n\ ■'■ Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from Duke University Libraries http://www.archive.org/details/emilymorelandormOOjone X. ^PM'BWTI^riECE, r^ rX, ^ J,'- 7-,, , r;,-f7 .■ 7/,' r,.,. ,t abejHitxb oftbe yallon ~ < ... -- Puhlished r" Tv\-Lalie. EMILY MORELAiND; MAID OF THE VAIiIiBY. BY HANNAH MARIA JONES, itUTHORK-S OF ROSAIINB WOOOBRIDGE, STRANGE113 OF THK GtBN, THE ■;rgnoijlR RIHQj ORETN^ CREFN, THE VICTIM OF FASHION, Ac. &C. Ac Jjovr was our pretty cot, our tallest rose Pecp'd at tho chamber window. We could heaT, At silent noon, and eve, and early morti. The sea's faint niunnur. In the open air Our myrtles t'lossom'd, and across tlie porch Thick jasmines cluster'd. The little landscape rcimd Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye. It was a spot which you might aptly call • The Valley of Seclusion.' CoiisarauE- XiONSOM-i Printed by C Bav«ej, Duke Street, IJnc.oln»s Ton Fields, FOR GEORGE VIRTUE, IVY LANE, PATERNOSTER FOW BATH-STREET BRISTOL; AND ST. VINCENT 8TKEET, LJyEl'PUOr. EMILY MORELAND CHAPTER I. And as she reach' d her father's door, SJie stood, as she would stir no more I • 4f « • • » * Then sunk, and on his threshold cried, Oil, lay me in my grave !" I Ji E deep solemn tones of the neighbouring church clock were proclaiming the hour of midnight, and the broad yellow harvest moon was riding in un- clouded majesty, shedding her silver light over every flower and tree, when the aged inhabitants of a small cottage in the Vaie of 8t. Clare were roused from their peaceful slumbers, by the low wailing of a fe- male voice, which sounded immediately under the casement of their chamber. "Listen, Reuben! do you not hear?" exclaimed the old woman. " Do you not hear that sound ? It must be my child, returned to her poor mother ! Oh, yes, I am sure it was her voice, that wakened nie from a dream, in which 1 saw her standing by my side, as ItJooming and innocent as when she left us." '•You are dreaming still, my good \v; i;:an," re- 4 EMI I, Y M O R R r, A N n . piled iier husband, with a heavy sigh; " I heard no sound like a voice, I was awakened by some unusual noise, and I thought 1 heard a female loudly sobbins^ and weepinj^; but it was hushed, before I could " "Hark!" interrupted his wife, who had been in- tentlv listening for the sound which had interested her, without paying any attention to what he said. "Hark! there it is again! — and there is an infiint, too! Gracious Heaven, what can it mean?" "Mother, dear mother, have mercy on me!" ex- claimed a feeble voice, in the accents of despair. " For my poor baby's sake, have pity on me! For the l«)ve of Heaven, do not deny me a shelter, or it will perish!" Agonised with terror, surprise, and grief, the un- happy parents hurried from tlieir bed. "My Marian, my child!" exclaimed the father, ijnclosing the casement, while Mrs. Moreland, who was younger, and more active tiian her husband, hastened towards the staiis, to admit the poor wan- derer. Overcome, however, wilJi agitation and surprise, her trembling limbs refused their support, and she sank on the foot of the bed, imploring tlie scarcely less agitated fatlicr to hasten to their child — " Their ior.ii-lost, unhapny Marian!" Reuben Moreland needed no second adjuration. He had long forgotten the faults vvhic]i had estranged liis «diild from her happy home, and mo^^t ardently had he longed for the moment that showld restore her, repentant and wretched, as he knew she would be, to his arms. EM II.V MO II KLAN I). D A fev> iiioiuents only elapsed before the door wan opeiied, and the trembling" Marian, with an infant in her arnjs, stood before her father. For an instant she gazed at him in silence, with a look of wild agony, which terrified him; the next, she was en her knees at his feet, imploring, in incoherent and broken accents, the pity and forgiveness of her parents. *' My child I my child!" exclaimed the agitated Moreland. raising- her hastily from the ground, " I do pity thee — I do forgive thee— and from this mo- ment " His voice failed, and he burst into tears, while Marian s cold and pallid face (rendered more ghastly in appearance by the pale moonbeams, which fell full upon it) sank upon hhs shoulder, and witli diffi- culty he bore her and the poor infant, who was now fully awakened, and added by its fi^eble cries to the distress of the moment, into the kitchen, where she was received with open arnis by her transported mo- ther, who seemed to forget, in the joy of her return, all the distressful circumstances attendant on it. *' My child! my child! — blessed be this day!" she exclaimed. " How have I prayed to see thee onco more! But let me take the poor baby, for thou ttemblest so. Reuben, she is chilled by the night air; try if thou canst kindle up the embers; there is still a Ji*tle vvine in the bottle, and, if it is made hot, it will revive her." The cold and almost insensible girl was now care- fully placed in the chair that was usually her mo- ther s seal, the child trken from her, and every mears () EMII.Y MORELAND. resorted to, to show that she was indeed welcome to her long-deserted home. For a few moments, Marian remained with her eyes t^losed, and appearing scarcely sensible of the cares of her parents; but, at length, she unclosed them, and gazed round the room, and then alternately at her parents. " Merciful Providence !" she exclain>ed, at length, " thou hast listened to the prayers of a lost, wretched creature, and restored her to those, whom if she had never quitted ^Oh, my father, my dear mother, can you indeed pardon your lost, ruined, disgraced child ? And will you succour and protect the poor infant, whom she has brought into the world, to share her shame and misery, and who will soon have no other friend than you?" The old man sobbed aloud, unable to utter a word ; while the afflicted mother, pressing the ema- ciated form of her still affectionately beloved child 'n her arms, exclairaed- " I will, I do forgive every thing I Only compose yourself, and remember, you are now with those who have ever pitied and loved — even when they most condemned you. Come, my Marian, do not give way to this despair, but raise your head, and take the wine your father has warmed for you. It will do you good, and a few hours' rest will restore you " " Never, dear mother!" interrupted Marian, em- phatically, " never, in this world, shall I rest again ! In the grave is niy only hope of peace ; and my every wish, on this side that welcome refuge from shame and sorrow, is now fulfilled, in thus receiving your KMILY MOREKANO. 7 pity and forgn\enft*s, and beholding my poor infant safe in your protection." Unable to reply, Mrs. Moreland endeavoured to stifle her agitation, by attending to the child, which she had taken from her husband. "The poor babe is chilled by the night air, and hungry too, perhaps," she observed, opening the shawl in which it was wrapped. " It is indeed, dear mother, for many weary hours have passed, since I was able to procure her a little milk, and 1 have no other nourishment to give her." " Thank goodness, there is plenty of fresh milk in the house!" replied the tender-hearted old woman; " I will feed it directly." And she imniediateiy began to prepare some food for the little innocent, soothing it, at the same time, by all those endearing epithets she had been used to apply to her own chil- dren. Tears, the first the unhappy Marian had shed for many weeks, burst in torrents from her eyes, at this proof of maternal kindness and affection; and when her father, scarcely less agitated than herself, raised the cup of wine to her lips, and, in tones of the ut- most tenderness, entreated her to try and swallow it, she threw her arras arouna nis neck, and sobbed upon his bosom. " Do not thus afflict yourself, my child," whispered her affectionate parent. " Let us, from this moment, endeavour to forget the past, and look forward to hours of future peace and contentment." ** Peace, my dear father," cried Marian ; " oh, never can this wretched heart know peace, until its 8 EMILY MORFLAND. aching tlirobs are stilled in the orave ! Oh, no, there only can the degraded, dishonoured Marian hope to escape the remorse, to bury the stain, which must poison every moment of her life, while she remains on earth!" The afflicted parent replied not to this elTusion of a wounded spirit — he only again, in a faltering voice, entreated her to take a little of the cordial which he had prepared for her; and Marian, lifting- it to her lips, swallowed it, with all the eagerness of one who had long been destitute of proper nourish- ment. The poor infant — a lovely female, not more than three months old — soon seemed to feel the effects of the tenderness with which it was treated, and smiled upon its kind protectress, as if grateful for the suc- cour it had received, until it sank into a sweet slumber. Somewhat revived by the wine she had taken, Marian was now able to reply to her mother's anxious questions. " She had come from London," she said, " by the coach ; but had been so ill on the road, that she had been obliged to stop at a little roadside inn, for five weeks, which nearly exhausted her little stock of money ; and she was, as soon as she was able to walk, compelled to the arduous attempt of reach- ing her final destination on foot. " For the last three days, I have made very little progress," continued the poor sufferer ; ** the dear baby seemed to grow heavier, and every mile increase in length, though I was approaching the end cf my journey; but I prayed that i might live to receive EMIT/Y M OH EL AND. 'f the blessing and Ibrgiveness of my injured, yet be- loved parents, and deliver my child to their protec- tion — and my prayers were heard!" *' And did not." exclaimed her mother, " did not the hard-hearted wretrh, who " " Silence!" interrupted the old man, authorita- tively. " Let us not, at this moment, indulge resent- ful feelings. May the same Merciful Power, that conducted our long-lost wanderer to her home again, soften and amend his heart!'' "Amen! amen!" ejaculated Marian, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes, with the most emphatic solemnity. " She had better now try to get a few hours' sleep," observed the old man, striving to speak with firmness, and making a sign to his wife to check the emotion which her daughter's expressive look and action had powerfully excited. Marian would have objected — she could sleep very well, she said, in the large chair and she knew her mother could not, at that time of night, prepare a bed without considerable trouble. "It is already prepared, my child," returned the tender mother. " I knew that this hour would come — that my Marian would some time return to the arms of her parents; and, from the moment of our taking- possession of this cottage, there has been a room and a bed prepared to receive you." " Oh, wound me not, my mother, by such unmerited ;dndness!" exclaimed the repentant daughter, while tears of agony again forced themselves down lier pale cheeks " Far, oh, far better could 1 benr Ihe n- 1. V JU EMILY MOUELANtt pioacliesS, which my heart tells me I desei vr, than " "I will not suffer you thus to exhaust your strength with unavailiui^ recrimination, my child," interrupted tlie old man; "retire to bed, and, for all our sakes, endeavour to compose yourself to rest." Marian attempted to rise, and obey the mandate of one whose will had ever been indisputable with his little household, because it had ever been most gentle, just, and reasonable; but, overcome with weakness and fatigue, she sank down, and it was only with the united assistance of her tender parents that she was enabled to reach the little room which was appropriated to her. " It is not such as you have been accustomed to," ol>served her mother, seeing her glance round, as they seated her at the side of the neat white-curtained bed; but hfr husband darting a look of reproof at her, she added, "yet you will, I hope, sleep as com- fortably as if you were in your own pretty room at the Parsonage." "Ah, my mother! — and for me — for your ungrate-, ful child, you have been driven from that dear spot, and condemned to a comparatively confined " "We are content, my child," in-terrupted her fa- ther. "The change in my situation lias never given me a moment's uneasiness, except for the cause of it ; and now that will, I trust, be speedily eft'aced from all our remembrances. It is true, I sometimes feel that my sphere of usefulness is rather contracted, but we must submit to the will of Heaven ! Marian was silent, but the look which she fixed ou EMILY MORELAND- 11 her falher, as he quitted her chamber, bestov/ing-, in a calm voice, a parting benediction on her, spoke more than words. In a few minutes, the tired wanderer was laid in a comfortable bed, and her sleeping babe beside her ; while the sorrowful mother returned to her husband in the kitchen, to communicate her fears that their unfortunate child was indeed returned, as she had said, only to die in their arms. *' She is wasted to a shadow !" she observed, burst- ing into tears, and has a dreadful cough. " Oh, Reuben, how can you wonder that I curse the wretch who has reduced her to this, and covered our heads with shame ! How can you yourself refrai-n " "Because I leave vengeance to the Almighty," returned her husband, with solemnity. "Will in- temperate words and empty maledictions restore the innocence, or save the life of our child ? No, Martha — to his own conscience, to the