Emmeline, the Orphan of the Castle

by Charlotte Smith

FOOTNOTES:

[40] The Chevalier is below.

[41] How lively and agreeable she is—how much she has the air of a woman of fashion and of the world.

[42] Not so handsome, perhaps—but there is a something—in short, I think her charming.

[43] I shall come again to-morrow to offer my homage. Adieu! fair, cruel nymph! I place my glory in wearing your chains.

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[CHAPTER XI]

Emmeline seemed to be happier since she had confessed to Godolphin his influence over her mind, and since she had made him in some measure the director of her actions. She hoped that she might conceal her partiality 'till she had nothing to fear from Delamere; at present she was sure he had no suspicion that Godolphin was his rival; and she flattered herself, that on his return to England, the conviction of her coldness would by degrees wean him from his attachment, and that he would learn to consider her only as his sister.

These pleasing hopes, however, were insufficient to balance the concern she felt for Mrs. Stafford; who having long struggled against her calamities, now seemed on the point of sinking under their pressure, and of determining to attend, in despondent resignation, the end of her unmerited sufferings.

Emmeline attempted to re-animate her, by repeating all the promises of Lord Westhaven, on whose word she had the most perfect reliance. She assured her, that the moment her own affairs were settled, her first care should be the re-establishment of those of her beloved friend. For some time the oppressed spirits of Mrs. Stafford would only allow her to answer with her tears these generous assurances. At length she said—

'It is to you, my Emmeline, I could perhaps learn to be indebted without being humbled; for you have an heart which receives while it confers an obligation. But think what it is for one, born with a right to affluence and educated in its expectation, with feelings keen from nature, and made yet keener by refinement, to be compelled, as I have been, to solicit favours, pecuniary favours, from persons who have no feeling at all—from the shifting, paltry-spirited James Crofts, forbearance from the claim of debts; from the callous-hearted and selfish politician, his father, pity and assistance; from Rochely, who has no ideas but of getting or saving money, to ask the loan of it! and to bear with humility a rude refusal. I have endured the brutal unkindness of hardened avarice, the dirty chicane of law, exercised by the most contemptible of beings; I have been forced to attempt softening the tradesman and the mechanic, and to suffer every degree of humiliation which the insolence of sudden prosperity or the insensible coolness of the determined money dealer, could inflict. Actual poverty, I think, I could have better borne;

'I should have found, in some place of my soul,
A drop of patience!'

But ineffectual attempts to ward it off by such degradation I can no longer submit to. While Mr. Stafford, for whom I have encountered it all, is not only unaffected by the poignant mortifications which torture me; but receives my efforts to serve him, if successful, only as a duty—if unsuccessful, he considers my failure as a fault; and loads me with reproach, with invective, with contempt!—others have, in their husbands, protectors and friends; mine, not only throws on me the burthen of affairs which he has himself embroiled, but adds to their weight by cruelty and oppression. Such complicated and incurable misery must overwhelm me, and then—what will become of my children?'

Penetrated with pity and sorrow, Emmeline listened, in tears, to this strong but too faithful picture of the situation of her unfortunate friend; and with difficulty said, in a voice of the tenderest pity—

'Yet a little patience and surely things will mend. It cannot be very long, before I shall either be in high affluence or reduced to my former dependance; perhaps to actual indigence. Of these events, I hope the former is the most probable: but be it as it may, you and your children will be equally dear to me.—If I am rich, my house, my fortune shall be your's—if I am poor, I will live with you, and we will work together. But for such resources as the pencil or the needle may afford us, we shall, I think, have no occasion. You, my dear friend, will continue to exert yourself for your children; Lord Westhaven is greatly interested for you; and all will yet be well.'

'I am afraid not,' replied Mrs. Stafford. 'Among the various misfortunes of life, there are some that admit of no cure; some, which even the tender and generous friendship of my Emmeline can but palliate. Of that nature, I fear, are many of mine. My past life has been almost all bitterness; God only knows what the remainder of it may be, but

'Shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it.'

'Ah! give not up your mind to these gloomy thoughts,' said Emmeline. 'Setting aside all hopes I have of being able, without the assistance of any one, to clear those prospects, I have a firm dependance on Lord Westhaven, and am sure I shall yet see you happy.'

'Never, I believe, in this world!' dejectedly answered Mrs. Stafford. 'But why should I distress you, my best Emmeline, with a repetition of my hopeless sorrows; why cannot I now refrain, as I have hitherto done, from taxing with my complaints your lively sensibility?' She then began to talk of their journey for the next day, for which every thing was now ready. It would have been very agreeable to Emmeline could Mrs. Stafford have gone by Southampton, and have accompanied her for a few days to East Cliff; but she said, that besides her suffering so much at sea, which made the long passage to France very dreadful to her, she had already, in a letter to her husband, fixed to go by Calais; and as he might either send or come to meet her on that road, he might be offended if she took the other: besides these reasons, she had yet another in the chance the Calais road afforded of meeting Lord and Lady Westhaven. The two last arguments were unanswerable: Emmeline relinquished the project of their going together; and they passed the rest of the day in the last preparations for their separate journeys. In the course of it, Bellozane called twice, but was not admitted. Godolphin was allowed to sup with them; and early the next morning came again to see them set out. They parted on all sides with tears and reluctance—Emmeline, with Madelon in the chaise with her, and Le Limosin on horseback, took the road to Southampton, and Mrs. Stafford pursued her melancholy journey to Dover.

Emmeline arrived at Southampton late the same evening, where she slept; and the next morning landed on the Isle of Wight.

It was a clear and mild day, towards the end of October; and she walked, attended by her servants, to East Cliff. As she approached the door of Godolphin's house, her heart beat quick; a thousand tender recollections arose that related to it's beloved master, and some mournful apprehensions for the fate of it's present lovely and unhappy inhabitant.

The maid who had so long waited on Lady Adelina opened the door, and expressed the utmost delight at seeing Emmeline. 'Ah! dearest Madam!' said she, 'how good it is in you to come to my lady! Now, I hope, both her health and her spirits will be better. But the joy of knowing you are here, will overcome her, unless I inform her of it with caution; for tho' she rather expected you, I know it will be extreme.'

Barret then ran to execute this welcome commission, and in a few moments Lady Adelina, supported by her, walked into the room, holding in her hand little William, and fell, almost insensible, into the arms of her friend.

The expression of her countenance, faded as it was, where a gleam of exquisite pleasure seemed to lighten up the soft features which had long sunk under the blighting hand of sorrow; her weeds, forming so striking a contrast to the fairness of her transparent skin; and the lovely child, now about fourteen months old, which hung on her arm; made her altogether appear to Emmeline the most interesting, the most affecting figure, she had ever seen. Neither of them could speak. Lady Adelina murmured something, as she fondly pressed Emmeline to her heart; but it was not till it's oppression was relieved by tears, that she could distinctly thank her for coming. Emmeline, with equal marks of tenderness, embraced the mother and caressed the son, whose infantine beauty would have charmed her had he been the child of a stranger. After a little, they grew more composed; and Emmeline, while Lady Adelina in the most melting accents spoke of her brother William, and enquired tenderly after her elder brother and his wife, had time to contemplate her lovely but palid face; from which the faint glow of transient pleasure, the animated vivacity of momentary rapture, was gone; and a languor so great seemed to hang over her, such pensive and settled melancholy had taken possession of her features, that Emmeline could hardly divest herself of the idea of immediate danger; and fancied that she was come thither only to see the beauteous mourner sink into the grave. She trembled to think on the consequence which, in such a state of health, might arise from the conflict she would probably have to undergo in regard to Fitz-Edward. Emmeline herself dared not name him to Godolphin in their long conference. It was a subject, on which (however slightly touched) he had always expressed such painful sensibility, that she could not resolve to enter upon it with him. Yet she foresaw, that on Lord Westhaven's arrival either a general explanation must take place, or that his Lordship would accept, for his sister, the offer of Fitz-Edward, to which there would be in his eyes, (while he yet remained ignorant of their former unfortunate acquaintance,) no possible objection. She supposed that Lord and Lady Clancarryl, equally ignorant of that error (which had been partly owing to their own confidence in Fitz-Edward) would press Lady Adelina to accept him; and that Godolphin must either consent to forgive, and receive him as his brother, or give such reasons for opposing his alliance with Lady Adelina, as would probably destroy the peace of his family and the fragile existence of his sister. Sometimes, she thought that his inflexible honour would yield, and induce him to bury the past in oblivion. But then she recollected all the indignation he had but lately expressed against Fitz-Edward, and doubted, with fearful apprehension, the event.

The first day passed without that mutual and unreserved confidence being absolutely established, which the lovely friends longed to repose in each other. Lady Adelina languished to enquire after, to talk of Fitz-Edward, yet dared not trust herself with his name; and Emmeline, tho' well assured that the knowledge of those terms which she was now on with Godolphin would give infinite pleasure to his sister, yet had not courage to reveal that truth which her conscious heart secretly enjoyed. Affected with her friend's depression, and unwilling to keep her up late, she complained of fatigue soon in the evening, and retired to her own room. She there dismissed Madelon, and bade her, as soon as Mrs. Barret came from her lady's apartment, let her know that she desired to speak to her.

She wished to enquire of this faithful servant her opinion of her lady's health. And as soon as she came to her, expressed her fears about it in terms equally anxious and tender.

'Ah! Madam,' said Barret, 'all you observe as to my lady is but too just; and what I go thro' about her, (especially when the Captain is not here) I am sure no tongue can tell. Sometimes, Ma'am, when I have left her of a night, and she tells me she is going to bed, I hear her walk about the room talking; then she goes to the bed (for I have looked thro' the key hole) where Master Godolphin sleeps, and looks at him, and bursts into tears and laments herself over him, and again begins to walk about the room, and speaks as it were to herself; and at other times, she will open the window, and leaning her head on her two hands, sit and look at the clouds and the stars; and sighs so deeply, and so often, that it makes my heart quite ache to hear her. The child was very ill once with a tooth fever, while the Captain was gone to France; and then indeed I thought my poor lady would have been quite, quite gone in her head again; for she talked so wildly of what she would do if he died, and said such things, as almost frightened me to death. We sent to Winchester for a physician; and before he could come, for you know, Ma'am, what a long way 'tis to send, she grew so impatient, and had terrified herself into such agonies, that when the doctor did come, he said she was in a great deal the most danger of the two. Thank God, Master Godolphin soon got well; but it was a long time before my lady was quite herself again; and since that, Ma'am, she will hardly suffer Master out of her sight at all; but makes either his own maid or me sit in the room to attend upon him while she reads or writes. When she walks out, she generally orders one of us to take him with her; and only goes out alone after he is in bed of a night. Then, indeed, she stays out long enough; and tho' you see, Ma'am, how sadly she looks, she never seems to care at all about her own health, but does things that really would kill a strong person.'

'What then does she do?' enquired Emmeline.

'Why, Ma'am, quite late sometimes of a night, when every body else is asleep, she will go away by herself perhaps to that wood you see there, or down to the sea shore; and she orders me to let nobody follow her. Quite of cold nights this Autumn, when the wind blew, and the sea made a noise so loud and dismal, she has staid there whole hours by herself; only I ventured to disobey her so far as to see that no harm came to her. But three or four times, Ma'am, she remained so long that I concluded she must catch her death. At last, I bethought me of getting one of the maids to go and tell her Master was awake; and I have got her to come in by that means out of the wind and the cold. Then, Ma'am, she seems to take pleasure in nothing but sorrow and melancholy. The books she reads are so sad, that sometimes, when her own eyes are tired and she makes me read them to her, I get quite horrible thoughts in my head. But my lady, instead of trying, as I do, to shake them off, will go directly to her music, and play such mournful tunes, that it really quite overcomes me, as I am at work in another room. At other times she goes and writes verses about her own unhappiness. How is it possible, Ma'am, that with such ways of passing her time, my lady, always so delicate as she was in health, should be well: for my part I only wonder she is not quite dead.'

'But how do you know, Barret, that your lady employs herself in writing verses about her own unhappiness?'

