FIRST LOVE.
A NOVEL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:
SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET.
1830.

FIRST LOVE.

CHAPTER I.

“I love thee not.”

We left our party concluding breakfast on the morning after the masquerade. The ladies shortly after repaired to the great room, whither they were soon followed by some of the gentlemen, among others the Marquis of H. The scene afforded a striking contrast to that of the evening before: Sir Archibald’s mysterious death, together with the atrocious attempt on the life of Captain Montgomery, seemed to have given a shock to the gay spirits of all. Those who spoke at all, spoke almost in whispers, their themes murders, mysteries, and sudden deaths.

Mr. Graham, reclining on a chaise longue, was very nearly asleep, and Lady Morven was already yawning. Julia happened to enter the green-house, and was immediately followed thither by the Marquis. Wise looks were interchanged by the rest of the company. Half an hour, an hour, nay, a quarter more elapsed, but neither Julia nor the Marquis re-appeared. At length Frances entered the green-house. Lo, the birds had flown! Julia was found in her own room writing to her grandmamma.

But the Marquis’s seat at the dinner table was vacant. The servants could give no account of his lordship; but, that he had left the castle on horse-back some hours since. Julia was observed to colour a little, when the Marquis’s absence was noticed.

Lord Fitz-Ullin was again at sea; and our hero had again sailed with him. A new harvest of glory was being reaped by both. Almost every column of every newspaper was filled with the movements of the fleet under the command of Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin; and in every account did the name of Captain Montgomery stand pre-eminent in the ranks of glory. No wonder then if that name often fixed the eye of Julia.

Indeed, the moment she took up a paper, it was the first word she saw! It seemed written in talismanic characters! It stood out from the page, and offered itself to her view, ere, at least, she was conscious of having sought for it. Yet there were those (and among them Lord Arandale,) who suspected that Henry was the object of her thoughts, when her face and neck became suffused with blushes on her being found with a newspaper in her hand.

At length, Lord Fitz-Ullin lost his life in the achievement of one of the most brilliant of his victories. The whole nation mourned in the midst of triumph!

The papers in which, so lately, the heart-stirring deeds of the living hero followed each other in rapid succession, were now, with a mournful sameness, as chilling to the excited imagination as the still scene they represented, filled, from end to end, with the solemn lying in state of the unconscious corse, the funeral lighting of the chamber of death, the silent mourners, who watched with the dead night and day, the sombre splendours of the body’s last receptacle. The numerous banners waving their shattered remnants over it; the noiseless steps of the spectators, as they approached, gazed, and passed, treading a flooring that returned no echo to their footfalls; the firing of minute guns by the forts, the lowering of their colours half mast high, by all the vessels at the Nore, and in the harbour; the muffled peal of the bells; in short, every demonstration of what was the feeling of all, in which a nation could unite its myriad tongues in one voice of woe.

In addition to the numerous attendance, professional and official, which was almost a matter of course, the mortal remains of the hero were to be followed to the grave by many of the princes of the blood, and all the principal nobility of the kingdom. Among the latter, Lord Arandale intended to take his place; and Mrs. Montgomery consented, by letter, to her grand-daughters accompanying their aunt and uncle to town on the occasion.

CHAPTER II.

… “Britain,

Well named Great! Mistress of the seas, arb’tress

Of the earth; dread of the oppressor, refuge

Of th’ oppressed; bulwark of liberty, hav’n

Of hope, standard of justice.”——

“The forms of thy sons, in sculptured story,

Shall to distant times appear, triumph’s wreaths

Their brows entwining.”——

Our party completed their journey to town late the day before the internment was to take place. Arrangements previously made by Lord Arandale, had secured for them places in the cathedral. The pomps attendant on the funerals of officers of Lord Fitz-Ullin’s rank, being too well known to require description, we shall only slightly remark the impressions made on the mind of our heroine, who, for Edmund’s sake, was more than commonly interested in the solemn scene.

The procession having entered, the service commenced; the effect of the sublime parts of which, on the feelings of Julia, were such, together with the all-pervading grandeur of the music; the slow, but constant movement of the passing figures; and the still solemnity of all things else, that, yielding to the one absorbing sense of admiring awe, she seemed wrapped in a species of trance, while, from time to time, a single voice in the choir, separating itself from among the body of sound, would reach her ear, pronouncing, with peculiar distinctness, some impressive sentence.

Pious enthusiasm stole over her heart, as, with thrilling sweetness, a youthful voice sang, “And now, Lord, what is my hope? truly my hope is even in thee!” Again, when the voice proclaimed, “Man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain!” how contemptible seemed the struggles of worldly ambition for the precedence of an hour! And now the voice pronounced, “In the midst of life, we are in death!” And poor Julia thought of Edmund, and of the dangers of the sea; and her heart died within her. It so happened that the countenances most immediately in the view of our heroine, were those of a number of the oldest naval officers, who were of course, in general, the oldest men, as the grey hair, thinly scattered on the brow of many told.

At the moment Julia first remarked this, voices in the choir were singing the verse, “Though men be so strong that they come to fourscore years, yet is their strength but labour and sorrow, so soon passeth it away, and we are gone.” No eye wandered, no limb was restless, while the very stillness of each motionless figure possessed expression. It was not repose; it was not listlessness; it was the fixedness of serious attention.

Many of the countenances bore the traces, not of age only, but also of hardships. Hardships endured. Wherefore? To render home a sanctuary! A sanctuary to infirmity, to infancy, to those of her own sex, to all, in short, who were unable to defend themselves! Julia’s enthusiasm arose: How beautifying, she thought, is every furrow so produced.

She pictured to herself each individual now so quiescent in form; so still in feature; on the deck of his floating citadel, surmounting a tempest, or conquering an enemy.

Midnight, winter, every adventitious circumstance, crowded on her poetic imagining, of what though she had never seen, yet she had so often studied in description, that, of all subjects, it was the one most familiar to her fancy. Ship after ship arose before her mind’s eye; till, gradually, they formed themselves into an invincible bulwark around our happy isles, establishing them the throne of peace; while wild warfare desolated the outer world! “Yes,” thought Julia, “even our foes find refuge here, when oppression hunts them from their homes!” And her heart swelled with pride, that she was the native of such a land! The gradations of rank faded before this grand distinction; to be a Briton, seemed exaltation sufficient! She paused a moment—“How proud a thing then to be one of those who have made Britain what she is,” whispered a small voice within the heart of Julia. At the moment her eye was fixed in a certain direction, by the moving a little forward of a figure, hitherto intercepted by an opposite pillar—it was Edmund! Her heart ceased beating, fluttered, ceased again, then beat so rapidly as to impede her breathing.

Edmund leaned against the pillar, and seemed listening attentively to the music; he had not yet perceived Julia. Her eyes dwelt on the serious and mournful expression of his noble features, with feelings, where tenderness seemed to excuse admiration, and admiration to justify tenderness. His head turned, in a degree scarcely perceptible. Their eyes met: a sudden glow covered the face of Edmund, and faded instantly; a look passed, understood by both to be one of recognition, tho’ expressed only by the standing still of the eye. The time, the circumstances, were too solemn for more. A voice in the choir pronouncing, “Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts,” seemed to Julia a reproach, for the mingling of earthly feelings, which had already found a place in her bosom.

During the performance of the service, evening approached, and lights became necessary. The coffin had been placed on a platform in the centre of the church; the canopy had been removed, the pall taken off; the solemn scene, situated thus, immediately beneath the principal source of light, while all things else remained in comparative obscurity, had an effect, imposing in the highest degree. The numerous assembly of spectators, imperfectly seen,—the occasional gleaming of the arms and accoutrements of the soldiers,—the shadowy perspective of the aisles,—all became tributary circumstances, lending additional impressiveness to the principal object.

There was at this time a total silence throughout the church. After some moments, the voice of the officiating clergyman was heard, singly, and solemnly, pronouncing the concluding sentences. And now, the words, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” fell on the senses with that chill, that shuddering, involuntary sympathy with the unconscious tenant of the grave, which instinct grants, while reason would withhold. The startling sounds from without, of the discharge, by signal, of artillery, were heard at the moment, and Julia was aroused from meditation on the sleep of the grave, by the awful thought of the last trumpet awaking the dead to judgment.

When the firing ceased, the leading voice of the choir again arose, and floating over the solemn scene like some invisible dweller in its hallowed light, sang the inspired and inspiring words, “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord! even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labours.”

The organ pealed, and now a voice more solemn than the last, sang, or rather seemed to say, “His body is buried in peace!” An hundred voices at once broke forth in reply, triumphantly proclaiming, “But his name liveth evermore! his name liveth evermore!”

CHAPTER III.

