, Hhat
my poor John would have been snatched away,
— he who was so stout and hearty — while your
husband, who has certainly a consumption, is
stiU alive ? . Never was he in better health than
the day before I lost him. He ate a good
supper, — for poor dear soul I he had an appetite
that made me think he'd live to be a hundred,
—of roast goose, stufied with sage and onions,
of which he was always very fond. I never
saw him eat more, and then he had some toasted
cheese, and drank some of our strongest home-
brewed ale, not above a quart or so, and a couple
of glasses of brandy to keep down the goose, as
he said ; and I heard him snoring and snorting
like, as comfortable as possible, till I fell asleep,
and when I awoke he was dead by my side*
The doctor who attended the inquest, said his
death was occasioned by eating and drinking
too much at supper ; but I'll never believe it,
for I have seen him eat quite as much most

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156 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

nights ever since we were married, and if it
never hurt him before, why should it then? I
miss him terribly, especially at meals, for it is
so solitary to have no one to carve for one ; but
it's no use to grieve, and I have a good deal to
do, and to think of; for, as he died without a
will, I come in for my thirds, and so must stir
myself to keep things straight The children
begin to be a great trouble to me, now that they
have no father to give 'em a box on the ear,
or a good blow across the shoulders, whenever
they are more impudent than usual. You are
a lucky woman to have no children, for the old
saying, that ** they are a certain plague, but a
very uncertain comfort," is quite true. I already
find it quite impossible to manage the boys, and
suppose that I shall be compelled to marry again
as soon as the year is up, in order to have some
one to keep them in order, as well as to take care
of the farm, where every thing seems to be at
sixes and sevens. A poor lone woman is much
to be pitied, and so says my neighbour, Farmer
Thompson, of Sudly. You may remember him,
for father and mother used to talk of his being
a little wild. He has now sown his wild oats,
as the saying is, and has been very steady of
late« My poor husband used to say (God for-

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 157

give him for being so uncharitable I) that it was
becaase he had no more money to spend that he
became so steady ; but I'm sure it was from
seeing the folly of his past doings. He is a very
personable man, and is very neighbourly to me.'

** * I felt half offended when Henry, to whom
1 gave my sister's letter to read, began to smile
at the portion of it that was relative to Farmer
Thompson. * You'll see, my dear,' said he,
* that when the year is up, nay probably before,
your sister will marry her neighbour, and give
her children a step-father, who will not only
master them, but govern her too.'

** And so it actually turned out, even before
the year was finished ; and in less than three
years after. Farmer Thompson ran away to
America, after he had spent every shilling be-
longing to my poor sister and her children ;
and she and them were obliged to go and live
with my father and mother, whose comfort and
peace, the wild doings of the boys, and the re-
pining of my sister, completely destroyed. My
husband kindly apprenticed one of the boys,
and my father did the same by the other, but
both ran away from their masters ; the one
went to sea, and the other enlisted, and neither
had been heard of. When Henry and I went

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158

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

to Buttermuth to visit my father and mother
the year before we lost them,— for they died
within a couple of months of each other, — we
found my sister much changed. She complained
bitterly of Farmer Thompson.

^' * If I could only hear of his death, it would
make my mind easy and comfortable,' said she.

« « Why, what difference can it make to
you ? ' observed my mother ; * he can't come
back on account of his debts, therefore you will
not be troubled with him any more, so it's the
same as if he was dead I'

" * Not at all,' answered my sister, ' for if I
was sure he was dead, I could marry again.'

'^ ^ Marry again I' ejaculated my mother;
^ Heaven knows, you have had enough of mar-
riage, 1 should think.'

^^ * Those who have been accustomed to have
a husband and a house of their own, never can
be comfortable in another person's house,' said
my sister ; ^ and though Thompson was a bad
husband, all men are not like him. Nor do 1
think that he would have been so bad, only for
the way he was plagued with them two unruly
boys of mine, who were enough to drive any
man out of his wits. Their poor father, God
forgive him, spoilt 'em so completely. He little

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE, 159

thought, poor man I what trouble they would
be to whatever step-father I gave them, or he
wouldn't have let 'em become so unruly ; but
people never think of whaf s to come, or if they
did, they would be more reasonable, for sake of
those that are to outlive them/ Henry stole
a sly glance at me when he heard this speech,
and I found it difficult to restrain myself from
smiling.

" * Well, the poor boys paid dearly for their
unruly ways,' said my mother, ' for surely no
poor creatures were ever more unkindly used
than they were by their step-father. Why,
they have ran away from home, and come here
with their faces bearing the marks of his vio-
lence, many a time ; and you told me, daughter,
that you often quarrelled with that bad man
for beating them so continually.'

" * And more fool I,' answered my sister,
' for taking their parts, for that only caused ill-
blood between me and my husband ; who, if I
had not interfered, would not have gone off to
the public-house, as he used to do on such
occasions, where he fell into bad company and
renewed his old courses.'

** * It was a pity you were so obstinate as to
marry him against the advice of all your friends,'

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160 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

remarked my mother, provoked into the ohser-
vation hy the unfeeling comments of my sister.
*We all knew well enough what a graceless
chap he was, and what a had husband he would
be likely to make/

" • Well, it's my belief, that if 1 had not had
such troublesome boys, Thompson would have
made a very good husband, but their doings
spoilt his temper ; and it was all the fault of
their poor father, God forgive him 1* My mother
shook her head and turned up her eyes, a com-
mon custom of hers when she dissented from
the opinions of those she conversed with ; and
when talking to me on the subject a few
days after, when we were alone, she told me
that she dreaded the future destiny of my sister,
as she plainly saw she was not yet corrected.

*^ ^ She has the rage to be married,' added my
mother, * and in spite of the severe lesson she
has received, would, if a widow to-morrow, marry
the first worthless man who would ask her.'

" Soon after our visit to Buttermuth, my
husband returned from his office one evening
with a much more grave countenance than
usual, for he ever entered his humble home
with a serene aspect and fond words. He told
me, that Messrs. Mortimer, Allison and Fins-

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. l6l

bury had proposed to him to proceed to the
West Indies, for the arrangement of some com-
mercial concerns of theirs of great importance,
and which, owing to the sudden death of their
agent there, required the immediate presence
of some confidential person on the spot.

** < I owe them too many favours/ said Henry,
* to decline complying with their wishes ; but I
confess, my dear Lucy, that the thought of
leaving you for a couple of years is so heavy a
trial that it unmans me.'

«<But cannot I accompany you?' inter-
rupted I eagerly.

" • No,' replied my husband, * it cannot be ;
for when I arrive in the West Indies I am not to
be stationary, but must proceed to the different
places where the firm of Mortimer, Allison and
finsbury have commercial transactions.'

** Bathed in tears, I fell on his shoulder, and
wept long and bitterly; nor could he restrain
his tears, while he endeavoured to reconcile me
to what he considered it to be his duty to do.
We passed nearly a sleepless night; and when
at length I sank into slumber, my dreams were
coloured by the sad thoughts that filled my
waking hours. In ten days from the one in
which Henry announced to me the offer that

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162 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

had been made to him, he embarked for the
West Indies, leaving me overwhelmed with a
grief that neither my reason, nor the hope of
his safe return, could mitigate. Dreadful was
that parting I Even now I cannot dwell on it.

'^ When he was gone I wondered, and blamed
myself for having consented to his departure.
All the arguments and motives he had urged
to reconcile me to the measure, seemed, now
that he was no longer present to utter them,
vague and dissatisfactory; and could I have
but recalled him, never would I have permitted
him to leave me. His departure seemed like
a painful dream, but from which, alas I there
was no awaking.

** The morning alter he had sailed, when I
awoke, I vainly put forth my hand in search of
his. I burst into t^ars of anguish, when I
remembered that two long and dreary years
must elapse before I could again behold him
to whose heart I had been so fondly pressed
only the day before. And there was the pillow
on which his dear head had reposed. Oh ! how
interminable appeared the time to be got over
Ijeforu it wf)uld again rest on itl I wished
1 could eieep through the next two years,
'- -^aken to welcome him back, without

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. l6S

whom life would have no longer any attractions
for me. Every object around one reminded me
continually of my poor Henry ; — the chair in
which he used to sit, the table at which he
wrote. How did my tears flow afresh, when I
sat down to my solitary repasts, and saw his
vacant seat I Then came the thought of how
many tedious months must elapse before I could
even hear from him? Days rolled on without
rendering me more reconciled to his absence ;
and when the evening closed in, and that I
endeavoured to beguile the tedious hours by
working at my needle ; how did I miss him
who used to read aloud to me, and make me
forget the flight of time.

" I found some consolation in reading works
on the West Indies, and making myself ac«
quainted with the manners and customs of
those with whom he was to spend so many
months ; yet the thought of the vast distance
that separated us was continually recurring to
me ; and the boundless sea, with its countless
waves rising up between us, inspired me with
a sense of dread not to be expressed. Did the
wind blow a little louder than usual, I trem-
bled with terror lest it boded a coming storm ;
and when the rain came pattering against my

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164 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

casement, I thought that he might be exposed
to it, and looked with sorrow at his vacant
chair by the blazing hearth, so lately rendered
cheerful by his presence.

** How strange and wayward are the imagin-
ings of love. There were moments when I
felt with bitterness that, surrounded by new
and exciting objects of interest, Henry might
either cease to think of me, or lose that relish
for his home that had hitherto formed its chief
blessing for me. My humble abode was as a
temple dedicated to him. Every article it con-
tained had been selected by him, and was en-
deared by a thousand fond recollections. Were
it possible for me to forget him, those silent
monitors would have recalled him to my me-
mory, while he had nought but our Bible, a
lock of my hair, and the sweet memory of the
past, to remind him of me in that far and
strange land to which every day was bearing
him nearer. Yet there were hours in which our
hearts must hold communion together, what-
ever might be the distance that divided us —
the hours of prayer at morning and night, when
we had been wont to offer up our supplications
to the Divinity. The Sabbath too, when we
attended the house of God, could never be

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. l65

passed over without tender thought^ being
mingled in our devotions.

<* The consciousness of this sympathy was a
consolation ; and ixi the hours, and on the
occasions I have named, my beloved husband,
though separated from me by a vast distance,
seemed almost present to me, so certain was I
that he too was praying while I knelt. The
thought of our early days of love came back to
me with vividness. Our trials, our marriage,
and the happy days that followed it, seemed pre-
sent to me, as if they had only recently occurred ;
while, strange to say, it seemed as if Henry had
been gone a whole year before half that period
had elapsed, so long did the time of our sepa-
ration seem. At length came a letter from him ;
and, oh I with what joy and transport did I
receive it ? How did my heart beat and my
hands tremble as I broke the seal I And yet
the reflection, that months had elapsed since
this precious letter was written, damped my
joy. I read it with streaming eyes, for the ex-
pressions of tenderness with which it was filled
renewed afresh the bitter sense of our separa-
tion, and made the period fixed for our re-union
seem more than ever remote. How many times
was that precious letter read over I It was

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166 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

placed in my bosom all day, and beneath my
pillow at night, until another letter from the
same dear hand arrived to replace it

*' My parents died about this time ; my

;i|:' mother having only survived her old and £aith-

'^ fur partner a few weeks. They bequeathed to

;! me a couple of hundred pounds, and left to my

I sister Betsy, who had been wholly dependent

ion them, the farm and stock, with one hundred
. ,. pounds in cash. My poor sister Sarah was in

a dying state when they were removed from this
life, and followed them shortly after ; and she,
having lost her only child some months before
my father and mother, thought it right to leave
the bulk of their fortune, not to the daughter
they most loved, but to her who most required
' r their aid.

'^ The loss of my parents and sister threw a
deep gloom over my spirits, already so depressed
by the absence of Henry ; and while I was still
mourning their deaths, a letter from Betsy
reached me. She wrote, to say, that seven
years having now elapsed since she last received
any tidings from her unworthy husband, she
had determined on considering him as dead, and
on again entering the married state.

" * I am told,' wrote she, * that when a bus-

dbyGoogk

1

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. I67

>aDd has been that number of years absent,
dthout having been heard of» a wife is at liberty
^0 marry again ; and, having found a person
likely to render me happy, I am decided oti
availing myself of the privilege of which I
raly lately became aware. The person I have
[^hosen is Mr. Macgrowler, an Irish clergyman,
lately arrived here, and one of the finest
preachers in the world. I may weU be proud
[)f engaging the affections of such a man ; and,
though, like all great men, he has got his ene-
mies, who have left no stone unturned to pre-
vent me from marrying him, nothing shall
dissuade me from becoming his wife. To show
you how superior a man he is, I send you the
following; which letter I received from him
this morning : —

" * It's yourself that's a jewel of a woman ;
and lucky enough I consider myself to have
come to Buttermuth to have found you. Yes,
although it may be sinful to love any thing on
earth as I love you, I hope to obtain pardon for -
this sin by leading you, like a lost lamb, to the
fold from which you have so long strayed.
Didn't I buffet Satan last night, when Doctor
Snowgrass thried to bother me before my con-
gregation ? * Are you in holy orthers ?' says he.

yGpogle

168 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

* Am I not ?' says I. ' I'd like to see the man
that would deny it,' says I ; and with that, didn't
I draw myself up like a king, and look at him
as if he was nothing ? — ' Misguided man !' says
he : • why have you left your church and your
pastor ? Have I not been a faithful shepherd
to my flock ?' — * Is it traiting Christians like
sheep you'd be ?' says I : * but, faith ! that same
doesn't surprise me ; for sure, don't ye devour
'em?' How that sly rogue, Tom Halcomb,
winked and laughed, and Bill Jackson enjoyed
the joke. — * Your language convinces me that
you are not in holy orders,* says Doctor Snow-
grass. — * Bethershin,' ♦ says I ; •but there's many
a one, and you have the proof of it before your
eyes, that prefers praying in the open air with
me, to being shut up in a close church with
you : and as for the women, God bless them I
I'd like to know which they prefer, you or me?'
With that he walked off, seeing that he couldn^t
hold up against my arguments ; and how could
he, poor man? but that's neither here nor
there. What I now write to you for is, to tell
you, that the sooner you make up your mind to
make me happy, — ay, and yourself too, — the
better. You are, to all contents and purposes,

* Irish for "may be so.**

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. l69

laced from your former marriage yows ; for, as
your husband that was, has never had the
politeness nor decency to write you a line, just
to tell you whether he was alive or dead, during
the last seven years, you are now free to marry
again ; and, if he came back the week after, to
claim you, you might turn your back on him
and laugh in his face. We understand the law
tin times better in Ireland than the English do ;
so you may be sure of what I tell you. You
say, that no clergyman here will marry us, you
darUnt of the world I but what's to hinder us
from going to the next county and being mar-
ried? And, indeed, for the matter of that,
'twill be more comfortable than being stared at
by a parcel of fools, who, because they don't
know the law, think you have no right to marry.
Once you are the reverend Mrs. Macgrowler,
you may laugh in your sleeve at the ignorant
spalpeens. I'm coming to take a sociable bit
of supper with you to-night — ^you jewel of a
woman I Don't put yourself to any expense or
throuble on account of that same. A roast
goose, stuffed with potatoes and onions, will do
very well ; but, mind you don't forget what I
tould you, about the manner of boiling the
potatoes.'

VOL. !• I

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170 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

*^ An attempt had been made to efface the
next paragraph of Macgrowler's letter, but it
had not succeeded, for a request for the loan of
five pounds was still discernible. I lost not a
moment in writing to my poor imprudent sister,
to warn her against the folly and sin she was
about to commit, and to assure her that she
would render herself liable to an action for
bigamy; if she persisted in carrying her project
into effect} but, alas I my advice was disre-
garded, and a letter from an old friend of my
father's soon after informed me, that my unfor-
tunate sister, after having disposed of every
thing she possessed, had left Buttermuth with
Macgrowler, with the avowed intention of being
married at the first place where they could get
the ceremony performed.

" Ten days after this intelligence I was dis-
agreeably surprised by the arrival of my sister
and Macgrowler. They came in a hackney-
coach, and I heard him coolly order the driver
to bring in two large boxes from it. — •This,
sister, is my husband,^ said Betsy, pointing to
Macgrowler, who approached with open arms
to embrace me, but I drew back, and said, that
I could not receive him as such, and must there-
fore Request him to withdraw.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 171

" * Aragh I would you be for going between a
woman and her lawful husband ? ' said h^ look-
ing at me with a face of the most unblushing
impudence.

<« < I cannot, sister, consent to receive this
man beneath my roof/ said I ; ' and, however
painful to my feelings it may be to say so, you
cannot take up your abode here with him.
Should you ever want a roof to shelter you,
and that you forsake your sinful companion-
ship, you will find me willing to comfort and
console you.'

" * Why, you surely can't be so inhospitable
as to refuse to receive my wife and I for a few
days?' said Ma<^owler, assuming an artful
leer, that increased my disgust for him.

*' * I am surprised, sister,' interrupted Betsy,
* that you can refuse to acknowledge my hus-
band, when under this same roof you lodged
my first husband and me when we visited
London?'

*' ' I refuse to receive this person, because I
know he is not legally your husband,' replied
L My sister now got very angry ; called me
unkind, unnatural, and ungrateful ; and Mac-
growler, perceiving that I was not to be talked
into receiving him as a guest, told me I ought

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172 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

to be ashamed of myself for being so unnatural
a sister.

" • Come away, Mrs. Macgrowler,' said he,
* and don't be after wasting your breath in talk-
ing to her. There's plenty of lodgings to be
had in Lunnon. Hackney-coachman I hackney-
coachman I come here man alive, and take back
the boxes to the coach.'

" While this scene occurred, the garden-gate
had been left open, and a beggar woman, with
four half-naked children at her heels, and twins
in her arms, had entered, and were now close
to my door, imploring charity. No sooner had
the poor woman heard the voice of Macgrowler,
than rushing forward, she seized him by the
arm, looked anxiously in his face, and bursting
into a fit of tears, she exclaimed, throwing her-
self on her knees, ' Oh I then God in his mercy
be thanked, for He has heard my prayers and
granted them. Is'n't it my own Thomash that
I have found at last? Down on your marrow-
bones, childer, sure here's your father : praise
be to His holy name that led me to this spot
Ah I cuishla-ma-chree I sure it's your own poor
Judy that came over all the way across the say*
to look for you ; and here's the two bucka leeni

• Sea. t Fair Boys.

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THE LOTTEEY OF LIFE. 173

bawns that God sent me while you were away.
Look at the crathurs I sure they're the living
image of your own purty self, my own jewel of
a husband. But you don't say a word to me»
— ^nor so much as give me^ a kiss — ^nor look at
the twins I've brought you, though sure any
father might be proud of 'em I And now I see if,
how finely dressed you are — arragh, Thomash !
what's come to you, and where have you been
80 long?'

" * The woman is mad,' said Macgrowler, * I
never saw her before in all my bom days.'

" * Never saw your own lawful wife, and the
mother of your six living childer, and the
two blessed angels that are in heaven I — Oh,
Thomash, Thomash I — avoumeen. Can you
put this shame on your own poor Judy?' and
the poor woman wept in agony.

" * Daddy, daddy,' said the two elder boys,
who now fully recognized their father, and who
rushed up to embrace him, while the little girls i|f

dung to their mother, and began to cry.

"*Come, my dear,' said Macgrowler, his
&ce flushed to crimson, * come away.'

'' * Let go my husband, woman, and call away
these troublesome brats,' said my sister.

" * Your husband! i/our husband 1' repeated

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174^ THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

the poor Irish woman, ^ then God forgive yon
for telling such a story, and pardon him who
stands by unmoved to hear it. Oh, Thomash
O'Gallogher I is it mad or deceitful you are to
deny your own lawful wife and childer, and in a
foreign land I — ^the heart of me will break, that's
what it will, — ogh hone I ogh hone I' and she
sobbed in uncontrollable anguish.

'* Macgrowler attempted to pass her, but she
seized his knSes with desperation with one hand,
while with the other she clasped the twins to
her bosom. Her cries, and those of the chil*
dren, attracted a crowd around the door, among
which were two policemen, who entered the
house and demanded the cause of the dis^^
turbance ?

« < Take up that nasty beggar and her brats^'
said my sister, * and send them to prison. This
is the Reverend Mr. Macgrowler, the great
preacher, and my husband.'

" * Yes,' said Macgrowler, * I'm one of the
dargy, and this lady is my wife,'

*' ^ Don't believe him, gentlemen, don't be-
lieve him,' exclaimed the poor Irish woman.
' His name is Tom O'Gallogher, and he's my
lawful husband and the father of these six poor
children, and of two more that lie buried in the

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 175

churchyard of Killballyowen. Oh I little did I
think that when we both knelt over their graves
and shed our tears together, that he'd deny the
mother that bore them;' and here her sobs
impeded her utterance.

"It was evident that Macgrowler's better
feelings were excited by this appeal ; for his
lip quivered, and his eyes became moistened,
and I observed that he no longer tried to shake
off the two sturdy, half-naked, but good Jooking
boys, that held the skirts of his coat, and kept
crying ' Daddy, avoumeen, daddy I'

•• • Why don't you take up that troublesome
mad woman^ and free my husband from these
dirty boys?' demanded my sister.

'* ' There's no occasion in life to hurt the
poor woman or the children,' interposed Mac-
growler, when he saw one of the policemen
somewhat roughly endeavouring to force the
woman to release himself 'from her grasp, while
the other was pulling away the boys.

" < Here's my certificate, that I have kept in
my bosom night and day ever since I left Kill-
ballyowen,' said the woman, drawing forth a
small leather bag, in which was a certificate of
her marriage, and a crooked sixpence with a
hole in it — ^ Arraghl look there, Thomash, the

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176 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

last gift you ever gave me when you were going
away to England for the harvest. Many is the
time since then that these poor children and I
have wanted the bit and the sup, but I'd never
part with this crooked sixpence.'

^* One of the policemen read the certificate
aloud^ and then asked the woman whether she
knew any one in London that could identify her
husband?'

" * Sure, I never was in Lunnon in all my
bom days,' replied she. *I came over from
Ireland to look for my husband, when I could
no longer bear the trouble that was breaking
my heart, when aU the other boys that went
over for the harvest, came back, bringing their
earnings to their families, and brought no news
of him. I've been thrying to keep life and
soul together, by earning a little at the hop-
gathering, always hoping that I would see or
hear of him^ about whom I was thinking night
and day, and was now on my way to Lunnon,
though afraid to find myself and these poor
crethurs in such an over-grown place. When
I heard his voice (and the sound of it went
through my dark heart like a flash of lightning,
making it as bright as day) calling out * hack-
ney-coachman, hackney-coachman.' Hardened

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 177

as was Macgrowler, his countenance underwent
many changes, as he listened to the artless
statement of the poor woman.

" * Is there no mark by which you could
identify your husband?' asked one of the po-
licemen, with a magisterial air.

" * Fifty — fifty marks,' replied the woman.
Would'nt I know the roguish eyes, and the
pretty forehead, and the curly hair, and the
laughing mouth, and the nate limbs of him,
among a thousand ?'

'< ' I don't mean that,' said the policeman,
* but has he no particular mark ?'

** * Yes, to be sure he has — one of his teeth,
at the right side of his mouth, is broken. It
was a blow from Pat Droleghan, which knocked
the dhudeen* hewas smoking, against the tooth,
and broke it, and mad enough I was when it
happened I '

'' * Allow me to examine your teeth,' said the
poUceman.

*' * Certainly sir, certainly ; with all the plea-
sure in life.'

" * Why, the woman is right enough, here
is a broken tooth I ' exclaimed the policeman.

* A short pipe.

i3

li

^^'

pogic

178 tAe lottery op life.

'* * O I yes, I broke it eating nuts/ said
Macgrowler.

" ^ And he has a large mole at the back of
his neck, under his cravat,' said the woman, a
piece of intelligence that brought a blush of
crimson to the cheek of Macgrowler.

*< < Let me see your neck, sir,' asked the
policeman.

'< < It is'n't very agreeable for a gentleman
to be obliged to take off his neckcloth,' said
Macgrowler, hesitating.

*< * But it is not very agreeable for a gentle-
man to be sent to Botany Bay for bigamy/
observed the policeman ; ' so I advise you to
show your neck at once.'

" No sooner had Macgrowler put his hand
up to untie his cravat, than the woman stopped
the movement, and turning to the policeman,
demanded * whether a man could really be
transported for bigamy?'

<* * Certainly, nothing could save him,' an-
swered he. She gave a deep sigh, her eyes be-
came suffused with tears, and her lips quivered,
as she earnestly gazed at Macgrowler.

** * Now gentlemen,' said she, * that I have
looked again, and closely examined him (whom

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTEEY OF LIFE. 179

I took to be my husband) more attentively, I
find I was mistaken. I am sorry/ and her voice
became choked by her deep emotion, Uhat I
have given so much trouble, but the gentleman
need not take off his cravat, I am convinced
he's not my husband/

" The effort was too much for the poor crea-
ture, and she fell fainting at the feet of Aim, for
whose safety she had resigned her rights. The
children began crying, and kissing their poor
mother, whose temples I chafed with cold water,
while the twins were placed on a sofa.

*• Macgrowler, no longer able to control his
feelings, tore himself from the grasp of my
sister, who endeavoured, but in vain, to restrain
him, rushed forward, and threw himself on his
knees by the side of the fainting woman, whom
he pressed with frantic fondness to his heart,
exclaiming, ' Judy, O I my own dear Judy, have
I killed you by my cruelty? Is'n't it myself
that's a baste to deny my own lawful wife, and
pretend never to have seen her before ? Arragh I
oome to yourself, ma voumeen,* my darlint,
and I'll declare in the face of all the world, that
if s yourself that's my only true and rightful
wife.' The poor Irish woman opened her eyes,

• My dear.

d by Google j

i

V. i

180 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

and fixed them, for a moment, with a glance
of unutterable tenderness on the face of her
husband. She then put her hand to her brow,
as if to recall her bewildered thoughts, and
after a moment's reflection, turned to the police-
men and said —

" * Gentlemen, don't believe what he says ;
he's mistaken, indeed he is, and doesn't know
what he says. That lady there,' pointing to my
sister/ is his wife ^ sure its easily seen, for look
how well dressed both he and she are, while
Tm only a poor crethur, that being light-headed
from fatigue and sorrow, made a grate mistake,
and have given a terrible sight of trouble, for
which I ax pardon.'

" * Judy, my own darlint Judy I its no use to
deny the truth ; if the gallows was before me,
and I richly desarve it, I'd never again be such
a wild baste as to deny you. You are my wife,
my thrue and only wife ; and if you'll forgive me
this time, I'll never lave you again while I live.'

" * Then you acknowledge that you have
committed bigamy ?' said one of the policemen.
'You are also his wife, ma'am, are you not?'
continued the man, turning to my sister.

" * To be sure I am,' answered she, looking
very much confused.

dbyGoogk

* N:

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 181

told you SO, — ^gentlemen, I told you so/
3 poor Irish womaa.
[e's my husband, and must come with
id my sister.

dvil a foot, Mrs. Macgrowler ; and for the
of that, you know right well, that though
ins hare been three times called, I have
put off the ceremony ; for, bad as I am,
science tould me it would be a shame to til

lu in.'

Ih I you vile shocking man,' exclaimed
er, bursting into a fit of hysterical weep-
But 111 have the law against you, that's
'11 do.'

ure, if I had married you, you might do
me ; but as I have not, and as you can't
A I have not behaved civil and genteel
all the time, it's not over decent in you
1 your teeth when you can't bite. And
idy, ma voumeen, before all this genteel
ly, I'll tell you the truth. When I was
ig of going back to Ireland with my earn-
er the harvest sure I got the typhus faver,
ile I was down in it and out of my mind,
1 people about me took every farthing I

the world. A field-preacher, who I
r chance, took pity on me. His name

dbyGoogk

1 82 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

was Macgrowler, and he had a great charactei
for fine preaching. Well, he assisted me, and
behaved very charitable, but he caught the
faver from me, and it carried him off. As w(
were both strangers in the little village when
he died, sure a thought came into my head, aD(
I tould the people he was my uncle ; and aftei
giving him a dacent wake, and burying bin
genteelly, I took possession of his clothes aD(
his watch, and a couple of pounds that was lef
after all expences were paid. And then it cam^
into my head, that as I had taken every thinj
belonging to him, I'd take his name and ton
preacher myself. There's nothing easier ii
life than to turn field-preacher, for a man ha
only to get up on a table, and threaten all tb
people with the divil ; and throw up one's arm
and get into a passion, and they'll sware he's
wonderful preacher. Well, I tried my han
in two or three little villages and had gren
success ; that is, the people flocked round m
and listened, and said it was a fine discourse
but the money came very slowly, and I though
to myself, sure if things go on this way, I'll b
a long time before I can make up a purse 1
take back to my poor Judy and our childer/
<< < Sure you were always good, cuishla-ma

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THB LOTTEaY OF LIFE. 183

nterrupted Judy, quite forgetting his
sception, and looking at him with eyes
with affection.

3II, then, I came to Buttermuth, and I
reaching, and sure enough I soon got
[x>ngregatioii, for all the idle boys and
i crowds of women came to hear me.
oen are mighty fond of field preachers,
cially if they frighten 'em about Satin.*
stations from many of 'em to dine and
i 'em ; and faith I mighty good males
e me, but none of 'em was so sweet on
is lady here. She was never satisfied
n I was at her house, and she tould
happy she would be if she had a cler-
ike me for a husband ; and how she
[ood matter of money, and could by
er stock and furniture, and the interest
irm get a good round sum more. And,
B used to say I was such an elegant
% and beat the reverend Dr. Snowgrass
3thing, which plased me grately. All
the notion into my head, that if I could
sr under my false name and got hould of
money, I would be off for ould Ireland
ute I left the church door, and make
Judy and the childer rich for life.'

• Sataiu

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184 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE,

« < Good luck to you, my dear Thomash, for
thinking of us I' exclaimed Judy.

** * Thinking of you, ma voumeen dheelishi
Sure then it's the rale love I bore^ou, that put it
into my head to decave this lady. But she can't
say I ever took the laste advantage of her, ex-
cept persuading her, that as her husband was
seven years away without writing to her, she
might marry again. And when the business
come to the point, I couldn't for the life of me
bring myself to marry her, but put it off from
day to day; and here she is, as innocent of
any harm from me as the day I first clapped
my two good-looking eyes on her, and she has
lost nothing except one five-pound note which
she lent me, and which I sint off to Killbally-
owen the same day to my poor Judy.'

** * Oghl then 'tis yourself that's the moral
of a rale good husband,' murmured Judy.

« < You are a wicked deceiver, that's what
you are I' sobbed my sister, *and you have made
me spend ever so much money in feasting you
in different public-houses.'^

** * Is it me, you crethur of the world ? It's
no such thing; for I often tould jou, that I'd
rather have a good dish of potatoes and a rasher
of bacon, with a bottle of the mountain dew.

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THE LOTTKRT OF LIFE. 185

the true Inishowen, than all them dainties you
were so fond of. Wasn't it yourself that was
always ordhering fat pullets, and geese, and
ducks, and porther, and strong ale, in spite
of all my good advice ; and faith ! to tell the
truth, you ate and drank more of 'em than
ever I did.'

** * You vile ungrateful man I I'm only sorry
that you had not married me, that I might
punish you for bigamy,' said my sister, still
weeping.

^* ' God forgive you, ma'am, for such a
wicked wish ; for sure, instead of being angry
at having escaped the sin into which you might
have tumbled had Thomash married you, you
ought to thank God, ay, be my troth, and
Thomash too, that you're free from sin, though
not free from folly; for sure it was not sin-
nble, no, nor decent either, to lave your home
and kin with a stranger, and go thravelling
around the country without being married.'

" There was so much good sense in this re-
proof, that all who were present, except the
person to whom it was directed, acknowledged
its justice; and I, greatly interested in favour
of the poor Irish woman, presented her with a
couple of guineas, for which she was most

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186 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

gratefal, and then advised her and her hue-
band to depart. They took leave, offering me
many thanks and blessings; but before they
left the house, Judy expressed her conviction,
that what was faulty in the conduct of her
husband, originated solely in his affection for
her and ' the childer;' though, as she said,
those who did not know his good heart as well
as she did, might not think he had taken the
best mode of showing it, in intending to marry
another woman.

** Imprudent and absurd as had been the
conduct of my sister, I could not but pity the
humiliating position in which she was now
placed ; and yet I confess, I felt no desire that
a person whose habits and tastes were so wholly
opposed to mine, should take up her abode be-
neath my roof. It is a great trial for a sister
to be compelled to renounce all companionship
with one so nearly allied by the ties of kindred ;
one who has been cradled in infancy in the
same arms, who has slumbered on the same
pillow, who has shared the same innocent
sports, and the same childish sorrows. The
memory of those days of infancy and girlhood
come back to reproach me for the alienation
of which I felt conscious, but of which good

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THE LOTTEET OF LIFE. 187

sense dictated the necessity. These tender
roniniscences of the past pleaded in my heart
against the whispers of judgment and eiperi-
eno^ and induced me to speak words of conso^
lation to my sister, who still continued to weep.

*' ' It's no use to preach to me after this
fashion,' said she ; ' it's easy to talk, but hard to
practice; and any woman, who has feeling,
would find it hard to live alone, without a hus*
band to canre a joint of meat for one, or to help
to blow up the servants when they require it.
But I am yery peckish — fretting always makes
me hungry; so, the sooner you have dinner the
better. I should like to have a beef-steak with
some fried onions, and a bit of Cheshire cheese
after; and, mind you don't forget to order some
treble-X ale.'

'' I was hardly less surprised than disgusted
at the free and easy style in which my sister
issued her orders, while yet weeping over her
disappointed matrimonial hopes and projects ;
but I, nevertheless, sent out for the articles she
wished for.

" When she ascended to the room prepared
to receive her, her first exclamation, on entering
it was, * Well, this chamber is precisely as it
was when my poor dear first husband shared

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188 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

it with me. And there, I tow, is the same
little table, on which he used to place a glass
of biltndy and water, to be ready, in case I felt
thirsty in the night. He had many good points,
poor man I wis an excellent carver, which is an
essential thing in a husband ; and could brew
the best punch I ever tasted. He was a great
loss to me ; and all I have to reproach his me-
mory with is, the having spoilt his children so
much, that their doings destroyed my happiness
with my second husband ; compelled him to seek
pleasure at the public-house instead of being
comfortable at home with me ; and, in the end^
drove him out of the country, leaving me in the
most painful situation in which any woman can
be placed, that is, without the absolute certainty
of a husband's death.'

" * Surely you cannot wish to have this cer-
tainty ?' said I, * if, as you say, you really like
your husband ?'

*< * I would not wish him dead if he was with
me, and contributing to my happiness,' replied
my sister ; ^ but, if he really is alive, as I may
never see him again, would it not be more satis-
factory to me to hear of his death? for then I
could marry openly at Buttermuth without the
spiteful neighbours making a fuss about it, or

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THE LOTTEEY OF LIFE. 189

Doctor Snowgrass protesting against it. A lone
woman's position is, to me, a most disagreeable
one ; some people may like it,' and she glanced
somewhat malicioasly at me ; ' but then it must
be those who have had the misfortune to be
married to half-dead and alive men, that have
been pinned down to their desks all day, and
who come home in the evening, so tired, that
they have not spirits to eat, drink and enjoy
themselves.'

•• Dinner being served, we sat down to table;
and when the covers were removed, and the
beef-steak and potatoes alone met the gaze of
my sister, she gave a look of such utter disap-
pointment, that I could scarcely refrain from
smiling.

" • I hope there's another beef-steak on the
gridiron ?* said she.

" * There will be quite enough for us,*
answered I ; ' for I am a little eater.'

<* * That may be ; but I have a good appetite,
I can tell you, and especially whenever I have
fretted ; and I've been so cut up to-day, that
I'm as peckish as possible. Your servant doesn't
know how to send up a beef-steak with fried
onions, I can tell you. They should be served
with plenty of butter, and all on the same dish.

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190 THE LOTTERY OP LIFE.

instead of having the onions on a separate
plate.'

** Observing that I did not help myself to any
onions, she could not forbear expressing her
wonder at my want of taste.

** * Ah I if you had been married to either of
my husbands, you'd have liked onions as well
as I do/ said she : ' a beef-steak is not worth
a farthing without them ; and I never can eat
one without thinking of both of them, the onions
reminds me of 'em so much. Do you know
that this porter is but poor washy stuff? Pm
sure your servatit did not ask for the three X's.
But surely you're not done eating already ? for
my part, I have not half dined. Poor John
used to say — ay, and for the matter of that, so
used my last husband too^ that it was a plea-
sure to sit down to meals with me, for they
never had to eat alone, as I kept than company
with the knife and fork as long as th^ could
eat. I hate a dinner without a man, for I'm
sociable like. Have you got any pickled onions
in the house ?'

** When informed that I had not, she shook
her head, and said, ' what I no pickles of any
sort?'

" * Na'

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 191 '

" • Well, that is extraordinary. I hope you
have not forgot the Cheshire cheese ?'

" ' Its lucky you are a little eater/ resumed
she, as the last firagment of a very large beef-
steak disappeared from the dish, 'for if you
had a natural appetite, there would not have
been half enough.'

'* A pancake was now brought up, on see*
ing which, my sister, without any ceremony,
ordered another to be prepared, and then asked
for some brandy and sugar to make sauce for it.'
** * What I no brandy in the house ?' said she
lifting up her hands and eyes. * Well, I can't
say you understand much about comfort. Send
out the girl for some, and you may as well
order a bottle, for I always take a glass or two
of strong punch after dinner. No wonder you
look so pale and keep so thin, when you drink
nothing but water ; you should follow my ex-
ample, and you'd find yourself aU the better
for it, I can tell you, and much more sociable
too.'

dbyGoogk

192

CHAPTER IX.

** Never did an eyening pass off so heavily, as
that which followed the dinner I have just
described.

<< * Have you no neighbours to drop in and
play a game of cards?' asked my sister. On
being told that I never played cards, she could
not restrain her astonishment

'* * And how do you get through the even-
ing?' demanded she.

** * I read, work, or write,' answered !•

" * Well, some people have such odd ways,'
observed she. ^ What a relief it must be to your
husband to see a little life in foreign parts, and
how dull it will be for him to come back here.'

'< The tea-things had not been removed
more than an hour, when, althojogh she had
eaten a plentiful supply of bread and butter

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 193

with her tea, she declared that she felt so
hungry, that she must have a bit of something
for supper.

*' < A rasher of bacon and a couple of eggs —
a welch rabbit, or any other light matter,' she
said would do. * Whenever I make a poor din-
ner,' added she, * I am obliged to have supper,
or I can't close my eyes at night.'

** My servant wholly unaccustomed to such
demands, and my larder ill provided to meet
them, a compliance with those of my sister was
productive of much embarrassment in my little
household. It being dark, my young woman
was afraid to venture out alone in search of the
articles required to furnish a meal, and I really
felt unwilling to send her out at so unseasonable
an hour.

*' * O I for the matter of that, rather than go
to bed with an empty stomach — (though how it
could be empty after the quantity I had seen
her devour, I could not imagine) — I will go out
myself to buy what is wanted.'

** In spite of my representations of the im-
propriety of exposing herself to insult or annoy-
ance in the streets, unprotected, at such an hour,
she put on her doak and bonnet, and sallied
forth, leaving me alarmed and ashamed at her

VOL. I. K

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194 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

inconsiderate proceedings. She had been absent
nearly two hours, during which time, I really
felt terrified lest some unpleasant adventure had
occurred to her, in a neighbourhood so lonely
as that in which my dwelling was placed, when
I heard loud yoices, among which hers could
be distinguished, and sundry knocks at the gate
of the little garden in front of my house. I
trembled from head to foot, while my senrant,
not less alarmed than myself, unlocked the hall-
door.

*' ' Keep him prisoner, I charge you,' said
my sister. < At your peril I charge you not to
let him go. A young villain to rob me of the
provisions I had just bought.'

*• The door being opened, I beheld two or
three policemen, two of whom held a young lad
by the arms, while he was crying bitterly, and
entreating to be liberated.

" * Keep him in custody ; the young dog shall
be punished if it costs me five pounds, that he
shall,' said my sister.

** * But we have found no stolen articles upon
him,' observed one of the policemen.

<< < Because he threw them away, the young
robber, but I'll make him repent it, that I wilL'

** ^ Let me go, for God sake let me go I'

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 105

exclaimed the weeping boy. ' I have not tasted
food these two days, and have not a farthing in
the world, nor a roof to shelter me.'

" * Serve you right, you young thief I Mind,
policeman, I'll have justice, cost what it may. A
pretty pass, indeed, things are come to, if a
respectable woman like me can't step out to
buy a morsel of supper without being robbed.'

** * I never meant to rob her, indeed I did
not,' sobbed the boy. ' I only told her I was
starving, and begged her to give me some-
thing in charity. She began to scold me^
and I, grown desperate with hunger, made a
snatch at the sausage in her hand, when she
threw away the things she held, and caught
fest hold of me, crying out until the police
came up.'

« * You see the young rogue confesses that he
attempted to rob me, therefore you must keep
him prisoner,' said my sister.

<* I now advanced into the garden, and en-
treated her to let the unhappy youth be libe-
rated, seeing that he was driven by starvation
to make the attempt to seize the food.

'* * ril do no such thing, the law shall take its
course,' replied she : ' as sure as my name is
Betsy Thomson ['U prosecute the thief.'

Kg

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196 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

^* * Oh I mother, mother,' exclaimed the boy,

* forgive me, forgive me I *

** * Bring him up to the lamp,' said my sister,

* that I may see his face.*

" * Ah I mother, I wish I had never left But-
termuth,' sobbed the poor boy, *and I never
would, only that stepfather was always a beating
me.*

" * *Tis he, sure enough,* said my sister, * and
a pretty business he has made of it ; but he was
always a good-for-nothing chap, and I was iii
hopes I was rid of him.'

" * Well, dang my buttons I if ever 1 seed such
an hunnatural mother in all my bom days,* said
one of the policemen.

** * No, nor I neither,' said the other.

'' * I entreat you to let this unfortunate boy
go,' said I to the policeman, slipping at the same
time a five-shilling piece into his hand, * his
mother can no longer wish you to detain him.*

•* * But 1 will not take charge of him, that I
won't,' said she. • 1*11 never be hampered any
more with children ; and as for this scape-
grace*

" * Oh I mother have pity on me,* sobbed the
boy.

*^ My heart was melted : I took the unfortu-

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 197

nate youth by the hand, led him into the house,
the policeman making no objection, and eyen
my servant was touched to tears, while the
unnatural mother was wholly unmoved. He
devoured some bread with a voraciousness that
proved he had been famishing ; and he was so
thin, that he was almost reduced to a skeleton.
I had a bed prepared for him, in spite of the
fears openly expressed in his presence by his
mother, that he would rob the house during the
night i and my servant, previous to his taking
possession of it, supplied him with soap and
warm water in the scullery, to remove the dirt
with which he was begrimed. I was obliged
to ask my sister to cease uttering the bitter
reproaches with which she overwhelmed him,
and which drew tears from him.

*' ' I told you,' said she ' before you took him
out of the hands of the police, that I would not
take charge of him, so now you must be answer-
able for him, and a troublesome job you will
have, I can teU you.'

" When I left my chamber the next morning,
I discovered that my sister had taken her de-
parture. She had written me a few lines, say-
ing that the sight of her graceless son was so
painful to her, that she could not remain under

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198 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

the same roof with him ; and that she might
hear no more of him, she would not furnish me
with her address. She hoped I would not have
cause to repent my folly in taking him into the
house; hut, if I had, I must rememher it was
entirely contrary to her advice.

" * The poor boy is very ill, ma'am,' said my
servant : his head wanders, and he talks such
wild things.'

** I found him in a high state of delirium,
imploring to be forgiven, and calling on his
mother to have pity on him. I could not re-
strain my tears, as I listened to the incoherent
ravings of the poor boy, and marked the care-
worn face on which starvation had made such
ravages. I sent for a physician, who after
attentively examining the unfortunate youth,
declared that he could hold out no hopes of his
recovery. A violent fever had seized him, and
his constitution was so undermined by being so
long exposed to the hardships and privations of
extreme poverty, that he soon sunk under it.
His reason was restored a few hours before he
breathed his last He looked around in vain
for his mother, and besought me to implore her
forgiveness for him. All that kindness could
effect to soothe his last hgurs was done for him»

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THE LOTTERY OP LIFE. 199

and his expressions of gratitude and resigna-
tion, proved that he possessed a nature on which
kind treatment would have produced the hap*
piest result, had life been spared him. I saw
him consigned to a humble grave, close to that
which held my own lost child, and was thank-
ful that his last hours were passed beneath a
friendly roof, and his eyes closed by an aunt's
hands.

*' Slowly did the time pass, my dear Richard,
and anxiously did I count it during the first
year's absence of my husband. Every ship that
left Barbadoes brought me letters from him,
breathing affection and impatience to return to
me ; but fresh difficulties were presented every
day to the final arrangement of the business
that had taken him there, and I experienced
all the sickness of heart produced by hope de-
ferred, as the period of our re-union was from
month to month protracted. I heard nothing
of my sister, and my recollections of her were
so fraught with pain, that I prayed I might see
her no more, unless it pleased the Almighty to
vouchsafe to change her heart.

'< Henry had frequently mentioned in his
letters, having formed a friendship with a Mr.
Herbertson, a rich merchant at Barbadoes, who

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200 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE,

pleased with his society, had shown him the
utmost hospitality and kindness. This friend,
an old bachelor, without any near relations,
proposed to take Henry into partnership in his
business, and even talked of making him his
heir, if, after a longer intimacy, he continued
to like him as well as he then did.

"* These offers, however tempting,' wrote
Henry, * I should not think myself justified
in accepting, until I had perfectly wound up
the complicated affisdr that has brought me
here, and return to England to close all ac-
counts with the firm in Mincing -lane, from
whom I have experienced such good treat-
ment When this is accomplished, I will, if you
my dear Lucy, have no objection, avail myself
of Mr. Herbertson's kind intentions in my
favour, and conduct you to the West Indies,
where such an unexpected and brilliant pros-
pect opens itself to us.'

^< At length a letter arrived, stating that the
afiair on which he had been so long employed
was finally terminated ; and that my husband^s
passage was taken in the first homeward-bound
ship. How great was my joy at this intelli-
gence, and how was my impatience for our
meeting increased by the knowledge that a few

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 201

months must now restore him so fondly loved
to me. I became restless and nervous from
the moment that I knew he had embarked.
Every breeze, however gentle, alarmed — and
every murky cloud terrified me. If the shutter
of my chamber moved at night, I fancied there
was a storm, and arose in an agitation that
precluded sleep for many hours after.

'* At length the joyful intelligence reached
me, that the ship in which Henry had sailed was
arrived in the Downs, and I instantly set off
for Portsmouth to meet him. It was a fine day
in spring, and every object in nature looked so
bright, that I felt as if all around sympathized
in the happiness with which my heart was
overflowing at the prospect of soon being
pressed in the arms of my dear husband. Every
mile-stone passed was noted with pleasure, as
bringing me nearer to him I so longed to meet,
and anticipations of delight filled my whole
souL Arrived at Portsmouth, I hurried to the
place indicated, and there learned that the pas-
sengers of the Orient had disembarked a few
hours before, and were staying at the Crown-
hoteL I flew rather than run to that inn, and,
breathless with joyful agitation, inquired for
Henry.

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202 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

" * Mr. Chatterton did you say ma'am ?' asked
the pert-looking waiter. — * Mary Chamber-
maid, show this lady to No. 18, the sick gea-
tleman's room.'

" • Sick, sick V reiterated I, with an agonj
proportioned to the joy that only a moment
before made my heart palpitate so quickly.

^^ * Yes, ma'am, the gentleman was brought
here half an hour ago, very poorly.'

*^I clung to the banister of the stairs foi
support, for I felt myself becoming so faint thai
I could hardly stand, yet I made a desperate
effort to ascend, and at length reached the dooi
of No. 18. I trembled so violently, that th(
chambermaid humanely lent me her arm, and
uttered something about her hopes that the
poor gentleman would soon get better.

*^ It now occurred to me, that if my husbanci
was indeed so ill as he was represented to be,
the sight of me, without due preparation, might
prove dangerous to him ; so I asked the cham-
bermaid to enter the room and announce that ]
was arrived. I heard her do this; but J
listened in vain for the tones of that dear and
well-known voice, and, nearly excited to mad
ness by the fears this silence awakened, I opened
the door and tottered into the room. There

y Google

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 203

Stretched on a bed, his face as pale as the pillow
on which his head reposed, lay my poor Henry,
seemingly unconscious of all that passed around
him. I uttered no cry, though I felt ready to
drop, but staggered towards the bed, trembling
lest its occupant was indeed lifeless. I touched
that emaciated hand, and he faintly opened his
eyes, recognized me, and made an effort to rise
and embrace me; and then, overpowered by
the attempt, relapsed into insensibility. The
medical man, who had been sent for previous to
my arrival, now came, and the captain of the
Orient soon followed. He was a kind-hearted
man, who had taken a great interest in his
unfortunate passenger, and who had done all
that lay in his power for him. He told me,
that the rupture of a blood-vessel in the chest,
occasioned by violent sea-sickness, had reduced
my husband to his present weak state ; and he
tried to encourage those hopes of his recovery,
that it was but too evident to me that the
doctor, who was present, did not authorize.
Alasl a few hours justified my worst fears.
Henry breathed his last before ten o'clock that
night, without ever being able to utter a word,
or even to show that he was conscious of my
presence. How fearful was the transition, from

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204 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

the joyful anticipations of the morning to the
overwhelming grief of that night I Even now,
though so many years have since passed, I
cannot think of it without tears." And here
poor Mrs. Chatterton wept hitterly.

** I spent the next day in a stupor of grief, that
left me helpless and hopeless. Incapahle of
acting or reflecting, I was alive only to the con-
sciousness of the overwhelming hlow that had so
unexpectedly crushed me, when I was indulging
in blissful anticipations of the future. And there
lay the object, on which every hope of happiness
had rested, cold and motionless, insensible to the
agony I was enduring ; the pale and rigid face
seemed to mock the anguish that filled my soul,
and chilled my burning lips as I pressed them
to that marble brow, over which my tears fell
unheeded. And was it thus my Henry was
restored to me, after nearly three long and
weary years of absence, cheered only by the
prospect of his return? I addressed him by
the fondest epithets, as if he could hear the
words of afiection that were once so soothing
to his ear, and I almost expected to see those
pale and rigid lips move to answer my passionate
ejaculations. That was a dreadful day I The
bright sun came streaming into the windows.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 205

and its beams fell on that still, cold brow,
rendering it even more ghastly. I shut out
the light, whose splendour formed such a con-
trast with the darkness that filled my soul,
and I turned with loathing from the sounds of
laughter, and the music of a hand-organ in the
street, angered that sunshine or gaiety should
exist, while he on whose life my every hope of
happiness rested, was sleeping in death, and
could never more enjoy either. Night brought
better thoughts. In the silence and dim light
of the chamber of death, I could pray for the
resignation hitherto denied me ; and as I knelt
by the bed on which all that remained to me of
him so fondly loved rested, I felt that in prayer
must I henceforth alone seek for consolation,
imtil summoned to join him, ' where the wicked
cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'
" Never had 1 experienced the efficacy of
prayer as on that night. Now that all hope
of happiness here had forsaken me, I looked
beyond the grave to find it by a reunion with
my lost Henry and our child, and dwelt with
satisfaction on the reflection of the brevity of
life, and the frail tenure of that existence which
now separated me from the loved and lost. I
could not then think it possible that a long life

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206 THE LOTTERY OP LIFE.

could be lent me when deprived of all that made
it desirable, and dreamt not that I should live
to be the old woman you now see, and who
calmly relates the trials that then filled her
heart with such intense grief.

** How strange and inscrutable is the human
heart! mine, in its agony, shrimk at the idea
of bearing the load of existence — become so
oppressive by the loss of him I loved. Yet,
now that age has deadened its feelings, and
blunted its sensibility, — when I have outlived
nearly all the friends of my youth and maturity,
— I can look forward with satisfaction to a pro-
tracted span of life, though subjected to all the
infirmities from which old age is never exempt.

** I experienced the utmost kindness from the
hostess of the inn and her husband, and on the
second day after the demise of my poor hus-
band, I attended his remains to their last sad
resting-place, and saw them placed by the side
of our boy and my poor nephew. How solemn
was the service read over him I Every word of
it was impressed on my memory. Never can I
forget the pang that shot through my heart as
the first shovel-full of earth fell on his coffin.
It seemed as if now indeed we were separated
for ever, and a fresh sense of my bereavement

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 207

was experienced. As the earth closed over the
coffin, until the last hit of it was hid from my
aching sight, I bent forward loth to part from
it ; and then exhausted by my sorrow, I sank
on a low tomb near his grave, unable to tear
myself from the spot. How it jarred my nerves
to overhear the common-place conversation of
the men employed in completing the grave I I
felt indignation mingle with my grief that they
could thus talk and jest, while I was over-
whelmed with sorrow ; but when one of them
broke into a popular song, I could support my
vicinity to them no longer, and with trembling
limbs and a breaking heart, I hurried to the
coach that was waiting for me, casting many a
glance behind at the mound of earth that
covered the remains of him so dear to me.

** When I entered my home again, — that home
80 lately left with joyful anticipation of meeting
with my poor Henry, and of returning to it
with him, — ^how great was my anguish I Pre-
viously to leaving town, I had taken out his
clothes, and had them carefully brushed. His
linen was placed on clothes-horses, for the
purpose of being aired. His hat and gloves
were on the commode ; and his writing apparatus
all arranged by my own hands, to be ready for

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208 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

his use when we arrived, met my sight ; while
he^ for whom these fond preparations had been
so lately made, — where was he ? Those only
who have been in a similar situation can ima-
gine the vivid emotions caused by beholding
the apparel, or objects used by the loved and
lost. The shock occasioned by the death seems
renewed, and yet there are moments, when look-
ing at these well-known articles, that one doubts
that he to whom they belonged is indeed gone
for ever. How passionately did I press them
to my lips, and bedew them with my fast falling
tears I How vain and empty sounded the trite
words of consolation uttered by my servant ! I
felt almost angry at her well-meaning but use-
less attempt to comfort me, and sought my bed
that I might avoid her presence. And there
were the two pillows arranged. Oh I you know
not — you cannot know what I experienced on
seeing them, and yet I would not have the one,
formerly used by him, removed for all the world ;
and even still that pillow is always placed next
to mine, and my head will rest on it in the
grave.

" You are young, Mr. Richard, and as yet
have had no troubles, so you cannot know the
tenderness with which a bereaved heart clings '

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 209

to aught that reminds one of happier days.
I am rich in relics, sacred as having belonged
to himi and though valueless to others, I would
not part with them for treasures that might
tempt many a stately dame.

dbyGoogk

210

CHAPTER X.

*^ The firm behaved to me with the utmost
kindness. They paid me a year's salary of
my poor Henry, and the housekeeper who had
presided for many years over this establish-
ment, having soon after died, they offered me
her vacant situation, which I have now filled
forty-five years with satisfaction to my em-
ployers and to myself, and I trust also to those
who board and lodge in this establishment, and
to whose comfort I can conscientiously say I
have done all in my power to administer. It
seems but as yesterday that I came here bowed
down with grief, yet thankf al for having a home
provided for me.

" Time is a wonderful consoler, Mr. Richard,
and when joined to religion can effect miracles.
At first, I would weep for hours in my cham-

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 211

ber, and felt a melancholy pleasure in the in-
dulgence. Nay, for months after, if but for a
moment I forgot my sorrow and gave way to
a smile, I used to be seized with remorse, and
bitterly reproach myself that I could thus
forget my poor Henry. But this weak indul-
gence of grief proved its own remedy, for
that which commenced in real sorrow, after a
year or so, became a habit, and imagination
was called in to the aid of memory to sustain
the regret, I sinfully thought it my duty to
keep up.

'* Such is human natute, that we more fre-
quently destroy grief than grief destroys us.
We become, in the course of time, accustomed
to the losses and privations which at first we
deemed insupportable, and the sting is often
removed from the heart, before the eye has
ceased to weep.

" As years rolled on, I learned to take an in-
terest in the humble duties I was called on to
discharge. I could think of other and|happier
days, without the anguish experienced during
my first years of widowhood, and having sur-
rounded myself with the furniture and other
objects that had belonged to my former abode,
I could, when alone, summon up the memory

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212 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE,

of the loved and lost, recalled by the sight of
what had been so familiar to them. I have
met with invariable kindness from the firm,
and with a friendly attention from the elder
clerks. Indeed, the younger ones have not
been uncivil, except that sometimes I have
thought — ^but it might only be fancy — that they
did not show the interest that might have been
expected, to the story to which you, my dear
young friend, have listened with such patience
and sympathy."

A few days after Mrs. Chatterton had nar-
rated her simple history to me, my sister Mar-
garet arrived in town, and took up her abode
with that kind and excellent woman, who re-
ceived her with the greatest cordiality. I ex-
perienced the utmost pleasure in seeing my dear
sister again, and felt highly gratified at finding
the progress she had made in her education
during my absence. Nor was I the only per-
son to whom her presence afibrded satisfaction,
for Messrs. Murdoch and Burton showed an
interest in this new addition to the dinner-
table, very pleasing to me, while the junior
clerks became more particular in their dress,
and appeared less anxious to escape from the
little circle assembled round the tea-table of

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

213

itterton of an eveniDg. I had no oc-
counsel Margaret with respect to the
1 which she ought to conduct herself
he young men with whom she found
ssociated. Nothing could be more
»r correct than her behaviour towards
bile, to the elderly gentlemen, she
hat attention so becoming from the
the old, — an attention which seemed
oliarly gratifying to them.

this time, my young friend Percy
r arrived in London from Cambridge,

wrote to request me to call on him at
able hotel in the west-end. I hurried
3xt morning by seven o'clock, in order
ight be back in time for entering my
the usual hour ; and was not a little
1 at finding the porter of the hotel half

his chair, and two or three yawning
sed waiters reclining on benches in the
^en I asked to be shown to Mr. Percy
jr*s room, they all rubbed their eyes as
n them, and looked at me with perfect
ment pictured in their faces.

Percy Mortimer I" repeated one of
perciliously. " Why, he has not been

/•

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214 THE LOTTERT OF LIFE.

three hours in his bed, and I dare say, would
little like to be awakened out of his first sleep
at such an unseasonable hour as this/'

" But I have come by his own request.**

** Did he name this hour ?'*
* ^* No, certainly he did not ; he asked me to
come to him as soon as possible, and I only got
his note last night at eleven o'clock.'*

" Oh I then you are the person he expected
last night ?'* said the waiter, staring imperti-
nently at me. ** Had you come to him then you
would, in all probability, be now in your bed,
as he is, for he did not let any of his guests go
away until past four o'clock this morning."

" I must see him, however,'* said I, •* so pray
show me his room.**

" If you tviU insist on disturbing him, mind
that I warned you against it, and take the blame
on yourself;** and so saying, the waiter con-
ducted me to a chamber, the door of which he
opened, and then retired. A loud snoring pro-
claimed that my friend was asleep, but I hesi-
tated not to disturb his slumber, a task I found
more diflSculty in accomplishing than I had
anticipated, for it was not until I had repeat-
edly, and somewhat roughly, too, shaken him

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 215

by the shoulder, that he awoke, and even then,
he was some minutes before he became con-
scious of my presence.

" Let me sleep, and be to you I** mur-
mured he, yawning and stretching himself.
" What the devil do you want ? Let me sleep,
I tell you again, for I have a splitting head-
ache."

When at length he opened his eyes, he ex-
claimed— " What, is it you, my dear Richard ?"
and he shook me heartily by the hand. His
was in so high a state of fever, that I could
readily credit his assertion of having, as he
said, a splitting headache. "Now, that you
have awoke me, ring the bell, and have the
windov^s opened ; and do, my dear fellow, order
me some soda-water, with a little brandy in it,
for that infernal champagne last night has made
me as feverish and thirsty as the devil."

I cannot express the surprise I felt at hearing
my friend interlard his discourse with phrases
that, when we parted, he would have been as
unwilling as myself to utter. The tacit admis-
sion, too, of the previous nighfs excess, shocked
as much as it astonished me. But when day-
light was admitted into his chamber, and its
beams fell on his pale and haggard countenance,

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216 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

I could hardly repress the exclamation of alarm
that rose to my lips at his altered looks.

** Why, Dick, what an outlandish-looking
animal vou arel" said he. "Who the devil
would suppose that you are a denizen of Lon-
don ? By Jove ! you look ten times more coun-
trified than our High-street shopmen at Oxford.
Why the deuce do you not dress a little more
like other people ?"

This question rather annoyed me, I confess,
for I had put on my best suit, and truth to say,
thought myself a very presentable person. Some-
thing of what was passing in my mind must
have been revealed by my face, for Percy Mor-
timer, with a kindness that reminded me of
former times, said —

" Come, old fellow, never mind ; you shall
have a coat built by Berton, pantaloons made
by Pike, a hat from Denizard, and boots
from Gradelle. I'll teach you to tie a cravat
h'la^mode — and if, when thus equipped, you
will but learn to move a little more like other
people, and look less sanctimonious, I will not
be ashamed to introduce you among my set,
who are, I assure you, the most fashionable at
Christchurch. We kept it up very late last
night } Elmsdale, the pleasantest fellow in the

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 217

world when he chooses, was in high force, and
Asherwood quite himself. They'll astonish you,
my boy, I can assure you ; but when you get
used to them, you'll like them amazingly."

** You forget that my time is so much occu-
pied, that I have no leisure to enjoy even your
society, my dear Percy," replied I. " I must be
in the counting-house every morning by nine,
and cannot leave it before five in the evening."

'* But from five in the afternoon, the time at
which we generally sally out for the first time in
the day, until nine next morning, your time is
surely your own ? "

** I devote the evenings to reading aloud to
my sister and Mrs. Chatterton, who is really a
second mother to me."

" What, do you never go to the theatres, or
seek the relaxation of a sly supper at a tavern,
with some of your fellow-clerks ?"

" Never."

" By Jove I I suspect you are turned me-
thodist, Dick."

<' / am unchanged, Percy ; the alteration is
in you."

Here the waiter announced the arrival of a
fashionable tailor, hatter, and bootmaker, who
were ordered to come up in succession; and

VOL. I. L

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218 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

while he retired to execute Mortimer's instruc-
tions, the latter said —

" Now is your time, Dick ; my tradespeople
shall measure you for proper habiliments ; foi
I swear, in your present dress you look lik<
nothing but a methodist preacher/'

" Excuse me, Percy, I cannot incur mme
cessary expense/'

" Why, what a stingy hound you are grown
I did not, however, mean that you should pa]
for the clothes I They can be put down in m;
bills, and the old governor will pay for them!

" Pardon me, dear Percy, but I really cannc
suffer this."

" Are you grown so proud, Richard, as t
refuse a trifling present from me?"

" No, indeed, Percy ; but the dress that suit
your station would be so wholly unfit for mini
that my wearing it would expose me to the ani
madversions and ridicule of those with whom
live."

" Don't be obstinate Dick, there's a goo
fellow ; let me order the things, and then to
can appear with me in the set with whom
associate ; whereas, in your present dress, it i
impossible. You shall come and meet tbei
here when I give them dinners, as I shall coe

r

>

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE, 219

tiDually do ; you shall go to the play with us,
and after that to some of the petit soupersy
when you shall see some of the prettiest and
gayest women in London. Such creatures I by
Jove, it will do you good to look at them I'^

** Impossible, Percy : I must not be tempted
to do that which my judgment disapproves."

Here the exclamation of ridicule, which I
saw by the expression of Percy^s face was ready
to escape his lips, was interrupted by the en*
trance of a young man, who, though his dress
bore evident symptoms of having been hastily
put on, and was not such as he would have vo-
luntarily presented himself in before strangers,
yet he could not be mistaken for any thing but
a person of birth and fashion. With him en-
tered, unceremoniously, two men, whose ruf-
fianly appearance offered a striking contrast to
the elegance of his. Short, and thick set, with
countenances in which a hardened expression of
vulgarity and impudence shone pre-eminently,
they had a peculiar insolence of manner that
might have revealed their calling to any one less
ignorant on such subjects than myself.

<* How is this, my dear Elmsdale ?'' said
Percy Mortimer, r^arding with undisguised

l2

dbyGoogk

220 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

astonishment the two intruders who stood close
to his friend.

" The truth is, my dear fellow/' replied Lord
Elmsdale, *^ these two gentlemen (pointing with
a sarcastic smile to the men) disturbed my slum-
bers at a most unconscionable hour this morn-
ing, and have taken such a fancy to my com-
pany, that I have not been able to induce them
to relinquish it ever since ; nay more, they
seem determined to lodge me in apartments not
quite so commodious as those I have hitherto
been in the custom of inhabiting ; but where
they think they may always be sure of finding
me.*'

'^ His lordship likes a joke," said one of the
men, with a smile that revealed a set of teeth
resembling in colour nothing so much as the
keys of an old harpsichorde.

" Ay, ay — his lordship's a vag," observed the
other.

" Vy, the upshot of this here matter is, sir,"
said the least ill-looking of the two men, ** that
my lord must go with us to a sponging-house, a
thing, his lordship by no manner of means likes,
as why, bekase it is not the most hagreeablest
place in the world for a gemman to find him-

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 221

self, unless he has a friend who will settle the
business for him/'

" Only fancy, Mortimer," said Lord Elms-
dale, •* that rascally scoundrel, M errington the
tailor, whom I have recommended to all my
friends, has had the impudence and ingratitude

to have me arrested for his d d bill. Is it

not too bad?*'

" It is shameful," replied Percy Mortimer ;
but what is to be done ?"

*• That is precisely what I came to ask you,
my dear fellow," said Lord Elmsdale.

<* I am as poor as Job, and not half so
patient," observed Percy Mortimer. "The
governor has been abominably stingy of late,
and has threatened to cut off the supplies until I
retrench, a thing the most difficult in the world
to accomplish, as no one ever knows when to
commence? How much is the sum?"

•* Not a great deal," answered Lord Elms-
dale, '* only three hundred ; but my purse is so
drained by buying Barrington'd hunters, that I
have not a guinea to spare."

** Sell the liunters," said. Percy Mortimer;
'* I know Asherwood is dying to have them."

" What ! part with my horses I No ; hang

dbyGoogk

222 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

me, if I do I and above all to such a screw as
Asherwood. Why, would you believe it, the
fellow had the cool impertinence to write me a
note an hour ago, in answer to my request to
come and assist me, that he could not bear to
see a friend in distress, and therefore must
decline/'

** You have not yet told me the amount of
the sum for which you are in * durance vile,' "
said Percy Mortimer.

" Only three hundred," replied Lord Elms-
dale.

" You forget the costs, my lord," interrupted
one of the bailifiB ; *' they come up to forty-
eight — seventeen and eleven-pence.**

"Three hundred and fifty will cxjver the
whole," resumed Lord Elmsdale ; " and if you
can lend me that sum, my dear Mortimer, you
will really oblige me."

" *Pon my soul I I have not so much at my
banker's at this moment, and my allowance will
not become due for two months," assured
Percy.

" Well, if you will accept a bill at two
months for me, it will do quite as well," said
Lord Elmsdale, with the utmost coolness; "and

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. €23

I dare say this gentlemaD/' turning to one of
tlie sheriff's officers, <* will he able to get it dis-
counted for me.'

•* Vy, you see, my lord,* answered the bai-
liff, ** money never was so scarce as at present,
so I don't know whether I could get it done or
not. There's the Marquess of Willerton, who is
willing to pay sixty per cent, for as much money
as he can get, and will take any quantity of
champagne and claret at the lender's own
prices ; and the Earl of Hardingbrook, who
does not object to pay sixty-five per cent, and is
as generous as a prince into the bargaui.
When noblemen behave as sich, and hact in
this princely manner, why money becomes
scarcer and scarcer j so I don't think I could
get a bill cashed for you for less than the noble-
men I have mentioned pay."

''No, hang it! that is too much, and I
really cannot consent to such usurious interest,"
said Lord Elmsdale.

'* Then you had better make up your mind
at vonst to come with us," answered the sheriff's
officer gruffly ; " for we have already lost all the
morning waiting on you ; and as for usurious
interest, I don't know what you mean, when
the law has now passed to purtect honest men

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224 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

by enabling 'em to get as high an hinterest as
they can for their money. And a good job too,
for it was a shaftie to see bow when a man was
80 hobliging as to lend money to keep a gem-
man out of prison, that same gemman or his
friends would take advantage of the law against
usury, and cheat him. But matters are now
changed, and fathers and guardians are fit to
go mad because they can't hindict men for
usury ; and those as. has money to lend, drink
a bumper every day to the health of the kind
and sensible gemmen as had the new law

" Will you give me your acceptance, my dear
Mortimer ?'' asked Lord Elmsdale ; '' for I see
there is nothing left but to comply with the
terms of these harpies."

<< If you will pledge me your honour it shall
be paid, I will accept it," answered Percy Mor-
timer.

" I give you my honour," replied Lord Elms-
dale.

<* His lordship has given that to so many,"
whispered one of the men, *' that he can't have
much of it left"

** Ring the bdl, and send for a stamp," said
Percy Mortimer.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 225

** There's no hoccasion/* observed Mr. Ben
Eliason, the sheriff's officer, drawing out a large
pocket-book, *' I always keeps a few ready in
this here book in case of haccidents/'

" Draw the bill at three months date, for
four hundred pounds/' said Percy Mortimer.

<< That won't do, sir, no vays at all, bekase
there will be sixty pounds . for the premium,
and ten pounds for the interest of the sixty, so
that the bill must be made out for four hundred
and seventy pounds."

*• What I is it possible that you have the
conscience to charge interest on so large a pre-
mium ?" exclaimed Lord Elmsdale.

" Vy, my lord, I have a large family, and
brings 'em up respectably, and that's hacting
haccording to my principle. I also expects as
how your lordship will take six dozen of my
t)est champagne, at seven pound a dozen.
There aint better to be had in all Lunnon,
and it's as cheap as dirt."

" What the devil am^ I to do with your bad
wine ?" demanded Lord Elmsdale.

" Vy, as other folks do, my lord — drink it."

** Heaven defend me from inflicting such a
trial on my constitution! Why, I was half

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226 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE,

I

poisoned the other day when dining with Loi
Hardinghrooke ; and your confession of havb
made him take your champagne, expldns tl
cause/' ohserved Lord Elmsdale.

" Vy, then my lord, you'll add another U

\ per cent to the bill, or I will not discount i

r that's all ; so do as you please."

^^ I have no house to receive it," mutter<

I Lord Elmsdale.

;| " Vy, can't you send it to some of them the

young ladies, as you are friends with at tl
hopera? 1*11 be bound not one of 'em w
refuse it, and 'twill do 'em a deal of good, po
young creaturs I into the bargain."

Both Lord Elmsdale and Percy M ortimi
laughed at this suggestion of Mr. Ben Eliaso
who resumed, ** It's quite true, my lord, tl
young creaturs takes to it like mother's miU
and if there is no lady to whom you could sei
the vine, vy p'raps this here gemman vould'i
hobject to take it, for he seems a wery hobligii
gemman ; and, moreover, as he has hacceptf
the bill, it would be a genteel compliment"
" No, no 1" said Percy Mortimer, " 1 wi
have nothing to say to it."

" Veil, my lord, I must say as how yo«

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE, 227

lordship is very hard on me, and that too after
I behaved so purlitely to you. Vy, you know
yourself I might have harrested you yesterday
in the park» when you was a hescorting that
there beautiful countess as lives in Grosvenor-
square, or have nabbed you in St. James's
afore all them there chaps in the club vindows,
vich would have set 'em a chattering for a veek,
for they are mighty glad whenever a friend
falls into a trouble, though they pretend to be
so wery sorry, and talk and talk until they have
told it to every one they meet, always making
the matter a little worse than it really is."

** Well, then, if it must be so, add the two
per cent to the bill," said Lord Elmsdale ; ** bet-
ter do that than poison some unfortunate person
with your wine."

The two per cent, was added, the bill ac-
cepted, and given into the hands of Mr. Ben
Eliason ; and Lord Elmsdale said to that per-
sonage, '^ I conclude, sir, that I am now released
from the pleasure of your society ?"

** Not yet, my lord ; I cannot let you go free
huntil I have searched the sheriflTs-court, to see
if there are any other writs against you. I'll
send off my man to examine in a jiffey. Has

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228 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

your lordship got a sovereign in your pocket to
^ve him to pay the expense?"

"Whatl more to pay?" exclaimed Lord
Elmsdale, putting his hand into his waistcoat
pockets, one after the other ; and then drawing
it out, he said '^ he had forgotten his purse, and
asked Percy Mortimer to lend him a sovereign? "
with which request the latter having complied,
the gold coin was transferred into the hand of
Mr. Ben Eliason ; and I, finding that it only
wanted a quarter to nine, took a hasty leave of
my Mend, and hurried off to' my office, which I
entered hreakfastless, and pitying him for the
difficulties which I plainly saw must soon en-
viron him, from the extravagant and reckless
associates with which he seemed to be sur-
rounded, and the imprudent fadlity with which
he met their demands on him.

The next day Percy Mortimer came to me
at five in the afternoon, the hour he knew I
should be released from my office. Dressed in
a style of fashion peculiar to what are called
dandies, I could scarcely have recognized my
friend, so wholly altered was his appearance.
Pale and haggard, his looks but too well denoted
that the previous night had been passed in one

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 229

of those orgies alike destructive to health and
morals. After the first salutation was over, —

'' I want you, my dear Richard/' said he, "to
render me a service. The governor, as I told
you yesterday, has grown stingy, and will not
stand my demands for money."

Seeing the surprise expressed in my coun-
tenance, he added, " you look incredulous, but
by Jove I I have stated the fact.''

" What I your father ? — the most generous of
men, and the most indulgent of parents I You
must indeed have far exceeded all the bounds
of moderation, if you have exhausted his
patience, my dear Percy."

<< I must confess, Richard, that / have been
a little imprudent ; but young men will be young
men, and the governor has pulled me up some-
what sharply : but to the point — I want money,
and have come to you to know if you can pro-
cure me a loan ?"

" The firm will surely advance you a loan
sooner than to me, — indeed I dare not propose
such a measure to them," replied I.

" Why who the devil ever dream't of asking
you to do such a thing ? and as for my asking
them, I would just as soon — ay, and sooner too —
apply to the old governor himself. No, what I

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230 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

want is, for you to try if, among any of your
friends, jews or gentiles, you could obtain me
five hundred pounds ?**

** I have few acquaintances in London, my
dear Percy, and still fewer friends. I know not
a single money-lender in London, and conse-
quently cannot render you the service you re-
quire; and even if I could, the specimen of
extortion, so ruinous in its consequences, which
I witnessed yesterday in your .room, would pre-
clude me from adopting any step to facilitate
such loans. I have two years and a half salary,
nearly untouched, and it is entirely at your ser-
vice. Do not be offended at my proposing so
slight an obligation to one to whom I owe so
many and weighty ones ; and, trifling as the
sum is to you, who are accustomed to a large
expenditure, it may prevent your having re-
course to money-lenders."

" Heaven help your innocence I my poor
Richard," Percy replied, " the sum you have
so wisely saved, and so generously offered to
lend me, would be but as a drop of water in the
ocean, to relieve my wants. I have lent all my
ready money, to my college friends, and have,
besides, accepted their bills to a very serious
amount, so that I now find myself positively

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 231

without funds to meet the exigencies of the
moment, or to pay my own tradespeople, who
are becoming clamorous and importunate."

" But can, or will none of your college friends
repay any of the sums they owe you ?"

" Yes, when their governors die, but not be-
fore. Why, bless youl they are all even worse
off in their pecuniary affairs than I am, for their
credit is less good, it being well known to the
money-lenders that they have raised the wind,
by post-obits payable on the death of their gover-
nors, to nearly the full value pf their rent-rolls,
whereas I have not yet had recourse to this
measure, and the rogues know my governor is
rich* The fact is, I like my father too well to
calculate on his death, although he is grown
somewhat stingy of late; but I suppose the
insufficiency of his allowance proceeds from his
ignorance of the expensive habits in which
gentlemen commoners indulge in Christchurch.
You cannot imagine the demand for money
there. .Why, the price of three hunters will
swallow up nearly a year's allowance. A first-
rate horse cannot be had for much less than
four or five hundred; and two or three hacks
cost from eighty to one hundred each. Then a
stud groom, with his long bills and helpers

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232 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

innumerable, come to a heavy sum, without
counting liveries for the said groom and helpers.
You know not, my dear Richard, what it is to
have a rascally valet, with a weekly book in
which shoe-strings, and tooth-picks, blacking,
and brushes, form the prominent items of an
illegible, ill-spelt, and half-blotted account,
always amounting to a sum that might stock the
shop of a dealer in these articles. Hang me! if
I ever can guess where my fellow gets the money
he swears he pays for me I Add to these, bills
for soda-water, of which beverage an inordinate
quantity is consumed in the mornings at my
chambers, probably because an equally inordi-
nate quantity of wine has been consumed there
the previous night. But there would be no end
to the causes I could assign for my want of cash,
were I to recapitulate even half the drains on
my purse : suffice it to say, that never was pro-
verb more true than that which says, ' that gold
makes itself wings to fly away.' "

'' I have bethought me of a plan,'! said I,
** that may lead to some good. Allow me to
consult my excellent and kind friend, Mrs. Chat-
terton. She has many friends among monied
people, and could perhaps suggest some means
of procuring what you require."

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 233

" Sorely you do not refer to that prosy old
woman who used, and I dare say still continues
to set every one around her asleep hy her long
stories?"

" Yes, Mrs. Chatterton is, I helieve, some-
what addicted to long stories, hut is neverthe-
less one of the most worthy women in the world,
and will, I know, he glad to render you any
service in her power."

" Very well, name my difficulties to her, and
I will call here ahout nine o'clock this evening
to learn the result. What a hore it is that you
should live so far off from the haunts of civiliza-
tion ; hut you can't help it, Richard, so it's no
use talking ahout it. Let me see my old ac-
quaintance, your sister Margaret; for I remem-
ber our childish days perfectly, when I used to
bestow on her pictures, hooks, and playthings,
and she used to clap her hands with joy on see-
ing me approach. Those were pleasant times,
Richard, — ay, pleasanter perhaps than the pre-
sent, the amusement and friends of which are
so expensive. Good-bye until nine o'clock, —
good-bye."

Mrs. Chatterton had waited dinner nearly an
hour for me, an attention I could have well dis-
pensed with, when I saw how ill-humoured it

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234 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

rendered the clerks, senior as well as junior.
When the meal was over, Messrs. Murdoch and
Burton settled at their chess-board, and Messrs.
Bingly, Thomas, and Wilson departed for the
theatre, for half-price enjoyment, of which they
still retained their preference. I mentioned to
Mrs. Chatterton, in the presence of Margaret,
the difficulties of my friend Percy Mortimer.

" 01 brother,'* exclaimed my sister, " I have
five pounds; take them and give them to poor
Mr. Percy Mortimer, who was always so kind
to me."

"What does Margaret say?" asked Mrs.
Chatterton.

I could hardly repress a smile, when I re-
peated to her the innocent girl's offer.

" Bless you, my dear child I" said she, " five
pounds indeed I why, I dare be sworn, one hun-
dred would not be sufficient to meet his wants.
Oh I those young men — those young men — what
terrible spendthrifts they are I And with such
a generous father too, one who refused him
nothing. 'Twill be a heavy blow on Mr. Mor-
timer, that it will, when he finds out his son's
extravagance."

" It will be a still heavier one," said I, " if
he finds that his son has been raising money at

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 235

ruinous interest from usurious money-lenders —
harpies who fatten on the substance of the
unwary."

" Surely Mr. Percy will not have recourse to
such a measure, Richard ? "

" He has no other resource, my dear Mrs.
Chatterton. He requires five hundred pounds
to extricate him from present embarrassments,
fears to provoke his father's anger by applying
to him, and unless some .friend can assist in
finding a loan for him on equitable terms, he
will fall into the hands of the jews."

" This must not be — this must not be/' said
Mrs. Chatterton. '* I, yes I, who owe. all I pos-
sess to the firm of which his good father is at
the head, will not suffer it. I, have vested all
my savings in the funds, and they amount to no
inconsiderable sum. I will sell out a portion,
and save this heedless young man from ruin,
and his father from chagrin. But a thought
strikes me. What if Mr. Mortimer should dis-
cover that I have supplied his son with money,
and imagine that in so doing I have encouraged
his extravagance ? And, above all, should the
assistance I mean to offer be the means of
shielding Mr. Percy from the disagreeable but
salutary effects of his imprudence, and so check

•

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236 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

the reflections likely to be awakened by annoy-
ance, I should never forgive myself. I will see
the young gentleman, and speak to him, and
endeavour to make him sensible of the folly of
his ways. If I perceive that he is resolved to
be wise in future, I will advance even all my
little fortune; and perhaps this act of confidence
and good-nature, by which I expose my declin-
ing days to the chance of poverty, may, if he
has a good heart, assist in working his refor-
mation.''

While we were yet conversing on this subject,
Percy Mortimer entered the room. He ap-
peared to be much struck with the alteration
and improvement in my sister Margaret, who,
from the pretty child he had left, had grown
into a blooming and beautiful girl, who received
his friendly greetings with a modesty and grace
that increased his apparent admiration. There
was a gravity mingled with the kindness of
Mrs. Chatterton's reception that seemed to
make an impression on him ; and when, after
having made a signal to Margaret to retire to
her own chamber, the good old lady, with great
good sense and feeling, pointed out to Percy
Mortimer the inevitable ruin he would draw
on himself, and the sorrow he would entail on

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 237

his excellent father, it was evident that she had
not spoken in vain. She then offered him the
loan of five hundred pounds, and the delicacy
with which she did so, made a still more forcible
impression on Percy, whose goodness of heart
enabled him to duly appreciate her kindness.

It was not without considerable reluctance
that he consented to accept her offer, for his
delicacy' shrunk from availing himself of it. At
length, his scruples being vanquished, it was
arranged that the five hundred pounds was to
be withdravm from the funds, and appropriated
to his use as speedily as possible.

Percy proposed to spend the remainder of
the evening with us; and the senior clerks,
being too much engaged with their chess-board
to interrupt or heed our conversation, and the
junior ones being at one of the theatres, we were
enabled to chat with perfect freedom. Mar-
garet, who had been summoned to make tea,
took a part in the discourse, and surprised, as
well as delighted Percy by the cheerfulness,
good sense, and naivetS of her remarks. He
seldom took his eyes off her face, and listened
with untiring interest to her observations. At
half-past eleven o'clock, a late hour for Mrs.
Chatterton and Margaret, though an unusually

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238 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

early one for Percy Mortimer, he took his leave,
declaring that he had not passed so rational or
so agreeahle an evening for a long while, and
expressing his hope that he might he often per-
mitted to repeat the pleasure.

** He is a fine, and I am quite sure, a good
young man," said Mrs. Chatterton, the moment
he had departed.

'< And so handsome," added Margaret, half
unconsciously, her cheek hecoming suffused
with hlushes, as the glance of Mrs. Chatterton's
somewhat grave expression of surprise met her
eye.

*' Yes, Margaret, he is, as you say, handsome,"
observed that worthy woman, looking gravely
at the blushing face of my sister ; '' but as the
old phrase has it, < handsome is that handsome
does ;' and the doings of Mr. Percy Mortimer,
I regret to say, as far at least as prudence goes,
have not been very recommendable."

Margaret blushed still more deeply, and
seemed occupied in intently counting the faded
squares and flowers in the nearly worn-out
carpet ef the room.

The next day, as had been agreed on, Mrs.
Chatterton left the house after breakfast, in
order to instruct her broker to sell out of the

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 239

funds, and returned before mid-dav, bringing
with her five hundred pounds, which were to be
transferred to Percy Mortimer at two o'clock.
Punctual as a lover he arrived precisely at
that hour, and having received the money, and
given his promissory note for the amount, he
still lingered in the apartment, frequently, as
Mrs. Chatterton subsequently told me, looking
anxiously towards the door. At length he in-
quired, but not without evident symptoms of
embarrassment, '* where Margaret was ?"

" She is occupied, sir," answered Mrs. Chat-
terton, somewhat coldly, and he soon after took
his leave.

While we sat chatting in the evening, to our
great surprise Percy Mortimer entered.

'* I am come to ask for a cup of tea," said
he; and then observing the grave aspect of
Mrs. Chatterton, he added, ** I found last even-
ing pass so pleasantly, that I have ventured to
intrude again."

Margaret coloured to her very temples; and
the quickened movement of her heart, visible
by the agitation of the snowy kerchjef that
shaded her bust, betrayed the excitement that
the visit occasioned her. I perceived at a glance
that Percy Mortimer was not a welcome guest

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340 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

to Mrs. Chatterton ; and from the frequent
looks she bent on Margaret, I discovered that
she suspected that my sister was the object that
attracted Percy to pay this unexpected, and to
her, unwished for visit. For myself, I felt so
sincerely attached to this friend of my boyhood,
that his presence afforded me pleasure, and I
almost blamed my good old Mrs. Chatterton for
the reserve and coldness of her manner towards
him. Margaret blushed and stammered every
time Percy addressed her; and though she
seldom raised her eyes from the work which
occupied her delicate fingers, it was plain that
she was perfectly conscious that his were rarely
withdrawn from her fece.

The junior clerks, — who, contrary to their
usual custom of visiting some one of the thea-
tres, had remained at home during the whole
evening, — intently eyed Percy Mortimer, whose
dress appeared to excite no less surprise than
admiration in their eyes. He was, or seemed
to be, hardly aware of their presence ; though
he acknowledged with politeness that of the
senior qjerks, with whom he had, in his boy-
hood, formed a slight acquaintance. When he
had withdrawn, and that Margaret had retired
to her chamber, Mrs. Chatterton told me it

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

was her desire that the visits of Mr. Percy
Mortimer should not be encouraged.

" I perceive," continued that worthy woman,
*' that he is akeady smitten, as it is called, by
your sister ; and more still, that she is but too
well disposed to return his attachment. They
must be kept asunder, my dear Richard } for
it would be but a bad return for the continued
kindness that I have, during so many years ex-
perienced from the firm of Mortimer and Co
and the protection afforded to you by Mr.
Percy's father, were we to give that young
gentleman opportunities for cultivating an at-
tachment to Margaret, which never could be
sanctioned by him. We must also consider
what is due to your sister, whose peace of mind
might be seriously injured, were she much
longer permitted to enjoy the society of one,
who, whatever may be his imprudence, pos-
sesses such agreeable manners and good looks,
that few young women could remain insensible
to his attentions. I know it is hard for you to
repel the approaches of the friend of your child-
hood ; but remember, it is necessary for his
welfare, as well as for that of your sister, and
that the task will become a more difficult one,
the longer it is deferred."

VOL. I. M

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242 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE,

It was impossible to dissent from Mrs. Chat-
terton's opinion ; yet the thought of appearing
cold or ungrateful to Percy was most painful
to me, which she perceiving by my countenance,
kindly undertook to explain our feelings to
Percy Mortimer on his next visit.

The following day, Mrs. Chatterton was sur-
prised by the arrival of a middle-aged man of
gentlemanly manners and appearance, who
having announced himself as her nephew, in-
quired anxiously for tidings of his mother and
brother, with whom he expressed his ardent
desire to share the fortune with which Provi-
dence had been pleased to bless him. He was
deeply affected, when informed that his aunt
could give him no intelligence of his mother,
and that his brother was no more, and evinced
an affection towards her whom he now consi-
dered almost as a parent, that excited a lively
feeling in the breast of that excellent woman.
He revealed to her, that having entered as
cabin-boy on board an Indiaman, he had been
so fortunate as to conciliate the good opinion of
an old gentleman of great wealth returning to
India, after a fruitless search for his relations,
among whom he wished to spend the remaining
years of his life, and to bequeath the fortune

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 243

acquired by business during a forty years'
residence in the burning climes of the east.

Finding neither relative nor friend in Eng-
land, all those whom he had formerly known
having died during his long absence, he deter-
mined to return to Bombay, and spend his de-
clining days among those acquaintances with
whom he had lived during the last years ; and
was on his voyage back, broken in health and
spirits from the disappointment he had encoun-
tered in England, when the attentions he had
experienced from the active and kind-hearted
little cabin-boy, won his goodwill. On arriving
at Bombay, he declared his intention of pro-
viding for the lad, took him to his house, pro-
cured for him good masters ; and having had
reason to be satisfied with his progress in his
studies, and above all with the affectionate de-
votion with which his prot^g6 repaid his kind-
ness, he adopted him as his heir, and twenty
years afterwards died, bequeathing to him his
large fortune.

Mrs. Chatterton carefully concealed from her
nephew the folly and culpability of his mother ;
and he, forgetful of the unkindness and selfish-
ness which marked her conduct in his child-
hood, took every step to discover whether she

M 2

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24* THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

was still living, that he might provide for her.
The advertisements he caused to he inserted in
the newspapers, at length elicited intelligence
of her ; for a person, beneath whose roof she had
expired in a state of distress, answered the
enquiries, by which her son ascertained that
she had contracted another marriage with a
quack doctor, who having plundered her of
nearly all she possessed, deserted her, soon
after which an indigestion, produced by a sur-
feit of her favourite dish, roast goose, purchased
with seven shillings of her last sovereign, put a
period to her existence.

The aunt and nephew being all that now
remained of the family, Mr. Jervis earnestly
pressed his aunt to go and reside with him,
which she having declined, he purchased a
most commodious house for her, which he
caused to be handsomely furnished, and insisted
on her taking possession of it ; settling on her
an ample income, for supplying not only the
comforts, but the elegancies of life.

While Fortune's ever moving wheel was scat-
tering favours on Mrs. Chatterton, the firm of
Mortimer, Allison, Finsbury and Co., to which
she was so sincerely attached, encountered a
severe reverse from the fickle goddess. The

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 245

failure of a great banking-house in India, in
which they were partners, and the pressure of
bankruptcies in America and at home, occur-
ring at the same time, plunged them into such
difficulties, that they were compelled to call a
meeting of their creditors ; and the large for-
tune of Mr. Mortimer, who unfortunately for
himself had permitted his name to remain as a
sleeping partner in the firm, becoming liable
for the debts, was engulphed in the general
ruin. The shock was too much for him, whose
constitution had been weakened by long and
recent iUness. He soon sunk under the blow,
leaving his son Percy nearly penniless, and
without a profession. Then it was that Mrs.
Chatterton proved the gratitude for her late
friend, which she had so often expressed ; for
she entreated her nephew to come forward to
his assbtance, and that worthy man readily
answered to her call.

While they were consulting on the most
efficient means of providing for Percy, he, poor
fellow I awakened from the follies in which he
had lately been plunged, bitterly deplored his
errors, and upbraided himself with a deep re-
morse, for the anxiety and chagrin his reckless
extravagance must have caused his father.

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246 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

Salutary, though painful, were the reflections
in which he now indulged ; and MrsXhatterton,
who witnessed his regrets for the past, and heard
his prudent resolves for the future, no longer
excluded him from her house, where, from every
member of the domestic circle assembled around
her, he experienced the most cordial sympathy
and affection.

Percy Mortimer, bowed down by sorrow, was
a much more interesting, and consequently, a
more dangerous person in the eyes of a girl
like Margaret, than when, enacting the rdle of
a dissipated man of fashion, he seemed conscious
of his own attractions, and doubted not their
effect on others. The love that maidenly
modesty might, and would have concealed from
its object, had his prosperity still placed so great
a disparity between them, now shone forth in
every glance, and modulated every tone of the
low and sweet voice of Margaret, when ad*
dressing him.

While affairs were in this state, Mrs. Chat*
terton was waited on one day by Mr. Bristow,
one of the partners of an eminent solicitors^
house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, who to her great
surprise and joy, acquainted her, that a large
fortune bequeathed to her late husband, with

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 247

reversion to her, now awaited her acceptance.
This unexpected bequest came from Mr. Her-
bertson, who had been several years dead, but
whose will, having been mislaid, was only dis-
covered a short time before, in a box that had
been overlooked in the search made for it by
the executors of the deceased lawyer, in whose
hands it had been placed.

" You are now, madam," said Mr. Bristow,
** in the possession of no less a sum than eighty-
five thousand pounds, — a noble fortune, which
I heartily wish you health to enjoy."

