CHAPTER LIV.

SIR JOHN'S PARTING SPEECH.

Then Sir John, standing up in the barouche at his own

hall-door, addressed the assembled multitude:

"Friends, we are gathered here to-day, in the cause of common justice

and brotherly kindness. There are many of you whom I see around me, my

tenants, neighbours, or dependants, who have met with wrongs and

extortions heretofore, but you all shall be righted in your turn; trust

me, men, the old hard times are gone, your landlord lives among you, and

his first care shall be to redress your many grievances, paying back the

gains of your oppressor."

"God bless you, sir, God bless you!" was the echo from many a gladdened

heart.

"But before I hear your several claims in turn, which shall be done

to-morrow, our chief duty this day is to recompense an honest man for

all that he has innocently suffered. It is five-and-thirty years, as I

find by my books, on this very first of May, since Roger Acton first

began to work at Hurstley; till within this now past evil month, he has

always been the honest steady fellow that you knew him from his youth:

what say you, men, to having as a bailiff one of yourselves; a kind and

humble man, a good man, the best hand in the parish in all the works of

your vocation--a steady mind, an honest heart--what say ye all to Roger

Acton?"

There was a whirlwind of tumultuous applause.

"Moreover, men, though you all, each according to his measure and my

means, shall meet with liberal justice for your lesser ills, yet we must

all remember that Bailiff Acton here had nearly died a felon's death,

through that bad man Jennings and the unlucky crock of gold; in

addition, extortion has gone greater lengths with him, than with any

other on the property; I find that for the last twenty years, Roger

Acton has regularly paid to that monster of oppression who is now dead,

a double rent--four guineas instead of forty shillings. I desire, as a

good master, to make amends for the crimes of my wicked servant;

therefore in this bag, Bailiff Acton, is returned to you all the rent

you ever paid;" [Roger could not speak for tears;]--"and your cottage

repaired and fitted, with an acre round it, is yours and your

children's, rent-free for ever."

"Huzzah, huzzah!" roared Ben from the dickey, in a gush of disinterested

joy; and then, like an experienced toast-master, he marshalled in due

hip, hip, hip order, the shouts of acclamation that rent the air. In an

interval of silence, Sir John added,

"As for you, good-hearted fellow, if you will only mend your speech,

I'll make you one of my keepers; you shall call yourself licensed

poacher, if you choose."

"Blessings on your honour! you've made an honest man o' me."

"And now, Jonathan Floyd, I have one word to say to you, sir. I hear you

are to marry our Roger's pretty Grace." Jonathan appeared like a sheep

in livery.

"You must quit my service." Jonathan was quite alarmed. "Do you suppose,

Master Jonathan, that I can house at Hurstley, before a Lady Vincent

comes amongst us to keep the gossips quiet, such a charming little wife

as that, and all her ruddy children?"

It was Grace's turn to feel confused, so she "looked like a rose in

June," and blushed all over, as Charles Lamb's Astræa did, down to the

ankle.

"Yes, Jonathan, you and I must part, but we part good friends: you have

been a noble lover: may you make the girl a good and happy husband!

Jennings has been robbing me and those about me for years: it is

impossible to separate specially my rights from his extortions: but all,

as I have said, shall be satisfied: meanwhile, his hoards are mine. I

appropriate one half of them for other claimants; the remaining half I

give to Grace Floyd as dower. Don't be a fool, Jonathan, and blubber;

look to your Grace there, she's fainting--you can set up landlord for

yourself, do you hear?--for I make yours honestly, as much as Roger

found in his now lucky Crock of Gold."

Poor Roger, quite unmanned, could only wave his hat, and--the curtain

falls amid thunders of applause.

END OF THE CROCK OF GOLD.

* * * * *

THE TWINS;

A DOMESTIC NOVEL.

BY

MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, A.M., F.R.S.

AUTHOR OF

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

* * * * *

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE.

1. Place; Time; Circumstance 157

2. The Heroes 161

3. The Arrival 166

4. The General and his Ward 168

5. Jealousy 172

6. The Confidante 174

7. The Course of True Love 177

8. The Mystery 180

9. How to clear it up 182

10. Aunt Green's Legacy 184

11. Preparations, and Departure 188

12. The Escape 192

13. News of Charles 196

14. The Tête-à-Tête 199

15. Satisfaction 202

16. How Charles Fared 204

17. The General's Return 207

18. Intercalary 211

19. Julian's Departure 213

20. Enlightenment 215

21. Charles at Madras 216

22. Revelations 219

23. Convalescence 222

24. Charles Delayed 224

25. Trials 229

26. Julian 231

27. Charles's Return, &c. 233

28. Julian turns up, &c. 237

29. The old Scotch Nurse goes home 238

30. Final 241

CHAPTER I.

PLACE: TIME: CIRCUMSTANCE.

Burleigh-Singleton is a pleasant little watering-place on the southern

coast of England, entirely suitable for those who have small incomes and

good consciences. The latter, to residents especially, are at least as

indispensable as the former: seeing that, however just the reputation of

their growing little town for superior cheapness in matters of meat and

drink, its character in things regarding men and manners is quite as

undeniable for preëminent dullness.

Not but that it has its varieties of scene, and more or less of

circumstances too: there are, on one flank, the breezy Heights, with

flag-staff and panorama; on the other, broad and level water-meadows,

skirted by the dark-flowing Mullet, running to the sea between its

tortuous banks: for neighbourhood, Pacton Park is one great

attraction--the pretty market-town of Eyemouth another--the everlasting,

never-tiring sea a third; and, at high-summer, when the Devonshire lanes

are not knee-deep in mire, the nevertheless immeasurably filthy, though

picturesque, mud-built village of Oxton.

Then again (and really as I enumerate these multitudinous advantages, I

begin to relent for having called it dull), you may pick up curious

agate pebbles on the beach, as well as corallines and scarce sea-weeds,

good for gumming on front-parlour windows; you may fish _for_ whitings

in the bay, and occasionally catch them; you may wade in huge caoutchouc

boots among the muddy shallows of the Mullet, and shoot _at_ cormorants

and curlews; you may walk to satiety between high-banked and rather

dirty cross-roads; and, if you will scramble up the hedge-row, may get

now and then peeps of undulated country landscape.

Moreover, you have free liberty to drop in any where to

"tiffin"--Burleigh being very Indianized, and a guest always welcome;

indeed, so Indianized is it, so populous in jaundiced cheek and ailing

livers, that you may openly assert, without fear of being misunderstood

(if you wish to vary your common phrase of loyalty), that Victoria sits

upon the "musnud" of Great Britain; you may order curry in the smallest

pot-house, and still be sure to get the rice well-cooked; you may call

your house-maid "ayah," without risk of warning for impertinence; you

may vent your wrath against indolent waiters in eloquence of "jaa,

soostee;" and, finally, you may go to the library, and besides the

advantage of the day-before-yesterday's Times, you may behold in bilious

presence an affable, but authoritative, old gentleman, who introduces

himself, "Sir, you see in me the hero of Puttymuddyfudgepoor."

You may even now see such an one, I say, and hear him too, if you will

but go to Burleigh; seeing he has by this time over-lived the year or so

whereof our tale discourses. He has, by dint of service, attained to the

dignity of General H.E.I.C.S., and--which he was still longer coming

to--the wisdom of being a communicative creature; though possibly, by a

natural rëaction, at present he carries anti-secresy a little too far,

and verges on the gossiping extreme. But, at the time to which we must

look back to commence this right-instructive story, General Tracy was

still drinking "Hodgson's Pale" in India, was so taciturn as to be

considered almost dumb, and had not yet lifted up his yellow visage upon

Albion's white cliffs, nor taken up head-quarters in his final rest of

Burleigh-Singleton.

Nevertheless, with reference to quartering at Burleigh, a certain

long-neglected wife of his, Mrs. Tracy, had; and that for the period of

at least the twenty-one years preceding: how and wherefore I proceed to

tell.

A common case and common fate was that of Mrs. Tracy. She had married,

both early and hastily, a gallant lieutenant, John George Julian Tracy,

to wit, the military germ of our future general; their courtship and

acquaintance previous to matrimony extended over the not inconsiderable

space of three whole weeks--commencing with a country ball; and after

marriage, honey-moon inclusive, they lived the life of cooing doves for

three whole months.

And now came the furlough's end: Mr. Tracy, in his then habitual reserve

(a quiet man was he), had concealed its existence altogether: and, for

aught Jane knew, the hearty invalid was to remain at home for ever: but

months soon slip away; and so it came to pass, that on a certain next

Wednesday he must be on his way back to the Presidency of Madras,

and--if she will not follow him--he must leave her.

However, there was a certain old relative, one Mrs. Green, a childless

widow--rich, capricious, and infirm--whom Jane Tracy did not wish to

lose sight of: her money was well worth both watching and waiting for;

and the captain, whom a lucky chance had now lifted out of the

lieutenancy, was easily persuaded to forego the pleasure of his wife's

company till the somewhat indefinite period of her old aunt's death.

How far sundry discoveries made in the unknown regions of each other's

temper reconciled him to this retrograding bachelorship, and her to her

widowhood-bewitched, I will not undertake to say: but I will hazard the

remark, anti-poor-law though it seemeth, that the separation of man and

wife, however convenient, lucrative, or even mutually pleasant, is a

dereliction of duty, which always deserves, and generally meets, its

proper and discriminative punishment. Had the young wife faithfully

performed her Maker's bidding, and left all other ties unstrung to

cleave unto her lord; had she considered a husband's true affections

before all other wealth, and resolved to share his dangers, to solace

his cares, to be his blessing through life, and his partner even unto

death, rather than selfishly to seek her own comfort, and consult her

own interest--the tale of crime and sadness, which it is my lot to tell,

would never have had truth for its foundation.

Ill-matched for happiness though they were, however well-matched as to

mutual merit, the common man of pleasure and the frivolous woman of

fashion, still the wisest way to fuse their minds to union, the

likeliest receipt for moral good and social comfort, would have been

this course of foreign scenes, of new faces, sprinkled with a seasoning

of adventure, hardship, danger, in a distant land. Gradually would they

have learned to bear and forbear; the petty quarrel would have been

forgotten in the frequent kindness; the rougher edges of temper and

opinion would insensibly have smoothed away; new circumstances would

have brought out better feelings under happier skies; old acquaintances,

false friends forgotten, would have neutralized old feuds: and, by

long-living together, though it were perhaps amid various worries and

many cares, they might still have come to a good old age with more than

average happiness, and more than the common run of love. Patience in

dutiful enduring brings a sure reward: and marriage, however irksome a

constraint to the foolish and the gay, is still so wise an ordinance,

that the most ill-assorted couple imaginable will unconsciously grow

happy, if they only remain true to one another, and will learn the

wisdom always to hope and often to forgive.

