CHAPTER I

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EMMELINE

THE ORPHAN OF THE CASTLE

[Illustration: '_Miss Mowbray! is it thus you fulfil the promise you

gave me?_'

(p. 103)]

CHARLOTTE SMITH

* * * * *

EMMELINE

THE ORPHAN OF THE CASTLE

* * * * *

CONTENTS

EMMELINE, THE ORPHAN OF THE CASTLE

'To My Children' xxvii

VOLUME I 1

CHAPTER I 1

CHAPTER II 7

CHAPTER III 13

CHAPTER IV 20

CHAPTER V 28

CHAPTER VI 36

CHAPTER VII 41

CHAPTER VIII 49

CHAPTER IX 56

CHAPTER X 61

CHAPTER XI 69

CHAPTER XII 78

CHAPTER XIII 86

CHAPTER XIV 100

CHAPTER XV 107

CHAPTER XVI 114

VOLUME II 119

CHAPTER I 119

CHAPTER II 131

CHAPTER III 137

CHAPTER IV 148

CHAPTER V 152

CHAPTER VI 161

CHAPTER VII 169

CHAPTER VIII 179

CHAPTER IX 186

CHAPTER X 194

CHAPTER XI 201

CHAPTER XII 218

VOLUME III 227

CHAPTER I 227

CHAPTER II 238

CHAPTER III 248

CHAPTER IV 262

CHAPTER V 273

CHAPTER VI 283

CHAPTER VII 291

CHAPTER VIII 296

CHAPTER IX 301

CHAPTER X 313

CHAPTER XI 322

CHAPTER XII 329

CHAPTER XIII 337

CHAPTER XIV 344

VOLUME IV 355

CHAPTER I 355

CHAPTER II 364

CHAPTER III 372

CHAPTER IV 383

CHAPTER V 393

CHAPTER VI 400

CHAPTER VII 410

CHAPTER VIII 421

CHAPTER IX 434

CHAPTER X 442

CHAPTER XI 457

CHAPTER XII 470

CHAPTER XIII 486

CHAPTER XIV 496

CHAPTER XV 508

CHAPTER XVI 525

EXPLANATORY NOTES 528

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

'_Miss Mowbray! is it thus you fulfil the promise you

gave me?_' (p. 103) xx

_Emmeline and Lady Adelina surprised at the appearance

of Fitz-Edward_ (p. 477) xxv

EMMELINE

THE ORPHAN OF THE CASTLE

[Illustration: _Emmeline and Lady Adelina surprised at the appearance

of Fitz-Edward_ (p. 477)]

VOLUME I

TO MY CHILDREN

O'erwhelm'd with sorrow--and sustaining long

'The proud man's contumely, the oppressor's wrong,'

Languid despondency, and vain regret,

Must my exhausted spirit struggle yet?

Yes! robb'd myself of all that Fortune gave,

Of every hope--but shelter in the grave;

Still shall the plaintive lyre essay it's powers,

And dress the cave of Care, with Fancy's flowers;

Maternal love, the fiend Despair withstand,

Still animate the heart and guide the hand.

May you, dear objects of my tender care!

Escape the evils, I was born to bear:

Round my devoted head, while tempests roll,

Yet there--'where I have treasured up my soul,'

May the soft rays of dawning hope impart

Reviving patience to my fainting heart;

And, when it's sharp anxieties shall cease,

May I be conscious, in the realms of peace,

That every tear which swells my children's eyes,

From evils past, not present sorrows, rise.

Then, with some friend who loves to share your pain,

(For 'tis my boast, that still such friends remain,)

By filial grief, and fond remembrance prest,

You'll seek the spot where all my miseries rest,

Recall my hapless days in sad review,

The long calamities I bore for you,

And, with an happier fate, resolve to prove

How well ye merited your mother's love!

EMMELINE

THE ORPHAN OF THE CASTLE

CHAPTER I

In a remote part of the county of Pembroke, is an old building, formerly

of great strength, and inhabited for centuries by the ancient family of

Mowbray; to the sole remaining branch of which it still belonged, tho'

it was, at the time this history commences, inhabited only by servants;

and the greater part of it was gone to decay. A few rooms only had been

occasionally repaired to accommodate the proprietor, when he found it

necessary to come thither to receive his rents, or to inspect the

condition of the estate; which however happened so seldom, that during

the twelve years he had been master of it, he had only once visited the

castle for a few days. The business that related to the property round

it (which was very considerable) was conducted by a steward grown grey

in the service of the family, and by an attorney from London, who came

to hold the courts. And an old housekeeper, a servant who waited on her,

the steward, and a labourer who was kept to look after his horse and

work in that part of the garden which yet bore the vestige of

cultivation, were now all its inhabitants; except a little girl, of whom

the housekeeper had the care, and who was believed to be the natural

daughter of that elder brother, by whose death Lord Montreville, the

present possessor, became entitled to the estate.

This nobleman, while yet a younger son, was (by the partiality of his

mother, who had been an heiress, and that of some other female

relations) master of a property nearly equal to what he inherited by the

death of his brother, Mr. Mowbray.

He had been originally designed for the law; but in consequence of being

entitled to the large estate which had been his mother's, and heir, by

will, to all her opulent family, he had quitted that profession, and at

the age of about four and twenty, had married Lady Eleonore Delamere, by

whom he had a son and two daughters.

The illustrious family from which Lady Eleonore descended, became

extinct in the male line by the premature death of her two brothers; and

her Ladyship becoming sole heiress, her husband took the name of

Delamere; and obtaining one of the titles of the lady's father, was, at

his death, created Viscount Montreville. Mr. Mowbray died before he was

thirty, in Italy; and Lord Montreville, on taking possession of Mowbray

Castle, found there his infant daughter.

Her mother had died soon after her birth; and she had been sent from

France, where she was born, and put under the care of Mrs. Carey, the

housekeeper, who was tenderly attached to her, having been the attendant

of Mr. Mowbray from his earliest infancy.

Lord Montreville suffered her to remain in the situation in which he

found her, and to go by the name of Mowbray: he allowed for the trifling

charge of her board and necessary cloaths in the steward's account, the

examination of which was for some years the only circumstance that

reminded him of the existence of the unfortunate orphan.

With no other notice from her father's family, Emmeline had attained her

twelfth year; an age at which she would have been left in the most

profound ignorance, if her uncommon understanding, and unwearied

application, had not supplied the deficiency of her instructors, and

conquered the disadvantages of her situation.

Mrs. Carey could indeed read with tolerable fluency, and write an hand

hardly legible: and Mr. Williamson, the old steward, had been formerly a

good penman, and was still a proficient in accounts. Both were anxious

to give their little charge all the instruction they could: but without

the quickness and attention she shewed to whatever they attempted to

teach, such preceptors could have done little.

Emmeline had a kind of intuitive knowledge; and comprehended every thing

with a facility that soon left her instructors behind her. The

precarious and neglected situation in which she lived, troubled not the

innocent Emmeline. Having never experienced any other, she felt no

uneasiness at her present lot; and on the future she was not yet old

enough to reflect.

Mrs. Carey was to her in place of the mother she had never known; and

the old steward, she was accustomed to call father. The death of this

venerable servant was the first sorrow Emmeline ever felt: returning

late one evening, in the winter, from a neighbouring town, he attempted

to cross a ford, where the waters being extremely out, he was carried

down by the rapidity of the current. His horse was drowned; and tho' he

was himself rescued from the flood by some peasants who knew him, and

carried to the castle, he was so much bruised, and had suffered so much

from cold, that he was taken up speechless, and continued so for the few

hours he survived the accident.

Mrs. Carey, who had lived in the same house with him near forty years,

felt the sincerest concern at his death; with which it was necessary for

her immediately to acquaint Lord Montreville.

His Lordship directed his attorney in London to replace him with

another; to whom Mrs. Carey, with an aching heart, delivered the keys of

the steward's room and drawers.

Her health, which was before declining, received a rude shock from the

melancholy death of Mr. Williamson; and she and her little ward had soon

the mortification of seeing he was forgotten by all but themselves.

Frequent and severe attacks of the gout now made daily ravages in the

constitution of Mrs. Carey; and her illness recurred so often, that

Emmeline, now almost fourteen, began to reflect on what she should do,

if Mrs. Carey died: and these reflections occasionally gave her pain.

But she was not yet of an age to consider deeply, or to dwell long on

gloomy subjects. Her mind, however, gradually expanded, and her judgment

improved: for among the deserted rooms of this once noble edifice, was a

library, which had been well furnished with the books of those ages in

which they had been collected. Many of them were in black letter; and so

injured by time, that the most indefatigable antiquary could have made

nothing of them.

From these, Emmeline turned in despair to some others of more modern

appearance; which, tho' they also had suffered from the dampness of the

room, and in some parts were almost effaced with mould, were yet

generally legible. Among them, were Spencer and Milton, two or three

volumes of the Spectator, an old edition of Shakespeare, and an odd

volume or two of Pope.

These, together with some tracts of devotion, which she knew would be

very acceptable to Mrs. Carey, she cleaned by degrees from the dust with

which they were covered, and removed into the housekeeper's room; where

the village carpenter accommodated her with a shelf, on which, with

great pride of heart, she placed her new acquisitions.

The dismantled windows, and broken floor of the library, prevented her

continuing there long together: but she frequently renewed her search,

and with infinite pains examined all the piles of books, some of which

lay tumbled in heaps on the floor, others promiscuously placed on the

shelves, where the swallow, the sparrow, and the daw, had found

habitations for many years: for as the present proprietor had determined

to lay out no more than was absolutely necessary to keep one end of the

castle habitable, the library, which was in the most deserted part of

it, was in a ruinous state, and had long been entirely forsaken.

Emmeline, however, by her unwearied researches, nearly completed several

sets of books, in which instruction and amusement were happily blended.

From them she acquired a taste for poetry, and the more ornamental parts

of literature; as well as the grounds of that elegant and useful

knowledge, which, if it rendered not her life happier, enabled her to

support, with the dignity of conscious worth, those undeserved evils

with which many of her years were embittered.

Mrs. Carey, now far advanced in life, found her infirmities daily

increase. She was often incapable of leaving her chamber for many weeks;

during which Emmeline attended her with the solicitude and affection of

a daughter; scorned not to perform the most humble offices that

contributed to her relief; and sat by her whole days, or watched her

whole nights, with the tenderest and most unwearied assiduity.

On those evenings in summer, when her attendance could for a few hours

be dispensed with, she delighted to wander among the rocks that formed

the bold and magnificent boundary of the ocean, which spread its immense

expanse of water within half a mile of the castle. Simply dressed, and

with no other protection than Providence, she often rambled several

miles into the country, visiting the remote huts of the shepherds, among

the wildest mountains.

During the life of Mrs. Mowbray, a small stipend had been annually

allowed for the use of the poor: this had not yet been withdrawn; and

it now passed thro' the hands of Mrs. Carey, whose enquiries into the

immediate necessities of the cottagers in the neighbourhood of the

castle, devolved to Emmeline, when she was herself unable to make them.

The ignorant rustics, who had seen Emmeline grow up among them from her

earliest infancy, and who now beheld her with the compassion as well as

the beauty of an angel, administering to their necessities and

alleviating their misfortunes, looked upon her as a superior being, and

throughout the country she was almost adored.

Perfectly unconscious of those attractions which now began to charm

every other eye, Emmeline had entered her sixteenth year; and the

progress of her understanding was equal to the improvement of her

person; which, tho' she was not perfectly handsome, could not be beheld

at first without pleasure, and which the more it was seen became more

interesting and engaging.

Her figure was elegant and graceful; somewhat exceeding the middling

height. Her eyes were blue; and her hair brown. Her features not very

regular; yet there was a sweetness in her countenance, when she smiled,

more charming than the effect of the most regular features could have

given. Her countenance, open and ingenuous, expressed every emotion of

her mind: it had assumed rather a pensive cast; and tho' it occasionally

was lighted up by vivacity, had been lately frequently overclouded; when

the sufferings of her only friend called forth all the generous sympathy

of her nature.

And now the first severe misfortune she had known was about to overtake

her. Early in the spring of that year, which was the sixteenth from her

birth, Mrs. Carey had felt an attack of the gout, which however was

short; and her health seemed for some time afterwards more settled than

it had been for many months. She was one evening preparing to go down to

the village, leaning on the arm of Emmeline, when she suddenly

complained of an acute pain in her head, and fell back into a chair. The

affrighted girl called for assistance, and endeavoured by every means in

her power to recover her, but it was impossible; the gout had seized her

head; and casting on Emmeline a look which seemed to express all she

felt at leaving her thus desolate and friendless, her venerable friend,

after a short struggle, breathed her last.

What should Emmeline now do? In this distress (the first she had ever

known) how should she act? She saw, in the lifeless corpse before her,

the person on whom she had, from her first recollection, been accustomed

to rely; who had provided for all her wants, and prevented every care

for herself. And now she was left to perform for this dear friend the

last sad offices, and knew not what would hereafter be her own lot.

In strong and excellent understandings there is, in every period of

life, a force which distress enables them to exert, and which prevents

their sinking under the pressure of those evils which overwhelm and

subdue minds more feeble and unequal.

The spirits of Emmeline were yet unbroken by affliction, and her

understanding was of the first rank. She possessed this native firmness

in a degree very unusual to her age and sex. Instead therefore of giving

way to tears and exclamations, she considered how she should best

perform all she now could do for her deceased friend; and having seen

every proper care taken of her remains, and given orders for every thing

relative to them, with the solemn serenity of settled sorrow, she

retired to her room, where she began to reflect on her irreparable loss,

and the melancholy situation in which she was left; which she never had

courage to consider closely till it was actually before her.

Painful indeed were the thoughts that now crouded on her mind;

encreasing the anguish of her spirit for her recent misfortune. She

considered herself as a being belonging to nobody; as having no right to

claim the protection of any one; no power to procure for herself the

necessaries of life. On the steward Maloney she had long looked with

disgust, from the assured and forward manner in which he thought proper

to treat her. The freedom of his behaviour, which she could with

difficulty repress while Mrs. Carey lived, might now, she feared,

approach to more insulting familiarity; to be exposed to which, entirely

in his power, and without any female companion, filled her with the most

alarming apprehensions: and the more her mind dwelt on that circumstance

the more she was terrified at the prospect before her; insomuch, that

she would immediately have quitted the house--But whither could she go?

By abruptly leaving the asylum Lord Montreville had hitherto allowed

her, she feared she might forfeit all claim to his future protection:

and, unknown as she was to the principal inhabitants of the country, who

were few, and their houses at a great distance, she could hardly hope to

be received by any of them.

She had therefore no choice left but to remain at the castle till she

heard from Lord Montreville: and she determined to acquaint his Lordship

of the death of Mrs. Carey, and desire to receive his commands as to

herself.

Fatigued and oppressed, she retired to bed, but not to sleep. The image

of her expiring protectress was still before her eyes; and if exhausted

nature forced her to give way to a momentary forgetfulness, she soon

started from her imperfect slumber, and fancied she heard the voice of

Mrs. Carey, calling on her for help; and her last groan still vibrated

in her ears!--while the stillness of the night, interrupted only by the

cries of the owls which haunted the ruins, added to the gloomy and

mournful sensations of her mind.

At length however the sun arose--the surrounding objects lost the horror

that darkness and silence had lent them--and Emmeline fell into a short

but refreshing repose.

CHAPTER II

As soon as Emmeline arose the next morning, she addressed the following

letter to Lord Montreville.

'My Lord,

'In the utmost affliction, I address myself to your

Lordship, to acquaint you with the death of Mrs. Carey, after an

illness of a very few moments: by which unhappy event I have lost a

friend who has indeed been a mother to me; and am now left at the

castle, ignorant of your Lordship's pleasure as to my future

residence.

'You will, my Lord, I doubt not, recollect that it is, at my time

of life, improper for me to reside here with Mr. Maloney; and if it

be your Lordship's intention for me to continue here, I hope you

will have the goodness to send down some proper person to fill the

place of the worthy woman I have lost.

'On your Lordship's humanity and consideration I depend for an

early answer: in which hope I have the honor to remain,

your Lordship's

dutiful and most humble servant,

EMMELINE MOWBRAY.'

_Mowbray Castle,_

_21st May._

The same post carried a letter from Mr. Maloney, informing Lord

Montreville of the housekeeper's death, and desiring directions about

_Miss_, as he elegantly termed Emmeline.

To these letters no answers were returned for upwards of a fortnight:

during which melancholy interval, Emmeline followed to the grave the

remains of the friend of her infancy, and took a last farewel of the

only person who seemed interested for her welfare. Then returning with

streaming eyes to her own room, she threw herself on the bed, and gave

way to a torrent of tears; for her spirits were overcome by the mournful

scene to which she had just been a witness, and by the heavy forebodings

of future sorrow which oppressed her heart.

The troublesome civilities of the steward Maloney, she soon found the

difficulty of evading. Fearful of offending him from whom she could not

escape; yet unable to keep up an intercourse of civility with a man who

would interpret it into an encouragement of his presumptuous attentions,

she was compelled to make use of an artifice; and to plead ill health as

an excuse for not dining as usual in the steward's room: and indeed her

uneasiness and grief were such as hardly made it a pretence.

After many days of anxious expectation, the following letter arrived

from the house-steward of Lord Montreville; as on such an occasion his

Lordship did not think it necessary to write himself.

_Berkeley-Square_, _June_ 17, 17--

'Miss,

'My Lord orders me to acquaint you, that in consequence of your's

of the 21st ult. informing his Lordship of the old housekeeper's,

Mrs. Carey's, decease, he has directed Mrs. Grant, his Lordship's

town housekeeper, to look out for another; and Mrs. Grant has agreed

with a gentlewoman accordingly, who will be down at the castle

forthwith. My Lord is gone to Essex; but has directed me to let Mr.

Maloney know, that he is to furnish you with all things needful same

as before. By my Lord's command, from, Miss,

your very humble servant,

RICHARD MADDOX.'

While Emmeline waited the expected arrival of the person to whose care

she was now to be consigned, the sister of Mrs. Carey, who was the only

relation she had, sent a nephew of her husband's to take possession of

what effects had belonged to her; in doing which, a will was found, in

which she bequeathed fifty pounds as a testimony of her tender affection

to 'Miss Emmeline Mowbray, the daughter of her late dear master;'

together with all the contents of a small chest of drawers, which stood

in her room.

The rest of her property, which consisted of her cloaths and about two

hundred pounds, which she had saved in service, became her sister's, and

were delivered by Maloney to the young man commissioned to receive them.

In the drawers given to her, Emmeline found some fine linen and laces,

which had belonged to her mother; and two little silk boxes covered with

nuns embroidery, which seemed not to have been opened for many years.

Emmeline saw that they were filled with letters: some of them in a hand

which she had been shewn as her father's. But she left them uninspected,

and fastened up the caskets; her mind being yet too much affected with

her loss to be able to examine any thing which brought to her

recollection the fond solicitude of her departed friend.

The cold and mechanical terms in which the steward's letter was written,

encreased all her uneasy fears as to her future prospects.

Lord Montreville seemed to feel no kindness for her; nor to give any

consideration to her forlorn and comfortless situation. The officious

freedoms of Maloney encreased so much, that she was obliged to confine

herself almost entirely to her own room to avoid him; and she

determined, that if after the arrival of the companion she expected, he

continued to besiege her with so much impertinent familiarity, she would

quit the house, tho' compelled to accept the meanest service for a

subsistence.

After a fortnight of expectation, notice was received at the castle,

that Mrs. Garnet, the housekeeper, was arrived at the market town. The

labourer, with an horse, was dispatched for her, and towards evening she

made her entry.

To Emmeline, who had from her earliest remembrance been accustomed only

to the plainest dress, and the most simple and sober manners, the figure

and deportment of this woman appeared equally extraordinary.

She wore a travelling dress of tawdry-coloured silk, trimmed with bright

green ribbands; and her head was covered with an immense black silk hat,

from which depended many yellow streamers; while the plumage, with

which it was plentifully adorned, hung dripping over her face, from the

effects of a thunder shower thro' which she had passed. Her hair, tho'

carefully curled and powdered on her leaving London, had been also

greatly deranged in her journey, and descended, in knotty tufts of a

dirty yellow, over her cheeks and forehead; adding to the vulgar

ferocity of a harsh countenance and a coarse complexion. Her figure was

uncommonly tall and boney; and her voice so discordant and shrill, as to

pierce the ear with the most unpleasant sensation, and compleat the

disagreeable idea her person impressed.

Emmeline saw her enter, handed by the officious Maloney; and repressing

her astonishment, she arose, and attempted to speak to her: but the

contrast between the dirty, tawdry, and disgusting figure before her,

and the sober plainness and neat simplicity of her lost friend, struck

so forcibly on her imagination, that she burst into tears, and was

altogether unable to command her emotion.

The steward having with great gallantry handed in the newly arrived

lady, she thus began:

'Oh! Lord a marcy on me!--to be shore I be got here at last! But indeed

if I had a known whereabout I was a coming to, 'tis not a double the

wagers as should a hired me. Lord! why what a ramshakel ould place it

is!--and then such a monstrous long way from London! I suppose, Sir,'

(to Maloney) 'as you be the steward; and you Miss, I reckon, be the

young Miss as I be to have the care on. Why to be sure I did'nt much

expect to see a christian face in such an out of the way place. I don't

b'leve I shall stay; howsomdever do let me have some tea; and do you,

Miss, shew me whereabout I be to sleep.'

Emmeline, struggling with her dislike, or at least desirous of

concealing it, did not venture to trust her voice with an answer; for

her heart was too full; but stepping to the door, she called to the

female servant, and ordered her to shew the lady her room. She had

herself been used to share that appropriated to Mrs. Carey; but she now

resolved to remove her bed into an apartment in one of the turrets of

the castle, which was the only unoccupied room not wholly exposed to the

weather.

This little room had been sashed by Mrs. Mowbray on account of the

beautiful prospect it commanded between the hills, where suddenly

sinking to the South West, they made way through a long narrow valley,

fringed with copses, for a small but rapid river; which hurrying among

immense stones, and pieces of rock that seemed to have been torn from

the mountains by its violence, rushed into the sea at the distance of a

mile from the castle.

This room, now for many years neglected, was much out of repair, but

still habitable; and tho' it was at a great distance from the rooms yet

occupied, Emmeline chose rather to take up her abode in it, than partake

of the apartment which was now to belong to Mrs. Garnet: and she found

reason to applaud herself for this determination when she heard the

exclamation Mrs. Garnet made on entering it--

'Lord! why 'tis but a shabbyish place; and here is two beds I see. But

that won't suit me I asshore you. I chuses to have a room to myself, if

it be ever so.'

'Be not in any pain on that account, Madam,' said Emmeline, who had now

collected her thoughts; 'it is my intention to remove my bed, and I have

directed a person to do it immediately.'

She then returned into the steward's room, where Maloney thus addressed

her--

'Sarvent again, pretty Miss! Pray how d'ye like our new housekeeper? A

smartish piece of goods upon my word for Pembrokeshire; quite a London

lady, eh, Miss?'

'It is impossible for me, Sir, to judge of her yet.'

'Why ay, Miss, as you justly observes, 'tis full early to know what

people be; but I hope we shall find her quite the thing; and if so be as

she's but good tempered, and agreeable, and the like, why I warrant we

shall pass this here summer as pleasant as any thing can be. And now my

dear Miss, perhaps, may'nt be so shy and distant, as she have got

another woman body to keep her company.'

This eloquent harangue was interrupted by the return of Mrs. Garnet,

full of anxiety for her tea; and in the bustle created by the desire of

the maid and Maloney to accommodate her, Emmeline retired to her new

apartment, where she was obliged to attend to the removal of her bed and

other things; and excusing herself, under the pretence of fatigue, from

returning to the steward's room, she passed some time in melancholy

recollection and more melancholy anticipation, and then retired to rest.

Some days passed in murmurs on the part of Mrs. Garnet, and in silence

on that of Emmeline; who, as soon as she had finished her short repasts,

always went to her own room.

After a few weeks, she discovered that the lady grew every day more

reconciled to her situation; and from the pleasures she apparently took

in the gallantries of Maloney, and his constant assiduities to her, the

innocent Emmeline supposed there was really an attachment forming

between them, which would certainly deliver her from the displeasing

attentions of the steward.

Occupied almost entirely by her books, of which she every day became

more enamoured, she never willingly broke in upon a tête à tête which

she fancied was equally agreeable to all parties; and she saw with

satisfaction that they regretted not her absence.

But the motives of Maloney's attention were misunderstood. Insensible as

such a man must be supposed to the charms of the elegant and

self-cultivated mind of Emmeline, her personal beauty had made a deep

impression on his heart; and he had formed a design of marrying her,

before the death of Mrs. Carey, to whom he had once or twice mentioned

something like a hint of his wishes: but she had received all his

discourse on that topic with so much coldness, and ever so carefully

avoided any conversation that might again lead to it, that he had been

deterred from entirely explaining himself. Now, however, he thought the

time was arrived, when he might make a more successful application; for

he never doubted but that Mrs. Garnet would obtain, over the tender and

ingenuous mind of Emmeline, an influence as great as had been possessed

by Mrs. Carey.

Nor did he apprehend that a friendless orphan, without fortune or

connections, would want much persuasion to marry a young man of handsome

figure (as he conceived himself to be,) who was established in a

profitable place, and had some dependance of his own.

The distance which Emmeline had always obliged him to observe, he

imputed to the timidity of her nature; which he hoped would be lessened

by the free and familiar manners of her present companion, whose

conversation was very unlike what she had before been accustomed to hear

from Mrs. Carey.

Impressed with these ideas, he paid his court most assiduously to the

housekeeper, who put down all his compliments to the account of her own

attractions; and was extremely pleased with her conquest; which she

exhausted all her eloquence and all her wardrobe to secure.

CHAPTER III

In this situation were the inhabitants of Mowbray Castle; when, in the

beginning of July, orders were received from Lord Montreville to set

workmen immediately about repairing the whole end of the castle which

was yet habitable; as his son, Mr. Delamere, intended to come down early

in the Autumn, to shoot, for some weeks, in Wales. His Lordship added,

that it was possible he might himself be there also for a few weeks; and

therefore directed several bed-chambers to be repaired, for which he

would send down furniture from London.

No time was lost in obeying these directions. Workmen were immediately

procured, and the utmost expedition used to put the place in a situation

to receive its master: while Emmeline, who foresaw that the arrival of

Lord Montreville would probably occasion some change in regard to

herself, and who thought that every change must be for the better,

beheld these preparations with pleasure.

All had been ready some weeks, and the time fixed for Mr. Delamere's

journey elapsed, but he had yet given no notice of his arrival.

At length, towards the middle of September, they were one evening

alarmed by the noise of horses on the ascent to the castle.

Emmeline retired to her own room, fearful of she knew not what; while

Mrs. Garnet and Maloney flew eagerly to the door; where a French valet,

and an English groom with a led horse, presented themselves, and were

ushered into the old kitchen; the dimensions of which, blackened as it

was with the smoke of ages, and provided with the immense utensils of

ancient hospitality, failed not to amaze them both.

The Frenchman expressed his wonder and dislike by several grimaces; and

then addressing himself to Mrs. Garnet, exclaimed--'Peste! Milor

croit'il qu'on peut subsister dans cette espece d'enfer? Montré moi les

apartements de Monsieur.'

'Oh, your name is Mounseer, is it?' answered she--'Aye, I thought

so--What would you please to have, Mounseer?'

'Diable!' cried the distressed valet; 'voici une femme aussi sauvage que

le lieu qu'elle habite. Com, com, you Jean Groom, speak littel to dis

voman pour moi.'

With the help of John, who had been some time used to his mode of

explaining himself, Mrs. Garnet understood that Mounseer desired to be

shewn the apartments destined for his master, which he assiduously

assisted in preparing; and then seeing the women busied in following his

directions, he attempted to return to his companion; but by missing a

turning which should have carried him to the kitchen, he was bewildered

among the long galleries and obscure passages of the castle, and after

several efforts, could neither find his way back to the women, nor into

the kitchen; but continued to blunder about till the encreasing gloom,

which approaching night threw over the arched and obscure apartments,

through windows dim with painted glass, filled him with apprehension and

dismay, and he believed he should wander there the whole night; in which

fear he began to make a strange noise for assistance; to which nobody

attended, for indeed nobody for some time heard him. His terror

encreasing, he continued to traverse one of the passages, when a door at

the corner of it opened, and Emmeline came out.

The man, whose imagination was by this time filled with ideas of

spectres, flew back at her sudden appearance, and added the contortions

of fear to his otherwise grotesque appearance, in a travelling jacket of

white cloth, laced, and his hair in papillotes.

Emmeline, immediately comprehending that it was one of Mr. Delamere's

servants, enquired what he wanted; and the man, reassured by her voice

and figure, which there was yet light enough to discern, approached her,

and endeavoured to explain that he had lost himself; in a language,

which, though Emmeline did not understand, she knew to be French.

She walked with him therefore to the gallery which opened to the great

staircase, from whence he could hardly mistake his way; where having

pointed it to him, she turned back towards her own room.

But Millefleur, who had now had an opportunity to contemplate the person

of his conductress, was not disposed so easily to part with her.

By the extreme simplicity of her dress, he believed her to be only some

fair villager, or an assistant to the housekeeper; and therefore without

ceremony he began in broken English to protest his admiration, and

seized her hand with an impertinent freedom extremely shocking to

Emmeline.

She snatched it from him; and flying hastily back through those passages

which all his courage did not suffice to make him attempt exploring

again, she regained her turret, the door of which she instantly locked

and bolted; then breathless with fear and anger, she reflected on the

strange and unpleasant scene she had passed through, and felt greatly

humbled, to find that she was now likely to be exposed to the insolent

familiarity of servants, from which she knew not whether the presence of

the master would protect her.

While she suffered the anguish these thoughts brought with them,

Millefleur travelled back to the kitchen; where he began an oration in

his own language on the beauty of the young woman he had met with.

Neither Mrs. Garnet nor Maloney understood what he was saying; but John,

who had been in France, and knew a good deal of the language, told them

that he had seen a very pretty girl, in whose praise he was holding

forth.

'Why, Lord,' exclaimed Mrs. Garnet, 'tis our Miss as Mounseer means; I

had a quite forgot the child; I'll go call her; but howsomdever Mounseer

won't be able to get a word out of her; if she's a beauty I asshore you

'tis a dumb beauty.'

Maloney, by no means pleased with Millefleur's discovery, would

willingly have prevented the housekeeper's complaisance; but not knowing

how to do it, he was obliged to let her ascend to Emmeline, whose door

she found locked.

'Miss! Miss!' cried she, rapping loudly, 'you must come down.'

'Is my Lord or Mr. Delamere arrived?' enquired Emmeline.

'No,' replied Mrs. Garnet, 'neither of em be'nt come yet; but here's my

Lord's waley de sham, and another sarvent, and you'll come down to tea

to be sure.'

'No,' said Emmeline, 'you must excuse me, Mrs. Garnet. I am not very

well; and if I were, should decline appearing to these people, with

whom, perhaps, it may not be my Lord's design that I should associate.'

'People!' exclaimed Mrs. Garnet; 'as to people, I do suppose that for

all one of them is a Frenchman, they be as good as other folks; and if I

am agreeable to let them drink tea in my room, sure you, Miss, mid'nt be

so squeamish. But do as you please; for my part I shan't court

beauties.'

So saying, the angry housekeeper descended to her companions, to whom

she complained of the pride and ill manners of Miss; while Maloney

rejoiced at a reserve so favourable to the hopes he entertained.

Emmeline determined to remain as much as possible in her own room, 'till

Lord Montreville or Mr. Delamere came, and then to solicit her removal.

She therefore continued positively to refuse to appear to the party

below; and ordered the maid servant to bring her dinner into her own

room, which she never quitted 'till towards evening, to pursue her usual

walks.

On the third afternoon subsequent to the arrival of Mr. Delamere's

avant-couriers, Emmeline went down to the sea side, and seating herself

on a fragment of rock, fixed her eyes insensibly on the restless waves

that broke at her feet. The low murmurs of the tide retiring on the

sands; the sighing of the wind among the rocks which hung over her head,

cloathed with long grass and marine plants; the noise of the sea fowl

going to their nests among the cliffs; threw her into a profound

reverie.

She forgot awhile all her apprehended misfortunes, a sort of stupor took

possession of her senses, and she no longer remembered how the time had

passed there, which already exceeded two hours; though the moon, yet in

its encrease, was arisen, and threw a long line of radience on the

water.

Thus lost in indistinct reflections, she was unconscious of the

surrounding objects, when the hasty tread of somebody on the pebbles

behind her, made her suddenly recollect herself; and though accustomed

to be so much alone, she started in some alarm in remembering the late

hour, and the solitary place where she was.

A man approached her, in whom with satisfaction she recollected a young

peasant of the village, who was frequently employed in messages from the

castle.

'Miss Emmy,' said the lad, 'you are wanted at home; for there is my Lord

his own self, and the young Lord, and more gentlefolks come; so Madam

Garnet sent me to look for you all about.'

Emmeline, hurried by this intelligence, walked hastily away with the

young villager, and soon arrived at the castle.

The wind had blown her beautiful hair about her face, and the glow of

her cheeks was heightened by exercise and apprehension. A more lovely

figure than she now appeared could hardly be imagined. She had no time

to reflect on the interview; but hastened immediately into the parlour

where Lord Montreville was sitting with his son; Mr. Fitz-Edward, who

was a young officer, his friend, distantly related to the family; and

Mr. Headly, a man celebrated for his knowledge of rural improvements,

whom Lord Montreville had brought down to have his opinion of the

possibility of rendering Mowbray Castle a residence fit for his family

for a few months in the year.

Lord Montreville was about five and forty years old. His general

character was respectable. He had acquitted himself with honor in the

senate; and in private life had shewn great regularity and good conduct.

But he had basked perpetually in the sunshine of prosperity; and his

feelings, not naturally very acute, were blunted by having never

suffered in his own person any uneasiness which might have taught him

sensibility for that of others.

To this cause it was probably owing, that he never reflected on the

impropriety of receiving his niece before strangers; and that he ordered

Emmeline to be introduced into the room where they were all sitting

together.

Having once seen Emmeline a child of five or six years old; he still

formed an idea of her as a child; and adverted not to the change that

almost nine years had made in her person and manners; it was therefore

with some degree of surprize, that instead of the child he expected, he

saw a tall, elegant young woman, whose air, though timidity was the most

conspicuous in it, had yet much of dignity and grace, and in whose face

he saw the features of his brother, softened into feminine beauty.

The apathy which prosperity had taught him, gave way for a moment to his

surprize at the enchanting figure of his niece.

He arose, and approached her. 'Miss Mowbray! how amazingly you are

grown! I am glad to see you.' He took her hand; while Emmeline,

trembling and blushing, endeavoured to recollect herself, and said--

'I thank you, my Lord, and I am happy in having an opportunity of paying

my respects to your Lordship.'

He led her to a seat, and again repeated his wonder to find her so much

grown.

Delamere, who had been standing at the fire conversing with Fitz-Edward,

now advanced, and desired his father to introduce him; which ceremony

being passed, he drew a chair close to that in which Emmeline was

placed; and fixing his eyes on her face with a look of admiration and

enquiry that extremely abashed her, he seemed to be examining the

beauties of that lovely and interesting countenance which had so

immediately dazzled and surprized him.

Fitz-Edward, a young soldier, related to the family of Lady Montreville,

was almost constantly the companion of Delamere, and had expectations

that the interest Lord Montreville possessed would be exerted to advance

him in his profession. His manner was very insinuating, and his person

uncommonly elegant. He affected to be a judge as well as an admirer of

beauty, and seemed to behold with approbation the fair inhabitant of the

castle; who, with heightened blushes, and averted looks, waited in

silence 'till Lord Montreville should again address her, which he at

length did.

'I was sorry, Miss Mowbray, to hear of the death of old Carey.'

The tears started into the eyes of Emmeline.

'She was an excellent servant, and served the family faithfully many

years.'

Poor Emmeline felt the tears fall on her bosom.

'But however she was old; and had been, I suppose, long infirm. I hope

the person who now fills her place has supplied it to your

satisfaction?'

'Ye--s, yes, my lord;' inarticulately sobbed Emmeline, quite overcome by

the mention of her old friend.

'I dare say she does,' resumed his Lordship; 'for Grant, of whom Lady

Montreville has a very high opinion, assured her Ladyship she was well

recommended.'

Emmeline now found her emotion very painful; she therefore rose to go,

and curtseying to Lord Montreville, tried to wish him good night.

'A good night to you, Miss Mowbray,' said he, rising. Delamere started

from his chair; and taking her hand, desired to have the honor of

conducting her to her room. But this was a gallantry his father by no

means approved. 'No, Frederic,' said he, taking himself the hand he

held, 'you will give _me_ leave to see Miss Mowbray to the door.' He led

her thither, and then bowing, wished her again good night.

Emmeline hurried to her room; where she endeavoured to recollect her

dissipated spirits, and to consider in what way it would be proper for

her to address Lord Montreville the next day, to urge her request of a

removal from the castle.

Mrs. Carey had a sister who resided at Swansea in Glamorganshire; where

her husband had a little place in the excise, and where she had a small

house, part of which she had been accustomed to let to those who

frequented the place for the benefit of sea-bathing.

She was old, and without any family of her own; and Emmeline, to whom

she was the more agreeable as being the sister of Mrs. Carey, thought

she might reside with her with propriety and comfort, if Lord

Montreville would allow her a small annual stipend for her cloaths and

board.

While she was considering in what manner to address herself to his

Lordship the next day, the gentlemen were talking of the perfections of

the nymph of the castle; by which name Delamere toasted her at supper.

Lord Montreville, who did not seem particularly delighted with the

praise his son so warmly bestowed, said--

'Why surely, Frederic, you are uncommonly eloquent on behalf of your

Welch cousin.'

'Faith, my Lord,' answered Delamere, 'I like her so well that I think

it's a little unlucky I did not come alone. My Welch cousin is the very

thing for a tête à tête.'

'Yes,' said Lord Montreville, carelessly, 'she is really grown a good

fine young woman. Don't you think so, George?' addressing himself to

Fitz-Edward.

'I do indeed, my Lord,' answered he; 'and here's Mr. Headly, tho' an old

married man, absolutely petrified with admiration.'

'Upon my soul, Headly,' continued Delamere, 'I already begin to see

great capabilities about this venerable mansion. I think I shall take to

it, as my father offers it me; especially as I suppose Miss Emmeline is

to be included in the inventory.'

'Come, come, Frederic,' said Lord Montreville, gravely, 'no light

conversation on the subject of Miss Mowbray. She is under my care; and I

must have her treated with propriety.'

His Lordship immediately changed the discourse, and soon after

complaining of being fatigued, retired to his chamber.

CHAPTER IV

Lord Montreville, whose first object was his son, had observed, with

some alarm, the immediate impression he seemed to have received from the

beauty of Emmeline.

The next day, he made some farther remarks on his attention to her when

they met at dinner, which gave him still more uneasiness; and he accused

himself of great indiscretion in having thrown an object, whose

loveliness he could not help acknowledging, in the way of Delamere,

whose ardent and impetuous temper he knew so well. This gave his

behaviour to Emmeline an air of coldness, and even of displeasure, which

prevented her summoning courage to speak to him in the morning of the

day after his arrival: and the evening afforded her no opportunity; for

Lord Montreville, determined to keep her as much as possible out of the

sight of Delamere, did not send for her down to supper, and had

privately resolved to remove her as soon as possible to some other

residence.

Thus his apprehensions lest his son should form an attachment

prejudicial to his ambitious views, produced in his Lordship's mind a

resolution in regard to placing more properly his orphan niece, which no

consideration, had it related merely to herself, would probably have

effected.

At supper, Delamere enquired eagerly for his 'lovely cousin.' To which

Lord Montreville drily answered, 'that she did not, he believed, sup

below.'

But the manner of this enquiry, and the anxious looks Delamere directed

towards the door, together with his repeated questions, increased all

Lord Montreville's fears.

He went to bed out of humour rather with himself than his son; and

rising early the next morning, enquired for Miss Mowbray.

Miss Mowbray was walked out, as was her custom, very early, no one knew

whither.

He learned also that Mr. Delamere was gone out with his gun without

Fitz-Edward; who not being very fond of field sports, had agreed to join

him at a later hour.

He immediately fancied that Delamere and Emmeline might meet; and the

pain such a suspicion brought with it, was by him, who had hardly ever

felt an hour's uneasiness, considered as so great an evil, that he

determined to put an end to it as soon as possible.

After an hasty breakfast in his own room, he summoned Maloney to attend

him, and went over the accounts of the estates entrusted to him, with

the state of which his Lordship declared himself well contented. And not

knowing to whom else he could apply, to enquire for a situation for

Emmeline, he told Maloney, that as Miss Mowbray was now of an age to

require some alteration in her mode of life, he was desirous of finding

for her a reputable house in some town in Wales, where she might lodge

and board.

Maloney, encouraged by being thus consulted by his Lord, ventured, with

many bows, blushes, and stammering apologies, to disclose to Lord

Montreville his partiality to Miss Mowbray.

And this communication he so contrived to word, that his Lordship had no

doubt of Emmeline's having allowed him to make it.

Lord Montreville listened therefore in silence, and without any marks of

disapprobation, to the account Maloney proceeded to give of his

prospects and property.

While he was doing so, family pride made a faint struggle in his

Lordship's breast on behalf of his deserted ward. He felt some pain in

determining, that a creature boasting a portion of the Mowbray blood,

should sink into the wife of a man of such inferior birth as Maloney.

But when the advantages of so easily providing for her were recollected;

when he considered that Maloney would be happy to take her with a few

hundred pounds, and that all apprehensions in regard to his son would by

that means for ever be at an end; avarice and ambition, two passions

which too much influenced Lord Montreville, joined to persuade him of

the propriety of the match; and became infinitely too powerful to let

him listen to his regard to the memory of his brother or his pity for

his deserted ward.

He thought, that as the existence of Emmeline was hardly known beyond

the walls of the castle, he should incur no censure from the world if he

consigned her to that obscurity to which the disadvantages of her birth

seemed originally to have condemned her.

These reflections arose while Maloney, charmed to find himself listened

to, was proceeding in his discourse.

Lord Montreville, tho' too much used to the manners of politicians to be

able to give a direct answer, at length put an end to it, by telling him

he would consider of what he had said, and talk to him farther in a few

days.

In the mean time his Lordship desired that no part of their conversation

might transpire.

Maloney, transported at a reception which seemed to prognosticate the

completion of his wishes, retired elated with his prospects; and Lord

Montreville summoning Mr. Headly to attend him, mounted his horse to

survey the ground on which he meditated improvements round the castle.

The cold and almost stern civility of Lord Montreville, for the little

time Emmeline had seen him, had created despondence and uneasiness in

her bosom.

She fancied he disliked her, unoffending as she was, and would take the

first opportunity of shaking her off: an idea which, together with the

awe she could not help feeling in his presence, made her determine as

much as possible to avoid it, 'till he should give her a proper

opportunity to speak to him, or 'till she could acquire courage to seek

it.

At seven in the morning, she arose, after an uneasy night, and having

taken an early breakfast, betook herself to her usual walk, carrying

with her a book.

The sun was hot, and she went to a wood which partly cloathed an high

hill near the boundary of the estate, where, intent only on her own

sorrows, she could not beguile them by attending to the fictitious and

improbable calamities of the heroine of a novel, which Mrs. Garnet

(probably forgetting to restore it to the library of some former

mistress,) had brought down among her cloaths, and which had been seized

by Emmeline as something new, at least to her.

But her mind, overwhelmed with its own anxiety, refused its attention:

and tired with her walk, she sat down on a tree that had been felled,

reflecting on what had passed since Lord Montreville's arrival, and

considering how she might most effectually interest him in her behalf.

Delamere, attended by a servant, had gone upon the hills in pursuit of

his game; and having had great success for some hours, he came down

about eleven o'clock into the woods, to avoid the excessive heat, which

was uncommon for the season.

The noise he made in brushing through the underwood with his gun, and

rustling among the fading leaves, alarmed her.

He stepped over the timber, and seating himself by her, seized her

hands.

'Oh! my charming cousin,' cried he, 'I think myself one of the most

fortunate fellows on earth, thus to meet you.'

Emmeline would have risen.

'Oh! no,' continued he, 'indeed you do not go, 'till we have had a

little conversation.'

'I cannot stay, indeed Sir,' said Emmeline--. 'I must immediately go

home.'

'By no means; I cannot part with you.--Come, come, sit down and hear

what I have to say.'

It was to no purpose to resist. The impetuous vehemence of Delamere was

too much for the timid civility of Emmeline; and not believing that any

thing more than common conversation or a few unmeaning compliments would

pass, she sat down with as much composure as she could command.

But Delamere, who was really captivated at the first, and who now

thought her more beautiful than he had done in their former interviews,

hesitated not to pour forth the most extravagant professions of

admiration, in a style so unequivocal, that Emmeline, believing he meant

to insult her, burst into a passion of tears, and besought him, in a

tremulous and broken voice, not to be so cruel as to affront her, but to

suffer her to return home.

Delamere could not see her terror without being affected. He protested,

that so far from meaning to give her pain, he should think himself too

happy if she would allow him to dedicate his whole life to her service.

Poor Emmeline, however, continued to weep, and to beseech him to let her

go; to which, as her distress arose almost to agony, he at length

consented: and taking her arm within his, he said he would walk home

with her himself.

To this Emmeline in vain objected. To escape was impossible. To prevail

on him to leave her equally so. She was therefore compelled to follow

him. Which she did with reluctance; while he still continued to profess

to her the most violent and serious attachment. They proceeded in this

manner along the nearest path to the castle, which lay principally among

copses that fringed the banks of the river. They had just passed through

the last, and entered the meadows which lay immediately under the castle

walls, when Lord Montreville and Headly, on horseback, appeared from a

woody lane just before them.

At the noise of horses so near them, Emmeline looked up, and seeing

Lord Montreville, again struggled, but without success, to disengage her

hand.

Delamere continued to walk on, and his Lordship soon came up to them. He

checked his horse, and said, somewhat sternly, 'So, Sir, where have you

been?'

Delamere, without the least hesitation, answered--'Shooting, my Lord,

the early part of the morning; and since that, making love to my cousin,

who was so good as to sit and wait for me under a tree.'

'For mercy's sake, Mr. Delamere,' cried Emmeline, 'consider what you

say.'

'Waiting for you under a tree!' cried Lord Montreville, in amazement.

'Do Miss Mowbray be so good as to return home.--And you, Frederic, will,

I suppose, be back by dinner time.'

'Yes,' answered Delamere, 'when I have conducted my cousin home, I shall

go out again, perhaps, for an hour before dinner.'

He was then walking on, without noticing the stern and displeased looks

of his father, or the terror of poor Emmeline, who saw too evidently

that Lord Montreville was extremely angry.

His Lordship, after a moment's pause, dismounted, gave his horse to a

servant, and joined them, telling Delamere he had some business with

Miss Mowbray, and would therefore walk with her towards the castle

himself.

Delamere kissed her hand gayly, and assuring his father that for the

first time in his life he felt an inclination to take his business off

his hands, he beckoned to his servant to follow with his dogs, and then

leaping over the hedge that separated the meadow from the hollow lane,

he disappeared.

Emmeline, trembling with apprehension, walked with faultering steps by

the side of Lord Montreville, who for some time was silent. He at length

said--'Your having been brought up in retirement, Miss Mowbray, has,

perhaps, prevented your being acquainted with the decorums of the world,

and the reserve which a young woman should ever strictly maintain. You

have done a very improper thing in meeting my son; and I must desire

that while you are at the castle, no such appointments may take place in

future.'

Tho' she saw, from the first moment of his meeting them, that he had

conceived this idea, and was confirmed in it by Delamere's speech; yet

she was so much shocked and hurt by the address, that as she attempted

to answer, her voice failed her.

The tears however, which streamed from her eyes, having a little

relieved her, she endeavoured to assure his Lordship, that till she met

Mr. Delamere in the wood that morning, she did not know even of his

having left the castle.

'And how happened you to be where he found you, Miss Mowbray?'

'I went thither, my Lord, with a book which I was eager to finish.'

'Oh! I remember that Maloney told me you was a great reader; and from

some other discourse he held relative to you, I own I was the more

surprised at your indiscretion in regard to my son.'

They were by this time arrived at the castle, and Lord Montreville

desired Emmeline to follow him into the parlour, where they both sat

down.

His Lordship renewed the discourse.

'This morning Maloney has been talking to me about you; and from what he

said, I concluded you had formed with him engagements which should have

prevented you from listening to the boyish and improper conversation of

Mr. Delamere.'

'Engagements with Mr. Maloney, my Lord? Surely he could never assert

that I have ever formed engagements with him?'

'Why not absolutely so.--I think he did not say that. But I understood

that you was by no means averse to his informing me of his attachment,

and was willing, if my consent was obtained, to become his wife. Perhaps

he has no very great advantages; yet considering your situation, which

is, you know, entirely dependent, I really think you do perfectly right

in designing to accept of the establishment he offers you.'

'To become the wife of Maloney!--to accept of the establishment _he_

offers me! I am humbled, I am lost indeed! No, my Lord! unhappy as I am,

I can _claim_ nothing, it is true; but if the support of an unfortunate

orphan, thrown by Providence into your care, is too troublesome, suffer

me to be myself a servant; and believe I have a mind, which tho' it will

not recoil from any situation where I can earn my bread by honest

labour, is infinitely superior to any advantages such a man as Maloney

can offer me!'

She wept too much to be able to proceed; and sat, overwhelmed with grief

and mortification, while Lord Montreville continued to speak.

'Why distress yourself in this manner, Miss Mowbray? I cannot see any

thing which ought to offend you, if Maloney _has_ misrepresented the

matter, and if he has not, your extraordinary emotion must look like a

consciousness of having altered your mind.

'Your motive for doing so cannot be mistaken; but let me speak to you

explicitly.--To Mr. Delamere, _my_ son, the heir to a title and estate

which makes him a desirable match for the daughters of the first houses

in the kingdom, _you_ can have no pretensions; therefore never do

yourself so much prejudice as to let your mind glance that way.

'Maloney tells me he has some property, and still better expectations.

He is established here in an excellent place; and should he marry you,

it shall be still more advantageous. You are (I am sorry to be obliged

to repeat it) without any dependance, but on my favour. You will

therefore do wisely to embrace a situation in which that favour may be

most effectually exerted on your behalf.

'As you have undoubtedly encouraged Maloney, the aversion you now

pretend towards him, is artifice or coquetry. Consider before you

decide, consider thoroughly what is your situation and what your

expectations; and recollect, that as my son now means to be very

frequently at Mowbray Castle, _you_ cannot remain with propriety but as

the wife of Maloney.'

'Neither as the wife of Maloney, nor as Emmeline Mowbray, will I stay,

my Lord, another day!' answered she, assuming more spirit than she had

yet shewn. 'I wished for an interview to entreat your Lordship would

allow me to go to some place less improper for my abode than Mowbray

Castle has long been.'

'And whither would you go, Miss Mowbray?'

'On that, my Lord, I wished to consult you. But since it is perhaps a

matter unworthy your attention; since it seems to signify little what

becomes of me; I must determine to hazard going to Mrs. Watkins's, who

will probably give me an asylum at least 'till I can find some one who

will receive me, or some means of providing for myself the necessaries

of life.'

'You then positively reject the overtures of Maloney?'

'Positively, my Lord--and for ever! I beg it may not be mentioned to me

again!'

'And who is Mrs. Watkins?'

'The sister of Mrs. Carey, my Lord.'