'Dear, Ma'am, I have found them about every where. When the Captain is absent, my lady is indifferent where she leaves them. Sometimes four or five sheets lay open on the table in her little dressing room, and sometimes upon her music.'

Emmeline was too certain that such were the occupations of her poor friend. During the short time they had been together, Lady Adelina had shewn her some work; and as she took it out of her drawer, she drew out some papers with it.

'I do but little work,' said she. 'I find even embroidery does not serve to call off my thoughts sufficiently from myself. I read a good deal in books of mere amusement, for of serious application I am incapable; and here is another specimen of my method of employing myself, which perhaps you will not think a remedy for melancholy thoughts.'

She put a written paper into Emmeline's hand, who was about to open it; but Lady Adelina added, with a pensive smile, 'do not read it now; rather keep it till you are alone.'

This paper Emmeline took out to peruse as soon as she had dismissed Barret. Her heart bled as she ran over this testimony of the anguish and despondence which preyed on the heart of Lady Adelina. It was an

ODE TO DESPAIR

Ah! hide for ever from my sight
The faithless flatterer Hope—whose pencil, gay,
Portrays some vision of delight,
Then bids the fairy tablet fade away;
While in dire contrast, to mine eyes
Thy phantoms, yet more hideous, rise,
And Memory draws, from Pleasure's wither'd flower,
Corrosives for the heart—of fatal power!

I bid the traitor Love, adieu!
Who to this fond, believing bosom came,
A guest insidious and untrue,
With Pity's soothing voice—in Friendship's name;
The wounds he gave, nor Time shall cure,
Nor Reason teach me to endure.
And to that breast mild Patience pleads in vain,
Which feels the curse—of meriting it's pain.

Yet not to me, tremendous power!
Thy worst of spirit-wounding pangs impart,
With which, in dark conviction's hour,
Thou strik'st the guilty unrepentant heart!
But of Illusion long the sport,
That dreary, tranquil gloom I court
Where my past errors I may still deplore
And dream of long-lost happiness no more!

To thee I give this tortured breast,
Where Hope arises but to foster pain;
Ah! lull it's agonies to rest!
Ah! let me never be deceiv'd again!
But callous, in thy deep repose
Behold, in long array, the woes
Of the dread future, calm and undismay'd,
Till I may claim the hope—that shall not fade!

The feelings of a mind which could dictate such an address, appeared to Emmeline so greatly to be lamented, and so unlikely to be relieved, that the tender and painful compassion she had ever been sensible of for her unhappy friend, was if possible augmented. Full of ideas almost as mournful as those by which they had been inspired, she went to bed, but not to tranquil sleep. Her spirits, worn by her journey, and oppressed by her concern for Lady Adelina, were yet busy; and instead of the uneasy images which had pursued her while she waked, they represented to her others yet more terrifying. She beheld, in her dreams, Godolphin wildly seeking vengeance of Fitz-Edward for the death of his sister. Then, instead of Fitz-Edward, Lord Delamere appeared to be the object of his wrath, and mutual fury seemed to animate them against the lives of each other. To them, her uncle, in all the phrenzy of grief and despair, succeeded; overwhelmed her with reproaches for the loss of his only son, and tore her violently away from Godolphin, who in vain pursued her.

These horrid visions returned so often, drest in new forms of terror, that Emmeline, having long resisted the impression they made upon her, could at length bear them no longer; but shaking off all disposition to indulge sleep on such terms, she arose from her bed, and wrapping herself up in her night gown, went to the window. The dawn did not yet appear; but she sat down by the window, of which she had opened the shutter to watch it's welcome approach.

The morning, for it was between three and four, was mild; the declining stars were obscured by no cloud, and served to shew dimly the objects in the garden beneath her. She softly opened the sash; listened to the low, hollow murmur of the sea; and surveyed the lawn and the hill behind it, which, by the faint and uncertain light, she could just discern. All breathed a certain solemn and melancholy stillness calculated to inspire horror. Emmeline's blood ran cold; yet innocence like her's really fears nothing if free from the prejudices of superstition. She endeavoured to conquer the disagreeable sensations she felt, and to shake off the effects of her dreams; but the silence, and the gloominess of the scene, assisted but little her efforts, and she cast an eye of solicitude towards the Eastern horizon, and wished for the return of the sun.

In this disposition of mind, she was at once amazed and alarmed, by seeing the figure of a man, tall and thin, wrapped in a long horseman's coat, as if on purpose to disguise him, force himself out from between the shrubs which bounded one part of the lawn. He looked not towards the windows; but with folded arms, and his hat over his eyes, was poring on the ground, while with slow steps he crossed the lawn and came immediately under the windows of the house.

When she first perceived him, she had started back from that where she sat; but tho' greatly surprized, she could not forbear watching him: on longer observing his figure, she fancied it was that of a gentleman; and by his slow walk and manner he did not appear to have any design to attack the house. Her presence of mind never forsook her unless where her heart was greatly affected; and she had now courage enough to determine that she would still continue for some moments to observe him, and would not alarm the servants till she saw reason to believe he had ill intentions. She sat therefore quite still; and saw, that instead of making any attempt to enter the house, he traversed the whole side of it next the lawn, with a measured and solemn pace, several times; then stopped a moment, again went to the end, and slowly returned; and having continued to do so near an hour, he crossed the grass, and disappeared among the shrubs from whence he had issued.

Had not Emmeline been very sure that she not only heard his footsteps distinctly as he passed over a gravel walk in his way, but even heard him breathe hard and short, as if agitated or fatigued, she would almost have persuaded herself that it was a phantom raised by her disordered spirits. The longer she reflected on it, the more incomprehensible it seemed, that a man should, at such an hour, make such an excursion, apparently to so little purpose. That it was with a dishonest design there seemed no likelihood, as he made no effort to force his way into the house, which he might easily have done; and had he come on a clandestine visit to any of the servants, he would probably have had some signal by which his confederates would have been informed of his approach. But he seemed rather fearful of disturbing the sleeping inhabitants; his step was slow and light; and on perceiving the first rays of the morning, he 'started like a guilty thing,' and swiftly stepped away to his concealment.

Emmeline continued some time at the window after his disappearance, believing he might return. But it soon grew quite light: the gardener appeared at his work; and she was then convinced that he would for that time come no more.

So extraordinary a circumstance, however, dwelt on her mind; nor could she entirely divest herself of alarm. A strange and confused idea that this visitor might be some one not unknown to her, crossed her mind. His height answered almost equally to that of Bellozane, Godolphin, and Fitz-Edward. The latter, indeed, was rather the tallest, and to him she thought the figure bore the greatest resemblance. Yet he had taken leave of her ten days before she left London, and told her he was going down to Mr. Percival's, in Berkshire; where, as he was very anxious to hear of Lady Adelina, he had desired Mrs. Stafford to write to him; (who had done so, and had received an answer of thanks dated from thence before the departure of Emmeline from London). That Fitz-Edward, therefore, should be the person, seemed improbable; yet it was hardly less so that a night ruffian should be on foot so long, without any attempt to execute mischief, or even the appearance of examining how it might be perpetrated. After long consideration, she determined, that lest the first conjecture should be true, she would speak to nobody of the stranger she had seen; but would watch another night, before she either terrified Lady Adelina with the apprehension of robbers, or gave rise to conjectures in her and the servants of yet more disquieting tendency. Having taken this resolution, and argued herself out of all those fears for her personal safety which might have enfeebled a less rational mind, she met Lady Adelina at breakfast with her usual ease, and almost with her usual chearfulness: but she was pale, and her eyes were heavy: Lady Adelina remarked it with concern; but Emmeline, making light of it, imputed it intirely to the fatigue of her journey; and when their breakfast was finished, proposed a walk. To this her friend assented; and while she went to give some orders, and to fetch the crape veil in which she usually wrapped herself, (for even her dress partook something of the mournful cast of her mind), Emmeline, already equipped, went into the lawn, and saw plainly where the stranger had made his way thro' the thick shrubs, and where the flexible branches of a young larch were twisted away, a laurel broken, and that some deciduous trees behind them had lost all their lower leaves; which, having sustained the first frosts, fell on the slightest violence. She marked the place with her eye; and determined to observe whether, if he came again, it was from thence.

Emmeline now desired that Madelon might come with them to wait on little William, rather than his own maid; as she understood English so ill, that she would be no interruption to their discourse. They then walked arm in arm together towards the sea; and there Lady Adelina, who now enjoyed the opportunity she had so long languished for, opened to her sympathizing friend the sorrows of an heart struggling vainly with a passion she condemned, and sinking under ineffectual efforts to vindicate her honour and eradicate her love.

She knew not that Fitz-Edward had ever written to her. Godolphin, well acquainted with his hand, had kept the letter from her. She knew not that he had applied to Emmeline: and tho' she had torn herself from him, and had vowed never again to write to him, to name him, to hear from him, she involuntarily felt disposed to accuse him of neglect, of ingratitude, of cruelty, for having never attempted to write to her or see her; and added the poignant anguish of jealousy to the dreary horrors of despair. That Fitz-Edward was for ever lost to her, she seemed to be convinced; yet that he should forget her, or attach himself to another, seemed a torment so entirely insupportable, that when her mind dwelt upon it, as it perpetually did, her reason was inadequate to the pain it inflicted; and when she touched on that subject, Emmeline too evidently saw symptoms of that derangement of intellect to which she had once before been a melancholy witness.

With a mind thus unsettled, and a heart thus oppressed, the consequences of touching on the application of Fitz-Edward to herself, might, as Emmeline believed, have the most alarming effect on Lady Adelina. And she dared not therefore name it unless she had the concurrence of Godolphin. She only attempted to soothe and tranquillize her mind, without giving her those assurances of his undiminished attachment, which, she thought, might in the event only encrease her anguish, if her brother remained inflexible. On the other hand, she forbore to remonstrate with her on the necessity there might be to forget him; being too well convinced that the arguments which were to enforce that doctrine, would be useless, and perhaps appear cruel, to a heart so deeply wounded as was that of the luckless, lovely Adelina.

But in pouring her sorrows into the bosom of her friend she appeared to find consolation. The tender pity of Emmeline was a balm to her wounded mind; and growing more composed, she began to discourse on the singular discovery Emmeline had made, and to enter with some interest into the affairs depending between her and the Marquis of Montreville; and by questions, aided by the natural frankness of Emmeline, at length became acquainted with the happy prospects, which, tho' distant, opened to Godolphin.

This was the only information that seemed to have the power of suspending for a moment the weight of those afflictions which Lady Adelina suffered. 'My brother then,' cried she—'my dear Godolphin, will be happy! And you, my most amiable friend, will constitute, while you share his felicity. Ah! fortunate, thrice fortunate for ye both, was the hour of your meeting; for heaven and nature surely designed ye for each other! Fortunate, too, were those circumstances which divided my Emmeline from Delamere, before indissoluble bonds enchained you for ever. Had it been otherwise; had your guardian angel slumbered as mine did; you too, all lovely and deserving as you are, would have been condemned to the bitterest of all lots, and might have discovered all the excellence and worth of Godolphin, when your duty and your honour allowed you no eyes but for Delamere. Your destiny is more happy—yet not happier than you deserve. Oh! may it quickly be fixed unalterably; and long, very long, may it endure! So shall your Adelina, for the little while she drags on a reluctant existence, have something on which to lean for the alleviation of her sorrows; and when she shall interrupt your felicity no longer by the sight of cureless calamity, she will, in full confidence, entrust the sole tie she has on earth, the dear and innocent victim of her fatal weakness, to the compassionate bosoms of Godolphin and his Emmeline!'