“My heart is not of yon rock, nor my soul

Careless as that sea, that lifts its wide waves

To every wind! If Fingall return not,

The grave shall hold Comala!”

As Lord Arandale’s carriage returned that evening from the cathedral to Hanover-square, it was overtaken by a chariot and four, driving at the utmost speed that could be attempted in the streets of London. Some communication passed between the servants, and both equipages drew up. It being lamp light only, and Lady Arandale’s shoulder and hat, while her Ladyship shook hands with, and spoke to some invisible inmate of the other carriage, effectually blocking up the window on that side, Julia could not see any thing; but she heard the voice of Arthur, crying, “Good bye! Good bye!” And that Of Lady Arandale saying, “But shall we not see you? Shall we not see you?”

The carriage, then, must be our hero’s, and he must, by a look or shake of the head, have implied a negative; for Lady Arandale spoke again, saying, “Oh, I am sorry for that! Farewell, then! farewell! You’re a good lad: Heaven bless you! Good bye, Arthur, my dear,” she added, in a more careless tone. A hand, meanwhile, was stretched past Lady Arandale to offer the farewell grasp to those within the carriage. Julia gave hers when it came to her turn; and certainly, whether the invisible person was aware whose it was or not, it was held longer, and with a tenderer pressure than any other. The moment after it had been released, she at last heard the well-known voice of Edmund, though scarcely audible from suppressed emotion: it said only, “Go on.” And immediately the chariot drove away.

There was surely nothing affecting or tender in those two little words; yet, they smote on the heart of Julia like an electric shock. They were, at once, the first she had heard from Edmund’s lips for many weeks, and the signal for his present departure, it might be for years, it might be for ever!

The long-cherished feelings of tender affection for the dear speaker, vibrated to the tones of that loved voice; and long after they had passed away, did they seem to linger on the sense of hearing, like the faint notes of receding music: How often had those very tones been heard addressed to herself, and saying the kindest things! Her eyes overflowed with irrepressible tears. She could have envied, at the moment, the very postillions. Yet it could not have been because those words had been addressed to them; perhaps it was, because they were going with Edmund. He must, she knew, be hastening to join his ship. He was hastening, then, to danger, possibly to death—for when we have just witnessed any impressive instance of mortality, how fragile, how precarious, seems the hold on life, of those whose lives are precious to us!

As Julia leaned back in the farther corner of the carriage, and, sheltered by the darkness, indulged in continued weeping, she thought of the devotion of Marmion’s page with an admiration and a sympathy she had never felt before: not that she meditated following that page’s example.

When Lord Arandale joined the family party at their very late dinner, he told them that Captain Montgomery had mentioned to him his having made an attempt to see them that morning, knowing that after the funeral he should not have one moment at his own disposal; but that, not being aware that they would go to the cathedral so early, he had missed them. Captain Montgomery had also explained to him (his Lordship said) that his young friend Ormond (now Fitz-Ullin) was so overwhelmed by grief for the sudden loss of his father, that he was quite unfit for any exertion (he was, in fact, so ill as to be confined to his bed); and that he had, therefore, particularly requested that Captain Montgomery would, during the solemnization of the funeral, represent him, by taking throughout the various parts of the public ceremonials, the place which properly belonged to the son of the late Earl. Captain Montgomery had not, consequently, been able to command a moment of his own time, while in town; and the necessity for joining the fleet with the utmost speed, was such, that a chariot and four had been in waiting for him at one of the doors of the cathedral, during all the latter part of the service.

CHAPTER IV.

“If this heart must break, why delay the stroke?

Rend at once the veiling cloud; no phantom

Of the future, can surpass the wildness

Of Comala’s fears.”

“In vain I close mine eyes, through their sealed lids,

I see his blood!”

The sisters had returned to Lodore, and passed some quiet months in its peaceful seclusion, when one morning Mrs. Montgomery, handing an open letter to her grand-daughter across the breakfast-table, said, “It is from your father: we may expect to see him every day.”

Both daughters expressed pleasure and surprise; but Frances’s hand was the first extended. Julia had opened a newspaper. Her eye was glancing over its columns, and had just encountered the words, “Euphrasia frigate, Captain Montgomery.” Lord L.’s letter was read, and discussed; and during the moments of suspense thus occasioned, Julia felt her trepidation increase to a degree that warned her how little she could trust herself to peruse a paragraph containing such magical words before witnesses. She, therefore, stole from the room, carrying the paper with her. Julia was not at first missed. But when a considerable time had elapsed without her being seen, and that Mr. Jackson, who came in shortly, began to inquire for the newspaper; Frances, not without feelings of alarm, which had something very near the truth for their object, sought her sister. The door was locked. Frances called softly on Julia’s name. There was no reply! She called louder still. All continued silent within! She made hasty and repeated efforts to gain admittance. At length, in accents of terror, she alarmed the house. The door was forced open, and Julia found insensible on the floor, with the newspaper lying beside her.

The paragraph she had evidently been reading, ran as follows:—

“A report has just reached us from the fleet off * * * *, that the Hurricane, Lord Fitz-Ullin; and the Euphrasia, Captain Montgomery; being detached from the squadron, fell in with a number of armed vessels of the enemy. That, the result was, as usual, brilliant; but, we regret to add, that the glory obtained on this occasion, has been dearly purchased; the gallant Captain Montgomery having lost his life in the engagement. The private letter, from which our account is taken, states distinctly, that a cannon ball was seen to sweep him from the deck of his ship, at the very moment when the last of the French vessels lowered her colours. In our next, we shall be able to give the public, a detailed and official account of this affair.”

That evening, a few hurried lines arrived from Henry, written on board the tender of the Euphrasia, of which he had the command, and which was conveying the same intelligence to the fleet. They confirmed the newspaper report of Edmund’s death by a cannon-ball, at the moment when the last of the enemy’s ships struck her colours. He had been standing for some time, in a very conspicuous situation; and Henry had seen the ball sweep him from the spot! Henry wrote in this haste, he said, that his aunt might not see it first in the papers. With great affectation of consideration, he requested Julia, (to whom the letter was addressed,) to take her own opportunity of breaking it properly to her grandmother; and then went on to observe, (by way of consolation,) that Edmund could not have suffered much, as he was shattered into a thousand atoms in less than two seconds!! Indeed, must have been, from the amazing height, that he, Henry, had himself seen the ball fling him into the air. Henry had been, at the time, he added, alongside in the Tender, waiting, as he had said, to convey the account of the capture of the enemy to the fleet. He had been so near, therefore, that he had seen the whole transaction, as distinctly as if he had been on board the Euphrasia.

The same post brought a supplement to the paper of the morning, giving a detailed account of the engagement, and of the manner of Captain Montgomery’s death.

Of course, neither letter nor paper were mentioned to Julia.

While Mr. Jackson is opening the newspaper, and putting on his spectacles, to read it aloud to Mrs. Montgomery and Frances, in an adjoining room, and Mrs. Smyth sits at Julia’s bedside, we shall lay before our readers the circumstances, or rather private feelings, which probably led to the present rash, though brilliant affair.

At the time of Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin’s death, Edmund had found the task of consoling his young friend Ormond (now Fitz-Ullin) difficult indeed. Not only was the grief of Fitz-Ullin overwhelming, but his self-reproaches were heart-rending. “He had never,” he vehemently exclaimed, “been what his father wished him to be!” He had disappointed all the hopes of the kindest, the best, the most indulgent of parents! That parent had died without the consolation of leaving behind him a son worthy of perpetuating his glorious name. How could he be careless of the wishes of such a parent! Yet he had always intended to exert himself, and become all that his father could wish; and now—now he could never do so. Edmund should have been his son: Edmund of whom he would have been so proud! Our hero, after trying calmer and more religious consolations in vain, endeavoured to arouse his friend by suggesting, that the most acceptable offering he could make to the memory of his father, was to strike at once into the brilliant path his father had quitted. Fitz-Ullin’s spirit, gentle and indolent as it was in general, in its present state of excitation, took fire at the thought; but, alas! he had neither talent nor steadiness to sustain him in the high resolves which such feelings suggested. The insufficient impulse carried him into the midst of daring undertakings, and there left him, astounded at his own boldness, and pausing whether he should proceed or return. Thus, dangers were incurred, and yet, results not reached.

The business now before the public, and which took place a few months after Fitz-Ullin’s going to sea in the same fleet with Edmund, affords a striking illustration of the fatal consequences of adventitious excitement, thus operating on a naturally weak character. The particulars were now read by Mr. Jackson; the sum of them was as follows:

The Hurricane, a large frigate, commanded by Lord Fitz-Ullin, being detached from the fleet off * * * *, was cruising along the coast. It was after midnight, and excessively dark, when the signals of enemies’ ships were seen in shore; but of what description the vessels were, or in what numbers, could not be even guessed. At length, the first breaking of dawn beginning to render objects a little more definable, they perceived the enemy consisted of no less a number than seven large, armed vessels.