The Tracys, however, overlooked all this, and mutual friends (those

invariable foes to all that is generous and unworldly) smiled upon the

prudence of their temporary separation. The captain was to come home

again on furlough in five years at furthest, even if the aunt held out

so long; and this availed to keep his wife in the rear-guard; therefore,

Mrs. Tracy wiped her eyes, bade adieu to her retreating lord in Plymouth

Sound, and determined to abide, with other expectant dames and Asiatic

invalided heroes, at Burleigh-Singleton, until she might go to him, or

he return to her: for pleasant little Burleigh, besides its contiguity

to arriving Indiamen, was advantageous as being the dwelling-place of

aforesaid Mrs. Green;--that wealthy, widowed aunt, devoutly wished in

heaven: and the considerate old soul had offered her designing niece a

home with her till Tracy could come back.

During the first year of absence, ship-letters and India-letters arrived

duteously in consecutive succession: but somehow or other, the regular

post, in no long time afterwards, became unfaithful to its trust; and if

Mrs. Jane heard quarterly, which at any rate she did through the agent,

when he remitted her allowance, she consoled herself as to the captain's

well-being: in due course of things, even this became irregular; he was

far up the country, hunting, fighting, surveying, and what not; and no

wonder that letters, if written at all, which I rather doubt, got lost.

Then there came a long period of positive and protracted silence--months

of it--years of it; barring that her checks for cash were honoured still

at Hancock's, though they could tell her nothing of her lord; so that

Mrs. Tracy was at length seriously recommended by her friends to become

a widow; she tried on the cap, and looked into many mirrors; but, after

long inspection, decided upon still remaining a wife, because the weeds

were so clearly unbecoming. Habit, meanwhile, and that still-existing

old aunt, who seemed resolved to live to a hundred, kept her as before

at Burleigh: and, seeing that a few months after the captain's departure

she had presented the world, not to say her truant lord, with twins, she

had always found something to do in the way of, what she considered,

education, and other juvenile amusement: that is to say, when the

gayeties of a circle of fifteen miles in radius left her any time to

spare in such a process. The twins--a brace of boys--were born and bred

at Burleigh, and had attained severally to twenty years of age, just

before their father came home again as brevet-major-general. But both

they, and that arrival, deserve special detail, each in its own chapter.

CHAPTER II.

THE HEROES.

Mrs. Tracy's sons were as unlike each other as it is well possible for

two human beings to be, both in person and character. Julian, whose

forward and bold spirit gained him from the very cradle every

prerogative of eldership (and he did struggle first into life, too, so

he was the first-born), had grown to be a swarthy, strong, big-boned

man, of the Roman-nosed, or, more physiognomically, the Jewish cast of

countenance; with melo-dramatic elf-locks, large whiskers, and

ungovernable passions; loud, fierce, impetuous; cunning, too, for all

his overbearing clamour; and an embodied personification of those choice

essentials to criminal happiness--a hard heart and a good digestion.

Charles, on the contrary (or, as logicians would say, on the

contradictory), was fair-haired, blue-eyed, of Grecian features; slim,

though well enough for inches, and had hitherto (as the commonalty have

it) "enjoyed" weak health: he was gentle and affectionate in heart, pure

and religious in mind, studious and unobtrusive in habits. It was a

wonder to see the strange diversity between those own twin-brothers,

born within the same hour, and, it is superfluous to add, of the same

parents; brought up in all outward things alike, and who had shared

equally in all that might be called advantage or disadvantage, of

circumstance or education.

Certain is it that minds are different at birth, and require as

different a treatment as Iceland moss from cactuses, or bull-dogs from

bull-finches: certain is it, too, that Julian, early submitted and

resolutely broken in, would have made as great a man, as Charles,

naturally meek, did make a good one; but for the matter of educating her

boys, poor Mrs. Tracy had no more notion of the feat, than of squaring

the circle, or determining the longitude. She kept them both at home,

till the peevish aunt could suffer Julian's noise no longer: the house

was a Pandemonium, and the giant grown too big for that castle of

Otranto; so he must go at any rate; and (as no difference in the

treatment of different characters ever occurred to any body) of course

Charles must go along with him. Away they went to an expensive school,

which Julian's insubordination on the instant could not brook--and,

accordingly, he ran away; without doubt, Charles must be taken away too.

Another school was tried, Julian got expelled this time; and Charles,

in spite of prizes, must, on system, be removed with him: so forth, with

like wisdom, all through the years of adolescence and instruction, those

ill-matched brothers were driven as a pair. Then again, for fashion's

sake, and Aunt Green's whims, the circumspective mother, notwithstanding

all her inconsistencies, gave each of them prettily bound hand-books of

devotion; which the one used upon his knees, and the other lit cigars

withal; both extremes having exceeded her intention: and she proved

similarly overreached when she persisted in treating both exactly alike,

as to liberal allowances, and liberty of will; the result being, that

one of her sons "foolishly" spent his money in a multitude of charitable

hobbies; and that the other was constantly supplied with means for (the

mother was sorry to say it, vulgar) dissipation. By consequence, Charles

did more good, and Julian more evil, than I have time to stop and tell

off.

If any thing in this life must be personal, peculiar, and specific, it

is education: we take upon ourselves to speak thus dogmatically, not of

mere school-teaching only, _musa_, _musæ_, and so forth; nor yet of

lectures, on relative qualities of carbon and nitrogen in vegetables;

no, nor even of schemes of theology, or codes of morals; but we do speak

of the daily and hourly reining-in, or letting-out, of discouragement in

one appetite, and encouragement in another; of habitual formation of

characters in their diversity; and of shaping their bear's-cub, or that

child-angel, the natural human mind, to its destined ends; that it may

turn out, for good, according to its several natures, to be either the

strong-armed, bold-eyed, rough-hewer of God's grand designs, or the

delicate-fingered polisher of His rarest sculptures. Julian,

well-trained, might have grown to be a Luther; and many a gentle soul

like Charles, has turned out a coxcomb and a sensualist.

The boys were born, as I have said, in the regulation order of things, a

few months after Captain Tracy sailed away for India some full score of

years, and more, from this present hour, when we have seen him seated as

a general in the library at Burleigh; and, until the last year, they had

never seen their father--scarcely ever heard of him.

The incidents of their lives had been few and common-place: it would be

easy, but wearisome, to specify the orchards and the bee-hives which

Julian had robbed as a school-boy; the rebellions he had headed; the

monkey tricks he had played upon old fish-women; and the cruel havoc he

made of cats, rats, and other poor tormented creatures, who had

ministered to his wanton and brutalizing joys. In like manner, wearily,

but easily, might I relate how Charles grew up the nurse's darling,

though little of his flaunting mother's; the curly-pated young

book-worm; the sympathizing, innoffensive, gentle heart, whose effort

still it was to countervail his brother's evil: how often, at the risk

of blows, had he interposed to save some drowning puppy: how often paid

the bribe for Julian's impunity, when mulcted for some damage done in

the way of broken windows, upset apple-stalls, and the like: how often

had he screened his bad twin-brother from the flagellatory consequences

of sheer idleness, by doing for him all his school-tasks: how often

striven to guide his insensate conscience to truth, and good, and

wisdom: how often, and how vainly!

And when the youths grew up, and their good and evil grew up with them,

it were possible to tell you a heart-rending tale of Julian's treachery

to more than one poor village beauty; and many a pleasing trait of

Charles's pure benevolence, and wise zeal to remedy his brother's

mischiefs. The one went about doing ill, and the other doing good:

Julian, on account of obligations, more truly than in spite of them,

hated Charles; and yet one great aim of all Charles's amiabilities

tended continually to Julian's good, and he strove to please him, too,

while he wished to bless him. The one had grown to manhood, full of

unrepented sins, and ripe for darker crime: the other had attained a

like age of what is somewhat satirically called discretion, having

amassed, with Solon of old, "knowledge day by day," having lived a life

of piety and purity, and blest with a cheerful disposition, that teemed

with happy thoughts.

They had, of course, in the progress of human life, been both laid upon

the bed of sickness, where, with similar contrast, the one lay muttering

discontent, and the other smiling patiently: they had both been in

dangers by land and by sea, where Julian, though not a little lacking to

himself at the moment of peril, was still loudly minacious till it came

too near; while Charles, with all his caution, was more actually

courageous, and in spite of all his gentleness, stood against the worst

undaunted: they had both, with opposite motives and dissimilar modes of

life, passed through various vicissitudes of feeling, scene, society;

and the influence of circumstance on their different characters,

heightened or diminished, bettered or depraved, by the good or evil

principle in each, had produced their different and probable results.

Thus, strangely dissimilar, the twin-brothers together stand before us:

Julian the strong impersonation of the animal man, as Charles of the

intellectual; Julian, matter; Charles, spirit; Julian, the creature of

this world, tending to a lower and a worse: Charles, though in the

world, not of the world, and reaching to a higher and a better.

Mrs. Tracy, the mother of this various progeny, had been somewhat of a

beauty in her day, albeit much too large and masculine for the taste of

ordinary mortals; and though now very considerably past forty, the vain

vast female was still ambitious of compliment, and greedy of admiration.

That Julian should be such a woman's favourite will surprise none: she

had, she could have, no sympathies with mild and thoughtful Charles; but

rather dreaded to set her flaunting folly in the light of his wise

glance, and sought to hide her humbled vanity from his pure and keen

perceptions. His very presence was a tacit rebuke to her social

dissipation, and she could not endure the mild radiance of his virtues.

He never fawned and flattered her, as Julian would; but had even

suffered filial presumption (it could not be affection--O dear, no!) to

go so far as gently to expostulate at what he fancied wrong; he never

gave her reason to contrast, with happy self-complacence, her own soul's

state with Charles's, however she could with Julian's: and then, too,

she would indulgently allow her foolish mind--a woman's, though a

parent's--to admire that tall, black, bandit-looking son, above the

slight build, the delicate features, and almost feminine elegance of his

brother: she found Julian always ready to countenance and pamper her

gayest wishes, and was glad to make him her escort every where--at

balls, and fêtes, and races, and archery parties; while as to Charles,

he would be the stay-at-home, the milk-sop, the learned pundit, the

pious prayer-monger, any thing but the ladies' man. Yes: it is little

wonder that Mrs. Tracy's heart clave to Julian, the masculine image of

herself; while it barely tolerated Charles, who was a rarefied and

idealized likeness of the absent and forgotten Tracy.

But the mother--and there are many silly mothers, almost as many as

silly men and silly maids--in her admiration of the outward form of

manliness, overlooked the true strength, and chivalry, and nobleness of

mind which shone supreme in Charles. How would Julian have acted in such

a case as this?--a sheep had wandered down the cliff's face to a narrow

ledge of rock, whence it could not come back again, for there was no

room to turn: Julian would have pelted it, and set his bull-dog at it,

and rejoiced to have seen the poor animal's frantic leaps from shingly

shelf to shelf, till it would be dashed to pieces. But how did Charles

act? With the utmost courage, and caution, and presence of mind, he

crept down, and, at the risk of his life, dragged the bleating,

unreluctant creature up again; it really seemed as if the ungrateful

poor dumb brute recognised its humane friend, and suffered him to rescue

it without a struggle or a motion that might have endangered both.