When the first emotions of surprise and joy
had subsided in the heart of Mrs. Chatterton,
she sighed deeply, and tears filled her eyes.
" Ah I " said she, " had my poor Henry, and our
blessed boy, lived to see this day, how happy
would this unexpected acquisition of fortune
have rendered me I To have seen them raised
to affluence, would indeed have been a source
of joy and thanksgiving to me ; but now, an old
and childless widow, fast approaching the tomb
where those blessed objects repose, of what avail
is this vast wealth ? My nephew, now my only
remaining relative, is already in possession of
a large fortune, so needs not any portion of
mine. Ah I had my husband and child lived —

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248 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

but let me not b^ ungrateful, or murmur at
the decrees of an all-wise Providence. Have
I not" — and she looked around the tea-table
where we were seated, and smiling through
her tears, contmued — " have I not children
left? Yes, Richard and Margaret — ay, and
Percy Mortimer too ; ye shall be my children,
and from this hour I adopt you as such. No
thanks, no tears. You, Richard and Margaret,
have behaved towards me with all the affection
and duty that children could show a parent,
and have soothed my declining days. Your
father, Percy, was a father and a friend to me
when I was left alone in the world, and I only
discharge a debt of gratitude, in adopting his
son. Messrs. Allison and Finsbury, too, shall
be assisted, for they are childless, and a few
thousands may be of use. Come and embrace
me, my children, and promise that you will never
forsake your old adopted mother, until you have
laid her in the grave, by the side of those dear
ones whom she has so fondly remembered.
You, my children, Richard and Margaret, lis-
tened to the simple story of the prosy old woman,
without feeling, or at least, without exhibiting
any symptoms of the impatience and disgust
so generally experienced by the young and gay.

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THE LOTTERY O^ LIFE. 249

You shared my tears, when I wept in recount-
ing the heavy trials I had undergone in losing
my poor Henry and oUr boy, and I Wed you
for this sympathy, so precious to a heart that
bad been so long deprived of it. You believed
me, when I told you of my husband's goodness —
a goodness, that while he lived, was the blessing
of my life, and which even now has brought afflu-
ence, that enables me to provide so amply for
those dear to me. Yes, my children, it was
that goodness which no one could live near
him without being sensible of, which won the
esteem of Mr. Herbertson, and induced him to
make the bequest he has done; for what could
he know of me, except that he judged that so
excellent a man as Henry was, could not have
been so fondly attached to an unworthy woman?
This great fortune then, I look on as coming
to me from my dear husband, for it was acquired
solely by his merit and goodness."

The nephew of Mrs. Chatterton, who emu-
lated her in generosity and kindness of heart,
highly approved of her intentions in our favour,
and lent her his assistance in carrying them into
effect. But it was not alone to us that this
excellent woman extended her benefactions.
She liberally assisted the junior clerks of the

M 3

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iSO THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

firm, who had been domiciled with her in the
establishment in which I had the good fortune
to find her ; secured a competency to John Steb-
bings the old porter, and two servants who had
so long waited on her ; and made handsome
presents to the senior clerks, who had, fortu-
nately, by their prudence, secured for themselves
a maintenance. In short, all who had formed a
part of the domestic circle in Mincing-lane, had
reason to bless her. By her generosity I was
enabled to provide for my father and brothers,
by placing them in a larjge farm amply stocked,
where they enjoy all the comforts of life, and
where they have accumulated a considerable
fortune. The debts of Percy Mortimer were
discharged by Mrs. Chatterton, by whose counsel
he determined henceforth to be guided» He
returned no more to college, and his noble
friends at Chrisfchurch, having heard of the
failure of the house to which his father had
belonged, took no trouble to renew their ac-
quaintance with him.

** It is strange," said Percy to me one day,
'* that neither Lords Elmsdale nor Asherton
have ever replied to the letters I wrote them I
Both are deeply in my debt, for I repeatedly
knt them money ; and, as you are aware, I

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 251

accepted a bill for four hundred and seventy
pounds for Elmsdale the day he was arrested by
his tailor."

** Both these lords,*' replied I, " know the
misfortune that has occurred to the firm of
which your lamented father was the head ; and
consequently, imagine that you can no longer
render them the same services that proved se
opportune on former occasions. They there-
fore are disposed, as their silence proves, to
forget an acquaintance from whom they can no
more derive any advantage.''

"But surely Elmsdale will pay the bill I
accepted for him ?"

" I am much inclined to doubt it : he has
just got into parliament, which will protect his
person from arrest; and be assured he will
leave you to pay this bill, which, if I mistake
not, will become due in a few days."

** I cannot think quite so ill of him," said Percy
Mortimer; "although I admit that his un-
feeling and ungrateful conduct, in not replying
to my letters, justifies your suspicions."

In a few days after this conversation I accom-
panied my sister Margaret and Percy Mortimer
to the Exhibition, and while the latter stopped
to speak to a neighbour of his late father^s.

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852 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

Margaret and I paused before a picture from
the admirable pencil of Edwin Landseer,
around which several persons were assembled.
Two young men of the group turned from the
picture, and staring rudely at ray sister, embar-
rassed her so much that she asked me to move
on. I had been so intently admiring the cA^
^ceuvre of art before me, that I had not
observed the impertinence of these young men,
until the proposal of my sister to change our
position, drew my attention to them ; and no
sooner did I look, than I recognised in one of
them. Lord Elmsdale. Unabashed by the
sternness with which I regarded him, he still
continued to gaze at Margaret, whose blushing
cheeks betrayed the annoyance his rudeness
occasioned her.

At this moment Percy Mortimer joined us,
and placing himself by the side of my sister, be-
gan to express his admiration of the picture that
had attracted us. Lord Elmsdale turned his
head aside, and whispering his companion, they
both moved off without betraying any symptom
of recognition of Percy Mortimer, whose face
crimsoned at this open avoidance of him by his
old friends. I felt inclined to resent the imper-
tinence of Lord Elmsdale's manner of staring at

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 253

Margaret ; but, unwilling to excite observation
in such a crowd, I only showed my sense of his
rudeness by glancing sternly at him whenever I
saw his eyes turned towards her. As we were
leaving the room, our exit was impeded near the
doorway by the pressure of the crowd, and we
again found ^ourselves in contact with Lord
Elmsdale and his companion. The former,
taking advantage of our proximity, pressed so
closely behind Margaret, that I felt her shrink;
and, turning to observe the cause, I saw him
withdraw his hand, which it now became evi-
dent he had presumed to touch her with. I
pushed him from her with a violence that left
no doubt of my intention to insult him, and he,
becoming red in the face with anger, demanded
"why I did so?"

Percy Mortimer instantly said, ** Lord Elms-
dale, your insolence to me in not acknowledging
my acquaintance I intended to demand satisr
fiiction for in another place ; but your ungentle-
manly and unmanly conduct in pressing against
this lady, requires immediate notice. Let me
have your address, and yours also, Lord Asher-
wood?"

<* I am not aware that I have any account to
render you, sir,** replied Lord Asherwood, ** and

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254 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

consequently see no necessity to comply with
your request"

** Here is mine/' said Lord Elmsdale, hand-
ing a card to Percy Mortimer ; and, with an
air of the utmost hauteur^ he and his friend
turned on their heels, and left the room.

Margaret, trembling with emotion, entreated
Percy to be calm, while her countenance bore
evidence of the terror in which this disagree-
able fra9as had plunged her. The persons
around us, who had heard the conversation,
and witnessed the giving of the card, stared so
much at us, that in pity to the feelings of my
sister, we hurried from the place, and having
left her in safety at the residence of Mrs. Chat-
terton, — reiterating her entreaties to us, '* to
take no further notice of the rudeness of that
odious lord," as she called him, — ^we retraced
our steps, and entered a coflfee-house, to consult
on what had best be done.

Percy there wrote a letter to Lord Elmsdale,
demanding a hostile meeting, the time and place
to be immediately named by any friend his lord-
ship would appoint to act for him on the occa-
sion. I was to take this letter, and act as second
to Percy — a position for which my inexperience
of such afiairs nearly incapacitated me. My

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 255

own anger had been so much excited towards
Lord Ehnsdale, that I heartily wished to punish
him for his impudent behaviour to my sister,
and determined on doing so as soon as Percy's
quarrel with him was arranged. And yet, even
while under the influence of passion, the reli-
gious sentiments so carefully instilled in my
youth operated on my mind, and whispered in
the still, small voice of conscience, that to seek
the life of another, or to expose that of my friend,
was acting contrary to the precepts I had re-
ceived. Yet would the libertine glance of Elms-
dale fixed on my pure and innocent sister even
while leaning on a brother's arm, recur to my
memory, and kindle afresh the wrath that reason
and religion had tried to vanquish; and the in-
solent superciliousness of both these lordlings
would again seem present, and add fuel to the
flame of my anger. I found Lord Elmsdale had
not yet returned to the hotel where he resided,
so having left a card with my address, 1 returned
to the coffee-house, where Percy Mortimer had
agreed to wait for me. He, however, was not
there ; and, on my questioning the waiter
whether no message had been left for me by
my friend, he informed me, that shortly after
my departure, two men having entered the

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ill

236 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

eoffee-room in which the voung gentleman vi
reading a newspaper, they had gone up a
spoken to him, and he having entered a coa
with them, had driven off, leaving no messa
whatever.

*' The truth is, sir," said the waiter, " I j
of opinion that the young gentleman was b
rested, and is gone with the sheriff's officers, :
such Pm sure they were, to a sponging-house

I gave instructions to the waiter, that in o
any letter should arrive for me, it was to
forwarded immediately to Mrs. Chatterton
and then, much depressed in spirits, I retun
to her abode. Margaret, on seeing me en
alone, instantly concluded that something fa
had occurred to Percy Mortimer ; and, in I
terror and agitation occasioned by this sup]
sition, betrayed the depth of the attachment
him, which her maidenly reserve ^ad hithe
concealed.

It was in vain that I assured her that Pei
had not seen, or even heard from Lord Eh
dale, since the altercation at the Exhibitio
his absence, which I could not satisfactorily (
plain, confirmed her worst apprehensions, a
produced a violent attack of nerves. Mrs. Ch
terton, too, when dinner was served, and Pei

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 25?

did not appear, became exceedingly alarmed,
and the repast was removed untouched. I told
her the waiter's suspicions relative to Percy's
having been arrested : the quarrel with Lord
Elmsdale she had not Jieard of, for poor Mar*
garet, fearful of revealing the deep interest she
felt on the subject, had not named it to her.

'* What I has he again got into debt ?'' asked
Mrs* Chatterton, her countenance betraying her
dissatisfaction at the notion.

I told her my opinion relative to the bill
he had accepted for Lord Elmsdale ; but the
worthy woman could not bring herself to credit
that such baseness could be practised by a
nobleman or gentleman.

** What I leave another to suffer for a debt
which he never incurred?" said she. " Can
there be such a dishonourable man ?"

While she was speaking on this subject, a
letter was brought to me from Percy Mortimer,
which fiiUy proved the truth of my suspicions.
He wrote from a sponging-house in Chancery-
lane, belonging to no less a personage than the
identical Mr. Benjamin Eliason, whom I had
formerly seen in the chamber of Percy Mor-
timer, when my too good-natured friend had
saved Lord Elmsdale from a prison, by accept-

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258 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

ing the very bill for the amount of which he
himself was now arrestecL

** Go to the poor young man immediately,
my dear Richard/' said Mrs. Chatterton ; ** but
stay, — I forgot that it is no use going unless yoa
take the means of liberating him. Give me my
spectacles and cheque-book. How much did
yon say it was?"

** Four hundred and seventy pounds was the
original sum, if I remember rightly," said I.

" Well, then, I will draw for five hundred
and fifty,** said Mrs. Chatterton ; " for pro-
bably there will be additional expenses to pay."

dbyGoogk

»59

CHAPTER XL

SHED with the cheque for five hundred
ij pounds, I set off for Chancery-lane, and
\ arrived at a shabby house, remarkable
uncleanliness, even in a neighbourhood
every house looks dingy and dirty, I
i to be shown to Mr. Percy Mortimer's
lent. A tawdrily dressed woman, with
iod shoes, led me up a flight of stairs, that
itly had not come in contact with aught
3r cleaning, during many a long day, and
cumulation of dirt testified to the nume-
ersons in the habit of using them, as well
he extent of their perambulations in the
x>uring filthy streets.
lease to hopen the door, Mr. Eliason,
be a gemman here as wants to see Mr.
" said the woman ; on which Mr. Ben-

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I

260 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

jamiQ Eliason came forth from a small ro
adjoining that at which she had knocki
breathing not of Araby the blest, but of I
tobacco. Eying me with a scrutinizing glas
and drawing a key from his pocket, he appi
it to the lock, and in another moment I foi
myself standing by my friend Percy Mortino
who ros^, and rushed to meet me.

A gaudy paper, bearing several stains
wine, and caricatures drawn in pen and i
covered the walls of the chamber. A gb
the frame of which was larger than the mir
it bordered, and which said frame was cove
with a very soiled yellow muslin, omameu
the chimney piece ; on which were pla
sundry delf images and vases of grotes^
shapes, not a single one of which had esca]
unbroken* Window curtains of crimson mor
trimmed with yellow fringe, were suspem
from brass poles, terminated by the thyrsis
Bacchus ; these same curtains had shared ^
the paper the libations of wine offered up \
bably to the jolly god, whose attribute ador
the brass poles. The chairs and sofa were
ricketty, as to create alarm in the mindc
those compelled to use them, and partook
wine stains so liberally showered on the pa

yGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 26 1

and curtains. The carpet had several rents,
and its colours were begrimed with dirt, while
the table, covered with a worsted cloth that
had once been crimson bordered with a yellow
lace, bore innumerable marks of glasses of all
sizes, imbedded in a stratum of filth, the accu*
mulation of many months. An odour of tobacco,
guiltless of ever having seen the Havannah,
impregnated the room, and disputed with an
overcoming smell of various spirituous liquors.
Two bottles of wine, untasted, a plate with
some dirty looking biscuits, and another con-
taining half a dozen of half-decayed oranges,
with a few sheets of bad letter paper, a broken
inkstand, and steel pen, graced the table.
Never did I behold my poor friend Percy Mor-
timer so wholly subdued, as when he wrung
my hand.

" You see," exclaimed he, " how infamously
Lord Elmsdale has behaved to me I"

•*Vy, lor bless you, sirl" interrupted Mr.
Benjamin Eliason, ** I'd have laid five pounds, —
ay, that I would, and more too, — that he'd have
let you into this here scrape, as soon as ever I
heard that he'd got into parliament. It's the
way with all them there young chaps; and

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262 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

you're not the first, by no means, as has suf-
fered for their doings/'

" You remember, Richard, how he pledged
his honour," said Percy.

" His honour 1" repeated Mr, Ben. Eliason
contemptuously: " Vy, there's not a pawnbroker
in all London would take that there pledge for
a penny piece. Yen I heard him say it I
laughed downright, for I knowed how he had
sarved other friends afore you, sir. But you
ha'nt dined Mr. Pursy ; wouldn't you like to
have something ? I can have a tender rump-
steak, or a lamb-chop sent up to you in a ji%.'*

** No, no — thank you Mr. Eliason, I have no
appetite, — I really could not eat," replied
Percy.

" But your friend, Mr. Pursy, may be he'd
like to dine, for perhaps he was disturbed when
he was sitting down to dinner ?"

** No, thank you, I've dined," replied I.

" Veil then, if as how you've dined already,
I suppose jTou'll not hobject to my sarving up a
bottle of champagne well hiced ? 'twill do Mr.
Pursy good, and keep hup his spirits."

•< No^ — no champagne," said Percy impa-
tiently.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 263

** Veil, if you prefers claret its all the same
to me: I never forces no gemman to drink
any thing he does not like. I've ad some of
the most tiptop young noblemen and gemmen
in Lonnon in this same room, which I always
resarves for genteel company ; and not von of
'em can say as how Benjamin Eliason hever
forced him to drink against his hinclination.
No t what I say is fair enough. Hevery gem-
man, says I, is expected to call for something
has a compliment to the house ; he may drink
it hor not, jist as he pleases.*'

** But you have already sent up sherry and
madeira, which, though I have not touched, I
am willing to pay for," replied Percy Mortimer.

" Veil, and if I have, v}', that was above
three hours ago, and has both them there bot-
tles have got hot and stale, they are of no use
whatsomenever to nobody,'' answered Mr. Ben-
jamin Eliason. *< It's usual for gemmen has hoc-
cupies the best room, which this here is, to call
for something every hour or so, for the good of
the house. And if it was not for this custom,
how could I let gemmen stay here snug and
comfortable, enjoying themselves hour after
hour, while my men are running round the
town with letters to their friends? And a

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^6t THE LOTTERY OP LIFE.

good profit my men make of it ; for wh
can only sell a few bottles of wine at little
than folk pay at the fashionable hotels a
west bend, my chaps can fill their pockets
money. — * Say Vm gone out of town, an
servants don't know where/ says one o
Mends a poor gentleman has sent to, ai
slips my man a sovereign. — * Tell him I
bed with a brain-fever, and the doctors voi
me hopen no letters,' says a third, tipping
a bit of gold ; and * Take back the letter
say I'm gone to the Continent,' says a fc
Mayhap some one or two friends, more
rageous than the others, writes an answer
ing, * How very sorrj- they arc, that they o
be of no use on the present hoccasion, as
are tied down by a solemn promise not tc
money, nor go security for no man.* — An
gemman writes that 'his vife von't let
though it be well known his vife, poor
never had power to prevent him doing any
he pleased ; and others say, p'raps more 1
that they are themselves so pressed for m
that they can't help him, though they'd d(
thing else in the world to sarve him. I've
found sich letters half torn on this table
the carpet, when the poor genmian has

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 265

removed to prison. Hin short, sir, there's no
hand to the hexcuses that gemmen make their
friends when they most want 'em ; vich makes
me think, sir, that no von really has friends,
hexcept those has is sure never to have the
least hoccasion in life for their services. I've
seen gemmen torn white and red in the face
when my men has come hack with such lies ;
and IVe thought as how it was a terrible trial
to 'em too ; but when I've heard some of 'em
say " how unlucky I if so, or so, had been in
town, he would have immediately come to me ;"
when I knowed all the time, that this same chap
the poor gemman had such trust in, had given
a handful of silver to my man to say he was
gone from Lunnon, when he was giving a
grand dinner at home all the while, I have
pitied the poor gemman who was so deceived."

" What is to be done, Richard?" asked Percy
Mortimer. '* I see no use in remaining here
incurring heavy expense, and think it better to
go at once to prison."

** I have here the means," replied, I " of ex-
tricating you. Mrs. Chatterton, the moment
she heard of your difficulty, gave me money to
settle it."

VOL. I. N

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266 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

** Excellent woman I but what must she think
of me?''

" She knows, dear Richard, that this is no
recent folly ; she pities you for the severe lesson
you have received ; and pardons the imprudence
into which your good-nature and inexperience
hurried you ; while she despises the unworthy
man for whom you have placed yourself in this
painful position.'*

** Amiable and admirable as she is, and after
all that she has already done for me, how can
I thus trespass on her generosity ? I really am
overpowered by the deep sense I entertain ol
her kindness/'

** Mr. Eliason, will you be so obliging as to
let me know the amount of your claim on my
friend ?" asked I.

**Vy, let me see, sir, — the hamount with hex-
penses and hall, comes to five hundred and
heleven pounds, nine shillings and sixpence.
Then there's the little hexpenses for the coach,
the hire of this room, the vine, and other mat-
ters. But, if you please, sir, my vife, who
hunderstands this business, will make bout the
bill." And so saying, he went to the top of
the stairs, taking care, however, to lock the

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 267

door on the outside, and called out to her to
make up the bill.

In a few minutes he returned, bringing a
soiled half sheet of foolscap paper, of the con-
tents of which the following is a fiuthful tran-
script:—

£ «. d.

To a Hackney Coach 0 8. 6

To Happartment 2 2 0

To 1 bottle of Sherry 0 8 6

TodaMadein 0 10 8

ToBiacmU 0 2 6

To Hoiaiiges 0 3 0

To Letter-paper 0 2 6

To Sealing-wax 0 2 0

ToWazCandlea 0 5 0

To Man for taking letter 0 10 6

£4 13 0

Haying discharged all expenses, and made,
not without the suggestion of Mr. Benjamin
Eliason, a present of two pounds to his wife,
which, as he assured me, ** was always done by
every gemman has hoccupied the best room ;"
and rewarded his own politeness by a five-pound
note, which he told us, was the least sum he
was in the habit of receiving on similar occa-
sions, we gladly quitted Chancery-lane, and
left its dingy precincts as hastily as possible.

" We must first call at the coffee-house, to
inquire if any answer has been sent from Lord

N 2

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268 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

Elmsdale," said Percy Mortimer. So we turned
our steps thither, and found the following
note : —

" Lord Elmsdale, though not acknowledging
any right on the part of Mr. Mortimer to
demand an explanation from him, will have no
objection to give the meeting required, provided
Mr. Mortimer can find any gentleman (the word
underlined) with whom his friend Lord Asher-
wood can arrange time and place for it."

I saw Percy's face become crimson as he
perused this letter^ which he was in the act of
putting into his pocket, when I urged him to
let me see it. He resisted my entreaties for some
time, but at length gave me the note, observing,
'' that such insolence was beneath my notice.'*

" It is a mere excuse to refuse me satisfac-
tion,'' continued Percy ; *^ but I will find a
mode of defeating it."

I felt my cheeks glow with anger ; and had
I, at the moment, encountered Lord Elmsdale,
I do not think I could have resisted inflicting
on him the manual chastisement his insolence
so well merited ; not that the denial of my right
to be considered a gentleman, according to his
notion of the character, wounded me ; but that
having insulted my sister, he was so unmanly

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

269

seek a pretext for not meeting her

er.

le we were concerting on what had best
e, Percy Mortimer saw a college friend
Lord Mordaunt, pass the window ; and
^ into the street, he soon returned, hring-
th him that young nohleman, to whom
sented me. He related the whole affiiir,
and all, to Lord Mordaunt, who imme**
offered to be his friend on this occasion,
inced the kindest interest in Percy.
ts,Ye this business in my hands," said he,
dther come to me at Mordaunt-house, or
have your address, that I may be ahle
municate with you.**
returned to Mrs. Chatterton*s, where the
St reception awaited us ; for that worthy
I, anxious to lessen the sense of obliga-
nder which the grateful heart of Percy
aier was obviously dppressed, evinced an
sed sentiment of affection towards him.
Itered looks of my sister Margaret, whose
rom an extreme paleness, blushed a rosy
I Percy entered the room where she was
with Mrs. Chatterton, escaped not the
glances of her lover, for that such he was,
)r some time become evident to all. Yet,

y Google

270 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

as no avowal of his passion had passed his lips,
and that his manner to Margaret was as re-
spectful and reserved as possible, neither Mrs.
Chatterton nor myself had thought it right to
speak to him on the subject Mlien retiring
for the night, my sister, as was her custom,
shook hands with Percy Mortimer : he started
at finding that her hand was burning.

*' Good heavens I Mar — that is, Miss Wal-
lingford — ^you are ill,'' exclaimed he.

** Only a slight cold," said Margaret, " I shall
be better to-morrow."

'< What did he say ?" demanded Mrs. Chat-
terton.

** Miss Wallingford is ill — ^very ill," replied
Percy.

" You are right, my young friend, she is in
a high state of fever ; and, now I think of it,
she has looked very ill ever since she returned
from her walk with you. Why, it was only a
minute before you returned, Richard, that she
was as pale as a ghost, and the instant she saw
you she became* as red as a rose."

*< I shall be better, indeed I shall be better,
after a good night's rest," said Margaret, who,
giving her arm to Mrs. Chatterton, ascended to
her chamber.

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE, 271

'^ You know not, Richard, you cannot know,"
said Percy, "how passionately, how fondly I
love your sister. Were I possessed of millions
they should be placed at her feet ; but, poor
and dependant, how can I hope that she, you,
or Mrs. Chatterton, would listen to my vows
with patience, much less sanction them ? Ah,
Richard ! were I the rich person I was brought
up to think I should be, with what pride and
pleasure would I sue for Margaret's hand ; but

now ^yes, I know it is folly, worse than folly,

to think of asking her to become mine."

" If I know aught of Mrs. Chatterton's heart,
my dear Percy," replied I, " she would not dis-
approve your attachment to Margaret, or offer
any opposition to its being rewarded by her
hand ; and as to my sister, I am much deceived
if she does not warmly reciprocate your affec-
tion, proofs of which I have often noticed, when
she, poor dear girl, was little aware of the dis-
covery I had made. What my feeUngs towards
you, my dear Percy, are, you can more easily
imagine than I can express ; for I have never
ceased to remember the kindness and delicacy
with which you forgot, and tried to make me
also forget, the difference between our births
and fortunes, when your generous father took

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272 THE LOTTEEY OF LIFE.

me from comparative poverty^ to share the
advantages of the liberal education he was
bestowing on you, his only son. Tbough no
longer possessed of the fortune you once antici*
patedy I still think that had my sister thousands
for her portion, a marriage with you would be
the highest honour she could attain, — so y9u
may judge the happiness it gives me to hear
what you have just told me. I will, if you
desire it, open the subject to Mrs. Chatterton."
^' At what a moment doea the delightful in-
telligence, that your beautiful sister is not in-
different to my affection, reach me. Should I
fall, you will tell her how fondly, how fervently
I loved her ; and how long my poverty has
prevented me from making known to her the
sentiments of my heart. I cannot doubt, now
that Lord Mordaunt has undertaken the ar-
rangement of my quarrel, that Lord Elmsdale
must meet me ; and though I highly disapprove
duelling, yet as society is at present constituted,
I have not moral courage enough to decline
seeking satisfaction for the insults I have re-
ceived. How many grave reflections, — ay, and
tender ones too, my dear Richard, press on my
mind at this moment, when my reason so
strongly pleads against the course that worldly

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 273

opinion has urged me to adopt. I must retire,
and pray to the Almighty for pardon for thus
daring to disohey His precept."

At an early hour next morning, Percy re-
ceived a letter from Lord Mordaunt, informing
him that he had seen Lord Asherwood and
demanded a meeting hetween Lord filmsdale
and him, which had heen immediately assented
to ; '' hut previously to its taking place," conti-
nued Lord Mordaunt, '* I told Asherwood that
all pecuniary transactions hetween Lord Elms-
dale and you, must be finally settled. This is
the usual course in such matters, and you must
not depart from it."

In two hours after, a second letter from Lord
Mordaunt reached Percy, in which he said
that Lord Elmsdale not being able to repay the
money due to Percy Mortimer, had consented
to make an apology, which he hoped would be
satisfau^tory to Mortimer's feelings ; in which,
having disclaimed all intention of offering any
offence to my friend, or to the lady in whose
society he h^ met him at the Exhibition, he
expressed his regret that any thing on his part
should have justified the supposition of his
entertaining such an intention.

•• Is it not abominable/' said Percy Morti-

n3

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27* THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

mer, handing the letter to me, *' that a man in
so elevated a sphere as that to which Lord
Elmsdale helongs, should he so wanting in
principle and feeling as to act in this manner ?
he is really a disgrace to his rank."

** I fear there are hut too many who are so/*
replied I ; '* men who accept obligations when it
suits their convenience, and who, forgetful of
them, repay those who have conferred them
with ingratitude, and insolence."

<< That there are persons so base I cannot
deny," observed Percy, " but does not the con-
duct of Lord MordauDt redeem manv such*
Nor is he, believe me, a solitary example ; for at
college, I have known many young noblemen
who resemble him, while those few who pursue
the same course as Lords Elmsdale and Asher-
wood, are happily few in number. If I have
been the dupe of such men, the fault was mine.
Anxious to place myself on an equality with
young men of rank, I administered to the
wants of those whose extravagance had placed
them in difficulties, and foolishly imagined that
by conferring obligations on them, I made
them my friends. I have discovered my mis-
take too late it is true to profit by it, but I am
not ashamed to avow my error."

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 275

Lord Mordaunt called on Percy Mortimer
tbe next day, and after inquiring into his pros-
pects with all the kindness of a friend, informed
him that he had a proposal to make, of which
he thought his acceptance would he highly ad-
vantageous. *' My father," continued he, ** has
just heen appointed ambassador to Vienna, and
requires a private secretary. He will, at my
recommendation, immediately name you: the
pay, though not large, wiU enable you to live
like a gentleman; you will be lodged at the
embassy, and have a seat at his table. If you
require a few hundreds, permit me to be your
banker; for be assured, I cannot have a greater
pleasure than in being of use to you. If, as I
anticipate, you discharge your duty in a manner
to satisfy my father, you need entertain no ap-
prehensions for your future career ; for he has
interest enough, and the inclination will not I
am sure be wanting, to push you forward in the
diplomatic line. What say you, my dear Mor-
timer— shall I immediately name it to him?"

When Mrs. Chatterton was informed of Lord
Mordaunt's friendly o£Per, she instantly told
Percy that.it had long been her intention to
render him independent. ** Six hundred a year
shall be settled on you forthwith," said she.

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276 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

^* with a considerable increase hereafter ; so
you are at liberty to accept or decline the pro-
posal of Lord Mordaunt, as you judge best"

Margaret, who was present at the conver-
sation, turned as pale as a lily; and having
vainly tried to suppress or conceal her agi-
tation, fell fainting on the sofa on which she
was seated.

No longer master of his feelings, Percy
Mortimer betrayed his long attachment by the
fondest epithets addressed to Margaret, who,
on opening her eyes, discovered him kneeling
at her feet, and chafing her cold hands in his.

A scene of great tenderness followed her re-
turn to animation. Percy poured forth the long
concealed secret of his heart, and she listened to
the avowal with a pleasure that left him little
doubt of her participation in the sentiments he
avowed.

Mrs. Chatterton declared, that as the young
people were so much attached to each other, it
would be a pity to separate them ; and as she
could not resign the society of Margaret, Percy
must give up the appointment offered him by
Lord Mordaunt, and reside with her, and
become a country gentleman.

While preparations were making for the

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THE LOTTERY OF LIFE, 277

nuptials, the estate of Oak Park, the residence
of the late Mr. Mortimer, was brought to the
hammer, and Mrs. Chatterton became the pur*
chaser.

Lord Mordaunt, who was a frequent visitor,
was pleased to form so good an opinion of me,
that the appointment offered to Percy, was, at
his request, conferred on me, and shortly after
my sister's marriage 1 accompanied the Mar-
quess of Montrevor to Vienna.

Before my departure, which my good and
kind friend, Mrs. Chatterton, would gladly have
prevented, she settled on me one thousand
pounds a year, which enabled me to hold the
position which I had attained, with that in-
dependence which is so advantageous in all
stations. My dislike to an idle life was the
true and only plea I could urge for leaving my
benefactress ; and as I left her with those who
I weU knew would do all that could be effected
for her comfort and happiness, I had the less
compunction in resisting her entreaties to re-
main with her. I had the good fortune to con-
ciliate the esteem and regard of the Marquess
of Montrevor, and after spending three years
beneath the same roof with him and his family.

dbyGoogk

278 THE LOTTERY OF LIFE.

had the happiness to win the affection of the
Lady Mary Mordaunt, whose hand was be-
stowed on me, soon after which, through his
lordship's interest, I obtained the appointment
of minister to Turin.

The nephew of Mrs. Chatterton, who be-
came acquainted with the Marquess of Mon-
trevor and his family, through my alliance with
them, has married the sister of my wife, and is
now a distinguished member of the House of
Commons.

Mrs. Chatterton is at present in her eightieth
year, but still cheerful and healthy ; she resides
at Oak Park ; and Percy Mortimer and my
sister, with a fine boy and girl, of which they
are the proud and happy parents, add to, if
they do not form the happiness of her life.

My relations have been so prosperous, that
my brothers have married into wealthy and
respectable families, and are now esteemed
among the gentry of the county ; while my
father and mother, who have converted the
old farm-house into a neat cottage ome^ are
frequent and welcome visitors at Oak Park.

Lady Mary and I passed the last Christmas
with Mrs. Chatterton; where a large family

dbyGoogk

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE. 279

party, including her nephew and his wife, with
Lord Mordaunt, were assembled ; and a merrier
groap could not have been found.

Lord Elmsdale, after pursuing a career of
folly and extravagance, ended his days a short
time ago by the pistol of a husband whose wife
he had defamed, and who had refused to ac-
cept the apology which the pusillanimity of the
defamer had induced him to proffer.

Lord Asherwood still may be seen at the
clubs, where his dull and thrice-told tales render
his conversation irksome to all who come in
contact with him; and where he not unfre-
quently vents his spleen on the blindness of
Fortune, for having, in one of her unaccount-
able freaks, elevated into another sphere from
that in which he was bom, the parvenu Richard
Wallingford.

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dbyGoogk

281

VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

There dwelt not in all Castille a fairer maiden
than Veronica d' Alcantara. Left an orphan in
her childhood, and the heiress of immense pos-
sessions, the guardianship of herself and fortune
was confided to a distant relative, the Conde
Ribiero. In his castle, in a remote province,
were passed the first years of her girlhood ;
where, under the superintendence of a kind-
hearted and devoted duenna, she attained all
the accomplishments deemed necessary for a
lady of ancient descent, who boasted of blue
blood in her veins, and whose wealth sur-
passed that of every Hidalgo in the province.
The' Conde Ribiero had a nephew, a youth of
wild and ungoverned passions, whose name had
been more than once linked with crime ; and

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282 VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

who no sooner saw the fair ward of his uncle,
and heard of her broad lands, than he deter-
mined to approppate both to himself. It was
not that his heart was touched by the charms
of the fair Veronica ; for, truth to tell, all
captivating as they were, they made but little
impression on him. Her wealth was the at-
traction ; though he rejoiced that her surpass-
ing beauty would exempt him from the suspicion
of having sought her solely from mercenary
motives. His uncle, the Conde Ribiero, marked
with satisfaction the preference accorded by
Don Manuel de Mendoza to the fair Veronica.
He looked on the alliance of his ward and
heir as the means of enriching the impoverished
fortunes of the latter, and upholding the fast-
falling dignity of his ancient house ; and in
this agreeable prospect, forgot the vices of
his nephew, reports of which had frequently
reached him, coupled with irrefragable proofs
of their truth.

Don Manuel was a constant guest in the
secluded castle of the Conde Ribiero, where
no insidious art was left untried to win the
affections of the young and lovely heiress.
Flattery assailed the inexperienced girl in all
the seductive tones of a man who had often.

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VERONICA OF CA8TILLE. 283

and sucoessfuUy, availed himself of this re-
doubtable weapon against the gentler sex ; but
sooth to say, though the flattery pleased her
passing well, she loved not the flatterer. The
vanity of Don Manuel became wounded, as
he marked the unaffected indifference of her
whom he had determined to wed. That he,
the most favored of all the young men who
distinguished themselves in the heartless course
of gallantry at Madrid and had won the smiles
of its proudest dames, should fail to captivate a
mere girl, who had never left the solitude of
her provincial abode, surprised and mortified
him I His indifference towards Veronica soon
began to assume a stronger, sterner sentiment —
that, of positive dislike, as his wounded vanity
writhed under the daily and evident symptoms
of her distaste. Not all the dissimulation in
which he was so well skilled, could at times
conceal his hatred towards the fair and artless
Veronica. Often did his more wary uncle re-
proach him, not for the sentiment, but for its
unwise exposure, and prophesy that it would
preclude the fulfilment of the schemes and
wishes of both. Then would the wily Don
Manuel, after such advice, smooth his brow,

dbyGoogk

284 VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

dress his face in smiles^ and court the heiress
with all his practised arts ; hut she continued
as insensihle as hefore, her perfect indifference
rendering her as unconscious of his real dislike,
as regardless of his affected preference.

Veronica had now attained her seventeenth
year, when a letter firom the -court, sununoned
the Conde Rihiero and his beautiful ward to
visit Madrid. This summons, a compliance with
which could not he evaded, filled the uncle and
nephew with alarm. The beauty and wealth of
Veronica could not fail, they felt convinced,
to attract universal attention and admiration ;
and it was but too probable that the heart
which had resisted all the arts of Don Manuel,
would yield to one of the many suitors likely
to try to win it in the dangerous focus of the
courtly circle. They already saw, in anticipa-
tion, the prey they had so long deemed their
own, become the property of another, but
how to avert this impending evil they knew
not. Various were the plans devised by this
unworthy pair to detain Veronica from Madrid
until she should consent to become the wife
of Don Manuel ; but the order for repairing
thither was so peremptory, and the time granted

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VERONICA OF CA8TILLE. 285

for obeying it so brief, that they despaired of
finding any satis&ctory excuse for non-com-
pliance.

Veronica evinced such unequivocal symptoms
of pleasure when informed that she was soon to
exchange her gloomy abode, for the brilliant one
of Madrid, that her guardian and his nephew
saw that her desire to leave the Castle de Ribiero,
would offer a strong obstacle to any plan they
might attempt to frustrate it Don Manuel, at
the suggestion of his uncle, redoubled his atten-
tions to Veronica ; and she, elated at the pros-
pect of her speedy emancipation from a dwelling
endeared to her by no tie of affection, no recol-
lection of happy days, in the artlessness of her
nature, permitted a portion of the exhilaration
she felt, to mingle in her converse with her
guardian and his nephew; whose vanity led
him to attribute her unusual complacency and
gaiety, to a growing sentiment of kindness to-
wards himself. But while the Conde Ribiero
and Don Manuel retarded their departure to
the utmost permitted limit, and reflected on
every possible means of finding a pretext for
detaining Veronica at the castle, chance offered
one, the very evening previous to that fixed for
their leaving the country, which they seized

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286 VERONICA OF CASTILLE;

with avidity. Veronica complained of illnesSp
and in a few hours was pronounced, hy the leech
of the neighbouring village, to be suffering
under the measles, a malady then raging in the
neighbourhood. He asserted that the symp-
toms were so favorable, and the constitution of
the patient so good, that her recovery could
not fail to take place in two or three weeks,
and pronounced that he would answer for her
safety. Under these circumstances, the Conde
Ribiero and his nephew determined to proceed
to Madrid forthwith, rejoiced that the beautiful
and wealthy heiress could not be exhibited at
court for some time, and determined to use
every effort to prevent her ever appearing there,
until she was presented as the bride of Don
Manuel de Mendoza.

Left to the care of her affectionate duenna
and the skilful leech, and aided by an excellent
constitution, Veronica soon recovered from her
illness, and with all the buoyancy of mind pecu-
liar to the young on leaving the sick chamber,
sought the fresh and fragrant air with renovated
feelings of delight. Mounted on her palfrey,
and attended by an attached domestic, she
would ride gaily forth, and for the first time
mistress of her actions, extend her excursions

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE, 287

many miles beyond the walls of the umbrageous
park, within which her duenna strictly enjoined
her to limit them.

Of aU duennas, Donna Olympia Albufera
was the most tractable. She loved the Lady
Veronica as though she had been her child,
and never could resist her pleadings. A smile,
or an affectionate entreaty from the fair young
creature over whose childhood she had watched
with almost maternal assiduity and tenderness,
were generally found sufficient to silence the
objections of Donna Olympia ; but a caress or
a tear were proved to be irresistible. The at-
tendant who followed Veronica in her eques-
trian excursions, knew no will but hers ; and
relying on the indulgence of Donna Olympia,
and the devotion of Huguez, the fair heiress
DOW took advantage of her freedom from the
presence of her guardian and his nephew, to
extend her rides nearly seven miles into the
surrounding country, the wild beauty of which
surprised and delighted her. When she returned
at a late hour from these protracted expeditions.
Donna Olympia forgot to chide her for her long
absence, in the pleasure the good woman expe-
rienced in seeing her partake her light repast
with an unusually good appetite ; and though

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288 VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

she urged, the next day, her request that her
dear young lady would not stray so hr from
home, she welcomed her back with as much
affection as if the entreaty had not been disre-
garded. These were happy days, and Veronica
felt them to be so, though health and the enjoy-
ment of air and exercise, constituted their chief
pleasure ; but to a young and pure mind these
simple enjoyments furnish more gratification
than the paUed voluptuary can find in the most
varied amusements.

Riding through a neighbouring forest one
day, Veronica was surprised by encountering
a knight, whose noble air and fine countenance,
though seen only for a mcnnent, made a deep
impression on her. He drew up his charger,
and uncovered his head while she passed,
bowing low, and fixing on her &ce an impas-
sioned glance firom the most lustrous eyes that
ever met her gaze. She returned the salute
with dignified courtesy and maidenly reserve,
and passed on, leaving the knight lost in admi-
ration of her beauty. When she had pro-
ceeded some distance she demanded of Hugues,
if he knew the knight they had met ?

'* Yes, lady," replied he, *' it is no other than
Don Alphonso de Pampluna; I recognized

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 289

him in a moment by his noble air and fine
face, although I have not seen him since his
chUdhood."

The Lady Veronica felt a complacency to-
wards Huguez as he uttered these words, that
she had never previously experienced ; and she
longed to question him still farther about the
knight, but was deterred by a consciousness
of already feeling an interest about him that
had never before been excited in her breast.
Encouraged by her first and only questions
relative to the stranger, Huguez, on arriving
at a narrow and somewhat abrupt defile, under
pretence of thinking his lady's safety required
a closer attendance, advanced nearer to her,
and resumed the subject which had occupied
both their thoughts since they had met the
knight.

"Yes, lady, I knew it could be no other
than Don Alphonso de Pampluna, the bravest
warrior, and truest knight, in all Castillo.
Ay, I warrant me, he remembered old Huguez,
though it is now seven years since I last saw
him, for he smiled when I bent me to the
pummel of my saddle in passing him. Ah I
I should know that smile, and those white
teeth of his, among a thousand, that I should.

VOL. I. o

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290 VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

There will be rejoicings in the castle, and in
the village, I warrant me, at his return, for
he is loved by all — so good, so generous, and
so thoughtful of others. How many hearts
will beat the quicker for seeing him I and how
many tongues will bless his name I"

*• I knew not," replied Veronica timidly,
** that the Duke de Pampluna had any other
son than the marquess, who is reported to be
in such ill health."

*^ Don Alpbonso is the duke's second son,
lady," answered Huguez, not a little proud of
the encouragement to speak given him by his
noble mistress. *^ He has travelled much,
madam, has been in various countries, and is
now returned to help to soothe the last days of
his brother, and to comfort the duke under the
heavy calamity that threatens soon to deprive
him of his elder son. The marquess is so
good, that his death will cause universal regret,
notwithstanding that his place will be nobly
filled by Don Alphonso ; and the brothers have
been so fondly attached since their boyhood,
that the accession of rank and wealth will be a
poor consolation to Don Alphonso for the loss
of such a brother. Ah, lady I the rich and
great have their troubles as well as the poor

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VERONICA OF CASTILLK, 291

and lowly, and. Heaven knows, the Duke de
Pampluna has had his share I"

The Lady Veronica listened to the garrulous
old servitor with deep interest, and he, grati-
fied hy it, made his horse amhle closer to her
Andalusian palfrey, still keeping a little in the
rear to mark his respect.

** What have been the causes of the duke's
troubles ?" inquired the Lady Veronica.

" Bless me, lady I have you never heard the
sad story?"

" Never, Huguez."

** That is strange," muttered the old man;
" and perhaps the Conde de Ribiero would
resent my communicating it."

** Do tell me, Huguez," said the Lady Vero-
nica, in her sweetest accents — those accents
which few could have resisted, and least of all
the ancient domestic, whose love of gossiping
was only equalled by his love and devotion to
his youthful mistress.

" I am thinking, lady," said he, ** that as
you have never heard of the sad events to which
I referred, it is probable that the conde, your
guardian, did not wish you to be informed of
thraoy and consequently might resent my telling
you."

o2

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292 VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

The curiosity of the Lady Veronica was still
more excited by this hesitation of the old ser-
vitor to gratify it ; and she so strongly urged
Huguez to recite the tale, and promised so
faithfully not to divulge it, that he at length
related it to her.

"The Duke de Pampluna had been the

friend as well as neighbour of the Conde de

Ribiero, and their families frequently met. The

duke was the happy father of two of the finest

boys in all Spain, and he and his duchess loved

their children so passionately, that their very

existence seemed bound up in that of their

sons. In his visits to the castle of the duke,

the Conde Ribiero was frequently accompanied

by his nephew, Don Manuel de M endoza, who

was about the same age as the eldest son of the

duke, and the youths practised their lessons in

horsemanship, tilting, fencing, and shooting,

together. The marquess, then as fine a youth

as ever mounted a courser or handled a lance,

so far surpassed Don Manuel in all manly

feats, that a strong sentiment of jealousy took

possession of the heart of the latter, and every

new achievement of his rival increased the

baneful passion. When, as not unfrequently

occurred, the marquess had unhorsed or dis-

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 293

his antagonist, Don Manuel would
»ut into the most violent fits of rage, and
he revenged. But all this passed with
mdants as proofs of the impetuosity of
and was never repeated beyond their
cle.

le duke and duchess, with their sons,
3 spend a few days at the Castle de
K As usual, the three youths, followed
ir servitors, adjourned to the manege,
was agreed that a tilting-match should
lace between the marquess and Don
L The superior address of the former
ndered him victorious, and the rage of
Manuel, at being defeated, became so
mable, that, observing Don Alphonso
1 his brother's prowess, he rushed on
ild, then only in his twelfth year (Don
I being five years his senior), and struck
violently with his lance, that he fell
lis pony, the blood flowing from the
inflicted on his arm by the point of the
I. Maddened by seeing his brother struck
md bleeding, the marquess rushed on
Vlanuel, who, shrinking on one side,
1 the blow aimed at him by his adversary,
erced him in the side. The marquess

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i

294 VERONICA OP CASTILLE.

reeled in hb saddle, and fell fainting into the
arms of the attendants, who had rushed to
separate the comhatants, but, alas! arrived too
late to prevent the misfortune which occurred.
" At this moment, the Duchess de Pampluna,
accompanied by the maiden sister of the Conde
de Ribiero, entered the manege, in order to see
her sons enjoy their exercise, little dreaming
of the fearful sight that awaited her ; and be-
holding both her children apparently dead, and
their garments stained, with blood, she uttered
a piercing shriek, and fell to the earth. Vio-
lent convulsions ensued, in which state she
continued until the rupture of a blood-vessel
in the head put an end to her sufferings and'
her life in the brief space of two hours. When
the duke returned firom a ride with the Conde
de Ribiero, he found that the belo?ed partner
of his life was no more, and that he was threat-
ened with the loss of his first-bom son, while
the younger was not exempt from danger, the
child being reduced to great weakness by the
loss of blood."

The Lady Veronica shuddered, and felt her
previous dislike to Don Manuel increased into
a positive abhorrence as she listened to this
sad tale.

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 29^

'*AhI lady, that was a fearful day, and
never since has any one of the house of Pam-
plona entered the castle of Ribiero. The very
name is proscribed ; nor can it be wondered
at, when one reflects on the affliction that luck-
less visit entailed on the duke, for never since
has the young marquess had an hour's health,
which is to be attributed to the event of that
day. The conde, your guardian, sent away his
nephew, fearful that the retainers of the house
of Fampluna would avenge on him the death
of their beloved mistress, and the melancholy
fieite of their young lord, who, from the wound
inflicted by Don Manuel, had his lungs so
injured, that his life has been considered in
daily danger. From being one of the finest
youths ever seen, he dwindled nearly to a
shadow ; incapable of the least bodily exertion,
he has dragged on an existence of pain and
sufiering, to be terminated — Heaven only knows
how soon— by death ; for it is said he is now
reduced to nearly the last extremity."

** And the knight we lately met, how came
he to leave his sufiering brother, whilst he
joumied into distant lands?" demanded the
Lady Veronica,

^* Why, madam, no sooner had he reached

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996 VEROXICA OF CA*?riLLE*

his ^teentfa jear, than remembertxig bow
death of his lad? mother, and the suffering
\m idolized hrother, had been caused bj ]
Manuel, he determined to avenge them» or
in the attempt. He never forgot that it
in seeking to panish Don Manuel for
a^ggress^ioQ on himself that the marquess
cetf^ the wound that was reducing him tc
gnve ; and the recollection made him bur
challenge him who had brought such mi
on his femilv. The knowledge of this re^
tioti» and the dread of losing the last pro
his noble house, determined the duke on i^
ing Dcm Alphonso to travel ; mid he hns
now returned, after an absence of seven y<
to 9ee his beloved brother before be dies.*'

Observing the effect produced on the I
\"eronica by his narrative, lluguex^ drea
to indispose her towards Don Manuel,
endeavoured to palliate his crimes.

** He was then but a mere vouth, ladv, ha
out of childhood, and youth is ever wild
wilfiiL Don Manuel is now changed \ I
rant me, he has doubtless often repented
rashness of his tioyhood ; and it is to save
feelings ^hat the name of Panipluna is n
mentioned in his presence. You will remei

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 297

romise, lady, and not betray my having
ed you with this secret ?"
1st Veronica repeated her assurance of
revealing what he had told her, a shot
ed from a wood that bordered the road,
so startled her steed, that he plunged
ly, and dashed back with fearful velocity
h a bridle-path that led in the direction

Castle of Ribiero. Fearful of urging
'ht by pursuit, Huguez endeavoured to
is lady in sight by crossing some fields ;
an attempt to clear a steep fence that
ined, was thrown from his horse, which
i, and followed the course so lately taken

terrified steed of the Lady Veronica,
h much bruised by his fall, the old man
i to overtake the fugitives, but tried in
the sounds of the retreating feet of the
were soon lost to his ear, and the most
\ apprehensions for the safety of his
mistress obtained possession of his mind*
t he, panting with fatigue, advanced as
y as his bruised leg and the infirmities
I would allow him, the Lady Veronica
»me rapidly along towards a deep ravine,
[h which gushed a mountain torrent,
Q by recent rain, and whose turbid waters

oS

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m

298 VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

had overflown their banks, and dashed impe-
tuously over the large rocks scattered on each
side. She saw her danger without the power
of averting it, for every attempt to turn the
horse in a contrary direction was in vain ;
when at the moment the maddened steed
was rushing down the ravine, a horseman
cleared a high hedge on the left of the steep
declivity, and throwing himself before him,
seized the bridle, and arrested his further pro-
gress. The next moment, the Lady Veronica,
half fainting with terror, was removed from her
courser by her deliverer, who, one glance showed
her, was no other than Don Alphonso de
Pampluna.

This interview sealed the destinies of both ;
for though no word of love was spoken, each
experienced that deep emotion which ever
marks the commencement of true affection,
and yielded to the new and delicious sentiment
that pervaded their hearts, forgetful of the past
and regardless of the future.

Whilst, seated on a bank, they conversed
together, the horses tied to a tree, a peasant
had stopped the steed of Huguez, and restored
it to its owner ; who now joined his lady and
her deliverer, overjoyed to find her in safety.

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 299

As the Lady VeroDica pointed out to the old
servitor how near she had been to the foaming
torrent, towards which her coarser was rushing
when Don Alphonso de Pampluna rescued her,
such an expression of gratitude and tenderness
shone in her beautiful countenance, that Don
Alphonso felt he could have perilled his safety
nay, his very life — a hundred times, to have
reaped so rich a reward. He thanked her by
looks eloquent as her own, spoke kindly to
Huguez, referring with a deep sigh to his
boyish remembrance of him, and having assisted
the Lady Veronica to mount her courser, rode
by her side until they reached the entrance
to the park of Ribiero. Here he took leave,
with a manner in^which the most profound
tenderness and deep respect struggled for mas-
tery ; and when, after advancing a considerable
way, the fair Veronica, urged by an irresistible
impulse, turned to look again at the gate where
she had left him, she beheld him, as if trans-
fixed to the spot, still gazing on her receding
figure.

With what different feelings did she re-enter
the Castle Ribiero, to those with which she
had left it but a few hours before. She was a
new being. Existence appeared to possess

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300 VERONICA OF CA8TILLE.

charms which she had not previously suspected;
her heart heat with emotions hitherto unknown ;
and the image of Don Alphonso was never for
a moment ahsent from her thoughts. Donna
Olympia Alhufera remarked with pleasure the
heightened colour and beaming eyes of her
lovely charge ; and talked of the marvellous
effect of long rides in improving the complexion.
But when, during the evening, she found the
Lady Veronica abstracted, silent, and pensive,
she averred that however such excursions might
heighten the roses in her cheeks, they had not
an advantageous influence on the spirits, for
that she had never known her young lady so
thoughtful before.

In her dreams that night, the Lady Veronica
was again with Don Alphonso. Again she heard
the music of his voice — again her eye sank be-
neath the tender glance of his : and she only
awoke from her slumbers to the blissful con-
viction that in her ride that day they should
again meet ; for she felt this encounter to be
certain, though neither of the lovers had al-
luded to it the day before. It was consequently
with an impatience more nearly approaching to
ill-humour than she had ever previously known,
that she saw the rain descending in showers, as

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 301

she looked from her lattice. She watched the
dense clouds with an anxiety as deep as it was
new, and sighed as she marked that the gloomy
horizon portended many hours of unceasing rain.
Never had a day appeared so interminably long
and irksome to her as this ; she could settle to
no occupation, though several were tried ; and
the unsuspicious Donna Olympia more than
once observed that her young lady must be in-
disposed, so unusual was her pre-occupation and
pensiveness.

The next day the sun shone brilliantly.
Again she rode out, and on arriving at the
park -gate, was more than half disposed to
take the route where she had encountered Don
Alphonso ; but a sentiment of feminine delicacy
forbade it, and she took, though not without an
internal struggle, the contrary direction. She
had proceeded but a short distance, when she
met him who occupied all her thoughts, and
who, even more impatient than herself for
another interview, had been for some time
watching for her from a neighbouring hill;
whence, seeing the direction she had taken, he
had galloped across some fields, and turned his
horse so as to meet, instead of having the ap-

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302 VERONICA OP CASTILLE.

pearance of pursuing her. Their ride was a
long one ; and ere they papted, an avowal of
the most passionate love was breathed to no
unwilling ear by Don Alphonso ; and replied
to by downcast eyes, blushing clieeks, and a
pearly tear that bedewed them.

Day after day they met, every interview
rendering them still more fondly devoted to
each other ^ until tidings came, that the Conde
de Ribiero was soon to return to his castle,
and with him Don Manuel de Mendoza.

The day this intelligence arrived, dreading
that it might perhaps be the last when she could
ride out attended only by Huguez, the Lady
Veronica met her lover. His brow was over-
cast, and his cheek pale as marble as he pressed
his lips to the delicate hand yielded to his grasp.
He told her that his brother, the object in life
next to her the most dear to him, was so much
worse in health, that a few days, perhaps a few
hours, might terminate his existence.

** This is most probably the last day that I
can leave his couch of pain, until all is over,"
said Don Alphonso, and his eyes became suf-
fused with tears, " but you will think of me,
adorable Veronica, and while I soothe the bed

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 803

of death, your sweet voice will bid me not yield
to despair, in losing the noblest brother and
truest friend that man ever was blest with/'

" Alas I'* replied Veronica, "even had this
heavy affliction been spared, we could not have
continued to meet, for the Conde de Ribiero
and his nephew have announced their approach-
ing return, and I shall no longer be at liberty
to ride out, except attended by them."

" These are indeed sad tidings," said Don
Alphonso ; and his cheeks glowed, and his
eyes flashed. " Does the destroyer of my sainted
mother, the slayer of my beloved brother, come
hither to behold the completion of the misery
his accursed hand has wrought on our house ?
Comes he here to triumph in our desolation, to
witness the despair of my aged sire, and to see
me consign to a premature grave, the brother
who received his death wound in avenging the
cowardly violence committed on me, whilst yet
a child? His deeds call for vengeance, — be
mine ! oh, gracious Providence I thy instrument
to smite him/'

" Would'st thou expose a life so precious to
thy parent, whose sole consolation thou soon

must be — so necessary to" " me,'* the Lady

Veronica would have said, but modesty and

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3(H VfiRONICA OF CASTILLE.

terror checked her utterance, and the tears she
could not repress, flowed down her cheeks.

" To save my father a pang, and to preserve
thee, idol of my soul, from sorrow, I would do
much, hut let the destroyer of my brother be-
ware how he crosses my path, lest my long slum-
bering vengeance awake to annihilate him/'

The lovers parted this day with a deeper
sadness than either had ever felt at saying fore-
well, though never had they uttered the word
without a regret known only to hearts as devoted
as theirs, when parting even for a brief space.
As they pursued the paths that led to their
separate homes, until their figures were lost in
the distance, often did they pause to look back
at each other.

On reaching the castle of Ribiero, the Lady
Veronica learned with dismay that a courier
had arrived there, to announce the death of the
conde, his master, (which event had occurred
suddenly at an inn, on the route the previous
night), and that the corpse of the defunct, at-
tended by his nephew and domestics, would
arrive the next day. This intelligence spread
a general gloom over the castle, for the Conde
de Ribiero, though a weak man, was a mild and
generous master; whose greatest faults origi-

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 305

Dated in an overweening affection for his worth-
less nephew, to whom he had bequeathed his
fortune. Every one in the castle dreaded the
change likely to he effected by the new possessor ;
for Don Manuel was equally disliked and feared.
To the Lady Veronicai who had ever experienced
gentle treatment, if not kindness from her late
guardian, the news brought unaffected regret ;
but whilst she lamented the departed, she for-
got not (and she accused herself of selfishness
in remembering it at such a moment), that she
was now released from all dependence on the
will of another, and was free to bestow her hand
where her heart was already given. Uncon-
nected by even a remote tie of blood with the
new Conde de Ribiero, there could no longer
be any obstacle to her union with Don Alphonso,
whenever he claimed her for his bride ; and this
thought soothed the sorrow she felt for the death
of her guardian. She determined to wait in the
castle until the obsequies of the deceased were
over, and then to remove with Donna Olympia
to the home of her fathers.

The next night, the funeral procession reached
the castle, headed by Don Manuel, now Conde
de Ribiero, who entered it rather as a trium-

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306 VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

phant conqueror, than as a mourner for the
roost indulgent of imcles. The undisguised
satisfaction he evinced on taking possession of
his newly acquired wealth, no less shocked than
disgusted the inhabitants of the castle. But
when, with indecent haste, within an hour after
his arrival, he ordered the corpse of the late
conde to be consigned to the tomb, all were
filled with indignation.

The next morning, at an early hour, the new
Conde de Ribiero was examining every cabinet,
and ransacking every cofier of the deceased,
and before noon, he had discharged all the ser-
vitors of his late uncle, whose age or infirmities
rendered them unfit for active service. There
were nought but tears, murmurings, and pro-
phetic shakes of the head, to be seen among the
dependents, as they were ordered to leave the
roof that had so long sheltered them, and under
which they had hoped to have closed their eyes.
No will belonging to the dead could be found,
or if found (which was shrewdly suspected),
was ever produced, and even a scanty pittance to
support the infirmities of age, was denied those
who had spent their best days in the service of
the late conde. Huguez was among the dis-

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 307

missed, bat he was immediately engaged by the
Lady Veronica, to form one of her retinue.

On the evening of the day after his arrival
at the castle, the conde sought the chamber
appropriated to the Lady Veronica, and ap-
proached, to take her hand with the air of one
who seemed to think he had a right to it. She
withdrew it with an air of dignified reserve that
displeased him, and he was at no pains to con-
ceal his displeasure.

*< You are cold and haughty, methinks,'' said
he, ** and receive me not as befits a betrothed
bride to receive her future lord."

The undissembled surprise of the Lady
Veronica on hearing this speech, seemed to
increase his anger, and when she proudly told
him that she never had, and never would con-
sider him in any other light than that of a
mere acquaintance, his rage knew no bounds.
He swore that she should never leave the castle
but as his wife, and at the termination of their
stormy interview, absolutely locked her up as a
prisoner in her chamber, and put the key in
his pocket.

While this scene was passing at the Castle
de Ribiero, Don Alphonso de Pampluna was

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308 VERONICA OF CASTILLE*

watching by the couch of pain of his bek
brother, and endeavouring to cheer the gp
of his aged sire. The first intelligence of
death of the Conde de Ribiero was broi
to him by the faithful Huguez, who, infor
by Donna Olyuipia that the Lady Vero
was incarcerated in her chamber, by the
worthy successor of the late conde, thougl
right to make Don Alphonso acquainted '
the state of afiairs. The indignation of
lover knew no bounds when he heard of
treatment to which she was subjected ;
he vowed that he would rescue her from
power of her unmanly persecutor, or peri«
the attempt. He instantly determined to
on the conde to restore the Lady Verc
immediately to freedom, or to meet hiu
single combat forthwith.

This challenge was dispatched by a tr
hand, and its receipt threw the Conde de Ril
into the most ungovernable rage. He hur
to the chamber of his fair prisoner, and
raanded if she knew its writer. Her axk
in the affirmative enraged hira beyond mens
but when, after having reproached, and (
threatened lier with personal violence, she

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VERONICA OF CASTILLE. 309

knowledged, with all the ^ertS of her race, that
she loved the Marquess de Pampluna, and
never would he the bride of any other, his fury
became desperate, and he vowed to take deadly
vengeance on her loven He wrote, and fixed
an hour and place for the combat. The spot
selected was an opening in a forest, a few miles
distant from the castle, a wild and unfrequented
place, bounded on one side by a steep and
nearly perpendicular rock, at the base of which
flowed a deep river.

The Conde de Ribiero, as dastardly in spirit
as violent in temper, having heard much of the
prowess in arms of him who had challenged
him to combat, dreaded the result of the en-
counter, and determined to try and take ven-
geance by a mode less doubtful than that
afforded by an honourable combat. Among
his retainers, there was one named Diego, of
great physical force and reputed skill in arms;
and him he decided on having recourse to in
this dilemma. He promised a large reward to
Diego, if, when Don Alphonso de Pampluna
advanced to the place appointed for the combat,
he would rush out from ambush and slay him
before he had time to draw his sword to defend

dbyGoogk

310 VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

•

himself ; promising, that if Don Alphonso fell
not by the arm of this mercenary assassin, he
would himself sally forth from a concealment,
whence he could await the result of the ren-
contre, and if required, assist in despatching
his foe. The close of the evening was the
hour agreed on for the meeting, and unsus-
picious of treachery, Don Alphonso rode forth,
unattended, to the appointed place. He had
arrived within a short distance 'of it, when
Diego rushed from the adjoining thicket, and
attacked him with a fury and vigour which
would have soon terminated the fight, had Don
Alphonso been a less accomplished swordsman;
but quickly recovering from the momentary
surprise caused by the vile treachery practised
on him, he not only defended himself from the
thrusts of his powerful assailant, but aimed a
blow at him that laid him, mortally wounded,
at his feet.

The dastardly Conde de Ribiero witnessed
with dismay, the defeat of his mercenary, and
would have fled, but the neighing of his horse
betrayed his place of concealment, and the in-
dignant Don Alphonso, hurling defiance at him,
braved him to the combat. His pusillanimity

dbyGoogk

VERONICA OF CASTILLE. Sll

afforded so easy a conquest to his opponent,
that his anger changed to contempt, and he
was on the point of abandoning the too unequal
fight, when the charger of De Ribiero be-
coming unmanageable, his rider, who was as
little skilled in equitation as in arms, suddenly
checked him up so violently, that the animal,
rearing, fell with him down the precipice.
Shocked at this catastrophe, which was the
work of a moment, Don Alphonso approached
the edge of the stupendous abyss, and shud-
dered as he beheld the wretched De Ribiero
and his steed dashed from rock to rock, their
forms growing every instant smaller, until they
were lost in the foaming torrent beneath.
Another eye had also been a witness to this
awful event ; for Huguez, having met the
horse of the mortally wounded mercenary
returning to the castle, and suspecting some
act of treachery from the known character of
Diego, mounted the steed, and directing him
towards the place whence he had come, reached
it only a few minutes before the dose of the
eventful scene.

The wounded man was conveyed to the
castle, where, previous to his death, he con-

dbyGoogk

312 VERONICA OF CASTILLE.

fessed the plot formed by his worthless mastor
against the life of Don Alphonso.

The first act of the latter was to deliver the
Lady Veronica from her prison, and to lend
her to the castle of his sire, where she was
warmly welcomed : and soon became the bride
of her deliverer, the consolation of his father
and brother, and the honoured mistress of bis
ancient house.

END OF VOL. I.

PtttXTVD BV WILUAM WlUXMrK»\» BOLLS WKXLDISSM, mTBA JLAXB.

dbyGoogk

THE

LOTTERY OF LIFE.

VOL. II.

dbyGoogk

dbyGoogk

THE

LOTTERY OF LIFE.

THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

After loDf •lomct and tenpats overbtowne,
TIm Sunot at length hit Joyous ftoe doth eleire :
So triMn m Fortune all her splght hath ihowne.
Some btlnftil houn at last must necdes a|ipeare»
Else should attded wights oftttmes despene.

Sexxax»*B Fab&t CIvbbvb.

IN THREE VOLUMES,
VOL. II.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,

GBEAT HABLBOROUOH STREET.
1842.

d by Google

m

T

PRTIfTBD BV WliXIAM WILOOCKflON, ROLLS BUILDIIIOA, rnTMl

yGoogk

CONTENTS.

VOL. II.

TAOB

IN TBB L17E OF A POETEAIT PAINTER • • . 1

k; OR, TH£ DESERTED VILLAGE .... 35

EAM 57

NEYXOON ........ 65

ESTER .83

ORUANI • 103

ONY .187

# c

XEBTERS ........ 191

QUSTTE 241

AUTT AND HER SISTER 269

dbyGoOgI

Digitized

by Google

SCENES

LITE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER.

SCENE I.

EED, my dear friend, you will destroy
health by this incessant labour," said
is Dormer, a young barrister in the
le, to Frederick Emmerson, an artist, as
at in the studio of the latter. *^ You
i take exercise, and be more in the open
an you are, or you will ineyitably kill
If/'

i is not the want of air or exercise that
3 me, I assure you, Charles; it is the
, the burning desire, to satisfy not only
, but myself. You know not what it is
k for hours, with a fair ideal in the ima-

.. II. B

d by Google

X SCENES IN THE

gination which the hand in vain endeavours to
represent, and then to feel how far short falls
the attempt to pourtray what is so intensely felt.
Look here I" and he drew back a curtain and
exposed to view, a picture representing two
young girls of such exquisite beauty, that
Charles Dormer uttered an exclamation of de-
light. " Ah I my friend, if these imperfect
resemblances please you, what would be your
feelings of admiration — of wonder — could you
but see the originals; — then would you turn
with the same dissatisfaction that 1 do, from
these pale and imperfect representations of
charms to which Lawrence himself, who so well
understood female loveliness and so admirably
delineated it, would have found it impossible to
render justice. Day after day, have I vainly
attempted to give the canvas her smile," and
he pointed to one of the faces, *' which haunts
me, but finding that impossible, I have endea-
voured to paint that serious but sweet expres-
sion which so often pervades her countenance.
This is my last attempt ; but it almost maddens
me to look on it ; for it is no more to be com-
pared to her than I am to Hercules."

" Nevertheless, it is lovely," said Dormer ;
^* and the other beauty, who is she ? "

dbyGoogk

LIFE OP A PORTRAIT PAINTER. S

" Lady Isabella Crighton, the cousin of Lady
Emily/'

" Lord Blasonberrie and Lady Emily Home/'
said the servant of Emmerson, throwing open
the door, leaving Dormer just time to rush into
a small room inside the studio, where he had
previously not unfrequently ensconced himself
when similarly caught by the visitors of his
friend.

" Good morrow, Mr. Emmerson ; we are
early, but I was longing to see what progress
you had made with the portraits. Why, bless my
soul ! they are perfect. But you have changed
the expression of my daughter's ; yesterday it
smiled, and I was very well satisfied, — no easy
matter to accomplish, Mr. Emmerson, I can
tell you, when a father has but one daughter, —
yet now it looks grave, and I like it, if any
thing, better than before. Yes, it is perfect"

" I am made but too happy and proud, my
lord, by your approbation ; but I confess I have
not satisfied myself."

** Come here, Emily, let me look at you —
stand there, my child, near the picture — there
— take off your bonnet, my love."

Lady Emily did as she was told ; and even
Dormer, who could see her reflected in a glass

Digitized by VjOOQIC

4 SCENES IN THE

opposite the door, through the opening of which
he was peeping, confessed to himself that the
portrait failed to render justice to the beautiful
original

" What do you think of the picture, my
child?" asked the father.

*' It appears to me to be faultless, father ;
only, perhaps, that my cousin's resemblance is
less beautiful than the original, and mine is a

little too *^ handsome, she would have said,

but a dread of being thought desirous of a com-
pliment deterred her from uttering the word,
and she filled up the sentence by saying — " too
young."

Never before had Dormer heard such a voice ;
low and sweet, yet distinct — there was melody
in all its tones.

" Too young, Emily ? O I that is capital.
Why, to hear you, one would suppose that you
were no longer in the first blush of youth.
Too young, indeed I why, how old do you take
my daughter to be, Mr. Emmerson ?"

" About seventeen, my lord."

" Right; she is just seventeen, and not yet
a week over her birth-day. The more I look
on the portraits, the better I like them. —
Isabella looks round with that haughty air I

dbyGoogk

LIFE OF A PORTRAIT FAINTER. 5

have sometimes remarked in her, and Emily,
in spite of the fine feathers which I insisted on
her wearing, has precisely that expression I've
remarked so often in her face, when nursing me
when I've heen laid up by the gout. I know
that look well, and so I ought, for I too often
call it forth by the frequent attacks, which
always alarm my dear little nurse," and the
fond father drew his daughter closer to his
side, and bestowed a glance on her so full of
affection, that her dove-like eyes became humid
with tenderness. '* You must come down to
Blasonberrie Castle, Mr. Emmerson, when the
season is over in London. You shall paint
another picture of my daughter for me, and
one of me for her. You see, Emily, I don't
forget my promise to you of sitting again for
my portrait."

The simple ** thank you, dear father," uttered
by this lovely girl, seemed more eloquent than
aught Emmerson ever listened to before, and
Dormer nearly agreed with him in this opinion.
" When may I send for the picture, Mr.
Emmerson? I am longing to have it home,
now that my niece has left us : it will extend
your fame too."

dbyGoogk

b 8CENE8 IN THE

*' In a week, my lord, I hope it will be quite
finished.'*

<< Good morning, Mr. Emmerson, good mom-
ing ; — take my arm, Emily.** And IxHnd Bla-
sonberrie and his lovely girl departed.

When Charles Dormer entered the studio
again, he found Frederick Emmerson standing
entranced before the picture, and so wholly
engrossed by it, as to be unconscious of the
presence of his friend. " No,** muttered he,
•< I cannot bear to look on it ; it has none of
her beauty, none of those thousand indescrib-
able charms, which I see, but cannot pourtray.
I must ^

** Not change a single feature,** interrupted
Dormer ; *' for, be assured, your picture is as
like as art can be to nature.**

'* Is she not more than painting can express,
or youthful poets fancy when they love ? ** asked
Emmerson.

'* Yes, indeed, she is exquisitely beautiful ;
and what a voice I — ^it is a pity she is so chary
of it though, for I think she did not utter
above ten words while here. Is she always so
taciturn ?**

** She talks but little ; yet, strange to say,

dbyGoogk

LIFE OF A PORTRAIT FAINTER. 7

I never remarked it until you asked me the
question."

*' Those aristocratic dames, however young,
are apt, I am told, to remind us of our lower
degree, of the difference of our station ; and
there can certainly be no surer mode of effect-
ing this than by silence.''

" You wrong her, she is not proud," said
Emmerson, with a warmth that evinced how
deep was the interest excited by all that
touched on Lady Emily Home.
** Is she then dull, or inanimate?"
" Dull, or inanimate I You could not surely
have seen her face with its varying expression,
each and all beautiful, or you would not ask
this."

" How, then, do you explain her silence ?"
" Now that you remind me of it, I should
say that it proceeded from thoughtfiilness.
When painting her, I have felt a sentiment
approaching to awe in the contemplation of
such rare, such intellectual loveliness, some-
thing like what I believe Raphael to have
experienced when painting those Madonnas we
delight to look on., I could no more commence
a conversation on ordinary topics with Lady

dbyGoogk

8 SCENES IN THE

Emily Home, than I could bring myself i
a bacchanalian song before one of Ra
Virgins. The intelligence of her count
precludes the suspicion of dulness, ai
candour and gentleness of it banishes
pride. Had she spoken often, I could n
painted her» for her voic^ thrills throu
frame. Her cousin, whom many migl
nounce to be as handsome, never produc
effect on me/'

*^ My dear Frederick, you are smitt
all that is good, you are 1 You may we
your eyes and stare at me, like one aw
suddenly from sleep, but such is the fae

** You offend, you pain me, by this il
pleasantry, Charles ; do not, if you lo
resume it It seems like a profanation i
her the subject of a jest/*

'* By Jove 1 I was never more serious
life, Frederick ; take care of yourself, o
will be a desperate case. Be warned in

" As well might I presume * to lov
bright particular star* as this peerles:
both are alike beyond my reach ; am
you not the line —

* None witbout hope c*er loved the brigbtevt (utV

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LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER. 9

" Yes, and the sequel, too —

' For love will hope where rcMon would despair,* '*

said Dormer, looking archly at his friend.

** No, no ; the sentiment inspired by this
lovely girl is not love ; it is something totally
different, — awe, reverence, devotion, if you will,
bat not that passion experienced by every-day
men for pretty women. Never do I look on
her without being reminded of the lines in
Camiu —

* A thoosand liTeried angeU lacky her,
DriTing far off each thing of sin and guilt.
And in dear dream, and solemn vision,
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear,
TQl oft converse with heav*nly habitants
Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
The unpolluted temple of the mind,
And turns it by degrees to the soul*s essence,
TiU aU be made immortal* "

" Well, if this be not love, I know not what
is. Deceive not yourself, Frederick, with re-
gard to your own feelings, lest you discover
when too late that you are their dupe,'' and so
saying, Charles Dormer hurried from the
studio, to avoid the repetition of the denial of
the truth of his suspicions, which he perceived
£mmer8on was about to utter, leaving him
angry, and agitated at the expression of them.

« I thought he knew me better," soliloquized

b3

Digitized by VjOOQIC

10 SCENES IN THE

Emmerson. '* In love, indeed I Bah I how I
dislike this term, used by fashionable libertines
to express some temporary caprice often felt
for an unworthy object, by lawyers' derks, ay,
and even by men^milliners, to define the gross
inclination excited towards some dress-maker,
or retailer of tapes and bobbins. Beautiful
Lady Emily ! how different is the sentiment
you excite in my breast ! Even here, in the
privacy of my studio, in which this faint shadow
of your loveliness seems to consecrate the
chamber, I no more durst dwell on your pic-
tured face, though wrought by my own hand,
with other or freer gaze than the devotee
regards the idol of his worship, than I durst
look into your deep azure eyes when your pre-
sence transforms this homely room into a tem-
ple, whose sanctity I tremble to invade by the
indulgence of one unholy desire, one earthly
passion. Yet I can examine the likeness of
the Lady Isabella Crighton with as much calm-
ness as if it was the portrait of my grandmother.
Others, in my place, might feast upon the ex-
quisite beauty of the resemblance I have
wrought, lovely Lady Emily, faint and unwor-
thy as it is, when compared with you ; but I
approach it with awe, and shrink before the

Digitized by VjOOQIC

LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER. 11

calm and pure expression of the inanimate eyes
as I should do before the radiance of the living
ones/'

SCENE II.

Pale and thoughtful, Frederick Emmerson
stood before his easel, on the day following the
one described, and on which was placed a por-
trait nearly finished. Seated in a chair was a
man of about fifty-five, whose rotund form dis-
played a vast expanse of white Marseilles, in
the shape of a waistcoat, around which a glossy
blue coat, with bright gilt buttons, formed an
unpicturesque background. A huge bunch of
seals, suspended from a massive gold chain that
hung from the pocket of his nether garment,
furnished occupation for one hand, the fingers
of which were continually playing with them ;
while the other, on the last finger of which
sparkled a large diamond ring, reposed on the
arm of his chair. In his well-plaited chemise-
frill shone a solitaire of considerable value,
which he from time to time arranged, so as
to exhibit it still more conspicuously. The
rubicund face that protruded above the some-
what tightened neckcloth, told a tale of long

dbyGoogk

12 SCENES IN THE

continued indulgence in the pleasures of the
table. The chin reminded one of the breast of
the pelican, and seemed filled with some por-
tion of the produce of the purple grape, so
freely quaffed by its owner, and though closely
packed beneath the cravat, was- continually
endeavouring to overpass its boundary. The
lips were thick and dr}' looking ; the nose, of
large dimensions, was of a still deeper tint of
red than the cheeks ; and the eyes resembled
nothing so much as bottled gooseberries. The
forehead retreated so suddenly, that it gave the
notion of having done so to avoid a contact with
the fiery red nose beneath, which seemed to
have parched up the natural crystalline of the
eyes that twinkled near them. A dark, juve-
nile-looking wig crowned the head, and ill
suited the light colored and bristly eyebrows,
which denoted the natural hue of the departed
hair.

" May I look, Mr. Emmerson ?"
" If you desire it, sir ; but I think it would
be better to wait until the portrait is more
advanced.''

"No I no I rU look at once,*' and Mr.
Bumaby Tomkinson advances to the picture.

dbyGoogk

LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER. 13

" Don't you think that the face is too red ?
/surely can't be said to have a red face ?"

** It does not strike me as having too much
colour."

*' Take off some of the red, I'm sure 'twill
look better."

*^ It really would injure the general effect."

" Hang general effect 1 what care I for it."

" But my picture, sir."

" Your picture I minet you mean ; and, as it
is mine, I must have it done in my own way."

" But the likeness, sir."

** Ay, the likeness I that's the very thing I
mean, that's what I want, to have it made more
like ; for at present it is not at all like — not a
bit; there is ten times — ay, twenty times loo
much colour. And the nose I you can't say the
nose is like. Why, it's positively redder than
the cheeks, and that's not natural, is it ? No
one's nose is redder than the cheeks. Tou
must change all that, indeed you must. When
you have changed the cheeks and nose, I'll tell
you what next to do, for the eyes and mouth
most be altered— totally altered."

Emmerson nearly groaned, and felt tempted
to decline again touching the picture ; but the

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14 SCENES IN THE

recollection of a mother and two sisters wholly
dependent on him, checked the impulse.

Mr. Bumabv Tomkinson again seated him-
self, and said — *' Now look at me, and you will
see that my nose is not red, and that the cheeks
are quite of another color."

Emmerson looked, and saw that the exertion
of moving, and perhaps also the displeasure
experienced by his sitter, had rendered the face
so much more red, that his portrait looked pale
in comparison with the original. Again the
dispirited artist groaned internally over his
disagreeable task, as he took up his pencil.

** I don't think you paint diamonds well,**
said Mr. Bumaby Tomkinson. " Why can't
you make them shine ? Look at this pin, and
ring; see how they glisten, and show different
colours, red, green, and yellow, and send out
rays I Why can't you paint them so, instead
of merely putting a spot of white paint, that
looks like nothing but a dab of bread sauce?"

Emmerson's servant now announced that
Mr. Bumaby Tomkinson's carriage was come,
and in it a lady who desired to come up.

** A friend of mine, who I wish to see my
picture — may she come up, Mr. Emmerson?"

dbyGoogk

LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER. 15

" Certainly, sir.*'

And in walked the lady. " So glad to see
youy dear Mr. B. T. ; hope 1 haven't kept you
waiting ; longing to see your portrait. Dear
me, how beautiful it is I The very image! Did
I ever ? — no, I never, saw such a likeness. Just
your smile too. It's quite perfect. Pray, Mr.
Emmerson, don't touch it any more, for fear of
injuring the resemblance."

" Humph I" muttered or rather growled Mr.
Bumaby Tomkinson, upon which the lady cast
an anxious glance at him. *' Don't you think
it is a great deal too red in the face, Mrs.
Meredith?"

" O dear I yes ; a great deal too red, ten
times too much colour. How could I be so
stupid as not to have seen that at the first
glance ? But I was so delighted, and so flur-
ried, that "

" But don't you observe that the nose is
unlike ? it's positively even more red than the
cheeks."

" Well, so it is ; where were my eyes not to

have seen it? 01 Mr. I beg your pardon,

your name ^"

'* Emmerson, madam."

*' O I Mr. Emmerson, you must be very par-
Digitized by vjOoqIc

16 SCENES IN THE

ticular, /—that is, we — would not have his
nose painted the least different from what it is
for all the world. Every one says he has such
a good nose, quite a pet of a nose. And now
that I look steadily at the picture, I declare I
hegin to think it is not half so like as I at first
thought it. Why, it's much too old — yes, posi-
tively twenty years too old, and hasn't got that
very remarkable sort of a look that Mr. B. T.
has sometimes.

" I told you, Mr. £mmerson, that it wasn't
like ; and you see this lady, who knows my face
better perhaps than any one else, is of the same
opinion, /don't care about the matter myself,
but one likes to have one's friends satisfied, you
know."

" Paint the cheeks a delicate pink, Mr. Em-
moton, just like what you see; and the nose
not a bit red, for Mr. B. T.'s nose never is red;
and make the %ure much slighter — in fact,
exactly like his ; and give the face that very
remarkable look that his has sometimes. Now,
pray mind this, and then I'm sure the picture
will be as like as possible."

" Yes, do what Mrs. Meredith tells you ; no
one knows my face better than she does."

" I know it by heart," whispered the lady.

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LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER. 17

which whisper produced a gentle tap on the
arm from Mr. Bumaby Tomkinson, and sundry
" ha, ha's*' from her.

The announcement of another sitter sent
away Mrs. Meredith and her friend, who left
the studio, declaring that they would return in
a few days, and that they hoped to find the
picture entirely changed.

SCENE III.

** I hope you will be as successful as you
always are, Mr. Emmerson," said a lady in
widow's weeds, the paleness of whose face,
though it told of sorrow and delicate health,
impaired not its beauty.

*'I trust I shall be able to satisfy you,
madam," was the reply, as Emmerson arranged
his canvas, and looked at his colours.

*' I have brought his uniform, as I wish to
have him painted in it," and a deep sigh heaved
the bosom of the speaker.

" How I should like to have your picture,
mother, to hang up in my berth — but no, I
wouldn't like the other midshipmen or sailors
to see it ; I'd rather have a miniature, to keep
in my desk, with my Bible and all your letters,
or to have tied round my neck, that I might

Digitized by VjOOQIC

18 SCENES IN THE

look at it whenever I had a moment to m
Whenever I get any prize-money, 1*11 se
home to have your miniature done for
mother, that I will."

The speaker was a beautiful boy of ;
twelve years old, with a singular mixtu
gentleness and manliness in his counten
that at one glance excited a strong in ten
his favour in the sensitive mind of Fred
Emmerson. The boy looked continuall
wards his mother with such tenderness bea
in his handsome face, that the artist a
the beautiful expression, and ere more
two hours had elapsed, fixed it on his ca
During that period the mother had more
once been compelled to leave her seat,
pretend to be occupied in examining the (
ings that were hung round tlie room, in >
that she might wipe away the tears that
ti Dually started to her eyes, as the thoug
the approaching separation with her son
only tie that now bound her to exist
haunted her. But her emotion escapee
the observation of the youth, and a tear sp
ing into his deep blue eyes, marked his
pathy with it* Once or twice he rc^e froi
chair, and embraced her, whispering wor

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LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER. 19

love, that only increased the gushing tears he
sought to arrest.

'* When I am an admiral, mother, you shall
have as good a house as we had once — aye, and
a carriage too, and you shall come on hoard
my ship in my boat, manned by my sailors,"
and the eyes of the generous boy sparkled with
animation and pleasure at the anticipation ;
while those of the fond mother glistened through
her tears.

Frederick Emmerson requested her to sit by
her son, saying, as an excuse for so doing, that
he could paint his picture better if the sitter's
eyes were not continually turning across the
room to her.

** Then I must hold her hand in mine, if I
may not look at her,'' said the youth, <* for I
shall be with her so short a time, that I want
to have as much of her as possible," a naive
avowal repaid by a glance of inexpressible love
by the mother.

There she sat, her eyes beaming with ten-
derness, fixed on her son; and Emmerson,
charmed with the maternal beauty of the cha-
racter of her countenance, rapidly made one of
his most successful likenesses, while the mother

dbyGoogk

20 SCENES IN THE

and son were totally unconscious that he was
not painting the latter.

** May I now look at the portrait, Mr. £m-
merson ?" asked the lady, after two hours' pa-
tient sitting from the time she had changed
her position, yet so wholly engrossed was she
hy her melancholy reflections, as to have for-
gotten the lapse of time.

'* Pardon me, madam, for wishing this young
gentleman to see my work first.''

The youth left his seat, and, on advancing
near the easel, clapped his hands with delight,
and exclaimed — " 'Tis she I — 'tis she I — O I
mother, dear mother, how happy I am I — ^look,
look, so exactly like you, and just as you have
looked ever since I was made a midshipman I"
The hoy hugged his mother with rapture, and
then turning to Frederick Emmerson, seized
his hand, and wrutag it, saying, ** Ah t when
I'm an admiral, you shall see that I do not
forget this."

The mother, overcome hy a sense of grati-
tude to Emmerson, for the delicacy and promp-
titude with which he had anticipated the wish
of her son, endeavoured to thank him ; hut
when he held up the portrait of the beautiful

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LIFE OP A PORTRAIT PAINTER. 21

boy, her full heart relieved itself by a shower
of tears.

" Only wait, dear mother, till I get my first
prize money, and Mr. Emmerson shall have it
all, that he shall. O I you don't know how I
have longed to have your picture, that I might
look at it when I am on the sea, and so far
from you, that it will seem all like a dream
that I can be so distant from my own dear
mother.'*

" Words are poor, sir, to tell you how I feel
your kindness," sobbed rather than spoke the
mother, as she reached out her small and atte-
nuated hand to Frederick Emmerson, while the
manly boy seizing the other hand of the artist,
wrung it affectionately, and repeated, "Only
wait till I get my prize money, and you shall
see,'* and " When I am an admiral all my cabin
shall be covered with pictures of my mother
painted by you."

Emmerson never felt half the pleasure in
receiving the most munificent remuneration
given him for any of his works, that he did in
refusing the payment pressed on him by the
grateful mother, and in the reflection that he
had lightened the sorrow of separation to her
noble and warm-hearted boy.

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22

SCENES IN THE

** Yes, even the poor have their enjoyme
said he, ** when their talents enahle the
bestow a happiness that wealth cannot a]
command, and such occasions make me t
for the time being the wearing cares oi
when the existence of those dear to me
pending on this poor hand, compel an
cise of it that is more than my weak fram
well support."

SCENE IV.

** You will not require me to sit long
frequently, I hope," said Lady Lamertoi
widow of a city knight and millionaire
had bequeathed to her the greater porti
his wealth.

This lady was in her fortieth year, anc
been so much less kindly treated by N
than by Fortune, that her utmost efforts-
they were indefatigable — to supply the ah
of every feminine attraction by the aid o
only served to render her ugliness still
remarkable. A profusion of black ringlet
over cheeks covered with rouge, and si
eyes, whose obliquity of vision gave a pecu
disagreeable expression to her oounteo
Her lips were so unnaturally red, as to

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LIFE OF A PORTHAIT PAINTER. 23

like thin pieces of sealing-wax, and when open>
displayed teeth whose decay might perhaps with
reason be attributed to their proximity to their
painted portals. A dress suited to blooming
eighteen, and an affectation unsuited to any
age, added to the disagreeable effect of this
mass of ugliness, the first glance of which
shocked Emmerson.

^* I detest sitting, and indeed I never would
have consented to have my portrait done, were
it not that I have been so tormented by all my
friends. I hope you will not require more
than three sittings?"

** I am sorry, madam, that I cannot specify
precisely what number of sittings will be neces-
sary to complete the portrait, but I hope not
a great many."

O I that's what all you artists say. Must I
take off my bonnet ? "

•* If you wish to be painted in your hair."

*• Certainly I do. But how do you think I
ought to be dressed ? Lord Alverstock says I
look best in a costume J-/a- Vandyke, and Sir
Henry St. Ives insists that a modem dress
suits me better."

" Whichever you prefer, madam. Will you
be so obliging as to be seated ?"

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24 SCENES IN THE

** What I must I positively sit in that chair
mounted on three high steps ?"

** The light is most adyantageous in that
position, madam."

** Well, if it must be so ; you are all just the
same, always making one sit in some particular
chair or comer, just as if it could make any
difference."

** Be so obliging as to turn a little to the
right, and look at me ?"

" How tiresome I won't it do as well if I look
any other way ? I hate staring, or being stared
at. I desired two or three of my friends to
come and stay here while I am sitting, that I
might not be too much bored ; I wonder they
have not come."

" I am afraid their presence might interrupt
my labour."

" And why so, pray?"

*' By preventing your sitting as tranquilly as
could be desired."

" How very odd 1 — but all you artists are
just the same, always wanting one to sit as if
one was screwed to one's chair. Let me see
how far you have got ?"

** Pray do not ask to see the picture until it
is more advanced."

dbyGoogk

LIFE OP A PORTRAIT PAINTER. 25

" Why, you have heen half an hour — ^yes, a
full half hour, for I've had my watch in my
hand all the time, and yet you do not wish to
let me see what you have been doing ; but that
was just the way with Sir Thomas Lawrence,
he couldn't bear to let people look at their
portraits the first sitting ; yes, you are all the
same. O dear I (and an unsuppressed yawn
followed the exclamation) how very tiresome
sitting for one's picture is. Could you not let
me read, or do something to amuse myself?"

" I am sorry you ^"

'* So you all say ; but now, do let me look,
it will divert me a little."

" I hope you will excuse me, madam."

And here two or three voices on the stairs
announced the arrival of visitors, and prevented
the expression of impatience the lady was on
the point of uttering.

'* So you are come at last," said she, as two
men of fashionable exteriors entered the room ;
" why did you not come sooner ? I have been
here a whole hour, yes, positively an hour by
my watch, and am tired to death ; and Mr.
Emmerson won't let me see what he has been
doing."

VOL. II. c

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26 SCENES IN THE

*' I only waited to give time for some pro-
gress to be made with the picture,^ said one ;
" and I could not get away before,'' said the
other.

** Do look. Lord Alverstock, and tell me if
Mr. Emmerson has at all succeeded."

** I have done so little," said Emmerson,
^* that you can hardly judge."

** Au contraire^ the sketch is very like, and
promises to be excellent."

" Now, let Sir Henry St. Ives see it."

The latter gentleman examined the portrait,
shook his head, and then said, **Dont you
think the mouth wants something ?"

** Certainly, I have only sketched it, and the
want of colour "

" O I yes, I see now, it is the want of colour,
and Liady Lamerton has such peculiarly red
lips."

'* It was one of Lawrence's great merits
that he always painted the lips so very red ;
when I sate to him," said the lady, ** he made
the lips of my portrait even redder than
mine."

" I deny that," said Sir Henry St, Ives, **it
would be impossible ; for yours are as red as

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"^

LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER. 2?

my jockey's jacket, in which he won the Oaks
for me last year/'

" What a comparison 1 Did you ever hear
such a one, Lord Alverstock?*'

'* I should have compared them to coral, hut
even that is too hacknied,'* answered his lord-
ship, with a bow.

" Well, if my jockey's jacket does not satisfy
you, what say you to the shell of a boiled lob-
ster ? for, hang me I if I ever see one without
thinking of your ladyship's lips.''

Peals of laughter from Lady Lamerton and
Lord Alverstock followed this last speech,
during which Frederick Emmerson, annoyed
and disgusted, heartily wished the group away.

" Well, I shall never forget the boiled lob-
ster," said the lady, ** how very original I yet,
after all, I don't think my lips are so very
much redder than other people's, — do you.
Lord Alverstock?"

" They are so much more beautiful than
those of other people, that no comparison can
be instituted."

" How like you. Lord Alverstock, to say so ;
you always are so polite, and have something
civil to say, — hasn't he, Sir Henry ?"

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28 SCENES IN THE

** Alverstock doesn't want the art of
c ompllments, I must acknowledge***

" 0 1 then you think he complimeDti
he spoke of the beauty of my lips,*' s
lady, with an air of pique.

*' No, in that instance he could not
raent ; I defy him to say more of the
they deserve."

" Apropos of lips — did you see Mi
more biting hers all last evening at Lad
wood's, to make them look red?"