“The young Earl, who seems,” said the papers, “to inherit the high daring of his noble father,” gave immediate orders to clear for action. In the mean time, he bore down upon the enemy, and took up, unfortunately, a far from favourable position. It was one, however, in which he could bring a broadside to bear on some of the French vessels. In endeavouring to get the Hurricane into a better chosen situation, Fitz-Ullin, from the ignorance consequent on his former neglect of the service, committed so many blunders, that by the time she was anchored, it was found that she had actually got her stern to the enemy in such a position, that for some time she was exposed to their fire, while but one of her guns could bear on them.

Fitz-Ullin suddenly walked up to the officer of the marines, who was overseeing his men, as they manned the guns of the quarter-deck: “Why, you are doing nothing here, Sir,” he exclaimed.

“Nothing can be done, my Lord,” said the officer, “while the ship remains in this position.”

Fitz-Ullin turned away without reply; but, a moment after, ordered the cable to be cut, and stood out to sea. The enemy, who lay close under the protection of some of their own batteries on the shore, continued stationary.

Fitz-Ullin dispatched a cutter to the squadron, desiring that the aid of a frigate might be sent him, to capture some ships of the enemy: but without mentioning their number, or the batteries by which they were protected. To his public demand he added a private letter, requesting that the vessel sent might be the Euphrasia, Captain Montgomery. The Admiral, an old friend of his father’s, issued orders accordingly.

Fitz-Ullin, when he saw the frigate coming towards him, under a press of sail, and remembered that she was commanded by the steady friend, to whose talents he so much looked up, felt his spirit strengthened, and sent an officer on board, requesting, that as he had first descried the enemy, his ship might be permitted to move foremost to the attack. This was granted, of course, and he led in, in great style, the Euphrasia following. When, suddenly, and to the utter astonishment of all, Fitz-Ullin called out, “Man the cluelines! Shorten sail!” The order being obeyed, the Euphrasia, of course, passed them, envied by every officer, aye, and every sailor too, on board the Hurricane: and no wonder, for at the moment it was really a magnificent sight, to behold her advancing boldly in the very front of peril on seven of the enemy, supported by batteries on shore, now opening their fire. But in consequence of the late shifting of a sand-bank, of which the pilots were not aware, the Euphrasia, while still rapidly advancing, unfortunately ran aground; and thus rooted, as it were, to one spot, became the very target at which every gun from ship or battery was instantly levelled.

Fitz-Ullin, whose wavering mind seized on the one idea of the danger he saw the leading vessel in the very act of incurring, called, “Let go the anchor!”

“Not here, for heaven’s sake!” cried the first lieutenant, running up to him, and pointing to the enemy’s ships on one side, and the Euphrasia on the other; thus indicating that their own vessel must, in her actual situation, receive the fire of both, and prevent that of their consort reaching the enemy. While this was passing, the sailors at the anchor involuntarily suspended their hands for a moment, during which, the vessel, as she was moving with some velocity through the water, shot a few lengths further ahead. The command, “Let go the anchor,” was reiterated by Fitz-Ullin. The anchor now fell, and fixed them in a position which, though less dreadful than that they had just passed, was still one of more peril, and less efficiency, than might have been chosen. Such as it was, however, it was bravely maintained; for not even the contradictory orders of this, unhappily, so ill-qualified commander, could, once fighting commenced, keep British officers and British sailors from doing their duty.

The Euphrasia, in her terrible, but fortunately, very effective situation, was behaving most gallantly. She was the central object, necessarily alone, and involved in a cloud of smoke, through which the silent flashes of her guns were still seen, preceding by an awful second the loud thunders of destruction, issuing peal after peal from both her sides.

Fitz-Ullin, as the wreaths of smoke from time to time blew aside on her deck, could discern the figure of Edmund, now here, now there, busily engaged, encouraging and directing his men in all quarters.

Gun after gun, from the batteries was silenced; ship after ship, of the enemy struck; and the contest seemed nearly concluded. The Euphrasia was at length seen to pour a formidable broadside into the last remaining vessel which still displayed French colours. The fire was not answered.

Fitz-Ullin kept his eyes anxiously fixed on the moving wreaths of smoke, in which the frigate’s own guns had now again enveloped her. When these began to disperse a little, he beheld, emerging from the white vapour, at an unusual elevation, the figure of his friend; at first but faintly seen, afterwards more distinctly, but still, for some seconds, itself the only palpable object. Gradually it became evident, that Edmund stood out on one of the flukes of the anchor, now partly visible, and which was made fast to the bows. He seemed endeavouring to look through the thickened atmosphere towards the enemy’s colours, as if to ascertain whether they were about to be lowered, ere he should again fire. The enemy were also partly shrouded; but her rigging and masts appeared, and shortly her colours were seen descending. At the same moment, the last gun, which was still effective, fired from the batteries.

Fitz-Ullin saw the ball enter the cloud of smoke, and, a second after, carry with it the form of Edmund! He could actually descry his friend’s feet lifted from the spot whereon they had stood. He clasped his hands over his eyes, but too late—the fearful sight had been seen—it continued to float before their closed vision. He groaned with agony of mind. When he again looked, the deck of the Euphrasia, from which the smoke was fast clearing, had become a scene of evident hustle and confusion.

He saw, with breathless impatience, every moving figure collecting to a central point. He called for his boat four or five times in one minute. It came—he leaped into it—it remained without motion, for no order had been given. He pointed to the frigate, and his men pulled towards her.

While crossing the open space between the ships, the Euphrasia’s Tender passed them. A person on its deck, in a loud and distinct voice, said, “Captain Montgomery is killed!”

Fitz-Ullin shuddered. His nerves recoiled from the sounds. He had himself seen his friend fall; yet the admission of the fact through the medium of a new sense, seemed capable of inflicting a new pang.

CHAPTER V.

“Who named the King of Morven?—Alas, he lies

In his blood on Lena:—Why did they tell me

That he fell? I might have hoped, a little

While, his return—I might have thought I saw him

On the far heath—A tree might have deceived me

For his form—The wind of the hill sounded

As his shield in mine ear.”

The grief of all at Lodore was so great, that Julia’s overwhelming share of it did not cause any suspicion as to the nature of her sentiments. The feeling of every one, down to the lowest servant in the house, was the same, as if Edmund had really been the son or grandson of Mrs. Montgomery. Every one’s heart was full, no one had time to be sagacious.

Frances alone, though without any formal confidence, had for some time understood the secret of her sister’s heart. As soon, therefore, as Mr. Jackson had gone, and Mrs. Montgomery retired, she dismissed all attendants, and through a long and dreadful night continued to whisper to an ear, which yet seemed not to hear: “The account is not official, Julia, and Mr. Jackson does not believe it. Julia! Julia! Mr. Jackson does not believe it.” This, however, was a sort of pious fraud; for Frances, who had seen Henry’s letter, and the supplement to the paper, had herself no such hope, as her words were meant to inspire. Julia did not speak in reply; but, from time to time, by a scarcely perceptible pressure of her sister’s hand, she showed there was a consciousness of the kindly efforts to offer comfort. After the lapse of some hours spent thus, she betrayed, by a slight movement, that she was watching for the day-light. As soon as it dawned, she quietly and silently left her bed. Frances, without asking any questions, folded a wrapper carefully round her sister. Julia seated herself, and became again motionless. Frances knelt beside her, put her arms about her, and watched her countenance. For a long time all was still; nothing was heard but Julia’s heavy sighs, following each other at regular intervals, and the gentle, and but occasional soothings of Frances’ voice.

At length the servants began to move about. At each slightest noise, Julia started, listened, and the throbbing of her heart became audible, increased till it shook her frame, and then, as the sounds that had caused it, died away, subsided gradually, till a footstep, or an opening door, being again heard; it would again leap up, and run on with a tumultuous rapidity that scarcely left her power to breathe. This fearful state lasted some hours, when, at length, the postman’s well known knock on a door already open, was heard. Julia had disappeared before Frances had time to comprehend the nature of the sudden movement with which she had started from her seat. Frances followed, and found her in the hall, endeavouring, with fingers as powerless as those of a new born babe, to open a letter. Frances assisted to break the seal. It was from Edmund himself, addressed to Mrs. Montgomery. He was alive! He was well! When Julia, by Frances’s good management and a few hours passed quietly in her own apartment, was enabled to assume something like self command, the joyful tidings were spread throughout the house. The letter, and a paper which came by the same post, were then read with eager delight by all.