Again: a burly costermonger was belabouring his donkey, and the wretched

beast fell beneath his cudgel: strange to say, Julian and Charles were

walking together that time; and the same sight affected each so

differently, that the one sided with the cruel man, and the other with

his suffering victim: Charles, in momentary indignation, rushed up to

the fellow, wrested the cudgel from his hand, and flung it over the

cliff; while Julian was so base, so cowardly, as to reward such generous

interference, by holding his weaker brother's arms, and inviting the

wrathful costermonger to expend the remainder of his phrensy on unlucky

Charles. Yes, and when at home Mrs. Tracy heard all this, she was silly

enough, wicked enough, to receive her truly noble son with ridicule, and

her other one, the child of her disgrace, with approval.

"It will teach you, Master Charles, not to meddle with common people and

their donkeys; and you may thank your brother Julian for giving you a

lesson how a gentleman should behave."

Poor Charles! but poorer Julian, and poorest Mrs. Tracy!

It would be easy, if need were, to enumerate multiplied examples tending

towards the same end--a large, masculine-featured mother's foolish

preference of the loud, bold, worldly animal, before the meek, kind,

noble, spiritual. And the results of all these many matters were, that

now, at twenty years of age, Charles found himself, as it were, alone in

a strange land, with many common friends indeed abroad, but at home no

nearer, dearer ties to string his heart's dank lyre withal; neither

mother nor brother, nor any other kind familiar face, to look upon his

gentleness in love, or to sympathize with his affections, unapprehended,

unappreciated: so--while Mrs. Tracy was the showy, gay, and vapid thing

she ever had been, and Julian the same impetuous mother's son which his

very nurse could say she knew him--Charles grew up a shy and silent

youth, necessarily reserved, for lack of some one to understand him;

necessarily chilled, for want of somebody to love him.

CHAPTER III.

THE ARRIVAL.

The young men were thus situated as regards both the world and one

another, and Mrs. Tracy had almost entirely forgotten the fact, that she

possessed a piece of goods so supererogatory as her husband (a property

too which her children had never quite realized), when all on a sudden,

one ordinary morning, the postman's-knock brought to her breakfast-table

at Burleigh-Singleton the following epistle:

"British Channel, Thursday, March 11th, 1842.

"The Sir William Elphinston, E.I.M.

"DEAR JANE: You will be surprised to find that you are to see me so

soon, I dare say, especially as it is now some years since you will have

heard from me. The reason is, I have been long in an out-of-the-way part

of India, where there is little communication with Europe, and so you

will excuse my not writing. We hope to find ourselves to-night in

Plymouth roads, where I shall get into a pilot-boat, and so shall see

you to-morrow. You may, therefore, now expect your affectionate husband,

"J.G.J. TRACY, General H.E.I.C.S.

"P.S.1.--Remember me to our boy, or boys--which is it?

"P.S.2.--I bring with me the daughter of a friend in India, who is come

over for a year or two's polish at a first-rate school. Of course you

will be glad to receive her as our guest.

"J.G.J.T."

This loving letter was the most startling event that had ever attempted

to unnerve Mrs. Tracy; and she accordingly managed, for effect and

propriety's sake, to grow very faint upon the spot, whether for joy, or

sorrow, or fear of lost liberty, or hope of a restored lord, doth not

appear; she had so long been satisfied with receiving quarterly pay from

the India agents, that she forgot it was an evidence of her husband's

existence; and, lo! here he was returning a general, doubtlessly a

magnificent moustachioed individual, and she was to be Mrs. General! so

that when she came completely to herself, after that feint of a faint,

she was thinking of nothing but court-plumes, oriental pearls, and her

gallant Tracy's uniform.

The postscripts also had their influence: Charles, naturally

affectionate, and willing to love a hitherto unseen father, felt hurt,

as well he might, at the "boy, or boys;" while Julian, who ridiculed his

brother's sentimentality, was already fancying that the "daughter of a

friend" might be a pleasant addition to the dullness of

Burleigh-Singleton.

Preparations vast were made at once for the general's reception; from

attic to kitchen was sounded the tocsin of his coming. Julian was all

bustle and excitement, to his mother's joy and pride; while Charles

merited her wrath by too much of his habitual and paternal quietude,

particularly when he withdrew his forces altogether from the loud

domestic fray, by retreating up-stairs to cogitate and muse, perhaps to

make a calming prayer or two about all these matters of importance. As

for Mrs. Tracy herself, she was even now, within the first hour of that

news, busily engaged in collecting cosmetics, trinkets, blonde lace, and

other female finery, resolved to trick herself out like Jezebel, and win

her lord once more; whilst the pernicious old aunt, who still lived on,

notwithstanding all those twenty years of patience, as vivacious as

before, grumbled and scolded so much at this upsetting of her house,

that there was really some risk of her altering the will at last, and

cutting out Jane Tracy after all.

And the morrow morning came, as if it were no more than an ordinary

Friday, and with it came expectancy; and noon succeeded, and with it

spirits alternately elated and depressed; and evening drew in, with

heart-sickness and chagrin at hopes or prophecies deferred; and night,

and next morning, and still the general came not. So, much weeping at

that vexing disappointment, after so many pains to please, Mrs. Tracy

put aside her numerous aids and appliances, and lay slatternly a-bed, to

nurse a head-ache until noon; and all had well nigh forgotten the

probable arrival, when, to every body's dismay, a dusty chaise and four

suddenly rattled up the terrace, and stopped at our identical number

seven.

Then was there scuffling up, and getting down, and making preparation in

hot haste; and a stout gentleman with a gamboge face descended from the

chaise, exploding wrath like a bomb-shell, that so important an approach

had made such slight appearance of expectancy: it was disrespectful to

his rank, and he took care to prove he was somebody, by blowing up the

very innocent post-boys. This accomplished, he gallantly handed out

after him a pretty-looking miss in her teens. Poor Mrs. Tracy, _en

papillotes_, looked out at the casement like any one but Jezebel attired

for bewitching, and could have cried for vexation; in fact, she did,

and passed it off for feeling. Aunt Green, whom the general at first

lovingly saluted as his wife (for the poor man had entirely forgotten

the uxorial appearance), was all in a pucker for deafness, blindness,

and evident misapprehension of all things in general, though clearly

pleased, and flattered at her gallant nephew's salutation. Julian, with

what grace of manner he could muster, was already playing the agreeable

to that pretty ward, after having, to the general's great surprise,

introduced himself to him as his son; while Charles, who had rushed into

the room, warm-heartedly to fling himself into his father's arms, was

repelled on the spot for his affection: General Tracy, with a military

air, excused himself from the embrace, extending a finger to the unknown

gentleman, with somewhat of offended dignity.

At last, down came the wife: our general at once perceived himself

mistaken in the matter of Mrs. Green; and, coldly bowing to the

bedizened dame, acknowledged her pretensions with a courteous--

"Mrs. General Tracy, allow me to introduce to you Miss Emily Warren, the

daughter of a very particular friend of mine:--Miss Warren, Mrs. Tracy."

For other welcomings, mutual astonishment at each other's fat, some

little sorrowful talk of the twenty years ago, and some dull paternal

jest about this dozen feet of sons, made up the chilly meeting: and the

slender thread of sentimentals, which might possibly survive it, was

soon snapt by paying post-boys, orders after luggage, and devouring

tiffin.

The only persons who felt any thing at all, were Mrs. Tracy, vexed at

her dishabille, and mortified at so cool a reception of, what she hoped,

her still unsullied beauties; and Charles, poor fellow, who ran up to

his studious retreat, and soothed his grief, as best he might, with

philosophic fancies: it was so cold, so heartless, so unkind a greeting.

Romantic youth! how should the father have known him for a son?

CHAPTER IV.

THE GENERAL AND HIS WARD.

It is surprising what a change twenty years of a tropical sun can make

in the human constitution. The captain went forth a good-looking,

good-tempered man, destitute neither of kind feelings nor masculine

beauty: the general returned bloated, bilious, irascible, entirely

selfish, and decidedly ill-favoured. Such affections as he ever had

seemed to have been left behind in India--that new world, around which

now all his associations and remembrances revolved; and the reserve

(clearly rëproduced in Charles), the habit of silence whereof we took

due notice in the spring-tide of his life, had now grown, perhaps from

some oppressive secret, into a settled, moody, continuous taciturnity,

which made his curious wife more vexed at him than ever; for,

notwithstanding all the news he must have had to tell her, the company

of John George Julian Tracy proved to his long-expectant Jane any thing

but cheering or instructive. His past life, and present feelings, to say

nothing of his future prospects, might all be but a blank, for any thing

the general seemed to care: brandy and tobacco, an easy chair, and an

ordnance map of India, with Emily beside him to talk about old times,

these were all for which he lived: and even the female curiosity of a

wife, duly authorized to ask questions, could extract from him

astonishingly little of his Indian experiences. As to his wealth,

indeed, Mrs. Tracy boldly made direct inquiry; for Julian set her on to

beg for a commission, and Charles also was anxious for a year or two at

college; but the general divulged not much: albeit he vouchsafed to both

his sons a liberally increased allowance. It was only when his wife,

piqued at such reserve, pettishly remarked,

"At any rate, sir, I may be permitted to hope, that Miss Warren's

friends are kind enough to pay her expenses;"

That the veteran, in high dudgeon at any imputation on his Indian

acquaintances, sternly answered,

"You need not be apprehensive, madam; Emily Warren is amply provided

for." Words which sank deep into the prudent mother's mind.

But we must not too long let dock-leaves hide a violet; it is high time,

and barely courteous now, to introduce that beautiful exotic, Emily

Warren. Her own history, as she will tell it to Charles hereafter, was

so obscure, that she knew little of it certainly herself, and could

barely gather probabilities from scattered fragments. At present, we

have only to survey results in a superficial manner: in their due

season, we will dig up all the roots.

No heroine can probably engage our interest or sympathy who possesses

the infirmity of ugliness: it is not in human nature to admire her, and

human nature is a thing very much to be consulted. Moreover, no one ever

yet saw an amiable personage, who was not so far pleasing, or, in other

parlance, so far pretty. I cannot help the common course of things; and

however hackneyed be the thought, however common-place the phrase, it is

true, nevertheless, that beauty, singular beauty, would be the first

idea of any rational creature, who caught but a glimpse of Emily Warren;

and I should account it little wonder if, upon a calmer gaze, that

beauty were found to have its deepest, clearest fountain in those large

dark eyes of heir's.

Aware as I may be, that "large dark eyes" are no novelty in tales like

this; and famous for rare originality as my pen (not to say genius)

would become, if an attempt were herein made to interest the world in a

pink-eyed heroine, still I prefer plodding on in the well-worn path of

pleasant beauty; and so long as Nature's bounty continues to supply so

well the world we live in with large dark eyes, and other feminine

perfections, our Emily, at any rate, remains in fashion; and if she has

many pretty peers, let us at least not peevishly complain of them. A

graceful shape is, luckily, almost the common prerogative of female

youthfulness; a dimpled smile, a cheerful, winning manner, regular

features, and a mass of luxuriant brown hair--these all heroines

have--and so has our's.