" You don't say so?*'

" Positively/'

** Then, by Jove I her husband has
chance of being rid of her than I thouj

" Why so ? do, pray tell us ? ''

" Because her lips have half an inch
paint on them,"

*• Poor Mrs. Luxmore I how very sb
But are you quite sure it is true?"

** Certain.*'

" I had no idea that any application
sort to the lips was pernicious/' sai
Lamerton, her face assuming a look «
derable alarm, on observing which the i
tlemen in attendance on her, exchang

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LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER.

29

al glances, and Emmerson wondered at
ablushing effirontery with which both of
answered —

) I to be sure not, how could you know
ling of such things, you who never have
on to use such aids ?''
^o, you could spare some of your beauty,
d of seeking to add to it.**
lave you seen my new parure of rubies
lamonds, Lord Alverstock?"
have not remarked them, I confess ; but
an look at ornaments when you are near

)»

Ly, that's what I say," observed Sir Henry
es ; *< beautiful women make a great mis-
rhen they put on rich jewels ; they should
them to be worn by ugly women, who
re something to set them off."
}ut when people have large fortunes, they
ipected to make a suitable appearance,"
be purse-proud part^^Tii^ Lady Lamertou.
¥ith due submission to your better judg-
" observed Lord Alverstock, ** I should
lat simplicity of dress in people of great
b was a mark of refined taste."
Ind / think that if rich people must show
ure rich, they cannot take a better method

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30 SCENES IN THE

than by having handsome carriages, a stable
full of fine horses, and giving capital dinners,
and plenty of them," said the baronet.

" You are so fond of horses, Sir Henry,**
said the lady. '* But bless me ! I have posi-
tively been here two hours ; really. Lord Alver-
stock and Sir Henry, you have made yourselves
so agreeable that I have not felt the time heavy
since you. came. I could not have remained
half the time had you not been here. I hope,
Mr. Emmerson, you have nearly finished the
picture ? "

** I have been unable, madam, to advance
it much while you have been laughing or
talking."

" That's just the way with all you artists ;
you fancy people can sit whole hours in a chair,
bored to death without moving. But let me
see it."

" Really, madam, I "

<< It's no use refusing, I must positively
look,'' and suiting the action to the word. Lady
Lamerton rose from her seat, and placed her-
self before the picture. After contemplating
it for a few minutes, she exclaimed, *' I don't
think it the least like I Only look at the eyes I
mine, surely, are very difierent?"

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LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER.

31

Very different, indeed,*' said the baronet,
rhe nose, too, is wholly unlike mine ; and
Louth is at least twice as large. The chin
ye a little like, but what is that dark thing
r it ? I surely have no discoloration under
bin?'*

rbat is the shadow produced by the chin,
portrait, madam, is not, as I previously
ed you, sufficiently advanced to enable you
Ige of the resemblance."
rhen why is it not, pray?"
No picture of this size, madam, and in oil,
le sufficiently advanced in a sitting of two
J."

So you all say, you are all just the same.
:, Lord Alverstock, do you think it has the
likeness?"

I must say I think it will be like, at pre-
it is merely ebauchSJ*
I'm sorry j/ou think it ever will, or ever
be like," said the lady, angrily j " and
last remark renders the picture more
^tionable. Tell me. Sir Henry, iSi/ou find
sembles me?"

I can't say I do," replied the wily baronet ;
t I think with Alverstock, it has a very
uch6 look."

dbyGoOglJ

92 SCENES IN THE

" Sir ! " said Eoimersoo, his pale che
coming red with anger.

** J only repeat what Lord Alverstocl
Mr, Emmerson/'

" Yes, Sir Henry only repeated what
Alverstock remarked," interrupted the
"and 1 think it very improper that you
have given me that sort of look***

A peal of laughter from Lord Alv<
seemed to increase the ire of Lady Lan
and made Sir Henry look amazed, •* I i
such thing/' said the peer, as soon as his
ter subsided enough to permit him to spei
merely said the picture was but ebaucl
not being aware that Sir Henrj^ does noi
French, I could not imagine the word cc
mistaken/'

The baronet looked angry, and th'
offended. The first muttered something
the folly of using French words when E
would do better, and the latter said, tha
her part, she never regretted her ignora
a language which she was quite sure wa
objectionable,"

It was clear that the lady was offender
the peer, for having admitted that the p<
bore any resemblance to her, and his lat

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LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTEIU dS

\

at the mistake relative to the French phrase
added to her displeasure.

Lord Alverstock and Sir Henry St. Ives,
both men of ruined fortunes, were seeking to
retrieve them by a marriage with the rich
widow. The baronet, gross and ignorant, was
more suited to the lady's taste ; but the rank
of the peer disposed her to barter her gold
for his coronet. It was while her mind was
thus undecided, that the good breeding which
prompted Lord Alverstock to avoid wounding
the feelings of Emmerson by agreeing in the
unjust answer pronounced by Lady Lamerton
on her portrait, gave the first advantage over
him to his rival, who, not only still more needy
in circumstances, but infinitely less delicate
in mind, was ready to assent to whatever the
lady, whose wealth he aspired to possess, as-
serted.

The party soon withdrew, and a short time
after Emmerson read in the newspaper the an-
nouncement of the marriage of Sir Henry St.
Ives to the Lady Lamerton, relict of the late
Sir Matthew Lamerton, Knight, of Clapham
Rise. An union which the scene in his studio
had not a little tended to facilitate. The por-

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34 LIFE OF A PORTRAIT PAINTER.

trait was never completed; for the simple
reason, that the lady deeming it unlikely that
the artist could render justice to her charms,
never returned again to favor him with a
sitting, and forgot to pay the half price gene-
rally advanced on the first commencement of a
picture.

dbyGoogk

85

GALERIA;

OR, THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

" PoarquoU toiu fes tkommes ne Toyent-ils pas sans une emotion
profonde les ruines» mtoe les plus bumble ? ne serait-ce partout
umplement pour eoz un image du malbeur dont ils sentent divene-
ment le potda? Si les dmetidres font penser i la mort, un village
abandonn^ fait songer an peines de la Tie ; mais la mort est un mal-
beur pr^TU, tandis que les peines de la vie sont infinies ; or, Tinfini
n'cst*il pas le secret des grandee m^lancbolies ?**— Balzac.

<* Would the signora like to see the deserted
village?" asked the master of the post-house
where we stopped to refresh our horses, on our
route from Rome to the Castle of Bracciano;
** it is not ahove a quarter of a mile from this
place, and those tew strangers who travel our
road all go to examine it."

Luigi, for so was the master of this post-
house named, was a handsome, intelligent-look-

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I

J

36 GALERIA.

ing man : his military bearing, and the
tache that shaded his lip, denoted h
served in the army ; and a politeness an<
tleness in his manner bore evidence tl
had been accustomed to present himself
ladies : his language was correct, and, s
as his appearance and manner, indicatei
he had seen much of the world ; while
tain romantic air betrayed that its conta
not obliterated the natural bias of hii
racter, which was that of a reflective and
mental turn. • «

" There stands the village," said he,
ing to a mass of buildings seated on ai
nence, overlooking the fertile valley of A
along which the clear and sparkling ri
that name glided like a silvery serpen
shaping itself, sporting through verdani
dows, and then losing itself amidst ?
knolls. We set out to visit Galeria, ou
municative host acting as guide ; and, t
short walk, found ourselves on a rustic I
at the base of the eminence on whi<
ruined village is seated ; and which,
from this spot, has a mos '\»icturesque a
anoe.

yGoogk

6ALERIA. 37

Crossing the bridge we ascended a steep and
winding road, each turn of which presented
rich beauties ; and arrived at an arched gate
of stone-work, surmounted by a clock, whose
dial still remained, though the hands that had
been wont to mark the flight of time, had
disappeared.

This gate formed the entrance into Galeria,
and the view from it was beautiful. The vil-
lage consisted of about fifty houses, containing
from three to five rooms each, many of them
having their rude walls covered with gaudy
prints of saints and martyrs, attired in robes
of glaring scarlet, ultra-marine blue and bright
yellow, and possessing little of the beauty of
holiness — being most hideous to behold; the
artist who designed them having carefully
avoided all riolation of the scriptural com-
mandment, ''Not to make unto ourselves the
likeness of any thing that is in heaven above,
or in the earth beneath, or in the water under
the earth.**

The doors and windows still remained, and
some wooden articles of furniture were scat-
tered around; the ashes stood on the deserted
hearths, wild flowers and ivy nearly covered

dbyGoogk

38 GiiLERIA.

the windows, and innumerable birds were
flitting about, and sending forth their joyfiil
notes. Each hoose had its garden, once neat
and trim, as our guide assured us, but now
presenting little wildernesses, intermingled with
bright flowers, peeping forth from the tangled
mazes of shrubs and weeds that had nearly
overgrown them. A silence, interrupted only
by the carols of the birds, reigned around;
and as we pulled the latch of the doors of
many of these humble cottages, and entered
tho' deserted chambers, the echoes of our steps
sent forth a melancholy sound. A small ce-
metery, with its wooden and stone crosses,
nearly covered by briars, nettles, and weeds,
stood at one side of the village; and on the
other was a deep well, with its bucket and
chain, the iron thickly coated by the rust,
which was the consequence of its long disuse
and exposure to the weather. Near to this
neglected implement was a stone bench, shel*
tered by a clump of trees, where, probaUy,
the aged peasants bad been wont to enjoy the
delicious evenings, only to be found in a south*
em climate ; and in front of it was a level
space, which looked as if it had been the

dbyGoogk

GALERIA. 39

play-ground, or the scene of the dances of the
young.

A small chapel, with its cross and hell, a
fragment of the rope for ringing the latter
still hanging from the wall, showed that the
humble inhabitants of this secluded spot were
not forgetful of religion. Here all the drama
of life had been performed, from the eritrSe to
the exit; but where were the performers? Not
a soul was to be seen ; not even a domestic
animal passing through the grass-grown streets
— all — all were fled I

** Ah, signoral" said our host of the post-
house, in answer to my exclamation, ** it is a
long and a melancholy story ; but, if you wish,
I will relate it. My poor mother, peace be to
her soul I often repeated it to me as we sat on
the bench in the porch, when the moonlight
was silvering the old gateway of Galeria, and
shining on the dial of the clock, which looked
like the face of a spirit.

<*Well, signora, forty years ago, this same
deserted village was a scene of active and
cheerful industry ; parents surrounded by their
children and grand-children, young people who
had grown up together, and learned to love,

dbyGoogk

40 GALERIA.

ere yet the meaning of the word was known to
them ; for, in our sunny clime, signora, we
experience the passion before reason is suffi-
ciently mature to enable us to combat its
violence ; we are unconscious of either the cause
or the consequences. In the lonely and quiet
spot over which we are now passing, the sounds
of the guitar and tambourine mingled with
the hum of joyous voices every evening, when
amusement succeeded the labours of the day.
Among all the young women of Galeria, Yin-
cenza Martelli was the most beautiful; her
slight and graceful form lost none of its charms
in the pretty camiciuola* and short, full, plaited
gonneUaf of our Roman peasant dress ; and her
glossy raven hair appeared still more black and
shining, in contrast with the 8uovfy/ettolat that
was laid in a square fold over it. Her straight
brows, and the bright eyes that sparkled be-
neath them, gave expression to her oval and
clear brown face ; and if the rose shone not on
her cheek, the rich red of her lip made one
forget its absence. Her teeth, signora, my poor
mother used to say, were as white as young

* Bodice. t Petticoat ^ Plaited kerchief.

dbyGoogk

GALERIA.

41

Dds when they first leave the shell; and
laugh was as joyous as sunshine. The
ibours used to pause to look at her as she
ned from the well, an amphora of water
er head, so balanced, that not a single
escaped, though her hands did not touch
ad her step was so light, that it seemed as if
ittle feet would not crush a flower« Every
alked of her beauty except Giovanni Spi-
who felt its power the most — he was never
of looking at her ; and, even while they
yet children, the neighbours used to call
the lovers.

jriovanni was the handsomest youth in the
re, and perhaps it was for this reason that
ur first distinguished him as a fitting
ler for Vincenza. He sought for her the
t grapes and most melting figs ; the first
;s of the spring and the last rose of the
ler were sure to be hers ; for it is only by
simple gifts, signora, that the poor and
)le can show their affection. Vincenza
1 receive them with pleasure, and repay
anni with a smile and kind words ; nor
L glance wanting such as love alone can
w. She would place the flowers in her

;■(;

'(I

dbyGoogk

49 GALERIA.

hair and bosom, where they remamed, until
seeking her lowly oouch she consigned them to
a vase of water fresh from the fountain, and
placed them on the table close by her pillow,
beneath the picture of the Madonna. At other
times she would weave the flowers into a gar*-
land for the large image of her patron saint that
adorned the chapel ; and it was allowed, that
no girl in the yillage could weave a garland to
be compared with that of Vincenza.

** The afiection of Vincenza and Giovanni
had grown with their growth and strengthened
with their strength ; neither could remember
when it had commenced, or when they had been
able to support existence asunder. Together
they sung the love ditties that they played on
the guitar, or danced the tarantella to the
merry sound of the tambourine ; together they
had knelt and prayed at the shrine of the Ma-
donna, and ofiered up votive flowers before the
images of their tutelar saints. Each had be-
come associated with the thoughts, feelings,
dreams and hopes of the other ; they had never
contemplated the possibility of even a tempo*
rary separation ; their little hamlet was the
world to them, the boundary of their wishes.

dbyGoogk

GALERIA. 48

and the scene where their happiness was to he
crowned.

''The chapel now before us, signora, was
viewed by the lovers as the place where one
day their vows were to be sanctified, their chil-
dren to be baptised, and their own bodies to be
deposited, previously to their consignment to
their last narrow home ; all this had occurred to
all who, under their observation or within their
knowledge, had, like them, grown together,
loved and married ; and therefore Vincenza and
Giovanni believed it would be their fate.

"This supposed certainty of the future,
threw an additional shade of tenderness over
the feelings of the young people : they wholly
depended on each other for happiness, and the
few hours of absence that the manual labours
of Giovanni in the fields occupied, were sus-
tained and counted with impatience by both.
How often has Vincenza looked to the west, to
see whether the sun gave token of seeking his
couch, that being the signal of Giovanni's re*
turn. Seldom had he repaired to the field with-
out bearing in his hat a bouquet of flowers, the
gift of Vincenza ; and as seldom did he return
without bringing some rustic ofiering to her.

dbyGoogk

44 GALERIA.

*' Ah ! signora, the richest gifts wh
grand can bestow, yield not such pore p
as the humble oflerings of the poor and
I, signora, have seen much of the wo
have served in the army, and been man
a courier, during which time I have bei
ployed in some noble families ; and on oc
of marriages, have seen jewels given,
might ransom a prince, and whose d
lustre made my eyes ache, without the
ferring half the delight that a single rib
kerchief of silk has excited in the breast
of our peasants, when presented by the 1
love.

" Ay, you grand ones of the earth, si
have so many different sources of gratifi
that when you love, it is only another
ment added to your vast store ; but, w
love constitutes the whole, the sole, tl
one I You have each your different pi
your different pleasures, and can amuse
^ves so well, when asunder, that you <
not on each other for happiness. Forgi
signora, for my boldness in expressing
flections, and permit me to return to n
rative.

yGoogk

OALERIA. 45

** So genuine had been the affection of the
lovers, that it created a sympathy and respect
throughout the hamlet; their parents treated
them as affianced ; and each rural belle or beau
quoted them as models of example to the other,
when dissatisfied by negligence or coquetry ;
for, even in the most remote hamlet, signora, a
woman is still a woman.

" Many years before the period to which I
refer, a dangerous malady had reduced the
father of Giovanni to the brink of the grave ;
and the despairing wife had vowed, before her
patron saint, that if her husband recovered, she
would devote her eldest son to the church.

*' The illness terminated favourably ; and she
prepared to fulfil the duty she had imposed
upon herself. Andrea was the name of the
youth on which this rigid fortune was entailed,
but, happily, his calm, contemplative turn of
mind rendered him not unfitted for its en-
durance.

** Mobile yet a child, he was treated as a
chosen vessel ; one who was to be an inter-
mediate point between those dear to him and
the God he was to serve. The monastic habit
was assumed by him ere he had yet quitted the

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46 GALERIA.

plays of boyhood ; and he met with affectioiiate
indulgence, from the knowledge that he was
doomed soon to leave his native village and all
that he loved, to live in cloistered solitude at a
few miles distance.

" The spires of his convent you may see
yonder, signora ; but they are more visible at
sunset, when the last rays of the bright lumi-
nary tinge them. My mother has told me,
that often and oflten did she see Andrea
with Vincenza and Giovanni leaning on his
shoulders, their arms crossed as they leant on
him, pausing to watch those glittering spires
fading in the horizon ; and the lovers would
draw closer to Andrea, reminded by them,
that soon he would be torn from them, and be
condemned to the solitude of that cloister.
How many hopes of affection did they exchange
with this dear brother I Andrea, in return,
promising to pray for their hs^piness in bis
daily orisons before the altar, and in his celL
They dwelt on the visits they should make
him ; the flowers, fruit, and new honey they
would bring him. Giovanni archly addingi
in spite of the blushing cheek of Vincenza,
which she vainly endeavoured to conceal on the

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GALERIA. 4lf

ler of Andrea, that their first-horn son
1 he named Andrea.

uch was the fascination of this mild and
onate youth, that his presence was felt to
ource of pleasure instead of a restraint to
vers. He was scarcely less dear to Vin-

than to Giovanni, and was necessary to
ippiness of hoth. He had now reached his
beenth year ; Giovanni w^ a year younger
icenza had completed her fifteenth birth-

In a few days, Andrea was to enter the
nt, and his approaching departure cast a
I over the hamlet. At this period conti-
and heavy rain had swollen the Arona ;
instead of the blue and limpid stream
L you now perceive, it had become a rapid
liscoloured flood. A pet lamb, given by
mni to Vincenza, had wandered from the
It to the banks of the river, into which it
tunately fell as she approached to secure
Jnmindful of the depth and rapidity of
irrent, Vincenza rushed in to save her
rite, and was soon carried away by the
of the torrent. She was on the point of
ag, when Andrea arrived at the spot, and
r himself into the river to rescue her. He

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48 GALERIA.

seized her by the long tresses that escaped
from the bodkin which confined them, and
drew her towards the shore ; when, overcome
by the exertion, and borne down by the weight
of the monastic cloak, he was carried away by
the current, and sank to rise no more, at the
very moment his brother arrived to snatch
Vincenza from the arms of death.

'* Giovanni would have left his Vincenza
(lifeless as she appeared), on the bank, and
have rushed into the water to share Andrea's
fate ; but that he was forcibly withheld by
some of the peasants, who, returning from
their labour, had arrived in time to witness the
catastrophe, and to save Giovanni from suicide.
It was many hours ere Vincenza was restored
to animation, or that she became sensible of
the danger she had escaped ; but when return-
ing consciousness brought the fearfril scene
before her, she scarcely might be said to rejoice
in her restoration to an existence that she knew
was purchased by the life of Andrea; and
throwing herself into the arms of Giovanni,
and mingling her tears with his, she prayed
him to forgive her for having deprived him of
a brother.

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GALERIA. 49

" When the lifeless corpse of Andrea was
discovered, his clenched hand still grasped a
tress of raven hair, which even death itself
had failed to compel him to relinquish ; and
his contracted hrow and compressed lips,
marked the struggle he had made to save her
to whom it had helonged. Bitter were the
tears that bedewed his pale forehead, while,
bending over him, Vincenza and Giovanni
passionately expressed their resolution, ever
and fondly to cherish the memory of his virtues
and disastrous fate ; then, feeling that in losing
this dear and trusted brother, one of the links
of the chain that united them was broken, they
vowed henceforth to be all to each other.
Alas I they foresaw not that this terrible afflic-
tion, their first in the school of trials, would be
the cause of so much future misery, and that
their lives, hitherto so tranquil and happy,
were never more to know peace.

'*No sooner had the mortal remains of
Andrea been consigned to the grave, bedewed
by the tears of all the village, than the mother
declared that Giovanni, her only surviving son,
must be devoted to the church in the place of
him she had lost. In vain were tbe tears and

VOL. n. D

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50 GALERIA.

despair of the lovers, rendered now doubly dear
to each other by the grief that Andrea's death
had caused them, — in vain were the interces-
sions of relatives, friends, and neighbours, — the
superstitious and bigotted mother was resolved
on the sacrifice of her child, of whose fate she
now became the sole arbitress, in consequence
of the death of her husband, which occurred a
few days after that of Andrea.

" To his wife, the deceased parent, a weak
and good-natured man, and the richest in the
village, bequeathed all his wealth ; with the
chief portion of which, she proclaimed her
intention of endowing the convent as soon as
Giovanni should pronounce his vows. This
declaration enlisted the whole of the monks on
her side ; and entreaties, representations, and
promises having failed to produce any efiect on
Giovanni, an order was procured from the
commandant of a neighbouring town, for a
party of military to tear him from the arms of
his agonized and despairing Vincenza, and
bear him to the convent, where he was kept a
close prisoner.

'* The deep anguish of Vincenza failed to
produce any efiect on the obdurate mother of

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GALERIA. 51

her lover ; nay, the poor girl was looked upon
by the inflexible fanatic, as an impious crea-
ture, who wanted to place herself between her
son and heaven. Vincenza used to sit for
hours on a rustic seat that commanded a view of
the convent spires ; and, when the deepening
shades of evening hid them from her sight, she
would return pale and silent to her cheerless
home, and throw herself on that pillow from
which peaceful slumber had now fled for ever.
*'The unhappiness of the youthful lovers
had thrown a gloom over the whole viUage ;
for, though a superstitious dread of the monks
had checked the expressions of the sympathy
all felt, it had but rendered the feeling more
profound. The sounds of the guitar or tam-
bourine were no longer heard to break on the
stillness of evening : gloom had succeeded to
cheerfulness in the lately happy village, and all
was changed. Poor Giovanni had undergone
a system of persecution, instigated even less by
superstition than by the cupidity of the monks,
who wished to ensure the wealth promised by
his mother. Coercion had been tried in vain ;
persuasion, too, had hitherto failed to induce
him to repeat the vows that must separate him

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52 GALERIA.

for ever from his Vincenza ; but when he dis-
covered that on his compliance depended his
sole chance of ever again leaving the walls of
his convent, he yielded a reluctant and painful
assent, and pronounced himself the servant of
God, while hi& heart beat tumultuously with
an earthly passion.

*' Six additional dreary months were added
to those already passed in his monastic prison,
ere Giovanni was permitted to pass its guarded
portals. Each hour of this period had been
counted with bitterness of feeling by Vincenza^
who sometimes accused her lover of weakness
or inconstancy, in yielding to their separation
(unconscious of the persecution he was under-
going), but she still oftener wept their fate ;
shedding those bitter tears that sear the cheek
on which they fall, and refresh not the heart
from which they spring.

" The mother of Giovanni was taken dan-
gerously ill, and when her recovery was hope^
less, her son was permitted, for the first time,
to leave his convent, that he might close her
dying eyes. He arrived but in time to perform
this filial office ; for, in a few minutes after he
had entered her chamber, she expired. By

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GALERIA. 53

her bedside he found Vincenza, who had nursed
her through her malady, and who, worn out
by grief and watching by the sick bed, was
scarcely to be recognised.

** Hiose who were in the outer room de-
dared, that for some time they heard con-
vulsive sobs, and deep groans mingled with
whispers ; and then a silence befitting the
chamber of death, prevailed. When an hour
had elapsed, and not a sound had manifested
itself to the attentive ears of the anxious
listeners, they entered the room, and to their
utter astonishment, found only the lifeless
corpse of the mother, the face still wet with
the tears of Giovanni and Vincenza. A door,
that conducted from the chamber into the
garden was open, and 43vidently indicated the
mode of the lovers' escape.

'* Whither had th^ gone ? was the ques-
tion all asked,' but none could solve. Could
Vincenza, the good, the pure-minded Vincenza,
have eloped vnth a priest ? No I so daring an
impiety was too dreadful even to be imagined ;
and yet, how else account for their disappear-
ance?
'' The two monks who had been sent to guard

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54 GALERIA.

GioYauni from the coovent, returned thither
to tell the dreadful tale of sacrilege ; and their
superior despatched emissaries through all the
surrounding country, to arrest the unhappy,
and as they were termed, impious pair. Still no
tidings could he obtained of them ; no one had
seen — ^no one had heard, any trace of them.
The monks took possession of all that the
deceased widow had left ; and by their rapamty
disgusted all the inhabitants of Galeria.

^^ Well, signora, various were the conjectures
formed on every side, as to the probable fate
of the lovers : they were believed to be living
in sin together in some distant part of the
country ; and, truth to say, many people were
more inclined to pity than to condemn them.

^^ Summer had come again ; the waters of
the Arona had receded from its banks, and
some peasants had entered the bed of the
river, to obtain gravel for the repair of the
road, when their attention was attracted by
a dark mass half shrouded by sand. They
removed it, and discovered at the very spot
where Andrea had perished, the bodies ef
the lovers locked in each other's arms, and
wrapped in the monastic cloak of Giovanni !

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6ALERIA. 55

'* My mother saw them, signora, and she told
me that the long tresses of Vincenza were wound
round the ill-fated youth, as if to prevent their
remains from heing separated, even in death.

*' They were the last who were ever placed
in the cemetery : here, signora, is their grave,
the only one preserved free from the weeds and
nettles that overgrow the others ; for my poor
mother performed this humhle task while she
lived, in memory of their fidelity and misfor-
tunes ; and since her death, I h^ve faithfully
fulfilled the office.

*' The monks, enraged at the pity displayed
by the inhabitants of Galeria, pronounced a
curse on the village, which so alarmed the
natives, that they fled the spot, leaving nearly
all their household goods and utensils behind }
and this became the Deserted Village."

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57

THE DREAM.

" And ye love him still, Kathleen?"

<< Faix and I do ; sore against my will, too,
sometimes: but troth, mavoumeen, for the
life of me I csn't help it"

" Yet, sure, haven't ye tould me, that he's
as cross as may be, when he hasn't the dhrop
of dhrink, and as cross as can be, when he has
it, that he neglicts the childer, and snaps his
fingers in ye'r face, when you want to keep him
from the Dun Cow ; and afther aU this ye love
him? Well, for my part, I 'm but a lone woman,
to be sure, and never knew what it was — God
be praised I — to have a man on my own floor,
houl^ting out against me, ever since I lost my
poor &ther — pace be to his sowll — last Christ-
mas was eleven years ; but I think I could no

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58 THE DREAM.

more bear with such traitment as you put up
with, Kathleen, then I could fly."

" Aragh cuisla machree; it is because you've
been a lone woman, and have not been used to
have a man on your floor, houlding out against
you, that it seems so hard to bear. One gets
used to every thing in the course of time ; and
many is the thing that seemed disagreeable
enough at first, that has come so pleasant at
last, that sure one has got to like it."

" That 's what my poor ould granny used to
say, in regard to the snuff. * When I used td
take a snisheen at first,' said she, (may the
heavens be her bed this blessed night!) ^I
didn't like it much ; but afther I had taken it
for some time, faix I got used to it, and liked
it ; and roany's the lonesome hour it has helped
me over.' "

'* Well, thin, so it is with a husband's ways;
one feels a saucy word, or an impudent shake
of the head, just ready to answer him, but if
one has the luck to keep in both, faix 'twill be
a great blessing."

*' But how did ye fimd out the craft to keep
^em in, Kathleen ? For, troth, they come so
quick to me, whinever I'm vexed, that off they
go, whether I will or no."

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THE DREAM. 59

•* Well, then, Pegg asthorei I'll tell you how
it all happened. Though as 'twas only a
dhream, a simple dhream, mayhap you'll not
think so seriously of it as I did. But dhreams
come direct from heaven I hekase, as they
appear .to us when we are asleep, and can't
help ourselves, it's clear that God, who always
purtects the helpless, sends 'em to us."

** Then £ux, Kathleen, it's yerself that's the
quare woman to he helieving in dhreams? But
tell me what it was you dhreamt, avoumeen."

*^'Twas a fine summer evening, Peggy, as
ever shone out of the heavens. The hees were
flitting about from flower to flower, and say-
ing, with their playsant voices, ^ What a sweet
life we lade I' The birds were singing such
music, that those who had once listened to it
with the ears of their hearts, wants no better.
And the red sun was going to bed, behind
purple curtains, fringed with goold, richer than
any king^s, when I sat at the open window, —
that same window, Peggy, that you now see.
The sweet smell of the flowers came to me;
the brown cuckoo hopped over the field, and
repeated his cry as clear as could be ; the cows
lowed in the distance, and every bird and
baste, — ay, and the little tiny crathurs, that are

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60 THE OREAM.

smaller than the birds, might be heard too —
all was so still and calm. Oh I in such sum-
mer-nights, one may hear the voice of Heaven,
if one keeps one's mind quiet, and looks up to
God 1 But my mind — God forgive me I — ^was'nt
quiet, for I was vexed and angry. * Well,* says
I to myself, ' here I am, this beautiful night,
and Andy promised he would come home before
the sun had gone to bed, and there he has drawn
his purple curtains, and put out his blessed
light, and yet the man of the house does not
come to me I Sure, His to the Dun Cow he's
gone, to dhrink with them limbs of the devil;
and this is the way that a poor woman is kept,
like a mhoodaufif* watching the long hours,
while he's spending the trifle he's aim'd!* With
that, up gets the anger in my breast, and the
heart of me began to bait, and my cheeks got
as hot as a lime-kiln. * III go after him,' says
I, * to the Dun Cow, and give him a bit of my
mind, that I will I' But then I begun to re-
member that Biddy Phelan used to go after
Mick, her husband, until he got so used to it,
that he would say he couldn't go till Biddy came
for him; and I said to myself, ' It shall never
be said, that I« a dacent girl, wint afther my

• AfooL

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THE DREAM. 6l

husband to a shibeen shop.' * Bat, thin, ^would
sarre him right, and may be teach him bether,'
whispered the Evil Spirit in my ears, * if you
were to spake to him afore the wild boys he's
dhrinking with ;' and I up, and threw the tail
of my gound over my shoulders, and crossed
the treshold. ^ If he should speak crossly to
yon, Kathleen, before all them chaps, would'nt
it be a terrible downfal to ye?' said a little voice
in my heart, no louder than the humming of a
bee. * Faith, 'tis yerself that's right enough,'
said I ; and I let down the tail of my gound,
and begun to cry like a child. Well, I cried
till I fell fast asleep ; for, though people say
that sleep seldomer comes to the eyes that have
been shedding tears, I have always found the
contrary; and I remember the last thought I
had afore I slept was. What a baste my hus-
band was to lave me alone, while he was spend-
ing his aimings at the Dun Cow I I slept, and
I dhreamt that I was so angry with him, that
I prayed to God to take him to himself, for
that I'd rather lave him intirely, than have him
laving me to go to the Dun Cow to throw away
his money. * Well, you shall have your will,
honest woman,' says Death to me; ^but re-
member, that once I have granted your prayer.

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62 THE DREAM.

youll never see your husband again, except a
corpse.' With that I saw my poor boy Ifldd in
his bed, our bed, where we spent many a blessed
night His face was as pale as marble, Peggy,
when the moon is shining out in the church*
yard. His hair was like the boughs of the
willow, wet and drooping with the heavy dews
of night ; and his lips were cold and silent as
the grave. Oh, God I I shall never forget what
I felt, when I looked at him in that moment.
I threw my arms round him — my hot tears
drenched his frozen face — I called him by every
tender name — but he answered me not, he
heeded me not. The memory of all our love —
the happy hours of our courtship — and the more
happy ones when I first stood on his floor as a
bride, came back to me; and I thought I had
never really truly loved him before, as I now
did. And there he lay, with that beauty on his
pale and lifeless face, that Death gives when he
has struck the blow, just as if he wished to
make us more sorrowful for what we have lost.
I thried all I could to remember how often my
poor boy had vexed me, in the hopes of its stop*
ping my grief} but would you believe it, Peggy ?
I could call to mind nothing but all the fond
words and the loving actions of him, until my

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THE DREAM. 63

very heart seemed breakingi and I prayed to
God either to restore him to life, or to take me
with him. * Remember, woman,' said a voice,
that sounded like the wind when it comes sigh-
ing through a wood, when first the leaves be^n
to fall, * remember that I tould you, if oncost
I granted your prayer for his death, you should
never see him again but as a corpse. I*m
thinking 'tis yerself that's sorry enough for your
wickedness in wishing for his death ; but it^s
too late now. You couldn't bear to lose him
for an hour or two at the Dun Cow, but now
you must lose him for ever and a day. You'll
see his plaisant smile no more, nor hear his
loving voice. * Andy, Andy, cuishla machree,
don't lave me I don't lave me I' cried I, like
one that had lost all raison, and the big tears
running down my cheeks I' * Faith, and I
won't, my darlint,' said a voice, the sound of
which I never expected to hear again in this
world. * Sure, here I am, my colleen dhas ;'
and he hugged me against his warm heart, for
it was no other than Andy himself that had
come home from the Dun Cow, and all the
throuble 1 was in about his death was a dhream.
From that night I have never scoulded him,
nor said a cross word about his going to the

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64 THE DREAM.

Dun Cow; for whenever an angry thought
was coming into my head, I remembered my
dhream, and thanked God he wasn't dead."

" Oh, Peggy, dear I Such warnings as that
are blessed things, and teach us to bare and
forbare. Praise be to His holy name who
sends 'em I'*

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65

THE HONEYMOON.

^ Some penons pay for m month of honey with a life of vinegar.**

Novels and comedies end generally with a
marriage, because, after that event it is sup-
posed that nothing remains to be told.

This supposition is erroneous, as the history
of many a wedded pur might exemplify ; for
how many hearts have fallen away from their
allegiance, after hands have been joined by the
saffron-robed god, which had remained true,
while suffering all the pangs that from time
immemorial have attended the progress of the
archer-boy ?

Passion — possession — what a history is com-
prised in these two words I But how often
mig^t its moral be conveyed in a third — ^in-
difference ?

Marriage, we are told, is the portal, where

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66 THE HONETMOON.

Love resigns his votaries to the dominion of
sober Reason ; but, alas I many have so little
predilection for his empire, that they rather
endeavour to retain the illusions of the past,
gone for ever, than to be content with the reality
in their power.

During the days of courtship, the objects
beloved are viewed through a magic mirror
which gives only perfections to the sight ; but
after marriage, a magnifying glass stands to
supply its place, which draws objects so un-
pleasingly near, that even the most trivial
defects are made prominent.

Courtship is a dream — ^marriage the time
of awaking; — ^fortunate are they who can lay
aside their visions for the more common-place
happiness of life, without disappointment or
repining.

The hero and heroine of our sketch were
not of these; they had loved passionately —
wildly. Their parents had, from motives of
prudence, opposed their union, considering
them as too young to enter a state which re-
quires more widsom to render it one of hap-
piness, than most of its votaries are disposed
to admit.

This opposition produced its natural result,

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THE HONEYMOON. 6?

an increase of violence in the passion of the
lovers. Henri de Bellevalle was ready to com-
mit any action, however rash, to secure the
hand of Heroiance de Montesquieu, and she
did all that a well brought up young French
lady could be expected to do, — she fell danger-
ously ilL Her illness and danger drove her
lover to desperation, while it worked so effec-
tually on the fears of her parents, that they
yielded a reluctant consent to the marriage,
which was to be solemnized the moment that
she was restored to health. The first inter-
view between the lovers was truly touching:
both declared they must have died had their
marriage not been agreed to, and both firmly
believed what they asserted.

Henri de Bellevalle being now received as
the future husband of Hermance, passed nearly
the whole of his time with her, seated by the
chaise-Iongtie of the convalescent, marking,
with delight, the return of health's roses to
her delicate cheek, and promising her un-
changing, devoted, eternal love.

'*Yes, dearest Hermance," would he say,
*' Hermance, you are mine, wholly mine I I
shall have no will but yours, never shall I quit
your presence. Oh I how tormenting it is to

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68 THE HONEYMOON.

be forced to leave you, to be told by your
mother that I fiitigue you by the length of my
▼isits, and to be absent from you so many long
and heavy hours. And you, Hermance, do
you feel as I do ?— do you mourn my absence,
and count with impatience the hour for our
meeting ?''

The answer may be guessed; yet though
tender as youthful and loving lips could utter,
it scarcely satisfied the jealous and esigeant
lover.

''But will you always love me as at pre-
sent ?*' asked the timid girL <* I have heard
such strange tales of the difference between
the lover and the husband; nay, indeed, I
have seen ; for the Vicomte de Belmonte new
leaves my poor friend Elise for whole hours,
yet you may remember that before they were
married, he, too, would hardly bear to be
absent from her side. Ah I were you to change
like him, I should be wretched."

** You wrong yourself and me, my adored
Hermance, by supposing me capable of acting
like De Belmonte; and, besides, your poor
friend, though a very charming person, does
not resemble you. Ah ! what woman ever did ?
If she only possessed one half your charms he

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THE HONEYMOON.

69

1 not tear himself away from her. No I
est ; years shall only prove that my passion
ou can know no change, and never, never
[ the husband be less ardent than the lover I
ve planned all our future life : it shall pass
summer day — bright and genial. We will
e from Paris, which I have hated ever
} I loved you ; its noise, its tumultuous
sures distract me. I could not bear to see
gazed at, followed, and admired. No I I
my Hermance, that it would drive me mad.
you, my beloved, will you not sigh to leave
pleasures of the metropolis, and to exchange
Dwd of admirers for one devoted heart?"
How can you ask such a question ?" replied
mance, pouting her pretty lip, and placing
little white hand within his ; *^ I shall be
g;hted to leave Paris ; for I could not bear
ee you talking to the Duchesse de Monforte,
a dozen other women, as you used to do
in I first knew you ; and when all my young
ads used to remark, how strange it was that
married women oteupied the attention of
young men so much, that they scarcely
k any notice of us spinsters. I should be
y jealous, Henri, I can tell you, were you

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70 THE HONEYMOON.

to show more than distant politeness to any
woman but me."

And her smooth brow became for a moment
contracted, at the recollection of his former
publicly marked attentions to certain ladies of
feshion.

The little white hand was repeatedly pressed
to his lips, as he assured her again and again,
that it would become irksome to him to be com-
pelled to converse with any woman but herself;
and her brow resumed its former unruffled
calmness.

** I have taken the most beautiful cottage
om^ at Bellevue ; it is now fitting up by Le
Sage, as if to receive a fairy queen. Such a
boudoir 1 how you will like it 1 We will walk,
ride, drive, read, draw, and sing together — in
short, we shall never be a moment asunder;
but perhaps, Hermance, you will get tired
of me?

*^ How cruel, how unjust to suppose it pos-
sible!" was the answer.

In such day-dreams did the hours of convales-
cence of the fair invalid pass away, interrupted
only by the pleasant task of examining and
selecting the various articles for the trousseauy

dbyGoogk

THE HONEYMOON. 71

rendered all the pleasanter by the impassioned
compliments of the lover, who declared that
while each and all were most becoming, they
still borrowed their best grace from her whom
they were permitted to adorn.

He taught her to look forward to wedlock as
a state of uninterrupted happiness, where love
was for ever to bestow his sunny smiles, and
never to spread his wings. They were to be
free from all the ills to which poor human
nature is subject Sorrow or sickness they
dreamt not of; and even ennuis that most
alarming of all the evils in a French man or
woman's catalogue, they feared not ; for how
could it reach two people who had such a de-
lightful and inexhaustible subject of conversa-
tion as was offered by themselves.

At length the happy mom arrived ; and after
the celebration of the marriage, the wedded
pair, contrary to all established usage in France
on similar occasions, left Paris and retired to
the cottage omd at Bellevue.

The first few days of bridal felicity, marked
by delicate and engrossing attentions, and de-
licious flatteries, flew quickly by; reiterated
declarations of perfect happiness were daily,
hourly exchanged ; and the occasional inter-
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72 THE HONEYMOON.

ruptions to their tite^tSte^ offered by the yisits
of friends, was found to be the only drawback
to their enjoyment

After the lapse of a week, however, our
wedded lovers became a little more sensible to
the claims of friendship. Fewer confidential
glances were now exchanged between them,
expressive of their impatience at the lengthened
visits of their acquidntances ; they began to
listen with something like interest to the gossip
of Paris, and not unfrequently extended their
hospitality to those who were inclined to
accept it In short, they evinced slight symp-
toms of a desire to enter again into society,
though they declared to each other that this
change arose from their wish not to appear
unkind, or ill-bred, to their acquaintances
They even found that such casual interruptions
served to give a new zest to the delights of
their Ute-ct-t^tes. Yet each marked, in secret,
that ** a change came o'er the spirit of their
dream }" and that when no visitors dropped in,
the days seemed unusually long and monotonous.
— They were ashamed to acknowledge this
alteration, and endeavoured to conceal their
feelings by increased demonstrations of affec-
tion, but the forced smiles of both, insensibly

dbyGoogk

THE HONEYMOON. 7^

extended to yawns ; and they began to discover
that there must be something peculiarly heavy
in the atmosphere to produce such effects.

When they drove, or rode out, they no longer
sought the secluded wooded lanes in the ro-
mantic neighbourhood, as they had invariably
done during the first ten days of their mar-
riage, but kept on the high road or the fre-
quented one in the Bois-de-Boulogne. Her-
mance observed, with a sigh, that Henri not
unfrequently turned his head to observe some
fair ecjuestrian who galloped by them, and Henri
discovered, with some feeling allied to pique,
that Hermance had eyes for every distinguished
looking cavalier whom they encountered ; —
though to be sure it was but a transient glance
that she bestowed on them. Each was aware
that the change equally operated on both ; but
neither felt disposed to pardon it in the other.
Hermance most felt it ; for though conscious
of her own desire to see and be seen again, she
was deeply offended that her husband betrayed
the same predilection for society . They became
silent and abstracted.

** I am sure," would Hermance say to her-
self, ** he is now regretting the gaieties of Paris ;
and this fickleness after only two weeks of

VOL. II. E

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74 THE HONEYMOON.

marriage I It is too bad ; but men are shock-
ing creatures I — yet, I must own, Paris is much
more agreeable than Bellevue. Heigh-ho I
I wish we were back there. How I long
to show my beautiful dresses and my pearls
at the soirSes I — and when Henri sees me,
admired as I am sure I shall be, he will become
as attentive and as amusing as he used to' be.
Yes ! Paris is the only place where lovers are
kept on the qui vive by a constant round of
gaieties, instead of sinking into a state of
apathy, by being left continually dependent on
each other,"

While these reflections were passing in the
mind of Hermance, Henri was thinking it was
very strange that she no longer amused or
interested him so much as a few weeks before.

" Here am I," he would say to himself,
** shut up in this retirement, away from all my
occupations and amusements, leading nearly as
effeminate a life as Achilles at Syros, devoting
all my time to Hermance ; and yet she does
not seem sensible of the sacrifice I am making.
Women are very selfish creatures : there she
is, as abstracted as if two years had elapsed
since our marriage, instead of two weeks ; and
I dare be sworn, wishing herself back at Paris

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THE HONETMOON. 7^

to display her trousseau^ and be admired. —
This fickleness is too bad I but women are all
the same. I wish we were back at Paris ; I
wonder if they miss me much at the club ?"

Henri no longer flatteringly applauded the
toilette of Hermance, a want of attention which
no woman, and least of all, a French woman, is
disposed to pardon.

He could now (and the reflection wounded
her self-love), doze comfortably while she sung
one of his favourite songs — songs which only a
few days before, called forth his most passionate
plaudits.

He no longer dwelt in rapturous terms on
her beauty ; and she, consequently, could not
utter the blushing yet gratified disclaimers to
such compliments,, or return them by similar
ones. No wonder then, that their conversation
having lost its chief charm, was no longer kept
up with spirit, but sunk into common-place
observations.

" Yes 1" Hermance would mentally own, " he
is changed — cruelly changed."

She was forced to admit, that he was still
kind, gentle, and affectionate ; but was kind-
ness, gentleness, and affection, sufiicient to
supply the place of the rapturous romantic

£ 2

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76 THE HONEYMOON.

felicity she had anticipated ? No I Hermance
felt they were not, and pique mingled with her
disappointment These reflections would fill
her eyes with tears ; and a certain degree of
reserve was assumed towards Henri, that tended
not to impart animation to his languid, yet
invariably affectionate attentions.

Each day made Henri feel, still more forci-
bly, the want of occupation. He longed for a
gallop, a day's hunting, or shooting ; in short,
for any manly amusement to be partaken of
with some of his former companions.

Hercules plying the distaff could not be
more out of his natural element, than our new
married benedict, shut up for whole hours in
the luxurious boudoir of his wife ; or saunter-
ing round and round again through the pretty,
but confined pleasure ground which encircled
his cottage. It is true, he could ride out with
Hermance, but then she was so timid an eques-
trian, that a gallop was a feat of horsemanship
she dared not essay ; and to leave her with his
groom while lie galloped would be uncivil —
After they had strolled, arm-in-arm, the usual
number of turns in the pleasure-ground, re-
peated nearly the same observations, that the
flowers, weather, and points of view, had so

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THE HONEYMOON. 77

frequeotly elicited, — ^looked at their watches
and were surprised to find it was not yet time
to dress for dinner. At length that hour
arrived, regarded by some as the happiest of
the twenty.four ; and our wedded pair, found
themselves at the table, with better appetites
and less sentiment than lovers are supposed to
possess. In short, the stomach seemed more
alive than the heart — a fact which rather asto-
nished the delicacy of the gentle Hermance.

During the first few bridal days, their ser-
vants had been dismissed from attendance in
the saUe^d-manger^ because their presence was
deemed a restraint. Besides, Henri liked to
help Hermance himself, without the interven-
tion of a servant ; and with the assistance of
dumb-waiters, their tite-h-tSte dinners had
passed off, as they said, deliciously.

In the course of a fortnight, however, they
required so many little acts of attendance, that
it was deemed expedient to dismiss the dumb-
waiters, and call in the aid of their living sub-
stitutes.

^* How tiresome it is of our cook,'' said Henri,
^' to give us the same potage continually."

<* Did you not examine the menuf** replied
Hermance.

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78 THE HONEYMOON.

'^ I scarcely looked at it," was the answer,
•* for I hate ordering dinners ; or, in truth,
knowing what I am to have at that repast
until I see it, and here, I vow (as the servant
uncovered the entries)^ are the eternal cdte-
letteS'd^agneau and JUets-de-volaille; which we
have so often, that I am fatigued with seeing
them/'

" Do you not rememher, cher ami^^ said
Hennance, " that you told me you liked saupe-
aVr-riz better than any other, and that the
entrees now before us, are precisely those which
you said you preferred?'*

" Did I, love?** replied Henri, with an air
of nonchalance ; " well, then, the fact is, we
have had them so firequently of late, that I am
tired of them ; one tires of every thing after a
time/*

A deeper tint on the cheek of Hermance,
and a tear which trembled in her eye, might
have told Henri th^t his last observation had
given rise to some painful reflections in her
mind. But, alas! both blush and tear were
unnoticed by him, as he was busily engaged in
discussing the JHets-de-volaille.

" You do not eat, dear Hennance,** said
Henri at length, having done ample justice to

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THE HONEYMOON. 79

the decried entries. ^^ Let me give you a little
of this rdti, it is very tender.'*

" It is only more unfortunate for that,***
replied Hermance, with a deep sigh ; ** but I
cannot eat ;'* and with difficulty she suppressed
the tears that filled her eyes, while a smile stole
over the lips of her husband at her sentimental
reproach.

Hermance felt hurt at the smile, and offended
at observing that Henri continued to partake as
copiously of the rdti as he had previously done
of the entrees. How unfeeling, how indelicate
to continue to devour, when she had refused
to eat I

As soon as dinner was concluded, and the
servants had withdrawn, Henri remarked, for
the first time, that the eyes of his wife were
dimmed with tears.

'* How is this, dearest I" exclaimed he, —
" you have been weeping — are you ill?" and
he attempted to take her hand, but it was with-
drawn, and her fece averted, while she applied
her handkerchief to her gushing eyes, and wept
with uncontrolled emotion. ** Speak to me, I

* Tfae words used by m French lady to her husband on a similar

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80 THE HONEYMOON.

beseech you, Hennancel" continued Henri,
endeavouring again to take her hand ; " how
have I offended you ?"

'^ I see it, I see it all, but too plainly," sobbed
the weeping Hermance ; ^* you no longer love
me I I have observed your growing indifference
day after day, and tried not to believe the cruel
change ; but now," — and here her tears streamed
afresh—" I can no longer doubt your fickle
nature, when I hear you avow that you get tired
of every thing — which means every person —
and this to me, who, only a few weeks ago, you
]Nrofessed to adore I Oh I it is too cruel t why
did I marry?" and here sobs interrupted her
words.

" You wrong me I indeed you do, dear Her-
mance ; I said one tires of things ; but I never
said, or meant that one gets tired of persons.
Come, this is childish ; let me wipe these poor
eyes," and he kissed her brow while gently
performing the operation.

" Then why have you seemed so different of
late? " sobbed Hermance, letting him now retain
the hand he pressed to his lips.

** In what has the difference consisted, dear
love ? " asked Henri.

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THE HONEYMOON. 81

'* You no longer seem delighted when I enter
the room, or join you in the garden, after heing
absent half an hour.

" Hcdf an hour I " reiterated Henri, with a
fiiint smile.

" Yes I a tr/tofe half hour," replied Hermance,
placing an emphasis on the word *' whole."
" You used to appear enchanted when I came
into the saloon at Paris, and always flew to
meet me. You never admire my dress now,
though you were wont to examine and commend
all that I wore ; and you doze while I am sing-
ing the songs, which a few weeks ago threw
you into ecstasies."

Poor Hermance wept afresh at the recapitu-
lation of the symptoms of her husband's growing
indifference, while he soothed her with loving
words and tender epithets.

Having in some measure reassured her by
his affectionate manner, harmony was again
established ; but the veil was removed from the
eyes of both, never again to be resumed.

They perceived that the love — unceasing,
ecstatic — of which they had dreamt before their
union, was a chimera existing only in imagina-
tion; and they awoke with sobered feelings,
to seek content in rational affection, instead of

eS

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82 THE HONEYMOON.

indulging in romantic expectations of a happi-
ness that never falls to the lot of human heings ;
each acknowledging, with a sigh, that even in
a marriage of love, the hrilliant anticipations
of imagination are never realized ; that disap-
pointment awaits poor mortals even in that
brightest portion of existence — the Honeymoon.

dbyGoogk

83

MARY LESTER;

A TALE OF ERROR.

*< Quel vago impallider che*J dolce riso
D'un mmona nebbia ricoyene. "^Pc<rarcA.

** One lovely biuh of the pale virgin thorn,
Bent o'er a little heap of lowly turf,
It all the sad memorial of her worth —
All that remains to mark where she is laid.*'

Joanna BaiUWs << Rajpur,**

It was a lovely eyening in the early part of
August, 1827, when a brilliant sun was sink-
ing in the horizon, and tinging all round with
his golden beams, that a travelling carriage
and four was seen rapidly descending a hill on
the north road. In the carriage, supported by
pillows, reclined a young man, on whose high
brow and noble countenance disease had stamped
its seal in fearful characters, though the natural

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84 MARY LESTER.

beauty of the sufferer still shone forth trium-
phantly over the ravages of ill health. His
languid head rested on the shoulder of a young
and beautiful girl, and his upturned eyes were
fixed, with an expression of unutterable love, on
hers. The last rosy rays of sunset, falling on the
pale brow of the young man, shewed like a red
cloud passing over snow, and contrasted sadly
with its marble hue.

" Mary, my blessed love," said the invalid,
** pull the check-string, and order Sainville to
urge the postillions to advance still quicker."

" Be composed, dearest Henry," replied the
young lady; " observe you not that the velocity
with which we advance has increased the diffi-
culty of your breathing? You will destroy your-
self by this exertion."

** Mary, you know not how essential it is to
my peace of mind that we should reach Gretna
Green most rapidly; every moment is precious,
and the anxiety that preys on me is even still
more fatal to my frame than the velocity of our
pace. Tell Sainville then, dearest, to urge the
postillions."

Mary pulled the check-string, and Sainville
soon stopped the carriage, and stood by the
step. The change that the last hour had pro-
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MARY LESTER. 80

d on the countenance of bis master struck
^rvant with dismay ; and he almost feared
should see him expire, as, gasping for
th, he turned his eager eyes on those of
ville, and laying his hand on the arm of
alarmed servant, said, " Remember, Sain-
, that my life — nay, more than life, depends
ly reaching Gretna Green in a few hours.
i the postiUions gold — promise them all,
y thing, if they will advance with all pos-
' speed*

he postillions urged their steeds, and the
iage whirled along with fearful rapidity,
e the invalid pressed with a nervous grasp
small trembling hand that rested within his.
/^ho were this young and interesting pair, at
Be dreams of love and happiness the gaunt
1 Death smiled in mockery, while he held
dart suspended over them? To tell you
they were, it is necessary to return to the
ge of Dawlish, in Devonshire, where dwelt
I. Lester, the widow of a field-officer, who
killed at the battle of Waterloo; and who
his still young and beautiful wife, with an
nt daughter, a scanty provision, and little
, save the distinguished reputation that his
1-known bravery had gained in a life devoted

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i

86 MART LESTER.

to the service of his country, and sealed by his
blood.

Colonel Lester's had been a love marriage ;
but, unlike the generality of such unions, the
love had increased with the years that had
united them ; and they felt so happy as nearly
to forget that their marriage had deprived them
of the affection and countenance of their mutual
relatives, who had declined all intercourse with
two poor and wilful persons, as they considered
them, who were determined to marry from pure
affection, contrary to the advice of all their
friends. It was not until death had snatched her
husband from her, that Mrs. Lester felt the con-
sequences of her imprudent marriage. Lefit alone
and unprotected, with an infant daughter, how
did she wish to claim for her child that protec-
tion from her family for which she was too proud
to sue for herself I And it was not without many
struggles with her pride that she had a[)pea1ed
to their sympathy. This appeal had been unan-
swered ; for the relatives to whom it had been
addressed found it still more prudent to decline
an intercourse with an ill-provided widow, than
it had formerly been to renew one with the
happy wife of a meritorious officer, likely to
arrive at distinction in his profession.

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MART LESTER. 87

Mrs. Lester retired from the busy world, and
fixed her residence in a small neat cottage at
Dawlish, determined to devote her whole time
to the education of her child. This spot had
been endeared to her by her having spent some of
the happiest days of her life there, with Colonel
Lester soon after her marriage; and she found
a melancholy pleasure in tracing their former
haunts in its neighbourhood, when, leaning on
his arm, and supported by his affection, the
future offered only bright prospects. All the
love she had felt for her husKand was now
centred in his child; and the youthful Mary
grew, beneath a mother's tender and fostering *
care, all that the fondest parent could desire —
lovely in person, and pure in mind.

She had only reached her sixteenth year,
when, in the summer of 1827> the young Lord
Mordaunt came to Dawlish, to try the benefit
of change of air in a complaint which threat-
ened to terminate in consumption. The cottage
next to Mrs. Lester's was taken for the invalid;
and his physician having occasion to refer to
that lady for the character of a female servant,
an acquaintance was formed that led to an in-
troduction to his patient, who found the society
of the mother and daughter so much to his taste.

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88 MARY LESTER.

that no day passed that did not find him a
visitor at Woodbine Cottage. He would spend
whole hours by the drawing or work-table of
Mary, correcting her sketches, reading aloud
to her, or giving descriptions of the different
foreign countries he had visited.

Lord Mordaunt was a young man so at-
tractive in person and manners, that it would
have been difficult for a much more fastidious
judge than Mary Lester, not to have been
captivated by his attentions ; and his delicate
health served still more to excite a strong in-
terest for him, while it banished all thoughts of
alarm, even from the breast of the prudent
mother, who looked on him with sorrow, as
one foredoomed to an early grave. It is per-
haps one of the most amiable proofs of the
tenderness of women's hearts — their sympathy
and affection, which health and gaiety might
fail to produce. The power was exemplified in
the conduct of Mary Lester ; for when, in their
daily walks, in which Lord Mordaunt now at-
tended them, his pale cheek assumed a hectic
hue, from the exertion, and his eyes beamed
with more than their usual lustre, those of
Mary would fill with tears as she marked the
first precursors of decay. With trembling

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MARY LESTER. 89

anxiety she would urge him to repose himself
on some rustic bench ; and when he yielded to
her entreaties, would hang over him with feel-
ings, of whose source and extent her innocence
kept her in ignorance, or led her to attribute
solely to pity.

Days passed away, each one increasing the
attachment of the young people, and confirming
the fears of Lord Mordaunt's physcian, while
he alone appeared unconscious of his danger.
His passion seemed to bind him by new ties of
life; and when pain and lassitude reminded
him that he was ill, he looked on the blooming
cheek and beaming eye of Mary, and asked
himself — if one, who felt for her the love that
quickened the pulsations of his throbbing heart,
could be indeed approaching the cold and cheer-
less grave ? and he clung with renewed hope to
existence, now that it had become so valuable.

At this period, a sprained ancle confined
Mrs. Lester to the house; and she confided
Mary every day to the care of Dr. £rskine and
his patient, to pursue their accustomed walk.
The doctor was skilled in botany and geology,
and the neighbourhood of Dawlish presented
many specimens in both sciences capable of
arresting his attention ; hence the lovers were

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90 MART LESTER.

frequently left alone in their rambles while he
collected treasures for his hortus siccus, or
cabinet; and the conversation, which, under
the eye of the dignified matron, or grave
doctor, had always been confined to general
topics, now became purely personal When
young people begin to talk of themselves, senti-
ment soon colours the conversation ; and, from
sentimental conversation to love, how quick is
the transition! When Lord Mordaunt first
avowed his passion, the pure and heartless
Mary's innocent reply was, " O I how happy
dear mamma will be!'' But a cloud that
passed over the brow of her lover, shewed
that he anticipated not the same efiect on
Mrs. Lester.

" Do not dearest, if you value my peace,**
said he, " inform your mother of our attach-
ment. My family would oppose it so strongly,
that she would think herself obliged to refuse
her sanction — ^nay, she would I am sure, think
it her duty to prohibit our meeting. A separa-
tion from you I could not support ; and but
one mode awaits us to avert it. Fly with me,
my beloved Mary, to Scotland ; our marriage
once accomplished, my family must be recon-
ciled to it — at least, they cannot divide us ;

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MARY LESTER. 91

and your mother will be saved the blame of
having aided it."

Day after day, the same reasoning was tried
by the impassioned lover, and listened to with
less reluctance by the too confiding girl ; and
as she heard the tender reproaches he uttered,
and his reiterated avowals of his increasing ill-
ness, caused, as he asserted, by the anxiety that
preyed on his mind at her hesitating to elope
with him, and marked the growing delicacy of
his appearance, her scruples and fears vanished,
and, in an evil hour, she left the happy home
of her childhood, and the unsuspecting mother
who idolized her. A thousand pangs shot
through the heart of this innocent and hitherto
dutiful daughter, as she prepared to leave
the peaceful roof that had sheltered her in-
fancy. She paused at the chamber door of her
sleeping parent, and called down blessings on
her head, and was only sustained in her re-
solution to accompany her lover, by the recol-
lection she was to confer happiness — nay, life,
on him, and, that a few days would see her
return to her mother, the happy wife of Lord
Mordaunt.

It is the happiness they believe they are to
confer, and not that which they hope to receive.

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92 MARY LESTER.

that influences the conduct of women ; and
many a one has fallen a victim to generous
affection, who could have resisted the pleadings
of selfishness. At the moment of leaving her
home, Mary thought only of others : her lover
and her mother occupied all her thoughts, and
never, perhaps, did she more truly love that
mother, than when unconsciously planting a
dagger in her heart, by the step she was about
to take. Never let the young and unsuspect-
ing do evil, in order that good may ensue.
Mary knew that she was about to do wrong ;
but she was persuaded by her lover, that it
was the only possible means of securing their
future happiness ; and she yielded to the
temptation.

The valet of Lord Mordaunt, who was in the
confidence of his master, made all the necessary
arrangements for the elopement ; and the lovers
left the village of DawHsh while the unsus-
picious mother and Dr. £rskine soundly slept,
unthinking of the rash step the persons so dear
to them were taking.

They had only pursued their route one day
and night, when the rupture of the blood-vessel
in the chest wrought so fearful a change in
Lord Mordaunt, that he became sensible of

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MART LESTER. 93

his danger, and trembled at the idea of dying
hefore he could bequeath his name to his
adored Mary. His whole soul was now bent
on fulfilling this duty; but» alas! the very
anxiety that preyed on him only rendered its
accomplishment more difficult. Still he pro-
ceeded, resisting aU Marjr's entreaties to stop
to repose himself, and was within a few stages
of his destination; — no post-horses were to
be had, and the agonies of disappointed hope
were now added to the mortal pangs that shot
through the frame of the dying man. He
was removed from his carriage and laid on a
couch, while the agonized girl bent over him
in speechless woe.

" Remember, Sainville,*' murmured Mor-
daunt, in broken accents, **that this lady
would have been my wife, had life been spared
me to reach Gretna. Tell my father and
mother that it wis I who urged — who forced
her to this flight, and to look on her as their
daughter.*'

Here agitation overpowered his feeble frame,
and he sunk fainting on his pillow, from whence
he never moved again, as death, in a few hours,
closed his mortal sufferings. The hapless Mary
stayed by him while a spark of life yet lingered ;

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94 MART LESTER.

but when the hand that grasped hers relaxed
its hold, she fell m a swoon nearly as cold and
rigid as the corpse beside her. For many days
a violent fever rendered her insensible to the
miseries of her situation. During her delirium
she repeatedly called on her mother and lover
to save her from some imagined enemy who
was forcing her from them, and the mistress of
the inn, and the chamber maids who assisted
her, were melted into tears by the pathos of
her incoherent complaints.

Intelligence of the death of Lord Mordaunt
had been dispatched to Mordaunt Castle, the
seat of his father, and in due time, the confi-
dential agent of his lordship, accompanied by
a London undertaker, arrived to perform the
funeral obsequies.

Youth and good constitution had enabled
Mary to triumph over her malady ; and, though
reduced to extreme languor, reason once more
resumed its empire over her brain ; but, with
returning consciousness, came the fearful heart-
rending recollection of the death-scene she had
witnessed, and she shrunk, with morbid dis-
taste, from a life that now no longer offered
her a single charm. Her entreaties won from
the humane mistress an avowal that the mortal

dbyGoogk

MART LESTER.

9.5

IS of him she had loved were to be re-
fer interment the following day, and she
d upon looking at them once again. It
irening when, pale and attenuated, pre-
y only the shadow of her former self,
Lester, supported by the pitying females
ad watched over her illness, entered the
>er of death. Her eyes fell on the marble
md finely chiselled features of Lord Mor-
beautiful even in death, and an invo-
y shudder betrayed her feelings. She
led to be left alone, and there was an
tness and calmness in the looks and ges-
Lhat pleaded for this last indulgence, that
•ed a compliance with it irresistible. She
I at the face so beloved, every lineament
cb was graven in ineffaceable characters
r heart, — that face which never before
er glance without repaying it with one of
arable tenderness. While she yet gazed
te despair, and tears, nature's kind relief,
lenied to her burning eyes, the last rays
I sun, setting in brilliant splendour, fell
i calm countenance of her lover, tinging
trble paleness with faint red.
t was thus, Henry, you looked when I
aw the sun's dying beams fall on your

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i

96 MART LESTER.

beautiful brow,*' ejaculated tbe beart-brokea
girl ; " ah, no I for then those lovely eyes, now
for ever veiled in death, sought mine with looks
of deep, deep love, and silenced the reproaches
of tbe monitor within my breast. But now,
O God of mercy I who shall silence it, or who
shall speak comfort to me ? Look at me once
again. Henry, adored Henry I let me once
more hear the blessed sound of that voice I"
and she paused, as if awaiting the result of her
passionate invocation. Then, turning away,
**FoolI senseless fool that I am!" she ex-
claimed, *' he heeds me not I he has fled for
ever ! and I am alone — alone, for evermore — ^in
a world that can never again hold forth a single
illusion to me. O mother I dear dear mother I
and was it for this I deserted you ? I thought
to return to you a proud and happy bride, and
that he would plead, successfully plead, for your
pardon for my first fault But there he lies,
who should have pleaded, cold and speechless,
and I live to see him so lie. Henry I belov^
Henry ! thy lips have never yet pressed mine ;
pure and respectful love restrained each ardent
impulse, and in thy devoted attachment I found
my best shield. But now, now, when thine
can no longer return the pressure, O I let me

dbyGoogk

MARY LESTER. 97

thus imprint the first seal of love I" and she
pressed her pale and trembling lips to the cold
and rigid ones of Mordaunt, and fainted in the
action.

It was long ere the kind exertions of the
women, who rushed in from the adjoining room
on hearing her fall, could restore animation to
the exhausted frame of Mary ; and when they
succeeded, the first sentences that struck on
her ears were the following dialogue between
Mn Sable, the undertaker, and Sainville.

^' Je vous dit, dat is I tell you, Monsieur
Sable, dat cet demoiselle, dis young lady, vas
to be de lady, c*est k dire, I'epouse — de yife
of my lord. He cannot tell you so himself,
parcequ'il est mort, for he be dead ; but I do
tell to you vat he did tell to me with his last
words/*

" Why, you see, Mr. Sainville," replied the
obtuse Sable, '^ I cannot outstep my orders ;
and the affair has a very awkward appearance,
to say the least of it A portionless young
lady, as I understood her to be, eloping with a
rich young nobleman of splendid expectations,
and in the last stage of consumption— why, look
you, it has a very suspicious aspect. The
marquis is a very stem and severe nobleman,

VOL. II. F

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98 MARY LESTER.

and the marchioness is as proud as Lucifer ;
neither would for a moment countenance a
young person who had no legitimate claims on
their consideration, and whom they would
naturally look on as an artful adventuress, who
had taken advantage of the weakness and par-
tiality of their son to entrap him into an engage-
ment which, luckily, he did not live to complete.
Mr. Scruple, the lawyer, has explained all this
to me ; and therefore, neither he nor I can
interfere in making any arrangements for the
return of the young person to her friends } and
as to her accompanying the funeral procession
to Mordaunt Castle, it is out of the question."
'* And dis you call religion and humanity in
dis country?" said the angry Sainville, ''had
my dear young lord lived three hours longer,
cette jeune et charmante demoiselle, dat is, dis
young lady and pretty lady, would have been
Miladi Mordaunt, and Monsieur Scruple and
yourself vould have bowed de knees to her with
great respect. De marquis and de marchioness
must den have treated her as la veuve — de vidow
of deir son, and all homage and honours vould
be given to her ; but now dat she vants every
ting, you give her notings, and my dear dead
lord's last words go for noting at all, except

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MART LESTER. 99

ne ; but I will not desert her who vas so
by my dear lost master. I vill attend
» her home."

re a burst of tears interrupted the angry
I of poor Sainville, who only felty while
reasoned. But what were the feelings of

at this coarse exposS of her position !
ras ready to sink into the earth ; and, for
nent forgetting how useless was the mea-
she ran to the bed where lay the inani-
corpse of Aim who once would have shielded
'om even the approach of the semblance
3ulty and throwing herself on the lifeless

called on Henry, her dear Henry, to
ct and save her, and to vindicate her
cted purity.

return of fever and delirium kept the
tunate Mary many days on the brink of
[rave, and those around her thought that
hour must terminate at once her life and
ings. When consciousness again returned
;r, she found that Sainville, the faithful
nt of Lord Mordaunt, having performed
ast melancholy duties to the mortal re-
s of his loved master, had returned to offer
ervices to conduct her to her mother. She
kfuUy accepted them; and when able to

f2

igiiizea

i

yGOOgl

e

100 MARY LESTER.

bear the motion of a carriage, Sainville, hanng
secured the attendance of one of the women
who had nursed her in her illness, placed her,
propped by pillows in the most comfortable
chaise he could procure, and slowly retraced
the route they had so lately pursued under
such different circumstances. Mary's agonized
thoughts dwelt on the sad contrast of the only
two journeys she had ever taken, and were only
drawn for moments from the lover she had lost,
to the mother she was going to meet. '* If I can
only reach her arms, lay my throbbing head on
her bosom and die, I have nothing left to
desire,'' thought the heart-stricken girl. But
her cup of bitterness was not yet quite filled to
the brim, though she believed it was overflow-
ing. Arrived at Dawlish, she observed an
unusual silence in the streets through which
the carriage passed: Sainville being recognised,
many persons approached him, and, waving
their heads, observed, '* You have come too late
— it is all over — the funeral took place an hour
ago.

Mary heard no more ; she was borne sense*
less into the desolate home, where no fond
mother waited to receive her; for she who
would have taken her to her heart had that day

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MART LESTER. 101

laid in the grave. The shock which the
nent of her daughter occasioned Mrs.
r brought on a paralytic seizure, from
i she was but slowly recovering, when a

letter, filled with the bitterest reproaches
3ost unfounded accusations from the Mar*
of Deloraine, the father of Lord Mor-
;, caused a fresh attack, which in a few

terminated her existence. This letter
nritten during the first violence of grief,
taring of the death of an only son, the last
of an ancient house. He attributed that
I to the fatigues of the hurried journey to
And, which fatal step the proud marquis
itly accused the mother of abetting. He
led the unhappy Mary with epithets that
k daggers into her mother's breast, and
3[ht on a return of her malady, which ended
ath. By the imprudence of the old female
int, this harrowing letter was given to
f. She read every word, while cold tremors
k her exhausted frame ; and having laid
letter on her heart, closed her eyes, as if
come with fatigue ; and it was not until
\ hours after, that the old attendant found

the slumber was the sleep of death —
ating with her life her first and last error.

dbyGoOgI

dbyGoogk

103

ISOTTA GRIMANI;

A VENETIAN 8TOEY.

•• VcDiee»pioiiddt7, bned upoD the wm,
A marW of maB*f ailcrpriie and power;
OkxkNM eva in thy rain, who em gaie
On thee, and not bethink them of the patt
When thou didrtriaeaa by mafiriin'i wand.
On the bine waters Uke a mirror spread,
Refleetinf temples, nalaecs* and denes.
In many lengthened shadows o^er the daqp f
They who flnt learsd thee, ttttle deemed. I ween.
That thou, their reAige, won from out the sea,
(When despotism drove them firom the land)
Shookl bend and CiU by that same cold stern thrall.
That exiled them, here to ersct a home.
Where freedom mifht their children's birthright be.
Wealth, and its oOprlng Luxury, combined.
To work thy ruin by Corruption's means.
How art thou fidlen ftom thine high estate.
The Borne of ocean, visited lllKe her.
By pilgrims Journeying flrom their distant lands.
To view what yet rcmabis to voueh the past.
When Aou wert gloriooa as the«even crowned bills.
Ere yet barbarian hordes had wrought their doom.
Here Commeree flourished, pouring lidies in
With floating Argosies ftom cBstant ports ;
And paytag sAth a lavish hand Ux Art,
That stiB lends glory, Venice, to thy wallsl
Mere came the trophies of thy prowess, too.
The steeds, Lysippus. that thy dUati wrought.
Along thy waten* lined by pslaees
(Rich, and Cmtastic, as a poetTs dream).
Are mingled minarets, fretted domes, and spires.
Of rsccst sculpture, that appear to float
Gently away upon their liquid base.
Nor doth this seem more wondrous than an dse
That meets my gaae where all things seem untrue;
As if Romance a fitting home had found.
To people with creations of the bndn."

Chis, Bignor, is the Palazzo Grimani,*' said

; ciceranet as we stepped from our gondola

a marble staircase, nearly covered with a

een and iriudnaus substance, the sediment of

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lOi ISOTtA OBIMANI.

the impure water of the canal, which was not
only offensive to our olfactory nerves, but dan-
gerously slippery.

A loud ring of the bell summoned the custode^
whose eyes twinkled with pleasure in anticipa-
tion of the itfonamano, for which his accus-
tomed palm already felt impatient. Having
opened the ponderous doors which creaked on
their rusted hinges, and unclosed the massire
shutters that excluded the light and air, he
donned a faded livery-coat, that looked as if
coeval with the palazzo itself, and after many
respectful salutations to me, and familiar ones
to my guide, conducted us from the large and
gloomy entrance-hall, where he armed himself
with a huge bunch of keys, to the grand suite
of apartments. The interiors of Venetian pa-
laces bear a striking resemblance to each other.
Each contains nearly the same number of sa-
loons, hung with leather stamped with faded
gold or silver, tapestry, velvets, and silks,
crowned by 'ceilings, whose gorgeousness makes
the eyes ache. Each apartment has the usual
number of exquisitely-painted and gilded doors,
with architraves of the rarest alabasters and
marbles, and most of them have small cham-
bers, peculiar to Venetian houses, projecting
from a large one, ovbr the canal, offering some-
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ISOTTA GRIMANI. 105

thing between an ancient oratory, and modem

botidoir, and affording a delicious retreat for

a sietta^ a book, or the enjoyment of that not

less-admired Italian luxury, the dolcefar niente^

which none but Creoles and Italians know how

to enjoy. It is not the fine carvings, the massive

and splendid furniture, the rare hangings, nor

the gorgeous ceilings, on which the eye loves

to dwell in those once magnificent, and now,

alas I fast-decaying edifices. No I though they

claim the tribute of a passing gaze, we fix on

the glorious pictures, the triumphs of Genius

and Art, in which the great and the beautiful

still live on canvas, to immortalize the master

hands that gave them to posterity.

Having stopped more than the usual time
allotted to travellers, in silent wonder and admi-
ration, before the golden-tinted chef-d^cBUvrea
of Giorgione, whose pencil seems to have been
dipped in sunbeams, so glowing are the hues it
has infused ; and having loitered, unwilling to
depart, before the ripe and mellow treasures of
Titian, in whose portraits, the pure and elo-
quent blood seems still to speak, I was at last
preparing to quit the palace, intending to re-
serve for another day the pictures of Tintoretto,
Bassano, and Paulo Veronese, whose velvets

f3

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106 ISOTTA GRIMANI.

and satins attracted my admiration more than
the finest specimens of those materials ever pro-
duced hy Lyonese, Genoese, or English loom,
when my eyes and steps were arrested by ^
picture from the pencil of the Veronese, more
beautiful than any that I had yet seen. It pour-
trayed a young and lovely lady, in a rich Vene-
tian dress, with a countenance of such exceeding
expression, that it fascinated my attention.

'* That portrait, signer, attracts the admira-
tion of your countrymen, more than any other
in this fine collection,'' said the custode^ observ-
ing the interest it had excited. << It represents
the only child of the great Grimani, and was
painted by Paolo, soon after he returned from
Rome, where he went in the suite of her noble
father, who was ambassador at the papal court
Yes, signer," continued the custode^ drawing
himself up proudly, '4t was in this very palazzo
that Paolo Cagiari, then lately arrived, po(»r
and unfriended, from Verona, was taken under
the protection of Grimani, and beheld those
cenas^ whose gorgeousness he has immortalized,
rendering the suppers of Paolo Veronese more
celebrated than the famed ones of the luxurious
Lucullus."

The custode betrayed not a little self-corn-

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I80TTA GRIMAKI. 107

plaoency at this display of his erudition ; and
my cicerone^ while he whispered to me that
Jacopo Zuocarelli passed for a very learned
man, seemed not a little vain of his compatriot.

^< The signora must have been singularly
beautiful,'' remarked I to Jacopo ; *' but an air
of deep melancholy pervades the countenance/'

'< Yes, signer, and great cause had the ill-
fated lady for grief," and he sighed deeply.

« Family secrets cease to be such, after the
lapse of centuries. Signer Jacopo," said I;
'* and if not trespassing too much on your time,
I should much like to hear the history of the
original of that beautiful portrait before us/'

'' It is a long story, signer," muttered Jacopo,
shaking his head, and pulling from his waist-
coaUpocket a large old silver watch, that looked
as if it were one of the first made by Peter Hele,
and which he regarded in a way that indicated
rather an unwillingness to gratify my curiosity.
The chink of a purse which I drew from mine,
and the electrifying touch of a piece of gold,
vrhich I placed in his hand, quickly overcame
his reluctance, and having expressed his desire
that his communication should be made to me
alonej I dismissed my cicerone, who seemed
offended at the exclusion.

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108 ISOTTA GRIMAMI.

"" Yes, yes, I warrant me, signor, Leonardi
is sadly vexed because I would not let him listen
to my story, that he might himself tell it to
eveTj fatestihre who may come to see this pa-
lace, and so take the bread from my mouth :
that is the way with them all, a grasping and
avaricious race I The story, signor, is as much
my exclusive property as is the right of showing
the pictures ; and these are not times, the saints
know, to yield up to another one of the sole
means left me for earning a scanty subsistence.
Paverta nan i vizio. Heaven be thanked I else
were many culpable. Besides, signor, I could
not bear to have the history of a descendant of
this noble house mutilated by vulgar lips, and
profaned by obscene commentaries. How could
such a person as Leonardi comprehend the feel-
ings, or do justice to the motives of a scion of
the Grimani stock ? No ! signor, it requires
not only learning, but some similarity of senti-
ment with the noble, to execute befittingly such
a task as this I"

Jacopo drew himself up, and looked so self-
complacent, that I feared he would forget the
heroine of his promised tale, in his more vivid
interest for her biographer. Some little symp-
tom of impatience was, I fear, but too visible

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ISOTTA GRIMANI.

109

ny countenance, for he apologized for his
"ession, which he said had been solely occa-
ed by the evident curiosity of the artful and
iping cicerone.

Well, signor, to begin my story, the Lady
ta Grimani, whose portrait is before us, was
ddered the most beautiful of all the ladies
Venice in her day ; yet though nobody con-
3d this fact, none of the young Venetian
les were so deeply penetrated by it as Rodrigo
nfredoni, a descendant of one of the oldest
[lies we can boast. This same Rodrigo
ifredoni was esteemed the handsomest man
^enice, and so far surpassed the other young
les, that it might well be said of him, ' Na-
I lofoce k pot ruppe la sfampaJ His fortune

unhappily not only unequal to support the
lity of his name, but, alas ! insufficient to
ply the wants of even a private gentleman.
' This poverty had been entailed on him by
prodigality of his ancestors, and compelled
1 to dwell in a palace, crumbling fast to
ay, surrounded with every badge of the an-
it splendour of his house : thus reminding
I, with increased bitterness, of its fallen for-
es. He felt his poverty, signor, as only a
»ud spirit feels itj it made him still prouder ;

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1 10 ISOTTA GRIHAN^.

and thig drew on him the dislike and sarcasnw
of his unimpoverished but less noble eontempo«
rarieSy which though not displayed in his pre-
sence,— ^for his was not a temper to have borne
even the semblance of an indignity, — were freely
exhibited in his absence. The consciousness of
his poverty haunted him like a dark shadow^
forbidding present enjoyment, and precluding
future hope. But if his pride stood between
him and those who would have willingly ex-
tended their friendship to him, it also saved
him from much humiliation. Why did it not
preserve him from love ?

" Rodrigo Manfredoni, while yet in the flower
of manhood, led a life of great seclusion, pass-
ing whole days in poring over the mildewed
and musty tomes, with which the vast library
in his palazzo was stored ; forgetting, in reflect-
ing on the past, the mortifications of the actual
present

*< Well can I, signer, understand the tranquil
pleasure of such a life, for I have pursued it
for years. Yes, great is the luxury of living in
the past, when the present and the future are
clouded. It is a consolation, signor, to con-
verse with the great and wise of antiquity, who
give us their best thoughts, when the weak and

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I80TTA GRIMAMI.

Ill

Idly-minded modems give us but words, and
se not worth remembering/'
Lfter this sally, a pause of self-gratulation
lied : finding himself, however, unsupported
Bi respondent admiration from me, Jacopo
rtly resumed.

' Rodrigo mixed rarely in society ; and when
t, the cold dignity of his bearing, and the
smonious reserve of his manners, repelled
approaches to fiamiliarity.
' * As proud as Lucifer,' was the phrase
lerally applied to him when he was the sub-
^ as not unfrequently happened, of animad-
sion ; * and handsome as a fallen angel too I '
lid some fair dame murmur, as her eye
need on his noble countenance and stately
ire.

' At a grand 7^ given to celebrate the six-
Dth anniversary of the birth of the Lady
»tta, all the nobles of Venice were assembled
this palace, and amongst them came II Conte
mfredoni. It was the first time that the
dy Isotta had been seen, except in the pri-
:j of the domestic circle ; but the fame of
r rare beauty had gone forth, and all were
lious to judge if it had been exaggerated,
le ladies were strongly disposed to think that

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J

112 ISOTTA GRIMANI.

her charms had been over-praised ; the young
nobles, on the contrary, were sure that more
than justice had not been rendered them ; and
the old ones were content with the knowledge
that whatever doubt might exist as to her pre-
sent attractions, none could be ofiered as to the
vast wealth of her father, whose sole heiress
she was.

** But though the guests at the palace were
prepared to see beauty of no common order,
they were astonished at the surpassing love-
liness of the Lady Isotta. All eyes were fixed
on her, while hers fell beneath the passionate,
glances they encountered at every side; but
not until they had met the deep gaze of Rodrigo
Manfredoni, — a gaze whose soul-beaming ex-
pression sent the bright blood mantling to her
delicate cheek, — did she derive any satisfaction
from the admiration she excited ; while he stood
as if rooted to the spot, unable to remove his
eyes from her faultless face. When the Lady
Isotta lifted her snowy eyelids again, the same
deep, passionate gaze encountered her timid
glance ; and neither ever forgot the look they
then exchanged.

" Yes, signer, however you cold inhabitants
of the chilly north may doubt it, there is such

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JSOTTA GRIMANI.

113

ing as love at first sight, and this story
» it, for in un batter (Pocchio^ their hearts
gone.

When the cena, which in those days
fs crowned 9l fSte^ was announced, the
^ Isotta's heart palpitated with the hope
the only cavalier on whom her eyes had
1 for a moment, would approach to lead
[> the banquet, and involuntarily she looked
rds him. Again their eyes met, though
ais retiring from the apartment, and had
le moment turned to bestow a parting
» on the beautiful being, whose image
ilready stamped on his heart,
rhat glance, signer, was like the dart the
lians let fly when retreating — it took a
and fatal aim; and from that moment,
' thought, every feeling of the young
I, was absorbed by the stately and hand-
stranger.

'Where is Manfredoni?' demanded Gri-
y looking round. ' Will he not, on so joy-
n occasion as the present, break through
eneral habits of austerity, and partake our
ity ? He surely will not depart without
[ing a bumper of ruby wine to the health
3 heiress of our house ?'

yGoOgl^

114 ISOTTA GRIMANI.

'* * His excellency has left the palace,' replied
the major domo ; and a smile was exchanged
hy many of the guests around — a smile that
passed not unheeded hy the fiedr mistress of
theJSte.

'< < Yes, he is proud as Ludfer/ was the
rejoinder to a remark made hy one of a group
near her.

<* < And of what,' asked a young nohle, with
a sneer, * except it be of his poverty ?'

** ' That,' replied another, ' would be a
curious cause for pride' — (the speaker was a
rich man).

<* * And yet,' said a distinguished-looking
cavalier, * when a man is the last descendant
of so ancient a house as Manfredoni's, without
the means of supporting its pristine splendour,
he may well be pardoned the pride that induces
him to decline partaking hospitalities he can-
not return/

*' Isotta felt an instantaneous predilection
in fieivour of the last speaker ; and Manfredoni,
with his noble air, and high and pale brow,
round which clustered short and profuse curls,
dark as the raven's wing, seemed invested with
new attractions, now that she learnt that he
was proud and poor, — a union of qualities, that

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ISOTTA GRIHANI.

115

sver uncongenial to the worldly natures
ten, seldom fails to excite interest in the
rous minds of women.
* His house is ancient enough, heaven
its/ said a former speaker, ; ' so ancient,
it must soon crumhle in ruins over its
er's head, unless he can find some rich
3SS to act as a Caryatide, and prop it up,
lat he turn his vast store of erudition to a
tahle account, hy discovering the philo-
er's stone : which no one has a hetter chance
oding, if the old proverb be true, that ia
rta e ia madre di tuUi VartV
How Isotta shrunk with disgust from this
r, and turned from the splendour and
ty around her, to dwell on the image of
ifredoni, with his deep melancholy eyes, —
e eyes that had encountered hers with a
ce of such passionate tenderness. She
ted him to her imagination, retiring from
^ded and illuminated saloons of her home,
e dark and cheerless chambers of his ruined
ce, and a tear dimmed her eye at the pic-
her £uicy formed.

Thi^fite ended, and the guests retired.
Lady Isotta sought her sleeping-room with
mgs as new as they were overpowering.

y Google

116 ISOTTA GRIMANI.

Love had entered her youthful hreast in the
guise of pity — one of the most irresistible the
sly archer can assume to win woman's heart.
She turned with distaste from the costly elegance
of every object that met her gaze, because they
formed a painful contrast with the ruined home
of him she already loved — that home whose
cheerless desolation her fancy had but too faith-
fully pourtrayed. Her attendant, who was no
other than her nurse, who had never left her
since her birth, struck with the pensiveness of
her countenance, inquired with anxiety, if she
were ill ?

** * No, cara Beatrice^ only fatigued with all
the noise and glare,' and she sunk languidly on
a low couch near the window. * Extinguish
all the lights save one, and veil that ; for all
this gilding, and the glowing colours of the
hangings, oppress me by their brightness.'

" * Did you not tell me, Beatrice miat* asked
Isotta, eagerly, after a moment's pause, * that
before you came to this palace, you had dwelt
with the Manfredoni?'

" * Yes, carissima signorinaf* replied th6
nurse ; * I have told you often of the happy
days I spent in that noble family: so often,
that I thought, that is I feared, you were weary

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ISOTTA GRIMANI. 117

of hearing the name, you looked so coldly in-
different when I repeated it; but why, cara
signoroj do you ask me now ?*

** Ere the Lady Isotta could reply, the
sound of a guitar was heard from a gondola
beneath the balcony. She made a sign to have
the casement opened, and her nurse had no
sooner done so than she exclaimed,

" * Surely I know that voice ?* and on look-
ing again, Beatrice discovered in him who
touched the instrument with a master's hand,
no other than II Conte Rodrigo Manfredoni.

^*.Now was the cause of her youthful lady's
question explained ; but if any doubt remained,
it was removed by the song that followed the
first prelude.

SONO.

Doth slumber Teil thine ejes of light.
That thine like stars in dewy night ;
Or dwell they on the moonlit sea,
Whence glides my gondola to thee ?

Each gentle brecie that miirmiirs by,
Seems perfumed by thy balmy sigh :
They stole their fragrance from thy lip,
As bees from flow'rets, sweetness sip.

Thine eyes, but thrice mine own have met.
But oh ! their softness thrills me yet,
As woman's glance ne*er thrilled before.
Waking this heart to hope once more.

dbyGoogk

118 ISOTTA GRIMAKI.

Sleep on — ^but be thj dretma of mcr
For in thy dumber I would be
Thy thought, as thou for erer art
Enshrined within this burning heart.

Still o'er thy conch may angris keep
Their watch, to guard thee while in sleeps
And mayst thou wake refreshed and biightt
As opening roses meet the light

Oh ! conldst thou dream, how in my sou!*
That ne'er till now knew Lore's control.
Thy glance has chased away despair,
And 611ed iu place with viaiona fair!

** Isotta sat covered with blushes, her eyes
cast down, lest their dewy radiance should dis-
close how truly every note of the melodious
voice she had listened to, touched an answmng
chord in her heart, and her maidenly reserve
alarmed lest her nurse should discover how
deeply she participated the feeling expressed
by the singer.

** Beatrice sighed deeply as she bade her
lady good night ; but the fair Isotta was too
much engrossed by the new and delicious emo-
tions which occupied her breast, to observe
the unusual pensiveness of her afiectionate at-
tendant, who, with the prescience of age, already
foresaw the danger that menaced the peace of
the heiress of Grimani.

dbyGoogk

ISOTTA GRIMANI. 119

'* The gondola disappeared, and the siguora
sought her pillow, to dream of love, as only
pure minds and noble natures dream, ere expe-
rience has dimmed the brightness that youth
sheds upon all around it.

'^ Night after night, might the same gondola
be seen beneath that balcony, and the same
liquidly harmonious voice be heard floating
from it; but no longer were the notes tremu-
lous fix>m timidity, as on the first serenade; for
now he who sung was assured of the answering
affection of the lady of his love. The nurse,
won over to their interest by her attachment to
the lovers, had consented to be the medium
of correspondence between them, and no day
passed without bringing an interchange of let-
ters, in which the passionate feelings of both
were poured forth, with all the genuine fer-
vency that a first love, and in the sunny South,
can dictate. Those were happy days, signer,
and they felt them to be so; but when was
bliss found to be of long duration? I have
read that happiness resembleth the bird of
Paradise, which, though often in view, never
lights upon the earth.

** And now a vague rumour reached the

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120 I80TTA GRIMANI.

nurse, that the hand of the Lady Isotta was
promised to II Conte Barbarigo, a young no-
bleman of immense possessions, but of a stem
and coarse mind, in short, the very reverse of
the noble Manfredoni. Too soon was this
rumour confirmed by Grimani announcing to
bis gentle daughter, that in a few days she was
to become the bride of Barbarigo.

** Overpowered by the suddenness of the blow
that threatened to prove fatal to her peace, she
nearly fainted ; and her father having left h&r
to the care of her faithful nurse, retired without
suspecting that aught save maidenly reserve,
and surprise, had produced the agitation and
deep emotion he had witnessed. Into the sym-
pathizing bosom of Beatrice were poured all
the sorrows of the Lady Isotta; axiously did
both anticipate the nocturnal visit of Man-
fredoni, that he might be consulted on the
course to be adopted.

** At the accustomed hour his gondola was
moored beneath the balcony, and the following
song thrilled on the ear and heart of her to
whom it was addressed, the elasticity of spirit
it breathed, forming a sad contrast to the
gloomy presentiment that filled her breast.

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ISOTTA ORIMANI. 121

SONG.

Love can waken hope

In hearts where long it slept ;
Lore can make J07 beam

In eyes that long have wept

Love can make all bright,

That clouded was before;
*Ti8 life's purest gift.

And Heaven can grant no more.

Fortune, now I scorn

Thy persecuting hate,
For on Love alone
Depends Rodrigo's fate.

" How did the happy security of her lover,
as indicated in his song, add poignancy to the
depressed feelings of his lovely mistress I

'* A letter detailing the announcement made
to her hy her father, and which she had spent
the last hour in writing, was thrown with the
accustomed bouquet of flowers into the gon-
dola, which she saw float away, with a heavi-
ness of heart, to which she had hitherto been a
stranger.

*< At an early hour the next morning, the
nurse betook herself to the Palazzo Manfre-
doni, and as she passed through its vast cham-
bers, and contemplated its faded splendour, she
sighed at the cheerless prospects of her young

VOL. II. 6

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122 ISOTTA GRIMANI.

lady, to whom no alternative was left, but po-
verty and love, or splendour without affection.
Yet still the faithful nurse had enough of the
woman left in her heart, though it was chilled
by age, to be quite sure that the Lady Isotta
would be happier in the ruined palace of Man-
fredoni with him for her wedded lord, than in
the magnificent one of Barbarigo, married to
its heartless owner.

** Women, signor, all believe in the inde-
structibility of love, and the necessity of reli-
gion ; and she is no true woman who doubts
the power of either.

** Beatrice found Manfredoni pale and sterner
than she had ever previously beheld him; and
it was evident from his haggard looks, and dis-
composed dress, that he had not slept.

" * How fares your lady, good nurse?' asked
he.

" ' Alas I signor, but sick at heart.'

" *Fool, fooll that I was,' exclaimed Rod-
rigo, passionately, ' to cast over her young and
sunny life, the dark cloud that has so long
loured on mine. It was madness I nay, worse,
to win her — to share a love so unprosperous
as mine must ever be ; andyet, selfish maniac

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ISOTTA 6RIMANI. 123

that I was, I forgot all the misery in which I
was steeped, in the intoxicating happiness of
loving and being beloved/

" ' That happiness, eccellenza^ is still yours/
said the nurse.