'Where does she live?'

'At Swansea in Glamorganshire; where she is accustomed to take in

boarders. She would, I believe, receive me.'

After a moment's consideration, Lord Montreville said, 'that perhaps may

do, since you absolutely refuse the other plan; I would have you

therefore prepare to go thither; but I must insist on no more morning

interviews with Mr. Delamere, and that whither you are going may be kept

unknown to him. But tell me,' continued he, 'what I am to say to poor

Maloney?'

'That you are astonished at his insolence in daring to lift his eyes to

a person bearing the name of Mowbray; and shocked at his falsehood in

presuming to assert that I ever encouraged his impertinent pretensions!'

This effort of spirit exhausted all the courage Emmeline had been able

to raise. She arose, and attempted to reach the door; but overcome by

the violence of her agitation, was obliged to sit down in a chair near

it.

She could no longer restrain the tears which were extorted from her by

the mortifying scene she had passed through: and her deep sighs, which

seemed ready to burst her heart, excited the compassion of Lord

Montreville; who, where his ambition was not in question, was not void

of humanity. The violent and artless sorrow of a beautiful young woman,

whose fate seemed to be in his power, affected him.

He took her hand with kindness, and told her 'he was sorry to have said

any thing that appeared harsh.'

His Lordship added, 'that he would have her write to Mrs. Watkins; that

a servant should be sent with the letter; and that on condition of her

concealing her abode from Delamere, she should be supplied with an

annual income equal to all her wants.'

Then hearing Delamere's gun, which he always discharged before he

entered the house, he hastened Emmeline away, desiring she would remain

in her own apartment; where every thing necessary should be sent to

her.

CHAPTER V

Delamere and Fitz-Edward soon after entered the parlour where Lord

Montreville remained. He received his son with a coldness to which, tho'

little accustomed to it, Delamere paid no attention.

Despotic as this beloved son had always been in the family, he felt not

the least apprehension that he had really offended his father; or

feeling it, knew that his displeasure would be so short liv'd that it

was not worth any concern.

'Here, Fitz-Edward,' said he--'here is my father angry with me for

making love to my cousin Emmy. Faith, Sir,' (turning to Lord

Montreville,) 'I think I have the most reason to be angry at being

brought into such dangerous company; tho' your Lordship well knows how

devilishly susceptible I am, and that ever since I was ten years old I

have been dying for some nymph or other.'

'I know that you are a strange inconsiderate boy,' answered Lord

Montreville, very gravely;--'but I must beg, Frederic, to hear no more

idle raillery on the subject of Miss Mowbray.'

To this, Delamere gave some slight answer; and the discourse was led by

his Lordship to some other topic.

Fitz-Edward, who was about five years older than Delamere, concealed,

under the appearance of candour and non-chalance, the libertinism of his

character. He had entered very young into the army; the younger son of

an Irish peer; and had contracted his loose morals by being thrown too

early into the world; for his heart was not originally bad.

With a very handsome person, he had the most insinuating manners, and an

address so truly that of a man of fashion, as immediately prejudiced in

his favour those by whom he wished to be thought well of. Where he

desired to please, he seldom failed of pleasing extremely; and his

conversation was, in the general commerce of the world, elegant and

attractive.

Delamere was very fond of his company; and Lord Montreville encouraged

the intimacy: for of whatever fashionable vices Fitz-Edward was guilty,

he contrived, by a sort of sentimental hypocrisy, to prevent their being

known to, or at least offensive to those, whose good opinion it was his

interest to cultivate.

Delamere was of a character very opposite. Accustomed from his infancy

to the most boundless indulgences, he never formed a wish, the

gratification of which he expected to be denied: and if such a

disappointment happened, he gave way to an impetuosity of disposition

that he had never been taught to restrain, and which gave an appearance

of ferocity to a temper not otherwise bad.

He was generous, candid, and humane; and possessed many other good

qualities, but the defects of his education had obscured them.

Lady Montreville, who beheld in her only son the last male heir of a

very ancient and illustrious house, and who hoped to see all its glories

revive in him, could never be prevailed upon to part with him. He had

therefore a tutor in the house; and his parents themselves accompanied

him abroad. And the weakness of Lady Montreville in regard to her son,

encreased rather than diminished with his encreasing years.

Her fondness was gratified in seeing the perfections of his person,

(which was a very fine one) while to the imperfections of his temper she

was entirely blind.

His father was equally fond of him; and looked up to the accumulated

titles and united fortunes of his own and his wife's families, as the

point where all his ambitious views would attain their consummation.

To watch over the conduct of this only son, seemed now to be the sole

business of his Lordship's life: and 'till now, he had no reason to fear

that his solicitude for his final establishment would be attended with

so little effect. Except a few youthful indiscretions, which were

overlooked or forgiven, Delamere had shewn no inclinations that seemed

inimical to his father's views; and Lord Montreville hoped that his

present passion for Emmeline would be forgotten as easily as many other

transient attachments which his youth, and warmth of temper, had led him

into.

At dinner, Delamere enquired 'whether his charming cousin was always to

remain a prisoner in her own room?'

To which Lord Montreville answered, 'that it had been her custom; and as

there was no lady with them, it was better she should continue it.'

He then changed the discourse; and contrived to keep Delamere in sight

the whole afternoon; and by that means prevented any further enquiries

after Emmeline; who now, entirely confined to her turret, impatiently

awaited the return of the messenger who had been sent to Swansea.

Delamere, in the mean time, had lingered frequently about the

housekeeper's room, in hopes of seeing Emmeline; but she never appeared.

He applied to Mrs. Garnet for intelligence of her: but she had received

orders from Lord Montreville not to satisfy his enquiries. He employed

his servants therefore to discover where she was usually to be found,

and by their means was at length informed in what part of the castle her

apartment lay; and that there was a design actually on foot to send her

away, but whither he could not learn.

The answer brought from Mrs. Watkins, by the man who had been sent to

Swansea, expressed her readiness to take the boarder offered her.

This intelligence Lord Montreville communicated himself to Emmeline; who

received it with such artless satisfaction, that his Lordship, who had

before doubted whether some degree of coquetry was not concealed under

the apparent ingenuous innocence of his niece, now believed he had

judged too hastily.

It remained to be considered how she could be conveyed from Mowbray

Castle without the knowledge of Delamere. She was herself ignorant of

every thing beyond its walls, and could therefore be of no use in the

consultation. His Lordship had, however, entrusted Fitz-Edward with his

uneasiness about Delamere; at which the former only laughed; and said he

by no means believed that any serious consequences were to be

apprehended: that it was mere badinage; of which he was sure Delamere

would think no more after they left Mowbray Castle; and that it was not

a matter which his Lordship should allow to make him uneasy.

Lord Montreville however, who thought he could not too soon remedy his

own indiscretion in introducing Emmeline to his son, determined to

embrace the opportunity of putting an end to any future correspondence

between them: he therefore insisted on a promise of secresy from

Fitz-Edward; and had recourse to Headly, who from a frequent residence

among the great was the most accommodating and obsequious of their

servants.

As he was about to leave the castle in a few days, he offered his

services to convey Miss Mowbray from thence, in a chaise of which he was

master. This proposal was eagerly accepted by Lord Montreville. And

enjoining Mr. Headly also to secresy, it was fixed that their journey

should begin the next morning save one.

Emmeline had notice of this arrangement, which she received with the

liveliest joy. She immediately set about such preparations as were

necessary for her journey, in which she employed that and the remaining

day; which had been destined by Lord Montreville to visit another estate

that he possessed, at the distance of about twelve miles; whither

Delamere and the whole party accompanied him.

Delamere had discovered, by his servants, that to remove Emmeline was in

agitation; and he determined to see her again in spite of his father's

precaution (which in fact only served to encrease his desire of

declaring his sentiments); but he had no idea that she was to depart so

soon, and therefore was content to go with his father, at his particular

request.

It was late in the evening preceding that on which Emmeline was to leave

the castle, before they returned to it; and she was still busied in

providing for her journey; in doing which, she was obliged to open one

of the caskets left her by Mrs. Carey. It contained miniatures of her

father and her mother, which had been drawn at Paris before her birth;

and several letters written by Mrs. Mowbray, her grandmother, to her

mother, in consequence of the fatal step she had taken in quitting the

protection of that lady, who had brought her up, to accompany Mr.

Mowbray abroad.

These, Emmeline had never yet seen; nor had she now courage entirely to

peruse them. The little she read, however, filled her heart with the

most painful sensations and her eyes with tears.

While she was employed in her little arrangements, time passed

insensibly away. She heard the hollow sound of shutting the great doors

at the other end of the castle, as was usual before the servants retired

for the night: but attentive only to what was at present her greatest

concern, (making room for some favourite books in the box she meant to

take with her,) she heeded not the hour.

A total silence had long reigned in the castle, and her almost

extinguished candle told her it was time to take some repose, when, as

she was preparing to do so, she thought she heard a rustling, and

indistinct footsteps in the passage near her room.

She started--listened--but all was again profoundly silent; and she

supposed it had been only one of those unaccountable noises which she

had been used to hear along the dreary avenues of the castle. She began

anew to unpin her hair, when a second time the same noise in the passage

alarmed her. She listened again; and while she continued attentive, the

great clock struck two.

Amazed to find it so late, her terror encreased; yet she endeavoured to

reason herself out of it, and to believe that it was the effect of

fancy: she heard it no more; and had almost determined to go out into

the passage to satisfy herself that her fears were groundless, when just

as she approached the door, the whispers were renewed; she saw the lock

move, and heard a violent push against it.

The door, however, was locked. Which was no sooner perceived by the

assailant, than a violent effort with his foot forced the rusty decayed

work to give way, and Mr. Delamere burst into the room!

Emmeline was infinitely too much terrified to speak: nor could her

trembling limbs support her. She sat down;--the colour forsook her

cheeks;--and she was not sensible that Delamere had thrown himself at

her feet, and was pouring forth the most vehement and incoherent

expressions that frantic passion could dictate.

Recovering her recollection, she beheld Delamere kneeling before her,

holding her hands in his; and Millefleur standing behind him with a

candle. She attempted to speak; but the words died away on her lips:

while Delamere, shocked at the situation into which he had thrown her,

protested that he meant her not the smallest offence; but that having

learnt, by means of his valet, that she was to go the next morning, and

that his father intended to keep him ignorant of her future destiny, he

could not bear to reflect that he might lose her for ever; and had

therefore taken the only means in his power to speak to her, in hopes of

engaging her pity, for which he would hazard every thing.

'Leave me, Sir! leave me!' said Emmeline, in a voice scarcely

articulate. 'Leave me instantly, or I will alarm the house!'

'That is almost impossible!' replied Delamere; 'but I will not terrify

you more than I have done already. No, Emmeline, I wish not to alarm

you, and will quit you instantly if you will tell me that wheresoever

you are, you will permit me to see you; and will remember me with pity

and regard! My father shall not--cannot controul my conduct; nor shall

all the power on earth prevent my following you, if you will yourself

permit me. Tell me, Emmeline,--tell me you will not forget me!'

'As what, Sir, should I remember you, but as my persecutor? as one who

has injured me beyond reparation by your wild and cruel conduct; and who

has now dared to insult me by a most unparallelled outrage.--Leave me,

Sir! I repeat to you that you must instantly quit the room!'

She arose, and walked with tottering steps to the end of it. Delamere

followed her. She turned; and came towards the door, which was still

open, and then recollected, that as she knew the passages of the castle,

which she was convinced neither Delamere or his servant did, she might

possibly escape, and find Lord Montreville's room, which she knew to be

at the end of the East gallery.

Delamere was a few steps behind her when she reached the door; which

hastily throwing quite open, she ran lightly thro' the passage, which

was very long and dark.

He pursued her, imploring her to hear him but a moment; and the

Frenchman as hastily followed his master with the candle. But at the end

of the passage, a flight of broken steps led to a brick hall, which

opened to other stair-cases and galleries.

A gust of wind blew out the candle; and Emmeline, gliding down the

steps, turned to the right, and opening a heavy nailed door, which led

by a narrow stairs to the East gallery, she let it fall after her.

Delamere, now in total darkness, tried in vain to follow the sound. He

listened--but no longer heard the footsteps of the trembling fugitive;

and cursing his fate, and the stupidity of Millefleur, he endeavoured to

find his way back to Emmeline's room, where he thought a candle was

still burning. But his attempt was vain. He walked round the hall only

to puzzle himself; for the door by which he had entered it, he could not

regain.

In the mean time Emmeline, breathless with fear, had reached the

gallery, and feeling her way 'till she came as she supposed to the door

of the room where Lord Montreville slept, she tapped lightly at it.

A man's voice asked who it was?

'It is I, my Lord,' cried Emmeline, hardly able to make herself

heard.--'Mr. Delamere pursues me.'

Somebody opened the door.--But there was no light; and Emmeline retiring

a step from it, the person again asked who it was?

'It is Emmeline,' replied she; who now first recollected that the voice

was not that of Lord Montreville.--She flew therefore towards the next

door, with exclamations of encreased terror; but Lord Montreville, who

was now awakened, appeared at it with a lamp in his hand; and Emmeline,

in answer to his question of what is the matter? endeavoured to say that

she was pursued by Mr. Delamere; but fear had so entirely overcome her,

that she could only sigh out his name; and gasping like a dying person,

sat down on a bench which was near the door.

Fitz-Edward, who was the person she had first spoken to, had by this

time dressed himself, and came to her with a glass of water out of his

room; while Lord Montreville, hearing his son's name so inarticulately

pronounced, and seeing the speechless affright in which Emmeline sat

before him, conceived the most alarming apprehensions, and believed that

his son was either dead or dying.

With great difficulty he summoned up courage enough, again to beg for

heaven's sake she would tell him what had occasioned her to leave her

room at such an hour?

She again exclaimed, 'it is Mr. Delamere, my Lord!'

'What of Mr. Delamere?--what of my son?' cried he, with infinite

agitation.

'Save me from him my Lord!' answered Emmeline, a little recovered by the

water she had drank.

'Where is he then?' said his Lordship.

'I know not,' replied Emmeline; 'but he came to my room with his

servant, and I flew hither to implore your protection.'

Fitz-Edward intreated Lord Montreville to be more calm, and to give Miss

Mowbray time to recollect herself. He offered to go in search of

Delamere; but his Lordship was in too much anxiety to be satisfied with

any enquiries but his own.

He therefore said he would go down himself; but Emmeline catching his

hand, entreated him not to leave her.

At this moment the voices of Delamere and his man were heard echoing

through the whole side of the castle; for wearied with their fruitless

attempts to escape, they both called for lights in no very gentle tone.

Lord Montreville easily distinguished from whence the noise came; and

followed by Emmeline, whom Fitz-Edward supported, he descended into the

brick hall from whence Emmeline had effected her escape, where he found

Delamere trembling with passion, and Millefleur with fear.

Lord Montreville could not conceal his anger and resentment.--

'How comes it, Sir,' cried he, addressing himself to his son, 'that you

dare thus to insult a person who is under my protection? What excess of

madness and folly has tempted you to violate the retirement of Miss

Mowbray?'

'I mean not, my Lord,' answered Delamere, 'to attempt a concealment of

my sentiments. I love Miss Mowbray; passionately love her; and scorn to

dissimulate. I know you had a design to send her from hence;

clandestinely to send her; and I determined that she should not go 'till

I had declared my attachment to her, which I found you endeavoured

assiduously to prevent. You may certainly remove her from hence; but I

protest to you, that wherever she is, there I will endeavour to see her,

in spite of the universe.'

Lord Montreville now felt all the force of the error he had committed in

that boundless indulgence to which he had accustomed his son. In the

first instance of any consequence in which their wishes differed, he saw

him ready to throw off the restraint of paternal authority, and daring

to avow his resolution to act as he pleased.

This mortifying reflection arose in his mind, while, with a look of

mingled anger and amazement, he beheld Delamere, who having ordered

Millefleur to light his candle, snatched it from him, and hastily

retired.

Emmeline, who had stood trembling the whole time behind Lord

Montreville, besought him to ring up the housekeeper, and direct her to

stay with her for the rest of the night; for she declared she would on

no account remain in her own room alone.

His Lordship recommending her to the care of Fitz-Edward, went himself

in search of the housekeeper; and Emmeline refusing to seek a more

commodious apartment, sat down in one of the windows of the hall to wait

his return.

Fitz-Edward, to whom she had yet hardly spoken, now entertained her with

a profusion of compliments, almost as warm as those she had heard from

Delamere; but her spirits, quite exhausted by the terror which had so

lately possessed them, could no longer support her; she was unable to

give an answer of common civility, and was very glad to see Lord

Montreville return with Mrs. Garnet; who, extremely discomposed at being

disturbed and obliged to appear in her night-cap, followed her,

grumbling, into her room; where, as Emmeline refused to go to it

herself, she took possession of her bed, and soon falling into a

profound sleep, left its melancholy owner to her sad reflections.

She had not been many minutes indulging them, and wishing for the return

of light, before somebody was again at the door. Emmeline still

apprehending Delamere, stepped to it; and was astonished to see Lord

Montreville himself.

He entered the room; and told her, that as his son knew of her journey

in the morning, he would probably try some means to prevent it, or at

least to trace out her abode; that it was therefore absolutely necessary

for her to be ready by day break or before, for which he had prepared

Mr. Headly; who was up, and getting ready to set out as soon as there

was light enough to make it safe.

Emmeline, who thought she could not be gone too soon, now hastily

finished the remainder of her packing; and having dressed herself for

her journey, which notwithstanding her sleepless night she rejoiced to

find so near, she waited with impatience 'till Mr. Headly summoned her

to go.

CHAPTER VI

The sun no sooner appeared above the horizon, than her conductor was

ready with his one-horse chair: and Emmeline being seated in it, and her

little baggage adjusted, she left the door of the castle; where Maloney,

who saw his favourite hopes vanish as he feared for ever, stood with a

rueful countenance to behold her departure.

However desirous she was of quitting a residence which had long been

uneasy to her, and which was now become so extremely improper, such is

the force of early habit, that she could not bid it adieu without being

greatly affected.

There she had passed her earliest infancy, and had known, in that period

of unconscious happiness, many delightful hours which would return no

more.

It was endeared to her by the memory of that good friend who had

supplied to her the place of a parent; from whom alone she had ever

heard the soothing voice of maternal solicitude. And as she passed by

the village church, which had been formerly the chapel of the monastery,

and joined the castle walls, she turned her eyes, filled with tears,

towards the spot where the remains of Mrs. Carey were deposited, and

sighed deeply; a thousand tender and painful recollections crouding on

her heart.

As she left the village, several women and children, who had heard she

was going that day, were already waiting to bid her farewell;

considering her as the last of that family, by whom they had been

employed when in health, and relieved when in sickness; they lamented

her departure as their greatest misfortune.

The present possessor of the castle bore not the name of Mowbray, and

was not at all interested for the peasantry, among whom he was a

stranger; they therefore, in losing Emmeline, seemed to lose the last of

the race of their ancient benefactors.

Emmeline, affected by their simple expressions of regret, returned their

good wishes with tears; and as soon as the chaise drove out of the

village, again fixed her eyes on the habitation she had quitted.

Its venerable towers rising above the wood in which it was almost

embosomed, made one of the most magnificent features of a landscape,

which now appeared in sight.

The road lay along the side of what would in England be called a

mountain; at its feet rolled the rapid stream that washed the castle

walls, foaming over fragments of rock; and bounded by a wood of oak and

pine; among which the ruins of the monastery, once an appendage to the

castle, reared its broken arches; and marked by grey and mouldering

walls, and mounds covered with slight vegetation, it was traced to its

connection with the castle itself, still frowning in gothic

magnificence; and stretching over several acres of ground: the citadel,

which was totally in ruins and covered with ivy, crowning the whole.

Farther to the West, beyond a bold and rocky shore, appeared the sea;

and to the East, a chain of mountains which seemed to meet the clouds;

while on the other side, a rich and beautiful vale, now variegated with

the mellowed tints of the declining year, spread its enclosures, 'till

it was lost again among the blue and barren hills.

Headly declaimed eloquently on the charms of the prospect, which

gradually unveiled itself as the autumnal mist disappeared. But

Emmeline, tho' ever alive to the beauties of nature, was too much

occupied by her own melancholy reflections to attend to the

animadversions of her companion.

_She_ saw nothing but the castle, of which she believed she was now

taking an eternal adieu; and her looks were fixed on it, 'till the road

winding down the hill on the other side, concealed it from her sight.

Headly imputed her sadness to a very different cause than that of an

early and long attachment to a particular spot. He supposed that regret

at being obliged to leave Delamere, to whose passion he could not

believe her insensible, occasioned the melancholy that overwhelmed her.

He spoke to her of him, and affected to lament the uneasiness which so

violent and ungovernable a temper in an only son, might occasion to his

family. He then talked of the two young ladies, his sisters, whom he

described as the finest young women in the country, and as highly

accomplished. Emmeline sighed at the comparison between _their_

situation and her own.

After some hours travelling through roads which made it very fatigueing,

they arrived at a little obscure house of entertainment, and after some

refreshment, continued their journey unmolested.

Delamere arose early, and calling for Millefleur, enquired at what hour

Miss Mowbray was to go. On hearing that she had left the castle more

than an hour, his rage and vexation broke through all the respect he

owed his father; who being acquainted by his valet of his resolution

immediately to follow the chaise, entered the room. He remonstrated with

him at first with great warmth; but Delamere, irritated by

contradiction, obstinately adhered to his resolution of immediately

pursuing the travellers.

Lord Montreville, finding that opposition rather encreased than remedied

the violence of his son's passionate sallies, determined to try what

persuasion would do; and Delamere, whose temper was insensible to the

threats of anger, yielded to remonstrance when softened by paternal

affection; and consented to forego his intention if Lord Montreville

would tell him where Emmeline was gone.

His Lordship, who probably thought this one of those instances in which

falsehood is excuseable if not meritorious, told him, with affected

reluctance, that she was gone to board at Bridgenorth, with Mrs.

Watkins, the sister of old Carey.

As this account was extremely probable, Delamere readily believed it;

and having with some difficulty been prevailed upon to pass his word

that he would not immediately take any steps to see her, tranquillity

was for the present restored to the castle.

Emmeline in the mean time, after a long and weary journey, arrived at

Swansea. Mrs. Watkins, who expected her, received her in a little but

very neat habitation, which consisted of a small room by way of

parlour, not unlike the cabin of a packet boat, and a bed-chamber over

it of the same dimensions. Of these apartments, Emmeline took

possession. Her conductor took leave of her; and she now wished to be

able to form some opinion of her new hostess; whose countenance, which

extremely resembled that of Mrs. Carey, had immediately prejudiced her

in her favour.

Being assured by Lord Montreville of every liberal payment for the board

and lodging of Miss Mowbray, she received her with a degree of civility

almost oppressive: but Emmeline, who soon found that she possessed none

of that warmth of heart and lively interest in the happiness of others

which so much endeared to her the memory of her former friend, was very

glad when after a few days the good woman returned with her usual

avidity to the regulation of her domestic matters, and suffered Emmeline

to enjoy that solitude which she knew so well how to employ.

Delamere, still lingering at the castle, where he seemed to stay for no

other reason than because he had there seen Emmeline, was pensive,

restless, and absent; and Lord Montreville saw with great alarm that

this impression was less likely to be effaced by time and absence than

he had supposed.

Fitz-Edward, obliged to go to Ireland to his regiment for some time, had

taken leave of them; and the impatience of Lord Montreville to return to

town was encreased by repeated letters from his wife.

Delamere however still evaded it; hoping that his father would set out

without him, and that he should by that means have an opportunity of

going to Bridgenorth, where he determined to solicit Emmeline to consent

to a Scottish expedition, and persuaded himself he should not meet a

refusal.

At length Lady Montreville, yet more alarmed at the delay, directed her

eldest daughter to write to his Lordship, and to give such an account of

her health as should immediately oblige the father and son to return.

Delamere, after such a letter, could not refuse to depart; and

comforting himself that he might be able soon to escape from the

observation of his family, and put his project in execution, he

consented to begin his journey. He determined, however, to write to Miss

Mowbray, and to desire her to direct her answer under cover to a friend

in London.

He did so; and addressed it to her at Mrs. Watkins's, at Bridgenorth:

but soon after his arrival in town, the letter was returned to the place

from which it was dated; having been opened at the office in consequence

of no such person as Miss Mowbray or Mrs. Watkins being to be found

there.

Delamere saw he had been deceived; but to complain was fruitless: he had

therefore no hope of discovering where Emmeline was, but by lying in

wait for some accidental intelligence.

The family usually passed the Christmas recess at their seat in Norfolk;

whither Delamere, who at first tried to avoid being of the party, at

length agreed to accompany them, on condition of his being allowed to

perform an engagement he had made with Mr. Percival for a fortnight.

Part of this time he determined to employ in seeing Headly, who did not

live above thirty miles from thence; hoping from him to obtain

intelligence of Emmeline's abode. And that no suspicion might remain on

the mind of his father, he affected to reassume his usual gaiety, and

was to all appearance as volatile and dissipated as ever.

While the family were in Norfolk, their acquaintance was warmly renewed

with that of Sir Francis Devereux, who was lately returned from a

residence on the Continent, whither he had been to compleat the

education of his two daughters, heiresses to his fortune, on the

embellishment of whose persons and manners all the modern elegancies of

education had been lavished.

They were rather pretty women; and of a family almost as ancient and

illustrious as that of Mr. Delamere. Their fortunes were to be immense;

and either of them would have been a wife for Delamere, the choice of

whom would greatly have gratified the families on both sides.

Infinite pains were taken to bring the young people frequently together;

and both the ladies seemed to allow that Delamere was a conquest worthy

their ambition.

As he never refused to entertain them with every appearance of gallantry

and vivacity, Lord Montreville flattered himself that at length Emmeline

was forgotten; and ventured to propose to his son, a marriage with

whichever of the Miss Devereux's he should prefer.

To which, Delamere, who had long foreseen the proposal, answered coldly,

'that he was not inclined to marry at all; or if he did, it should not

be one of those over-educated puppets.'

So far were their acquisitions from having made any impression on his

heart, that the frivolous turn of their minds, the studied ornaments of

their persons, and the affected refinement of their manners, made him

only recollect with more passionate admiration, that native elegance of

person and mind which he had seen only in the Orphan of Mowbray Castle.

CHAPTER VII

There was, in the person and manner of Emmeline, something so

interesting, that those who were little accustomed to attach themselves

to any one, were insensibly disposed to love her, and to become

solicitous for her welfare.

Even the insensibility with which long and uninterrupted prosperity had

encased the heart of Lord Montreville, was not entirely proof against

her attractive powers; and when he no longer apprehended the effect of

her encreasing charms on his son, he suffered himself to feel a degree

of pity and even of affection for her.

He therefore heard with pleasure that she was contented in her present

situation; and was convinced she had kept her word in not giving any

intelligence of her residence to Delamere. To shew his approbation of

her conduct, he directed a person in town to send her down a small

collection of books; some materials for drawing; and other trifles which

he thought would be acceptable.

Emmeline, charmed with such acquisitions, felt the most lively gratitude

for her benefactor; and having fitted up her little cabin extremely to

her satisfaction; she found, in the occupation these presents afforded

her, all that she wished, to engage her attention; and gratify her

taste.

Sensible of the defects of her education, she applied incessantly to her

books; for of every useful and ornamental feminine employment she had

long since made herself mistress without any instruction.

She endeavoured to cultivate a genius for drawing, which she inherited

from her father; but for want of knowing a few general rules, what she

produced had more of elegance and neatness than correctness and

knowledge.

She knew nothing of the science of music; but her voice was soft and

sweet, and her ear exquisite. The simple songs, therefore, she had

acquired by it, she sung with a pathos which made more impression on her

hearers than those studied graces learned by long application, which

excite wonder rather than pleasure.

Time, thus occupied, passed lightly away; Spring arrived almost

imperceptibly, and brought again weather which enabled Emmeline to

reassume her walks along the shore or among the rocks, and to indulge

that contemplative turn of mind which she had acquired in the solitude

of Mowbray Castle.

It was on a beautiful morning of the month of April, that, taking a book

with her as usual, she went down to the sea side, and sat reading for

some hours; when, just as she was about to return home, she saw a lovely

little boy, about five years old, wandering towards the place where she

was, picking up shells and sea weeds, and appearing to be so deeply

engaged in his infantine pursuit, that he did not see her 'till she

spoke to him.

'Whose sweet little boy are you, my love?' said she.

The child looked at her with surprise.

'I am my mamma's boy,' said he, 'and so is Henry,' pointing towards

another who now approached, and who seemed hardly a year younger.

The second running up to his brother, caught his hand, and they both

walked away together, looking behind at the strange lady with some

degree of alarm.

Their dress convinced Emmeline that they belonged to a stranger; and as

they seemed to have nobody with them, she was under some apprehension

for their safety, and therefore arose to follow them, when on turning

round the point of a rock whose projection had concealed the shore to

the left, she saw a lady walking slowly before her, whom the two little

boys had now rejoined. In her hand she held a little girl, who seemed

only learning to walk; and she was followed by a nursery maid, who held

in her arms another, yet an infant at the breast.

The stranger, near whom Emmeline was obliged to pass, curtsyed to her as

she went by. And if Emmeline was surprised at the early appearance of

company at a time when she knew it to be so unusual, the stranger was

much more so at the uncommon elegance of her form and manner: she was

almost tempted to believe the fable of the sea nymphs, and to fancy her

one of them.

Emmeline, on regaining her apartment, heard from the hostess, whom she

found with another neighbour, that the lady she had seen arrived the

evening before, and had taken lodgings at the house of the latter, with

an intention of staying great part of the summer.

The next day Emmeline again met the stranger; who accosting the fair

orphan with all that ease which characterises the address of those who

have lived much in good company, they soon entered into conversation,

and Emmeline almost as soon discovered that her new acquaintance

possessed an understanding as excellent as her person and address were

captivating.

She appeared to be not more than five or six and twenty: but her person

seemed to have suffered from sorrow that diminution of its charms, which

time could not yet have effected. Her complexion was faded and wan; her

eyes had lost their lustre; and a pensive and languid expression sat on

her countenance.

After the first conversation, the two ladies found they liked each other

so well, that they met by agreement every day. Emmeline generally went

early to the lodgings of Mrs. Stafford, and stayed the whole day with

her; charmed to have found in her new friend, one who could supply to

her all the deficiencies of her former instructors.

To a very superior understanding, Mrs. Stafford added the advantages of

a polished education, and all that ease of manner, which the commerce of

fashion can supply. She had read a great deal; and her mind, originally

elegant and refined, was highly cultivated, and embellished with all the

knowledge that could be acquired from the best authors in the modern

languages. Her disposition seemed to have been naturally chearful; for a

ray of vivacity would frequently light up her countenance, and a lively

and agreeable conversation call forth all its animated gaiety. But it

seldom lasted long. Some settled uneasiness lay lurking in her heart;

and when it recurred forcibly to her, as it frequently did in the midst

of the most interesting discourse, a cloud of sorrow obscured the

brilliancy of her countenance and language, and she became pensive,

silent, and absent.

Emmeline observed this with concern; but was not yet intimate enough

with her to enquire or discover the cause.

Sometimes, when she was herself occupied in drawing, or some other

pursuit in which Mrs. Stafford delighted to instruct her, she saw that

her friend, believing herself unobserved, gave way to all the melancholy

that oppressed her heart; and as her children were playing round her,

she would gaze mournfully on them 'till the tears streamed down her

cheeks.

By degrees the utmost confidence took place between them on every

subject but one: Mrs. Stafford never dwelt on the cause, whatever it

was, which occasioned her to be so frequently uneasy; nor did she ever

complain of being so: but she listened with the warmest interest to the

little tale Emmeline had to relate, and told her in return as much of

her own history as she thought it necessary for her to know.

Emmeline found that she was not a widow, as she had at first supposed;

for she spoke sometimes of her husband, and said she expected him at

Swansea. She had been married at a very early age; and they now

generally resided at an house which Mr. Stafford's father, who was still

living, had purchased for them in Dorsetshire.

'I came hither,' said she, 'thus early in the year, at Mr. Stafford's

request, who is fond of improvements and alterations, and who intends

this summer to add considerably to our house; which is already too

large, I think, for our present fortune. I was glad to get away from the

confusion of workmen, to which I have an aversion; and anxious to let

Charles and Henry, who had the measles in the Autumn and who have been

frequently ill since, have a long course of sea-bathing. I might indeed

have gone to Weymouth or some nearer place; but I wish to avoid general

company, which I could not have done where I am sure of meeting so many

of my acquaintance. I rejoice now at my preference of Swansea, since it

has been the means of my knowing you, my dear Emmeline.'

'And I, Madam,' returned Emmeline, 'have reason to consider the

concurrence of circumstances that brought you here as the most fortunate

for me. Yet I own to you, that the charm of such society is accompanied

with great pain, in anticipating the hour when I must again return to

that solitude I have 'till now considered as my greatest enjoyment.'

'Ah! my dear girl!' replied Mrs. Stafford, 'check in its first

appearance a propensity which I see you frequently betray, to anticipate

displeasing or unfortunate events. When you have lived a few years

longer, you will, I fear, learn, that every day has evils enough of its

own, and that it is well for us we know nothing of those which are yet

to come. I speak from experience; for I, when not older than you now

are, had a perpetual tendency to fancy future calamities, and embittered

by that means many of those hours which would otherwise have been really

happy. Yet has not my pre-sentiments, tho' most of them have been

unhappily verified, enabled me to avoid one of those thorns with which

my path has been thickly strewn.'

Emmeline hoped now to hear what hand had strewn them.

Mrs. Stafford, sighing deeply, fell into a reverie; and continuing long

silent, Emmeline could not resolve to renew a conversation so evidently

painful to her.

It was now six weeks since she had first seen Mrs. Stafford, and the

hours had passed in a series of felicity of which she had 'till then

formed no idea.

Mrs. Stafford, delighted with the lively attachment of her young friend,

was charmed to find herself capable of adorning her ingenuous and tender

mind with all that knowledge which books or the world had qualified her

to impart.

They read together every day: Emmeline, under the tuition of her

charming preceptress, had made some progress in French and Italian; and

she was amazed at her own success in drawing since she had received from

Mrs. Stafford rules of which she was before ignorant.

As the summer advanced, a few stragglers came in, and it was no longer

wonderful to see a stranger. But Mrs. Stafford and Miss Mowbray,

perfectly satisfied with each other, sought not to enlarge their

society. They sometimes held short conversations with the transient

visitants of the place, but more usually avoided those walks where it

was likely they should meet them.

Early one morning, they were returning from the bathing place together,

muffled up in their morning dresses. They had seen at a distance two

gentlemen, whom they did not particularly notice; and Emmeline, leaning

on the arm of her friend, was again anticipating all she should suffer

when the hour came which would separate them, and recollecting the

different company and conversation to which she had been condemned from

the death of Mrs. Carey to her quitting Mowbray Castle--

'You have not only taught me, my dear Mrs. Stafford,' said she, 'to

dread more than ever being thrown back into such company; but you have

also made me fear that I shall never relish the general conversation of

the world. As I disliked the manners of an inferior description of

people when I first knew them, because they did not resemble those of

the dear good woman who brought me up; so I shall undoubtedly be

disappointed and dissatisfied with the generality of those acquaintance

I may meet with; for I am afraid there are as few Mrs. Staffords in your

rank of life as there were Mrs. Careys in hers. However, there is no

great likelihood, I believe, at present, of my being convinced how

little they resemble you; for it is not probable I shall be taken from

hence.'

'Perhaps,' answered Mrs. Stafford, 'you might be permitted to stay some

months next winter with me. I shall pass the whole of it in the country;

the greatest part of it probably alone; and such a companion would

assist in charming away many of those hours, which now, tho' I have more

resources than most people, sometimes are heavy and melancholy. My

children are not yet old enough to be my companions; and I know not how

it is, but I have often more pain than pleasure in being with them. When

I remember, or when I feel, how little happiness there is in the world,

I tremble for their future destiny; and in the excess of affection,

regret having introduced them into a scene of so much pain as I have

hitherto found it. But tell me, Emmeline, do you think if I apply to

Lord Montreville he will allow you to pass some time with me?'

'Dear Madam,' said Emmeline, eagerly, 'what happiness do you offer me!

Lord Montreville would certainly think me highly honoured by such an

invitation.'

'Shall I answer for Lord Montreville,' said a voice behind them, 'as his

immediate representative?'

Emmeline started; and turning quickly, beheld Mr. Delamere and

Fitz-Edward.

Delamere caught her hands in his.

'Have I then found you, my lovely cousin?' cried he.--'Oh! happiness

unexpected!'

He was proceeding with even more than his usual vehemence; but

Fitz-Edward thought it necessary to stop him.

'You promised, Frederic, before I consented to come with you, that you

would desist from these extravagant flights. Come, I beg Miss Mowbray

may be permitted to speak to her other acquaintance; and that she will

do us both the honour to introduce us to her friend.'

Emmeline had lost all courage and recollection on the appearance of

Delamere. Mrs. Stafford saw her distress; and assuming a cold and

distant manner, she said--'Miss Mowbray, I apprehend from what this

gentleman has said, that he has a message to you from Lord Montreville.'

'Has my Lord, Sir,' said Emmeline to Delamere,--'has my Lord Montreville

been so good as to honour me with any commands?'

'Cruel girl!' answered he; 'you know too well that my father is not

acquainted with my being here.'

'Then you certainly ought not to be here,' said Emmeline, coolly; 'and

you must excuse me, Sir, if I beg the favor of you not to detain me, nor

attempt to renew a conversation so very improper, indeed so cruelly

injurious to me.'

Mrs. Stafford had Emmeline's arm within her own, from the commencement

of this conversation; and she now walked hastily on with her.

Delamere followed them, intreating to be heard; and Fitz-Edward,

addressing himself on the other side to Mrs. Stafford, besought her in a

half whisper to allow his friend only a few moments to explain himself

to Miss Mowbray.

'No, Sir, I must be excused,' answered she--'If Miss Mowbray does me the

honour to consult me, I shall certainly advise her against committing

such an indiscretion as listening to Mr. Delamere.'

'Ah! Madam!' said the colonel, throwing into his eyes and manner all

that insinuation of which he was so perfect a master, 'is it possible,

that with a countenance where softness and compassion seem to invite the

unhappy to trust you with their sorrows, you have a cruel and unfeeling

heart? Lay by for a moment your barbarous prudence, in favour of my

unfortunate friend; upon my honour, nothing but the conviction that his

life was at stake, would have induced me to accompany him hither; and I

pledge myself for the propriety of his conduct. He only begs to be

forgiven by Miss Mowbray for his improper treatment of her at Mowbray

Castle; to be assured she is in health and safety; and to hear that she

does not hate him for all the uneasiness he has given her; and having

done so, he promises to return to his family. Upon my soul,' continued

he, laying his hand upon his breast, 'I know not what would have been

the consequence, had I not consented to assist him in deceiving his

family and coming hither: but I have reason to think he would have made

some wild attempt to secure to himself more frequent interviews with

Miss Mowbray; and that a total disappointment of the project he had

formed for seeing her, would have been attended with a violence of

passion arising even to phrenzy.--Madness or death would perhaps have

been the event.'

Mrs. Stafford turned her eyes on Fitz-Edward, with a look sufficiently

expressive of incredulity--'Does a modern man of fashion pretend to talk

of madness and death? You certainly imagine, Sir, that you are speaking

to some romantic inhabitant of a Welch provincial town, whose ideas are

drawn from a circulating library, and confirmed by the conversation of

the captain in quarters.'

'Ah, madam,' said he, 'I know not to whom I have the honour of

addressing myself,' (though he knew perfectly well;) 'but I feel too

certainly that madness and death would be preferable to the misery such

coldness and cruelty as your's would inflict on me, was it my misfortune

to love as violently as Delamere; and indeed I tremble, lest in

endeavouring to assist my friend I have endangered myself.'

Of this speech, Mrs. Stafford, who believed he did not know her, took

very little notice; and turning towards Emmeline, who had in the mean

time been listening in trembling apprehension to the ardent declarations

of Delamere, said it was time to return home.

Delamere, without attending to her hint, renewed his importunities for

her friendship and interest with Miss Mowbray; to which, as soon as he

would allow her to answer, she said very gravely--'Sir, as Miss Mowbray

seems so much alarmed at your pursuing her hither, and as you must be

yourself sensible of it's extreme impropriety, I hope you will not

lengthen an interview which can only produce uneasiness for you both.'

'Let us go home, for heaven's sake!' whispered Emmeline.

'They are determined, you see, to follow us,' replied her friend; 'we

will however go.'

By this time they were near the door; and Mrs. Stafford wishing the two

gentlemen a good morning, was hurrying with Emmeline into the house; but

Fitz-Edward took hold of her arm.

'One word, only, madam, and we will intrude upon you no farther at

present: say that you will suffer us to see you again to-morrow.'

'Not if I can help it, be assured, Sir.'

'Then, madam,' said Delamere, 'you must allow me to finish now what I

have to say to Miss Mowbray.'

'Good heaven! Sir,' exclaimed Emmeline, 'why will you thus persist in

distressing me? You are perhaps known to Mrs. Watkins; your name will be

at least known to her; and intelligence of your being here will be

instantly sent to Lord Montreville.'

Emmeline, by no means aware that this speech implied a desire of

concealment, the motives of which might appear highly flattering to

Delamere, was soon made sensible of it's import by his answer.

'Enough, my adorable Emmeline!' cried he eagerly, 'if I am worthy of a

thought of that sort, I am less wretched than I believed myself. I will

not now insist on a longer audience; but to-morrow I must see you

again.--Your amiable friend here will intercede for me.--I must not be

refused; and will wish you a good day before you can form so cruel a

resolution.'

So saying, he bowed to Mrs. Stafford, kissed Emmeline's hand, and

departed with Fitz-Edward from the door.

CHAPTER VIII

The two fair friends no sooner entered the house, than Emmeline threw

herself into a chair, and burst into tears.

'Ah! my dear madam,' said she, sobbing, 'what will now become of me?

Lord Montreville will believe I have corresponded with his son; he will

withdraw all favour and confidence from me; and I shall be undone!'

'Do not thus distress yourself,' said Mrs. Stafford, tenderly taking her

hand--'I hope the rash and cruel conduct of this young man will not have

the consequences you apprehend. Lord Montreville, from your former

conduct, will easily credit your not having encouraged this visit.'

'Ah! my dear Mrs. Stafford,' replied Emmeline, 'you do not know Lord

Montreville. He hastily formed a notion that I made an appointment with

Mr. Delamere at Mowbray Castle, when I had not even seen him above once;

and though, from my eagerness to leave it, I believe he afterwards

thought he had been too hasty, yet so strong was that first impression,

that the slightest circumstance would, I know, renew it as forcibly as

ever: for he has one of those tempers, which having once entertained an

idea of a person's conduct or character, never really alters it, though

they see the most convincing evidence of it's fallacy. Having once

supposed I favoured the addresses of Mr. Delamere, as you know he did,

at Mowbray Castle, the present visit will convince him he was right, and

that I am the most artful as well as the most ungrateful of beings.'

Mrs. Stafford hesitated a moment, and then said, 'I see all the evil you

apprehend. To convince Lord Montreville of your ignorance of Delamere's

design, and your total rejection of his clandestine addresses, suppose I

were to write to him? He must be prejudiced and uncandid indeed, if

after such information he is not convinced of your innocence.'

To this proposal, Emmeline consented, with assurances of the liveliest

gratitude; and Mrs. Stafford returning to her lodgings, wrote the

following letter to Lord Montreville:

_Swansea, June 20._

'My Lord,

'A short abode at this place, has given me the pleasure of knowing

Miss Mowbray, to whose worth and prudence I am happy to bear

testimony. At the request of this amiable young woman, I am now to

address your Lordship with information that Mr. Delamere came hither

yesterday with Mr. Fitz-Edward, and has again renewed those

addresses to Miss Mowbray which she knows to be so disagreeable to

your Lordship, and which cannot but be extremely prejudicial to her.

Circumstanced as she is at this place, she cannot entirely avoid

him; but she hopes your Lordship will be convinced how truly she

laments the pain this improper conduct of Mr. Delamere will give

you, and she loses not a moment in beseeching you to write to him,

or otherwise to interfere, in prevailing on him to quit Swansea; and

to prevent his continuing to distress her by a pursuit so unwelcome

to you, and so injurious to her honour and repose.

I have the honour to be,

my Lord,

your Lordship's

most obedient servant,

C. STAFFORD.'

This letter being extremely approved of by Emmeline, was put into the

next day's post; and the two ladies set out for their walk at a very

early hour, flattering themselves they should return before Delamere and

Fitz-Edward (who was lately raised to the rank of lieutenant-colonel)

were abroad. But in this they deceived themselves. They were again

overtaken by their importunate pursuers, who had now agreed to vary the

mode of their attack. Fitz-Edward, who knew the power of his insidious

eloquence over the female heart, undertook to plead for his friend to

Emmeline, while Delamere was to try to interest Mrs. Stafford, and

engage her good offices in his behalf.

They no sooner joined the ladies, than Delamere said to the

latter--'After the discouraging reception of yesterday, nothing but

being persuaded that your heart will refuse to confirm the rigour you

think yourself obliged to adopt, could make me venture, Madam, to

solicit your favour with Miss Mowbray. I now warmly implore it; and

surely'----

'Can you believe, Sir,' said Mrs. Stafford, interrupting him, 'that _I_

shall ever influence Miss Mowbray to listen to you; knowing, as I do,

the aversion of your family to your entertaining any honourable views?

and having reason to believe you have yourself formed those that are

very different?'

'You have no reason to believe so, Madam,' interrupted Delamere in his

turn; 'and must wilfully mistake me, as an excuse for your cold and

unkind manner of treating me. By heaven! I love Emmeline with a passion

as pure as it is violent; and if she would but consent to it, will marry

her in opposition to all the world. Assist me then, dear and amiable

Mrs. Stafford! assist me to conquer the unreasonable prejudice she has

conceived against a secret marriage!'

'Never, Sir, will I counsel Miss Mowbray to accept such a proposal!

never will I advise her to unite herself with one whose family disdain

to receive her! and by clandestinely stealing into it, either disturb

it's peace, or undergo the humiliation of living the wife of a man who

dares not own her!'

'And who, Madam, has said that I dare not own her? Does not the same

blood run in our veins? Is she not worthy, from her personal merit, of a

throne if I had a throne to offer her? And do you suppose I mean to

sacrifice the happiness of my whole life to the narrow policy or selfish

ambition of my father?'

'Wait then, Sir, 'till time shall produce some alteration in your

favour. Emmeline is yet very young, too young indeed to marry. Perhaps,

when Lord and Lady Montreville are convinced that she only can make you

happy, they may consent to your union.'

'You little know, Madam, the hopelessness of such an expectation. Were

it possible that any arguments, any motives could engage my father to

forego all the projects of aggrandizing his family by splendid and rich

alliances, my mother will, I know, ever be inexorable. She will not hear

the name of Emmeline. Last winter she incessantly persecuted me with

proposals of marriage, and is now bent upon persuading me to engage my

hand to Miss Otley, a relation of her own, who possesses indeed an

immense fortune, and is of rank; but who of all women living would make

me the most miserable. The fatigueing arguments I have heard about this

match, and the fruitless and incessant solicitude of my mother, convince

me I cannot, for both our sakes, too soon put an end to it.'

Mrs. Stafford, notwithstanding the vehement plausibility of Delamere,

still declined giving to Emmeline such advice as he wished to engage her

to offer; and tho' aware of all the advantages such a marriage would

procure her friend, she would not influence her to a determination her

heart could not approve.

While Delamere therefore was pleading vainly to her, Fitz-Edward was

exhausting in his discourse with Emmeline, all that rhetoric on behalf

of his friend, which had already succeeded so frequently for himself.

Tho' he had given way to Delamere's eagerness, and had accompanied him

in pursuit of Miss Mowbray, after a few feeble arguments against it, he

never intended to encourage him in his resolution of marrying her; which

he thought a boyish and romantic plan, and one, of which he would

probably be weary before it could be executed. But as it was a military

maxim, that in love and war all stratagems are allowable, he failed not

to lay as much stress on the honourable intentions of Delamere, as if he

had really meant to assist in carrying them into effect.

Emmeline heard him in silence: or when an answer of some kind seemed to

be extorted from her, she told him that she referred herself entirely to

Mrs. Stafford, and would not even speak upon the subject but before her,

and as she should dictate.

In this way several meetings passed between Delamere, the colonel, and

the two ladies; for unless the latter had wholly confined themselves,

there was no possible way of avoiding the importunate assiduity of the

gentlemen. Fitz-Edward had a servant who was an adept in such

commissions, and who was kept constantly on the watch; so that they were

traced and followed, in spite of all their endeavours to avoid it.

Mrs. Stafford, however, persuaded Emmeline to be less uneasy at it, as

she assured her she would never leave her; and that there could be no

misrepresentation of her conduct while they were together.

Every day they expected some consequence from Mrs. Stafford's letter to

Lord Montreville; but for ten days, though they had heard nothing, they

satisfied themselves with conjectures.

Ten days more insensibly passed by; and they began to think it very

extraordinary that his Lordship should give no attention to an affair,

which only a few months before seemed to have occasioned him so much

serious alarm.

In this interval, Delamere saw Emmeline every day; and Fitz-Edward, on

behalf of his friend's views, attached himself to Mrs. Stafford with an

attention as marked and as warm as that of Delamere towards Miss

Mowbray.

He was well aware of the power a woman of her understanding must have

over an heart like Emmeline's; so new to the world, so ingenuous, and so

much inclined to indulge all the delicious enthusiasm of early

friendship.

He had had a slight acquaintance with Mrs. Stafford when she was first

married; and knew enough of her husband to be informed of the source of

that dejection, which, through all her endeavours to conceal it,

frequently appeared; and having lived always among those who consider

attachments to married women as allowable gallantries, and having had

but too much success among them, Fitz-Edward thought he could take

advantage of Mrs. Stafford's situation, to entangle her in a connection

which would make her more indulgent to the weakness of her friend for

Delamere.

But such was the awful, yet simple dignity of her manner, and so sacred

the purity of unaffected virtue, that he dared not hazard offending her;

while aware of the tendency of his flattering and incessant assiduity,

she was always watchful to prevent any diminution of the respect she had

a right to exact; and without affecting to shun his society, which was

extremely agreeable, she never suffered him to assume, in his

conversation with her, those freedoms which often made him admired by

others; nor allowed him to avow that libertinism of principle which she

lamented that he possessed.

Fitz-Edward, who had at first undertaken to entertain her merely with a

view of favouring Delamere's conversation with Emmeline, almost

imperceptibly found that it had charms on his own account. He could not

be insensible of the graces of a mind so highly cultivated; and he felt

his admiration mingled with a reverence and esteem of which he had never

before been sensible: but his vanity was piqued at the coldness with

which she received his studied and delicate adulation; and, for the

first time in his life, he was obliged to acknowledge to himself, that

there might be a woman whose mind was superior to it's influence.

Not being disposed very tranquilly to submit to this mortifying

conviction, he became more anxious to secure that partiality from Mrs.

Stafford, which, since he found it so hard to acquire, became necessary

to his happiness; and, in the hope of obtaining it, he would probably

long have persisted, had not his attention been soon afterwards diverted

to another object.

It wanted only a few days of a month since Mrs. Stafford's letter was

dispatched to Lord Montreville. But the carelessness of the servant who

was left in charge of the house in Berkley-square was the only reason of

his not noticing it.