But no heroine ever had yet Emily Warren's eyes; not identically only,

which few can well deny; but similarly also, which the many must be good

enough to grant: and very few heroes, indeed, ever saw their equal;

though, if any hereabouts object, I will not be so cruel or unreasonable

as to hope they will admit it. At first, full of soft light, gentle and

alluring, they brighten up to blaze upon you lustrously, and fascinate

the gazer's dazzled glance: there are depths in them that tell of the

unfathomable soul, heights in them that speak of the spirit's

aspirations. It is gentleness and purity, no less than sensibility and

passion, that look forth in such strange power from those windows of the

mind: it is not the mere beautiful machine, fair form, and pleasing

colours, but the heaven-born light of tenderness and truth, streaming

through the lens, that takes the fond heart captive. Charles, for one,

could not help looking long and keenly into Emily Warren's eyes; they

magnetized him, so that he might not turn away from them: entranced him,

that he would not break their charm, had he been able: and then the long

tufted eyelashes droop so softly over those blazing suns--that I do not

in the least wonder at Charles's impolite, perhaps, but still natural

involuntary stare, and his mute abstracted admiration: the poor youth is

caught at once, a most willing captive--the moth has burnt its wings,

and flutters still happily around that pleasant warming radiance. How

his heart yearned for something to love, some being worthy of his own

most pure affections: and lo! these beauteous eyes, true witnesses of

this sweet mind, have filled him for ever and a day with love at first

sight.

But gentle Charles was not the only conquest: the fiery Julian, too,

acknowledged her supremacy, bowed his stubborn neck, and yoked himself

at once, another and more rugged captive, to the chariot of her charms.

It was Caliban, as well as Ferdinand, courting fair Miranda. In his

lower grade, he loved--fiercely, coarsely: and the same passion, which

filled his brother's heart with happiest aspirations, and pure unselfish

tenderness towards the beauteous stranger, burnt him up as an inward and

consuming fire: Charles sunned himself in heaven's genial beams, while

Julian was hot with the lava-current of his own bad heart's volcano.

It will save much trouble, and do away with no little useless mystery,

to declare, at the outset, which of these opposite twin-brothers our

dark-eyed Emily preferred. She was only seventeen in years; but an

Indian sky had ripened her to full maturity, both of form and feelings:

and having never had any one whom she cared to think upon, and let her

heart delight in, till Charles looked first upon her beauty wonderingly,

it is no marvel if she unconsciously reciprocated his young heart's

thought--before ever he had breathed it to himself. Julian's admiration

she entirely overlooked; she never thought him more than civil--barely

that, perhaps--however he might flatter himself: but her heart and eyes

were full of his fair contrast, the light seen brighter against

darkness; Charles all the dearer for a Julian. Intensely did she love

him, as only tropic blood can love; intently did she gaze on him, when

any while he could not see her face, as only those dark eyes could gaze:

and her mind, all too ignorant but greedy of instruction, no less than

her heart, rich in sympathies and covetous of love, went forth, and fed

deliciously on the intellectual brow, and delicate flushing cheek of her

noble-minded Charles. Not all in a day, nor a week, nor a month, did

their loves thus ripen together. Emily was a simple child of nature, who

had every thing to learn; she scarcely knew her Maker's name, till

Charles instructed her in God's great love: the stars were to her only

shining studs of gold, and the world one mighty plain, and men and women

soulless creatures of a day, and the wisdom of creation unconsidered,

and the book of natural knowledge close sealed up, till Charles set out

before his eager student the mysteries of earth and heaven. Oh, those

blessed hours of sweet teaching! when he led her quick delighted steps

up the many avenues of science to the central throne of God! Oh, those

happy moments, never to return, when her eyes in gentle thankfulness for

some new truth laid open to them, flashed upon her youthful Mentor, love

and intelligence, and pleased admiring wonder! Sweet spring-tide of

their loves, who scarcely knew they loved, yet thought of nothing but

each other; who walked hand in hand, as brother and sister, in the

flowery ways of mutual blessing, mutual dependence: alas, alas! how

brief a space can love, that guest from heaven, dwell on earth

unsullied!

CHAPTER V.

JEALOUSY.

For Julian soon perceived that Charles was no despicable rival. At

first, self-flattery, and the habitual contempt wherewith he regarded his

brother, blinded him to Emily's attachment: moreover, in the scenes of

gayety and the common social circle, she never gave him cause to complain

of undue preferences; readily she leant upon his arm, cheerfully

accompanied him in morning-visits, noon-day walks, and evening parties;

and if pale Charles (in addition to the more regular masters, dancing

and music, and other pieces of accomplishment) thought proper to bore

her with his books for sundry hours every day, Julian found no fault

with that;--the girl was getting more a woman of the world, and all

for him: she would like her play-time all the better for such schoolings,

and him to be the truant at her side.

But when, from ordinary civilities, the coarse loud lover proceeded to

particular attentions; when he affected to press her delicate hand, and

ventured to look what he called love into her eyes, and to breathe silly

nothings in her ear--he could deceive himself no longer, notwithstanding

all his vanity; as legibly as looks could write it, he read disgust

upon her face, and from that day forth she shunned him with undisguised

abhorrence. Poor innocent maid! she little knew the man's black mind,

who thus dared to reach up to the height of her affections; but she saw

enough of character in his swart scowling face, and loud assuming manners,

to make her dread his very presence, as a thunder-cloud across

her summer sky.

Then did the baffled Julian begin to look around him, and took notice

of her deepening love of Charles; nay, even purposely, she seemed now

to make a difference between them, as if to check presumption and

encourage merit. And he watched their stolen glances, how tremblingly

they met each other's gaze; and he would often-times roughly break in

upon their studies, to look on their confused disquietude with the pallid

frowns of envy: he would insult poor Charles before her, in hope to

humble him in her esteem; but mild and Christian patience made her

see him as a martyr: he would even cast rude slights on her whom he

professed to love, with the view of raising his brother's chastened wrath,

but was forced to quail and sneak away beneath her quick indignant

glance, ere her more philosophical lover had time to expostulate with

the cowardly savage.

Meanwhile, what were the parents about? The general had given out,

indeed, that he had brought Emily over for schooling; but he seemed so

fond of her (in fact, she was the only thing to prove he wore a heart),

that he never could resolve upon sending her away from, what she now

might well call, home. Often, in some strange dialect of Hindostan, did

they converse together, of old times and distant shores; none but Emily

might read him to sleep--none but Emily wake him in the morning with

a kiss--none but Emily dare approach him in his gouty torments--none

but Emily had any thing like intimate acquaintance with that moody

iron-hearted man.

As to his sons, or the two young men he might presume to be his sons, he

neither knew them, nor cared to know. Bare civilities, as between man

and man, constituted all which their intercourse amounted to: what were

those young fellows, stout or slim, to him? mere accidents of a

soldier's gallantries and of an ill-assorted marriage. He neither had,

nor wished to have, any sympathies with them: Julian might be as bad as

he pleased, and Charles as good, for any thing the general seemed to

heed: they could not dive with him into the past, and the sports of

Hindostan: they reminded him, simply, of his wife, for pleasures of

Memory; of the grave, for pleasures of Hope: he was older when he looked

at them: and they seemed to him only living witnesses of his folly as

lieutenant, in the choice of Mrs. Tracy. I will not take upon myself to

say, that he had any occasion to congratulate himself on the latter

reminiscence.

So he quickly acquiesced in Julian's wish for a commission, and

entirely approved of Charles's college schemes. After next September,

the funds should be forthcoming: not but that he was rich enough, and

to spare, any month in the year: but he would be vastly richer then,

from prize-money, or some such luck. It was more prudent to delay

until September.

With reference to Emily--no, no--I could see at once that General

Tracy never had any serious intention to part with Emily; but she had

all manner of masters at home, and soon made extraordinary progress.

As for the matter of his sons falling in love with her, attractive in all

beauty though she were, he never once had given it a thought: for, first,

he was too much a man of the world to believe in such ideal trash as

love: and next, he totally forgot that his "boy, or boys," had human

feelings. So, when his wife one day gave him a gentle and triumphant

hint of the state of affairs, it came upon him overwhelmingly, like an

avalanche: his yellow face turned flake-white, he trembled as he stood,

and really seemed to take so natural a probability to heart as the most

serious of evils.

"My son Julian in love with Emily! and if not he, at any rate Charles!

What the devil, madam, can you mean by this dreadful piece of

intelligence?--It's impossible, ma'am; nonsense! it can't be true; it

shan't, ma'am."

And the general, having issued his military mandates, wrapped himself

in secresy once more; satisfied that both of those troublesome sons

were to leave home after the next quarter, and the prize-money at

Hancock's.

CHAPTER VI.

THE CONFIDANTE.

But Mrs. Tracy had the best reason for believing her intelligence was

true, and she could see very little cause for regarding it as dreadful.

True, one son would have been enough for this wealthy Indian

heiress--but still it was no harm to have two strings to her bow. Julian

was her favourite, and should have the girl if she could manage it; but

if Emily Warren would not hear of such a husband, why Charles Tracy may

far better get her money than any body else.

That she possessed great wealth was evident: such jewellery, such

Trinchinopoli chains, such a blaze of diamonds _en suite_, such a

multitude of armlets, and circlets, and ear-rings, and other oriental

finery, had never shone on Devonshire before: at the Eyemouth ball, men

worshipped her, radiant in beauty, and gorgeously apparelled. Moreover,

money overflowed her purse, her work-box, and her jewel-case: Charles's

village school, and many other well-considered charities, rejoiced in

the streams of her munificence. The general had given her a banker's

book of signed blank checks, and she filled up sums at pleasure: such

unbounded confidence had he in her own prudence and her far-off father's

liberality. The few hints her husband deigned to give, encouraged Mrs.

Tracy to conclude, that she would be a catch for either of her sons;

and, as for the girl herself, she had clearly been brought up to order

about a multitude of servants, to command the use of splendid equipages,

and to spend money with unsparing hand.

Accordingly, one day when Julian was alone with his mother, their

conversation ran as follows:

"Well, Julian dear, and what do you think of Emily Warren?"

"Think, mother? why--that she's deuced pretty, and dresses like an

empress: but where did the general pick her up, eh?--who is she?"

"Why, as to who she is--I know no more than you; she is Emily Warren:

but as to the great question of what she is, I know that she is rolling

in riches, and would make one of my boys a very good wife."

"Oh, as to wife, mother, one isn't going to be fool enough to marry for

love now-a-days: things are easier managed hereabouts, than that: but

money makes it quite another thing. So, this pretty minx is rich, is

she?"

"A great heiress, I assure you, Julian."

"Bravo, bravo-o! but how to make the girl look sweet upon me, mother?

There's that white-livered fellow, Charles--"

"Never mind him, boy; do you suppose he would have the heart to make

love to such a splendid creature as Miss Warren: fy, Julian, for a faint

heart: Charles is well enough as a Sabbath-school teacher, but I hope he

will not bear away the palm of a ladye-love from my fine high-spirited

Julian." Poor Mrs. Tracy was as flighty and romantic at forty-five as

she had been at fifteen.

The fine high-spirited Julian answered not a word, but looked

excessively cross; for he knew full well that Charles's chance was to

his in the ratio of a million to nothing.

"What, boy," went on the prudent mother, "still silent! I am afraid

Emily's good looks have been thrown away upon you, and that your heart

has not found out how to love her."