reproaches of that still small voice, which sooner or later will make it- self heard, let US leave the destroyer; and if it is the will of Heaven that our poor penitent "" The father's feelings triumphed over those of the Chris- tian philosopher, and, unable to conclude the sen- tence, he leant his head on his hand, and wept aloud. It was now his wife's turn to be the comforter, and so effectually and forcibly did she paint the evils that would attend their unfortunate daughter, if she lived ; the constant sense of shame and degradation, >vhich a mind so sensitive as hers could never shake off: the hopeless loneliness in which she would be left, should they be taken from her, and the silent reproach which 12 EMILY MORELAND. their altered circumstances must convey to her;— • so naturally and truly did she depict all this, Iha* the fond father was compelled to acknowledge that there was no hope for his once happy and blooming child, but the grave. The morning dawned, and found the afflicted jra- rents still conversing of their long-lost darling — but in low whispers, lest they should disturb her slum- bers. Two or three times the anxious mother stole on tiptoe to the chamber door to listen ; but all was calm and still, and she breathed only a mental prayer, that the sweet sleep her Marian was snjoying, might re-invigorate her exhausted frame. " I will walk cut for a short time, wh'ie you pre- pare the breakfast — for I feel feverish, and the pure morning air may perhaps remove it," observed the old man. The wife assented, and immediately commenced busying herself to make every thing neat and com- fortable, before the poor invalid should awake. Fresh eggs, cream, butter from her own little dairy, and wheaten bread of her own making, were all set out in the nicest order, upon a cloth white as snow. The best tea-things Avere taken from the cor ner cupboard, and all was duly arranged for the morning's meal, before the husband, who had been "•athering water-cresses from the brook which ran at a short distance from the house, returned. "Marian used to be fond of water-cresses," he ob- served, " perhaps they will tempt her to eat a good breakfast." The mother sighed. She thought of the time when, EMILY MOUEIiVNl). IS With cheeks blooming- as the rose, and eyes sparkling like diamonds, their beloved child had been used to trip out at early dawn, with her little basket, antt return laden with the treasures of the brook, which was at a much greater distance from their former habitation, than that to which her husband had new resorted. " I wish she would awake," observed the latter, looking- at the clock which ticked in the corner; " it is nearly eight, and i promised to visit the poor wo- man, Dame Dawson, by this time; she will think 1 neglect her ; and I should be sorry if, even in ap- pearance, my own cares and troubles should make me indifferent to those of my fellow creatures." Another long pause ensued, and both began to grow uneasy, though unwilling to own it to each other. At last, the voice of the baby was heard, and Ihe old lady started up with alacrity, observing, she would fetch it down, and give it the bread and milk she had prepared, while its mother dressed herself. Scarcely, however, had she time to reach the bed- side of her daughter, when a succession of the most heart-rending* shrieks reached the ear of her husband, and, as fast as his trembling limbs would allow him, he ascended the stairs. A sinffle glance at the bed confirmed his worst fears — Marian was dead ! She had died apparently without any of those pangs or convulsive throes which usually attend the awful change from time to eternity. Her eyes were closed, as if in a tranquil sleep, and the infant still lay on her arm, in the position in which her mother had left it; the other arm, vying 14 • EMILY MORELAND. in snowy whiteness with the bed linen, was thrown carelessly over her head; and, but for the deathly - hue, the fixed expression, and the icy coldness of that sweet face, lovely even in death, the agonised parents might still have hoped that she would again awaken to their caresses. Alas, too soon were they convinced, that life had for ever fled the inanimate form, which, for so many years, they had watched over with such fond solici- tude! The pride, the solace, the occupation of their life, was gone ; and, forgetting all the topics of con- solation with which they had so recently endeavoured to fortify their minds for this event, the afflicted pa- rents bewailed, in almost frenzied accents, the Joss oe their darling. The feeble cries of the poor babe, who felt the loss of that warmth and nourishment which it had derived from its mother, at last had the desirable effect ot attracting the attention of its now only friends. "We must not neglect the poor infant, Martha," observed the old man, putting it into his wife's arms. " It will require all your care to supply the loss " He paused, unable to proceed, and tlien casting another glance at the pallid face of his lamented child, hurried down the stairs, observing, as soon as he could command his voice, that he Avould go to the next cottage, and request the woman and her daughter who inhabited it, to come over and assist in the performance of the necessary duties. Having stilled the child's cries by satisfying us hunger, and shed a torrent of tears en its innocent unconscious face, the bereaved mptUcr returned to EMII.Y MORELAND. 15 ♦he chamber which contiiined the remains of hei fondly-cherished child. " Poor murdered victim !" she exclaimed, as she bent over the lifeless form, *' thou hast found an early refuge from all thy sorrows ! Would that thy de- stroyer could now behold thee ! Could he see thee thus, and not feel that the hour of retribution must comer" The sight of a minature, which half-revealed lay on the marble breast, that no longer throbbed be- neath it with agony, as it was wont to do, at this moment attracted her sight ; and, with trembling hands, and half-averted eyes, she drew it from its concealment. Alas, too well she knew the features, which the painter's art had so strikingly delineated. The fine, open forehead ; the even-arched eyebrows ; the insinuating smile, which played around the hand- some mouth, and disclosed the fine set of teeth within ; the luxuriant glossy hair, black as the raven's wing ; in short, all that had rendered the face and person of Reginald de Cardonnel so faultless and atti'active, were there faithfully depicted. The wretched mother gazed on it with agony. Her first thought was to trample it under her feet, and thus destroy tne last memorial of the man who had bereaved her of her child ; but a chain of curious workmanship secured it round the neck of the corpse, and, before she could disengage it, cooler reflection suggested the propriety cf preserving it for tlie in- fant, v/lio would probably possess no other memorial of the father who had deserted her, and destroyed her hapless mother. *' It will be aleiit yet an eloquent lesson to her. 16 EMILY MORELAND. should she live to wommhood," she exclaimed, "to distrust the brightest appearances; and to believe . that, under every charm and grace that can adorn man, may be concealed a black, designing, unfeeling heart. Alas, how could my Marian suspect it, when even her parents believed that the object of her in- nocent affection was the most exalted, as he was the most fascinating, of human beings ? Smile not so like him, my babe," she continued, addressing the uncon- scious infant, whom she held in her arms, " lest I forget that you are the child of my lost Marian, and remember only that you are the offspring of the most accomplished villain that ever disgraced human na- ture!" The voice of her husband, speaking to the women M'hom he had brought with him, aroused her from these painful reflectio^is, and gladly she resigned her innocent charge to Su-^an, the youthful daughter of their neighbour at the cottage, who, with tears of native feeling, received the interesting trust, and, with a tenderness and care far beyond what could be expected at her years, soothed and supplied all its little wants, so as to prevent its being, even for a- moment, a burthen or pain to those on whose protec- tion it was now thrown. In the secluded valley in which the parents of the unfortunate Marian Moreland resided, there were few who were calculated by education and manners to console or assist them in their present affliction. I5y ail, however, to whom the former curate of Ar- lington, the present cottager of St. C!lare, was known, the purest sympathy was evinced. It was the time ^harvest, and upon the abundant KMILY MORELAND. 17 produce with which his few acres of ground wei& loaded, Reuben Moreland depended, in a great mea- sure, for a comfortable support for the ensuing year. Grief and anxiety, however, rendered him in- different to the blessings which Nature had bestowed on him, and the golden ears of corn would still have continued standing, had not the respect, which the cottagers felt for him, induced them to take more care for him, than he was capable of taking for himself; and, with a grateful heart and tearful eyes, he saw his little store, by the united exertions of his neigh- bours, cut down and safely housed from all danger. "Life is worth preserving, while one can preserve the attachment of such hearts as these," he softly whispered, as he returned from witnessing the com- pletion of their labours, for which they refused to receive even his thanks. " I will pray that mine may be spared, to be useful to these simple, honest crea- tures; and in their happiness and pleasures will I endeavour to forget the sorrows which have banished mine for ever !" Exactly ten days from her arrival at her father s cottage, the remains of the hapless Marian were con- signed to their native earth. Nearly the whole population of the hamlet, which was scattered along the valley, and on the sides of the hills, met together in the parish church, on this melancholy occasion. Marian was not personally known to them, but the sad story of her dishonour, and her parents' distress, had been generally spread among them. They knew that some circumstances, connected with her seductioi., bad induced her upright 1. i> 18 EMILY MO R ELAND. and honourable father to relinquish the curacy m liich he had held for many years, at a distant part of tlio country; but her sudden and melancholy death had eflaced from their memories her errors, and, while the young with tears deplored her fate, the older ones pointed out how insufficient were beauty, sense, and accomplishments, to secure happiness, unless to them were added humility, prudence, and a thorough confidence in those whom experience had made wise. With calm resignation painted in every expressive look and gesture, the venerable Moreland followed the bier, which was carried by six young men, who had offered their services for the purpose, and who were preceded by twelve young females, neatly clad in white. On the right hand of her father, and some- times leaning on him for support, came the afflicted mother, vainly endeavouring to imitate the serenity of her husband, and at intervals bursting into the most heart-rending sobs, as her tearful eyes rested on the coffin. At a little distance followed the im- mediate neighbours of the respected Moreland, and among them was one, who, though unconscious of either sorrow or shame, excited the greatest interest in the minds of all present. This was, — the living- record of its father's dishonour, and its mother's shame, — the infant of the lost Marian, smiling, in happy unconsciousness, in its nurse's arms. In this order the mournful procession moved, slowly and silently, along the winding path which led to the summit of one of the green hills, that shut out this secluded valley from the more thickly in- EMILY MORELANl). ID habited country which surrounded it. They had now only one field to cross, before they would enter the turnpike road, on the opposite side of which lay their final destination. In this field, therefore, be- neath the shade of a wide-spreading beech, and at only a few paces distant from the gate through which they were to pass into the road, the bier was rested ; and the young men and women, placing themselves in a circle round it, commenced (according to the custom of the country) a hymn suitable to the solemn occasion. There were several sweet and powerful voices among the singers, and the perfect silence, and the romantic situation they had chosen, gave additional interest to the pathetic and solemn strain. The bright rays of the setting sun, streaming through the foliaged canopy above them, glittered on the plate which declared the name and age of the inhabitant of" the narrow house," which was placed in the midst of the group, and, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, the bereaved parents stood lis- tening to the sacred strain, which was intended to administer hope and consolation. The first stanza was just concluded, when the eyes of some of the assemblage were attracted by a gen- tleman riding at fdll speed down the turnpike road, followed by a servant in livery. Again the singers commenced, and, slackening his speed, the stranger seemed to listen with interest and pleasure. He drew nearer to the gate, and, discovering the occasion of the sounds he had heard, alighted gently from his hc«s3, and advanced towards the sorrowing group 20 EMILY MORELAND. Scarcely, however, had he approached near enough to discern the features of the principal mourners, when he suddenly paused, and a paleness resembling that of death overspread his face, while he stood as if transfixed to the spot, unable either to advance or recede. "Excuse me, sir, you seem to be taken ill," ob- served an elderly man, who stood outside the group, and consequently nearest him. The stranger gasped for breath, as he accepted the farmer's offered arm. " Tell me, only tell me," he faintly articulated, pointing to the coffin, with a look and gesture expressive of the most horrible antici- pation — "Who is it " The man looked at him with astonishment — " Do you mean, sir, who is it we are carrying to the grave ? It is a poor young creature — the only child of yonder afflicted couple, w ho was enticed away from her home by a villain, and " The stranger fell, from his supporting arm, upon the grassy turf; and the wondering rustics, as they crowded round him, uttered a thousand conjectures on the cause of this strange incident. To Farmer Wilson, however, who had marked the changes in the stranger's countenance, as he gave him the explanation he had required, the cause of his agitation was no longer a mystery ; and, rightly foreseeing that should Moreland, or his wife, recog- nise the man who had destroyed their peace, and sacrificed their child, it would bitterly aggravate their distress, he entreated two or three to assist him in removing the stranger to some distance, and then EMILY MORELAND. 