Immediately after the birth-day, his Lordship had quitted London on a

visit to a nobleman in Buckinghamshire, whither his son had attended

him, and where they parted. Delamere, under pretence of seeing his

friend Percival, really went into Berkshire; and Lord Montreville,

having insisted on Delamere's joining him at the house of Lady Mary

Otley, beyond Durham, where Lady Montreville and her two daughters were

already gone, set out himself for that place, where they intended to

pass the months of July and August. He had many friends to visit on the

road; and when his Lordship arrived there, he found all his letters had,

instead of following him as he had directed, been sent immediately

thither; and instead of finding his son, or an account of his intended

arrival, he had the mortification of reading Mrs. Stafford's

information.

Delamere had, indeed, passed a few days with Mr. Percival, and had

written to his father from thence; but he had also seen Headly, from

whom he had extorted the secret of Emmeline's residence.

Fitz-Edward, to whose sister Mr. Percival was lately married, had joined

Delamere at the house of his brother-in-law: and Delamere persisting in

his resolution of seeing Emmeline, had, without much difficulty,

prevailed on Fitz-Edward, (who had some weeks on his hands before he was

to join his regiment in Ireland, and who had no aversion to any plan

that looked like an intrigue) to accompany him.

They contrived to gain Mr. Percival: and Delamere, by inclosing letters

to him, which were forwarded to his father as if he had been still

there, imagined that he had prevented all probability of discovery.

Could he have persuaded Emmeline to a Scottish marriage, (which he very

firmly believed he should) he intended as soon as they were married, to

have taken her to the house of Lady Mary Otley, and to have presented

her to his father, his mother, his sisters, and Lady Mary and her

daughter, who were also his relations, as his wife.

Lord Montreville, on reading Mrs. Stafford's letter, shut himself up in

his own apartment to consider what was to be done.

He knew Delamere too well to believe that writing, or the agency of any

other person, would have on him the least effect.

He was convinced therefore he must go himself; yet to return

immediately, without giving Lady Montreville some very good reason, was

impossible; nor could he think of any that would content her, but the

truth. Though he would very willingly have concealed from her what had

happened, he was obliged to send for her, and communicate to her the

intelligence received from Mrs. Stafford.

Her Ladyship, whose pride was, if possible, more than adequate to her

high blood, and whose passions were as strong as her reason was feeble,

received this information with all those expressions of rage and

contempt which Lord Montreville had foreseen.

Though the conduct of Emmeline was such as all her prejudice could not

misunderstand, she loaded her with harsh and injurious appellations, and

blamed his Lordship for having fostered a little reptile, who was now

likely to disgrace and ruin the family to which she pretended to belong.

She protested, that if Delamere dared to harbour so degrading an idea as

that of marrying her, she would blot him for ever from her affection,

and if possible from her memory.

Lord Montreville was obliged to wait 'till the violence of her first

emotion had subsided, before he ventured to propose going himself to

recall Delamere. To this proposal, however, her Ladyship agreed; and

when she became a little cooler, consented readily to conceal, if

possible, from Lady Mary Otley, the reason of Lord Montreville's abrupt

departure, which was fixed for the next day; for the knowledge of it

could not have any good effect on the sentiments of Lady Mary and her

daughter; the former of whom was at present as anxious as Lady

Montreville for an union of their families.

After some farther reflection, Lord Montreville thought that as Delamere

was extremely fond of his youngest sister, her influence might be of

great use in detaching him from his pursuit. It was therefore settled

that she should accompany his Lordship; making the most plausible story

they could, to account for a departure so unexpected; and leaving Lady

Montreville and Miss Delamere as pledges of their intended return, Lord

Montreville and his daughter Augusta set out post for London, in their

way to Swansea.

CHAPTER IX

Emmeline had, for some days, complained of a slight indisposition; and

being somewhat better, had determined to walk out in the evening; but

having rather favoured and indulged her illness, as it gave her a

pretext for avoiding Delamere, whose long and vehement assiduities began

to give great uneasiness to both the ladies, she still answered to their

enquiries that she was too ill to leave her room, and in consequence of

this message, she and Mrs. Stafford, who came to sit with her, soon

afterwards saw the Colonel and Delamere ride by as if for their evening

airing. They kissed their hands as they passed; and as soon as the

ladies believed them quite out of sight, and had observed the way they

had gone, Emmeline, who had confined herself three days to her room, and

who languished for air, proposed a short walk the opposite way, to which

Mrs. Stafford consented; and as soon as the heat was a little abated,

they set out, and enjoyed a comfortable and quiet walk for near an hour;

from which they were returning, when they saw Delamere and Fitz-Edward

riding towards them.

They dismounted, and giving their horses to their servants, joined them;

Delamere reproaching Emmeline for the artifice she had used, yet

congratulating himself on seeing her again. But his eyes eagerly running

over her person, betrayed his extreme anxiety and concern at observing

her pale and languid looks, and the lassitude of her whole frame.

Fitz-Edward, in a whisper, made the same remarks on her appearance to

Mrs. Stafford; who answered, 'that if Mr. Delamere persisted in pursuing

her, she did not doubt but that it would end in her going into a

decline.'

'Say rather,' answered Fitz-Edward artfully, 'that the interesting

languor on the charming countenance of your friend, arises from the

sensibility of her heart. She cannot surely see Delamere, dying for her

as he is, without feeling some disposition to answer a passion so ardent

and sincere: I know it is impossible she should. It is only your Stoic

prudence, your cold and unfeeling bosom, which can arm itself against

all the enthusiasm of love, all the tenderness of friendship. Miss

Mowbray's heart is made of softer materials; and were it not for the

inhuman reserve you have taught her, poor Delamere had long since met a

more suitable return to an attachment, of which, almost any other woman

would glory in being the object.'

There was something in this speech particularly displeasing to Mrs.

Stafford; who answered, 'that he could not pay her a compliment more

gratifying, than when he told her she had been the means of saving Miss

Mowbray from indiscretion; though she was well convinced, that her own

excellent understanding, and purity of heart, made any monitor

unnecessary.'

'However,' continued she, 'if you think that _my_ influence has

prevented her entering into all the wild projects of Mr. Delamere,

continue to believe, that while I am with her the same influence will

invariably be exerted to the same purpose.'

Delamere and Emmeline, who were a few paces before them while this

dialogue was passing, were now met by Parkinson, the colonel's servant,

who addressing himself to Delamere, told him that Lord Montreville and

one of the young ladies were that moment alighted from their carriage at

the inn, and had sent to his lodgings to enquire for him.

Mrs. Stafford advancing, heard the intelligence, and looked anxiously at

Emmeline, who turned paler than death at the thoughts of Lord

Montreville.

Delamere was alternately red and pale. He hesitated, and tried to

flatter himself that Parkinson was mistaken; while Fitz-Edward, who

found he should be awkwardly situated between the father and son,

silently meditated his defence.

Mrs. Stafford, who saw Emmeline ready to sink with the apprehension of

being seen walking with Delamere, intreated the gentlemen to leave them

and go to Lord Montreville; which she at length prevailed on them to do;

Delamere pressing Emmeline's hand to his lips, and protesting, with a

vehemence of manner particularly his own, that no power on earth should

oblige him to relinquish her.

Mrs. Stafford got the trembling Emmeline home as well as she could;

where she endeavoured to strengthen her resolution and restore her

spirits, by representing to her the perfect rectitude with which she had

acted.

But poor Delamere, who had no such consolatory reflections, felt very

uneasy, and would willingly have avoided the immediate explanation which

he saw must now take place with his father.

He determined, however, to temporize no longer; but being absolutely

fixed in his resolution of marrying Emmeline, to tell his father so, and

to meet all the effects of his anger at once.

In this disposition, he desired Fitz-Edward to leave him; and he entered

alone the parlour of the inn where Lord Montreville waited for him. His

countenance expressed a mixture of anger and confusion; while that of

his Lordship betrayed yet sterner symptoms of the state of his mind.

Augusta Delamere, her eyes red with weeping, and her voice faultering

through agitation, arose, and met her brother half-way.

'My dear brother!' said she, taking his hand.

He kissed her cheek; and bowing to his father, sat down.

'I have taken the trouble to come hither, Sir,' said Lord Montreville,

'in consequence of having received information of the wicked and

unworthy pursuit in which you have engaged. I command you, upon your

duty, instantly to return with me, and renounce for ever the scandalous

project of seducing an innocent young woman, whom _you_ ought rather to

respect and whom _I_ will protect.'

'I intend ever to do both, Sir; and when she is my wife, you will be

released from the task of protecting her, and will only have to love her

as much as her merit deserves. Be assured, my Lord, I have no such

designs against the honour of Miss Mowbray as you impute to me. It is my

determined and unalterable intention to marry her. Would to God your

Lordship would conquer the unreasonable prejudice which you have

conceived against the only union which will secure the happiness of your

son, and endeavour to reconcile my mother to a marriage on which I am

resolved.'

Having pronounced these words in a resolute tone, he arose from his

seat, bowed slightly to his father, and waving his hand to his sister,

as if to prevent her following him, he walked indignantly out of the

room.

Lord Montreville made no effort to stop him. But the recollection of the

fatal indulgence with which he had been brought up recurred forcibly to

his Lordship's mind; and he felt his anger against his son half subdued

by the reproaches he had to make himself. The very sight of this darling

son, was so gratifying, that he almost forgot his errors when he beheld

him.

After a moment's pause, Lord Montreville said to his daughter, 'You see,

Augusta, the disposition your brother is in. Violent measures will, I

fear, only make him desperate. We must try what can be done by Miss

Mowbray herself, who will undoubtedly consent to elude his pursuit, and

time may perhaps detach him from it entirely. For this purpose, I would

have _you_ see Emmeline to-morrow early; and having talked to her, we

can consider on what to determine. To night, try to recover your

fatigue.'

'Let me go to night, Sir,' said his daughter.--'It is not yet more than

eight o'clock, and I am sensible of no fatigue that should prevent my

seeing the young lady immediately.'

Lord Montreville assenting, Miss Delamere, attended by a servant, walked

to the house of Mrs. Watkins.

The door was opened by the good woman herself; and on enquiry for Miss

Mowbray, she desired the lady to walk in, and sit down in her little

room, while she went up to let Miss know.--'For I can't tell,' said she,

(folding up a stocking she was knitting) 'whether she be well enough to

see a strange gentlewoman. She have been but poorly for this week; and

to night, after she came from walking, she was in such a taking, poor

thing, we thought she'd a had a fit; and so Madam Stafford, who is just

gone, bid her she should lie down a little and keep quiet.'

This account, added to the disquiet of the fair mediatrix; who fancied

the heart of Emmeline could hardly fail of being of Delamere's party,

and that uneasiness at his father's arrival occasioned the agitation of

her spirits which Mrs. Watkins described.

Mrs. Watkins returned immediately, saying that Miss Emmy would be down

in a moment.

Emmeline instantly guessed who it was, by the description of the young

Lady and the livery of the servant who attended her: and now, with a

beating heart and uncertain step, she entered the room.

Miss Delamere had been prepared to see a very beautiful person: but the

fair figure whom she now beheld, though less dazlingly handsome than she

expected, was yet more interesting and attractive than she would have

appeared in the highest bloom of luxuriant beauty. Her late illness had

robbed her cheeks of that tender bloom they usually boasted; timidity

and apprehension deprived her of much of the native dignity of her

manner; yet there was something in her face and deportment that

instantly prejudiced Miss Delamere in her favour, and made her

acknowledge that her brother's passion had at least personal charms for

it's excuse.

A silent curtsey passed between the two ladies--and both being seated,

Miss Delamere began.--

'I believe, Miss Mowbray, you know that my father, Lord Montreville, in

consequence of a letter received from Mrs. Stafford, who is, he

understands, a friend of your's, arrived here this morning.'

'The letter, madam, was written at my particular request; that my Lord

did not notice it sooner, has, believe me, given me great concern.'

'I do sincerely believe it; and every body must applaud your conduct in

this affair. My father was, by accident, prevented receiving the letter

for some weeks: as soon as it reached him, we set out, and he has now

sent me to you, my dear cousin (for be assured I am delighted with the

relationship) to consult with you on what we ought to do.'

Emmeline, consoled yet affected by this considerate speech, found

herself relieved by tears.

'Though I am unable, madam,' said she, recovering herself, 'to advise,

be assured I am ready to do whatever you and Lord Montreville shall

dictate, to put an end to the projects your brother so perseveringly

attempts. Ah! Miss Delamere; my situation is singularly distressing. It

demands all your pity; all your father's protection!'

'You have, you shall have both, my dear Emmeline! as well as our

admiration for your noble and heroic conduct; and I beg you will not, by

being thus uneasy, injure your health and depress your spirits.'

This and many other consoling speeches, delivered in the persuasive

voice of friendly sympathy, almost restored Emmeline to her usual

composure; and after being together near an hour, Miss Delamere took her

leave, charmed with her new acquaintance, and convinced that she would

continue to act with the most exact obedience to the wishes of Lord

Montreville.

CHAPTER X

Lord Montreville, on hearing from his daughter what had passed between

her and Emmeline, was disposed to hope, that since she was so willing to

assist in terminating for ever the views of Delamere, they should be

able to prevail on him to relinquish them.

While Miss Delamere was with Emmeline, his Lordship had himself waited

on Mrs. Stafford, to whom he thought himself obliged.

He thanked her for the letter with which she had favoured him; and said,

'that having heard of the great regard with which she honoured Miss

Mowbray, he waited on her to beg her advice in the present difficult

circumstance. Since Mr. Delamere has pursued her hither,' said his

Lordship, 'she cannot remain here; but to find a situation that will be

proper for her, and concealed from him, I own appears so difficult, that

I know not on what to determine.'

'My Lord,' answered Mrs. Stafford, 'I intended to have asked your

Lordship's permission to have been favoured with Miss Mowbray's company

for some months; and still hope to be indulged with it when I return

home. But could I go thither now, which I cannot, (my house not being in

a condition to receive me,) it would be impossible to prevent Mr.

Delamere's knowledge of her abode, if she was with me. But surely Mr.

Delamere will leave this place with you, and will not oblige Miss

Mowbray to quit her home to avoid him.'

'Ah, madam!' answered Lord Montreville, 'you do not yet know my son. The

impetuosity of his temper, which has never been restrained, it is now

out of my power to check; whatever he determines on he will execute, and

I have too much reason to fear that opposition only serves to strengthen

his resolution. While Emmeline is here, it will be impossible to prevail

on him to quit the place: and though her behaviour has hitherto been

irreproachable and meritorious, how can I flatter myself that so young a

woman will continue steadily to refuse a marriage, which would not only

relieve her at once from the difficulties and dependance of her

situation, but raise her to an elevated rank, and a splendid fortune.'

'To which,' said Mrs. Stafford, 'she would do honour. I do not, however,

presume to offer my opinion to your Lordship. You have, undoubtedly,

very strong reasons for your opposition to Mr. Delamere's wishes: and

his affluent fortune and future rank certainly give him a right to

expect both the one and the other in whoever he shall marry. But a more

lovely person, a better heart, a more pure and elegant mind, he will no

where meet with. Miss Mowbray will reflect as much credit as she can

borrow, on any family to which she may be allied.'

'I acknowledge, madam, that Miss Mowbray is a very amiable young woman;

but she never can be the wife of my son; and you I am sure are too

considerate to give any encouragement to so impossible an idea.'

After some farther conversation, Mrs. Stafford promised to endeavour to

recollect a proper situation for Miss Mowbray, where she might be

secured from the importunities of Delamere; and his Lordship took his

leave.

By six o'clock the next morning, Delamere was at Mrs. Watkins's door;

and nobody being visible but the maid servant, he entered the parlour,

and told her he wanted to speak with Miss Mowbray; but would wait until

she arose.

The maid told her mistress, who immediately descended; and Delamere, who

was known to her as a young Lord who was in love with Miss Emmy, was

courteously invited to her own parlour, and she offered to go up with

any message he should be pleased to send.

He begged she would only say to Miss Mowbray that a gentleman desired to

speak to her on business of consequence.

But the good woman, who thought she could do more justice to her

employer, told Emmeline, who was dressing herself, that 'the handsome

young Lord, as used to walk every night with her and Madam Stafford, was

below, and wanted to speak to her directly.'

At this information, Emmeline was extremely alarmed. She considered

herself as particularly bound by what had passed the evening before

between her and Augusta Delamere, to avoid her brother; and such an

interview as he now demanded must have an appearance to Lord Montreville

of which she could not bear to think. She desired Mrs. Watkins,

therefore, to let the gentleman know that she was not well, and could

not see any body.

'Why, Lord, Miss!' exclaimed the officious landlady, 'what can you mean

now by that? What! go for to refuse seeing such an handsome young man,

who is a Lord, and the like of that? I am sure it is so foolish, that I

shan't carry no such message.'

'Send Betty with it then,' answered Emmeline coldly; 'let her inform the

gentleman I cannot be seen.'

'Well,' said Mrs. Watkins, as she descended, 'it is strange nonsense, to

my fancy; but some folks never knows what they would be at.'

She then returned to the parlour, and very reluctantly delivered the

answer to Mr. Delamere; who asked if Emmeline was really ill?

'Ill,' said the complaisant hostess, 'I see nothing that ails her: last

night, indeed, she was in a desperate taking, and we had much ado to

hinder her from going into a fit; but to day I am sure she looks as if

she was as well as ever.'

Delamere asked for a pen and ink, with which she immediately furnished

him; and as she officiously offered to get him some breakfast, he

accepted it to gain time. While it was preparing he sent up to Emmeline

the following note:

'I came hither to entreat only one quarter of an hour's

conversation, which you cruelly deny me! You determine then,

Emmeline, to drive me to despair!

'You may certainly still refuse to see me; but you cannot oblige

me to quit this place, or to lose sight of your abode. My father

will, therefore, gain nothing by his ill-judged journey hither.

'But if you will allow me the interview I solicit, and after it

still continue to desire my absence, I will give you my promise to

go from hence to-morrow.

F. DELAMERE.'

The maid was sent up with this billet to Emmeline; who, after a moment's

consideration, determined to send it to Miss Delamere, and to tell her,

in an envelope, how she was situated.

Having enclosed it therefore, and desired the maid to go with it without

saying whither she was going, she bid her, as she went through the

house, deliver to Mr. Delamere another note, which was as follows:

'Sir,

'Your request of an interview, I think myself obliged on every

account to refuse. I am extremely sorry you determine to persevere

in offering me proposals, to which, though they do me a very high

and undeserved honour, I never ought to listen; and excuse me if I

add, that I never will.

EMMELINE MOWBRAY.'

Emmeline had not before so positively expressed her rejection of

Delamere's addresses. The peremptory stile, therefore, of this billet,

added to his extreme vexation at being overtaken by his father, and the

little hope that seemed to remain for him any way, operated altogether

on his rash and passionate disposition, and seemed to affect him with a

temporary phrenzy. He stamped about the room, dashed his head against

the wainscot, and seizing Mrs. Watkins by the arm, swore, with the most

frightful vehemence, that he would see Miss Mowbray though death were in

the way.

The woman concluding he was mad, screamed out to her husband, who

descending from his chamber in astonishment, put himself between his

wife and the stranger, demanding his business?

'Alack-a-day!' cried Mrs. Watkins, 'tis the young Lord. He is gone mad,

to be sure, for the love of Miss up stairs!'

Emmeline, who in so small a house could not avoid hearing all that

passed, now thought it better to go down; for she knew enough of

Delamere to fear that the effects of his fit of passion might be very

serious; and was certain that nothing could be more improper than so

much confusion.

She therefore descended the stairs, with trembling feet, and entered

Mrs. Watkins's parlour; where she saw Delamere, his eyes flashing fire

and his hands clenched, storming round the room, while Watkins followed

him, and bowing in his awkward way, 'begged his Honour would only please

to be pacified.'

There was something so terrifying in the wild looks of the young man,

that Emmeline having only half opened the door, retreated again from it,

and was hastening away. But Delamere had seen her; and darting out after

her, caught her before she could escape out of the passage, and she was

compelled to return into the room with him; where, on condition of his

being more composed, she agreed to sit down and listen to him.

Watkins and his wife having left the room, Delamere again renewed his

solicitations for a Scottish expedition. 'However averse,' said he, 'my

father and mother may at present be to our marriage, I know they will be

immediately reconciled when it is irrevocable. But if you continue to

harden your heart against me, of what advantage will it be to them?

Their ambition will still suffer; for I here swear by all that is

sacred, that then I never will marry at all; and by my dying without

posterity, their views will for ever be abortive, and their projects

disappointed.'

To this, and every other argument Delamere used, Emmeline answered,

'that having determined never to accept of his hand, situated as she at

present was, nothing should induce her to break through a determination

which alone could secure her the approbation of her own heart.'

He then asked her, 'whether, if the consent of Lord and Lady Montreville

could be obtained, she would continue averse to him?'

This question she evaded, by saying, 'that it was to no purpose to

consider how she should act in an event so unlikely to happen.'

He then again exerted all the eloquence which love rather than reason

lent him. But Emmeline combated his arguments with those of rectitude

and honour, by which she was resolutely bent to abide.

This steadiness, originating from principles he could not controvert or

deny, seemed, while it shewed him all its hopelessness, to give new

force to his passion. He became again almost frantic, and was anew

acting the part of a madman, when Mrs. Stafford and Miss Delamere

entered the house, and enquiring for Miss Mowbray, were shewn into the

room where she was with Delamere; who, almost exhausted by the violence

of those emotions he had so boundlessly indulged, had now thrown himself

into a chair, with his head leaning against the wainscot; his hair was

dishevelled, his eyes swoln, and his countenance expressed so much

passionate sorrow, that Augusta Delamere, extremely shocked, feared to

speak to him; while Emmeline, on the opposite side of the room, sat with

her handkerchief to her eyes; and as soon as she saw Mrs. Stafford, she

threw herself into her arms and sobbed aloud.

Delamere looked at Mrs. Stafford and his sister, but spoke to neither;

till Augusta approaching him, would have taken his hand; but he turned

from her.

'Oh, Frederic!' cried she, 'I beseech you to consider the consequence of

all this.'

'I consider nothing!' said he, starting up and going to the window.

His sister followed him.

'Go, go,' said he, turning angrily from her--'Go, leave me, leave me!

assist Lord Montreville to destroy his only son! go, and be a party in

the cruel policy that will make you and Fanny heiresses!'

The poor girl, who really loved her brother better than any thing on

earth, was quite overwhelmed by this speech; and her tears now flowed as

fast as those of Emmeline, who continued to weep on the bosom of Mrs.

Stafford.

Delamere looked at them both with a stern and angry countenance; then

suddenly catching his sister by the hand, which he eagerly grasped, he

said, in a low but resolute voice--'Tears, Augusta, are of no use. Do

not lament me, but try to help me. I am now going out for the whole day;

for I will not see my father only to repeat to him what I have already

said. Before I return, see what you can do towards persuading him to

consent to my marriage with Miss Mowbray; for be assured that if he does

not, the next meeting, in which I expect his answer, will be the last we

shall have.'

He then snatched up his hat, and disengaging himself from his sister,

who attempted to detain him, he went hastily out of the house; leaving

Mrs. Stafford, Miss Mowbray, and his sister, under great uneasiness and

alarm.

They thought it necessary immediately to inform Lord Montreville of the

whole conversation, and Miss Delamere dispatched a note to Fitz-Edward,

desiring him to attend to the motions of his friend.

Fitz-Edward was at breakfast with Lord Montreville; who took the first

opportunity of their being alone, to reproach him with some severity for

what he had done.

The Colonel heard him with great serenity; and then began to justify

himself, by assuring his Lordship that he had accompanied Delamere only

in hopes of being able to detach him from his pursuit, and because he

thought it preferable to his being left wholly to himself. He declared

that he meant to have given Lord Montreville information, if there had

appeared the least probability of Delamere's marriage; but that being

perfectly convinced, from the character of Emmeline, that there was

nothing to apprehend, he had every day hoped his friend would have

quitted a project in which there seemed not the least likelihood of

success, and would have returned to his family cured of his passion.

Though this was not all strictly true, Fitz-Edward possessed a sort of

plausible and insinuating eloquence, which hardly ever failed of

removing every impression, however strong, against him; and Lord

Montreville was conversing with him with his usual confidence and

friendship, when the note from Miss Delamere was brought in.

His Lordship, ever anxious for his son, gazed eagerly at it while

Fitz-Edward read it; and trembling, asked from whom it came?

Fitz-Edward put it into his hand; and having ran it over in breathless

terror, his Lordship hurried out, directing all his servants to go

several ways in search of Delamere; while he entreated Fitz-Edward to

run to whatever place he was likely to be in; and went himself to Mrs.

Stafford's lodging, who was by this time returned home.

What he heard from her of the scene of the morning, contributed to

encrease his alarm. The image of his son in all the wildness of

ungovernable passion, shook his nerves so much, that he seemed ready to

faint, yet unable to move to enquire where he was. As he could attend to

nothing else, Mrs. Stafford told him how anxiously she had thought of a

situation for Emmeline, and that she believed she had at length found

one that would do, 'if,' said she, 'your Lordship cannot prevail on him

to quit Swansea, which I think you had better attempt, though from the

scene of this morning I own I despair of it more than ever.

'The person with whom I hope to be able to place Miss Mowbray is Mrs.

Ashwood, the sister of Mr. Stafford. She has been two years a widow,

with three children, and resides at a village near London. She has a

very good fortune; and would be happy to have with her such a companion

as Miss Mowbray, 'till I am so fortunate as to be enabled to take her

myself. As her connections and acquaintance lie in a different set of

people, and in a remote part of the country from those of Mr. Delamere,

it is improbable, that with the precaution we shall take, he will ever

discover her residence.'

Lord Montreville expressed his sense of Mrs. Stafford's kindness in the

warmest terms. He assured her that he should never forget the friendly

part she had taken, and that if ever it was in his power to shew his

gratitude by being so happy as to have the ability to serve her or her

family, he should consider it as the most fortunate event of his life.

Mrs. Stafford heard this as matter of course; and would have felt great

compassion for Lord Montreville, whose state of mind was truly

deplorable, but she reflected that he had really been the author of his

own misery: first, by bringing up his son in a manner that had given

such boundless scope to his passions; and now, by refusing to gratify

him in marrying a young woman, who was, in the eye of unprejudiced

reason, so perfectly unexceptionable. She advised him to try once more

to prevail on his son to leave Swansea with him; and he left her to

enquire whether Fitz-Edward had yet found Delamere, whose absence gave

him the most cruel uneasiness.

Fitz-Edward, after a long search, had overtaken Delamere on an

unfrequented common, about a mile from the town, where he was walking

with a quick pace; and seeing Fitz-Edward, endeavoured to escape him.

But when he found he could not avoid him, he turned fiercely towards

him--'Why do you follow me, Sir? Is it not enough that you have broken

through the ties of honour and friendship in betraying me to my father?

must you still persecute me with your insidious friendship?'

Fitz-Edward heard him with great coolness; and without much difficulty

convinced him that Miss Mowbray herself had given the information to

Lord Montreville by means of Mrs. Stafford.

This conviction, while it added to the pain and mortification of

Delamere, greatly reconciled him to Fitz-Edward, whom he had before

suspected; and after a long conversation, which Fitz-Edward so managed

as to regain some degree of power over the passions of his impetuous

friend, he persuaded him to go and dine with Lord Montreville; having

first undertaken for his Lordship that nothing should be said on the

subject which occupied the thoughts of the father; on which condition

only the son consented to meet him.

CHAPTER XI

Notwithstanding the steadiness Emmeline had hitherto shewn in rejecting

the clandestine addresses of Delamere, he still hoped they would

succeed. A degree of vanity, pardonable in a young man possessing so

many advantages of person and fortune, made him trust to those

advantages, and to his unwearied assiduity, to conquer her reluctance.

He determined therefore to persevere; and did not imagine it was likely

he could again lose sight of her by a stratagem, against which he was

now on his guard.

As he fancied Lord Montreville and his sister designed to carry her with

them when they went, he kept a constant eye on their motions, and set

his own servant, and Fitz-Edward's valet, to watch the servants of Lord

Montreville.

Fitz-Edward, who had been so near losing the confidence of both the

father and son, found it expedient to observe a neutrality, which it

required all his address to support; being constantly appealed to by

them both.

Lord Montreville, he advised to adhere to moderate measures and gentle

persuasions, and to trust to Emmeline's own strength of mind and good

conduct; while to Delamere he recommended dissimulation; and advised him

to quit Swansea at present, which would prevent Emmeline's being removed

from thence, and leave it in his power at any time to see her again.

Lord Montreville, on cooler reflection, was by no means satisfied with

Fitz-Edward. To encourage his son's project, and even to accompany him

in it, in the vain hope of detaching him from Emmeline before an

irrevocable engagement could be formed, seemed to be at least very

blameable; and if he had seen the connection likely to take place on a

less honourable footing, his conduct was more immoral, if not so

impolitic.

Either way, Lord Montreville felt it so displeasing, that he determined

not to trust Fitz-Edward in what he now meditated, which was, to remove

Emmeline from Swansea before he and his daughter quitted it, and to

place her with the sister of Mr. Stafford; who being now arrived, had

engaged to obtain his sister's concurrence with their plan.

A female council therefore was held on the means of Emmeline's removal;

and it was settled that a post-chaise should, on the night fixed, be in

waiting at the distance of half a mile from the town; where Emmeline

should meet it; and that a servant of Mr. Stafford should accompany her

to London, who was from thence to return to his master's house in

Dorsetshire.

This arrangement being made three days after the arrival of Lord

Montreville, and his faithful old valet being employed to procure the

chaise, the hour arrived when poor Emmeline was again to abandon her

little home, where she had passed many tranquil and some delightful

days; and where she was to bid adieu to her two beloved friends,

uncertain when she should see them again.

Her friendship for Mrs. Stafford was enlivened by the warmest gratitude.

To her she owed the acquisition of much useful knowledge, as well as

instruction in those elegant accomplishments to which she was naturally

so much attached, but which she had no former opportunity of acquiring.

The charms of her conversation, the purity of her heart, and the

softness of her temper, made her altogether a character which could not

be known without being beloved; and Emmeline, whose heart was open to

all the enchanting impressions of early friendship, loved her with the

truest affection. The little she had seen of Augusta Delamere, had given

that young lady the second place in her heart. They were of the same

age, within a few weeks. Augusta Delamere extremely resembled the

Mowbray family: and there was, in figure and voice, a very striking

similitude between her and Emmeline Mowbray.

Lady Montreville, passionately attached to her son, as the heir and

representative of her family, and partial to her eldest daughter for her

great resemblance to herself, seemed on them to have exhausted all her

maternal tenderness, and to have felt for Augusta but a very inferior

share of affection.

Of the haughty and supercilious manners which made Lady Montreville

feared and disliked, she had communicated no portion to her younger

daughter; and if she had acquired something of the family pride, her

good sense, and the sweetness of her temper, had so much corrected it,

that it was by no means displeasing.

Elegantly formed as she was, and with a face, which, tho' less fair than

that of Emmeline was almost as interesting, her mother had yet always

expressed a disapprobation of her person; and she had therefore herself

conceived an indifferent opinion of it; and being taught to consider

herself inferior in every thing to her elder sister, she never fancied

she was superior to others; nor, though highly accomplished, and

particularly skilled in music, did she ever obtrude her acquisitions on

her friends, or anxiously seek opportunities of displaying them.

Her heart was benevolent and tender; and her affection for her brother,

the first of it's passions. She could never discover that he had a

fault; and the error in regard to Emmeline, which his father so much

dreaded, appeared to his sister a virtue.

She was deeply read in novels, (almost the only reading that young women

of fashion are taught to engage in;) and having from them acquired many

of her ideas, she imagined that Delamere and Emmeline were born for each

other; though she dared not appear to encourage hopes so totally

opposite to those of her family, she found, after she had once seen and

conversed with Emmeline, that she never could warmly oppose an union

which she was convinced would make her brother happy.

She fancied that Emmeline could not be insensible to Delamere's love;

she even believed she saw many symptoms of regard for him in her manner,

and that she made the most heroic sacrifice of her love to her duty,

when she resigned him: a sacrifice which heightened, almost to

enthusiasm, the pity and esteem felt for her by Augusta Delamere; and

though they had known each other only a few days, a sisterly affection

had taken place between them.

But from these two friends, so tenderly and justly beloved, Emmeline was

now to depart, and to be thrown among strangers, where it was improbable

she would meet with any who would supply the loss of them. Her duty

however demanded this painful effort; and she determined to execute it

with courage and resolution.

Delamere was so perpetually about his father, that it was judged

improper for him to hold any private conference with Emmeline, lest

something should be suspected.

His Lordship therefore sent her by Mrs. Stafford a bank note of fifty

pounds; with his thanks for the propriety of her conduct, and an

assurance, that while she continued to merit his protection, he should

consider her as his daughter, and take care to supply her with money,

and every thing else she might wish for. He desired she would not write;

lest her hand should be known, and her abode traced; but said, that in a

few weeks he would see her himself, and wished her all possible health

and happiness.

On the night of her departure, instead of retiring to rest at the usual

hour, Emmeline dressed herself in a travelling dress, and passed some

melancholy hours waiting for the signal of her departure.

At half past two in the morning, every thing being profoundly quiet, she

saw, from her window, her two friends, who had declared they would not

leave her 'till they saw her in the chaise.

She took with her only a small parcel of linen, Mrs. Stafford having

engaged to forward the rest to an address agreed upon; and softly

descending the stairs for fear of alarming Mrs. Watkins, she opened the

door; and each of her friends taking an arm, they passed over two

fields, into a lane where the chaise was waiting with the servant who

was to go with her.

The tears had streamed from her eyes during the little walk, and she was

unable to speak. The servant now opened the chaise door and let down the

step; and Emmeline kissing the hand of Mrs. Stafford, and then that of

Augusta Delamere, went hastily into it--'God bless you both!' said she,

in a faint and inarticulate voice. The servant shut the door, mounted a

post horse, and the chaise was in an instant out of sight; while the two

ladies, who at any other time would have been alarmed at being obliged

to take so late a walk, thought not of themselves; but full of concern

for poor Emmeline, went back in tears; and Miss Delamere, who had agreed

to remain the rest of that night at the lodgings of Mrs. Stafford,

retired not to rest, but to weep for the departure of her friend and the

distress of her brother.

Emmeline, thus separated from every body she loved, pursued her journey

melancholy and repining.

The first hour, she wept bitterly, and accused her destiny of caprice

and cruelty. But tho' to the unfortunate passion of Delamere she owed

all the inconvenience she had lately experienced, she could not resolve

to hate him; but found a degree of pity and regard perpetually mingled

itself with his idea in her heart. Yet she was not in love; and had

rather the friendship of a sister for him than any wish to be his wife.

Had there been no impediments to their union, she would have married

him, rather to make him happy than because she thought it would make

herself so; but she would have seen him married to another, and have

rejoiced at it, if he had found felicity.

An attachment like his, which had resisted long absence, and was

undiminished by insuperable difficulties, could hardly fail of having

it's effect on the tender and susceptible mind of Emmeline. But whatever

affection she felt, it by no means arose to what a romantic girl would

have perhaps fancied it; and she was much more unhappy at quitting the

dear Augusta than at the uncertainty she was in whether she should ever

again see Delamere.

The parting was extremely embittered by the prohibition she had received

in regard to writing to her. But painful as it was, she determined to

forbear; and steadily to adhere to that line of duty, however difficult

to practice, that only could secure the peace of her mind, by the

acquittal of her conscience; which, as she had learned from Mrs.

Stafford, as well as from her own experience, short as it was, could

alone support her in every trial to which she might be exposed.

She reflected on her present situation, compared to what it would have

been had she been prevailed upon to become the wife of Delamere against

the consent of his family.

Splendid as his fortune was, and high as his rank would raise her above

her present lot of life, she thought that neither would reconcile her to

the painful circumstance of carrying uneasiness and contention into his

family; of being thrown from them with contempt, as the disgrace of

their rank and the ruin of their hopes; and of living in perpetual

apprehension lest the subsiding fondness of her husband should render

her the object of his repentance and regret.

The regard she was sensible of for Delamere did not make her blind to

his faults; and she saw, with pain, that the ungovernable violence of

his temper frequently obscured all his good qualities, and gave his

character an appearance of ferocity, which offered no very flattering

prospect to whosoever should be his wife.

By thus reasoning with herself, she soon became more calm, and more

reconciled to that destiny which seemed not to design her for Delamere.

She met with no remarkable occurrence in her journey; and on the evening

of the third day arrived in town; where the servant who attended her was

ordered to dismiss the chaise, and to procure her an hackney coach, in

which she proceeded to the house of Mrs. Ashwood.

This residence, situated in a populous village three miles from London,

bore the appearance of wealth and prosperity. The iron gate, which gave

entrance into a large court, was opened by a servant in a laced livery,

to whom Emmeline delivered the letter she had brought from Mrs.

Stafford, and after a moment's waiting the lady herself came out to

receive her.

Emmeline, by the splendour of her dress, concluded she had left a large

company: but being ushered into a parlour, found she had been drinking

tea alone; of which, or of any other refreshment, Miss Mowbray was

desired to partake.

Her reception of her visitor was perfectly cordial; and Emmeline soon

recovering her easy and composed manner, Mrs. Ashwood seemed very much

pleased with her guest; for there was in her countenance a passport to

all hearts.

Mrs. Ashwood, tho' not in the bloom of life, and tho' she never had been

handsome, was so unconscious of her personal disadvantages, that she

imagined herself the object of admiration of one sex and of the

imitation of the other. With the most perfect reliance on the graces of

a figure which never struck any other person as being at all remarkable,

she dressed with an exuberance of expence; and kept all the company her

neighbourhood afforded.

Where her ruling passions, (the love of admiration and excessive vanity)

did not interfere, she was sometimes generous and sometimes friendly.

But her ideas of her own perfections, both of person and mind, far

exceeding the truth, she had often the mortification to find that others

by no means thought of them as she did; and then her good humour was far

from invincible.

Though Emmeline soon found her conversation very inferior to what she

had of late been accustomed to, she thought herself fortunate in having

found an asylum, the mistress of which seemed desirous of making it

agreeable; and to which she was introduced by the kindness of her

beloved Mrs. Stafford.

But while serenity was returning to the bosom of Emmeline, that of poor

Delamere was torn with the cruellest tempest. The morning after

Emmeline's departure, Delamere, who expected no such thing, arose at his

usual hour and rode out alone, as he had frequently done. As he passed

her window, he looked up to it, and seeing it open, concluded she was in

her room.

On his return, his father met him, and asked him to breakfast; but he

designed to attend the tea-table of Mrs. Stafford, where he thought he

should meet Emmeline, and therefore excused himself; and Lord

Montreville, who wished the discovery to be delayed to as late an hour

of the day as possible, let him go thither, where he breakfasted; and

then proposed a walk to Mrs. Stafford, which he hoped would include a

visit to Emmeline, or at least that Mrs. Stafford would not walk without

her. She excused herself, however, on pretence of having letters to

write; and Delamere went in search of Fitz-Edward, whom he could not

find.

It was now noon, and he grew impatient at not having had even a glimpse

of Emmeline the whole morning, when he met Fitz-Edward's man, and asked

him hastily where his master was?

The man hesitated, and looked as if he had a secret which he contained

with some uneasiness. 'Sir,' said he, 'have you seen Miss Mowbray

to-day?'

'No--why do you ask?'

'Because, Sir,' said the fellow, 'I shrewdly suspect that she went away

from here last night. I can't tell your Honour why I thinks so; but you

may soon know the truth on't.'

The ardent imagination of Delamere instantly caught fire. He took it for

granted that Fitz-Edward had carried her off: and without staying to

reflect a moment, he flew to the inn where his horses were, and ordered

them to be saddled; then rushing into the room where his father and

sister were sitting together, he exclaimed--'she is gone, Sir--Emmeline

is gone!--but I will soon overtake her; and the infamous villain who has

torn her from me!'

Lord Montreville scorned to dissimulate. He answered, 'I know she is

gone, and it was by my directions she went. You cannot overtake her; nor

is it probable you will ever see her again. Endeavour therefore to

recollect yourself, and do not forget what you owe to your family and

yourself.'

Delamere attended but little to this remonstrance; but still

prepossessed with the idea of Fitz-Edward's being gone with her, he

swore perpetual vengeance against him, and that he would pursue him

through the world.

With this resolution on his lips, and fury in his eyes, he quitted his

father's apartment, and at the door met Fitz-Edward himself, coming to

enquire after him.

He was somewhat ashamed of the hasty conclusion he had made, and was

therefore more disposed to hear what Fitz-Edward had to say, who

presently convinced him that he was entirely ignorant of the flight of

Emmeline.

Delamere now insisted, that as a proof of his friendship he would

instantly set out with him in pursuit of her.

Fitz-Edward knew not what to do; but however seemed to consent; and

saying he would order his servant to get his horse, left him, and went

to Lord Montreville, to whom he represented the impracticability of

stopping Delamere.

His Lordship, almost certain that Emmeline was out of the possibility of

his overtaking her, as she had now been gone thirteen hours, thought it

better for Fitz-Edward, if he could not prevent his departure, to go

with him: but he desired him to make as many artificial delays as

possible.

Delamere, in the mean time, had been to Mrs. Stafford, and tried to

force from her the secret of Emmeline's route. But she was inexorable;

and proof against his phrenzy as well as his persuasion. She held him,

however, as long as she could, in discourse. But when he found she only

tried to make him lose time, he left her, in an agony of passion, and

mounting his horse, while his trembling servants were ordered to follow

him on pain of instant dismission, he rode out of the town without

seeing his father, leaving a message for Fitz-Edward that he had taken

the London road, and expected he would come after him instantly.

Lord Montreville intreated Fitz-Edward to lose not a moment; and bidding

an hasty adieu to his Lordship, he ordered his horses to the door of

Mrs. Stafford, where he took a formal leave of her and her husband,

entreating permission to renew his acquaintance hereafter. Then getting

on horseback, he made as much speed as possible after Delamere; whom

with difficulty he overtook some miles forward on the London road.

This way Delamere had taken on conjecture only; but after proceeding

some time, he had met a waggoner, whom he questioned. The man told him

of a post chaise he had met at four o'clock in the morning; and

encouraged by that to proceed, he soon heard from others enough to make

him believe he was right.

The horses, however, at the end of forty miles, were too much fatigued

to keep pace with Delamere's impatience. He was obliged to wait three

hours before post horses could be found for himself and Fitz-Edward. His

servants were obliged to remain yet longer; and the horses which were

at length procured, were so lame and inadequate to the journey, that it

was six hours before they reached the next stage; where the same

difficulty occurred; and Delamere, between the fatigue of his body and

anxiety of his mind, found himself compelled to take some rest.

The next day he still traced Emmeline from stage to stage, and imagined

himself very near her: but the miserable horse on which he rode, being

unable to execute his wish as to speed, and urged beyond his strength,

fell with him in a stage about sixty miles from London; by which

accident he received a contusion on his breast, and was bruised so much

that Fitz-Edward insisted on his being blooded and put to bed; and then

went to the apothecary of the village near which the accident happened,

and procuring a phial of laudanum, infused it into the wine and water

which Delamere drank, and by that artifice obtained for him the repose

he otherwise would not have been prevailed on to take.

After having slept several hours, he desired to pursue his journey in a

post chaise; but Fitz-Edward had taken care that none should be

immediately to be had. By these delays only it was that Emmeline reached

London some hours before him.

However, when he renewed his journey, he still continued to trace her

from stage to stage, till the last postillion who drove her was found.

He said, that he was ordered to stop at the first stand of coaches, into

one of which the lady went, and, with the servant behind, drove away;

but the lad neither knew the number of the coach, or recollected the

coachman, or did he remember whither the coach was ordered to go.

Delamere passed two days, questioning all the coachmen on the stand; and

in consequence of information pretended to be given by some of them, he

got into two or three quarrels by going to houses they pointed out to

him. And after offering and giving rewards which only seemed to redouble

his difficulties, he appeared to be farther than ever from any

probability of finding the fair fugitive he so anxiously sought.

Lord Montreville and his daughter staid only two days at Swansea after

his departure. They travelled in very indifferent spirits to London;

where they found Delamere ill at the lodgings of Fitz-Edward in

Hill-street.

Lord Montreville found there was nothing alarming in his son's

indisposition; but could not persuade him to accompany him to Lady Mary

Otley's.

His Lordship and Miss Augusta Delamere set out therefore for that place;

leaving Delamere to the care of Fitz-Edward, who promised not to quit

him 'till he had agreed either to go to the Norfolk estate or to Mr.

Percival's.

Lord Montreville was tolerably satisfied that he could not discover

Emmeline; and Delamere having for above a fortnight attended at all

public places without seeing her, and having found every other effort to

meet her fruitless, reluctantly agreed to go to his father's estate in

Norfolk.

It was now almost the end of August; and Fitz-Edward, after seeing him

part of the way, took his leave of him, and again went to attend his

duty in the North of Ireland.

CHAPTER XII

While Delamere, in the deepest despondence, which he could neither

conquer or conceal, made a vain effort to divert his mind with those

amusements for which he no longer had any relish, Emmeline, at her new

residence, attracted the attention of many of Mrs. Ashwood's visitors.

A widow, in possession of an handsome jointure, and her children amply

provided for, Mrs. Ashwood was believed to entertain no aversion to a

second marriage: and her house being so near London, was frequented by a

great number of single men; many of whom came there because it was a

pleasant jaunt from the city, where most of them resided; and others,

with hopes of amending their fortunes by an alliance with the lady

herself.

These latter, however, were chiefly the younger sons of merchants; and

though pleased with their flattery and assiduity, Mrs. Ashwood, who had

an almost equal share of vanity and ambition, had yet given no very

decided preference to any; for she imagined her personal attractions, of

which she had a very high idea, added to the advantages of a good

income, good expectations, and opulent connections, entitled her to

marry into an higher line of life than that in which her father had

first engaged her.

Her acquaintance, however, was yet very limited among persons of

fashion; and it was not wholly without hopes of encreasing it that she

had consented to receive Miss Mowbray, whose relationship to Lord

Montreville would, she imagined, be the means of introducing her to his

Lordship's notice and to that of his family.

Her civility and kindness to Emmeline were unbounded for some time. And

as she was not easily convinced of her own want of beauty, she never

apprehended that she ran some risk of becoming a foil, instead of the

first figure, as she expected generally to be.

The extreme simplicity of Emmeline's appearance, who notwithstanding the

remonstrances of Mrs. Ashwood continued to dress nearly as she did in

Wales; and her perfect ignorance of fashionable life and fashionable

accomplishments, gave her, in the eyes of many of Mrs. Ashwood's

visitors, the air of a dependant; and those who visited with a view to

the fortune of the latter, carefully avoided every appearance of

preference to Emmeline, and kept her friend in good humour with herself.

But there were, among those who frequented her house, some men of

business; who being rather in middle life, and immensely rich, had no

other views in going thither than to pass a few hours in the country,

when their mercantile engagements prevented their leaving London

entirely; and who loved pleasure better than any thing but money.

With one or two of these, Mrs. Ashwood and her father had at different

times encouraged overtures of marriage. But they knew and enjoyed the

pleasure their fortune and single state afforded them too well to give

those indulgences up for the advantage of increasing their incomes,

unless the object had possessed greater attractions than fell to the

share of Mrs. Ashwood; and her father could not be prevailed upon to

give her (at least while he lived) a sum of money large enough to tempt

their avarice. These overtures therefore had ended in nothing more than

an intercourse of civility.

But Emmeline no sooner appeared, than one of these gentlemen renewed his

visits with more than his original assiduity.

The extreme beauty of her person, and the _naivetè_ of her manners, gave

her, to him, the attractive charms of novelty; while the mystery there

seemed to be about her, piqued his curiosity.

It was known that she was related to a noble family; but Mrs. Ashwood

had been so earnestly entreated to conceal as much as possible her real

history, lest Delamere should hear of and discover her, that she only

told it to a few friends, and it had not yet reached the knowledge of

Mr. Rochely, who had become the attendant of Mrs. Ashwood's tea table

from the first introduction of Emmeline.

Mr. Rochely was nearer fifty than forty. His person, heavy and badly

proportioned, was not relieved by his countenance, which was dull and

ill-formed. His voice, monotonous and guttural, was fatiguing to the

ear; and the singularity of his manners, as well as the oddness of his

figure, often excited a degree of ridicule, which the respect his riches

demanded could not always stifle.

With a person so ill calculated to inspire affection, he was very

desirous of being a favourite with the ladies; and extremely sensible of

their attractions. In the inferior ranks of life, his money had procured

him many conquests, tho' he was by no means lavish of it; and much of

the early part of his time had been passed in low amours; which did not,

however, impede his progress to the great wealth he possessed. He had

always intended to marry: but as he required many qualifications in a

wife which are hardly ever united, he had hesitated till he had long

been looked upon as an old bachelor.

He was determined to chuse beauty, but expected also fortune. He desired

to marry a woman of family, yet feared the expensive turn of those

brought up in high life; and had a great veneration for wit and

accomplishments, but dreaded, lest in marrying a woman who possessed

them, he should be liable to be governed by superior abilities, or be

despised for the mediocrity of his own understanding.

With such ideas, his relations saw him perpetually pursuing some

matrimonial project; but so easily frightened from his pursuit, that

they relied on his succession with the most perfect confidence.

When first he beheld Emmeline, he was charmed with her person; her

conversation, at once innocent and lively, impressed him with the most

favourable ideas of her heart and understanding; and, brought up at a

great distance from London, she had acquired no taste for expences, no

rage for those amusements and dissipations which he so much apprehended

in a wife.

When he came to Mrs. Ashwood's, (which was almost every afternoon)

Emmeline, who was generally at work, or drawing in the dressing-room,

never discomposed herself; but sat quietly to what she was doing;

listening with the most patient complaisance to the long and

uninteresting stories with which he endeavoured to entertain her; an

attention which greatly contributed to win the heart of Rochely; and he

was as much in love as so prudent a man could be, before he ventured to

ask himself what he intended? or what was the family and what the

fortune of the person who now occupied most of his time and a great

portion of his thoughts?

Mrs. Ashwood, frequently engaged at the neighbouring card-tables, from

which Emmeline almost always excused herself, often left her and Mr.

Rochely to drink tea together; and when she was at home, would sometimes

make her party in another room, where the subject of laughter with her

own admirers, was the growing passion of the rich banker for the fair

stranger.

Emmeline did not, when present, escape ridicule on this subject: but as

she had not the least idea that a man so much older than herself had any

intention of offering himself as an husband, she bore it with great

tranquillity, and continued to behave to Mr. Rochely with the attentive

civility dictated by natural good breeding; while she heard, without any

concern but on his account, the perpetual mirth and loud bursts of

laughter which followed his compliments and attentions to her.

If he was absent a few days, the door of Mrs. Ashwood was crouded with

servants and porters with game from Mr. Rochely. And his assiduities

became at every visit more marked.

As it was now late in the autumn, Mrs. Ashwood was desirous of shewing

Miss Mowbray some of those public places she had not yet seen; and

Emmeline (not apprehending there was any reason to fear meeting Mr.

Delamere at a season when she knew field sports kept him altogether in

the country) made no difficulty to accompany her.

Mr. Rochely no sooner heard a party to the play proposed, than he

desired to join it; and Mrs. Ashwood, Miss Galton, (an intimate friend

of her's), with Miss Mowbray, Mr. Hanbury, (one of Mrs. Ashwood's

admirers), and Mr. Rochely, met at Drury-Lane Theatre; where Emmeline

was extremely well entertained.

When the play was over, the box was filled with several of Mrs.