« < Call it not happiness, it is misery, Bea-
trice, situated as I am. What, would you have
me transplant the beautiful but delicate flower,
from the sunny home where it grew, and flou-
rishes, to the cold and cheerless spot in which
I am forced to dwell? Would you, nurse, who
love her, urge me to unite her bright destiny
with my dreary one? Is this ruined pile,' and
he looked around him with bitterness, < a suit-
able home for her who has been cradled in
luxary, and who knows not even by report, the
privations that stem poverty imposes? Behold,
good nurse, the fast-decaying walls of my ances-
tral house, and tell me if loving, nay, adoring,
Isotta as I do, I could dare condemn her to
share such a fate as mine? Would not she,
bright and lovely as she is, appear in this
gloomy abode, like a sunbeam illumining a
prison, or like the flowers she gave me yester
evening' — (pointing to the batiquet, which was
in a vase of rock crystal enriched with precious
gems, one of the last wrecks of the costly trea-

g2

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124 ISOTTA GRIMANI.

sures of Art that had appertained to his ances-
tors)— * sadly out of her natural sphere ?*

" * Woe is me, eccdlenza^ that you thought
not of all this, ere you had won her virgin
heart,' replied the nurse; *hut now that heart
is yours, will not the Lady Isotta he more
wretched in splendour without you, than in — *
Beatrice paused.

" * Poverty with me, you would say,' inter-
rupteil Manfredoni, and the colour rose to his
very brow.

" * But, signer, my lord her father loves her
dearly, he may relent, and ^

" * Bestow the richly-dowered heiress of his
house on the ruined Manfredoni,' said Rod-
rigo.

" * Well, well, signer conte, there would be
nothing strange in that; your house is as an-
cient as his own, and heiresses as richly en-
dowed as his, have intermarried with your great
ancestors. But if he should refuse,' said Bea-
trice, urged on by her knowledge of the im-
moveable attachment of her mistress, and the
misery that must be hers, unless united to
Rodrigo, • why not make her yours secretly
before the altar, and so preclude the possibility
of her being forced to wed another ?'

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ISOTTA GRIM AMI. 125

** Manfredoni turned to her haughtily, and
she was awed by the dignity of his aspect, and
the sternness of his regard, as he exclaimed,
* You forget that Grimani might consider me
rather as the stealer of his heiress, than the
passionate lover of his beautiful daughter I'

<* * Can you allow pride to influence you at
such a moment, signer ?' asked the nurse, re-
proachfully, * or can you reflect more on what
her father may thinks than on what she must
Jeelf Pride, eccelienzoj ought to keep people
from getting into scrapes, but alas t it seldom
does, and woe is me, still more seldom helps to
get them out of them.'

''What more the good nurse said, 'twere
bootless to repeat, let it suffice to say, that her
representations, aided by the passionate love of
Manfredoni, conquered his pride, and that she
was the bearer of a letter from him to the Lady
Isotta, filled with expressions of an affection as
true and ardent as ever quickened the pulses
of a youthful heart, yet breathing the remorse
he felt at urging her to an union, which must
expose her to poverty like his. Isotta had no
dread of this gaunt spectre which has appalled
so many stout hearts, and impelled to so many
vile actions. Her notions of it were, like all

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126 ISOTTA GRIMANI.

those of her high station and unhounded wealth,
vague and indistinct. Thej presented only to
her imagination less gorgeous salonsj fewer
domestics, less luxurious repasts, and there was
nothing to alarm her in such a prospect ; bat
she thought not of it She dwelt only on the
happiness of being indissolubly united to her
dear Rodrigo, and of haying him ever — ever,
near her. Her fother, she was sure, would
pardon their stolen nuptials, her first, her sole
ofience, and would soon learn to love Man-
fredoni, — how could it be otherwise? Bat
even had she witnessed the dreary reality of
her lover's situation, hers was not a mind to
have shrunk from partaking it, or a heart that
would have cooled beneath the chilling influence
of poverty.

<< The generous devotion of Isotta vanquished
the last struggles of pride in Rodrigo's breast,
and it was agreed that on the ensuing night
the nurse should disguise her young lady in the
mantilla of her niece, and with her leave the
Palazzo Grimani, meet in the next street Man-
fredoni, who was to conduct them to a church,
where a priest would be in attendance to join
their hands, and pronounce the nuptial bene-
diction. On the morning of this eventful day.

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I80TTA GRIMANI. 1^7

II Conte Barbarigo was led to the apartment
of Isotta, by her father, and presented as her
affianced husband. The trembling lady essayed
to address her parent, but her timidity over-
powered her resolution, the words died on her
lips, and he left Barbarigo to plead his own
suit, ere she had recovered sufficient self-com-
mand to speak. How greatly was her repug-
nance to her suitor increased, when in him she
recognised the person who had so unfeelingly
and contemptuously commented on the poverty
of Manfredoni, the first night that she had ever
seen him I He poured forth a rhapsody of
compliments to her, and self-gratulations on his
own good fortune in having secured a prize
which all must desire to possess, and seizing
the trembling hand of Isotta, would have pressed
his lips on it, had she not instantly and proudly
snatched it from his rude grasp, informing him
that though his suit was sanctioned by her
father, she had quite determined on not acceding
to it. The surprise with which he heard this
declaration was mingled with more of indigna^
tion than was befitting a lover to display before
the lady to whose affection he aspired ; and his
tone approached to insolence as he demanded,
rather than entreated to know, if he was to

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128 ISOTTA ORIMANI.

attribute her refusal of his addresses to a pre-
ference for another, or to a personal dislike to
himself. Her natural dignity led her to resem
the impertinence of his manner by answering
that she considered it quite sufficient to state
that she decidedly declined his offer ; and so
saying, with an air of offended delicacy, she
withdrew from the chamber.

** Grimani was nearly as astonished, and
quite as vexed as Barbarigo, when the latter
recounted to him the unfavourable result of his
interview with the Lady Isotta.

" * Be assured she loves another,' said the
rejected suitor, regarding his image compla-
cently in the mirror opposite to which he had
taken his station, * otherwise I do not think
she could have declined my proposals so de*
cidedly.*

" * Her loving another is out of the question,'
said Grimani ; * for she has never seen a man
except myself and her confessor, since the night
of her presentation. I must ascertain the
motives of this inexplicable refusal, and J trust
the result will prove that she cannot long remain
inexorable to your vows.'

** Grimani hurried to the apartment of his
daughter, giving way to the first angry feeling

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ISOTTA 6RIMANI. 129

she bad ever excited in his breast ; and sternly
demanded why she had presumed to act in dis-
obedience to his wishes.

'* The Lady Isotta tremblingly avowed her
repugnance to Barbarigo, and falling at the
feet of her father, confessed that she loved
another.

" * How ? — when ? — and where/ asked the
astonished and enraged Grimani, 'have you
seen any one to love? Tell me instantly, I
coDDmand you/

'* The name of Manfredoni had no sooner
been pronounced by her faltering tongue, than
his rage became ungovernable.

•* • What!' exclaimed he, * would you wed a
beggar — one whose palace is crumbling into
ruins around him, and only fit for the abode of
the foul birds of night ? One whose ungovern-
able pride and squalid poverty, render him the
subject of ridicule among all the nobles ? It is
absurd, and excites my choler, to think that a
daughter of mine should be so infatuated ; but
I shall conquer this obstinacy/

'< Kindness might have softened the feelings
of Isotta, but the contemptuous expressions
used by her father aroused a pride and wilful-
ness hitherto foreign to her nature ; and as he

63

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130 ISOTTA GRtMANI.

left the apartment, uttering invectives against
her and her lover, she rejoiced in the thought,
that in a few hours she should he Manfiredoni's
bride, and atone to him by her devoted love,
for all the slights and injuries poverty had
entailed on him. At the appointed hour Isotta,
disguised in the habiliments of her nurse's niece,
and with her veil drawn closely over her face,
supported by the arm of the faithful Beatrice,
stole tremblingly from the home of her child-
hood ; and being met by Manfredoni, was con-
ducted to church, where a priest joined their
hands. Never did Hymen's bonds unite two
more enamoured hearts than Rodrigo's and
Isotta's, who now pressed each other^s hands,
and listened to each other's voices for the first
time. The progress of their love had been so
rapid, that no opportunity of meeting had of-
fered at any of the files to which both might
have been invited, and to enter the Palazzo
Grimani clandestinely, thereby compromising
the delicacy o^ her who was dearer to him than
life, was never thought of by the honourable
and high-minded Rodrigo. But even had such
been his desire, his fair mistress would not have
consented, nor would the nurse have permitted
a step so likely to prove injurious to the unsul-

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ISOTTA GRIMANI, 131

lied purity of her young charge. Now, how-
ever, as the husband of Isotta, he had a right
to enter, and the nurse willingly took charge of
the ladder of ropes, with which, on leaving the
church, the bridegroom had charged her, and
which she was to secure to the balustrade of
the balcony, and throw down when his gondola
approached.

<* It was not without deep reluctance that the
married lovers separated on arriving near the
Palazzo Grimani, though with the assurance
of meeting again in the space of a few brief
hours. The nurse had to entreat and chide,
again and again, yet still those fond hands, that
had never before that night been interlaced, were
loth to quit the tender grasp that bound them
together, and their enraptured ears drank in
the new and unaccustomed tones of those deli*
cious voices, that had hitherto only been heard
faintly at a distance, now breathing whispers
of fervent, happy affection, uttered in all the
sincerity and confidence that wedded love can
alone bestow.

'* The new-made bride and her nurse re-
gained their apartment in safety, the ladder
was made fast, the Lady Isotta trembling at
the seeming fragility of the rope, and Beatrice

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132 ISOTTA GRIMANI.

reassuring her of its streDgth. How often and
proudly did the bride press to her lips the
golden symbol of that union on which the
church had so lately bestowed its benediction,
and repeat, that now not even her father could
separate her from her husband. The lady had
retired to her couch, and the nurse having
heard the gondola approach beneath the bal-
cony, some twenty minutes before the appointed
hour, uttered an exclamation at the impatience
of love, which had sent Manfredoni so much
sooner than she looked for his coming, again
entreated her lady not to permit her lord to
speak save in the lowest whispers, lest his
voice should be heard, withdrew, leaving the
nuptial chamber in total darkness, the moment
she heard the ladder of ropes fall into the
gondola beneath.

** Quickly a step was heard ascending, the
casement was closed, and Jsotta whispered,

" * Rodrigo, my love, my lord, my husband!
speak to me only in the lowest tones, for we
may be overheard. Does not our stolen mar-
riage appear like a dream? It is only this
blessed ring that you so lately gave me at the
altar that convinces me I am indeed your wife,
for ever, and ever yours.'

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ISOTTA GRIMANI. 133

Two hours had flown by» when Grimani,
ed into his daughter's chamber, followed
ight armed men, who buried their stilettos
I in the breast of him on whose shoulder
head of Isotta reclined, and whose death-
^k awoke her from slumber.
The blaze of their torches fell full on the
of the murdered man, in whose scowling
iments, she discovered not the countenance
er husband, but those of the hateful Bar-
go.

• « • • • •

The suspicion that secret meetings had
^n place between the lovers had determined
mani to employ spies to watch the palazzo
ight A conviction that the Lady Isotta's
ction of his suit had arisen from a prefer-
i to another, had induced Barbarigo also to
ch, and he did so in person. On the pre-
Ls night, he had seen a gondola approach
balcony of the Grimani palace, had heard

serenade, and observed the lady and her
se let drop a letter to the cavalier who was
t, he had tracked the gondola on its return
the Palazzo Manfredoni, and ascertained
t it was its master who had thus held a clan-
tine correspondence with the Lady Isotta*

134 ISOTTA GRIMAMI.

Suspicions, the most iDJurious to her honour,
flashed on his unworthy mind; yet still the
desire to possess her hand, and hy that means
acquire the immense wealth to which she was
heiress, remained in its pristine force. The
ensuing night he again approached in his gon-
dola, with the intention of watching the move-
ments of his riyal, and of frustrating, if possi-
ble, his plans, when seeing the ladder of ropes
thrown down, and the light withdrawn, he in-
stantly adopted the fiend-like notion of taking
advantage of the discovery he had made, and
of thus securing by the most foul means, the
prize he sought to possess.

** Before ascending the balcony, he charged
two of his gondoliers, who were, in truth,
bravoes in his pay, to intercept any gondola
that approached the palazzo, and to silence for
ever, with their stilettos, any cavalier who
might occupy it. Too well had his orders been
obeyed, for the corse of Manfredoni, pierced
by many wounds, was a few days after drawn
forth from the canal.

*' Grimani's spies had discovered that a cava-
lier had entered the apartment of his daughter
by a ladder of ropes ; but as he was with the
Council of Ten, in the palazzo of the doge, he

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ISOTTA GRIMANI. 135

s not apprized of the circumstance till nearly
) hoars after it had occurred. Concluding
it the nocturnal intruder could be no other
m Manfredoni, he determined on taking sig-
i vengeance on him» by getting him shut up
the prison of the inquisition ; but when he
md his daughter in the arms of him whom

imagined to be her seducer, his vindictive
le knew no bounds, and he ordered the at^
idants to efface the stain on the honour of his
cient house, bv the blood of him who had
licted it.

" The piercing shriek with which the Lady
)tta recognised the face of her infamous be-
lyer, was the last knell of her departing rea-
D. She never showed the slightest symptom
recollection after, except by insisting on being
WB.JS attired as a bride ; a harmless fancy, in
lich her unhappy father indulged her, and
sited on a low ottoman, she would sit for
lurs gazing on the nuptial ring which still
icircled the finger on which Manfredoni had
aced it.

" Beatrice, signer, was the great-grand-
other of my father, she related this stor>^ so
'ten to her descendants, that one of them,
istinguished for that love of literature, which

yGoOgl

1S6 ISOTTA GRIMANI.

marked our family, and which without vanity,
I may say, has descended to us from hther
to son, wrote down the particulars, which I
'have so many times perused, that I repeat
the history can amare^ as you may have ob-
served, signer, with my own comments there-
upon. And by whom could the sad tale be
related with greater claims for sympathy than
from a descendant of the faithful nurse of its
unhappy though lovely heroine ?"

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137

MATRIMONY.

" A tomething light as air— a look,
A word anldnd or wrongly taken —
Oh ! loTe that tempeata nerer shook,
A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in.
To spread the breach that words begin :
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day i
And yoices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said ;
THI fast declining, one by one.
The sweetnesses of love are gone.
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
like broken douds— or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow.

As though its waters ne'er could serer.
Yet, ere it reach the plain below.

Break into floods, that part for ever.*'

Lalla Rookh.

" We had a very agreeable party to-day, and
the Merrington's are really pleasant people.
Their chef is a good artiste, and they always
manage to draw around them people who suit
each other/' said Lord Henry Fitzhardinge to
his young and fair wife, as they drove from

dbyGoogk

138 MATRIMONY.

Lord Merrington's mansion in Grosvenor-
square.

Lord Henry Fitzhardinge, be it known to
our readers, was just six weeks married ; and
the said six weeks had passed in a sojourn at
the lakes, where a picturesque dwelling on the
banks of Windermere had enabled the newly-
wedded pair to enjoy all the privacy so much
desired during the early days of marriage.
This dinner at Lord Merrington's had been
the first accepted engagement since their arrival
in London, a few days before, and consequently
was the first interruption to the tSte-d-tite re-
pasts to which they had lately been accustomed.

"But you are silent, Emily," resumed he,
"did you not think the party an agreeable
one?"

" Not particularly so," replied the lady.

" I wonder at that," rejoined Lord Henry,
" for you sate next the Marquis of AUerton,
who is considered a remarkably pleasant man."

" I am rarely delighted with utter strangers,
I confess," resumed Lady Emily ; " but this is
an old-fashioned peculiarity from which you
seem to be exempt."

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MATBIMONY. 139

" Delighted is a strong expression, Emily,
particularly as applied to utter strangers I But
now do, like a dear, good girl, tell me what
has gone wrong?''

So saying, he drew his wife tenderly towards
his side, and stooped to impress a kiss on her
delicate cheek. — Lady Emily shrank from his
embrace, and turned her head in an opposite
direction, a movement that excited the first
symptom approaching to displeasure that she
had ever caused in the mind of her husband.

Unwilling to indulge in this growing dissa-
tisfaction towards his fair young wife. Lord
Henry again addressed her, saying, " Pray, my
sweet love, leave off this child's-play, and tell
me why you are out of humour ?"

"Out of humour!" reiterated the lady;
**tveUt if you designate unhappiness by the
epithet of ill-humour, I had better conceal my
feelings altogether."

It was now Lord Henry's turn to echo the
words of his wife.

" Unhappiness 1 " repeated he ; " why Emily,
you really surprise, as well as mortify me. In

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140 MATRIMONY.

Heaven's name, what cause for unhappiness
can^ou have?"

By the light of the carriage-lamps, he now
saw an embroidered handkerchief applied to
the eyes of his wife, and plainly heard the
rising sobs, that heaved the shawl which
covered her beautiful bust Again he wound
his arm fondly round her symmetrical waist,
and whispered,

" Emily, my own Emily, why do you weep?
Indeed, you alarm and distress me/'

At this moment, the carriage stopped at
the door of their mansion in Belgrave-square,
which being thrown open, showed the well-
lighted vestibule in which were ranged some
half-dozen liveried domestics, headed by the
maltre^h6tel and groom of the chambers, for-
mally drawn up to receive their lord and lady.
Each and all of the inquisitorial band stole
furtive glances at the face of Lady Emily, on
which the traces of recent tears were but too
visible.

She thought not of the prying eyes that
marked her sadness, being engrossed wholly by

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 141

the feelings that occupied her mind. Not so,
however. Lord Henry : he observed that the
attention of his servants was awakened, and
experienced additional dissatisfaction from his
apprehension of the comments they were likely
to make on their lady's evident emotion.

He offered his arm to assist her to ascend
the stairs ; but she affected not to see that he
did so, and held by the balustrade. The groom
of the chambers, who preceded them, had no
sooner thrown open the door of her ladyship's
dressing-room, than Lady Emily hastily rang
the bell for her femme'de'chambre ; thus pre-
cluding the explanation which her mortified
lord anxiously sought. The lady sank into a
bergdre^ and gave free course to the tears sup-
pressed while ascending to her room ; and just
as she was sullenly repelling the attempt of
Lord Henr}^ to wipe them from her cheek,
Marabout her attendant entered.

« Oh, man Dieu 1 vat miladi is eel, n^est-ce-
pas f Vill I send for de doctors, de apotecaries,
and every body ?"

So saying, the bustling Frenchwoman ran
to the toilet-table, and seized a fla5on of eau-.

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142 MATRIMONY.

d'Hongrie, which she held towards the nostrils
of her weeping mistress.

** O miladi ave de asteriks ; I see veil sodio-
ting make miladi eel, or somehody vex her."

And this discreet conjecture, was followed by
a suspicious glance towards Lord Henry, who
was affectionately holding the little white hand,
on the delicate finger of which, he had placed
the nuptial ring but six fleeting weeks before.

As he looked on the flushed cheeks, down
which the tears were streaming from red eyes,
he could hardly fancy that the being before
him was the lovely creature whom, only a few
hours previously, he led forth beaming with
health and gaiety ; and it must be confessed
the change in her appearance, excited more
ill-humour than pity in his heart ; for candour
compels us to declare that, mcdgri all the poets
who have prated about the attraction of beauty
in tears, we have never yet seen a single illus-
tration in proof of their assertions on this point,
nor met a single husband who did not shrink
in distaste from the exhibition.

" What can be the matter with her ? " thought
Lord Henry. *' This is a pleasant commence*

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 143

ment of the conjugal scenes that Mortimer
used to describe I Well, I thought Emily was
exempt from such folly ; but all women it seems
are alike.'*

Though these unpleasant thoughts passed
through his mind, he nevertheless checked the
oppressive attentions of the bustling Marabout^
poured out a glass of water, which he held to
the swollen lips of his wife, and applied some
eau-d^Hongrie to her flushed and throbbing
forehead.

During these operations, Marabout deeply
mortified, remarked with the acuteness peculiar
to her class, and a satisfaction caused by her ill-
will towards Lord Henry for having repulsed her
troublesome petits soins^ that her lady evinced
a very unusual coldness towards her liege lord.
" Ahal" thought the saubrette^ "de moon
of oney is over ; she cry, he look cross ; she
not say one vord of all de loaf she say to him
at oder time — tant mieux, dey make me vexed
vid deir too much loaf/*

Lord Henry, finding that his presence af-
forded no relief to the inexplicable chagrin of
his wife, at length withdrew to his dressing-

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144 MATRIMONY.

room; and, truth to say, never before felt so
little impatient to rejoin her. He passed in
review all that had occurred at dinner and
during the $oir6e at Lord Merrinton's; but
could discover no cause for the tears he had
witnessed. They must have consequently pro-
ceeded from ill-humour; yet Emily had been
so sweet-tempered ever since their marriage,
that he could hardly bring himself to think
that without any provocation she could be thus
unreasonable. At length, his toilette de nuit
completed (and he had taken more than thrice
the ordinary time employed for the opera-
tion), he sought the dressing-room of his wife.
Though prepared for bed, she had not dis-
missed Maraboutj who stood beside her chair
with a mingled look of consternation and pity,
as if her lady was in imminent danger.

** Milor, madame is so eel, dat I tink it be
very proper to send for one or two doctors.**

" Do, for Heaven's sake, speak Emily 1" said
Lord Henry; " are you ill?"

" I shall be better by and by,** sobbed the
lady; *^but do not speak to me, I cannot bear
it, indeed I cannot,*' and here she wept anew.

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MATRIMONY. 145

" You may go, Marahmit^* said Lord Henry.

" Mais mUoVy si miladi — "

" Go," repeated Lord Henry, impatiently,
" your presence is not required."

The femme-de'Chambre having withdrawn,
Lord Henry once more entreated his wife to
acquaint him with the cause of her tears.

" Do not ask me, Henry, I'll try to forget
it ; but indeed, I have been so — wounded, so —
wretched, that — ," and a fresh burst of tears
interrupted the completion of the sentence.

" But you really must tell me, Emily ; why
should you have any concealment from me ?" -

** How strange, how unfeeling, Henry, that
you should not have guessed I Ah I this proves
that there is little of that sympathy between us,
that I foolishly fancied existed."

"Well, I assure you, Emily, however unfeel-
ing it may appear, I cannot even imagine what
has distressed you ; and as it is growing late,
and you have occasion for repose, I entreat you
will at once tell me ?"

" Can it indeed be possible, Henry, that you
were not aware that my agitation proceeded
from the attentions, ay, the marked attentions

VOL. II. H

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146 MATRIMONY.

you lavished on that odious Lady AUerton, all
the time of dinner?"

" Marked attentions, Emily I Why I swear,
that nothing more than the ordinary politeness
expected from every man towards the woman
he sits next at dinner, was paid hy me/'

" Oh 1 Henry, how can you say so ? when
you know you talked to her all the time ; yes,
and you laughed with her too, when she was
speaking of some book that she had read, and
that you had read, but of which I don't know
a page ; and you were both so much amused
at finding your tastes agreed, that neither of
you seemed to think of any one else at table.
Oh I she is an odious flirt, and I never shall
like her, that I shan't, and so I let her see,
when she said she would call on me.''

'^ Good heavens, Emily I is it possible that
vou can have been so absurd, as to ofiend a
person, who is, in every respect, so desirable an
acquaintance — a woman, universally considered
to be one of the most distingu6e in England ?"

*^ And you, Henry, is it possible that you
have the courage openly to display your entiche-
ment for her, even to my face? This is too

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 147

craell" and here the tears of Lady Emily
flowed afresh.

** You really provoke me, Emily j how can
you be so foolish as to imagine for a moment,
that an idea of paying any thing more than
common politeness to Lady AUerton, ever en-
tered my head?**

** Do you call it nothing more than common
politeness, to look in her face each time you
addressed her, or that she spoke to you? to
offer to pour out water for her with such a
softness of manner, as if it were me to whom
you were speaking? m^, whom you have a
thousand times swore that you adore. And
all this attention to a person whom you have
never seen above half-a-dozen times in your
lifer

" Who ever heard of such folly? Emily,
Emily, I never expected such absurd weakness
from you I What is there more ill-bred, than
to avert the eyes from the person with whom
one converses ? And really as to offering water
in a soft tone of voice, I cannot help laughing
at such a charge. I cannot conceive any one,
with the pretensions to gentlemanlike manner,

H 2

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148 MATRIMONY.

addressing a woman in any other than a gentle
tone."

" There is a vast difference in the modes of
looking at, or speaking to people, Henry; and
you know it as well as I do, you positively
looked with tenderness on that odious woman
whom I shall always hate, and only occasionally
glanced towards me ; with a provoking smile,
too, as if it was quite natural that she should
he the principal object of your attention at table.
I could not swallow a morsel, and felt ready
every moment to burst into tears ; while that
tiresome husband of hers, kept boring me with
his officious civilities, instead of checking the
disgusting levity of his coquettish wife, which
he ought to be ashamed to permit.''

" What injustice and absurdity 1 Lady Aller-
ton accused of being a coquette, and guilty of
levity I Never was there a charge so wholly
unfomided."

^< Oh I I see. Lord Henry, you cannot bear
to have the least fault found with her. You
would have all the world think her as perfect
as you do.''

*' I perceive. Lady Emily, it is useless to

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 149

persist in my endeavours to pacify your ridi-
culous suspicions, and therefore I shall abstain
from any further explanation/'

'< You adopt the general mode used by those
who cannot justify their conduct But I am a
fool to suffer from your unkindness. I should,
like you, forget that I am married, and think
only of the person who happens to sit next me ;
and if I loved you as little as you do me, this
would be an easy task ; but I — I — ^'^ and sobs
checked her utterance.

This avowal of love awakened the tenderness
of Lord Henry, which, truth to own, had been
slumbering during the discus^on, sent to sleep
by the ruefully-changed aspect of his wife, and
this first display of unfounded jealousy. He
threw his arms fondly around her, swore that
no woman on earth could fascinate his eyes but
her ; and that he did violence to his inclina-
tions, by showing even the ordinary attentions
of society to another.

His appeased wife once more smiled, and
lavished on him all the touching demonstrations
of tenderness, which are the consolations for the

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 151

" Really, Emily, you are very provoking,
thus to confound ordinary civilities with those
attentions peculiar to affection.''

" And you, Henry, are more than provoking
in employing this sophistry to impose on my
inexperience."

With a patience, the exercise of which was
very new to Lord Henry, and a tact not gene-
rally possessed, he endeavoured to explain the
attentions every man was expected to pay to
the lady hy whom he happened to he placed ;
and urged that any omission of them would be
deemed a solecism in good breeding. Lady
Emily listened with sundry symptoms of impa-
tience, while her caro sposo touched on those
points, and interrupted him by declaring that
she never could become used to see him paying
attention to any woman but herself.

" Let me entreat you, Emily, unless you wish
to render us both objects of ridicule to all our ac-
quaintance, conquer these unreasonable foncies,
and learn to draw a line of distinction between
the civilities which all men are obliged to offer
to women in society, and those that are prompted
by a decided preference. To have you named

dbyGoogk

15^ MATRIMONY.

as a jealous wife, would be painful and humi-
liating to me ; and better would it be to aban-
don society altogether, than to subject ourselves
to the mockery that always awaits those who
expose their weaknesses."

" But can you heed what a whole set of peo-
ple, about whom we cure nothing, may think ?"
asked Lady Emily. ** One wish of yours, dearest
Henry, is of more importance to me, than the
opinion of the whole world united I Why should
not my wishes have an equal influence with
you?''

*^ Explain those wishes, Emily, that I may
distinctly comprehend them; for at present,
I confess I do not quite understand your
meaning.?'

" Well, then, my beloved, when we are obliged
to go into society, or receive at home, I would
wish you, when compelled to speak to other
women, never to look at them with those dear
eyes, just as you do at me when we are alone;
but while speaking to them, to look at me, and
never to talk to them on any but the most
commonplace and uninteresting topics: never
to become animated during the conversation.

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 153

and never to indulge in those soft and deep
tones of voice, to which I cannot bear any
woman's ear but mine should listen."

Lord Henry burst into a laugh, which he
vainly endeavoured to suppress ; but it found
no echo from his wife.

" Would you not also wish me always, Emily,
to select the ugliest and oldest woman to sit
next/'

" Unfortunately, Henry, as the stupid rules
of precedence leave no choice, such an arrange-
ment, however desirable it might be, is not
practicable ; but as the mode of gratifying my
wishes, which I pointed out, is, I hope you will
adopt it"

" Now imagine me, my own Emily, seated
by a lady at dinner, while you are on the oppo-
site side of the table. An epergne obstructs
our eyes from encountering without an exer-
tion; but, in order to satisfy you, I, while
addressing a comment on the heat or cold of
the day, the dulness of town, or the dust of
the park, to my female neighbour, turn round
like a machine on a chimney-top, to catch

h3

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154 MATRIMONY.

your glance, giving you the preconcerted look
of tenderness, which if ohserved by the guests
around, would set them all laughing at us."

While uttering these words. Lord Henr)'
enacted the gestures he described, so comically,
that Lady Emily was forced to join in his mirth,
and they separated for the morning, in perfect
good-humour ; but without having come to any
definitive understanding as to what Lady Emily
couldf or could not patiently bear.

In the street, Lord Henry encountered an
old friend and schoolfellow, Mr. Sydney, whom
he had not seen for some time ; and anxious to
present him to Lady Emily, invited him to dine
with them en trio. When he came home, to
escort her on horseback, he mentioned the plea-
sure he anticipated in making his chosen friend
known to her.

** Sydney is an excellent fellow, and I am
sure you will like him if only on my account,
for he is one of my dearest friends."

Lady Emily looked disconcerted, but said
nothing.

** How is this, love?" asked her husband,

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 155

*' you do not seem pleased at my having
asked Sydney to dinner."

" Why, to say the truth, I had anticipated so
much happiness in a Ute-d-Ute with you, Henry,
after that large, and dull party, yesterday, that
I confess I am a little disappointed, however
amiahle your friend may be."

** He is a good-humoured, kind-hearted crea-
ture," resumed Lord Henry. ** We travelled
all over the continent together, lived in one
house in London, while I was a gargon ; and,
in short, were for many years inseparable."

•* Oh, yes 1 I remember you used to be con-
tinually praising him, and wondering whether
he would like me," said the lady, with a counte-
nance in which little sjrmptoms of pleasure were
visible.

" No, there you wrong me. I could not
doubt whether he, whether every one, could
resist liking my Emily ; and I only hope she
will like him ; for I confess I should be an-
noyed, if my wife did not like the man I most

esteem."

I dare say we shall get on very well ; only.

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156 MATRIMONY.

as I have before told you, [ am not given to
take fancies to strangers."

Lord Henry felt hurt and mortified at the
tone adopted by his wife on this occasion ; and
the reflection it induced, led to a longer silence
than usually occurred between them. Lady
Emily was the first to break it.

" I suppose, Henry," said she, pettishly, "that
your thoughts are so occupied by your friend,
that you have none to bestow on your wife ?"

" I was thinking, Emily, that I wished my
wife evinced a more cordial feeling towards my
friend."

Further private conversation was precluded
by their being joined by two or three acquaint-
ances, who left them not until they returned
from their ride, when it was time to adjourn to
dress for dinner.

When Mr. Sydney arrived. Lord Henry led
him, with all the unceremonious cordiality of a
brother, to Lady Henry.

" Emily has heard me speak of you so often/'
said he, " that she feels as if you were as old
friends as we are."

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 157

The formal courtesy, and the top of her
gloved fingers which met Mr. Sydney's out-
stretched hand, ill accorded with this assertion ;
hot Mr. Sydney, though somewhat checked in
his friendly advances, attributed the coldness
of his reception to the youthful timidity of the
fair creature before him, whose exquisite love-
liness justified his friend's taste, and disposed
Sydney to like her.

" 1 met Aubrey yesterday," said Mr. Sydney,
^* and never saw a man so totally changed by
wedlock as he is. He seemed afraid to show
the pleasure he felt at meeting me, and posi-
tively shrank in dismay when I bantered him
on some of our former joint follies. I have
heard, that when a man weds, it is deemed
necessary for him to change his servants, but I
was not aware he should change his friends.
How strange, that marriage should produce
such a metamorphosis ! But this is one of the
mysteries of that holy state, which a gargon
never can comprehend. You, I see, my dear
fellow, are unchanged : thanks, I suppose, to
the amiability of Lady Emily."

dbyGoogk

158 MATRIMONY.

Had Mn Sydney not been so exceedingly
short-sighted, one glance at Lady Emily would
have rendered him aware of the indiscretion he
had committed ; but unconscious of the change
in her aspect, he continued to talk.

'' How long it is, since we last met I** said
Mr. Sydney, as soon as the servants having
retired allowed a perfect freedom from con-
straint.

** How frequently did I think of you at Rome
and Naples, where we passed such pleasant
days together !"

Lady Emily looked displeased; and her
husband observing the expression of her coun-
tenance, made an effort to turn the subject of
conversation.

** I quite long to take Emily to Italy, and
show her all our old haunts, Sydney," said he.

" Apropos of our old haunts," observed Mr,
Sydney, " whom do you think I met at Alb-
ano, when I went there to seek a little fresh air,
after having been half broiled by an unusually
warm May at Rome ? Can you guess ?"

*< I have not the most remote idea,'* replied

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 159

Lord Henry, with a look of such perfect in-
difference, as indicated he had no curiosity on
the subject.

" Well, then, I encountered the bewitching
widow as you used to call her, Mrs. Montagu
Clifford, still in a state of single blessedness,
though she had exhibited her white teeth, and
sung her Spanish letrillas all over Italy. By
the bye, she made kind inquiries after you,
though I suspect you hardly merited them."

Lady Emily's cheek grew red, and she gave
a glance of anger at her husband, that brought
the scene of jealousy of the previous night for-
cibly to his recollection. Again he endeavoured
to direct the conversation to other topics ; but
his wife observing his effort, far from showing
any sense of gratitude, denoted by her angry
glances her suspicion that he dreaded some
disagreeable disclosure from the loquacity of
his friend. She rose to withdraw, and, though
afiectionately urged by Lord Henry to stay
with them a little longer, left the room ; say-
ing, she doubted not that they would be glad
to have a tHe-a^Ute^ to talk over their agreeable
reminiscences of past times.

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160 MATRIMONY.

Lord Henry was ill at ease, as he marked
the look of displeasure that clouded the coun-
tenance of his wife ; and the anticipation of
another scene of tears, sullenness, or reproaches,
haunted his imagination so forcibly, that his
friend at length struck by the air distrait^ with
which he listened to him, proposed adjourning
to the drawing-room.

Arrived there, they found that Lady Emily
had retired to her apartment, leaving a message
with the groom of the chambers that a bad
headache obliged her to withdraw.

" I must quit you, Sydney, for a short time,**
said Lord Henry, looking not a little discon-
certed, '* to go and see Emily ; she has not
been well of late, and was suffering all the
time of dinner."

He sought his wife's dressing-room, not as
hitherto, with lover-like steps of impatience ;
but rather as a culprit who dreads a reproof,
though he had no consciousness of having given
offence. Few things can be more disagreeable
than this same anticipation of a lecture, or
what is still worse, a cold or sullen reception,
from a beloved object whom one is anxious to

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MATRIMONY. l61

please, yet who takes umbrage at trifles, aod
resents the imagined offence either by recrimi-
nation, silence, or tears. He felt an incipient
dread of the time likely to elapse before he
could return to his friend; the wearisome
efforts to be employed to extract an avowal
of the imagined grievance, the protracted cha-
grin of the grieved, and the necessarily pro-
longed attempts to console.

As these thoughts passed through his mind,
he was almost tempted, malgre his sincere
affection for his wife, to wish himself once
more a bachelor, with all the comfortable inde-
pendence, and irresponsibility attached to the
state of single blessedness. He entered the
chamber with even more than usual gentleness;
but ere he had crossed its threshold, a signal
from the self-important MarabaiU^ indicated
the necessity of a more stealthy pace.

** MHoTj miladif est bien souffrantej she
have de megrin, de chagrin,'* whispered the
femme'de-chambre^ glancing reproaches all the
time she spoke at Lord Henry; who felt a
more than ordinary disinclination towards the
attendant of his wife, on observing the air of

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162 MATRIMONY.

impertinent confidence assumed by her on this
occasion.

He approached the lit de repos, on which
Lady Emily reclined, and seeing that she slept
not, he ventured to hope that her indisposition
was not of a serious nature.

** I am very poorly," said the lady ; " my
head aches dreadfully ; but pray do not let me
detain you from your friend.'*

" If you really are ill, Emily, can you ima-
gine that I could leave you ? The supposition
is unkind."

A dead silence followed this remark, broken
only by the deep sighs of Lady Emily.

*' Had I not better immediately send for
medical advice?" asked Lord Henry, affection-
ately, and he took her hand in his. " There
is, however, no symptom of fever in this dear
hand," said he, and he pressed it to his lips.

" You surely ought not to leave your friend
alone any longer?" said Lady Emily, with an
air that denoted her expectation that her hus-
band would reply, ** What are all the friends
in the world to me, when you are indisposed? *"

** I will just go to Sydney, send him away,''

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MATRIMONY. l6S

resumed Lord Henry, '*and return to you
immediately.''

'* No, really, I cannot permit you to sacrifice
the pleasure of Mr. Sydney's society, in which
it was previously quite evident you took such
delight," said the lady ; *' for you had neither
eyes nor ears for any one else during dinner ;
and remained so long with him after it, that I
considered it not to he unlucky that my illness
furnished an excuse for leaving you to enjoy
your tete-d-Mte.^

** How can you be so unreasonable — so
childish ?" asked Lord Henry.

** I think Mr. Sydney might have had the
tact to forbear repeating his reminiscences of
yotir bachelor days, and your bewitching widow,
in my presence, at least," said Lady Emily ;
** for it cannot be agreeable to find the epithet
bewitching, which I foolishly thought you had
never applied to any one but me, has been
lavished on a person who, judging even from
the mode in which she was named, seems litide
better than a husband-hunting adventuress."

Lady Emily's cheeks flushed, and her eyes

dbyGoogk

164 MATRIMOKT.

sparkled with animation, if not anger, as she
uttered this reproach

".Good Heavens, Emily 1 how silly, how
ahsurd, thus to take offence where not the
slightest was meant to he offered I Do you
suppose I could, without compromising your
dignity, and leading my friend to helieve that
you were weak and unreasonahle, like too
many other women, make him understand that
references to my bachelor days are interdicted?
Would you not have cause to be offended, if
I told him your foolish susceptibility on this
pomt?"

" There could be no necessity for such a
measure. Lord Henry, had you, as you ought
to have done, explained to your obtuse friefid,
that you wished to forget all your past life, and
to remember events only from the date of our
affection."

" Sydney would laugh at me were I to con-
fess any thing half so ridiculous," replied Lord
Henry.

" Oh ! if you attach more importance to
Mr. Sydney's opinion than mine, I have no-

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. l65

thing more to say," and a cambric handker-
chief was applied to the tearful eyes of the
lady.

" Emily, Emily, why will you thus trifle with
our happiness ? What would you have me do
to satisfy you? A short time ago, I little
doubted that I should ever be compelled to
ask the mortifying question, for I believed you
were satisfied — were happy. Tell me what are
your wishes, for I cannot endure the repetition
of scenes such as these."

" I wish," replied the lady, her accents
broken by sobs, ''that you would avoid all
those odious people with whom you lived before
you knew me ; and thus preclude the chance
of my feelings being wounded by their indeli-
cate reminiscences of a time when, as they
would fain make me believe, you were gay,
amused — nay, Henry — happy, without me;
me, on whom you have said a thousand times
within the last three blissful months, your
happiness wholly and solely depended. I can-
not, indeed I cannot, dear Henry, bear to hear
them refer to your past life, when even the

dbyGoogk

166 MATRIMONY.

idea that you could have lived without me
inflicts torture I **

There was so much tenderness in this send-
ment, unreasonaUe as the wishes of her who
uttered it were felt to he by her hushand, that
the displeasure which her exigeance might
have produced, was forgotten in the affection
which it evinced ; and still more softened by
the appealing look of the dark, lustrous eyes,
fondly fixed on his face, he pressed his lips on
her fair brow, and called her his dear, his own
Emily.

'* I have quite forgotten poor Sydney all this
time," said Lord Henry, •* I really must go to
him.'*

" Oh I Henry, how can you think of any one
but me? Heaven knows I never bestow a
thought on any other human being than you ;
yet here, even in the moment that I am dis*
posed to forget the chagrin of the last three
hours — chagrin that has weighed more heavily
on my spirits than I can express — you can
remember this tiresome friend of yours, who
has caused it alL No, I never shaU^ never can

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MATRIMONY.

167

happy, until you break asunder your odious
ihelor friendships ; forget all your previous
I and learn to think that you have only
Uy, truly, lived since we have known each
er.''

Lord Henry felt a strong inclination to smile
this romantic notion of his wife, which how-
T flattering it might be to his vanity, augured
for his prospect of that good understanding,
1 freedom from constraint, which he thought
;h essential ingredients in the cup of connu-
I felicity. But he conquered the disposition
laughter, looked as grave as he could, and
ving again pressed the delicate little hand,
Id out towards him in a reproving posture,
t the room to join Sydney ; preparing sundry
iations of the illness of Lady Emily, as an
ology for his protracted absence. Truth to
f, he felt not a little abashed at the con-
iousness of the ridiculous figure he should
ike while detailing these same apologies to
s friend.

"Pshaw I" muttered he, **a bachelor can
(ver understand these sort of conjugal embar-

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168 MATRIMONY.

rassments; a brother Benedick would divine
the whole thing in a moment"

On entering the library, he found it empty ;
and, though relieved from the necessity of
making false excuses, the thought that Sydney
would be sure to go to his club, and account
for his unusually early apparition there, by
detailing the sudden illness of his hostess, and
the absence of his host, with his suspicion of
the cause.

" I shall be an object of ridicule among the
whole club," said he, and this presentiment
tended not to smooth his brow, as with no in-
considerable portion of irritation, he again
sought the dressing-room of his wife.

" How kind, dearest Henry, to have dis-
missed our tormentor, and to have returned to
me so soon ! How did you get rid of him ?"

" He saved me all trouble on that point,**
replied Lord Henry, with a look that denoted
any thing but satisfaction, " by taking himself
off."

<'0h, I am so glad I" said Lady Emily;
" for I anticipated his staying at least half an

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. l69

hoar. But you don't look as if you participated
in my gladness, Henry I Can it be possible
that you prefer his society to mine ?**

** I confess, Emily, that I am annoyed at his
going off without any explanation. Sydney
can be sarcastic, and comic too, when he
pleases : and his version of my uxoriousness
given to our mutual friends at the club, could
not fail to draw their quizzical animadversions
on us both.''

<* And this is the man you call your friend,
Henry ? How unlike my notions of one I "

" Sydney, nevertheless, has proved himself a
very sincere friend, on more than one occasion,
Emily."

•* Yet you believe that he would be capable
of turning you into ridicule at the club I This
was not the sort of friendship that subsisted
between dear Frances Lorimer and me. She
would not, could not breathe a word to imply a
censure on me« Ah I ours was, indeed, a true
friendship I Did we not write to each other
every day such long, long letters, always cross-
lined ? Did we not dress in the same colours,
wear bracelets of each other's hair, and rings

VOL. II. I

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170 MATRIMONY.

with the same devices ; dote on the same poetry,
read the same works of fiction, like and dislike
the same people ? and in short, assimilate our-
selves in dress, sentiments, and pursuits, until
each had lost her own identity in that of her
friend ? And yet, Henry, this friend I have
neglected, nay, I have forgotten, in the all-
engrossing affection you created in my hreast ;
while ^oi« can attach importance to the opinions
of this Mr. Sydney, whom you admit to be
capahle of giving a sarcastic version of your
attachment to your wife I"

** Your inexperience, Emily, unfits you for
judging of mundane friendships. Those between
men, are wholly difierent from the romantic,
exaggerated, and unenduring delusions, named
friendship, by girls in their teens, commenced
in the school-room, and ended in the honey-
moon."

" Mine for dear Frances ended not in the
honeymoon; for was it not a sweet occupation,
during the first days of our marriage, to write
and tell her of my happiness?"

" But our honeymoon is scarcely yet over,
Emily, and nevertheless, you confess that you

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MATRIMONY. 171

have neglected, nay, forgotten your friend.
Now, I wrote no exaggerated accounts of my
connubial bliss to Sydney, nor did he expect
that I should. Yet our friendship has remained
the same, ever since we left Eton together;
and 1 confess I should be pained at its being
diminished, or broken off, notwithstanding that
I acknowledge my belief of his capability of
quizzing my conjugal faihlesse to our mutual
acquaintance at the club."

" Oh, Henry 1 it is so provoking to hear
your worldly-minded sentiments on subjects so
sacred as loVe and friendship!"

*' Should you not rather say, Emily, that it
is fortunate they are not more exalted; since,
as you prohibit the indulgence of the latter, as
being incompatible with the duties entailed by
the former, an adherence to friendship would
expose me to your displeasure?''

*' You wilfully misunderstand me, Henry,
indeed you do. No one attaches more value
to friendship than I.''

" Then why wish to wean me from Sydney?*'

** Because he has no feeling, no sympathy,
no tacL"

i2

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172 MATRIMONY.

** He is not generally accused of being defi-
cient in these qualities, Emilv, I assure you.**

" And I persist, Henry, in thinking, that if
he really possessed them, he would not, on the
first day he was presented to your wife, refer
in her presence to your bachelor days, and your
bewitching widows ; because none but an ob-
tuse-minded man could be unconscious that a
refined woman, fondly attached to her husband,
could be otherwise than deeply pained at such
reminiscences."

Neither parties were convinced by the argu-
ments of the other ; nay, more— each consi-
dered the other unreasonable. Mutual affection,
however, operated as a soother, in this their
second matrimonial dissension, as effectually as
it had done on their first ; and like an April
sun which quickly dries up the showers that
preceded its appearance, soon banished every
trace of discontent, and again all was love and
peace. But brief was the duration of this
halcyon state. A late night in the House of
Commons, led to as angry a debate between
Lord Henry and Lady Emily, as is often wit-
nessed vnthin the House ; and the disputants

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MATRIMONY. 173

stood in as much need of being called to order,
as the most animated member who ever incurred
and deserved the remonstrance of that much
enduring functionary, the Speaker.

Quarrel No. 3, was not so easily adjusted as
the former two ; for domestic disagreements
have this peculiarity, that each succeeding one
finds those engaged in them less disposed to
make or accept concessions. It were tedious
to relate the arguments offered by Lady Emily,
to prove that a husband who loves his wife,
could not, or at least ovght not, to attend the
House of Commons ; and the logical reasoning
by which Lord Henry endeavoured to convince
her, that he who discharged not his duty to
his country, was not capable of being a loving
spouse. Arguments, nay, even tears, were
found unavailing to convince Lord Henry that
his attendance at St. Stephen's was a just cause
of unhappiness to his wife. He sternly per-
sisted in his resolution to attend the House of
Commons, when any subject of importance was
likely to be discussed.; and three days, felt to
be of interminable length by Lady Emily, rolled

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174i MATRIMONY.

over their heads, before a perfect reconciliation
was accomplished.

But alas I this estrangement of three days,
led to a result that furnished cause for future
dissension. The consciousness that a cold
reception awaited him at home, induced L<Nrd
Henry, one night that the House of Commons
had adjourned at an earlier hour than ordinary,
to yield to the request of some old friends, to
drop into their dub and sup ; and so agreeable
did he find his companions, that he returned
not to his home until daylight. Poor Lady
Emily, who had impatiently counted the many
hours of his absence, by the pendule on her
table, met him with a face pale as marble, on
which the effect of her late vigil and anxiety
might be traced in legible characters. Her
pallid looks were a reproach that his conscience
whispered he had merited ; and which might
have been more effectual in precluding similar
sins on his part, than any other means, had
she trusted to them alone. But unfortunately,
she recapitulated all she had endured; the
hope that every step in the square, every sound

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MATRIMONT. 175

of carriage-wheels, were his ; and the conse-
qaent alarm and disappointment that followed
the firustration of these hopes. Men are seldom
so little disposed to pity the sufferings they
have caused, as when conscience tells them they
have heen in the wrong.

Lord Henry became ennuyi^ as his cara
sposa dwelt on the misery of her solitary vigil,
and somewhat brusquely remarked, ^' that it
might have been avoided had she more wisely
sought her pillow. The house did not adjourn
until very late ; he could not get away sooner,
and he hoped she would never again sit up for
him.'*

" And this," thought Lady Emily, « is the
ccmsolation offered me for my anxiety, and
the many hours of wretchedness undergone
during this long, long night. Oh, Henry I
who that saw you in our delicious dwelling, by
the calm lake of Windermere, whose unruffled
surface was not smoother than the current of
our lives, and where an hour passed away
from me, was counted as an infliction not
bearable, could believe that you could thus
change I''

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lyfi MATRIMONY.

The tears stole down her pallid cheek as she
made this reflection, and hathed her pillow as
she continued to ponder long after her husband
had tasted the balm of sleep denied to her.

The next day, as they rode through the
park, one of his companions of the previous
night joined them, and referred to its agree-
ability.

" We got a very good supper, did we not ?**
said he. *' No one can prepare a supper like
Ude.**

Lord Henry positively blushed, as the re-
proachful eyes of his offended wife were fixed
on his face.

" Do you know,** continued his friend, who
was not un peu indiscret et bavard, '^ that poor
Aubrey is not allowed to go to Crockford's,
Madame son Spouse thinking the frequenting
of that agreeable club, incompatible with the
dignified position of a married man. The
consequence is, that Aubrey swears he never
enters the place, yet contrives to sup there most
nights on his way back from the House of
Commons, and persuades his wife that he was
detained at the house. Every married man

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MATRIMONY. 177

now endeavours to secure a seat in parliament,
because it furnishes so good an excuse for late
hours and absence from home."

Lord Henry looked as embarrassed as he
felt, and heartily wished his indiscreet friend
a hundred miles off; while Lady Emily felt as
much indignation as grief, at thus discovering
that the deception practised by other men, had
been indulged in by him whom she believed to
have been as incapable of finding pleasure in
the haunts of his bachelor days, as of descend-
ing to a subterfuge to conceal his renewed
attendance there. Trivial as this error of the
husband may appear to some of our readers, it
aimed the first blow at the confidence of the
wife in his veracity — a blow so fatal to conjugal
happiness. He felt all that was passing in her
mind ; and, with the unreasonableness peculiar
to selfishness, was more disposed to resent the
censure implied by her looks, than to atone for
the cause of it.

He argued in his own mind, that as the
duplicity to which he had descended had been
instigated by what he called her absurd ex-
igeance, his practice of it was consequently

iS

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\

I 178 ICATRIMONT.

oompulsory. How many men haf
reasoned^ and how many women ha?
the same results by their imprudci
tions, and resentments when such e
have been disappcnnted I

Never did a pair, who had only 1
worn the chains of Hym^s, enter
with feelings less attuned to love
Henry and Lady Emily. Mutual
tion pervaded the minds of both ; ;
to say, this very dissatis&ction owe
ness and exist^ice to an ill-regn1at<
which led each to expect in the
freedom fitmi error, rarely, if ever,
weak mortals.

«< I thought him soperfect,** said
to herself, **so inca^ble of felsel
what a cruel disappointment I**

** How unjust I how absurd I** tl
Henry, ^*to resent as an injury
deception produced by my desire oi
her pain, which I knew my hones
the supper at Crockford's, would ha
Women are the most unreasonable (
the world. If one tells them the

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MATRIMONY. 179

pout or weep ; and wbat man can patiently
bear either of these feminine habitudes? If
one conceals the fact, from the desire of saving
them from annoyance, then, forsooth, the poor
devil of a husband is, if detected, regarded as
a monster of deception and falsehood, and
punished for the very error into which a too
compassionate disposition led him.''

The Ute-d'tSte dinner, anticipated with plea-
sure by husband and wife, proved more dis-
agreeable to both, than they, a few hours before,
had imagined possible. Each dreaded a re-
currence to the subject that pained them, yet
could think of no other. The evening passed
not more pleasantly than the dinner, and was
felt by both to be interminable. What a
melancholy contrast did it offer to the delicious
ones enjoyed in their solitude, when they were
all the world to each other I — ^before she had
learned to doubt his truth, or he to dread or
resent her displeasure.

The announcement that his cabriolet was at
the door, was a relief to them. He muttered
a few words of his regret at the necessity of
leaving her ; and, as his lips slightly pressed

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180 MATRIMONY.

her cheek, it required no little effort on her
part to repress the tears that were ready to
hedew them, while she sUentlj and passively
received, without returning his caress. It was
not thus that they had been wont to part even
for an hour. He would fondly loiter, unwilling
to tear himself from her presence, and she would
as fondly urge his stay. But now — all was
changed, and they felt^ but dared not revert to
the alteration. The tears, repressed in his
presence, flowed abundantly when Lord Henry
left the house. They were the bitterest his wife
had ever shed ; for they mourned the death of
those young and romantic hopes of happiness,
the completion of which are to be found only
in the pages of fiction.

While Lady Emily still continued to weep in
uncontrollable emotion, the doors of the library
were thrown open, and before she could discern
who entered, she was fondly pressed in the arms
of her sister. Lady Lutterworth. The senior
of Lady Emily by three years, and nearly that
period a wife, Lady Lutterworth had acquired
all the experience which is the inevitable result
of a constant intercourse with society. She, too,

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MATRIMONT. 181

had, during the first months of her marriage,
wept over the destruction of those illusions
peculiar to the young and romantic ; illusions
&ted to he dissolved hy the soher realities of
life — and had learned to value the steady afiec-
tion of the hushand, which supersedes the more
animated, hut hrief devotion of the lover. She
had passed through the phases of the honey-
moon, and noted the harometer of love, from
extreme heat to variable, and found the quick-
silver remain steadily fixed at temperate. —
Nevertheless, though she might somtimes give
a sigh to the memory of her departed illusions,
she was satisfied, nay, more, was happy in her
domestic life. Arrived but late that evening
in London, from the continent, where she had
been sojourning during the last two years, she
could not repress her impatience to embrace
the dear sister she had left budding into beauty
when she last beheld her, and had hurried ofi^
in a voiture de remise^ from the Clarendon, as
soon as she and her lord had finished the late
dinner that awaited their arrival.

'< But how is this, dear Emily, you have
been weeping?" were the first words uttered

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182 MATRIMONY.

by Lady Lutterworth, after haviog again and
again pressed her sister to her heart

<* IVe been nervous, and somewhat low-
spirited," replied Lady Emily, and the tears
streamed afresh from her eyes as she spoke.

^< Where is Lord Henry ? I long to become
acquainted with my new brother,** said Lady
Lutterworth.

'' He is gone to the House of Commons,"
answered Lady Emily.

" Which I dare say you find to be just as
plaguy an affiair as I used to consider the House
of Lords the first year of my marriage, fCe$t4se
pas, ma chdre petite eoBwr f Oh, how well I
remember counting the long, dull hours, that I
thought interminable, while my lord and master
was discharging his senatorial duties, listening
to the pungent satire of a Lyndhurst, or the
bitter irony of a Brougham. I recollect, too,
the heroic courage with which I resisted the
attacks of the drowsy god Morpheus, for the
praiseworthy purpose of being able to tell Lut-
terworth what a sleepless wretched night I had
passed. 1 have struck my repeater, when so
overpowered by drowsiness as to be almost in-
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MATRIMONY. 183

capable of counting its silvery sounds, that I
might be able to acquaint my caro sposo how
many, many hours I had counted* And then
how ofiended, how angry I used to feel, when
he has said, 'Why not go to sleep, Louisa?
You would then have been unconscious of the
tardy flight of time, and I see you can hardly
keep your eyes open.' I did learn wisdom, did
go to sleep, and acquired sufficient philosophy
to be amused the morning after a late debate,
in listening to a ftwmk of it from Frederick,
instead of looking, if not uttering reproaches
for his having occasioned me such long vigils/'

"But where is Lord Lutterworth?" in-
quired Lady Emily.

*' Indulging in a most comfortable ni^to, in
a chair which he has pronounced to be perfect
for such indulgence," replied Lady Lutter.
worth. '' He will then visit his dub, hear the
an^its and become aufxU of all that is passing
in London, which will be retailed and detailed
to me at dijeAner to-morrow."

'< And does he indulge in these siestas in
your presence?" demanded Lady Emily, her

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184 MATRIMONY.

brow elevated into on angular curve, indicative
of displeasure and surprise.

'^Does he no</" answered Lady Lutter-
worth. ** Yes, my dear little sister, et sans
cSrSmonie, sans peur, et sans reprocheJ'*
" And you suffer it?" asked Lady Emily.
<* Ay, more ; arrange the pillow, and make
as little noise as possible, lest I interrupt his
slumber,'* answered Lady Lutterworth.

** But surely, sister, this is very undignified I
We ought not to forego those attentions, those
petits sotnSf to which we are entitled, and which
form the agrSmens of wedded life."

** Yes, Emily, during the honeymoon, per-
haps ; but be assured that the sooner a wife
resigns these petits soins only voluntarily paid
while she is yet a bride, the better will it be for
her future happiness. Let her receive with
pleasure every demonstration of her husband's
affection, without ever exacting a single one.
Let her ever welcome him with smiles, and
conceal the tears his absence costs her. If he
will sleep, and husbands have all a peculiar
tendency to court * tired nature's sweet restorer,

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MATRIMONY. 185

balmy sleep/ is it not wiser to ensure his grati-
tude, by administering all gentle appliances to
render bis slumbers agreeable, tban to resent,
though unable to prevent, the indulgence."

'^ But then, sister, we are so loved, so adored,
during courtship, and the early days of mar-
riage, that it is difficult, if not impossible, to
bring ourselves to be content with the com-
monplace civilities, into which husbands allow
their attentions to degenerate when the honey-
moon is over."

'^ Wo to her, £mily, who cannot soon and
cheerfully submit to be content with such I It
is the false notions engendered during the
days of courtship and the honeymoon, that lay
the foundation for many, if not all the dissen-
sions that too frequently imbitter married life-
Men, the lords of the creation, forego their
prerogatives, when they stoop to sue and pro-
pitiate those whom they believe themselves
bom to protect, if not to command. The object
attained, for which this sacrifice was offered,
they quickly resume their natural and ill-con-
cealed sense of superiority, and begin to treat

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186 MATRIMONY.

her, whom they seemed to consider a goddess,
as a creature sent into the world to contribate
to their wants and wishes. A deposed monardi,
driven from the throne where he commaoded
oniversal homage from his subjects, is not
placed in a nunre feJse position, by expecting
similar demonstrations of respect in exile, than
a wife is, who exacts in the staid and nnro-
mantic position of a matron, the devoted atten-
tions offered to her during the illusive hours of
courtship and the first bridal days. Let then
both the deposed sovereigns resign with ' decent
dignity' the homage they can no longer com-
mands and they will best ensure that continued
regard which, though more homely, is not less
precious."

The words of Lady Lutterworth made a
deep impression on the mind of her fair young
sister, who, the moment that lady retired,
sought her pillow; and though a few natural
tears dewed her cheeks, as she resigned the
sweet but delusive hopes of youth and romance,
which led her to imagine that the husband
would ever continue the lover, she went to sleep

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MATRIMONY.

187

ith the firm resolve of seeking content, and
F conferring happiness in the discharge of her
uties.

When Lord Henry returned from the House
r Commons — and this night he did so without
ropping in at his cluh — he found his fair
rang wife asleep, her cheeks still retaining
tie traces of recent tears. There was some-
tiing peculiarly touching in the sight of that
eautiful and youthful fiace, thus marked with
Drrow, though under the hlessed influence of
leep. The rich crimson Ups still quivered,
nd hroken sohs escaped them, like those of a
lumbering child who had wept itself to uncon-
ciousness I and a tear still trembled beneath
he long silken lash that shaded the fair and
lelicate cheek.

Lord Henry stood in mute admiration, re*
[arding the lovely object before him, and felt
ill the lover's enthusiasm and husband's tender-
1688 revive in his heart, from the contemplation*
His own name, uttered in the softest tone of
ifiection, stole from the lips of the sleeper; and
>ni8 followed by a sigh so deep as to agitate the
snowy drapery that shrouded her finely-formed

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188 MATRIMONT.

bu8t. That sigh appealed more powerfully to
his feelings, than the most eloquent speech
could have done ; and he reproached himself
severely for having caused it

"Poor, dear Emily I" thought he, "even in
her dreams I am remembered. And I can be
so unfeeling as to blame her disappointment
at finding me so much less faultless than she
expected I So pure a mind as hers cannot be
expected to make allowance for the breach of
veracity she has discovered, where she thought
all was truth I And I, like a brute, could be
angry, instead of endeavouring to soothe her
wounded feelings I "

These salutary reflections produced a happy
result. The morrow's sun shone on the recon-
ciliation of Lord Henry and Lady Emily. He
acknowledged the error into which a desire to
avoid displeasing her had hurried him; he ex*
plained the sacrifices entailed by the conven-
tional usages of fashionable life; the necessity
of occasionally submitting to them; the expe-
diency of a wife's cheerfully yielding to these
unavoidable interruptions to domestic bliss;
and by a perfect confidence in her husband, and

dbyGoogk

MATRIMONY. 189

a freedom from exacting a monopoly of his
attentions only practicable in the solitude of
their country-seat, exempting him from the
painful necessity of concealment or prevari-
cation.

The tenderness with which his advice was
bestowed, ensured its adoption. From that
day forth Lady Emily learned to bear seeing
her husband behave with the courtesy practised
by every well-bred man towards women, with-
out feeling any jealousy; submitted without
uneasiness to his frequently engaging his old
friends to dinner, nay, could smile at the men-
tion of the '* bewitching widow," and hear of
his occasionally supping at his club without
being made unhappy.

A letter despatched a few days after to her
dear friend. Lady Frances Lorimer, in answer
to one from that young lady announcing her
approaching nuptials, contained such excellent
advice on the danger of young wives exacting
attentions only paid during the days of court-
ship, that it had the best effect on that lady.
This judicious counsel considerably lowered
the exaggerated and romantic expectations

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190 MATRIMONY.

she had previously indulged of the unbroken
felicity of wedded lovers, and saved the husband
of Lady Frances from the scenes of domestic
chagrin that had clouded the conjugal happi-
ness of Lord Henry and Lady Emily Fitzhar-
dinge, during their first entrance as a wedded
pair into fashionable life in London.

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191

THE GAMESTERS:

A FRENCH STORY.

'< Let no man trust the first false step of guilt,
It liangs upon a predpiee.
Whose steep descent in last perdition ends."

** Such is the fate of guilt, to make slaves tools.
And then to make 'em masters by our secrets.'*

Madame de Tournaville was left a widow
at an early age, with an only child, a daughter
of ten years old, whose beauty and docility were
as remarkable as a certain nervous tempera-
ment, that gave to her a shynesi^ and timidity
which checked the playful gaiety of childhood,
and rendered her susceptible of fear on the
slightest occasions.

The long illness of her husband, and the
confinement and anxiety it entailed, followed

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192 THE GAMESTERS.

by ber deep grief at bis deatb, bad so impaired
tbe naturally delicate bealtb of Madame de
Toumaville, tbat in a few montbs sbe followed
bira to tbe tomb j leaving her daughter, with
a large fortune, to tbe guardianship of a rela-
tion, the Comte de Breteul, who bad been for
many years the intimate friend of Monsieur
de Toumaville, and the adviser of bis widow
during the few months tbat sbe survived him.
Tbe Comte de Breteul was a widower with
a son and daughter, both senior to Matilde de
Toumaville by six or seven years. Tbe young
De Breteul was in tbe army, where be bad
already distinguished himself, and Louise his
sister had but lately returned from tbe pension^
where she had been educated, to preside over
the establishment in tbe patemal mansion.
Louise de Breteul was beautiful, gentle, ami-
able, and accomplished, with a steadiness and
decorum remarkable for ber years ; and with
manners whose suavity never failed to conciliate
tbe good opinion of those who bad opportunities
of knowing her. She soon acquired tbe devoted
affection of the youthful Matilde, and repaid it
with sisterly attachment, and an unceasing care

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THE GAMESTERS. 193

bestowed on her education. The Comte de
Breteul's exterior was more distingue than
attractive ; for though he possessed tair noble
in an eminent degree, his countenance was for-
bidding, and in spite of the polished elegance
of his manners, repelled confidence and fami-
liarity.

He occupied a fine hotel in the Rue de Va-
rennes, Faubourg-Saint Germains, and lived in
a style suitable to the large fortune he inherited
from his ancestors. It was with pleasure that
Louise superintended the studies of her in-
teresting protegee^ and with pride that she
marked her progress in them. Matilde had a
great facility in acquiring all that was taught
her, and an affectionate and grateful manner
of evincing her sense of the kindness and zeal
of her instructors, that increased their exertions
in the pleasing task. Her beauty, which had
been remarkable from her infancy, developed
itself with increased charms as she advanced
towards womanhood ; but the timidity of her
character, instead of diminishing, appeared
unhappily to become more fixed. The gazelle
was not more shy than Matilde, nor more

VOL. II. K

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194> THE GAMESTERS.

graceful ; for her timidity had nothing of gnu-
cherie in it. Those who could have seen her
chasing a hutterfly in the garden among flowers
scarcely more hlooroing than herself, or stand-
ing on the point of her delicate feet striving^
to peep into a bird's nest, while she held
back the branches of the shrubs that concealed
it, would have allowed that she looked like
some fabled wood-nymph, whose element was
flowers and sunshine. A strange voice or step
never failed to alarm her, and send her flying,
like a startled dove, to the side of Louise, whose
presence always reassured her.

Louise de Breteul had refused several unex-
ceptionable proposals of marriage, being deter-
mined not to leave her father, and above all,
her young eldve^ until tempted by some ofier in
which her heart was more interested than in
those she had already received. Time had
passed with rapid strides, and Matilde was
now entered on her sixteenth year. As yet
she had seen nothing of the world, and Louise
who preferred the calm enjoyment of the do-
mestic circle to the gaieties that courted her
abroad, had partaken but rarely of them. The

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THE GAMESTERS. 19^

hours fled cheerfully and happily by» occupied
in reading, drawing, music, and embroidery.
It was a pleasing sight to behoLl these two
young and lovely girls engaged in their daily
avocations : Matilde seated by the side of her
friend, would read aloud to her ; while Louise,
at the end of each page, commented on the
passages, or in turn read to Matilde, while she
exercised her pencil, and the freshly-plucked
roses in the vase, which she loved to copy,
wore not a brighter hue than graced tier cheek,
when Louise commended the fidelity with which
she had transferred them to paper.

They would wander for hours through the
umbrageous shades of the vast garden belong-
ing to the hotel, watching the growth of the
beautiful flowers and plants with which it
abounded,^ and admiring the rare birds in the
aviary, which they were accustomed to feed,
and which sent forth joyful notes when they
approached.

About this period, Gustavo de Breteul ar-
rived at Paris to visit his family, and was
accompanied by a brother officer, the young
Vicomte de Villeneuve, whose presence soon

Kg

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196 THE GAMESTERS.

seemed as gratifying to Louise as it was dis-
agreeable to her father. He would observe
the movements of his son's friend with an anx-
ious eye, and if he conversed with, or seemed
to show any attention towards Matilde, he be-
came evidently discomposed, and almost stem
towards the Vicomte de Villeneuve. The cold-
ness of the reception given him by the Comte
de Breteul prevented not the frequent visits of
that young gentleman to the H6tel de Breteul,
and it soon became visible that he was more
attracted there by the smiles of the fair sister
of his friend, than even by the friend himself,
warm and sincere as was his attachment to
him. A mutual sentiment of the most tender
nature had taken place between the Vicomte
and Louise, which was soon revealed to the
delighted Gustave, who loved his sister, and his
friend better than aught else on earth, save a
certain demoiselle^ the only sister of that friend,
to whom he had plighted his faith; having,
during the last year, conceived for her a pas-
sion as sincere as it was reciprocal. In fact,
his present visit was made expressly with the
intention to solicit his father's consent to (heir

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THE GAMESTERS. 197

union, and his friend had accompanied him ta
give all the necessary information relative to
the fortune and prospects of his sister. The
attachment which the Vicomte de Villeneuve
had formed for Louise, seemed to complete the
anticipations of happiness that Gustavo nou-
rished in his hreast, and he looked forward
with feelings of delight to the douhle alliance
of the two families. Gustave was about to'
solicit an interview with his father to lay open
the state of his heart, when the Comte de Bre-
teul required his presence in the library.

" I have sent for you, my son," said he, " to
talk over future plans, in which you are deeply
interested, and I flatter myself that in fulfilling
them, you will find that I have not been un-
mindful of your happiness. For a long period
I have decided on bestowing on you the hand
of my fair and amiable ward, Matilde de Tour-
naville. Her person, all must admit to be
lovely; her accomplishments, gentleness, and
good sense, no one can doubt ; and her fortune
leaves nothing to be desired by the most pru-
dent father. But how is this? you seem far
from feeling the delight T had anticipated;

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198 THE GAMESTERS.

you have not, you cannot have, a single objec-
tion to urge against Matilde."

" Far from it, my father," replied Gustave ;
** no one can be more ready to acknowledge the
charms and good qualities of Mademoiselle de
Toumaville than myself; but my affections are
bestowed on another, and when you summoned
me to your presence, I was on the point of
demanding an audience to declare to you the
state of my heart — I love, and am beloved by
the sister of my friend ; and only wait for your
sanction to ratify the vows we have inter-
changed.**

" Do I hear right?" asked the angry fa-
ther; while disappointment and rage strove for
mastery in his agitated breast. '*Is it thus
that you would dash to the ground the hopes
which I have so long indulged ? But no I you
cannot be so ungrateful, so selfish — you will,
now that you know my wishes, abandon this
silly project, and give your hand to Matilde."

" Never I my father,** said Gustave, firmly
but respectfully ; " my vows are pledged to
Elise de Villeneuve : her fortune — ^though to it
I have not given a thought — is equal to tha^of

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THE GAMESTERS. 199

Matilde ; her family is more noble, and there-
fore no reason can exist for declining a marriage
on which all my hopes of happiness depend."

^* Are my feelings, then," said the father,
'^ to be counted for nothing ? And how long is
it since French fathers have ceased to exercise
the right of disposing of the hands of their
children ? In England, where sons are so neg-
ligently educated that the heir of every noble
house thinks he has a right to select a wife for
himself, such infractions of duty may possibly
occur ; but in France, we are not yet arrived
at this degree of licence ; and I declare to you,
that I never will consent to your marriage with
any one but Matilde/'

So saying, he quitted the room, leaving Gus-
tave perfectly confounded by this first display
of harsh parental authority, but fully resolved
to resist it. He determined on writing a letter
of remonstrance to his father ; and unwilling
to acquaint his friend with the unfavourable
result of the interview, lest he should feel
offended at the unaccountable objection of the
Comte to the proposed union, he decided on
leaving Paris for a couple of days, both to

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200 THE GAMESTERS.

afford time to his father to reflect coolly on his
letter and give it a definitive answer, and to
avoid meeting De Villeneuve, until he had
received it Writing, therefore, a hrief note
to his friend to apologize for his absence, he
departed from Paris, a prey to gloomy thoughts,
which formed a painful contrast with the joyful
anticipations in which he had indulged only a
few hours before.

Ignorant of the state of irritation into which
his son's declaration had plunged the Comte
de Breteul, De Villeneuve, with the permission
of Louise had sought him, and demanded her
hand. An angry refusal, and an intimation
that his future visits would be dispensed with
in the Rue de Varennes, was the answer that
awaited the disappointed and astonished lover,
who left the library, the scene of his audience
with nearly equally strong sentiments of dislike
towards the father, as of passionate tenderness
for the daughter. Previously to quitting the
house he sought his beloved Louise, and in a
few hurried words related to her the cruel dis-
appointment he had encountered. He urged
her to be firm, and should her father speak to

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THE GAMESTERS. 201

her on the subject, he implored her to avow
with candour their attachment, and the convic-
tion of its stability.

How had a few hours changed the happy
prospects of the lovers I They were ccmfounded
by the unexpected turn affairs had taken; for
so unexceptionable was the fortune and position
of the Vicomte de Villeneuve, that a doubt of
his proposals being listened to with pleasure by
the Comte de Breteul, had never occurred to
them. Louise felt this disappointment of the
heart, with perhaps more severity, that it was
the first she had known. Her feelings had not
been deprived of their virgin purity by a suc-
cession of youthful fancies, each chasing away
the recollection of the former; an evil which
too often affects youthful minds, whose facility
to receive impressions is in general greater than
their power to retain them. Her attachment
to De Villeneuve was her first lesson of love;
she felt it to be indelible, and was overpowered
with anguish at finding the obstacles that im-
peded her happiness. She waited with impa-
tience the return of her brother, — he who alone
could sympathize with her, could counsel, or

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202 THE GAMESTERS.

intercede for her. The feelings of this gentle
and high-minded girl, which had hitherto pre-
served their even tenour, like some gliding
stream flowing smoothly along, and reflecting
only the fairest images on its glassy surface,
were now like the mountain torrent, swollen hy
rains, and rocked hy the tempest

When Matilde, unconscious of passing events,
approached her loved guide and protectress, to
pursue the appointed studies of the day, it was
only hy a violent efibrt that Louise could assume
an appearance of calmness. The force of her
emotions struck her with alarm ; and as Matilde
displayed her drawings, or played some fovoar-
ite air, to which she had endeavoured to give
more than usual expression in order to win the
commendations of her friend, Louise shrank
abashed from the innocent and happy girl, self-
reproved by the thought, that while she thus
abandoned herself to the engrossing emotions
that filled her heart, she was unhallowed for
the part of monitress to one whose purity had
never been sullied by passion.

Two gloomy days had tediously drawn to a
conclusion when Gustave returned, and the

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THE GAMESTERS. 208

unhappy Louise poured into his sympathizing
ear the disappointment with which her hopes
bad been crushed. He found a long letter
from De ViUeneuve, written under all the ex-
citement of feelings which the interview with
tbe Comte de Breteul was calculated to pro-
duce; and urging Gustave not only to give him
a speedy meeting, but immediately to arrange
for him an interview with Louise in his pre-
sence; declaring that to endure existence any
longer without seeing her he felt to be impos-
sible. He implored Gustave by the love he
bore to Elise, by their long friendship, and by
his affection for Louise, to grant this request.
He proposed that they should meet in the
garden of the H6tel de Breteul, which could
be arranged by their admitting him by a pri-
vate door that opened into the Rue de Babylon.
Gustave consented to this plan, and while they
are conserting measures to carry it into effect,
we must take a retrospective view of the cir-
cumstances that had led the Comte de Breteul
to offer such an unaccountable opposition to
the happiness of his children.

In early youth he had made what is called a

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204 THE GAMESTERS.

love-match, and daring the brief duration of
his wedded life had possessed a happiness that
rarely accompanies marriages in the formation
of which passion has had more influence than
reason. The Comtesse de Breteul, on her
death-bed, to which in a few fleeting hours a
violent maladv had conducted her, with the
short-sighted selfishness of an ill-regulated af-
fection, had extorted from her agonized hus-
band a solemn promise that he would never
give her a successor in his heart, or place over
his children an alien mother. This request,
framed by love, led, as we shall see, to the
most fatal results, and drove from the pale of
domestic bliss a man who might have dispensed
and partaken that blessing. The first violent
grief of the bereaved husband having subsided
into the stagnant calm of morbid melancholy, he
sought in vain to find relief in his former avo-
'Cations. Books failed to give him their wonted
solace, because every page of his favourite
authors teemed with passages marked by the
pencil of her he sought to forget; and the
sympathy of their tastes, brought thus before
him, renewed the overwhelming grief her loss

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THE GAMESTERS. SOS

had occasioned. His home bad now become
unbearable to him, for it was fraught with
images of the past Her vacant chair opposite
to his own ; the tabouret on which })er delicate
feet used to repose; the vase, now empty, in
which the flowers she loved were wont to adorn
her table; the unfinished sketches from her
pencil, still resting on the easel ; and her harp
standing where she had last awakened its tones,
all — all, spoke to him of the happy past, and
rendered the present insupportable. It was
to flj from this state of gloomy grief that he
sought forgetfiilness in play; that fearful re-
medy which, like the poisons introduced in
medicine, is so much more destructive than
the malady it may banish. The excitement at
first produced was such a relief to his harassed
feelings, that he had recourse to it as the victim
of acute pain flies to opiates, when suffering
has conquered fortitude, and forgetfulness for a
few brief hours is all he hopes to obtain. The
fatal habit of play grew on him, — nay, soon
became the engrossing passion of his life, until
fortune, fame, peace, all were sacrificed to its
destructive indulgence. His large funded pro-
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206 THE GAMESTERS.

perty, touched by the burning fingers of the
reckless gamester, had melted like snow before
the sun, and when Madame de ToumaviUe
placed in his power the ample fortune of her
orphan daughter, he stood on the verge of ruin,
into which, without this timely aid, in a few
months he must have inevitably been plunged.
The gradations of vice are only imperceptible
to the wretched dupe who passes through them.
A few months before, and the Comte de Breteul
would have spumed the idea, that he could be
even suspected of risking the property of his
own children, a property which he considered
as a sacred deposit confided to his care; but
now he blushed not to risk that of his youthful
ward, and saw thousand after thousand of it
disappear in the same fatal gulf which had
swallowed up his own.

The Comte de Breteul had not lost the vast
sums that had led to his ruin without having:
made acquaintances as disreputable to his fame
as the pursuit by which he formed them was
destructive to his fortune. Men of all coun-
tries, as ruined in reputation as in purse, had
now become his associates ; sums of money lost

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THE GAMESTERS. 207

to them, which he had not always the power to
pay, had placed him in their disgraceful
dependence, and they no longer felt under their
former restraint in his presence. The Comte
de Breteul, a naturally proud man, had not
reached this humiliating state of degradation
without frequent self-reproach, and sickening
feelings of disgust ; hut the hope, the deceptive
hope of regfuning his losses, that hope which
lures the gamester to destruction, still led him
on. He had heen living on credit for some
months, and retained but a fe^ thousand francs
of the once large fortune of Matilde de Tour-
naville in his possession, when by the death of
a relation a large sum of money was bequeathed
to her, which was to descend to him and his
children in case of her dying childless. This
had occurred only a few days before the arrival
of Gustave de Breteul at Paris, and the guilty
and ruined father determined on forming a
marriage between Matilde and his son, which
would ^ve him the power of appropriating at
least a portion of this money to his own press-
ing exigencies, and prevent the discovery of
his dishonest waste of her paternal fortune, as

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THE GAMESTERS.

he knew that hoth Matilde and Gastave would
leave the whole of their pecuniary concerns to
his management.

With this plan in view, the only one which
offered a chance of concealing his dishonour-
able conduct, and its ruinous results, it may
easily be imagined with what dread he watched
the looks of the Vicomte de Villeneuve, trem-
bling lest any attachment should be formed
between him and Matilde, and with what anger
he discovered his son's engagement to Made-
moiselle de Villeneuve, which offered a bar to
the completion of his plan. The marriages of
his children in the family of De Villeneuve
could not take place without the state of his
fortune being made known ; and once known,
would they, could they be permitted by any
prudent parents? Who would consent to re-
ceive the portionless son and daughter of a
ruined, dishonest gamester? No, his gentle
and high-minded Louise, and his honourable
and impetuous Gustave, would be spumed by
the parents of De Villeneuve, and he — he
would be the cause of all this. There was
agony, there was bitterness in the thought, and

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THE GAMESTERS. S09

the reproaches which his too lately-awakened
conscience whispered almost avenged the crime
that excited them. The unhappy man still
loved his children, fondly, truly loved them :
and perhaps the cruel injustice he had com-
mitted in reducing them to poverty, added
poignancy to his affection ; for remorse and
pity were allied to his parental feelings.

This affection for his offspring, which, had
he heen untainted with the vice that had caused
his ruin, would have been a source of the purest
happiness to him, was now the instrument of
his heaviest punishment ; for the pangs of dis-
appointed hope which he had inflicted on them
in opposing their love, recoiled on his own heart,
making him feel that he had brought misery
on those whose felicity he might have insured.

He was writhing under repentance for the
past, and terror for the future, when le Che-
valier Roussel was announced, and his presence
added poignancy to the bitter feelings to which
the guilty Comte de Breteul was a prey.

Roussel was a chevalier (Tindustrie, who,
though far from being sans reproche^ was sans
peur^ and who had attained a proficiency in

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THE GAMESTERS.

the science he professed, never ac
the price of infamy. Luckily fo
it is so, the exposure which uiti
such characters limits the power
that their knowledge of the art
wise afford them. Gamesters, lil
pass their lives in endeavouring t<
but never arrive at the end to wl
sacrificed ; and dazzled by allurii
ficent dreams of ever-eluding ricl
tlieir days in equal disappointmet
Le Chevalier Roussel was a mi
ill crime, that he had become
less of its consequences. Nei
ration to commit any enormity, ho
present itself to him, but his m
and desperate fortunes prompte
a ready as^jcnt ; invariably con
with the sophistical reasoninj
alrcadv led him into so much truil
more or less in the long catalog
of no importance. He had passe
of sin, and felt there was no ri
this desperate consciousness of hi
ijrnominy prompted him to tak

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THE GAMESTERS. 211

pleasure in luring others to pursue a similar
course. He now came as an importunate cre-
ditor to the Comte de Breteul, determined to
enforce payment coute qui coute. The haugh-
tiness and ill-disguised contempt for Roussel
and his associates, which that unhappy man
could not always conceal, had engendered a
feeling of hatred in the breast of the chevalier,
which induced him to vow that he would
humble the proud spirit of his arrogant debtor,
by plunging him into crimes that would reduce
him to a level with himself. Hitherto De
Breteul was unstained by any other delinquency
than his appropriation of the fortune of his
ward, and the vice which led to it. He was
ignorant of the arts by which he had been
plundered, and had only advanced the Jirst
step in the career of a gamester, that of being
the dupe, but had not yet arrived at that of
being the defrauder, which, according to some
writer, is the second and inevitable stage. In
yielding to the crime of robbing his ward, he
had disguised the enormity of the action to his
paralyzed feelings of rectitude, by the sophistry
of a vitiated parental tenderness, which whis-

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I

i

f

21 « THE GAMESTERS*

pered that the course he had adopt
only means of rescuing his chil
poverty and shame. The conversic
afi^tioDS intended as sources of hap
the acutest torments the guilty can
is but one of the fatal and certain a
of crime. The love which the
man bore his offspring, now became
of his vices; he shrank reproved 1
untarnished integritv of mind, and i
proofs of attachment and respect th«
on him, with shuddering roneciousi
they knew his guilt they would tui
with shame and loathing.

Roussel found him almost madd
various and conflicting emotions ivli
him, and his presence and its cause
to increase his excitement.

" Why, why have you come to i
demanded the comte, " Have I n(
you to appear here ? You might 1
to me, or trusted to our meeting \
place; but here, where my child i
ward reside, this is no fit place foi
i% for tis to meet;" added the al;

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THE GAMESTERS. 213

correcting the first observation, as the recollec-
tion of the power which his creditor possessed
flashed on his mind.

" I must say that your reception is not very
gracious/* replied Roussel ; " but I forgive it,
because I see you are agitated — I am come for
the money you owe me; I have forborne to
press you for some days ; but my wants are so
urgent, that I can wait no longer."

It was in vain that the Comte de Breteul
pleaded for time, even for a few days, to enable
him to comply with this arrogant and hostile
demand ; Roussel was inflexible.

" I know all the intricacies of your situation,"
said the wily gamester, " you are ruined, irre-
coverably ruined ; you have not only spent your
own fortune and that of your children, but you
have robbed your ward — nay, start not," seeing
that De Breteul was angered, '* for he who hesi-
tated not to commit the action has no right to
take offence at the name.. In a short time, the
course you have pursued micst be notorious, and
what then will be your position ? Branded by
a crime that adds disgrace to the poverty you
have drawn on your children, how could you

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214 THE GAMESTERS.

again meet them? But one way remains to
save them from penury, and you from infamy."

'^ Name it, name it I'' cried the agonized
father (forgetting in his anxiety for his children,
the indignation which the insolent familiarity of
RousseFs observations had excited), " and if my
heart's blood be the price, willingly, oh I most
willingly shall it be paid."

" You speak idly," said the unfeeling Rous*
sel \ '* of what advantage could your death be
to your children ? You can leave them no inhe-
ritance, but — shame I for, were you by suicide
to evade the exposure that awaits you, your
children must still bear the disgrace of year
crime, which cannot be concealed. No, your
death avails them not, but the death of —
another, would save you and them"

** What I would you make me an assassin,
base and wicked as you are?" asked De Bre-
teul, while his cheek became blanched, and his
lips trembled with emotion.

" You suffer your imagination to get the
better of your reason, and of your good manners
too," said Roussel, with a malignant scowl ; *' I
am neither so base nor as wicked as yourself;

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THE GAMESTERS. 215

for I have plundered no orphan confided to me
by a dying parent Yes, yes, you may look as
fierce as you please, yet you dare not deny the
degrading accusation. You fiave violated the
most sacred trust that man can repose in man ;
you have committed an act of dishonour that
admits neither of extenuation nor atonement ;
and as a traitor to the dead, and the despoilcr
of the living, I denounce you I But come, it is
useless for us to quarrel ; our disunion will do
more mischief than good perhaps to both of us ;
so let us remain friends," he added with an
ironical smile, *^ for yours is not a position in
which you can make an enemy with impunity."

Rage and shame struggled in the breast of
the once proud Comte de Breteul, as he found
himself, even in the lofty chambers of his noble
ancestors, triumphantly bearded by the reckless
miscreant, to an equality with whom his fatal
passion for gaming had so unhappily reduced
him.

" You are more alarmed by words than
deeds," resumed Roussel ; " you resent the
accusation of your crime, but you shrank not
from its commission, else would your ward be

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21 G THE GAMESTERS.

now the heiress of a nohle patrimony instead of
helng a defiraaded pauper. You have sponta-
neously and remorselessly devoted her to beg-
gary and humiliation ; and yet, forsooth, in the
redundance of your exceeding charity, you
would hesitate, nay, turn in horror from the
less cruel act of abridging the suffisrings of the
victim you have yourself created. She is youngs
and innocent, therefore her transition from this
world of care to a belter and happier state,
must be a desirable event. Let her live her
natural time, poor and unfriended, what has
she to hope, and what must she not have to
endure? Her beauty will expose her to the
snares of the wealthy and designing libertine ;
and her poverty will instigate her to become his
prey. Remember, too, that a long life of misery
and shame may await her ; for degradation and
infamy, though they murder peace of mind, but
slowly undermine the physical sources of exist-
ence. You who have reduced her to the pros-
pect of this career, can alone save her from its
endurance, by sending her pure and undefiled
to heaven. You will thus rescue your children
from poverty, and all its humiliating attendants^

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THE GAMESTERS.

217

ind yourself firom everlastiDg disgrace — do you,
nn you hesitate ? If so, take the consequences
f your weakness ; and rememher, when it wUl
e too late, that you had once the power of
xtricating your children and yourself from the
Btribution which now awaits you."

" I will not, I cannot imbrue my hands in
inocent blood,*' said De Breteul, with horror
epicted in his face ; " all — every thing is
Btter than such a crime," and he looked with
irror at his hands, as if he already expected to
)e them dyed with the sanguine stream of life.

" Who talked of shedding blood ?" aaid the
afty Roussel j " faugh — faugh 1 not I, I'm
ire ; such barbarisms are now exploded irom
vilized society. But let us not dispute about
3rds ; listen to me without interruption ; —
ademoiselle de Toumaville dead, vou succeed

the large property she has lately inherited.
bis will be amply sufficient to enable you to
place the fortune left her by her mother, to
tisfy any inquisitive heir that may spring up,

also to leave a provision for your children ;
10, thus enabled to marry the objects of their
oice, will bless you for their happiness.

VOL. II. I

i

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218 TH£ GAMESTERS.

accomplish these most desirable results, you
have only to send a soul to Heaven as pure as
when it left the hands of its Creator. I am
your friend ; and can instruct you to extinguish
the vital spark, so as leave no possibility of
detection. The death of this young person is in-
dispensably necessary to preserve your honour,
peace — ^nay, your life ; and yet in return for the
accomplishment of an object so imperious, I
only require you to pay me the sum of twenty-
five thousand francs, in addition to the sum
you already owe me, and which I must have
forthwith."

The sophistry of Roussel, acting on the ex-
cited feelings of the fallen and guilty De
Breteul, triumphed over the remaining senti*
ments of humanity in his demoralized heart.
The proverb says, that they whom destiny
would destroy, she first renders insane; and
. experience proves, that fate never wholly con-
quers man, until he has yielded up reason at
the shrine of passion.

In the unhappy Comte de Breteul, we find
another instance of the truth of this maxim.
Hideous and glaring as was the &llacy of the

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THE GAMESTERS. 219

inculcation, yet his mind being prostrated by
the conflicts and temptations to which it had
been subjected, this wretched man, instigated by
a knave more plausible, more crafty, and more
callous than himself, was ultimately induced to
implicitly believe, that in order to conceal the
crime of appropriating his ward's fortune, and
to preserve his children from disgrace, he was
justified in laying on his soul the fearful crime
of murder — of steeping himself in guilt a hun-
dredfold more atrocious than that which he had
already committed.

Let no one who has entered on the path of
vice say, so far, and no farther will I go. The
first step leads to destruction ; for, rarely can
the wretch who has taken it, extricate himself
from its consequences.

But though De Breteul listened to the pro-
posal of Roussel, it was long ere he could bring
himself to do more than listen to it. To leave him
thus conscience-stricken and alarmed formed
no part of the plan of Roussel, and he insisted
that his dupe should accompany him to a res^
tavrant to dine ; at the same time proposing
that afterwards they should once more try their

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220 THE GAMESTERS.

luck at the gaming-table. Glad to escape from
an interview with his daughter and Matilde,
in his present state of mind, De Breteul left his
house with Roussel, who having ordered a dm-
ner recherchij and after it plied his companion
with wine» disclosed to him his plan for destroy*
ing the beautiful and innocent orphan. He
proposed to procure, from the mechanics by
whom it is employed, a quantity of wax of a
peculiar tenacity, and to spread it very thick on
a piece of linen. De Breteul was to enter
Matilde's chamber while she slept, and placing
this preparation on her mouth, to press it
tightly until it should produce suffocation, and
yet leave no external marks of violence. Excited
as he was by wine, and maddened by circum-
stances, still the mind of De Breteul recoiled
from the perpetration of this atrocious crime ;
but the modern Mephistophilcs, too skilled in
all the fiendlike arts of temptation to allow him-
self to be baffled by either the apprehensions or
contrition of his intended victim, led him once
more to the gaming-table, that certain and
fatal gulf of every manly virtue.

There, having by the same unfair mean$

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THE GAMESTERS. 221

which had already reduced him to ruin, de-
spoiled him of the few thousand francs he yet
possessed, with a heavy additional debt, despera*
tion rendered him reckless ; and he was ready,
even eager, for the commission of any crime his
betrayer might dictate. Armed, therefore, with
the intended instrument of destruction, they
returned at a late hour to the Hdtel de Breteul.
And now we must leave them prepared for
guilt, while we return to the other parties in
this domestic tragedy.

It had been decided that the interview

between the lovers and Gustave de Breteul

should take place in the garden, when all the

fiunily in the hotel should be in bed, with the

exception of the Comte de Breteul, who was in

the habit of returning late. As he sometimes

entered by the garden, it was also arranged that)

to prevent his detecting the interview between

his son and daughter and De Villeneuve, as

soon as the latter was admitted by the small

door, from the Rue de Babylon, the two friends,

with Louise, should retire to the most distant

part of the garden.

These arrangements having been narrated^

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222 THE GAMESTERS.

we must now proceed to the night of the in*
tended rendezvous. Louise had retired to her
chamher, which though it was next that of
Matilde, looked on the court, while Matilde's
opened on the garden. She was impatiently
awaiting the signal concerted with her brother,
for her to join him in his room, whence she was
to pass into the garden, with which it com-
municated, when Matilde rushed into the apart-
ment pale and terrified, declaring that she had
heard voices at her window, and that she was
afraid to remain alone in her chamber. It im-
mediately occurred to Louise that the voices
heard by Matilde were those of De Villeneuve
and her brother, and anxious to join them, as
also to quiet the alarm of the agitated girl, she
desired her to enter her bed, and that, as she
had no fears, she would occupy Matilde's ; a
proposal that was readily accepted.