Edmund, in his letter, expressed a hope of seeing them soon, if it were but for an hour; and much kind solicitude respecting their feelings, should the false report of his death reach them before this precautionary epistle. The sum of the contents of the paper, which accompanied this letter, was as follows:—

The last statement, it may be remembered, left Fitz-Ullin crossing the space between the two ships. While getting on board the Euphrasia he beheld the figure of an officer, who was busily engaged on the quarter deck, and whose proportions and air instantly riveted his whole attention. The officer turned round; the countenance was Edmund’s. He was giving hasty orders for taking advantage of the tide, which was now beginning to flow. Occasionally he passed his hand across his forehead, or held it a moment before his eyes, while his officers were collected round him, earnestly recommending a few moments repose.

“I am quite well now,” he replied, “if we do not get her off this tide she will go to pieces before the next. When there is time to think of it, I shall lose a little blood,” he added, in answer to a strong remonstrance from the surgeon.

Fitz-Ullin, at the moment, rushed through the circle into the arms of his friend.

“The exertions of Captain Montgomery,” continued the paper, “to get his ship afloat, were ably seconded by Lord Fitz-Ullin and the officers and crews of both vessels, and finally crowned with success.”

After which, the next object became to secure the numerous captures made in the course of that brilliant day. This was effected with much labour, by literally towing them out from under their own silenced batteries.

And when, at length, the two detached ships were seen returning from their victorious expedition, and approaching the fleet with their little squadron of prizes in tow, the hearty and general cheering with which they were received was such as baffles all description; still less would it be possible to convey any adequate idea of the enthusiasm with which that cheering was doubled and redoubled, when Captain Montgomery, who, from the accounts brought to the fleet by the cutter, was believed to have fallen, was discerned standing on his quarter deck, waving his hat, and bowing, in return for the congratulations of all.

On joining the fleet, our hero learnt, for the first time, the report which had prevailed of his death, and that it had been carried to England. In consequence, he dispatched the letter to Mrs. Montgomery, which we have seen Julia and Frances, as soon as they perceived Edmund’s writing on the cover, so unceremoniously tearing open.

The paper, as might be expected, expatiated at great length on the gratified feelings with which they found themselves enabled to contradict the report of Captain Montgomery’s death. The subject, in short, engrossed every column of every public print of the day. There was scarcely room for an advertisement! Wherever you cast your eye, Captain Montgomery, in large letters, appeared before you. Every figure of newspaper rhetoric was set forth: the pathetic, the heroic, the sublime, but above all, the triumphant.

CHAPTER VI.

“… It is the noble brow

Of Fingall; the kindly look of his eyes.

It is not now a shadow which deludes

My sight.—These are his hands.—I feel their warm

Pressure.”

“Has the bright tear of joy no welcome told?”

Julia, supported and advised by Frances, made great exertions to seem to partake, with a natural share of interest, in the general joy, without betraying her own peculiar emotions.

In the evening, for the sake of appearances, she ventured to leave her room. She had just taken her place at the tea-table, when a hasty step was heard without.

The door flew open, and Edmund entered! Mrs. Montgomery threw over her footstool and little table, and dropped her spectacles, in hastening to meet him. She clasped him to her heart and wept! Frances, without one thought of reserve, flew into his arms, and clung round his neck, as she was wont to do when a child, exclaiming, “Dear, dear Edmund, you are safe!” And Julia trembled and turned pale, as, emboldened by the reception her sister had given him, yet colouring excessively, he approached and folded her also for one moment to his breast; for by an effort she had risen, and stood upright before her chair, though literally unable to move from it. She sunk on her seat again, but kindly smiled as she looked up through tears of joy, and Edmund still retaining her hand, she returned the pressure of his, more than once, as a sort of apology, each time, for her utter failure in an attempt to speak.

“And were you not even wounded, my dear boy?” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“Nothing more than slight contusions, ma’am,” he replied; “the ball struck one fluke of the anchor, and the shock which I experienced, as I stood on the other, was more like electricity than any thing else.”

“But tell me how you came to stand on the anchor?” asked Mrs. Montgomery, “I could not comprehend one half of what the papers said about it.”

“I thought the anchor was always in the bottom of the sea!” said Frances.

“Why,” replied Edmund, to Mrs. Montgomery, after answering Frances’ interruption with an amused smile, “the enemy had ceased firing, so that I thought it probable they were about to strike; and, in that case, you know, it would not have been desirable to have fired into them again, as we might have sacrificed lives unnecessarily, so that I merely ran forward to the forecastle, and jumped from thence on the fluke of the anchor, which was made fast to the bows, and where I stood waiting for the dispersion of the smoke of our own guns, to ascertain the point, of whether the last of the enemy had hauled down her colours or not.”

“Why, my dear, you are as bad as the papers!” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I hardly know what you are talking about!” Edmund laughed, and declared he did not know how to explain himself more clearly. He tried, however, practical methods; cups, saucers, snuffer-stand, sugar-tongs, &c., were all put in requisition. At length, by means of the latter implement, the ladies were made to comprehend, that when the ball struck one fluke of the anchor, the shock was communicated to our hero as he stood on the other.

Here he made his meaning still more obvious, by causing the bit of biscuit, which, perched on one end of the sugar-tongs, had hitherto personated himself, to spring off with a sudden jerk. It flew—where?—in Julia’s face! and thence fell on her bosom, where it concealed itself behind the neatly plaited cambrick tucker, of a certain snowy inner garment of fine linen, and became the companion of a small gold heart containing otto of rose, and appended to a thread-like gold chain, which, any one who cared to notice such trifles might observe, Julia never went without.

This chain, if truth must be told, was, in fact, one of Edmund’s boyish keepsakes; when, out of the first prize money he ever received, he brought one home to each of his little sisters. It would be a sad betraying of secrets, however, to mention how often, on subsequent returns, the course of that small shining line had been traced by the adventurous eyes of our hero, till its further wanderings were lost to view; or, how often, latterly, its trembling movement, had betrayed to his eye only, the sigh which was inaudible to all, and to all but Edmund imperceptible.

But to return, our hero made a thousand apologies for the first piece of impertinence committed by his representative. Whether its further intrusion had been observed by any one but Julia herself, we are not aware. But what will sensible people say, when we confess that our heroine actually preserved this strange likeness of a lover, and even took a sly opportunity of slipping it into the interior of the said golden heart.

“And you may judge,” continued Edmund, when, after concluding reiterated apologies, he resumed his account of himself, “you may judge what force there must have been in the impetus given by the shock I received, when it flung me in on the forecastle, to all appearance lifeless.”

“And how long did you remain insensible?” asked Mrs. Montgomery, taking his hand kindly, and looking in his face, with the greatest anxiety.

“I was myself again in a few minutes,” he replied, “it was the people on the forecastle, who, when they saw me actually lifted from among them, and borne through the air over their heads, very naturally supposed I had been shot away, the same mistake it seems was made by the crew of our Tender, which was at the time under orders to sail for the fleet, with intelligence of the capture of the enemy’s ships, as soon as the last should be seen to strike. But I really had not time to recollect the possibility of such an occurrence, there was so much promptitude and exertion necessary from the moment I was again on my feet, in getting the ship afloat during the flood tide.”

“You must have had a great superiority of numbers to contend with;” said Mrs. Montgomery, “the public prints describe your prizes as forming quite a little squadron in themselves, as you led them towards the fleet.”

“How much better those cakes are than our sea biscuits,” said Edmund, offering the plate to both the sisters. “It was rather a rash business!” he added, in a grave tone, turning again to Mrs. Montgomery. Then, with an effort at gaiety, he continued, “such as it was, however, I owe to it my present happiness; for had not my ship suffered so severely, as to render refitting indispensable, I should, at this moment, have been with the fleet off * * * *. Fitz-Ullin too was obliged to come into port to repair.” And Edmund here entered on the praises of his friend’s good and amiable qualities with great warmth.

He was soon, however, interrupted, by the entrance of Mr. Jackson, whom the joyful tidings of his arrival had summoned. Our hero had but one day to remain at Lodore.

CHAPTER VII.

“He hath sworn falsely.”

“How do you do? how do you do?” said Henry, as, the next evening but one, he entered the drawing room, at Lodore, and stretched two fingers to each of the party. “So you have had Edmund here, I find,” he continued.

“Only for one day, poor fellow,” replied Mrs. Montgomery.

“He told me he could stay but one day,” said Henry. “The Arandales are in town, and he wants to be as much as possible with them, while the ship is refitting. His hopes in that quarter are revived, he tells me,” he added, turning to the sisters, and looking, with malicious triumph, full in Julia’s face, till her cheeks tingled again, under his continued stare.

“You might have looked for a more affectionate salutation from your aunt, I think, Henry,” observed Mrs. Montgomery reproachfully, “after having been in a dangerous engagement.”

“I thought, ma’am,” he replied, accepting her offered embrace both coldly and awkwardly, “that no one cared what became of me!”