Ashwood's acquaintance, who talked to _her_, while their eyes were fixed

on her young friend; an observation that did not greatly lighten up her

countenance.

The most conspicuous among these was a tall, thin, but extremely awkward

figure, which in a most fashionable undress, and with a glass held to

his eye, strided into the box, and bowing with a strange gesture to Mrs.

Ashwood, exclaimed--'Oh! my dear Mrs. A!--here I am!--returned from Spa

only last night; and already at your feet. So here you are? and not yet

enchained by that villainous fellow Hymen? You are a good soul, not to

give yourself away while I was at Spa. I was horridly afraid, my dear

widow! you would not have waited even to have given me a wedding

favour.'

To this speech, as it required no answer, Mrs. Ashwood gave very little;

for besides that she was not pleased with the matter, the manner

delighted her still less. The speaker had, during the whole of it,

leaned almost across the person who was next to him, to bring his glass

nearly close to Emmeline's face.

Emmeline, extremely discomposed, drew back; and Mr. Rochely, who sat

near her, putting away the glass softly with his hand, said very calmly

to the leaning beau--'Sir, is there any occasion to take an account of

this lady's features?'

'Ah! my friend Rochely!' answered he familiarly, 'what are you the

lady's Cicisbeo? as we say in Italy. Here is indeed beauty enough to

draw you from the contemplation of three per cent. consols, India bonds,

omnium, scrip, and douceurs. But prithee, my old friend, is this young

lady your ward?'

'My ward! no,' answered Rochely, 'how came you to think she was?'

Mr. Elkerton, who fancied he had vastly the advantage in point of wit,

as well as of figure, over his antagonist, now desired to know, 'whether

the lady was his niece? though if I had not recollected' said he, 'that

you never was married, I should have taken her for your grand daughter.'

This sarcasm had, on the features of Rochely, all the effect the

travelled man expected. But while he was preparing an answer, at which

he was never very prompt, the coach was announced to be ready, and

Emmeline, extremely weary of her situation, and disgusted even to

impatience with her new acquaintance, hastily arose to go.

Elkerton offered to take her hand; which she drew from him without

attempting to conceal her dislike; and accepting the arm of Rochely,

followed Mrs. Ashwood; while Elkerton, determined not to lose sight of

her, seized the hand of Miss Galton, who being neither young, handsome,

or rich, had been left to go out alone: they followed the rest of the

party to the coach, where Mrs. Ashwood and Miss Mowbray were already

seated, with Mr. Hanbury; who, as he resided with his mother in the

village where Mrs. Ashwood lived, was to accompany them home.

The coach being full, seemed to preclude all possibility of Elkerton's

admittance. But he was not so easily put off: and telling Mrs. Ashwood

he intended to go home to sup with her, he stepped immediately in, and

ordered his servant, who waited at the coach door with a flambeau, to

direct his vis-a-vis to follow.

Rochely, who meant to have wished them a good night after seeing them to

their carriage, was too much hurt by this happy essay of assurance not

to resolve to counteract it's consequences. Elkerton, though not a

very young man, was near twenty years younger than Rochely; besides the

income of his business (for he was in trade) he had a large independent

fortune, of which he was extremely lavish; his equipages were splendid;

his house most magnificently furnished; and his cloaths the most

expensive that could be bought.

Rochely, whose ideas of elegance, manners, or taste, were not very

refined, had no notion that the absurdity of Elkerton, or his

disagreeable person, would prevent his being a very formidable rival. He

therefore saw him with great pain accompany Emmeline home; and though he

had formed no positive designs himself, he could not bear to suppose

that another might form them with success.

Directing therefore his chariot to follow the coach, he was set down at

the door a few minutes after Mrs. Ashwood and her party; where Emmeline,

still more displeased with Elkerton, and having been teized by his

impertinent admiration the whole way, looked as if she could have burst

into tears.

Mrs. Ashwood, in a very ill humour, hardly attended to his flourishing

speeches with common civility; he had therefore recourse to Miss Galton,

to whom he was giving the history of his travels, which seemed to take

up much of his thoughts.

Miss Galton, who by long dependance and repeated disappointments had

acquired the qualifications necessary for a patient hearer, acquiesced

in smiling silence to all his assertions; looked amazed in the right

place; and heard, with great complacency, his wonderful success at

cards, and the favour he was in with women of the first fashion at Spa.

The entrance of Mr. Rochely gave no interruption to his discourse. He

bowed slightly to him without rising, and then went on, observing that

he had now seen every part of Europe worth seeing, and meant, at least

for some years, to remain in England; the ladies of which country he

preferred to every other, and therefore intended taking a wife among

them. Fortune was, he declared, to him no object; but he was determined

to marry the handsomest woman he could meet with, for whom he was now

looking out.

As he said this, he turned his eyes towards Emmeline; who affecting not

to hear him, tho' he spoke in so loud a tone as to make it unavoidable,

was talking in a low voice to Mr. Rochely.

Rochely placing himself close to her, had thrown his arm over the back

of her chair; and leaning forward, attended to her with an expression in

his countenance of something between apprehension and hope, that gave it

the most grotesque look imaginable.

Mrs. Ashwood, who had been entertained apart by Mr. Hanbury, now hurried

over the supper; during which Elkerton, still full of himself, engrossed

almost all the conversation; gave a detail of the purchases he had made

abroad, and the trouble he had to land them; interspersed with _bon

mots_ of French Marquises and German Barons, and witty remarks of an

English Duke with whom he had crossed the water on his return. But

whatever story he told, himself was still forwardest in the picture; his

project of marrying an handsome wife was again repeated; and he told the

party how charming a house he had bought in Kent, and how he had

furnished his library.

Rochely, who lay in wait to revenge himself for all the mortifications

he had suffered from him during the evening, took occasion to say, in

his grave, cold manner, 'to be sure a man of your taste and erudition,

Mr. Elkerton, cannot do without a library; but for my part, I think you

will find no books can say so much to the purpose as those kept by your

late father in Milk-street, Cheapside.'

Elkerton turned pale at this sneer; but forcing a smile of contempt,

answered, 'You bankers have no ideas out of your compting-houses; and

rich as ye are, will never be any thing but _des bourgeois les plus

grossieres_! For my part I see no reason why--why a man's being in

business, should prevent his enjoying the _elegancies_ and _agréments_

of life, especially if he can _afford_ it; as it is well known, I

believe, even to _you_, Sir, _that I can_.'

'Oh! Sir,' replied Rochely, 'I know your late father was _reputed_ to

have died rich, and that no body has made a better _figure about town_

than _you_ have, ever since.'

'As to figure, Sir,' returned the other, 'it is true I like to have

every thing about me _comme il faut_. And though I don't make fifty per

cent. of money, as _some_ gentlemen do in _your_ way of business, I

assure you, Sir, I do nothing that I cannot very well afford.'

Mrs. Ashwood, who thought it very likely a quarrel might ensue, here

endeavoured to put an end to such very unpleasant discourse; and

prevented Mr. Hanbury, who equally hated them both, from trying to

irritate them farther, to which he maliciously inclined.

The hints, however, of fatigue, given by her and Miss Mowbray, obliged

Mr. Rochely to ring that his chariot might be called, which had waited

at the door; while Elkerton, who had a pair of beautiful pied horses in

his vis-à-vis, desired to have them sent for from a neighbouring

inn--'for _I_' said he, rising and strutting round the room, 'never

suffer _my_ people or _my_ horses to wait in the streets.'

He then leant over Emmeline's chair, and began in a court tone to renew

his compliments. But she suddenly arose; and begging Mrs. Ashwood would

give her leave to retire, wished Mr. Rochely and ladies a good night;

and slightly curtseying to Elkerton, who was putting himself into the

attitude for a speech and a bow, she tripped away.

Rochely, as soon as she was gone, hastened to his chariot; and Elkerton,

whose people were in no haste to leave the ale-house, begged to sit down

'till they came.

Mrs. Ashwood had been the whole evening particularly out of humour, and

being no longer able to command it, answered peevishly, 'that her house

was much at his service, but that she was really so much fatigued she

must retire--however,' said she, 'Miss Galton, you will be so good as to

stay with Mr. Elkerton--good night to you, Sir!'

He was no sooner alone with Miss Galton, than he desired her, after a

speech (which he endeavoured to season with as much flattery as it would

bear) to tell him who Emmeline was?

'Upon my word, Sir,' answered she, 'it is more than I know. Her name is

Mowbray; and she is somehow connected with the family of Lord

Montreville; but _what_ relation,' (sneeringly answered she) 'I really

cannot pretend even to guess.'

'A relation of Lord Montreville!' cried Elkerton; 'why I knew his

Lordship intimately when I was abroad three or four years ago. He was at

Naples with his son, his lady, and two daughters; and I was

domesticated, absolutely domesticated, among them. But pray what

relation to them can this Miss Mowbray be?'

'Probably,' said Miss Galton, 'as you know his Lordship, you may know

what connections and family he has. I suppose she may be his cousin--or

his niece--or his----.'

Here she hesitated and smiled; and Elkerton, whose carriage was now at

the door, and who had a clue which he thought would procure him all the

information he wanted, took leave of Miss Galton; desiring her to tell

Mrs. Ashwood that he should wait upon her again in a few days.

CHAPTER XIII

Delamere continued in Norfolk only a few weeks after his father and the

family came thither. During that time, he appeared restless and

dissatisfied; his former vivacity was quite lost; he shunned society;

and passed almost all his time in the fields, under pretence of hunting

or shooting, tho' the greatest satisfaction those amusements now

afforded him was the opportunity they gave him of absenting himself from

home. He seldom returned thither 'till six or seven o'clock; dined alone

in his own apartment; and affected to be too much fatigued to be able to

meet the party who assembled to cards in the evening.

Lady Mary Otley and her daughter, a widow lady of small fortune in the

neighbourhood, with Lord and Lady Montreville and their eldest daughter,

made up a party without him. Augusta Delamere had been left in their way

from the North, with a relation of his Lordship's who lived near

Scarborough, with whom she was to remain two months.

The party at Audley-Hall was soon encreased by Sir Richard Crofts and

his eldest son, who came every autumn on a visit to Lord Montreville,

and who was his most intimate friend.

Lord Montreville, during the short time he studied at the Temple, became

acquainted with Sir Richard, then clerk to an attorney in the city; who,

tho' there was a great difference in their rank, had contrived to gain

the regard and esteem of his Lordship (then Mr. Frederic Mowbray) and

was, when he came to his estate, entrusted with it's management; a trust

which he appeared to execute with such diligence and integrity, that he

soon obtained the entire confidence of his patron; and by possessing

great ductility and great activity, he was soon introduced into a higher

line of life, and saw himself the companion and friend of those, to

whom, at his setting out, he appeared only an humble retainer.

Born in Scotland, he boasted of his ancestry, tho' his immediate

predecessors were known to be indigent and obscure; and tho' he had

neither eminent talents, nor any other education than what he had

acquired at a free-school in his native town, he had, by dint of a very

common understanding, steadily applied to the pursuit of one point; and

assisted by the friendship of Lord Montreville, acquired not only a

considerable fortune, but a seat in Parliament and a great deal of

political interest, together with the title of a Baronet.

He had less understanding than cunning; less honesty than industry; and

tho' he knew how to talk warmly and plausibly of honour, justice, and

integrity, he was generally contented only to talk of them, seldom so

imprudent as to practice them when he could get place or profit by their

sacrifice.

He had that sort of sagacity which enabled him to enter into the

characters of those with whom he conversed: he knew how to humour their

prejudices, and lay in wait for their foibles to turn them to his own

advantage.

To his superiors, the cringing parasite; to those whom he thought his

inferiors, proud, supercilious, and insulting; and his heart hardening

as his prosperity encreased, he threw off, as much as he could, every

connection that reminded him of the transactions of his early life, and

affected to live only among the great, whose luxuries he could now

reach, and whose manners he tried to imitate.

He had two sons by an early marriage with a woman of small fortune, who

was fortunately dead; for had she lived, she would probably have been

concealed, lest she should disgrace him.

To his sons, however, he had given that sort of education which was

likely to fit them for places under government; and he had long secretly

intended the eldest for one of the Miss Delameres.

Delamere, all warmth and openness himself, detested the narrow-minded

and selfish father; and had shewn so much coolness towards the sons,

that Sir Richard foresaw he would be a great impediment to his designs,

and had therefore the strongest motive for trying to persuade Lord

Montreville, that to send him on another tour to the Continent, would be

the best means of curing him of what this deep politician termed 'a

ridiculous and boyish whim, which his Lordship ought at all events to

put an end to before it grew of a more dangerous consequence.'

Mr. Crofts, as he was no sportsman, passed his mornings in riding out

with Miss Delamere and Miss Otley, or attending on the elder ladies in

their airings: while Delamere, who wished equally to shun Miss Otley,

whom he determined never to marry, and Crofts, whom he despised and

hated, lived almost alone, notwithstanding the entreaties of his father

and the anger of his mother.

Her Ladyship, who had never any command over her passions, harrassed

him, whenever they met, with sarcasms and reflections. Lady Mary,

scorning _to_ talk to a young man who was blind to the merits of her

daughter, talked _at_ him whenever she found an opportunity; and

exclaimed against the disobedience, dissipation, and ill-breeding of

modern young men: while Miss Otley affected a pretty disdain; and

flirted violently with Mr. Crofts, as if to shew him that she was

totally indifferent to his neglect.

The temper of Delamere was eager and irritable; and he bore the

unpleasantness of this society, whenever he was forced to mix in it,

with a sort of impatient contempt. But as he hourly found it more

irksome, and the idea of Emmeline press every day more intensely on his

heart, he determined, at the end of the third week, to go to London.

Not chusing to have any altercation with either Lord or Lady

Montreville, he one evening ordered his man to have his horses ready at

five o'clock the next day, saying he was to meet the foxhounds at some

distance from home; and having written a letter to his Lordship, in

which he told him he was going to London for a fortnight, (which letter

he left on the table in his dressing-room) he mounted his horse, and was

soon in town; but instead of going to the house of his father in

Berkley-square, he took lodgings in Pall-Mall.

Every night he frequented those public places which were yet open, in

hopes of finding Emmeline; and his servant was constantly employed for

the same purpose; but as he had no trace of her, all his enquiries were

fruitless.

On the night that Emmeline was at the play, he had been at Covent-garden

Theatre, and meant to have looked into the other house; but was detained

by meeting a young foreigner from whom he had received civilities at

Turin, 'till the house was empty. So narrowly did he miss finding her he

so anxiously sought.

Elkerton, in looking about for the happy woman who was worthy the

exalted situation of being his wife, had yet seen none whom he thought

so likely to succeed to that honour as Miss Mowbray; and if she was, on

enquiry, found to be as she was represented, (related to Lord

Montreville) it would be so great an additional advantage, that he

determined in that case to lay himself and his pied horses, his house in

Kent, his library, and his fortune, all at her feet immediately. Nor did

he once suffer himself to suspect that there was a woman on earth who

could withstand such a torrent of good fortune.

In pursuance therefore of this resolution, he determined to make enquiry

of Lord Montreville himself; of whom he had just known so much at Naples

as to receive cards of invitation to Lady Montreville's

_conversationes_.

There, he mingled with the croud; and was slightly noticed as an

Englishman of fortune; smiled at for his affectation of company and

manners, which seemed foreign to his original line of life; and then

forgotten.

But Elkerton conceived this to be more than introduction enough; and

dressing himself in what he thought _un disabille la plus imposante_,

and with his servants in their morning liveries, he stopped at the door

of Lord Montreville.

'Lord Montreville was not at home.'

'When was he expected?'

'It was uncertain: his Lordship was at Audley-hall, and might be in town

in a fortnight; or might not come up till the meeting of Parliament.'

'And are all the family there?' enquired Elkerton of the porter.

'No, Sir; Mr. Delamere is in town.'

'And when can I see Mr. Delamere?'

The porter could not tell, as he did not live in Berkley-square.

'Where, then, is he?'

'At lodgings in Pall-Mall:' (for Delamere had left his direction with

his father's servants.)

Elkerton therefore took the address with a pencil; and determined,

without farther reflection, to drive thither.

It was about four o'clock, and in the middle of November, when Delamere

had just returned to his lodgings, to dress before he met his foreign

friend, and some other young men, to dine at a tavern in St.

James's-street, when a loud rap at the door announced a visitor.

Millefleur having no orders to the contrary, and being dazzled with the

splendour of Elkerton's equipage, let him in; and he was humming an

Italian air out of tune, in Delamere's drawing-room, when the latter

came out in his dressing-gown and slippers to receive him.

Delamere, on seeing the very odd figure and baboonish face of Elkerton,

instead of that of somebody he knew, stopped short and made a grave bow.

Elkerton advancing towards him, bowed also profoundly, and said, 'I am

charmed, Sir, with being permitted the honour of paying you my devoirs.'

Delamere concluded from his look and bow, as well as from a foreign

accent, (which Elkerton had affected 'till it was become habitual) that

the man was either a dancing master or a quack doctor, sent to him by

some of his companions, who frequently exercised on each other such

efforts of practical wit. He therefore being not without humour, bowed

again more profoundly than before; and answered, 'that the honour was

entirely his, tho' he did not know how he had deserved it.'

'I was so fortunate, Sir,' resumed Elkerton, 'so fortunate as to--have

the honour--the happiness--of knowing Lord Montreville and Lady

Montreville a few years ago at Naples.'

Delamere, still confirmed in his first idea, answered, 'very probably,

Sir.'

'And, Sir,' continued Elkerton, 'I now waited upon _you_, as his

Lordship is not in town.'

'Indeed, Sir, you are too obliging.'

'To ask, Sir, a question, which I hope will not be deemed--be

deemed--' (a word did not immediately occur) 'be

deemed--improper--intrusive--impertinent--inquisitive--presuming----'

'I dare say, Sir, nothing improper, intrusive, impertinent, inquisitive,

or presuming, is to be apprehended from a gentleman of your appearance.'

Delamere expected something very ridiculous to follow this ridiculous

introduction, and with some difficulty forbore laughing.

Elkerton went on----

'It relates, Sir, to a Lady.'

'Pray, Sir, proceed. I am really impatient where a lady is concerned.'

'You are acquainted, Sir, with a lady of the name of Ashwood, who lives

at Clapham?'

'No, really Sir, I am not so happy.'

'I fancy then, Sir, I have been misinformed, and beg pardon for the

trouble I have presumed to give: but I understood that the young lady

who lives with her was a relation of Lord Montreville.'

A ray of fire seemed to flash across the imagination of Delamere, and to

inflame all his hopes. He blushed deeply, and his voice faultering with

anxiety, he cried--

'What?--who, Sir?--a young lady?--what young lady?'

'Miss Mowbray, they tell me, is her name; and I understand, Sir--but I

dare say from mistake--that she is of your family.'

Delamere could hardly breathe. He seemed as if he was in a dream, and

dared not speak for fear of awaking.

Elkerton, led on by the questions Delamere at length summoned resolution

to ask, proceeded to inform him of all he knew; how, where, and how

often, he had seen Emmeline, and of his intentions to offer himself a

candidate for her favour--'for notwithstanding, Sir,' said he, 'that Mr.

Rochely seems to be _fort avant en ses bon graces_, I think--I hope--I

believe, that his fortune--(and yet his fortune does not perhaps so much

exceed mine as many suppose)--his fortune will hardly turn the balance

against _me_; especially if I have the sanction of Lord Montreville; to

whom I suppose (as you seem to acknowledge some affinity between Miss

Mowbray and his Lordship) it will be no harm if I apply.'

Thro' the mind of Delamere, a thousand confused ideas rapidly passed. He

was divided between his joy at having found Emmeline, his vexation at

knowing she was surrounded by rivals, and his fear that his father

might, by the application of Elkerton to him, know that Emmeline's abode

was no longer a secret: and amidst these various sensations, he was able

only to express his dislike of Elkerton, whose presumption in thinking

of Emmeline appeared to cancel the casual obligation he owed to him for

discovering her.

'Sir,' said he haughtily, as soon as he could a little recover his

recollection, 'I am very well assured that Lord Montreville will not

hear any proposals for Miss Mowbray. His Lordship has, in fact, no

authority over her; and besides he is at present about to leave his

house in Norfolk, and I know not when he will be in town; perhaps not

the whole winter; he is now going to visit some friends, and it will be

impossible you can have any access to him for some months. As to myself,

you will excuse me; I am engaged to dine out.'

He rang the bell, and ordered the servant who entered to enquire for the

gentleman's carriage. Then bowing coolly to him, he went into his

dressing room, and left the mortified Elkerton to regret the little

success of an attempt which he doubted not would have excited, in the

hearts of all those related to Miss Mowbray, admiration at his

generosity, and joy for the good fortune of Emmeline: for he concluded,

by her being a companion to Mrs. Ashwood, that she had no fortune, or

any dependance but on the bounty of Lord Montreville.

Delamere, whose ardent inclinations, whatever turn they took, were never

to be a moment restrained, rang for his servants; and dispatching one of

them with an excuse to his friends, he sent a second for an

hackney-coach. Then ordering up a cold dinner, which he hardly staid to

eat, he got into the coach, and directed it to be driven as fast as

possible to Clapham Common; where he asked for the house of Mrs.

Ashwood, and was presently at the door.

The servant had that moment opened the iron gate, to let out a person

who had been to his mistress upon business. Delamere therefore enquiring

if Miss Mowbray was at home, entered without ringing, and telling the

servant that he had occasion to speak to Miss Mowbray only, the man

answered, 'that she was alone in the dressing room.' Thither therefore

he desired to be shewn; and without being announced, he entered the

room.

Instead of finding her alone, he saw her sit at work by a little table,

on which were two wax candles; and by her side, with his arm, as usual,

over the back of her chair, and gazing earnestly on her face, sat Mr.

Rochely.

Emmeline did not look up when he came in, supposing it was the servant

with tea. Delamere therefore was close to the table when she saw him.

The work dropped from her hands; she grew pale, and trembled; but not

being able to rise, she only clasped her hands together, and said

faintly, 'Oh! heaven!--Mr. Delamere!'

'Yes, Emmeline, it is Mr. Delamere! and what is there so extraordinary

in that? I was told you were alone: may I beg the favour of a few

minutes conversation?'

Emmeline knew not what to reply. She saw him dart an angry and

disdainful look at poor Rochely; who, alarmed by the entrance of a

stranger that appeared on such a footing of familiarity, and who

possessed the advantages of youth and a handsome person, had retreated

slowly towards the fire, and now surveyed Delamere with scrutinizing and

displeased looks; while Delamere said to Emmeline--'if you have no

particular business with this gentleman, will you go into some other

room, that I may speak to you on an affair of consequence?'

'Sit down' said Emmeline, recovering her surprize; 'sit down, and I will

attend you presently. Tell me, how is your sister Augusta?'

'I know not. She is in Yorkshire.'

'And Lord Montreville?'

'Well, I believe. But what is all this to the purpose? can I not speak

to you, but in the presence of a third person?'

Unequivocal as this hint was, Rochely seemed determined not to go, and

Delamere as resolutely bent to affront him, if he did not.

Emmeline therefore, who knew not what else to do, was going to comply

with his request of a private audience, when she was luckily relieved by

the entrance of Mrs. Ashwood and the tea table.

Mrs. Ashwood, surprized at seeing a stranger, and a stranger whose

appearance had more fashion than the generality of her visitors, was

introduced to Mr. Delamere; a ceremony he would willingly have dispensed

with; and having made his bow, and muttered something about having taken

the liberty to call on his relation, he sat down by Emmeline, and in a

whisper told her he must and would speak to her alone before he went.

Emmeline, to whose care the tea table was allotted when Miss Galton

happened not to be at Mrs. Ashwood's, now excused herself under pretence

of being obliged to make tea; and while it was passing, Mrs. Ashwood

made two or three attempts to introduce general conversation; but it

went no farther than a few insignificant sentences between her and Mr.

Rochely.

Delamere, wholly engrossed by the tumultuous delight of having recovered

Emmeline, and by contriving how to speak to her alone, thought nothing

else worthy his attention; and sat looking at her with eyes so

expressive of his love, that Rochely, who anxiously watched him, was

convinced his solicitude was infinitely stronger than his relationship

only would have produced.

He had at length learned, by constant attention to every hint and every

circumstance that related to Emmeline, who she was; and had even got

from Mrs. Ashwood a confused idea of Delamere's attachment to her, which

the present scene at once elucidated.

Rochely saw in him not only a rival, but a rival so dangerous that all

his hopes seemed to vanish at once. Unconscious, 'till then, how very

indiscreetly he was in love, he was amazed at the pain he felt from this

discovery; and with a most rueful countenance, sat silent and

disconcerted.

Mrs. Ashwood, used to be flattered and attended to, was in no good

humour with Mr. Delamere, who gave her so little of his notice: and

never perhaps were a party more uncomfortable, 'till they were enlivened

by the entrance of Miss Galton and Mr. Hanbury, with another gentleman.

They were hardly placed, and had their tea sent round, before a loud

ring was heard, and the servant announced 'Mr. Elkerton.'

Mr. Elkerton came dancing into the room; and having spoken to Mrs.

Ashwood and Emmeline, he slightly surveyed the company, and sat down.

He was very near sighted, and affected to be still more so; and Delamere

having drawn his chair out of the circle, sat almost behind Emmeline;

while the portly citizen who had accompanied Mr. Hanbury sat forward,

near the table; Delamere was therefore hardly seen.

Elkerton began to tell them how immoderately he was fatigued. 'I have

been over the whole town,' said he, 'to-day. In the morning I was

obliged to attend a boring appointment upon business relative to my

estate in Kent; and to meet my tenants, who disagreed with my steward;

and then, I went to call upon my old friend Delamere, Lord Montreville's

son, in Pall-Mall; we passed a very chearful hour discoursing of former

occurrences when we were together at Turin. Upon my word, he is a good

sensible young man. We have renewed our intimacy; and he has insisted

upon my going down with him to his father's house in Norfolk.'

Emmeline suspended her tea making, and looked astonished.

Mrs. Ashwood seemed surprized.

But Delamere, who had at first felt inclined to be angry at the folly

and forwardness of Elkerton, was now so struck with the ridicule of the

circumstance, that he broke into a loud laugh.

The eyes of the company were turned towards _him_, and Elkerton with

great indignation took his glass to survey who it was that had thus

violated the rules of good breeding; but great was his dismay and

astonishment, when he beheld the very Delamere, of whom he had spoken

with so much assurance, rise up, and advancing towards him, make a grave

bow.--

'Sir,' said Delamere, very solemnly, 'I cannot sufficiently express my

gratitude for your good opinion of me; nor my happiness to hear you

intend to honour me with a visit at Audley Hall. Upon my word you are

_too_ obliging, and I know not how I shall shew my gratitude!'

The ironical tone in which this was delivered, and the discomposed looks

of the distressed Elkerton, explained the matter to the whole company;

and the laugh became general.

Elkerton, tho' not easily disconcerted, could not stand it. After a sort

of apology to Delamere, he endeavoured to reassume his consequence. But

he had been too severely mortified; and in a few minutes arose, and

under pretence of being engaged to a rout in town, went away, nobody

attempting to stop him.

Rochely, who hated Elkerton, could not forbear to triumph in this

discomfiture. He spoke very severely of him as a forward, impertinent,

silly fellow, who was dissipating his fortune.

The old citizen heartily joined in exclaiming against such apostates

from the frugality of their ancestors. 'Sir,' said he to Rochely, 'we

all know that _you_ are a prudent man; and that cash at your house is,

as it were, in the Bank. Sir, you do honour to the city; but as to that

there Mr. Elkerton, one must be cautious; but for _my_ part, I wonder

how some people go on. To my certain knowledge his father didn't die so

rich as was supposed--no--not by a many thousands. Sir, I remember

him--(and I am not ashamed to say it, for every body knows _I_ have got

my money honestly, and that it's all of my own getting)--but, Sir, I

remember that man's father, and not a many years ago neither, carrying

out parcels, and sweeping the shop for old Jonathan Huggins. You knew

old Jonathan Huggins: he did not die, I think, 'till about the year

forty-one or two. You remember him, to be sure?'

Rochely, ever tremblingly alive when his age was called in question, yet

fearing to deny a fact which he apprehended the other would enter into a

convincing detail to prove, answered that 'he slightly remembered him

when he was quite a boy.'

But his evasion availed him nothing. The old citizen, Mr. Rugby, was now

got upon his own ground; and most inhumanly for the feelings of poor

Rochely, began to relate in whose mayoralty old Jonathan Huggins was

sheriff, and when he was mayor; who he married; who married his

daughters; and how he acquired an immense fortune, all by frugality at

setting out; and how one of his daughters, who had married a Lord

against the old man's will, had spent more in _one_ night than his

father did in a twelvemonth.

Delamere, who sat execrating both Jonathan Huggins and his historian, at

length lost all patience; and said to Emmeline, in an half whisper, 'I

can bear this no longer: leave these tedious old fools, and let me speak

to you for two minutes only.'

Emmeline knew not how to refuse, without hazarding some extravagance on

the part of Delamere. But as she did not like the appearance of leaving

the room abruptly, she desired Mrs. Ashwood would give her permission to

order candles in the parlour, as Mr. Delamere wished to speak with her

alone.

As soon as the servant informed her they were ready, she went down: and

Delamere followed her, having first wished Mrs. Ashwood a good night;

who was too much displeased with the little attention he had shewn her,

to ask him to supper, tho' she was very desirous of having a man of his

fashion in the list of her acquaintance.

Delamere and Emmeline were no sooner alone, than he began to renew, with

every argument he thought likely to move her, his entreaties for a

private marriage. He swore that he neither could or would live without

her, and that her refusal would drive him to some act of desperation.

Emmeline feared her resolution would give way; for the comparison

between the people she had lately been among, and Delamere, was

infinitely favourable to him. Such unabated love, in a man who might

chuse among the fairest and most fortunate of women, was very seducing;

and the advantages of being his wife, instead of continuing in the

precarious situation she was now in, would have determined at once a

mind more attentive to pecuniary or selfish motives.

But Emmeline, unshaken by such considerations, was liable to err only

from the softness of her heart.

Delamere unhappy--Delamere wearing out in hopeless solicitude the bloom

of life, was the object she found it most difficult to contend with: and

feeble would have been her defence, had she not considered herself as

engaged in honour to Lord Montreville to refuse his son, and still more

engaged to respect the peace of the family of her dear Augusta.

Strengthened by these reflections, she refused, tho' in the gentlest

manner, to listen to such proposals; reproached him, tho' with more

tenderness in her voice and manner than she had yet shewn, for having

left Audley Hall without the concurrence of Lord Montreville; and

entreated him to return, and try to forget her.

'Let me perish if I do!' eagerly answered Delamere. 'No, Emmeline; if

you determine to push me to extremities, to you only will be the misery

imputable, when my mistaken parents, in vain repentance, hang over the

tomb of their only son, and see the last of his family in an early

grave. It is in your power only to save me--You refuse--farewel, then--I

wish no future regret may embitter your life, and that you may find

consolation in being the wife of some one of those persons who are, I

see, offering you all that riches can bestow. Farewel, lovely, inhuman

girl! be happy if you can--after having sacrificed to a mistaken point

of honour, the repose and the life of him who lived only to adore you.'

So saying, he suddenly opened the door, and was leaving the room. But

Emmeline, who shuddered at the picture he had drawn of his despair, and

saw such traces of its reality on his countenance, caught his arm.

'Stay! Mr. Delamere,' cried she, 'stay yet a moment!'

'For what purpose?' answered he, 'since you refuse to hear me?'

He turned back, however, into the room; and Emmeline, who fancied she

saw him the victim of his unfortunate love, could no longer command her

tears.

Delamere threw himself at her feet, and embraced her knees.

'Oh Emmeline!' cried he, weeping also, 'hear me for the last time.

Either consent to be mine, or let me take an eternal adieu!'

'What would you have me do? good God! what is it you expect of me?'

'To go with me to Scotland to-morrow--to night--directly!'

'Oh, no! no!--Does not Lord Montreville depend upon my honour?--can I

betray a trust reposed in me?'

'Chimeras all; founded in tyranny on his part, and weakness on yours.

_He_ had no right to exact such a promise; _you_ had no right to give

it. But however, send to him again to say I have seen you--summons him

hither to divide us--you may certainly do so if you please; but Lord

Montreville will no longer have a son; at least England, nor Europe,

will contain him no longer--I will go where my father shall hear no more

of me.'

'Will it content you if I promise you _not_ to write to Lord

Montreville, nor to cause him to be written to; and to see you again?'

'When?'

'To-morrow--whenever you please.'

Delamere, catching at this faint ray of hope, promised, if she would

allow him to come thither when he would, he would endeavour to be calm.

He made her solemnly protest that she would neither write to Lord

Montreville, or procure another to do it; and that she would not leave

Mrs. Ashwood without letting him know when and whither she went; and if

by any accident his father heard of his having found her, that she would

enter into no new engagements to conceal herself from him.

Having procured from her these assurances, which he knew she would not

violate, and having obtained her consent to see him early the next

morning, he at her request agreed to take his leave; which he did with

less pain than he had ever before felt at quitting her; carrying with

him the delightful hope that he had made an impression on her heart, and

secure of seeing her the next day, he went home comparatively happy.

Emmeline, who had wept excessively, was very unfit to return to the

company; but she thought her not appearing again among them would be yet

more singular. She therefore composed herself as well as she could; and

after staying a few minutes to recollect her scattered spirits, she

entered the room where they were at cards.

Rochely, who was playing at whist with Mrs. Ashwood, Mr. Rugby, and Mr.

Hanbury, looked anxiously at her eyes; and presently losing all

attention to what he was about, and forgetting his game, he played so

extremely ill, that he lost the rubber.

The old cit, who had three half crowns depending, and who was a

determined grumbler at cards, fell upon him without mercy; and said so

many rude things, that Rochely could not help retorting; and it was with

some difficulty Mrs. Ashwood prevented the grossest abuse being lavished

from the enraged Rugby on the enamoured banker; who desiring to give his

cards to Miss Galton, got up and ordered his carriage.

Emmeline sat near the fire, with her handkerchief in her hand, which was

yet wet with tears.

Rochely, with a privilege he had been used to, and which Emmeline, from

a man old enough to be her father, thought very inconsequential, took

her hand and the handkerchief it held.

'So, Miss Mowbray,' said he, 'Mr. Delamere is your near relation?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'And he has brought you, I fear, some ill news of your family?'

'No, Sir,' sighed Emmeline.

'No death, I hope?'

'No, Sir.'

'Whence then, these tears?'

Emmeline drew her hand away.

'What a strange young man this is, to make you cry. What has he been

saying to you?'

'Nothing, Sir.'

'Ah! Miss Mowbray; such a lad as that is but an indifferent guardian;

pray where does his father live?'

Miss Mowbray, not aware of the purpose of this enquiry, and glad of any

thing that looked like common conversation, answered 'at Audley Hall, in

Norfolk; and in Berkley-Square.'

Some other questions, which seemed of no consequence, Rochely asked, and

Emmeline answered; 'till hearing his carriage was at the door, he went

away.

'_I_ don't like your Mr. Delamere at all, Miss Mowbray,' said Mrs.

Ashwood, as soon as the game ended. 'I never saw a prouder, more

disagreeable young man in my life.'

Emmeline smiled faintly, and said she was sorry he did not please her.

'No, nor me neither,' said Miss Galton. 'Such haughtiness indeed!--yet I

was glad he mortified that puppy Elkerton.'

Emmeline, who found the two friends disposed to indulge their good

nature at the expence of the company of the evening, complained of being

fatigued, and asked for a glass of wine and water: which having drank,

she retired to bed, leaving the lady of the house, who had invited Mr.

Hanbury and his friend to supper, to enjoy more stories of Jonathan

Huggins, and the pretty satyrical efforts of Miss Galton, who made her

court most effectually by ridiculing and villifying all their

acquaintance whenever it was in her power.

CHAPTER XIV

When Rochely got home, he set about examining the state of his heart

exactly as he would have examined the check book of one of his

customers.

He found himself most miserably in love. But avarice said, Miss Mowbray

had no fortune.

By what had passed in his bosom that evening, he had discovered that he

should be wretched to see her married to another.

But avarice enquired how he could offer to marry a woman without a

shilling?

Love, represented that her modest, reserved, and unambitious turn, would

perhaps make her, in the end, a more profitable match than a woman

educated in expence, who might dissipate more than she brought.

Avarice asked whether he could depend on modesty, reserve, and a retired

turn, in a girl not yet eighteen?

After a long discussion, Love very unexpectedly put to flight the agent

of Plutus, who had, with very little interruption, reigned despoticly

over all his thoughts and actions for many years; and Rochely determined

to write to Lord Montreville, to lay his circumstances before him, and

make a formal proposal to marry Miss Mowbray.

In pursuance of this resolution, he composed, with great pains, (for he

was remarkably slow in whatever he undertook) the following epistle.--

'My Lord,

'This serves to inform your Lordship, that I have seen Miss

Mowbray, and like her well enough to be willing to marry her, if

you, my Lord, have not any other views for her; and as to fortune, I

will just give your Lordship a memorandum of mine.

'I have sixty thousand pounds in the stocks; viz. eighteen in the

three per cent. consols. twenty in Bank stock: ten in East India

stock; and twelve in South Sea annuities.

'I have about forty thousand on different mortgages; all good, as

I will be ready at any time to shew you. I have houses worth about

five more. And after the death of my mother, who is near eighty, I

shall have an estate in Middlesex worth ten more. The income of my

business is near three thousand pounds a year; and my whole income

near ten thousand.

'My character, my Lord, is well known: and you will find, if we

agree, that I shall not limit Miss Mowbray's settlement to the

proportion of what your Lordship may please to give her, (for I

suppose you will give her something) but to what she ought to have

as my widow, if it should so happen that she survives me.

'I have reason to believe Miss Mowbray has no dislike to this

proposal; and hope to hear from your Lordship thereon by return of

post.

I am, my Lord,

your Lordship's very humble servant,

HUMPHREY ROCHELY.'

_Lombard-street,

Nov. 20th. 17--._

This was going to the point at once. The letter arrived in due time at

Audley-Hall; and was received by Lord Montreville with surprise and

satisfaction. The hint of Miss Mowbray's approbation made him hope she

was yet concealed from Delamere; and as he determined to give the

earliest and strongest encouragement to this overture, from a man worth

above an hundred thousand pounds, he called a council with Sir Richard

Crofts, who knew Rochely, and who kept cash with him; and it was

determined that Lord Montreville should go to town, not only to close at

once with the opulent banker, but to get Delamere out of the way while

the marriage was in agitation, which it would otherwise be impossible to

conceal from him. To persuade him to another continental tour was what

Sir Richard advised: and agreed to go to town with his Lordship, in

order to assist in this arduous undertaking.

Lord Montreville, however, failed not immediately to answer the letter

he had received from Mr. Rochely, in these terms--

'Sir,

'This day's post brought me the honour of your letter.

'If Miss Mowbray is as sensible as she ought to be, of so

flattering a distinction, be assured it will be one of the most

satisfactory events of my life to see her form a connection with a

gentleman truly worthy and respectable.

'To hasten the completion of an event so desirable, I fully intend

being in town in a very few days; when I will, with your permission,

wait on you in Lombard-street.

'I have the honour to be, with great esteem,

Sir,

your most devoted,

and most obedient servant,

MONTREVILLE.'

_Audley-Hall, Nov. 23._

The haughty Peer, who derived his blood from the most antient of the

British Nobility, thus condescended to flatter opulence and to court the

alliance of riches. Nor did he think any advances he could make, beneath

him, when he hoped at once to marry his niece to advantage, and what was

yet more material, put an invincible bar between her and his son.

While this correspondence, so inimical to Delamere's hopes, was passing

between his father and Mr. Rochely, he was every hour with Emmeline;

intoxicated with his passion, indulging the most delightful hopes, and

forgetting every thing else in the world.

He had found it his interest to gain (by a little more attention, and

some fine speeches about elegance and grace,) the good opinion of Mrs.

Ashwood; who now declared she had been mistaken in her first idea of

him, and that he was not only quite a man of fashion, but possessed an

excellent understanding and very refined sentiments.

The sudden death of her father had obliged her to leave home some days

before: but as soon as she was gone, Emmeline, who foresaw that Delamere

would be constantly with her, sent for Miss Galton.

No remonstrance of her's could prevent his passing every day at the

house, from breakfast 'till a late hour in the evening.

On the last of these days, he was there as usual; and it was past eight

at night, when Emmeline, who had learned to play on the harp, by being

present when Mrs. Ashwood received lessons on that instrument, was

singing to Delamere a little simple air of which he was particularly

fond, and into which she threw so much pathos, that lost in fond

admiration, he 'hung over her, enamoured,' when she was interrupted by

the entrance of a servant, who said that a Lord, but he forgot the name,

was below, and desired to speak with Miss Mowbray.

If Emmeline was alarmed at the sight of Lord Montreville at Swansea,

when she had acted with the strictest attention to his wishes, she had

now much more reason to be so, when she felt herself conscious of having

given encouragement to Delamere, and had reason to fear her motives for

doing so would be misbelieved or misunderstood.

Tho' the servant had forgotten his name, Emmeline doubted not but it was

Lord Montreville; and she had hardly time to think how she should

receive him, before his Lordship (who had impatiently followed the

servant up stairs) entered the room.

Delamere, immovable behind Emmeline's chair, was the first object that

struck him.

He had hoped that her residence was yet unknown to his son; and

surprise, vexation, and anger, were marked in his countenance and

attitude.

'Miss Mowbray!' (advancing towards her) 'is it thus you fulfil the

promise you gave me? And you, Mr. Delamere--do you still obstinately

persist in this ridiculous, this unworthy attachment?'

'I left you, my Lord,' answered Delamere, 'without deceiving you as to

my motives for doing so. I came in search of Miss Mowbray. By a

fortunate accident I found her. I have never dissimulated; nor ever mean

it in whatever relates to her. Nothing has prevented my making her

irrevocably mine, but her too scrupulous adherence to a promise _she_

ought never to have given, and which your _Lordship_ ought never to have

extorted.'

Emmeline, gentle as she was, had yet that proper spirit which conscious

worth seldom fails of inspiring: and knowing that she had already

sacrificed much to the respect she thought Lord Montreville entitled to,

she was hurt at finding, from his angry and contemptuous tone, as well

as words, that she was condemned unheard, and treated with harshness

where she deserved only kindness and gratitude.

The courage of which her first surprise had deprived her, was restored

by these sensations; and she said, with great coolness, yet with less

timidity than usual, 'my Lord, I have yet done nothing in violation of

the promise I gave you. But the moment your Lordship doubts my adherence

to it, from that moment I consider it as dissolved.'

Delamere, encouraged by an answer so flattering to his hopes, now

addressed himself to his father, who was by this time seated; and spoke

so forcibly of his invincible attachment, and his determined purpose

never to marry any other woman, that the resolution of Lord Montreville

was shaken, and would perhaps have given way, if the violent and

clamorous opposition of his wife on one hand, and the ambitious projects

and artful advice of Sir Richard Crofts on the other, had not occurred

to him. He commanded himself so far as not to irritate Delamere farther,

by reflections on the conduct of Emmeline, which he found would not be

endured; and trying to stifle his feelings under the dissimulation of

the courtier, he heard with patience all he had to urge. He even

answered him with temper; made an apology to Emmeline for any

expressions that might have given her offence; and at length threw into

his manner a composure that elated Delamere to a degree of hope hitherto

unfelt. He fancied that his father, weary of hopeless opposition, and

convinced of the merit of Emmeline, would consent to his marriage: and

his quick spirit seizing with avidity on an idea so flattering,

converted into a confirmation of it, all Lord Montreville's discourse

for the remainder of the visit: in which, by dissimulation on one part,

and favourable expectations on the other, they both seemed to return to

some degree of good humour.

Delamere agreed to go home with his father; and Lord Montreville having

determined to return the next day to speak to Emmeline on the proposals

of Rochely, they parted; his Lordship meditating as he went home how to

prevent Delamere's interrupting the conference he wished to have on a

subject which was so near his heart.

On his arrival at his own house, he found Sir Richard Crofts waiting for

him, whom he detained to supper. Delamere, as soon as it was over, went

to his lodgings; which Lord Montreville did not oppose, as he wished to

be alone with Sir Richard; but he desired, that after that evening

Delamere would return to his apartments in Berkley-square; which he

partly promised to do.

Lord Montreville related to Sir Richard what had passed, and the

uneasiness he was under to find that Delamere, far from relaxing in his

determination, had openly renewed his addresses; and that Emmeline

seemed much less disposed to sacrifice his wishes to those of his

family, than he had yet found her.

Sir Richard, himself wholly insensible to the feelings of a father,

discouraged in Lord Montreville every tendency to forgive or indulge

this indiscreet passion. And equally incapable of the generous

sentiments of a gentleman towards a woman, young, helpless, dependant,

and unfortunate, he tried to harden the heart of Lord Montreville

against his orphan niece, and advised him peremptorily to insist on her

marrying Rochely immediately, or, as the alternative, to declare to her

that from the moment of her refusal she must expect from him neither

support or countenance.

This threat on one hand, and the affluence offered her by Rochely on the

other, must, he thought, oblige her to embrace his proposals. The

greatest difficulty seemed to be, to prevent Delamere's impetuosity from

snatching her at once out of the power of his father, by an elopement;

to which, if she preferred him to Rochely, it was very probable she

might be driven by harsh measures to consent; and that Delamere must

have in her heart a decided preference, there could be little doubt.

Lord Montreville was apprehensive that Delamere, who had, he found, for

many days lived entirely at Mrs. Ashwood's, would be there before him in

the morning, and preclude all possibility of a private conversation with

Emmeline.

Fitz-Edward, who could, and from the duplicity of his character would

perhaps have made a diversion in his favour, was not in town; and to

both the Mr. Crofts Delamere had an antipathy, which he took very little

pains to conceal; they therefore could not be employed to engage him.

In this difficulty, Sir Richard offered to go himself to Miss Mowbray,

that Lord Montreville might be at liberty to detain his son; pretences

for which could not be wanting.

His Lordship closed with this offer with pleasure; and felt himself

relieved from a painful task. His heart, though greatly changed by a

long course of good fortune, and by the habit of living among the great,

was yet not quite lost to the feelings of nature.

His brother, than whom he was only a year younger, and whom he had loved

thro' childhood and youth with singular attachment, was not wholly

forgotten; and the softened likeness, in the countenance of Emmeline, to

one whom he had so long been used to look up to with tenderness,

frequently said as much for her to his affection, as her unprotected and

helpless state did to his honour and his compassion. Nor, whatever pains

he took to stifle his pity for his son, could he entirely reconcile to

his own heart the part he was acting.

But of these feelings, meritorious as they were, he was ashamed, and

dared not avow them even to himself; while he was intimidated by the

supercilious spirit and unconquerable pride of Lady Montreville, and

tempted by the visions of encreasing splendour and accumulated riches

which Sir Richard perpetually presented to his imagination, and which

there was indeed but little doubt of realizing.

The Mowbray family were known to possess abilities. Those of the

deceased Mr. Mowbray were remarkably great, tho' he had thrown away his

time and health in a course of dissipation which had made them useless.

The talents of Lord Montreville, tho' less brilliant, were more solid.

And now in the meridian of life, with powerful connections and extensive

interest, he was courted to accept an eminent post in administration,

with a promise of a Marquisate being restored to him, which had long

lain dormant in his own family, and of the revival of which he was

extremely ambitious.

To support such a dignity, his son's future fortune, ample as it must

be, would not, he thought, be adequate; and could only be made so by his

marrying Miss Otley or some woman of equal fortune.

This, therefore, was the weight which entirely over-balanced all his

kindness for his niece, and confirmed his resolution to tear her from

Delamere at whatever price.

CHAPTER XV

It was much earlier than the usual hour for morning visits, when Sir

Richard Crofts was at the door of Mrs. Ashwood.

Miss Mowbray had given no orders to be denied; and he was, on enquiring

for her, shewn into the parlour.

As soon as the servant informed her a gentleman was below whom she found

was not Delamere, she concluded it was Lord Montreville; and with a

fearful and beating heart, went down.

She saw, with some surprise, a middle-aged man, of no very pleasant

countenance and person, to whom she was an entire stranger; and

concluding his business was with Mrs. Ashwood, she was about to retreat,

when the gentleman advancing towards her, told her he waited on her,

commissioned by Lord Montreville.

Emmeline sat down in silence, and Sir Richard began.

'Miss Mowbray, I have the honour to be connected with Lord Montreville,

and entirely in his Lordship's confidence: you will please therefore to

consider what I shall say to you as coming immediately, directly, and

absolutely, from himself; and as his Lordship's decided, and

unalterable, and irrevocable intentions.'

The abruptness of this speech shocked and distressed Emmeline. She grew

very pale; but bowing slightly to the speaker, he went on.

'My Lord Montreville hopes and supposes, and is willing to believe, that

you have not, in direct violation of your promise solemnly given,

encouraged Mr. Delamere in the absurd, and impossible, and impracticable

project of marrying you. But however that may have been, as it is his

Lordship's firm resolution and determination never to suffer such a

connection, you have, I suppose, too much sense not to see the mischief

you must occasion, and bring on, and cause to yourself, by encouraging a

giddy, and infatuated, and ignorant, and rash young man, to resist

paternal authority.'

Emmeline was still silent.

'Now here is an opportunity of establishing yourself in affluence, and

reputation, and fortune, beyond what your most sanguine hopes could

offer you; and I am persuaded you will eagerly, and readily, and

immediately embrace it. Lord Montreville insists upon it; the world

expects it; and Mr. Delamere's family demand it of you.'

'Sir!' said Emmeline, astonished at the peremptory tone and strange

purport of these words.

'It is my custom,' resumed Sir Richard, 'when I am upon business, to

speak plainly, and straitly, and to the point. This then is what I have

to propose--You are acquainted with Mr. Rochely, the great banker?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'He offers to my Lord Montreville to marry you; and to make settlements

on you equal to what you might have claimed, had you a right to be

considered as a daughter of the house of Mowbray. His real fortune is

very great; his annual income superior to that of many of the nobility;

and there _can_ be no reason, indeed none will be allowed, or listened

to, or heard of, why you should not eagerly, and instantly, and joyfully

accept a proposal so infinitely superior to what you have any claim, or

right, or pretence to.'

This was almost too much for poor Emmeline. Anger and disdain, which she

found fast rising in her bosom, restrained her tears: but her eyes

flashed indignantly on the unfeeling politician who thus so indelicately

addressed her.

He would not give her time to speak; but seemed determined to overwhelm

her imagination at once with the contrast he placed before her.

'If,' continued he, 'you will agree to become the wife of Mr. Rochely,

as soon as settlements can be prepared, my Lord Montreville, of whose

generosity, and greatness of mind, and liberality, too much cannot be

said, offers to consider you as being really his niece; as being really

a daughter of the Mowbray family; and, that being so considered, you may

not be taken by any man portionless, he will, on the day of marriage,

present, and settle on, and give you, three thousand pounds.

'Now, Miss Mowbray, consider, and weigh, and reflect on this well: and

give me leave, in order that you may form a just judgment, to tell you

the consequence of your refusal.

'My Lord Montreville, who is not obliged to give you the least

assistance, or support, or countenance, does by me declare, that if you

are so weak (to call it by no harsher name) as to refuse this

astonishing, and amazing, and singular good fortune, he shall consider

you as throwing off all duty, and regard, and attention to him; and as

one, with whose fate it will be no longer worth his while to embarrass,

perplex, and concern himself. From that moment, therefore, you must drop

the name of Mowbray, to which in fact you have no right, and take that

of your mother, whatever it be; and you must never expect from my Lord

Montreville, or the Mowbray-Delamere family, either countenance, or

support, or protection.