Having left Mademoiselle de Toumaville
restored to composure, Louise wrapped a shawl
round her, and stole to the door of her brother's
chamber, when she met him comibg in search
of her. They quickly entered the garden,
found De Villeneuve at the private door, which

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THE 6AMESTBR8. 223

Gnstave opened for him, and all tbree retired
to a remote spot, where half an hour flew
rapidly by, ere they had thought that even a
quarter of that brief period had elapsed.

A heayy shower of rain induced Gustave to
conduct the reluctant Louise to the house, and
while she sought her pillow, and resigned her-
self to the balmy influence of sleep, he returned
to his friend, and passed a couple of hours in
discussing their plans for the present and the
future. They were at length about to separate,
and had approached the private door, when, to
their utter amazement, they discovered a man
with his hat drawn over his eyes, and enveloped
in a large cloak, applying a key to the lock
with one hand, while in' the other he held a
dark-lantern. They both rushed forward and
seized him, under the conviction that he was a
robber ; while he, in evident trepidation, stated
that he had entered the garden with the Comte
de Breteul, and was retiring, making use of the
key given him by that gentleman. There was
an evident embarrassment and mystery about
this person, that led them to doubt his state-
ment, and Gustave insisted on his returning

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2'i4t THE GAMESTERS.

with them to the house, in order that they might
confront him with the comte. Finding them
hent on this course, he was forced to yield, and
turning to Gustave, he said,

** Well, he it so. You say you are his son.
Now mark me ; he will not thank you for this
interference; but on your head be its con-
sequences. A time may come when you will
wish that you had not stopped me/'

Gustave and De ViUeneuve conducted the
stranger to the door of the chamber of the
Comte de Breteul, which, contrary to his usual
custom, they found locked on the inside, and it
was not until Gustave had repeatedly called to
his father that the latter replied ; but he still
declined opening the door, and his voice be-
trayed evident symptoms of agitation.

The stranger cried aloud to him,

<« De Breteul, I have been stopped, in leaving
your garden, by your son, who holds me a
prisoner until you have certified that I accom-
panied you into this house ; was thence return-
ing to my residence, and that the key I was
employing for that purpose was confided to me
by yourself/'

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THE GAMESTERS.

2«5

*' Yes, yeSy my son, all that he states is cor-
net,*' groaned rather than spoke the Comte dc
reteul ; " so let him depart in peace."

" Excuse," continued he, addressing the
ranger, " the interruption you have met with,
pray you ; for my son knew not that you were
— " "friend" he would have added, but the
rord died on his tongue. The rebuked young
len looked at each other in silent amazepient,
nd allowed the stranger to depart ; who, dari-
ng on them a glance, in which every malevo-
ent passion was expressed, hastily and in silence
nthdrew.

Gustavo and De Villeneuve slowly lefib the
inte-room, pondering on the extraordinary oc-
currence they had witnessed, and willing to give
he stranger time to quit the garden ere they
mtered it. As they paced the gravel-walk,
Grustave broke silence by saying,

" This is all very mysterious ; I cannot com-
prehend how my father can hold intercourse
with a man such as he who has left us ; for if
ever I saw villain written in the human coun*
tenance, it surely is in his."

l3

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226 THE GAMESTERS.

De Villeneuve paused for a few minutes, and
then replied,

<< My dear friend, there is a subject on which
I had intended to have spoken to you^ but deli-
cacy has hitherto induced me to postpone it ;
as, however, our rencontre with this mysterious
stranger seems m some way connected with it,
perhaps it is better that I should now disclose
it. Your father is looked upon as a gamester —
nay, more, report states him to be a ruined
one. This stranger may be, must be, one of the
wretches who frequent the gaming-houses, and
who have aided and participated in his ruin.
How else can we explain your father's inter-
course with such a man, and the agitation which
his voice denoted ? This knave probably re-
turned to-night with his dupe to the hotel, to
receive either money or valuables for sums lost at
play ; and your father, ashamed to let the porter
see him enter with such a companion, admitted
him by the garden, and evidently intended that
he should have retreated by the same route*
Had we searched him, we should most likely
have found either the contents of your father's

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THE GAMESTERS. 227

coffire-fortey or some vauable jewels ; but, n'lm-
partet it must be our business to relieve ilie
Comte de Breteul from any distress he may
have brought on himself by this fearful passion
for play, and so terminate all intercourse be-
tween him and such dangerous and disgraceful
associates as the maQ who has left us. I have
a large sum of money in my own power, the
fortune left me by my aunt ; it shall be all at
his service, and I, my dear Gustave, shall be
but too happy if I can extricate from his present
dangerous entanglements him who is the father
of my Louise and of you, and who, I trust, may
soon be miAe and my sister's/'

To find the parent, whom, from his infancy,
he had reverenced nearly as much as loved, a
reputed and dangerous gamester, was a cruel
blow to the filial feelings of Gustave ; and to
see him the acknowledged associate of the vile
person who had left them, was a severe humi-
liation ; but the warmth of friendship displayed
on this emergency by De Villeneuve soothed
him, and while passionately thanking his warm-
hearted friend, a strong sense of gratitude and

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228 THE GAMESTERS.

affection for a moment superseded his other too
painful emotions. *' Here," said De Villeneuye,
*' take this pocket-hook ; I had nearly forgotten
it» though I brought it in consequence of the
reports I heard, and the opinions I have formed
of the extent of your father's pecuniary embar-
rassments. It contains half the sum at my dis-
posal, and to-morrow the remainder shall be
forthcoming. Nay, dear Gustave,'' seeing his
friend hesitate, '* do not pain me by a refusal.
Are we not brothers as well as friends, and will
not your father shortly be mine ?"

Gustavo yielded to the solicitations of De Vil-
leneuve, and they parted, animated by cheering
hopes of the morrow — that morrow so fraught
with misery. But let me not anticipate.

De Villeneuve had reached the door of the
garden, and was about to apply the key to the
lock, when a sudden blow from a dagger pros-
trated him on the earth. Rapidly drawing the
reeking weapon from the deep wound it had
inflicted, the assassin struck it a second time
into the body of his victim ; then deliberately
wiping it in the grass, he concealed it beneath

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THE GAMESTERS. S29

his cloak, and hurried from the spot, carefully
locking the door after him, and taking away
the key.

The Comte de Breteul and his son met in the
breakfast-room at the usual hour on the follow-
ing morning, the former with an embarrassed
air and a care-worn brow, while his heavy eyes
denoted that repose had been a stranger to his
pillow. Gustavo felt for him, and accounted
for his troubled looks by the knowledge he had
acquired of his pecuniary difficulties and entan-
glements. There was no recurrence made to the
rencontre of the past night, and both laboured
under a restraint that neither knew how to
surmount, when the door opened and Matilde
entered.

At the sight of his ward, a cry of horror
escaped from the unhappy Comte de Breteul,
and he fell fainting on the floor. Gustave and
Matilde assisted to replace him in his chair,
and animation had but just returned, when
Claudine, the aged attendant of Louise, rushed
distracted into the sahn^ and with cries of
anguish and despair, announced that her dear

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230 THE GAMESTERS.

young lady, her precious Mademoiselle Louise,
was dead !

The confusion, horror, and grief of the £amily
may be imagined, but cannot be described. Gus-
tavo and Matilde flew to the chamber where the
beautiful Louise lay extended cold and motion-
less, but lovely even in death. The brother,
nearly frantic, ordered the servaiits to fly for
doctors, and commenced chafing her cold limbs,
totally forgetting in this new and overpowering
affliction the state of his father, when a party of
gendarmes rudely entered the room, and made
him their prisoner, on the charge of having
murdered the Comte de Vijileneuve in the gar-
den on the previous night. They dragged him
from the room, where lay the inanimate form
of Louise, unmindful of his entreaties and
frantic prayers to be allowed to continue his
efforts to restore her, and forced him into the
salon^ where his wretched father continued in
nearly a state of insensibility. They now ex-
amined his person, and on discovering the
pocket-book of De ViUeneuve, whose name
was written in it, and the large sum it con-

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THE GAMESTERS.

231

dned, they declared that this evidence of his
oilt was conclusive.

They subsequently, either casually or inten-
onally, added, that the anonymous information
ley had received that morning, stated that the
ocket-book would be found in his possession,
od that the body of the murdered man was
oncealed beneath some shrubs in the garden,
here they had discovered it. When the
rretched father heard the accusation against
is son, the pride and idol of his life, he tried
[> speak, but the effort was unavailing ; the
lowers of motion and utterance were paralyzed,
ind his son was forcibly dragged a prisoner
rom the house that contained a dead sister
ind a dying fetther.

Gustavo was overwhelmed with horror by
he accumulated misery of his maddening situa^
ion.. The murder of his friend — that friend
M) fondly cherished, whose life he would wil-
Imgly have sacrificed his own to have saved,
seemed to add the finishing blow to his despair;
and he — he charged with the murder I Oh I it
was too, too horrible ! and he closed his eyes

1

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232 TH£ GAMESTERS.

as if to shut out the dreadful images that pre-
sented themselves to his mind.

He had not been many hours in prison,
though the mental sufferings he was enduring
made them appear an eternity, when Claudine
arrived to acquaint him that he had no longer
a father, the Comte de Breteul having expired
shortly after his son had been dragged from
his presence.

*' Father, sister, friend, all — all are gone I **
groaned Gustavo ; " would to Heaven that I
were with them I '' and he threw himself in
agony on the wretched bed on which he was
sitting.

" No I dear Monsieur Gustavo," said Clau-
X dine, ** all are not yet lost ; you have still a
friend, for the Comte de Villeneuve yet lives,
and the doctors say he will recover."

<* Oh I God be thanked I" exclaimed Gus-
lave ; *< tell me, tell me, my good Claudine,
how this has occurred ?**

" Why, my dear young master,'' resumed
she, ** when the comte was found, as they sup-
posed, dead in the garden, he was only in a

dbyGoogk

THE GAMESTERS. 233

deep swoon from loss of blood. He was soon
restored to animation ; and though he is very
weak and languid, the doctors all say he will
certainly recover. He has already spoken,
and declared your innocence, God be praised I
as also his knowledge of the assassin ; so that
in a few hours you must be released from this
hateful prison."

To return thanks to the Almighty Providence
that had preserved De Villeneuve, and justified
himself from the foul crime with which he
stood charged, was the first movement of Gus-
tavo ; but soon came the bitter recollection of
the death of his father and Louise, that dearly-
loved sister and companion of his youth.

'* My sister I my blessed sister I" exclaimed
Gustave: "Oh! had you been spared me!"
and a burst of passionate grief unmanned him.

•* You see, my dear Monsieur Gustave,"
said Claudine, " the Comte de Villeneuve was
supposed to be dead," laying an emphasis on
the word supposed, " and yet he is still alive.
God is good ; so do not despair, for our pre-
cious mademoiselle may be restored to us."

" What do you, what can you mean, Clau-

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234 THE GAMESTERS.

dine ? Oh I keep me not in suspense I** cried
the agitated Gustave, '* tell me, tell me, does
she live ?"

** Be calm, my dear young master, prepare
yourself for joyful news. She does live, and
you shall soon see her. Under Providence,
the dear Mademoiselle Matilde and I saved
her ; for hy friction and restoratives we had
elicited signs of life before the doctors came,
and they say she will recover if she is kept
quiet."

The joy of Gustavo may be imagined : he
hugged the good old Claudine again and again,
and it was only on recollecting the death of his
father that he could check the transport which
the recovery of his sister had occasioned. He
hastily dismissed Claudine in order that Louise
might not be deprived of her care, and sat him
down to reflect on the occurrences of the last
few eventful hours.

A short time brought the order for his re-
lease from prison, and he flew to his home,
where he found his sister much better than his
most sanguine hopes had led him to expect
The only account she could give of her sudden

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THE GAMESTERS. 235

seizure was, that she was awaked from sleep
by a sense of suffocation, and when she tried
to move, her endeavour was violently repressed
by some person who forcibly held her, until
her struggles were terminated by insensibility.
Tlie appearance of the mysterious stranger in
the garden recurred to the recollection of Gus-
tave, and suspicion that he was in some way
connected with the tragic events of the previous
night, rushed to his mind. These suspicions
were confirmed by De Villeneuve, who told him
that as the moonbeams fell on the countenance
of his assassin when he gave him the second
wound, he recognised in him the miscreant
whom they had discovered in the garden. The
meeting between the friends was most affecting.
The danger to which Louise had been exposed,
was concealed from her lover y lest in his pre-
sent langidd state, a knowledge of it might
occasion an excitement which should be preju-
dicial to his recovery.

When Roussel and the Comte de Breteul
had reached the chamber in which they sup-
posed Matilde to sleep, her guardian had not
sufficient resolution to enter it j and therefore,

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^6 THE GAMESTERS.

on the hardened Roussel devolved the commis-
sion of the murderous task, which his wretched
and vacillating accomplice dared not even to
witness. Thus, the panic-stricken slave of
conscience, he remained coweringly on the
threshold, while his own daughter was at-
tempted to he made the victim of her parent's
guilt I

Just as the fiend-like assassin conceived he
had completed his atrocious crime, he was
alarmed by the sound of voices in the garden.
He hastily removed the hateful mask before
the final extinction of the vital spark had been
effected, and then carefully wiped from the
pale face of the unfortunate girl all stain and
discoloration, until not a vestige remained of
the means that had been employed. De Bre-
teul, overcome with feelings of remorse and
horror, and shrinking from the sight of the
murderer, after a few hurried words of pro-
mised reward, let him out of the house, giving
him the key of the garden-door; and then
overcome with terror, had locked himself in
his chamber. The recontre of Roussel with
his son appeared to his guilty conscience as a

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THE GAMESTERS. 237

certain clue to the detection of his crime, and
he passed a night of such fearful torment as
had shaken his frame, and death already waved
his dart over him.

The sight of Matilde, whom he helieved
dead, achieved the blow ; but ere he sank
under it, he had the misery of beholding his
son seized as a criminal, and of meeting his
fate without a friend or relation to close his
dying eyes, yet happy in thus escaping the
infamy his crimes merited.

When Roussel had left the presence of the
friends on the fatal night, he concealed himself
in the garden, in the hope that chance might
disclose to him some portion of their intentions.
Tlie result answered his expectations, for he
overheard all their conversation. He thus dis-
covered that the gaming propensities of the
Comte de Breteul were now known to his son,
and that the plan suggested by De Villeneuve
of assisting him with money, would probably
extricate his dupe out of his hands. This
knowledge alone would have been sufficient to
instigate him to the commission of any atrocity;
but his rancorous mind was stiU further ex-

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238 THE GAMESTERS.

cited by the disgust and antipathy the friends
had exhibited towards himself: and thus im-
pelled both by apprehension and malignity, he
determined to remove the one and gratify the
other, by murdering De Villeneuve and ac-
cusing Gustave of the crime. The pocket-book
and money given by De Villeneuve, if found on
Gustave, would, he felt certain, be received as
conclusive proof of his guilt. He retired to
his lodging, wrote a note to the oommissaire de
police^ informing him of the murder, and then
resolved to absent himself for some time from
Paris, fearing that the Comte de Breteul, in
the horror of seeing his son accused of murder,
might betray the other fatal part of the tragedy,
and implicate his safety.

On leaving Paris, Roussel directed his course
to Mantes ; where, having remained a few days,
he took an outside seat on the Diligence to re-
turn, and was one of three people killed by the
overturning of that vehicle.

Thus perished, within a week from the period
of his double attempt at murder, a wretch whose
life had been one long tissue of crime, and with
him was buried the secret of the guilty partici-

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THE GAMESTERS. 239

pation of the Comte de Breteul» whose children
were thus happily saved the deep and enduring
misery which must have arisen on their know-
ledge of their parent's infamy. In a few months
the douhle alliance between the houses of De
Villeneuve and De Breteul took place, and
they enjoy all the felicity they deserve. The
amiable Matilde has found a husband in a near
neighbour of De Villeneuve's, and continues
as much attached as ever to her dear friend
Louise, whose society constitutes one of her
greatest sources of happiness.

Nothing now remains except to wish our
readers all the blessings enjoyed by our hero-
ines and heroes, but without their trials, and to
impress on their minds the counsel to Beware
of gaming.

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dbyGoogk

^^1

THE COQUE TTE:

A TALE.

Catherine Seymour was the prettiest girl at
/beltenham« and of this fact no one seemed
Qore fully aware than the young lady herself;
et, strange to say, each new proof she received
f it, in the admiration she excited, appeared
0 give her as much satisfaction as if she had
^een sceptical as to the extent and power of
ler personal claims, — a scepticism of which no
me suspected her. There are some passions
bat increase with their gratification. Ambition
md avarice are of this number; but the thirst
For admiration is still more insatiable, and, if
onee indulged, is rarely if ever satisfied. Of
this truth the vanity of Catherine Seymour

VOL. II.

M

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242 THE COQUETTE.

offered an example. Left with an only sister,
orphans, at an early age, they had been confided
to the care of an aunt fuUy competent to the
task of superintending their education, and
forming their minds, had she found Catherine
as docile and unspoilt as her sister Frances,
who was three years her junior ; but, unhap-
pily, Catherine had imbibed, from a vain and
weak-minded mother, the pernicious belief of
the supremacy of beauty, and the no less per-
nicious conviction that she possessed beauty of
no ordinary degree. Her aunt endeavoured, but
in vain, to correct the overweening vanity of
her niece ; but it had taken too deep root ever
to be eradicated, and its consequences exposed
her not unfrequently to the ridicule of her ene-
mies, and to the pity of her friends.

Catherine was now in her twentieth year,
and boasted of having achieved nearly as man?
conquests as she had numbered years; the last
three Cheltenham seasons had witnessed her
triumphs, and various had been the admirers
assigned to her by the ephemeral visitors of
the place. Still she remained unmarried, and
unsought in marriage, — a circumstance that

dbyGoogk

THE COQUETTE. 243

astonished herself much more than it did any
of her acquaintances, who proclaimed that she
was too great. a flirt and coquette to he sought
for any longer partnership than that of a hall.

Frances had now completed her seventeenth
year, and though much less hrilliantly attractive
than her sister, it was generally remarked that
the admirers who were drawn to Mrs. Seymour's
hy Catherine'sheauty, were retained by Frances's
natvetij gentleness, and animation. Many had
heen the young men who had, on a first acquaint-
ance, entertained thoughts of seeking Cathe-
rine in marriage; but the second or third ball
of their s^'aur generally opened their eyes to
the ruling passion of the young lady, who
thought it absolutely necessary that each new
comer should yield homage to her charms, and
sought this homage so openly as to disgust the
admirers previously acquired, who were shocked
at witnessing the coquetries directed to others
that each had thought so agreeable when him-
self was their only object.

Catherine's vanity for a long time rendered
her unconscious of any diminution in the atten-
tion of admirers, or the transfer of them to her

M 2

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244 THE COQUETTE,

sister; for as long as the places of the seceders
were supplied hy new flatterers, she thought
not of them; but when, at the close of the
fashionable season, she found herself neglected,
and saw Frances securing unequivocal marks of
regard from those who had once sought her own
smiles, she felt a sensation as new as it was
painful to her vain mind, and endeavoured by
every means in her power to win back her
former admirers.

At this period arrived Sir Richard Spencer,
a handsome younjf man, of ancient family, large
fortune, and agiCeable manners. He had only
lately returned from a continental tour, and had
come to Cheltenham to visit an uncle who had
been his guardian. No sooner had he seen
Catherine than he became fascinated by her
beauty, and her sparkling vivacity riveted the
chains that her charms had thrown over him.
For a week he danced with her every night,
rode with her every day, and saw his attentions
received with such apparent pleasure, that he
only waited a longer acquaintance to declare
himself a suitor for her hand. His uncle had
observed all this partiality with no slight por-

dbyGoogk

THE COQUETTE. 245

tion of alarm ; for his annaal visits to Chel-
tenham had made him acquainted with the
coquettish propensities of Catherine. Had he,
however, heen slow to remark them, his notice
however could not fail to have been called to
them by the uncharitable inuendoes, piquant
jests, and sapient predictions of the mothers
and aunts of aU the young ladies with whom
he came in contact, who, in virtue of their
consanguinity, take peculiar pleasure in ani-
madverting on the errors, imagined or real, of
the reigning belle of their coterie^ from the
disinterested motive of making them generally
known to the marrying men.

Mr. Sydenham hesitated whether he should
inform his nephew of the besetting sin of Miss
Seymour ; for being a man of the world, he had
not reached his fiftieth year without having
observed that the interference of friends and ad-
visers often only serves to accelerate the mar-
riages it was meant to avert, and he hoped the
arrival of some new admirer might furnish his
nephew with ocular demonstration of the fact
he wished to impress on his mind, namely, the
habitual coquetry of Catherine. When, how-

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246 THE COQUETTE.

ever, he saw the intimacy daily increasing, and
that the season drew near its close without
offering any new beau as a rival, anxiety for
his nephew induced him to ask Sir Richard if
the reports in general circulation of his attach-
ment to Miss Seymour were correct, " or
merely,'* added Mr. Sydenham significantly,
*' like the various reports which have assigned
the young lady to half a dozen different suitors
every year that I have been here.*'

Sir Richard blushed and looked embarrassed,
for there was something in the remark and tone
of his uncle that displeased him ; but quickly
recovering himself, he replied, that he certainly
admired Miss Seymour very much, thought her
a charming person, but that as yet he had not
proposed to her, though he had nearly deter-
mined on so doing in a few days. Alarmed
for his nephew's future happiness, which he
thought could not fail to be compromised by
such a marriage, Mr. Sydenham lost sight of
his usual coolness and judgment, and with
more warmth than discretion, revealed every
particular he had seen or heard of the co-
quetry, that all agreed to attribute to the

dbyGoogk

THE COQUETTE. 247

young lady. The natural consequences ensued.
The lover defended with much more warmth
than the uncle attacked; nay, the injustice,
as he imagined, of the censures passed on
Catherine, only served to increase his affection.

He left Mr. Sydenham's house and proceeded
directly to that of Mrs. Seymour, which he
quitted an hour after as the accepted lover of
her niece. The terms of intimacy on which Sir
Richard had been received at Mrs. Seymour's
had given Frances an opportunity of appre-
ciating his various good qualities and powers of
pleasing, until she had unconsciously learned
to regard him with feelings of interest much
stronger than she was aware of.

The first moment that she became sensible of
this, was when Catherine, in the flush of grati-
fied vanity, burst into the room where Frances
was practising at her harp, and proclaimed
that she was the affianced wife of Sir Richard
Spencer. ** I shall be so happy," added Cathe-
rine ; " for he has a fine house in Grosvenor-
square, and a magnificent place in the country.
He is to have the family jewels reset for me,
and will write by this post to order two new

dbyGoogk

248 THE COQUETTE.

carriages. This is delightful — don't you envy
me, Frances ? Fancy how I shall outshine all
those who have heen giving themselves airs
here!''

Frances hardly dared to trust herself with
words, so overpowering and new were the
emotions that overwhelmed her ; hut on press-
ing the cheek of her sister, her tremulous lips
hreathed forth wishes for her happiness as sin-
cere as if that happiness had not heen secured
at the expense of her own, as she at that moment
felt it to he. In all the gay anticipations of the
future, amidst self-complacent recapitulations of
the splendour that awaited her, the good quali-
ties of him who was to hestow them, were never
alluded to hy Catherine ; and Frances could
not suppress a sigh as she reflected that, had it
heen her happy lot to have heen chosen hy Sir
Richard Spencer, himself, and not his posses-
sions, would have heen the chief ohject in her
anticipations of happiness.

Mrs. Seymour rejoiced in the prospects of
her niece ; but could not conceal from herself
that they promised a more brilliant future for
Catherine than for him who was to share them ;

dbyGoogk

THE COQUETTE. 249

and she thought with regret, that a day might
come when the ardent lover might have cause
to lament his choice.

The gentle Frances, in the privacy of her
chamber, schooled her heart to conquer this
its first predilection ; and when she met Sir
Richard, and was addressed by him as his
future sister, she stifled the pang that struggled
in her breast, and offered him her congratula-
tions with kind cordiality. But still each day
'discovering some new quality, or some fresh
trait of amiability in her sister's suitor, in-
creased the admiration and esteem for him that
had become rooted in the pure and fresh feel-
ings of Frances; and it required a constant
effort on the part of the innocent and unhappy
girl, to conceal the preference she had so un-
consciouslv entertained from him who had ex-

m

cited it, and those who surrounded her. Often
did she pray for the speedy completion of the
marriage, thinking that when it had taken
place, and that Sir Richard had become indeed
her brother, her feelings towards him would
alter; and she firmly resisted his and her
sister's proposal to accompany them to London

M 3

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250 THE COQUETTE.

when the ceremony should be over, being deter-
mined to avoid living under the same roof until
she had conquered her fatal attachment.

Catherine, now sure of her conquest, no
longer took the same pains to retain that she
had taken to acquire it. She seemed to re-
ceive the attentions of Sir Richard as a right
rather than as a pleasure ; and as he saw more
of her in the domestic circle, he was struck
with the conviction, that the most sparkling belle
of a ball-room is not always the most agreeable
companion at home. The undeviating sweet-
ness of temper and mild cheerfulness of Frances
made themselves observed by the contrast they
offered to the petulancy and not unfrequent
vapidness of her sister, who wanting the excite-
ment of fresh admiration, often sunk into ina-
nition, or shewed unequivocal symptoms of
ennui — little flattering to the amour propre of
a lover, though not sufficiently marked to give
him the right of resenting them. Had he
known the effort it cost Frances to assume a
cheerfulness of manner, when her spirits were
bowed down by the consciousness of an attach-
ment she felt it was a crime to indulge, how

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THE COQUETTE. 251

much more would he have esteemed her, and
how infinitely valued the self-command — one of
the noblest qualities a woman can possess —
that thus enabled her to perform the duties to
those around her, and to contribute to their
happiness, when she had ceased to look forward
with hope to her own I

Sir Richard was summoned to London by
his solicitor for the final arrangement of the
marriage settlement, and the day before his
departure, when walking with Catherine and
her sister, they met a young man of fashion-
able, but unprepossessing appearance, to whose
rude stare and familiar nod Sir Kichard
Spencer retunied a very cold bow. " Who is
that?" asked Catherine, whose experienced
eye, at one glance, detected a man of fashion in
the stranger, and whose vanity was gratified by
the fixed stare with which he regarded her.

"That,** replied Sir Richard, "is Lord
Wilmingham ; we were at college together ;
but he is a man whose reputation and manners
I so much disapprove, that I avoid all inter-
course with him as much as possible."

Three or four days after Sir Richard^s

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252 THE COQUETTE.

departure, the last ball of the season was to
take place, and, to the surprise and displeasure
of Mrs. Seymour, Catherine announced her in-
tention of attending it. In Tain her aunt and
sister dwelt on the impropriety, now that her
marriage was announced, of going to a ball in
the absence of Sir Richard. She was obstinate,
and thinking herself freed from the jurisdiction
of her aunt, persevered in her intention ; and
Mrs. Seymour was obliged to accompany her,
to prevent her placing herself under the pro-
tection of some less unexceptionable chaperoned
as she intended to have done in the event of
her refusal.

They had only been a few minutes in the
room, Catherine glittering with ornaments pre-
sented to her by Sir Richard, and attracting
general admiration by her beauty and anima-
tion, when Lord Wilmingham approached with
Lady Severn, who presented him to Mrs. Sey-
mour and her nieces. He immediately engaged
Catherine's hand for the next dance ; and, to
the surprise and indignation of Frances, she
observed her giddy sister receiving with undis-
guised pleasure, his marked attentions. Mrs.

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THE COQUETTE. 253

Seymour noticed this condact with equal pain ;
and made several signs to Catherine that she
was drawing the eyes of all around on her by
her flirtation ; but the wilful girl persevered,
and had the imprudence to continue to dance
with Lord Wilmingham, even when custom
required a change of partners.

At the end of the second dance, Mrs. Sey-
mour joined her niece, and endeavoured by the
coldness of her manner, to check the forward
and presuming attentions of Lord Wilming*
ham; but it was evident the encouragement
given him by the young lady rendered him
careless of the disapprobation of the old ; and
he continued near Catherine, engrossing her
conversation for the greater part of the even-
ing.

They had no sooner entered the carriage to
return home, than Mrs. Seymour reprehended
her niece for the levity and impropriety of her
conduct. Catherine angrily asserted her right
of receiving what she chose to call the polite
attentions of any or every person who offered
them. The discussion ended like the gene-
rality of discussions when one person is in the

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254 THE COQUETTE.

wrong, yet determined not to avow it — in
mutual displeasure ; and Catherine retired for
the night, with the fixed determination of
giving Lord Wilmingham every opportunity of
cultivating her acquaintance ; while Mrs. Sey-
mour felt equally decided on prohibiting it.

Frances sought her sister next morning, and
with afiectionate mildness, reminded her of what
Sir Richard Spencer had said of Lord Wil-
mingham ; and that, having so spoken, he
would naturally feel displeased at finding that
his affianced wife had formed an acquaintance
with him in his absence. Catherine petulantly
disclaimed Sir Richard's right to control her
actions until the marriage had taken place,
adding, that circumstances might prevent its
ever taking place ; and when Frances shewed
her surprise and displeasure at this comment,
she triumphantly demanded whether it would
not be more eligible, as well as agreeable, for
her to be Countess of Wilmingham, than the
wife of a simple baronet ; adding, that Lord
Wilmingham was much more to her taste in
every respect than Sir Richard. " But," said
the heartless coquette, " I shall not discard

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THE COQUETTE. 255

the latter until I am quite sure of the former ;
so don't look so alarmed Frances, for I know
what I am about/* In vain were Frances's
representations of the dishonourable conduct
her sister was pursuing, that sister was deter-
mined on following her own selfish plans ; and
they parted mutually dissatisfied.

Frances, while grieving over the heartlessness
of her sister, and the unhappiness its possible
consequences might entail, was angry with her-
self for feeling that the effect it would produce
on Sir Richard touched her more deeply than
that which it would have on the ^estiny of her
sister; but no one selfish hope or sentiment
entered into her pure mind, though love, that
promoter of selfishness in so many breasts,
reigned triumphantly in hers.

When LordWilmingham called at Mrs. Sey-
mour's door next day, he was not admitted ;
and Catherine, who anticipated this denial, took
care to let him see her at the window, and to
show, by the cordiality of her salutation, that
his not being received was not her fault. When
the ladies walked out in an hour after, he im-
mediately joined them, and not all the cold

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256 THE COQUETTE.

looks and constrained manner of Mrs. Seymour
and Frances, could chase him irom the side of
Catherine until he had escorted them back to
their home. The next day he called again,
was again refused admittance, and, as on the
former day, Catherine exhibited herself at the
window, expressing by her looks and gestures
how much she regretted not being allowed to
receive him. Such evident encouragement
would have led a much less presuming man
than her new admirer to persevere in his atten-
tions. But Lord Wilmingham wanted no such
encouragement. He seldom reflected on the
possible effects of any of his actions either to-
wards others or himself: the gratification of
his own selfish enjoyments occupied all his
thoughts, and to accomplish any plan that led
to them, he would stop at no sacrifice, except
that of self. Devoted to pleasure, he sought it
in every shape in which it presented itself to
his eyes or imagination ; and in his chase of
the ignis fatuus which for ever lured him on,
many had been the victims who were left to
weep over their credulity and his perfidy. A
violent hatred to Sir Richard Spencer had been

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THE COQUETTE. 25?

engendered in his mind, on observing a year
or two before, the marked coldness with which
his advances to a renewal of acquaintance were
declined by the baronet, and he only waited an
opportunity of avenging his mortified feelings.
He came to Cheltenham with a dissipated young
man of fashion of his acquaintance, and the day
after was struck with the beauty of Catherine,
when he saw her walking with Sir Richard.
Public rumour soon made him acquainted with
their engagement, and with fiend-like malice,
he determined to seek an introduction to her,
and to follow it up by attentions that could not
fail to offend the baronet, even if they did not
succeed in shaking the fidelity of his betrothed.
The absence of Sir Richard, and Catherine's
own levity, soon furnished the unprincipled
libertine with an opportunity to follow up his
plans ; and the first night of their acquaint*
ance, in the brief space of a few hours, with
insidious compliments, half avowals of love,
and affected broken sentences of despair at her
engagement, he made the infatuated and vain
coquette believe that she had inspired him with
a violent passion, and that she had only to break

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258 THE COQUETTE.

through her engagement with Sir Richard to
have the coronet of Lord Wihningham offered
for her acceptance. The encouragement given
him hy Catherine far surpassed his hopes ; with
a single glance he penetrated her character;
for his own had qualities rendered him quick-
sighted, and furnished him with an unerring
clue for discovering those of others. At mo-
ments he almost determined to discontinue his
attentions, and let the marriage proceed, think-
ing that such a wife would he sure to be the
severest misfortune that he could desire to b^fal
his enemy ; but then his vanity urged him to per-
severe, that he might humiliate and wound the
feelings of Sir Richard, by winning the affec-
tions of his betrothed mistress, when he fancied
himself most sure of them. Though he admired
the beauty of Catherine, he felt no stronger
sentiment towards her than mere personal ad-
miration. She was one of the last women he
would have selected for a wife, as, in this respect,
he followed the wisdom of the wicked, if wisdom
can ever rest with such, in requiring in those
with whom they would connect themselves that
virtue and goodness to which they are conscious

dbyGoogk

THE COaUETTE. 259

of not possessing even a claim in their own
persons.

Catherine was to be made the instrument of
this unprincipled man's vengeance on her a£S-
anced husband; and, when this was accom«
plished, he cared not what might become of
her.

Finding Mrs. Seymour's precautions deprived
him of seeing Catherine, he determined to write
to her; and having observed she was conti-
nually at the window or balcony that looked
towards the road leading from Mrs. Seymour's
suburban villa to Cheltenham, he decided on
being himself that evening the bearer of a letter,
which he intended to throw up to the balcony.

Sir Richard having terminated his business
sooner than he anticipated, left London without
apprizing his fair friends at Cheltenham, in-
tending to give them an agreeable surprise, by
presenting himself at the villa when they least
expected him, and was approaching it when, in
the twilight, he observed a man throw some-
thing up to the balcony, and a female imme-
diately after advance to speak to him. The
noise his horse's steps made were evidently

dbyGoogk

260 THE COQUETTE.

heard by the persons, for the female quk^Iy
retreated from the balcony, and the man, who
could not conceal himself. Sir Richard having
come too suddenly upon him, proved to be Lord
Wilmingham. Astonishment and indignatioo
took po8sessi<m of his mind, and his first im-
pulse was to stop him ; but Lord Wilmingham
galloped quickly away, and Sir Richard entered
the house, surprised and alarmed at what he
had witnessed.

The possibility that the woman who was car-
rying on a clandestine correspondence with the
worthless Lord Wilmingham might be his own
Catherine, his afi&anced wife, had never, for a
moment, suggested itself to his imagination.
No, that was beyond the pale of possibility ;
but he instantly concluded that it was Frances,
and was shocked and grieved, beyond measure,
that one so young, and whom he had considered
so pure-minded and amiable, should have de-
graded herself, with a person of whose reputa-
tion and bad conduct he had informed her.
He found Mrs. Seymour and Catherine in the
drawing-room, and the agitation the latter dis-
covered on his entrance, was viewed by him as

dbyGoogk

THE COQUETTE. 26l

a flattering proof of the effect his unexpected
arrival produced on her ; but when, in a few
miiiutes after, Frances entered the room, and
on seeing him (not having heard of his arrival)
Unshed deeply, trembled, and then turned pale,
he could not suppress a marked coldness of
manner at what he considered the indubitable
proo& of her conscious guilt ; and, during his
visit, she frequently found his eyes fixed on her
face with an expression of severity, as new as
it was painful to her. Not wishing to commit
her with her aunt, until he had first spoken
with Catherine, and tried the efficacy of his
own representations to Frances, he contented
himself with merely remarking, that he had
met Lord Wilmingham near the villa; and
stealing a glance at Frances, observed her
cheeks suffiised with blushes, while Mrs, Sey-
mour discovered evident symptoms of discom-
posure. Had he looked, at that moment, at
Catherine, her visible embarrassment must
have struck him, but having judged poor
Frances guilty, he confined his examination
to her.

" Lord Wilmingham is a most dissolute and

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262 THE COQUETTE.

unpriDcipIed young man," added Sir Richard,
with warmth, ** and a most improper acquaint-
ance for ladies. When I saw him so near your
abode this evening, I feared he might be re-
ceived by you on visiting terms, and I regret
not having more strongly warned you against
him before my departure.

He stole another look at Frances, and found
she blushed more than ever ; while Mrs. Sey-
mour replied, that Lord Wilmingham had
been presented to them, but that Frances
having told her Sir Richard had expressed a
dislike and disapprobation of him, she had
declined his visits. *< Does this young creature,
then, add hypocrisy to levity and imprudence ?"
thought Sir Richard, and the indignation he
felt was expressed in the stem glance be cast
at Frances, who, observing it, became more
confused and agitated than before.

When he came to the villa next day, he
found Frances alone, and immediately, in a
grave and brotherly tone, remonstrated with
her on the danger and impropriety of carrying
on a elandestine correspondence, and with a
person whose bad reputation she had herself

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THE COQUETTE. 263

cofnmunicated to ber aunt. The alarmed girl
demanded an explanation, and he angrily told
her all that he had seen the night before.^
She trembled, turned as pale as death, and
appeared ready to sink to the earth ; and he,
pitying what he considered to be her feelings
of shame, took her hand with kindness, and
promised that if she would break off all cor-
respondence with Lord Wilmingham, he would
recur to the subject no more ; and hastily left
the room to go in search of Catherine in the
garden, leaving Frances more dead than alive.

'< And must I lose his esteem too," sobbed
the unhappy girl, ** and be considered by him
as having pursued a conduct abhorrent to my
nature ? All but this I could have borne ;''
and tears of wounded pride and delicacy gushed
in torrents from her eyes. << Oh I could I be
but vindicated in his eyes I But no I this
never can be, without exposing her he loves,
and making him wretched by the discovery ;
and I will bear all rather than that he should
suffer."

This is woman's love, when woman is, as
nature meant her to be, pure-minded and un-

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264 THE COQUETTE.

selfish ; her own sufferings appear more easy
to be borne than that of him she loves ; at
least, she is always ready to make the experi-
ment when she thinks it can save him.

Frances sought her sister when Sir Richard
had retired at night, and with tears and burn-
ing blushes declared the humiliating suspiciona
to which the improper conduct of that sister
had exposed her.

" You did not, I hope, undeceive Sir Rich-
ard?" said the selfish Catherine ; '* for what
he thinks of your proceedings can be no sort
of consequence to you ; but if, after all, I
should marry him, it would be very disagree-
able to have him discover that it was I^ and
not you^ who was the object of Lord Wilming-
ham's attentions.

The unfeeling and indelicate selfishness of
her sister shocked and disgusted Frances, who,
having entreated her never again to see Lord
Wilmingham, under pain of telling the whole
truth to their aunt, left her to seek in her own
chamber, the only consolation that now awaited
her — the consciousness of having acted as she
believed she ought

dbyGoogk

THE COQUETTE. S65

A sleepless night, and the agitation she had
experienced, affected the health of Frances so
.much, that the next morning saw her on the
bed of sickness, unable to rise ; and when Sir
Richard came in the evening, he found Mrs.
Seymour in great alarm, the physician who had
been called in having pronounced Frances in a
high state of fever. Mrs. Seymour and Cathe-
rine being in attendance in the chamber of the
invalid. Sir Richard was left alone, and occu-
pied himself in turning over the leaves of some
albums until it became too dark to see. Waiting
to bid Catherine adieu before he retired for the
night,- he reclined on a sofa in a recess near
the window, and fell into a slumber, from which
he was awakened by voices from the balcony.
Half asleep and awake, he had not time to
move, when the following dialogue struck his
ears, and he became rooted to the spot as he
listened to it : —

*• No, I tell you positively, 1 will not marry
Sir Richard," said Catherine, "even though
the day is fixed. I never liked him, and now
I dislike him more and more every day."

" But may 1 rely on you?" said a voice,

VOL. II. N

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266 THE COQUETTE.

which Sir Richard instantly recognized for
that of Lord Wihningham.

" Yes, yes — 1 promise never to have any one
but you,'* replied Catherine ; ** but only fancy,"
continued she, <* that stupid Sir Richard saw
you throw the letter the night before last on
the balcony, and fancied that it was Frances
who took it up ; he lectured her, and the sim-
pleton, luckily for us, let him remain in his
error. She thought this heroism entitled her
to the privilege of scolding me, and has given
me a lesson worthy of aunt. But that is not the
strangest part of the business ; the agitation
caused by all this has brought on a fever ; under
the influence of which she has revealed — ^but no,
you would never guess, so I must tell it to you
—nothing less than that she is in love with
this stupid Sir Richard. But hush I did I not
hear some noise ? Go away, and come back at
the same hour to-morrow night.**

Sir Richard had listened with breathless
horror and astonishment to this dialogue ; but
when the injustice he had committed towards
the pure-minded and excellent Frances was
revealed, and her passion for himself was dis-

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THE COQUETTE. 267

covered, his arms involuntarily dropped on the
sofa; and this was the noise that interrupted
Catherine's revelations, and made her dismiss
Lord Wihningham. For a moment he was
disposed to approach the halcony, and shew the
unworthy pair that he had heard the whole of
their conversation ; hut a little reflection taught
him, that in so doing, Catherine would be
aware of his having heard her sister's secret,
and that thus the delicacy of Frances would be
wounded. He therefore remained quiet until
his faithless mistress had passed out of the
room ; and then seizing his hat, he left the
house offering up fervent thanks that he had
discovered, ere too late, the duplicity, mean-
ness, and total want of principle of her whom
he had regarded as his wife, and filled with
admiration for the amiable Frances, and anxiety
for her safety.

He wrote a brief and explicit letter to
Catherine next morning, acquainting her that
he had seen her interview with Lord Wilming-
ham the night before, and declining all preten-
sions to her hand, he left her to explain the
cause to her aunt, and for ever broke off the

N 2

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268 THE COQUETTE.

projected alliance. The vain girl for a short
time rejoiced at his dereliction, helieving that
she should now become the wife of Lord
Wilmingham ; but when having despatched a
few hurried lines to that worthless man, an-
nouncing the fact, she received only a cold
billet saying that he was called to France on
business of importance, and wishing her all
happiness, without even so much as hinting
that they should ever meet again, her vanity
and want of principle received its own pu-
nishment in the deep humiliation which the
frustration of all her ambitious hopes entailed
on her.

In a few months, Frances became the happy
wife of Sir Richard Spencer, and is now the
no less happy mother of four lovely children ;
while Catherine continues to exhibit her faded
charms at Cheltenham, with as little prospect
of changing her name as her character, and
is pointed at by moralising mothers and warn-
ing aunts, as a fearful example of the dangers
of coquetting.

dbyGoogk

«69

THE

BEAUTY AND HER SISTER.

PART I.

** Be sure, Rainsford, not to let Miss Emfly put
up her veil while she is walking, and keep her
in the shade as much as possible,'' was the pro-
hibition uttered by Lady Mansel to the upper
nurse, previously to the morning promenade of
the young lady.

'< But whf/f Mrs. Rainsford, may I not put up
my veil?" asked the child in a few minutes
after, when this prohibition was referred to by
the attentive nurse. '* I am so warm, and I
want so much to see all the pretty primroses,
cowslips, and daisies around us, and this dis-
agreeable veil does so torment me, making every

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270 THE BEAUTY

thing look as green as itself, and clinging to
my lips every time I open them."

" Then don't open them, miss," was the
reply of the sapient nurse, an advice that her
youthful and lively charge was but little dis-
posed to follow.

"But a?Ay," reiterated the child pertina-
ciously, •* may I not put up my veil, as well as
sister does hers?"

" Because your mamma is afiraid that the
sun would spoil your complexion, miss."

" Why will it spoil mine more than sister's ?"

" Miss Mansel's skin is not so fair as yours,
miss ; and therefore, my lady is not so particular
about it."

"Then I'm sure I wish that mine was as
brown as the gypsy's we saw the other day, if
I might but walk in the sunshine, and see the
beautiful flowers, without this tiresome veil."

"You'll not wish that, miss* when you're
grown up to be a woman."

" Yes, but I shall though, for what's the good
of being fair?"

^' It makes people handsome, miss."

" And what's the good of being handsome ?"

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AND HER SIST£ll. 271

'* It's a great good» miss, for then they are
admired."

" But grandmamma says it is better to be
good than handsome, and loved than admired.
What is the difference between being loved and
admired, Rainsford?" asked Emily.

"I'm sure, miss, 1 hardly know," replied
Rainsford, looking puzzled.

"That's what you always say," rejoined Emily
poutingly, '^ when I ask you a question."

" Well, then, miss, as far as I knows, the
difference is — one admires those that are hand-
some, and Idves those that are good."

" But could not one be handsome and good
too, Rainsford?'' demanded Emily, with a look
that indicated a consciousness of being the
first.

"I suppose it's very diflEicult, miss, seeing
as how there are so very few in the world that
are both."

" Grandmamma says that beauty is far in-
ferior to goodness," said Emily, " for that on
goodness depends our happiness."

" Her ladyship is right," said Mrs. Rainsford

dbyGoogk

272 ^HE BEAUTY

complacently, — for Rainsford, be it known to
our readerc, was a plain woman, — ** * handsome
is as handsome does/ say I, ' and beauty is
but skin deep after all,'" continued she.

^* Then sister is not handsome, and that* s the
reason why she is allowed to walk out without
a veil?*'

'* I didn't say she is not handsome. Miss
Emily," said Mrs. Rainsford, alarmed.

** I thought you did," replied the acute child,
with a thoughtful air.

** No, indeed. Miss Emily, I said no such
thing ; and I should get into great trouble if you
told Miss Mansel, or my lady, or the Dowager
Lady Mansel, that I said so."

** But why should you get into trouble if I
told them?"

** Because no lady likes to have it said that
she is not handsome."

** But if it is true, then ladies would not be
vexed ? — for grandmamma says people should
always speak the truth."

** Not about people's lookSf miss, I assure you,
for it would offend many."

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 273

" Then it is only good to speak the truth
about things^ and not about persons^ — is that
what you mean, Rainsford ?"

** Indeed, Miss Emily, you do so puzzle me
with your questions, and you take one up so,
that there is no knowing how to answer you,
so I won't say another word while we are out ;"
a resolution to which the embarrassed Mrs.
Rainsford adhered, while the naive Emily
was left to pursue the reflections which the
preceding dialogue had given birth to in her
mind, and which conduced to the philosophical
conclusion, — that to be fair, was a great draw-
back upon enjoyment, as it entailed the neces-
sity of always wearing a veil in the sunshine,
and the newly acquired worldly wisdom, that
people disliked being told they were not hand-
some, however true the assertion might be.

Another year saw Miss Emily transferred to
the care of Mademoiselle Lavasseur, a French
governess, and now commenced another species
of annoyance, to which she was subjected by
her beauty. Miss Lavasseur was not only
extremely plain, but had a physiognomy that
would for ever have excluded her from being

n3

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27* THE BEAUTY

selected by a disciple of Lavater^s for the post
she now filled. A consciousness of her ugli-
ness, though it failed to engender humility,
gave birth in her enviouB breast to an uncon-
querable dislike to all who possessed beauty ;
hence, Emily became the object of her aversion
and injustice.

The injudicious exhortations of Lady Man-
sel, not to permit Emily to study too much, for
fear of injuring her eyes ; not to allow her to
draw, or write, except standing, lest it might
contract her chest ; not to play the harp or
pianoforte, though for both these instruments
she had evinced considerable talent, lest the
points of her fingers should be flattened, in-
creased her dislike to her young charge.

But, en revanche, Emily was permitted to
devote more than double the usual time given
to the acquirement of such an accomplishment,
to her maitre-de^dansey that her carriage and
movements might be improved, their natural
grace, though remarkable, not satisfying the
false and fastidious taste of her lady mother.
Miss Mansel being destitute of personal at-
tractions, it was resolved that their absence

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AND HER SIST£R. TJS

should be atoned for by the most assiduous
cultivation of her mind; her ill-tempered go-
verness urging her to increased attention to
her studies, by injudiciously reminding her
that she was not a beauty, and consequentlyt
must be well educated* The system pursued
towards both the young ladies, was calculated
to produce the worst results; but fortunatelyt
neither of them had bad tempers, and the good
sense of their grandmother served as a cor-
rective to the evil influence that presided over
the school-room*

*' Beauties may be allowed to be ignorant,^
would Mademoiselle Lavasseur often say, look-
ing spitefully at poor Emily, as she sat in a list-
less posture, her small mouth frequently dis-
tended to a yawn, induced by the ennui, arising
from want of occupation ; an observation that
never failed to bring a blush of humiliation to
the cheek of the elder sister, and of shame to
that of the younger.

''Are all beauties silly, grandmamma?"
would Miss Mansel ask ; a question which led
the good old lady to an exposition of the mani-
fold dangers to which beauty subjected its

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276 THE BEAUTY

possessors, not the least of which, consisted in
the erroneous helief, often entertained, that its
presence rendered the cultivation of talents and
acquirements unnecessary. Emily's naive in-
terrogation of, " Are all clever people disagree-
able, grandmamma?" called forth a reply that
convinced her that clever and disagreeable
were not synonymous terms, however much the
conduct of Mademoiselle Lavasseur, — who was
vaunted by Lady Mansel as a model of clever-
ness,— had led the child to that conclusion.

" Hold up your head. Miss Emily, and turn
out your feet Why bless me I how ungrace-
fully you are lounging in your chair,*' was the
often repeated remark of the governess.

**I 9m so tired,'' uttered between a sigh and
a yawn, was the general reply.

** Tired, indeed I and with what, pray? — with
doing nothing, I suppose."

** Yes, I believe so ; for I do so want to have
something to do."

** Well, then, sit straight, turn out your feet,
and unravel this floss silk, it will occupy you ;
but mind you hold it with the point of your
fingers, lightly, airily, not as a housemaid holds

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AND HER SISTER. 277

her duster, but as a lady ought to hold whatever
she touches. And you. Miss Mansel, you also
seem fatigued.''

'* Yes, mademoiselle, I am a little tired. I
have learned so many lessons to-day that they
are. all mixed up in my head together, just as
the pieces of my dissected maps are, when I
shake them over the table. I can't remember
any one of them distinctly, and the confusion
this causes in my head makes it ache," replied
the jaded girl, whose pale cheek and heavy eyes
bore evidence to the truth of her assertion of
fatigue.

<* But remember, ma ch^e^ that when you
go to dessert, your mother will examine the pro-
gress you have made during the day ; and how
gratifying it will be, while people are remarking
the beauty of your sister, as they are continually
doing, that you also get some praise. This will
be the reward of your diligence, ma chkre^ and
is it not worth studying for ?"

** Grandmamma told me," said Miss Mansel,
thoughtfully, ** that the object of instruction
was to strengthen the nund, and not for the
display of acquirement."

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278 THE BEAUTY

'' Your grandmamma is an old lady, who
goes little into society, and consequently knows
nothing of the present mode of thinking on such
points/' replied the superficial and flippant
governess. " Nous avons changi toute cela^ I
can assure her ladyship, and people are now
only anxious to acquire what they can show off;
on the same principle that our shopkeepers in
France lay in little more stock than they can
exhibit in their windows/'

As the lessons of Miss Mansel were repeated
aloud to her governess, her sister received the
benefit of oral information, to which she listened
with interest, as a relief from the tedium of idle-
ness,— hence she gained a general elementary
knowledge ; and not having, like her sister, a
number of tasks to learn by rote, the informa-
tion she thus attained became fixed in her
mind. Miss Mansel was a prodigy of acoom*
plishments, but in the art of thinking, — that art
so little cultivated in modem systems of educa-
tion,— she was totally unversed. Her mind was
filled with a mass of crude and undigested know-
ledge, over which she possessed no power. It
was like a lumber-room, in which things, not

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AND HER SISTER. 279

in actual use, were stored away, but being piled
one on another without order or method, it was
difficult to get at any of them when required ;
while her sister, whose knowledge was so much
more limited, could reason and reflect on that
little, and render it available.

At seventeen, Miss Mansel was introduced
to the fashionable world ; and, in the course
of a short time, was celebrated as a young lady
of great accomplishments. Her drawings were
honoured by the approbation of an illustrious
personage, herself remarkable for her love of, and
skill in, the art of design, and were pronounced
worthy of the admiration of all the cognoscenti.
Her performance on the harp and pianoforte,
was allowed to rivalize with that of the most
scientific performers of the day ; and she spoke
French, Italian, German, and Spanish, quite
as fluently as if she could think in any of these
languages, — a power denied her in them, as well
as in that of her native one. In short, Miss
Mansel resembled an automaton wound up to
go through a certain number of exhibitions, all
of which she performed with precision ; and
this, in fashionable circles — the only society she

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280 THE BEAUTY

frequented — was amply sufficient to satisfy those
who look not beyond the surface, of the just
claims the young lady possessed to the applause
with which her exhibitions were crowned. The
admiration which the musical talents of Miss
Mansel excited, induced her vain mother to
give frequent concerts, at which most of the
celebrated public singers of the day were in-
vited to assist, and all the extensive circle of
her fashionable acquaintance were present. It
was fearful to see this young and innocent girl
placed by the side of opera-singers, whose vices
were tolerated for the sake of their voices;
and disgusting to mark the easy familiarity
with which some of these signers and signoras
returned the condescending politeness of their
patrons.

Miss Mansel not only soon became inured to
the public exhibition of her musical talents, but
the applause they excited became necessary to
her enjoyment. All her other accomplishments
were neglected, that this one should have more
time bestowed on its cultivation ; and she sub-
mitted, without murmuring, to a Csttigue nearly
equal to that to which the professional singers,

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AND HER SISTER. 281

with whom she was so constantly brought into
contact, were subjected.

** I shall follow your advice, and propose to
Miss Mansel," said Lord Westonville, a bache-
lor of forty, to his lady mother.

Certain symptoms of a want of renovation
in both health and purse, had led his lordship
to adopt this prudent resolution ; but he was
wiUing to lead his mother to imagine, that in
the adoption, he was wholly influenced by her
advice.

** She is no beauty, it is true,'' continued he,
with something like a sigh (for he still retained
some portion of his youthful predilection in
favour of good looks) ; ** but she is an admirable
musician, and sings charmingly."

" Yes," replied Lady Westonville, " she is,
indeed, a most accomplished young woman, and
let me tell you, such are the most rational com-
panions after all. For my part, I am astonished
that men can be so silly as to marry beauties —
(her ladyship had never been one) — ^but such
folly generally brings its own punishment.
Look at Lord Leominster — see what he got by
marrying a beauty ; then there is Mr. Marly,

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^82 THE BEAUTY

what a position is he placed in I and all for-
sooth, because he would marry a beauty — I have
no patience with such fools I" and the good old
lady got angry at the bare recollection of the
folly on which she commented.

''Well then, the die is cast," said Lord
Westonville ; and, in truth, had he not so fre-
quently cast the die^ he had not been compelled
to seek a rich wife instead of a handsome one ;
" To-morrow I will make the offer." The offer
was made, and accepted eagerly by Lady Mansel,
to whom the ancient noblesse and high fashion
of the suitor were irresistible attractions; and
calmly by her daughter, whose most pleasurable
anticipation of the future, arose from the power
she concluded that her marriage would confer,
— of giving many, and going to all the recherche
concerts of every season. She thought with
complacency, of the vast extent of the library
at WestonviUe-house, and fully decided on dis-
lodging the precious tomes that filled it, and
converting it into a salle'de-musique, where she
should preside, surrounded by applauding ofno-
teurs and envious professors. When bantered
by some of his 7'otie companions on the prospect

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AND HER SISTER. 283

of his becoming a Benedict, Lord Westonville
would laughingly assert, that he would acquire
harmony at least, by the change, and that he
gained not^s in every way by the arrangement,
— ^while the bride elect declared that she would
give mch concerts as would excite the envy of
all London.

The marriage soon took place, '' the happy
conple," — as the newspapers announced them
to be, — were whirled off with all due celerity
to his lordship's country seat, where the new
made matron was delighted by finding a ball-
room affording ample space for a salle-'de'
mu9iquef large -enough to hold five hundred
people comfiyrtably, as she styled it

'' But where are they to be found ?" asked
her lord ; '' and where are the performers to
come from?"

" Can we not manage it, as easily as they do
the musical festivals, in the provincial towns ?"
was the sapient reply of the lady.

" Why, not quite so easily," rejoined Lord
Westonville, "the performers being, in the
eases you allude to, paid from the funds received
from the audience ; and, as I conclude your

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284 THE BEAUTY

ladyship— (and he uttered this with a smile
approaching to a sneer) — does not intend to
sell admissions to your concerts, the expense of
those on the extensive scale you propose would
he far too great for most private fortunes, and
certainly for mine ; so you must make up your
mind to be satisfied with performing to a very
limited audience, while we are in the country."
We will leave the " happy couple to pass the
honey-moon," with as little discord and as few
jars as may be expected between two persons
so little formed to play a duet together ; while
we return to Emily, the unaccomplished beauty,
now installed in all the honours of a successful
debutante^ for fashionable celebrity, much to
the satisfaction of her lady mother, and the
great delight of herself. Admiration followed
her steps wherever she turned ; every girl with
pretensions to beauty, — and many without any
cause for such, — adopted her coiffure^ while
affecting to depreciate the fisice it so well suited.
Robes were named c^ter^ songs written on, and
galoppes and mazourkas composed Jar her.
The newspapers *' prated of her whereabouts''
with all the flattering unction with which these

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AND HER SISTER. S85

signs of the times first dictate to the puhlic, and
then re-echo its voice. No one off the stage ever
danced so well as the beautiful Emily ; and this
her sole accomplishment (we mean no puni)made
dancing the rage during the hottest summer
ever remembered in London. She insured the
brilliant success of a fancy-fair, by the announce-
ment of her intended presence ; and the sale of
an annual, by granting her portrait for its fron-
tispiece. She bore her blushing honours joy-
ously, if not meekly, satisfied with herself and
the world— that is, the fashionable world, the
only one of which she knew any thing. Life
seemed to her as a continued festival, during
this the first season of her entrance to society.
Fdte followed ffete, and ball — ^ball, interrupted
only by operas, plays and concerts. A train of
admirers hovered round her at night, at every
party she attended, and caracoled beside her
carriage as she was driven through the Park,
to the excitement of no slight portion of envy
in the breasts of her contemporaries, if not
competitors.

Many were the aspirants for her smiles, and

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286 THE BEAUTY

some of the number were well disposed to
seek her hand ; but as yet, no one of her
admirers satisfied the ambitious views of her
mother, who, in the plenitude of her wisdom,
made high rank and great wealth (two advan-
tages that, of, late years, rarely meet in the
same person), indispensable requisites in the
fortunate man who was to possess the hand of
her beautiful daughter. Among the crowd of
admirers there was one, whose air dutingui
and fine countenance had excited a more than
common interest in the mind of Emily.

At the first two or three balls at which they
had met he had been her partner, but after
that, though she saw him at every ball given
during the season, he sought her hand no
more, and only noticed her by a formal bow.
This piqued her curiosity, — if it did not do
more ; and more than once she involuntarily
looked towards him, but quickly turned her
eyes in another direction, on finding his fixed
on her face, with a glance that betokened
evident admiration. How strange, that he
should appear to admire, and yet not approach

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER.

287

ler I And frequently did Emily find herself
ndeavouring to solve this unaccountahle con-
iuct of his.

Henry Wilmot, for so was this gentleman
lamed, occupied more of the thoughts of the
eauty than did all her admirers put together.
She was not in love with him, it is true, hut
he was very well disposed to hecome so, pro-
dded she had any good reason to think that
ie loved her ; for Emily possessed a large share
>f modesty and maidenly reserve, and was of
he same opinion as Lady Mary Wortly Mon-
ague, who, in her verses to Sir William
lounge, says —

'* Oar wishes slioiild be in our keeping,
Till you tell ub what they should be.**

Though, hy the hye, and par parenthese. Lady
Mary was, at the moment she wrote the said
verses, violating the decorimi she praised, as
the lines that follow those we have quoted
[X)nt4in a decided declaration of love for the
baronet, which drew from him as decided a
rejection and rehuke bs ever was written. No ;
Emily was not a girl to let herself love a man,
however captivating, who had not professed

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288 THE BEAUTY

himself captivated^ though she did think oftener
of Henry Wilmot than she had ever thought of
any of his sex.

The season drew to a close, and many a dis-
appointed hope and aching heart marked its
rapid flight. The streets became hotter and
more deserted ; the mignonette was running fast
to seed in all the windows of the fashionable
squares and streets ; and the flowers, nearly as
faded as their mistresses, were no longer redo-
lent of sweets, but nearly covered with dust,
drooped their withered petals over the jardi-
niers that they lately adorned. Dense clouds
of dust, and unsavory odours assailed the eves
and olfactory nerves of those who went into the
streets, and ,the Park resembled a vast sheet
of too often washed nankeen, the sun having
" made the green" one dingy yellow ; over
which the smoke-dried trees waved their dusty
leaves. A few carriages still rolled along, in
which sat young ladies, straining their eyes to
catch a view, en passant, of the last beaiix of
summer^ the Lord Johns, Henrys, and Edwards,
the partners of many a ball ; and a few fiedr
equestrians might still be seen cantering along;

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AND HER SISTER. 289

while groups of young men were arranging
tbeir parties for grouse shooting in Scotland,
with all the animation that the prospect of a
change of scene and habits never fail to pro-
duce in the sybarite minds of such idlers. Here
and there might be seen some gallant gay Lo-
thario, with pale-yellow gloved hand resting on
the door of a britscha, whose mistress listened
with anxiety to the whispered plan of meetings,
at whatever place her liege lord intended to take
her during the autumn; and husbands were
assiduously looking after — ^not their own — ^but
the wives of their friends, and arranging visits
at their different chateaux during the partridge
and pheasant shooting.

Many a fair cheek had lost its bloom, and
many a heart its peace, during the last three
months ; and many were those, who now going
into the distasteful solitude of a country-house,
or the more distasteful amphibious existence of
a watering-place, carried with them the memory
of blighted hopes and remembered errors, while,
perhaps, the selfish men who had led to both,
were anticipating with pleasure a total change
of scene, and an escape from the shackles, either

VOL. II. o

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990 rUE BEAUTY

imposed, or threatened to be imposed, on their
freedom. h(mg bills and long hoes were pre-
valent; husbands looked sulky, &ther8 rawose,
mothers grave, and yomig wives mdanoholy.
But, alas! for those who wished to become
wives, and saw the day of departure draw near,
with the conviction that the part of die old pro-
verb which states that ^' man proposes and God
disposes,'' is ontrue now-ardays ; for never were
men so little given to proposing, except it be at
icartS^ — they, indeed, were in a most pitiable
state I

How did the aombra perspective of the pa-
ternal mansion, with its diamal occupations,
and long drowsy evenings, alarm them I The
grassy parks, with their nsUe old trees, qmad-
ing their mnbrageous shadows over herds of
browsing deer or glossy kine,— the interminable
avenues, across which glided the timid hare, or
the woods through which flew the startled phea*
sants, were thought of with dread, as compared
with the parched and dusky Paric; where^ if
neither shade nor freshness was to be obtamed,
beaux were to be met with, and hope might be
indttlged. But to return from young ladies in

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AND HER SI8TER. ^l

general, to one young lady in particular, Emily
saw the close of the season arrive with much
the same feelings that she would have left a hril-
hBnt/He — the regret of its departure cheered
by the belief of its certain renewal. Her cheek
was a shade more pale, her eyes a degree less
brilliant than three months before; for late
hours, heated rooms, and the rational mode —
universally adopted during a London season —
of running through a course of balls, routs,
operas, concerts, and plays, that would impair
the most robust constitution, had somewhat
weakened hers, and rendered a temporary re-
tirement necessary, if not desirable. She never-
theless quitted London the undeposed sovereign
of its beauties, having reigned, and been acknow-
ledged as such a whole season, — an empire that
few beauties have so long sustained undisputed.
We pass over the long autumn, and longer
'winter, spent in the country, which intervened
between her first and second season in London,
lest our readers might find die detail of it as
dun as our heroine did the reality. Accus-
tomed to the factitious excitement of continual
amosement, and as continual admiration, the

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292 THE BEAUTT

monotony of a country life appeared insupport-
ably dull to one who possessed so very few re-
sources within herself, for rendering the flight
of the arch enemy. Time, less tediously felt
Dancing, the only accomplishment she had
acquired, was nearly useless, when its practice
was only called into action at an occasional dull
county ball, to be opened with a still more dull
county member, or provincial dandy. BooIls
she was debarred from enjoying by the prohi-
bition of her mother, who left but few, and
those not of an amusing character, within her
reach ; so that it is not to be wondered at, that
poor Emily sighed for the return of spring,
when she anticipated again enjoying the same
round of brilliant amusements and intoxicating
admiration, that had rendered the past season
so delightful to her. It is true there were mo-
ments—nay, more than moments — hours, when
wandering through the fine scenery of her home,
her heart acknowledged the charms of all-beau-
teous nature, and her imagination revelled in
them. The velvet lawns, the fields enamelled
with flowers, the trees waving their leafy ho-
nours over grassy mounds, rendered almost

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AND HER SISTER. 293

impervious to the sunbeams that tried to pierce
through them, and the rising woods, whose
dense green seemed as a verdant wall, exclu-
ding all, save the blue mountains, and bluer
skies that rose above them. The wild birds
sending forth notes of joy, and the rich flowers
exhaling perfume, — each, and all of these had
charms for Emily; but she wanted some one
to whom she could say how charming all this
was: or, perhaps, she wanted still more that
cultivation of mind that would have enabled
her to derive a still greater enjoyment — an all-
sufficing sense of peaceful happiness, and grati-
tude from such scenes and objects. The poetry
of such scenes was slumbering in her soul as
music in an instrument, but it required a master
hand to awaken it.

Behold her once more whirled into the giddy
vortex of fashion, fully counting on being again,
as formerly, its idol.

Alas I she was now a deposed sovereign;
another, not a fairer, but a newer votary, was
proclaimed the reigning beauty of the season ;
and Emilv found herself thrown down from the

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9Q^ THE BEAUTY

throne, to which, only a few fleeting months
before, she had been elevated by the fickle
crowd, who now offered to her successor the
homage that had been hers, and burned the
incense that had smoked on the altars raised
to her charms, on that erected to those of
another. Her coiffure was no Icmger adopted
by other belies; her peculiarities no longer imi-
tated;, robes were no more named alter her;
songs no longer written on, nor new gallopades
nor waltzes dedicated to her. Fancy-fairs hailed
her no more as their magnet of attraction, and
annuals sought not her countenance. In short,
she had fallen into the sear and yellow leaf, —
her occupation was gone I

Emily looked into the mirror to see if this
strange change in her late brilliant positicm
arose from a diminution in the beauty that had
achieved her empire ; but for once a mirror
deceived not; for it gave back from its po-
lished surface the same lovely face, only wear-
ing a more reflective expression than it exhi-
bited the year before. Ix)ndon now became
irksome to her; wherever she went she saw

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AND HER SISTBR. 295

her suocesflor receiving the homage so lately
hers, or heard the most exaggerated reports of
her charms» and their influenoe.

*' I too was a heauty I'* sighed poor Emily, in
the solitude of her dressing-room ; when, with
more pensiveness than the Arcadians are re-
presented on perusing the inscription on the
tomln in Poussin's delineation of one of the
fairest scenes in Arcady the Blest» she contem*
plated her own image in the mirror.

**Bttt of what advantage was my heauty?"
soliloquized Emily; **it won me a short-lived
admiration, it is true, hut it did not win me
love." And then followed the recollectioB of
Hei^ry Wilmot, mingled with a feminine curi->
osity, in which a stronger feeling than mere
womanly vanity might he traced, of whether he
too admired the new heauty ? ** Ah V* sighed
Emily, ^^ had I not heen dazzled by the general
admiration I excited, I might have created a
real sentiment of affection in some worthy heart;
but idols meet with more public worship than
private devotion.''

Emily no^ began to thinks a mental operation
to which few young ladies of seventeen are much

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296 THE BEAUTY

prone, and fewer still have leisure or capabili^r
for, in a London season. Seldom is an acquaint-
ance formed with thought, without its ripening
into K friendship— ihe most advantageous per-
haps of all those which heauty ever forms. She
sought hooks, and found in the good ones placed
in her hands hy a few acquaintances, whom her
unpretending simplicity of character and gentle-
ness of manners had captivated, a source of
inexhaustible interest and delight Her mind
quickly expanded, and her natural acuteness
enabled her to comprehend, as it were intui-
tively, and at a grasp, the knowledge that a
neglected education had hitherto debarred her
from. The charming naiveU of her remarks,
and the natural good sense that distinguished
them, attracted those whom her ephemeral
celebrity had kept at a distance; and, from their
conversation, she derived at once instruction
and delight Her thirst for information was
only to be satisfied by deep draughts of the
Pierean spring, and the feusility with which she
acquired knowledge, soon became apparent. Her
countenance gained new charms by the expres-
sion of intelligence it now wore ; and she ceased

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AND HER SISTER. 297

to sigh at the recoUection^'-nay, almost to re-
memher the days of her vain triumph, with
regret, or to lament its cessation.

Among the persons who frequented the house
of Lady Mansel, was Dr. Herbert, a man of
singular skill in his profession, and as singular
for the vast erudition with which his mind was
stored, and the readiness with which its attain-
ments were brought forth in his conversation,
which was at once profound yet perspicacious,
imaginative, and brilliant. Dr. Herbert was
scarcely more richerchi as a physician, than as
an instructive and amusing companion : his opi-
nion on literary points was generally respected;
and, while prescribing for the bodily ailments
of his patients, he was never inattentive to the
mental ones, and could always name the work
most likely to afford amusement, or beguile the
tedium of convalescence. It was the good for-
tune of Emily to attract the attention of this
clever and worthy man, and to inspire a warm
interest in his breast. His frequent visits to
the mother, who was, or fancied herself in want
of his skill, gave him constant opportunities of
conversing with the daughter. He supplied

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298 THE BEAUTY

her with well chosen books, and elicited her
sentiments on them, drawing forth her dormant
powers of mind, and, by supplying it only with
healthful food, strengthened while cultivating
it. Dr. Herbert was also the physician of Mrs.
Wilmot, and happened, inadvertently, while
sitting with that lady one day, to mention what
a charming person Miss Mansel was.

"Yes, very beautiful, I understand," said
Mrs. Wilmot ; — " but uninformed — a mere
beauty."

" But a very unspoilt one, mother," observed
her son, who was looking over the morning
papers ; " for I never saw a girl so much
admired betray so little symptom of vanity."

It was now the turn of Dr. Herbert to speak,
and he pronounced an eloquent eulogium on
Emily : he admitted how grievously, her educa-
tion had been neglected, and dwelt with anima*
tion on the good sense that led her to apply,
with such patient diligence, to repair this mis-
fortune, and the natural ability that rendered
this task so easy and successfuL In short, the
good doctor said all that he thought, and nothing
more than his prot^g6e deserved; and as he was

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AND HSR SISTEIU 299

known to be no €nthuuast> his opinion was
respected by bis faearerst one of whom was but
too well disposed to belieye all that could be
asserted in favour of the beautiful girl he had
danced with twd or three times the previous
season, and avoided ever after. Why had he
avoided her ? Ah, there lies the mystery I — a
mystery that ofben puzzled and paiued the fair
Emily to solve, but which, if she had solved,
the pain would not have been diminished.

Attracted by her beauty, Henry Wilmot had
sought an introducticm to Miss Mansel, though
with a preconceived prejudice against professed
beauties, that required all the unaffected mo»
desty of Emily's demeanour to conquer suf-
ficiently, for him to seek her acquaintance.
He attributed to maidenly reserve and youthful
timidity, the monosyllabic replies with which
she met all his remarks on the last new novel,
or the light literature of the day. He held in
dread, if not in horror, the well read young
ladies of the modem school, who read all,
judge all, and pronounce on aU, with courage
at least, if not often with judgment ; yet still
he could have wished that the lovely creature

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SOO THE BEAUTY

he was addressing had been less reserved in
expressing her opinions ; for he thought, and
with reason, that there is no better criterion
for judging of a woman, than by the books she
prefers, and the passages in them that she
remembers. He consoled himself with the
belief, that so intelligent a countenance could
not belong to a dull or weak intellect, and that
on a further acquaintance, her reserve would
subside, and permit him to form a better esti-
mate of her mental qualifications.

At this epoch, dining one day at Lady
Tyrconnel's, where the beauty of Miss Mansel
was the subject of conversation, some one re-
marked that that young lady was very deficient
in conversation, never replying but in mono-
syllables.

" That is not very extraordinary," observed
Lady Tyrconnel; "for her late governess is
now with my daughters; and a very clever,
intelligent person she is ; and she tells me, that
Lady Mansel prohibited her second daughter's
being instructed in any of the accomplishments
taught young ladies, dancing, alone excepted,
fearful that the application necessary for acquir-

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AND HER SISTER. 301

ing them might impair her beauty ; so that the
poor girl literally knows nothing, being only
sufficiently instructed to prevent her speak-
ing ungrammatically in French or English.
Mademoiselle Lavasseur declares, that since
her infancy the poor young person has heard
of nothing but her beauty, and that conse-
quently, she is bite comme Dieu sait qitoi.
Lady Westonville, the elder sister, not being
a beauty, ,was allowed to acquire all that
mademoiselle could teach her, aided by the
best masters in London. ; so she is, I under-
stand, a prodigy of accomplishments."

As Lady Tyrconnel was known to be neither
peculiarly ill-natured, nor of unstrict veracity,
had no daughters to bring out, whose success
in society Kmily might have endangered, and
was herself past the age of being either envious
or jealous of the beauty of the season, Henry
Wilmot listened to her statement with painful
interest, and a perfect belief in its correctness.
Now were the monosyllabic replies of Emily
accounted for, and the resolution formed, which
he afterwards adhered to, of avoiding her ; for
a merely beautiful girl, without mental cultiva*

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302 THE BBAUTT

tion, was^ in his opinion, little better than an
automaton, and one he should blush to love ;
though to loTe her he felt a very growing
inclination. Dr. Herbert's description renewed
all this feeling ; and the first time he encoun-
tered Emily at a ball, he, to her surprise and
pleasure, asked her to dance.

The gaUope over, seated by the side of his
fair partner, Henry Wilmot talked on the
common topics of the day, and no longer
was he answered by concise negatives or affir*
matives, though her manner was quite as fiir
removed from that unbecoming freedom which
marks so many young ladies, as from the stupid
common-places that appertain to the conversa-
tion of others of the sex. Her observations
were characterised by good sense, refined taste,
and that delicate tact which is a sure proof of
mental superiority, and were delivered in words
at once well chosen and elegant, and with a
tone and manner equally removed from an
awkward reserve, as from levity or boldness. —
Henry Wilmot became fascinated, and sought
the hand of Emily at every ball diuring the
season ; while she, never opened a book without

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 903

wondering what Mr. Wilmot would think of it,
or dressed for a fdte, without hoping that her
toilette would please him. It was towards the
close of the season, at a dej&Ani given to five
hundred friends, hj the Marchioness of Wal*
dershaw at her beautiful villa, that Henry
Wilmot declared himself the lover of Emily,
and sought her permission to address her
mother. She had known, for some time, that
he loved her } for what woman, however young,
remains long ignorant of a passion she has
inspired ? and least of all, when she partakes
it. Yet this avowal, though it convinced her
of what she would have been wretched to doubt,
the afPection of him to whom she had given her
heart even before he asked it, brought a pang,
that foUowed quickly the first joyful sensation,
almost overpowered by maiden bashfulness,
that his declaration filled her soul with.

Emily remembered with dread her mother's
often repeated assertion, that never would she
grant her hand to any untitled suitor, whatever
his wealth might be, and that nothing less than
a marquisite, at least, would satisfy her views.
Knowing this, and knowing also the obstinacy

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304 THE BEAUTY

of her mother's character, why — why had she
encouraged the attentions of Mr. Wilmot ? and
why had she allowed herself to love one whose
suit her mother never would sanction ? These
were questions that Emily asked herself, alas I
too late. The mischief was done, and her heart
shrank before the prospect that presented itself
to her mind. How was she to tell Henry that
nothing short of a strawberry-leaf coronet could
satisfy her mother's views ? And yet, was it
not better to tell him so, in kind and sorrowing
words, than let the avowal come in harsh and
imperious ones from her mother ? Henry Wil-
mot's fortune was so large, and his family so
ancient, that it never occurred to him that
Lady Mansel could reject his proposal ; hence
the embarrassment and pensive air of Emily
alarmed and almost offended him. She broke
her mother's sentiments to him with all the
tact that so peculiarly belonged to her ; and to
console him, promised that to no one save him,
should the little hand that trembled in his, ever
belong.

In short, Emily left the garden of Walder-^
shaw-house, with plighted vows, though she

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AND HER SISTER. 305

sighed as she reflected how remote was the
period at which (if ever) she could become
Henry Wihnot's wife. She saw, in triste per-
spective, long — long years of hope deferred and
sickness of heart ; with candidates for her hand,
encouraged by her mother, and repulsed by
herself, and the consequent discord her repulses
would be sure to cause, embittering her life.
All this, and more, Emily foreboded, for she
bad imagination as well as sense ; and never did
a young lady seek her pillow the night of the
first positive avowal of love from the man she
prefers, with more sadness than did she.
'' Yes," sighed Emily, Shakspeare was right,

** The conne of true love never did run smooth.
But either it wis different in blood—
Or dse mi^nfted, in respect of years ;
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends —
Or if there were a sympathy in choice.
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.
Making it momentary as a sound.
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream.
Brief as the lightning in the oollied night.
That (in a spleen) unfolds both heav*n and earth ;
And, ere a man hath power to say behold.
The jaws of darkness do devour it up—
So quick bright things come to confusion.**

" And now mine will be the dreary lot of
dragging on existence with a heart and hand

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306 THE BEAUTY

pUgbted to one, whom my Bother never will
sanction*"

Pkurents find it difficult to understand that
the creature, who for years was ohedient to
their commands, and dependent od their will,
should, on arriTing at womanhood, refiiae com-
pliance with the first, and assert their inde-
pendence of the second. They forget that
their offspring, in ceasing to be dbildren, are
prone to entertain sentiments and opinicms that
are often totally opposite to theirs, and are
jealous of the freedom of volition, if not of
action, that they seek to display.

To permit daughters to think, feel, or act
for themselves, is far from agreeable to the
generality of parents ; who feel it, as one may
imagine the parent bird of a nest to do when
she first sees her young ones take wing and
then fly away for ever, while she is left to
brood over the forsaken nest* It never entered
into the weak mind of Lady Mansel, that her
daughter could for a moment dispute her wisbes,
and this conviction she too often betrayed in the
avowal of her plans and expectations for Emily's
future prospects, to admit of her remaining

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AND HER SISTSR. 807

ignorant of her mothw'g imagined supremaey
not onlj over her ccmdud hut her destinj^.
Luckily fiur her danghter^ Lady Hansel seldom
attended halls and routs, so that she was con-
fided to the care of a chaperone^ who observed
not, or if she observed, reported not to madame
mdrcj the constant attentions of Mr. Wilmot to
Emily.

A visit was now to be paid to Lady Weston-
ville, the first since her marriage ; as that lady
had not seen her mother or sister since that
period, Lord Westonville not having quitted
his seat in the country since he had taken his
bride there.- Melancholy was the parting of
Emily and Henry Wilmot, yet she resisted his
urgent entreaties, and the secret inclinations of
her own heart, to keep up a clandestine corres-
pondence with him. ' When were they to meet
again? was a question, that both scarcely
dared to ask themselves, for the next spring
seemed at an interminable distance from August,
to those who loved, and must be through these
long intervening months separated. Both felt
— but Emily's woman^s heart much more poig-
nantly— the certainty that day after day, week

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808 THE BEAUTY AND HER SISTER.

after week, and month after month, must roll
away before they could again meet To breathe
the same air, to be sure that their eyes would
encounter in the streets or in the Park, each
and every day, had hitherto given happiness ;
then the balls, routs, and concerts, where they
could always exchange a few words, and where
Emily could, and regularly did, d la d^robi^
give Henry the bouquet she had worn — had
kept alive hope and strengthened afiection, and
was much to hearts that loved like theirs, —
and now all this was to cease t

END OF VOL. II.

PIUXTXO BY WILLIAM Wl UXXJKaOH* ROLLB BUI1J>IIC(M, WMTtEM. I.AJI1.

dbyGoogk

THE

LOTTERY OF LIFE,

VOL. III.

dbyGoogk

dbyGoogk

THE

LOTTERY OF LIFE.

BY

THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

After long ttonnci aod tcmpefU orciblowiie.
The Sunne u length hli Joyous face doCh dme:
So when m Fortune all her spight hath ihowne.
Some bliaftful boun at last must needes appcare.
Else should afBkrted wights ofUimes despeere.

SrXViBK'S FaBBT QVBMfB.

IN THREE VOLUMES,
VOL. III.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,

OBBAT MABLBOBOVOH 8TBEET.
18^.

d by Google

ntnn-Ko bt wiluam wivoocwmK^ motx» bcilsow*, mm un>

dbyGoogk

CONTENT&

VOL. III.

YAOB

THX BSAUTT AKD HXB 8I8TBB, (PABT II.) .1

TBS AMTIDOTS TO LOTE 87

TBS OLD IRISH OBNTLSMAN 117

XADBUNA 151

ANNETTE; OB, THE OALERIAN 183

TBS YOONO MOTHCm ....... 195

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS •>. '.' \ * ' . . . 219

SEMOB8E, A TBAOMENT : ', ' -^X .^ . • 241

THOUGHTS ON LORD BYRON , * f ' , . .251

APROPOS or BORES 259

TBS BAY OP NAPLES IN TBE SUMMER OF 1824 . 287

TBS PARVENUS 271

dbyGoogk

dbyGoogk

THE

BEAUTY AND HER SISTER.

PART II.

The journey to Weston ville Castle, was as
dull as a journey could be, undertaken by
a mother who thought only of two objects :
the first, the pleasure of seeing in her own
baronial castle, in all its feudal splendour,
the daughter, for whom she had secured the
rank and privileges of nobility ; and the second,
the expectation of soon seeing her second
daughter even more brilliantly placed: while
Emily thought only, that every mile they went,
took her still further from him she loved, and
from whom, long — long months would separate
her. That either of her daughters could be

VOL. III. B

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^2 THE BEAUTY

unhappy under the circumstances she desired
for them, their mother would not allow herseK
to doubt ; for grandeur and wealth were, in
her opinion, the only real sources of terrestrial
happiness.

But as all journeys, whether agreeable or
otherwise, must have an end, the close of the
second day brought Lady Mansel and Emily
to the massive gates of Weston ville Castle ; and
as a glorious sun-set tinged the well wooded
landscape before them, and shone on the coro-
neted griffins that surmounted the columns of
the gates, the elated mother smiled with com-
placency, and even condescended to acknow-
ledge by a stately bow, the low one of the grey-
headed porter, as he threw back the gates to
give her carriage entrance. Every step, as they
approached the castle, increased the happiness
of Lady Mansel, for every object presented to
her sight spoke of grandeur, and above all,
of feudal grandeur, ^fhe inequalities of the
richly wooded park, here rising into abrupt
acclivities crowned with oaks, coeval with the

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 3

castle, and there spreading out into green and
velvet lawns, through which serpentined a clear
and rapid river, spanned by a handsome stone
bridge of one arch, that might have vied with
that of the famed Rialto at Venice, for its beauty
and solidity. Herds of deer were browsing
around, and flocks of sheep, and droves of
cows, were seen in the distance, winding their
way to the homestead.

The repose and freshness of the scene was
soothing to the feeKngs of Emily, and as she
caught a view of the green vistas, past which
the carriage was rapidly whirled, she mentally
promised herself the enjoyment of many a ram-
ble among them. Nothing increases a love
of rural scenery, or enhances its enjoyment so
much, as a love of reading. Emily, during the
last few months, had acquired a passion for it,
and the books judiciously selected by Dr. Her-
bert, and afterwards chosen by Henry Wilmot,
had been perused with an avidity, and were
remembered with a distinctness, known only to
those bom with an inherent love of literature,

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4 THE BEAUTY

and long debarred from the power of gratifying
their taste for it. Every fair scene in nature
now excited new feelings of delight in Emily ;
she traced in them the sources of inspiration of
the poets who had the most captivated her fancy ;
and in the thousand nameless but delicious sen-
sations they awakened in her breast, and the
thoughts to which they gave rise, Emily was
herself a poet, though totally unconscious of it.

" How different is Westonville Castle from
the generality of noblemen's seats I " exclaimed
Lady Mansel, as she caught the first view of
its lofty towers and massive buttresses, rising
through stately trees, " This is indeed a castle,
and a feudal one ; how unlike the modern puny
buildings, misnamed castles, with their white
stone fronts and tiny towers, looking like card-
castles or baby-houses for overgrown puppets.
How happy Priscilla must be, as the mistress
of such a residence 1 "

The good lady's soliloquy was interrupted by
their arriving at the drawbridge, and as the
carriage rattled over it with a stunning noise,

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 5

that nearly deafened Emilv, she could hear her
mother's voice, expressing her admiration of
even this somewhat disagreeable remains of
baronial grandeur.

Lord Westonville met them in the entrance-
hall, all courtesy ; and Lady Westonville having
hastily embraced her mother, was in Emily's
arms, where she was long and fondly pressed,
before the latter had time to look around her.
Not so Lady Mansel : she saw, remarked, and
praised all, to the evident satisfaction of her
noble son-in-law, as he led her along, Lady
Westonville and her sister following.

** How glad I am that you are come, dear
Emily I" said the mistress of the castle. " This
is such a dull place that I am ennuii nearly to
extinction ; no balls, no concerts — only think,
Emily, no concerts I — you look incredulous, but
positively it is true. No one to applaud when
one sings, or to understand when one has con-
quered a difficulty in music. Apropos of dif-
ficulties— only fancy when I had been prac-
tising for several hours to make myself perfect

dbyGoogk

0 THE BEAUTY

in a most difficult cavatina, which I at length
mastered, and appealed to Lord Westonville if
it was not very difficult, his coolly answering
that it was, hut that he only wished it had
heen impossible; and when I told him that
it was a very uncivil remark, he said he
supposed I, of course, knew who had origi-
nally made it? I naturally concluded it was
himself, and told him so ; when — would you be-
lieve it, Emily ? — he looked very ill-natured, and
said that if half the time given to conquer such
difficulties as the one I had just achieved was
bestowed in acquiring useful information, men
would more frequently find rational companions
than scientific performers in their wives, and
that I should not be ignorant that it was the
celebrated Dr. Johnson who had originally
made the observation he had repeated."

The splendid library into which Lord Wes-
tonville led Lady Mansel, followed by Emily
and her sister, drew forth expressions of admi-
ration in Lady Mansel, and excited ^efeeU
ing in Emily. *• How can any one be dull,"

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AND HER SISTER. 7

thought she, ^'with such resources as this room
contains, within her reach?" hut she sighed
at rememhering how little calculated her sis-
ter's education had heen to enahle her to appre-
ciate its treasures, and mentally promised that
she would use every endeavour to open to her
that fountain of peace and unalloyed enjoyment
— reading, — whence she had herself derived so
much advantage. •

" Have there heen many hrilliant private con-
certs this season?" demanded Lady Weston-
ville of her mother, almost as soon as they were
seated ; a question that hrought a smile, half
supercilious and half pitying to the lip of her
lord.

" Name not concerts to me, my dear Pris-
cilia," replied Lady Mansel ; " the very name
makes me nervous."

Lord Westonville looked applause, and said
— " Indeed, I do not wonder, for one is posi-
tively ennuii to death hy them. Every day of
the season hrings at least half a dozen letters
fipom signars who play on one string, or who
have invented an additional one to the regular

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8 THE BEAUTY

number ; from prodigies from every land, with
most, unpronounceable names, and unbearable
performances, who come to England, that cul-
de-sac and el dorado for charlatans to chanone
theAr notes for ours, and laugh at our credulity
in believing in their wonderful attractions."

" How can you say so?" said Lady Weston-
ville ; " but vou have no soul for music."

" No, I reserve my soul for something wor-
thier ; but though I have no soul for music, as
you say, Priscilla, I have an ear^ and that has
been often most marvellously offended by the
wars waged against harmony by many of the
signors and signoras who come over to discover
the badness of our climate, the obtuseness of
our ears, and the gullibility of our natures, and
go back to their own countries with their easily
acquired wealth, to laugh at our folly, and pro-
nounce that there is no nation that knows so
little of music as ours, or pays so extravagantly
for it,"

** You are always declaiming against music,"
said Lady Westonville.

**No, you mistake, Priscilla; it is the abuse,

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AND HER SISTER. 9

and not the use of music to which I object. I
think good music a high source of gratifica-
tion, and a great humanizer of the mind and
temper."

" But you object, as I do, my dear lord,"
chimed in Lady Mansel, with an air of self-
complacency, '' to being pestered all day, and
every day, with beseeching letters to honour
signor this, or signora that's concert with your
patronage ^ and at having, heaven only knows
how many half-guineas to pay for tickets one
never used, and to people one hopes never to
see."

** But, dear mamma, you used to like concerts
nearly as well as I do ; how comes it then that
you have lost your taste for them ?"

<< I never liked public concerts, Priscilla, I
can assure you ; and only liked private ones for
the pleasure of. seeing all the mothers of my
acquaintance dying with envy and jealousy, at
your so far excelling their daughters."

Emily blushed at the stupid avowal ; Lady
Westonville looked pleased at having her past

bS

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10 THE BEAUTT

triumphs referred to ; and her lord's elevated
eye-brows, and a suppressed smile that played
over his lips» denoted that his favourable opinion
of his mother-in-law was not increased by her
candour.

While looking over the newspapers, at a late
breakfast next day. Lord Westonville announced
that ** His majesty had been graciously pleased
to create William Henry Wilmot, Earl of Dun-
keld. Marquis of Dunkeld, with remainder
to his son, Henry Cxeorge Wilmot, Viscount
Finmore, and in case of his dying without
male issue lawfully begotten, the marquisate
to descend to the next male heir, and to his
heirs,"

" How unaccountable," saidLord Westonville,
*^ that one of the oldest of the Scots earls could
condescend to accept a new made title ; for my
part, I cannot understand such a want of self-
respect," and he drew himself up with an air
of dignity. *' I have heard that he found great
difficulty in persuading the premier to consent
to the patent's being extended beyond his son,

yGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 1 1

but patience and perseverance have accom-
plished it."

Emily felt the blood mount to her cheeks at
this allusion to Henry Wilmot ; but as no one
of the party were aware of the interest she took
in him, her blushes passed unnoticed.

** Well, I am almost as great an admirer of
ancient titles as your lordship can be," said
Lady Mansel, *^ of which I gave a proof in
making poor dear Sir Hildebrand refuse to be
made a baron, when his late majesty was gra-
ciously pleased to offer .to bestow that dignity
on him. * No, Sir Hildebrand,' said I when he
showed me a letter from the premier, ' let us
not be among the new made nobility ; I prefer
being the wife of the oldest baronet in England
to being .that of the youngest baron ;' never-
theless a marquisate, added to so ancient an
earldom, is not to be slighted, and I think
Lord Dunkeld was right in accepting it."

" Mamma has not forgotten her predilection
for strawberrj-leaved coronets," thought Emily
with a sigh, ** and would be now more disposed

dbyGoogk

12 THE BEAUTT

to be civil to Henry on account of this remote
chance of poBsessing one." Lady Mansel having
various letters of importance (as she said) to
write, but which, in fact, were merely epistles to
several of her female friends, who having been
less fortunate than herself in finding magnifi-
cent feudal castles for their daughters, she was
impatient to vex and mortify, by a description
of that which hailed hers for its mistress. Many
were the letters, dated " Westonville Castle,''
and sealed with a seal having a similar inscrip-
tion, that left her fair and fat hands by the next
post, in which the most pompous descriptions
of the place, and the brilliant position of her
daughter were given, — every line of which
she knew would speak daggers to the dear
Mends to whom they were addressed. While
her ladyship was penning her florid description,
and Lord Westonville was taking his accus-
tomed ride, the sisters were left to enjoy a
Ute-h^Ute.