The tremulous voice and singular manner in which Lady Adelina uttered these words, made Emmeline tremble. She now tried to divert the attention of her poor friend, from dwelling too earnestly either on her own wretchedness or the promised felicity of her brother: but, as if exhausted by the mingled emotions of pain and pleasure, she soon afterwards fell into a deep silence; scarce attending to what was said; and after a long pause, she suddenly called to Madelon, in whose arms her little boy had fallen asleep, and looking at him earnestly a moment, took him from the maid, and carried him towards the house. Emmeline, more and more convinced of her partial intellectual derangement, followed her, dreading lest she should see it encrease, without the power of applying any remedy. Before Lady Adelina reached the gate, which opened from the cliffs to the lawn, she was fatigued by her lovely burthen and forced to stop. Emmeline would then have taken him; but she said 'No!' and sitting down on the ground, held him in her lap, till Barret, who had seen her from a window, came out and took him from her; to which, as to a thing usual, she consented, and then walked calmly home with Emmeline, who, extremely discomposed by the wildness of her manner, was fearful of again introducing any interesting topic, lest she should again touch those fine chords which were untuned in the mind of her unhappy friend; and which seemed occasionally to vibrate with an acuteness that threatened the ruin of the whole fabric. Barret, who afterwards came to assist her in dressing, told her, that within the last six weeks her lady had often been subject to long fits of absence, sometimes of tears; which generally ended in her snatching the child eagerly to her, kissing him with the wildest fondness, and that after having kept him with her some time, and wept extremely, she usually became rational and composed for the rest of the day.

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[CHAPTER XII]

When Emmeline met Lady Adelina at dinner, she had the satisfaction to find her quite tranquil and easy. As the afternoon proved uncommonly fine, and Emmeline was never weary of contemplating the scenery which surrounded them, she willingly consented to Lady Adelina's proposal of another ramble; that she might see some beautiful cliffs, a little farther from the house than she had yet been. There, she was pleased to find, that her fair friend seemed to call off her mind from it's usual painful occupations to admire the charms, which on one side a very lovely country, and on the other an extensive sea view, offered to their sight.

'You cannot imagine, my Emmeline,' said she, 'how exquisitely beautiful the prospect is from the point of these rocks where we stand, in the midst of summer; now the sun, more distant, gives it a less glowing and rich lustre, and reflects not his warm rays on the sea, and on the white cliffs that hang over it. Here it was, that indulging that melancholy for which I have too much reason, I made, while my brother was absent last summer, some lines, which, if it was pleasant to repeat one's own poetry, I would read to you, as descriptive at once of the scene, and the state of mind in which I surveyed it.'

Emmeline now earnestly pressing her to gratify the curiosity she had thus raised, at length prevailed upon her to repeat the following

SONNET

As sinks the day star in the rosy West,
The silent wave, with rich reflection glows;
Alas! can tranquil nature give me rest,
Or scenes of beauty, soothe me to repose?

Can the soft lustre of the sleeping main,
Yon radient heaven; or all creation's charms,
'Erase the written troubles of the brain,'
Which Memory tortures, and which Guilt alarms?
Or bid a bosom transient quiet prove,
That bleeds with vain remorse, and unextinguish'd love!

The 'season and the scene' were brought by this description full on the mind of Emmeline; yet she almost immediately repented having pressed Adelina to repeat to her what seemed to have led her again into her usual tract of sad reflection. She fell, as usual, into one of her reveries, and as they walked homewards said very little. The rest of the evening, however, passed in a sort of mournful tranquillity—Adelina seemed to feel encreasing pleasure as she gazed on her friend; and remembering all her goodness, reflected on the happiness of her brother. But this satisfaction was not of that kind which seeks to express itself in words; and Emmeline, sensible of great anxiety for her and Godolphin, (who would, she knew, be cruelly hurt by the relapse which he feared threatened his sister) and busied in no pleasant conjectures about the person whom she had seen in the lawn, was in no spirits for conversation. Nor did her thoughts, when they wandered to other objects from those immediately before her, bring home much to appease her anxiety. That nothing had yet been heard of Lord and Lady Westhaven, was extremely disquieting. She knew not that the Marquis of Montreville had received a letter for her under cover to him; and that having sent it to Mr. Crofts in another, in order to be forwarded to her, the latter had exercised his political talents, and supposing it related to her claims on Lord Montreville, and probably contained instructions for pursuing them, and that therefore his Lordship would be but little concerned if it never reached the place of its destination, he had very composedly put it into the fire; and undertook, should it be enquired for, to account for it's failure without suffering the name of Lord Montreville to be called in question.

The Marquis, tho' his conscience had been so long under the direction of Sir Richard Crofts that it ought to have acquired insensibility as callous as his own, yet found it sometimes a very troublesome companion; and it often spoke to him so severely on the subject of his niece, that he was more than once on the point of writing to her, to say he was ready to make her the retribution to which his heart told him she had the clearest pretensions, and which his fears whispered that a court of justice would certainly render her.

These qualms and these fears, would inevitably have produced a restoration of the Mowbray estate to it's owner, had they not been counteracted by the influence of the Marchioness of Montreville and Sir Richard Crofts. The Marchioness, now in declining health, felt all the inefficacy of riches, and all the fallacy of ambition; yet could she not determine to relinquish one, or to own that the other had but little power to confer happiness. That Emmeline Mowbray, whom she had despised and rejected, should suddenly become heiress to a large fortune, and that of that fortune her own children should be deprived; that Lord Westhaven should be the instrument to assist her in this hateful transition, and should interfere for this obscure orphan, against the interest of the illustrious family into which he had married; stung her to the soul, and irritated the natural asperity of her temper, already soured by the repeated defection of Delamere, and her own continual ill health, till it was grown insupportable to others, and injurious to herself; since it aggravated all her complaints, and put it out of the power of medicine to relieve her.

Rather than encrease these maladies by opposition, his Lordship was content to yield to delay. And while her haughtiness and violence withheld him on one hand from settling with his niece, Sir Richard assailed him on the other with cool and plausible arguments; and together they obliged him to have recourse to such expedients as gained time, without his having much hope that he could finally detain the property of his late brother from his daughter, who seemed likely to establish her right to it's possession.

At once to indulge his avarice and quiet his conscience, he would willingly have consented to pay her a considerable portion, and to leave her right to the whole undecided; but of such an accommodation there seemed no probability, unless he could win over Lord Westhaven to his interest. He thought, however, that there could be little doubt of his re-uniting the Mowbray estate with his own, by promoting the marriage between Emmeline and Lord Delamere, which he had hitherto so strenuously opposed. But this, he knew, must be the last resort; not only because he was ashamed so immediately to avow a change of opinion in regard to Emmeline, which could have happened only from her change of circumstances, but because the dislike which Lady Montreville had originally conceived towards her, now amounted to the most determined and inveterate hatred.

Bent on conversing fully with Lord Westhaven before he took any measures whatever either to detain or to restore the estate, the Marquis was desirous of seeing him immediately on his arrival in England, and to precede any conversation he might hold with Emmeline. For this reason he kept back all information that related to his son-in-law's return; and tho' he knew that the indisposition of Lord Delamere and his sister had kept Lord Westhaven at Paris almost three weeks, and that they were travelling only twenty miles a day, from thence to Calais, he had withheld even this intelligence from the anxious Emmeline.

Lady Frances Crofts, never feeling any great disposition to filial piety, and having lost, in the giddy career of dissipation, the little sensibility she ever possessed, was soon tired of attending on her mother at Audley Hall. The fretful impatience or irksome lassitude which devoured a mind without resources, and weary of itself, in the melancholy gloom of a sick chamber, soon disgusted and fatigued her; she therefore left Audley Hall in October, and after staying ten days or a fortnight in Burlington street, where she made an acquaintance with Bellozane, she went to pass the months that yet intervened before it was fashionable to appear in London, at a villa near Richmond; which she had taken in the summer, and fitted up with every ornament luxury could invent or money purchase. She retired not thither, however, to court the sylvan deities: a set of friends of both sexes attended her. Bellozane was very handsome, very lively, very much a man of fashion: Lady Frances, who thought him no bad addition to her train, invited him also. Bellozane became the life of the party; and was soon so much at his ease in the family, and so great a favourite with her Ladyship, at a very early period of their acquaintance, that only her high rank there exempted her from those censures, which, in a less elevated condition, would have fallen on her, from the grave and sagacious personages who are so good as to take upon them the regulation of the world.

Crofts, detained by his office in London, heard more than gave him any pleasure. But like a wise and cautious husband, he forebore to complain. Besides the fear of his wife, which was no inconsiderable motive to silence, he had the additional fear of the martial and fierce-looking French soldier before his eyes; who talked, in very bad English, of such encounters and exploits as made the cold-blooded politician shudder.

When, on Friday evenings, after the business of his office was over, he went down to Richmond, he now always found there this foreign Adonis; and beheld him with mingled hatred and horror, tho' he concealed both under the appearance of cringing and servile complaisance. And when Lady Frances compared the narrow-spirited and mean-looking Crofts, with the handsome, animated, gallant Bellozane, the poor husband felt all the disadvantages of the comparison, and as certainly suffered for it. Scorning to dissimulate with a man whom she thought infinitely too fortunate in being allied to her on any terms, and superior to the censures of a world, the greater part of whom she considered as beings of another species from the daughter of the Marquis of Montreville, her Ladyship grew every day fonder of the Chevalier, and less solicitous to conceal her partiality. She found, too, her vanity and inordinate self love gratified, in believing that this elegant foreigner did justice to her superior attractions, and had been won by them, from that inclination for Emmeline which had brought him to England. A conquest snatched from her, whom she had always considered at once with envy and contempt, was doubly delightful; and Bellozane, with all the volatility of his adopted country, saw nothing disloyal or improper in returning the kind attentions of Lady Frances, en attendant the arrival of Emmeline; with whom he was a good deal piqued for her having left London so abruptly without informing him whither she was gone. He still preferred her to every other person; but he was not therefore insensible to the kindness, or blind to the charms of Lady Frances; who was really very handsome; and who, with a great portion of the beauty inherited by the Mowbray family, possessed the Juno-like air as well as the high spirit of her mother. In aid of these natural advantages, every refinement of art was exhausted; and by those who preferred it's dazzling effects to the interesting and graceful simplicity of unadorned beauty, Lady Frances, dressed for the opera, might have been esteemed more charming, than Emmeline in her modest muslin night gown; or than the pensive Madona, which, in her widow's dress, was represented by Lady Adelina.

These two friends, after having passed a calm afternoon together, retired early to their respective apartments. Emmeline, who had a repeating watch, given her by Lord Westhaven, wound it up carefully; and having bolted her chamber door, lay down for a few hours; being sure that the anxiety she felt would awaken her before the return of that on which the stranger had appeared the preceding night. Fatigue and long watching closed her eyes; but her slumber was imperfect; and suddenly awaking at some fancied noise, she pressed her repeater, and found it was half past three o'clock.

This was about the time on which the man had appeared the night before; and tho' she felt some fear, she had yet more curiosity to know whether he came again. She arose softly, therefore, and went to the window, which she did not venture to open. But she had no occasion to look towards the shrubbery to watch the coming of the stranger; he was already traversing the length of the house, dressed as before; and with his arms folded, and his head bent towards the ground, he slowly moved in the same pensive attitude.

Emmeline, tho' now impressed with deeper astonishment, summoned resolution narrowly to observe his air and figure. Had not his hat concealed his face, the obscurity would not have allowed her to examine his features. But tho' the great coat he wore considerably altered the outline of his person, she still thought she discerned the form of Fitz-Edward. His height and his walk confirmed this idea; and the longer she observed him, the more she was persuaded it was Fitz-Edward himself. This conviction was not unaccompanied by terror. She wished to speak to him; and to represent the indiscretion, the madness of his thus risking the reputation of Lady Adelina; and his own life or that of one of her brothers; while the very idea of Godolphin's resentment and danger filled her mind with the most alarming apprehensions. She determined then to open the window and speak to him: yet if it should not be Fitz-Edward? At length she had collected the courage necessary; and knowing that tho' the whole family was yet fast asleep she could easily rouse them, if the person to whom she spoke should not be known to her, and gave her any reason for alarm, she was on the point of lifting up the sash, when the stranger put an end to her deliberations by hastily walking away to his former covert among the shrubs; and she saw him no more.