'Now, Miss Mowbray, your answer. The proposition cannot admit of

deliberation, or doubt, or hesitation, and my Lord expects it by me.'

The presence of mind which a very excellent understanding and a very

innocent heart gave to Emmeline, was never more requisite than on this

occasion. The rude and peremptory manner of the speaker; the dreadful

alternative of Rochely on one side, and indigence on the other, thus

suddenly and unexpectedly brought before her; was altogether so

overcoming, that she could not for a moment collect her spirits enough

to speak at all. She sighed; but her agitation was too great for tears;

and at length summoning all her courage, she replied--

'My Lord Montreville, Sir, would have been kinder, had he delivered

himself his wishes and commands. Such, however, as I now receive them,

they require no deliberation. _I will not_ marry Mr. Rochely, tho'

instead of the fortune you describe, he could offer me the world.--Lord

Montreville _may_ abandon me, but he _shall not_ make me wretched. Tell

him therefore, Sir,' (her spirit rose as she spoke) 'that the daughter

of his brother, unhappy as she is, yet boasts that nobleness of mind

which her father possessed, and disclaims the mercenary views of

becoming, from pecuniary motives, the wife of a man whom she cannot

either love or esteem. Tell him too, that if she had not inherited a

strong sense of honour, of which at least her birth does not deprive

her, she might now have been the wife of Mr. Delamere, and independant

of his Lordship's authority; and it is improbable, that one who has

sacrificed so much to integrity, should now be compelled by threats of

indigence to the basest of all actions, that of selling her person and

her happiness for a subsistence. I beg that _you, Sir_, who seem to have

delivered Lord Montreville's message, with such scrupulous exactness,

will take the trouble to be as precise in my answer; and that his

Lordship will consider it as final.'

Having said this, with a firmness of voice and manner which resentment,

as well as a noble pride, supplied; she arose, curtseyed composedly to

Sir Richard, and went out of the room; leaving the unsuccessful

ambassador astonished at that strength of mind, and dignity of manner,

which he did not expect in so young a woman, and somewhat mortified,

that his masculine eloquence, on which he was accustomed to pride

himself, and which he thought generally unanswerable, had so entirely

fallen short of the effect he expected.

Unwilling however to return to Lord Montreville without hopes of

success, he thought he might obtain at least some information from Mrs.

Ashwood of the likeliest means to move her untractable and high spirited

friend. He therefore rang the bell, and desired to speak with that lady.

But as she was not yet returned from the house of her father, where a

family meeting was held to inspect his will, Sir Richard failed of

attempting to secure her agency; and was obliged, however reluctantly,

to depart.

Emmeline, whose command of herself was exerted with too much violence

not to shake her whole frame with it's effects, no sooner reached her

own chamber than she found all her courage gone, and a violent passion

of tears succeeded.

Her deep convulsive sighs reached the ears of Miss Galton; who entered

the room, and began, in the common mode of consolation, first to enquire

why she wept?

Emmeline answered only by weeping the more.

Miss Galton enquired if that gentleman was Lord Montreville.

Emmeline was unable to reply; and Miss Galton finding no gratification

to her curiosity, which, mingled with envious malignity, had long been

her ruling passion, was obliged to quit the unhappy Emmeline; which was

indeed the only favour she could do her.

The whole morning had passed before Miss Mowbray was able to come down

stairs, and when she did, her languor and dejection were excessive. Miss

Galton only dined with her; if it might be called dining, for she eat

nothing; but just as the cloth was removed, a coach stopped, and Mrs.

Ashwood appeared, led by her brother, Mr. Stafford.

Emmeline, who had not very lately heard from her beloved friend, now

eagerly enquired after her, and learned that the illness of one of her

children had, together with her being far advanced in her pregnancy,

prevented her coming to London with Mr. Stafford; who, tho' summoned

thither immediately on his father's death, had only arrived the evening

before; the messenger that went having missed him at his own house, and

having been obliged to follow him into another county.

He delivered to Miss Mowbray a letter from Mrs. Stafford, with which

Emmeline, eager to read it, retired--

'Trust me, Emmeline, no abatement in my tender regard, has

occasioned my omitting to write to you: but anxiety of mind so

great, as to deprive me of all power to attend to any thing but

it's immediate object.--Your poor little friend Harry, who looked

so much recovered, and so full of health and spirits, when you left

him at Swansea, was three weeks ago seized again with one of those

fevers to which he has so repeatedly been liable, and for many days

his life appeared to be in the most immediate danger. You know how

far we are from a physician; and you know my anxiety for this first

darling of my heart; judge then, my Emmeline, of the miserable

hours I have known, between hope and fear, and the sleepless nights

I have passed at the bed side of my suffering cherub; and in my

present state I doubly feel all this anxiety and fatigue, and am

very much otherwise than well. Of myself, however, I think not,

since Harry is out of danger, and Dr. Farnaby thinks will soon be

entirely restored; but he is still so very weak, that I never quit

him even a moment. The rest of my children are well; and all who

are capable of recollection, remember and love you.

'And now, my dear Miss Mowbray, as the visitors who have been with

me ever since my return from Swansea, are happily departed and no

others expected, and as Mr. Stafford will be engaged in town almost

all the winter, in consequence of his father's death, will you not

come to me? _You_ only can alleviate and share a thousand anxieties

that prey on my spirits; _you_ only can sweeten the hour of my

confinement, which will happen in January; and before _you_ only I

can sigh at liberty and be forgiven.

'Ah! Emmeline--the death of Mr. Stafford's father, far from

producing satisfaction as increasing our fortune, brings to me only

regret and sorrow. He loved me with great affection; and I owe him a

thousand obligations. The family will have reason to regret his

loss; tho' the infirmities of the latter part of his life were not

much alleviated by their attendance or attention.

'Come to me, Emmeline, if possible; come, if you can, with Mr.

Stafford; or if he is detained long in town, come without him. I

will send my post-chaise to meet you at Basingstoke. Lord

Montreville cannot object to it; and Delamere, whom you have never

mentioned, has, I conclude, given way to the peremptory commands of

his father, and has determined to forget my Emmeline.

'Is it then probable any one can forget her? I know not of what

the volatile and thoughtless Delamere may be capable; but I know

that of all things it would be the most impossible to her truly

attached and affectionate,

C. STAFFORD.'

_Woodfield, Nov. 30._

This letter gave great relief to the mind of the dejected Emmeline. That

her first and dearest friend, opened at this painful crisis her

consolatory bosom to receive and pity her; and that she should have the

power to share her fatigue, and lessen the weight of her anxiety during

the slow recovery of her child; seemed to be considerations which

softened all the anguish she had endured during the day.

She was however too much disordered to go down to tea; and told Mrs.

Ashwood, who civilly came up to enquire after her, that she had a

violent pain in her head and would go to bed.

Mrs. Ashwood, full of her increased fortune, and busied in studying to

make her deep mourning as becoming as possible, let her do as she would,

and thought no more about her.

She had therefore time to meditate at leisure on her wayward fate: and

some surprise that Delamere had not appeared the whole day, mingled

itself with her reflections.

Poor Delamere was not to blame. Lord Montreville had sent him very early

in the morning to desire to see him for five minutes on business of

consequence.

Delamere, who from what had passed the evening before had indulged,

during the night, the fondest dreams of happiness, obeyed the summons

not without some hopes that he should hear all his favourable presages

confirmed. When he came, however, his father, waving all discourse that

related to Emmeline or himself, affected to consult him on a proposal he

had received for his eldest sister, which the family were disposed to

promote; and after detaining him as long as he could on this and on

other subjects, he desired him to send to his lodgings for Millefleur,

and to dress as expeditiously as possible, in order to accompany him to

dine at Lord Dornock's, a Scottish nobleman, with whom his Lordship was

deeply engaged in the depending negociation with Ministry; and who was

at his seat, about nine miles from London.

Delamere reluctantly engaged in such a party. But however short his

father's discourse fell of what he hoped, he yet determined to get the

better of his repugnance and obey him; still flattering himself that

Lord Montreville would lead to the subject nearest his heart, or that in

the course of the day he should at least have an opportunity of

introducing it.

They therefore set out together, on the most amicable terms, in Lord

Montreville's coach. But as they had taken up on their way a gentleman

who held a place under Lord Dornock, his presence prevented any

conversation but on general subjects, during their short journey.

The dinner passed as such dinners generally do--too much in the secret

to touch on politics, all such discourse was carefully avoided at the

table of Lord Dornock.

In literature they had no resource; and therefore the conversation

chiefly turned on the pleasure they were then enjoying--that of the

luxuries of the table. They determined on the merits of the venison of

the past season; settled what was the best way of preparing certain

dishes; and whose domain produced the most exquisite materials for

others. And on these topics a society of cooks could not have more

learnedly descanted.

Delamere, not yet of an age to be initiated into the noble science of

eating, and among whose ideas of happiness the delights of gratifying

his palate had not yet been numbered, heard them with impatience and

disgust.

He was obliged, however, to stay while the wines were criticised as

eloquently as the meats had been; and to endure a long harangue from the

master of the house, on _cote roti_ and _lacryma Christi_; and after the

elder part of the company had adjusted their various merits and

swallowed a sufficient quantity, the two noblemen retired to a private

conference; and Delamere, obliged to move into a circle of insipid

women, took refuge in cards, which he detested almost as much as the

entertainment he had just quitted.

The hours, however slowly, wore away, and his patience was almost

exhausted: soon after ten o'clock he ventured to send to his father, to

know whether he was ready to return to town? but he received a message

in reply, 'that he had determined to stay all night where he was.'

Vexed and angry, Delamere began to suspect that his father had some

design in thus detaining him at a distance from Emmeline; and fired by

indignation at this idea, equally scorning to submit to restraint or to

be detained by finesse, he disengaged himself from the card table,

fetched his hat, and without speaking to any body, walked to the next

village, where he got into a post-chaise and was presently in London;

but as it was almost twelve o'clock, he forbore to visit Emmeline that

night.

CHAPTER XVI

As soon as there was any probability of Emmeline's being visible the

next morning, Delamere was at Clapham.

The servant of whom he enquired for her, told him, that Miss Mowbray had

not yet rung her bell, and that as it was later than her usual hour, she

was afraid it was owing to her being ill.

Alarmed at this intelligence, Delamere eagerly questioned her further;

and learned that the preceding morning, a gentleman who had never been

there before, had been to see Miss Mowbray, and had staid with her about

three quarters of an hour, during which he had talked very loud; and

that after he was gone, she had hastened to her own room, crying sadly,

and had seemed very much vexed the whole day afterwards. That when she

went to bed, which was early in the evening, she had sighed bitterly,

and said she was not well. The servants, won by the sweetness and

humanity with which Emmeline treated them, all seemed to consider her

health and happiness as their own concern; and the girl who delivered

this intelligence to Delamere, had been very much about her, and knowing

her better, loved her more than the others.

Delamere could not doubt the truth of this account; yet he could not

conjecture who the stranger could be, in whose power it was thus to

distress Emmeline. But dreading lest some scheme was in agitation to

take her from him, he sat in insupportable anxiety 'till she should

summons the maid.

Her music book lay open on a _piano forte_ in the breakfast parlour. A

song which he had a few days before desired her to learn, as being one

which particularly charmed him, seemed to have been just copied into it,

and he fancied the notes and the writing were executed with more than

her usual elegance. Under it was a little _porte feuille_ of red

morocco. Delamere took it up. It was untied; and two or three small

tinted drawings fell out. He saw the likeness of Mrs. Stafford, done

from memory; one yet more striking of his sister Augusta; and two or

three unfinished resemblances of persons he did not know, touched with

less spirit than the other two. A piece of silver paper doubled together

enclosed another; he opened it--it was a drawing of himself, done with a

pencil, and slightly tinged with a crayon; strikingly like; but it

seemed unfinished, and somewhat effaced.

Though among so many other portraits, this could not be considered as a

very flattering distinction, Delamere, on seeing it, was not master of

his transports. He now believed Emmeline (whom he could never induce to

own that her partiality for him exceeded the bounds of friendship) yet

cherished in her heart a passion she would not avow.

While he was indulging these sanguine and delicious hopes, he heard a

bell ring, and flew to enquire if it was that of Emmeline?

The maid, who crossed the hall to attend it's summons, told him it was.

He stepped softly up stairs behind the servant, and waited at the door

of the chamber while she went in.

To the question, from the maid, 'how she did?' Emmeline answered, 'much

better.'

'Mr. Delamere is here, Madam, and begs to know whether he may see you?'

Emmeline had expected him all the day before, and was not at all

surprised at his coming now. But she knew not what she should say to

him. To dissimulate was to her almost impossible; yet to tell him what

had passed between her and Sir Richard Crofts was to create dissentions

of the most alarming nature between him and his father; for she knew

Delamere would immediately and warmly resent the harshness of Lord

Montreville.

She could not however determine to avoid seeing Delamere; and she

thought his Lordship was not entitled to much consideration, after the

indelicate and needless shock he had given her, by employing the

peremptory, insolent, and unfeeling Sir Richard Crofts.

After a moment's hesitation, she told Nanny to let Mr. Delamere know

that as soon as she was dressed she would be with him in the parlour.

Delamere, who heard the message, stepped softly down stairs, replaced

the drawings, and waited the entrance of Emmeline; who neither requiring

or accustoming herself to borrow any advantage from art or ornament, was

soon dressed in her usual simple undress.

But to give some appearance of truth to what she intended to alledge, a

cold, in excuse for her swollen eyes and languid looks, she wrapt a

gauze hood over her head, and tied a black ribband round her throat; for

tho' she could not wholly conceal the truth from Delamere, she wished to

prevent his seeing how much it had affected her.

When she entered the room, Delamere, who was at the door to meet her,

was astonished at the alteration he saw in her countenance.

'You are ill, Emmeline?' said he, taking her hand.

'I am not quite well--I have a violent cold coming.'

'A cold?' eagerly answered Delamere, 'you have been crying--who was the

person who called on you yesterday?'

It was now in vain to attempt concealment if she had intended it.

'He did not tell me his name, for our conversation was very short; but

his servants told those of Mrs. Ashwood that his name is Sir Richard

Crofts.'

'And what business could Sir Richard Crofts possibly have with you?'

Emmeline related the conversation with great fidelity and without

comment.

Delamere had hardly patience to hear her out. He protested he would

immediately go to Sir Richard Crofts, and not only force him to

apologize for what had passed, but promise never again to interfere

between Lord Montreville and his family.

From executing this violent measure, Emmeline by earnest entreaty

diverted him. She had not yet recovered the shock given her by the

unwelcome interview of the preceding day; and though she had a very

excellent constitution, her sensibility of mind was so great, that when

she suffered any poignant uneasiness, it immediately affected her frame.

In the present state of her spirits, she could not hear Delamere's

vehement and passionate exclamations without tears; and when he saw how

much she was hurt, he commanded himself; spoke more calmly; and by a

rapid transition from rage to tenderness, he wept also, and bathed her

hands with his tears.

He was not without hopes that this last effort of Lord Montreville would

effect a change in his favour; and he pleaded again for an elopement

with the warmest eloquence of love.

But Emmeline, though she felt all the force of his arguments, had still

the courage to resist them; and all he could obtain from her was a

renewal of her former promise, neither to leave Mrs. Ashwood unknown to

him or to conceal the place of her residence; to consent to see him

wherever she should be, and positively to reject Mr. Rochely's offer.

In return, she expected from Delamere some concessions which nothing but

the sight of her uneasiness would have induced him to grant. At length

she persuaded him to promise that he would not insult Sir Richard

Crofts, or commit any other rashness which might irritate Lord

Montreville.

Nothing was a stronger proof of the deep root which his passion had

taken in his heart, than the influence Emmeline had obtained over his

ungovernable and violent spirit, hitherto unused to controul, and

accustomed from his infancy to exert over his own family the most

boundless despotism.

Emmeline, tranquillized and consoled by his promises, then entreated him

to go; as the state of Mrs. Ashwood's family made visitors improper. In

this, too, he obeyed her. And as soon as he was gone, Emmeline sat down

to write to Mrs. Stafford, related briefly what had lately happened, and

told her, that as soon as Lord Montreville could be induced to settle

some yearly sum for her support, (which notwithstanding his threats she

still thought he would do, on condition of her engaging never, without

his consent, to marry Delamere,) she would set out for Woodfield.

Lord Montreville, absorbed in politics and in a negociation with

ministry, had, on the evening when he and his son were at Lord

Dornock's, forgotten the impatient temper and particular situation of

Delamere. His non appearance at supper occasioned an enquiry, and it was

found he had left the house. It was too late for Lord Montreville to

follow him that night, and would, indeed, have been useless; but early

the next morning he was in Berkley-square, where he heard nothing of his

son.

He received a letter from Sir Richard Crofts, relating the ill success

of his embassy; but adding, that he would bring Rochely to his Lordship

the next day, to consider together what was next to be done. A letter

also soon after arrived from Lady Montreville, to let his Lordship know

that herself and her daughter, with Lady Mary and Miss Otley, were

coming to town the next evening.

Delamere, the tumult of whose spirits was too great immediately to

subside, took, for the first time in his life, some pains to conquer

their violence, in consideration of Emmeline.

He sent his servants to Berkley-square, to enquire among the domestics

what had passed. He thence learned that his father had returned in the

morning from Lord Dornock's in very ill humour, and that his mother was

expected in town. An interview with either, would, he was conscious,

only be the occasion of that dissention he had promised Emmeline to

avoid. His mother, he knew, came to town determined to keep no terms

with him; and that she would incessantly harrass him with reproaches or

teize him with entreaties. He therefore determined to avoid entirely all

conversation with both; and after a short reflection on the best means

to do so, he ordered Millefleur to discharge the lodgings; told him and

his other two servants that he was going out of town, and should not

take either them or his horses; therefore would have them go to

Berkley-square, and wait there his return. He bade his valet tell Lord

Montreville that he should be absent ten days or a fortnight. Then

ordering an hackney coach, he directed it to drive to Westminster

Bridge, as if he meant there to take post: instead of which he dismissed

it at the end of Bridge-street; and walking over to the Surry side, he

presently provided himself with lodgings under the name of Mr. Oswald, a

gentleman just come from Ireland; and all traces of Mr. Delamere were

lost.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME

VOLUME II

CHAPTER I

Sir Richard Crofts brought Mr. Rochely to Lord Montreville at the time

appointed; and in consequence of the conversation then held, his

Lordship was confirmed in his resolution of persisting in the plan Sir

Richard had laid down, to force Emmeline to accept the good fortune

offered her. Lord Montreville had sent as soon as he got to town to

Delamere's lodgings, whose servants said that he had slept there, but

was then gone out. His Lordship concluded he was gone to Clapham; but as

he could not remedy his uneasiness on that head, he was obliged to

endure it. About twelve o'clock Delamere had arranged matters for his

concealment; and about three, as Lord Montreville was dressing to go

out, Millefleur, together with Delamere's footman and groom, came as

they had been ordered to Berkley-square. This circumstance was no sooner

related to Lord Montreville by his valet de chambre, than he ordered

Millefleur to be sent up. The Frenchman related to his Lordship, that

his master was certainly gone to Mr. Percival's; but Lord Montreville

concluded he was gone to Scotland, and, in a tempest of anger and

vexation, cursed the hour when he had listened to the advice of Sir

Richard Crofts, the harshness of whose proceedings had, he imagined,

precipitated the event he had so long dreaded. He was so entirely

persuaded that this conjecture was the truth, that he first gave orders

for a post-chaise and four to be ready directly; then recollecting that

if he overtook his son he had no power to force him back, he thought it

better to take with him some one who could influence Emmeline. His

youngest daughter was still in Yorkshire; Mrs. Stafford he knew not

where to find; but he supposed that Mrs. Ashwood, with whom she had

lived some months, might have power to persuade her; and not knowing

what else to do, indeed hardly knowing what he expected from the visit,

he ordered his coachman to be as expeditious as possible in conveying

him to the house of that lady.

Mrs. Ashwood, her brother, and four or five other persons related to the

family, were at dinner. Lord Montreville entered the room; spoke to

those he knew with as much civility as he could; but not seeing Emmeline

among them, his apprehensions were confirmed. He desired they would not

disturb themselves; and declined sharing their repast; but being unable

to conceal his emotion till it was over, he said to Mrs. Ashwood--'I am

sorry, Madam, to trouble you on this unhappy business. I did hope you

would have had the goodness at least to inform me of it. What can I do?'

exclaimed he, breaking suddenly from his discourse and rising--'Good

God, what can I do?'

The company were silent, and amazed.

Mrs. Ashwood, however, said, 'I am sorry that any thing, my Lord, has

disturbed your Lordship. I am sure I should have been happy, my Lord,

could I have been of any service to your Lordship in whatever it is.'

'Disturbed!' cried he, striking his forehead with his hand, 'I am

distracted! When did she go? How long has she been gone?'

'Who, my Lord?'

'Miss Mowbray--Emmeline--Oh! it will be impossible to overtake them!'

'Gone! my Lord?'

'Gone with Delamere!--Gone to Scotland!'

'Miss Mowbray was however in the house not an hour ago,' said Miss

Galton; 'I saw her myself go up the garden just as we sat down to

dinner.'

'Then she went to meet him!--then they went together!'--exclaimed Lord

Montreville, walking round the room.

An assertion so positive staggered every one. They rose from table in

confusion.

'Let us go up,' said Mrs. Ashwood; 'I can hardly think it possible, my

Lord, that Miss Mowbray is gone, unless your Lordship absolutely saw

them.'

Yet Mrs. Ashwood remembered that Delamere had been there in the morning,

and that Emmeline had dined early alone, and had remained by herself all

the rest of the day, under pretence of sickness; and she began to

believe that all this was done to give her time to elope with Delamere.

She went up stairs; and Lord Montreville, without knowing what he did,

followed her. The stairs were carpetted; any one ascending was hardly

heard; and Mrs. Ashwood suddenly throwing open the door of her chamber,

Lord Montreville saw her, with her handkerchief held to her face,

hanging over a packet of papers which lay on the table before her.

Emmeline did not immediately look up--an exclamation from Lord

Montreville made her take her handkerchief from her eyes.

She arose; tried to conceal the sorrow visible in her countenance yet

wet with tears, and assuming as much as she could her native ease and

sweetness, she advanced towards his Lordship, who still stood at the

door, amazed, and asked him if he would pardon her for desiring him to

sit down in a bed-chamber; if not, she would wait on him below. She then

went back to the table; threw the papers into the casket that was on it;

and placing a chair between that and the fire, again asked him if he

would do her the honour to sit down.

Lord Montreville did so, but said nothing. He was ashamed of his

precipitancy; yet as Emmeline did not know it, he would not mention it;

and was yet too full of the idea to speak of any thing else.

Mrs. Ashwood had left them--Emmeline continued silent.

Lord Montreville, after a long pause, at length said, with a stern and

displeased countenance, 'I understand, Miss Mowbray, that my son was

here this morning.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

'Pray, do you know where he now is?'

'I do not, indeed. Is he not at your Lordship's house?'

'No; I am told by his servants that he is gone to Mr. Percival's--But

_you_--'(continued he, laying a strong emphasis on the word) '_you_,

Miss Mowbray, are I dare say better informed of his intentions than any

one else.'

'Upon my word, my Lord,' answered Emmeline, astonished, 'I do _not_

know. He said nothing to me of an intention to go any where; on the

contrary, he told me he should be here again to-morrow.'

'And is it possible you are ignorant of his having left London this

morning, immediately after he returned from visiting you?'

'My Lord, I have never yet stooped to the meanness of a falsehood. Why

should your Lordship now suppose me guilty of it? I repeat--and I hope

you will do me the justice to believe me--upon my honour I do _not_

know whither Mr. Delamere is gone--nor do I know that he has left

London.'

Lord Montreville could not but believe her. But while his fears were

relieved as to the elopement, they were awakened anew by the uncertainty

of what was become of his son, and what his motive could be for this

sudden disappearance.

He thought however the present opportunity of speaking to Emmeline of

his resolution was not to be neglected.

'However ignorant you may be, Miss Mowbray,' said he, 'of the reason of

his having quitted his lodgings, you are not to learn that his motive

for estranging himself from his family, and becoming a stranger to his

father's house, originates in his inconsiderate attachment to you.

Contrary to the assurances you gave me at Swansea, you have encouraged

this attachment; and, as I understand from Sir Richard Crofts, you

peremptorily and even rudely refuse the opportunity now offered you of

establishing yourself in rank and affluence, which no other young woman

would a moment hesitate to accept. Such a refusal cannot be owing to

mere caprice; nor could it possibly happen had you not determined, in

despite of every objection, and of bringing discord into my family, to

listen to that infatuated and rash young man.'

'Your Lordship does not treat me with your usual candour. I have

promised you, voluntarily promised you, not to marry Mr. Delamere

without your Lordship's consent. To prevent his coming here was out of

my power; but if I really aspired to the honour of which your Lordship

thinks me ambitious, _what_ has prevented me from engaging at once with

Mr. Delamere? who has, I own to you, pressed me repeatedly to elope. My

Lord, while I am treated with kindness and confidence, I can rely upon

my own resolution to deserve it; _but_ when your Lordship, on suspicion

or misrepresentation, is induced to withdraw that kindness and

confidence--why should _I_ make a point of honour, where _you_ no longer

seem to expect it?'

The truth of this answer, as well as it's spirit, at once hurt and

irritated Lord Montreville.

Determined to separate Emmeline from his son, he was mortified to be

forced to acknowledge in his own breast that she merited all his

affection, and angry that she should be in the right when he wished to

have found something to blame in her conduct. Pride and self-love seemed

to resent that a little weak girl should pretend to a sense of

rectitude, and a force of understanding greater than his own.

'Miss Mowbray,' said his Lordship sharply, 'I will be very explicit with

you--either consent to marry Mr. Rochely, whose affection does you so

much honour, or expect from me no farther kindness.'

'Your Lordship knows,' answered Emmeline, 'that I have no friend on whom

I have the least claim but you. If you abandon me--but, my Lord, ought

you to do it?----I am indeed most friendless!'

She could no longer command her tears--sobs obliged her to cease

speaking.

Lord Montreville thought her resolution would give way; and trying to

divest himself of all feeling, with an effort truly political, he

determined to press his point.

'It is in your power,' resumed he, 'not only to place yourself above all

fear of such desertion, but to engage my affection and that of my whole

family. You will be in a situation of life which I should hardly refuse

for one of the Miss Delameres. You will possess the most unbounded

affluence, and a husband who adores you. A man unexceptionable in

character; of a mature age; and whose immense fortune is every day

encreasing. You will be considered by me, and by Lady Montreville, as a

daughter of the house of Mowbray. The blemish of your birth will be

wiped off and forgotten.'

Emmeline wept more than before.

And his Lordship continued, 'If you absurdly refuse an offer so

infinitely above your expectations, I shall consider myself as having

more than done my duty in putting it in your way; and that your folly

and imprudence dissolve all obligation on my part. You must no longer

call yourself Mowbray; and you must forget that you ever were allowed to

be numbered among the relations of my family. Nor shall I think myself

obliged in any manner to provide for a person, who in scorn of

gratitude, prudence and reputation, throws from her an opportunity of

providing for herself.'

Emmeline regained some degree of resolution. She looked up, her eyes

streaming with tears, and said, 'Well, my Lord! to the lowest indigence

I must then submit; for to marry Mr. Rochely is not in my power.'

'We will suppose for a moment,' resumed Lord Montreville, 'that you

could realize the visionary hopes you have presumed to indulge of

uniting yourself to Mr. Delamere. Dear as he is to me and his mother, we

are determined from that moment to renounce him--never shall the

rebellious son who has dared to disobey us, be again admitted to our

presence!--never will we acknowledge as his wife, a person forced upon

us and introduced into our family in despite of our commands, and in

violation of duty, honour, and affection. _You_ will be the occasion of

his being loaded with the curses of both his parents, and of introducing

misery and discord into his family. Can you yourself be happy under such

circumstances? In point of fortune too you will find yourself

deceived--while _we_ live, Mr. Delamere can have but a very slender

income; and of every thing in our power we shall certainly deprive him,

both while we live, and at our decease. Consider well what I have said;

and make use of your reason. Begin by giving up to me the ridiculous

witnesses of a ridiculous and boyish passion, which must be no longer

indulged; to keep a picture of Delamere is discreditable and

indelicate--you will not refuse to relinquish it?'

He reached over the table, and took from among two or three loose

papers, which yet lay before Emmeline, a little blue enamelled case,

which he concluded contained a miniature of Delamere, of whom several

had been drawn. Emmeline, absorbed in tears, did not oppose it. The

spring of the case was defective. It opened in his hand; and presented

to his view, not a portrait of his son, but of his brother, drawn when

he was about twenty, and at a period when he was more than a

brother--when he was the dearest friend Lord Montreville had on earth. A

likeness so striking, which he had not seen for many years, had an

immediate effect upon him.

His brother seemed to look at him mournfully. A melancholy cast about

the eye-brows diminished the vivacity of the countenance, and the faded

colour (for the picture had been painted seven and twenty years) gave it

a look of languor and ill health; such perhaps as the original wore

before his death, when a ruined constitution threatened him for some

months, tho' his life terminated by a malignant fever in a few hours.

The poor distrest Emmeline was the only memorial left of him; and Lord

Montreville felt her tears a reproach for his cruelty in thus

threatening to abandon to her fate, the unhappy daughter of this once

loved brother.

Sir Richard Crofts and Lady Montreville were not by, to intercept these

sentiments of returning humanity. He found the tears fill his eyes as he

gazed on the picture.

Emmeline, insensible of every thing, saw it not; and not conscious that

he had taken it, the purport of his last words she believed to relate to

a sketch she had herself made of Delamere. She was therefore surprized,

when Lord Montreville arising, took her hand, and in a voice that

witnessed the emotion of his soul, said--'Come, my dear Emmeline, pardon

me for thus distressing you, you shall _not_ be compelled to marry Mr.

Rochely if you have so great a dislike to him. You shall still have an

adequate support; and I trust I shall have nothing to fear from your

indiscretion in regard to Delamere.'

'Your Lordship,' answered Emmeline, without taking her handkerchief from

her eyes, 'has never yet found me capable of falsehood: I will repeat,

if you desire it, the promise I gave you--I will even take the most

solemn oath you shall dictate, never to be the wife of Mr. Delamere,

unless your Lordship and Lady Montreville consent.'

'I take your promise,' answered his Lordship, 'and shall rely firmly

upon it. But Emmeline, you must go from hence for your own sake; your

peace and reputation require it; Delamere must not frequent the house

where you are: you must conceal from him the place of your abode.'

'My Lord, I will be ingenuous with you. To go from hence is what I

intend, and with your Lordship's permission I will set out immediately

for Mrs. Stafford's. But to conceal from Mr. Delamere where I am, is not

in my power; for I have given him a solemn promise to see him if he

desires it, wherever I shall be: and as I hope you depend on my honour,

it must be equally sacred whether given to him or you. You will

therefore not insist on my breaking this engagement, and I promise you

again never to violate the other.'

With this compromise, Lord Montreville was obliged to be content. He

entreated Emmeline to see Rochely again, and hear his offers. But she

absolutely refused; assuring Lord Montreville, that were his fortune

infinitely greater, she would not marry him, tho' servitude should be

the alternative.

His Lordship therefore forbore to press her farther. He desired, that if

Delamere wrote to her, or saw her, she would let him know, which she

readily agreed to; and he told her, that so long as she was single, and

did nothing to disoblige him, he would pay her an hundred guineas a year

in quarterly payments. He gave her a bank note of fifty pounds; and

recommending it to her to go as soon as possible to Mrs. Stafford's, he

kissed her cheek with an appearance of affection greater than he had yet

shewn, and then went home to prepare for the reception of Lady

Montreville, whose arrival he did not greatly wish for; dreading lest

her violence and ill-temper should drive his son into some new

extravagance. But as her will was not to be disputed, he submitted

without remonstrance to the alteration of the plan he had proposed;

which was, that his family should pass their Christmas in Norfolk,

whither he intended to have returned.

The next day Delamere was again at Clapham, very early.

Emmeline, the additional agitation of whose mind had prevented her

sleeping during the night, appeared more indisposed than she had done

the day before.

Delamere, very much alarmed at her altered looks, anxiously enquired the

cause? And without hesitation she told him simply all that had passed;

the promise she had given to his father, to which she intended strictly

to adhere, and the arrangement she had agreed to on condition of being

persecuted no more on the score of Mr. Rochely.

It is impossible to describe the grief and indignation of Delamere, at

hearing this relation. He saw all the hopes frustrated which he had been

so long indulging; he saw between him and all he loved, a barrier which

time only could remove; he dared not hope that Emmeline would ever be

induced to break an engagement which she considered as binding; he dared

not flatter himself with the most distant prospect of procuring the

consent of Lord and Lady Montreville, and therefore by their deaths only

could he obtain her; which if he had been unnatural enough to wish, was

yet in all probability very distant; as Lord Montreville was not more

than seven and forty, and of an excellent constitution; and Lady

Montreville three years younger.

Passion and resentment for some moments stifled every other sentiment in

the heart of Delamere. But the impediments that thus arose to his wishes

were very far from diminishing their violence.

The more impossible his union with Emmeline seemed to be, the more

ardently he desired it. The difficulties that might have checked, or

conquered an inferior degree of passion, served only to strengthen his,

and to render it insurmountable--

It was some moments before Emmeline could prevail upon him to listen to

her. She then enquired why he had concealed himself from his father, and

where he had been?

He answered, that he had avoided Lord Montreville, because, had he met

him, he found himself incapable of commanding his temper and of

forbearing to resent his sending Sir Richard Crofts to her, which he had

promised her not to do. That therefore he had taken other lodgings in

another part of the town, where he intended to remain.

Emmeline exhorted and implored him to return to Berkley-square. He

positively refused. He refused also to tell her where he lodged. And

complaining loudly of her cruelty and coldness, yet tenderly entreating

her to take care of her health, he left her; having first procured

permission to see her the next day, and every day till she set out for

Woodfield.

When he was gone, Miss Mowbray wrote to Lord Montreville--

'My Lord,

'In pursuance of the word I passed to your Lordship, I have the

honour to acquaint you that Mr. Delamere has just left me. I

endeavoured to prevail on him to inform me where he lodges; but he

refuses to give me the least information. If it be your Lordship's

wish to see him, you will probably have an opportunity of doing it

here, as he proposed being here to-morrow; but refused to name the

hour, apprehending perhaps that you might meet him, as I did not

conceal from him that I should acquaint you with my having seen him.

I have the honour to be,

my Lord,

your Lordship's

most obedient servant,

EMMELINE MOWBRAY.'

_Clapham, Dec. 3._

Lord Montreville received this letter in her Ladyship's dressing-room.

The servant who brought it in, said it came from Clapham; and Lady

Montreville insisted on seeing its contents. She had been before

acquainted with what had passed; and bestowed on her son the severest

invectives for his obstinacy and folly. Poor Emmeline however, who was

the cause of it, was the principal object of her resentment and disdain.

Even this last instance of her rectitude, could not diminish the

prejudice which embittered the mind of Lady Montreville against her. She

lamented, whenever she deigned to speak of her, that the laws of this

country, unlike those of better regulated kingdoms, did not give people

of fashion power to remove effectually those who interfered with their

happiness, or were inimical to their views. 'If this little wretch,'

said she, 'was in France, it would not be difficult to put an end to the

trouble she has dared to give us. A _letter de cachet_ would cure the

creature of her presumption, and place her where her art and affectation

should not disturb the peace of families of high rank.'

Lord Montreville heard these invectives without reply, but not without

pain.

Augusta Delamere, who arrived in Berkley-square the same morning that

Lady Montreville did, felt still more hurt by her mother's determined

hatred to Emmeline, whom she languished to see, and had never ceased to

love.

Miss Delamere inheriting all the pride of her mother, and adding to it a

sufficient share of vanity and affectation of her own, had taken a

dislike to the persecuted Emmeline, if possible more inveterate than

that of Lady Montreville. Tho' she had never seen her, she detested her;

and exerted all her influence on her mother to prevent her being

received into the family as her father's relation. Fitz-Edward had

praised her as the most interesting woman he had ever seen. Miss

Delamere had no aversion to Fitz-Edward; and tho' he had never seemed

sensible of the honour she did him, she could not divest herself wholly

of that partiality towards him, which made her heartily abhor any woman

he seemed to admire. When to this cause of dislike was added, what she

called the insolent presumption of the animal in daring to attempt

inveigling _her_ brother into the folly of marrying, she thought she

might indulge all the rancour, envy, and malignity of her heart.

When Lady Montreville had read the letter, she threw it down on the

table contemptuously.

'It requires no answer,' said she to the servant who waited.

The man left the room.

'Well, my Lord,' continued she, addressing herself to her husband, 'what

do you intend to do about this unhappy, infatuated boy?'

'I really know not,' answered his Lordship.

'I will tell you then,' resumed she--'Go to this girl, and let her know

that you will abandon her pennyless; force her to accept the honour Mr.

Rochely offers her; and, by shewing a little strength of mind and

resolution, break these unworthy chains with which your own want of

prudence has fettered your son.'

'It has already been tried, Madam, without success. Consider that if I

am bound by no obligations to support this young person, I am also

without any power over her. To force her to marry Mr. Rochely is

impossible. I have however her promise that she will not enter into any

clandestine engagement with Delamere.'

'Her promise!' exclaimed Lady Montreville.--'And are you weak enough, my

Lord, to trust to the promise of an artful, designing creature, who

seems to me to have already won over your Lordship to her party? What

want of common sense is this! If you will not again speak to her, and

that most decisively, I will do it myself! Send her to me! I will force

her not only to tell me where Delamere has had the meanness to conceal

himself, but also oblige her to relinquish the hopes she has the

insolence to indulge.'

Miss Delamere, who wanted to see the wonderful creature that had turned

her brother's head, and who was charmed to think she should see her

humbled and mortified, promoted this plan as much as possible. Augusta,

dreading her brother's violence, dared not, and Lord Montreville would

not oppose it, as he believed her Ladyship's overwhelming rhetoric, to

which he was himself frequently accustomed to give way, might produce on

Emmeline the effect he had vainly attempted. He therefore asked Lady

Montreville, whether she really wished to see Miss Mowbray, and when?

'I am engaged to-morrow,' answered she, 'all day. But however, as she is

a sort of person whom it will be improper to admit at any other time,

let her be here at ten o'clock in the morning. She may come up, before I

breakfast, into my dressing-room.'

'Shall I send one of the carriages for her?' enquired his Lordship.

'By no means,' replied the Lady. 'They will be all wanted. Let her

borrow a coach of the people she lives with. I suppose all city people

now keep coaches. Or if she cannot do that, a hack may be had.' Then

turning to her woman, who had just brought her her snuff-box,

'Brackley,' said she, 'don't forget to order the porter to admit a

young woman who will be here to-morrow, at ten o'clock; tho' she may

perhaps come in a hack.'

Lord Montreville, who grew every hour more uneasy at Delamere's absence,

now set out in search of him himself. He called at Fitz-Edward's

lodgings; but he was not yet come to town, tho' hourly expected. His

Lordship then went to Clapham, where he hoped to meet his son; but

instead of doing so, Emmeline put into his hands the following letter--

'I intended to have seen you again to-day; but the pain I felt

after our interview yesterday, has so much disordered me, that it

is better not to repeat it. Cruel Emmeline!--to gratify my father

you throw me from you without remorse, without pity. I shall be the

victim of his ambition, and of your false and mistaken ideas of

honour.

'Ah! Emmeline! will the satisfaction that you fancy will arise

from this chimerical honour make you amends for the loss of such an

heart as mine! Yet think not I can withdraw it from you, cold and

cruel as you are. Alas! it is no longer in my power. But my

passions, the violence of which I cannot mitigate, prey on my frame,

and will conduct to the grave, this unhappy son, who is to be

sacrificed to the cursed politics of his family.

'I cannot see you, Emmeline, without a renewal of all those

sensations which tear me to pieces, and which I know affect you,

though you try to conceal it. For a day or two I will go into the

country. _Remember your promise_ not to remove any where but to Mrs.

Stafford's; and to let me know the day and hour when you set out.

You plead to me, that your promise to my father is _sacred_. I

expect that those you have passed to me shall be at least equally

so. Farewel! till we meet again. You know that seeing you, and being

permitted to love you, is all that renders supportable the existence

of your unhappy

F. D.'

'This letter, my Lord,' said Emmeline, was delivered by a porter. I

spoke to the man, and asked him from whence he brought it? He said from

a coffee-house at Charing-cross.'

'Did you answer it?'

'No, my Lord,' said Emmeline, blushing; 'I think it required no

answer.'

He then told her that Lady Montreville expected to see her the next day;

and named the hour.

Emmeline, terrified as she was at the idea of such an interview, was

forced to assure him she would be punctual to it; and his Lordship took

an hasty leave, still hoping he might meet his son. He was hardly gone,

before another porter brought to Emmeline a second letter: it was from

Augusta Delamere.

'At length, my dear Emmeline, I am near you, and can tell you I

still love you; tho' even that satisfaction I am forced to snatch

unknown to my mother. Oh, Emmeline! I tremble for your situation

to-morrow. The dislike that both my mother and sister have taken to

you, is inconceivable; and I am afraid that you will have a great

deal of rudeness and unkindness to encounter. I write this to

prepare you for it; and hope that your conscious innocence, and the

generosity with which you have acted, will support you. I have been

taken to task most severely by my mother for my partiality to you;

and my sister, in her contemptuous way, calls you my sweet

sentimental friend. To be sure my brother's absence is a dreadful

thing; and great allowances are to be made for my mother's

vexation; tho' I own I do not see why it should prevent her being

just. I will try to be in the room to-morrow, tho' perhaps I shall

not be permitted. Don't say you have heard from me, for the world;

but be assured I shall always love you as you deserve, and be most

truly

your affectionate and faithful,

A. DELAMERE.'

_Berkley-square, Dec. 5._

CHAPTER II

Emmeline had the convenience of Mrs. Ashwood's carriage, who agreed to

set her down in Berkley-square. She was herself sitting for her picture;

and told Miss Mowbray she would send the chariot back for her when she

got to the house of the painter.

Exactly at ten o'clock they arrived at the door of Lord Montreville; and

Emmeline, who had been arguing herself into some degree of resolution as

she went along, yet found her courage much less than she thought she

should have occasion for; and with faultering steps and trembling nerves

she went up stairs. The man who conducted her, told her that his Lady

was not yet up, and desired her to wait in an anti-room, which was

superbly furnished and covered with glasses, in which Emmeline had

leisure to contemplate her pale and affrighted countenance.

The longer the interview was delayed the more dreadful it appeared. She

dared not ask for Miss Augusta; yet, at every noise she heard, hoped

that amiable girl was coming to console and befriend her. But no Augusta

appeared. A servant came in, mended the fire, and went down again; then

Miss Delamere's maid, under pretence of fetching something, took a

survey of her in order to make a report to her mistress; and Emmeline

found that she was an object of curiosity to the domesticks, who had

heard from Millefleur, and from the other servants who had been at

Swansea, that this was the young woman Mr. Delamere was dying for.

An hour and a half was now elapsed; and poor Emmeline, whose imagination

had been busied the whole time in representing every form of insult and

contempt with which she expected to be received, began to hope that Lady

Montreville had altered her intention of seeing her.

At length, however, Mrs. Brackley, her Ladyship's woman, was heard

speaking aloud to a footman--Walter, tell that young woman she may be

admitted to see my Lady, and shew her up.

Walter delivered his message; and the trembling Emmeline with some

difficulty followed him.

She entered the dressing-room. Her Ladyship, in a morning dress, sat at

a table, on which was a salver with coffee. Her back was to the door,

where stood Mrs. Brackley; who, as Emmeline, hesitating, seemed ready to

shrink back, said, with a sort of condescending nod, 'There, you may go

in, Miss.'

Emmeline entered; but did not advance.

Lady Montreville, without rising or speaking, turned her head, and

looked at her with a scowling and disdainful countenance.

'Humph!' said she, looking at her eldest daughter, who sat by the fire

with a newspaper in her hand--'humph!' as much as to say, I see no such

great beauty in this creature.

Miss Delamere, whose countenance wore a sort of disdainful sneer,

smiled in answer to her mother's humph! and said, 'Would you have her

sit down, Madam?'

'Aye,' said Lady Montreville, turning again her head towards

Emmeline--'You may sit down.'

There was a sofa near the door. Emmeline, hardly able to stand, went to

it.

A silence ensued. Lady Montreville sipped her coffee; and Miss Delamere

seemed intent upon the newspaper.

'So!' cried her Ladyship, 'my son has absented himself! Upon my word,

Miss What-d'ye-call-it, (for Mowbray I don't allow that your name is)

you have a great deal to answer for. Pray what amends can you ever hope

to make to my Lord, and me, for the trouble you have been the cause of?'

'I sincerely lament it, Madam,' answered Emmeline, forcing herself to

speak; 'and do assure you it has been on my part involuntary.'

'Oh, no doubt on't. Your wonderful beauty is the fatal cause. You have

used no art, I dare say; no pretty finesse, learned from novels, to

inveigle a silly boy to his undoing.'

'If I had been disposed, Madam, to take advantage of Mr. Delamere's

unhappy partiality for me--'

'Oh dear! What you was coy? You knew your subject, no doubt, and now

make a merit of what was merely a piece of art. I detest such demure

hypocrites! Tell me,--why, if you are _not_ disposed to take advantage

of Mr. Delamere's folly, you do not accept the noble offer made you by

this banker, or whatever he is, that my Lord says is worth above an

hundred thousand pounds? The reason is evident. A little obscure

creature, bred on the Welch mountains, and who was born nobody knows

how, does not so easily refuse a man of fortune unless she has some

other views. You would like a handsome young man with a title! Yes! you

would like to hide your own obscurity in the brilliant pedigree of one

of the first families in Europe. But know, presumptuous girl, that the

whole house shall perish ere it shall thus be contaminated--know'----

She grew inarticulate with passion; pride and malignity seemed to choak

her; and she stopped, as if to recover breath to give vent to her rage.

Miss Delamere took the opportunity to speak--

'Indeed, child,' said she, 'it is hurting yourself extremely; and I am

really sorry you should be so deceived. _My_ brother can never marry

_you_; and as Lord Montreville has brought you up, under the notion of

your belonging to a part of his family, we are really interested, my

mother and I, in your not going into a bad course of life. If you do not

marry this rich city-man, what do you think is to become of you?'

'My Lord Montreville has been so good as to assure me,' said

Emmeline--her words were so faint, that they died away upon her lips.

'What does she say, Fanny?' asked Lady Montreville.

'Something of my father's having assured her, Madam.'

'Don't flatter yourself, girl,' resumed her Ladyship, 'don't deceive

yourself. If you refuse to marry this man who offers to take you, not

one shilling shall you ever receive from this family; determine

therefore at once; send to the person in question; let him come here,

and let an agreement for a settlement be directly signed between Lord

Montreville and him. Lord Montreville will in that case give you a

fortune. I will hear no objection! I _will_ have the affair closed this

morning! I _will_ have it so!'

Lady Montreville, accustomed to undisputed power in her own family,

expected from every body an acquiescence as blind as she found from her

tradesmen and servants, who endured her ill-humour and gave way to her

caprices. But she forgot that Emmeline was equally unaccustomed to her

commands, and free from the necessity of obeying them. The gentlest and

mildest temper will revolt against insolence and oppression: and the

cruelty and unfeminine insults she had received, concluded by this

peremptory way of forcing her into a marriage from which her whole soul

recoiled, at length restored to her some portion of that proper spirit

and presence of mind which had been frightened from her. Conscious that

she deserved none of these ungenerous insults, and feeling herself

superior to her who could cruelly and wantonly inflict them, she

regained her courage.

'If your Ladyship has nothing more to say,' said she, rising, 'I shall

have the honour to wish you a good morning; for I believe Mrs. Ashwood

has been waiting for me some time.'

'Don't tell me of Mrs. Ashwood--but tell me where is my son? Where is

Delamere?'

'I know not,' answered Emmeline. 'I have already told my Lord

Montreville that I am entirely ignorant.'

'Nobody believes it!' said Miss Delamere.

'I am sorry for it,' replied Emmeline, coolly. 'If, however, I did know,

it is not such treatment, Madam, that should compel me to give any

information.' She then opened the door and walked down stairs. A footman

met her, whom she desired to enquire for Mrs. Ashwood's carriage. Before

the man could descend to obey her, a violent ringing was heard. The

footman said it was his Lady's bell, and ran up to answer it; while

Emmeline still descending, heard somebody softly calling her. She looked

up, and saw Augusta Delamere leaning over the bannisters; she put up her

finger as if to prevent Emmeline's speaking, threw her a letter, and

immediately disappeared.

The spirits of Emmeline were again greatly hurried by this transient

view of her friend. She put the letter hastily into her pocket, and was

got down into the hall, where she spoke to another footman to see for

her carriage; but the man whom she had met on the stairs, now came to

say his Lady must see her again. Emmeline answered that she had already

made her friend wait, and must beg to be excused returning to her

Ladyship this morning. The man however said, that he dared not disobey

his Lady, nor call up the chariot.

Emmeline, alarmed at the idea of being detained, advanced towards the

door, told the porter (who had not heard this dialogue,) to open it, and

walked resolutely into the street.

The two footmen followed her to the door; but contented themselves with

looking after her, without attempting to stop her.

'She is pretty enough, however,' said one to the other, 'to excuse our

young Lord.'

'The devil's in't if she is not,' answered the other.

Emmeline heard this; and between vexation at their impertinence, and

fear of their following her, she found her whole strength again forsake

her.

She walked on however towards Charles-street, looking round for Mrs.

Ashwood's carriage, but could not see it. She was totally unacquainted

with the streets, where she had never been on foot before; but

recollected that she might get an hackney-coach, which was the more

necessary, as snow was falling fast, and her muslin cloaths were already

wet almost through.

She was picking her way, still in some hopes of seeing the carriage,

when an hackney-coach passed empty. Emmeline looked wishfully towards

it. The man stopped, and asked if she wanted a coach? She answered yes,

as eagerly as if she had been afraid of a disappointment; and hurrying

into it, told the man to drive to Clapham.

Just as he was mounting the box, another hack passed, and a young

officer who was in it looked earnestly into that where Emmeline sat;

then calling to his driver to stop, he leaped out, and Emmeline saw

Fitz-Edward at the door of her coach.

'Miss Mowbray!' said he--'Is it possible! alone and in this equipage, in

Berkley-square! Where is Delamere?'

Before Emmeline had time to answer him he had opened the coach door.

'It snows too much,' said he, 'for a comfortable conference, unless you

will give me leave to sit by you; where are you going to?'

'To Clapham,' answered Emmeline.

'Oh! take me with you,' said he. 'I have a thousand things to say to

you.'

He gave her no time to refuse: but flinging half a crown to the man who

had driven him, he got into the coach which she was in, and ordered the

man to shut the door and go where he had been directed.

Emmeline was vexed at this incident, as she was too uneasy to wish for

the presence of any one, and impatient to open the letter in her pocket.

But Fitz-Edward was not easily discouraged; and possessed, together with

perfect good breeding, a fortunate sort of assurance with which nobody

was ever long displeased.

He enquired after Mrs. Stafford with a degree of interest for which

Emmeline felt inclined to love him. She related all she knew of her; and

her eyes reassumed their lustre, while she told him how soon she was

likely to see her. He then renewed his questions about Delamere.

Emmeline could not dissemble; and indeed saw in this case no reason why

she should. She therefore told him ingenuously all that had happened

since they met at Swansea; most of which he already knew from Delamere.