“Don’t talk idly, my dear,” said his aunt. “But how could you, Henry,” she added, “be so inconsiderate, as to write the alarming letter you did, while there was any uncertainty?”

“There was no uncertainty on my mind at the time I wrote, ma’am. I was, as I believe I mentioned, in the Tender alongside, waiting to carry intelligence to the fleet, as soon as the last of the enemy should be seen to strike. Edmund was standing in a very conspicuous situation, just over me, (out on one of the flukes of the anchor;) when, bang! and in one moment I saw the ball coming towards him, and the next his heels lifted above his head, and his legs and arms going round in the air, like the wings of a windmill! I thought, of course, he must be blown into a thousand atoms! What else could I think?” he added, observing Julia’s involuntary shudder, with a look of gratified malice. “And I supposed,” he continued, still addressing his aunt, “that you would rather hear it from a friend, than see the first of it in the papers. So I wrote on board the Tender, and, as soon as we joined the fleet, sent my letter by the first opportunity. I think I was very considerate! We had our order to sail, you see, the moment the enemy struck; so that I had no time to hear that he was not killed.”

“I am sure, the papers, or any thing,” said Frances, “would have been better than your letter, Henry; which was worded, I think, much in the same delicate manner that you expressed yourself just now. But you never lose an opportunity of giving pain, Henry. I dare say, if the truth was known, you took quite a pleasure in writing that cruel letter, and fancying how wretched it would make us all!—For Edmund is not like you; every body loves him, poor dear fellow!”

“Candid, at least!” observed Henry, with a sneer. “But I am always fortunate in possessing Lady Frances’s good opinion. Sailors, however, have no time to be nice,” he added. “When fellows die, or are killed, (which is the same thing, you know) we throw them overboard, and if the fighting’s done, pipe to dinner! Edmund will do as much for me, or I for him, one of those days; just as it may happen. Edmund, to be sure, is likely to kick the bucket as soon as any one, for he’s cursed rash!”

Frances saw, with kindling resentment, the pain that every word was inflicting on poor Julia.

“There is nothing of your strange jargon comprehensible,” she said, “but such expressions as are calculated to wound the feelings; those, as usual, are obvious enough.”

“If young ladies choose to volunteer their feelings for every fellow in His Majesty’s service,” retorted Henry, “they’ll have something to do now-a-days. There’s many a better man than Edmund, and that would be a greater loss to his friends too, that will feed the fishes yet before the war is over, I can tell you!” “It’s capital fun,” he added, glancing at Julia, “to see a villain of a shark, after he has followed the ship the length of a day, just make two bites of a fellow!”

“Strange notions of fun, you have, Henry,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“How should you like it to happen to yourself, Henry?” asked Frances.

“Not at all, I thank you,” he replied. “But just fancy Edmund between the rascal’s teeth, snipping him in two at the small of the waist!”

“You should not speak in that manner, Henry,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“Speaking don’t make it more likely to happen, ma’am,” he replied; “more unlikely things have happened, tho’! What do you say to a wager, Frances, eh? What will you bet, I say, that a hungry shark, don’t make a dinner of Edmund, the very next time he goes to sea?”

“Fie! fie! Henry,” interrupted Mrs. Montgomery; “this is a subject on which we have all felt seriously, too lately, to be disposed to jest upon it at present.”

“It’s not quite such a jest neither,” he answered, sulkily. “If the ball had hit him, instead of the fluke of the anchor, (as it might just as easily have done,) I maintain it, there would not have been two inches square of him left in any one piece! And what’s to prevent the next ball, I should be glad to know, from hitting him, or me, or any other fellow that goes in the way of it! People must prepare their fine feelings for such things,” he continued, looking after Julia as she was leaving the room. “He has been devilish lucky, I think, to get on as he has done, and make so much money too, without getting knocked on the head long ago! But his turn will come next, I dare say,” he added in great haste, lest Julia should reach the door before it was said.

“It cannot be at all necessary to your professional character, Henry, to be either unfeeling, or inelegant,” observed Mrs. Montgomery. “What can be more the opposite of both, than Edmund; and you will allow, I believe, that he is a good sailor.”

“Yes,” said Frances, “he is certainly an instance, that to be a brave officer it is not necessary to be a sea-monster! And I really do not perceive what right those have to be the latter, who cannot even offer in their apology that they are the former.” And she followed her sister with tears of vexation in her eyes.

“You should not, my dear,” said Mrs. Montgomery, as soon as the door closed after Frances, “address such expressions to your cousins, as that—‘young ladies need not volunteer their feelings to every fellow in His Majesty’s service!’ and such language, at any rate, can never be applicable in the present instance. It would indeed be very unnatural, and unamiable too, of them, if they did not feel when Edmund was in danger.”

“If you don’t mind what you’re about, ma’am, I suspect you’ll have some natural feelings to manage that you won’t much like!”

“What do you mean, Henry?”

“I mean, ma’am, that Frances, who you see makes no secret of her adoration of Edmund, will be running off with him one of those days!”

“Oh dear, no!” said Mrs. Montgomery: “Frances’ undisguised affection is evidently that of a sister. Besides, I have the most perfect confidence in Edmund’s honour.”

“Oh, very well, ma’am,” answered Henry, carelessly. “As for Julia,” he added, “of course, I don’t like to see her too prodigal of her feelings to any one.”

“Henry!” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I now tell you, once more, what I have already often told you: If you persist in this indelicate display of your very misplaced, and, you must be aware, hopeless attachment to your cousin, I shall consider it my duty (and it must be a painful one) to forbid you my house, till the return of her father places her under his protection.”

“I don’t see why my case should be so hopeless as you say: Julia will soon be her own mistress; and if she chooses to have me, I’d be a cursed fool not to secure such a good hit! Indeed, I tell you fairly, that as soon as she is of age, if she consents to run away with me, I shall have no scruples on the subject. She has enough for us both, and has every right to please herself!”

“I have questioned Julia, and she assures me that she neither authorises your addresses, nor returns your preference.”

“Till she is her own mistress, and can end disputes at once, she has no fancy, I dare say, for being lectured every day of her life by her wise friends! However, I say nothing; time will tell!”

Here the conference ended.

CHAPTER VIII.

“Faults past through love, flavour of its sweetness.”

About a week after Edmund’s hasty visit to Lodore, the postman’s knock was heard, and no servant appearing with letters, inquiries were made. A footman replied, that Mr. St. Aubin had been passing through the hall, and had taken the letters from the man. Henry was applied to; but disappointed the hopes of all by saying, there was but one, which was for himself. “It’s from Edmund,” he added carelessly.

“And what does he say?” inquired every one, at the same moment. “An order to join, I suppose?” added Frances.

“No,” he replied.

“You are very laconic, Henry!” observed Mrs. Montgomery.

“Why, really, ma’am—I—don’t know that it is quite fair to talk of young men’s love concerns. However, my amiable cousins, I believe, know all about it; whether they have thought fit to inform you, ma’am, or not. Indeed, you saw something of it yourself. It was a foolish affair from the first: I never thought it would answer.”

“What was a foolish affair?” asked Frances.

“Oh all that fudge about your nonsuch fancying that Lady Susan Morven was to accept him, forsooth, because some people have blown him up with conceit and impertinence, by choosing to make fools of themselves about him. But it seems she is married to the Marquis of H⸺, and Edmund, of course, is in great despair about it—that’s all!”

“I cannot believe that he ever loved Lady Susan!” said Frances.

“I have only his own word, and his own hand-writing for it,” replied Henry.

“Will you shew me the letter?” asked Frances.

“Why, do you doubt what I assert?” said Henry, angrily, and at the same time putting his hand in his pocket, to feign an intention of shewing a letter he had never received. There was one in his pocket, however, which he would have been very sorry to have shewn.

“I like the evidence of my own senses best,” replied Frances, holding out her hand.

“On second thoughts,” said Henry, “I shall not shew the letter. Indeed, I don’t think it would be honourable in me to do so. By the bye,” he added, “I took a couple of papers from the man at the same time. I forgot them, I believe, on the writing-table in the library. The marriage will be in the ‘Morning-Post,’ of course.”

“My dear, what could you have been doing to forget the papers? I thought the servants were airing them,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

Frances flew for them. Julia was, or seemed to be, very busily engaged about something at her portfolio; and took wonderfully little interest in the discussion, considering the regard (in the way of friendship, we mean) which she had always professed to entertain for Edmund. Frances returned with the papers. The marriage of Lady Susan Morven to the Marquis of H. certainly did appear printed in legible characters. Frances herself read it aloud. Various comments were made. Mrs. Montgomery expressed herself certain that Lord L. would be much dissatisfied with Julia for having refused so splendid a match.