21 to proceed with the funeral, without waiting to finish their hymn. The' motion, however, seemed to revive the wretched De Cardonnel, and, freeing himself from their hold, he rushed towards the coffin, and threw himself on his knees before the sorrowing parents, who, totally absorbed in their grief, had not observed what was passing around them. For a moment, they looked wildly at each other and at him, as if doubting the reality of his appear- ance, while he vainly endeavoured to utter a sentence. " What do you want here?" exclaimed Moreland, at last, sternly repulsing him ; " she is beyond your power — In the grave, even your arts and spells must be powerless; and, if you are come " " Wretch ! monster I dare you intrude yourself, at such a moment?" interrupted the mother, passion- ately. " Dare you approach that refuge, where the innocent you have destroyed finds that repose which you can never know ! No — even beyond the grave, your crimes shall pursue you, and the spirit of my murdered child shall rise up in judgment agains you!" Two or three of the young men, who had stooa almost petrified with amazement at this scene, now interfered, and strove to remove the wretched De Cardonnel; but he resisted all their eflbrts, and throwing himself on the coffin, he declared that he would share the grave of his lost love — his Marian ! " Unhappy man !" exclaimed Moreland, " your re- pentance comes too late! The unfortunate victim of your pass'ons is at rest for ever from the evils 9> EMILY MORELAND. which you brought upon her! JLet it be yom con- solation, as it is mine, that they are so soon termi- nated, and that she did not live to " He paused, overcome by the agony which was expressed in the countenance of De Cardonnel. " It is not by this intemperance, Mr. de Cardonnel," resumed More- land, with more calmness, " that you can prove the sincerity of your repentance; nor is it at such a mo- ment as this, that I can converse with you as I could wish. Retire, therefore, I entreat you, — and, in the language of Holy Writ, let me say to you, * Go, and sin no more.' " Reginald de Cardonnel arose, but he scarcely seemed conscious of wnat was passing, until he beheio the bier lifted from the ground, and the procession again formed in the same order as before. With a look of the deepest despair he clasped his hands, as he gazed upon the coffin, and then rushing to the other end of the field, threw himself on the green turf, and hid his face till the melancholy train were out of sight. The serenity and resignation, which had hitherto marked the conduct of Moreland, were sadly shaken by this unexpected incident. He reasoned, he acted, as a Christian, submissive to all that was appointed by the will of Providence — but he felt as a man, and a father; and when he beheld the coffin lowered into its narrow habitation, and heard the clods rattle on its lid, he bur}»t, for a moment, into loud lamentations for the loss of her, whom he had fondly thought would have been the comfort of his old age, and have fol- lowed him to the grave. EMILY MORELAND. 23 The poor mother, totally overcome with the sight of his grief, as well as the burthen of her own, sank almost fainting into his arms ; and, if there had been any thing wanting to complete the despair of Regi- nald de Cardonnel, it would have been supplied, had he been present to hear the imprecations which were bestowed on his conduct, by those who now beheld and sympathised in the affliction of the in- jured parents. The grave was closed — Moreland and his weeping wife cast a lingering look, as the grave-digger placed with care the smooth green sods over the spot, and then, supported by their humble friends, all emulous to administer consolation by their sym- pathy and attention, returned to the home, which now appeared more lonely than ever. From Farmer Wilson, who, led by humanity as well as curiosity, had remained with Reginald de Cardonnel, they learned, that he had continued for a considerable period totally insensible, either to his (the Farmer's) or his own servant's entreaties that he would arise, and endeavour to reach the house to which he was proceeding, when he was so unex- pectedly arrested by the mournful sight which had, at least for the present, made so deep an impression on his feelings. One circumstance, however, the Farmer concealed, because he was fearful that he might incur censure from Moreland, though he felt he had acted from the best motives. At the moment the funeral train were passing through the gate, his eye had been caught by Susan, who was his own niece, bearing the child of Marian in her arms. U4 EMILY MORELAND. A Signal with his finger brought the girl lo his side. " Wait a little, Sue," he observed, " thee wilt be time enough, if thou walk'st quick — and I want the« a moment." Susan seemed instantly to comprehend his motive, but her imagination went even further. " He will may be want to take the baby away with him," she observed, with a look of alarm, and pressing the child closer to her bosom, " but you will not let him, uncle, though it is his own, and as like him as two cherries are like one another ? Mercy forbid she should be like him in her actions I" " Foolish wench, what dost think he could do with a helpless baby like that ? No, no, I only want to make him feel like a man, for the poor little thing, and do his duty by it ; for it would be a shame that the poor old man should be burthened with its main- tenance, though I know he will do his best for it." Susan was silent, but she grew rather impatient at the time that elapsed before De Cardonnel could be roHsed from his recumbent posture. Her uncle had himself fetched the servant, who had hitherto stood with the horses in the road, regard- ing with surprise a scene he could not at all com- prehend ; for he had understood that his master was a total stranger in that part of the country, and could not, therefore, conceive why he sliould be so deeply interested in the rustic funeral. Upon the Farmer's representation, however, that it would be advisable to get his master away from the spot, the man had tied his horses to the gate, and accompanied the Farmer to the place where De Cardonnel still laid. FMILY MORELAND. 25 ** My mistress, Sir, will be alarmed at our not meeting her at the place you appointed," observed the man, in a hesitating tone. De Cardonnel started on his feet, as if electrified at the sound — " She must not know of this," he be- gan — but, observing the keen eye of the Farmer, jSxed on him, he suddenly paused. *' I hope, young gentleman, you are not trying to deceive any other poor young lady," said the Farmer, sternly; " for, if I thought- " " No, no, no !" exclaimed De Cardonnel, with ve- hemence, " I am a wretch, but I Oh, no, Julia knew — she was not deceived !" The man again interposed, apparently fearful lest his master should still farther expose himself to the rustic, whom he wondered dared take such liber- ties with one so proud, so impetuous, as De Car- donnel. " May be you are married ?" observed the Farmer, who was not to be daunted by the reproachful looks of the servant. " God help thee, poor babe !" he continued, taking the child from Susan's arms; '• if that be the case, I fear there is but little hopes of his doing Lis duty by thee," De Cardonnel cast an eager glance at the babe, and burst into tears — " It is her own ! — her very self!" he exclaimed. "I need not be told that it is the child of Marian, of my " " It is your very own, and the picture of you, you bad man !" interrupted Susan, sobbing, as she has- tily snatched the child from her uncle, as if fearful thai De Cardonnel should touch it ; " but you don't 2. E 2<' E.MIKV MO 11 BLAND. deserve," she continued, " that such a baby as this should ever call you father ; and, if she lives to be a womanj I hope she will treat you as you deserve, for her poor mother's sake." " Don't be so hasty, girl," observed the more calm and deliberate Farmer, looking earnestly at De Cardonnelj who was still contemplating the fear tures of the infant : " Don't thee be so hasty ! He will, I hope, make amends, as far as he can, to the poor child, for the loss of her mother ; for he can't but feel that it is he who has deprived her " " Do not thus harrow up my heart I" exclaimed De Cardonnel, impetuously, " I will do all — every thing — that can be done ! Would to Heaven that I could recal the past ! But this dear babe, at least, shall have no further reason to condemn me. I will not attempt to remove her from the care of those, who, I am sure, will be to her all the most tender parents can be ; but I can, at least, prevent their feeling her a burthen now ; and, at a future period, her proper establishment in the world shall be my most solicitous care. To you, my kind friend," he continued, more particularly addressing Farmer Wilson, " I will entrust this, for present use ; per- haps it will be better you should keep it until a proper opportunity occurs. At this moment, Mr. Moreland's proud spirit, his justly offended feelings, would probably induce hira to reject what, never- theless, he must feel it to be my duty to bestow." " I will do as you desire," replied the Farmer, softened by De Cardonnel's impressive manner ; *• but, if he should refuse it altogether you had best EMILY M () 11 E li A N D . give the some direction, that I may let you know, and return the money." " I will write to you, if you will give me your ad- dress," returned De Cardonnel, after a moment's hesitation. Not a little proud, apparently, of his trust, the Farmer wrote, in a leaf of De Cardonnel's pocket- book, the necessary direction ; and the latter, having imprinted a fervent kiss on the lips of the babe, which Susan no longer withheld from him, mounted his horse, and rode slowly on, Wilson having tAvice repeated — " You will please, Sir, to recollect how much YOU have given me— just twentv-five pounds.' CHAPTER 11. He sent the maid his picture, girt With diamond, pearl, and gold, And silken paper, sweet with musk. His gentle message told. The words ha whisper'd were so soft, They won her ear and heart. How soon will she who loves believe* How deep a lover's art I Ancient Legend. At a very early period of life, Reuben Moreland, the younger son of a noble family, had committed the very common, but, in the opinion of his friends, unpardonable, offence of marrying for love — his bride possessing neither wealth nor high birth, whicl*. 