"Love her, mother? Curses! would you drive me mad? I think and dream of

nothing but that girl: morning, noon, and night, her eyes persecute me:

go where I will, and do what I will, her image haunts me: d----n it,

mother' don't I love the girl?"

[Oh love, love! thou much-slandered monosyllable, how desperately do bad

men malign thee!]

"Hush, Julian; pray be more guarded in your language; I am glad to see

though that your heart is in the right place: suppose now that I aid

your suit a little? I dare say I could do a great deal for you, my son;

and nothing could be more delightful to your mother than to try and make

her Julian happy."

True, Mrs. Tracy; you were always theatrically given, and played the

coquette in youth; so in age the character of go-between befits you

still: dearly do you love to dabble in, what you are pleased to call,

"_une affaire du coeur_."

"Mother," after a pause, replied her hopeful progeny, "if the girl had

been only pretty, I shouldn't have asked any body's help; for marriage

was never to my liking, and folks may have their will of prouder

beauties than this Emily, without going to church for it; but money

makes it quite another matter: and I may as well have the benefit of

your assistance in this matter o' money, eh mother? matrimony, you know:

an heiress and a beauty may be worth the wedding-ring; besides, when my

commission comes, I can follow the good example that my parents set me,

you know; and, after a three months' honey-mooning, can turn bachelor

again for twenty years or so, as our governor-general did, and so leave

wifey at home, till she becomes a Mrs. General like you."

Now, strange to say, this heartless bit of villany was any thing but

unpleasing to the foolish, flattered heart of Mrs. Tracy; he was a chip

of the old block, no better than his father: so she thanked "dear

Julian" for his confidence, with admiration and emotion; and looking

upwards, after the fashion of a Covent Garden martyr, blessed him.

CHAPTER VII.

THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE, ETC.

"Emily, my dear, take Julian's arm: here, Charles, come and change with

me; I should like a walk with you to Oxton, to see how your little

scholars get on." So spake the intriguing mother.

"Why, that is just what I was going to do with Charles," said Emily,

"and if Julian will excuse me--"

"Oh, never mind me, Miss Warren, pray; come along with me, will you,

mother?"

So they paired off in more well-matched couples (for Julian luckily took

huff), and went their different ways: with those went hatred, envy,

worldly scheming, and that lowest sort of love that ill deserves the

name; with these remain all things pure, affectionate, benevolent.

"Charles, dear," (they were just like brother and sister, innocent and

loving), "how kind it is of you to take me with you; if you only knew

how I dreaded Julian!"

"Why, Emmy? can he have offended you in any way?"

"Oh, Charles, he is so rude, and says such silly things, and--I am quite

afraid to be alone with him."

"What--what--what does he say to you, Emily?" hurriedly urged her

half-avowed lover.

"Oh, don't ask me, Charles--pray drop the subject;" and, as she blushed,

tears stood in her eyes.

Charles bit his lip and clenched his fist involuntarily; but an instant

word of prayer drove away the spirit of hatred, and set up love

triumphant in its place.

"My Emily--oh, what have I said? may I--may I call you my Emily?

dearest, dearest girl!" escaped his lips, and he trembled at his own

presumption. It was a presumptuous speech indeed; but it burst from the

well of his affections, and he could not help it.

Her answer was not in words, and yet his heart-strings thrilled beneath

the melody; for her eyes shed on him a blaze of love that made him

almost faint before them. In an instant, they understood, without a

word, the happy truth, that each one loved the other.

"Precious, precious Emily!" They were now far away from Burleigh, in the

fields; and he seized her hand, and covered it with kisses.

What more they said I was not by to hear, and if I had been would not

have divulged it. There are holy secrets of affection, which those who

can remember their first love--and first love is the only love worth

mentioning--may think of for themselves. Well, far better than my feeble

pencilling can picture, will they fill up this slight sketch. That walk

to Oxton, that visit to the village school, was full of generous

affections unrepressed, the out-pourings of two deep-welled hearts,

flowing forth in sympathetic ecstasy. The trees, and fields, and

cottages were bathed in heavenly light, and the lovers, happy in each

other's trust, called upon the all-seeing God to bless the best

affections of His children.

And what a change these mutual confessions made in both their minds!

Doubt was gone; they _were_ beloved; oh, richest treasure of joy! Fear

was gone; they dared declare their love; oh, purest river of all

sublunary pleasures! No longer pale, anxious, thoughtful, worn by the

corroding care of "Does she--does she love?"--Charles was, from that

moment, a buoyant, cheerful, exhilarated being--a new character; he put

on manliness, and fortitude, and somewhat of involuntary pride; whilst

Emily felt, that enriched by the affections of him whom she regarded as

her wisest, kindest earthly friend, by the acquisition of his love, who

had led her heart to higher good than this world at its best can give

her, she was elevated and ennobled from the simple Indian child, into

the loved and honoured Christian woman. They went on that important walk

to Oxton feeble, divided, unsatisfied in heart: they returned as two

united spirits, one in faith, one in hope, one in love; both heavenly

and earthly.

But the happy hour is past too soon; and, home again, they mixed once

more with those conflicting elements of hatred and contention.

"Emily," asked the general, in a very unusual stretch of curiosity,

"where have you been to with Charles Tracy? You look flushed, my dear;

what's the matter?"

Of course "nothing" was the matter: and the general was answered wisely,

for love was nothing in his average estimate of men and women.

"Charles, what can have come to you? I never saw you look so happy in my

life," was the mother's troublesome inquiry; "why, our staid youth

positively looks cheerful."

Charles's walk had refreshed him, taken away his head-ache, put him in

spirits, and all manner of glib reasons for rejoicing.

"You were right, Julian," whispered Mrs. Tracy, "and we'll soon put the

stopper on all this sort of thing."

So, then, the moment our guiltless pair of lovers had severally stolen

away to their own rooms, there to feast on well-remembered looks, and

words, and hopes--there to lay before that heavenly Friend, whom both

had learned to trust, all their present joys, as aforetime all their

cares--Mrs. Tracy looked significantly at Julian, and thus addressed her

ever stern-eyed lord:

"So, general, the old song's coming true to us, I find, as to other

folks, who once were young together:

"'And when with envy Time, transported, seeks to rob us of our joys,

You'll in your girls again be courted, and I'll go wooing in my boys.'"

So said or sung the flighty Mrs. Tracy. It was as simple and innocent a

quotation as could possibly be made; I suppose most couples, who ever

heard the stanza, and have grown-up children, have thought upon its dear

domestic beauty: but it strangely affected the irascible old general. He

fumed and frowned, and looked the picture of horror; then, with a fierce

oath at his wife and sons, he firmly said--

"Woman, hold your fool's tongue: begone, and send Emily to me this

minute: stop, Mr. Julian--no--run up for your brother Charles, and come

you all to me in the study. Instantly, sir! do as I bid you, without a

word."

Julian would gladly have fought it out with his imperative father; but,

nevertheless, it was a comfort to have to fetch pale Charles for a

jobation; so he went at once. And the three young people, two of them

trembling with affections overstrained, and the third indurated in

effrontery, stood before that stern old man.

"Emily, child,"--and he added something in Hindostanee, "have I been

kind to you--and do you owe me any love?"

"Dear, dear sir, how can you ask me that?" said the warm-affectioned

girl, falling on her knees in tears.

"Get up, sweet child, and hear me: you see those boys; as you love me,

and yourself, and happiness, and honour--dare not to think of either,

one moment, as your husband."

Emily fainted; Charles staggered to assist her, though he well-nigh

swooned himself; and Julian folded his arms with a resolute air, as

waiting to hear what next.

But the general disappointed him: he had said his say: and, as volatile

salts, a lady's maid, and all that sort of rëinvigoration, seemed

essential to Emily's recovery, he rang the bell forthwith: so the

pleasant family party broke up without another word.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MYSTERY.

Our lovers would not have been praiseworthy, perhaps not human, had they

not met in secret once and again. True, their regularly concerted

studies were forbidden, and they never now might openly walk out

unaccompanied: but love (who has not found this out?) is both daring and

ingenious; and notwithstanding all that Emily purposed about doing as

the general so strangely bade her, they had many happy meetings, rich

with many happy words: all the happier no doubt for their stolen

sweetness.

There was one great and engrossing subject which often had employed

their curiosity; who and what was Emily Warren? for the poor girl did

not know herself. All she could guess, she told Charles, as he zealously

cross-questioned her from time to time: and the result of his inquiries

would appear to be as follows:

Emily's earliest recollections were of great barbaric pomp; huge

elephants richly caparisoned, mighty fans of peacock's tails, lines of

matchlock men, tribes of jewelled servants, a gilded palace, with its

gardens and fountains: plenty of rare gems to play with, and a splendid

queenly woman, whom she called by the Hindoo name for mother. The

general, too, was there among her first associations, as the gallant

Captain Tracy, with his company of native troops.

Then an era happened in her life; a tearful leave-taking with that proud

princess, who scarcely would part with her for sorrow; but the captain

swore it should be so: and an old Scotch-woman, her nurse, she could

remember, who told her as a child, but whether religiously or not she

could not tell, "Darling, come to me when you wish to know who made

you;" and then Mrs. Mackie went and spoke to the princess, and soothed

her, that she let the child depart peacefully. Most of her gorgeous

jewellery dated from that earliest time of inexplicable oriental

splendour.

After those infantine seven years, the captain took her with him to his

station up the country, where she lived she knew not how long, in a

strong hill-fort, one Puttymuddyfudgepoor, where there was a great deal

of fighting, and besieging, and storming, and cannonading; but it ceased

at last, and the captain, who then soon successively became both major

and colonel, always kept her in his own quarters, making her his little

pet; and, after the fighting was all over, his brother-officers would

take her out hunting in their howdahs, and she had plenty of

palanquin-bearers, sepoys, and servants at command; and, what was more,

good nurse Mackie was her constant friend and attendant.

Time wore on, and many little incidents of Indian life occurred, which

varied every day indeed, but still left nothing consequential behind

them: there were tiger-hunts, and incursions of Scindian tribes, and

Pindarree chieftains taken captive, and wounded soldiers brought into

the hospital; and often had she and good nurse Mackie tended at the sick

bed-side. And the colonel had the jungle fever, and would not let her go

from his sight; so she caught the fever too, and through Heaven's mercy

was recovered. And the colonel was fonder of her now than ever, calling

her his darling little child, and was proud to display her early budding

beauty to his military friends--pleasant sort of gentlemen, who gave her

pretty presents.

Then she grew up into womanhood, and saw more than one fine uniform at

her feet, but she did not comprehend those kindnesses: and the general

(he was general now) got into great passions with them, and stormed, and

swore, and drove them all away. Nurse Mackie grew to be old, and

sometimes asked her, "Can you keep a secret, child?--no, no, I dare not

trust you yet: wait a wee, wait a wee, my bonnie, bonnie bairn."