“I never said I refused him, ma’am,” faltered out Julia, in a timid voice.

“He told your uncle you did, my dear,” said Mrs. Montgomery.

“Did I not tell you, ma’am, that my fair cousin here would choose for herself?” observed Henry with emphasis: and going towards Julia, he leaned on the back of her chair with well-feigned tenderness of manner.

Mrs. Montgomery looked with a surprised and inquiring expression at her granddaughter, who coloured to excess; for she thought of Edmund, and was also painfully aware of the false light in which Henry wished her to appear. The blush of consciousness was deepened by indignation, not the less strong that it was suppressed. She could not now say, as she had done when a child, “No, I hate Henry, and I love Edmund!” He knew she could not, and she knew that on this knowledge he presumed. A look, indeed, of resentment, she attempted. Mrs. Montgomery saw it, thought it one of intelligence, and felt alarmed.

Frances, who had turned over the paper two or three times, now exclaimed, “Oh, here is something about Edmund’s friend, Lord Fitz-Ullin; and she began to read aloud as follows:—

“It is with heartfelt grief, we perform the melancholy task of stating, that the young Earl of Fitz-Ullin, whose late gallant conduct gave so bright a promise of his following in the glorious track of his father, has disappointed every hope, blighted his budding laurels, and ended his short career, by that crime of which alone the perpetrator can never repent: we mean, an act of suicide. The cause is said to be a love affair, of at least doubtful character; the rank of the lady being much beneath that of his Lordship. The female in question is, in fact, we understand, the daughter of his Lordship’s nurse; but very beautiful, and, unfortunately, brought up at a fashionable boarding school, with accomplishments and ideas quite out of her sphere. We understand, further, that his Lordship became acquainted with his fair enslaver at first as one of the young ladies of a certain fashionable establishment, without being aware of her birth, or even her name, till after many rural, and, we believe, clandestine meetings had taken place; and that the attachment existed even in the life-time of his Lordship’s father; but was then, of course, kept a profound secret. The rival, whose later success with the frail fair one has caused the dreadful catastrophe above related, is no other than his Lordship’s particular friend, the——” Here Frances suddenly stopped short, and exclaimed, “Nonsense!—Impossible!”

“Go on! go on!” cried Henry, (he had read it before.)

“What nonsense!” said Frances again pettishly, as she continued looking over the paragraph to herself.

Henry snatched the paper, and after a moment’s search, went back upon and finished the sentence in a loud and exulting tone, thus: “is no other than his Lordship’s particular friend, the gallant Captain Montgomery.”—“Well, faith,” he said, “it was too bad of Edmund to carry on an amour of this kind at the very time when, I know, he had hopes (however ill-founded) of being accepted, by Lady Susan.”

“It must be all false together,” said Frances.

“You are Edmund’s sponsor, it seems,” observed Henry. “You would not allow that he loved Lady Susan, so perhaps it is this other lady, or rather woman, he loves; and that he only wished to marry Lady Susan’s fifty thousand. Or, perhaps, your ladyship knows best, or possibly has the best right to know, among so many aspirants for the heart of this gallant adventurer, which is the favoured fair one!”

“No! no!” said Mrs. Montgomery, replying to the part of Henry’s speech which inferred that our hero designed to carry on an amour of inclination with one woman, and marry the fortune of another. “That Edmund may have a virtuous attachment to one or other lady, is very possible; indeed, I always thought, and so, I believe, you all did, that he liked Lady Susan. Or that he may have rivalled his friend, unintentionally, or been mistaken in the character of the lady, is also not impossible: but, that he has behaved dishonourably or unamiably, I will not, on any authority, believe! Therefore, my dear, if you know that he did hope, so lately, to be accepted by Lady Susan, there can be no sort of truth in the other affair: it must be mere newspaper conjecture.”

Mr. Jackson had hitherto sat apart, affecting to read to himself the other paper; to evince, by this seeming inattention to the conversation, his contempt of the accusations brought against Edmund. He now arose, and indignantly strode towards the fire-place. He stood with his back to it, and, in visible emotion, pronounced the words, “Contemptible falsehoods!—No;” he proceeded, after a tolerably long pause, during which he compressed his lips, and planted his heels firmly in the rug, “Licentious excitements (he would not condescend to a perverted world, by miscalling such, pleasures) have no temptations for a mind constituted like Edmund’s! His affections are of the heart: they borrow not a deceptive glow, either from the passions, or from the temper; as do those,” he added, “of but too many hot-headed, cold-hearted, selfish rakes, who pass on a thoughtless world for good-natured fellows.”

“I know nothing about any body’s good-nature,” said Henry; “nor am I editor of the ‘Morning Post,’ to be accountable for whose amours may figure in its columns for the amusement of the public. All I assert of my own knowledge is, that Edmund either was, or thought fit to say he was, in love with Lady Susan Morven; that he was coxcomb enough to fancy he would be accepted; and is fool enough to be in despair about her Ladyship’s marrying a man of rank, suitable to her own.”

“Your statement, young gentleman,” said Mr. Jackson, “contains, to speak mildly, many egregious errors! Edmund is neither fool nor coxcomb! Neither was your observation, just now, more applicable: A brave officer, in the regular service of his own king and country, is no adventurer!”

Julia was endeavouring to leave the room unobserved. Henry, with an unusually officious zeal of politeness, flew to assist her in opening the door. While doing so, he contrived in spite of all her efforts to the contrary, to look full in her face, with a hatefully offensive expression of perfect intelligence. His unshrinking eye stood still, till it cost Julia an effort to break the spell, and withdraw her’s. He knew what she must have felt during the late discussion; and she felt that he did so. He had often, in private, insolently taxed her with her preference of Edmund; and, so taxed, though of course she had made no confessions, she had been too proud to descend to falsehood, and deny the fact: and thus she felt that the secret of her heart’s affections, which timid delicacy induced her to conceal from those she loved and respected, was laid bare to the view of him, with whom, of all the world, she had least sympathy!

Her sickening sensation, consequently, while now she endured his gaze, somewhat resembled what we can imagine might be experienced by a modest woman beneath the exulting eye of a libertine, were it possible for that eye, by its audacious stare, to dissolve the personal screen of decent clothing.

Julia was again present when the papers of the next day were read. They said, that they were very happy to state, that Lord Fitz-Ullin was only wounded, and that hopes were entertained of his Lordship’s recovery. That, strange to relate, his rival was now in close attendance on the couch of his injured friend: and that, still more strange, the fickle fair one herself assisted her new lover in the task of nursing her old one.

The next paper undertook to gratify the public with curious particulars respecting a late interesting occurrence in high life. A certain young nobleman, it was now confidently affirmed, had, in the first instance, actually laid his title and fortune at the feet of a certain fickle fair one; who had, notwithstanding, perversely preferred a certain gallant captain, who, it is thought, though he had no objection to receive very unequivocal proofs of the lady’s love, had no idea of marrying her; and that the eclaircissement had taken place at the altar.

Another paper asserted, that an old woman, calling herself the mother of the lady, had rushed into the church, wrested the sacred volume from the hands of the clergyman, and in the most frantic manner, put a stop to the ceremony. And further, that the said old woman had proceeded to make such confessions to the intended bridegroom respecting, it is supposed, the lady’s late connexion with the gallant Captain, as had effectually prevented the marriage. That the Earl had, in the handsomest manner, sent for his rival, and resigned the lady to him; after which, in a paroxysm of despairing love, he had gone home to his splendid residence in ⸺ Square, and shot himself.

CHAPTER IX.

“Oh! whence is the stream of years, and whither

Doth it roll along, when it carries with it

All our joys?”

A few days more brought a letter from Edmund, addressed to Mrs. Montgomery; now it was hoped all would be explained; Mrs. Montgomery broke the seal, laid the letter open on her knee, took out her spectacles, wiped them, and put them on. But soon tears dimmed the glasses, and the old lady’s head shook a little, as on occasions of deep emotion. “What can he mean?” she said, as she gave the letter to Julia, desiring her to read it aloud. Julia, on receiving it, turned extremely pale. As soon as her eyes ran over the first few lines, she trembled visibly, and cast a beseeching look at her sister.

Frances took the letter from her, saying, that she could read Edmund’s hand particularly well. She began, like the rest, by looking over the letter to herself. Soon tears were seen stealing over her cheeks, as she read on, while from time to time she exclaimed, “What can he mean? What can have happened?”

“Read aloud, my dear! Do pray read aloud!” said Mrs. Montgomery. And Frances, endeavouring to keep down the choking sensation that arose in her throat, commenced as follows:—

“I must, for a time at least, bid farewell to all; yes, even to her, who sheltered my infant head; who protected my infant years; who was my friend when I was friendless; who gave me bread when I was destitute. But I cannot—no—I cannot see Lodore again! Lodore, that home of happy childhood!