28 EMILY MORELANW. in their opinions, were indispensable requisites for happiness. He had, just before his marriaoe, entered into noly orders, and possessed, through the interest of his fa- ther, a very fair chance of rising high in the sacred profession; but the disappointment and consequent resentment of the latter, at his son's imprudence, knew no bounds, when informed of the marriage; and, from that moment, Reuben was left to make his own way in the world. The father of the lovely and innocent girl, who had tempted Moreland to the inconsiderate step of marrying, before he had the means of providing, even in the humblest manner, for a wife, was a simple, uneducateu man, whose sole worldly Avealth was the secluded cottage, and the few acres of ground at- tached to it, which we have spoken of in the fore- going chapter, as being, at the period our history commenced, inhabited by Moreland and his wife, now fast sinking into the vale of years. They v.ere then, however, young, sanguine, and most ardently attached to each other; and though, for the first twelve months, Reuben Avas indebted to the father of his Martha for their Joint support, still they loved on, and hoped for better days. At the end of that time, Moreland accidentally learned that a fellow collegian, not very remarkable for any distinguishing traits of disposition or character, but considered by his acquaintance a passable, gooci- natured fellow, had been inducted Rector of the va- luable living of Arlington, about thirty miles from his (Moreland's) present residence, and that he was '»! want of a curate to assist in his new office. EMILY MORELANDj 29 To him, therefore, Moreland wrote, stating his circumstances, and offering his services, which were immediately accepted ; and, in a few weeks, he found himself comfortably settled with his Martha in a neat and pleasantly situated house, at a convenient distance from the Rectory, and in possession of the annual stipend of one hundred pounds a year, for which he soon found he was expected to perform the whole duty of the living, as the Rector seldom re- sided there more than a few weeks in the year. Reuben Moreland, however, was too moderate and unambitious, and, we may add, too deeply im- bued with the true spirit of his holy calling, to repine at his lot. At first, indeed, he felt a little mortified at the airs of patronage and superiority which Doc- tor Robinson, the Rector, assumed towards him; particularly when he considered his former pliancy and deference towards him at College ; yet time and reflection taught him to regard with indifference this proof of weakness, and littleness of mind, and for which he was more than compensated by the uniform respect and consideration of his parishioners. The first four years of Moreland's wedded life were passed without any incident worth recording, except the successive births and deaths of two fine boys, who were both " but shown and snatched away" from the disappointed, but not repining, pastor and his wife. One of Moreland's favourite projects, for the em- ployment of that time which, in spite of his duties of preaching, marrying, christening, and burying, some- times: hung heavy on his hands, was the education of ^ti' EMILV AIOIIELAND. a cliiit]; and he therefore gladly nud gratefull3 ac- cepted the oiFer, which, soon after the death of his second boy, was made to him through the medium of the Rector, to undertake the entire charge of an orphan of high rank, with an allowance which his conscientious feelings tempted him to remonstrate against, as extravagant and unnecessary. This, how- ever. Doctor Robinson himself overruled, and, at the age of three years, Reginald de Cardonnel be- came the object of the Curate and his wife's most solicitous care. The orphan and helpless situation of the infant Reginald, secured to him Mrs. Moreland's tenderest affection, while ner husband delighted in marking those traits in the disposition of his young charge, which indicated, he fondly hoped, every virtue he ::ould Avish to see adorn his mature age. A few months only elapsed, after Mr. Morelan had undertaken this important charge, when his Martlia again promised him an increase of family; •md, on the very flay that the youthful Reginald at- tained his fourth year, the Curate's paternal feeling '.vere gratified by the' birth of a daughter. " I am almost g-ad it is not a boy," said Morelano, as he sat with Reginald on his knee„ a few hours after the important event, " for I should, perhaps, if it had lived, been partial, and " "She will just make a beautiful wife for Master Reginald," interrupted the garrulous old nurse, who was exhibiting the baby, and expatiating, with pro- fessional eloquence, on its beauty, and its supposed resemblance to its parents. ^i^ui '/iez^^ i7€aim€yAie^ i^/^^k^i^Yy/w^t Zs^al' 'MlcZ, ai<-^.' Jrnim'. Fiil'lish^ay ty ff^.Tirtue^. 2^. JiyZaru:.: EMILY MORET.ANn ^J Mr. Moreland's smile vanished, and for some mi- nutes he appeared lost in reflections, which, to juds^e from his countenance, were not of the most pleasant nature, and which terminated in his starting up to leave the room. " There, kiss your pretty little wife, sir, before you go," said the nurse, holding the baby to Reginald. The usually placid Curate actually frowned, and hastily drew his young charge away; and, muttering something about " silly old gossips," which fortu- nately did not reach the ears of the consequential old lady, he hurried the boy out of the room. Though a woman of no very extraordinary abili- ties, Mrs. Moreland, who had lain quietly watching her husband during this scene, intuitively compre- hended all his feelings , and, from that moment, the Curate was never again annoyed by a recurrence to the same idea. The term " sister," indeed, which the little Reginald was soon taught to apply to the baby, seemed to banish all thoughts of the possibility of any other connexion from the minds of Moreland and his wife; and Marian, as she grew up, though occasionally, by accident, reminded that Reginald owed his birth to a different source to that from which she sprang, scarcely allowed her thoughts to dwell, for a moment, on the painful conviction that he was not in reality her brother. Reginald de Cardonnel, though the heir to large estates, and the descendant of a noble family, stood singularly alone in the world ; for, with the exception of a sister of his mother; (v. ho, at the period he was {)laced with Mr. Moreland, had gone with her hus- 0§ EMILY MO R ELAND. band to India, where the latter held a high ofliciai station,) he could not claim a single relative; and Marian, whom her father purposely kept in ignorance of connexions who had for years appeared to have forgotten him and his family, often innocently ob- served — " It is no -wonder that you and I, and my father and mother, love eack other so dearly, for we have no relations to divide our love." Scarcely, however, had Marian attained her four- teenth year, when this dream of love and happiness was interrupted. The Rector, who, in his annual /isits, had expressed himself perfectly satisfied with Moreland's care of his ward, and as regularly paid the yearly allowance for his education and support, now announced that it was his wiil, and that of Sir James Dorriugton, his uncle by marsiage, and his sole guardian, that Mr. Reginald de Cardonnel should finish his studies at Cambridge. This event was not unexpected by Moreland, and^ indeed, had been frequently mentioned by him to Reginald, as not merely probable, but almost certain. Marian, howeyer, who couid scarcely bear with patience the thought that any one should possess a control over Reginald, superior to her father's, heard thii annunciation with undisguised displeasure and oorrow ; though it never seemed to occur to her mind, until her father '.ithout any reserve spoke of the certainty that this was a final parting, that henceforth Reginald would have another home — > ould form new connexions — and, in short, that in all probability he would soon cease to feel or a. -knowledge the EMILY MOREl.AN U. 33 humble Curate and his family as his parents o.id his sister. Marian was thunderstruck! She was, for the first time, inclined to consider her father as cruel and un- just; and Reginald soon contrived to confirm this impression ; for, with all the fervency of youth, he protested that the whole world united could never change his present feelings, and Marian believed him. m defiance of her father's prognostications. Reginald unwillingly obeyed the mandate ttiat separated him from his early friends, who, witii un- feigned sorrowj saw him depart ; and with as sincere pleasure received him, when the vacation, and Doc- tor Robinson's permission, left him at liberty to de- vote a few weeks to them. Six months' absence, and his having during thai period mingled in more varied society than were to be found in Moreland's limited circle, had greatlj improved the manners and appearance of him whom Marian had before thought perfection itself. She was never weary of looking at him, or of talking about him ; and Reginald, while he smiled at her artless innocence, and contrasted it mentally with the affectation and sophisticated manners of some females he had lately met with, and who were considered, by his companions, superlatively elegant and attractive, was equally undisguised in his admi- ration of her increased stature, her womanly appear- ance, and the progress she had made in the few ac- complishments which she had an opportunity of ac- quiring. With secret uneasiness Mr. Moreland lis- tened to all this, and on surveying the expens've pre- 2. F 34' EMILV MOUELAND. st'Kts which Reginald had brought for Marian, he openly reproved him for his extravagance. " You are doing a serious mischief, I fear, Regi- nald," observed the Curate, when his daughter had left the room ; " these expensive baubles will pro- bably beget, in my poor girl's bosom, a love of finery and useless decoration, wliich neither her present circumstances or future prospects warrant. She has hitherto been content in her loAvly station — Beware, therefore, how you, from mistaken kindness, en- courage tastes and propensities which can only serve to make her unhappy and discontented, when she no longer possesses the means of gratifying them." " That will never be, while I am alive!" inter- rupted Reginald, warmly. " Of what value would fortune be to me, if Marian did not share it? No, my dear father — for such I will still consider you — such I hope, at no very distant period, to have a right to call you " Mr. Moreland hastily interrupted him—" Regi- nald, if you value my regard, I may say, my affection — if yoii respect my peace of mind — you will never again hint at such a subject ; and, above all, I re- quire your solemn promise that, to Marian, you will never breathe a word that can raise such an idea in her mind ! You are both as yet children — you know not even your own minds — and still less do you know the prospects and intentions of your friends. This, however, I know, — that, not only in their eyes, but in the general opinion of the world, I should be con- demned as having, from motives of self-interest, con- nived at an ry ^'^//A///// r,/y //f/ //rORKLANI>. jumped into the chaise which was to convey him from her, for a period she little suspected. The next vacation arrived, before a thought en- tered Marian's mind that Reginald would not pass it with them; she had, indeed, wondered that the letter, which they received from hirn about three weeks previous, contained not a single allusion to their approaching meeting; but she felt highly in- dignant and offended, when, on making the remark to her father, he replied — "Surely, my dear child, you cannot be so unrea- sonable as to expect Reginald to devote all his holi- days to us ? It is probable that he has formed some engagement, which will prevent his visiting us at all, this summer." Marian, liowever, was certain he would come ; and she was not undeceived, until they received a letter from him, dated from London, by which they learned that he was spending his few weeks of liberty with Doctor Robinson, and had been highly gratified by the sights of the Metropolis, though he should have relished them much more, had Marian enjoyed them with him. "Oh, then, he has not quite forgotten me!" ex- claimed Marian, bursting into a passionate fit of tears. " Who is unjust and cruel to Reginald now, Ma- rian ?" demanded Mr. Moreland, gravely ; " but, my dear girl, you must learn to moderate your expecta- tions. Your friend is now of an age to enjoy and to require other society than ours." Marian's tears increased for some miiiii'es ''"' EMILY MORRT.ANT). 3J> priie at last came to her relief—"! will think no more about him," she observed, dryin"- hei eyes. '• No, if he never comes again!— and 1 beg, my dear father, that you will tell him so, in your reply to his letter; and tell him, too, that I am very glad he has had so many pleasures lately." Mr. Moreland smiled and sighed in the same breath, as he gazed fondly in lier glowing and animated face ; but he did not promise to comply with her re- quest; and, as if by mutual consent, the name of Reginald was seldom uttered, except when his letters, which were pretty regular, brought him forward on the tapis. In secret, however, Marian spent many hours in conjecturing the alterations which would probably have taken place in his person and manners, before she should see him again; and not a few tears were shed over the presents he had made her, and at the recollection of the warm protestations which accom- panied the precious gifts. But Marian was no longer a child; — she no longer indulged the delusive idea that Reginald was to her only a beloved brother; and the consciousness of the folly and impropriety of her attachment to him, induced her to study to conceal it. Thus passed away a year and a half of Reginald's banishment. To Mr. Moreland, during the first few months, he had often privately written, entreating him to revoke the cruel determination he had formed; but the Curate was inexorable, though he yielded to him so far as to refrain from communicating to Doc- tor Robinson what had passed, and left Reginald to 40 EMILY MOR ELAND. frame what excuse he thought fit, for his continued absence from Arlington. The last half year of De Cardonnel's residence at Cambridge commenced, and Moreland, who was be- ginning to anticipate its termination with considera- ble anxiety, was surprised by observing in the news- paper an announcement of the return of Sir James Dorrington and family from India, with the addition that the King had been pleased, in reward of his long services, to create Sir James a peer, by the title of Lord Dorrington. " It is highly probable, then," he observed aloud, after reading the intelligence to his wife and daugh- ter, as they sat at breakfast " It is highly probable that my predictions will be verified! Reginald de Cardonnel will forget the humble inhabitants of Ar- lington, in the splendor of these new connexions, and we shall see him no