" Well, dear Emily," said Lady Westonville,
intrenching herself in her bergeret " what a

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 13

consolation it is for me, to have some one to
whom I can tell how bored I am in this fine
castle, that mamma seems to think so charm-
ing, and that I would willingly barter for the
smallest house in Upper Brook or Grosvenor
Street, or even one in a less agreeable position.
I remember once hearing that tiresome and
pedantic Lady Roseath say, that in solitude,
however beautiful, one always wanted some
person to whom one could say, how beautiful it
was; but I think one wants much more, to
have some person to whom one can say, how
dull — how insufferably dull it is I" and she
sank into the luxurious chair, with a look of
exhaustion, and a half-repressed yawn, that
indicated the ennui to which she had long
been an unresisting victim.

** I do all that woman can do to abridge Hhe
leaden-footed hours,' to which I cannot give
wings," continued Lady Westonville; ** par
parenihhey the concetti is, like most Italian
ones, pretty ; and I met it the other day in a
song in the last new opera, — mais hitas I quoi

dbyGoogk

14 THE BEAUTY

fnire? One can't stay in bed much after two
in the afternoon, nor remain much longer than
two hours dressing; that brings me to half-
past four, when I take what old dowagers and
nurses call an airings which lasts till half-past
six, through a park that looks as if only made
for herds of fat deer to browze in, or through
a village where all the men, women, and chil-
dren, make bows and coortseys to me; then I
come home to dress for a drowsy Ute-a-tHe
dinner, with mio caro sposo, or a nearly as duU
a one, with a few of our delectable country
neighbours. Heigh-hbl Emily, who would be
a dame chdUlaine^ to endure such a vegetating
kind of existence as mine ?"

" But your music, Priscilla ; how comes it
that you have left that, which used to fill up so
many hours of your time, out of the catalogue
of your diurnal occupations ?"

" Simply, cara sorella^ because it no longer
forms one of them,"

. '* Is it possible, that having arrived at such
rare excellence, you have left off your music ?"

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 15

*' Sach is however the fact How was it pos-
sible to continue to devote whole hours to its
practice with no- eager ears to listen, or hands
to applaud— nay, more, with a husband who
looked like a martyr all the time I was dis-
playing my skill on the harp or pianoforte?
As well might you expect an orator to go
through a long oration, or a professed wit to
utter his ban rnotSf without a soul to listen, or a
danseuse to ascend in air (as we have seen the
sylph-like Queen of Dance, Taglioni do) with-
out the beating of white gloves, as me to practice
without the cheering prospect of applause."

" But do you not read ?**

'* Oh, yes I all the musical reviews in the
papers, the accounts of all the concerts and
operas, and critiques on the singers."

" You don't read any of the light literature
of the day then?"

" Light do you call it? Ma foil I find it
monstrous heavy. Novels on fashionable life
are so impertinent and untrue, that I have no
patience with them. They make us talk non-
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16 THE BEAUTT

sense below oar intellects^ or epigranunatic witty
sentences above them. You know how mono-
tonously insipid is the routine of fSoshionable
life, leaving positively nothing to describe; yet
the modern novelists paint their views of it
much as the artists paint transparencies, colour-
ing their pictures much more coarsely than a
faithful copy of the reality ought to admit''

*^ Belle lettre and poetry have surely charms,
Priscilla?'*

" Hilas! ma tres chere soBur^ I have not yet
discovered them ; for I have merely dipped
lightly into either."

'^ Let roe, dear Priscilla, make you Jbetter
acquainted with them ; for though I have
only recently cultivated their intimacy myself,
I long to induce you to like them; you, m
return, shall teach me the elementary parts of
the science of music, which at present I love,
as one ignorant of botany does sweet-scented
plants, because they are sweet, but without any
more knowledge."

*^ Crede tnia, you will find me but an unapt

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 17

scholar, sorella ; nevertheless, I will submit to
your wishes."

The two sisters forthwith commenced a
system of mutual instruction ; and as neither
were deficient in natural ability, their progress
was rapid. Lady Westonville soon became
quite as fond of reading as Emily ; and even
when Lady ManseFs departure left her in soli-
tude, she no longer felt it, as hitherto, irk-
some. Her husband having discovered her
newly acquired taste for study, recommended to
her attention the works most likely to increase
it ; and being a well-educated man, opened the
stores of his mind in conversation with her,
instead of, as formerly, talking only of trivial
subjects. Mutual respect and companionship
sprung up between them ; and her accomplish-
ments were now considered as most agreeable
accessories to their evening hours, because no
longer looked upon by her who possessed them
as the whole and sole object of a woman's life,
but as a means of rendering some portion of it
a source of deUght to herself and others.

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18 THE BEAUTY

Lady Mansel and Emily proceeded from
Westonville Castle to Worthing, where they
intended sojourning some weeks, for the henefit
of the sea air, which had heen recommended
for Emily, whose drooping health and depressed
spirits had lately excited the fears of her
mother.

Emily Mansel was not a love-sick, weak girl,
abandoning herself to a hopeless passion, though
it must be confessed, her attachment to Henry
Wilmot was almost without hope : — ^no, she
struggled to bear up against the depressing con-
viction, that her youth, if not her life, might be
wasted in hope deferred, and her heart sickened
at the cheerless prospect. During her walks
on the beach, attended only by her maid and a
footman, she daily met a group that excited
her interest, though the persons who composed
it were unknown to her. It consisted of a
pale and languid-looking man, of about forty,
supported by pillows, and wheeled in a merlin
chair. By his side walked a lady of singular
beauty, in whose expressive countenatice the

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AND HER SISTER. 19

traces of care and anxiety were deeply marked;
and on a donkey, attended by a male and
female servant, was seated a lovely boy of
three years old, whose rosy cheeks and short
crisp curls, resembling those of the antique
statue of the infant Hercules, denoted a more
than ordinary vigour. The appearance of this
healthful child formed a painful contrast with
that of the invalid, whose eyes followed the boy
with an expression of pride and pleasure, that
betrayed the paternal tie that united them ;
while the lady looked from the father to the
son with an air of melancholy, which told that
the fearful dissimilarity in their aspects had
not escaped her attention*

Each day that Emily encountered this group
the cheek of the invalid grew paler, the eyes
more eager in their glances, and, as usual, they
followed the robust boy, who bestrode his donkey
with as much hilarity as Bacchus is represented
to display when astride his wine cask. He
would try to urge the animal's speed by apply-
ing the ornamented whip, of which he seemed

dbyGoogk

20 THE BEAUTT

not a little vain, to its shoulder, crying out
boldly, " See, see, papa, how I make it go! do
leave that nasty chair, and mount a horse, and
come with me."

" Pray, my lord, don't hit Neddy," cried the
panting nurse, who with difficulty kept by
the side of the ambling donkey; while the
delighted parents looked at their child with
their hearts in their eyes, as his profuse curls,
agitated by the quick movement of the animal,
wantoned in the air, and was blown against his
rosy cheeks.

" How like he is to your portrait at home,
dearest I" said the lady with a sigh ; " it must
have been painted when you were his age."

" Would that I dare hope, Mary, to see a
boy of his," answered the father ; " but that
is not to be ; I shall be in the vault of my
ancestors long — long before our boy has ceased
to be a child."

Emily passed rapidly on, that she might not
be a listener to a conversation, every word of
which, though totally unacquainted with the

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AND HER SISTER. Ql

interlocutors, had deeply pained her ; her heart
was filled with pity for them, and a sentiment
of self-reproach mingled with it, as she reflected
how much more to be deplored was the position
of the lady she had passed than was her own,
for in one case, even hope was denied, the
pallid face of the invalid too well denoting
that he was fast approaching *Uhat bourne,
whence no traveller returns." She left the
road to enter a nursery-garden, her thoughts
still occupied with the unknown group she
had passed, when her ears were assailed by
loud cries from the road, which was parallel
with the garden.

She rushed to the hedge that divided them,
and beheld a stage-coach dragged along with
fearful velocity, while on the road lay a blood-
stained mass, round which were collected half
a dozen people ; and female shrieks were min-
gled with the loud voices of men.

That something dreadful had occurred she
felt certain, and her heart sickened with ap-
prehension. She proceeded as fast as her

Vi

dbyGoogk

22 THE BEAUTY

trembling limbs would bear her to the epot,
and became nearly transfixed with horror, as
she beheld the lovely woman she had so lately
passed on the road, clasping to her breast, is a
state of distraction, the crushed and gory cone
of the lately lovely child she had seen on tbe
donkey but a few minutes before ; his goUeo
and luxuriant curls dabbled with Uood, ud
his cherub face so mutilated, as to retain do
trace of its beauty.

The unhappy father, who had witnessed tbe
terrible catastrophe, was seized at the mooeot
with an attack of paralysis, and his counteDiDce
was awful to behold, for it was evident he was
still in possession of his mental faculties, thcn^
his physical ones had nearly all sunk tsAs
the blow he had just received* Emily flew w
support the distracted mother, who still cla$p<!<i
the bleeding corse of her child, and se^ the
servants incapable of thinking, and nearh d
acting, she commanded them to conduct the
wretched parents to the house of the noRerr*
man, while she despatched a messenger to

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 23

Worthing for a physician, and a carriage to
move the unhappy pair to their home.

The sobbing nurse told Emily, that his little
lordship, as she styled the child, had persevered
in hitting the donkey with his whip, until the
animal became restive, diverged from the foot-
path where they were leading him, and a stage-
coach, rapidly driven, coming suddenly up at
the corner of the road, the leaders shied at the
donkey, and by a violent plunge, brought the
unwieldy vehicle over the ass and its luckless
rider, crushing both to death in an instant.

While Emily was supporting the fainting
mother, who had sunk exhausted into the arms
of one of the attendants, a travelling chariot
approached rapidly, and was stopped by the
crowd, which had already collected. A well
known voice exclaiming, " Oh, God I it is — it
is my cousin I" struck on the ear of Emily ; and
in an instant after Henry Wilmot was assisting
her to bear the fainting lady to the nursery-
man's house. Here a new trial awaited him ;
for speechless, and apparently dying, they found

dbyGoogk

24* THE BEAUTY

the Marquis of Dunkeld, for he it was, who
it was evident recognized his cousin Henry
Wilmot, and looked at him with an expression
of unutterable anguish.

" Oh, Emily 1 dear Emily 1 what a scene for
you to witness," exclaimed Henry, as she bathed
the temples of Lady Dunkeld with water ; and
he gently removed her lifeless son from her
conyulsive grasp, and then pressed again and
again the palsied hand of the father, who vainly
struggled to articulate. Medical aid soon ar-
rived,— doctor after docttor coming to offer
assistance, — ^but alas I their efforts were un-
availing, for I^ord Dunkeld breathed his last
before his unhappy wife had recovered from the
swoon into which she had fallen. Emily sup-
ported her in the carriage in which she was
placed, nor left her until she was laid in her
bed. Her affection for Henry Wilmot was
immeasurably enhanced by observing the ten*
demess and attention he lavished on the hapless
widow of his cousin, and the deep regret he
evinced for the fatal events she had witnessed.

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. ^

Before she left the house of mourning, she pro-
mised to return speedily* again, to watch over
the unhappy lady so deeply bereaved ; and her
lover felt more than ever attached and devoted
to her, as he witnessed her sensibility and sooth*
ing kindness to his afflicted relative*
* Innumerable were the questions of Lady
Mansel when her daughter had returned, as to
all the particulars of the fearful catastrophe that
had occurred, with even the most minute details
of which she wished to be made acquainted ;
and, when a burst of tears, which Emily could
not controul, as her obtuse mother dwelt on the
particulars, had relieved her excited feelings,
she was not a little shocked to hear her parent
express her wonder that she could thus weep
for utter strangers* She made some objections
to Emily's immuring herself in a sick room with
a tearful mourner ; but yielded assent at length,
not as her daughter believed, to the pleadings
of humanity, but if the truth must be confessed,
because she recollected that the mourner was a
marchioness, and that attentions paid to her at

VOL. III. c

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26 THE BEAUTT

such a period, would probably lead to a friend-
ship that might considerably extend her visiting
list, and knowledge of a portion of the nobility
with whom she had hitherto formed only a
slight acquaintance. Lady Mansel's concerts
and balls were always fully and fashionably
attended ; and she, in return, was engaged to
most of the parties given to some three or five
hundred persons every season by gre^t ladies,
when all on their porter^s list were invited,
and many amongst the number who never were
seen at the reoherch6 reunions in the same
mansions. Lady M ansel was always one of the
crowd, but never was she invited to a dinner
where cabinet ministers and ambassadors, with
a sprinkling of the Slite of London, were to be
found. She was never seen at a petit soupir
after the opera, or Vauxhall, or at private
theatricals at Monmouthshire-house, and felt
rather indignant at coming in contact with the
(}uintessence of fashion only in crowds. Here
then was an excellent opportunity of esta-
blishing a friendship with one of the leaders

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER.

27

of haut tofif and she determined it should not
be lost.

Emily devoted many hours of every day to
Lady Dunkeld, and had the consolation of find-
ing that her presence was most soothing to that
lady's feelings ; and when Henry Wilmot, now
Marquis of Dunkeld, left Worthing to accom-
pany the remains of his relatives to their last
home, he entreated Emily to continue her kind
attentions to his widowed cousin. A similarity
of disposition and tastes drew Lady Dunkeld
towards her youthful friend, who could sympa-
thize in her sorrow, and dwell on the only pros-
pect that can cheer a mourner — that blessed
future, — where the lost are found. Lady Dun>
keld had been for some months prepared for a
fatal termination to the malady of her husband,
still, with the wilfulness of love, she had refused
to believe it was possible that she should lose
him so soon ; for how difficult is it to believe
that a mind still vigorous^ and a heart glowing
with affection, are to pass away from all they
ding to — from all whose happiness they make —

• c2

dbyGoogk

28 THE BEAUTT

even though the frail tenement they oocopy,
gives warning of its fragility I

But even when the adoring wife permitted
herself to believe that the husband of ber
choice, the preferred lover of her youth, might
leave her on earth a bereaved and desobte
widow, still Her blooming, her beautiftil boj
was before her, with health glowing on his
dimpled cheek, sparkling in his clear bright
eye, and displaying itself in every movement
of his vigorous frame. J%, at least, would li?e
to cheer her wounded heart and support his
ancient name ; but now, father and son were
both in one hour snatched from her for CTer,
and she was left with only the memory of the
past, and the hope of a blessed future to sup-
port hen She would sit the whole day with
the portraits of her husband and son before
her, telling Emily, who listened with pitjing
interest, of all the details of their goodness,
and all the endearing peculiarities so fondlj
dwelt on by the mourner. The marked books
and manuscripts of Lord Dunkeld, with his

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER. 29

gloves, his pencils, and pen, were ever near her,
and the toys of her lost boy, were never out of
her sight She was thus surrounded by all that
could keep them alive in her memory ; and the
dwelling on them, to one who could sympathize
in her feelings, seemed to pour a balm on her
sorrows.

As soon as the Marquis of Dunkeld had
performed the last sad duties to his deceased re-
latives, he went back to Worthing to visit his
widowed cousin. Perhaps the prospect of meet-
ing Emily increased his impatience to return,
for however good are men, even the best re-
quire some selfish motive to induce them to seek
the house of mourning. Emily was leaving
Lady Dunkeld's residence to proceed to her
own, when she met the marquis, who had left
his carriage at the inn. He insisted on accom-
panying her home, nor could he resist address-
ing her in the language of love, entreating
her permission to lay his proposals before her
mother, that he might at least be admitted as
an accepted suitor, during the months they both
deemed it necessary should elapse before they

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30 THE BEAUTY

met at the altar. They had jost oome in ngbt
of Lady Mansel's residence, when EmSy ai-
sented to this request, and the spot beiD<r i
retired one, and Lord Dunkeld deeming dot
they were unseen, he could not resist the id-
pulse of pressing her hand to his lips. On
the balcony of her house, was seated ladj
Mansel, with a telescope on a stand before
her, through which she was looking, and as
they approached it, it became evident thai
she regarded them with glances in whkli
dissatisfaction was strongly pourtrayed. Lord
Dunkeld left Emily at the door, declaring Us
intention of calling on her mother next dat,
and Emily proceeded to the drawing-rooiD,
where she found Lady Mansel red with anger,
and not disposed to repress its exhibition.

« Emily, I am shocked,'* said she, *' at see-
ing you, on whose prudence I had such io-
plicit reliance, permit an unknown adTentnrer
to escort you, — nay, more, to allow him to ase
familiarities of the most indec»it, the most
flagrant kind.**

Emily was petrified with astonishment, 6r

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AND HER SISTER. 31

truth to say, the pressure of her hand to her
IoTer*8 lips had been forgotten in the declara^
tion that preceded it

" Yes, Emily, you may well look ashamed,'^
resumed her mother, ** to be seen giving such
open encouragement to some nameless adven-
turer. Why has not the brilliant position of
your sister excited a laudable ambition in your
mind, to be equally well married ? But of one
thing be assured, you shall never have my con-
sent to admit the attentions of persons, who, if
they had been presentable, would long since
have been known by me ; and now I insist on
being made acquainted with the name of the
ignoble looking individual wh(r escorted you to
the door, and had the audacity to kiss your
hand ; a disgusting freedom, which I witnessed
bv means of the telescope, and which shocked
me so much, that I could have broken it with
pleasure.**

It now occurred to Emily, that Henry WiU
mot had never been presented to her mother,
and that his accession of rank was totally

y Google

S€ THE BEAUTY

unknown to the old lady; Emily having an
unaccountable shyness in naming it to her,
from thinking that she might attribute the
frequency of her visits to the widowed mar-
chioness, to some matrimonial view on her
cousin, for Lady Mansel was one of those over-
nice ladies, who saw motives in others, that
never existed but in her own fertile imagina-
tions.

** I insist on knowing his name, and in-
stantly,*' said Lady Mansel ; ** I am persuaded it
is a vulgar one, for his appearance denotes it"
Now be it known to our readers, that Lord
Dunkeld was not only an extremely handsome
man ; but remarkable for possessing Fair nobk
et disttngu6y so that Emily felt vexed at her
mother's wilful injustice to his personal attrac-
tions, and this piqued her for the first time of
her life to disobey her commands, by with-
holding the name of the unknown.

" I tell you, Emily, that I am determined on
knowing his name,*' repeated she, her anger
increasing.

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER* 33

'* He will call on you to-morrow, and tell it
to you himself," answered Emily, repressing a
smile.

** Oh I then I suppose he is coming to demand
your hand ?" said Lady Mansel, now worked up
to a positive rage.

" Yes, mother," was the reply.

^* Was there ever such coolness, such auda*
city?" exclaimed Lady Mansel, '^tell me, I
command you instantly, tell me his name."

** The Marquis of Dunkeld," answered
Emily, quietly.

A fit of tears came to the now joyful mother's
relief.

*'Come to me, my dear Emily, my sweet
child, that I may embrace you I Oh I how
happy I feel, and so that very handsome, noble-
looking man, is the Marquis of Dunkeld ? I
thought he must be a person of distinction
(quite forgetting all that she had recently
asserted to convey her belief of the reverse) ;
and, so to-morrow he is to come and ask mf
consent, the dear man I I am sure I shall like

c3

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34 THE BEADTT

him excessively, (so she did all marquises):
Ah I Emily, yon are more close than I inn-
gined, for now all your consolatory Tisits to
the widowed marchioness are explained."

Emily's cheeks burned at the indelicacy mi
injustice of this suspicion. " Well," resumed
Lady Mansel, ** the old saying is a true one—
it's an ill wind that blows nobody good ; for had
not that poor paralytic marquis died, and tk
boy been killed, you might never have been a
marchioness after all.*' Shocked and woooded
as Emily felt, she knew it would be useless to
explain her sentiments to her mother, who wooU
not, or could not, understand them, andwbi)
continued from time to time to exclaim — '' Ah'
Emily I you are very sly, and more close than I
took you to be."

The next day Lord Dunkeld was presented in
due form to his future belle meref who gradossly
accepted his proposals, and the succeeding three
days were passed by Lady Mansel in writia!
letters to all her friends, announcing the bril-
liant prospects of her daughter. << I have eien

dbyGoogk

AND HER SISTER.

35

reason (wrote she to one lady, who had more
than once implied her douhts of the wisdom of
the system adopted by Lady Hansel in bringing
up her daughters) to be satisfied with the re-
sult of my system— two more brilliant illustra-
tions of its success could not be looked for, than
are found in the Countess of Westonyille and
the future Marchioness of Dunkeld."

Emily was \e^ to the hymeneal altar, nothing
loth, four months after her loTcr's accession to
his title, and is now the happy mother of two
boys, and as many girls, who she has decided
shall never be brought up on Lady Mansel's
system ; and Lady Westonyille has become an
agreeable and rational companion to a kind
husband, and an affectionate and judicious
mother to a boy and two girls, who enjoy all the
blessings of a careful cultivation, without the
drudgery and confinement to which her child-
hood had been exposed.

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dbyGoogk

37

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

■ ■ " « Oh 1 we do^ dSeni^
There's not a day of wedded life, if we
Coimt at its close the little, bitter sum
Of tboogfats, and words, and looks unkind and forward.
Silence that chides, and wonndings of the eye —
Bnt prostrate at each others feet, we should
Each night forgiTe

!ao this is no dream, and we are at length
aples I ** said a very lovely woman to her
)anion, a tall, handsome man of about
ty-eight years of age, and evidently not less
ten years her senior, on whose arm she
as they ascended the stairs of the *' Grande
agne," on the Chiaja, marshalled by the
lord of that ezcelloit hotel, and escorted
leir courier.

yG00gl(

40 TH£ ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

good uncle Mortimer, who can see nothing out
of the common in the most romantic incident,
and who laughs at even the most touching story
founded on la belle passion.**

** * He jests at scars who never felt a wound,'
Ellen i for uncle Mortimer, it is asserted by his
contemporaries, never experienced a preference
but once in his life, and that was not pour les
beaux yetis: de la dame de ses pensees^ maispour
sa rente de dix miUe Iwres par anJ*

** Poor uncle Mortimer I I remember that
when mamma once reproached him with this
little episode in his life, he defended himself by
quoting the lines,

• What dust we date on when tit man we love ! *

< If man be dust,* said he, * woman being part
and parcel of him, must be similarly composed ;
and gold dust being more to my fancy than any
other sort of dust, am I to be blamed for my
preference for it?*"

*' He is not the only one who has a similar
.taste, though he is perhaps one of the very few
who would acknowledge the hct/*

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. ^

" But to resume, Henry j you really grow
caUous,"

** I deny it, Ellen ; give me a single proof in
support of your assertion ?*'

" I could give you innumerable ones, Henry,
but will confine myself to the last instance —
your accusation of my fancying a romance in
every place that holds out an inviting aspect
for being the scene of one. Time was, and
that not more than six short months ago, when
you were as much disposed to believe in romance
as I am, Henry \ but marriage is a sad enemy
to such belief, and when we return to England,
I shall not be surprised to see you ensconced in
a corner with, and joining in the dry laugh of
uncle Mortimer, when he chuckles over some
tale that has excited the mournful sympathy of
all the rest of the family circle."

** As you are so severe on me, Ellen, I may
be perinitted to predict that while I am laugh-
ing with uncle Mortimer, you are listening, for
the hundredth time, to aunt Beauchamp's nar-
rative of die death of her husband ; which,

lari

dbyGoogk

42 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

though it occurred a quarter of a century ago,
is repeated with all the demonstrations of sorrow
that a recent calamity of that nature is calcu-
lated to produce.*'

** How can you indulge in plaisanteries on
such a subject, Henry?"

"And how can you listen with dewy eyes
and pensive brow to her lamentations ?**

" You pain me by exhibiting this want of
sensibility. You may smile, and look incre-
dulous, but you really do.*'

" Well, she shall not be vexed, there's a good
child, and so let us kiss and be friends ;" and
suiting the action to the words, Mr. Meredith
drew his beautiful wife towards him, and pressed
his lips to her fair cheek.

The pair thus introduced to our readers, had
been married only six months, five of which had
been passed on the continent. Theirs had been
what is called a love match, and had been pre-
ceded by a passion of more than a year and
a half ; the family of the Lady Ellen having for
several months rejected the addresses of Mr.

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 43

Meredith, on the plea that neither his station
nor fortune entitled him to her hand. During
this period of douht and trial, Mr. Meredith
displayed every symptom of a devoted attach-
ment. He followed the Lady Ellen like her
shadow, in spite of the angry looks of Madame
sa mire^ and the cold ones oi Monsieur son
pire. He might be seen every day hovering
near her, as she rode, escorted by her brother,
through St James's Park, looking defiance at
every young man who presumed to ride by her
side i and at every scene where the elite of
&fihion congregate, there might he be met, his
eyes ever fixed on her fieu^e, as if unconscious
that any other woman was in the room. Nor
was the lovely Lady Ellen regardless of his
devotion to her charms. Her eyes were often
turned towards him ; and it was observed that
she replied only by monosyllables to the ani-
mated remarks of the beaux who flocked round
her ; a peculiarity which served as an indubi-
table proof of her preference for Meredith, when
the politeness that induces young ladles to con-

dbyGoogk

44 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE*

verse readily with every young man who shows
them attention, is taken into consideration.

Various were the modes adopted by the Lady
Ellen to testify her sympathy with the attach-
ment she inspired in the breast of Mr. Mere^
dith. A flower from her bouquet was often
seen to drop as he stood near her, and nearly at
the same moment, by some strange chance, he
was seen to let fall his glove at the same spot
At operas and concerts they looked unutterable
things during the progress of any passionate
words wedded to sweet music. Many were the
suitors rejected by the Lady Ellen, nearly as
much to the discomfiture of the earl and coun-
tess, her papa and mamma, as of theirs. She
had been talked to, and talked at^ in the home
department ; had been reminded of the folly of
refusing a coronet with strawberry-leaves, and
an offer of pin-money to the tune of one thou-
sand a year ; yet still she persisted in declaring
she would marry only Mr. Meredith.

The earl affirmed she was a fool, and the
countess denounced her as an unnatural daugh-

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 45

ter, not to sacrifice her own absurd predilection,
for the reasonable one indulged in by herself
for a coronet Uncle Mortimer laughed more
than ever, and swore it was all sheer obstinacy
on the girl's part ; while aunt Beauchamp wiped
her eyes, and said her dear £llen's attachment
reminded her of her own to her poor lost Sir
Evelyn, whose death she should never cease to
deplore.

** Nor I neither, I can assure you, sister,"
replied Mr. Mortimer.

•* I was not aware of your sympathy, brother;
but though tardy, I am nevertheless grateful
for it.*'

** Oh I hearing the same lamentations for five-
and-twenty years must create an impression ;
and hang me, sister, if I would not prefer to
have Beauchamp alive, and quarrel with him
every day, as I used to do, rather than have to
listen to your regrets for his loss. Why, there
is your poor friend, Mrs. Effingham, how much
more to be pitied she is I''

" Pitied, brother I She who has her bus-
band — the lover of her youth — the — **

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46 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

** Yes, sister, the indifferent, neglectful hus-
band of her maturity, and the hater of her old
age!*'

" Old age, brother 1 Why Mrs. Effingham
is only my age."

" I thought she was a year or two younger.*'

" Really, brother, I must say that you have
very extraordinary notions/*

" But to resume, sister, how glad poor Mrs.
Effingham would be to change places with you,
and to have only the fictitious sorrow founded
on an erroneous reminiscence of a dead hus-
band's qualities, in the place of a real one —
based on the daily experience of a living one's
defects 1"

** How call you imagine that the dear departed
Sir Evelyn would ever have behaved unkindly
to me ? He who was all love, all tenderness —
who lived but in my smiles," and here the good
lady drew forth her cambric handkerchief, and
wiped the tears that dimmed her eyes.

** But remember, he was a husband only two
months, sister ; the honeymoon was scarcely
over when he died. It was too soon to show his

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 47

temper, or to engage in those discussions, from
which, I believe, no minage is exempt."

'* Spare my feelings, brother. He had the
most faultless temper; he never would have
entered into discussions, and /-./—loved him
too well ever to have contradicted him. Even
now his dear face is as well remembered as if
the eyes that have so long wept his loss, had
beheld him yesterday ; and the tones of his dear
voice still live in my memory. Oh I why was
I doomed to lose him, or why have I outlived
him?"

Here Lady Beauchamp wept afresh, and her
brother turned up his eyes, and twisted his
mouth in a very comical fashion, as if to sup-
press a smile, or an ejaculation.

*^ Beauchamp would now have been sixty-two,
had he lived," said Mr. Mortimer, **and would
have been a very infirm old* man."

" Sixty-two, brother I why what can you be
thinking of?"

«< Was he not thirty-seven when he died,
sister? and is not that twenty-five years ago»

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48 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

last April ? Thirty-seven and twenty-five, by
all the rules of arithmetic, make sixty-two/^

The lady assented with a sigh, and a shake
of the head, and murmured that *^ Some people
had a surprising memory about ages."

<< Beauchamp would have been a martyr to
the gout,** resumed Mr. Mortimer, •* for he had
several attacks before his marriage.**

** You mistake, I assure you, for he repeat*
edly informed me that his physician had erred
in entertaining this opinion.**

** J think he had also a strong tendency to
erysipelas in the face, for I remember it used
to look very red.**

** Good heavens, brother I how little you can
remember him 1 **

** He was getting bald, and his hair was
already gray when he died," pursued Mr. Mor-
timer.

** He bald I lie gray I oh I I see yon do not
retain the least recollection of him. Here, look
at this,'* and she drew from her bosom a
gold medallion, which she opened, and held a

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 49

miniature of Sir Evelyn Beauchamp to her
brother.

" This picture never could have been like
him, and must have been painted when he was
only twenty. By the bye, I now remember its
having been done as a gift for that girl with
whom he was so desperately in love, and who
jilted him. Let me recollect what her name
was; — El — Elrington, so it was. Maria £1-
rington, who eloped with a man in the guards,
and died the year after."

'^ This miniature, brother, was painted for
me, and never was in any hands but mine ; and
you labour under a great mistake, a very great
mistake, in thinking it was painted for Miss
Elrington, with whom my ever-to-be-lamented
Evelyn had but a very slight acquaintance. —
Often has he told me that he never entertained
a passion for any woman but me ; nay more,
that he had determined on never marrying,
before he saw me."

** And you were fool enough to believe
him, sister I Why all men tell the same story

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50 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

during the honeymoon, notwithstanding they
had heen refused and jilted hy half the
women in London/'

*^ He never was refused, I kfiaw, for he was
not a man that any woman with disengaged
affections could resist — ^nor was he a person
to propose marriage, unless he was truly, pas-
sionately in love, as was the case when he asked
for my hand."

" Whew /•* said Mr, Mortimer, in something
resembling a whistle, *' what gulls you women
are I you will believe any thing that flatters your
vanity. You little dream how many women
rejected poor Evelyn before you took pity on
him. Why he was known by the name of
the solicitor-general. Indeed, I always thought
it was this very cause that led him to ask your
hand, and that the circumstance of your having
somewhat outstood your market — for you were
past iive-and-twenty when you married — ^led to
your acceptance of it."

'' I was no such thing, brother ; you will
allow me to know my own age, I hope ?"

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 51

" Not if you persist in asserting that you
were not past twenty-five when you married.
I can show you your age, day and date, marked
down in the family bible, sister ; so it's no use
disputing about that point."

" You are always entering into disagreeable
discussions, brother, I must say."

" And you, sister, induce, if not compel
them, by your strange notions. What can be
the object of trying to take off a year or two
from your age ? After you have turned fifty, of
what importance can it be ?''

« Really, brother, your rudeness is unbear-
able.''

<< Speaking truth, then, and rudeness, are it
seems synonymous. But women always accuse
a person of rudeness who happens to speak of
their age. Why it was only the other day,
when that poor Mrs. Effingham was relating
her sufferings, from the bad temper and gross
selfishness of her spouse, that I chanced to
say, * Why you ought to be used to them, for
you have now been six-and-twenty years en-

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52 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

during them,' that she absolutely got red with
anger, and endeavoured to persuade me that
she was only three-and-twenty years married.
Ah, sister I you are a lucky woman, you may
depend on it, to have passed the last quarter
of a century in peace and quiet, instead of
being harassed as that unhappy Mrs. Effing-
ham has been ; for depend on it, had Beau-
champ lived, he would have led you a sad
life/'

^^ And what has my life been since I lost
him ? A continued scene of grief ; my only
source of consolation consisting in the hope of
being united to him in another world. Yes, I
shall see his dear face again, and readily shall
I recognise it, for no day has elapsed since he
was snatched from me, that I have not kissed
this portrait twenty times, and dwelt with a
melancholy pleasure on its lineaments."

" But has it- never occurred to you, sister,
that, as you have grown twenty-five years older
since he saw you last, he may find some diffi-
culty in recognising youf You are terribly

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE, 53

altered, I do assure you ; much more so than
you imagine."

** Not more so than you are, hrother, I can
tell you.'*

Such were the discussions continually pass-
ing between Lady Beauchamp and Mr. Mor-
timer, discussions in which the pensive widow
always suffered the most ; for, being of a.
morbidly sensitive nature, she acutely felt the
sarcasms of her brother, whilst he, shielded by
his callosity, was proof against her weak re-
prisals. Lady Ellen was the declared favourite
of her aunt, who fancied that her niece re-
sembled her exceedingly ; and gratified by this
resemblance, which existed only in her own
brain, lavished on her not only attentions and
presents, but warmly espoused her interests in
the affaire de ccBur with Mr. Meredith, whom,
she asserted, forcibly reminded her of her dear
departed Evelyn. Of a soft disposition, and
naturally prone to romantic notions, it is not to
be wondered at that Lady Ellen imbibed from
her aunt a love of the imaginative and unreal.

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54 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

not a little calculated to influence her happiness
in after life. This tendency had been increased
by the prohibited attachment of Meredith, until
it had grown into a most unhealthy state of
mind ; leading this fair and youthful creature
to behold in every man and woman under forty,
whom she encountered, a victim to the tender
passion, which she believed to be the sole end
and aim of existence.

Lady Beauchamp avowed her intention of be-
queathing the whole of her fortune to the Lady
Ellen ; believing that this announcement would
induce her parents to consent to her union with
the object of her choice, as it removed the ob*
stacle of a want of sufficient fortune for the
young people. But this very circumstance only
added to the reluctance of the Earl and Coun*
tess of Delafield to consent to the union ; as
they said that, with such a fortune as Lady
Beauchamp intended to bequeath her, their
daughter ought to make one of the most brilr
liant marriages in England. The sneers and
laughter of Mr. Mortimer tended not a little to

*o*

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 55

strengthen the dislike of Lady Ellen's parents
to her marriage. He declared that love was a
mere infatuation, the existence of which de-
pended wholly on weakness of mind ; adding,
that a marriage with Mr. Meredith would cure
the disease, it was true, but would leave his niece
at liberty to discover the error she had com-
mitted in contracting such a mis-alliance, and
that her reflections under this discovery would be
attended with more pain than a disappointment
of the heart could ever have occasioned her.

It was so long since Lord or Lady Delafield
had experienced any emotions connected with
the heart, that they had forgotten its influence
on human happiness, and adopted the opinions
of Mr. Mortimer, not perhaps the less readily
that he had a large unentailed estate to be-
queath, and had let drop sundry insinuations
that his favourite sister. Lady Delafield, would
be his heiress, provided he had reason to be
satisfied with her prudence. The fair Lady
Ellen resisted every effort used to induce her
to give up Mr. Meredith. Her aunt and her-

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56 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

self prided themselves not a little on this con-
stancy, yet there were not wanting those who
maintained that self-will and obstinacy had
more to say in the pertinacity of her attach-
ment than real affection. Among these ill-
natured people was Mr. Mortimer.

" You believe, forsooth," he used to say,
^* that Love, all-mighty Love, as fools term it,
is pour quelque chose in this affair, but you
egregiously mistake, and had you consulted me
in the commencement of the business, I would
have convinced you of the truth of my asser-
tions. I would have advised you to have told
this silly girl — * You are at perfect liberty to
marry Mr. Meredith, and become a nonentity
in the world of fashion ;* and you would have
seen how soon she would have abandoned the
silly project But your injudiciously displayed
opposition has fostered her imaginary passion
into a confirmed obstinacy ; for this, be assured,
is the secret cause of all the love-matches that
take place."

While matters remained in this state, a rela-

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE, 57

tive of Mr. Meredith's died, and bequeathed
him a very large fortune ; an event which pro-
duced a great alteration in the feelings of Lord
and Lady Delafield. They now discovered that
their daughter's happiness depended on her
union with Mr. Meredith ; a discovery they
were so little prepared to make a few days pre-
viously to his accession of fortune, that they
pointedly prohibited the Lady Ellen from speak-
ing to him whenever they met in society. He
was now pronounced to be a very eligible parti^
and a very superior man. He was received
with every demonstration of cordiality in Han-
over-square, and permitted to lavish those petits
soins peculiar to an innamorato on the object
of his aflPection during the time occupied by the
lawyers in examining title-deeds and drawing
up the marriage settlements. An acute observer
might have remarked, and uncle Mortimer
failed not to do so, that there was less ardour
in Mr. Meredith's manner since he had been
received as the acknowledged suitor of the
Lady Ellen, than when his attentions were pro-

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58 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

hibited. It is true, he came every day to see
her ; sat whole hours with her ; occupied the
chair next her at dinner most days, and brought
her the rarest flowers and most costly gifts;
yet having no longer any obstacles opposed to
his happiness, he sank, from an anxious and
jealous lover, into a very enjoyable state of
affectionate composure, and at last received her
hand at the altar with a sober satisfaction that,
six weeks previously^ he would have deemed it
impossible he should have experienced on an
occasion, the bare idea of which had made his
pulse throb with emotion. The Lady Ellen, he
confessed to himself, was not less lovely than
before, nor less devoted to him ; but there was
something more flattering to his vanity, in re-
ceiving prohibited marks of attachment, that
exposed her to the risk of incurring the dis-
pleasure of her father and mother, than in
being the object of those open proofs of afiec-
tion, sanctioned by their approval. The Liady
Ellen was too young and inexperienced to notice
the change in her lover, or even if she had

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 59

observed it, to have analyzed the cause. Happy
beyond measure herself, the somewhat mdolent
complacency of his manner, was deemed to be
symptomatic of the fulness of content, and
though she had occasionally felt something like
surprise at detecting a scarcely suppressed
yawn on the face of her betrothed, she banished
the recollection by recalling to her mind in-
stances of his past anxiety and ardour. Love
has already lost something of its bloom and
freshness, when the memory of the past is re-
ferred to as a solace for the present ; and to
this solace the Lady Ellen found herself not
unfrequently recurring. She had yet to learn
that lesson, reserved for all her sex, namely,
that more ardour is exhibited by lovers in the
pursuit, than is evinced in the attainment of
the object of their affections ; and that many a
passion which resisted innumerable obstacles,
has sunk into indifference when they were
conquered.

The novelty and excitement attending this,
her first visit to the continent, kept her spirits

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60 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE,

in a state of Activity and cheerfulness, that
prevented her from noticing the want of those
indescrihahle attentions, lavished by bride-
grooms during the honeymoon. Perhaps, too,
the premature adoption of a most husband-like
mode of good-humoured indolence from the
period of his reception as an acknowledged
suitor, until that of their nuptials, had pre-
pared her for the unlover-like conduct now
pursued. But at length, and she sighed as
the discovery forced itself on her mind, she
became painfully conscious that he indulged
more frequently in the luxury of a siesta than
was consistent with politeness ; that he yawned
without eveu an attempt to conceal his weari-
ness ; and seemed more intent on the enjoyment
of the delicacies of the table, than desirous of
the more refined one of conversation. These
/ alterations had gradually been developed, and
on their arrival at Naples, where our story
opens, the Lady Ellen Meredith, who had for
some time owned with sadness to herself, that
it is possible to feel disappointment in a mar-

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE, 61

riage with the cherished object of affection,
was now disposed to hint the discovery to her
caro sposo. If there be a place on earth more
calculated than any other to engender indolence
in those previously exempt from it, or to force
it into luxuriance when its germ has been
planted, Naples, soft, effeminate Naples, is the
spot ; its genial climate superinducing the in-
dulgence of the dolcefar niente, as enervating
to the mind, as it is to the body. Yes, Par-
thenope, the siren of old, who selected this
enchanting shore for her abode, still exercises
a power over its visitors, charming them into a
state of dreamy, but pleasurable lassitude.

The day after the arrival of the Merediths,
Lady Ellen had her books unpacked, her draw-
ing implements arranged, and after breakfast,
seated herself at a window, to enjoy the beau-
tiful prospect it commanded. The sky was
blue and cloudless, and the sea azure, calm,
and unruffled as the heavens it mirrored. The
vivid green plants in the Villa Reale, refreshed
the eye, fatigued by the too dazzling brightness

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62 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

of all around, as a glowing sun shed its beams
on the scene. Innumerable white sails were scat-
tered over the bay, sparkling like huge pearls
on a bed of sapphire, and Capri looked as if
placed as a couch for the giant genius to whom
the protection of this lovely city was confided.

** Do come here, dear Henry," said Lady
Ellen, " and participate with me in the delight
of beholding what I now see t I feel, whilst
looking at the prospect spread out before me,
the want described by Zimmerman as being
experienced in solitude, of having some one to
whom I can say, how lovely it is."

** I looked from the window, a full half-hour
before breakfast, love, and agree with you that
the view is very pleasant; but I have had
enough of it for the present, and confess I
prefer, just now, a lounge on this sofa, which
is not so ill-stuffed as are most of those to be
found in Italian inns."

The lady sighed, but urged him no more,
and was soon lost in a delicious reverie, inspired
by the scene she was gazing on, when the snor-

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 63

ing of her husband, who had fallen asleep, in-
terrupted it. Now, be it known to our readers,
that few noises are more disagreeable to female
ears than that of snoring. Whether this be
owing to its reminding them of the indifference
that permits the indulgence of sleep in their
presence, in hours not appropriated to slumber,
a conviction so mortifying to vanity, or whether
it proceeds from the fact, that in no position
does a man appear to such disadvantage, as
when stretched on a sofa, he draws attention by
this noise, to the incivility of which he is guilty,
we cannot presume to say : but we never met a
woman, whose temper, however placid it might
naturally have been, was not ruffled by hearing
a man snore in her presence. Lady Ellen
Meredith experienced this emotion now, as she
murmured, *^ Eternally lounging on sofas, and
as eternally falling asleep I I could forgive the
sleeping, bad as it is, in a person who six
months ago I could not have believed was
subject to this infirmity; but really the snoring
is too annoying. If any one had told me, before

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64 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

I married, that Henry could snore, I would
have refused to credit it How like a large
Newfoundland dog he looks, squatted on the
sofa ; his black curly locks too, that I have so
often admired, at this moment, add to the re-
semblance. Heigh-ho t what different beings
lovers and husbands are I I really can endure
this noise no longer. Henry, Henry I" and
she approached the sofa and awoke him.

" What is the matter, love ?*' asked he, half
opening his eyes, stretching his arms, and
yawning.

"You snore so dreadfully that I cannot
bear it."

"Do I love? how odd!"

He extended his arm to a table, near the
sofa, took up a book, and began reading, while
Lady Ellen occupied herself with Sir William
GelPs Pompeii. But she was not long per-
mitted to enjoy it, for in less than ten minutes
il marito was again fast asleep, and snoring
still more loudly than before. She felt ashamed
when the laquais^de-place entered, to inquire at

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 65

what hour the carriage would be required for a
giro^ that even he should witness what pained
her ; and having hastily dismissed him from
the apartment, she endeavoured, but in vain,
to banish her sense of the discordant sounds
that assailed her ears, by fixing her attention
on her book.

While the snoring continued, so loudly as to
be audible in the ante-room, the door of the
salon was thrown open, and the Marquis of
Windermere entered, following on the heels of
the servant who announced him. Neither the
noise of his entrance, nor the salutation which
took place, awoke the sleeper, who still conti-
nued to snore loudly ; and the Lady Ellen felt
the blush of shame dye her cheek, as she
marked the glance of astonishment which the
marquis cast on the sofa, and its noisy occu-
pant. Lord Windermere was the very last
person that she wished to see at such a moment,
for his was the strawberry-leaved coronet which
she rejected for the husband, whose snores told
a tale of ill-breeding and neglect, that she

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66 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

shrunk from being witnessed by any one, and
least of all, by him who had only a few months
before sought her hand.

She awoke her husband, who rubbed his
eyes, yawned, and stretched his person on the
sofa, with as much freedom from ceremonious
constraint, as if he imagined himself alone, and
then muttered something about being dis-
turbed. But when Lady Ellen said, "Lord
Windermere is here," her caro sposo quickly
arose from his recumbent posture, had the
grace to look somewhat ashamed of himself,
and made an awkward excuse, in which the
heat of the weather was cited as the cause of
his drowsiness.

The Marquis of Windermere was universally
considered to be one of the best-looking young
men about London. Peculiarly well dressed,
and scrupulously polite to women, he was so
general a favourite that the Lady Ellen's re-
jection of him was a matter of surprise to their
mutual acquaintance, and when her marriage
took place, many were the observations to

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 67

which it gave rise; people wondering "how
she could prefer Mr. Meredith, to one so infi-
nitely his superior in every respect as the Mar-
quis of Windermere. This question she now,
for the first time asked herself, as her eye
glanced from one to the other ; the well-dressed
ci-devant admirer's well-hrushed coat, unrum-
pled cravat, and nicely arranged hair, forming
a striking contrast to the deranged toilet and
person of her hushand. But if the dress and
appearance offered an unfavourahle contrast,
how much more so did the manner I That of
the marquis uniting the refined good-breeding
of the best society, shaded by a pensiveness
always attractive to women, but particularly so
to her who knew herself to be its cause.

** How could I have been so blind as to
accord the preference to Henry ?*' thought
Lady Ellen to herself. "Lord Windermere
would not pass half his time in sleeping on
sofas, or in picking his teeth in easy chairs,
leaving me to amuse myself as best I may."
This reflection was followed by a deep sigh.

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68 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

which though it escaped the ears of il marito^
was heard by the marquis ; whose voice always
soft, and whose manner ever gentle, became
still more so, when he addressed Lady Ellen.

Lord Windermere had been some days at
Naples, and had taken up his abode at the
Grande Bretagne, where the Merediths arrived
the previous evening. Having seen their names
in the list of new guests, he lost no time
in paying them a visit, anxious to avoid the
appearance of pique, often attributed to dis-
carded admirers. He had anticipated to find
his fortunate rival still enacting the part of a
happy lover, showering attentions, and petits
soins on Lady Ellen, and experienced some-
thing like a feeling of envy at the idea of wit-
nessing them. His surprise, therefore, was
not light, when he beheld the scene that pre^
sented itself on his entering the apartment,
one glance of which had revealed the exact
state of the case.

On discovering that Lord Windermere inha-
bited the same hotel, Mr. Meredith expressed

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 69

a hope that they should see as much of each
other as possible, requested him to dine with
them that day, and proposed that he should
accompany them in their giro of sight-seeing.

The proposal was acceded to ; and before
the evening had closed in, a habit of cordiality
seemed established between the parties, that it
would have required a ten days' contact in an
English country-house to have formed. The
facility with which youthful husbands sanction,
nay invite, habits of daily and familiar inter-
course, in the bosoms of their &milies, with
young men, permitting them to lounge in the
boudoirs of their wives half the mornings, to
wander from salon to salon like tame lap-dogs,
and to make one of every riding-party, excur-
sion to Greenwich, and drive to Richmond,
has often furnished subject of surprise to sober-
minded people, and more often topics of scandal
to censorious ones. Whether this unthinking
folly proceeds from the ennui experienced by
the youthful Benedicts in their mSnageSj and
which leads them to seek relief in the society

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70 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

of an habituS de maisori^ or whether it owes its
origin to the still more hlameahle, but not less
frequent, folly of wishing to see their wives
admired, we will not pause to inquire ; but a
habit more pregnant with danger, to young
and inexperienced women, never was devised,
nor more fraught with baneful consequences
to those of a matured age.

The eagerness with which Mr. Meredith
sought the society of Lord Windermere piqued
Lady Ellen.

^' He is already tired of our uninterrupted
<^te-a-/^te^," thought she. " I might have
known this by the undisguised symptoms of
weariness I have so frequently detected in him;
but I confess I was not prepared for seeing him
thus seize with such avidity, the society of the
first slight acquaintance of his that chance has
thrown in our way ; and with a person, too, who
once wished to stand in so near a relation to me.
He is not disposed to be jealous at all events,^'
and she sighed while making the reflection.
'* He does not love me enough now to be so.

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 71

Time was that I could scarcely appease his un-
founded jealousy, or silence his unreasonable
suspicions.'*

Women who are the least prone to give cause
for jealousy, are precisely those who are most
pleased at exciting it, as they invariably receive
it as an incontestable proof of affection ; while
those, whose levity and imprudence are calcu-
lated to excite the baneful passion, deprecate or
resent every symptom of it. The Lady Ellen
would not have been sorry to discover some
indication of an incipient jealousy in her hus-
band towards her former suitor, and marked
the absence of any such infirmity, as presump-
tive evidence of his indifierence.

" What a very agreeable man Windermere
is I" said Mr. Meredith ; *' and how flattered
I ought to feel, Ellen, at your according me the
preference over hinu"

'' I was just thinking so," replied Lady
Ellen, and a malicious smile played about her
rosy lips.

'M am sorry that tfou thought so, Ellen,

dbyGoogk

72 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

though it was natural that / should," and Mr.
Meredith looked a little uneasy.

" Why to say the truth, Henry, you give me
so much time for reflection, that it is not to be
wondered at that I indulge in it"

" I, Ellen, what do you mean ? Why, I
never leave you 1 "

" Very true ; but you forget that much of
your time when near me is passed in slumber.
What is the difference whether you are absent
or present in person, if you are absent in spirit?
I would prefer to know that you were amusing
yourself, or taking healthful exercise, away
from me, than to be assured of your presence
only by hearing you snore."

This reproach, slight as it was, pleased not
Mr. Meredith; for he was one of the many
men, who erroneously believe that there is no
necessity for being ceremonious with one's wife,
and who are prone to resent any insinuation
that she is of an opposite opinion, as an insult.

*' You make no allowance, Ellen, for the
effect of this warm climate, and the idle life, to

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE, 7^

irhicli I have been so unused, and which I have
ed since we left England/'

*• It is your own fault that you have led an
die life ; for half the time wasted in siestas on
the sofa in every hotel in which we have been
sojourning, might have been agreeably and
profitably employed in investigating, instead of
superficially viewing, the museums and antiqui-
ties in which Italy is so rich."

** But jou forget that these things are new to

me, and that I have not yet acquired the tastes

and pursuits of a virtuoso^ or an antiquarian."

*' That they are new to you, is in my opinion

a raisan de ptus^ for being interested in them,

if the charge made against all your sex be true,

that novelty in all things is a great attraction

to them."

This first specimen of a matrimonial discus-
sion, which, like all similar ones, produced no
favourable result in the feelings of those engaged
in it, was interrupted by the presence of I^ord
Windermere, who came to escort them in their
giro to view the beautiful environs of Naples.

VOL. III. £

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74 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

His arrival was a relief to Lady Ellen and
Mr. Meredith ; for both felt, now that once the
ice was broken, the possibility, if not the incli-
nation, of expressing sentiments much less
agreeable, than either had ever previously
indulged in ; and were glad of being saved from
what they considered a dangerous position.

As long as the restraint induced by good
breeding is not thrown aside, the harmony of
conjugal life is safe, even though a dissimilarity
of opinions may exist between the parties ; but
the first sally of recrimination rends the veil of
illusion, and all the bloom and delicacy of affec-
tion is for ever impaired.

While driving over the Strada Nuova, the
beauty of the scenery of which drew forth ex-
clamations of delight from Lady £llen, Mr.
Meredith questioned Lord Windermere relative
to the hunting at Melton the previous season
— spoke of capital hacks for riding to cover,
and first-rate hunters — instituted comparisons
between different packs of hounds, and evinced
a much more lively interest about the field-

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 75

sports in England, than relative to the ex-
citing scenery around them. Lord Windermere
pointed out the objects most worthy of attention
as they drove along, participated in the gratifi-
cation experienced by the Lady Ellen, and
turned the conversation as much as good breed-
ing permits, from those topics to which her
husband was disposed wholly to confine them.

Many were the symptoms of petulance invo-
luntarily exhibited by Lady Ellen during the
drive, as her husband would interrupt some
animated description of Lord Windermere's, by
a question, or reference to the chase ; and
though they escaped the observation of Mr.
Meredith, they were noted by the marquis^ who
failed not to remark the want of harmony
between the youthful couple. The contrast
offered by the assiduity of manner, and highly-
cultivated taste of Lord Windermere, and il
maritOf was not lost on the young wife ; who
found herself frequently wondering at the blind-
ness that could have induced her to reject the
one, and accept the other.

E 2

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76 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE,

When a wife institutes comparisons injurious
to him whom she has vowed at the altar to love,
honour, and ohey, she has already profaned the
sanctity of marriage ; and when the indulgence
of selfishness, and negligence towards his wife,
on the part of the husband, have provoked
such, he must be accounted guilty of having led
to the crime. Lord Windermere was neither
a vicious nor a designing man. He had not
sought the society of the Merediths with any
intention of endeavouring to disturb their con-
jugal felicity ; but being a vain man, his visit
was paid from a motive of showing them that
the Lady Ellen's rejection of his suit had not
rendered him inconsolable, which he imagined
they might be led to think, had he refrained
from immediately renewing his acquaintance
with them.

Vanity often tends to produce as lamentable
results as vice, if it find the mind of its pos-
sessor unsupported by strict principles. Wib
have said that Lord Windermere was a vain
man : his vanity had been wounded by the

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE, 77

preference accorded by Lady EUen Meredith
to his rival ; and now that he witnessed indi-
cations of her consciousness of having discovered
her error in her choice, he instantly determined
on leaving no effort untried to render her still
more sensible of her mistake. Observing the
taste for the romantic in which she indulged, and
the equally visible predilection for the common-
place entertained l^ her husband, he artfully
adopted a line of conduct the most calculated
to induce her to believe, that he and lie alone
comprehended her feelings, participated in her
tastes, atid was constituted to secure her happi-
ness. This determination was formed the very
first ^ay of their encounter at Naples. The
success with which he doubted not it would be
crowned, offered a salve for his wounded vanity,
too tempting to be refused ; and an occupation
to fill up the vacant hours that lately had fallen
heavy on his hands, too agreeable to be rejected.
He now made a constant companion in all
the excurs^ions taken by the Merediths, and a
constant guest at their tables divided his box

dbyGoogk

78 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

at the San Carlo with them; got up delicious
luncheons in the environs, served when least
expected; serenades on the moonlit bay; and,
in short, found means to render the 9^our of
the husband and wife so pleasant at Naples,
that neither thought of leaving it, or contem-
plated quitting the society of him who rendered
it so delightful.

Lord Windermere now filled the dangerous
position of an ami de mnisim^ a position fraught
with temptation to do wrong, and opportunity
toeffisctit; and which, if not followed by actual
evil, is sure to incur the worst suspicions
of it, in those who witness the reprehensible
familiarity to which it leads. Mr. Meredith,
now freed from the reproach of leaving Lady
Ellen alone, while he indulged in his noon-
day or evening siestas^ abandoned himself to
both sans gine ; often lulled into them by the
sweet voice of his wife, or the sonorous one
of Lord Windermere, as they sang duets toge-
ther, or read the Italian poets aloud. When
some fine passage in an author elicited the

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 79

commendation of the Lady Ellen, Lord Win-
dermere would lay down the book^ and ex-
press his sympathy in her opinion, with an
earnestness that left no doubt of its genuine-
ness, and with an expression of countenance
that would have banished doubt, had any such
suspicion existed in her mind. At such mo-
ments, a loud snore from Mr. Meredith, would
remind them that they were not alone, and an
involuntary look of horror from his sensitive
wife, would meet with such a glance of sympa-
thizing pity from Lord Windermere, as sent
the red blush to her cheek. Those were dan-
gerous moments, and both felt them to be so,
as a suppressed sigh heaved the bosom of the
lady, and an unrestrained one agitated that of
the gentleman.

Mr. Meredith did not understand Italian,
a circumstance which offered an excuse of
which he daily, hourly, availed himself, of
slumbering whilst they spoke, sang, or read, in
that mellifluous language. Nor was he sorry
for being furnished with so good an excuse
for indulging in this his favourite propensity,

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80 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

which had now gained on him so much,
that he would have found it diflScult to resist
its impulses, were he so disposed, which was
far from being the case. Mr. M^*edith was
one of the many men who pass through iife
with much enjoyment and little pain; for he
was naturally healthy, good-tempered, and had
as little sensibility as imagination. Possessed
of what is in general parlance termed a good
heart, but which might more aptly be deno-
minated a good stomach, his humour was
equal, and free from any tendency to ill-nature.
Devoted to the pleasures of a good table, a
luxurious couch, an easy carriage, and what he
called a quiet life, uiiich meant the absence of
all exciting conversation or grave reflection, he
was as happy as possible, and as little dispose<l
to interrupt the enjoyments of those who found
them in other sources.

Such are often the men most prone to marry;
and are the least likely to promote the happi-
ness of a wife, unless, like themselves, she is
disposed to find contentment in the gratification
of the same unrefined propensities that consti-

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 81

tute theirs. Such men seek a wife as they do
a good dinner, and trouble themselves as little
about the result, unless when reminded by
some domestic misfortune, or intestine feud.

Mr. Meredith beheld the growing intimacy
between his wife and friend without the slightest
alarm. Satisfied with the constant recollection
that Lady Ellen had rejected the marquis to
accept him, a fact which it gratified bis amour
propre to remember, he never reflected that
when she had done so, she had as little know*
ledge of him as of her other suitor; and more-
over, had been urged into obstinacy by the ob-
jections of her family against himself, and their
as injudicious eagerness to induce her to accept
his rival. His poverty too, when first he at-
tached himself to her, had great weight witli a
romantic girl like Lady Ellen. She thought it
praiseworthy and heroic to be constant to a
pipor admirer, and to refuse a rich ; and the
unwise counsel of her aunt. Lady Beauchamp,
encouraged her in this error. Now that she
experienced the difference between him, who

£3

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82 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

from having been at first an ardent lover, had
degenerated into a goodnatured but careless
husband, and the ever attentive, and cultivated
companion permitted to be her constant asso-
ciate, she was not slow to discover the supe-
riority of Lord Windermere ; and as if anxious
to make amends for the injustice of which she
had been guilty, in preferring Mr. Meredith,
she now endowed the former with all the qua-
lities which romantic women are prone to think
they find in their admirers, many, if not all of
which, exist only in their own excited imagi-
nations. There is no surer method for render-
ing persons desirous tp seem possessed of certain
qualities, than by attributing them to them.
** You are so full of imagination" — " You have
so much feeling" — and that greatest of all com-
pliments, *'You are so different from other
men," frequently, and involuntarily repeated by
Lady Ellen to Lord Windermere, whenever a
generous sentiment escaped hb lips, had worked
miracles in him; for he each day became more
prone to indulge in such, and certainly more

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 83

devoted in his attentions to her who praised
him.

Wholly unconscious of her danger — without
a friend to warn, or a husband to guard, she
yielded to the fascination of a flatterer, who
might, had she accepted his profiered hand
some few months before, have become as neg-
ligent of the gift, as him on whom she had
bestowed it; but who, piqued into assiduities,
by the stimulus of wounded vanity, enacted the
lover^s part so well, as to deceive her to whom
his attentions were devoted into a belief that
he passionately, truly loved her.

Men have a thousand ways of conveying this
conviction to a woman's mind, without express-
ing it by a formal declaration, a step which a
man of the world will carefully eschew, unless
he encounters a woman ignorant of what is due
to les convenances de la soditS.

The Marquis of Windermere knew that to
risk an avowal of his flame, would be to put
-the object of it on her guard against him ; con-
sequently, he avoided this measure, and adopted

dbyGoogk

84 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

the less open, but not less effectual mode of
paying his court, by an uninterrupted series <tf
attentions, too delicate to give offence, yet too
marked, to be mistaken by her to whom they
were offered. The Lady Ellen Meredith im-
plicitly believed that she was tenderly beloved
by Lord Windermere, nay, was gratified by
the belief ; though had she been questioned as
to the proofs which led to this conviction, she
-could only have been able to refer to impas-
sioned looks, deep sighs, broken sentences, and
unremitting assiduity^ While her admirer
abstained from an open declaration of his
passion, she did not consider herself blameable
in permitting innumerable other demonstra-
tions of it ; and while she received these
•demonstrations with complacency, he saw no
reason to despair of ultimately tri^imphiag over
her virtue. Matters stood in this «tate, when
several new English arrivals at Naples, soon
became initiated in the liaison supposed to
exist between Lady Ellen Meredith and the
Marquis of Windermere.

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVK. 85

** How blind must Meredith be l** said one.

" What a deucedly cool hand Windermere
must be I" exclaimed a second.

** And what a shameless woman s/ie must
be ?" observed a third.

" Oh I they were old lovers," said another,
and

* On «n revient toujoun & tea premiers amoun/

as the old song says/'

*' Meredith is not such a fool as people
imagine," cried one of his old acquaintance.
** He has had enough of matrimony, and will
not be sorry to get rid of his chains."

While these charitable comments were in-
dulged in by their compatriots, two, at least,
of the persons who excited them were little
conscious of their existence. Mr. Meredith
was as sure that he was still preferred to Lord
Windermere by his pretty wife, as he was on
the day she had rejected his rival for him ;
and yet all his acquaintances at Naples, at
least the portion of them composed of his coun-
trymen, proclaimed him either the dupe, or

dbyGoogk

86 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

the accomplice of Lord Windermere. If Lady
Ellen reflected at all on the impression likely
to be entertained of her, which is rather doubt-
ful, she would have stated her belief to have
been that all the people, with whom they asso-
ciated, must see how devotedly attached to her
Lord Windermere was, yet how pure and firee
from impropriety the attachment was. Lady
Ellen was not singular in indulging this infa-
tuation with regard to her position, or the
notion that would be likely to be entertained
of it by others; for most women free from
actual guilt, or even the intention of it, deceive
themselves into the false belief that they will
escape the suspicion.

Lord Windermere was the only one of the
three persons implicated in the affair who had
an idea of what was likely to be said or thought
of the business ; and, truth to say, was deterred
by no honourable feeling, from pursuing a line
of conduct but too well calculated to confirm
the evil suspicions entertained by so many of
his acquaintance.

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE, 87

Lady Ellen Meredith's reputation became
the by-word, the jest of all Naples, while those
who reviled, received her with the demonstra^
tions of as much respect as if her virtue had
never been questioned.

'* As long as she is countenanced by her
husband," said they, " we can have no excuse
for not behaving to her as usual." A mode of
reasoning, founded on a system of immorality
highly prejudicial to the true interests of
society ; offering as it were a premium for the
successful duplicity of the wife, who adding
artifice to vice, first wrongs, and then dupes
her husband ; or to the dishonourable conniv-
ance, or supine negligence of the husband, who
sanctions the sins, or is ignorant of the shame
entailed on him by her whose honour he should
have defended as his dearest possession.

At this period, the uncle of Lady Ellen
Meredith, Mr. Mortimer, arrived at Naples,
and soon became aufait of the reports in cir-
culation against his niece, and sensible of the
dangerous position in which she was placed.

dbyGoogk

88 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

" The Marquis of Windermere lives alto-
gether with you, I observe," said he to Lady
Ellen, two or three days after his arrival.

" We see a good deal of him," was her reply.

** And I am sure you now agree with me,
that he is a very pleasant person."

'' Yes ; indeed, uncle, I have often thought
since we have been here, how judicious your
commendations of him were."

*< You have — ^have you? what a pity it is
you did not find this out some eight or nine
months ago I But do you know, niece, I do
not think my commendaticms were judicious?"

^* How I have you changed your opinion of
him, uncle?"

'* In some respects, perhaps, I have ; but
the reason that I think my commendations
were not judicious is, that I am persuaded that
had I dispraised him, and applauded Meredith,
Lord Windermere might have been this day
your husband."

Lady Ellen sighed deeply, but unconsciously,
and the sigh was not unremarked by her uncle.

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 89

*' Nevertheless," resumed he, " although I
approved Lord Windermere for the husband
of my niece, I do 7io^ improve him as her ad-
mirer, now that she is the wife of another/'

Lady EUeu Meredith's cheeks became tinged
with the brightest red. ** You are so — so odd
— so strange in your notions," murmured she.

** No, not so odd* nor so strange neither; for
I dare say most uncles have, like me, an objec-
tion to their nieces having an admirer, unless
it be les Gures^ who are said to sanction their
nieces having onet at least ; but charity begins
at home.'*

*^ I really do not know what you mean,
uncle."

** Then you must be less quick of apprehen-
sion than usual, Ellen, or else your signoras in
Italy have accustomed you to the fashion of
married ladies having cavalieri serventi ; for
what I mean ist that Lord Windermere appears
to occupy that place with you, and all the
English at Naples are commenting on it in a
very spiteful manner."

dbyGoogk

90 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

** Good Heavens I is it possible that people
can be so very ill-natured, so very unjust, as to
find cause for censure in a woman's receiving
common civilities of a man who is the friend
of her husband?*'

** And are you so very inexperienced, niece,
as to think that a young and pretty woman can
have a man following her about all day, and
sitting by her all the evening, without people
thinking that a more than ordinary or tolerated
attachment exists between them?"

*' But surely when a woman's husband, her
lawful protector sees nothing to condemn in such
attentions, no one ebe has a right to question
the propriety of her conduct ?"

" But her husband may be a knave or a fool,
and in either case he is unfit to be her pro-
tector ; and people, though they may have no
right, will, nevertheless, take the liberty with-
out it, of passing very severe comments."

** Comments which those who know their
own honour and integrity can despise," and
Lady Ellen looked the indignation she felt.

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 91

** And what will they gain hy despising
popular opinion, niece?"

" They will gain their own self-respect by
asserting their independence."

" A sentiment worthy of your aunt Beau-
champ, Ellen."

Now, as Lady Ellen knew that Mr. Mor-
timer held her aunt Beauchamp's opinions in
utter contempt, nothing could be better calcu-
lated to ofiend her than the allusion made by
him to the resemblance between the sentiment
she had just expressed, and those of that lady,
and consequently nothing could more indispose
her to respect his advice, or to adopt it. People
seldom reflect on the necessity of avoiding
every thing that can wound or ofiend, when
they bestow counsel ; for, however well-meant
may be the motive of giving it, the receiver
rarely accepts it with the satisfaction with
which it is given ; and a sense of superiority
implied by the adviser, predisposes the advised,
even though convinced of the value of the
unpalatable potion, to reject it. The truth of

dbyGoogk

9i THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

this assertion was now proved by the mode in
which Lady Ellen replied to her ancle.

** I hope/' said she, bridling up as people call
it, when a person holds up his or her head in a
more elevated position than usual, — '* I hope
that my sentiments may always be worthy of
my aunt Beauchamp, and then I shall have
nothing to reproach myself with ;" and she
walked out of the room with an air of offended
dignity, that would not have disgraced the
prima donna of St. Carlo, in her grandest rdle.

" Whewl" muttered Mr. Mortimer. "So,
so, madame ma ni^, you are angry, are you ?
then the affair is more grave than I imagined ;
for when a woman gets angry, not with herself
for giving cause for scandal, but with those
who draw natural, though not perhaps kind in-
ferences from her conduct, it is a certain sign
she IS in danger. I have alarmed her, how-
ever, and that may do some good. What fools
women are to be sure ! *' continued he, thinking
aloud. " Here is this silly girl quarrelling
with me because, forsooth, I disapprove of her

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 9^

flirtation with Lord Windermere, when only a
few months ago she was ready to wage war with
me^ because I wished her to marry him. Give
a woman her head, and she will be sure to run
against a post. Here is this niece of mine —
who, less than a year ago, fancied she could not
live unless wedded to Meredith — now as tired
of his drowsy habits, and selfish indulgence in
the creature comforts, as ever she was of a
worn-out robe or a faded ribbon ; and I'll be
bound fancying herself as much smitten with
Windermere, as she before believed herself to
be with Meredith. But I must keep her from
falling into a scrape after all, even though it
be against her wilL'^

That evening, Mr. Mortimer made one of
the party at dinner with the Merediths ; and
as usual, Mr. Meredith, soon after cofiee, ex-
tended himself on a sofa, and resigned himself
to the influence of sleep. Mr. Mortimer felt
that he was de trap in the room, and Lord
Windermere and Lady Ellen looked as if they
were equally convinced of this fact. The lady

dbyGoogk

94 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

walked into the balcony (balconies, par paren-
t/iiscy are useful resources on such occasions),
and bent her head over the fragrant flowers
placed there. Lord Windermere was not slow
in following her: and Mr. Mortimer heard
them converse on the softening effect of moon-
light on the feelings, in tones so sentimental, as
to convince him that theirs owned the influence
of it, at that moment. Now Mr. Mortimer, he
it known to my readers, was, like many other
sexagenarians, subject to attacks of pain in his
face and ears, that rendered him very fearful of
exposing himself to the night air, even in
the mild and genial climate of Naples ; con-
sequently, though most desirous to interrupt
the tMe-^'tite on the balcony, he dared not
venture out on it. Finding, however, that
Lady Ellen and Lord Windermere seemed
determined to remain there and enjoy their
privacy, he left the room, and putting on his
great-coat and cloak, and tying a silk handker-
chief over his ears, under his hat, he returned ;
and, to the surprise and dissatisfaction of the

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE, 95

occupants of the balcony, took his station there
beside them. The ludicrous figure he pre-
sented, might have provoked the laughter of
even the most serious ; and, as he held a hand-
kerchief to his mouth to exclude the air, he
offered one of the most rueful objects imagin-
able. But neither his niece nor her admirer
were disposed for mirth. They had been in-
dulging in sentimental rhapsodies on sympathy
of soul and unison of tastes, until they had
worked themselves up into the belief, that they
stood apart from the generality of human beings,
and were by far too refined, and too spiritualized,
to be understood, except by each other.

They ceased speaking when Mr. Mortimer
joined them, but their looks were eloquent.
The moonbeams at that moment fell on the
beautiful face of Lady Ellen, giving to her
finely-chiselled forehead the snowy tint of a
marble statue. Her luxuriant tresses bound
round her small head, and her white dress
jhlling in folds to her feet, added to the re-
semblance. Lord Windermere's eyes were fixed
on her face with an expression of such undis-

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OG THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

guised and passionate admiration, as could
leave no doubt of his sentiments on whoever
chanced to behold him ; and Lady Ellen^s eyes
were turned to the heavens as if to search in the
mystic disk of the moon, the secrets of futurity.

** I think I heard you both speaking of the
softening eflfect of moonlight on the feelings,**
said he, with a rueful glance at the luminary.
" Now for mt/ part, I think it hardens the feel-
ings confoundedly ; for hang me, if ever I felt
less softened than at this very moment. And
as to the pleasantry of this scene, which you
have been enjoying for the last hour, why it is
enough to give any body the chronic rheuma-
tism, or a fit of the ague."

So saying, he entered the saloon, removed
his wrappings, and comfortably took possession
of the second sofa, precisely vis-d-vis to the one
occupied by Mr. Meredith.

The Marquis of Windermere and Lady Ellen
soon after left the balcony, looked at each sofa,
tenanted by a noisy sleeper, and then at each
other with glances of tender commiseration.

^^ Will you read to me?" asked Lady Ellen.

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOTE. 97

" If you wish it You know t/our wishes are
laws to me. Shall it be Dante ?"

** If you please ; I am sad to-night, and dis-
posed to hear something grave/'

" You are sad I Oh I Lady Ellen, 4o not
indulge in sadness, it would make you too —
too dangerous."

Lady Ellen blushed, and averted her eyes
from the impassioned gaze of her admirer, and
he took up a volume of Dante, and having
looked over a few of its pages, commenced
reading the beautiful episode of Francesca da
Rimini. As the soft melodious voice of Lord
Windermere pronounced the following passage,
Mr. Mortimer, who only feigned sleep, and
perfectly understood Italian, thought it not a
fitde analogous to the position of the reader
and Lady Ellen.

•' Ifm B% eonoflcer U prima ndice
Del nof tro amor tu hai ootanto affetto»
Fard, eome ooltii, che piange, e dice.

Noi leggiavamo mi giomo^ per dildto,
Di Landlotto, come amor lo ttrinte
Soli eravamo, e lenst alcmi sotpetlo.
Per pii^ fiate ^ oodii d iospiiiie

VOL. III.

dbyGoogk

98 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

Qaella lettnrnt e loolorocd 1 nso :
Ma lolo rni punto fa quel, che d Tinse.
Qiumdo l^cnimo U £stato tuo

Ewer baciato da eontanto amante,
Quettiy che mai, da me non fia diTiao
La bocca mi liaoci6 tutto treoMiite :"

Here Mortimer, no less alarmed by the tre-
mulous tone of Lord Windermere's reading,
than by the visible emotion of Lady Ellen, lest
a similar dSnauemeni to that which the marquis
was reading, might occnr, yawned aloud, rose
from the sofa, and pnmounced the concluding
line of the poem,

'* Qnel giorno pti mm li kgemmo ««aiite»'*

in a mock heroic style, ludicrously contrasted
by the sentimental one of Lord Windermere.

Lady Ellen looked, and felt embarrassed;
and the marquis, though he endeavoured to
conceal his displeasure at the interruption, be*
trayed it by his heightened colour and flashing
eyes. The book was lud down, and a pointed
reference to the lateness of the hour from
Mr. Mortimer, led to Lord Windermere's
taking leave. Lady Ellen, who dreading a lec-
ture from her uncle, also withdrew, leaving him

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 99

alone with her sleeping caro sposo. Mr. Mor-
timer looked at him as he lay supinely stretched
on the sofa, giving proof of his proximity only
hy occasional snores.

" You are a pleasant fellow I *^ ejaculated he j
*' a nice guardian to a handsome young wife,
with as strong a spice of coquetry in her nature,
as in that of any of her troublesome sex. Yes,
you resemble a sleeping partner in a bank.
You take no trouble, but trust your credit
and your property at the discretion of others.
'Twould serve you right, you indolent blockhead,
were you to meet with the fate of so many Bene-
dicts, who leave creatures only just out of their
nurseries in positions fraught with danger, and
are then surprised at what follows."

He approached the sleeper; called him
several times, but in vain ; and at length was
compelled to shake him by the shoulder.

*' What's the matter? — where are Ellen and
Windermere? — why have you awakened me?"

'* I have awakened you that we might have
some serious conversation together."

f2

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100 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

" Well, let it be short, * dear Nunky, if thou
lovest me,' for I am half asleep, and well dis-
posed to seek my pillow, for that sofa is some-
what of the hardest."

" The subject, Mr. Meredith, on which 1
consider it my duty to speak to you, is one of
such grave import to you, and of such dear
interest to me, that it cannot be discussed
quickly. '

^* Why, what then can it be about ? Any bad
news from England?"

"No!"

** Then T am sure I cannot even guess what
the subject can be."

** Your blindness, your infatuation surprise
me. Can it be possible that, unmindful of the
danger to which you expose her, you leave your
young and inexperienced wife in the daily,
hourly society of Lord Windermere, heedless
of the censorious observations made on her and
you, until her reputation and your honour have
become the topic for scandal in every English
circle at Naples?"

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 101

** What I Lady Ellen's repatation, my honour
called in question ? You astonish, you confound
me; hut you must surely he in jest, you cannot
be serious?"

** This is no subject for jesting, what 1 have
told you is the fact"

** Only let me know the man who has pre-
sumed to question either her honour or mine,
and I will "

** Call him out, I suppose. This is the usual
mode of silencing reports ; but I never knew it
to answer."

" How is it possible such a calumny could
have been circulated ? We who are so fondly
attached to each other, who have been so few
months married, and who are inseparable, for
you must observe that I never leave her."

<* It would perhaps be better if you did some«
times, rather than to remain whole hours — ^yes,
Mr. Meredith, whole hours — fast asleep in her
presence ; leaving her to enjoy the dangerous
contrast afforded by the attentions and conver-
sation of an agreeable man who keeps himself
wide awake."

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102 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

** But it is kDown to every one that my wife
refused Windermere because she preferred me.
This fact should surely disarm malice, and
silence slander. Had she preferred him, she
might have married him; but having preferred
7nej is it at all likely that she would now, when
morality, virtue, every thing forbid it; but,
above all, her attachment to me, — ^is it likely,
I ask, that she could now be suspected of loving

" When she accorded the preference to you,
Mr. Meredith, you forget that she knew litde
of you except through the casual intercourse
afforded by a ball, a concert, or the crush-room
at the opera, and of Lord Windermere she
knew rather less. The injudicious, because
angrily expressed opposition to your suit, which
her parents offered, and the secret encourage-
ment she met with from my poor foolish sister,
Lady Beauchamp, excited a girlish fancy for
you, who were her first declared admirer, in
my niece's breast, into a flame which, like a
fire of straw, would have quickly died away,
had not such fuel been added to it. The

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 103

efforts and recommendations of her family to
induce her to accept Windermere produced
precisely the contrary effect which they in-
tended ; so that her marriage with you can no
more he attributed to a real b&ndjlde affection
on her part, than her rejection of him can be
traced to any personal dislike."

« Allow me to '*

'* I will allow nothing until you have heard
me. Well, then, to resume. She carries her
point ; marries you ; comes abroad ; and you,
instead of being her cheerful companion, her
attentive husband, and her watchful guardian,
become, if not indifferent, careless ; and if not
unkind, negligent. You sleep whole hours,
leaving her either totally alone to reflect on the
difference of a lover and a husband ; or in the
still more dangerous position of a Mte^Mte
with a very fine young man, to grow even more
fully aware of the contrast"

<* Good Heavens I you do not mean to say
that Lord Windermere has forgotten-^has vio-
lated the rights of hospitality ?"

** If he has not, t/ou have not been the ob-

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104 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE;

stacle, for you have certainly given him every
opportunity/*

" But my wife — Lady Ellen — surely die
never would — ^never could——"

" Why are you to expect my niece to he • that
faultless monster that the world ne'er saw?'
Like all young women, she prizes admiration,
attention, and an agreeable companion. You
have ceased to offer to her any of these agrS-
mens; and have negligently, unwisely, per-
mitted another to supply them.''

*^ How coidd I think, how could I dream
that she who preferred me could ever bestow a
thought on another ; and that other, one whom
she had rejected for me?"

*' Yet most men might have thought of this
possibility, Mr. Meredith, and even those who
slept not half so much as you might have dreamt
of it The fact is, your vanity led you into the
error you have committed ; fortunately, it is not
too late to be retrieved."

« What shall I— what can I do ?"

*' Follow my advice, and all will yet be
welL"

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 105

" I will leave Naples to-morrow j take her
away from the society of Windermere.**

'* And by so doing commit a greater folly
than the previous one. To tear her away thus
abruptly from the society of one with whom you
have permitted her to live on habits of constant
intercourse, would not only be sure to excite a
livelier interest for him in her mind, but would
confirm every evil report in circulation here on
the subject*'

** What then is to be done ? I am wretched
— I am miserable."

'< You might in a short time have been ren-
dered both ; but at present I see no cause for
despair. Abandon the habit of sleeping on sofas
and chairs ; show the same attention to your own
young and pretty wife that you would imagine
it necessary to show to the young and pretty
wife of any of your acquaintance. In short,
behave towards her as Lord Windermere does.
You cannot have a better model for delicate
attentions on which to form yourself.'*

Meredith writhed under this sarcasm : but

f3

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lOfi THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

Mr. Mortimer was not a man to spare the feel-
ings of another.

** Betray no s}inptom of suspicion, and never
forget that as yet your wife is innocent of any
thing, except an almost unconscious flirtation,
into which your folly has led her; and that
Windermere only culpable of a weakness in
yielding to a temptation that few could resist*-^
to love, or to fimcy he loves, a woman whose
constant society you have left him to enjoy.
You must enter the lists with him to win again
the preference once allotted to you over him by
my niece, and I must endeavour to find the
means of conquering any predilection she may
be disposed to entertain for him."

** If you can accomplish this, how happy,
how grateful you will make me I"

** What strange animals men are, Meredith 1
Half an hour ago you slept, careless and ccm-
tenr^, ignorant that danger menaced I now you
begin to know the value of the possession you
then appreciated so little that you disdained to
guard it.**

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 107

** I see, I feel my error, and if indeed I have
not irretrievably lost Ellen's affection — oh!
there is bitteniess in the thought — I will "

" Be more attentive, n^est ce pas f En aU
tendant, followmy instructions. Instead of sleep-
ing on your sofa to-morrow, let us play a parti
oi Scarti. This will keep you awake, keep my
niece and Lord Windermere from sentimental-
izing on the balcony, and prevent me from catch-
ing a cold by enacting the triste rdle of a Marplot
on the said balcony. These points are some-
thing gained. Leave the rest to chance."

" You surely jest I What, propose cards to
a man whose feelings are tortured as mine are ?
Never was there so puerile, so (permit me to
say) ridiculous a project, and never was there
any one less disposed to follow it than I am,
under the present excitement of my mind.**

'* Do not be obstinate, follow my counsel in
this point, and I venture to pronounce that you
will have no cause to repent it."

'* Well, for this once I yield to your advice,
though I confess I cannot comprehend its ad-
vantage."

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108 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

Mr. Meredith sought his pillow that night
with a heavy heart : and was rejoiced to find
that Lady Ellen was asleep, as he dreaded ex-
posing to her the state of his mind. Long did
he hrood over the communication made to him
hy Mr. Mortimer ; and hitterly did he accuse
himself for having, hy his supineness, exposed
his wife not only to censure, but to positive
danger. It required no slight exertion of his
self-control, to conceal, the next day, the anxiety
and agitation that reigned in his breast; for
now that his eyes were opened, he remarked
with many a jealous pang, the assiduities of
Lord Windermere, and the complacency with
which they were received, and felt astonished
that they had hitherto escaped his observation.
He ceased not, during the many hours, which
he fancied interminable, to observe every inci-
dent, however trivial, that tended to confirm
the suspicions now excited, and was frequently
on the point of betraying the anger to which
they gave birth.

Evening at length came; and when Mr.
Meredith, from habit, moved towards the sofa.

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THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE* 109

where he had been wont to enjoy his siestOf
and Lady Ellen and her admirer looked senti-
mentally towards the balcony, Mr. Mortimer
said,

<< Come, come, Meredith, let us have a game
of cards. It is much better than sleeping on
the sofa, or catching cold on the balcony, as I
did hist night."

JjOI^ Windermere looked as if he wished the
proposer of cards a thousand miles off, and Lady
Ellen declared that she did not know a single
game. Meredith half-yawning uttered some-
thing expressive of his indifference about play,
but his willingness to do any thing agreeable
to Mr. Mortimer, who declared that he would
instruct his niece in macao^ a game so easily
and quickly acquired, that even a child could
learn it in five minutes. The reluctance of
Lord Windermere and Lady Ellen was over-
ruled by the pertinacity with which the uncle
of the latter adhered to his desire; and the
party sat down to cards. Guinea stakes were
proposed by Mr. Mortimer, and assented to by

dbyGoogk

110 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

the other two gentlemen, while the lady, per-
fectly ignorant of the game, was placed under
the guidance of her uncle. At first she paid
little attention to the play, nor did Lord Win-
dermere enter into it with much more ani-
mation ; but when, after a few rounds, he
became the dealer, with a small pile of gold
before him, Mr. Mortimer with pleasure re-
marked, that instead of, as hitherto, keeping
his eyes constantly fixed on the beautiful ftkce
of Lady Ellen, they were employed in looking
at the cards. She, too, when having three
successive times been dealt an eight, and con-
sequently been paid twice the amount of her
stake by the dealer, began to take much more
interest in the game, and evinced with childish
joy her satisfaction at having been so successfuL
A nine was now dealt to her, and her gaiety
increased ; she impatiently held out her small
white hand to receive the trifling amount of
the sum she had risked, her eyes sparkling,
and her cheeks blushing with the gratification
of the new passion which had been awakened

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. Ill

in her mind; and, as the uncle marked the
added heauty given hy the unwonted excitement
to her face, and glanced at Lord Windermere,
to notice whether he also observed it, he de*
tected an expression of dissatisfaction almost
amounting to dislike in his countenance, as his
eyes were turned on her &ce. He continued
to lose, and evinced such evident symptoms of
discomposure at his ill luck, as to render him
perfectly unamiable, in spite of his efforts to
master his ill-humour. It became apparent
that Lady Ellen remarked the change effected
by play on her admirer; for she looked at him
from time to time, as his cheek flushed, and
he bit his nether lip, with no less astonishment
than disapprobation.

At length fortune changed, and the pyramid
of gold which Lady Ellen had won, and to
which she had frequently pointed with childish
exultation, began to crumble away ; as dealing
the cards she enriched all the others, and im*
poverished herself. She now began to exhibit
certfldn evidences of anger, and then became

dbyGoogk

112 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE.

much incensed, when Lord Windermere, for-
getful in the excitement of gambling, of the
biens^ifice of wt homme camme ilfaut^ and the
rdle of an admirer, evinced more desire to
receive his winnings from the fair loser, than
did even Mr. Mortimer.

Mr. Meredith was the only one of the three
men who did not remind her that he had won
from her, and she remarked this with some-
thing like a feeling of gratitude. But how did
this feeling increase when, towards the close of
the evening, having lost not only the large sum
she had previously won, but all the money she
possessed, her husband uttering a well-timed
compliment, that one so favoured by Nature,
could not expect to be equally so by Fortune,
who being blind, could not see her whom she
persecuted, placed before her all the gold from
his pile, and afterwards declined accepting pay-
ment when he won from her. She contrasted
the conduct of Mr. Meredith with that of
Lord Windermere, glanced from the counte-
nance of the one to the other, and observed.

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 113

that while that of the former exhibited good
temper and serenity, that of the latter was
flushed by excitement, and lighted up by ava-
rice. She asked herself whether this could be
the same &ce that only a few hours previously
had beamed with softness and sentiment? and
turned from the contemplation, perfectly cured
of her growing predilection for its owner.

But determined that her cure shotdd be
complete, Mr. Mortimer increased the stakes,
which consequently added to the excitement of
Lord Windermere, until he displayed such an
ill-bred exultation when his avarice was grati*
fied by winning, and such ill-humour when it
was defeated, that totally unconscious that she
herself had exhibited the same defect, though
in a less degree, she conceived a positive dis-
like to him, which became so evident, that her
uncle gave sundry glances of satisfaction to
Mr. Meredith.

The marquis as he undressed at a late hour,
to seek his pillow, confessed to himself, that
although Lady Ellen was very beautiful, he

dbyGoogk

114 THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE*

should never again think her so, after having
seen her onfeminine passion for play^ her odious
love of money, and the mauvaise manihre with
which she lost or won.

'* No»'' said he to himself, *' the illusion
is over. I am glad she is not my wife — I
never could fancy her again, and so ailanM to
Palermo."

The Lady Ellen Meredith heard of his depar-
ture the next day without regret; and reflects
ing on the change in her sentiments towards
him, whispered to herself, *' If play can render
a person so disagreeable, as it made him, it
ought to he avoided. No, I will never gamble
again."

A resolution to which she steadily adhered.

The English at Naples wondered for three
whole days, why Lord Windermere departed
so abruptly. They were during that period
divided in conjectures whether any disagreeable
detection had been made, or whether, discover-
ing his passion to be hopeless, the lover had
fled in despair. The greater number adopted

dbyGoogk

THE ANTIDOTE TO LOVE. 115

the first supposition^ and this was strengthened
by the unusual attention of Mr. Meredith to
bis wife, which they charitably pronounced to
be exhibited expressly to prevent suspicion.

Mr. Meredith was never afterwards known
to sleep out of bed, or his wife to sentimen-
talize*

dbyGoogk

dbyGoogk

117

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

In the suburbs of the village of Comery might
be seen two cottages, not more than a quarter
of a mile apart, both of the same dimensions,
but widely different in appearance. One had
been newly thatched and white-washed; the
glass windows shone brightly, and a few flower,
pots, in which were some hardy geraniums,
graced them. Some parasitic plants were creep-
ing against the white walls ; and in front, was
a small but neat garden, well filled with simple
and blooming flowers, around which were hover-
ing innumerable bees, whose hives, ranged
along the southern wall of the cottage, added to

dbyGoogk

118 THE OLD IRISH OENTLEMAN.

the air of comfort and cheerfulness of the rural
picture.

The other dwelling offered a very striking
contrast. The walls of the cottage were stained
with mud and patches of green damp, and the
thatch in many parts had disappeared, or was
overgrown hy weeds. The windows had many
more panes broken than whole ; and through
the broken ones protruded various unseemly
articles of wearing apparel, thrust in to supply
the place of the glass, A huge heap of dung
raised its unshapely mass against one side of
the house ; and on the other, a pool of stagnant
water, verdant from the accumulation of indes-
cribable vegetable matter that half filled it» sent
forth most unsavoury exhalations. Some ducks
were floating merrily on the bosom of this
opaque pond, or lough^ as the owner of the
dwelling would have called it ; and sundry long-
legged pigs were supinely wallowing along its
filthy banks. The mingled noises of cocks^
hens, turkeys, and geese, stunned the ears of all
who approached, as these domestic favourites

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 119

were in turn assailed by four or five curly-
headed, ragged urchins, whose rosy cheeks and
sturdy limbs bore evidence of the nutritious
qualities of potatoes, and whose activity in
chasing the frightened birds kept these last in
constant exercise. Two or three dogs, who
occasionally joined in the warfare, barked, or
growled a deep bass to the treble of the birds
and the shrill laugh of the children; only inter-
rupted for a few minutes when the loud voice
of an old man, who sat smoking his short pipe
at the door of the house, commanded them to
*^ hould their whisth, and not to be bothering
the brains out of him, and the sowls out of the
poor oreathures of fowls.**

In a porch in front of the first-mentioned of
the two cottages, which in tidiness and beauty
might have lost nothing by comparison with the
neatest of those in England, sat two women,
busily employed. The elder one, far advanced
in the vale of years, was knitting stockings ;
and the other, a comely matron of middle age,
was sewing a garment of linen, white as the

dbyGoogk

120 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEBCAIT.

snowy pigeons that were revolving in airy flight
over her head, or sometimes descending to pick
up the huck-wheat dispensed with a liheral hand
in the farm-yard adjoining the garden.

** Well, then, sure it's myself, Mary dear,
that's come up to have an hour's talk with you,
this fine day," said the old woman, in accents
that could leave no douht of her country. ** And
see, I've brought my knitting,'' resumed she,
'< that you shouldn't be scoulding me for being
idle, as you always do when I'm not at work."

" Why, I think people may as well work
while they are talking," said the other, with a
half smile ; ** and it saves time."

'*OghI Mai'y, it's yourself that's always
talking of the value of time. Sure a body might
think it was gould, by the fuss you make about
it"

« I wish, Katty my dear, I could make you
and our neighbours understand that time is as
valuable as gold, for then you would not per-
haps waste it so much."

<< Well, Mary, if the mother that bore ye —

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 121

and a dacent woman she was, as ever stepped
in shoe-leather — was to hear you, she wouldn't
believe you were her child, when you're always
finding fault with our Irish ways. Ah I she
was a &ne ^ough houragh* housekeeper, that
she was, though I say it that oughtn't to say
it, bekase as how she was my aunt"

** I only find fault because I wish to see my
country people as industrious and as economical
of time as the English are, among whom I've
spent so many years of my life."

" Well, you needn't he regretting 'em so
much; for I don't think, Mary Magee, that
you'd be afther finding a more elegant house in
all England, grand as it is, than this same house
of yours, here. Why, it's too fine to live in ;
and every thing about it is so clane, that I'm
always afraid to dirt the place when I come to
see you I What an elegant porch this is ; flowers
growing up against it, too, quite genteelly I
Why, I've seen Micky, your husband as busy
as the bees that are buzzing around us, getting

* Profttie.
VOL. III. G

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122 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

every thing ready for your coming over, just for
all the world as if he was preparing to receive
a bom gentlewoman. * She's been so many years
used to have every thing tidy and nate about
her house, in England/ says he, ^ that she'd be
miserable if I hadn't this place a little dacent
for her.' And sure he thried all he could to
get me and my ould man to take pathem by
him, and to do up our tiniment ; but we're too
ould to change our ways, or to be bothering
ourselves with alterations. Besides, it's a great
comfort not to be afraid of spoiling things by
dirting 'em ; and with us, childer, pigs, dogs,
and fowls, enjoy themselves, man and baste, as
we say, without ever being put out of the way.
But whisht, look down at the road, Mary —
there he goes, and may God bless him while he
lives, and the heavens be his bed when he takes
the last sleep I Look at the fine face of him,
7na vourneen^^ with the eyes as blue as the
heavens over his head, and the white locks that
ai'c streaming down his fresh^coloured cheeks

* My dear.