He watched her looks however while she was speaking; and by her blushes,

her manner, and the softness of her eyes, he thought he saw evidently

enough that Delamere was no longer indifferent to her. Her indignation

at the treatment she had just received from his mother and sister, dyed

her cheeks with crimson while she related it; but when she returned to

speak of Delamere, she forgot her anger, and seemed to feel only pity

and tenderness.

Fitz-Edward, a most perfect judge of female hearts, made his

observations on all this, with which he knew he should most effectually

gratify his friend; and in his insinuating way, he said all he could

think of to encrease her compassion for her lover, and inflame her

resentment against those who impeded a union, which he was pretty sure

Emmeline now wished for, as well as Delamere.

CHAPTER III

When they arrived at Clapham, Emmeline found Mrs. Ashwood was not yet

returned. Fitz-Edward entreated her to sing to him; and either was, or

pretended to be, in raptures at her improvement since they had met in

the summer.

About half an hour after four, Mrs. Ashwood came in; and throwing open

the parlour door, asked Emmeline, in no very sweet accent, 'Why she had

given her the trouble to go in her carriage to Berkley-square, if she

intended going home by any other conveyance?'

Mrs. Ashwood was subject to causeless fits of ill-humour, to which

Emmeline was a good deal accustomed; and concluding she was now seized

with some sudden discomposure of temper, mildly answered, 'That she

supposed there had been a mistake; for that the chariot did not come for

her at the appointed time.'

'Mistake!' replied the other lady, sharply; 'I don't know as to mistake;

but if you had chosen it, you might have staid dinner with Lady

Montreville.'

Emmeline, without seeming to attend to the asperity of the address,

desired to introduce Colonel Fitz-Edward.

As this short dialogue had passed without Mrs. Ashwood's having entered

the room, she had not seen the stranger, who now advanced towards her.

The title of Colonel, added to his military air and handsome figure,

seemed to gain at once her favourable opinion; and her countenance

losing the unpleasing expression of ill-temper, immediately put on its

best smile, and an affectation of softness and complacency with which

she frequently adorned it.

She seemed to consider the handsome young soldier as a conquest worthy

all her ambition; and finding he was the most intimate friend of

Delamere, had no apprehension that his admiration would be diverted by

the youth and attractions of Emmeline.

Fitz-Edward presently understood her character; and with admirable

adroitness acted the part of a man afraid of being too much charmed. He

cast an arch look at Emmeline; then made to the Lady of the house some

compliments so extravagant, that only the weakest vanity could prevent

her seeing its ridicule. But Fitz-Edward, who found in a moment that

nothing was too gross to be believed, fearlessly repeated the dose; and

before dinner came in, she was in the best humour imaginable, and

pressed him so earnestly to partake of it, that, after an apology for

sitting down in his morning dishabille, he consented.

The same unlimited flattery was continued during dinner by Fitz-Edward,

and received by the lady with the same avidity; and Emmeline, tho'

half-angry with him for the pleasure he seemed to take in making Mrs.

Ashwood absurd, could not help being amused with the scene.

Before their repast ended, she was so much charmed with her new

acquaintance, and so much longed to shew him to her female friends, and

her other admirers, that she could not forbear pressing him to stay to a

card party, which she was to have in the evening.

He loved the ridiculous; and, influenced by a vanity as silly as that he

delighted to expose, he took pleasure in shewing how extremely absurd he

could make women appear, who were not on other occasions void of

understanding. Tho' he had really business with Lord Montreville, who

had left several messages at his lodgings desiring to see him, and was

going thither when Emmeline met him, yet he accepted Mrs. Ashwood's

invitation, on condition of being allowed to go home to dress.

He was no sooner gone than she flew to her toilet, and Emmeline to a

second perusal of the letter she had received from Augusta Delamere.

'I am forbidden to see you, my dearest Emmeline; and perhaps may

not have an opportunity of giving you this. My heart bleeds for

you, my sweet friend. I fear my father will be prevailed upon

wholly to abandon you. They are all inventing schemes to force you

into a marriage with that odd-looking old Rochely. He has been here

once or twice, and closetted with my father; and part

of the scheme of to-day is, to persuade you to dine here with

him. But I am almost sure you will not stay; for unless my mother

can command herself more before you than she does when she is

talking about you, I think you will be frightened away. I am

certain, my dear Emmeline, from what I have heard, tho' they say

but little before me, that no endeavours will be omitted to drive

you to marry Rochely; and that they will persecute you every way,

both by persuasions, and by distressing you. But be assured, that

while Augusta Delamere has any thing, you shall share it. Indeed I

love you, not only as if you were my sister, but, I think, better.

Ah! why are there such unhappy impediments to your being really so?

At present I foresee nothing but perplexity; and have no dependance

but on you. I know you will act as you ought to do; and that you

will at last prevail with Delamere to act right too. Whoever loves

you, cannot long persist in doing ill; and surely it is very ill

done, and very cruel, for Delamere to make us all so unhappy. I

need not tell you to arm yourself with fortitude against the

attacks that will be made upon you. You have more fortitude and

resolution than I have. Situated as you have been, I know not what

_I_ should have done; but I fear it would not have been so worthy

of praise as the noble and disinterested part you have acted;

which, tho' unaccompanied with the thousand amiable qualities of

heart and understanding you possess, would ever command the esteem

and admiration of your faithful and affectionate

AUGUSTA DELAMERE.'

'Do not write to me till you hear from me again; as I should incur

great displeasure if known to correspond with you.

A. D.'

Charmed as Emmeline was by the tender solicitude and affectionate

simplicity of her beloved friend, the pleasure this letter gave her was

very much abated by learning that the domestic infelicity of Lord

Montreville's family fell particularly heavy on her. She now recollected

what Mrs. Ashwood had said on her first entrance into the room, when she

returned home; and concluded from thence that she had seen Lady

Montreville, tho' her whole attention was so immediately engrossed by

the Colonel, that she had no more named it. She therefore grew anxious

to hear what had been said; and her own toilet being very soon over, she

sent to desire admittance to that of Mrs. Ashwood; on receiving which,

she attended her, and begged to know whether she had seen Lady

Montreville, and what had passed?

Mrs. Ashwood was in so happy a disposition, that she hesitated not to

oblige her; and while she finished the important business of

accommodating a pile of black feathers, jet and crape, upon her head,

'the mockery of woe' which she did not even affect to feel, she gave

Emmeline the following account, interlarded with directions to her

woman.

'Why, my dear, you must know that when I got to Gainsborough's [_more to

the left_] he had unluckily a frightful old judge, or a bishop, or some

tedious old man with him, and I was forced to wait: I cannot tell what

possessed me, but I entirely forgot that I was to send the chariot back

for you. So the chariot [_put it a little forwarder_] staid. I thought

the tiresome man, whoever he was, would never have gone; however he went

at last [_raise the lower curl_] and then I _sot_. You cannot think how

much the likeness is improved! So when I had done [_give me the scraper;

here is some powder on my eye-brow_] I went away, thinking to call on

you; but as I went by Butler's, I remembered that I wanted some

pearl-coloured twist to finish the purse I am doing for Hanbury. I was

almost an hour matching it. Well, then I thought as I was so near

Frivolité's door, I might as well call and see whether she had put the

trimming on the white bombazeen, as you know we agreed would be most the

thing. There were a thousand people in the house; you know there is

never any possibility of getting out of that creature's room under an

hour.' [Oh! heaven! thought Emmeline, nor is there any end to the

importance you affix to trifles which interest nobody else.] 'So,

however, at last I got to Berkley-square, and stopped at the door. The

man at the door said you was gone. I thought that very odd, and desired

another servant go up and see, for I concluded it was some mistake.

After a moment or two, the footman came down again, and said if I was

the Lady Miss Mowbray lived with, his Lady desired I would walk up. Upon

my word it is a noble house! When I got into the room, there was Lady

Montreville and her daughters. Her Ladyship was extremely polite,

indeed; and after some discourse, "Mrs. Ashwood," said she, "you know

Miss Mowbray's situation: I assure you I sent for her to-day with no

other view in the world but for her own good, and you know, [_dear me!

here is a pimple on my chin that is quite hideous; give me a patch._]

you know that for her to refuse Mr. Rochely is being absolutely blind to

her own interest; because you must suppose, Mrs. Ashwood, that she is

only deceiving herself when she entertains any thoughts of my son; for

that is a thing that never can happen, nor ever shall happen; and

besides, to give my Lord and me all this trouble, is a very ungrateful

return to us for having brought her up, and many other obligations she

has received at our hands; and will be the ruin of herself; and the

greatest perverseness in the world. You, Mrs. Ashwood, are, I hear, a

very sensible woman [_where is the rouge box?_] and I dare say, now you

know how agreeable it would be to me and my Lord to have Miss Emmeline

come to her senses about Mr. Rochely, you will do your endeavours to

persuade her to act reasonably; and then, tho' she has behaved very

disrespectful and very ill, which is only to be forgiven on account of

her knowing no better, I shall countenance her, and so will my Lord."

This was, as near as I remember, Emmeline, what my Lady said to me. You

know [_the milk of roses is almost out_] you know I could not refuse to

tell her I would certainly talk to you. I was surprised to find her

Ladyship so obliging and affable, as you had told me she is reckoned so

very proud. She ordered her gentleman to give me a ticket for a rout and

a supper her Ladyship gives on Tuesday three weeks; and she said, that

as she did not doubt but that you would discover your own interest by

that time, I should take one for you. Look you, here it is.'

'I shall be in Dorsetshire, I hope, long before Tuesday se'nnight,' said

Emmeline, laying the card coolly on the toilet. She found Mrs. Ashwood

had nothing more material to say; and being apprehensive that she

impeded the last finish which her dress and person required, she thanked

her, and went back into her own room.

The eagerness and resolution with which Lady Montreville opposed her

son's marriage, appeared from nothing more evidently, than from her thus

endeavouring to solicit the assistance of Mrs. Ashwood, and humbling

herself to use flattery and insinuation towards a person to whom it is

probable nothing else could have induced her to speak. With persons in

trade, or their connections, or even with gentlemen, unless of very

ancient and honourable families, she seldom deigned to hold any

communication; and if she had occasion to speak to them individually, it

was generally under the appellation of 'Mr. or Mrs. I forget the name;'

for to remember the particular distinctions of such inferior beings, was

a task too heavy for Right Honourable intellects. When she spoke of such

collectively, it was under the denomination of 'the people, or the

folks.'

With that sort of condescension that seems to say, 'I will humble myself

to your level,' and which is in fact more insolent than the most

offensive haughtiness, her Ladyship had behaved to Mrs. Ashwood; who

took it for extreme politeness, and was charmed on any terms to obtain

admission to the house of a woman of such high fashion, and who was

known to be so very nice in the choice of her company.

In return for so much favour, she had been lavish of her assurances that

she would influence Miss Mowbray; and came home, fully determined to

talk to her sharply; believing too, that to make her feel the present

dependance and uncertainty of her situation by forcing her to bear a fit

of ill-humour, might help to determine her to embrace the affluent

fortune that would set her above it. This it was that occasioned her

harsh address to Emmeline; which would have been followed by acrimonious

reflections and rude remonstrances, under the denomination of 'necessary

truths and friendly advice,' had not the presence of Fitz-Edward, and

his subsequent enchanting conversation, driven all that Lady Montreville

had said out of her mind, and left it open only to the delightful

prospect which his compliments and praises afforded her.

The company assembled to cards at the usual hour. Rochely was among

them; who had not seen Emmeline since the rejection of his proposal,

with which Sir Richard Crofts was obliged to acquaint him, tho' he had

softened the peremptory terms in which it had been given. He had this

evening adorned himself in a superb suit of cut velvet of many colours,

lined with sables; which tho' not in the very newest mode, had been

reckoned very magnificent at several city assemblies; and he had put it

on as well in honour of Lord Montreville, with whom he had dined, as in

hopes of moving the perverse beauty for whom he languished. But so far

was this display of clumsy affluence from having any effect on the hard

heart of Emmeline, that it rather excited her mirth. And when with a

grave and solemn aspect he advanced towards her, she felt herself so

much disposed to laugh at his figure, that she was forced to avoid him,

and took refuge at the table, round which the younger part of the

company assembled to play.

Mrs. Ashwood had fixed Fitz-Edward to that where she herself presided;

and where she sat triumphantly enjoying his high-seasoned flattery;

while her female competitors, hearing he was the son of an Irish Earl,

and within three of being a Peer himself, contemplated her supposed

conquest with envy and vexation, which they could not conceal, and which

greatly added to her satisfaction.

Several persons were invited to stay supper; among whom were Fitz-Edward

and Rochely. About half an hour before the card-tables broke up, a

servant brought a note to Emmeline, and told her that it required an

answer. The hand was Delamere's.

'For two days I have forborne to see you, Emmeline, and have

endeavoured to argue myself into a calmer state of mind; but it

avails nothing; hopeless when with you, yet wretched without you, I

see no end to my sufferings. I have been about the door all the

evening; but find, by the carriages, that you are surrounded by

fools and coxcombs. Ah! Emmeline! that time you owe only to me;

those smiles to which only I have a right, are lavished on them;

and I am left to darkness and despair.

'There is a door from the garden into the stable-yard, which opens

into the fields. As I cannot come to the house (where I find there

are people who would inform Lord Montreville that I am still about

London,) for pity's sake come down to that door and speak to me. I

ask only _one_ moment; surely you will not deny me so small a

favour, and add to the anguish which consumes me. I write this from

the neighbouring public-house, and wait your answer.

F. DELAMERE.'

Emmeline shuddered at this note. It was more incoherent than usual, and

seemed to be written with a trembling and uncertain hand. She had left

the card-table to read it, and was alone in the anti-room; where, while

she hesitated over it, Rochely, whose eyes were ever in search of her,

followed her. She saw him not: but wholly occupied by the purport of the

note, he approached close to her unheeded.

'Are you determined, Miss Mowbray,' said he, 'to give me no other answer

than you sent somewhat hastily to Lord Montreville, by my friend Sir

Richard Crofts? May I ask, are you quite determined?'

'Quite, Sir!' replied she, starting, without considering and hardly

knowing what she said; but feeling he was at that moment more odious to

her than ever, she snatched away the hand he attempted to take, and flew

out of the room like a lapwing.

The dismayed lover shook his head, surveyed his cut velvet in the glass,

and stroaked his point ruffles, while he was trying to recollect his

scattered ideas.

Emmeline, who had taken refuge in her bed-chamber, sat there in

breathless uncertainty, and unable to determine what to do about

Delamere. At length, she concluded on desiring Fitz-Edward to go down to

him; but knew not how to speak to the colonel on such a subject before

so many witnesses, nor did she like to send for him out of the room. She

rung for a candle, and wrote on a slip of paper.

'Delamere is waiting at a door which opens into the fields, and insists

upon speaking to me. Pray go down to him, and endeavour to prevail on

him to return to his father. I can think of no other expedient to

prevent his engaging in some rash and improper attempt; therefore I

beseech you to go down.'

When she had written this, she knew not how to deliver it; and for the

first time in her life had recourse to an expedient which bore the

appearance of art and dissimulation. She did not chuse to send it to

Fitz-Edward by a servant; but went down with it herself; and approaching

the table where he was settling his winnings--

'Here, colonel,' said she, 'is the _charade_ you desired me to write out

for you.'

'Oh! read it colonel; pray read it;' cried Mrs. Ashwood, 'I doat upon a

_charade_ of all things in nature.'

He answered, that 'he would reserve it for a _bon bouche_ after supper.'

Then looking significantly at Emmeline, to say he understood and would

oblige her, he strolled into the anti-room; Emmeline saying to him, as

he passed her, that she would wait his return in the parlour below.

Fitz-Edward disappeared; and Emmeline, in hopes of escaping observation,

joined the party of some young ladies who were playing at a large table,

and affected to enter into their conversation. But she really knew

nothing that was passing; and as soon as they rose on finishing their

game, she escaped in the bustle, and ran down into the parlour, where in

five or six minutes Fitz-Edward found her.

He wore a look of great concern; and laid down his hat as he came in,

without seeming to know what he did.

'Have you seen Mr. Delamere, Sir?' said Emmeline.

'Seen him!' answered he; 'I have seen him; but to no manner of purpose;

his intellects are certainly deranged; he raves like a madman, and

absolutely refuses to leave the place till he has spoken to you.'

'Why will he not come in, then?' said Emmeline.

'Because,' said Fitz-Edward, 'Rochely is here, who will relate it to

that meddling fellow, Sir Richard Crofts, and by that means it will get

to his father. I said every thing likely to prevail on him to be more

calm; but he will hear nothing. I know not what to do,' continued he,

rising, and walking about the room. 'I am convinced he has something in

his head of fatal consequence to himself. He protests he will stay all

night where he is. In short, he is in an absolute frenzy with the idea

of Rochely's success and his own despair.'

'You frighten me to death,' said Emmeline. 'Tell me, colonel, what ought

I to do?'

'Go to him,' returned Fitz-Edward; 'speak to him only a moment, and I am

persuaded he will be calm. I will go with you; and then there can be

nothing wrong in it.'

'I _will_ go, then,' said she, rising and giving Fitz-Edward her hand,

which trembled extremely.

'But it is very cold,' remarked he: 'had not you better take a cloak?'

'There is my long _pelisse_ in the back parlour,' answered she.

Fitz-Edward fetched it, wrapt her in it, and led her down stairs; and by

a garden door, they reached a sort of back stable-yard, where rubbish

and stable-litter was usually thrown, and which opened into a bye-lane,

where the garden-wall formed a sudden angle. Delamere received her with

transport, which he tried to check; and reproached her for refusing to

come down to him.

Seizing the opportunity, as soon as he would give her leave to speak,

she very forcibly represented to him the distress of his family at his

absence, and the particular uneasiness it inflicted on his sister

Augusta.

'I knew not,' said Delamere, 'that she was come home.'

Emmeline told him she was, and related the purport of her letter, and

again besought him to put an end to the uncertainty and anxiety of his

family.

Delamere heard her with some impatience; and holding her hands in his,

vehemently answered--'It is to no purpose that my father either

threatens or persuades me. He has long known my resolution; and the

unhappiness which you so warmly describe arises solely from his and my

mother's own unreasonable and capricious prejudice--prejudice founded in

pride and avarice. I do not think myself accountable for distress to

which they may so easily put an end. But as to Augusta, who really loves

me, I will write to her to make her easy. Now Emmeline, since I have

listened to you, and answered all you have to urge, hear my final

determination--_If you_ still continue firm in your chimerical and

romantic obstinacy, which you call honour, _I_ go from hence this

evening, never to return--you condemn me to perpetual exile--you give me

up to despair!'

He called aloud, and a post-chaise and four, which had been concealed by

the projection of the wall, attended by two servants, drove round.

'There,' continued Delamere, 'there is the vehicle which I have prepared

to carry me from hence. You know whether I easily relinquish a

resolution once formed. If then you wish to save my father and mother

from the anguish of repentance when there will be no remedy--if you

desire to save from the frenzy of desperation the brother of your

Augusta, and to snatch from the extremity of wretchedness the man who

lives but to adore you, go with me--go with me to Scotland!'

Astonished and terrified at the impetuosity with which he pressed this

unexpected proposal, Emmeline would have replied, but words were a

moment wanting. Fitz-Edward taking advantage of her silence, used every

argument which Delamere had omitted, to determine her.

'No! no!' cried she--'never! never! I have passed my honour to Lord

Montreville. It is sacred--I cannot, I will not forfeit it!'

'The time will come,' said Fitz-Edward, 'believe me it will, when Lord

Montreville will not only be reconciled to you, but'----

'And what shall reconcile me to myself? Let me go back to the house, Mr.

Delamere; or from this moment I shall consider you as having taken

advantage of my unprotected state, and even of my indiscreet confidence,

to offer me the grossest outrage. Let me go, Sir!' (struggling to get

her hand from Fitz-Edward) 'Let me go! Mr. Delamere.'

'What! to be driven into the arms of Rochely? No, never, Emmeline!

never! I _know_ I am _not_ indifferent to you. I feel that I cannot live

without you; nay, by heaven I will not! But if I suffer this opportunity

to escape, I deserve indeed to lose you.'

They all this while approached the chaise. Delamere had hired servants,

whom he had instructed what to do. They were ready at the door of the

carriage. Emmeline attempted in vain to retreat. Delamere threw his arms

around her; and assisted by Fitz-Edward, lifted her into it with a sort

of gentle violence. He leaped in after her, and the chaise was driven

away instantly.

Fitz-Edward, to whom this scene was wholly unexpected, returned to the

company he had left with Mrs. Ashwood. He had not any notion of

Delamere's design when he went to him, but heartily concurred in its

execution; and tho' he did not believe Delamere intended to marry

Emmeline, yet his morals were such, that he congratulated himself on the

share he had had in putting her into his power, and went back with the

air of a man vastly satisfied with the success of his exploit.

'Goodness! colonel,' exclaimed Mrs. Ashwood, 'supper has been waiting

for you this half hour. Upon my word we began to suspect that you and

Miss Mowbray were gone together. But pray where is she?'

'Miss Mowbray, Madam! I really have not been so happy as to be of her

party.'

'Why, where in the world can she be?' continued Mrs. Ashwood. 'However,

as the colonel is come we will go to supper. [_The company were standing

round the table._] I suppose Miss Mowbray will come presently; she has a

pretty romantic notion of contemplation by moonlight.'

Supper, however, was almost over, and Miss Mowbray did not appear. Mrs.

Ashwood, engaged wholly by the gallant colonel, thought not of her; but

Rochely remarked that her absence was somewhat singular.

'So it is I declare,' said Miss Galton; 'do Mrs. Ashwood send and

enquire for her again.'

The chambers, the drawing-room, dressing-room, closets, and garden were

again searched. Miss Mowbray was not to be found! Mrs. Ashwood was

alarmed--Rochely in dismay--and the whole company confusedly broke up;

each retiring with their several conjectures on the sudden disappearance

of the fair Emmeline.

CHAPTER IV

For some moments after Emmeline found herself in the chaise,

astonishment and terror deprived her of speech and even of recollection.

While Delamere, no longer able to command his transports at having at

length as he hoped secured her, gave way to the wildest joy, and

congratulated himself that he had thus forced her to break a promise

which only injustice he said could have extorted, and only timidity and

ill-grounded prejudice have induced her to keep.

'Do you then hope, Sir,' said Emmeline, 'that I shall patiently become

the victim of your rashness? Is this the respect you have sworn ever to

observe towards me? Is this the protection you have so often told me I

should find from you? And is it thus you intend to atone for all the

insults of your family which you have so repeatedly protested you would

never forgive? by inflicting a far greater insult; by ruining my

character; by degrading me in my own eyes; and forcing me either to

violate my word solemnly given to your father, or be looked upon as a

lost and abandoned creature, undone by your inhuman art. I must now,

indeed, seem to _deserve_ your mother's anger, and the scorn of your

sister; and must be supposed every way wretched and contemptible.'

A shower of tears fell from her eyes, and her heart seemed bursting with

the pain these cruel reflections gave her.

Delamere, by all the soothing tenderness of persuasion, by all the

rhetoric of ardent passion, tried to subdue her anger, and silence her

scruples; but the more her mind dwelt on the circumstances of her

situation, the more it recoiled from the necessity of entering under

such compulsion into an indissoluble engagement. The rash violence of

the measure which had put her in Delamere's power, while it convinced

her of his passion, yet told her, that a man who would hazard every

thing for his own gratification now, would hardly hereafter submit to

any restraint; and that the bonds in which he was so eager to engage,

would with equal violence be broken, when any new face should make a

new impression, or when time had diminished the influence of those

attractions that now enchanted him.

Formed of the softer elements, and with a mind calculated for select

friendship and domestic felicity, rather than for the tumult of

fashionable life and the parade of titled magnificence, Emmeline coveted

not his rank, nor valued his riches. No woman perhaps can help having

some regard for a man, who she knows ardently and sincerely loves her;

and Emmeline had felt all that sort of weakness for Delamere; who in the

bloom of life, with fortune, title, person and talents that might have

commanded the loveliest and most affluent daughter of prosperity, had

forsaken every thing for her, and even secluded himself from the

companions of his former pleasures, and the indulgences his fortune and

rank afforded him, to pass his youth in unsuccessful endeavours to

obtain her.

The partiality this consideration gave her towards him, and the

favourable comparison she was perpetually making between him and the men

she had seen since her residence near London, had created in her bosom a

sentiment warmer perhaps than friendship; yet it was not that violent

love, which carrying every thing before it, leaves the mind no longer at

liberty to see any fault in the beloved object, or any impropriety in

whatever can secure it's success, and which, scorning future

consequences, risks every thing for it's present indulgence.

Still artless and ingenuous as when she first left the remote castle

where she had been brought up, Emmeline had not been able to conceal

this affection from Delamere. Her eyes, her manner, the circumstance of

the picture, and a thousand nameless inadvertences, had told it him

repeatedly; but now, when he seemed to have taken an ungenerous

advantage of that regard, it lost much of it's force, and resentment and

disdain succeeded.

Delamere tried to appease her by protestations of inviolable respect, of

eternal esteem, and unalterable love. But there was something of triumph

even in his humblest entreaties, that served but to encrease the anger

Emmeline felt; and she told him that the only way to convince her he had

for her those sentiments he pretended, was to carry her back immediately

to Mrs. Ashwood's, or rather to Lord Montreville, there to acknowledge

the attempt he had made, and that it's failure had been solely owing to

her determined adherence to her word.

Delamere, presuming on his ascendancy over her, attempted to interest

her passions rather than tranquillize her reason. He represented to her

how great would be her triumph when he presented her as his wife to the

imperious Lady Montreville, who had treated her with so much unmerited

scorn, and set her above the haughty Fanny Delamere, who had insulted

her with fancied superiority.

But Emmeline had in her breast none of those passions that find their

gratification in humbling an enemy. Too generous for revenge; too gentle

for premeditated resentment; she saw these circumstances in a very

different light, and felt that she should be rather mortified than

elated by being forced into a family who wished to reject her.

Sir Richard Crofts, the object of Delamere's hatred and detestation, was

the subject of those acrimonious reflections that his respect for his

father and mother prevented his throwing on them. The influence of this

man had, he said, made Lord Montreville deaf to the voice of nature, and

forgetful of his own honour; while he was plunged into the dark and

discreditable labyrinth of political intrigue, and acquired an habit of

subterfuge and duplicity unworthy a nobleman, a gentleman, or a man.

Emmeline cared nothing about Sir Richard Crofts, and could not enter

into the bitterness of his resentment towards him. Nothing he had yet

been able to urge had shaken her resolution not to become his wife, even

tho' he should oblige her to go with him into Scotland.

The ruder passions of anger and resentment had no influence over her

mind. While he argued with warmth, or ran into reproaches, Emmeline

found she had nothing to fear. But tho' he could not rouse her pride, or

awaken her dislike against his family, but rather found them recoil on

himself; he hoped in that sensibility of temper and that softness of

heart to which he owed all the attention she had ever shewn him, he

should find a sure resource. In her pity, an advocate for his fault--in

her love, an inducement not only to forgive but to reward him.

And when he pleaded for compassion and forgiveness, the heart of

Emmeline felt itself no longer invulnerable. But against this dangerous

attack she endeavoured to fortify that sensible heart, by considering

the probable event of her yielding to it.

'If I marry Delamere contrary to the consent of his family, who shall

assure me that his violent and haughty spirit will bear without anguish

and regret, that inferior and confined fortune to which his father's

displeasure will condemn him? His love, too ardent perhaps to last, will

decline; while the inconveniences of a narrow fortune will encrease; and

I, who shall be the cause of these inconveniences, shall also be the

victim. He will lament the infatuation which has estranged him from his

family, and thrown him, for some years at least, out of the rank in

which he has been used to appear; and recovered from the delirium of

love, will behold with coldness, perhaps with hatred, her to whom he

will impute his distresses. To whom can I then appeal? Not to my _own_

heart, for it will condemn me for suffering myself to be precipitated

into a measure against my judgment; nor to _his_ family, who may answer,

"thy folly be upon thine own head;" and _I_ have _no_ father, _no_

brother to console and receive me, if he should drive me from him as

impetuously as now he would force me to be his. I shall be deprived even

of the melancholy consolation of knowing I have not _deserved_ the

neglect which I fear I shall never be able to _bear_. But if my steady

refusal now, induces him to return, it is possible that Lord

Montreville, convinced at once of my adherence to the promise given him,

and of the improbability of Delamere's desisting, may consent to receive

me into his family; or if the inveterate prejudice of his wife still

prevents his doing so, I shall surely regain his confidence and esteem.

He will not refuse to consider me as his brother's daughter, and as

such, he will enable me to pass my days in easy competence with Mrs.

Stafford; a prospect infinitely preferable in my eyes to the splendid

visions offered me by Delamere, if they cannot be realized but at the

expence of truth and integrity.'

Confirmed in her determination by reflections like these, Emmeline was

able to hear, without betraying any symptoms of the emotion she felt,

the animated and passionate protestations of her lover. She assumed all

the coldness and reserve which his headlong and inconsiderate attempt

deserved. She told him that his want of respect and consideration had

forfeited all the claim he might otherwise have had to her regard and

esteem; that she certainly would quit him the moment she was able; and

that tho' she might not be fortunate enough to do so before they reached

Scotland, yet it would not be in his power to compel her to be his wife.

Delamere for some time imputed this language to sudden resentment; and

again by the humblest submissions sought to obtain her forgiveness and

to excite her pity. But having nearly exhausted her spirits by what she

had already said, she gave very little reply to his entreaties. Her

silence was however more expressive than her words. She took from him

her hand, as often as he attempted to hold it, and would not suffer him

to wipe away the tears that fell from her eyes; while to his arguments

and persuasions she coldly answered, when she answered at all, '_that

she was determined_:' and they arrived at Barnet before he had obtained

the smallest concession in his favour.

Delamere had undertaken this enterprize rather in despair, than from any

hope of it's success, since he did not believe Emmeline would come out

to him when he requested it; and had she been either alone, or only with

Mrs. Ashwood, she certainly had not done it. Chance had befriended him

in collecting a room full of company, and still more in sending Rochely

among them. His abrupt approach while she read Delamere's note, had

hurried her out of her usual presence of mind; and Fitz-Edward, whom

mere accident had brought to Mrs. Ashwood's house, and whom she had

taken with her in hopes of his influencing Delamere to return to his

father, had contributed to her involuntary error.

CHAPTER V

Delamere had taken no precaution to secure horses on the road; and it

was not till after waiting some hours that he procured four from Barnet.

When they arrived there, it was past one o'clock; and Emmeline, who had

gone thro' a very fatigueing day, and was now overcome with the terror

and alarm of being thus hastily snatched away, could hardly sit up. She

was without an hat; and having no change of cloaths, urged the

inconvenience she must endure by being forced to go a long journey so

situated. She wished to have stopped at the first stage; but Delamere

thought, that in her present temper to hesitate was to lose her. He

consented however to go for a moment into the house, where, while he

gave a servant orders to go on to Hatfield to bespeak four horses, she

drank a glass of water; and then Delamere intreating her to return to

the chaise, she complied, for there was nobody visible at the inn but

the maid and ostler; and she saw no likelihood of any assistance, had

she applied for it.

They hastened with great expedition to Stevenage; but before they

reached that place, Emmeline, who had ceased either to remonstrate or

complain, was so entirely overwhelmed and exhausted, that she could no

longer support herself.

His fears for her health now exceeded his fears for losing her, and he

determined to stop for some hours; but when she made an effort to leave

the chaise she was unable, and he was obliged to lift her out of it. He

then ordered the female servants to be called up, recommended her to

their care, and entreated her to go to bed for some hours.

Long darkness and excessive weeping had almost deprived her of sight;

her whole frame was sinking under the fatigue she had undergone both of

body and mind; and unable to struggle longer against it, she lay down in

her cloaths, desiring one of the maids to sit by her.

Delamere came to the door of the room to enquire how she did. The woman

told him what she had requested; and desiring they would obey her in

every thing, and keep her as quiet as possible, he went not to repose

himself, but to write to Fitz-Edward.

'Dear George,

'While my angelic Emmeline sleeps, I, who am too happy to sleep

myself, write to desire you will go to Berkley-square and keep the

good folks there from exposing themselves, or making a great bustle

about what has happened, which they will soon know. As my Lord has

long been prepossessed with the idea of a Scottish jaunt, it is very

likely he may attempt to pursue us. Say what you will to put such

plans out of his head. I shall be in London again, in a very short

time. Farewell, dear George.

Your's, ever,

F. D.'

Emmeline in the mean time fell into a sleep, but it was broken and

interrupted. Her spirits had been so thoroughly discomposed, that rest

was driven from her. She dozed a moment; then suddenly started up,

forgot where she was, and looked wildly round the room. An half-formed

recollection of the events of the preceding day then seemed to recur,

and she besought the maid who sat by her to go to Mr. Delamere and tell

him she must be directly carried to Mrs. Stafford's; and having said

this, and sighed deeply, she sunk again into short insensibility.

Thus past the remainder of the night; and before seven in the morning

Delamere was at the door, impatient to know how she had rested.

The maid admitted him, and told him, in a low voice, that the Lady was

in a quieter sleep than she had been the whole night. He softly

approached the bed, and started in terror when he saw how ill she

looked. Her cheek, robbed of it's bloom, rested on her arm, which

appeared more bloodless than her cheek; her hair, which had been dressed

without powder, had escaped from the form in which it had been adjusted,

and half concealed her face in disordered luxuriance; her lips were

pale, and her respiration short and laborious. He stood gazing on her a

moment, and then, shocked at these symptoms of indisposition, his rapid

imagination immediately magnified them all. He concluded she was dying;

and in an agony of fear, which deprived him of every other idea, he took

up in breathless apprehension her other hand, which lay on the quilt. It

was hot, and dry; and her pulse seemed rather to flutter, than to beat

against his pressure.

His moving her hand awakened her. She opened her eyes; but they had lost

their lustre, and were turned mournfully towards him.

'Delamere,' said she, in a low and tremulous voice, 'Delamere, why is

all this? I believe you have destroyed me; my head is so extremely

painful. Oh! Delamere--this is cruel!--very cruel!'

'Let me go for advice,' cried he, eagerly. 'Wretch that I am, what will

now become of me!'

He ran down stairs; and Emmeline making an effort to recover her

recollection, tried to sit up; but her head was so giddy and confused

that it was not till after several attempts she left the bed, even with

the assistance of the servant. She then drank a glass of water; and

desiring to have more air, would have gone to the window, but could only

reach a chair near it, where she sat down, and throwing her arm on a

table, rested her head upon it.

In a few moments Delamere returned up stairs. His wild looks, and quick,

half-formed questions, explained what passed in his mind.

She told him faintly she was better.

'Shall I bring up a gentleman to see you who I am assured is able in his

profession? I fear you are very ill.'

She answered, 'no!'

'Pray suffer him to come; he will give you something to relieve your

head.'

'No!'

'Do not, Emmeline--do not, I conjure you, refuse me this favour?'

He took her hand; but when he found how feverish she was, he started

away, crying--'Oh! let him, let him come!'

He ran down stairs to fetch him, and returned instantly with the

apothecary; a sensible, well-behaved man, of fifty, whose appearance

indicated feeling and judgement. He approached Emmeline, who still sat

with her head reclined on the table, and felt her pulse.

'Here is too much fever indeed, Sir,' said he; 'the young lady has been

greatly hurried.'

'But what--what is to be done, Sir?' said Delamere, eagerly interrupting

him.

'Quiet seems absolutely necessary. Pardon me, Sir; but unless I know

your situation in regard to her, I cannot possibly advise.'

'Sir,' said Emmeline, who had been silent rather from inability to

contend than from unconsciousness of what was passing round her--'if you

could prevail with Mr. Delamere to restore me to my friends'--

'Come with me, Sir,' cried Delamere; 'let me speak to you in another

room.'

When they were alone, he conjured Mr. Lawson to tell him what he thought

of the lady?

'Upon my word, Sir, she is in a very high fever, and it seems to be

occasioned by extreme perturbation of spirits and great fatigue.

Forgive, Sir, if I ask what particular circumstance has been the cause

of the uneasiness under which she appears to labour? If it is any little

love quarrel you cannot too soon adjust it.'

Delamere stopped his conjectures, by telling him who he was; and gave

him in a few words the history of their expedition.

Mr. Lawson protested to him that if she was hurried on in her present

state, it would be surprising if she survived the journey.

'She shall stay here then,' replied Delamere, 'till she recovers her

fatigue.'

'But, Sir,' enquired Mr. Lawson, 'after what you have told me of your

father, have you no apprehension of a pursuit?'

His terror at Emmeline's immediate danger had obliterated for a moment

every other fear. It now recurred with redoubled violence. He remembered

that Rochely was at Mrs. Ashwood's on the evening of Emmeline's

departure; and he knew that from him Sir Richard Crofts, and

consequently Lord Montreville, would have immediate intelligence.

He struck his hands together, exclaiming, 'She will be every way

lost!--lost irretrievably! If my father overtakes us, she will return

with him, and I shall see her no more!'

He now gave way to such unbounded passion, walking about the room, and

striking his forehead, that Lawson began to believe his intellects were

as much deranged as the frame of the fair sufferer he had left. For some

moments he attended to nothing; but Mr. Lawson, accustomed to make

allowances for the diseases of the mind as well as those of the body,

did not lose his patience; and at length persuaded him to be calmer, by

representing that he wasted in fruitless exclamation the time which

might be employed in providing against the apprehended evil.

'Good God! Sir,' cried he at length, 'what would you have me do?'

'What I would earnestly recommend, Sir, is, that you quiet the young

lady's mind by telling her you will carry her whither she desires to go;

and at present desist from this journey, which I really believe you

cannot prosecute but at the hazard of her life; at present, farther

agitation may, and probably will be fatal.'

'And so you advise me to let her stay till my father comes to tear her

from me for ever! or carry her back by the same road, where it is

probable he will meet me? Impossible! impossible!--but is she really so

very ill?'

'Upon my life she is at this moment in a high fever. Why should I

deceive you? Trust me, it would in my opinion be the height of

inhumanity to carry her into Scotland in such a situation, _if_ you love

her'----

'_If_ I love her, Sir!' cried Delamere, half frantic--'talk not of _if_

I love her! Merciful heaven!--you have no idea, Mr. Lawson, of what I

suffer at this moment!'

'I have a perfect idea of your distress, Sir; and wish I knew how to

relieve it. Give me a moment's time to consider; if indeed the young

lady could'--

'What, Sir? speak!--think of something!'

'Why I was thinking, that if she is better in a few hours, it might be

possible for you to take her to Hertford, where she may remain a day or

two, till she is able to go farther. There you would be no longer in

danger of pursuit; and if she should grow worse, which when her mind is

easier I hope will not happen, you will have excellent advice. Perhaps,

when the hurry of her spirits subsides, she may, since this _has_

happened, consent to pursue the journey to the North; or if not, you can

from thence carry her to the friends she is so desirous of being with,

and avoid the risk of meeting on the road those you are so anxious to

shun.'

Tho' Delamere could not think, without extreme reluctance, of

relinquishing a scheme in which he had thought himself secure of

success; yet, as there was no alternative but what would be so hazardous

to the health of Emmeline, he was compelled to accede to any which had a

probability of restoring it without putting her into the hands of his

father.

Mr. Lawson told him it was only fifteen miles from Stevenage to

Hertford--'But how,' said he, 'will you, Sir, prevent your father's

following you thither, if he should learn at this place that you are

gone there?'

Delamere was wholly at a loss. But Mr. Lawson, who seemed to be sent by

his good genius, said--'We must get you from hence immediately, if Miss

Mowbray is able to go. You shall pass here as my visitors. You shall

directly go to my house, and there be supplied with horses from another

inn. This will at least make it more difficult to trace your route; and

if any enquiry should be made of me, I shall know what to say.'

Delamere, catching at any thing that promised to secure Emmeline from

the pursuit of Lord Montreville, went to her to enquire whether she was

well enough to walk to Mr. Lawson's house.

He found her trying to adjust her hair; but her hands trembled so much,

it was with difficulty she could do it. He desired her to dismiss the

maid who was in the room; then throwing himself on his knees before her,

and taking her burning hands in his, he said--'Arbitress of my

destiny--my Emmeline! thou for whom only I exist! be tranquil--I beseech

you be tranquil! Since you determine to abide by your cruel resolution,

I will not, I dare not persist in asking you to break it. No, Emmeline!

I come only to entreat that you would quiet your too delicate mind; and

dispose of _me_ as you please. Since you cannot resolve to be mine now,

I will learn to submit--I will try to bear any thing but the seeing you

unhappy, or losing you entirely! Tell me only that you pardon what is

past, and you shall go to Mrs. Stafford's, or whithersoever you will.'

Emmeline beheld and heard him with astonishment. But at length

comprehending that he repented of his wild attempt, and would go back,

she said hastily, as she arose from her chair--'Let us go, then,

Delamere; let us instantly go. Thank God, your heart is changed! but

every hour I continue with you, is an additional wound to my character

and my peace.'

She attempted to reach her cloak, but could not; her strength forsook

her; her head became more giddy; she staggered, and would have fallen,

had not Delamere caught her in his arms, and supported her to the chair

she had left.

'Hurry not yourself thus, my Emmeline,' cried he; 'in mercy to me try to

compose yourself, and spare me the sight of all this terror, for which

believe me you have no reason.'

He sat down by her; and drawing her gently towards him, her languid head

reposed on his shoulder, and he contemplated, in silent anguish, the

ravage which only a few hours severe anxiety had made on that beauteous

and expressive countenance.

He called to the maid, who waited in the next room, and desired her to

send up Mr. Lawson; before whose entrance a shower of tears, the first

she had shed for some hours, a little relieved the full heart of

Emmeline.

Mr. Lawson desired Delamere would not check her tears; and in a friendly

and consolatory manner told her what Delamere proposed to do. Emmeline,

after this explanation, was still more anxious to depart; but Mr. Lawson

greatly doubted whether she was able.

'I can walk, indeed I can,' said she, 'if you will each lend me an arm.'

Mr. Lawson then gave her a few drops in a glass of water, which seemed

to revive her; and Delamere wrapping her carefully in her cloak, they

led her between them to a neat brick house in the town, where Mrs.

Lawson, a matron-like and well-behaved woman, and her daughter, a

genteel girl of twenty, who had been apprized of Emmeline's situation,

received her with great kindness and respect.

Breakfast was prepared for her, but she could eat nothing. The heaviness

of her eyes, her pallid countenance, and the tenseness across her

temples, seemed to threaten the most alarming consequences. Mrs. Lawson

endeavoured to persuade her to go to bed; but her eagerness to be gone

from thence was so great, that she evidently encreased the difficulty by

endeavouring to surmount it. She had indeed considered, that if Lord

Montreville overtook them, which was not only possible but probable, all

the merit of her conduct would be lost.--She would appear to be carried

back, not by her strict adherence to her promise, but by the authority

of his Lordship; and instead of the pride and credit of a laudable and

virtuous action, would be liable to bear all the imputation of

intentional guilt. This reflection, added to the sense she could not

fail to have of her improper situation in being so long alone with

Delamere under the appearance of having voluntarily gone off with him,

made her so impatient to be gone, that she declined any repose however

necessary; and Mr. Lawson thought there was less to be feared from

indulging than from opposing her.

Lawson therefore went himself to hasten the horses; and while he was

absent, Emmeline, who remained with his wife, expressed so much fear

that Delamere might alter his intentions of returning, and so much

uneasiness at the thoughts of being seen at another inn, in the

disordered dress she now wore, with a young man of Delamere's

appearance, that Mrs. Lawson was truly concerned for her, and

communicated to Delamere the source of the extreme anxiety she appeared

to suffer.

He came to her; and she gently reproached him for all the inconvenience

and uneasiness he had brought upon her. Her soft complaints, and the

distress pictured on her speaking face, he felt with a degree of anguish

and self-reproach that made him happy to agree to a plan proposed by

Mrs. Lawson, which was, that she should be accommodated with cloaths of

Miss Lawson's, and that Miss Lawson herself should accompany her to

Hertford.

This latter offer, Emmeline eagerly accepted; and Delamere, who saw how

much it soothed and relieved her, did not object to it. She was

therefore immediately equipped with a morning dress, and her agitation

of mind seemed to subside; but changing her cloaths, trifling as the

exertion was, fatigued her so much, that Mr. Lawson on his return looked

very grave; and Delamere, who watched his looks as if his existence

depended upon his opinion, was wild with apprehension. The chaises (for

Delamere had ordered one for himself, that the ladies might suffer no

inconvenience by being crouded) were ready, and Lawson recollecting that

Emmeline would require a more quiet situation than an inn could afford,

told her that he had a sister at Hertford who would receive her with

pleasure, and accommodate her at her house as long as she would

stay--'And remember,' added he, 'that Lissy is to continue with you till

you leave Hertford.'

Emmeline, extremely sensible of all she owed to this excellent man,

could only sigh her thanks; and to shorten them, Mr. Lawson put her and

his daughter into the travelling chaise which Delamere had bought for

this expedition. Delamere followed in another; and between one and two

o'clock they arrived at Hertford, and were set down at the door of an

elegant house; where Mrs. Champness, the wife of a man of fortune,

received her niece with great affection; and having heard in another

room the history of the young lady she had with her, immediately gave

orders to have a bed-chamber prepared, and shewed the utmost solicitude

for her accommodation.

Delamere, seeing her so well situated for the night, and happy to find

she bore her short journey with less increase of fatigue than he

apprehended, consented at her request to leave her, and went to the inn,

where he dined, and soon afterwards returned to enquire after her.

Miss Lawson came down to him, and told him Miss Mowbray was in bed, and

had taken a medicine Mr. Lawson had sent to compose her; but that it was

yet impossible to say much of her situation. She told him he must by no

means attempt to see her for the remaining part of the day, and begged

he would himself try to take some repose: to which salutary advice

Delamere at length consented; his haggard looks and exhausted spirits

sufficiently testifying how much he wanted it.

CHAPTER VI

The evening on which Emmeline had been so suddenly missing from the

house of Mrs. Ashwood, Rochely had left it in as much anguish as his

nature was capable of feeling.

He had not for many years so seriously thought of matrimony as since he

had seen Miss Mowbray. Her beauty first attracted him: the natural

civility of her manner was by him, who had frequently met only contempt

and derision from the young and beautiful, construed into encouragement;

and though his hopes had been greatly damped by his knowledge of

Delamere's attachment to her, yet they were almost as quickly revived by

the great encouragement to persevere, which he had received from Lord

Montreville. He fancied that the barriers between her and Delamere being

insurmountable, she could not fail of being dazzled by so splendid a

fortune as he could himself offer her. That evening, she looked more

than usually lovely, and he determined with new ardour to pursue her.

But her disappearance put an end to all his brilliant visions; and

convinced him that his wealth, on which he had so long been accustomed

to value himself, had failed of procuring him the favour of the only

woman with whom he was disposed to share it. He was too well convinced

that Delamere had carried her off: and though deprived of all hope for

himself, he was too angry at the good fortune of his rival to forbear an

attempt to disturb him in it's possession. He drove therefore from

Clapham to the house of Sir Richard Crofts, where he had the

mortification of hearing that Sir Richard was gone with Lord Montreville

to the country house of Lord Dornock, and was not expected to return

'till the next day.

Rochely, aware that the only possible chance of preventing Delamere's

marriage was by an immediate pursuit, was greatly chagrined at this

unavoidable delay. He sat down, however, and with his usual laboured

precision wrote to Sir Richard Crofts, informing him of what had

happened. This was the operation of near an hour; and he then sent off a

man on horseback with it, who arriving at Lord Dornock's about three in

the morning, roused the family with some difficulty, and delivered to

Sir Richard the intelligence, which was immediately conveyed to Lord

Montreville; who having read Mr. Rochely's letter, could not flatter

himself with any hope that this alarm might be as groundless as one he

had before had on the same subject.

The disobedience of his son; the broken faith of Emmeline; and the rage,

complaints, and reproaches of Lady Montreville, all arose together in

his imagination; and anger, vexation, and regret, took possession of his

heart.

He had recourse in this, as in all other emergences, to Sir Richard

Crofts, who advised him immediately to pursue them.

As soon therefore as the sleeping servants could be collected, and the

carriage prepared, his Lordship and Sir Richard set out for London

together.--Lord Montreville determining to follow the fugitives as

expeditiously as possible, though he hoped but little success from the

pursuit.

Such was his apprehension of the clamours and passions of his wife, that

he could not determine to see her 'till he had at least done all that

was possible to recover her son. He therefore wrote to her a short

letter, stating briefly what had happened, and giving her hopes that he

should be able to overtake the parties before they were married. This he

ordered to be delivered to her in the morning; and directed his servant

to hasten to him with his travelling chaise and four post horses.

The man, however, who had the care of the carriages, believing his Lord

would stay out all night, had gone out also, and taken with him the

keys.

By this delay, and the blunders of the affrighted servants, who in their

haste only impeded each other, it was near nine o'clock before his

Lordship and Sir Richard left London. At Barnet, they heard of the

fugitives, and easily traced them from thence to Hatfield; after which

believing all farther enquiries useless, they passed through Stevenage

(having sent on before for horses,) without asking any questions which

might have led them to discover that Delamere and Emmeline had gone from

thence towards Hertford only an hour and an half before their arrival.

This was fortunate for the pursued; for an enquiry would probably have

led to questions which Mr. Lawson would have found it very difficult to

evade.

Lord Montreville, however, and Sir Richard, hurried on to Buckden; where

being obliged to get out for some refreshment for themselves and their

servants, his Lordship renewed the question--'At what time did a young

gentleman and lady' (describing Delamere and Emmeline) 'pass by?'

The people told him they remembered no such persons about the time he

named.

Lord Montreville then applied at the other houses, and made several

other enquiries; but received only a general assertion that no such

persons had been that way within the last four and twenty hours, or even

within a week.

Sir Richard Crofts, who piqued himself upon his sagacity, told his

Lordship that stupidity, the love of falsehood, or Delamere's bribes,

might occasion this failure of intelligence; but there could be no doubt

of their being gratified with better information when they got to

Stilton. To Stilton therefore they went, but heard exactly the same

answers as they had done at the last stage.

Sir Richard was now again to seek for some plausible conjecture that

might quiet the apprehensive anxiety of Lord Montreville, who guessed

and dreaded he knew not what.

He now said, that as there could be no doubt of the young people's

having gone _towards_ Scotland, from the information they had obtained

at Barnet and Hatfield, it was most likely that in the apprehension of a

pursuit they had afterwards quitted the high road, and were advancing to

the borders of Scotland across the country, which must considerably

lengthen and impede their journey; therefore if they themselves

proceeded directly to the town where these marriages are usually

celebrated, the probability was that they should arrive before Delamere

and Miss Mowbray; and by such a circumstance the connection would be as

effectually prevented as it could be by their overtaking them on the

road.

Lord Montreville, despairing of being able by any means to obstruct a

marriage on which his son seemed to be so determined, and harrassed in

mind as much as he was fatigued in body, suffered himself to be carried

forward merely through inability to determine what he could do better;

and though quite hopeless of it's success, pursued his journey.

The innocent cause of all this trouble and anxiety remained in the mean

time at the hospitable house of Mrs. Champness; where Miss Lawson

attended her with all possible kindness and solicitude. It was indeed

impossible to be with her without loving her; unless to an heart

insensible, like that of Mrs. Ashwood, to all but her own ideal

perfections; or steeled by pride, like that of Lady Montreville.