more." " This, then, accounts," he added, after a thought- ful pause of some minutes, " for his having neglected, for the first time since he quitted us, to write, to say where he had spent his vacation, or how he had been entertained. I knew, indeed, that it was not with Doctor Robinson, who is confined at Bath, with a severe attack of the gout ; for I received, a fortnight ago, a letter from the Doctor's valet, to inquire if Mr. de Cardonnel was or had been at Arlington, as his master had some important information to com- municate, and knew not where to write to him." "Howstrange!" observed Mrs. Moreland, "where in the world could the boy have hidden himself?" " Oh, it could not be expected that d gay young EMII^Y MORET.A ND. 41 man would consent to doze away all his time Avith such a peevish old proser as the Rector," observed Moreland, assuming a levity he was far from feeling. " Then why, I wonder, did he not come here ? I am sure I long to see him," returned Mrs. More- land, with her usual simplicity. Marian, who, during- this conversation, had sat in the most pitiable confusion, unable to raise her eyes to meet those of her father, now let the, tea-cup fall from her trembling hand : and, in the bustle this occasioned with her neat and careful mother, escaped the observation she dreaded. In her anxiety lest the tea should have scalded her darling, and her secondary fear that it would stain the new buff gown, which was so remarkably becoming, Mrs. Moreland forgot Reginald de Car- donnel, and all that was connected with him. The Curate silently resumed the newspaper, and Marian eagerly seized the excuse of changing her gown, to retire to her own room, there to shed the bitter tears, which a consciousness of her own unworthi- ness, and the deception she had been guilty of towards her doting and unsuspecting parents, ex- torted from her. No one, indeed, could better account for the neg- lect and concealment of Reginald de Cardonnel than herselfo Nearly two months prior to this period, the Cu- rate had been called from home by the sudden death of Mrs. Morel and's aged father, who breathed his last in the cottage in which he was born, and to 2. G 42 EMILY MORELAND. which he was so much attached, that he would not leave it, even to reside with his beloved and only child, to whom he bequeathed it, and the land at- tached, with a strict injunction that it should not be sold, but descend, after her death and her husband's, to their daughter. The necessary arrangements which this event de- manded, detained Mr. Moreland for some weeks ; and, during that absence, Marian was left more to herself than was usual. Her mother, from her notable disposition, which always suggested some employment in her little household, seldom having time or inclination to accompany her in her rambles. From one of these rambJes, then, Marian was re- turning alone, when she was respectfully accosted by a stranger, who, putting a letter into her hand, intimated that he should wait on the morrow, at the same hour, and on the same spot, for an answer, and then hastily retreated. A single glance at the superscription informed Marian who was the writer of the epistle thus mys- teriously delivered ; and the consciousness that she should do wrong in thus receiving it, kept her for a few moments in suspense. She would call back the man, and refuse to receive it,~but he was already out of sight. Jt would be best, then, to take it to her mother, and tell her how she came by it ; but, while she still delayed and hesitated, her fingers had almost unconsciously broken the seal. Her eye rested on a passionate appeal to her feelings, and those feelings were now too strongly excited, io listen to the dictates ot prudence. EMILV MOEELAND. 43 With trembling emotion she learned from this spistle, that, far from having deserted, or become indifferent to her, Reginald was positively inter- dicted by her " unfeeling and cold-hearted father,' from either seeing or writing to her ; and that, un able to bear any longer the miserable fear and sus- pense he endured, as to the state of her affections — fearing, indeed, that she might, by his absence and apparent neglect, be induced to bestow, on some one more favoured by her father, the precious boon without which he declared he would not, and could not support existence, — he had thus ventured to break through the barrier which Mr. Moreland'^i worldly prudence interposed betAveen them, and entreated her at least to relieve the insufferable tor- tures of suspense, by replying to him with candour. " If you decide against me, Marian," he con- cluded, " I will not promise to bear that decision with fortitude ; but, at least, you shall never hear my complaints ! What my feelings will be, should you, on the contrary, condescend to assure me that the affection, you once declared unalterable towards Reginald de Cardonnel, is still unshaken by the arts that have been practised against him — what those feelings will be, Marian, no words can paint!" Marian read this letter with astonishmejit ; what were her father's motives, for acting so cruelly and deceptively, as she considered it, she could form no idea — for Reginald had left that totally unexplained In an evil hour she replied to this passionate effn- sion, and, with equal sincerity and imprudence, de- clared, that not even the onviction of his unwor- 44 EMILY MORELAND thiness had been able to shak. the affection she entertained for Reginald de Cardonnel. At the sauie time s.ie entreated him to explain, if possible, t^ hat had prompted her father to act so contrary to his usual character. With shame and confusion in her countenance, she repaired to the spot appointed by De Cardon- nel's emissary, and in silence delivered her reply, which the man received with the most visible satis- faction. Marian returned home ; — for the first time, she re- joiced in her father's ibsence, for she felt that she had done wrong-, and she felt, too, a secret consciousness that her father must have had some strong reasons for acting as he had done, and could not have been guided by mere caprice and tyranny, as Reginald had insinuated. A thousand times she was on the point of revealing to her mother all that had oc- curred, but still she lingered and hesitated, until it was too late ; for Reginald, encouraged by her let- ter, came himself. Scarcely could Marian recognise, in the elegant and fashionable young man, who stole unperceived into the arbour where she was reading, in the spa- cious garden attached to the Parsonage, — scarcely could she believe, until she heard his voice, and felt his ardent embrace, that it could indeed be Regi- nald de Cardonnel, Alas! far more altered in mind and piinciples, than in person, Avas the former companion of her child- hood. Reginald was no longer the noble ingenuous youth, whose cheek would have crimsoned at the EMILY MO RELAND. 4.J slightest imputation of dishonour. His youth, his large allowance, and his fascinating and vivacious manners, had made him sough tafter at Cambridge, alike by the thoughtless, the profligate, and the de- signing of both sexes ; and his easy disposition, and want of knowledge of the world, made him but too prone to adopt the habits of the one class, and become a dupe to the craft of the other. Before he had been a year at College, the handsome De Cardonnel was as distinguished for his extravagance and dissipated ha- bits, as those of much longer standing. He demanded an increase of his allowance from Doctor Robinson, who refused him, and, six months after, was startled by the demands of half the tradesmen in Cambridge, with whom the young heir had found credit. The Doctor paid them — wrote a very pompous letter, full of common-place admonitions and prog- nostications of the consequences of such conduct — but there his care for his ward ended ; for the Doctor hated trouble of all sort ; and Reginald, having thrown his letter into the fire, proceeded with fresh eclat in the profligate career which he had en- tered into. Still, however, he could not disguise from himself that this was not the road to happiness. Often amid the nightly revel, when the point of his repartees, the wit of his hon mots, or the refined indelicacy of his double cntendres had set the room in a roar and excited his companions to applaud him " to the very echo ;" often, at such moments, would his imagina- tion paint the look of sorrow and reproach with which his more than father vi^ould behold him, could 46 EMILY MORELAND. he look in, and see him the hero of such a scene ; and still oftener did he turn with disgust from the meretricious arts of the females with whom he now associated, to muse over the image, which his mind still faithfully retained, of the beautiful, the pure the innocent Marian Moreland. It was under the influence of one of these transient fits of satiety and repentance, that he suddenly re- solved to break through what he considered the arbitrary restriction which Mr. Moreland had im- posed, and ascertain whether Marian still retained her affection for him. " If she really loves me," he observed, " she will easily be persuaded to be mine immediately ; and, once married, I shall be enabled effectually to shake off these ruinous habits." Marian's answer, we have already said, was as propitious as he could desire ; and Reginald, throw- ing aside all restraints, without a moment's hesitation, set out for the neighbourhood of Arlington, with his servant, — the man to whom he entrusted the delivery of his letter to Marian. For two or three days, he remained concealed in a cottage, at a short distance from the Curate's house; the inhabitants of which he effectually bribed to silence by his profuse liberality. Marian, half repenting what she had done, and suspecting that her correspondence with Reginald would not end with her reply to his letter, kept close to the house, lest she should again encounter the lat- tcr's messenger, and again be tempted to act contrary to her better judgment. EMILV MOUELANU. 47 lles^inald, however, by means of his spy, sooji ascer- tained that her hours were chiefly passed in the ar- bour which his own hands had reared for her ; and there he contrived to secrete himself, at a time when he knew her mother was always busily employed in her household cares. To prevent the effects which his too sudden appearance might have on her, he placed on her little work-table an elegant and striking miniature of himself, which he had sent for her ac- ceptance, at an early period of his residence at Cam- bridge; but which had been returned by her father, without mentioning it to her. He had not been long in his hiding-place, before she entered the arbour, and had scarcely thrown her- self in a pensive attitude on the rustic seat, before she discovered that her retreat had been intruded on. With trembling emotion she gazed on the well- remembered features, and then darted a conscious and inquiring glance around. Reginald was, in an instant, by her side, and, with passionate kisses, stifled the reproof she was about to utter. Marian wept, as much with joy as alarm, at the impropriety of thus tacitly consenting to a clandestine intercourse ; but Reginald's arguments and entrea- ties, enforced as they were with all the ardour of the most vehement eloquence, soon overpowered all her reluctance and demurs. The interview was repeated, and solemn vows ol fidelity exchanged ; but Marian's innate feelings of delicacy were not so soon conquered as Reginald had anticipated; and, tnough she half consented to be- come his wife, without waiting for the sanction of 48 EMILY MORELAND. her father, or his (Re^^inald*?) friends, she wonld not listen to his plan of immediate elopement. Reginald returned to College ; but, the moment the Vacation commenced, he was again an inhabitant of the cottage at Arlington. Marian had now gone too far to retreat, and hour after hour v^as passed in the arbour, until, in a fatal moment, she forgot her pa- rents, her honour, all the world but Reginald and love. Still Reginald declared that nothing but an union with her could save him from despair and ruin, and still Marian believed him ; but he departed again for Cambridge, without making any positive arrange- ments for the event, which he yet talked of as certain to take place; and Marian was left to the misery of her own self-reproaches, and the dread of a discovery by her injured and deceived parents. It was these feelings which overwhelmed her, when her father casually mentioned the arrival of De Car- donnel's relatives from India; but a still more ago- nising discovery awaited her. She found that she was likely to bring into the world a pledge of her shame ; and, overcome with terror, she wrote to her betrayer to come and save her from distraction, by immediately fulfilling his promise. A plan for her elopement was immediately con- certed by Reginald, who waited a few miles off, while his servant carried it into effect; and, in the dead of the night, Marian, with a beating heart and trem- bling steps, crossed the humble threshold of that dwelling, which ehe was doomed ncvfr to gee again. ^^irrjhr, I'lM. EMILY M()iU:l- A Nl). 