Emmeline, wearied alike with watchfulness and uneasiness, now went to bed; having at length determined to keep Barret (on whose silence and discretion she could rely) with her the next night; and when the Colonel appeared (for the Colonel she was sure it was) to send her to him, or at least make her witness to what she should herself say to him from the window. The anxiety of her mind made her very low on the early part of the next day; and Lady Adelina was still more so. They dined, however, early; and as the evening was clear, and they had not been out in the morning, Lady Adelina proposed their taking a short walk to the top of the hill behind the house, which commanded a glorious view that Emmeline had not seen; but as it was cold, they agreed to leave little William at home. The grounds of Godolphin behind the house, consisted only of a small paddock, divided from the kitchen garden by a dwarf wall; and the copse, which partly cloathed the hill, and thro' which a footpath went to a village about two miles beyond it. The woody ground ceasing about half way up, opened to a down which commanded the view. They stood admiring it a few moments; and then Emmeline, who could not for an instant help reflecting on what she had seen for two nights, felt something like alarm at being so far from the house. She complained therefore that it was cold; and the evening (at this season very short) was already shutting in.

The wind blew chill and hollow among the half stripped trees, as they passed thro' the wood; and the dead leaves rustled in the blast. 'Twas such a night as Ossian might describe. Emmeline recollected the visionary beings with which his poems abound, and involuntarily she shuddered. At the gate that opened into the lawn, Lady Adelina stopped as if she was tired. She was talking of something Godolphin had done; and Emmeline, who on that subject was never weary of hearing her, turned round, and they both leaned for a moment against the gate, looking up the wood walk from which they had just descended. The veil of Lady Adelina was over her face; but Emmeline, less wrapped up, suddenly saw the figure which had before visited the garden, descending, in exactly the same posture, down the pathway, which was rather steep. He seemed unknowingly to follow it, without looking up; and was soon so near them, that Emmeline, losing at once her presence of mind, clasped her hands, and exclaimed—'Good God! who is this?'

'What?' said Lady Adelina, looking towards him.

By this time he was within six paces of the gate; and sprung forward at the very moment that she knew him, and fell senseless on the ground.

Emmeline, unable to save her, was in a situation but little better. Fitz-Edward, for it was really himself, knelt down by her, and lifted her up. But she was without any appearance of life; and he, who had no intention of rushing thus abruptly into her presence, was too much agitated to be able to speak.

'Ah! why would you do this, Sir?' said Emmeline in a tremulous voice. 'What can I do with her?' added she. 'Merciful Heaven, what can be done? How could you be so cruel, so inconsiderate?'

'Don't talk to me,' said he—'don't reproach me! I am not able to bear it! I suffer too much already! Have you no salts? Have you nothing to give her?'

Emmeline now with trembling hands searched her pockets for a bottle of salts which she sometimes carried. She luckily had it; and, in another pocket, some Hungary water, with which she bathed the temples of her friend, who still lay apparently dead.

She remained some moments in that situation; and Emmeline had time to reflect, which she did with the utmost perturbation, on what would be the consequence of this interview when she recovered her recollection. She dreaded lest the sight of Fitz-Edward should totally unsettle her reason. She dreaded lest Godolphin should know he had clandestinely been there; and she concluded it were better to persuade him to leave them before the senses of Lady Adelina returned.

'How fearfully long she continues in this fainting fit,' cried she, 'and yet do I dread seeing her recover from it.'

'You dread it!—and why dread it?'

'Indeed I do. When her recollection returns, it may yet be worse; you know not how nearly gone her intellects have at times been, and the least emotion may render her for ever a lunatic'

'It is the cruelty of her brother,' sternly replied Fitz-Edward, 'that has driven her to this. His rigid conduct has overwhelmed her spirits and broken her heart. But now, since we have met, we part not till I hear from herself whether she prefers driving me to desperation, or quitting, in the character I can now offer her, the cold and barbarous Godolphin.'

'Do not, ah! pray do not attempt to speak to her now. Let me try to get her home; and when she is better able to see you, indeed I will send to you.'

'Can you then suppose I will leave her? But perhaps she is already gone! She seems to be dead—quite dead and cold!'

Nothing but terror now lent Emmeline strength to continue chafing her temples and her hands. In another moment or two the blood began to circulate; and soon after, with a deep sigh, Lady Adelina opened her eyes.

'For pity's sake,' said Emmeline in a low voice—'for pity's sake do not speak to her.' Then addressing herself to her, she said—'Lady Adelina, are you better?'

'Yes.'

'Do you think I can assist you home?'

'She shall not be hurried,' said Fitz-Edward.

'Ah! save me! save me!' exclaimed she, faintly shrieking—'save me!' and clasping her arms round Emmeline, she attempted to rise.

'Am I then grown so hateful to you,' said Fitz-Edward, as he assisted and supported her—'that for one poor moment you will not allow me to approach you. Will no penitence, no sufferings obtain your pity?'

'Take me away, Emmeline!' cried she, in a hurried manner—'ah! take me quick away! Godolphin will come, he will come indeed.—Let us go home—go home before he finds us here!'

'It is as I said!' exclaimed Fitz-Edward: 'her brother has terrified her into madness. But——'

Emmeline, now making an effort to escape falling into a condition as deplorable as was her friend's, said, with some firmness—'Mr. Fitz-Edward, I must entreat you to say nothing about her brother. It is a topic of all others least likely to restore her.'

Adelina still clung to her; and putting away Fitz-Edward with her hand, laid her head on the shoulder of Emmeline, who said—'I fancy you can walk. Shall we go towards home?'

Lady Adelina, without speaking, and still motioning with her hand to Fitz-Edward to leave her, moved on. But so enfeebled was she, that in the very attempt she had again nearly fallen; Emmeline being infinitely too much frightened to lend her much assistance.

'She cannot walk,' cried Fitz-Edward, 'yet will not let me support her. Will you, Miss Mowbray, accept my arm; perhaps it may enable you to guide better the faultering steps of your friend.'

Emmeline thought that at all events it was better to get her into the house; and therefore taking, in silence, the arm that Fitz-Edward offered her, she proceeded across the lawn. Lady Adelina appeared to exert herself. She quickened her pace a little; and they were soon at a small gate, which opened in a wire fence near the house to keep the cattle immediately from the windows. Here Emmeline determined to make another effort on Fitz-Edward to persuade him to leave them.

'Now,' said she, 'we shall do very well. Had you not better quit us?'

He seemed disposed to obey; when Mrs. Barret, who had seen them from the door, where she had been watching the return of her lady, advanced hastily towards them, and said to Emmeline—'Dear Ma'am, I am so glad you and my lady are come in! The Captain is quite frightened at your being out so late.'

'The Captain!' exclaimed Emmeline.

'Yes, Ma'am, the Captain has been come in about two minutes; he is but just seeing Master Godolphin, and then was coming out to meet you.'

'Take hold of your lady, Barret,' cried Emmeline. Barret ran forward. But Lady Adelina (whom the terror of her brother's return at such a moment had again entirely overcome), was already lifeless in the arms of Fitz-Edward; and Emmeline, whose first idea was to go in and prevent Godolphin from coming out to meet them, could get no farther than the door; where, breathless and almost senseless, she was only prevented from falling by leaning against one of the pillars.

'Your lady is in a fainting fit, Mrs. Barret,' said Fitz-Edward; 'pray assist her.'

The woman at once knew his voice, and saw the situation of her lady; and terrified both by the one and the other, screamed aloud. Godolphin, caressing his nephew in the parlour, heard not the shriek; but a footman who was crossing the hall ran out; and flying by Emmeline, ran to the group beyond her; where, as Mrs. Barret still wildly called for help for Lady Adelina, he proposed to Fitz-Edward to carry her ladyship into the house, which they together immediately did.

This was what Emmeline most dreaded. But there was no time for remonstrance. As they passed her at the door, she put her hand upon Fitz-Edward's arm, and cried—'Oh! stop! for God's sake stop!'

'Why stop?' said he. 'No! nothing shall now detain me; I am determined, and must go on!' She saw, indeed, that Godolphin's being in the house only made him more obstinately bent to enter it.

The door of the parlour now opened; and Godolphin saw, with astonishment inexpressible, his sister, to all appearance dead, in the arms of Fitz-Edward; and Emmeline, as pale and almost as lifeless, following her; who silently, and with fixed eyes, sat down near the door.

'What can be the meaning of this?' exclaimed Godolphin. 'Miss Mowbray!—my Emmeline!—my Adelina!'

The child, with whom Godolphin had been at play, reached out his little arms to Lady Adelina, whom they had placed on a sopha. Godolphin sat him down upon it; and not knowing where to fix his own attention, he looked wildly, first at his sister, and then at Emmeline; while Fitz-Edward, totally regardless of him, knelt by the side of Lady Adelina, and surveyed her and the little boy with an expression impossible to be described.

'For mercy's sake tell me,' Godolphin, as he took the cold and trembling hands of Emmeline in his—'for mercy's sake tell me what all this means? Is my sister, my poor Adelina dead?'

'I hope not!'

'You are yourself almost terrified to death. Your hands tremble. Tell me, I conjure you tell me, what you have met with, and to what is owing the extraordinary appearance of Mr. Fitz-Edward here?'

'That, or any farther enquiry Mr. Godolphin has to make, which may relate to me,' said Fitz-Edward sternly, 'I shall be ready at any other time to answer; but now it appears more necessary to attend to this dear injured creature!'

'Injured, Sir!' cried Godolphin, turning angrily towards him—'Do you come hither to tell me your crimes, or to triumph in their consequence?'

'Oh! for the love of heaven!' said Emmeline, with all the strength she could collect, 'let this proceed no farther. Consider,' added she, lowering her voice, 'the servants are in the room. Reflect on the consequence of what you say.'

'Let every body but Barret go out,' said Godolphin aloud.

The child, whose usual hour of going to rest was already past, had crept up to his mother, heedless of the people who surrounded her, and had dropped asleep on her bosom.

'Should I take Master, Sir?' enquired the nursery maid of Godolphin.

'Leave him!' answered he, fiercely.

Excess of terror now operated to restore, in some measure, to Emmeline the presence of mind it had deprived her of. She found it absolutely necessary to exert herself; and advancing towards Lady Adelina, by whose side Fitz-Edward still knelt, she took one of her hands—'I hope,' said she to Barret, your lady is coming to; she is less pale, and her pulse is returning. Colonel Fitz-Edward, would it not be better for you now to leave us?'

'I must first speak to Lady Adelina.'

'Impossible! you cannot speak to her to-night.'

'Nor can I leave her, Madam, unless she herself dismisses me.—Leave her, thus weak and languid, to meet perhaps on my account reproach and unkindness!'

'Reproach and unkindness! Mr. Fitz-Edward,' said Godolphin, in a passionate tone—'Reproach and unkindness! Do me the favour to say from whom you apprehend she may receive such treatment?'

'From the cruel and unrelenting brother, who has persisted in wishing to divide us, even after heaven itself has removed the barrier between us.'

'Sir,' replied Godolphin, with a stern calmness—'in this house, and in Miss Mowbray's presence, you may say any thing with impunity, and I may bear this language even from the faithless destroyer of my sister.'

Fitz-Edward now starting from his knees, looked the defiance he was about to utter, when Lady Adelina drew a deep and loud sigh, and Barret exclaimed—'For God's sake, gentlemen, do not go on with these high words. My lady is coming to; but this sort of discourse will throw her again into her fits worse than ever. Pray let me entreat of you both to be pacified.'

'I insist upon it,' said Emmeline, 'that you are calm, or it will not be in my power to stay. I must leave you, indeed I must, Mr. Godolphin! if you would not see me expire with terror, and entirely kill your sister, you must be cool.' She was indeed again deprived nearly of her breath and recollection by the fear of their instantly flying to extremities.

Lady Adelina now opened her eyes and looked round her. But there was wildness and horror in them; and she seemed rather to see the objects, than to have any idea of who were with her.

The child, however, was always present to her. 'My dear boy here?' cried she, faintly; 'poor fellow, he is asleep!'

'Shall I take him from you, Ma'am?' asked her woman.

'Oh! no! I will put him to bed myself.' She then again reposed her head as if fatigued, and sighed. 'Twas all,' said she, 'long foreseen. But destiny, they say, must be fulfilled, and fate will have it's way. I wish I had not been the cause of his death, however.'