And now speedily came the end. The general resolved on returning to his

own old shores: chiefly, as it seemed, to avoid the troublesome

pertinacity of sundry suitors, who sought of him the hand of Emily

Warren for, by this name she was beginning to be called: in her earliest

recollection she was Amina; then at the hill-fort, Emily--Emily--nothing

for years but Emily: and as she grew to womanhood, the general bade her

sign her name to notes, and leave her card at houses, as Emily Warren:

why, or by what right, she never thought of asking. But nurse Mackie had

hinted she might have had "a better name and a truer;" and therefore,

she herself had asked the general what this hint might mean; and he was

so angry that he discharged nurse Mackie at Madras, directly he arrived

there to take ship for England.

Then, just before embarking, poor nurse Mackie came to her secretly, and

said, "Child, I will trust you with a word; you are not what he thinks

you." And she cried a great deal, and longed to come to England; but

the general would not hear of it; so he pensioned her off, and left her

at Madras, giving somebody strict orders not to let her follow him.

Nevertheless, just as they were getting into the boat to cross the surf,

the affectionate old soul ran out upon the strand, and called to her

"Amy Stuart! Amy Stuart!" to the general's great amazement as clearly as

her own; and she held up a packet in her hand as they were pushing off,

and shouted after her, "Child--child! if you would have your rights,

remember Jeanie Mackie!"

After that, succeeded the monotony of a long sea voyage. The general at

first seemed vexed about Mrs. Mackie, and often wished that he had asked

her what she meant; however, his brow soon cleared, for he reflected

that a discarded servant always tells falsehoods, if only to make her

master mischief.

"The voyage over, Charles, with all its cards, quadrilles, doubling the

cape, crossing the line, and the wearisome routine of sky and sea, the

quarter-deck and cabin, we found ourselves at length in Plymouth Sound;

left the Indiaman to go up the channel; and I suppose the post-chaise

may be consigned to your imagination."

CHAPTER IX.

HOW TO CLEAR IT UP.

In all this there was mystery enough for a dozen lovers to have crazed

their brains about. Emily might be a queen of the East, defrauded of

hereditary glories, and at any rate deserved such rank, if Charles was

to be judge; but what was more important, if the general had any reason

at all for his arbitrary mandate prohibiting their love, it was very

possible that reason was a false one.

Meantime, Charles had little now to live for, except his dear forbidden

Emily, any more than she for him. And to peace of mind in both, the

elucidation of that mystery which hung about her birth, grew more

needful day by day. At last, one summer evening, when they had managed a

quiet walk upon the sands under the Beacon cliff, Charles said abruptly,

after some moments of abstraction, "Dearest, I am resolved."

"Resolved, Charles! what about?" and she felt quite alarmed; for her

lover looked so stern, that she could not tell what was going to happen

next.

"I'll clear it up, that I will; I only wish I had the money."

"Why, Charles, what in the world are you dreaming about? you frighten

me, dearest; are you ill? don't look so serious, pray."

"Yes, Emily, I will; at once too. I'm off to Madras by next packet; or,

that is to say, would, if I could get my passage free."

"My noble Charles, if that were the only objection, I would get you all

the means; for the kind--kind general suffers me to have whatever sums I

choose to ask for. Only, Charles, indeed I cannot spare you; do not--do

not go away and leave me; there's Julian, too--don't leave me--and you

might never come back, and--and--" all the remainder was lost in

sobbing.

"No, my Emmy, we must not use the general's gold in doing what he might

not wish; it would be ungenerous. I will try to get somebody to lend me

what I want--say Mrs. Sainsbury, or the Tamworths. And as for leaving

you, my love, have no fears for me or for yourself; situated as we are,

I take it as a duty to go, and make you happier, setting you in rights,

whatever these may be; and for the rest, I leave you in His holy keeping

who can preserve you alike in body, as in soul, from all things that

would hurt you, and whose mercy will protect me in all perils, and bring

me back to you in safety. This is my trust, Emmy."

"Dear Charles, you are always wiser and better than I am: let it be so

then, my best of friends. Seek out good nurse Mackie, I can give you

many clues, hear what she has to say; and may the God of your own poor

fatherless Emily speed your holy mission! Yet there is one thing,

Charles; ought you not to ask your parents for their leave to go? You

are better skilled to judge than I can be, though."

"Emmy, whom have I to ask? my father? he cares not whither I go nor what

becomes of me; I hardly know him, and for twenty years of my short life

of twenty-one, scarcely believed in his existence; or should I ask my

mother? alas--love! I wish I could persuade myself that she would wish

me back again if I were gone; moreover, how can I respect her judgment,

or be guided by her counsel, whose constant aim has been to thwart my

feeble efforts after truth and wisdom, and to pamper all ill growths in

my unhappy brother Julian? No, Emily; I am a man now, and take my own

advice. If a parent forbade me, indeed, and reasonably, it would be fit

to acquiesce; but knowing, as I have sad cause to know, that none but

you, my love, will be sorry for my absence, as for your sake alone that

absence is designed, I need take counsel only of us who are here

present--your own sweet eyes, myself, and God who seeth us."

"True--most true, dear Charles; I knew that you judged rightly."

"Moreover, Emmy, secresy is needful for the due fulfilment of my

purpose." (Charles little thought how congenial to his nature was that

same secresy.) "None but you must know where I am, or whither I am gone.

For if there really is any mystery which the general would conceal from

us, be assured he both could and would frustrate all my efforts if he

knew of my design. The same ship that carried me out would convey an

emissary from him, and nurse Mackie never could be found by me. I must

go then secretly, and, for our peace sake, soon; how dear to me that

embassy will be, entirely undertaken in my darling Emmy's cause!"

"But--but, Charles, what if Julian, in your absence--"

"Hark, my own betrothed! while I am near you--and I say it not of

threat, but as in the sight of One who has privileged me to be your

protector--you are safe from any serious vexation; and the moment I am

gone, fly to my father, tell him openly your fears, and he will scatter

Julian's insolence to the winds of heaven."

"Thank you--thank you, wise dear Charles; you have lifted a load from my

poor, weak, woman's heart, that had weighed it down too heavily. I will

trust in God more, and dread Julian less. Oh! how I will pray for you

when far away."

CHAPTER X.

AUNT GREEN'S LEGACY.

At last--at last, Mrs. Green fell ill, and, hard upon the over-ripe age

of eighty-seven, seemed likely to drop into the grave--to the

unspeakable delight of her expectant relatives. Sooth to say, niece

Jane, the soured and long-waiting legatee, had now for years been

treating the poor old woman very scurvily: she had lived too long, and

had grown to be a burden; notwithstanding that her ample income still

kept on the house, and enabled the general to nurse his own East India

Bonds right comfortably. But still the old aunt would not die, and as

they sought not her, nor heir's (quite contrary to St. Paul's

disinterestedness), she was looked upon in the light of an incumbrance,

on her own property and in her own house. Mrs. Tracy longed to throw off

the yoke of dependance, and made small secret of the hatred of the

fetter: for the old woman grew so deaf and blind, that there could be no

risk at all, either in speaking one's mind, or in thoroughly neglecting

her.

However, now that the harvest of hope appeared so near, the legatee

renewed her old attentions: Death was a guest so very welcome to the

house, that it is no wonder that his arrival was hourly expected with

buoyant cheerfulness, and a something in the mask of kindliness: but I

suspect that lamb-skin concealed a very wolf. So, Mrs. Tracy tenderly

inquired of the doctor, and the doctor shook his head; and other doctors

came to help, and shook their heads together. The patient still grew

worse--O, brightening prospect!--though, now and then, a cordial draught

seemed to revive her so alarmingly, that Mrs. Tracy affectionately

urging that the stimulants would be too exciting for the poor dear

sufferer's nerves, induced Dr. Graves to discontinue them. Then those

fearful scintillations in her lamp of life grew fortunately duller, and

the nurse was by her bed-side night and day; and the old aunt became

more and more peevish, and was more and more spoken of by the Tracy

family--in her possible hearing, as "that dear old soul"--out of it,

"that vile old witch."

Charles, to be sure, was an exception in all this, as he ever was: for

he took on him the Christian office of reading many prayers to the poor

decaying creature, and (only that his father would not hear of such a

thing) desired to have the vicar to assist him. Emily also, full of

sympathy, and disinterested care, would watch the fretful patient, hour

after hour, in those long, dull nights of pain; and the poor, old,

perishing sinner loved her coming, for she spoke to her the words of

hope and resignation. Whether that sweet missionary, scarcely yet a

convert from her own dark creed--(Alas! the Amina had offered unto

Juggernaut, and Emily of the strong hill-fort had scarcely heard of any

truer God; and the fair girl was a woman-grown before, in her first

earthly love, she also came to know the mercies Heaven has in store for

us)--whether unto any lasting use she prayed and reasoned with that

hard, dried heart, none but the Omniscient can tell. Let us hope: let us

hope; for the fretful voice was stilled, and the cloudy forehead

brightened, and the haggard eyes looked cheerfully to meet the

inevitable stroke of death. Thus in wisdom and in charity, in patience

and in faith, that gentle pair of lovers comforted the dying soul.

However, days rolled away, and Aunt Green lingered on still, tenaciously

clinging unto life: until one morning early, she felt so much better,

that she insisted on being propped up by pillows, and seeing all the

household round her bed to speak to them. So up came every one, in no

small hope of legacies, and what the lawyers call "_donationes mortis

causâ_."

The general was at her bed's-head, with, I am ashamed to say, perhaps

unconsciously, a countenance more ridiculous than lugubrious; though he

tried to subdue the buoyancy of hope and to put on looks of decent

mourning; on the other side, the long-expectant legatee, Niece Jane,

prudently concealed her questionable grief behind a scented

pocket-handkerchief. Julian held somewhat aloof, for the scene was too

depressing for his taste: so he affected to read a prayer-book, wrong

way up, with his tongue in his cheek: Charles, deeply solemnized at the

near approach of death, knelt at the poor invalid's bedside; and Emily

stood by, leaning over her, suffused in tears. At the further corners of

the bed, might be seen an old servant or two; and Mrs. Green's butler

and coachman, each a forty years' fixture, presented their gray heads at

the bottom of the room, and really looked exceedingly concerned.

Mrs. Green addressed them first, in her feeble broken manner:

"Grant--and John--good and faithful--thank you--thank you both; and you

too, kind Mrs. Lloyd, and Sally, and nurse--what's-your-name: give them

the packets, nurse--all marked--first drawer, desk: there--there--God

bless you--good--faithful."

The old servants, full of sorrow at her approaching loss, were comforted

too: for a kind word, and a hundred pound note a-piece, made amends for

much bereavement: the sick-nurse found her gift was just a tithe of

their's, and recognised the difference both just and kind.

"Niece Jane--you've waited--long--for--this day: my will--rewards you."

"O dear--dear aunt, pray don't talk so; you'll recover yet, pray--pray

don't:" she pretended to drown the rest in sorrow, but winked at her

husband over the handkerchief.

"Julian!" (the precious youth attempted to look miserable, and came as

called,) "you will find--I have remembered--you, Julian." So he winked,

too, at his mother, and tried to blubber a "thank you."

"Charles--where's Charles? give me your hand, Charles dear--let me feel

your face: here, Charles--a little pocket-book--good lad--good lad.