40 " V^hat will not woman wiien she love&? " Yet lost, alas, who can restore her.' " She lifts the latch, the wicket moves — " And now the world is all before hei !" Reginald's soothina;; assurances, his protestations of eternal love, and the prospects he held forth, that a short time would see her restored to the arms of her parents, freed from all reproach— for who would dare affix a stain upon the name of his wife — gradually dispelled the violent agitation she ffelt ; yet Marian could not banish the tortures of self-reproach, when she pictured to herself the terror and consternation of her parents when they should discover her absence, which she had not attempted to explain, lest, as Reginald had suggested, some clue might be afforded, and they might be traced, before that ceremony, which was to remove all her shame and terror, could be performed. For the first two days, while they were still on the road, Reginald talked incessantly of their future happiness, — of the arrangements of the establish- ment which he should for-m^ as soon as he came of age,— and of the pleasure he should enjoy, in intro- ducing his Marian to scenes which she yet knew only by description; and the credulous girl, lulled into complete security, never suffered a fear to intrude that these specious promises would not be fulfilled. A lodging had already been provided by the ser- vant, who had been sent on before; and Marian, for the first few days of her i-esidenco in London, had no reason to complain of inattention on the part of Reginald, who devoted nearly tli? whole of his time 3. H 50 EMILY MORELANl). to her. She could not, however, be blind to the alarming fact, that on each succeeding day he ap- peared less disposed to talk of that event, which was alone wanting, she thought, to complete her felicity. Never did Reginald now voluntarily recur to that subject, which at first seemed constantly to occupy his mind; and when, at last, compelled to speak of it, by some observation of Marian's, it was as inevi- tably postponed for the present by the difficulties arising from their being both minors. Marian's bright prospects vanished — she began to doubt and fear; and those doubts and fears soon settled into dreadful certainty. Reginald's visits became less frequent, and of shorter duration ; and when, driven to desperation by her apprehensions, she ventured to remind him of his promises, and of the misery her parents must be suffering, his answers were so unsatisfactory and evasive, that the poor lost one at once beheld all the horrors of her fate ! Fainting with anguish, she sank into a chair, and DeCardonnel, unable to bear the sight of the misery which he had not honourable resolution sufficient to remove, rushed out of the house, to vhich he did not, for some weeks, return. To the careful and motherly kindness of the good woman of the house in which she was fortunately lodged, Marian owed the preservation of her life and reason; which were both near being sacrificed, in the first moments of her dreadful despair. No en- treaties, however, could prevail on her, grateful as she felt, and unreserved as she was, on every other point, with her kind friend and nurse; no arguments EMILY MORELAND 51 were sufficient to induce her to disclose the name or residence of her parents, whom she acknowledged she had cruelly deceived and deserted. " While they are uncertain of the fate of their child," she replied, ''they will judge the best of her; but never let them have the misery of knowing that she left them voluntarily; — that she disgraced and polluted their happy home, and believed the specious tales of a villain, who dared to infuse into her cre- dulous mind the belief that her father, whom she considered the most perfect of human beings, was unjust, capricious, and tyrannical." Mrs. Neville, the kind-hearted woman in whose care she had luckily fallen, soon ceased to press her on a subject, which she found invariably irri- tated the wounded mind which she was anxious to heal ; but, in her other efforts for the service of her interesting charge, she was more successful ; for, after infinite pains and search, she succeeded in dis- covering the residence of De Cardonnel, whose real name, family, and connexions, she learned from the unconscious Marian, while in a state of complete mental distraction. Determined not to lose a moment's time, in repre- senting; to the deceiver the situation of his unfortu- nate victim, Mrs. Neville, on the very same evening that she ascertained that Mr. de Cardonnel was re- siding in Portland Place, at the mansion of his uncle, (Lord Dorrington,) proceeded thither. The night wa'^ wet and stormy, but the good wo- man disregarded all considerations but the success of her «rrar.d : and it was no' until she found herself 03 EMILV MORELAND. in the splendid hail, and exposed to the inipiutent stare of the lazy domestics, who were lounging about in it, that she felt the slightest dismay at her own humble appearance. To her inquiry, whether Mr. de Cardonnel was within, she could get no deci- sive answer. No one knew, or would know; but, at length, she was told that his servant would be there presently, and then she could inquire. For nearly an hour she continued standing unno- ticed, except by an inquisitive glance, when any of the numerous tribe of domestics entered the hall, who had not seen her before. At length she beheld the same man descending the staircase, who had at- tended Dc Cardonnel at her house, and had engaged the lodj^ings for him, in the name of Stanley ; and, darting towards him, she, in an authoritative tone, desired him to tell his master, Mr. de Cardonnel, that she Vf'ished to speak with him. The man looked surprised and alarmed, but he re- solutely protested that Mr. de Cardonnel was gone out for the evening. " Then 1 will remain here till he returns," replied (he old woman, with determination, seating herself on a bench ; " for I am resolved not to close my eyes till I have seen him." It was in vain Vincent (the servant) tried to per- suade her from this resolution, or to induce her to enter a room, (he door of which he opened ; the more anxious he was to remove her from the hall, the more certain she became, iu her own mind, that he was fearful of h?r seeing De Cardonnel, for whon;. she doubted not, the elegant carriage, which had EMILY MOftELAND. 53 just (IravvJi up to the door, as she entered, was now waiting Finding entreaties and persuasions useless, Vin- cent at length resorted to force; and, after a short whisper with another man, who wore Mr. de Car- donnel's livery, they each seized her arms, and, as- suming an air of levity, observed, " that she should not sit there, at the risk of catching her death, but should come where there was a good fire, and a glass of wine to comfort her;" at the same time attempting to hurry her down a long passage, apparently lead- ing to the servants' offices. The old lady, however, who was a stout, sturdy Avomaji, violently resisted this attempt to thwart her purpose; and she was still struggling and exclaiming, when De Cardonnel descended the stairs, conducting n most splendidly dressed and beautiful young female. At sight of Mrs. Neville, — who had caught hold of one of the pedestals, which supported statues bearing lamps at each side of the foot of the stair- case, and resisted every effort to remove her, without dashing it to pieces, — at the first glance of her angry countenance, Reginald would fain have retreated ; but his fair companion's curiosity was not so easily eluded. With an air that showed she was accus- tomed to command, and expected implicit obedience, she exclaimed — " What is the meaning of this? Who is this wo- man, and why are you treating her so rudely ?" Vincent looked at his master, as if doubtful what to say ; while the latter, turning alternately red and pale^ fiastily replied — '' 1 know the woman, Julia. iShe has nothin"- to 54 EMILY MOIIELAND. say that is calculated for your ear. — Leave her to luy servants, and I will " * No, Sir, I will say what I came here to say," exclaimed Mrs. Ne\ille, in almost breathless agita- tion, " I will tell you, in the hearing of this lady, that you are a vile deceiver, and that the poor young creature, whon) you have destroyed and deserted, is dying at my house !" "Julia, dear Julia, pray do not attend to the M'ild ravings of this maniac!" exclaimed De Car- donnel, endeavouring to draw the beautiful girl, who stood transfixed to the spot, towards the hall door, at which the carriage still stood. With an air of haughty superiority, however, she repulsed the effort, and commanded Vincent and the other man to release Mrs. Neville, whom they still held; then calmly desiring the laiter to follow her, without bestowing a look on the enraged and morti- fied De Cardonne], she returned up the stairs, leaving him to proceed in the carriage, or stay, as he thought proper. " What is the matter, Lady Julia," said a lady, who hastily rose from a couch, on which she was in- dolently reclining. Lady Julia burst into an hysterical fit of tears, and, regardless of her elegant dress, threw herself on the sofa, hiding her face in the pillow ; while her liat, loaded Avith the most valuable feathers, and looped with diamonds, fell totally unregarded on the ground; and the splendid reticule, which had been hanoing on her arm, was tossed, with childish petu- lance, to the other side of the room. •' Who are you, woman ?~and wh f do you follow EMILY MOREI.AND. OO my daughter ?" exclaimed the elderly lady, stamping her foot with the most imperious air, as she fixed her eyes furiously on Mrs. Neville. " Do not scold her, mamma — but shut that wretch, Reginald, out ! — Lock the door — do not let him come in ! I will never see his face again !" sobbed Lady Julia, raising herself up on her beautiful white arm, which was encircled with a splendid armlet, which at that moment caught her eye. Hastily unclasping it, before her mother could pre- vent her, she threw it on the ground, and stamped on it, with all the force her delicate foot and thin satin shoes would allow. " Do not destroy the jewels, my child ! Are you frantic ?" exclaimed her mother. " If Reginald has offended you " " I will destroy every vestige of the wretch !" ex- claimed the enraged beauty. " Would that it were his false heart, instead of his hair, tliat 1 could thus throw into the flames !" and, with a violence which seemed to render her mother afraid of interfering, she tore the braid of glossy hair from the jewels in which it had been set, and threw it upon the fire, th^n sank again upon the sofa, as if to smother llie violence of her passion. •'Can you explain tlsis scene ?" demanded the mother, addressing the half-terrified Mrs. Neville, who had remained slandiiig near the door. " Yes — she can tell yuu that Reginald has seduced some poor gi.'l, while he has been pretending that he could noi exist out of my sight l" exclaimed Lady Julia ; " and now he is tired of her, and has left her 56 EMILY MORELANI). to die in distiess! And, if I had nianiej iiim, 1 suppose I, too, should have been neglected and de- serted ! But I will die first !" and again she sank down, and renewed her violent sobs. " And is it upon this errand you are come, to dis- turb the peace of my family, and work upon the sen- sibility of my daughter, in favour of some artful, low creature, who, I dare say, has taken advantage of my nephew's youth, and " Mrs. Neville could bear this no longer. '' Excuse my interrupting you. Madam," she observed, " but I cannot hear you go on, under such a mistake. The lady, in whose behalf I have come here, is, for aught I know, as well born — I know she has been as well bred— as any here. She is, too, as young and beau- tiful as that lady ; and, could you see her " " And pray where is this paragon ?" demanded Liady Dorrington, without relaxing, in the slightest degree, from her imperious manner. " Could she not come herself to accuse Mr. de Cardonnel, if she has any reason so to do ?" " I have already said that she is not likely to sur- vive the discovery of Mr. de Cardonnel's baseness and treachery. She is in an advanced state of " " I want no further explanations, good woman," interrupted Lady Dorrington, with a scornful air, '^ and I desire that you will take some proper oppor- tunity of applying to Mr. de Cardonnel, if he has neglected to make a proper provision for this yor.ng woman ; whoever she is, of course, she has a right to demand it ; but it would be more to her credit, and yours, too, to keep such aflairs as secret as possible. E M 1 1, Y M O a E r. A N I) . 07 \ou see how you have disht'ssed my dau«^}iter — tnough, indeed, it is very \viong- of her, to suffer herself to be thus ovetcoiiie, for a mere bagatelle. Young men of fortune will transgress in this way ; and, as it is plain tills has happened previous to his seeingyou, my dear Julia," (turning to her daughter,) "and he has, even by this a\ Oman's account, discon- tinued his visits, I cannot think that you ought so seriously to resent the affair." During this unfeeling and unfeminine speech, Mrs* Neville's surprise and agitation had completely con- founded her ; but, at the conclusion of it, she hastily opened the door, and, with a look the most expres- sive of contempt she could assume, was on the point of quitting it, when a gentleman, whose louring brow betrayed that he was in some measure acquainted with the subject under discussion, entered. " I am ashamed. Lady Dorrington," he exclaimed, " that either you, or your daughter, should, for a moment, condescend to enter into an investigation of this kind, or suffer a woman of this description to re- main an instant in your presence. Reginald has acquainted me with the whole affair— and I am re- joiced to find that he has escaped the snares which have been laid to entrap him ; and that the punish- ment has fallen on the heads of those, who would have taken advantage of his youth and inexperience. The blame, it appears, is less attributable to the girl, than to her artful ai.d ambitious parents, who are rightly served for their foily and cupi-lilv, 1 have taken the settlement of the affair iuiu ii!