'Of whose death, dear Madam?' said Barret. 'Nobody is dead; nobody indeed.'

'Did I not hear him groan, and see him die? did not he tell me, I know not what, of my Lord Westhaven? I shall remember it all distinctly to-morrow!'

She now rested again, profoundly sighing; and Emmeline beckoning to Fitz-Edward and Godolphin, took them to the other end of the room, where the arm of the sopha she reclined on concealed them from her view. 'Pray,' said she, addressing herself to them both, 'pray leave her.' Then recollecting that she dared not trust them together, she added—'No, don't both go at once. But indeed it is absolutely necessary to have her kept quite quiet and got to bed as soon as possible.'

'I believe it is,' answered Godolphin. 'Poor Adelina! her dreadful malady is returned.'

'It is indeed,' said Emmeline. 'I have seen it too evidently approaching for some days; and this last shock'—she stopped, and repented she had said so much.

'Mr. Fitz-Edward,' cried Godolphin, 'will you walk with me into another room?'

'Certainly.'

'Oh! no! no!' exclaimed Emmeline with quickness.

They were going out together; but taking an arm of each, she eagerly repeated 'oh! no! no! not together!'

The imagination of Lady Adelina was now totally disordered. She had risen; and carrying the child in her arms, walked towards her brother, who in traversing the apartment with uneasy steps was by this time near the door; while Fitz-Edward was at the other end of the room, where Emmeline was trying to persuade him to quit the house.

Lady Adelina, supported by her maid, and trembling under the weight of the infant she clasped to her bosom, stepped along as quickly as her weakness would allow; and putting her hand on Godolphin's arm, she cried, in a slow and tremulous manner—'Stay, William! I have something to say to you before you go. Lord Westhaven, you know, is coming; and you have promised that he shall not kill me. I may however die; and I rather believe I shall; for since this last sight I am strangely ill. You and Emmeline will take care of my poor boy, will ye not? Had Fitz-Edward lived—nay do not look so angry, for now he cannot offend you—had poor Fitz-Edward lived, he would perhaps have taken him. But now, I must depend on Emmeline, who has promised to be good to him. They say she will have a great fortune too, and therefore I need not fear that you will find my child burthensome.'

'Burthensome!' cried Godolphin. 'Good God, Adelina!'

'Well! well! be not offended. Only you know, when people come to have a family of their own, the child of another may be reckoned an incumbrance. I know that now you love my William dearly; but then, you know, it will be another thing.'

'Gracious heaven!' exclaimed Godolphin, 'what can have made her talk in this manner?'

'Reason in madness!' said Fitz-Edward, advancing towards her. 'Her son, however, shall be an incumbrance to nobody.'

Emmeline now grasping his hand, implored him not to speak to her. Lady Adelina neither heard or noticed him: but again addressing herself to her brother, said, with a mournful sigh—'And now, since I have told you what was upon my mind, I will go put my little boy to bed. Good night to you, dear William! You and Miss Mowbray will remember!—-- ' She then walked out of the room, and calmly took the way to her own, attended by her maid.

Emmeline, not daring to leave together these two ardent spirits irritated against each other, remained, trembling, with them; hoping by her presence to prevent their animosity from blazing forth, and to prevail upon them to part. They both continued for some time to traverse the room in gloomy silence. At length Fitz-Edward stopped, and said—'At what hour to-morrow, Sir, may I have the honour of some conversation with you?'

'At whatever hour you please, Sir—the earlier, however, the more agreeable.'

'At seven o'clock, Sir, I will be with you.'

'If you please; at that hour I will be ready to receive your commands.'

Fitz-Edward then took his hat, and bowing to Emmeline, wished her a good night, and left the room. Starting from her chair, she followed him into the hall, and shut the parlour door after her.

'Fitz-Edward,' cried she, detaining him, and speaking in an half whisper—'Fitz-Edward, hear me! Do you design to kill me?'

'To kill you?' replied he. 'No surely.'

'Then do not go till you have heard me.'

'It is unpleasant to me to stay in Godolphin's house after what has just passed. But as you please.'

She led him into a little breakfast room; and regardless of being without light, shut the door.

'Tell me,' said she, 'before I die with terror—tell me with what intention you come to-morrow?'

'Simply to have a positive answer from Mr. Godolphin, if he will, together with his brother, allow me, when the usual mourning is over, to address their sister with proposals of marriage; which in fact they have no right to prevent. And if Mr. Godolphin refuses——'

'What, if he refuses?'

'I shall take my son into my own care, and wait till Lady Adelina will herself exert that freedom which is now her's.'

'Godolphin doats on the child. Nothing, I am persuaded, will induce him to part with it.'

'Not part with it? He must, nay he shall!'

'Pray be calm—pray be quiet. Stay yet a few months—a few weeks.'

'Not a day! Not an hour!'

'Good God! what can be done? Mischief will inevitably happen!'

'I am sorry,' replied Fitz-Edward, 'that you are thus made uneasy. But I cannot recede; and my life has not been pleasant enough lately to make me very solicitous about the event of my explanation with Mr. Godolphin. Conscious, however, that he has some reason to complain of me, I do not wish to increase it. I mean to keep my temper, if I can: but if he suffers his to pass the bounds which one gentleman must observe towards another, I shall not consider myself as the aggressor, or as answerable for the consequences.'

'But why, oh! why would you come hither? Wherefore traverse the garden of a night, and suffer appearances to be so much against you, and what is yet worse, against Lady Adelina?'

'Who told you I have done so—Godolphin?'

'No. He was, you well know, absent. But I saw you myself; with terror I saw you, and meditated how to speak to you alone, when our unhappy meeting in the wood this evening put an end to all my contrivances.'

'Yet I had no intention of terrifying you, or of abruptly rushing into the presence of Adelina. It is true, that for some nights past I have walked under the window where she and my child sleep: for I could not sleep; and it was a sort of melancholy enjoyment to me to be near the spot which held all I have dear on earth. As I pass at the ale house where I lodge as a person hiding in this island from the pursuit of creditors, my desire of concealment did not appear extraordinary. I have often lingered among the rocks and copses, and seen Adelina and my child with you. Last night I came out in the dusk, and was approaching, to conceal myself near the house, in hopes, that as you love walking late, and alone, I might have found an opportunity of speaking to you, and of concerting with you the means of introducing myself to her without too great an alarm.'

'Would to heaven you had! But now, since all this has happened, consent to put off this meeting with Godolphin. Do not meet, at least, to-morrow! I entreat that you will not!'

'On all subjects but this,' said he, as he opened the door—'on all subjects but this, Miss Mowbray knows she may command me. But this is a point from which I cannot, without infamy, recede; and in which she must forgive me, if all my veneration and esteem for her goodness and tenderness does not induce me to desist.'

He then went into the hall; and by the lamp which burnt there, opened himself the door into the garden, and hastily walked away. While the trembling and harrassed Emmeline, finding him inflexible, went back to Godolphin, with very little hopes that she should, with him, have better success.

---

[CHAPTER XIII]

On entering the room, Emmeline sat down without speaking.

'How is Adelina, my dearest Miss Mowbray?'

'I know not.'

'You have not, then, been with her?'

'No.'

'Were it not best to enquire after her?'

'Certainly. I will go immediately.'

'But come to me again—I have much to say to you.'

Emmeline then went up stairs. She found that the composing medicine, which Barret had been directed to keep always by her, had been liberally administered; and that her lady was got into bed, and was already asleep. Barret sat by her. Deep sighs and convulsive catchings marked the extreme agitation of her spirits after she was no longer conscious of it herself. With this account Emmeline returned, in great uneasiness, to Godolphin.

'I thank Heaven,' said he, 'that she is at least for some moments insensible of pain! Now, my Emmeline, for surely I may be allowed to say my Emmeline, sit down and try to compose yourself. I cannot bear to see you thus pale and trembling.'

He led her to a seat, and placed himself by her; gazing with extreme concern on her face, pallid as it was, and expressive only of sorrow and anxiety.

'Whence is it,' said she, after a pause of some moments, that I see you here? Did I not come hither on the assurance you gave me that you would long be detained in or near London by the business of your sister?'

'I certainly did say so. But I could not then foresee what happened on the Sunday after you left London.'

'Has, then, any thing happened?'

'The return of Lord and Lady Westhaven, with Lord Delamere.'

'Are they all well?'

'Tolerably so. But my brother is very anxious to see Adelina; and expects you with little less solicitude. He could not think of giving Lady Westhaven the trouble of such a journey; nor could he now leave her without being unhappy. I therefore, at his pressing request, came myself to fetch you both to London.'

'And do you mean that we should begin our journey to-morrow?'

'I meant it, certainly, till the events of this evening made me doubtful how far my sister herself may be in a situation to bear change of place and variety of objects; or being able, whether she may chuse to leave to me the direction of her actions.'

'Ah! impute not to Lady Adelina the meeting with Fitz-Edward; it was entirely accidental; it's suddenness overcame her, and threw her into the way in which you saw her.'

'And what has a man to answer for, who thus comes to insult his victim, and to rob her of the little tranquillity time may have restored to her?'

'Indeed I think you injure poor Fitz-Edward. Fondly attached to your sister, he has no other wish or hope than to be allowed to address her when the time of her mourning for Mr. Trelawny is expired. For this permission he intended to apply to you: but the severity with which you ever received his advances discouraged him; and he then, in the hope of hearing that such an application would not be rendered ineffectual by her own refusal, and languishing to see his son, came hither; not with any intention of forcing himself abruptly into the presence of Lady Adelina, but to see me and induce me to intercede with her for an interview. Accident threw us in his way; your sister fell senseless on the ground; and when she did recover, endeavoured to avoid him: but she was too weak to walk home without other assistance than mine, and I was compelled to accept for her, that which Fitz-Edward offered. On hearing from Barret that you was returned, the terror which has ever pursued her, lest you and Fitz-Edward should meet as enemies, again overcame her, and occasioned the scene you must, with so much astonishment, have beheld.'

'Has Adelina had any previous knowledge of the proposals Fitz-Edward intends to make?'

'None, I believe, in the world.'

'Do you know whether they have ever corresponded?'

'I am convinced they have not.'

'There are objections, in my mind, insuperable objections, to this alliance. These, however, I must talk over with the Colonel himself.'

'Not hostilely, I hope. Surely you have too much regard for the unhappy Adelina, to give way now to any resentment you may have conceived against him; or if that does not influence you, think of what I must suffer.' She knew not what she had said; hardly what she intended to say.

'Enchanting softness!' exclaimed Godolphin in a transport—'Is then the safety of Godolphin so dear to that angelic bosom?'

'You know it but too well. But if my quiet is equally dear to you, promise me that if this meeting to-morrow must take place, you will receive Fitz-Edward with civility, and hear him with patience. Remember on how many accounts this is necessary. Remember how many expressions there are which his profession will not allow him to hear without resentment, that must end in blood. Your's is no common cause of enmity; none of those trifling quarrels which daily send modern beaux into the field. Your characters are both high as military men, and as gentlemen; and your former intimacy must, I know, impress more deeply on the mind of each the injury or offence that either suppose they receive. Be careful then, Godolphin; promise me you will be careful!'

'Ah! lovely Emmeline! more lovely from this generous tenderness than from your other exquisite perfections; can I be insensible of the value of a life for which you interest yourself? and shall I suffer any other consideration to come in competition with your peace?'

'You promise me then?'

'To be calm with Fitz-Edward, I do. And while I remember his offence (for can I forget while I suffer from it) I will also recollect, that you, who have also suffered on the same account, think him worthy of compassion; and I will try to conquer, at least to stifle, my resentment. But what shall we do with Adelina?'