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 123

as pure as the snow on the Slieve^ne^Man moun-
tains I Sure, it does the heart of me good to
see him."

** But why is he made so much of by all the
neighbours?" asked the younger woman.

" Why ? Ah, then, sure it's aisy to see you
must be a stranger in these parts to ask the
question. Isn't it himself that spent oceans of
money, and, when that was gone, coined thou-
sands of green acres into gold, to give to those
that wanted it ; and kept a house, the smoke
of whose chimneys, burning night and day,
went up to the sky to tell God how well he fed
the hungry ? Why, the smoke of his kitchen-
chimney might be seen twenty miles off; and
the smell of the meat, roasting and boiling, fry-
ing and broiling, drew every one who wanted a
good dinner to the big-house, where plenty and
cead miUe faltJwugh houghs* always awaited
them."

" Why did he leave the big-house, then,
neighbour?"

* A thousand welcomeff.

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1S4 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

'* Arragh, bekase them beasts of bailifl^
wouldn't let him stay in it any longer; bad
luck to 'em night and day for driving him away
from us I for it was a sore day for Comery when
he left it/'

^* How could the bailifl^ drive him away, if
he had a right to stay ?"

" If he had a right to stay I 'Pon my soul,
Mary Magee, you make the heart of me beat
quicker, and the anger get into my head» by
your foolish questions."

" I'm very sorry, Katty honey, for that same ;
for Him above knows, I had no thought to vex
you. But I don't quite understand how a gen-
tleman is to be driven from his house and home
by bailifi^, if he has done nothing against the
law."

" Against the law I — bad luck to the law I
isn't it the ruin of us all ? Don't tell me of law
which has beggared more than one-half the
parish, and will never stop till it has beggared
the other! Law, indeed I Isn't it another
name for the devil ? — God forgive me for say-

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 1^5

ing such a word. The very sound of it makes
me angry, and good cause I have for that same/'

'* But you have not told me, Katty dear, how
the bailiffs had power to turn away Mr. O'Do-
noughough from the big-house.'*

" Power I — sure haven't they power to do
whatever they like when the law tells 'em?"

** Did he do any thing against the law, then?"

*^ He ! — ^never. But bekase he couldn't pay
the wine-merchant for all the port, and sherry,
and claret, that used to be floating about the
dining-room, enough to swim a big ship, the
spalpeen of the world put a press* into the
house i after that a latitat ; then fiery faces ;t
and then, them blackguards of bailiffs, who, if
a gentleman owes a thrifle of money, have no
more respect for him than if he was nothing at
all, came and took possession."

*' What's a press, Katty dear, and a latitat ?
The fiery faces, I guess, must be the two red-
nosed bailiffs that the garsoons always pelt with
stones when they go through the village."

* Proceti. t ^*>^ Facias.

dbyGoogk

126 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

" Whjf God help you, you creathure of the
world ! Arragh, sure, as I said before, it's aisy
enough to see you're a stranger in these parts,
not to know what a pross, a latitat, and fiery
faces main I You'll not be long here, I can
tell you, before you know 'em better ; for there's
not a brat of a boy, no, nor a girl neither, in
all the bhoreens,* that isn't cute enough to
know that much/*

" Well, but tell me, Katty, why Mr. O'Dc
noughough was forced away from the big*
house."

•* Why, cuishla ma chree^ when the people
found out that the bailifife were in the house,
the butcher said, ' I'd never be the first man
to put an execution into the house,' says he ;
< But as Mr. Hooper, the great wine-merchant
from Dublin, has put one in, I may as well
thry, and get my money.' So he up and gets
a detainer. Thin comes the grocer, with a
bill as long as the pedigree of the O'Donough-
oughs — and sure there aint a longer in all

* Suburbs of a town or Tillage.

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 127

Ireland — and he says, / I must be paid for my
tay, and sugar, and coffee, and spices/ Ogh,
the vagabone of the world I — when I think that
there wasn't a poor woman within ten miles
that was ever allowed to want a cup of bohay —
ay, be me soul, nor a dhrop of wine, if she was
sick or sorry, and cinnamont, cloves, and sugar
to put into it I Sure it's no wondher that the
bill for spices was a long one, any way. Afther
that comes the miller for his flour. * Well,
sure,' says the ould masther, * I can't owe
Barney Donovan much for flour ; for hasn't he
had every shafe of whale that has grown on my
farm for the last twenty years, and I never took
a shilling of money from him for that same ? '
But Barney up and tould him, that though the
whate on the farm might find flour enough for
one large family, it couldn't supply all the poor
in the neighbourhood, who got bread from the
big-house. Ogh, Mary Magee, there never
was such another customer in the whole world
as the ould masther ! He never left any thing
on the hands of the thrades people, that he

dbyGoogk

128 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

didn't I The chandler thin takes the law for
the soap and candles sent to the big-house for
many a long year, and a terrible bill it was ;
and no wondher, for the ould gentleman couldn't
bear to see a dirty child in the whole parish ;
and well the poor neighbours knew it : for
when they wanted a supply of soap, faith they'd
turn out the childer with dirty faces into the
road whin the masther was coming that way,
and whin he scoulded 'em for having them so
black, they'd say they hadn't a bit of soap to
wash 'em, and he'd ordher a stone of it to be
sent to 'em next day. Thin, the ould women
were always begging for rushlights for the long
nights whin they were sick, and snuff and
tobacco for wakes, and they never were denied;
so how could the ould gentleman help owing a
power of money to the chandler ? The tailor
was the next, and his bill for frize coats alone,
for the poor ould men, and cloaks for the ould
women, of the parish, was a terrible one, let
alone for the masther's clothes and the liveries.
** The blacksmith was the last who took the

dbyGoogk

THB OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 129

law. He had shod the horses for years and years,
and a blessed number of thim there was in the
stables. He was the dacentest of all thim that .
sarved the masther for generations, and he
cried down salt tears whin he tould me that if
he only got the money due to him for forcing
open doors, picking locks, and making new
keys every year at the big-house, his childer
would be rich people now. Well, Mary, one
afther another they put in executions. The
boys in the neighbourhood wanted to go up
and mhurdher the bailiffs ; and the ould women,
and, to tell the truth, myself among 'em, advised
the gorsoons not to lave a bone in their bodies
unbroken : but Mr. O'Donoughough, suspect-
ing that the love of the people would lade 'em
to shew their respect for him in this manner,
sent down a line to say, that if a single hair of
the heads of any of the baili£& was touched,
he'd never forgive whoever did it. Thin the
boys wanted to smash the windows of thim that
put in the executions — ay, be me throth, and to
bait 'em too — but the masther ordhered them

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ISO THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

not to break the law, and the spalpeens of the
world were allowed to go unpunished, — ^more 's
the pity I Think, Mary Magee, what it was
to have executions for thousands and thousands
of pounds put into that house where, for years
and years, there was nothing known but feast-
ing and rejoicing — where the poor were clothed
and fed, and where the door was as open as
the heart of the owner. Ogh^ chane,* ma
voumeen t that was a sore day for poor Co-
mery ; and there were more dhry throats than
dhry eyes there thin any way. 1*11 never forgit,
when we were all bemoaning over the fire in
the Widow Macgrath's little houlding, Padheen
Murdoch said, 'Why, isn't it a big shame for us
to sit U7i-kenthahaing\ here, instead of making
thim bailifi^s cry that did the mischief? Sure
the masther only tould us not to hurt a hair of
their heads ; and, as most of them wear wigs,
we may bait 'em right well without touching
their hair I' Poor Padheen was always a
dacent and cute boy, God rest his soul ! He,

* Alas ! woe it me ! ^ Lamenting;

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. ItJl

wasn't like those that sarved the house for
years, the ungrateful varmint I afther all the
good he, the masther, I main, had done 'em,
thinking he never could give 'em enough work
to do, or huy too much from them. Sure, the
butcher himself allows, that the big-house took
so much mate, that all the cows and sheep
sould to him from the farm on the estate
wouldn't half pay his bill ; and sure, no won-
der, when half the parish — ay, be me soul, and
more than half — ^never had occasion to buy a
joint three times in the year, as all that could
have esquire clapped to their names dined
most days of the week in the great oak-hall at
the big-house ; and the days they did not dine
there were passed in thrying to recover from
the effects of the too good dinners eaten, and
the too much good wine dhrank there. Sure,
didn't three parsons, Kirivan, Morrison, and
him that came afther him. Parson O'Driscol,
die, one of hoppoplexy,* t'other of hii)digesty,t
and the last from a narrow sipilas,;}; from eating
too much at the big-house ? And no less t^an

• Apoplexy. t Indigestion. * Erysipelas.

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ldS2 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

four doctors, one afther another, died from the
same cause. I didn't much pity the doctors,
any way ; for they are all for starving their
patients, and cramming themselves, for all the
world like the fowls sint up for the English
officers to the Duhlin market. And while the
gintry were fed in the oak-hall, be me soul,
the tradesmen and hangers on, and all who
were on the shovgh-^-raun^ were as well fed
in the sarvants' hall ; the only difference in
life being, that the oak-hall company had first
cuts of the joints, and the sarvants and their
friends the second. Then came the bocoughs*
to the scullery door — lame, blind, and the
tn/ioodaunsf into the bargain, and lashings
they got to eat and to carry away. Niver was
such eating and dhrinking in this world ; no,
nor never will be in the next, for all the people
tells us of the blessings that will be there.
Beer and cider flowed like the sea, and
whisky was as plenty as the water in the river
Suir, and as clear and bright, but more nou-
rishing.'*

* Beggannen. f FooU.

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THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 133

^* Then it seems the old gentleman paid for
little of this extravagance ?"

^* Paid, indeed I faith he was too much of a
gintleman to bother his head about paying. It
is not what he had been used to ; no, nor his
father before him. From generation to gene-
ration they had gone on feeding rich and poor,
and clothing as well as feeding those that
wanted it ; and, let me tell you, that whin a
gintleman has to be ordering grand dinners in
the morning, to be eating 'em in the evening,
and to be thrying to sleep off the effects of 'em
in the night, not to talk of shooting and hunt-
ing, he can find but little time to be thinking
of bills, let alone paying 'em."

" Well but, Katty dear, that's what I call
very wrong. People should be just before they
are generous ; and pay their debts before they
give away money or food that isn*t theirs."

" That isn't theirs ! What do you mean by
that, Mrs. Magee ? — I 'd like to know. ^V^ly,
wasn't it his own the moment he bought it,
woman?"

dbyGoogk

134 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

"No, Katty, not till he paid for it"

" Ogh, mhurderl mhurderl was there ever
sich nonsense? Sure, if nobody thought a
thing their own, until they paid for it, by me
conscience, there's few people would have much
property to boast of. But you're a quare era*
thur, Mary Magee, that's the truth of it ; and
you picked up all them mean notions when you
were across the herring-pond, and can't get
'em out of your head. I'm sorry for you^ troth
I am ; for I see you can't understand how a
real Milesian gintleman ought to live; and
you think that he ought to be putting his
hand in his pocket to pay for things, just
for all the world like that poor mean fellow
Mr. Herbert,*'

" Mean fellow 1 Oh, Katty, how can you
call him so ? He that does so much good, that
employs the poor all the year round, finding
some occupation for every one 1"

" And more shame for him to be working
the poor crathurs off their legs ! If he gave
'em a thrifle for nothing, then, indeed, I'd sav

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 135

something of him; but doesn't he get hard
work for his wages?"

" Katty, Katty, how can you forget all the
good he has done since he came amongst
you?"

''Good, indeed? — Is it him? He wants
people to work like niggers — ay, faith, and
makes 'em too ; and where 's the compliment,
or the great goodness in paying 'em for their
hard labour ? If, as I said before, he gave 'em
the money for doing nothing, that would be
goodness."

''No, Katty, that would be folly, and an
encouragement to idleness ; whereas Mr. Her-
bert provides work, and pays for it liberally,
teaching those who are willing to labour to
depend on it for their support, instead of eat-
ing the bread of idleness given to them through
mistaking charity."

" Och I and don't be telling me of your Mr.
Herbert I 'tis little I think of him and the
likes of him : give me the ould masther, Mr.
O'Donoughough, the real gintleman iix)m top
to toe."

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136 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

" But this real gentleman has ruined all
those who supplied his house.**

** Is it him ? Not he, indeed 1 — quite the
conthrary. Did he ever huxter, and dispute,
and hait down the price of any thing? Not
like Mr. Herbert, who will only pay the
market prices.**

" Yes, Katty, but remember Mr. Herbert
does pay.**

" And no thanks to him either, when he*s
making money every day, planting, dhraining,
and getting railroads carried."

" It will be long before he derives any profit
from these works, which require so large an
expenditure. But look at the constant employ,
ment, winter and summer, he finds for the poor ;
those that used to be months out of work, with
their families starving."

" No ! Misthis Magee, there was no one
allowed to starve while the masther was at the
big-house, and that I'd have you to know.
Starve, indeed!"

<< Well but, Katty, is it not better to have
the means of supporting one's family honestly

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THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 137

by one's own labour, than to be obliged to
depend on charity ?"

" Whin there's no charity to be had people
must labour, Misthis Magee ; but if the ould
masther was at the big-house no one need
work."

** And so much the worse ; but you don't
surely, mean to say that Mr. Herbert ever
refuses charity where it is really required ?"

" Didn't he refuse Tom Macguire t'other
day?"

** Because Tom is well able to work, and
wouldn't."

•* Tom hasn't been accustomed to it, poor
boy! He used to earn lashings of money, as did
many more in the masther's time, going out
baiting the covers for the gintlemen that used
to be out shooting from the big-house. Many's
the tinpinny he used to get; and when, by
any lucky accident, he got shot in the legs,
they'd give him a piece of gould, and he'd be
off to the fairs and pathrens in the neighbour-
hood until every farthing of it was gone. Often

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138 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

have I seen Tom Macguire and some more of
the boys picking the shot out of their legs with
knitting-needles, and heard 'em hoping they'd
soon have more of the same good luck, it
brought'em so much money. Ogh I times are
sadly changed with poor Tom, and it's no
wondher he has taken to the dhrink to comfort
him. Little did I think he'd ever be reduced
to ax a Sassenagh^ for charity."

*' Nor ought he to ask any one^ Katty dear,
when he has health to work."

'* But I tell you he's not used to it."

" And I know Mr. Herbert isn't used to
give charity to those that can earn, and won'L^

" Ogh 1 I see, Mary Magee, that you're
entirely changed into an Englishwoman by the
many long years you spent in England, and
nursing them English childer ; and you have
such quare notions, that it's no use talking to
you. Faith, you, an Irishwoman bred and
bom, ought to be ashamed to disparage your
own counthry, and to set up another above it"

• A stnmger.

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THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 139

" You wrong me, indeed, Katty honey, for I
love Ireland dearly ; and it's because I do, that
I would wish to see my countrymen taking
pattern from Englishmen, and learning to value
their time, and to depend on their labour. But
you have not told me what became of Mr.
O'Donoughough after all the executions were
put in the house?"

"Sure, thin a cant* was called; and as
none of the gintry of the neighbourhood would
attend it for fear of hurting the ould masther's
feelings, the things sould for little or nothing
to the little blackguard brokers from Water-
fqrd, Carrich-on-Suir, and Clonmel. Ogh I
'twas they that carried off the lobt anyway.
The estate was sould out and out ; for, un-
luckily, 'twas'nt tailed on Miss Grace."

** Who was Miss Grace?"

" The masther's only daughter, to be sure, —
the biggest beauty and the greatest darlingt
that ever was bom. No, Mary Magee, you
may believe me when I tell you, that there isn't

* An Auction. * Treasore.

dbyGoogk

140 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

the match for Miss Grace CyDoiioughough in
ail Ireland. Ogh I 'twas enough to melt the
hardest heart to see her whin the bailifi came
and took all ; yet she did not shed a tear, only
looked so palci and she minded nothing hut
thrying to comfort the ould masther.

" * My child, my own Grace,' said he, * can
you forgive me for letting it come to this? How
unpardonable has my conduct been I' And the
tears came rolling down his cheeks, and she put
her arms around his neck, and kissed him until
his tears were all shining on her dark ringlets
just for all the world like the dew on the leaves
of the lauristina ; and her young fair cheek,
pressed against his ruddy one, looked like a
lily near a damask rose ; while his white locks
were mixed with her shining black ones, just
as one sees the snow hanging in wreaths
from the branches of the larch. I saw it all
through the glass-door of the study, whin
I was thrying to condole with my sister-
in-law, Anstey O'Donnel, the nurse of Miss
Grace, who never left her since she was

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 141

bom ; no, nor never will till she — Anstey, I
main — is carried feet foremost to the church-
yard. ' Come, my dear father I' says Miss Grace.
• Where would you have me go, my child?'
says he. * To Clonea, where I have secured
such a pretty cottage, and prepared every thing
for your reception.* — * Then you have long fore-
seen what would, what must have been the fruit

of my folly, while I * And here the big

tears came down so fast he couldn't finish what
he was saying. And she had foreseen, sure
enough, as her mother before her had, that the
noble-hearted ould gintleman was spending
thousands where he ought not to have spent
hundreds ; and this grieved the daughter as it
had grieved the mother, who, many people said,
died of a broken heart from the dread that her
child would be reduced to want."

'* And wouldn't the gentleman listen to his
wife or his daughter, and for their sakes leave
off his extravagance ?"

<* How could he, poor gintleman ? Sure
often and often he promised the misthis he

dbyGoogk

142 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

would turn over a new leaf: but then would
come some company, invited months before,
for the shooting, or the hunting, or the fishing;
and, as he used to say, there was no good in
thrying to save in the winther, bekase ould
friends would be coming. Then in the summer,
there was the races at one place and another,
all within an aisy distance of the big-house;
and people would think it so quare, and so
they would, faith, if the house wasn't filled
with company as it always was for genera-
tions and generations. So you see, Mary,
he could never find the time to turn over the
new leaf, either in winter or summer: so
't wasn't his fault, poor dear gintlemani as you
see, and, indeed, many a one has tould me,
'tis a mighty hard matter to do it, for one never
knows where or how to begin. Well, but I
was telling you, he cried ; and 'tis a terrible
thing, Mary, to see a man, and, above aU, such
a man, shed tears. ' You may forgive me, my
own Grace,' says he, ' but I never can forgive
myself. Slie^ who is in heaven, warned me of

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 143

what must happen/—^ Oh, my dear father, he
comforted, I pray you,' said Miss Grace, the
tears streaming down her cheeks ; and again
and again she kissed his forehead. With that
poor Anstey hegan sohhing, and so did I too,
for I couldn't help it, and so we stole out of
the room that the masther and Miss Grace
mightn't know we were there They went off
to Clonea the next morning, followed by the
blessings of the poor and the good wishes of
the rich j and they live in a little bit of a
cottage that you might steal out of the hall of
the big-house without its being missed; but it's
so neat, and so tidy, and so sweet, that it's a
pleasure to look at it ; and then Miss Grace is
from morning till night thinking of nothing
but how to please her father. And the farmers
around are always sending 'em chickens, and
butter, and eggs, and every thing they think
they would like, though Miss Grace does all
she can to prevent 'em; and isn't it herself
that has refused great offers of marriage be-
kase she wouldn't leave her father, and never
will?"

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144 TH£ OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

*' But how has Miss Grace been able to do
all this for her father?" asked Mary Magee,
wiping her eyes which had been moistened by
Katty's story.

"Oghl thin, did I forget to tell you that
her godfather took more care of her worldly
prospects than her real father did ; and, having
died a year before the break-up of the big-
house, left Miss Grace two hundred pounds
a-year for her life, out of which she makes
not only the ould masther happy, but con-
thrives to do a power of good to the poor into
the bargain? The masther comes here now
and then, just to see the ould place and the
ould faces, and proud and glad are we to see
him : God bless him, and long may he live ! "

It was about three months after this conver-
sation, that Katty and Mary Magee were again
seated in front of the latter's dwelling, the
one as formerly engaged in needlework, while
the other was knitting stockings.

" WeU, thin, sure, Mary Magee, 'tis your-
self that was sly enough, any way, never to have
tould us a word of the courtship until the wed-

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THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 145

ding-day was fixed, when you must haye known
from your husband long ago that his masther
was going to be married to Miss Grace O'Do-
noughough."

•* Why, to tell you the truth, Katty, I did
not think it right to speak about the courtship
of my husband's master until I knew that the
young lady had accepted him/'

" Ogh I by me soul, Mary, you're almost an
Englishwoman in all your ways ; and only that
the mother of you was my own aunt, which
makes you me cousin-garmint, I'd neyer belieye
you had the true ould Irish blood in your yains,
you're so quare. And so Mr. Herbert has
bought the big house, and all the estate along
with it, and Miss Grace will be misthis of the
house she was bom and bred in after all, praise
and glory be to His name who settles every
thing for the best I Well, the heart of me
warmed to Mr. Herbert, which is more than
eyer I thought it would do to a Sassenagh, and
above all to one as makes people work like
iiigg®^ ^^111 I heard how he sent round every

VOL. III. H

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146 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

where to buy up all the ould family pictures
that belonged to the big house, and paid six
times as much for 'em as they were formerly
sould for at the cant/'

" When you know Mr. Herbert as well as I
do, Katty, your heart toill warm to him, I can
tell you ; for, though he is not a gentleman
who makes professions of kindness, never was
there so considerate a person, or so just a
one."

*' Always barring the ould masther, Mary ;
for I can never allow any one to be put before
him. I am tould that nothing can equal the
elegant furniture that is putting into the
Bighouse, and that the ould masther's own
rooms are doing up for him as if he was a
king."

" Yes, indeed, Katty, every attention is paid
to his comfort ; and Mr. Herbert behaves to
him just as if he was his own father — so
respectful, and so affectionate, my husband teUs

me.**

And why not, pray? Isn't it a great

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 147

honour for Mr. Herbert, or the like of him,
to marry into such an ould ancient family,
with a pedigree as long as the bleaching-
green ?*•

" But Mr. Herbert is of a very old fistmily
himself, Katty."

" Why, didn't people tell me that his fistther
was only a banker ?"

** It is very true that his father, the Honour-
able Mr. Herbert, own brother to an earl, was
a banker."

'' Arragh I let us alone, Mary Magee, and
don't be afther telling us that a real lord's bro-
ther would keep a bank, just like Jimmy De^e-
reux at Carrick-on-Suir, that keeps the bank
and the cloth-shop I "

<' Bankers in London, Katty, are quite dif-
ferent from those in small towns in Ireland ;
and many of the younger branches of noble
fiunilies are partners in banking-houses.'*

** Well, that beats out Banahger and Balinas-
loe tool Who'd ever believe that lords' bro-
thers and sons would come to such a pitch I —

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148 THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN.

But thim English lords aint to be compared
with Irish; they haven't the true Milesian
blood in their vains afther all, or, if they had,
they'd rather be without a shoe to their feet, a
coat to their backs, or a morsel in their sto-
machs, than take to business : so it's well for
Mr. Herbert, rich as he is — and they say he is
as rich as the Irish king Crat/shots* — that his
childer, whenever they come, will have a drop
of the right sort in 'em. Ogh ! you may smile
if you like, Mary Magee, but blood isn't wather,
I can tell you."

Twelve months after the conversation above
recorded, between Katty O'Shaghnessy and
Mary Magee, a general rejoicing at Comer}'
marked the birth of a son and heir at the big-
house. Great was the alteration effected during
that short period in the appearance of the vil-
lanre, and the habits and feelings of its inha^
bitants, on whom the example and protection of
Mr. and Mrs. Herbert had produced the most

• CroeBui.

dbyGoogk

THE OLD IRISH GENTLEMAN. 149

salutary change. It is true, a few of the old
people like Katty O'Shaghnessy remained in
some particulars wedded to their prejudices ;
nevertheless, they all entertained a lively senti-
ment of gratitude towards Mr. Herbert, and an
affection bordering on adoration for his wife,
who, now blessed with ample means, left nothing
undone that could tend to their improvement
and comfort.

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dbyGoogk

151

MADELINA

A ROMAN STORY.

** I COMMAND you to 866 that grac6l6ss varkt,
Joseppa, no moro ; no good can come to him ;
he has heen a disobedient son, and is the talk
of the whole village, for his idleness, and his
insolence/'

This was the prohibition of Giovanni Vitelli,
one of the most affluent farmers in the neigh-
bourhood of Albano, to his only child, Made-
Una, the pride and darling of his old age. Tears
and imploring looks, were the only answer given
to the stem mandate, by the gentle Madelina ;
but they produced more effect on the heart of

dbyGoogk

i5Q MADELINA.

her loving father, than the most eloquent appeal
could have done. He pressed her to his hreast,
and, "My poor child I'* broke from his lips,
as he affectionately patted her glossy raven
locks.

" Do not think that I would willingly pain
you, my girl," said Giovanni. " The Madonna
knows, how much it costs me to see these tears,
and these poor pallid cheeks ; but Joseppa is
indeed unworthy of you, and a union with him
can be productive only of misery and disgrace.**

" Oh ! my father, surely you judge him too
severely,** replied the weeping maiden ; *• idle,
and unthinking, he may be, but his heart is not
bad, and he may yet be reclaimed.**

" Do not anger me, Madelina, by this weak
defence. It is thus ever with you women ; you
fancy a man is never irreclaimable, as long as
he affects to love you ; and ye think, simpletons
as ye are, that the heart cannot be a bad one,
wherein ye fancy yourselves treasured. Would
a good heart have allowed its owner to indulge
in follies — nay, worse than follies — crimes, until

dbyGoogk

MADELINA. 153

his ill conduct brought his poor mother to her
grave?*'

** But Joseppa repents his evil doings, indeed
he does, dear father."

" And shows his repentance," interrupted
Giovanni, *^ bv a total neglect of his little farm,
and continual wanderings among the mountains,
where, if rumour is to be believed, he has formed
some most discreditable and dangerous alliances.
Even our good pastor told mo ■ ■■"

•* Oh I what did he say, my father ? he who
is so good, so mercifull" said MadeUna, her
cheeks becoming deadly pale. ** Has lie too
pronounced against Joseppa?"

*^ He has warned me that this reckless youth
is pursuing desperate courses, that he has been
seen holding stealthy converse with men of
whom nothing but e\il is known ; and that he
is out night after night, no one knows exacily
where, but every one suspects^ for no honest
purpose."

Little did the father or the daughter imagine,
that he who was the subject of their conver-

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154t MADELINA.

sation, was a listener to it, or the thirst for
vengeance which it awakened in his breast
Joseppa had been hovering round the cottage,
to see Madelina, and through the open window
had heard the whole discourse. Some days
elapsed, during which Madelina saw or heard
nothing of Joseppa, and she formed the reso-
.lution of adopting the advice of her father, to
whom she was fondly attached. But though
she could not even entertain the idea of ulti-
mately giving up Joseppa, without tears of an-
guish, and heartfelt pangs, still she resolved
never to destroy the happiness of her only
parent, by persevering in encouraging a suitor,
whom he so much disapproved.

"No, my father," would the affectionate
girl ejaculate to herself, when alone, " your
Madelina will never desert you, nor leave your
hearth lonely ; you have lost the dear partner
who made your life, and mine too, happy, and
your child will never cause you a pang."

Every recurrence to her mother, whom she
had followed to the grave, two years before,

dbyGoogk

MADELINA. 155

soltened the heart of Madelina, and rendered
her more devoted to her remaining parent;
yet her passion for Joseppa was still unsub-
dued, for the poor girl thought, with the
sophistry of youthful minds, that, so long as
she refused to join her fate with Joseppa's, she
could injure no one by allowing his image to
retain its place in her heart She carefully
avoided all the haunts where she had been
accustomed to meet her lover, though the effort
cost her many a sigh, and many a longing,
lingering glance did she cast from the door of
the cottage to see if he was hovering nigh.

Ten nights after the prohibition of her father
to see Joseppa, she was awaked from her slum-
ber by a gentle tap at her window. How did
the heart of Madelina palpitate at the well-
known sound I Yet her good resolution of not
seeing him was remembered, and she moved
not. The tap was now repeated more loudly,
and fearful that her father might also hear it,
she arose and opened the casement.

** Cruel Madelina," said Joseppa, ** how

dbyGoogk

156 MADELINA.

many days have I lingered about the cottage
in the hope of seeing you I I am a fool to love
you thus, when you, ungrateful that you are»
love me no longer.*'

" Oh, Joseppa 1 how can you say so ? you
know how dear you are to me, and what sorrow
it gives me not to see you ; but my father has
forbidden it, and even in speaking to you now,
I am disobeying his commands/'

'* And know you not why he has used this
tyranny?" asked the lover with a scornful
smile.

" Alas 1 too well," was the answer. ** Your
neglect of your farm, your recklessness, your
frequent wanderings in the mountains, and
worse than all — oh, Joseppa! the intimacy you
are said to have formed with wicked men,
whom all dread. These are the reasons why
my father separates us."

" You are his dupe, I tell you," said the
wily Joseppa. ^* All that he asserts is untrue,
and only invented as an excuse to prejudice
you against me, that he may accomplish his

dbyGoogk

MADEMNA. 157

project of marrying you to the rich dotard,
Thomaso."

"What do I hear?** uttered the alarmed
Madelina ; " but no — it is impossible ; my
father could not be so cruel — no, Joseppa, I
cannot believe it."

" I knew you would not," replied he, with a
scornful smile ; " no, it is only of me that you
are disposed to believe evil, and no tale is too
improbable for your credulity. You will never
credit your father's plans until he has com**
manded you to receive the disgusting dotard
as your husband, and then you are, forsooth,
too dutiful a daughter to dispute his orders.
But I waste time in attempting to remove the
bandage from your eyes. Adieu, faithless Ma-
delina I May you be happy, while I — " and
he moved away, as if overpowered by his
emotions.

" Stay, in pity stay, dear Joseppa I you wrong
me, indeed you do I I love you as truly as ever,
and the Madonna knows how much I have
suffered in obeying my father, and avoiding
your presence.''

Digitized by VjOOQIC

158 MADELINA.

" Can you forget," resumed Joseppa, " how
many times you have vowed to be mine? how
often, when I have brought chaplets of flowers
to hang on your window, have you flown to
this casement, which to-night you opened so
reluctantly, and allowed me to intwine your
pretty fingers with flowers from the chaplet;
but I see you are changed, Madelina.**

" No, no," replied the poor girl, softened
by his appeal to past hours ; " I still love
youl"

" Well then, prove it to me," said Joseppa,
** by letting me come here to-morrow. Your
father is going to Rome to sell some sheep, he
will be absent all day, and we shall be able to
converse without interruption, perhaps, for the
last time. Your future husband goes with him
to Rome, to arrange every thing for your mar-
riage: for I saw them last evening in deep
consultation with the pastor, and I am sure all
is settled."

A noise in the chamber drew the alarmed
Madelina's attention, and she shrank with
superstitious dread, when she saw the lamp

Digitized by VjOOQIC

MADELINA. 159

that burned before the Madonna, flaring with
such force against the glass of the picture that
it cracked it in many pieces.

« Beholdr* said the affiighted girl. " What
an unlucky omen — the gift of my poor dear
mother, offered up at my birth, is destroyed I
Oh I Joseppa, this misfortune arises in my
disobedience towards my father," and tears
chased each other down her cheeks*

" See you not," said Joseppa, " that the
picture was destroyed exactly at the moment
that I was telling you that they were arranging
your marriage with Thomaso ? The Madonna
then gave you this intimation that she would
abandon you, if you consent to form that hateful
alliance. Depend on it, this is the real meaning
of the omen, which can have no evil conse-
quences, if you remain true to your vows with
me. But I must away; — to-morrow, when they
are gone, I shall be here. Until then, adio
Madelina mia /" and he was out of sight ere
she could utter the refusal she meant to give to
receiving his visit.

dbyGoogk

160

MADELINA.

Madelina passed a sleepless night, the con-
sciousness of having disobeyed her father filled
her with remorse, but the idea even of a mar-
riage with Thomaso, alarmed her beyond mea-
sure.

Wlien she met her father next morning, she
for the first time dared scarcely lift her eyes to
his. Her embarrassment, added to her pale
cheeks and heavy eyes, led Giovanni to believe
that she was unwell, and drew from him many
expressions of affection and endearment, as he
pressed her to his breast, and blessed her, as
his sole comfort. She was ready to throw herself
at her father's feet and avow her disobedience,
when the voice of old Thomaso, calling out to
know if he was ready, prevented the move-
ment ; and Giovanni again blessing her, with
even more than his accustomed fondness, hur-
ried away to join his friend.

She stood at the door, and watched the
receding figure of her father, his white locks
floated round his ruddy face, and thrice as he
turned to look back at Madelina, and waved

dbyGoogk

MADELINA. l6l

his hand affectionately to her, she was tempted
to call him back, and thus avert the meeting
with Joseppa. She left not the door, until her
parent's figure was lost in distance ; and when
she entered the cottage, she wept as if her
parting with him was to be one of long dura-
tion, instead of, as she imagined, a few brief
hours.

Joseppa came not until noon ; and when he
entered, seemed agitated and alarmed. He
accounted for it, by stating that he had ascer-
tained the certainty of the plan of Madelina's
being immediately forced into a marriage with
Thomaso ; and by his wily representations, per-
suaded the simple girl that her only chance of
escape rested on eloping with him. His pas-
sionate remonstrances, and entreaties, won on
her gentle nature ; but it was not until he had
repeatedly assured her, that when they should
be married her father would relent, and receive
them back with all his former affection, that
she consented to fly with him.

While she was making the few necessary

dbyGoogk

16S MADELIKA.

preparations, her unprincipled lover was not
idle. He, by the assistance of an instrument
with which he had provided himself, forced
the lock of the coffer in which Giovanni kept
his money, and took possession of its contentSt
carefully concealing his turpitude from his in-
nocent and hapless dupe. He had prepared a
horse on which he placed Madelina behind
him, who left the happy home of her infimcy
with many tears and blessings, breathed for
the father she was deserting. Their route
led by the churchyard, where the mother of
the weeping girl was interred, and her tears
streamed afresh as she beheld the white cross,
with its chaplet of faded flowers, that marked
the humble grave.

" Let us stop, dear Joseppa, for never have
I hitherto passed this spot, without offering up
my prayers for the repose of the soul of her
who was so dear to me ; of her, who is, perhaps,
now looking down with sorrow on her unworthy
child."

'^ No I it is impossible for us to stop," replied

dbyGoogk

MADELINA. 163

Joseppa, *' soon, very soon, dear Madelina, we
shall return here after we are united at the
altar, and then we will invoke a hlessing on
our union from the spirit of the departeds To
remain now, would he to expose ourselves 'to
the observation and evil tongues of all who
might see us ; therefore, we must advance/^

So saying, Joseppa urged forward his horse,
while the trembling and weeping girl clang to
him, her heart divided by feelings that absorbed
every other — ^regret and remorse at deserting
her parent, and love, passionate love, for him
with whom she was flying.

''When my father returns, and finds no
Madelina to welcome and embrace him,'' would
she say to her lover, " how bitter will be his
disappointment I ''

** And when the dotard Thomaso finds no
young bride awaiting him, how angry will he
be!" would Joseppa reply; well aware that,
only by sustaining this hateful image in her
mind, he could silence the remorse that was
already inflicting its pangs on her heart ; for.

dbyGoogk

164 MADELINA.

fondly as she loved Joseppa, never would she
have fled with him, had he not taught her
to helieve that her &ther was determined on
forcing her to wed old Thomaso— an idea that,
it is scarcely necessary to say, had never once
entered into her parent's head.

They stopped not until they had reached
Velletri, where the marriage-ceremony was
performed, and whence Madelina proposed that
they should despatch a messenger to announce
the event to her father, and demand his per-
mission to return. This wish being complied
with, she fondly resigned herself to the hap-
piness of the present, and to the sanguine anti-
cipations of the future.

The affectionate bride now gave expression
to all those terms of endearment that maiden
modesty had hitherto restrained; and as she
drew her fingers through the dark curly locks
of her husband, and looked with eyes beaming
with love in his face, she whispered that the
presence only of her father was necessary, to
render her the happiest creature on earth. —

dbyGoogk

MADELINA. 16J

She observed with a chagrin, that threw a
damp over her spirits, that every allusion to
her parent seemed to displease Joseppa ; and
having gently reproached him for it, he told her
that he was jealous at finding that she thought
so much more frequently of another than of
him, and that his presence could not suffice to
make her happy.

This excuse reassured her, and pressing his
hands witbin hers, she replied, ^* Oh, Joseppa,
when with my father, how often did I reproach
myself for being insensible to his affection, and
thinking only of you I and now, that you are
mine, that nothing but death can separate us,
forgive tne, that his dear image is so conti-
nually present to my imagination. But we
shall soon be with him, and then this heart
will have only place for Iiappiness ; for with a
husband so loved, and so dear a father, I can-
not experience a care."

Could Madelina have known what was pass-
ing through the mind of her husband during
such .ccgiversations, how would she have shrunk

dbyGoogk

166 MADELINA.

from his embraces, and recoiled with horror
from the hands she now pressed to her heart,
with all the fondness of an adoring bride !

The next day the messenger returned from
Albano, bringing the fearful intelligence that
Madelina no longer had a father. He, and old
Thomaso, who had accompanied him on the
route to Rome, to dispose of the product of
their joint farms, had been robbed and mur-
dered on the road ; and the soldiers were sent
into the mountains in search of the brigands,
who were supposed to have committed the

deed.

To describe the anguish of the unfortunate
Madelina would be impossible. She accused
herself in bitter terms, as having caused this
misfortune by abandoning her home; and drew
forth sullen reproaches from her husband, when
his representations, that whether she was in
the cottage near Albano, or on the route to
Velletri, the murder would equally have been
committed, had failed to convince her that her
flight had nothmg to do with the fatal event

dbyGoogk

MADELINA. I67

She insisted on returning immediately, that
she might see aU that remained to her of her
parent; and urged it with such passionate
entreaties, that Joseppa yielded an unwilling
assent, evidently actuated by the suspicious
looks of the persons around, who seemed to
regard his unwillingness with surprise. The
violence of Madelina's grief, drew forth more
of sullenness than of sympathy, from her un-
feeling husband.

*<Do you not still possess me?'' would he
say, but in a tone that expressed more of
reproach than consolation, while the wretched
woman could think only of the father she had
lost, and who died by an assassin's dagger.

*' I was happy and smiling, while they mur-
dered him I " she continued to exclaim. *< Oh,
father! dear father I little did I think when
you thrice turned to look at me, as I stood at
the cottage-door, that I should never see you
again 1 Had they no pity for your gray hairs ?
those dear venerable locks that I have so often
kissed.''

dbyGoogk

108 MADELINA.

The sternness of Joseppa repelled his un-
happy wife from weeping on his breast, or
seeking his sympathy ; and now, for the first
time, came the painful conviction that never
should she find in him, one who would fondlv
share and strive to alleviate any of the afflictions
of life that might befall her.

" If," she exclaimed, ** while only a few hours
his bride, he can thus see my anguish unmoved,
nor partake my sorrow for the dearest, best of
parents, he can have no heart ! Oh I my father,
you warned me, but I was deaf to your council
— the last you ever gave your miserable child,"

Before Madelina and her husband had arrived
at the cottage near Albano, the bodies of her
father and Thomaso had been interred. This
event, which increased her grief, as she had
counted on once more beholding the venerable
face she was now doomed to see no more on
earth, seemed to gratify Joseppa, who made
some unfeeling reflections on the inutility of
^ving way to sorrow, or on desiring to view an
object that must shock her already agitated

dbyGoogk

MADELINA* l69

mind. The neighbours flocked round to try
and speak comfort to the poor ^rl, and their
soothing kindness formed such a contrast to the
sullenness of Joseppa, that it became doubly
painful to hen All the wealth that the father
of Madelina left was now Joseppa's ; and thus
pat into possession of the means of a comfortable
subsistence, for a short time he seemed inclined
to attend to rural occupations, and to busy him-
self in plans for improving his farm. During
this brief period, the passionate grief of his wife
subsided into a settled melancholy; but her
afiection for him became still more deep. It
was true she saw, and marked with anguish,
his selfishness, his utter recklessness of all but
his own gratification, yet still she clung to him
with a fondness and devotion resulting from the
genuine afiection of her nature, which lavished
the pure treasure of its feelings on this, the first
object that awakened them into life. Yet the
intensity of her attachment rendered her more
feelingly alive to his want of the qualities that
would have insured her a return of her seoti-

VOL. III. I

Digitized by VjOOQIC

170 MADELINA.

ments, and secured the happiness that was still
a stranger to her breast, which yearned for
sympathy and companionship.

No tidings had yet been received of any dis-
covery of the assassins of her parent, thoagh
the papal government had offered large rewards
for their apprehension, and soldiers were con-
tinually sent into the mountains in search of
them. Month after month rolled away, and
Madelina was now likely to be soon a mother ;
this circumstance, which she fondly expected
would have led to an increased kindness on the
part of her husband, seemed to displease rather
than to gratify him, and all the woman and the
wife was wounded by his rude observations od
the subject.

About this period she awoke one night, and
found with alarm that her husband was no longer
by her side. She arose, and having wrapped
herself in a cloak, advanced to the door in time
to discern the receding figures of two men muf-
fled up in mantles, parting from Joseppa, who
was approaching the house. When he saw her,

dbyGoogk

MADELINA* 171

he became transported with rage, and exclaimed,
** What I can I not leave the house even for a
few minutes without your pursuing me as a spy?
I command you never again to follow me ; for
I repeat, I will not be watched I "

The heart of poor Madelina trembled at the
stem unkindnessof her husband, and she shrunk
back alarmed from the severity of his glance.
A new cause for uneasiness was now furnished
to this unhappy woman, by observing that her
neighbours no longer sought her cottage as for-
merly, to chat away an evening hour. When
they met her, unaccompanied by her husband,
they were as kind and friendly as in past times ;
nay, she even fancied there was an air of pity
in their manner towards her, which led her
to conclude that they were aware of Joseppa's
harshness.

But when he was with her, they passed
rapidly on, merely exchanging a word or smile
of recognition, and seeming nervously anxious
to avoid him. He too observed this repugnance,
and many were the half-uttered menaces with
which he marked his sense of it.

Digitized by VjOOQIC

17^ MADELINA.

He now frequently disappeared for whole
days, and such was the sternness of his looks
and manner, that Madelina dared not question
him on the subject.

At length she became the mother of a male
infant, and not only did she feel towards the
babe all the tenderness that was peculiar to her
affectionate heart, but its birth seemed to in-
crease the enthusiastic fondness she bore to-
wards its father ; while lie scarcely noticed the
infant, and to Madelina's repeated appeals to
him as to its beauty, sullenly replied, that for
his part he *^saw nothing remarkable in it,
and thought it was like all other infants, very
plain, and much given to crying." How did
the heart of the youthful mother feel wounded
at such moments I And yet all this unkindness
failed to alienate her love from her unworthy
husband.

The cur^ of Albano sent one day to desire
Joseppa to go to him. The message evidently
produced considerable agitation in him, and he
seemed most reluctant to comply with it. After
some hesitation he went; and, on his return,

Digitized by VjOOQIC

MADELINA. 173

Madelina observed that his brow wore a more

threatening aspect than ever, and that some

evil passion was struggling in his heart. He

muttered broken sentences to himself, clenched

his teeth, while his eyes shot forth gleams of

ungovernable fury ; and to her request to be

informed of what the cur^ wanted with him, he

imperiously replied by a command to question

him no more.

On that night a tap at the window caught
the attention of Madelina, as she lay on her
sleepless couch, revolving in her mind what
could be the subject of the curb's interview with
her husband. He too heard it, and arose gently
from the bed, casting a look at her, as if to be
assured that she slept He left the house with
noiseless steps, and returned not until day was
already dawning. He passed the greater part
of the day in bed, saying that he was indis-
posed, and when the shades of night fell over
the earth, he left his home, telling his wife,
that he should be absent for a day or two. The
second day of his absence, Madelina was no less

dbyGoogk

17 4f MADELIKA.

surprised than alarmed, by a band of soldiers
entering her cottage, and searching it minutely
in pursuit of Joseppa.

•* Of what — oh I of what is he accused?"
asked the trembling wife ; a fearful presenti-
ment of his having committed some crime,
having connected itself in her mind with his
secret interviews with the strange men at night,
and his frequent absence.

" Know you not that the good Cur6 of Al-
bano was murdered yesterday ?•* replied one of
the soldiers, ** and that your husband is "

** Hush I " said the commander of the party,
<* we are not here to answer questions, or to
explain the motives of our visit Prepare your-
self to accompany us to Rome, for we must
convey you to prison.**

" To prison I Oh, Mother of God I what
have I done ?** shrieked the unfortunate Made-
lina. *< I am innocent, indeed I am innocent I "
And she threw herself at the feet of the sol-
diers. At this moment some of the neighbours
came in, and taking pity on her misery, en-

dbyGoogk

MADELINA. 1?^

treated the soldiers to let her remain in the
cottage. ^

** She is good, and simple/' said they, '^ and
never did any thing wrong, except in marrying
her wicked husband.*'

The soldiers having no -orders to arrest her,
consented to let her remain, and set out in
pursuit of Joseppa and his accomplices. One
or two of the most kind and charitable of her
neighbours ofiered to stay with her during the
night ; but she declined their offer, under the
plea that she was so fatigued aud exhausted,
that she re({uired rest, and would immediately
retire to her couch.

When they had all left the cottage, the unfor-
tunate Madelina determined to go into the
mountains in search of her husband, to apprize
him of the pursuit of which he was the object
In which direction to go, she knew not, and
must trust to Providence for directing her steps
to him. In the cottage she could not stay,
while his danger was every moment presenting
itself to her imagination in the most terrific

dbyGoogk

176 MADELINA.

forms. No! she would seek him out, and warn
him of the per^ that menaced him, even though
death should be her fate. She looked around
at the little room, in which the happy days of
her childhood had been passed. Each homely
article of furniture,* endeared to her by long
use, was identified with the memory of her lost
parents. There stood the old arm-chair, in
which her father had been wont to recline after
the labours of the day ; and the rosary of her
mother, which she had so often seen her pray
with, hung on the same hook that supported
the Madonna, before which its accustomed lamp
was burning. She fancied that the picture
looked at her with a countenance of pity, and
she threw herself on her knees before it in
supplication.

** Harshness — neglect — all, all, I could hare
borne without a murmur,'' sobbed Madelina,
" for I felt I deserved it, for violating the com-
mands of my father ; but that the breast on
which this head has lain, should be the abode
of crime, and the hands these lips have kissed.

dbyGoogk

MADELINA. i77

be stained with blood, ob I it is too, too ter-
rible, and chills me with horror I But no, I
will not believe it, my child, my child," looking
at her infant, who was calmly sleeping, ** thy
father cannot be an assassin I"

She wrapped her babe carefully in a warm
shawl, and securing it on her back, threw a
cloak over her, and with noiseless step stole
from the cottage, and pursued a wild path
that led to Monte Cavo, the most steep of the
neighbouring mountains. Every noise alarmed
her, and every shadow startled ; yet she ad-
vanced rapidly, the hope of saving her husband
giving fleetness to her steps, and courage to her
trembling heart. The moon rose in unclouded
majesty, tinging all around with its silvery
Ught, and as she gained the acclivity of the
mountain, th^ country for a vast extent stood
exposed to her view. There was a calmness in
the air, and the scene, that offered a marked
contrast to the tumultuous agitation of her feel-
ings ; and as she paused to rest her weary limbs,
and supply her infant with the genial nourish-

i3

Digitized by VjOOQIC

178 MADELINA.

ment whicb, with fbeble cries it had been
demanding for the last half-hoar, a deep me-
lancholy seemed to replace the terrors of the
previous moment. But who can picture the
despair of the wretched mother, when she found
that no longer could her bosom furnish suste-
nance to the parched lips of her in£Euit, whose
cries penetrated to her very soul? The terror
and agitation of the last few hours had produced
this effect, and her courage failed before it. She
arose from the bank on which she had seated
herself, and with trembling limbs pursued he^
course, endeavouring to stop the cries of her
child, by pressing her lips to its, while her
burning tears fell on its innocent face.

She was nearly sinking to the earth, from
fatigue, when her eyes fell on some glistening
object, moving in a copse of wood, at some dis-
tance ; and before she had time to ascertain
what it was, she found herself surrounded by
four men, whose dress and arms too well ex-
plained their profession, to leave her in doubt.
One of them shook her rudely by the arm.

dbyGoogk

MADELINA. 179

demanded her name, and why she was there ;
while another made some coarse remark on her
personal attractions, adding, that she would be
a desirable acquisition for their cavern.

Her terror almost deprived her of speech,
and her child, who had been awakened from
the slumber into which exhaustion had thrown
it, soon began to cry, its wail increasing the
agony of its wretched mother.

A whistle was now heard from a distance,
which being answered by one of the brigands,
who surrounded Madelina, two more of the
party joined them, and in one of the new comers,
the unhappy woman discovered her guilty hus-
band, in a brigand's dress. He seemed for a
moment confused at being thus detected ; but
quickly recovering himself, he sternly demanded
why she had presumed to follow him ? A few
harried words had hardly told him of his
danger, when another brigand ran up to the
group in breathless haste, and informed them,
that a formidable party of soldiers were ad-
vancing, to whom, from their great superiority

dbyGoogk

loO MADELISA,

of numbers, resistance would be vain, and tbat
immediate flight or concealment among the
underwood, was the only chance of escape that
remained. The brigands dispersed, and fled in
different directions ; Joseppa throwing a dark
cloak over his shoulders, desired Madelina to
follow his steps, while he rapidly sought a tan-
gled maze of shrubs in the forest, where they
might evade the search of their pursuers. They
reached the spot, and he, with his gun separated
the branches, beneath which he concealed him-
self and his wife, commanding her not to move.
The voices of the soldiers were now heard in
the distance, and she clung to the side of Jo-
seppa in breathless terror, feeling only alive to
his danger, and totally regardless of her own.
At this moment, while the footsteps of the
soldiers were heard approaching nearer and
nearer, the hapless child resumed its cries.
Madelina felt the hand of her husband grasp
the child, its wailing ceased in one instant ; and
their pursuers, led to the spot by the cries of
the infant, were in the next, beating the bushes

dbyGoogk

MAD£L1NA* 181

with their bayonets. One of them inflicted a
deep wound on the arm of Madelina, but no
cry, no murmur escaped her, her child was only
pressed closer to her breast, as her warm blood
flowed over it A second bayonet wounded
Joseppa, and his inyoluntary movement disco*
vered them. They were dragged forth amidst
the shouts and execrations of the soldiers ; but
their violence was less appalling to Madelina,
than the maledictions with which Joseppa
greeted her j when with eyes glowing with fury
and malice, he fiercely accused her of being the
sole cause of his detection. Some hard blows
from the soldiers, who were manacling his arms,
betrayed their sense of his barbarity ; but she
threw herself between them and him, and im-
plored them not to injure him.

And now it was that Madelina turned her
eyes on her child ; — but, oh, heaven I who can
paint her despair and horror, when the moon-
beams falling on its face, showed her its coun-
tenance, blackened and distorted, and she felt
that she held a corpse in her arms I The

dbyGoogk

1S2 MADELIKA.

savage and unnatural father, to silence its cries
— ^had strangled it I

Joseppa was conyeyed a prisoner to Rome,
where, being convicted of the murder of the
cur^, and also of having assassinated the father
of his wife, and old Thomaso, he paid the
penalty of his guilt, with his life. Madelina's
reason never recovered the fearful shock it had
sustained on discovering the death of her child;
and she has ever since been the inmate of a
madhouse, whence her gentleness, and uncom-
plaining melancholy, have won the pity of alL

dbyGoogk

183

ANNETTE; OR, THE GALERIEN:

A TALE.

Annette Moran was the prettiest girl at a
village in the department of the Is^re, famed
for the beauty of its female inhabitants. She
was the only person who doubted this fact;
and her evident freedom from vanity, joined to
the unpretending simplicity and mildness of
her nature, rendered her beloved, even by those
of her own sex, who might have felt inclined to
contest charms less meekly borne by their pos-
sessor. Among the many candidates for the
hand of Annette, Jules Dejean was the one who
had won her heart. Their marriage had been

dbyGoogk

184* ANNETTE,

long agreed on, and they only waited to have a
sufficient sum laid by, the fruits of their earn-
ings and economy, to enable them to commence
their little minage. Annette might be seen,
every evening, busily engaged in spinning the
yam that was destined for the linen of her
future establishment, while Jules sat by her,
reading aloud, or indulging with delight, in
anticipations of their marriage. How often did
he endeavour, during the period of their pro-
bation, to persuade his Annette, that they
already had sufficient funds to commence house*
keeping. Charles Vilman and his Marie, with
many other notable examples, were produced to
prove that a couple might marry and be happy
with less than five hundred francs, and Annette,
half convinced, stole a timid look at her mother,
who answered it, by shaking her head, and say-
ing, " Ah 1 that's all very well, because Charles
and Marie have no children as yet, so that they
are as free to work as if they were single. But
people are not always so fortunate as to be
married three years without having a family ;

dbyGoogk

ANNETTE. 185

and when a young woman has one child in her
arms, and another beginning to walk, she can
attend but little to her work."

This reasoning never appeared quite con-
clusive to the comprehension of the lovers,
though it brought a brighter tint to the cheeks
of Annette, and a roguish smile to the lips
of Jules, and neither seemed to think it was
peculiarly fortunate, for married persons who
loved each other, not to have children, though
they did not dispute the point with la bonne
mhre Moran.

About this period the cur^ of the village
died, and his place was supplied by a young
clergyman, who came from a distent part. The
r^et felt by all his flock for the good old
pastor, was not lightened by seeing in his suc«
cesser a man, whose youth excluded the hope
that his advice or experience could replace
that of him they had lost. Nevertheless, the
urbanity and kindness of Le P^re Laungard
soon reconciled them to him, and he became
popular* Le P&re Laungard was a young man

dbyGoogk

186 ANNETTE.

of prepossessing appearance, and some natural
abilities ; but with passionB so violent and irre-
gular, that they rendered him most unfit for
the holy profession he had adopted. Like pent>
up fires, they raged but with the more viol^ioe
because they were unreyealed ; and hypocrisy
and artifice were called in to assist him in hiding
feelings that he took more pains to conceal than
to suppress. Some irregularities had marked
his conduct at the cure he had left, and these
had been represented to the bishop of his
diocese, but that prelate refused credence to
any statements against the young priest, and
looked on him as a persecuted son of the church,
whom he was called upon to protect against its
enemies. Le P^re Laungard had no sooner
seen Annette than he became enamoured of
her, and it required all his powers of dupli-
city and afiected sanctity, to yeil his passion,
while in his heart he cursed the profession
that rendered this duplicity necessary. When
he became acquainted with the afiection and
engagement of Annette and Jules, the most

dbyGoogk

ANNETTE. 187

ungoyernable jealousy was added to the stings
of unlawful passion ; he abandoned himself to
plots for breaking off the marriage, and a
thousand fearful and horrid thoughts passed
through his ill-regulated mind.

At times, actuated by the stings of con-
science, he would throw himself on the earth,
and with burning tears bewail his wretched
fate, and having humbled himself to the dust,
he would pray for power to conquer this fatal
and unhallowed love ; but some innocent proof
of affection given by the lovers in his presence
would soon excite afresh all the evil in his
nature, and he would look on them as did the
serpent in paradise, envying the happiness of
our first parents, until overpowered by the
feelings that consumed him, he would rush
into solitude, and abandon himself to all the
violence of his disposition.

He used every effort in his power to insinuate
himself into the good graces of Annette, and,
by the softness and impassioned earnestness of
his manner, he succeeded in exciting an in-

dbyGoogk

188 ANNETTE.

terest in her mind — the more readily accorded,
that her whole heart heing engrossed, and the
passion that filled it heing fuUy reciprocated,
left her disposed to think well of, and feel
kindly towards, all the world. Often did
Annette, in the innocence of her mind, and
with that complacency, which a mutual affec-
tion engenders, ohserve to Jules, what a pity it
was that Le P^re Laungard, a good-looking,
amiahle young man, with so much sensibility,
should be for ever excluded the pale of con-
jugal ties. " To live without loving/* said the
pure Annette, *' appears to me to be impossible,
and though he may like all his flock, as I do
my friends and companions, still that is so
different, so cold, and unsatisfying a feeling in
comparison with that which you, dear Jules,
have awakened in my breast, that I cannot but
pity all who are shut out from entertaining a
similar one." Jules felt none of this pity or
sympathy for Le Pfere Laungard, for with the
instinctive perception of quick-sighted love, he
had observed the furtive glances of the young

dbyGoogk

ANNETTE. 189

priest directed to Annette, his disordered air,
and changing countenance, his agitation, and
tremulous voice, when addressing ber*^ and he
liked not the flashing of Laungard's eye, when-
ever, as the affianced husband of Annette, he
availed himself of the privileges that character
gave him, of holding her hand in his, or en-
circling her small and yielding waist with his
arm. The purity and reserve of Annette im-
posed a restraint on Le F^re Laungard, that
but increased the violence of his passion, and
as the time approached for her nuptials, it
became more ungovernable.

According to the usages of the Roman
Catholic religion, persons about to be united,
confess to their priest the night previous to the
marriage ceremony, and receive the sacrament
the next morning, prior to its celebration.

Annette went to the church, which was
about two miles distant from her home, accomr
panied by a female neighbour ; and on arriving,
was told that Le P^re Laungard could not re-
peive her confession until a later hour in the

dbyGoogk

190 ANNETTE.

evening. Her companion becoming impatient
to return to her home, quitted Annette, who
informed her that Jules would come to conduct
her back to her mother. Her friend left her
in the twilight, in the church, reposing on a
bench, and met Jules on the road, whom she
advised not to interrupt the devotions of his
jiancke^ as it would be some time ere she would
have finished. He loitered about, and at length
becoming impatient, proceeded to the church ;
where not finding Annette, and concluding that
she had returned by another route, he hastened
to the house of her mother. She had not
arrived there, however, and the most fearful
apprehensions filled his mind* He returned
again to the church, and knocking loudly at
the house of Le P^re Laungard, which joined
it, demanded when Annette had left the sacred
edifice. The priest replied, through the window,
that she had left the confessional at nine o'clock,
and that was all he knew. Agonized by the
wildest fears and suspicions, Jules aroused all
his friends in the village, and they proceeded

dbyGoogk

ANNETTE. 191

in every direction, calling aloud on Annette ;
and the night was passed in vain searches for
the luckless maiden.

Morning, that morning which was to have
crowned his happiness for ever, by making
Annette his own, saw Jules, pale and haggard,
distraction gleaming in his eyes, and drops of
cold perspiration bursting firom his forehead,
approach with his friends the bank of the
river, which they proposed to draw with nets,
as being the only place as yet unexplored.

While we leave them employed in this
melancholy o£Bce, we must return to the female
friend who had left Annette at the church.
She sought an interview with the servant of
the priest, whom she closely questioned, as she
maintained that the unhappy girl had decided
on returning by a certain route, and had she
done so, she could not have failed to meet
Jules, and consequently suspicions of foul play
were excited in her mind.

The servant stated that Le Pire Laungard
had given her a commission to execute at the

dbyGoogk

192 ANNETTE.

village the evening before, and had told her
she might remain there until twelve o'clock.
This unsolicited permission struck her as
something extraordinary, and she did not avail
herself of it to the full extent. She returned
about nine o'clock, and having let herself in,
was eating her supper, when she heard a violent
struggle in the room above that where she was
sitting, and a sound of stifled groans. She ran
up stairs, and finding her master's door fastened,
she demanded if he was ill, as she had been
alarmed by hearing a noise. He answered
that he had merely fallen over a chair ; but
there was a trepidation in his voice which
announced that he was agitated.

This was all that the servant could state ;
but it was enough to point the suspicions
already excited, still more strongly to the
priest

The river was drawn, and close to its bank
was found the corse of the beautiful and ill-
fated Annette. Her dishevelled hair, and torn
garments, bore evidence to the personal violence

dbyGoogk

ANNETTE. 193

she had sustained, ere she had been consigned
to a watery grave, and the livid mark of fingers
on her throat, mduced a belief that her death
had been caused by strangulation, ere she had
been plunged into the river. Fragments of
her dress, found attached to the briers, and
locks of her beautiful hair caught in them,
gave indications of the route by which her
corse had been evidently dragged along, and
were traced even to the door of the priest's
house ; but when the servant came forth, with
a fragment of the kerchief Annette had worn,
and which she had found in the ashes where
the rest had been consumed, there was no
longer a doubt left in the minds of the spec-
tators, of who was the perpetrator of the hor-
rible deed.

The murderer fled, pursued by the villagers;
but having rushed into the river, he gained the
opposite side in safety ere they arrived to see
him agam resume his flight He passed the
frontier, entered Piedmont, and there overcome
with the sense of his guilt, and nearly dead

VOL. III. K

Digitized by VjOOQIC

194 ANNETTE.

with fatigue, he gave himself up to the dvii
authorities.

He was soon after claimed hy the Freoch,
tried, and condemned to the gallies for life ;
where he still drags on a miserable existence,
not daring to lift his eyes from the ground,
lest he should meet the glance of horror his
presence never fails to excite in all who see
him, and know his crime.

Jules no longer able to remain in a spot now
rendered insupportable to him, gave up his
little fortune to the mother of his Annette,
enlisted at Grenoble, and soon after met bis
death, gallantly fighting at Algiers.

The house of Le P^e Laungard has been
razed to the ground by the inhabitants of the
village ; and a monument has been erected to
the memory of the lovely, but unfortonate
Annette.

dbyGoogk

195

THE YOUNG MOTHER.

** I HAVE ordered the curricle to be at the door
at four; and I hope you will not disappoint
me again Emily, as you have so frequently
done of late, for I have set my heart on driving
you to-day."

" You know, dear Algernon, what pleasure
I always have in being with you/'

"Why, so you say ; but really, Emily, I
begin to doubt your assertion on this point;
for you have always some excuse for not riding
or driving with me, when I ask you."

" Now this reproach is unkind, Algernon."

" Yet, nevertheless, it is true."

k2

Digitized by VjOOQIC

196 THE YOUNG MOTHER.

** But you know, dearest, the fault has not
been mine; the poor dear baby really has been
looking pale of late ; and I, consequently, am
uneasy when he is out of my sight.''

" You bear my being out of your sight,
however, Emily, with great equanimity ; more
so, indeed, than is flattering to my vanity : but
the truth is, since you have become a mother,
you seem to have forgotten that you are a
wife."

*' How can you make so unjust an assertion,
knowing, as you do, that never did a wife
more fondly love a husband than I love you? —
cruel, unkind Algernon 1"

" I do not wish to give you pain; nay, do
not weep Emily, but hear me patiently. Have
I, ever since our boy was bom, now some three
months ago, been able to enjoy a tranquil hour
of your society? When you are not in the
nursery, from which you are seldom absent an
hour, your whole thoughts and conversation
are occupied on the baby. If the poor little
fellow looks rather more red in the face than

dbyGoogk

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 197

usual, you think him feverish and flushed ; if
pale, then you pronounce him to be suffisring.
At one moment you fancy him cutting his teeth ;
and, at the next, you tremble at the idea of
some one of the hundred maladies incidental
to infants, and which you imagine him to be
labouring under.'*

'^ I did not expect, Algernon, that you would
have the harshness to blame me for loving our
child; I did not think ''

** Now, Emily, you really provoke me I Is
there no medium in a mother's love ? Are her
whole thoughts and time to be surrendered to
this one egotistical passion, while all other
duties are neglected or forgotten ?"

**1 was not aware that I neglected any
duties ; and the maternal one I have been led
to consider the most sacred of alL"

<* I am willing to admit its claims, but not
to the total oblivion of all other obligations.
As a husband, have I not a right to your
society? As a master of a house, am I not
privileged to demand the devotion of some

dbyGoogk

198 THE TOUN6 MOTHER.

portion of it for the duties of hospitality ? Yet
do you not daily leave me alone whole hours,
while you sit in the nursery, and find some
pretext against receiving company every time I
propose it ? If I read to you, you start up in
the most interesting passage, thinking you hear
the child cry, though it would require the
lungs of a Stentor to he heard from his nurseiy
in the lihrary. If I tell you some piece of
news, that would formerly have amused you,
you look distraite^ or ask me some question
that has a reference to the child. With every
disposition to make allowance for the natural
fondness of a young mother for her first-bom,
and to indulge my paternal affection, I really
feel my domestic comfort so much impaired,
that I am sometimes fearful I shall view the
caiise of this change in you with some portion
of the dissatisfaction that the effect produces
in my mind/'

"Good heavens, Algernon I how can you
blame me for loving this cherub ? Who couU
resist the darling's smiles?"

dbyGoogk

THE TOUNG MOTHER. 199

** I can judge little of his smiles, Emily, for
the urchin has been generally screaming when
I haye happened to see him/'

A paroxysm of tears was the only reply the
young mother vouchsafed to make to this re-
mark ; but no answer could so eloquently appeal
to the father's feelings. He wiped the tears
from her fair cheeks, nay, kissed the lids on
which they still trembled ; while she, casting
an imploring look at him, uttered, between
rising sobs, — ** Do not, oh, do not, Algernon,
say that my darling is cross I Mrs. Spencer, the
month-nurse, my maid, and his nurse too, de-
clare, th^ never — never saw such a dear an-
gelic babe in their lives, so quiet and sweet-
tempered."

** And so, I dare be sworn, good fussy Mrs.
Spencer, has told every mother of every child
she has given pap to for the last thirty years.
The evidence of "jonr femme^e^hamhre^ and
our boy's nurse, is equaUy liable to suspicion."

" Now, Algernon, you are do incredulous,
and, I must say, so ill-natured I "

dbyGoogk

200 THE TOUNO MOTHER.

" Well, my own Emily, if it be any comfort
to you, I am quite ready to admit, that our
little fellow is not more addicted to crying than
children of his age in general are, but then
you must concede one point to me, and that is,
that his lungs are more powerful."

*' Thank God that they are so ; for I tremble
when I hear Lady Melthorpe's poor little boy
cry ; his tones are so feeble, as to indicate
weakness of the chest ; while ours ^"

** Screams like a boatswain, you would say ;
fCest-ce-pas?^^

" No, I would say no such thing ; I would
say that his voice is so sonorous, so manly, as
to prove his strength and pulmonary force."

" Well, Emily, will you, or will you not,
leave him for the enormous space of two or
three hours to the care of his nurse and her
suivantes^ and drive with me ? "

" Yes, Algernon, you may count on me."

" Now you are my own good Emily of other
days. Adieu, dearest I I shall be at the door
in the curricle precisely at four. Au revoirf'

dbyGoogk

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 201

and he kissed his wife's fair brow, with as much
fondness as in his first bridal days.

Punctually at four he was at the door, when,
instead of seeing her arrive, a little twisted
billet was handed to him by his wife's footman.
He had so often received many similar missives
of late, always conveying excuses for appoint-
ments broken, or party deranged, that he
disliked the very sight of one ; and he tore this
open with no little impatience and vexation.

As usual, it contained her regrets for not
being able to accompany him — *' But, really,
the poor dear baby seemed so restless and un-
easy, that she had thought it necessary to send
for Dr. Wilbraham, and could not bring herself
to leave the sufiering angel."

While he perused this note, Dr. Wilbraham
himself was seen descending the steps of the
door, and to the questions of the father, replied,

** Pooh, pooh I my lord, the child has nothing
whatever the matter with him ; you must really
prevent her ladyship from sending off for me
when there is not the slightest occasion for my

dbyGoogk

202 THE YOUNG MOTHER.

presence, for it interferes extremely with my
engagements. The child is a healthy child,
my lord -, but he will render his mother any
thing but healthy, if you do not prevent her
tormenting herself all day, and every day, with
some fancy about him."

Lord Mordaunt stepped from the curricle,
bounded lightly up the stairs, and, as he ex-
pected, found his wife in the nursery, seated
by the side of the cot in which their infimt was
sleeping. The nurse, with a face of alarm,
was bending over, and her assistant, looking as
stupidly frightened, as she thought the circum-
stances of the case required. Lady Mordaimf s
pale face formed a contrast to the rosy one of
the slumbering child, and her beautiful eyes
bore traces of recent tears. Lord Mordaunt
might have pitied her, had it not been for the
communication of Dr. Wilbraham ; but with
that still fresh in his mind, and the initatkm
of the disappointment, he felt more disposed to
roprehend than conmiiserate her anxiety.

*< I have seen Dr. Wilbraham^ Emily," said

dbyGoogk

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 203

he ; *' and he has confirmed my foregone con-
clusion, that nothing is the matter with the
child."

'* Dr. Wilbraham is an unfeeling man I" re-
plied Lady Mordaunt, with a degree of asperity
very unusual to her; *'and I am convinced
my sweet boy is unwell : only look how flushed
he is."

'* He will become less flushed," said the
father, ** if the free current of air that ought
to circulate around his cot, is not impeded by
three persons standing so close to it."

At this hint, the nurse and her assistant
withdrew to the far side of the chamber ; but
Lady Mordaunt still bent over the cot.

"Look, Algernon," she whispered, "see
how he smiles ; it is asserted, that infants are
generally sufi^ing when they smile in their
sleep."

" And so you say they are when they cry,"
interrupted Lord Mordaunt ; " and then I am
disposed to agree with you in opinion. You
look far more unwell than that little chubby

dbyGoogk

204 THE YOUNG MOTHER.

fellow ; 80 let me counsel yoa to leave him to
finish his slamher, and enjoy- his dreams which
are evidently pleasant, and come with me a few
miles into the country, that you may hreathe a
little fresh air."

This time, Lady Mordaunt yielded to the
wishes of her lord, for she perceived symptoms
of impatience and dissatisfaction in his couiite-
nance and manner, that rendered her unwilling
to still further excite his displeasure. In
driving through the streets, they passed a baby
linen warehouse ; and the fond mother, who
had been, hitherto, silent and abstracted, ex-
claimed, " Oh I what beautiful caps I what an
exquisite robe I Do, dear Algernon, let me
stop and buy it for our darling I''

'* Really, Emily, you must excuse me ; you
know I hate shopping, and a curricle is not a
carriage the best suited for such occupations.
You can come in the chariot, and without me,
another day."

In the next street, a silversmith's shop
attracted her attention ; and forgetful of her

dbyGoogk

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 205

husband's declared dislike to shopping, she
eagerly expressed her desire to stop, that he
might assist her in the selection of a coral and
hells for their dear boy. She was '* sure that
the flushing of the cheeks of the dear little
fellow, arose from dentition having commenced,
and she wished to lose no time in giving him a
coral and bells."

Again, Lord Mordaunt declined complying
with her wishes; and, perhaps, in doing so,
betrayed indications of petulance: however
that might have been, she became silent and
abstracted, until he, piqued by her taciturnity,
said, " What can you be thinking of, Emily ?"

*'I was thinking," she said, with a sweet
and artless smile, which at once disarmed his
impatience, 'Uhat, in four years from this
time, I shall be asking you to give our boy a
Shetland pony, like that which Lord Hawthorn-
dale has bought for his son."

There was no resisting this naive avowal of
her thoughts, and her husband more than
smiled, while he demanded '< Whether she had

dbyGoogk

206 THE YOUNG MOTHER«

not yet thought of the boy's departure for Eton,
and future entrance at Christ Church?"

" Thought of it 1" repeated Lady Mordaunt,
pensively ; " ah, Algernon I you little imagine
how often I have thought of it — ^nay, dreamed
of it — and the anticipation fills me with cha-
grin i but I trust, that by accustoming myself
to reflect on it, I shall become more reconciled
to the inevitable separation when it arrives."

Lady Mordaunt was so gentle and sweet-
tempered, that her husband, though piqued
by her devoting the whole of her time and
thoughts to their child, could not persevere in
censuring her weakness, when he saw that his
reflections on it gave her pain; but, finding
that he could no longer look for companionship
with his wife, unless he consented to enact the
part of second nurse, he took to fi'equenting
the clubs, which, since his marriage, he had
seldom entered ; and went into female society,
where, though he was at first only amused, he
soon afterwards became interested.
' This new career very naturally led to the

dbyGoogk

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 207

establishment of a flirtation, with a lady who
devoted so little of her time or her thoughts to
her children, as to have no inconsiderable por-
tion of both at the service of any man of fashion
who administered to her vai^ty by his attentions.
Lady Mordaunt, happy in being left unmolested
by the complaints or sarcasms of her husband,
to pass the whole of her hours with her child,
never suspected that she owed this indulgence
to his having found consolation elsewhere for
the loss of her society. When they met, which
was now but seldom, she had a thousand parti-
culars to relate to him of '^dear little Algernon."

" He could crow ; yes, positively, he could
crow 1 "

*'And what the deuce does that mean?''
asked Lord Mordaunt ; *' enlighten me, Emily,
iPor I am not particularly well skilled in nursery
phraseology."

<* Oh, crowing is the dearest, sweetest sound
in the world I something between speaking and
laughing ; and while Algy crows, he chuckles
and "

dbyGoogk

208 THE YOUNG MOTHER.

"Don't say he chuckles, I heseech you,
Emily; it is a horrid word, and a horrid action.
Why, Lord Mappleton is always chuckling, and
that abominable fat Sir John Meadowway,
and half the other disagreeable people that one
knows, are everlastingly chuckling."

** But our boy's chuckling is quite another
thing! oh, you should see him I you should
hear him, Algernon ; do let me bring him to
you!"

And away glided the young mother, who
quickly returned, bearing in her arms a fine
fat rosy-cheeked boy, who grasped the silken
ringlets of her hair in his dimpled fingers, and
laughed in her face as he strained them still
more vigorously.

It was a beautiful picture to see that young
and lovely creature, herself scarcely yet arrived
at woman's age, looking with love-beaming eyes
at her child, and exultingly showing him to his
father ; and Lord Mordaunt felt the beautv of
the picture, and drew mother and child within
his arms, and pressed them to his heart, with

dbyGoogk

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 209

a livelier sense of affection than he had for
many months experienced ; but, unfortunately,
the child, who was not accustomed to see his
father, or to be embraced except by his mother
or nurse, burst into a loud and piercing cry,
and bedewed his mother's robe and bosom with
his tears.

^'Take him away I take him away I" ex-
claimed Lord Mordaunt, piqued at being
treated as a stranger by his child ; *' I hate
cross children!''

" Indeed, Algernon, he is not a cross child;
he only cries because he sees you so seldom,
and "

" Vou do well to reproach me, Emily I you,
who drove me from my home, by allowing that
little screaming urchin to engross all your time
and thoughts ; in fact, to convert you into an
upper nurse I''

<< Reproach you I Oh, Algernon, how can
you be so unjust, so cruel as to say so ?** And
here Lady Mordaunt's tears mingled with
those of her child.

dbyGoogk

210 THE YOUNG MOTHER.

Her husband left the room, a prey to that
ill-humour which never fails to result from the
consciousness of error. He would have been
glad to have found an excuse for its indulgence
in the reproaches of his wife, which he fdt
aware he had merited ; but her gentleness and
uncomplaining sweetness angered him, by ag-
gravating the sense of his own misconduct
Still, her beautiful face, bathed in tears, tad
her appeal against the injustice and cruelty of
his accusation of having reproached him, dwelt
in his mind, and more than once was he tempted
to return to the room he had so abruptly left,
and seek a reconciliation with her.

It was under the influence of such feelings,
that in passing through Grosvenor Square,
he encountered the carriage of the lady who
had lately engrossed so much of his time.—
The check-string was quickly pulled ; and the
prancing steeds were nearly thrown on their
haunches, by the alacrity with which the coach-
man obeyed the somewhat impatient signal of
his mistress ; two tall footmen rapidly presented

dbyGoogk

THE YODNO MOTHER. 211

themselves at the door of the carriage at the
same moment that Lord Mordaunt approached
it. They quickly fell back» while he, in no
very good humour, listened to a torrent of
queries and reproaches, for not having come
at his usual hour to pay his diurnal visit.

The contrast between this imperious and
querulous woman, and the gentle, yet sensitive
one, whose tears he had so lately caused to flow,
and had left, without uttering even a word of
affection to soothe, never struck him so forcibly
before ; and as if to render the contrast still
more complete, the lady, having exhausted
her complaints of his negligence and rudeness,
commenced a history of her domestic annoy-
ances.

<< I have been bored to extinction," said she,
*' ever since I saw you last. One of the children
has been taken ill with some one of the innu-
merable diseases to which these little animals
are subject ; and their wise father, who enacts
the rdle of head-nurse, has taken it into his
head to hncy it a very serious illness. We

dbyGoogk

212 THE YOUNG MOTHER.

have had no less than three physicians called
in ; and they, of course, pronounce the malady
to be of a dangerous nature; as they always do
on such occasions, to enhance the merit of the
cure."

Lord Mordaunt felt a sentiment approaching
to loathing, as he looked at the handsome
woman before him, and listened to her expres-
sions of unnatural indifference to her child,
and remembered the doting mother, whi^e
excessive affection for her offspring he had so
often censured.

** There is nothing so tiresome as those little
creatures," resumed Lady Dorrington, " with
their never-ceasing maladies, except it be their
father, who turns the house into an hospital
whenever they get ill. It is so very trying
to my nerves, particularly" — and she looked
languishingly at him — '*as I have not been
well of late ; Lord Dorrington wants me to put
off my ball for to-morrow night, as if that could
cure the tiresome child ; but really, I cannot —
now that all the preparations are completed."

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THE YOUMG MOTHER. 213

It was with difficulty he could conceal the
disgust that every word she uttered excited
in his mind; and he pleaded business for
abridging the monologue of her grievances.
And this was the woman he had preferred to
his fair and gentle wife I How did her gross
egotism and selfishness disgust him I And how
did he blame his own weakness, which led him
to accord her the preference !

While this scene was passing in Grosvenor-
square, one of a different nature was taking
place at his own house. Mrs. Percival, the
aunt of Lady Mordaunt, had surprised that
lady in tears, a few minutes after her husband
had so abruptly quitted her ; and believing her
agitation to have been caused by a discovery of
the entanglement of Lord Mordaunt with Lady
Dorrington, which had now become a subject
of animadversion in the circle in which they
moved, she incautiously used some expressions,
that revealed to Lady Mordaunt the painful
fact, that her husband had found consolation
abroad, for the loss of her society at home.

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214 THE YOUNG MOTHER.

" You may well weep, Emily," said her well-
meaning, but not sensitive aunt; ''for be
assured it was your own unreasonable conduct,
in permitting yourself to be so wholly engrossed
by your child, that drove Liord Mordaunt to
seek female society, in any other house than
his own. The experiment is a dangerous one ;
but, perhaps, it is not yet too late to remedy
its result Tears are inefficacious ; smiles,
though difficult to be worn on such trials, are
more likely to win back the truant to his home ;
and therefore, I earnestly advise their adoption.
It is, at all times, the duty of a wife, by gen-
tleness and patience, to lead her husband to a
return to the path of duty ; but it becomes still
more imperiously so, when an error on her
part, has occasioned his transgression.**

Bitterly did Lady Mordaunt now deplore her
own unthinking conduct, in having alienated
her husband from his home. Well did she
remember the representations he had unavaQ*
ingly made, on her in&tuation ; and, as jealousy
for the first time, sent its envenomed pangs

dbyGoogk

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 21.5

through her hitherto unsuspecting heart, she
felt that her love for her hoy was not so pas-
sionate, as that which now agonized her for
his father. But though grieved, deeply grieved,
by the discovery she had made, there was no
anger in her sorrow. Hers was a nature
more prone to suffer acutely from wounded
affection, than to resent the injury. Now did
she recall to memory, the anger with which
her conscious husband accused her of reproach-
ing him, when she simply meant to explain
why the child cried; and fervently did she
determine never to utter a word that could
offend him ; and henceforth, if she should be
so fortunate as to lure him back to his home,
to devote only those hours to her child, which
Lord Mordaunt's avocations left at her dis-
posal.

She wondered, at present that the veil was
removed from her eyes, how she could have
been so unthinking, as not to have reflected on
the danger to which she was exposing her hap-
piness, in disgusting so fastidious a man as her
husband with his own domestic circle. But

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2l6 THE YOUNG MOTHER.

she remembered also, and the recollection sent
a thrill of pleasure through her heart, that he
had fondly drawn herself and his child to his
breast only that very morning ; and there was
so much tenderness in the action, and in the
manner of it, that she felt his heart was not
irretrievably gone from hen

Her aunt left her, satisfied that her advice
would be attended to, and indulged no slight
portion of self-complacency on its forethought
and prudence, and the good result it was likely
to produce.

Lady Mordaunt, deeply penetrated with a
sense of her own imprudence, and most anxious
to atone for it, greeted her husband, when she
next saw him, with a contrite tenderness, that
might have led an observer to imagine that she
had a much stronger motive for self-reproach
than the one that actuated her present conduct ;
while he, conscious that his faidt, though the
natural effect of hers, was of a much deeper
dye than the error that occasioned it, was sen-
sibly touched by the gentleness and afiection of
her reception.

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THE YOUNG MOTHER. 217

** How is our boy, my own Emily?" asked
Lord Mordaunt. ''Do let me see the dear
little fellow, for I am determined to give him
frequent opportunities of getting accustomed to
my face — ay, and to my embraces too, that he
may no more be alarmed at either.'*

" And I, dearest Algernon," replied the
delighted wife, ** am determined to be always
ready to go with you, where and when you will ;
if, indeed, you can overlook my folly in having,
ever since our boy was bom, ceased to be your
companion, or to render your home as happy as
it ought to be/*

She was clasped in her fond husband's arms
before she had concluded the sentence; and
from that day he ceased to maintain any other
correspondence with Lady Dorrington, than the
mere ceremonious one of occasionally leaving a
card at her door.

Thenceforward, too. Lady Mordaunt, while
fulfilling with judicious attention all the duties
of a fond mother, never ceased to remember and
to discharge those of a wife.

VOL. III. L

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dbyGoogk

219

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS:

A TALE OF HUMBLE LIFE.

In a secluded spot, in the wild and desolate
regions of the Alps, dwelt two families, the
only inhabitants of the place. The two chalets
occupied by them, and a few patches of land
laboured into fertility by hardy and incessant
toil, with a herd of goats, which sought their
scanty food wherever the rare and stunted
herbage appeared, were the only symptoms of
human habitation visible for some miles. A
more dreary spot can hardly be imagined, than
that where the chalets stood. Winter reigned
there with despotic force during nine months of

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220 THE CHALET IN THE ALPS.

the year; and the approach of summer was
hailed with a delight known only to those who
have languished for its presence through many
a long and cheerless day, surrounded by the
dreary attributes of the gloomy season.

Mountain rising over mountain, covered with
eternal snow, and divided by yawning chasms,
whose depths none had ever ventured to pene-
trate, met the eye at every side ; the inter-
mediate prospect only broken by the presence of
a few hardy tannen and pine trees, whose dark-
green foliage formed a striking contrast to the
snowy mantle, which, like the funeral pall of
dead nature, covered the earth for nearly three
parts of the year.

The first symptom of vegetation was wel-
comed in this wild spot, as the first-born is by
a mother who has long pined for oflspring;
and, as the rays of the sun melted the froz^i
surface of the mountains, and sent a thousand
sparkling streams rushing down their sides,
falling with a pleasant sound into the deep
glens beneath, the hearts of the inhabitants of

dbyGoogk

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS. 221

the chalets became filled with cheerfulness, and
the rigours and sufferings of winter were for-
gotten.

Martin VignoUes, with his wife and two
daiaghters, occupied one of the rude and com-
fortless residences in this solitary spot ; and
the widow Bauvais, and her son, the other.
The husband of the widow had been one of the
most bold and adventurous chamois-hunters in
the Alps ; and lost his life in the chase of one
of those wild animals, leaving his wife and son,
then an infant, wholly dependent on the kind-
ness of their sole friend, Martin Vignolles.
Nor did this friend fail them in the hour of
need. He became as a brother to the bereaved
wife, and a father to the fatherless ; sharing
with them his scanty subsistence, and culti-
vating the patch of land which the deceased
had laboured into fertility.

Years passed away, and the widow's son had
now grown into manhood, while Annette Vig-
nolles had just completed her sixteenth year,
and Fanchon her sister, her twelfth. The

dbyGoogk

2^2 THE CHALET IN THE ALPS.

young man was light, agile, and hardy, like
most of the children nurtured in the wild
regions where he had heen horn ; and where
activity of person, and firmness of mind, are
continually called into exercise, by the danger
and difficulty with which the means of existence
are procured. The melancholy of his widowed
mother, who had never ceased to lament the
husband of her youth, had tinged the mind of
her son with a softness, and disposed it to a
susceptibility, which though it impaired not
his animal courage in the hour of danger,
exercised a powerful influence over his affec-
tions, rendering him almost a slave to their
empire.

Annette VignoUes was a creature of remark-
able beauty, and quickness of feeling. She had
been from her childhood as a daughter to the
widow, and had never known a thought, a wish,
nor a hope in which the widow's son had not
been included.

It was soon after Annette had reached her
sixteenth year that her father, in endeavouring

dbyGoogk

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS. 223

' to extricate one of his goats, which had fallen
from a cliff, missed his footing, and was hurled
into an ahyss, nearly filled with snow, where a
certain but lingering death awaited him, had
he not been rescued by the intrepidity of
Michel Bauvais, who, at the risk of his life,
descended where no human foot had ever before
dared to tread, and saved Martin VignoUes
from his perilous position.

This accident was followed by the total loss
of the use of VignolW limbs ; who, from that
day, became unable to afford the least assistance
towards the maintenance of his family. Then
it was, that the widow and her son endeavoured
to repay the debt of gratitude due to their
neighbours. Michel laboured for them with
unremitting toil and alacrity, and suffered them
to experience no diminution of the few com-
forts, if comforts the strict necessaries of life
might be called, to which they had hitherto
been accustomed. Anxiously but unavailingly
had the widow tried to prevent Michel from
pursuing the hazardous profession of his lost

dbyGoogk

224 THE CHALET IN THE ALPS.

father. In all other respects the most docile
and obedient of sons, he evinced in this a wil-
fulness that often filled her heart with the
most gloomy forebodings — forebodings which
infected the mind of Annette with fearfiil
apprehensions, whenever he was absent on
those dangerous enterprises. Yet, when he
returned home, bending under the weight of
his spoil, and made light of the fears of his
mother, or silenced them by his caresses, the
whole circle collected in the chalet of Mar-
tin VignoUcs felt too happy to chide him;
though all never sought their humble couches
without offering up fervent prayers for his
safety. Often would the widow dwell on the
past, not less with a view of warning her son,
than from that yearning of the heart towards the
dear departed, felt by all who have known the
misfortune of losing the partner of their youth.
** It was just such a night as this," would
she say, " that I expected my poor Claude
for the last time. Ah I how well do I re-
member it I I made up a good fire, prepared

dbyGoogk

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS. 225

his supper, and carefully swept the hearth, for
my dear husband always liked to see a blazing
fire, and a clean hearth. Michel slept in his
cradle, and smiled in his sleep, poor innocent,
little dreaming of the dreadful misfortune that
hung over us. I tried to work ; but the needle
slipped from my fingers, they trembled so. I
opened the door, and stood on the ledge of the
rock near it, to listen for his step — that step
I was never again to hear. The moon was
shining, as now, like silver, and the frozen
tops of the mountains were sparkling with
light, except when a cloud passed over her
bright face, and then a dark shadow fell on
them. I knew not why it was, but a cold
tremour shook my limbs, and my heart trem-
bled } the branches of the pine creaked dis-
cordantly, and the wind, which a minute before
had been still, sighed mournfully through the
leaves. I looked around, but all appeared so
cold and bright, so unfeeling-like to my fears,
that I turned from the view, as one turns from
a selfish, heartless person, who has no pity for

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2S6 THE CHALET IN THE ALPS.

our misfortunes, and I came back to the house
to seek comfort in looking again at my sleeping
child. Oh I what a long night was that I I
thought it was the most miserable I e?er should
pass ; but I have passed many a more wretched
one since, for then I had hope. I remembered
through the weary hours how he looked, and
what he said. He stood on the threshold he
was never more to pass, looking back on us
with a smile, which I, at the moment, thought
too gay a one when leaving us ; but which,
when I recalled it to my memory in that night,
seemed sadder than a smile ever was before.
How often have I thought of that smile since I
I followed him a few steps, and kissed him
again, — woe is me I it was for the last time, —
and he chided me because the tears started into
my eyes. But his chiding was gentle, so it
ever was ; and when he got to the last pine-
tree, he turned round and waved his hat to me.
Ah I neighbours, who could have thought that
I was never more to see him ?"
Tears interrupted the widow's melancholy

dbyGoogk

THS CHALET IN THE ALPS. 227

reminiscences, nor did they flow alone ; for
Annette's, too, coursed each other down her
cheeks ; not so much, the truth must be owned,
from sorrow for poor Claude Bauyais, whom she
could not remember, as from the dread of the
possibility of a similar fate awaiting his son.

Annette and Michel loved with no common
passion. Their attachment had grown with
their growth, and strengthened with their
strength. All their notions of the past and
the future were identified with each other ;
and the possibility of separation never occurred
to either, save when the widow related the
melancholy parting with her husband, which,
though often repeated, never failed to excite
the tears of Annette, and the seriousness of
her lover. Love, at all times so engrossing a
sentiment when felt for the first time in youth-
ful hearts, was all-powerful with these simple
children of nature, whose thoughts, wishes, and
hopes were centred in their own narrow circle.
Their parents witnessed the affection of their
children with satisfaction. They had, from

dbyGoogk

228 THE CHAI.ET IN THE ALPS.

the birth of both, arranged their marriage, and
never doubted that the attachment which they
desired should spring up between them, would
prove as warm and ardent as it really was.
Motives of prudence had induced them to defer
the marriage of the young people, until Michel
had attained his twenty-first year ; and the
misfortune that had befallen the father of
Annette, by leaving him and his family de-
pendent on the exertions of the young man,
rendered the resolution of procrastinating the
marriage still more necessary.

It was on a cold night in the early part of
autumn, when winter had anticipated its visit
by many weeks, that Michel Bauvais, return-
ing to his home through a narrow pass in the
mountains, was attracted by the barking of a
dog ; and, on approaching the spot whence the
sounds came, discovered a man nearly in a state
of insensibility, over whom the faithful animal
was uttering his melancholy cries. It was not
without considerable difficulty that he suc-
ceeded in restoring suspended animation to

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THE CHALET IN THE ALPS. 229

the stranger, and then he slowly led him to the
humhle chalet, where his mother assisted him
in his exertions to render the visit of their
unexpected guest as comfortable as their limited
means permitted. The warmth of a good fire,
and some •boiled goat's-milk, had such a salu-
tary effect on the invalid, that he was shortly
able to thank his preserver, and to inform him
that he was an artist, who, in his search of
the picturesque and sublime scenery which he
wished to delineate, having advanced farther
into the mountains than prudence warranted,
had lost his way ; and, after many hours passed
in fruitlessly endeavouring to regain it, had at
last sunk exhausted into a slumber, whence in
all human probability he might, from the in-
tense cold to which he was exposed, have never
awakened, had he not been rescued by Michel
Bauvais.

The young artist was pressed by his poor but
hospitable hosts, to continue with them a day
or two, until he had recovered sufficient strength
to ensure a safe return to his home. He opened

dbyGoogk

230 THE CHALET IN THE ALPS.

his portfolio, and delighted their inexperienced
eyes with sketches that might well have daimed
approbation from those accustomed to see the
finest drawings. Annette was called to share
in the gratification their display afforded, and
her beauty and artless grace excited so much
interest in the young artist, that he immedi*
ately made a portrait of her, which filled her
lover with joy and gratitude.