\ own hands, however; and I will take carc' (iial Mv. da 3. i 58 EMILY MOUELAND. Cardonnel shail not be imposed upon. He must, of course, make a provision for the child, if it lives, and defray all reasonable expenses." " Put up your money, Sir," exclaimed Mrs; Ne- ville, who saw, from the manner in which he cfm- cluded the last sentence, and the production of his purse, that he was about to insult her still further. " Keep your money," she proudly repeated, " for well I am convinced she would sooner die than -be indebted to you ! Happy, indeed, anj 1 that she is spared hearing what I have this night heard, — ihe ricli and titled relatives of a base profligate, vinai- cating his conduct, and trying- to crush still more the unfortunate victim of his arts. Let him many your daughter — the connexion will be a suitable one ; for with none, but hearts hard and unfeeling as his own — none, but such as " " Hold your tongue, woman, or I will have you punished for your insolence !" vociferated Lord Dor- rington, while his lady, affecting extreme alarm, re- treated to the fire-place, and laid hold of the bell- rope ; and Lady Julia darted, from her beautiful dark eyes, looks which were intended to awe the resolute Mrs. Neville into utter nothingness. Neither Lord Dorrington's threats, or the looks of the ladies, however, effected the slightest change in Mrs. Neville's unceremonious mode of speaking ; and she continued to paint, in their true colours, the conduct of the Nabob and his family, with a hardi- hood which seemed absolutely to paialise them, and render them incapable of stopping her, either by per- miasion or force, — until, M length, exhausted with EMIIiY IIORELAND. 5J» her own emotions, she felt it necessary to make a retreat. Leaving the astonished party, therefore, to their reflections on the truths she had uttered, she delibe- rately walked down stairs, and returned home, almost heart-broken, with the conviction that there was, in- deed, no hope remaining for her unfortunate charge. To her utter astonishment, however, on the fol- I'^wing morning, she was summoned from the cham- ber of the hapless Marian, to receive Mr. de Car- donnel, who had still sufficient feeling left, to be seriously impressed with her representation of the danger of the victim of his passions. " I have come, Madam," he observed, " to atone, as far as possible, for the treatment you met with yesterday; but " Mrs. Neville hastily interrupted him ; she cared nothing for what she had herself suffered, she said ; but she earnestly hoped he was come to render jus- tice to the poor girl, who had been so shamefully betrayed and deceived. De Cardonnel entreated her patient attention to what he had to plead in his own behalf, — and what woman could ever resist the insinuations of his tongue ? — Mrs. Neville listened to his artful and plausible extenuation of his conduct, and was finally brought to acknowledge, against her better judg- ment, that it was not possible for him to do that, which not even impossibilities ought to have pre- vented. He convinced her that he could not marry Marian ; and she, of course, could not object to the arrangements he proposed, to render her life, should 60 EMII,y MORELAND. she survive her present illness, as coiufoitahle »:? possible. All that had passed, therefore, it waa agreed should be suppressed ; and Mrs. Neville undertook to prepare Marian to see him, and to learn, by degrees, from his lips, the fatal truth— that they r.'.ust separate for ever. Marian received him with calmness ; but it was plain that she no longer indulged delusive hopes. She was anxious to conciliate his favour, for the poor babe which she was about to bring into the world, and which, sh? felt convinced, would soon have no parent but him ; and she therefore suppressed every reproach, but those her pale cheek and faded form so eloquently spoke. Mrs. Neville faithfully kept the secret of her inter- view with the Dorringtons, and her knowledge of De Cardoimel's intended marriage, until after the birth of Marian's child ; but when, three weeks after this event, she beheld the account of the splendid nup- tials of the heiress of Lord Dorrington with her cousin, Reginald de Cardonnel, she considered it absolutely necessary to interdict any future visit from the latter, and to demand from him the fuifii- nient of his promises of future provision for the helpless mother and her infant. Before, however, she could see her boncvoleut exertions crowned with success, Mrs. Neville's use ful and harmless life was closed by a sudden and violent disorder ; and Marian, dispossessed of her home, at the same mojiient learned tlie ternsination of every Itope ajicl every prospect for her chihi, in hearing- that De Cardonnel was married EMILY MO RET- AND. 01 In the first frenzy of despair, the most desperate ideas entered her mind : and, with her infant in her arms, she rushed out of the house, without any cer- tain aim or destination. In this distracted state she continued to wander for some hours, unconscious of the road she was taking-, or the observation she ex- cited, unMl her bodily strena^th became so exhausted, that she was compelled to look round for some place where she might rest for a few moments. She had taken, almost instinctively, a road which led com- pletely away from the busy city, and all its noisy appendages ; and she found herself in a green shady lane, which, but for the many scattered dwellings that met her eye on every side, she might have fan- cied was the very spot where she had delighted, in her childhood, to wander, with Reginald by her side assiduously conning the lessons which her infantine frolics alone had power to divert him from. The delusion was complete, when, at the far end of the lane, she beheld a neat and unpretending cot- tage, standing- in the midst of a garden, and almost hidden by the profusion of flowering shrubs and fra- grant Ciii5ibers, with which it was surrounded and overgrown. Exhausted and overcome with emotion, Marian sank on the green baiik which skirted the road. A shower of welcome tears relieved the burning of her brain, and softer ideas took possession of her mind. Could she secure to her child the protection of her onc€' fond parents — could she out fetl secure that they would shield it from neglect and poverty, — she should die happy : and .veil sbe knew that she should tKS EMILY MO U ELAN J). die, for it was impossible she could live to see their sorrow and resentment for the ills she had suffered. With the kind assistance of the inhabitants of the cottage, which had so powerfully affected her feel- ings, she recovered sufficiently to return to the late Mrs. Neville's house; and, having- made the neces- sary arrangements, was about to quit London for ever, when she was surprised by a visit from Vincent, the servant of De Cardonnel, who entered unan- nounced, as she was, with pain and difficulty, com- pleting her preparations for her journe-y. He had evidently learned her intentions, for, with very little circumlocution, though still affecting tho most profound respect, he introduced the subject of his visit to Arlington; and expressed his regret that the good and benevolent Mr. Moreland had quitted that place. Marian started — she had hitherto paid little at- tention to him; had scarcely, in fact, seemed to re- collect who he was, or to be curious to know with what view became; but now she eagerly attended to him, while he explained that he had been informed that some high words had passed between Doctor Robinson the Rector, and Mr. Moreland ; that the former had accused his Curate of endeavouring to entrap the last hope and heir of a noble house intu an unbecoming and unequal marriage; and that Mr Moreland had retorted with such severity, that a separation had been the consequence, and the latter had quitted Arlington forever. Marian was distracted at this account; she knew not now where to go, or what to resolve on : and, to EMILY MORELAND. (Vi, complete her despair, Vincent dared to insult her with an offer of making her his wife, and even ven- tured to insinuate that it was with his master's con- currence that he did so. It was fortunate for the hapless girl that this inso- lent proposal roused every spark of pride and resent- ment in her composition, and prevented her feeling. in its full force, the information respecting her pa- rents which he so abruptly conveyed, with a view, she was now convinced, to delay her journey, which must for ever put an end to the schemes he had formed. A few hours' reflection convinced her, that in the humble cottage in the Vale of St. Clare, which was now her father's sole possession, she should find those dear parents who had often, in her presence, recalled with complacency the happy hours which, previous to, and during the first year of their marriage, they had passed under its roof. Thither, therefore, the betrayed and deserted Marian resolved to proceed, without delay ; but, be- fore she could accomplish her journey, sickness, as we have already related, arrested her progress; and, with infinite difficulty and suffering, the resigned and patient wanderer reached the desired haven, to ter- minate all earthly woes and cares with the rapturous feeling, that she had secured to her innocent child, her unconscious Emily, the protection of her fond and forgiving parents. 04 EMI LY MORELi^M O CHAPTER III. Thou ar( so fair, so ejtcellently framed, There is such mind in thy soul-breatiiing eye, As if its ['iirer Iwjnie in heaven it claim'd, And thence alotie could draw its witchery. Thy voice has sucli a soothing melody, • •»«»»»* Methinks, as on thy jierfect form I gaze, In t>e'ice should be tliy patlis. In pleasantness thy ways. Anonymous, From the funeral of their lost Marian, Morelar. d and his wife returned to their humble home, sorro^^- fui but not despairing". They had parted with her but for awhile, and, if there were pains to suffer, trials to overcome, before they should be re-united, Marian was free from them ; to their share must they all now fall. With a thoughtful and presaging look at the infant Emily, who was sleeping on Susan's knee, Moreland made this observation in silence. " She will live, I hope, to be a comfort, and not a sorrow to you," replied his humble friend, Wilson, who had accompanied them home, and was leaning over the back of his niece's chair. Mr. Moreland almost started at the interpretation which Wilson's natural acuteness had enabled him to affix to his only half-formed thought ; but he made no rtply, except by a deep-drawn sigh; and the honei-t well-meaning- Farmer, having charged the youthful nurse to be careful in the execution of he. duty, as she valued his favour or protection, soon ■ EMILY MOREI.AND. (55 after departed, leavin£f to some fitter opportunity the relation he had to make of De Cardonnel's gifts and promises Several weeks elapsed, and he could not gain re- solution to mention a name and subject that Mr. Moreland evidently shrank from. Hearing- from Susan, however, that he was somewhat straitened for money, in consequence of the expenses of his daugh- ter's funeral, Wilson thought this an excellent op- portunity to bring forward the deposit, which Mr. de Cardonnel had made for the benefit of the infant Emily. For this purpose he called upon Mr Moreland^ and, after nursing the infant for some time, and praising its beauty and liveliness, he ventured to recur to their interview with the father, on the day of the funeral. " By-the-by, Sir," he observed, drawing from his pocket the purse which De Cardonnel had given him, " by-the-by, I had forgotten to mention that I have something to deliver to you, for the poor little dear, that her father gave me; and who has so great a right, as I said to my Dame when I got home,— who can have so great a right to provide for the child, as its own father?" Moreland looked surprised and angry, but, in a moment checking the emotion, he observed — " You have done wrong, my good friend, in receiving any thing from that man ; but never can I consent to be indebted to his charity for the support of this poor babe ! So long as I live, it shall never want ; and T will trust in Heaven to furnish the means of providing 3 K 66 EMILY MORELAlVn. for her hereafter, without stooping to the cruel maity to whom, I hope, she will never owe any more than her existence. Put the money in your pocket, frit'nd Wilson — and, if you should have no opportunity of returning it to the donor, let it be a fund to administer to those whose necessities require it in your neigh- bourhood." The Farmer looked dissatisfied and sorrowful. He could not but consider it as unnecessary scrupu- lousness and delicacy, in Mr. Moreland, to refuse ac- cepting what he had a just right to demand; but the latter was too firm and decided in his manner, to ad- mit of his appealing against the determination he had expressed ; and, after a long pause, during which his eyes had been earnestly fixed on the smiling child he still held in his arms, he returned the money into his pocket, with a sudden brightening of countenance, that seemed to imply he had, at last, settled it in his own mind to his satisfaction. "I will keep this money," he observed to his wife, when he returned home, and related what had passed — " I will keep this money, till the child is old enough to have it herself; and, if the father sends any more, (which I dare say he will,) I will save it all up for her ; and it may be the means of getting her a good husband, poor thing! — for, though love is all very well to begin the world with, you know. Dame, a little money helps to keep love warm." The Dame, who, with a much less warm heart, and a much warmer temper, than her husband, possessed an infinitely larger stock of what is called prudencfij perfectly acquiesced in the propriety of this resoiu- EMILY MORELAND. 