'That must depend on her situation in the morning. I have greatly apprehended an unhappy turn in her intellects ever since my first coming. The death of Trelawny, far from appearing to have relieved her by removing the impediment to her union with Fitz-Edward, seems rather to have rendered her more wretched. Continually agitated by contending passions, she was long unhappy, in the supposition that Fitz-Edward had obeyed her when she desired him to forget her. Since Trelawny's decease, as she has more fearlessly allowed her thoughts to dwell on him, she has suffered all the anxiety of expecting to hear from him, and all the bitterness of disappointment. And I could plainly perceive, that she was still debating with herself, whether, if he did apply to her, she should accept him, or by a violent effort of heroism determine to see him no more. This conflict is yet to come. Judge whether, in the frame of mind in which you see her, she is equal to it; and whether any additional terror for you and for him will not quite undo her. Alas! far from aggravating, by pursuing your resentment, anguish so poignant, try rather to soothe her sorrows and assist her determination. And whatever that determination may be, when it is once made she may perhaps be restored to health and to tranquillity.'

'Indeed I will do all you dictate, my loveliest friend! Surely I should ill deserve the generosity you have shewn to me, were I incapable of feeling for others, and particularly for my sister. But wherefore that air of defiance which Mr. Fitz-Edward thought it necessary to assume? He seemed to come more disposed to insult than to conciliate the family of Lady Adelina.'

'Alas! do you make no allowance for the perturbed situation of his mind, when he saw the woman he adores to all appearance dead, and for the first time beheld the poor little boy? He looked upon you as one who desires to tear from him for ever these beloved objects; and forgetting that he was the aggressor, thought only of the injury which he supposed you intended.'

'There is, indeed, some apology for the asperity of his manner; and perhaps I was in some measure to blame. Generous, candid, considerate Emmeline! how does your excellent heart teach you to excuse those weaknesses you do not feel, and to pity and to forgive errors which your own perfect mind makes it impossible for you to commit! Ah! how heavily is your tenderness perpetually taxed: here, it is suffering from the sight of Adelina—in town, it will have another object in the unfortunate Delamere.'

'Did you not tell me he was in tolerable health?'

'Alas! what is bodily health when the mind is ill at ease? The anxiety of Delamere to see you, to hear his destiny from yourself, is uneasy even to me, who feel my own exquisite happiness in knowing what that destiny must be. I look with even painful commiseration on this singular young man. Yet from passions so violent, and obstinacy so invincible, I must have rejoiced that Miss Mowbray has escaped; even tho' her preference of the fortunate Godolphin had not rendered his lot the most happy that a human being can possess.'

'Since you are so good,' said Emmeline faintly, for she was quite exhausted, 'to compassionate the situation of mind of Delamere, you will, I think, see the humanity of concealing from him—that—' She could find no term that she liked, to express her meaning, and stopped.

'That he has a fortunate rival?' said Godolphin. 'No, dearest Emmeline, I hope I am incapable of such a triumph! 'Till poor Delamere is more at ease, I am content to enjoy the happiness of knowing your favourable opinion, without wishing, by an insulting display of it, to convince him he has for ever

'Thrown a pearl away richer than all his tribe!'

'Yet I am sure you will think it still more cruel to give him hope. I will tell you all my weakness. While I see you here, all benignity and goodness to me, I feel for Lord Delamere infinite pity; but were you to receive him with your usual sweetness, to give him many of those enchanting smiles, and to look at him with those soft eyes, as if you tenderly felt his sorrows, I am not sure whether the most unreasonable jealousy would not possess me, and whether I should not hate him as much as I now wish him well.'

'That were to be indeed unreasonable, and to act very inconsistently with your natural candour and humanity. I will not think so ill of you as to believe you. You know I must of course often see Lord Delamere: but after the avowal you have extorted from me, surely I need not repeat that I shall see him only as my friend.'

Godolphin then kissed her hands in rapture; and for a few moments forgot even his concern for Lady Adelina. Emmeline now wished to break off the conversation; and he at length allowed her to leave him. After having enquired of Barret after her mistress, who was happily in a calmer sleep, she retired to her own room, where she hoped to have a few hours of repose: but notwithstanding the promises of Godolphin, she felt as the hour of the morning approached on which he was to meet Fitz-Edward, that anxiety chased away sleep, and again made her suffer the cruellest suspense.

The heart of Godolphin, glowing with the liveliest sense of his own happiness, yet felt with great keenness the unfortunate situation of his sister. He began to doubt whether he had any right to perpetuate her wretchedness; and whether it were not better to leave it to herself to decide in regard to Fitz-Edward. The delicacy of his honour made him see an infinity of objections to their marriage, which to common minds might appear chimerical and romantic. To that part of his own family who were yet ignorant of her former indiscretion, as he could not urge his reasons, his opposition of Fitz-Edward must seem capricious and unjust. Lord Westhaven must therefore either be told that which had hitherto with so much pains been concealed from him, or he must determine to refer Fitz-Edward entirely to Lady Adelina herself; and on this, after long deliberation, he fixed.

Exactly as the clock struck seven, Fitz-Edward was at the door; and was introduced into Godolphin's study, who was already up and waiting for him. Emmeline, still full of apprehension, had arisen before six, and hearing Lady Adelina was still asleep, had gone down stairs, and waited with a palpitating heart in the breakfast room.

She was glad to distinguish, at their first meeting, the usual salutations of the morning. She listened; but tho' the rest of the house was profoundly silent, she could not hear their conversation or even the tone in which it was carried on. It was not, however, loud, and she drew from thence a favourable omen. Near two hours passed, during which breakfast was carried in to them; and as the servant passed backwards and forwards, she heard parts of sentences which assured her that then, at least, they were conversing on indifferent subjects.

Now, therefore, the agitation of her spirits began to subside; and she dared even to hope that this meeting would prove the means of reconciliation, rather than of producing those fatal effects she had dreaded.

In about a quarter of an hour, however, after they had finished their breakfast, they went out and crossed the lawn together. Then again her heart failed her; and without knowing exactly what she intended, she took the little boy, whom the maid had just brought to her, and walked as quickly as possible after them. Before she could overtake them, they had reached the gate; and in turning to shut it after him, Godolphin saw her, and both together came hastily back to meet her. At the same moment, the child putting out his hands to Godolphin, called him papa! as he had been used to do; and Fitz-Edward, snatching him up, kissed him tenderly, while his eyes were filled with tears.

Godolphin took the hand of Emmeline. 'Why this terror? why this haste?' said he, observing her to be almost breathless.

'I thought—I imagined—I was afraid—' answered she, not knowing what she said.

'Be not alarmed,' said Godolphin—'We go together as friends.'

'And Godolphin,' interrupted Fitz-Edward, 'is again the same noble minded Godolphin I once knew, and have always loved.'

'Let us say then,' cried Emmeline, 'no more of the past.—Let us look forward only to the future.'

'And the happiness of that future, at least as far as it relates to me, depends, dearest Miss Mowbray, on you.'

'On me!'

'Godolphin wishes me not now to see his sister. I have acquiesced. He wishes me even to refrain from seeing her till she has been six months a widow. With this, also, I have complied. But as it is not in my power to remain thus long in a suspence so agonizing as that I now endure, he allows me to write to her, and refers wholly to herself my hopes and my despair. Ah! generous, lovely Emmeline! you can influence the mind of your friend. When she is calm, give her the letter I will send to you; and if you would save me from a life of lingering anguish to which death is preferable, procure for me a favourable answer.'

Emmeline could not refuse a request made by Fitz-Edward which Godolphin seemed not to oppose. She therefore acquiesced; and saw him, after he had again tenderly caressed the child, depart with Godolphin, who desired her to return to the house, in order to await Lady Adelina's rising; where he would soon join her. With an heart lightened of half the concern she had felt on this melancholy subject, she now went to the apartment of her poor friend, who was just awakened from the stupor rather than the sleep into which the soporifics she had taken had thrown her. With an heavy and reluctant eye she looked round her, as if hopeless of seeing the image now always present to her imagination. Emmeline approached her with the child. She seemed happy to see them; and desiring her to sit down by the bed side, said—'Tell me truly what has happened? Have I taken any medicine that has confused my head, or how happens it that I appear to have been in a long and most uneasy dream? Wild and half formed images still seem to float before my eyes; and when I attempt to make them distinct, I am but the more bewildered and uneasy.'

'Think not about it, then, till the heaviness you complain of is gone off.'

'Tell me, Emmeline, have I really only dreamed, or was a stranger here yesterday? I thought, that suddenly I saw Fitz-Edward, thin, pale, emaciated, looking as if he were unhappy; and then, as it has of late often happened, I lost at once all traces of him; and in his place Godolphin came, and I know not what else; it is all confusion and terror!'

Emmeline now considered a moment; and then concluded that it would be better to relate distinctly to her, since she now seemed capable of hearing it, all that had really passed the preceding evening, than to let her fatigue her mind by conjectures, and enfeeble it by fears. She therefore gave her a concise detail of what had happened; from the accidental meeting with Fitz-Edward, to the parting she had herself just had with him in the garden. She carefully watched the countenance of Lady Adelina while she was speaking; and saw with pleasure, that tho' excessively agitated, she melted into tears, and heard, with a calmer joy than she had dared to hope, the certainty of Fitz-Edward's tender attachment, and the unhoped for reconciliation between him and her brother. Having indulged her tears some time, she tenderly pressed the hand of Emmeline, and said, in a faint voice, that she found herself unable to rise and meet Godolphin till she had recovered a little more strength of mind, and that she wished to be left alone. Emmeline, rejoiced to find her so tranquil, left her, and rejoined Godolphin, who was by this time returned; and who read, in the animated countenance of Emmeline, that she had favourable news to relate to him of his sister.

While they enjoyed together the prospect of Lady Adelina's return to health and peace, of which they had both despaired, the natural chearfulness of Emmeline, which anxiety and affection had so long obscured, seemed in some degree to return; and feeling that she loved Godolphin better than ever, for that generous placability of spirit he had shewn to the repentant Fitz-Edward, she no longer attempted to conceal her tenderness, or withhold her confidence from her deserving lover. They breakfasted together; and afterwards, as Lady Adelina still wished to be alone, they walked over the little estate which lay round the house, and Emmeline allowed him to talk of the improvements he meditated when she should become it's mistress. The pleasure, however, which lightened in her eyes, and glowed in her bosom, was checked and diminished when the image of Delamere, in jealousy and despair, intruded itself. And she could look forward to no future happiness for herself, undashed with sorrow, while he remained in a state of mind so deplorable. When they returned into the house, Barret brought to Godolphin the following note.—

'Dearest and most generous Godolphin! I find myself unequal to the task of speaking on what has passed within these last twenty four hours. I wish still to see you. But let our conversation turn wholly on Lord Westhaven, of whom I am anxious to hear; and spare me, for the present, on the subject which now blinds with tears your weak but grateful and affectionate

Adelina.'

Godolphin now assured her, by Emmeline, that he would mention nothing that should give her a moment's pain, and that she should herself lead the conversation.

He soon after went up to her and Emmeline, in her dressing room; and found her still calm, tho' very low and languid. The name of Fitz-Edward was carefully avoided. But in the short time they were together, Godolphin observed that the eyes of Lady Adelina seemed, on the entrance of any one into the room, fearfully and anxiously to examine whether they brought the letter she had been taught to expect from Fitz-Edward. It was easy to see that she deeply meditated on the answer which she must give; and that she felt an internal struggle, which Godolphin feared might again unsettle her understanding. She was too faint to sit up long; and desirous of being left entirely alone, Godolphin had for the rest of the day the happiness of entertaining Emmeline apart. He failed not to avail himself of it; and drew from her a confession of her partiality towards him, even from the first day of their acquaintance; and long before she dared trust her heart to enquire into the nature of those sentiments with which it was impressed.

Late in the evening, a messenger arrived with the expected letter from Fitz-Edward. To convince Godolphin of the perfect integrity with which he acted, he sent him a copy of it; adding, that he was then on his road to London, where he should await, in painful solicitude, the decision of Lady Adelina. It was determined that Emmeline should give her the letter the next morning; and that if after reading it she retained the same languid composure which she had before shewn, they should go in the evening to Southampton, and from thence proceed the following day to London, where Lord and Lady Westhaven so anxiously expected their arrival.