“At such a crisis of my fate, there is much I ought to say to one so dear—one so generously interested in the wretched Edmund; but, at present, I am incapable of a rational recital.

“At a future time, perhaps—but I wander—you have doubtless seen all, ere this, in the public prints. Yet, surely they were not the proper medium—Pardon me; I know not what I write—the blow has indeed been severe!

“Perhaps I deserve it all; to have hoped was madness! treachery! Yet, I did hope! Yes—or why my present despair? Yet was it a hope so mingled with fear and with remorse, that it was torture! Yet it was hope!—Heavens! must I believe it? Was it all a dream! a delirium! Was there nothing real? Or is friendship, then, so like love? No! within my own breast, how wide the wild distinction!

“Why then was I deceived? Oh, farewell! I go, I know not where.—But I leave England—perhaps, for ever! Yet, think me not ungrateful! Think not, that the fondest affections of my blighted heart, withered and worthless though they be, shall not for ever cling to the remembrance of the dear, dear friends, the ever to be beloved, respected, and revered benefactress of my infant years. Your unhappy Edmund.”

The letter bore no further signature; as was habitual with our hero, from a painful consciousness that his second name was but borrowed.

The exclamations and interruptions had, of course, been many. The subject was now discussed by Mrs. Montgomery and Frances. Also by Mr. Jackson; for he generally came in soon after the post hour. Julia did not venture a word. Lady Susan’s marriage was agreed upon by all as, of course, the principal cause of Edmund’s “ridiculously violent despair,” as Frances pettishly called it.

Mr. Jackson, with evident mortification, was obliged to confess that he had certainly expected more sense from Edmund. He hoped, however, he added, that feelings of such boyish violence would exhaust themselves in a proportionately short time, and leave his young friend a more reasonable man for the rest of his life. There might, however, Mr. Jackson suggested, be some unpleasant circumstances respecting this business which had made so much noise in the papers, in which Edmund, even without fault of his own, might find himself involved. His feelings, his name, might be painfully implicated. There might be particulars, which delicacy towards his friend rendered it difficult to explain to the public. He thought it impossible that Edmund could talk of leaving England for ever, merely on account of his disappointment about Lady Susan; that would be too irrational: though from his despairing expressions on the subject of love, it was evidently the one on which he felt most bitterly just at present.

The result of the conversation was, a determination on the part of Mr. Jackson, to go up to town immediately. His assistance, or at least his advice, might be useful to his young friend.

“And give me my desk,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “I will write to him. He shall come to me, foolish boy, before he takes any rash step.”

Henry had left Lodore some days since, or he would doubtless have favoured the family party with some good natured observations. He had, however, to confirm opinions of still more consequence to his plans, in another quarter—a quarter, which he had lately, by no very honourable means, discovered to have become more dangerous than ever. Had he been present, he could have resolved every mystery, and shewn all to be simple that seemed extraordinary: not that he would have done so.

Julia and Frances had been just going to take a walk, when the letter was brought in; they now pursued their original intention, with an additional motive; the wish to converse together uninterruptedly. As they went out, Frances pressed her sister’s hand without speaking.

They happened to turn their steps towards the fall of Lodore. The spot is curiously sequestered, and the space on which the water precipitates itself, from an immense perpendicular height, does not appear larger, than the dimensions of a small room. The steep and rugged rock rises on three sides till roofed by the sky; the central side of the hollow square, is that over which, broken at various elevations by black projections of flinty stone, the torrent rushes; from both the other sides, mountain ash and various sort of trees, rooted in every crevice, stretch their branches across, between the eye of the spectator, and the white sheet of descending foam. The fourth side, or ground facing the fall, is a steep sloping bank, thickly covered with large trees, beneath the shade of which, a narrow path leads down to the edge of the water. Here a seat is placed, on which two persons may find accommodation; and if disposed to tell each other very profound secrets, feel quite secure from the danger of being overheard; for the fall, which is exactly opposite, plunges at their very feet, with a din so tremendous, that the most attentive listener, standing at but a few yards distance, though he should see their lips in motion, could distinguish no sound of their voices, and would be tempted to fancy, they conversed but in dumb show.

Julia and Frances descended this path, and took possession of this seat. Julia instantly turned, and throwing her arms round her sister’s neck, murmured in a slow whisper, “Oh! Frances, why did you say it was me he loved?”

It is a curious fact, that, in this situation, persons quite close to each other, can hear whispers more distinctly than they could the voice in its natural key. It would seem that the open tones were more prone to assimilate with the loud sounds abroad, and so become confounded with them.

“I thought so, Julia,” answered Frances, who also whispered, “and I should think so still, even by the very wording of that letter; but that I know, you have not said or done any thing of late, to change, so suddenly, any hopes he may ever have ventured to entertain, into all this mighty despair! Yet, who else has shown him a friendship that could be mistaken for love? as he seems to infer. With whom else has he had time or opportunity to indulge in this ‘dream, this delirium of unreal bliss;’ of which he talks so wildly?”

Julia thought of her late parting with Edmund, and paused a few seconds: then sighed, and said,

“No! no! there has nothing passed of late to change whatever may have been the usual tenor of his feelings towards me. It must be Lady Susan he means. The expressions you speak of, Frances, must allude to the time spent in her society, both here, and at Arandale. You know, whatever intimacy there was, commenced the very first evening he danced with her; and very soon afterwards, you know, she herself told you, that he wanted her to marry him; and that she intended to do so, if Lord and Lady Arandale would give their consent. Now, it is evident, that they have not consented, and that it is Lady Susan’s having married the Marquis after all, that Edmund thinks such a dreadful disappointment, such a blow, as he calls it.”

“It must be so,” said her sister.

“Yet, Frances,” recommenced Julia, “I had, some how, lost sight of the possibility of his preferring one, still, as I thought, a comparative stranger. I had contrived to persuade myself, that the whole business about Lady Susan, was either some mistake, as you once suggested, or a momentary fancy; perhaps, a feeling of gratitude for her preference; and I had dwelt with delight on the praises bestowed on him by all the world, and Mr. Jackson in particular, who is so sensible. I had thought, that I too might highly esteem—might—might—regard—with even—a great share of—affection, one, whom every one seemed to admire, and whom, I knew, that you and grandmamma loved so much. And, oh, Frances! when, in the midst of the congratulations of his friends, and the high compliments paid him by every one, I have seen an expression of melancholy mix itself with his smile; and then thought, (I don’t know why, but I did think so,) that it was in my power to make him quite happy—with what feelings have I said—he shall be happy! Frances, in such moments, I have resolved to—to—be his, (that is, some time or other. And now—I, who did so resolve, am as nothing in his eyes! My friendship for that at least he knew he possessed,) is cast away, because the love of a stranger is denied. Nay, my very existence seems to be forgotten! He is going away, he says, perhaps, for ever, and he makes not the slightest mention of being sorry to part, either from you, or me.”

And she stopped, vainly attempting to check the tremor of her lip, while tears, that it was useless to try to hide, were rolling silently down her cheeks. After a long pause, she added:—

“Were he happy, Frances, I might strive to forget a folly, which has existed, it would appear, only in my own thoughts; but while he is miserable, as he says he is, I know I shall never be able to feel towards him, as now I see I ought.”

This was not a spot, where warning footsteps could be heard; and Lord L. stood before his daughters, ere they were aware of his approach. He took his children in his arms. They had not beheld him since their infancy, but nature found means to make herself understood without words, ere Mrs. Montgomery, who had accompanied him, had time to say, “Girls, your father.”

In the course of the evening, the newspaper account of young Fitz-Ullin having shot himself, became the topic of conversation. Lord L. treated the subject with gravity, and some degree of reserve. He said, however, that he feared there must be some foundation for a report, which was spoken of so universally, and with so much confidence. “Fitz-Ullin’s father,” he added, “they were all aware, had been his most particular friend; he very naturally, therefore, felt interested.”

When Mrs. Montgomery had left the room for the night, which she generally did a little before the rest of the party; Lord L. said to his daughters, “I do not wish to alarm your grandmother, unnecessarily, by mentioning the circumstance before her, as it may not be true; but,” and he lowered his voice, “it is now reported, in town, that it was not Fitz-Ullin, but our young friend, Montgomery, who shot himself.”

Frances, fearing for Julia’s presence of mind, interposed quickly, exclaiming, “Impossible! The account of Lord Fitz-Ullin having shot himself, has been in the papers this fortnight, and grandmamma has this very day had a letter from Edmund.”