There's Emily, too--dear child, she came--too late--I forgot her--I

forgot her! general give her half--half--if you love--love--Emi--"

All at once her jaw dropped; her eyes, which had till now been

preternaturally bright, filmed over; her head fell back upon the pillow;

and the rich old aunt was dead.

Julian gave a shout that might have scared the parting spirit!

Really, the general was shocked, and Mrs. Tracy too; and the servants

murmured "shame--shame!" poor Charles hid his face; Emily looked up

indignantly; but Julian asked, with an oath, "Where's the good of being

hypocrites?" and then added, "now, mother, let us find the will."

Then the nurse went to close the dim glazed eyes; and the other

sorrowing domestics slunk away; and Charles led Emily out of the chamber

of death, saddened and shocked at such indecent haste.

Meanwhile, the hopeful trio rummaged every drawer--tumbled out the

mingled contents of boxes, desk, and escritoire--still, no will--no

will: and at last the nurse, who more than once had muttered, "Shame on

you all," beneath her breath, said,

"If you want the will, it's under her pillow: but don't disturb her yet,

poor thing!"

Julian's rude hand had already thrust aside the lifeless, yielding head,

and clutched the will: the father and mother--though humbled and

wonder-stricken at his daring--gathered round him; and he read aloud,

boldly and steadily to the end, though with scowling brow, and many

curses interjectional:

"In the name of God, Amen. I, Constance Green, make this my last will

and testament. Forasmuch as my niece, Jane Tracy, has watched and waited

for my death these two-and-twenty years, I leave her all the shoes,

slippers, and goloshes, whereof I may happen to die possessed: item, I

leave Julian, her son, my '_Whole Duty of Man_,' convinced that he is

deficient in it all: item, I confirm all the gifts which I intend to

make upon my death-bed: item, forasmuch as General Tracy, my niece's

husband, on his return from abroad, greeted me with much affection, I

bequeath and give to him five thousand pounds' worth of Exchequer bills,

now in my banker's hands; and appoint him my sole executor. As to my

landed property, it will all go, in course of law, to my heir, Samuel

Hayley, and may he and his long enjoy it. And as to the remainder of my

personal effects, including nine thousand pounds bank stock, my Dutch

fives, and other matters, whereof I may die possessed (seeing that my

relatives are rich enough without my help), I give and bequeath the

same, subject as hereinbefore stated, to the trustees, for the time

being, of the Westminster Lying-in Hospital, in trust, for the purposes

of that charitable institution. In witness whereof, I have hereunto set

my hand and seal this 13th day of May, 1840.

"CONSTANCE GREEN."

"Duly signed, sealed, and delivered! d----nation!" was Julian's brief

epilogue--"General, let's burn it."

"You can if you please, Mr. Julian," interposed the nurse, who had

secretly enjoyed all this, "and if you like to take the consequences;

but, as each of the three witnesses has the will sealed up in copy, and

the poor deceased there took pains to sign them all, perhaps--"

This settled the affair: and the discomfited expectants made a

precipitate retreat. As the general, however, got vastly more than he

expected, for his individual merits; and seeing that he loved Emily as

much as he hated both Julian and his wife, he really felt well-pleased

upon the whole, and took on him the duties of executor with

cheerfulness. So they buried Aunt Green as soon as might be.

CHAPTER XI.

PREPARATIONS AND DEPARTURE.

Charles's pocket-book was full of clean bank notes, fifteen hundred

pounds' worth: it contained also a diamond ring, and a lock of silvery

hair; the latter a proof of affectionate sentiment in the kind old soul,

that touched him at the heart.

"And now, my Emmy, the way is clear to us; Providence has sent me this,

that I may right you, dearest: and it will be wise in us to say nothing

of our plans. Avoid inquiries--for I did not say conceal or falsify

facts: but, while none but you, love, heed of my departure, and while I

go for our sakes alone, we need not invite disappointment by

open-mouthed publicity. To those who love me, Emmy, I am frank and

free; but with those who love us not, there is a wisdom and a justice in

concealment. They do not deserve confidence, who will not extend to us

their sympathy. None but yourself must know whither I am bound; and,

after some little search for curiosity's sake, when a week is past and

gone, no soul will care for me of those at home. With you, I will manage

to communicate by post, directing my letters to Mrs. Sainsbury, at

Oxton: I will prepare her for it. She knows my love for you, and how

they try to thwart us; but even she, however trustworthy, need not be

told my destination yet awhile, until 'India' appears upon the

post-mark. How glad will you be, dearest one, how happy in our

secret--to read my heart's own thoughts, when I am far away--far away,

clearing up mine Emmy's cares, and telling her how blessed I feel in

ministering to her happiness!"

Such was the substance of their talk, while counting out the

pocket-book.

Charles's remaining preparations were simple enough, now his purse was

flush of money: he resolved upon taking from his home no luggage

whatever: preferring to order down, from an outfitting house in London,

a regular kit of cadet's necessaries, to wait for him at the Europe

Hotel, Plymouth, on a certain day in the ensuing week. So that, burdened

only with his Emmy's miniature, and his pocket-book of bank notes, he

might depart quietly some evening, get to Plymouth in a prëconcerted

way, by chaise or coach, before the morrow morning; thence, a boat to

meet the ship off-shore, and then--hey, for the Indies!

It was as well-devised a scheme as could possibly be planned; though its

secresy, especially with a mother in the case, may be a moot point as to

the abstract moral thereof: nevertheless, concretely, the only heart his

so mysterious absence would have pained, was made aware of all: then,

again, secresy had been the atmosphere of his daily life, the breath of

his education; and he too sorely knew his mother would rejoice at the

departure, and Julian, too--all the more certainly, as both brothers

were now rivals professed for the hand of Emily Warren: as to the

general, he might, or he might not, smoke an extra cheroot in the

excitement of his wonder; and if he cared about it anyways more

tragically than tobacco might betray, Emily knew how to comfort him.

With respect to other arrangements, Emmy furnished Charles with letters

to certain useful people at Madras, and in particular to the "somebody"

who looked after Mrs. Mackie: so, the mystery was easy of access, and he

doubted not of overcoming, on the spot, every unseen difficulty. The

plan of leaving all luggage behind, a capital idea, would enable him to

go forth freely and unshackled, with an ordinary air, in hat and

great-coat, as for an evening's walk; and was quite in keeping with the

natural reserve of his whole character--a bad habit of secresy, which he

probably inherited from his father, the lieutenant of old times. And

yet, for all the wisdom, and mystery, and shrewd settling of the plan,

its accomplishment was as nearly as possible most fatally defeated.

The important evening arrived; for the Indiaman--it was our old friend

Sir William Elphinston--would be off Plymouth, next morning: the goods

had been, for a day or two, safely deposited at the Europe, as per

invoice, all paid: the lovers, in this last, this happiest, yet by far

the saddest of their stolen interviews, had exchanged vows and kisses,

and upon the beach, beneath those friendly cliffs, had commended one

another to their Father in heaven. They had returned to the unsocial

circle of home; all was fixed; the clock struck nine: and Charles,

accidentally squeezing Emily's hand, rose to leave the tea-table.

"Where are you going, Mr. Charles?"

"I am going out, Julian."

"Thank you, sir! I knew that, but whither? General, I say, here's

Charles going to serenade somebody by moonlight."

The brandy-sodden parent, scarcely conscious, said something about his

infernal majesty; and, "What then?--let him go, can't you?"

"Well, Julian dear, perhaps your brother will not mind your going with

him; particularly as Emily stays at home with me."

This Mrs. Tracy spoke archly, intended as a hint to induce Julian to

remain: but he had other thoughts--and simply said, in an ill-tempered

tone of voice, "Done, Charles."

It was a dilemma for our escaping hero; but glancing a last look at

Emily, he departed, and walked on some way as quietly as might be with

Julian by his side: thinking, perhaps, he would soon be tired; and

suffering him to fancy, if he would, that Charles was bound either on

some amorous pilgrimage, or some charitable mission. But they left

Burleigh behind them--and got upon the common--and passed it by, far out

of sight and out of hearing--and were skirting the high banks of the

darkly-flowing Mullet--and still there was Julian sullenly beside him.

In vain Charles had tried, by many gentle words, to draw him into common

conversation: Julian would not speak, or only gave utterance to some

hinted phrase of insult: his brow was even darker than usual, and night

was coming on apace, and he still tramped steadily along beside his

brother, digging his sturdy stick into the clay, for very spite's sake.

At length, as they yet walked along the river's side in that

unfrequented place, Julian said, on a sudden, in a low strange tone, as

if keeping down some rising rage within him,

"Mr. Charles, you love Emily Warren."

"Well, Julian, and who can help loving her?"

It was innocently said; but still a maddening answer, for he loved her

too.

"And, sirrah," the brother hoarsely added, "she--she does not--does

not--hate you, sir, as I do."

"My good Julian, pray do not be so violent; I cannot help it if the dear

girl loves me."

"But I can, though!" roared Julian, with an oath, and lifted up his

stick--it was nearer like a club--to strike his brother.

"Julian, Julian, what are you about? Good Heavens! you would not--you

dare not--give over--unhand me, brother; what have I done, that you

should strike me? Oh! leave me--leave me--pray."

"Leave you? I will leave you!" the villain almost shouted, and smote him

to the ground with his lead-loaded stick. It was a blow that must have

killed him, but for the interposing hat, now battered down upon his

bleeding head. Charles, at length thoroughly aroused, though his foe

must be a brother, struggled with unusual strength in self-preserving

instinct, wrested the club from Julian's hand, and stood on the

defensive.

Julian was staggered: and, after a moment's irresolution, drawing a

pistol from his pocket, said, in a terribly calm voice,

"Now, sir! I have looked for such a meeting many days--alone, by night,

with you! I would not willingly draw trigger, for the noise might bring

down other folks upon us, out of Oxton yonder: but, drop that stick, or

I fire."

Charles was noble enough, without another word, to fling the club into

the river: it was not fear of harm, but fear of sin, that made him trust

himself defenceless to a brother, a twin-brother, in the dark: he could

not be so base, a murderer, a fratricide! Oh! most unhallowed thought!

Save him from this crime, good God! Then, instantaneously reflecting,

and believing he decided for the best, when he saw the ruffian glaring

on him with exulting looks, as upon an unarmed rival at his mercy, with

no man near to stay the deed, and none but God to see it, Charles

resolved to seek safety from so terrible a death in flight.

Oxton was within one mile; and, clearly, this was not like flying from

danger as a coward, but fleeing from attempted crime, as a brother and

a Christian. Julian snatched at him to catch him as he passed: and,

failing in this, rushed after him. It was a race for life! and they went

like the wind, for two hundred yards, along that muddy high-banked walk.

Suddenly, Charles slipped upon the clay, that he fell; and Julian, with

a savage howl, leapt upon him heavily.

Poor youth, he knew that death was nigh, and only uttered, "God forgive

you, brother! oh, spare me--or, if not me, spare yourself--Julian,

Julian!"

But the monster was determined. Exerting the whole force of his

herculean frame, he seized his scarce-resisting victim as he lay, and,

lifting him up like a child, flung his own twin-brother head foremost

into that darkly-flowing current!