When Emmeline delivered the letter, Lady Adelina turned pale, and trembled. She left her to read it; and on returning to her in about half an hour, Emmeline found her drowned in tears. She seemed altogether unwilling to speak of the contents of the letter; but assured Emmeline that she was very well able to undertake the journey her brother proposed, and she believed it would be rather useful than prejudicial to her. 'As to the letter,' added she, with a deep sigh, 'it will not for some days be in my power to answer it.'

Every thing was, by the diligence of Godolphin, soon prepared for their departure. Lady Adelina, her little boy, Emmeline and Godolphin, attended by their servants, went the same evening to Southampton; from whence they began their journey the next day; and resting one night at Farnham, arrived early on the following at the house Lord Westhaven had taken in Grosvenor street

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[CHAPTER XIV]

The transports with which Lord Westhaven received his sister, were considerably checked by her melancholy air and faded form. The beauty and vivacity which she possessed when he last saw her, were quite gone, tho' she was now only in her twenty second year; and tears and sighs were the only language by which she could express the pleasure she felt at again seeing him. Imputing, however, this dejection entirely to her late unfortunate marriage, his Lordship expressed rather sorrow than wonder. He admired the little boy, whom he believed to be the son of Godolphin; and he met Emmeline with that unreserved and generous kindness he had ever shewn her.

Lady Westhaven, with the truest pleasure, again embraced the friend of her heart; and with delight Emmeline met her; but it was soon abated by the sanguine hopes she expressed that nothing would now long delay the happiness of Lord Delamere.

'My Emmeline,' said she, 'will now be indeed my sister! Lord Montreville and my mother can no longer oppose a marriage so extremely advantageous to their son. She will forgive them for their long blindness; and pardoning poor Delamere for the involuntary error into which he was forced, will constitute the happiness of him and of his family.'

To this, Emmeline could only answer that she had not the least intention of marrying. Lady Westhaven laughed at that assertion. And she foresaw a persecution preparing for her, on behalf of Delamere, which was likely to give her greater uneasiness than she had yet suffered from any event of her life.

Lord Westhaven, as soon as they grew a little composed, took an opportunity of leaving the rest of the party; and went into his dressing room, where he sent for Emmeline.

'Well, my lovely cousin,' said he, when she was seated, 'I have seen Lord Montreville on your business. I cannot say that his Lordship received me with pleasure. But some allowances must be made for a man who loves money, on finding himself obliged to relinquish so large an estate, and to refund so large a sum as he holds of yours.'

'I hope, however, you, my Lord, have had no dispute on my account with the Marquis?'

'Oh! none in the world. What he thought, I had no business to enquire; what he said, was not much; as he committed the arguments against you to Sir Richard Crofts, who talked very long, and, as far as I know, very learnedly. He spoke like a lawyer and a politician. I cut the matter short, by telling him that I should attend to nothing but from an honest man and a gentleman.'

'That was severe, my Lord.'

'Oh! he did not feel it. Wrapped in his own self-sufficiency, and too rich to recollect the necessity of being honest, he still persisted in trying to persuade me that nothing should be done in regard to restoring your estate 'till all the deeds had been examined; as he had his doubts whether, allowing your father's marriage to be established, great part of the landed property is not entailed on the heirs male. In short, he only seemed desirous of gaining time and giving trouble. But the first, I was determined not to allow him; and to shorten the second, I took Mr. Newton with me the next day, and desired Sir Richard, if he could prove any entail, to produce his proofs. For that, he had an evasion ready—he had not had time to examine the deeds; which I find are all in his hands. We, however, were better prepared. Mr. Newton produced the papers that authenticate your birth; he offered to bring a witness who was present when Mr. Mowbray was married to Miss Stavordale; nay even the clergyman who performed the ceremony at Paris, and who is found to be actually living in Westmoreland. The hand writing of your father is easily proved; and Mr. Newton, summing up briefly all the corroborating testimonies that exist of your right to the Mowbray estate, concluded by telling Lord Montreville, that at the end of two days he should wait upon his Lordship for his determination, whether he would dispute it in a court of law or settle it amicably with me on behalf of his niece. Newton then left us; and I desired your uncle to allow me a few moments private conversation; which, as he could not refuse it, obliged old Crofts, and that formal blockhead his son, to leave us alone together. I then represented to him how greatly his character must suffer should the affair become public. That tho' I believed myself he was really ignorant of the circumstances which gave you, from the moment of your father's death, an undoubted claim to the whole of his fortune, yet that the world will not believe it; but will consider him as a man so cruelly insatiable, so shamefully unjust, as to take advantage of a defenceless orphan to accumulate riches he did not want, and had no right to enjoy. I added, that if notwithstanding he chose to go into court, he must excuse me if I forgot the near connection I had with him, and appeared publicly as the assertor of your claim, and of course as his enemy.

'The Marquis seemed very much hurt at the peremptory style in which I thought myself obliged to speak. He declined giving any positive answer; saying, only, that he must consult his wife and his son. What the former said, I know not; but the latter, generous in his nature, and adoring you, protested to his father that he would himself, as your next nearest relation, join in the suit against him, if the estate was not immediately given up. This spirited resolution of Lord Delamere, and the opinions of several eminent lawyers whom Sir Richard was sent to consult, at length brought Lord Montreville to a resolution before the expiration of the two days; and last night I received a letter from him, to say that he would, on Monday next, account with you, and put you in possession of your estate; the management of which, however, and the care of your person, he should reserve to himself 'till you were of age.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emmeline; trembling, 'am I to meet my uncle on Monday on this business?'

'Yes; and wherefore are you terrified?'

'At the idea of his anger—his hatred; and of being compelled to live with the Marchioness, who always disliked me, and now must detest me.'

Lord Westhaven then assured her that he would be there to support her spirits. That her uncle, whatever might be his feelings, would not express them by rudeness and asperity; but would more probably be desirous of shewing kindness and seeking reconciliation. Yet that it was improbable he should propose her residing with Lady Montreville; 'whose present state of health,' said he, 'makes her incapable of leaving her room, and for whose life the most serious apprehensions are entertained by her physicians.'

Emmeline, thus reassured by Lord Westhaven on that subject, and extremely glad to hear there would be no necessity for proceedings at law against her uncle, returned with some chearfulness to the company; where it was not encreased by the entrance of Lord Delamere, which happened soon afterwards.

The very ill state of health indicated by his appearance, extremely hurt her. Nor was she less affected by his address to her, so expressive of the deepest anguish and regret. She could not bear to receive him with haughtiness and coldness; but mildly, and with smiles, returned the questions he put to her on common subjects. His chagrin seemed to wear off; and hope, which Emmeline as little wished to give, again reanimated in some degree his melancholy countenance.

The next day, and again the next, he came to Lord Westhaven's; but Emmeline cautiously avoided any conversation with him to which the whole company were not witnesses. Godolphin too was there: her behaviour to him was the same; and she would suffer neither to treat her with any degree of particularity. Godolphin, who knew her reason for being reserved towards him, was content; and Delamere, who suspected not how dangerous a rival he had, was compelled to remain on the footing only of a relation; still hoping that time and perseverance might restore him to the happiness he had lost.

Monday now arrived, and Emmeline was to wait on her uncle in Berkley-Square. At twelve o'clock Lord Westhaven was ready. Emmeline was led by him into the coach. They took up Mr. Newton in Lincolns-inn; and then went to their rendezvous. Emmeline trembled as Lord Westhaven took her up stairs: she remembered the terror she had once before suffered in the same house; and when she entered the drawing-room, could hardly support herself.

The Marquis, Sir Richard Crofts, his eldest son, and Lord Delamere, with two stewards and a lawyer, were already there. Lord Montreville coldly and gravely returned his niece's compliments; Sir Richard malignantly eyed her from the corners of his eyes, obscured by fat; and Crofts put on a look of pompous sagacity and consequential knowledge; while Lord Delamere, who would willingly have parted with the whole of his paternal fortune rather than with her, seemed eager only to see a business concluded by which she was to receive benefit.

The lawyer in a set speech opened the business, and expatiated largely on Lord Montreville's great generosity.

Lord Westhaven looked over the accounts: they appeared to have been made out right. The title deeds of the estate were then produced; the usual forms gone thro'; and papers signed, which put Emmeline in possession of them. All passed with much silence and solemnity: Lord Montreville said very little; and ineffectually struggled to conceal the extreme reluctance with which he made this resignation. When the business was completed, Emmeline advanced to kiss the hand of her uncle: he saluted her; but without any appearance of affection; and coldly enquired how she intended to dispose of herself?

'I propose, my Lord, wholly to refer myself to your Lordship as to my present residence, or any other part of my conduct in which you will honour me with your advice.'

'I am sorry, Miss Mowbray, that the ill state of health of the Marchioness prevents my having the pleasure of your company here. However my daughter, Lady Westhaven, will of course be happy to have you remain with her till you have fixed on some plan of life, or till you are of age.'

'Not only till Miss Mowbray is of age, my Lord, but ever, both Lady Westhaven and myself should be gratified by having her with us,' said Lord Westhaven.

To this no answer was given; and a long silence ensued.

Emmeline felt distressed; and at length said—'I believe, my Lord, Lady Westhaven will expect us.'

They then rose; and taking a formal leave of the Marquis, were allowed to leave the room. Lord Delamere, however, took Emmeline's hand, and as he led her to the coach implored her to indulge him with one moment's conversation at any hour when they might not be interrupted. But with great firmness, yet with great sweetness, she told him that she must be forgiven if she adhered to a resolution she had made to give no audience on the topic he wished to speak upon, for many months to come.

'Almost two years!' exclaimed he—'almost two long years must I wait, without knowing whether, at the end of that time, you will hear and pity me! Ah! can you, Emmeline, persist in such cruelty?'

'A good morning to your Lordship,' said she, as she got into the coach.

'Will you dine with us, Delamere?' asked Lord Westhaven.

'Yes; and will go home with you now, and dress in Grosvenor street.' He then gave some orders to his servants, and stepped into the coach.

'I never was less disposed in my life,' said he, 'to rejoin a party, than I am to go back to those grave personages up stairs: it is with the utmost difficulty I command my temper to meet those Crofts' on the most necessary business. My blood boils, my soul recoils at them!'

'Pooh, pooh!' cried Lord Westhaven, 'you are always taking unreasonable aversions. Your blood is always boiling at some body or other. I tell you, the Crofts' are good necessary, plodding people. Not too refined, perhaps, in points of honour, nor too strict in those of honesty; but excellent at the main chance, as you may see by what they have done for themselves.'

Delamere then uttered against them a dreadful execration, and went on to describe the whole family with great severity and with great truth, 'till he at length talked himself into a violent passion; and Lord Westhaven with difficulty brought him to be calm by the time they had set down Mr. Newton and stopped at his own door. At the same instant Lord Westhaven's coach arrived there, a splendid chariot, most elegantly decorated, came up also. Delamere, struck with its brilliancy, examined the arms and saw his own: looking into it, he changed countenance, and said to Lord Westhaven—'Upon my word! Crofts' wife and your Swiss relation, de Bellozane!'

'Crofts' wife?'

'Aye. I mean the woman who was once Fanny Delamere, my sister.'

'Come, Delamere, forget these heartburnings, and remember that she is your sister still.'

'I should be glad to know (if it were worth my while to enquire) what business Bellozane has with her?'

By this time they were in the house, where Lady Frances and the Chevalier arrived also.

Lord Westhaven met them with his usual politeness; but Delamere only slightly touched his hat to Bellozane, and sternly saluted his sister with 'your servant, Lady Frances Crofts!' He then passed them, and went into Lord Westhaven's dressing room; while her Ladyship, regardless of his displeasure, and affecting the utmost gaity, talked and laughed with Lord Westhaven as she went up stairs. Emmeline followed them, listening to the whispered compliments of Bellozane with great coldness; and Lady Frances, entering with a fashionable flounce the drawing room where her sister was, cried—'Well child! how are you? I beg your pardon for not coming to enquire after you sooner: but I have had such crowds of company at Belleville Lodge, that it was impossible to escape. And here's this animal here, this relation of your Lord's, really haunts me; so I was forced at last to bring him with me.' This speech was accompanied by a significant smile directed to Bellozane.