The vicinity of the wild spot inhabited by
the two families, possessed such attractive
scenery, that the painter prolonged his stay
several days for the purpose of sketching die
different views. Annette would hang with
delight over his drawings, and listen with
scarcely less pleasure to the songs he would sing
her while making them. She would loiter at
night an hour or two after the usual hoar of
seeking repose, to hear the youdg artist's
description of the towns and their inhabitants
in which he had dwelt ; and had a thousaixl
questions to ask relative to scenes of which
hitherto she had been in perfect ignorance.

dbyGoogk

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS. 231

At first, Michel shared in the interest which
was awakened in her mind ; but soon a jealous
feeling, occasioned by witnessing how much of
her time and attention was engrossed by the
stranger, took possession of his mind. He
became moody, captious, and harsh to her,
towards whom he had never previously evinced
a symptom of ill-humour. This sudden, and to
Annette, unaccountable change in his temper,
only aggravated the cause that led to it ; and
the poor simple girl, repulsed by her lover each
time that she sought to address him with her
wonted and afiectionate familiarity, took refuge
in the mild and amusing conversation of the
young painter. When Michel was compelled
to be absent from the chalet in search of fuel,
or to lead home the goats, it was evident that
his moodiness increased ; and when he returned,
it was excited almost to frenzy, by finding
Annette seated by the stranger, listening with
unconcealed delight to his songs, or the stories
he related to her.

The whole character of Michel became

dbyGoogk

032 THE CHALET IN THE ALPS.

changed. No longer the gay youth, whoee
cheerfukiess had heen the life of the chalets, his
ilUhumour was now a source of chagrin to all
its inhabitants, none of whom, owing to their
simplicity, suspected its cause. Often in the
moodiness of his spirits, when stung into anger
by some innocent familiarity exhibited towards
the stranger by Annette, he almost cursed the
hour when he saved him from death, and led
him to the chalet to fascinate her who hitherto
had never lent her eyes or ears with pleasure to
aught save himself alone.

Sketches of Annette multiplied every hour.
The artist found her figure so graceful and
picturesque, and it gave such a charm to his
drawings, that he was never tired of copying
it; and sooth to say, Annette, with all her
simplicity, had enough of woman's vanity m her
heart, to be pleased, if not proud of the artist's
evident admiration of her.

At this time, too, the young painter, who
sometimes amused himself in the composidoD of
simple songs, addressed the following one to

dbyGoogk

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS. Q33

Annette, and this piece of rustic gallantry
excited the jealousy of her lover into still greater
violence.

'* Beiutiful nMiden, as pure as the snow
On thine own natiTe mountains, wherever I go,
rU think of thee artless and fair as thou art* —
Though soon, ah ! too soon, I from thee must depart.

•* 111 think of thee beamiug as now with a smile.
And thy innocent couTerse that oft did beguile
The long hours of evening, and of thy sweet song
That the wild mountain-echoes so love to prolong.

** Beautiful maiden, oh ! blest be thy lot
With the youth who has won thee, though I be (orgot.
My prayer shaU ascend to the Heavens for thee,
When distant thy sweet face no more I can see.**

One evening when Michel returned to the
chalet, he found the stranger platting the long
tresses of Annette, who was innocently laughing
at the awkwardness with which he performed
the operation. Michel had, from her infancy,
always reserved this task as a labour of love
for himself; and his feelings could not have
been more wounded had he discovered her in
the arms of the stranger.

" How, faithless girl I " exclaimed he, ** and is

dbyGoogk

234 THE CHALET IN THE ALPS.

it come to this ? Is all shame gone, that yoa
let a stranger touch those tresses, that my hands
alone have heretofore pressed ? And you, un-
grateful man I is it thus you repay me for
having saved your life? But I will fly from
you both for ever I " And so saying, he rushed
from the chalet with the frantic haste of a
maniac.

The stranger, alarmed by his violence and
impetuosity, the cause of which he for the first
time clearly discerned, and deeply pained that
he should have furnished the occasion for the
development of a passion which now raged with
such fury, fled in pursuit of Michel, leaving
Annette overwhelmed with surprise and grief.
Dreadful were the sufierings of the poor girl,
as hour after hour elapsed, bringing with them
no tidings of her lover or his pursuer. At early
dawn, after a night of such wretchedness as she
had ever previously been a stranger to, she
stood in front of the chalet, straining her eyes
in the hope of discerning her lover ; when her
young sister descried a figure in the distance,

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THE CHALET IN THE ALPS. 2S5

and pointed it out to her. The most fearful
apprehensions filled her breast, for there was
but one fif^re to be seen, and that with the
quick sight of love she discerned was not his.

Alas I the fears of Annette were but too well
founded. Durand, the young artist, only re-
turned to prepare for the reception of the corse
of the ill-fated Miche], which, after a long search,
was discovered, owing to the barking of his
dog, in the very spot whence, but a few days
before, he had rescued him who was the inno-
cent cause of the groundless jealousy that led to
his own destruction. Whether the unhappy
youth had wilfully precipitated himself into the
yawning gulf, or that in the rapidity of his flight
he had overlooked his vicinity to it, and so had
accidentally ftdlen in, was never ascertained.
The charitable-minded of the few persons col-
lected from the neighbouring hamlets, were
disposed to adopt the latter supposition, while
those less good-natured, declared their convic-
tion that the deceased, driven to madness by
jealousy, had thrown himself into the chasm.

dbyGoogk

2S6 THE CHALET IN THE ALPS.

where his mutilated remains were found — a
helief in which they were strengthened by the
frantic self-accusations of the wretched Annette,
who, with piercing cries, declared herself to be
the cause of all. Fearful was the picture pre-
sented at the two chalets, so lately the scene of
peace and content. The poor old mother of
Michel Bauvais, rendered nearly insane by this
last terrible affliction, sat by the corse of her
son, and, gazing fondly on the pale face, mur-
mured from time to time, ** Yes, there he lies,
as his father did before him, twenty years ago.
Gone from me, without a parting word — a single
embrace. These cold lips, that never uttered
a word of unkindness to me, cannot return the
kiss that I imprint on them. Ah, my son!
never before did they receive the touch of mine
without returning the pressure. How often in
my dreams have I seen you as you now lie, cold,
speechless, without life, and I have awoke in
agony, to bless God that it was but a dream !
But now I oh ! my son, my son, who will close
the weary eyes of your wretched mother, who

dbyGoogk

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS, 2^7

will lay her in the grave I The wicked spirits
of these dreary mountains first envied me the
possession of my poor Claude, and snatched
him from me, and now they have torn away my
son. Often have I seen a light too bright for
mortal ken, shine into his room, when he slept,
as if the moon itself had entered his casement,
and cast all its beams around his head, just as
it used to do around that of his poor father. I
ought to have known it boded no good, but
I dared not think that my child would be taken
from me. I have heard such sighs and whis«
pers, too, in the night, when the wind has
shook the chalet, and the snow has been drifted
against the windows with a violence that has
dashed them to pieces. Ah I I ought to have
known that even then the evil spirits that haunt
these wild mountains were planning his destruc-
tion r

So raved the poor woman, in all the inco-
herence of a grief that unsettled her reason,
until some of the inhabitants of the nearest
hamlet came to remove the corse for interment,

dbyGoogk

23 S THE CHALET IN THE ALPS.

wben, uttering a piercing sbriek, and clasping
it in her arms» she fell senseless on the coffin ;
and when raised, was found to be dead. An-
nette had lost all consciousness of the misery
around her, in a brain fever, which kept her
hovering between life and death during many
days. When health once more began to tinge
her pale cheek, it was discovered with sorrow
by Durand, who had watched over her with
unceasing solicitude and unwearying care, that
reason reassumed not its empire in her brain.
Perfectly harmless and gentle, she did all that
she was told to do, with the docility of the most
obedient child, but was utterly incapable of the
least reflection, or of self-government. Durand,
considering that he was the cause, though the
innocent one, of the afflictions that had befallen
these poor families, insisted on becoming their
support for the future. He prevailed on the
helpless old Martin VignoUes to accompany
him, with his two daughters, to Paris, where,
having established them in his home, he left
nothing undone to promote their comfort For-

dbyGoogk

THE CHALET IN THE ALPS. 239

tune, too, favoured tbe worthy young man who
so religiously fulfilled his self-imposed duties ;
for his pictures, justly admired, produced such
high prices, that, after a few years, he secured
a handsome competence, and became the happy
husband of the pretty Fanchou, the sister of
poor Annette, to whom he had given an educa^-
tion that rendered her in every way suitable to
be the companion of a person with a cultivated
mind. Old Martin VignoUes lived to see the
marriage of bis Fanchon, and died blessing his
children.

Poor Annette still survives, innocent, gentle,
and fondly beloved by her sister and Durand,
with whose little children she delights to play,
ofiering subjects for his pencil, the representa^-
tion of which often draw crowds of admirers
round them in the gallery of the Louvre.

dbyGoogk

dbyGoogk

241

REMORSE:

A nAQMESr.

** No weftpon can tuch deadly wounds impart.
As conscience, roused, inflicts upon the heart*

" Postillion," cried a feeble but sweet voice,
** turn to your right when you have ascended
the hill, and stop, as I intend to walk up the
lane.**

The postillion obeyed the command, and with
more gentleness than is often to be met with in
his station, opened the chaise-door, and, having
first given his hand to her female attendant to
alight, assisted a pale and languid, but still
eminently beautiful woman, whose trembling

VOL. III. M

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24f2 REMORSE.

limbs seemed scarcely equal to the task of sup-
porting her attenuated frame.

** Be so good as to remain here until I re-
turn/' said the lady, who, leaning on the arm
of her attendant, proceeded through the leafy
lane, the branches of whose verdant boundaries
were animated by a thousand warbling birds
sending forth notes of joy. But ill did those
gay sounds accord with the feelings of her who
traced this rural walk, every turn of which
recalled bitter remembrances.

On reaching the gate that opened into the
pleasure grounds of Clairville, the stranger was
obliged to pause and take breath, in order to
gain some degree of composure before she could
enter it. There are some objects and incidents,
which, though comparatively trifling, have a
powerful effect on the feelings ; and this the
unknown experienced when, pressing the secr^
spring of the gate, which readily yielded to her
touch, with a hurried but tottering pace she
entered the grounds. Here, feeling the pre-
sence of her attendant a restraint— who^ though

dbyGoogk

REMORSE. 243

an Italian utterly ignorant of English, as also
of the early history of her mistress, was yet
ohservant of her visible emotion, and affection-
ately anxious to soothe it — she desired her to
remain at the gate until her return. In vain
Francesca urged that the languid frame of her
dear lady was unequal to support the exertion
of walking, without the assistance of her arm ;
for with a firm, but kind manner, her mistress
disclarcd her intention of proceeding alone.

It was ten years since the feet of the wan-
derer had pressed the velvet turf over which
they now slowly bent their course. She was
then glowing with youth and health } happy,
and dispensing happiness around; but, alas I
Love, gentle Love, spread his bandage over her
eyes, blinded her to the fatal realities of the
abyss into which he was about to plunge her,
and, in honied accents, whispered in her in&-
tuated ear a thousand bland promises of bliss
to come. How were those promises performed?
and what was she now ? She returned to this
once cherished spot, with a mind torn by re-

H 2

Digitized by VjOOQIC

244 REMORSE.

morse, and a form bowed down by disease.
She returned with the internal conviction, that
Death had laid his icy grasp on her heart, and
a few days, at most, if not a few hours, must
terminate her existence. But this conyiction,
far from giving her pain, was regarded by her
as a source of consolation; and this last earthly
indulgence — that of viewing the abode of her
children — ^she did hot feel herself worthy of
enjoying, until conscious that her hours were
numbered.

She proceeded through the beautiful grounds,
every mazy path and graceful bend of which
was familiar to her, as if seen the day before.
Many of the improvements suggested by her
taste, and still preserved with care, brought
back heart-sickening recollections of love and
confidence, repaid with deception and ingrati-
tude ; and though supported by the consolations
of religion, which led her humbly to hope that
her remorse and penitence had been accepted
by Him who has promised mercy to the re-
pentant sinner; yet her heart shrunk within

Digitized by VjOOQIC

REMORSE. 245

her, as memory presented her with the review
of her transgressions, and she almost feared to
hope for pardon.

When she had reached a point of the grounds
that conunanded a prospect of the house, how
were her feelings excited by a view of that
well known, well remembered, scene ! Every
thing wore the same appearance as when that
mansion owned her for its mistress ; the house
had still the same aspect of substantial gran-
deur and repose, the level lawn the same vel-
vet texture, and the trees, shrubs, and flowers,
the same blooming freshness, as when she
daily beheld their beauties. She, she alone
was changed. Time was, that those doors
would have been opened wide to receive her,
and that her presence would have dispensed
joy and pleasure to every individual beneath
that roof; while now her very name would
excite only painful emotions, and its sound
must be there heard no more. Another bore
the title she once was proud to bear, sup-
plying the place she had abandoned, and

dbyGoogk

246 KBMORSE.

worthily discharging the duties she had left
unperformed.

She gazed on the windows of the apartment
in which she first hecame a mother, and all the
tide of tenderness that then burst on her heart
now came back to her, poisoned with the bitter
consciousness of how she had fulfilled a mothei^s
part Those children dearer to her than the
life-drops that throbbed in her yeins, were now
beneath that roof, receiving from another that
afiection and instruction that it should have
been her blissful task to have given them; and
never, never must she hope to clasp them to
her agonized heart.

At this moment she saw the door of the
house open, and a lady, leaning on the arm of
a gentleman, crossed the lawn ; he pressed the
hand that reposed on his arm gently between
his and raised it to his lips, while his fair cmn-
panion placed her other hand on his with all
the tender confidence of affection. In this ap-
parently happy couple, the agonized unknown
recognised him whom she once joyed to call

dbyGoogk

REMORSE. 247

husband, the &ther of her children, the partner
whom she had betrayed and deserted ; and her,
whom he had chosen for her successor, who
now bore the name she once answered to, and
who was now discharging the duties she had
violated. Religion and repentance had in her
so conquered the selfishness of human nature,
that after the first pang — and it was a bitter
one — had passed away, she returned thanks
with heartfelt fervour to the Author of all good,
that it was permitted her to see him, whose
repose she had feared she had for ever destroyed,
enjoying that happiness he so well merited ;
and ardent was the prayer she ofiered up, that
a long continuance of it might be his lot, and
that his present partner might repay him for
all the pain caused by her misconduct.

She now turned into a shady walk, anxious
to regain the support of her attendant's arm,
which she felt her exhausted frame required,
when the sounds of approaching voices warned
her to conceal herself. Scarcely had she retired
behind the shade of a luxuriant mass of laurels.

dbyGoogk

248 REMORSE.

when a youthful group drew near; the very
sight of whom agitated her ahnost to fainting,
and sent the hlood back to her heart with a
violence that threatened instant annihilation.

The group consisted of two lovely girls, their
governess and a blooming youth, on whom the
two girls leant Every turn of their beautiful
countenances was expressive of joy and health ;
and their elastic and buoyant steps seemed
scarcely to touch the turf as, arm linked in
arm, they passed along. The youngest, a rosy-
cheeked girl of eleven years old, begged her
companions to pause while she examined a
bird*s-nest, which she said she feared the
parent-bird had forsaken; and this gave the
heart-stricken, for those were the children of
the unknown, an opportunity of regarding the
treasures her soul yearned to embrace. How
did her bosom throb at beholding those dear
faces — ^faces so often presented to her in trou-
bled dreams I Alas I they were now near her
— she might, by extending her hand, touch
them — she could almost feel their balmy

dbyGoogk

REMORSE. 249

breaths fan her feverish cheek, and yet it was
denied her to approach them. All the pangs
of maternal affection struck on her heart ; her
brain grew giddy, her respiration became op-
pressed, and urged by all the frenzy of a
distracted mind, she was on the point of rush-
ing from her concealment, and prostrating
herself before her children.

But this natural, though selfish, impulse was
quickly subdued, when a moment's reflection
whispered to her, will you purchase your own
temporary gratification at the expense of those
dear beings whom you have so deeply injured?
Will you plant in their innocent breasts, an
impression bitter and indelible ? The mother
triumphed over the woman; and, trembling
with emotion, she prayed that those cherished
objects might pass from her view, while yet she
had strength and courage to enable her to per-
severe in her self-deniaL

At this moment the little girl exclaimed,
** Ah I my fears were too true, the cruel bird
has deserted her nest, and here are the poor

dbyGoogk

250 REMORSE.

little ones nearly dead I What shall we do
with them?"

** Let us cany them to our dear mamma,"
said the elder girl ; ** she will be sure to take
care of them, as she says we should always
pity and protect the helpless and forsaken."

The words of the children struck daggers to
the heart of their wretched mother. For a
moment she struggled against the blow, and,
making a last effort, tried to reach the spot
where she had left her attendant ; but nature
was exhausted, and she had only tottered a few
paces, when uttering a groan of anguish, she
f6ll to the earth bereft of life, just aa Francesca
arrived to see her unhappy mistress breathe
her last sigh.

dbyGoogk

251

THOUGHTS ON LORD BYRON,

SUGGESTED BY A HCTUKE B£P&E8ENTING HIB CONTEMPLATION
or THE COLISEUM.

** Arches on arcbes 1 as it were that Rome,
Collecting the chief trophies of her line,
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome.
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine
As *twere in natural torches, for divine
Should be the light which streams here, to illume
This long explored but still exhaustless mine
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume
Hues which ha?e words, and speak to ye of Heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument.
And shadows forth its glory. There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath sent,
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath lent
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement,
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower."

There was not, perhaps, in the brief but
troubled life of Lord Byron, a period in
which his mind rose to so high an elevation.

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252 THOUGHTS ON LORD .BTRON.

as during liis short residence in the " Eternal
City." Emancipated, by satiety, from the
thraldom of the passions, to whose inglorious
empire he had at Venice previously resigned
himself, the view of the '* Noble of Nations'*
awakened associations that stirred the dormant
enthusiasm of his slumbering genius, which
never took a nobler flight than from Rome.

He was wont to dwell with unusual compla-
cency on the powerful influence exercised over
his feelings by its ruins, which spoke more
eloquently to him than aught that had ever
before appealed to his imagination. Not only
did they excite his genius, but they softened
the acute sense of injury, real or imagined,
under which he writhed, by reminding him of
the transitoriness of life, and the vanity of
human grandeur. Ever prone to egotism, he
identified his own ruined hopes with the wrecks
of ages around him: and thought with less
bitterness, if he could not only wholly foi]get
the wrongs inflicted on him, while beholding
the once proud monuments of antiquity, on

dbyGoogk

THOUGHTS ON LORD BYRON. 253

which greater injuries had heen heaped, crumb-
ling fest into decay. Byron's feelings, which
were intense, were the true source of his inspi-
ration. They acted on his imagination, which,
as he often avowed, could by no other means
be impelled into action. A smiling landscape,
or a modern palace or temple, however beautiful,
would have created only painful emotions in his
mind, because he would have contrasted them
with his own blighted existence; but grand
and imposing ruins, and all that spoke to him
of desolation, touched a chord in his heart that
vibrated, and in his sympathy with inanimate
objects he half forgot his own griefe. How
often has it been urged by those unacquainted
with the extreme sensitiveness of a highly po-
etical temperament, that Byron's feelings were
imaginary. Such persons are ever ready to
believe that those richly endowed with the
adventitious gifts of rank, fortune, and great
personal attractions, can have no cause for
unhappiness, because they, being deprived of
them, imagine that the possession of such

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254 THOUGHTS ON LORD BTRON.

advantages would insure felicity. Such miodB,
and they are too many, are more disposed to
reproach than pity sufferings which, however
produced hy too great susceptibility of feelings,
inflict, not imaginary, but real misery on their
possessor. As not even the most phiknthn^ic
observer, who ever studied the natural history
of the oyster, has been known to pity it for tbe
malady to which the pearl, so generally prixed,
owes its birth; so not even the most ardeot
admirer of the productions of genius has been
known to lament the price at which their anthor
wrought them, though that price were health
and happiness, both of which blessings are
endangered, if not precluded, by the tempera-
ment, which, if not constituting the posses-
sion, is at least peculiar to genius.

There are some fortunate exceptions to the
dommon lot of poets, men, who, in the bosoms
of their families, living far away from the bosy
world, have never had their susceptibilities
excited into unhealthy action, by the thousand
nameless vexations incidental to a contact with

dbyGoogk

THOUGHTS ON LORD BTRON. 255

general society. Such men, surrounded by af-
fectionate friends, and partial admirers, solace
themselves after the fever of composition, in
the commendations and soothing attentions of
their domestic circle, and may well be thankful
for their exemption from the maladies of their
less favoured brethren of the craft; but let
those who would triumphantly cite them as in-
stances of the compatibility of genius and hap-
piness, reflect, that they owe their safety to a
prudent retreat from the world, and not to
a conquest over it

The fourth canto of " Childe Harold's
Pilgrimage," offers irrefragable proof of the
powerful and salutary influence exercised over
Byron's mind by the view of Rome. Who can
peruse that portion of it, suggested by a moon-
light visit to the Coliseum, without feeling that
the poet was there in his proper element ; and
that his genius, touched by the sublime scene,
gushed forth in all its grandeur, identifying
for ever his name with the monument he has
immortalized? The third act of ** Manfred''

dbyGoogk

£56 THOUGHTS ON LORD BTRON.

was also written at Rome; for Byron, dissap
tisfied with the one written at Venice, pro-
hibited the publication until he should find
his mind in a mood to render justice to the
subject. Often have I stood on the spot where
Byron reclined when drinking in inspiration
at the Coliseum, and mentally repeated the
lines —

*< Amidst this wreck, wbere tbou hast made a sbrine
And temple more divinely desolate,
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine.
Ruins of years — ^though few, yet full of &te ; —
If thou hast ever seen me too elate.
Hear me not : but if calmly I have borne

Good, and reserved my pride against the hate
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not moum?*

At Rome Byron was brought into contact
with several of his compatriots, and the con-
duct of many of them towards him — characte-
rized, as it too often is, by an ill-bred and
unrepressed exhibition of curiosity, which seeks
its own gratification, heedless of the annoyance
inflicted on the object that excites it — stuog
him to the souL He had so often experienced
bhe rudeness of being followed and looked at,

dbyGoogk

THOUGHTS ON LORD BTRON. £57

as if he were some curious animal, that he
confounded the gaze of admiration for the poet^
which was not unfrequently bestowed on hira,
with the stare of malevolence meant for the
fnatit which he had sometimes detected; till,
disgusted and irritated, he shrank from social
intercourse with the English, and retired to
the solitude that he could people with the bright
creations of his imagination — *' the beings not
of clay,'' in apostrophizing which he expended
those fine sympathies which were repelled by
his fellow-men.

Well can I picture him to myself rushing
irate from a circle, where the impertinence of
some individual, assuming the garb of prudery,
had insulted him by a marked avoidance, or a
supercilious recognition ; impertinences, which
though contemptible, were sure to produce pain
and irritation to his too susceptible feelings.
Can it then be wondered at, that, under such
inflictions, the finest aspirations of his genius
were mingled with bitterness? or that he turned
with dislike from the generality of his coun-

dbyGoogk

258 THOUGHTS ON LORD BYRON.

trymen? A Persian proverb says, that "the
arrows of contempt will pierce even the shell
of the tortoise;" how then mast they have
lacerated the thin epidermis of that most
sensitive of all human beings, a poet? who,
in the agony of the wounds, forgot the unwor-
thiness of the inflictors.

dbyGoogk

959

"APROPOS OF BORES."

KXLATSD BY THX LATS JOSXPH JBKYLL, X8Q. TO THE COUNTESS
OF BLSSSQfOTON.

Apropos of bores I how frequently is the plea-
sure of society injured, if not destroyed, by the
bores who infest it I and how seldom can we
recall a single day, the enjoyment of which has
not been deteriorated by their intervention I

One of the annoying peculiarities of bores is,
to select the moment for relating some stupid
anecdote, or for asking some silly question,
when a witty, instruQ^iye, or interesting con-
versation is going on, to which one is desirous

Digitized by VjOOQIC

€60 APROPOS OF BORES.

of listening. A particular instance of this vex-
atious propensity once annoyed me excessively;
it occurred at a dinner given by my late worthy
friend, Sir William Garrow.

" Pray tell us,** said he to a man who sat
near him, *' that adventure of yours in the wine-
vaults of Lincoln's Inn, of which I heard a
garbled account the other day."

I, who always like an adventure, pricked up
my ears at the sound ; and the individual thus
questioned commenced the following story : —

" A friend of mine went to Madeira in an
official situation some years ago. He speculated
largely in wine, and sent home several pipes, to
be kept until his return. He wrote to request
me to find them a safe cellarage ; and I, in con-
sequence, applied to a jfriend, a barrister, to
procure me permission to lodge the wine in the
vast cellars of Lincoln's Inn Square. I was
furnished with a key, that I might have ingress
and egress to this sombre spot when I liked ;
and having, one day, a vacant hour in my
chambers, it suddenly entered my head that I

dbyGoogk

APROPOS OF BORES. S6l

would go and inspect the wine depdt of mj
absent friend.

<< Armed with the key I sallied forth, and
engaged the first porter I met to procure a
candle, and accompany me to the cellar. You
are not, perhaps, aware that these vast vaults
are twenty feet beneath the square, and the
entrance of them many feet, I believe one hun-
dred and fifty, removed from any dwelling, or
populous resort.

<* We entered the gloomy cavern, and locked
the door on the inside, to prevent any idle per-
son, who might by chance pass that way, from
taking cognizance of the treasure it concealed.
So great was the extent of the vault, that our
feeble light scarcely enabled us to grope our
way through its murky regions ; but, at length,
we reached the spot where I knew the wine of
my friend was deposited, and had the satisfac-
tion of finding the pipes were in perfect con-
dition. We were preparing to return, when
the porter, who held the candle, made a false
step, and was precipitated to the earth, extin-

dbyGoogk

262 APROPOS OF BORES.

guishing the light in his £bl1L Never shall I
forget the sensation I experienced at that mo-
ment I for the extent and tortuous windings of
the vault impressed me with a rapid conviction
of the difficulty, if not impossibility, of disco-
vering the door. The alarmed porter declared,
in terror, that we were lost, inevitably lost;
that he should never see his wife and children
more, and cursed the hour he left the light of
day to explore the fearful cave, that would now
become his tomb» on which no fond eye could
dwell ; and he cried aloud in an agony of de-
spair at this gloomy contemplation. I urged
him to restrain his useless lamentations, and
seek to grope our way in the direction of the
door ; and, after having occupied full two hours
in fruitlessly wandering through as many various
and devious turnings, as if in a labyrinth, we at
length discovered the object of our search.

'<'0 God be thanked, God be thanked!'
exclaimed the porter with frantic joy, * then I
shall again see my wife, my little ones I' and
he seized the key, which was in the lock and

dbyGoogk

APROPOS OF BOR£S. 2G3

turned it with such force, that it snapped, the
head remaining inextricahly secured in the
wards,

*« « Now, now we are indeed lost I' cried he,
throwing himself on the ground ; < all hope is
at an end, for we might knock and scream here
for ever, without heing heard. Why — why did
I come with you ? It is plain you are an un-
lucky man, whoever you are, and your ill-fortune
falls on me.'

" I tried to comfort him, though seriously
alarmed myself; but he hecame angry, telling
me I could be no father or husband, to talk
coolly at such a moment, and with a certain
prospect of death, by famine, staring us in the
face.

** * Oh, Lord I oh, Lord I' cried he, starting
up in terror, '< the rats are gathering round ;
they will devour us before hunger has done its
work 1'

<< I have all my life, had a peculiar antipathy
to these animals; and confess that, when I
found them stumbling over my feet, and heard

dbyGoogk

264 APROPOS OF BORES.

them miming at every side, an increased
shudder of horror and fear chilled my hlood.

** ' Let us stave in one of the pipes of Ma-
deira,' said my companion, ' that we may forget
in the excitement of wine, the horrihle death
that awaits ns. Yes, let us get drunk.'

^ I refused to adopt this project ; and my
rdusal again drew forth his reproaches on my
bdng an unlucky man, and his conviction that
I had no heart in my hody, as he expressed it,
or no wife and little ones expecting me at
h<mie, or I would not take matters so easy.

** How many thoughts did I give to the dear
oljects to whom he referred, as I now dwelt
with anguish on the fearful prohahility of my
never again heholding them I We searched
in vain for a slone or any other implemoit
with which to wrench the lock or force the
hinges, hoth of which resisted all our efforts.
Hour after hour passed away. How intermi-
nahly long appeared their flight I the siknoe
only hroken hy the mingled reproaches and
lamentations of my companion, and the in-

dbyGoogk

APROPOS OF BORES. 265

creased noise of the rats, which now, becoming
more courageous, assailed our feet. Each hour
strengthened my conviction of our inevitable
death in this horrible subterranean place, where
probably, our mortal remains would not be dis«
covered, until every trace of identity was de«
stroyed by the ravenous animals around us.
My blood ran cold at the reflection, and my
heart melted at the thought of those who were
doubtless at that moment anxiously counting
the hours of my unusual absence. I seized the
arm of my companion, and **

Here one of the company proverbial for his
obtuseness, and who had repeatedly attempted
to interrupt the narrative, seized my button,
and, in a loud voice, said ^* How do you think,
Jekyll, I should have got out?"*

" You would have bored your way out, to be
sure,*' answered I, impatient at the interrup-
tion ; and the more so, as, at this instant, the
butler announced that the ladies were waiting
tea for us.

I ascended to the drawing-room, fully in-

VOL. in. N

Digitized by VjOOQIC

266 APROPOS OF BORES.

tending to request the sequel to the story ; but
a succession of airs on the piano^ accompanied
by the voices of the ladiies, precluded the possi-
bility of conversation. In a few days after, I
met some of the party, and questioned them
respecting the conclusion. One declared that
he had forgotten all about the story ; another
said, it had set him off to sleep, and so he
missed the denouement ; a third avowed that,
being deaf in the left ear, he had not heard
more than a few words ; and a fourth told me,
that a tiresome person next him took that op-
portunity of giving him the particulars of a
county meeting, as detailed in the momiog
papers, not omitting a single line.

Consequentiy, to this hour I am igmMrant
how the gentleman and porter escaped from
the vault

dbyGoogk

9&J

THE BAT OF NAPLES,

IN THB SUMMER OF Ittl.
A SKETCH.

It is evening, and scarcely a breeze raffles
the calm bosom of the beautiful bay, which
resembles a rast lake, reflecting on its glassy
surface the bright sky above, and the thousand
stars with which it is studded. Naples, with
its white colonnades, seen amidst the dark
foliage of its terraced gardens, rises like an
amphitheatre; lights stream from the windows
and foil on the sea beneath like columns of
gold. The Castle of St. Elmo crowning the
oentre; Vesuvius, like a sleeping giant in grim
repose, whose awakening all dread, is to the

n2

Digitized by VjOOQIC

268 THE BAT OF NAPLES.

left; and on the right are the Tine-crowned
heights of the beautiful Vomero, with their
palaces and villas peeping forth from the groves
that surround them ; while rising above it, the
Convent of Camaldoli lifts its head to the
skies.

Resina, Portici, Castel-a-Mare, and the
lonely shores of Sorrento^ reach out from
Vesuvius as if they tried to embrace the Isle
of Capri, which forms the central object ; and
Pausilipo and Misenum, which, in the dis-
tance, seem joined to Phxdda and Ischia,
advance to meet the beautiful island on the
right. The air, as it leaves the shore, is laden
with fragrance from the orange^treea and jas-
mine, so abundant round Naples; and the
soft music of the guitar, or lively sound of the
tambourine, marking the brisk movemente of
the tarantella, steals on the ear. — ^But hark I a
rich stream of music, silencing all other, is
heard, and a golden barge advances ; the oars
keep time to the music, and each stroke of
them sends forth a silvery light; numerous

dbyGoogk

THE BAT OF NAPLES. 269

lamps attached to the boat, give it, at a little
distance, the appearance of a vast shell of
topaz, floating on a sea of sapphire. Nearer
and nearer draws this splendid pageant; the
music falls more distinctly on the charmed
ear, and one sees that its dulcet sounds are
produced by a band of glittering musicians,
clothed in royal liveries.

This illuminated barge is followed by another,
with a silken canopy overhead, and the curtains
drawn back to admit the balmy air. Cleopatra,
when she sailed down the Cydnus, boasted not
a more beautiful vessel ; and, as it glides over
the sea, it seems impelled by the music that
precedes it, so perfectly does it keep time to its
enchanting sounds, leaving a bright trace be-
hind, like the memory of departed happiness.
But who is he that guides this beauteous bark ?
his tall and slight figure is curved, and his
snowy locks, falling over ruddy cheeks, show
that age has bent but not broken him : he looks
like one bom to command — a hoary Neptune,
steering over his native element ; — all eyes are

dbyGoogk

270 THE BAT OF NAPLES.

fixed, but his follow the glittering barge that
precedes him. And who is she that has the
seat of honour at his side ? Her fair, large,
and unmeaning face wears a placid smile ; and
those light blue eyes and fair ringlets, speak
her of another land ; her lips, too, want the
fine chiselling which marks those of the sunny
clime of Italy ; and the expression of her coun-
tenance has in it more of earth than heaven.
Innumerable boats filled with lords and ladies,
follow, but intrude not on the privacy of this
royal bark, which passes before us like the
visions in a dream.

He who steered, was Ferdinand, King of
the Sicilies ; and she who sat beside him was
Maria Louisa, Ex-Empress of France.

dbyGoogk

271

THE PARVENUE.

<< Prat don't ask the Nicksons ; — ^indeed, it
will NOT do to have them to meet the Duke of
Netherby, and the other smart people whom
we have invited for the twenty-third of next
month.'*

'* What I not invite my own sister, Mrs.
Winterton? really you surprise me I"

'< Well, / see nothing at all surprising in the
matter ; and if / don't ask either my sister or
brother to our smart parties, I don't know why
you should invite yours."

<* More shame for you, Mrs. Winterton, not
to ask them ; but that's your aflair, they know

dbyGoogk

272 THE PARVENUE.

it is not my fault, for I am not a man to be
ashamed of my relations because they happra
to be less prosperous than myself; — ^but you
may do as you like with regard to your rela^
tions, mine I insist on being invited."

" How can you be so obstinate, Mr. Win-
terton ? you know not the injury it may be to
your children/*

" In what way, my dear ?"

<< In what way ? how strange to ask such a
question I Do you not know that the whole
study of my life is to get ourselves and our
children into good company ?''

<* I ought to know it, my dear, for I hear 6t
little else than the schemes you lay to accom-
plish this measure/'

" A la banheut, Mr. Winterton."

*' Do let me, I entreat you, Martha, once
for all, make you sensible how ridiculous you
render yourself by interlarding your conversa-
tion with French words.*'

<* And let me tell you, Mr. Winterton, that
it is worse than ridiculous in you, to wish me

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. ^S

to speak otherwise than as all people of fiishion
do. But I see plainly that you make a point
of contradicting, and opposing my wishes jn
all things/' and here a flood of tears stopped
the utterance of Mrs. Winterton, and hrought
her good-natured hushand to her side.

'* Now don't cry, Martha, you know I can't
hear to see you in tears. There's a good little
soul, don't cry any more I " and the uxorious
Mr. Winterton kissed the inflamed cheek of
his wife, which, hathed in tears, looked like a
red peony after a shower of rain.

" Well, then, my own dear Richard," sobhed
the lady, allowing herself to he mollified, and
determined to carry her point with her good-
natured husband, '< I hope you will not ask me
to invite the Nicksons for the twenty-third of
next month ? Only think how ill it would look
to see in the Morning Po9t their vulgar names
coming after those of the Duke of Netherby,
the Marquis and Marchioness of Ardcastle,
the Earl and Countess of Beltonville, the Vis-
count and Viscountess 61 Underweston, Lord

nS

Digitized by VjOOQIC

27^

it is ^ot 1
ashamed (
to be less
may A^ as
tions, wi"^2^'

«« How c
terton? yov
your childr

« In whii

« In who
question !
study of m}
children intc

" I ought
little else thi
plish this mt

'' Alabo7

*' Do let 1
for ell, nmke
render your?
tion with Fr

^ Ajid let

Ld

THE PAXVEyTL.

-^fMitli, and Lord hm^ T^mwarh

^3- lot omit Af ma* c^^XIcksong

-c ind then s vRcniaaie? That,

n^r ^aonqiieiBas c jr^aoisr'iieaDoy-

a=L AndiswzP'X :isiC3ec!;.Martl)a,

^^SL Toa iwiii * ^'ed > ar advioey and

Tmt moit send :iie is o< oar compnT to the

ipraiipen.. &is.iii3T jpmionvaD onbeoom-

jjg^Q^gesmm^^ '^ our hoqiitalitj*

«ir& :k& ^<cqui » die use (^ giiw

fcj-s }t Tjissm, I shoold fike to

^»-ii Jmiit oKtrf ^«^ ^«*«^

« Wt^ ^^^ I im 9orry, tery sorry,

p^'^D ^T^at ywi are i? r^^-'

ttei«riidii£B

Digitized by VjOOQ IC

lE PARTENUE.

«75

lave acquired of it has not
ier or a better woman."
i to being happier, fifr. Win*
permit me to be the best judge
iigs, chaque une a son gmtL*^
ave an occasional fit of the gout,
r it, as I do other trials, that is.
Id, but I do not thiAk it kind of
ImeofiL''

re ever such a man I what in the

(Ier has your gout to do with the

hich we were conversing?"

I hear you say gout ? I did not

the other words in your French

t ril swear to the word gout, for

as plain as it ever was pronounced,"

knew the French language, Mr.

ou woul^je aware that gout means

^ that I B^^^ bscrv ed • every one to

-y

Idoi
irou a^

he French language,

ni) ignorance of it,

-bred of you to speak

dbyGoogk

276 THE PAEVBNUE.

it when we are alone. I have managed to make
a large fortune, Martha, and with a fair and
honest name^ too, without knowing a word of
any language hut my own. A man who can
make a plum may do without French."

<< How often have I hegged of you to leave
off talking of plums I**

** And how often have I heen compelled to
remind you, Martha, that my plums have
sweetened your cup of life.''

** Really, Mr. Winterton, you are growing
personal; and to hear you talk, one would
imagine you were an Spicier '^

" Awhat?'*

" A grocer.**

** And could'nt you say so at once, without
calling it an epee sir ?"

« Was there ever so provoking a man?"

** I have business to attend, Martha^ and
cannot stay here, losing my time, and my
temper too; but mind you, I will have the
Nicksons here on the twenty-thirdt** and so
saying Mr. Winterton quitted the library,

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. 277

leaving his wife in a very ill-humour^ which
she was well disposed to yent on whoever came
in her way.

She rung the bell* and ordered the servant
who answered it, to inform Miss Winterton
that she desired her presence, and in a few
minutes a very lovely and lady-like looking
girl» of about nineteen, entered the room.

** I sent for you, Emma, to consult how I
can get out of the scrape in which the obstinacy
of your &ther will place me. Only fancy, he
insists on having the Nicksons to dine here on
the twenty-third of next month, when the Duke
of Netherby, and many other people of fashion,
are to be here."

*' I do not see how.it is to be avoided,
mother, if my father has decided on it."

'< Do you not think it would be possible
to make Mrs. Nickson understand that I
would prefer her not dining here on that day,
without giving her room to complain to your
father?"

'* 1 do not know how this is to be effected ;

dbyGoogk

278 THE PARVENUE.

but I am quite sure my aunt Nickson would
never complain to my father.^

** Have I not told you, a hundred times, to
leave off saying my aunt Nickson ? There is
nothing so vulgar. People of fSBishion never say
my aunt : can you not say Mrs, Nickson?**

** Aunt looked surprised and hurt when I
did so, the last time she was here ; and she is
so mighty kind and affectionate.**

*• Stuff— nonsense ! I will not have you call
her aunt, so there's an end of it But as she
is so mighty kind and affectionate^ could you
not give her a hint that our table only holds a
certain number, — that I have already filled up
the list, and that, consequently — though I
think it right to engage her, and should like
to do so — I fear the room will be so crowded
and so hot, that I shall not have room, and
that I should not be sorry if even some of the
present number of guests sent excuses. You
are a fiftvourite with her, and can easily, by the
practice of a little tact, make her understand
that I don't wish them to come.**

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. «79

" Really, my dear motherp I don't **

** For mercy sake t spare my poor nerves the
£sitigue of another debate; I have had suffi-
cient annoyance this morning, already, by your
fiEither's obstinacy, without your tormenting
me ; but there never was a woman so harassed
by her family as I am, or so crossed in my
efforts to establish them in fashionable society."

" I am very sorry "

'' Oh I so you all say, when you have deter*
mined to take your own way ; but if you were
really sorry, how easy it would be to meet my
wishes, and assist me in carrying them into
effect But I am not the dupe of your pre-
tended regrets : no, I am well aware that your
vulgar relations "

'* Mr. William Nickson has called, madam,
and requests you will see him,'' said a servant,
on opening the door of the library.

'* Why did you say I was at home ? Did I
not give orders to say not at home to any
visitors this morning ? *'

** I thought, madam **

dbyGoogk

280 THE PA&VKNUE.

*< I don't want yoa to think ; I pay you to
obey instructions, and not to think."

** Dear mother, my cousin William is wait-
ing all this time.''

**Let him wait: who sent for him? Re-
member, once for all, that when I say not at
home, no one is to be admitted. You may tell
Mr. William Nickson to oome in."

** I fear I have disturbed you, aunt," said
a fine young man who entered the library.

^* Why, I must confess I was occupied ; but
even when not so, I have a great dislike to
being broken in upon of a morning," and Mr&
Winterton looked as ungracious as her speech.

The handsome nephew appeared abashed for
a moment, but after an efibrt, recovering his
self-possession, extended his hand to take that
of his stately aunt, who merely deigned to give
him the point of her fat and fubsy fingers.
Not so did his gentle cousin greet William
Nickson, for her cheeks became suffused with
blushes, as her hand was clasped in his ; and a
close observer might have discovered the plear

dbyGoogk

THE PABVENUE. 281

sure beaming in her intelligent countenance as
she met his glance. Mrsl Winterton all this
time maintained a cold and haughty demeanour,
as if she awaited an explanation of the cause
of the visit of her nephew, while Emma ques-
tioned him about the health of his mother and
sister, with an earnestness that denoted the
interest she felt in the subject.

*< My mother wished me to call, in order
that you should name a day for coming to dine
with us, aunt"

*' At this season, I fear it is totally out of
the question. I have not a day, or indeed an
hour to myself. My engagements are so nu-
merous, that I cannot find time to fulfil even
one-half of- those I form; judge then, whether
I can devote a whole evening to feunily con-
nexions?"

« I am very sorry ; but perhaps my uncle
and my cousins could manage to come ?"

<* Mr. Winterton can do as he pleases } but
for my daughters, and Reginald, it is wholly
out of the question."

dbyGoogk

28S THE PARVENUE.

*^ My mother will be greatly disappointed,''
said William Nickson, and he and his fair
cousin looked the disappointment he declared
his mother would experience,

'* I have not seen Reginald for a long time,"
observed the young man.

" I suppose not,*' answered Mrs, Winterton ;
** he has been hunting in Leicestershire, and
going a round of visits in country-houses, when-
ever the first permitted his absence from
Melton. He has only just arrived in town,
and has not a moment to himself, poor fellow I
Emma, I want you to write some notes for me,
to Lady Ardcastle and Lady Beltonville."

Emma looked distressed at this palpable
hint for the abridgement of the visit of h^
cousin, and then approached the vnriting table.

** I hoped to meet you last night, at Lady
Ardcastle's musical party," said William
Nickson,

<< Were you there ?" asked his aunt, with an
air of undisguised surprise. '* How long have
you known the Ardcastles?" continued she.

dbyGoogk

THE PABVENUE. S8S

. *^ Since last season," replied William Nick-
son, calmly, ** The music was not super-excel-
lent last night, but the petit souper after, was
very agreeable."

** Who was there?" asked Mrs. Winterton,
her cheeks becoming flushed with anger.

"The usual set The Netherbys, Derlqr-
shires, Beltonvilles, &c. But I will not inter-
rupt you any longer ; " and, again touching the
tips of his aimt's fingers, and pressing the whole
of the delicate, though plump and dimpled
hand of his cousin Emma, William Nickson
lefit the room.

" Look over the fashionable intelligence in
the Mtyrning Post, Emma, and see if there is
any notice of the musical soirSe at Lady Ard-
castle's, or whether Mr. Nickson's name is in
the list of the guests. Is it not extraordinary
that we should have been left out a second
time?"

" Lady Ardcastle has a numerous acquaint-
ance, mother, and cannot invite all for the same
evening.**

dbyGoogk

284 THE PARVBNUE.

''That is 60 like yoa^ Emma, always dis-
oovering an excuse for erery one I find fault
with. But you have no feeling, no pride;
none of my family have, I am sorry to say.**

'' Here is the list of the company, mother,"
and Emma read aloud a long catalogue of more
than half the peerage, while her angry mother
groaned in spirit, as she listened to the reci^-
tulation of dukes and duchesses, marquises and
marchionesses, earls and countesses, &c. who
formed the party.

'' Is William Nickson's name in the list?**
asked Mrs. Winterton.

'' Yes, here it is," answered Emma.

*' Well, this does surprise me. What they
can see in Aim, and why we should be omitted,
is really unaccountable. Here have I been
asking the Ardcastles, the BeltonyiUes, and
the Underwestons to dinner over and over again,
and they never invite us more than once during
the season ; and when they do, never have any
of the people to meet us, that I want to become
acquainted with. Is it not too provoking?"

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. 285

** If I may be allowed to give an opinioo,
mother, I should say, that in your place I
would either not invite them at all, or at least,
invite them much less frequently."

" Then you would act very fooUshly, I can
tell you, young lady. Do you suppose I ask
them because their society gives me any plea-
sure ? Not at all ; for, in spite of all I used
to think be/bre I knew lords and ladies, their
company is less amusing than that of the people
we used to have when we lived in Russell-^
square/'

<* Ah, mother I those were indeed pleasant
days, when aunt Lindsay, uncle Tomkinson,
and aunt and undo Nickson used to dine with
us so often. We have had no such agreeable
dinners since we have been in Grosvenor-
sqoare.^'

^* Agreeable dinners, indeed I I wonder,
Emma, that you can have profited so little by
the expensive education I have bestowed on
you, as to think such dull, humdrum fieonily
parties agreeable* But to resume, mind you

dbyGoogk

286 THE PABVENUE.

do not forget to make Mrs. Nickson under-
stand, that it will be quite as well that she
does not dine here on the twenty-third; but
let this be done without committing me^ and
drawing down vour C&ther's anger, for as he
is so absurdly tenacious about the Nicksons
being invited, he would resent my interferraice
in defeating his wishes. And now, Emma,
there is another subject on which I think it
my duty to speak to you : I have observed
that you receive with marked coldness the
attentions of Lord Haversham.''

** As I entertain no preference for him, I
have thought it right to discourage his atten*
tions as much as possible.''

'* And may I inquire what objections yoa
can possibly urge against him?''

<' Neither his appearance or manner please
me."

** Then you must be very difficult to be
pleased, for I know not a more good-looking or
agreeable man. His title is one of the oldest
in &e peerage, and his seat is one of the most

dbyGoogk

THE fARVENUE. 287

admired in England. Do not play the fool,
Emma ; a coronet is not to be had every day
in the week, I can tell you, and you may never
again have such a chance of wearing one.''

** But surely, mother, if I feel no preference
for him who owns it — if, on the contrary, my
sentiments towards him are much more nearly
akin to dislike, you would not have me en-
courage his addresses ?"

^* Stuff I — ^nonsense I I would have you a
countess, the envy of all your female friends,
taking a distinguished lead in the fashionable
world, instead of, as at present, being merely
tolerated in it."

^' Indeed, mother, I am unfitted for fashion-
able Ufe I"

'* Fiddle-de-dee I — don't teU me any such
thing. What have I been sacrificing such vast
sums of money for, ever since your infancy,
except to fit you for fashionable life ? and now,
forsooth, you tell me you are unsuited for it I
I expect that you will henceforth receive the
attentions of Lord Haversham with the &vour
they merit, or—"

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2S8 THE PABVBNUE.

•* Hear me, mother I indeed I ^

** I will hear Dothing, Emma ; you now know
m? wishes, and if you refuse obedience to them,
yoa must not expect the kindness and indnL
gence to which you have hitherto been accns-
toroed."

^' On all subjects, but the one on which the
happiness of my future life depends, yon may
always, dear mother, count on my obedience ;
but on thai I cannot — dare not yield it."

*' But what can be your objection to Lord
Haversham ? "

<* His reputation, his manner."

" His reputation, forsooth I Why, where
can a daughter of mine have acquired such
notions ? So, because his lordship has been a
little wild in his youth, and is a little free in
his manner, he is found to be objectionable?
Do you not know that reformed rakes are said
to make the best husbands V*

** What woman of delicacy, mother, would
trust her happiness to the keeping of such a
man? What woman, with a pure mind, cfmld
condescend to be the companion^of a man whose

Digitized by VjOOQIC

THE PARVENUE. 289

days have been passed among the dissolute of
his own sex, and the degraded of ours ?"

** Look at Lady Augusta Falconbridge, who
bestowed herself and her fifty thousand pounds
on Lord Warrendale, who was considered one
of the wildest roues about town, and yet she is
a very happy woman."

''She chose him, mother; and the woman
capable of making such a choice, has no right
to complain."

** And no reason either, for he is a most
good-natured and indulgent husband/'

'* But if Lady Warrendale possessed the
pride and delicacy that a well educated young
woman ought to have, could she be happy with
a man who has not one rational pursuit, or one
refined sentiment ?"

'' He only does what half the noblemen of
his time do. They all race, hunt, game, and
give themselves up to pleasure.**

'' I could not be happy, mother, with a man
who lived this sort of life, and should for ever

VOL. III. o

dbyGoogk

290 THE PARV£NUE.

reproach myself, were I to unite my destiny
with such a one."

<* Then you are indeed unreasonahle, Emma.
What, not be happy when mistress of a fine
seat in the country, a splendid mansicm in
town, rich equipages with your coronet embla-
zoned on them, an entrSe to the most courtly
circles, and the right of precedence over all of
inferior rank ? If you knew the world as well
as I do, you would not hesitate to accept the
ofier of one who could insure you these advan-
tages— advantages that so many of your sex
would be transported with joy to have placed
within their reach. Look at my position,
Emma, — one fraught with so much pain and
humiliation to me, that the wealth of your
father, by placing all luxuries, and appliances
of fortune in my power, only serves to render
more tantalizing. Had I but rank, joined to
the wealth we possess, I should command an
entree to every circle, instead of being, as now,
excluded from the select, and only admitted

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUS. 291

when a crowd is received. I should not be com-
pelled to submit to the humiliations so often
endured from the insolence of capricious women
of rank, who condescend to partake of our
luxurious dinners, only because your father
lends liberal assistance to the wants of their
spendthrift lords. Yes, I should be happy if I
possessed but rank ; and yet this great, this
dazzling advantage, you foolishly, and I must
say, wickedly decline, although you know your
acceptance of Lord Haversham would render
me so happy."

« But has it never occurred to you, my dear
mother, that the advantages you have enume-
rated cannot confer happiness? Be assured,
that those whose birth bestow them, have little
enjoyment in the sense of their possession ; and
that even you, were they accorded to you, would
soon lose all pleasure in them, and desire some
other imaginary good.''

<* All your reasoning may be very fine, Emma,
hot it does not carry conviction to my mind.
Far from it j and if you wish to prove your

o2

Digitized by VjOOQIC

292 THE PARVENUE.

affection for me, you will accept the proposals
of Lord Haversham, and give me the satb-
faction of seeing my daughter wear a coronet,
though I must not hope to possess one myseW*

'^ Would that you tasked my ohedience and
affection on any other point than this, and
gladly would I obey you, but "

'^ I will hare no buts, Emma ; — ^you will
marry Lord Haversham, or I disclaim you fiv
my child I " and so saying Mrs. Winterton left
the room angrily, and loudly closing the door
as she withdrew, and leaving her daughter to
weep at her unkindness. While she yet in-
dulged in " the luxury of woe," which, howe?cr,
was no luxury to poor Emma, her father entered
the library, and observing her deep emotion,
requested to be made acquainted with the caose.
When informed of it, he good-naturedly told
her that she might calm her fears, for that she
never should be compelled to a marriage repog«
nant to her feelings.

** But how is it, my dear Emma, that I have
been deceived on this point?" .asked Mr. \t^

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. 293

terton. <*Your mother assured me that you
had no ohjection to marry Lord Haversham,
and when I made some animadversions on his
past conduct, which alarmed me for your future
happiness, I was told that you were satisfied
on that head, — an assertion which, I confess,
somewhat surprised me. I am mortified at
this deception, and did not look for it"

** Do not, my dear father, I entreat you,
suffer it to cause any misunderstanding hetween
my mother and you. I should never forgive
myself were I to he the cause."

*^ You are a good girl, Emma — ay, a very
good girl I" and the affectionate father kissed
his daughter's cheek. " And I must take care,"
continued he, ^* that your happiness is not com*
promised."

Mrs. Winterton had hitherto been so sue*
cessful in carrying every point on which she
had set her mind, with her uxorious husband,
that she was by no means disposed to abandon
her project of compelling her daughter to wed
Lord Haversham, however that daughter's feeU

dbyGoogk

294 THE PARVENUE.

ings were opposed to the measure ; and ivben
Mr. Winterton, with more energy and fimmess
than he was wont to exercise in any discossiiBi
with her, dedared that no coercion should be
practised towards his child, in a matter in
which the happiness of her future life was at
stake, her anger knew no bounds. She accused
both father and daughter of having conspired
to defeat the plan she had proposed to ennoUe
the family, and uttered the severest reproaches
against the mild and unoffending Enuna, who,
in the warmth of her anger, she declared had
endeavoured to sow the seeds of dissensira
between her and her husband.

The anger of his wife Mr. Winterton oouU
resist, but her tears had hitherto ever found
him vulnerable. Their effica<r^ were now tried,
and his presence in her chamber, to which she
pertinaciously confined herself, was the agnsl
for a flood of tears, which ceased not while he
remained in it

The attempts of Emma to show the dutiful
attention which her heart prompted to her

dbyGoogk

THE PARV£NUE. 295

mother, were rejected with anger and disdain ;
and if not wholly prohibited from entering
her chamber, her presence there evidently dis-
pleased, instead of conciliating her parent. The
indulgence of her wrath, and the penance of
confinement which she inflicted on herself, at
length really produced the illness on Mrs.
Winterton, which she had previously counter-
feited and now the anxiety of her kind-hearted
husband knew no bounds. If he did not by
words implore his daughter to sacrifice her
own happiness, in order to gratify the unrea-
sonable wishes of her mother, his alarm, his
wretchedness, and remorse, for having, how-
ever inadvertently, occasioned (as he persisted
in thinking he had done) the illness of his wife,
were so many appeals to Emma's feelings to
consent to her mother's wishes.

It was in vain that the physicians — and there
were no less than three called in to attend Mrs.
Winterton — assured him that her indisposition
was not of a dangerous nature, and that a few
days would restore her to health — her husband.

dbyGoogk

296 THE PARVENUS.

listenmg more to her own reiterated dedaration
of her sufferings than to their opinions, gave way
to an alarm and anxiety that greatly impaired
his own health, never rohust, and which had
latterly heen often interrupted hy a tendency
to attacks of hlood to the head. Four days
after the physicians had heen called in to Mrs.
Winterton, her hushand was found dead in his
chair, having heen seized with a fit of apoplexy
while writing a letter on husiness.

Heavily did this affliction fall on Emma, who,
fondly attached to her father, found even the
deep sense of religion, which dictated resigna-
tion to the Divine Will, insufficient during the
first davs of her sorrow to enahle her to suhmit
to this severe privation. Her mother's grief
was loud and clamorous ; hut, like all violent
passions, it soon exhausted itself ; and when,
on the will being opened, it was discovered that
she was left sole executress, with a jointure of
no less than six thousand a-year, a sum of
fifty thousand pounds solely at her own dis-
posal, and the house in Grosvenor-squarei

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. 29?

with all its contents, and carriages, horses, &c.,
it was observed that, although she talked inces-
santly of the generosity and " unbounded love
of her dear departed husband— the best, the
kindest of men," her tears flowed much less fre<*
quently, and she quickly began to take a lively
interest in those mundane afiairs, in which,
during the first weeks of widowhood, few women
who have lost a fond husband, interfere.

Mrs. Winterton had used her influence over
her too easy spouse, to induce him to leave his
son and daughter dependent on her to a certain
degree. The son, to whom he bequeathed two
hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and the
reversion of his mother's jointure of six thou-
sand a-year, was not to have possession of his
fortune until he reached his thirtieth year, and
until that period was to receive only an allow-
ance of two thousand pounds yearly. Emma
was left fifty thousand pounds, to be paid on
her marriage, provided it was contracted with
her mother's consent, but if otherwise, the sum
was to be vested in the hands of trustees, to

o3

Digitized by VjOOQIC

298 THE PARVENUE.

accumalate for her of&pring when arrived at
maturity, and a yearly allowanoe of five hun-
dred a-year only was to he allowed for her use.

Triumphantly did Mrs. Winterton dwell on
this proof of confidence reposed in her hy ** the
dear departed," hy leaving his children so
wholly in her power. " Yes, poor dear >Ir.
Winterton well knew who to trust in, and she
would strictly carry into effect his last wishes."

Mr. and Mrs. Nickson, and their son, came
to the house of mourning to offer the consola-
tion of which Emma stood so much in need on
this melancholy occasion. Loving her as a
daughter, they affectionately pledged themselves
to fill the place of the father she had lost, while
William Nickson, if he asked her not to con-
sider him as a hrother, showed those unohtni-
sive hut soothing attentions that mark the
existence of even a more tender sentiment than
hrotherly regard.

The presence of Mr. and Mrs. Nickson,
uever acceptahle to Mrs. Winterton, was now
less than ever so ; and as the death of her hus-

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. S99

band removed the necessity of concealing her
dislike to his worthy sister and her husband,
she soon allowed them to perceive how un*
palatable their society was to hen She declared
that she preferred the solitude of her own
botuiair, where she might, free from interrup-
tion, indulge in the grief she professed to
experience ; so they, nothing loth, devoted the
hours of their daily visits to Emma, who
derived comfort and consolation from their
presence. Grief, that softener even of stubborn
hearts, had peculiarly disposed the gentle one
of Emma Winterton to the softer affections.

William Nickson not only soothed her sorrow,
but did more, he shared it. Sincerely attached
to his late uncle, he was a real mourner for his
death ; and fully appreciating the selfish cha*
racter of his widow, and suspicious of the evil
use she was capable of making of the powers
he had entrusted her with over the destinies of
his children, he trembled for their happiness.
Young Winterton, a well-disposed but rather
spoilt young man, had always been his mother's

dbyGoogk

SOO THE PARVENUE.

favourite, and as he possessed considerable in-
fluence over her, William Nickson felt less
anxiety about him ; but Emma, the beautiful
and gentle Emma, was, he feared, but ill able
to resist the tyranny of her self-willed and im-
perious mother, and these reflections, origi-
nating in his deep interest about her, rendered
him more than ever assiduous and kind to her.

Pity is a dangerous sentiment to indulge in,
and particularly when its object is a beautiful
young girl. William Nickson soon experienced
this fact, for he was far-gone in love with his
fair cousin before he was aware of the extent
of his devotion to her. But if pity is a dan-
gerous guest in youthful hearts, gratitude is
not less so, and Emma, soothed and charmed
by the sympathy she found in her cousin's,
had given him hers before he asked for
the gift, though certainly not before he had
be^i taught to consider it the most precious
donation ^t could be bestowed on mortal

Each discovered the secret of his and her
heart nearly at the same time. Now the dif-

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. SOI

ficulty of keeping secrets has long been known,
and although women are pronounced to expe*
rience this same difficulty much more than
men, we must nevertheless, in the present in*
stance, accord to the lady the merit of having
guarded hers much more carefully than Wil-
liam Nickson did his, for he had revealed it to
her before he even suspected that she had any
secret to disclose. In short, they had pledged
their troths amid sighs and tears, and they felt
as if their afiection was sanctified by the regret
they experienced for him who, had he lived,
would have approved and rewarded it, as, next
to his own children, his only sister's son was
the object nearest and dearest to the heart
of the deceased Mr. Winterton. Yet, while
plighting their vows, both felt conscious that
never would Mrs. Winterton consent to their
ratification; but William Nickson consoled
himself, and his beloved Emma too, by dwel-
ling on the circumstances that rendered the
opposition of that lady of less importance,
namely, the ample provision his father could»

dbyGoogk

302 TH£ PARVENUE.

and would, make for him, and the power this
gave him of proving even to Mrs. Winterton
the disinterestedness of his attachment to her
fair daughter.

Ere two months from the death of her good
father had elapsed, Emma Winterton again
found herself assailed hy the renewal of her
mother's persuasions to induce her to wed
Lord Haversham; and no longer did they
come in even so mild a form as in the lifetime
of her parent ; for now, relying on the extent
of her power over the fortune of her daughter,
Mrs. Winterton assumed a tone of command
when she found persuasions unavailing, to
enforce obedience to her wishes. Emma's home
now became every day more irksome to her.
The coldness of the reception afforded to the
Nickson family by her mother, was such as to
preclude the frequent visits they would gladly
have paid in Grosvenor-square, and the en-
couragement given to those of Lord Haversham
was so marked, that it was but too plain that
Mrs. Winterton, was far from abandoning her

dbyGoogk

THE parvenue; SOS

intention of havrng his lordship for a son-
in-law, however averse her daughter was to the
project

It was in vain that Emma, hy the most deci-
ded coldness of manner, endeavoured to discou-
rage his oppressive assiduities j he persevered
in them with as much pertinacity as if they
were acceptable to their object, and as he was
a constant guest at the dinner-table, and a daily
morning visitor in Grosvenor-square, oppor-
tunities for annoying her were not denied him.

At length it occurred to Emma, that as her
mother would not listen to her firm refusal of
never becoming the wife of Lord Haversham,
it would be best at the first occasion furnished
to her, to explicitly state her unalterable reso-
lution to himself. In pursuance with this plan»
when, a few days after, Mrs. Winterton had
purposely left her daughter alone with Lord
Haversham, and his lordship was reiterating
protestations of d6v(mementj Emma, in a tone
which could leave no doubt of her firmness,
told her soudisant admirer that the continua*

dbyGoogk

304 THE PARVEKUE.

tion of his attentions were as unavailing as
they were disagreeable to her.

" And may I inquire what your objections
to me are?'' asked Lord Haversham, his face
red with wounded vanity.

" I see no necessity for entering fiu-ther on
the point," said Emma; *' let it sufBce that my
determination is definitive, and that, as yoa
are now aware of it, I expect that I may be
spared from any future reference to this sub-
ject,^' and so saying she quitted the room,
leaving the noble lord a prey to angry emotions.
He rang the bell, and requested to see Mrs.
Winterton, who soon made her appearance,
and when he had related to her his discom-
fiture, evinced so deep a sympathy in his feel-
ings, that her anger exceeded his.

^* A thousand thanks, my dear madam, for your
kindness," said the wily lord, " but I fear all ex*
ercise of it on the present occasion will be useless.
I have long thought that your daughter was
but little disposed to listen to my suit, and I
only persevered in it because you advised it."

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. 305

" And I stiU advise it/' replied Mrs. Win-
terton, *^ she will not, cannot, be such a fool as
to run counter to my wishes, and she shall be
your wife, for I am not a person to be trifled
with, I can assure you."

" Why, really, my dear madam, it is rather
a disagreeable thing to have a lady forced, as it
were, to accept addresses that I believe I might,
without vanity, say that many women, yes, very
many women, would be proud to receive."

** I can well understand your feelings. Lord
Haversham, and cannot blame them. Emma
is a fool, and perfectly blind to her own in-
terest, or she would not have declined the
honour you were ready to confer on her. I am
more hurt by her undutiful conduct than I can
express, for she knows how desirous I am for
the alliance. — I am really to be pitied. Lord
Haversham— yes, deeply to be pitied," and
here tears came to the relief of Mrs. Winterton,
and coursed each other down her red cheeks.
<* It is not enough to have lost the best, the
kindest husband, and in such a dreadful way

dbyGoogk

306 THE PARVENUE.

too, bat to be left with two such undutiful
children, so unfeeling, so self-willed, and so
deaf to my advice — yes. Lord Haversham,
mine is a cruel position,'' and the lady's toIo-
minous bust heaved with the sobs that were
audible. *' What avails the noble fortune be-
queathed me by the dear departed, if my life is
to be embittered by those who ought to have
yielded implicit obedience to my wishes, even
at the total sacrifice of their own ? Dreadful
is the situation of a poor lone woman I and
keenly do J feel it,*' and her tears flowed afresh.
During the last ten minutes, a thought, ori-
ginating in the complaints of Mrs. Winterton,
flashed through the brain of Lord Haversham,
ever prolific in expedients when money be-
came the subject of his cogitations. *' What,"
thought he to himself, *' if, as the daughter
won't have me, I propose to the mother instead?
Yet, hang her, she is an ugly red-&ced old
creature, and a bit of a shrew into the bargain*
Her six thousand a^year, too, dies with her,"*
and he bit his lip, **but her fifty thousand

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. 307

pounds are in her own power — they would be
devilish useful to me just now; — and this
house» too/' and he looked around him at the
splendidly furnished apartment, and the fine
pictures by the best old masters glowing on
the walls, and reflected in the immense mirrors,
^' yes, this is one of the very finest houses in
the square, and decidedly the best fitted up.
Then the old girl has lots of diamonds, heaps
of plate, a capital cellar of the choicest wines,
as auctioneers say. By Jove I the speculation
would not be a bad one ; the mother is, after
all, a better bargain than the daughter in
every point except looks, and what do they
signify after one gets used to them ? I won-
der the thought never occurred to me before.
The son, too, I can easily get an influence over
him, and turn it to account. Yes, by all that
is lovely, and unlike my Niobe widow, I will
become her consoler for * the best of husbands,
the dear departed,' as she calls him, and the
step-father of the pretty Emma. To be sure,
the fellows at the clubs will laugh, and hoax

dbyGoogk

308 THE parvenue;

me a bit at first, but they may laugh who win^
and when I am at the head of six thousand
a-year, with fifty thousand shiners in my pos-
session, and master of this well-appointed man-
sion, where I can give them recherchi dinners,
the laugh will be in my favour.'*

These thoughts flashed rapidly through the
mind of Lord Haversham, while the widow
still continued to weep. He approached, took
her hand, pressed it to his lips, and entreated
her not to impair her health by giving way
to grief.

'< My h-e-a^Uth i-is of n-o co-n-se — conse-
quence to any one now I" sobbed the lady.

'' Don't say so," replied Lord Haversham.
<< It is of consequence to one person, I can
answer for it."

<< You think, thra, that my son loves me?"
donanded the lady, believing that Lord Harer-
sham referred to him.

'* He must be a brute if he does not," was
the answer ; " but I was not thinking of him,"
continued he.

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. S0<)

"Who then were you thinking of?" asked
Mrs. Winterton, raising her head, and remov-
ing from her face the cambric handkerchief
that had shaded her eyes.

" Can't you guess?" replied the peer.

** No, indeed," said the lady.

" Is it possible, loveliest of women, that you
have never discovered the passion with which
you have so long inspired me?" demanded
Lord Haversham, falling on one knee before
the widow, and seizing her hand. " Why did
I seek your daughter — that pale and imperfect
copy of your charming self — except for an ex-
cuse to see you — ^be near you ? Why pursue
my addresses to her, except that I might have
an excuse for penetrating into your seclusion,
and for soothing your grief? You look sur-
prised— incredulous ; — but do not doubt me,
nor doubt your owp charms, which well might
melt colder hearts than mine. I have long
sighed for this hour, when — throwing off all
deoeption — I might avow my flame, and place
at your feet my coronet and fortune."

dbyGoogk

310 THE PARVENUE.

*'Do I dream, Lord Haversham? — I am
quite confounded I What, you have never
loved Emma? — and you ^^

" Love you to madness, my dear creature I"
said Haversham, half astonished at his own
eflfrontery. " Forgive me, if I confess to you
that, from the first moment I saw you — ^yes,
even before it was not a sin to love — I indulged
a passion that not even my esteem for your
late excellent husband, nor my knowledge of
the severity of your principles, could subdue.
You know not what terrible struggles I had— -
the sleepless nights, the miserable days."

" No, indeed," murmured the widow, evi-
dently much softened.

•* Say you pity me, — ^that you will not drive
me to despair I" said Haversham, pressing her
hand again to his Ups.

" I entreat you will rise, my lord. If any
one should enter."

<* Never — ^never will I rise, until you tell me
that you will be mine I — ^that this precious hand
shall appertain to me.''

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musl

THE PARVENUE. Sll

I am 80 — 80 agitated I — I reaUy — ^you

^* Only say, deare8t of women, that you par-
don me— that you do not quite forhid me to
hope.**

** Only think, Lord Haversham. The deli-
cacy of my position. The recentnes8 of my
terrihle loss."

** I can think of nothing but you, loveliest
of creatures I**

" What will the world say ? Oil dare not
contemplate it I "

<* Think not of the world, my angel I think
only of your adoring, your faithful Haversham.
Never will he know a moment's peace until he
has placed his coronet on this fair brow,'' and
the roue peer pressed his lips to the forehead
of Mrs. Winterton.

** When a year has passed, perhaps I might
be induced ^

^ A year I talk not of it, unless you would
drive me mad. A year is an eternity to one
who loves as I do. But I see you hate me."

dbyGoogk

312 THE PARVENUE.

** Perhaps it were better I did," murmured
the lady, casting down her eyes with afiected
modesty, but not withdrawing her hand from
the grasp of her soudisant admirer, who encou-
raged by her minauderiej attempted to enclose
her in his arms, but they reached not above
half round her huge waist, a circumstance that
escaped not his observation, as he bit his lip to
prevent the smile that rose to it

" You must not— really you must not I'* whis-
pered the widow, gently disengaging herself
from her lover's arms.

*' Promise me then that you will be mine, and
I will control my passion — will do all and every
thing that you wish. If it agitates you too
much, dearest, to say so aloud, whisper it in
my ear, or let me seal our engagement on your
lips."

" I will be yours ; but you must not — ^indeed
you must not, press for an early day : I should
be blamed. People would say — heaven knows
not what I "

"They would only say, what every action

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. 813

of my life shall prove— that I love you so
madly, that I pressed you to abridge my misery,
for in misery I shall be until you are Countess
of Haversham/'

This sounding title reminded Mrs* Win-
terton of all her past yearnings for one, when
she little dreamt of ever possessing it, and
finally triumphed over her remaining scruples.
Before Lord Haversham left the room, she
pledged herself to be his wife at the expiration
of the third month of her widowhood, two of
which had already elapsed, and they parted mu-
tually pleased with the result of their interview.

" Who would have thought," said the lady
to herself, *' that this good-looking and agree-
able nobleman was so desperately in love with
me, and for so long a time too ? Little did poor
Mr. Winterton imagine it He, poor man,
fancied me quite an old woman, and would not
have believed that a fashionable nobleman, not
above thirty-five, could be so much attached to
me. It is true Lord Haversham is some
twenty years younger than I am, but what of

VOL. III. p

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314 THE PARVENUE.

that ? If he overlooks the disparity, why should
I find it an ohstacle? Besides, who knows
whether he is aware of it ?" and she approached
a mirror, and contemplated her own image with
more than ordinary complacency.

" Emily is right ; I certainly don't look above
forty, and I dare say Lord Haversham does
not take me to be any more. Poor dear Mn
Winterton was always reminding me of my age.
Heigh-ho I He was an excellent man, but not
to be compared to Lord Haversham, who is so
enthusiastic. He reminded me to-day of the
time that poor Mr. Winterton was paying his
addresses to me, — the same warmth and impa-
tience in urging me to name the happy day.
Well, I never thought that I should again be
urged with the same degree of passion. Ah !
if men could always remain the same as in
their courting daysl — I wonder whether Lord
Haversham will. Poor dear Mr. Winterton
got over all his enthusiasm about me before we
were ten years married, and although he cer*
tainly generally complied with my requests.

dbyGoogk

THE PAHVENUE. 815

particularly wl^en I shed a few tears, it was
more from a wish for what he called ' any thing
for a quiet life,' than from downright love.
How pleasant it is to he made a fuss about —
to he pressed to name the day — to he ohliged
to reprove the ardour of a man, instead of
having a hushand yawning or falling asleep on
sofas or easy chairs. Heigh-ho I — I am sure
I shall be very happy.

" And so, after all^ / shall he a countess,
instead of Emma I Tliis is a piece of good
fortune I little anticipated ; and how j^leasant it
will be to he addressed ab 'your ladyship,' and
to have the Right Hon. Countess of Haver-
sham on all my letters. Yes, it will be delight-
ful ; and although I may be censured by some
for marrying so soon, nevertheless, I know
more than one widow who has wedded at the
end of three months after the death of her first
husband, so why may not I ? Few will re-
member plain Mrs. Winterton in the brilliant
Countess of Haversham ; for brilliant I shall
be, if diamonds can make me so."

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SI 6 THE PARVENUE,

Such were the thoughts that occupied the
mind of Mrs. Winterton for ahove an hour
after Lord Haversham had left her, as seated
before her mirror, she complacently gazed on
the reflection of a hce that no one else could
have contemplated with pleasure.

The cogitations of Lord Haversham, as he
walked to bis club, were of a different nature.
"What a fright the widow is!" thought he;
" and especially when she looks tender. By
Jove I her money will be dearly bought, if I am
to keep up the farce of pretending to love her.
Women certainly are the greatest fools in the
world, and a better proof could not be given of
their folly than this old creature's being led to
believe that I am smitten with her. I really
had the utmost difficulty in refraining from
laughing in her face when I saw how she swal*^
lowed all the stuff I told her. Men are not
such fools : they, when they grow old, become
suspicious and guarded. Let any wcttnan try
to persuade old Carryston, or Drummondale,
that she is in love with him, and either would

dbyGoogk

THE PAEVENUE. 317

instantly suspect she has a design on his pro-
perty. No, old men are not such fools as old
women ; for these last, though rich as Croesus,
and ugly as Hecate, can easily be persuaded,
by any passable-looking fellow who will take
the trouble, that they are charming, and are
loved for themselves, and not for their fortunes,
which they are always willing enough to make
over to the most flattering soi^isant admirer/'

From that day forth, Lord Haversham was a
constant guest at the dinner-table in Grosvenor*
square, and a daily morning visitor in the
boudoir of Mrs. Winterton. Her femme-de*
chambre Emily, was the first person to whom
this lady communicated her engagement, and
although the cunning Abigail endeavoured to
conceal the astonishment the intelligence gave
her, her mistress observed it, and for a moment
stood abashed at the tacit reproof it conveyed.

But quickly did Emily compose her looks, as
she congratulated her ** dear lady on her good
fortune." *' Indeed, my lord is a charming
gentleman — nobleman I ought to say. So

dbyGoogk

318 THE PAaVENUE*

handsome I such a helegant figure I and it will
make me so happy to hear you, ma*am, styled
her ladyship the countess, instead of Mrs.
Winterton. And then / shall be treated in
quite a different manner now, for the ladies'
maids belonging to ladies of title, always pass
before those of plain gentlewomen, and sit
above them at table at all the hinns, where
hupper servants dine together. Tm sure, ma'am
— my lady I shall soon be able to call you — ^you
do not know what I have suffered when we were
la9t season down at Cheltenham, and all the
ladies' maids sat above me at table, and were
so proud and distant like, because my mistress
was not a titled lady. I would not hurt your
feelings, ma'am, by telling you how they put
on me with their slights and himperdence ; but
when you are once a countess, I'll teach 'em to
know that I am as good as themselves — ay, and
better too. Well, I'm sure ma'am, if I was
you, rd have a whole new set of dresses, for a
countess ought not to wear what a plain Mrs.
wore; besides, his lordship is such a very

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. 519

handsome and helegant gentleman — ^nobleman
I mean — that to match him, your ladyship
ought, when a oountess, to be dressed as youth-
ful as himself, or else people will say the
countess is older than the hearl/'

** You are right, Emily ; I will have an en-
tirely new wardrobe, and you shall have the old."

" Thank you, my lady."

'' I am not yet my lady, good Emily."

*' But you soon will be, please God I and
the sooner I begin to learn to call you properly,
the better. I hope your ladyship will have as
fine a true sew^ as Mrs. Couts had ; not that
the sewing was over good, for all they call it
true sew."

*' Yes, Emily, I mean to indulge my taste on
this occasion } but my feelings are really much
excited. I cannot keep from thinking of the
dear departed," and here the widow's hand-
kerchief was applied to her eyes.

" Lord love your ladyship, don't cry ; 'twill
only spoil your eyes, and make your nose red ;
and though poor dear Mr. Winterton was a

^ Troutsetu.

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S20 THE PARVENUE.

very good gentleman, he was not to be com-
pared with the Hearl of Haversham ; and
besides, he was always finding faiult, and sayii^
I dressed you too young. In &ct, he wanted
to make an old lady of you, which was a sin ;
whereas his lordship, the Hearl, would like you
to be dressed as youthful as Miss Winterton ;
and, for the matter of that, when you have a
pink satin dress on, and your white tuck,* you
look quite as young as Miss, and much hand-
somer, to my taste."

" You flatter me, Emily."

" Not I, indeed, your ladyship."

" Well, well — she is even a greater fool than
I took her to be," said the femme'de-chambre^
as her mistress left the chamber \ *' but that's
her affiur } I know my own interest too well to
prevent her committing this folly, even if I
could open her eyes, so I must take advantage
of it, and make hay while the sun shines. As
long as this fancy for believing herself young,
and in love, lasts, she will be generous, and
being in good-humour with herself, she will be

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THE PARVENUE. 321

Jn good-humour with all the world and me ;
but let me tell her that she is hamhoozled hy
this same wild lord, who only wants her money,
and who laughs at her in his sleeve, and she
will turn restive, and never forgive me as long
as. she lives. No — I will encourage her in
her folly, and reap the fruit of it, and, per-
haps, get something from his wicked lordship
into the bargain ! "

The simplicity, and unsuspicious character
of Emma Winterton, prevented her for some
weeks from suspecting what was going on in the
house. The frequent visits of Lord Haversham
led her to believe that neither he or her mother
had yet abandoned their project of compelling
her to wed him ; and, although his lordship's
increased attention to her mother, and coldness
towards herself, struck her, she nevertheless
believed it might be assumed for some purpose
she could not discover.

It was only the night before the marriage,
that Mrs. Winterton informed her daughter of
the event to take place, and little as that lady

dbyGoogk

S22 THE PARYENUE.

was accustomed to indulge in feelings of shame,
her cheeks became crimson as she told Emma
that, next morning, she was to become Countess
of Hayersham. £mma turned pale as marble,
and then burst into tears, as she faintly said —
'* Is it possible ? and with Lord Hayersham !
So soon, mother ? — Oh I can it be so soon after
my poor dear father's death ?"

" You might haye shown a little more deli-
cacy to my feelings, Emma," said Mrs. Win-
terton, ** than thus cruelly to remind me of an
affliction that has giyen me such pain ; but my
children haye neither affection or duty for me,
and it is their total want of both, that has com-
pelled me to seek for the consolation of which
I stand so much in need, by forming new ties.''

** Oh I mother, reflect on the step you are
about to take, ere it be yet too late, — for our
sakes — for your own 1 "

'* I am old enough to choose for myself,
Emma, and do not wish for your opinion or
adyice. In taking this step, I am placing not
only myself, but you and your brother, in a

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THE PARVENUE. 323

much more elevated sphere, and should receive
your thanks, instead of reproaches, were you
not lost to all good feeling."

'^ Reproaches, mother I do not think I would
reproach you, although my heart is deeply
wounded.'*

** Wounded ! and for what, pray ? Is it
because I am about to become a peeress? It
is not every woman who would, like you, have
had the folly to refuse such an offer as was
made to you, and I know too well what is due
to myself and to my &mily, to follow so absurd
an example. Once for all, Emma, let me tell
you that I consider your conduct on this occa*
sion as highly unbecoming and ungrateful ; but
I do not wish to part from you in anger."

"Parti" murmured Emma.

" Yes ; Lord Haversham and I will proceed
from the church to his villa, near Windsor, to
pass the honeymoon, and you can spend that
period with your aunt Nickson, to whom you
can break my marriage. Your brother will
not return to town for a fortnight, so you can-

dbyGoogk

S24 THE PARVENUE.

not remain alone here, therefore you had better
atay with your aunt, although, in the elevated
sphere in which I shall henceforth move, you
must make up your mind to see as little of the
Nicksons as possible — ^you can make them un-
derstand this ; and so now good night, Emma,
God bless you, my dear girl," and the heartless
mother kissed the forehead of her weeping
daughter, and left the room.

After a sleepless night, Emma was just
sinking into a feverish slumber, when she was
disturbed by persons moving in the house.
The unusual noise and bustle alarmed her, and
for a few minutes she tried to account for the
cause ; but when, with resumed consciousness,
she remembered that her mother, that mother
who had been barely three months a widow,
was about to become a bride, and to wed, too,
a man so many years younger than herself, and
who, but four short weeks before, had sought
to be her son-in-law, a feeling of disgust and
shame was mingled with her sorrow, and she
wept in imcontrollable emotion.

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THE PABVENUE. 325

*' Could my poor father look from his grave
and behold what is passing, how would he
repent having entrusted the destinies of his
children to her who can so soon forget him,''
thought Emma, <* and who could, ere he was
three months' dead, give him so unworthy a
successor. There is something unnatural and
monstrous in this ill-assorted union. Yes, I
feel a presentiment that it will render my poor
misguided mother miserable when the delusion
that now blinds her has passed away."

Emma arose, and having hastily performed
the duties of her toilet, and ordered her maid
to take a portion of her wardrobe with her,
commanded the carriage, and, weeping bitterly,
left the house in which she had passed so many
happy days, and proceeded to Russell-square
to Mr. Nickson's.

The first person she met, on entering that
hospitable mansion, was William Nickson, who
was filled with alarm and amazement on be-
holding her, at this early hour, with her pale
fiskce and eyes heavy with weeping. His fitther

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326 THE PARVSNUE.

and mother soon hurried to the librarr, and,
affectionately embracing and welcoming their
niece, succeeded in calming her feelings suf-
ficiently to enable her to announce to them the
strange tiding of which she was the bearer.
How painful is the task to a delicate minded
daughter, to be compelled to reveal intelligence
which she knows must lower her mother in the
estimation of those whose good opinion she
most highly values. Emma felt this, and the
perfect astonishment her tidings excited in-
creased her own emotion.

" Was there ever such conduct 1" exclwmed
Mrs. Nickson : " To marry in three months
after the death of my poor dear brother, the
most kind and indulgent of husbands,'' and
here tears impeded her utterance.

" And to a man so many years her junior,"
said Mr. Nickson.

" Pray, dear mother, do not add to Emma's
grief," whispered William Nickson, " see how
pale, how agitated, she is.**

" Forgive us, my dear child, for forgetting

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THE PARVENUE. S9^

your feelings in giving Tvay to our own, and be
assured that you shall never know the want of
a father or mother's love while my husband
and I live,'' said Mrs. Nickson, again tenderly
embracing her niece.

'^ Had your misguided mother consulted
me," observed Mr. Nickson, '* I could have
convinced her that the unworthy man she has
married is a ruined gamester, and an acknow-
ledged profligate. Having heard that he as-
pired to your hand, I made a point of inquiring
into his character, and ascertained it to be in
every way base. Bitterly will your unhappy
and foolish mother expiate her folly, but she
will have no one to blame but herself."

The next day the newspapers announced, in
flaming paragraphs, a marriage in high life, in
nearly the following terms: '* On Tuesday, the
10th of May, at St. George's, Hanover-square,
by special license. The Right Hon. the Earl
of Haversham was united to Mrs. Winterton,
of Grosvenor-square, widow to the late Richard
Winterton, Esq. The bride is said to be pos-

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S28 THE PARVENUE.

sessed of twelve thousand a-year, and half a
million in the funds."

A week glided more happily by than Emma
had dared to anticipate, under the circum-
stances that had led to her becoming a guest in
Russell-square, before any intelligence reached
her from the bride ; but on the tenth day a
letter arrived, bearing all the insignia of
nobility, and couched in the following words :

*' Mt dear Emma, — I should have sooner
written to you, but Haversham would not allow
me time; and, were he not now occupied in
examining some new horses for his phaeton, I
could not have written. His attachment to me
is unbounded, and consequently I am perfectly
happy. He has such charming spirits, and
tells me such amusing stories about his friends,
that I never can feel dulL I had no idea that
noblemen could be so entertaining ; but this
delightful gaiety of my lord is only indulged in
our t&ie-^'d4tes^ for, as you must have observed,
in mixed society he is very dignified.

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THE PABVENUE. 329

** I believe I forgot to tell you, that Lord
Haversham never had the least intention of
marrying you ; he merely affected to admire
you, in order to have an excuse for his visits in
Grosvenor-square that he might see me. I
told him how very wrong this was, and added,
that if his attentions had made a tender im-
pression on your heart, you might have been
rendered unhappy for life ^ but he said that all
stratagems were fair in love and in war ; and
said so many flattering things about my charms
justifying anything, that I could not scold him.

'* I wish you to order a silver-gilt countess's
coronet to be placed on the top of my dressing
glass, and another on my silver-mounted pin-
cushion. I wish also to have coronets painted
on the haU chairs, instead of the vulgar red
lion rampant they now have ; and let the pre-
sent marks be taken out of all the house linen,
and coronets, with the cypher H., be put in
their place.

<* Avoid, as much as you can, making any
new acquaintances at your present abode, or

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330 THE PABVENUE.

cultivating the old^ as, in the elevated sphere
in which I shall move, it would never answer
to keep up such intimacies. The Nicksons we
must see as little of as we possibly can, and
you had better make them understand this.
The dressing-room and private study your poor
father used, are to be immediately new painted
and decorated in the most tasteful and elegant
style, for Lord Haversham. Give Newton the
necessary instructions, and tell him not to
spare expense. Have your father's picture
removed from the dining-room, and the water-
colour drawing of him taken down from my
dressing-room. The oil picture and drawing
you may have if you wish. Adieu, dear Emma.
My lord, who has just returned, desires to be
kindly remembered to you.

** Believe me affectionately yours,
" M. Haversham."

** P.S. — Send me, as soon as possible, a seal
with a coronet and my cypher engraved on it,
— mind, an earrs coronet."

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THE PARVENUE. SSI

The perusal of this epistle cost Emma many
tears, and created a sentiment of disgast in
her mind that she was unable to control. She
could not, however, bear to expose the folly
and want of feeling of her mother, so did not
show the letter to her aunt ; and this excellent
woman, observing the effect it had produced
on her niece, abstained from evincing any
anxiety on the subject, while she redoubled the
kindness and affection which she knew must
be so peculiarly soothing to Emma at this
crisis.

Ten days more passed without any letter
from Lady Haversham, when Mr. Nickson,
having returned from the city one afternoon,
inquired of Emma whether she had seen or
heard from her mother. Being informed that
she had not, he looked surprised, and said,
** It is strange, but I certainly saw her this
day in the city, and in a job-carriage, with that
r<m6 her husband. They were evidently wish-
ing to be incognito, for I saw him puU down
the blind.*'

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3bi THE FABVENUE.

Two more days elapsed without any intelli-
gence from Liady HaTersham, bat on the third
morning a letter, of which the following is a
copy, and bearing the Dover post-mark, ar-
rived:—

** You will, no doubt, be surprised, my dear
Emma, at getting a letter from me from this
place ; and more so when I tell you that in an
hour we shall have embarked for Calais, on
our route to Paris. It was quite a sudden
thought of my lord's, and he had so set his
heart on putting it into immediate execution,
that I had barely time to make the necessary
arrangements before we set out The stupid
people in the city were so slow and tiresome,
that they took up all my time ; and, had it not
been for my lord's man of business, a very
clever person, to whom I gave power to act,
we should have been detained still longer be*
fore I could get my money. My lord says that
the English funds will very soon foil* and
therefore we have determined on placing my

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THE PABVENUE. 3S3

fifty thousand pounds in the French funds,
where he says they will be much safer.

** You have no idea how well he understands
all these matters ; so much so, indeed, that I,
who hate business, and have not been used to
it, have resigned all th^ management to him.
N^ver was there so attentive a husband; he
takes off all trouble from me; orders every
thing — takes charge of my diamonds himself —
and has sent off aU my plate from Grosvenor-
square to his banker's, where he says it will be
taken better care of. He has persuaded me to
have the house in Grosvenor-square, and every
thing it contains, sold ; for he said he could
pot bear to live where every thing around
would remind him that I had once belonged to
another husband; and, though I qffered to
have every thing changed, because I like the
house on account of the drawing-rooms being
so large for giving parties, he could not bear
to live in it, so it will be sold as soon as pos-
sible, and he will buy a much finer house.

** I thought my lojrd would not have been

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334 THE PARVENUE.

able to get away from the House of Lords
during Parliament, but I find now that he does
not belong to the House of Lords, for his is an
Irish peerage, which is very strange, he being
an Englishman. I wished to have taken you
to France with us, but my lord said he could
not bear to have a third person to interrupt
our Ute-c^tite during the first six months of
our marriage, so I will leave you with your
friends in Russell-square until we return. —
Believe me, my dear Emma, yours afiectionately,

" M. Haversham.''
«< P.S. — I have written to your brother to
join us at Paris, where my lord will introduce
him into fashionable life."

The contents of this letter Emma confided
to her aunt, and Mr. Nickson soon brought
intelligence that explained it more fully. Lord
Haversham, having discovered that the fortune
of his wife would be inadequate to the settle-
ment of his debts, had decided on flying from
England, and leaving his creditors unpaid.

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u

THE PARVENUE. 335

His wife's diamonds and plate he had sold ;
the house and furniture he had raised as much
money on as he could obtain from the auc-
tioneer to whom he assigned it over ; her fifty
thousand pounds he had got possession of, and
he had effected an insurance on her life to a
large amount, the premium for which he had
made her income answerable for.

It required no great share of prescience to
foresee what the probable result of the ill-
assorted marriage of lady Haversham must be.
To guard agunst one of its consequences,
William Nickson left London, and joined the
brother of Emma in time to prevent his going
to Paris, according to the scheme laid to entrap
him by his roui beau pire. At the sale, which
soon after took place in Grosvenor-square,
Mr. Nickson bought the portraits of his late
worthy brother-in-law, which he presented to
Emma, whose heartless mother had taken no

^^"^ step to preserve them.

^ ' Before nine months had elapsed. Lord Ha-

vin^ versham threw off the mask that had hitherto

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336 THE PAaVENUE.

80 successfully imposed on his wife ; for, having
succeeded in getting her to sign away nearly
her whole income to him, he left her, with only
a few hundred pounds, and set off to Italy with
a danseuse^ who had, firom the first week of his
arrival in Paris, engrossed nearly all his atten^
tion, while he accounted for his frequent ab-
sence by persuading his credulous wife that the
investment of her fortune in the French fimds
occupied all his time.

Lady Haversham returned to England a
wiser if not a better woman than she left it ;
but the disappointment she had experienced,
and the regret for her imprudence which em-
bittered her mind, preyed so much on her
health, that not all the affectionate attention
of her son and daughter, and the kindness of
the worthy Nicksons, could alleviate her suf-
ferings.

Having discovered the attachment between
Emma and William Nickson, Lady Haversham
was the first to propose that they should be
united; and, conscious that her days were

dbyGoogk

THE PARVENUE. 337

numbered, pressed to have the nuptial cere-
mony performed with as little delay as possible.
She outlived their marriage but a few weeks ;
but even during that brief period so many in-
stances of the want of principle, gross selfish-
ness, and inhumanity of her unworthy husband,
were brought to light, that her remorse for
having become his dupe was increased, and the
poignancy of her feelings greatly accelerated
the progress of her disease. The ruling passion,
strong in death, was never more exemplified
than in her last request to her weeping chil-
dren : — " Let my funeral be in accordance with
the rank which I paid so dearly to attain ; and
let there be a silver coronet on the coffin, which
I wish to be covered with crimson velvet."

THE END.

miyTBD BT WILLIAM WtLCOCKIOR, BOLLS BVILDIXOI, rXTTSB LABB.

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