“I am really glad to hear it,” said Lord L., standing up as he spoke. “Montgomery bears a very high character; and your grandmother has, I know, a strong affection for him; for reasons,” he added, with a suppressed sigh, “which ought to weigh, at least, as much with me.” After a short pause, he continued, “It is impossible to place any dependance on reports. On this very subject there are half a dozen differing in every essential point. One is, as you have heard, that Fitz-Ullin had shot himself; another says, that he was shot by his friend; and another, that he had shot his friend; while there is yet a fourth version, as I have just told you, purporting that Montgomery had shot himself. They all agree in one thing only, that a lady has been the cause of whatever mischief has taken place. I was but one day in town myself; but being very anxious about both young men, in consequence of all those reports, I called at Fitz-Ullin’s house. On demanding of the servants if Lord Fitz-Ullin was at home, and, (with an air of doubt, I believe,) how he was, they answered, as much to my surprise as relief, that he was quite well; but added, that his Lordship could not see any one at present. I did not, therefore, send up my name; for, satisfied that he was well, it was quite time enough for me to see him on my return to town. I enquired of the servants, however, if they could give me any information respecting Captain Montgomery; (for I had not even his address, you know.) They looked at each other, rather strangely, I thought; and an elderly man, after some little hesitation, came forward and replied, that he had not yet received orders from his Lordship, to speak on this subject. This sounded rather strange; and, at first, made me stare at the fellow: but it immediately occurred to me, that the young men had been engaged in some foolish affair, which it was the wish of both parties, to hush up as much as possible. I therefore, as you may suppose, asked no further questions of servants.”

This was the sum of Lord L.’s information; and after many comments on the incomprehensibility of the whole affair, the family party separated for the night.

CHAPTER X.

“Brightly shines the vest o’er his widow’d heart,

The manly brow, by early sorrow touch’d,

Is bare. The jewelled cap and graceful plume,

In his worser hand, his martial’s baton

In the right, he passed mid a people’s

Sympathy!”

At breakfast, Lord L. requested that his daughters would be ready to accompany him to town, on an early day which he named.

He was evidently ill at ease at Lodore: he made every effort, however, to conceal such feelings, and assigned the following commonplace reason, for the hasty departure he meditated. He had, he said, already issued cards, for what he intended should be a very brilliant affair; given for the purpose of introducing his daughters at home, to what he considered his own private circle, previous to their public presentation at court.

Ere Lord L. and his daughters departed, Mrs. Montgomery discharged the painful duty she had imposed upon herself, of informing Lord L. of every particular of Henry’s very improper conduct, respecting his attachment to his cousin. Lord L. was, at first, distressed and alarmed; but, on questioning his daughter, was so perfectly satisfied by her assurances of indifference to Henry himself, and repugnance to his addresses, that he determined to treat the young man’s presumption, with the contempt it merited. Should St. Aubin, however, in future, persevere in making himself troublesome; his Lordship would, of course, forbid him his house.

A passing visit to Beech-park, prolonged by the delight the girls took in exploring its groves, so far retarded our travellers, that they did not arrive in London, till the very day, on the evening of which the projected ball was to take place.

The preparations, however, had gone on in pursuance of former orders, and every thing was found ready.

Lord L., the moment he had welcomed his daughters beneath the paternal roof, went out to call on the son of his old friend, and endeavour to induce him to join the family party at dinner, preparatory to the gaieties of the evening.

No card had been sent; for, on account of all the strange reports that were current, Lord L. had determined to make the invitation in person, should he find Fitz-Ullin in a state to accept it.

CHAPTER XI.

… “Truth,

Shines on his face, like the plane of the sun!

No darkness travels o’er his brow.”

“Dignity and grace shine forth majestic:

Great nature’s ornaments!”

“I have seen Fitz-Ullin,” said Lord L., as he took his seat at the dinner table, where, for this day, sat his daughters only, “and I like him amazingly!” When the servants had retired, he renewed the subject, by saying, “Fitz-Ullin is just what I should have expected from the son of my old friend.”

Julia listened in breathless expectation, hoping to hear something of Edmund. Frances understood her thoughts, and watched for an opportunity of putting a judicious question.

“On sending up my name,” continued Lord L., “I was instantly admitted. He received me with visible emotion, and said, that had he known of my being in town, he should have waited on me. I told him, of course, that I had but that moment arrived from Cumberland. He is extremely handsome! very like his mother.”

“Did you ask if he knew any thing about Edmund?” enquired Frances. Julia pressed her sister’s hand, under shelter of the table.

“Certainly,” replied Lord L., “indeed, as soon as I had spoken to him of his father, and made some few preliminary remarks, I opened the subject, by inquiring if he could oblige me with Captain Montgomery’s address. He looked somewhat confused, and said, ‘Lord L., I am very desirous to have an opportunity of explaining to you the business to which you allude.’ ‘I have no right to make allusions, my Lord,’ I replied; ‘but’—and I hesitated, ‘newspaper reports are not very satisfactory sources of information; and, it is natural that I should be anxious respecting my young friend. Indeed, at present, I do not know even where to find him.’ ‘You have every right, Lord L.,’ he said, ‘to make inquiries, and to have them answered; you are, not only, the friend of my father, but you and your family have been, the kind, the generous friends, of poor Montgomery, when he most wanted friends; to you every thing shall be explained. At present I am not quite equal to the task; but permit me to call on you to-morrow morning.’ I begged he would dine with me to-day. He however declined, pleading an engagement which rendered that impossible; but saying, ‘that he should be able to get away about ten, (this evening I mean,) when, if I would permit him, he would wait on me, and bring Montgomery with him.’ As he said this he smiled, though certainly with no very gay expression; yet, his smiling at all, was quite sufficient to show that there were no mortal wounds, in short, nothing very fatal, or irremediable, in the business.

“It just occurred to me, that I would let them come, without saying any thing of the ball. The surprise was a liberty, which I thought I might take with the son of an old friend. Let me see,” added Lord L., considering, “it is now some eight or ten months since his father’s death: yet I feared, from the evident depression on his spirits, that he might not be prevailed on to join us, were he aware of the gay scene which awaited him, before he was actually at the door; after which, I should think, he would scarcely turn away.

“It was very plain, that he wished, as much as possible, to avoid all mention of Montgomery; and I did not urge my inquiries, as he means to bring him with him this evening, declaredly for the purpose of some explanation. Indeed, it is clear to me, as I have all along said, that the young men have had some silly quarrel, in which, I can now perceive, Fitz-Ullin believes himself to have been the aggressor. There was a consciousness, a hesitation in his manner: I fancy he means to be vastly heroic this evening, confess himself in fault, and make Montgomery an apology in my presence. But, as I before remarked, there can be nothing very terrible in the affair; for when I asked him how Montgomery was, he answered, ‘Quite well, thank you;’ and smiled again, though languidly. ‘He was not wounded then,’ I ventured to add. ‘Oh, no!’ he replied with quickness. ‘Nor your Lordship, I hope?’ I continued. ‘Why—no,’—he said, after a moment of hesitation. ‘And when you know all,’ he added, ‘you will not suspect me of wishing to injure your friend Montgomery.’

“I saw I was distressing him, so I took my departure, declaring that I entertained no such suspicions.

“Well,” added Lord L., after a momentary pause and a smile, “I trust, from the sadness of the love-stricken youth, that Montgomery has been successful with the fair source of their rivalship; for I have other views for Fitz-Ullin.

“By the bye, I saw three ladies there as I passed a drawing-room, the door of which was half open. Two of them seemed to be in widows’ mourning; and the third, who appeared much younger, wore something black too, I think: but she was so beautiful, that during my momentary glance, I had no leisure to examine her dress. She was standing near the door, and seemed earnestly questioning a person who looked something like a physician. I heard him say, as he was making his exit, ‘You may rest quite satisfied; every dangerous symptom has now disappeared.’ This was as I went in, and before I had seen Fitz-Ullin; so that I expected, of course, to find him in an easy chair and wrapping gown, just recovering from a dangerous wound.”

Then it is Edmund, thought Julia, who is only recovering; and who, perhaps, may not recover after all!

“If that charming creature,” continued Lord L., “was Fitz-Ullin’s fair inamorata, and that he has been rivalled in her good graces, I am not much surprised at his despairing looks: and, certainly, he has not the elastic step, or triumphant eye, of a successful lover. We must contrive to console him, poor fellow.

“In the first place, Julia, I intend that he shall, should he arrive in time, open the ball with you to-night; after which, should he, on longer acquaintance, prove what the son of my immortal friend ought to be, I shall have no objection to his securing your hand for a longer period. Do not look so seriously alarmed, child! I certainly shall not offer it to him. The hand of Lady Julia L. is a prize which may, I think, be sought even by the sole representative of all the honours, hereditary and acquired, of the great Fitz-Ullin! Talking of such things, what did you do to the Marquis of H., to cure him so quickly, and so effectually?”

“Nothing,” replied Julia.