Lady Westhaven, checked by such an address from flying into the arms of her sister, now expressed, without any great warmth, that she was glad to see her. Something like general conversation was attempted. But Lady Frances, who hoped to hide, under the affectation of extravagant spirits, the envy and mortification with which she contemplated the superior happiness of her sister, soon engrossed the discourse entirely. She talked only of men of the first rank, or of beaux esprits their associates, who had been down in parties to Belleville Lodge (the name she had given to her villa near Richmond); and she repeated compliments which both the Lords and the wits had made to her figure and her understanding. When she seemed almost to have exhausted this interesting topic, Lady Westhaven said, as if merely for the sake of saying something—'Mr. Crofts has been so obliging as to call here twice since we came to London; but unluckily was not let in. Pray how does he do?'

'Mr. Crofts? Oh! I know very little of him. At this time of the year we never meet. He lives, you know, in Burlington street, and I live at Belleville; and if he comes thither, as he sometimes does of a Friday or Saturday, he finds me too much engaged to know whether he is there or not. I believe, tho', he is very well; and I think the last time I saw him he was nearly as lively and amusing as he usually is. Don't you think he was, Bellozane?'

'O! assurement oui,' replied the Chevalier, sneeringly, 'Monsieur Croff a toujours beaucoup de vivacité.—C'est un homme fort amusant ce Monsieur Croff.'[44]

Lady Westhaven, disgusted, shocked, and amazed, had no power to take any share in such a dialogue; and Lady Frances went on.

'Well! but now I assure you, Augusta, I'm going to be most uncommonly good; and am coming, tho' 'tis a terrible heavy undertaking, to pass a whole week, without company, with mon tres cher Mari, in Burlington-Street. Nay, I will go still farther, and make a family party with you to the play, which I generally detest of all things.'

'That is being really very kind,' said Lady Westhaven. 'But since you are so tenderly disposed towards your own family, would it not be well if you were to enquire after my mother? You know, I suppose, how very ill she is; how much worse 'tis feared she may be?'

'Yes, I shall certainly call,' replied Lady Frances with the utmost sang froid, 'before I go home. But as to her illness, you are frightened at nothing: she has only her old complaints.'

'Her old complaints! And are not they enough? If I were in a situation to be useful to her; or even as it is, if Lord Westhaven would permit me, I should certainly think it my duty constantly to attend her.'

'Probably you might. And it is equally probable that it would be of no use if you did. She has Brackley, and all her own people about her; and no more could be done for her, even tho' you were to hazard your precious life, or if I, (who you know would not risk by it that of an heir to an Earldom) should sacrifice my ease and my friends to attend her.'

The unfeeling malignity of this speech was so extremely distressing to Lady Westhaven, that she could hardly command her tears.

Lord Westhaven saw her emotion, and said, 'Augusta, my love, your sister is too brilliant for you. You have not acquired that last polish of high life, which quite effaces all other feelings; nor will you, perhaps, ever arrive at it.'

'God forbid that I ever should!' cried Lady Westhaven, unable to conceal her indignation.

'Poor thing!' said Lady Frances, with the most unblushing assurance—'You have curious ideas of domestic felicity: and it's a thousand pities, that instead of being what you are, destiny had not made you the snug, notable wife of a country parson, with three or four hundred a year—You would have been pure and happy, to drive about in a one horse chaise, make custards, walk tame about the house, and bring the good man a baby every year: but really, you are now quite out of your element.' She then rang the bell for her carriage; which being soon ready, she gaily wished her sister good day, and the Chevalier handed her down stairs; where, as she descended, she said, loud enough to be heard, 'S'il y'a une chose au monde que je deteste plus qu'un notre, c'est la tristesse d'une societé comme cela.'[45] The Chevalier assented with his lips; but his heart and his wishes were fled towards Emmeline. He was, however, so engaged with her proud and insolent rival, that he no longer dared openly to avow his predilection for her: and Lady Frances seemed so sure of the strength of that attachment which was her disgrace, that she brought him on purpose where Emmeline was, to shew how little she apprehended his defection.

Lord Westhaven, after pausing a second, ran down stairs after them; and just as Bellozane was stepping into the chariot, took him by the arm, and begged to speak to him for two minutes.

He apologized to Lady Frances, and they went together into a room; where Lord Westhaven, with all the warmth which his relationship authorized, remonstrated against his stay in England; represented the expence and uneasiness it must occasion to the good old Baron; and above all, exhorted him to fly immediately from the dangerous society of Lady Frances Crofts.

Bellozane received this advice from his cousin with a very ill grace. He said, that he could not discover why his Lordship assumed an authority over him, or pretended either to blame his past conduct or dictate his future. That he came to England a stranger; brought thither by his honourable passion for Miss Mowbray, which he had a right to pursue; but that Mr. Godolphin, who was his only relation then in England, had either from accident or design shewn him very little attention; while Lady Frances had, with the most winning honeteté, invited him to her house, and supplied the want of that hospitality which his own family had not afforded him. And that infinitely obliged as he was to her, he should ill brook any reflection on a woman of honour who was his friend.

'But my Lord,' added he, 'if your Lordship will allow me to visit here as Miss Mowbray's favoured lover, I will not only drop the acquaintance of Lady Frances, but will put myself entirely under your Lordship's direction.'

Lord Westhaven, piqued and provoked, answered—'that he had no power whatever to direct Miss Mowbray; and if he had, should never advise her to receive him. Be assured, Monsieur le Chevalier, that you have no chance of ever being acceptable to her, and you must think no more of her.'

Bellozane, equally impatient of advice and contradiction, burst from him; and went back to Lady Frances in a very ill humour.

Delamere, who had been dressing while his eldest sister remained, now joined Lady Westhaven and Emmeline in the drawing room. Thither also came Lady Adelina; who, during the five days they had been in town had not been well enough till this day to dine below.

She was now languid and faint, and obliged to retire, as soon as the cloth was removed, to her own room. Emmeline attended her; and when they were alone together, she complained of finding herself every day more indisposed. 'The air of London,' said she, 'is not good for my child: I cannot help fancying he droops already. And the noise of a house where there are unavoidably so many visitors, and such a multitude of servants, is too much for my spirits. As Lord Westhaven is desirous of my staying in London till my sister Clancarryl arrives, that we may meet all together after being so many years divided, I will not press my return to East Cliff; but I wish he would allow me to go to some village near London, where I may occasionally enjoy solitude and silence; for I have that upon my heart, Emmeline, that demands both.'

Emmeline communicated her wish to Godolphin the same evening; who undertook to settle it with Lord Westhaven as his sister desired; and the next day Lady Adelina and her little boy removed to Highgate, where her brother had procured her a handsome lodging; and he, quitting those he usually occupied in town, went to reside with her.

After having been there a few days, she sent to Emmeline the following letter, which she desired might be delivered by her own hand.

'To the Honourable George Fitz-Edward.

'I have thus long forborne to answer your letter, because I have not 'till now been able to collect that strength of mind which is necessary, when I am to obey the inexorable duty that tears me from you for ever!

'That you yet love me well enough to solicit my hand, is I own most soothing and consolatory: but where, Fitz-Edward, is the Lethean cup, without which you cannot esteem me?—without which, I cannot esteem myself? No! I am not worthy the honour of being your wife! It is fit my fault be punished—punished by the cruel obligation it lays me under of renouncing the man I love!

'Fitz-Edward, I will not dissemble! I cannot, if I would! My affection for you is become a part of my existence, and can end my reason was too weak to support me: now that I have no longer any apprehensions of either, my reason is returned—it is returned to shew me all my wretchedness, and to afford me that light by which I must plunge a dagger into my own bosom.

'Had I, however, no objections on my own account, there is one that on another appears insuperable. Were the marriage you solicit to take place, and to be followed by a family, could I bear that my William, the delight and support of my life, should be as an alien in his father's house, and either appear as the son of Godolphin or learn to blush for his mother!

'We must part, Fitz-Edward! Indeed we must! Or if we are obliged to meet, do you at least forget that we ever met before.

'I know that the daughter of Lord Westhaven, in youth, beauty, and innocence, would not have been, however portionless, unworthy of you. But what would you receive in the widow of Trelawny? A mind unsettled by guilt and sorrow; spirits which have lost all relish for felicity; a blemished, if not a ruined reputation, a faded person, and an exhausted heart—exhausted of almost every sentiment but that so fatally predominant; which now forces me to blot my paper with tears, as I write this last farewel!

'Farewel! most beloved Fitz-Edward!—Ah! try if it be possible to be happy! Be assured I wish it; even tho' it be necessary for that end to drive from your memory, for ever, the lost

Adelina Trelawny.'

Emmeline, to whom this letter was sent open, could not but approve the sentiments it contained, while her heart bled for the pain it must have cost Lady Adelina, and for that which it must inflict on Fitz-Edward.

When she had dispatched a note to his lodgings, to name an early hour the next day for speaking to him, she went down into the drawing room, where a large party of company were already assembled. Emmeline, to avoid a particular conversation with Lord Delamere, which he incessantly solicited, placed herself near one of the card tables; when, at a late hour of the evening, dressed in the utmost exuberance of fashion, blazing in jewels and blooming in rouge, entered Mrs. James Crofts, followed by the two eldest of her daughters; one, drest in the character of Charlotte in the Sorrows of Werter; and the other, as Emma, the nut brown maid. Their air and manner were adapted, as they believed, to the figures of those characters as they appear in the print shops; and their excessive affectation, together with the gaudy appearance of their mama, nearly conquered the gravity of Emmeline and of many others of the company.

While Mrs. Crofts paid her compliments to Lady Westhaven and Emmeline, and gave herself all those airs which she believed put her upon an equality with the circle she was in, the two Misses anxiously watched the impression which they concluded their charms must make on the gentlemen present. Their mama had told them that most likely all of them were Lords, or Lords sons at least; and the girls were not without hopes, that among them there might be some of that species of men of quality, whom modern novelists describe as being in the habit of carrying forcibly away, beautiful young creatures, with whom perchance they become enamoured, and marrying them in despite of all opposition. They longed above all things to meet with such adventures, and to be carried off by a Lord, or a Baronet at least; whose letters afterwards, to some dear Charles or Harry, could not fail to edify the world. After Mrs. Crofts had displayed her dress, and convinced the company of her being quite in a good style of life; and when her daughters had committed hostilities for near an hour upon the hearts of the gentlemen, they sailed out in the same state as they entered; nor could all Emmeline's good humour prevent her smiling at the satyrical remarks made on them by some of the company; nothing more strongly exciting the ridicule and contempt of people of real fashion than awkward and impotent efforts to imitate them.

The next day, Fitz-Edward attended at the hour Emmeline appointed, and received from her the letter of Lady Adelina, with a degree of anguish which gave great pain to Emmeline and Godolphin. Still, however, he was not quite deprived of hope; but flattered himself that the persuasions of her sister, Lady Clancarryl (who was now every day expected, with her husband and family, to pass the rest of the winter in London) added to those of Lord Westhaven, and the good offices of Emmeline, would together prevail on Lady Adelina to alter a resolution which rendered them both wretched.

Some weeks, however, passed, and she still adhered to it; while the melancholy conversation which Emmeline frequently had with Fitz-Edward, and the importunity and unhappiness of Delamere, deprived her of much of that tranquillity she might otherwise have enjoyed; particularly after the recovery of Lady Westhaven (who presented her Lord with a son), and the arrival of Mrs. Stafford and her family from France.

Lord Westhaven, who held a promise particularly sacred when made to the unfortunate, had procured for Mr. Stafford a lucrative employment in the West Indies. Thither he immediately went; and his wife, whose spirits and health were greatly hurt, was happy to accept the offer Emmeline made her of going down with her children to Mowbray Castle. The Marquis of Montreville had presented his niece with the furniture he had sent thither, being in truth ashamed to charge it; there was therefore every thing necessary; and there Emmeline intended Mrs. Stafford should reside 'till she should be established in some residence agreeable to her; which she intended to fix if possible near her own; and she now felt all the advantages of that fortune, which enabled her to repay the obligations she owed to her earliest friend.