There was one piercing cry--a splash--a struggle; and again nothing

broke upon the silent night, but the murmur of that swingeing tide, as

the Mullet hurried eddying to the sea.

Julian listened a minute or two, flung some stones at random into the

river, and then hastily ran back to Burleigh, feeling like a Cain.

CHAPTER XII.

THE ESCAPE.

But the overruling hand of Him whose aid that victim had invoked, was

now stretched forth to save! and the strong-flowing tide, that ran too

rapidly for Charles to sink in it, was commissioned from on High to

carry him into an angle of that tortuous stream, where he clung by

instinct to the bushes. Silence was his wisdom, while the murderer was

near: and so long as Julian's footsteps echoed on the banks, Charles

stirred not, spoke not, but only silently thanked God for his wonderful

deliverance. However, the footsteps quickly died away, though heard far

off clattering amid the still and listening night; and Charles,

thankfully, no less than cautiously, drew himself out of the stream,

very little harmed beyond a drenching: for the waters had recovered him

at once from the effects of that desperate blow.

It was with a sense of exultation, freedom, independence, that he now

hastened scatheless on his way; dripping garments mattered nothing, nor

mud, nor the loss of his demolished hat: the pocket-book was safe, and

Emmy's portrait, (how he kissed it, then!) and luckily a travelling cap

was in his great-coat pocket: so with a most buoyant feeling of animal

delight, as well as of religious gratitude, he sped merrily once more

upon his secret expedition. Thank Heaven! Emmy could not know the peril

he had past: and wretched Julian would now have dreadful reason of his

own for this mysterious absence: and it was a pleasant thing to trudge

along so freely in the starlight, on the private embassy of love. Happy

Charles! I know not if ever more exhilarated feelings blessed the youth;

they made him trip along the silent road, in a gush of joyfulness, at

the rate of some six miles an hour; I know not if ever such delicious

thoughts of Emily's attachment, and those gorgeous mysteries in India,

of adventure, enterprise, escape, had heretofore caused his heart to

bound so lightsomely within him, like some elastic spring. I know not if

ever strong reliance upon Providential care, more earnest prayers,

praises, intercessions (for poor Julian, too,) were offered on the altar

of his soul. Happy Charles!

So he went on and on--long past Oxton, and Eyemouth, and Surbiton, and

over the ferry, and through the sleeping turnpikes, and past the bridge,

and along the broad high-road, until gray of morning's dawn revealed the

suburbs of Plymouth.

Of course he missed the mail by which he intended to have gone--for

Julian's dread act delayed him.

Long before his journey's end, his clothes were thoroughly dried, and

violent exercise had shaken off all possible rheumatic consequence of

that fearful plunge beneath the waters: five-and-twenty miles in four

hours and three-quarters, is a tolerable recipe for those who have

tumbled into rivers. We must recollect that he had gone as quick as he

could, for fear of being late, now the coach had passed. At a little

country inn, he brushed, and washed, and made toilet as well as he was

able, took a glass of good Cognac, both hot and strong; and felt more of

a man than ever.

Then, having loitered awhile, and well-remembered Emily in his prayers,

at about eight in the morning he presented himself among his luggage at

the Europe in gentlemanly trim, and soon got all on board the pilot

boat, to meet the Indiaman just outside the breakwater. We may safely

leave him there, happy, hopeful Charles! Sanguine for the future,

exulting in the present, and thankful for the past: already has he

poured out all his joys before that Friend who loves her too, and

invoked His blessing on a scheme so well designed, so providentially

accomplished.

I had almost forgotten Julian: wretched, hardened man, and how fared he?

The moment he had flung his brother into that dark stream, and the

waters closed above him greedily that he was gone--gone for ever, he

first threw in stones to make a noise like life upon the stream, but

that cheatery was only for an instant: he was alone--a murderer, alone!

the horrors of silence, solitude, and guilt, seized upon him like three

furies: so his quick retreating walk became a running; and the running

soon was wild and swift for fear; and ever as he ran, that piercing

scream came upon the wind behind, and hooted him: his head swam, his

eyes saw terrible sights, his ears heard terrible sounds--and he scoured

into quiet, sleeping Burleigh like a madman. However, by some strange

good luck, not even did the slumbering watchman see him: so he got

in-doors as usual with the latch-key (it was not the first time he had

been out at night), crept up quietly, and hid himself in his own

chamber.

And how did he spend those hours of guilty solitude? in terrors? in

remorse? in misery? Not he: Julian was too wise to sit and think, and in

the dark too; but he lit both reading lamps to keep away the gloom, and

smoked and drank till morning's dawn to stupify his conscience.

Then, to make it seem all right, he went down to breakfast as usual,

though any thing but sober, and met unflinchingly his mother's natural

question--

"Good morning, Julian--where's Charles?"

"How should I know, mother; isn't he up yet?"

"No, my dear; and what is more, I doubt if he came home last night."

"Hollo, Master Charles! pretty doings these, Mr. Sabbath-teacher! so he

slept out, eh, mother?"

"I don't know--but where did you leave him, Julian?"

"Who! I? did I go out with him? Oh! yes, now I recollect: let's see, we

strolled together midway to Oxton, and, as he was going somewhat

further, there I left him?"

How true the words, and yet how terribly false their meaning!

"Dear me, that's very odd--isn't it, general?"

"Not at all, ma'am--not at all; leave the lad alone, he'll be back by

dinner-time: I didn't think the boy had so much spirit."

Emily, to whom the general's hint was Greek, looked up cheerfully and in

her own glad mind chuckled at her Charles's bold adventure.

But the day passed, off, and they sent out men to seek for him: and

another--and all Burleigh was a-stir: and another--and the coast-guards

from Lyme to Plymouth Sound searched every hole and corner: and

another--when his mother wept five minutes: and another--when the wonder

was forgotten.

However, they did not put on mourning for the truant: he might turn up

yet: perhaps he was at Oxford.

Emily had not much to do in comforting the general for his dear son's

loss; it clearly was a gain to him, and he felt far freer than when

wisdom's eye was on him. Charles had been too keen for father, mother,

and brother; too good, too amiable: he saw their ill, condemned it by

his life, and showed their dark too black against his brightness. The

unnatural deficiency of mother's love had not been overrated: Julian had

all her heart; and she felt only obliged to the decamping Charles for

leaving Emily so free and clear to his delightful brother. She never

thought him dead: death was a repulsive notion at all times to her: no

doubt he would turn up again some day. And Julian joked with her about

that musty proverb "a bad penny."

As to our dear heroine, she never felt so happy in all her life before

as now, even when her Charles had been beside her; for within a day of

his departure he had written her a note full of affection, hope, and

gladness; assuring her of his health, and wealth, and safe arrival on

board the Indiaman. The noble-hearted youth never said one single word

about his brother's crime: but he did warn his Emmy to keep close beside

the general. This note she got through Mrs. Sainsbury; that invalid lady

at Oxton, who never troubled herself to ask or hear one word beyond her

own little world--a certain physic-corner cupboard.

And thou--poor miserable man--thou fratricide in mind--and to thy best

belief in act, how drags on now the burden of thy life? For a day or

two, spirits and segars muddled his brain, and so kept thoughts away:

but within a while they came on him too piercingly, and Julian writhed

beneath those scorpion stings of hot and keen remorse: and when the

coast-guards dragged the Mullet, how that caitiff trembled! and when

nothing could be found, how he wondered fearingly! The only thing the

wretched man could do, was to loiter, day after day, and all day long,

upon the same high path which skirts the tortuous stream. Fascinated

there by hideous recollections, he could not leave the spot for hours:

and his soft-headed, romantic mother, noticing these deep abstractions,

blessed him--for her Julian was now in love with Emily.

CHAPTER XIII.

NEWS OF CHARLES.

Ay--in love with Emily! Fiercely now did Julian pour his thoughts that

way; if only hoping to forget murder in another strong excitement.

Julian listened to his mother's counsels; and that silly, cheated woman

playfully would lean upon his arm, like a huge, coy confidante, and fill

his greedy ears (that heard her gladly for very holiday's sake from

fearful apprehensions), with lover's hopes, lover's themes, his Emily's

perfection. Delighted mother--how proud and pleased was she! quite in

her own element, fanning dear Julian's most sentimental flame, and

scheming for him interviews with Emily.

It required all her skill--for the girl clung closely to her guardian:

he, unconscious Argus, never tired of her company; and she, remembering

dear Charles's hint, and dreading to be left alone with Julian, would

persist to sit day after day at her books, music, or needle-work in the

study, charming General Tracy by her pretty Hindoo songs. With him she

walked out, and with him she came in; she would read to him for hours,

whether he snored or listened; and, really, both mother and son were

several long weeks before their scheming could come to any thing. A

_tête-à-tête_ between Julian and Emily appeared as impossible to manage,

as collision between Jupiter and Vesta.

However, after some six weeks of this sort of mining and counter-mining

(for Emily divined their wishes), all on a sudden one morning the

general received a letter that demanded his immediate presence for a day

or two in town; something about prize-money at Puttymuddyfudgepoor.

Emily was too high-spirited, too delicate in mind, to tell her guardian

of fears which never might be realized; and so, with some forebodings,

but a cheerful trust, too, in a Providence above her, she saw the

general off without a word, though not without a tear; he too, that

stern, close man, was moved: it was strange to see them love each other

so.

The moment he was gone, she discreetly kept her chamber for the day, on

plea of sickness; she had cried very heartily to see him leave her--he

had never yet left her once since she could recollect--and thus she

really had a head-ache, and a bad one.

Julian Tracy gave such a start, that he knocked off a cheffonier of

rare china and glass standing at his elbow; and the smash of mandarins

and porcelain gods would have been enough, at any other time, to have

driven his mother crazy.

"Charles alive?" shouted he.

"Yes, Julian--why not? You saw him off, you know: cannot you remember?"

Now to that guilty wretch's mind the fearful notion instantaneously

occurred, that Emily Warren was in some strange, wild way bantering him;

she knew his dreadful secret--"he _had_ seen him off." He trembled like

an aspen as she looked on him.

"Oh yes, he remembered, certainly; but--but where was her letter?"

"Never mind that, Julian; you surely would not read another person's

letters, Monsieur le Chevalier Bayard?"

Emily was as gay at heart that morning as a sky-lark, and her innocent

pleasantry proved her strongest shield. Julian dared not ask to see the

letter--scarcely dared to hope she had one, and yet did not know what to

think. As to any love scene now, it was quite out of the question,

notwithstanding all his mother's hints and management; a new exciting

thought entirely filled him: was he a Cain, a fratricide, or not? was

Charles alive after all? And, for once in his life, Julian had some

repentant feelings; for thrilling hope was nigh to cheer his gloom.

It really seemed as if Emily, sweet innocent, could read his inmost

thoughts. "At any rate," observed she, playfully, "Bayard may take the

postman's privilege, and see the outside."

With that, she produced the ship-letter that had put her in such

spirits, legibly dated some twenty-two days ago. Yes, Charles's hand,

sure enough! Julian could swear to it among a thousand. And he fainted

dead away.