A night passed in quiet sleep had greatly restored her; and her fever,

though not gone, was considerably abated. Every noise, however trifling,

still made her start; her nerves were by no means restored to their

tone, and her spirits continued to be greatly affected. The idea which

seemed to press most painfully on her mind, was the blemish which the

purity of her character must sustain by her being so long absent with

Delamere--a blemish which she knew could hardly ever be removed but by

her returning as his wife.

But to break her promise to Lord Montreville; a promise so solemnly

given; and to be compelled into a marriage which, however advantageous

and fortunate it would appear under other circumstances, would now bring

with it a severe alloy of mortification in the displeasure of his

family; was a measure which she could not determine to pursue.

Her resentment towards Delamere for what was passed was not yet enough

subdued by his reluctant repentance, to reconcile her to the thoughts of

putting herself again into his power. Yet she could not suppose he would

suffer her to return to London alone, if she had courage to attempt it;

or was she sure that when there, Mrs. Ashwood would receive her.

These reflections made her so restless and uneasy that she could not

conceal their source from Miss Lawson; who, tho' possessed of a very

good understanding, was too young and too little acquainted with the

world to be able to advise her.

The handsome person and high rank of Delamere, and his violent love and

concern for Emmeline, made her suppose it impossible that she could help

returning it, or be long able to resist his importunity. She concluded

therefore that finally it would be a match; and was impressed with a

sentiment that amounted almost to veneration for Miss Mowbray, whom she

considered as a prodigy of female virtue and resolution.

Delamere had been several times to speak to Miss Lawson; and he had

pleaded the violence of his passion with so much effect, that the

soft-hearted girl became his warm advocate with Emmeline, and

represented his tenderness and his contrition, 'till she consented (as

she was now able to sit up) to admit him.

On his entrance, he said something, he hardly knew what, to Emmeline.

She held out her hand to him in token of forgiveness. He seized it

eagerly, and pressed it to his heart, while he gazed on her face as if

to enquire there what passed in hers.

'Remember, Delamere,' said she, 'remember I am content to forgive your

late rash and absurd attempt, only on condition of your giving me the

most positive assurance that you will carry me directly to Mrs.

Stafford's, and there leave me.'

Hard as these terms appeared, after the hopes he had entertained on

undertaking the journey, he was forced to submit; but it was evidently

with reluctance.

'I do promise then,' said he, 'to take you to Mrs. Stafford's; but'----

'But what?' asked Emmeline.

'Do you not mean, when you are there, to exclude me for ever?--Mrs.

Stafford is no friend of mine.'

'I have already told you, Mr. Delamere, that I will see you wherever I

am, under certain restrictions: and tho' your late conduct might, and

indeed ought to induce me to withdraw that promise, yet I now repeat it.

But do not believe that I will therefore be persecuted as I have been;

recollect that I have already been driven from Mowbray Castle, from

Swansea, and from Mrs. Ashwood's, wholly on your account.'

'Your remedy, my Emmeline, is, to consent to inhabit a house of your

own, and suffer me to be the first of your servants.'

The varying colour of her complexion, to which the emotions of her mind

restored for a moment the faint tints of returning health, made Delamere

hope that her resolution was shaken; and seizing with his usual

vehemence on an idea so flattering, he was instantly on his knees before

her imploring her consent to prosecute their journey, and intreating

Miss Lawson's assistance, to move her inexorable friend.

Emmeline was too weak to bear an address of this sort. The feebleness of

her frame ill seconded the resolution of her mind; which,

notwithstanding the struggles of pity and regard for Delamere, which she

could not entirely silence, was immoveably determined. Rallying

therefore her spirits, and summoning her fortitude to answer him, she

said--'How _can_ you, Sir, solicit a woman, whom you wish to make your

wife, to break a promise so solemn as that I have given to your father?

Could you hereafter have any dependance on one, who holds her integrity

so lightly? and should you not with great reason suspect that with her,

falsehood and deception might become habitual?'

'Not at all,' answered Delamere. 'Your promise to my father is nugatory;

for it ought never to have been given. He took an unfair advantage of

your candour and your timidity; and all that you said ought not to bind

_you_; since it was extorted from you by _him_ who had no right to make

such conditions.'

'What! has a father no right to decide to whom he will entrust the

happiness of his son, and the honour of his posterity? Alas! Delamere,

you argue against yourself; you only convince me that I ought not to put

the whole happiness of my life into the hands of a man, who will so

readily break thro' his first duties. The same impatient, pardon me, if

I say the same selfish spirit, which now urges you to set paternal

authority at defiance, will perhaps hereafter impel you, with as little

difficulty, to quit a wife of whom you may be weary, for any other

person whom caprice or novelty may dress in the perfections you now

fancy I possess. Ah! Delamere! shall I have a right to expect tenderness

and faith from a man whom I have assisted in making his parents unhappy;

and who has by my means embittered the evening of their lives to whom he

owes his own? Do you think that a rebellious and unfeeling son is likely

to make a good husband, a good father?'

'Death and madness!' cried Delamere, relapsing into all the violence of

his nature--'what do you mean by all this! Selfish! rebellious!

unfeeling!--am I then _so_ worthless, _so_ detestable in your eyes?'

His extravagant expressions of passion always terrified Emmeline; but

the paroxysm to which he now yielded, alarmed her less than it did Miss

Lawson, who never having seen such frantic behaviour before, thought him

really mad. She tremblingly besought him to sit down and be calm; while

the pale countenance of Emmeline which she shewed him, convinced him he

must subdue the violence of his transports, or hazard seeing her relapse

into that alarming state which had forced him to relinquish his project.

This observation restored his senses for a moment.--He besought her

pardon, with tears; then again cursed his own folly, and seemed on the

point of renouncing the contrition he had just assured her he felt. The

scene lasted till Emmeline, quite overcome with it, grew so faint that

she said she must go to bed; and then Delamere, again terrified at an

idea which he had forgot but the moment before, consented to retire if

she would again repeat her forgiveness.

She gave him her hand languidly, and in silence. He kissed it; and half

in resentment, half in sorrow, left her, and returned to the inn, in a

humour which equally unfitted him for society or solitude. Obliged,

however, to remain in the latter, he brooded gloomily over his

disappointment; and believing Emmeline's life no longer in danger, he

fancied that his fears had magnified her illness. He again deprecated

his folly for having consented to relinquish the prosecution of his

journey, and for having agreed to carry her where he feared access to

her would be rendered rare and difficult, by the inflexible prudence and

watchful friendship of Mrs. Stafford. Sometimes he formed vague projects

to deceive her, and carry her again towards Scotland; then relinquished

them and formed others. He passed the night however nearly without

sleep, and the morning found him still irresolute.

At eight o'clock, he went to the house of Mrs. Champness; and Miss

Lawson came down to him, but with a countenance in which uneasiness was

so visible, that Delamere was almost afraid of asking how Miss Mowbray

did.

She told him that she had passed a restless and uncomfortable night, and

that the conversation he had held the evening before had been the cause

of an access of fever quite as high as the first attack; and, that tho'

she tried to conquer her weakness, and affected ability to prosecute a

journey for which she hourly grew more eager, it was easy to see that

she was as unfit for it as ever. Miss Lawson added, that if in a few

hours she was not better, she should send to Mr. Lawson to come from

Stevenage to see her. This account renewed with extreme violence all the

former terrors of Delamere, which a few hours before he had been trying

to persuade himself were groundless.

He now reproached himself for his thoughtless cruelty; and Miss Lawson

seized this opportunity to exhort him to be more cautious for the

future, which he readily and warmly protested he would be. He promised

never again to give way to such extravagant transports, and pressed to

be admitted to see Emmeline; but Miss Lawson would by no means suffer

him to see her 'till she was more recovered from the effects of his

frenzy.

In the afternoon, he was allowed to drink tea in Emmeline's room, and

expressed his sincere concern for his indiscretion of the evening

before. He tried, by shewing a disposition to comply with all her

wishes, to obliterate the memory of his former indiscretion. Emmeline

was willing to forget the offence, and pardon the offender, on his

renewing his promise to take her the next day towards London, on her

route into Dorsetshire; if she should be well enough to undertake the

journey.

The spirit and fortitude of Emmeline, fatal as they were to his hopes,

commanded the respect, esteem, and almost the adoration of Delamere;

while her gentleness and kindness oppressed his heart with fondness so

extreme, that he was equally undone by the one and the other, and felt

that it every hour became more and more impossible for him to live

without her.

It was agreed, that as it would be impossible to reach Woodfield from

Hertford, without stopping one night on the road, they would proceed

thro' London to Staines the first day, and from thence go on early the

next to the house of Mrs. Stafford.

After lingering with her as long as he could, Delamere took his leave

for the evening, determined to observe the promises he had made her, and

never again to attempt to obtain her but by her own consent. When he

made these resolves, he really intended to adhere to them; and was

confirmed in his good resolutions when he the next morning found her

ready to trust herself with him, calm, chearful, full of confidence in

his promises, and of gentleness and kindness towards him.

Emmeline took an affectionate leave of her amiable acquaintance, Miss

Lawson, whose uncommon kindness, on so short a knowledge of her, filled

her heart with gratitude. She promised to write to her as soon as she

got to Woodfield, and to return the cloaths she had borrowed, to which

she secretly purposed adding some present, to testify her sense of the

civilities she had received.

Delamere enclosed, in a letter which he sent by Miss Lawson to her

father, a bank note, as an acknowledgment of his extraordinary kindness.

They quickly arrived in London; and as Emmeline still remained in the

resolution of avoiding a return to Mrs. Ashwood, they changed horses in

Piccadilly to go on.

Tho' by going to her former residence she might have escaped a longer

continuation, and farther journey, with Delamere, of the impropriety of

which she was very sensible; yet she declined it, because she knew that

as her adventure might be explained several ways, Mrs. Ashwood and Miss

Galton were very likely to put on it the construction least in her

favour; and she was very unwilling to be exposed to their questions and

comments, till she could, in concert with Mrs. Stafford, and with her

advice, give such an account of the affair as would put it out of their

power to indulge that malignity of remark at her expence of which she

knew they were capable.

She therefore dispatched a servant to Mrs. Ashwood with a note for her

cloaths, whom Delamere directed to rejoin them at Staines.

At that place they arrived early in the evening; and Emmeline, to whom

Delamere had behaved with the utmost tenderness and respect, bore her

journey without suffering any other inconvenience than some remaining

languor, which was now more visible in her looks than in her spirits.

Charmed with the thoughts of so soon seeing Mrs. Stafford, and feeling

all that delight which a consciousness of rectitude inspires, she was

more than usually chearful, and conversed with Delamere with all that

enchanting frankness and sweetness which made her general conversation

so desireable.

CHAPTER VII

As they had an hour or two on their hands, which Emmeline wished to

employ in something that might prevent Delamere from entertaining her on

the only subject he was ever willing to talk of when they were together,

she desired him to enquire for a book. He went out, and returned with

some volumes of novels, which he had borrowed of the landlord's

daughter; of which Emmeline read in some a page, and in others a

chapter, but found nothing in any, that tempted her to go regularly

through the whole.

While she was reading, Delamere, equally unable to occupy himself with

any other object whether she was absent or present, sat looking at her

over the table which was between them. After some time passed in this

manner, their supper was brought in, and common conversation took place

while it was passing. When it was removed, Emmeline returned again to

the books, and took up one she had not before opened.--It was the

second volume of the Sorrows of Werter. She laid it down again with a

smile, saying--'That will not do for me to-night.'

'What is it?' cried Delamere, taking it from her.--'O, I have read

it--and if _you_ have, Emmeline, you might have learned the danger of

trifling with violent and incurable passions. Tell me--could you ever be

reconciled to yourself if you should be the cause of a catastrophe

equally fatal?'

Still meaning to turn the conversation, she answered gaily--'O, I fancy

there is very little danger of that--you know the value of your

existence too well to throw it inconsiderately away.'

'Do not be too certain of that, Emmeline. Without you, my life is no

longer valuable--if indeed it be supportable; and should I ever be in

the situation this melancholy tale describes, how do I know that my

reason would be strong enough to preserve me from equal rashness.

Beware, Miss Mowbray--beware of the consequence of finding an Albert at

Woodfield.'

'It is very unlikely I should find any lover there. I assure you I

desire none; nor have I any other wish than to pass the remainder of the

winter tranquilly with my friend.'

'If then you really never wish to encourage another, and if you have any

sensibility for the pain I feel from uncertainty, why will you not

solemnly engage yourself to me, by a promise which cannot be broken but

by mutual consent?'

'Because we are both too young to form such an engagement.--You are not

yet quite one and twenty; a time of life in which it is impossible you

can be a competent judge of what will make you really happy. I am more

than two years younger: but short as has been my knowledge of the world,

I have already seen two or three instances of marriages made in

consequence of early engagements, which have proved so little fortunate

that they have determined me never to try the experiment. Should you

bind yourself by this promise, which you now think would make you easy,

and should you hereafter repent it, which I know to be far from

improbable, pride, obstinacy, the shame of retracting your opinion,

would perhaps concur to prevent your withdrawing it; and I should

receive your hand while your heart might be attached to another. The

chains which you had yourself put on, in opposition to the wishes of

your family, you would, rather than own your error, rivet, tho' your

inclination prompted you to break them; and we should then be both

miserable.--No, Delamere--let us remain at liberty, and perhaps----'

'It is impossible, Madam!' cried Delamere, suddenly and vehemently

interrupting her--'It is absolutely impossible you could argue thus

calmly, if you had any regard for me--Cold--cruel--insensible--unfeeling

girl! Oh! fool, fool that I am, to persist in loving a woman without an

heart, and to be unable to tear from my soul a passion that serves only

to make me perpetually wretched. Cursed be the hour I first indulged it,

and cursed the weakness of mind that cannot conquer it!'

This new instance of ungovernable temper, so contrary to the promises he

had given her at Hertford, extremely provoked Emmeline, who answered

very gravely--

'If you desire, Sir, to divest yourself of this unfortunate passion, the

task is already half accomplished. Resolve, then, to conquer it wholly:

restore me to that tranquillity you have destroyed--vindicate my injured

reputation, which your headlong ardour has blemished--give me back to

the kindness and protection of your father--and determine to see me no

more.'

This spirited and severe answer, immediately convinced Delamere he had

gone too far. He had never before seen Emmeline so much piqued, and he

hastened to appease her.

'Pardon me!--forgive me, Emmeline! I am not master of myself when I

think of losing you! But you, who feel not any portion of the flame that

devours me, can coolly argue, while my heart is torn in pieces; and

deign not even to make any allowance for the unguarded sallies of

unconquerable passion!--the phrenzy of almost hopeless love! Sometimes,

when I think your coldness arises from determined and insurmountable

indifference--perhaps from dislike--despair and fury possess me. Would

you but say that you will live only for me--would you only promise that

no future Rochely, none of the people you have seen or may see, shall

influence you to forget me--I should, I think, be easier!'

'You have a better opinion of yourself, Mr. Delamere,' answered

Emmeline, calmly, 'than to believe it probable. But be that as it may, I

have told you that I will neither make or receive any promises of the

nature you require. I have already suffered too much from your

extravagant passion to put it farther in your power to distress me. But

I shall be better able to reassume this conversation to-morrow--to-night

I am fatigued; and it is time for us to separate.'

'And will you leave me, then, Emmeline?--leave me too in anger?'

'I am not angry, Mr. Delamere--here is my hand.'

'This hand,' exclaimed he, eagerly grasping it, 'which ought to have

been mine!--Now, even now, that you are about to tear yourself from me,

it should have been mine for ever! But I have relinquished my prize at

the moment I might have secured it; and if I lose it entirely my own

folly only will be the cause.'

'These violent transports may terrify me, but shall not alter my

determination. Quit my hand, Mr. Delamere,' continued she, struggling to

disengage it--'I will not be detained.'

She rang the bell; and the waiter almost instantly entering, she took a

candle and went to the apartment prepared for her: while Delamere, vexed

to have commanded himself so little, and to be so unable to adhere to

the good resolutions he had made, dared not attempt to prevent her.

He had now again to make his peace, but would not venture to take any

steps towards it that night; and he retired to his own room, considering

how he might remain near her after she got into Dorsetshire, and

dreading the hour of even a temporary separation.

The next morning Emmeline, impatient to be gone, dressed herself early;

and just as she was about to go down to hasten their breakfast and

departure, she saw, from a window that looked into the yard of the inn,

a phaeton and four enter it, remarkable for the profusion of expensive

and ill-fancied ornaments with which both the carriage and harness were

covered. In it were two gentlemen wrapped in great coats, as the weather

was very severe; on whom Emmeline casting a transient glance, discovered

that one of them was Elkerton.

She was a good deal alarmed at his arrival: for she had reason to fear,

that this man, to whom she had a decided aversion, would see her, and

know that she was travelling alone with Delamere. She saw him get out,

and give directions for putting up his horses, telling the people who

came out to attend him that he should breakfast and stay there some

hours.

Since his unfortunate _rencontre_ with Delamere at Mrs. Ashwood's, he

had almost entirely relinquished the pursuit of Emmeline. He had never

been able to shake off the ridicule his vanity had brought upon him, and

therefore had forborne to enter the circle where it had happened. He

had, however, seen Miss Mowbray once or twice in public, and she had

been too generally admired not to interest his pride in keeping up the

acquaintance, tho' she treated him always with coldness, and found it

difficult to be barely civil. She knew that he was severely mortified by

her indifference, and that in matters of scandal and gossiping no old

woman could be a greater adept. When therefore personal pique was added

to his natural love of anecdote, Emmeline apprehended so much from him,

that she determined, if possible, to escape his sight.

To do this, however, was very difficult. She saw him and his companion

take possession of a room that had windows looking into the yard through

which she must of necessity pass, and where, when the post-chaise drew

up, they must see whoever got into it. She wrapped herself up in her

cloak, pulled her hat over her eyes, and holding up her handkerchief as

if to guard her face from the cold, she passed unobserved to the room

where Delamere was waiting breakfast.

The remembrance of his last night's behaviour was in some measure

obliterated by the alarm she had felt at the sight of Elkerton. Delamere

looked melancholy and dejected. Emmeline speaking to him with her usual

sweetness, seemed to have forgotten the offence he had given her, and

tried to restore his good humour as if she had been the aggressor: but

he continued gloomy and pensive.

They began their breakfast, and conversed on different subjects.

'Did you observe,' said Emmeline, 'the phaeton which drove in just now?'

'No--what was there remarkable about it?'

'Nothing, but that one of the persons it contained was Elkerton, the

poor man you made so absurd at Mrs. Ashwood's, when he boasted of

knowing you. I hope I shall get away without his seeing me--I should

extremely dislike meeting him.'

'Stupid dog!--why should you care whether you meet him or no?'

'Because he must think it so strange that I am here with you.'

'Let him--Of what consequence is it to us what such a puppy thinks? I

cannot possibly care about it.'

'But _I_ do, Mr. Delamere,' said Emmeline, somewhat gravely.--'You will

recollect that I may be very much injured by the scandal such a man may

circulate.'

'Well, well, my dear Emmeline--we will set out directly, and you will

not meet him.--I will order the chaise.'

He went out for that purpose as soon as their breakfast ended; but a few

paces from the door was accosted by Elkerton, who feeling himself in

point of figure equal to speak to any man, addressed him with all the

confident familiarity of an old acquaintance.

'Sir, your most obedient humble servant.'

'Your servant, Sir;' replied Delamere, brushing by him.

'Sir, I hope you, and my Lord and Lady Montreville, have been well since

I had last the honour of seeing you?'

'Since you oblige me, Sir, to acknowledge the acquaintance, I must

remind you that our last meeting was attended with some circumstances

which should make you not very desirous of recollecting it.'

'Oh, dear! very far from not wishing to remember it, I am always pleased

with such agreeable badinage from my friends, and some how or other

contrive to be even with them. Prithee, dear boy, whither are you

going?--perhaps we are travelling the same road?'

'I hope not,' said Delamere, turning from him, and advancing towards the

bar.

Elkerton, unabashed, followed him.

'If we are,' continued he, 'I think you shall take me into your

post-chaise. I am going to pass a month with a friend in Hampshire; and

Jackman, who loves driving, tho' he knows nothing of the matter,

persuaded me to use an open carriage; but it is so cold, that I believe

I shall let him enjoy it alone the rest of the way. Suppose we go

together, if your destination is the Winchester road?'

Delamere was so provoked at this forwardness, that he found he should be

unable to give a moderate answer.--He therefore turned away without

giving any.

'Pray, Sir,' said the bar maid to Elkerton, 'who is that young

gentleman?'

'Lord Montreville's son,' replied he; 'and one of the strangest fellows

in the world.--Sometimes we are as intimate as brothers; and now you see

he'll hardly speak to me.'

'Perhaps, Mr. Elkerton,' said the woman, smiling, 'the young gentleman

may have very good reasons for not taking another companion in his

post-chaise.'

Elkerton pressed her to explain herself.

'Why you must know,' said she, 'that there's a young lady with him; one

of the prettiest young women I ever see. Last night, after they comed

here, his walet was pretty near tipsey; so he come and sot down here,

and told me how his master had hired him to go along with 'em to

Scotland; but that before they got near half way, somehow or other 'twas

settled for 'em to come back again. But don't say as I told you, Mr.

Elkerton, for that would be as much as my place is worth.'

This intelligence awakened all the curiosity of Elkerton, together with

some hopes of being able to revenge himself on Delamere for his contempt

and rudeness.

'Egad!' cried he, 'I'll have a peep at this beauty, however.'

So saying, he strutted across the yard, and placed himself under a

little piazza which made a covered communication between the rooms of

the inn which were built round the yard, and along which they were

obliged to pass to get into the chaise.

The room door opened--Delamere and Emmeline appeared at it.

'Draw up, postillions, as close as you can,' cried the waiter.

Delamere, holding Emmeline's hand, advanced; but on seeing Elkerton, she

stepped back into the room.

'Come, come,' said Delamere--'never concern yourself about that

impertinent fellow.'

Elkerton, tho' he did not distinctly hear this speech, had caught a view

of the person to whom it was addressed; and tho' her face was concealed,

her height and air convinced him it was Miss Mowbray.

'How do you, Madam?' exclaimed he, bowing and advancing--'Miss Mowbray,

I hope I have the happiness of seeing you well.'

'We are in haste, Sir,' said Delamere, leading Emmeline towards the

chaise.

'Nay, my good friend,' returned Elkerton, 'allow me I beg to pay my

respects to this lady, with whom I have the honour of being

acquainted--Miss Mowbray, permit me----'

He would have taken the hand which was disengaged; but Emmeline shrunk

from him, and stepped quickly into the chaise.

Elkerton still advanced, and leaning almost into it, he said--'Your long

journey, I hope, has not too much fatigued you.'

'By heaven!' exclaimed Delamere, 'this is too much! Sir, you are the

most troublesome, insolent fool, I ever met with!'

So saying, he seized Elkerton by the collar, and twisting him suddenly

round, threw him with great violence against one of the pillars of the

piazza.

He then got into the chaise; and taking out of his pocket two or three

cards, on which his address was written, he tossed them out of the

window; saying, with a voice that struck terror into the overthrown

knight on the ground--'You know where to hear of me if you have any

thing to say.'

The chaise now drove quickly away; while Delamere tried to reassure

Emmeline, who was so much terrified by the suddenness of this scuffle,

that she had hardly breath to reproach him for his impetuosity. He

answered, that he had kept his temper too long with the meddling ideot,

and that to have overlooked such impertinence without resentment was not

in his nature. He tried to laugh off her apprehensions; and flattered by

the anxiety she felt for his safety, all his gaiety and good humour

seemed to return.

But Emmeline, extremely hurt to find that Elkerton was informed of the

journey she had taken, and vexed that Delamere had engaged in a quarrel,

the event of which, if not personally dangerous to him, could not fail

of being prejudicial to her, continued very low and uneasy the rest of

their journey, reflecting on nothing with pleasure but on her

approaching interview with Mrs. Stafford.

But this hoped-for happiness was soon converted into the most poignant

uneasiness. On their arrival at Woodfield, Emmeline had the pain of

hearing that Mrs. Stafford, who had two days before been delivered of a

daughter, had continued dangerously ill ever since. The physicians who

attended her had that day given them hopes that her illness might end

favourably; but she was still in a situation so precarious that her

attendants were in great alarm.

As she had anxiously expected Emmeline, and expressed much astonishment

at not having heard from her the week before, which was that on which

she had purposed to be with her, and as she still continued earnestly to

enquire for news of Miss Mowbray, Mr. Stafford insisted on informing her

she was arrived; and this intelligence seemed to give her pleasure. She

desired Emmeline might come to her bed-side: but she was so weak, that

she could only in a faint voice express her pleasure at the sight of

her; and pressing her hand, begged she would not leave her.

It was impossible Emmeline could speak to her on the subject of

Delamere, as the least emotion might have been of the most fatal

consequence; and tho' she earnestly wished he might not have been

invited to stay, she was obliged to let it take it's course. She left

her friend's room no more that evening; and gave her whole thoughts and

attention to keeping her quiet and administering her medicines, which

Mrs. Stafford seemed pleased to receive from her hands.

Mr. Stafford was one of those unfortunate characters, who having neither

perseverance and regularity to fit them for business, or taste and

genius for more refined pursuits, seek, in every casual occurrence or

childish amusement, relief against the tedium of life. Tho' married very

early, and tho' father of a numerous family, he had thrown away the time

and money, which should have provided for them, in collecting baubles,

which he had repeatedly possessed and discarded, 'till having exhausted

every source that that species of idle folly offered, he had been

driven, by the same inability to pursue proper objects, into vices yet

more fatal to the repose of his wife, and schemes yet more destructive

to the fortune of his family. Married to a woman who was the delight of

her friends and the admiration of her acquaintance, surrounded by a

lovely and encreasing family, and possessed of every reasonable means of

happiness, he dissipated that property, which ought to have secured it's

continuance, in vague and absurd projects which he neither loved or

understood; and his temper growing more irritable in proportion as his

difficulties encreased, he sometimes treated his wife with great

harshness; and did not seem to think it necessary, even by apparent

kindness and attention, to excuse or soften to her his general ill

conduct, or his 'battening on the moor' of low and degrading debauchery.

Mrs. Stafford, who had been married to him at fifteen, had long been

unconscious of his weakness: and when time and her own excellent

understanding pressed the fatal conviction too forcibly upon her, she

still, but fruitlessly, attempted to hide from others what she saw too

evidently herself.

Fear for the future fate of her children, and regret to find that she

had no influence over her husband, together with the knowledge of

connections to which she had till a few months before been a stranger,

had given to Mrs. Stafford, whose temper was naturally extremely

chearful, that air of despondence, and melancholy cast of mind, which

Emmeline had remarked with so much concern on their first acquaintance.

To such a man as Mr. Stafford, the arrival of Delamere afforded novelty,

and consequently some degree of satisfaction. He took it into his head

to be extremely civil to him, and pressed him to continue some time at

his house; but Delamere well knew that Emmeline would be made unhappy by

his remaining more than one night; as Mr. Stafford entered however so

warmly into his interest, he begged of him to recollect whether there

was not any house to be let within a few miles of Woodfield.

Mr. Stafford instantly named a hunting seat of Sir Philip Carnaby's,

which he said would exactly suit him. It's possessor, whom some

disarrangement in his affairs had obliged to go abroad for a few years,

had ordered it to be let ready furnished, from year to year.

Delamere went the next morning to the attorney who let it; and making an

agreement for it, ordered in all the requisites for his immediate

residence; and, till it was ready, accepted Mr. Stafford's invitation to

remain at Woodfield.

Emmeline, who confined herself wholly to her friend's apartment, knew

nothing of this arrangement 'till it was concluded: and when she heard

it, remonstrance and objection were vain.

The illness of Mrs. Stafford, tho' it did not gain ground, was still

very alarming, and called forth, to a painful excess, that lively

sympathy which Emmeline felt for those she loved. She continued to

attend her with the tenderest assiduity; and after five days painful

suspence, had the happiness to find her out of danger, and well enough

to hear the relation Emmeline had to make of the involuntary elopement.

Mrs. Stafford advised her immediately to write to Lord Montreville;

which her extreme anxiety only had occasioned her so long to delay.

CHAPTER VIII

Lord Montreville and Sir Richard Crofts, after exhausting every mode of

enquiry at the end of their journey, without having discovered any

traces of the fugitives, returned to London. The uncertainty of what was

become of his son, and concern for the fate of Emmeline, made his

Lordship more unhappy than he had yet been: and the reception he met

with on his return home did not contribute to relieve him; he found that

no intelligence had been received of Delamere; and Lady Montreville

beset him with complaints and reproaches. The violence of her passions

had, for some months, subjected her to fits; and the evasion of her son,

and her total ignorance of what was become of him, had kept her in

perpetual agony during Lord Montreville's absence. His return after so

successless a journey encreased her sufferings, and she was of a temper

not to suffer alone, but to inflict on others some part of the pain she

felt herself.

Lord Montreville attempted in vain to appease and console her. Nothing

but some satisfactory account of Delamere had the least chance of

succeeding; and his Lordship, who now supposed that Delamere and

Emmeline were concealed in the neighbourhood of London, determined to

persevere in every means of discovering them.

For this purpose he had again recourse to the Crofts'; and Sir Richard

and both his sons readily undertook to assist him in his search, and

particularly the elder undertook it with the warmest zeal.

This young man inherited all the cunning of his father, together with a

coolness of temper which supplied the place of solid understanding and

quick parts; since it always gave him time to see where his interest

lay, and steadiness to pursue it. By incessant assiduity he had acquired

the confidence of Lady Montreville, to whom his attention and attendance

were become almost necessary.

Her Ladyship never dreamed that a man of his rank could lift his eyes to

either of her daughters, and therefore encouraged his constant

attendance on them both; while Crofts was too sensible of the value of

such an alliance not to take advantage of the opportunities that were

incessantly afforded him.

Lady Montreville had repeatedly declared, that if Delamere married

Emmeline all that part of the fortune which she had a right to give away

should be the property of her eldest daughter. This was upwards of six

thousand pounds a year; and whether this ever happened or not, Crofts

knew that what was settled on younger children, which must at all events

be divided between the two young ladies, would make either of them a

fortune worth all attempts, independent of the connection he would form

by it with Lord Montreville, who now began to make a very considerable

figure in the political world.

With these views, Crofts had for near two years incessantly applied

himself to conciliate the good opinion of the whole family, with so much

art that nobody suspected his designs. The slight and contemptuous

treatment he had always received from Delamere, he had affected to pass

by with the calm magnanimity of a veteran statesman; and emulating the

decided conduct and steady indifference of age, rather than yielding to

the warmth of temper natural to five and twenty, he was considered as a

very rising and promising young man by the grave politicians with whom

he associated, and by those of his own age a supercilious and solemn

coxcomb.

He had studied the characters of the two Miss Delameres, and found that

of the eldest the fittest for his purpose; tho' the person of the

youngest, and the pride which encased the heart of the other, would have

made a less able politician decide for Augusta. But he saw that the very

pride which seemed an impediment to his hopes, might, under proper

management, contribute to their success. He saw that she really loved

nobody but herself; that her personal vanity was greater than the pride

of her rank; and that her heart was certainly on that side assailable.

He therefore, by distant hints and sighs, affected concealment; and

artful speeches gave her to understand that all his prudence had not

been able to defend him from the indiscretion of a hopeless passion.

While he was contented to call it hopeless, Miss Delamere, tho' long

partial to Fitz-Edward, could not refuse herself the indulgence of

hearing it; and at length grew so accustomed to allow him to talk to her

of his unbounded and despairing love, that she found it very

disagreeable to be without him.

He saw, that unless a title and great estate crossed his path, his

success, tho' it might be slow, was almost certain. But he was obliged

to proceed with caution; notwithstanding he would have been very glad

to have secured his prize before the return of Delamere to his family

threw an obstacle in his way which was the most formidable he had to

contend with.

He affected, however, the utmost anxiety to discover him; and recited to

Lord Montreville an exhortation he intended to pronounce to him, if he

should be fortunate enough to do so.

Nothing could be a greater proof of his Lordship's opinion of Crofts

than his entrusting him with a commission, which, if successful, could

hardly fail of irritating the fiery and ungovernable temper of Delamere,

and driving him into excesses which it would require all the philosophic

steadiness of Crofts to support without resentment.

While Sir Richard and his two sons therefore set about the difficult

task of finding Delamere, Lord Montreville went himself to Fitz-Edward;

but heard that for many days he had not been at his apartments, that he

had taken no servants with him, and that they knew not whither he was

gone, or when he would return.

Lord Montreville, who had depended more on the information of

Fitz-Edward than any other he hoped to obtain, left a note at his

lodgings desiring to see him as soon as he came to town, and went back

in encreased uneasiness to his own house. But among the numberless

letters which lay on his library table, the directions of which he

hastily read in a faint hope of news of Delamere, he saw one directed by

the hand of Emmeline. He tore it eagerly open--it contained an account

of all that had happened, written with such clearness and simplicity as

immediately impressed it's truth; and it is difficult to say whether

Lord Montreville's pleasure at finding his son still unmarried, or his

admiration at the greatness of his niece's mind, were the predominant

emotion.

When the former sentiment a little subsided, and he had time to reflect

on all the heroism of her conduct, he was almost ashamed of the long

opposition he had given to his son's passion; and would, if he had not

known his wife's prejudices invincible, have acknowledged, that neither

the possession of birth or fortune could make any amends to him, who saw

and knew how to value the beauty of such a mind as that of Emmeline. The

inveterate aversion and insurmountable pride of Lady Montreville, he had

no hope of conquering; and she had too much in her power, to suffer his

Lordship to think of Delamere's losing such a large portion of his

inheritance by disobeying her. For these reasons he checked the

inclination he felt rising in his own heart to reward and receive his

niece, and thought only of taking advantage of her integrity to separate

his son from her for ever.

He went with the letter in his hand to Lady Montreville's apartment,

where he found Mr. Crofts and the two young ladies.

He read it to them; and when he had finished it, expressed in the

warmest terms his approbation of Miss Mowbray's conduct. Lady

Montreville testified nothing but satisfaction at what she called 'the

foolish boy's escape from ruin,' without having the generosity to

applaud _her_, whose integrity was so much the object of admiration.

Possessing neither candour nor generosity herself, she was incapable of

loving those qualities in another; and in answer to Lord Montreville's

praises of Emmeline, which she heard with reluctance, she was not

ashamed to say, that perhaps were the whole truth known, his Lordship

would find but little reason to set up his relation's character higher

than that of his own children--to which her eldest daughter added--'Why,

to be sure, Madam, there is, as my father says, something very

extraordinary in Miss Mowbray's refusing _such a match_--that is, _if_

she has no other attachment.'

Augusta Delamere heard all that her father said in commendation of her

beloved Emmeline, with eyes suffused with tears, which drew on her the

anger of her mother and the malignant sneers of her sister.

The two young ladies however were sent away, while a council was held

between Lord and Lady Montreville and Crofts, on what steps it was

immediately necessary to take.

Several ideas were started, but none which his Lordship approved. He

determined therefore to write to his son; with whose residence at

Tylehurst, the house of Sir Philip Carnaby, Emmeline's letter acquainted

him; and wait his answer before he proceeded farther.

With this resolution, Lady Montreville was extremely discontented; and

proposed, as the only plan on which they could depend, that his

Lordship, under pretence of placing her properly, should send Emmeline

to France, and there confine her till Delamere, hopeless of regaining

her, should consent to marry Miss Otley.

Her Ladyship urged--'That it could not possibly do the girl any harm;

and that very worthy people had not scrupled to commit much more

violent actions where their motive was right, tho' less strong, than

that which would in this case actuate Lord Montreville, which was,' she

said, 'to save the sole remaining heir of a noble house from a degrading

and beggarly alliance.'

'Hold! Madam,' cried Lord Montreville, who was extremely displeased at

the proposal, and with the speech with which it closed--'Remember, I beg

of you, that when you speak of the Mowbray family, you speak of one very

little if at all inferior to your own; nor should you, Lady Montreville,

forget, in the heat of your resentment, that you are a woman--a woman

too, whose birth should at least give you a liberal mind, and put you

above thinking of an action as unfeminine as inhuman. Surely, as a

mother who have daughters of your own, you should have some feeling for

this young woman; not at all their inferior, but in being born under

circumstances for which she is not to blame, and which mark with

sufficient unhappiness a life that might otherwise have done as much

honour to my family as I hope your daughters will do to your's.'

The slightest contradiction was what Lady Montreville had never been

accustomed to bear patiently. The asperity therefore of this speech, and

the total rejection of her project, threw her into an agony of passion

which ended in an hysteric fit.

Lord Montreville, less moved than usual, committed her to the care of

her daughters and women, and continued to talk coolly to Crofts on the

subject they were before discussing.

After considering it in every point of view, he determined to leave

Delamere at present to his own reflections; only writing to him a calm

and expostulatory letter; such as, together with Emmeline's steadiness,

on which he now relied with the utmost confidence, might, he thought,

effect more than violent measures. His Lordship wrote also to Emmeline,

strongly expressing his admiration and regard, and his confidence and

esteem encreased her desire to deserve them.

Mrs. Stafford was now nearly recovered; and Delamere settled at his new

house, where he always returned at night, tho' he passed almost every

day at Woodfield.

His mornings were often occupied in those amusements of which he had

been so fond before his passion for Emmeline became the only business of

his life; and secure of seeing her continually, and of telling how he

loved her, he became more reasonable than he had hitherto been.

The letters, however, which now arrived from Lord Montreville, a little

disturbed his felicity. They gave Emmeline an opportunity to exhort him

to return to London--to make his peace with his father, and quiet the

uneasiness of Lady Montreville, which his Lordship represented as

excessive, and as fatal to _her_ health as to the peace of the whole

family.

Emmeline urged him by every tie of duty and affection to relieve the

anxiety of his family, and particularly to attend to the effect his

absence and disobedience had on the constitution of his mother, which

had long been extremely shaken. But to all her remonstrances, he

answered--'That he would not return, till Lady Montreville would promise

never to renew those reflections and reproaches which had driven him

from Audley-Hall; and to which he apprehended he should now be more than

ever exposed.'

As Emmeline could not pretend to procure such an engagement from her

Ladyship, all she could do was to inform Lord Montreville of his

objection, and to leave it to him to make terms between Delamere and his

mother.

Near a month had now elapsed since Emmeline's arrival at Woodfield; and

the returning serenity of her mind had restored to her countenance all

it's bloom and brilliancy. She had indeed no other uneasiness than what

arose from her anxiety to procure quiet to her Uncle's family, and from

her observations on the encreasing melancholy of Mrs. Stafford, for

which she knew too well how to account.

Even this, however, often appeared alleviated by her presence, and

forgotten in her conversation; and she rejoiced in the power of

affording a temporary relief to the sorrows of one whom she so truly

loved.

This calm was interrupted by Elkerton, by whom the affront he had

received at Staines, from Delamere, had not been forgotten, tho' he by

no means relished the thoughts of resenting it in the way his friend

Jackman, and all who heard of it, proposed.

To risk his life and all his finery, seemed a most cruel condition; but

Jackman protested there was no other by which he could retrieve his

honour. And his friend at whose house he was, on the borders of

Hampshire, who had been an officer in the military service of the East

India Company, and had acquired a princely fortune, felt himself

inspired with all the punctilios of a soldier, and declared to Elkerton

that if he put up with this affront no man of honour could hereafter

speak to him.

Poor Elkerton, who in the article of fighting, as well as many others,

extremely resembled '_le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_,' made all the evasions

in his power; while his _soi disant_ friends, who enjoyed his distress,

persisted in pushing him on to demand satisfaction of Delamere; but

after long debates, he determined first to ask him for an apology. There

was, he thought, some hope of obtaining it; if not, he could only in the

last extremity have recourse to the desperate expedient of a challenge.

He wrote therefore a letter to Delamere, requesting, in the civilest and

mildest terms, an apology for his behaviour at Staines; and sent it by a

servant; as it was not more than twenty miles from the house where he

was, to that Mr. Delamere had taken.

Delamere returned a contemptuous refusal; but neither mentioned the

letter to Emmeline, nor thought again about it's writer.

The unfortunate Elkerton, who reproached incessantly his evil stars for

having thrown this hot-headed boy in his way, could not conceal from his

friends the unaccommodating answer he had received to his pacific

overture; and it was agreed that Elkerton must either determine to fight

him, or be excluded from good company for ever. The challenge,

therefore, penned by the Asiatic hero, was copied with a trembling hand

by Elkerton; and Jackman, who had offered to be his second, set out with

him for the town near Tylehurst.

On their arrival, Jackman took a post-chaise to carry the billet to

Delamere, leaving the terrified Elkerton to settle all his affairs, both

temporal and spiritual, against the next morning, when Delamere was

appointed to meet him on a heath near the town, at seven o'clock.

Jackman found Delamere with Fitz-Edward, who had arrived there that day.

He delivered his letter, and Delamere immediately answered it by saying

he would not fail to attend the appointment, with his friend Colonel

Fitz-Edward.

During Jackman's absence, Elkerton tried to argue himself into a state

of mind fit for the undertaking of the next day. But he found no

arguments gave him any sort of satisfaction, save two; one was, that as

most disputes ended with firing a brace of pistols in the air, the

probability was, that he should be as fortunate as others--the second,

that if the worst should happen, he should at least make a paragraph

worth some hazard: and that whether he killed Delamere, or fell himself,

an affair of honour with a young man of his rank would extremely

contribute to his fame.

Neither of these reflections however had force enough to prevent his

heartily wishing there was no necessity to employ them; and he contrived

to make such a bustle with his servant about his pistols, and sent forth

so many enquiries for an able surgeon, that it was known immediately at

the inn where he was, that the gentleman was come to fight young Squire

Delamere.

In a country town, such intelligence soon gained ground; and before

Jackman's return, every shop in it had settled the place and manner of

the combat.

One of Mr. Stafford's servants was at the inn, which was also the post

house; where the landlady failed not to tell him what a bloody-minded

man was in the next room. The servant, who like all people of his

station delighted in the wonderful and the terrible, collected all the

particulars; which he retailed on his arrival at home, with every

exaggeration his invention would lend him.

CHAPTER IX

The maid who waited on Emmeline had no sooner heard these particulars,

than conceiving her to be more interested in the fate of Delamere than

any other person, she ran up to tell her of it; and tho' she had not

retained the name of Elkerton perfectly, Emmeline, who instantly

recollected the adventure at Staines, saw the truth at once; and was

terrified at the impending event to a degree that made her for a moment

incapable of reflection.

To be, however remotely, or however innocently, the cause of any man's

hazarding his life, was shocking to all her feelings. But to suppose

that Lord Montreville might be made by her means the most wretched of

human beings, by the loss of an only and beloved son, was an idea which

froze her blood.

Her regard for Delamere, which was the affection of a sister somewhat

heightened perhaps by his persevering preference of herself, her

friendship for Augusta, and her anxiety for the peace of his whole

family, added to her general tenderness of heart, all co-operated to

distress her on this occasion. As soon as she could recollect what was

best to be done, she sought Mr. Stafford, to whom she related what she

had heard, which the servant who had brought the intelligence repeated

before him.

Mr. Stafford, at Emmeline's earnest request, set out for the house of

Delamere, who had not that day been at Woodfield because he expected

Fitz-Edward. Mr. Stafford delivered to him a pressing entreaty from

Emmeline that he would forbear to meet Elkerton, or at least delay it

'till she could speak to him; but Delamere shewing Stafford the letter

he had received, desired him to go back and make Emmeline easy as well

as he could, since to comply with her request was entirely out of his

power. To the necessity of his meeting Elkerton, Stafford assented; and

returned home to relate the little success of his embassy, while the

terror and alarm of Emmeline were only encreased by his visit.

Such was her anxiety, that she would have gone herself to Tylehurst, if

Mrs. Stafford had not represented to her that it would be certainly

improper, and probably ineffectual.

She passed a sleepless night, tormenting herself with a thousand

imaginary modes of misery which might arise from the meeting of the next

day. But while she continued to form and reject projects for preventing

it, seven o'clock passed, and the _rencontre_ ended without bloodshed;

the cautious valour of Elkerton having been so loud, that a magistrate

who lived in the town, and who was well known to Lord Montreville, had

heard of it, and, with a party of constables, had followed Elkerton at

some distance. They concealed themselves, by the justice's order, in a

gravel-pit near the place of combat, and there saw the ground already

possessed by Delamere and Fitz-Edward.

The trembling challenger, with a face as pale as if Delamere's pistol

had already done it's worst, followed by Jackman, on whose undaunted

countenance he cast a rueful and imploring look, then rode slowly up,

punctual to the time.

The usual ceremonies passed, Elkerton's blood seemed to be all gone to

his heart, to encourage it to be stout; and his knees, which trembled

most piteously, appeared to resent the desertion. He cast round the

heath a hopeless look--no succour approached! The ground was measured;

each took their post; and his trembling encreased so violently, that

Delamere apprehended very little from a pistol in so unsteady a hand.

But had he apprehended more, he was of a temper to receive it,

unshrinkingly. The moment to fire now arrived; and Elkerton, while

cocking his pistol, saw the _possé_ rise out of the gravel-pit; but he

was too far gone to be sensible of the seasonable relief; therefore,

without knowing what he was about, he fired his pistol before they could

seize his arm, and then stood like a statue, nearly insensible of the

happiness of his deliverance.

The justice advancing himself on horseback, now put both the gentlemen

under arrest: and Elkerton seeing himself at length safe for the

present, thought he might venture to insist on standing Mr. Delamere's

fire. The more the worthy justice opposed it, the more vehement he grew:

but Delamere, who despised him too much to be really angry with him,

went off the field, telling Elkerton that any other time, when there

were fewer witnesses, he would give him what further satisfaction he

might require. He gave his honour to the justice that he would trouble

himself no farther about the affair; and Elkerton having given Jackman's

bail for his present pacific intentions, was suffered to go also.

He returned to the house of his East Indian friend, exulting secretly in

his escape, and openly in his valour, to which latter Jackman did not

bear testimony so warmly as he thought friendship required. Determined,

however, to lose no part of the glory which he thought he had dearly

purchased by being frightened out of his wits, he wrote, in the form of

a letter, a most tremendous account of the duel to the daily papers, in

which he described all it's imaginary horrors, and ended with asserting

very roundly, that 'Mr. Elkerton had the misfortune dangerously to wound

the Hon. Frederic Delamere; and, when this account came away, there were

no hopes of his recovery.'

Having secured himself a fame, at least, for two or three days, he set

out for London to enjoy it; never reflecting on any other consequences

than those most flattering to his ridiculous vanity. He knew he should

be talked of; and by representing what had _not_ happened, have a fair

opportunity of telling what _had_, in his own way.

When Emmeline, who had never ceased walking about and listening, saw

Delamere and Fitz-Edward riding quietly across the lawn which led to the

house, she ran eagerly down to meet them: but the idea that Elkerton

might possibly be killed checked her joy; and when they came up to her,

breathless agitation prevented her asking what she wanted to know.

Delamere, who saw her so pale and terrified, threw himself instantly

off his horse and caught her in his arms.

'Has no harm happened, Mr. Delamere?'

'None in the world, my Emmeline. Nobody is hurt so much as you are; tho'

poor Elkerton was almost as much frightened. Come, pray compose

yourself--you have not yet the glory to boast of having a life lost

about you.'

'Heaven forbid that I ever should!' answered she--'I am grateful that

there has been no mischief!--Oh! if I could describe what I have

suffered, surely you would never terrify me so again.'

She could not restrain her tears. Delamere led her into the house;

where, while Mrs. Stafford gave her hartshorn and water, Delamere, at

her request, related exactly what had happened: and having given

Emmeline his honour that he would think no more of the affair if

Elkerton did not, the tranquillity of the house seemed to be restored,

and Delamere and Fitz-Edward were invited to dinner; where great

alteration in the looks of the latter, was remarked by both the ladies.

Nor was it in looks only that Fitz-Edward was extremely changed.--His

chearfulness was quite gone; he appeared to be ineffectually struggling

with some unconquerable uneasiness; and tho' his soft and insinuating

manners were the same, he no longer sought, by a thousand agreeable

sallies and lively anecdotes, to entertain; or whatever attempt he made

was so evidently forced, that it lost it's success. Remarkable for his

temperance at table, for which he had often endured the ridicule of his

companions, he now seemed to fly to the bottle, against his inclination,

as if in hopes to procure himself a temporary supply of spirits.

Every day after that on which Emmeline and Mrs. Stafford made this

remark, it's justice was more evident.

While Delamere was in the fields, Fitz-Edward would sit whole mornings

with Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline, leaning on their work-table, or looking

over Emmeline, busied with her pencil. Had his marked attention to Mrs.

Stafford continued, she would have seen his behaviour with great alarm;

but he no longer paid her those oblique yet expressive compliments of

which he used to be so lavish. It seemed, as if occupied by some other

object, he still admired and revered her, and wished to make her the

confidant of the sorrow that oppressed him. If they were accidentally

alone, he appeared on the point of telling her; then suddenly checking

himself, he changed the discourse, or abruptly left her; and as he was a

man whom it was impossible to know without receiving some impressions in

his favour, she felt, as well as Emmeline, a pity for him, which they

wished to be justified in feeling, by hearing that whatever was the

cause of his unhappiness, he had not brought it on himself by any crime

that would make their regard for him blameable.--For Emmeline, tho' she

knew that it was with no good design he had contributed to Delamere's

getting her off, yet could not persuade herself to hate him for it, when

he not only humbly solicited her forgiveness, but protested that he was

truly rejoiced, as well as astonished at her steadiness and good

conduct; and would be so far from encouraging any such attempt for the

future, that he would be the first to call Delamere to an account, could

he suppose he harboured intentions which he now considered as ungenerous

and criminal.

These declarations had made his peace both with Emmeline and her friend;

and his languid and sentimental conversation, tho' it made him less

entertaining, did not make him less interesting to either of them.

Mr. Stafford, ever in pursuit of some wild scheme, was now gone for a

few days into another county, to make himself acquainted with the

process of manuring land with old wigs--a mode of agriculture on which

Mr. Headly had lately written a treatise so convincing, that Mr.

Stafford was determined to adopt it on his own farm as soon as a

sufficient number of wigs could be procured for the purpose.

During this absence, and on the fourth day after Elkerton's exploit, a

stormy morning had driven Delamere from the fields; who went into Mrs.

Stafford's dressing-room, where he found Fitz-Edward reading Cecilia to

Mrs. Stafford and Miss Mowbray while they sat at work.

Mrs. Stafford had her two little boys at her feet; and when Delamere

appeared, she desired him to take a chair quietly, and not disturb so

sober a party. But he had not been seated five minutes, before the

children, who were extremely fond of him, crept to him, and he began to

play with them and to make such a noise, that Mrs. Stafford laughingly

threatened to send all the riotous boys into the nursery together--when

at that moment Millefleur, who had some time before come down to attend

his master, entered the room with a letter which he said came express

from Berkley-square.

Delamere saw that his father's hand had almost illegibly directed it. He

opened it in fearful haste, and read these words--

'Before this meets you, your mother will probably be no more. A

paragraph in the newspaper, in which you are said to have been

killed in a duel, threw her into convulsions. I satisfied myself of

your safety by seeing the man with whom you fought, but your mother

is incapable of hearing it. Unhappy boy! if you would see her

alive, come away instantly.

MONTREVILLE.'

_Berkley-square, Feb. 29._

It is impossible to say whether the consternation of Emmeline or that of

Delamere was the greatest. By the dreadful idea of having occasioned his

mother's death, every other was for a moment absorbed. He flew without

speaking down stairs, and into the stable where he had left his horse;

but the groom had carried the horse to his own stables, supposing his

master would stay 'till night. Without recollecting that he might take

one of Mr. Stafford's, he ran back into the room where Emmeline was

weeping in the arms of her friend, and clasping her wildly to his bosom,

he exclaimed--'Farewell, Emmeline! Farewell, perhaps, for ever! If I

lose my mother I shall never forgive _myself_; and shall be a wretch

unworthy of _you_. Dearest Mrs. Stafford! take care I beseech you of

her, whatever becomes of me.'

Having said this, he ran away again without his hat, and darted across

the lawn towards his own house, meaning to go thither on foot; but

Fitz-Edward, with more presence of mind, was directing two of Mr.

Stafford's horses to be saddled, with which he soon overtook Delamere;

and proceeding together to the town, they got into a post-chaise, and

went as expeditiously as four horses could take them, towards London.

Equally impetuous in all his feelings, his grief at the supposed

misfortune was as violent as it could have been had he been sure that

the worst had already happened. He now remembered, with infinite

self-reproach, how much uneasiness and distress he had occasioned to

Lady Montreville since he left her in November at Audley-Hall without

taking leave--and recollecting all her tenderness and affection for him

from the earliest dawn of his memory; her solicitude in his sickness,

when she had attended him herself and given up her rest and health to

contribute to his; her partial fondness, which saw merit even in his

errors; her perpetual and ardent anxiety for what she believed would

secure his happiness--he set in opposition to it his own neglect,

impatience, and disobedience; and called himself an unnatural and

ungrateful monster.

Fitz-Edward could hardly restrain his extravagant ravings during the

journey; which having performed as expeditiously as possible, they

arrived in Berkley-square; where, when the porter opened the door to

them, Delamere had not courage to ask how his mother did; but on

Fitz-Edward's enquiry, the porter told them she was alive, and not

worse.

Relieved by this account, Delamere sent to his father to know if he

might wait upon him.

His Lordship answered--"That he would only see Colonel Fitz-Edward; but

that Delamere might come in, to wait 'till his mother's physicians

arrived."

Lord Montreville was indeed so irritated against Delamere by all the

trouble and anxiety he had suffered on his account, that he determined

to shew his resentment; and in this resolution he was encouraged by Sir

Richard Crofts, who represented to him that his mother's danger, and his

father's displeasure, might together work upon his mind, and induce him

to renounce an attachment which occasioned to them both so much

unhappiness.

It was in this hope that his Lordship refused to see his son; and while

Fitz-Edward went to him, Delamere was shewn into another room, where his

youngest sister immediately came to him.

She received him with rapture mingled with tears; and related to him the

nature of his mother's illness, which had seized her two days before, on

her unfortunately taking up a newspaper from the breakfast-table, where

it was very confidently said that he was mortally wounded in a duel with

a person named Elkerton, of Portland-Place. That Lord Montreville had

luckily had a letter from Fitz-Edward the day before, (whom he had

forgiven the part he took in regard to Emmeline on no other condition

than that he should go down to him, and give his Lordship an account of

his conduct) and that therefore he was less alarmed, tho' very much

hurried by the paragraph.

He had, however, gone to Elkerton's house, where he found him very

composedly receiving the enquiries of his friends, and where he insisted

on hearing exactly what had happened.

His Lordship immediately returned to his wife; but the convulsions had

arisen to so alarming an height, that she was no longer capable of

hearing him; and she had ever since continued to have, at very short

intervals, such dreadful fits, as had entirely contracted her left side,

and left very little hope of her recovery.

Delamere was extremely shocked at this account; and after waiting some

time, Fitz-Edward came to him, and told him that his father was

extremely angry, and absolutely refused to see him or hear his apology,

unless he would first give his honour that if Lady Montreville should

survive the illness his indiscreet rashness had brought upon her, he

would, as soon as she was out of danger, go abroad, and remain there

till he should obtain forgiveness for his past errors and leave to

return.

The heart of Delamere was accessible only by the avenues of affection

and kindness; compulsion and threats only made him more resolutely

persist in any favourite project. Sir Richard Crofts therefore, who had

advised this measure, shewed but little knowledge of his temper, and

never was more mistaken in his politics.

Delamere no sooner heard the message, than he knew with whom it

originated; and full of indignation at finding his father governed by a

man for whom he felt only aversion and contempt, he answered, with great

asperity--'That he came thither not to solicit any favour, but to see

his mother. That he would not be dictated to by the Crofts; but would

remain in town 'till he knew whether his mother desired to see him; and

be ready to wait on his father when he would vouchsafe to treat him as

his son.'

He then shook hands with Fitz-Edward, kissed his sister, and walked out

of the house, in spite of their united endeavours to detain him. All

they could obtain of him was his consent to go to Fitz-Edward's

lodgings, as he had none of his own ready; from whence he sent

constantly every hour to enquire after Lady Montreville.

CHAPTER X

Emmeline, in the mean time, remained in great uneasiness at Woodfield.

Delamere, on his first arrival in town, wrote a short and confused note;

by which she only learned that Lady Montreville was alive. After some

days she received the following letter from Augusta Delamere.

'I will now try, my dearest Emmeline, to give you an account of

what has passed here since my brother's arrival.

'My mother is happily better; knows every body, and speaks more

distinctly; her fits return less frequently; and upon the whole, the

physicians give us hopes of her recovery, but very little that she

will ever be restored to the use of the arm which is contracted.

'On Friday, in an interval of her fits, Sir Hugh Cathcart and Dr.

Gardner, her physicians, proposed that she should see my brother, of

whose being living nothing we could any of us say could convince

her. She repeated to Dr. Gardner, who staid with her after the other

went, that she was deceived.

'He assured her that she was deceived in nothing but in her sudden

and unhappy prepossession; for that Mr. Delamere had never been in

the least danger, and was actually in perfect health.

'"He is alive!" cried my mother, mournfully--"I thank God he is

alive; but he knows my illness, and I do not see him--Ah! it is too

certain I have lost my son!"

'"You have not been able to see him, my dear madam; but he came up

as soon as he heard of your situation, and now waits your commands

at Colonel Fitz-Edward's lodgings.--Do you wish to see him?"

'"I do! I do wish to see him! Oh! let him come!"

'The agitation of her mind, however, brought on almost instantly a

return of the disorder; and before my brother's arrival, she was

insensible.

'Her distorted features; her hands contracted, her eyes glazed and

fixed, her livid complexion, and the agonizing expression of her

countenance, were at their height when Delamere was desired to go

into the room: my father believed that the sight of his mother in

such a situation could not but affect the feelings of her son.

'It did indeed affect him! He stood a moment looking at her in

silent terror; then, as if suddenly recollecting that he had been

the cause of this dreadful alteration, he turned away, clasped his

hands together, and burst into tears.

'My mother neither saw him or heard his loud sobs. My sister

looked at him reproachfully; and apparently to escape from her, he

came to me, and taking my hand, kissed it, and asked how long this

melancholy scene would last?

'The physician, who heard the question, said the fit was going

off. It did so in a few minutes. She sighed deeply; and seeing the

doctor still sitting by her, she asked if he would still perform his

promise, and let her see her son?

'At these words, Delamere stepped forward, and threw himself on

his knees by the bed side. He wept aloud; and eagerly kissed his

mother's hands, which he bathed in tears.

'She looked at him with an expression to which no description can

do justice; but unable to speak, she seemed struggling to explain

herself; and the physician, fearful of such agitation, said--"There,

madam, is Mr. Delamere; not only alive, but willing, I am persuaded,

to give you, in regard to his future conduct, any assurances that

you require to tranquillise your mind."

'"No!" said she, sighing--"that Delamere is living, I thank

heaven!--but for the rest--I have no hopes."

'"For the rest," resumed the doctor, "he will promise any thing if

you will only make yourself easy."

'At this moment my Lord entered--"You see, Sir," said he sternly

to Delamere, whom he had not seen since his arrival in London--"you

see to what extremity your madness has reduced your mother."

'Delamere, still on his knees, looked sorrowfully up, as if to

enquire what reparation he could make?

'My father, appearing to understand the question, said--"If you

would not be indeed a parricide, shew Lady Montreville that you have

a sense of your errors, and will give her no farther uneasiness."

'"Do, Frederic," cried my sister.

'"In what way, Sir?" said my brother, very mournfully.

'"Tell her you will consent to fulfil all her wishes."

'"Sir," said Delamere firmly, "if to sacrifice my own life would

restore my mother's, I would not hesitate; but if what your Lordship

means relates to Miss Otley, it is absolutely out of my power."

'"He is already married, I doubt not," sighed my mother.

'"Upon my soul I am not."

'"Come, come," cried Dr. Gardner, "this is going a great deal too

far; your Ladyship is but just convinced your son is living, and my

Lord here is already talking of other matters. Tell me, madam--what

do you wish Mr. Delamere to say?"

'"That he will not marry," eagerly interrupted my father, "but

with his mother's consent and mine."

'"I will not, my Lord," said Delamere, sighing.

'"That as soon as Lady Montreville is well enough to allow you to

leave her, you will go abroad for a twelvemonth or longer if I shall

judge it expedient."

'"I will promise _that_, if your Lordship makes a point of it--if

my mother insists upon it. But, my Lord, if at the end of that time

Emmeline Mowbray is still single----my Lord, you do not expect

unconditional submission--I shall then in my turn hope that you and

my mother will make no farther opposition to my wishes."

'My father, who expected no concession from Delamere, had at first

asked of him more than he intended to insist on, and now appeared

eager to close with the first terms he could obtain. Accepting

therefore a delay, instead of a renunciation, he said--"Well,

Delamere, if at the end of a twelvemonth you still insist on

marrying Miss Mowbray, I will not oppose it. Lady Montreville, you

hear what your son engages for; do you agree to the terms?"

'My mother said, very faintly--"Yes."

'The promise was repeated on both sides before the physician and

Fitz-Edward, who came in at the latter part of this scene. My mother

seemed reluctantly to accede; complained of extreme faintness; and

the scene beginning to grow fatiguing to her, my brother offered to

retire. She gave him her hand, which he kissed, and at her desire

consented to return to the apartments here which he used to occupy.

My mother had that evening another attack; tho' it was much less

severe. But as the contraction does not give way to any remedies yet

used, the physicians propose sending her to Bath as soon as she is

able to bear the journey.

'Thus, my dearest Emmeline, I have punctually related all you

appear so anxious to know, on which I leave you to reflect. My

mother now sees my brother every day; but he has desired that

nothing may be said of the past; and their conversations are short

and melancholy. Fitz-Edward has left London; and Frederic told

me, last night, that as soon as the physicians pronounce my mother

entirely out of danger, he shall go down to you. Ah! my lovely

friend! what a trial will his be! But I know _you_ will encourage

and support him in the task, however painful, of fulfilling the

promise he has given; and my father, who praises you incessantly,

says he is _sure_ of it.

Adieu! my dear Miss Mowbray!

your affectionate and attached,

AUGUSTA DELAMERE.'

_Berkley-square, March 3._

A few days after the receipt of this letter, Delamere went down to

Tylehurst. Dejection was visibly marked in his air and countenance; and

all that Emmeline could say to strengthen his resolution, served only to

make him feel greater reluctance. To quit her for twelve months, to

leave her exposed to the solicitation of rivals who would not fail to

surround her, and to hazard losing her for ever, seemed so terrible to

his imagination, that the nearer the period of his promised departure

grew, the more impossible he thought it to depart.

His ardent imagination seemed to be employed only in figuring the

variety of circumstances which might in that interval arise to separate

them for ever; and he magnified these possibilities, till he persuaded

himself that nothing but a private marriage could secure her. As he saw

how anxious she was that he should strictly adhere to the promises he

had given his father, he thought that he might induce her to consent to

this expedient, as the only one by which he could reconcile his duty and

his love. He therefore took an opportunity, when he had by the

bitterness of his complaints softened her into tears, to entreat, to

implore her to consent to marry him before he went. He urged, that as

Lord and Lady Montreville had both consented to their union at the end

of the year, if he remained in the same mind, it made in fact no

difference to _them_; because he was very sure that his inclinations

would not change, and no doubt _could_ arise but from herself. If

therefore she determined then to be his, she might as well consent to

become so immediately as to hazard the difficulties which might arise to

their marriage hereafter.

Emmeline, tho' extremely affected by his sorrow, had still resolution

enough to treat this argument as feeble sophistry, unworthy of him and

of herself; and positively to refuse her consent to an engagement which

militated against all her assurances to Lord Montreville.

This decisive rejection of a plan, to which, from the tender pity she

testified, he believed he should persuade her to assent, threw him into

one of those transports of agonizing passion which he could neither

conceal or contend with. He wept; he raved like a madman. He swore he

would return to his father and revoke his promise; and the endeavours of

Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline to calm his mind seemed only to encrease the

emotions with which it was torn.

After having exhausted every mode of persuasion in vain, he was obliged

to relinquish the hope of a secret marriage, and to attempt to obtain

another concession, in which he at length succeeded. He told Emmeline,

that if she had no wish to quit him entirely, but really meant to reward

his long and ardent affection, she could not object to bind herself to

become his wife immediately on his return to England.

Emmeline made every objection she could to this request. But she only

objected; for she saw him so hurt, that she had not the resolution to

wound him anew by a positive refusal. Mrs. Stafford too, moved by his

grief and despair, no longer supported her in her reserve; and as

_their_ steadiness seemed to give way _his_ eagerness and importunity

encreased, till they allowed him to draw up a promise in these

words--'At the end of the term prescribed by Lord Montreville, Emmeline

Mowbray hereby promises to become the wife of Frederic Delamere.'

This, Emmeline signed with a reluctant and trembling hand; for tho' she

had an habitual friendship and affection for Delamere, and preferred him

to all the men she had yet seen, she thought this not strictly right;

and felt a pain and repugnance to it's performance, which made her more

unhappy the longer she reflected on it.

On Delamere, however, it had a contrary effect. Tho' he still continued

greatly depressed at the thoughts of their approaching separation, he

yet assumed some degree of courage to bear it: and when the day arrived,

he bid her adieu without relapsing into those agonies he had suffered

before at the mere idea of it.

He carried with him a miniature picture of her, and entreated her to

answer his letters; which, on the footing they now were, she could not

refuse to promise. He then tore himself from her, and went to take leave

of his mother, who still continued ill at Bath; and from thence to

London, to bid farewel to his father; after which, Fitz-Edward

accompanied him as far as Harwich, where he embarked for Holland.

As he had before been the usual tour of France and Italy, he purposed

passing the summer in visiting Germany, and the winter at Vienna; and

early in the spring to set out thro' France on his way home, where he

purposed being on the 20th of March, when the year which he had promised

his father to pass abroad would expire.

Lord Montreville, by obtaining this delay thought there was every

probability that his attachment to Emmeline would be conquered. And his

Lordship, as well as Lady Montreville, determined to try in the interval

to procure for Emmeline some unexceptionable marriage which it would not

be possible for her to refuse. They imagined, therefore, that their

uneasiness on this head was over: and Lady Montreville, whose mind was

greatly relieved by the persuasion, was long since out of all danger

from the fits which had so severely attacked her; but the contraction of

her joints which they had occasioned, was still so painful and

obstinate, that the physicians seemed to apprehend it might be necessary

to send her Ladyship to the waters of Barege.

In the mean time, Lord Montreville had obtained a post in administration

which encreased his income and his power. Sir Richard Crofts possessed a

lucrative employment in the same department; and his eldest son was

become extremely necessary, from his assiduity and attention to

business, and more than ever a favourite with all Lord Montreville's

family, with whom he almost entirely lived.

A lurking _penchant_ for Fitz-Edward, which had grown up from her

earliest recollection almost insensibly in the bosom of Miss Delamere,

had been long chilled by his evident neglect and indifference: she now

fancied she hated him, and really preferred Crofts, every way inferior

as he was.

While the want of high birth and a title, which she had been taught to

consider as absolutely requisite to happiness, made her repress every

tendency to a serious engagement, she was extremely gratified by his

flattery; and when among other young women (from whom he affected not to

be able to stifle his unhappy passion,) she was frequently told how

much he was in love with her, she was accustomed to answer--'Ah! poor

fellow; so he is, and I heartily pity him.'

But while Lord and Lady Montreville thought Crofts's attendance on their

daughters quite without consequence, he and his father insinuated an

intended connection between him and one of them, with so much art, that

tho' it never reached the ears of the family it was universally believed

in the world.

A young nobleman who had passed the greater part of his life in the

army, where he had lately signalized himself by his bravery and conduct,

now returned to England on being promoted to a regiment; and having some

business to transact with Lord Montreville in his official capacity, he

was invited to the house, and greatly admired both the Miss Delameres,

whose parties he now joined at Bath.

Crofts soon afterwards obtaining a short respite from his political

engagement, went thither also; and tho' Miss Delamere really thought

Lord Westhaven quite unexceptionable, she had been so habituated to

behave particularly to Crofts, that she could not now alter it, or

perhaps was not conscious of the familiar footing on which she allowed

him to be with her.

Lord Westhaven, who had at first hesitated between the sprightly dignity

of the elder sister, and the soft and more bewitching graces of the

younger, no sooner saw the conduct of Miss Delamere towards Crofts, than

his doubts were at an end. Her faults of temper had been hitherto

concealed from him, and he believed her heart as good as her sister's;

indeed, according to the sentimental turn her discourse frequently took,

he might have supposed it more refined and sublime. But when he observed

her behaviour to Crofts, he thought that she must either be secretly

engaged to him, or be a decided coquet. Turning therefore all his

attention to Augusta, he soon found that her temper was as truly good as

her person was interesting, and that the too great timidity of her

manner was solely owing to her being continually checked by her mother's

partiality to her sister.

A very short study of her character convinced him she was exactly the

woman calculated to make him happy. He told her so; and found her by no

means averse to his making the same declaration to her father and

mother.

Lord Montreville received it with pleasure; and preliminaries were soon

settled. In about six weeks, Lord Westhaven and Miss Augusta Delamere

were married at Bath, to the infinite satisfaction of all parties except

Miss Delamere; who could not be very well pleased with the preference

shewn her younger sister by a man whose morals, person, and fortune,

were all superior to what even her own high spirit had taught her to

expect in a husband.

Crofts, tho' he saw all apprehensions of having Lord Westhaven for a

rival were at an end, could not help fearing that so advantageous a

match for the younger, might make the elder more unwilling to accept a

simple commoner with a fortune greatly inferior.

The removal, however, of Lady Westhaven gave him more frequent

opportunities to urge his passion. Lady Montreville was now going to

Barege, Bath having been found less serviceable than was at first hoped

for; and Delamere was written to to meet her Ladyship and her eldest

daughter at Paris, in order to accompany them thither.

Peace having been in the interim established, Lord Westhaven found he

should return no more to his regiment, and purposed with his wife to

attend Lady Montreville part of the way, and then to go into

Switzerland, where his mother's family resided, who had been of that

country.

Lady Westhaven was extremely gratified by this scheme; not only because

she was delighted to wait on her mother, but because she hoped it would

help to dissipate a lurking uneasiness which hung over the spirits of

her Lord, and which he told her was owing to the uncertain and

distressing situation of a beloved sister. But whenever the subject was

mentioned, he expressed so much unhappiness, that his wife had not yet

had resolution to enquire into the nature of her misfortunes, and only

knew in general that she was unfortunately married.

CHAPTER XI

Emmeline had now lost her lover, at least for some time; and one of her

friends too was gone where she could seldom hear of her. These

deprivations attached her more closely than ever to Mrs. Stafford. Mr.

Stafford was gone to town; and except now and then a short and

melancholy visit from Fitz-Edward, to whom Delamere had lent his house

at Tylehurst, they saw nobody; for all the neighbouring families were in

London. They found not only society but happiness together enough to

compensate for almost every other; and passed their time in a way

particularly adapted to the taste of both.

Adjoining to the estate where Mrs. Stafford resided, a tract of forest

land, formerly a chase and now the property of a collegiate body, deeply

indents the arable ground beyond it, and fringes the feet of the green

downs which rise above it. This part of the country is called Woodbury

Forest; and the deep shade of the beech trees with which it is covered,

is broken by wild and uncultured glens; where, among the broom, hawthorn

and birch of the waste, a few scattered cottages have been built upon

sufferance by the poor for the convenience of fewel, so amply afforded

by the surrounding woods. These humble and obscure cabbins are known

only to the sportsman and the woodcutter; for no road whatever leads

through the forest: and only such romantic wanderers as Mrs. Stafford

and Emmeline, were conscious of the beautiful walks which might be found

among these natural shrubberies and solitary shades. The two friends

were enjoying the softness of a beautiful April morning in these woods,

when, in passing near one of the cottages, they saw, at a low casement

half obscured by the pendant trees, a person sitting, whose dress and

air seemed very unlike those of the usual inhabitants of such a place.

She was intent on a paper, over which she leaned in a melancholy

posture; but on seeing the two ladies approach, she started up and

immediately disappeared.

Tho' the distance at which they saw her, and the obscurity of the

window, prevented their distinguishing the features of the stranger,

they saw that she was young, and they fancied she was beautiful. The

same idea instantly occurred to Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline; that it was

some unfortunate young woman, whom Mr. Stafford had met with and had

concealed there. Something of the same sort had happened once before,

and Mrs. Stafford's anxiety and curiosity were both awakened by this

incident. Tho' the latter was a passion she never indulged where it's

object was the business of others, she could not repress it where it was

excited by suspicion of a circumstance which so nearly concerned

herself.

Nor could she conceal from Emmeline her fears on this occasion; and

Emmeline, tho' unwilling to encrease them, yet knew enough of her

husband's conduct to believe they were too well founded.

Mrs. Stafford had been accustomed to buy poultry of the woman who lived

at this cottage, and therefore went in, in hopes of finding some vestige

of the person they had seen, which might lead to an enquiry. But they

found nothing but the usual humble furniture and few conveniences of

such an house; and Mrs. Stafford forbore to enquire, lest the person she

had seen might be alarmed and take more effectual means of concealment.

But unable to rest, and growing every moment more desirous to know the

truth, and to know it before her husband, whom she expected in a few

days, returned, she arose very early the next morning, and, accompanied

by Emmeline, went to the cottage in the forest.

The man who inhabited it was already gone out to his work, and the woman

to a neighbouring town to buy necessaries for her family. The door was

open; and the ladies received this intelligence from three little

children who were playing before it.

They entered the low, smoky room, usually inhabited by the family. And

Mrs. Stafford, with a beating heart, determining to be satisfied, opened

a door which led from it, into that, at the window of which she knew the

stranger had appeared; and which the people of the house dignified with

the appellation of their parlour.

In this room, on the brick floor, and surrounded by bare walls, stood a

bed, which seemed to have been brought thither for the accommodation of

some person who had not been accustomed to such an apartment.

Mrs. Stafford saw, sleeping in it, a very young woman, pale, but

extremely beautiful; and her hand, of uncommon delicacy, lay on the

white quilt--A sight, which gave her pain for herself, and pity for the

unfortunate person before her, affected her so much, that having stood a

moment in astonishment, she stepped back to the place where Emmeline

sat, and burst into tears.

The noise, however trifling, brought from above stairs a person

evidently a lady's maid, of very creditable appearance, who came down

hastily into the room where Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline were, saying, as

she descended the stairs--'I am coming immediately, my Lady.' But at the

sight of two strangers, she stopped in great confusion; and at the same

moment her mistress called to her.

She hastened, without speaking, to attend the summons; and shut the door

after her. After remaining a few moments, she came out again, and asked

Mrs. Stafford if she wanted the woman of the house?

To which Mrs. Stafford, determined whatever it cost her to know the

truth, said--'No--my business is with your lady.'

The woman now appeared more confused than before; and said,

hesitatingly--'I--I--my lady--I fancy you are mistaken, madam.'

'Go in, however, and let your mistress know that Mrs. Stafford desires

to speak to her.'

The maid reluctantly and hesitatingly went in, and after staying some

time, came back.

'My mistress, Madam, says she has not the pleasure of knowing you; and

being ill, and in bed, she hopes you will excuse her if she desires you

will acquaint her with your business by me.'

'No,' replied Mrs. Stafford, 'I must see her myself. Tell her my

business is of consequence to us both, and that I will wait till it is

convenient to her to speak to me.'

With this message the maid went back, with looks of great consternation,

to her mistress. They fancied they heard somebody sigh and weep

extremely. The maid came out once or twice and carried back water and

hartshorn.

At length, after waiting near half an hour, the door opened, and the

stranger appeared, leaning on the arm of her woman. She wore a long,

white muslin morning gown, and a large muslin cap almost concealed her

face; her dark hair seemed to escape from under it, to form a decided

contrast to the extreme whiteness of her skin; and her long eye lashes

hid her eyes, which were cast down, and which bore the marks of recent

tears. If it were possible to personify languor and dejection, it could

not be done more expressively than by representing her form, her air,

her complexion, and the mournful cast of her very beautiful countenance.

She slowly approached Mrs. Stafford, lifted up her melancholy eyes to

Emmeline, and attempted to speak.

'I am at a loss to know, ladies,' said she, 'what can be your'----But

unable to finish the sentence, she sat down, and seemed ready to faint.

The maid held her smelling bottle to her.

'I waited on you, Madam,' said Mrs. Stafford, 'supposing you were

acquainted--too well acquainted--with my name and business.'

'No, upon my honour,' said the young person, 'I cannot even guess.'

'You are very young,' said Mrs. Stafford, 'and, I fear, very

unfortunate. Be assured I wish not either to reproach or insult you; but

only to try if you cannot be prevailed upon to quit a manner of life,

which surely, to a person of your appearance, must be dreadful.'

'It is indeed dreadful!' sighed the young woman--'nor is it the least

dreadful part of it that I am exposed to this.'

She now fell into an agony of tears; which affected both Mrs. Stafford

and Emmeline so much, that forgetting their fears and suspicions, they

both endeavoured tenderly to console her. Having in some measure

succeeded, and Mrs. Stafford having summoned resolution to tell her what

were her apprehensions, the stranger saw that to give her a simple

detail of her real situation was the only method she had to satisfy her

doubts, and to secure her compassion and secresy; for which reason she

determined to do it; and Mrs. Stafford, whose countenance was all

ingenuousness as well as her heart, assured her she should never repent

her confidence; while Emmeline, whose looks and voice were equally

soothing and engaging to the unhappy, expressed the tenderest interest

in the fate of a young creature who seemed but little older than

herself, and to have been thrown from a very different sphere into her

present obscure and uncomfortable manner of life.

The stranger would have attempted to relate her history to them

immediately; but her maid, a steady woman of three or four and thirty,

told her that she was certainly unable then, and begged the ladies not

to insist upon it till the evening, or the next day; adding--'My Lady

has been very poorly indeed all this week, and is continually fainting

away; and you see, ladies, how much she has been frightened this

morning, and I am sure she will not be able to go through it.'

To the probability of this observation, the two friends assented; and

the young lady naming the next morning to gratify their curiosity, they

left her, Mrs. Stafford first offering her any thing her house afforded.

To which she replied, that at present she was tolerably well supplied,

and only conjured them to observe the strictest secresy, without which,

she said, she was undone.

At the appointed time they returned; equally eager to hear, and, if

possible, to relieve, the sorrows of this young person, for whom they

could not help being interested, tho' they yet knew not how far she

deserved their pity.

She had prepared her own little room as well as it would admit of to

receive them, and sat waiting their arrival with some degree of

composure. They contemplated with concern the ruins of eminent beauty

even in early youth, and saw an expression of helpless sorrow and

incurable unhappiness, which had greatly injured the original lustre and

beauty of her eyes and countenance. A heavy languor hung on her whole

frame. She tried to smile; but it was a smile of anguish; and their

looks seemed to distress and pain her. Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline, to

relieve her, took out their work; and when they were seated at it, she

hesitated--then sighed and hesitated again--and at length seemed to

enter on her story with desperate and painful resolution, as if to get

quickly and at once thro' a task which, however necessary, was extremely

distressing. She began in a low and plaintive voice; and frequently

stopped to summon courage to continue, while she wiped away the tears

that slowly fell from her eyes.

* * * * *

'I cannot believe I shall ever repent the confidence I am about to place

in you. My heart assures me I shall not. Perhaps I may find that pity I

dare no longer solicit from my own family; perhaps--but I must hasten to

tell you my melancholy story, before its recollection again overwhelms

me. Yet my fate has nothing in it very singular; numbers have been

victims of the same calamity, but some have been more easily forgiven

than I shall be.--Some are better able to bear infamy, and be reconciled

to disgrace.

'My father, the late Earl of Westhaven, during the life of my

grandfather, married, while he was making the tour of Europe, a very

beautiful and amiable woman, the daughter of a man of rank in

Switzerland; who having lost his life in the French service, had left a

family without any provision, except for the eldest son. My grandfather,

extremely disobliged by this marriage, made a will by which he gave to

his only daughter every part of his extensive property, except what was

entailed, and which went with the title; with this reserve, that his

grandson should claim and inherit the whole, whenever he became Lord

Westhaven. By this will, he disinherited my father for his life; and

tho' he survived my father's marriage five years, and knew he had three

children, the two younger of whom must be inevitably impoverished by

such a disposition, he obstinately refused to alter the will he made

under the first impulse of resentment, and died before his son could

prevail upon him, by means of their general friends, to withdraw the

maledictions with which he had loaded him.

'His death, not only hurt my father in his feelings, but irreparably in

his fortune. His sister, who was married to a Scottish nobleman, took

possession of estates to the amount of fifteen thousand a year; and all

that remained to my father, to support his rank and his encreasing

family, was little more than three thousand; and even that income he had

considerably diminished, by taking up money, which he was obliged to do

while my grandfather lived, for the actual maintenance of his family.

'These unhappy circumstances, while they injured the health and spirits

of my father, diminished not his tenderness for his wife, whom he loved

with unabated passion.

'To retrench as much as possible, he retired with her and his three

children to an estate, which being attached to the title, belonged to

him in Cumberland; in hopes of being able to live on the income he had

left, and to clear off the burden with which he had been compelled to

load his paternal estates. But a slow fever, the effect of sorrow, had

seized on my mother, then far advanced in her pregnancy with me; my

father, solicitous to save her in whom all his happiness was centered,

sent to London for the best advice to attend her. But their assistance

was vain; the fever encreased upon her, and she died three weeks after

my birth, leaving my father deprived of every thing that could make life

valuable in his estimation. He gave himself up to a despair equal to the

violence of his love, and would probably have fallen a victim to it, had

not the servants sent to Mr. Thirston, who had been his tutor, and for

whom he had the greatest friendship and respect. This excellent man

represented to him that it was his duty to live for the children of his

deplored Adelina; and he consented to try to live.

'It was long before he could bear to see any of us; particularly me,

whom he beheld with a mixture of tenderness and regret. The gloomy

solitude in which he lived, where every object reminded him of her whose

smiles had rendered it a paradise, was ill calculated to meliorate his

affliction; but he could not be persuaded, for some months, to leave it,

or could he be diverted from going every evening to visit the spot where

lay the relicts of his Adelina.

'At length Mr. Thirston prevailed on him to go abroad. But he could not

determine to leave my elder brother, then about five years old, of whom

he was passionately fond. They embarked for Naples; and he remained

abroad five years; while my sister, my brother William, and myself, were

left at Kensington, under the care of a female relation, and received

such instruction as our ages admitted.

'My father returned to England only to place his eldest son at Eton.

Finding no relief from the sorrow which perpetually preyed on him, but

in continual change of place, he soon afterwards went again abroad, and

wandered over Europe for almost seven years longer, returning once or

twice to England in that interval to satisfy himself of our health and

the progress of our education.

'When he last returned, my elder brother, then near eighteen, desired to

be allowed to go into the army. My father reluctantly consented; and the

regiment into which he purchased was soon after ordered abroad. The

grief the departure of his son gave him, was somewhat relieved by seeing

his elder daughter advantageously disposed of in marriage to the eldest

son of an Irish peer. The beauty of Lady Camilla was so conspicuous, and

her manners so charming, that though entirely without fortune, the

family of her husband could not object to the marriage. She went to

Ireland with her Lord; and it was long before I saw her again.

'My brother William, who had always been designed for the navy, left me

also for a three years station in the Mediterranean; and I was now

always alone with my governess and my old relation, whose temper, soured

by disappointment and not naturally chearful, made her a very unpleasant

companion for a girl of fourteen. I learned, from masters who attended

me from London, all the usual accomplishments; but of the world I knew

nothing, and impatiently waited for the time when I should be sixteen;

for then the Dutchess of B----, who had kindly undertaken to introduce

my sister into company, had promised that she would afford me also her

countenance. I remember she smiled, and told me that as I was not less

pretty than Lady Camilla, I might probably have as good fortune, if I

was but as accomplished. To be accomplished, therefore, I endeavoured

with all my power; but the time seemed insupportably long, before this

essay was to be made. It was relieved, tho' mournfully, by frequent

visits from my father; who was accustomed to sit whole hours looking at

me, while his tears bore witness to the great resemblance I had to my

mother. My voice too, particularly when we conversed in French,

frequently made him start, as if he again heard that which he had never

ceased to remember and to regret. He would then fondly press me to his

heart, and call me his poor orphan girl, the image of his lost Adelina!

'Tho' my mother had been now dead above fifteen years, his passion for

her memory seemed not at all abated. He had, by a long residence abroad,

paid off the debts with which he had incumbered his income, but could do

no more; and the expences necessary for young men of my brothers' rank

pressed hardly upon him. Ever since his return to England, his friends

had entreated him to attempt, by marrying a woman of fortune, to repair

the deficiency of his own; representing to him, that to provide for the

children of his Adelina, would be a better proof of his affection to her

memory than indulging a vain and useless regret.

'He had however long escaped from their importunity by objecting, on

some pretence or other, to all the great fortunes which were pointed out

to him--his heart rejected with abhorrence every idea of a second

marriage. But my brothers every day required a larger supply of money to

support them as their birth demanded; and to their interest my father at

length determined to sacrifice the remainder of a life, which had on his

own account no longer any value. The heiress of a rich grocer in the

city was soon discovered by his assiduous friends, who was reputed to be

possessed of two hundred thousand pounds. On closer enquiry, the sum was

found to be very little if at all exaggerated by fame. Miss Jobson, with

a tall, meagre person, a countenance bordering on the horrible, and

armed with two round black eyes which she fancied beautiful, had seen

her fortieth year pass, while she attended on her papa, in

Leadenhall-street, or was dragged by two sleek coach horses to and from

Hornsey. Rich as her father was, he would not part with any thing while

he lived; and, by the assistance of two maiden sisters, had so guarded

his daughter from the dangerous attacks of Irishmen and younger

brothers, that she had reached that mature period without hearing the

soothing voice of flattery, to which she was extremely disposed to

listen. My father, yet in middle age, and with a person remarkably fine,

would have been greatly to her taste if he could have gratified, with a

better grace, her love of admiration. But his friends undertook to

court her for him; and his title still more successfully pleaded in his

favour. She made some objection to his having a family; but as I alone

remained at home, she at length agreed to undertake to be at once a

mother-in-law and a Countess. While this treaty was going on, and

settlements and jewels preparing, I was taken several times to wait on

Miss Jobson: but it was easy to see I had not the good fortune to please

her.

'I was but just turned of fifteen, was full of gaiety and vivacity, and

possessed those personal advantages, which, if _she_ ever had any share

of them, were long since faded. She seemed conscious that the splendour

of her first appearance would be eclipsed by the unadorned simplicity of

mine; and she hated me because it was not in my power to be old and

ugly. Giddy as I then was, nothing but respect for my father prevented

my repaying with ridicule, the supercilious style in which she usually

treated me. Her vulgar manners, and awkward attempts to imitate those of

people of fashion, excited my perpetual mirth; and as her dislike of me

daily encreased, I am afraid I did not always conceal the contempt I

felt in return. Miss Jobson chose to pass some time at Tunbridge

previous to her marriage. Thither my father followed her; and I went

with him, eager to make my first appearance in public, and to see

whether the prophecies of the Duchess would be fulfilled.

'This experiment was made in a party from Tunbridge to Lewes Races,

where I had the delight of dancing for the first time in public, and of

seeing the high and old fashioned little head of Miss Jobson, who

affected to do something which she thought was dancing also, almost at

the end of the set, while I, as an Earl's daughter, was nearly at the

top. Had I been ever accustomed to appear in public, these distinctions

would have been too familiar to have given me any pleasure; but now they

were enchanting; and, added to the universal admiration I excited,

intoxicated me with vanity. My partner, who had been introduced to me by

a man of high rank the moment I entered the room, was a gentleman from

the West of England, who was just of age, and entered into the

possession of a fortune of eight thousand a year.

'Mr. Trelawny (for that was his name) followed us to Tunbridge, and

frequently danced with me afterwards. Educated in obscurity, and without

any prospect of the fortune to which he succeeded by a series of

improbable events, this young man had suddenly emerged into life. He

was tolerably handsome; but had a heavy, unmeaning countenance, and was

quite unformed. Several men of fashion, however, were kind enough to

undertake to initiate him into a good style of living; and for every

thing that bore the name of fashion and ton, he seemed to have a violent

attachment. To that, I owed his unfortunate prepossession in my

favour.--I was admired and followed by men whom he had been taught to

consider as the arbiters of elegance, and supreme judges of beauty and

fashion; but they could only admire--they could not afford to marry an

indigent woman of quality; and they told Trelawny that they envied him

the power of pleasing himself.--So Trelawny was talked to about me, till

he believed he was in love. In this persuasion he procured a statement

of his fortune to be shewn to my father, by one of his friends, and made

an offer to lay it at my feet; an offer which, tho' my father would have

been extremely glad to have me accept, he answered by referring Mr.

Trelawny to me.

'I suspected no such thing; but with the thoughtless inattention of

sixteen, remembered little of the fine things which were said to me by

Trelawny at the last ball. While I was busied in inventing a new

_chapeau_ for the next, at which I intended to do more than usual

execution, my father introduced Mr. Trelawny, and left the room. I

concluded he was come to engage me for the evening, and felt disposed to

refuse him out of pure coquetry; when, with an infinite number of

blushes, and after several efforts, he made me in due form an offer of

his heart and fortune. I had never thought of any thing so serious as

matrimony; and indeed was but just out of the nursery, where I had never

been told it was necessary to think at all. I did not very well know

what to say to my admirer; and after the first speech, which I believe

he had learned by heart, he knew almost as little what to say to me; and

he was not sorry when I, in a great fright, referred him to my father,

merely because I knew not myself what answer to give him. Our

conversation ended, and he went to find my father, while I, for the

first time in my life, began to reflect on my prospects, and to consider

whether I preferred marrying Mr. Trelawny to living with Miss Jobson. To

Miss Jobson, I had a decided aversion; for Mr. Trelawny, I felt neither

love or hatred. My mind was not made up on the subject, when my father

came to me: he had seen Trelawny, and expressed himself greatly pleased

with the prudence and propriety of my answer.

'"My Adelina knows," continued he, "that the happiness of my children is

the only wish I have on earth; and I may tell her, too, that my

solicitude for her exceeds all my other cares--solicitude, which will be

at an end if I can see her in the protection of a man of honour and

fortune. If therefore, my love, you really do not disapprove this young

man, whose fortune is splendid, and of whose character I have received

the most favourable accounts, I shall have a weight removed from my

mind, and enjoy all the tranquillity I can hope for on this side the

grave.

'"You know how soon I am to marry Miss Jobson. A mother-in-law is seldom

beloved. I may die, and leave you unprovided for; for you know, Adelina,

the circumstances into which your grandfather's will has thrown me. Our

dear Charles, whenever he inherits my title, will repossess the fortune

of my ancestors, and will, I am sure, act generously by you and William;

but such a dependance, if not precarious, is painful; and by accepting

the proposal of Mr. Trelawny, all my apprehensions will be at an end,

and my Adelina secure of that affluence to which her merit as well as

her birth entitles her. But powerful as these considerations are, let

them not influence you if you feel any reluctance to the match. Were

they infinitely stronger, I will never again name them, if in doing so I

hazard persuading my daughter to a step which may render her for every

unhappy."

'Tho' I was very far from feeling for Mr. Trelawny that decided

preference which would in other circumstances have induced me to accept

his hand, yet I found my father so desirous of my being settled, that as

I had no aversion to the man, I could not resolve to disappoint him.

Perhaps the prospect of escaping from the power of my mother-in-law, and

of being mistress of an affluent fortune instead of living in mortifying

dependance on her, might have too much influence on my heart. My father,

however, obtained without any difficulty my consent to close with Mr.

Trelawny's proposals. We all went to London, where Lord Westhaven

married Miss Jobson, and the settlements were preparing by which Mr.

Trelawny secured to me a jointure as great as I could have expected if

my fortune had been equal to my rank.

'As the new Lady Westhaven was so soon to be relieved from the presence

of a daughter she did not love, she behaved to me with tolerable

civility. Occupied with her rank, she seemed to have infinite delight in

displaying it to her city acquaintance. Her Ladyship thought a coronet

so delightful an ornament, that the meanest utensils in her house were

adorned with it; and she wore it woven or worked on all her cloaths, in

the vain hope perhaps of counteracting the repelling effect of an

hideous countenance, a discordant voice, and a manner more vulgar than

either. I saw with concern that my father was not consoled by the

possession of her great fortune, for the mortification of having given

the name and place of his adored Adelina to a woman so unlike her in

mind and person. He was seldom well; seldomer at home; and seemed to

have no other delight than in hearing from his two sons and from his

eldest daughter; and when we were alone, he told me that to see me

married would also give him pleasure; but he appeared, I thought, less

anxious for the match than when it was first proposed. The preparations,

however, went on, and in six weeks were compleated.

'In that interval, I had seen Trelawny almost every day. He always

seemed very good humoured, and was certainly very thoughtless. He loved

me, or fancied he loved me, extremely; but I sometimes suspected that it

was rather in compliance with the taste of others than his own; and that

a favourite hunter or a famous pointer were very likely to rival me. My

father sometimes laughed at his boyish fondness for such things, and the

importance he annexed to them; and sometimes I thought he looked grave

and hurt at observing it.

'For my own part, I saw his follies; but none that I did not equally

perceive in the conduct of other young men. Tho' I had no absolute

partiality to him, I was totally indifferent to every other man. I

married him, therefore; and gave away my person before I knew I had an

heart.

'We went immediately into Cornwall, to an old fashioned but magnificent

family seat; where I was received by Mr. Trelawny's sister, a woman some

years older than he was, and who had brought him up. The coarse

conversation of this woman, which consisted entirely in details of

family oeconomy; and the stupidity of her husband and a booby son of

fourteen, were but ill calculated to render my retirement pleasing.

Having laughed and wondered once at the uncouth figures and obsolete

notions of Mr. Trelawny's Cornish cousins, who hastened, in their best

cloaths, to congratulate him, from places whose barbarous names I could

not pronounce--and having twice entertained the voters of two boroughs

which belonged to the family; I had exhausted all the delights of

Cornwall, and prevailed on him to return to a country where I could see

a few beings like myself.

'When I came back into the world, I was surrounded by a croud of idle

people, whose admiration flattered the vanity of Trelawny more than it

did mine; for I became accustomed to adulation, and it lost it's charms

with it's novelty. Trelawny was continually with young men of fashion,

who called themselves his friends; and who besides doing him the

kindness to advise and instruct him in the disposal of his fortune,

would have relieved him from the affections of his wife, if he had ever

possessed them. They made love to _me_, with as little scruple as they

borrowed money of _him_; and told me that neglect on the part of my

husband, well deserved to be repaid with infidelity on mine: but I felt

for these shallow libertines only disgust and contempt; and received

their professions with so much coldness, that they left me, in search of

some other giddy creature, who might not, by ill-timed prudery, belie

the promise of early coquetry. It was yet however very much the fashion

to admire me; and my husband seemed still to take some delight in

hearing and reading in the daily papers that Lady Adelina Trelawny was

the most elegant figure at Court, or that every beauty at the Opera was

eclipsed on _her_ entrance. The eagerness and avidity with which I had

entered, from the confinement of the nursery, to a life of continual

dissipation, was now considerably abated. I continued it from habit, and

because I knew not how to employ my time otherwise; but I felt a dreary

vacuity in my heart; and amid splendor and admiration was unhappy.

'The return of my elder brother from his first campaign in America, was

the only real pleasure I had long felt. He is perhaps one of the most

elegant and accomplished young men of his time; but to be elegant and

accomplished is his least praise--His solid understanding, and his

excellent heart, are an honour to his country and to human nature. That

quick sense of honour, and that strictness of principle, which now make

my greatest terror, give a peculiar lustre and dignity to his character.

My father received him with that delight a father only can feel; and saw

and gloried with all a father's pride, in a successor worthy of his

ancestors.

'My brother, who had always loved me extremely, tho' we had been very

little together, took up his abode at my house while he staid in

England. Trelawny seemed to feel a sort of awe before him, which made

him endeavour to hide his vices if not his weakness, while he remained

with us. He was more attentive to me than he had long been. My brother

hoped I was happy; and tho' Trelawny was a man whose conversation

afforded him no pleasure, he behaved to him with every appearance of

friendship and regard. He was soon however to return to his regiment;

and my father, who had been in a declining state of health ever since

his second marriage, appeared to grow worse as the period of separation

approached. He seemed to have waited only for this beloved son to close

his eyes; for a few days before he was again to take leave, my father

found his end very rapidly approaching.

'Perfectly conscious of it, he settled all his affairs; and made a

provision for me and my brother William out of the money of the present

Lady Westhaven, which the marriage articles gave him a right to dispose

of after her Ladyship's death if he left no children by her; and

recommended us both to his eldest son.

'"You will act nobly by our dear William," said he; "I have no doubt of

it; but above all, remember my poor Adelina. Camilla is happily married.

Tell her I die blessing her, and her children! But Adelina--my

unfortunate Adelina is herself but a child, and her husband is very

young and thoughtless. Watch over her honour and her repose, for the

sake of your father and that dear woman she so much resembles, your

sainted mother."

'I was in the room, in an agony of sorrow. He called me to him. "My

daughter," said he, in a feeble voice, "remember that the honour of your

family--of your brothers--is in your hands--and remember it is

sacred.--Endeavour to deserve the happiness of being sister to such

brothers, and daughter to such a mother as yours was!"

'I was unable to answer. I could only kiss his convulsed hands; which I

eagerly did, as if to tell him that I promised all he expected of me. My

own heart, which then made the vow, now perpetually reproaches me with

having kept it so ill!

'A few hours afterwards, my father died. My brother, unable to announce

to me the melancholy tidings, took my hand in silence, and led me out of

the house, which was now Lady Westhaven's. He had only a few days to

stay in England, which he employed in paying the last mournful duties to

his father; and then embarked again for America, leaving his affairs to

be settled by my sister's husband, Lord Clancarryl, to whom he wrote to

come over from Ireland; for my brother William was now stationed in the

West Indies, where he obtained the command of a man of war; and my

brother Westhaven knew, that to leave any material business to Trelawny,

was to leave it to ignorance and imbecility.

'In my husband, I had neither a friend or a companion--I had not even a

protector; for except when he was under the restraint of my brother's

presence, he was hardly ever at home. Sometimes he was gone on tours to

distant counties to attend races or hunts, to which he belonged; and

sometimes to France, where he was embarked in gaming associations with

Englishmen who lived only to disgrace their name. Left to pass my life

as the wife of such a man as Trelawny, I felt my brother's departure as

the deprivation of all I loved. But the arrival of my sister and her

husband relieved me. I had not seen them for some years; and was

delighted to meet my sister happy with a man so worthy and respectable

as Lord Clancarryl.

'He took possession on behalf of my brother of the estate my aunt was

now obliged to resign; and as my sister was impatient to return to

Ireland, where she had left her children, they pressed me extremely to

go thither with them. Trelawny was gone out on one of his rambles; but I

wrote to him and obtained his consent--indeed he long since ceased to

trouble himself about me.

'I attended my sister therefore to Lough Carryl; on the beautiful banks

of which her Lord had built an house, which possessing as much

magnificence as was proper to their rank, was yet contrived with an

attention to all the comforts of domestic retirement. Here Lady

Clancarryl chose to reside the whole year; and my Lord never left it but

to attend the business of Parliament at Dublin.

'His tender attention to his wife; his ardent, yet regulated fondness

for his children; the peace and order which reigned in his house; the

delightful and easy society he sometimes collected in it, and the

chearful confidence we enjoyed in quiet family parties when without

company; made me feel with bitterness and regret the difference between

my sister's lot and mine. _Her_ husband made it the whole business of

his life to fulfill every duty of his rank, _mine_ seemed only

solicitous to degrade himself below his. One was improving his fortune

by well regulated oeconomy; the other dissipating his among gamesters

and pick-pockets. The conversation of Lord Clancarryl was sensible,

refined, and improving; Trelawny's consisted either in tiresome details

of adventures among jockies, pedigrees of horses, or scandalous and

silly anecdotes about persons of whom nobody wished to hear; or he sunk

into sullen silence, yawned, and shewed how very little relish he had

for any other discourse.

'When I married him, I knew not to what I had condemned myself. As his

character gradually discovered itself, my reason also encreased; and

now, when I had an opportunity of comparing him to such a man as Lord

Clancarryl, I felt all the horrors of my destiny! and beheld, with a

dread from which my feeble heart recoiled, a long, long prospect of life

before me--without attachment, without friendship, without love.

'I remained two months in Ireland; and heard nothing of Trelawny, 'till

a match having been made on the Curragh of Kildare, on which he had a

large bet depending, he came over to be present at it; and I heard with

regret that I was to return with him. While he remained in Ireland, his

disgusting manners, and continual intoxication, extremely displeased

Lord Clancarryl; and I lived in perpetual uneasiness. A few days before

we were to embark for England, George Fitz-Edward, his Lordship's

younger brother, came from the north of Ireland, where he had been with

his regiment, to Lough Carryl; but it was only a passing visit to his

family--he was going to England, and we were to sail in the same

pacquet.'

* * * * *

At the mention of George Fitz-Edward, Lady Adelina grew more distressed

than she had yet been in the course of her narrative. Mrs. Stafford and

Emmeline testified signs of surprize. She observed it; and asked if they

knew him? Mrs. Stafford answered, they had some acquaintance with him;

and Emmeline remarked that she either never heard or had forgotten that

his father's second title was Clancarryl.

His very name seemed to affect Lady Adelina so much, and she appeared so

exhausted by having spoken so long, that tho' she told them she had but

little to add to her mournful story, they insisted upon her permitting

them to release her till the evening, when they would attend her again.

CHAPTER XII

They found Lady Adelina in better spirits in the evening than they had

hoped for--She seemed to have been arguing herself into the composure

necessary to go on with her story.

* * * * *

'As you have some acquaintance with George Fitz-Edward, I need not

describe his person or his manner; nor how decided a contrast they must

form with those of such a man as him to whom I was unhappily united.

This contrast, in spite of all my endeavours, was perpetually before my

eyes--I thought Fitz-Edward, who was agreeable as his brother, had a

heart as good; and _my_ heart involuntarily made the comparison between

what I was, and what I might have been, if my fate had reserved me for

Fitz-Edward.

'We embarked--It was about the autumnal equinox; and before we had

sailed two leagues, the wind suddenly changing, blew from the opposite

quarter, and then from every quarter by turns. As I was always subject

to sickness in the cabin, I had lain down on the deck, on a piece of

sail-cloth, and wrapped in my _pelisse_; and Fitz-Edward sat by me. But

when the wind grew so violent that it was necessary every moment to

shift the sails, I, who was totally insensible, was in the way of the

sailors. Fitz-Edward carried me down in his arms; and having often heard

me express an abhorrence to the close beds in the cabin, by the help of