6t tion ; and the money, carefully sealed up in the purse, with the name of "Emily Moreland" written upon it, was deposited in the Farmer's strong box. As the Farmer had expected, at the end of six months a remittance, to the same amount as the sum he had already in his hands, was received by him from Mr. de Cardonnel, who earnestly requested that Farmer Wilson would, from time to time, favour him with some intelligence of Mr. Moreland and his family. To this communication the Farmer, with infinite difficulty, and incessant application to his son, (a boy about twelve years old, on whom he had bestowed what he called " a good edicafion,^^) for the correct spelling of certain words, framed an answer in the following terms : — " Honoured Friend, " I received your kind letter, with the money, safe ; and am very glad to find you still continue to lay to heart the evil you have done, and keep in the mind to do your duty by your child ; as, indeed, you can do no less — seeing the manner in which you treated her poor mother ; which, though I don't wish to say anything disagreeable, was certainly the cause of her death ; and so, it seems, good Mr. Moreland thinks, for he would not, on no account, accept of the money you gave me — though, poor man, I be- lieve times be hard enough with him, at this present writing. However, as you disposed it with me, for the good of the poor child, I shall make bold to keep it for her ; and, by the time she is able to make use TO EMILY MORELAND. of it, it will have mounted to a very pretty penny, to begin the world, if so be as nothing happens to poor Mr. Moreland, to make her want it before, — which is likely enough, for, the Lord knows, he has had sorrow enough to break his heart, and has never held his head up, since he laid his poor daughter in the grave. No more— for the matter of that — has the poor mother, but looks as pale and thin as a ghost. " I have no more to say at present, but that 1 shall always be glad to hear from you, and do hope and bust that you will forsake your bad ways, and pray for forgiveness of your sins, and be always kind and dutiful to the poor little child ; and so I conclude, " Your dutiful servant to command, " Isaac Wilson. " To ReyiTUild de Cardoruiel, Esq. " Portland Place, Lqiu^qh." For four years after this auspicious commence- ment of a correspondence, honest Isaac yearly re- ceived a letter from Mr. de Cardonnel, which inva- riably inclosed a bank note for either the present or future use of Emily Moreland, as the Farmer might think fit, or see opportunity. After the first letter, however, Mr. de Cardonnel was very laconic in his epistles, never mentioning Mr. Moreland or his wife, and confining himself to merely inquiring whether the child was still living and well. " I dare say he would be glad to hear she was dead," observed Dame Wilson, looking earnestly at EMILY MORELAND. 69 the blooming Emily, who was now able to find her way tc " Daddy Wilson's," as she called him, by herself; and was as frequently to be found there, after the Farmer's hours of labour were over, as at her grandfather's cottage. " I hope not — I hope he is not so hard-hearted," returned the Farmer, stroking back the thick ches- nut curls, which fell over Emily's white and open brow, as she leaned against his knee, and looking fondly in her face. " I am sure," he continued, " could he once see her pretty ways, and hear her sweet tongue call him ' Father !' he would be a sa- vage if he didn't love her !" " Who are you talking of, Daddy Wilson ?'* asked the little prattler, looking inquisitively in his face, " not about me — because I have no father, you know, but you, and grandfather, and " " Hold your tongue, child, you don't know what you are talking about!" interrupted Dame Wilson, in her sharpest tone, which never failed to make Emily shrink closer to her friend the Farmer, and grasp his hard hand still tighter with her soft little fingers. " I suppose," continued the Dame, again addressing her husband, " he thinks, if such a thing was to hap- pen, he should have all his money back again." " To be sure," returned the Farmer, without scarcely seeming conscious of the question, or the answer he gave. Dame Wilson's looks declared that she by no means coincided in this prompt decision of her hus- bfnd's, and she was about to commence a very warn* ar«fument on the subject, when the Farmer put a 70 EMILY MORELAND. sudden stop to it by taking Emily in his arms, and walking out of the house. Emily was at this period entering lier fifth year, and this was the last time that Reginald de Cardonnel wrote to the Farmer, or evinced any interest con- cerning the child of Marian Moreland. Wilson felt disappointed ; two hundred and fifty pounds was a very pretty sum, certainly, but it was not, in his opinion, equal to what Emily had a right to expect ; and he should have liked, too, that her father should have bestowed a little of his love, as well as his money, on the sweet child. He wrote to De Cardonnel, painting, in his homely terms, the beauties of her person, and the sweetness of her disposition and manners ; but the letter re- mained unanswered, and he was too much discou- raged to make another attempt. The grief of Mr. Moreland and his wife, for the fate of their unfortunate daughter, had now settled into a calm and chastened remembrance of her mani- fold virtues and graces ; and, with tender delight, they beheld those qualities gradually unfolding, in the bud which she had bequeathed to their fostering care. Yet even these pleasurable feelings were not unmixed with pain, as their grandchild was most e.ni- nenlly gifted with those two fatal possessions, which had ruined her mother ; for, even to a greater degree than had rendered Marian so attractive, was Eniily distinguished for beauty, and that sensibility, with out which beauty is cold and powerless. To tnese native attractions, accident enabled Emily to add ac- quirements, which her protectors had neither the EMILY MOREI \ND. ?1 Wish, not the means, of placing within her reach ; and which, while they gave all the polish of ease and elegance to her lovely person and manners, detracted nothing from that native simplicity and innocence which rendered her so irresistibly alluring. Emily was nearly eight years old, when, in the course of one of her journeys from her grandfather^s cottage to Wilson's more substantial farm-house, which stood nearly on the brow of one of the high hills which shut in the secluded valley of St. Claie, she suddenly came behind a lady, who, seated in a negligent attitude on the grass, was sketching some of the principal features of the lovely landscape that lay before her. Over similar productions of her mother's, which were carefully treasured by Mr. Moreland, Emily had often sighed, and wished in vain that she could thus transfer to paper the beautiful scenes, which, young as she was, often induced her to loiter for hours in the neighbourhood of the valley. Age and sorrow had dimmed the eyes, and enfee- bled the hand of Mr. Moreland, too much to allow him to become her preceptor ; and Emily was com- pelled to renounce all hope of emulating her mo- ther in the delightful art which so strongly excited her admiration. Anxious, therefore, to observe the progress of the lady in her pleasing employment, she stole, with fairy steps, behind the tree, under the shade of which the former was sitting ; and there, with suppressed breath and sparkling eyes, continued to watch the rapid progress of the pencil, which portiayed, with iZ EMILY MOIIELAND. sa:h faithful precision, all that was so familiar to her eye, but which she still delio;hted to gaze on. There were the trees where her grandfather had constructed a rustic bench, and where he so often talked to her of her mother ; and now there was the dear cottage itself, peeping out in one corner of the paper, and Emily could hardly suppress the ex- pressions of her delight and gratitude to the stranger, who, she thought, had made her pretty home look even prettier. " Oh, that some cot like that for me would smile i" repeated the strange lady, in a tone of silvery clear- ness, yet with a slight accent that betrayed she was not a native of England. Emily forgot the drawing, forgot all but that the lady sighed so heavily, as if she was in grief, and that the line she had repeated, from one of grand- papa's favourite poets, seemed to indicate that she was friendless. To introduce herself to the stranger, and to per- suade her to go home with her to one whose heart was ever open to succour the afflicted, became now Emily's supreme wish ; but timidity kept her standing in susj>ense, when a little spaniel, which was generally her companion in her daily walks, but had now, by accident, been left at Ik me, hastily bounded up the hill, in search of its youthful mistress, and, discovering at once her hiding-place, darted without ceiemony over the lady's portfolio, and im- plements for drawing, and with the most unbounded caresses testified its joy at the rencounter. EMILY MOUELANO. 73 The lady gazed in silent aston/.^hment at the blushing- Emily, who, with native grace, apologised at once for the rudeness of Clara and herself. " But I do so admire drawing," she observed, " though I cannot dravv,that I could not help peep- ing^ over your shoulder; and I am sure dear grand- papa would be so pleased to see our little cottage, and the roses, and jessainints, and lime trees, and all that you have done so beautifully If you would come with me to our cottage," she added, looking up in the stranger's face, with one of her sweetest smiles, " we should all be so proud and so happy, and we would try to make you happy too." The stranger looked at her with the most intense interest expressed in every feature, while a thou- sand thoughts seemed rushing through her agitated mind. " I will go with you, my sweet child," she at length replied, " and for one day try to forget — try to be happy !" Who was now so proud and so happy as Emily, as, with an earnestness that defeated her intentions, she assisted to collect the scattered pencils, brushes, and designs, which Clara's rough gambols had thrown into disorder. " I will carry it," she ob- served, placing the cumbersome portfolio under her little arm, " I often carry mamma's, when we take It to the shade of the lime trees, grandpapa and I." " You have, then, a mother to watch over you .' Happy, happy mother !" exclaimed the lady, with emphasis. Emily's bright smile faded, and a gush of warm 4. u 74 EMILV MC RELAVD. tears rendered h-er for some moments unable to arti- culate. At length, however, the lady understood that she had misapprehended her lovely guide. *' She had no mother — her mother lay in the church- yard, which the lady must have passed, in her way to the spot where they had met." *' And your father, my sweet girl? " said the lady, in a tone of earnest inquiry. Emily's cheek crimsoned — " My father is far away — I do not know why," she said, " but he never comes to see me." The stranger made no remark in reply to this, but Emily saw the tears trickle down her cheeks, and her own burst forth, though unconscious why they did so. " My sweet girl, do not — do not weep !" exclaimed the lady, " youinake my heart sad !" The deep sigh with which this was uttered, proved the truth of the assertion ; and Emily checked her tears, and tried to smile, as she desired her companion to look at her grandfather, who was crossing the stile to meet them. The cheek of the fair stranger flushed, and a look of timid apprehension evinced her fear that she might not be as welcome to the friends of her youth- ful companion, as the latter seemed to anticipate. Mr. Moreland's first greeting, however, dissipated this fear ; — it was at once kind, respectful, and un- affected. His eye glanced towards the portfolio, which Emily still carried — " 1 need not express any sur- prise. Madam," he observed, " at seeing you in this secluded spot ; for, to the eye of an virtist, our little EMILY MORELAND. 73 valley, circumscribed as it is, certainly presents many charms." "It is a lovely, beautiful place!" returned the lady, gazing around her with increased complacency. " That is a high compliment from you, Madam, who, if I mistake not, are a native of a land cele- brated for its delightful scenery." The stranger blushed, then turned pale, and sighe deeply as she replied — " I am an Italian — but never, even in my own dear country, have I seen a sweeter landscape ; a spot which has more charms for one who seeks repose, and would forgot the treacherous, deceitful world !" "And have you, too, young lady, so soon found cause to contemn the world ?" said Mr. Moreland, gravely. The stranger did not speak ; but she raised her large dark eyes to his, with a look at once so sweet, so sad, and yet so resigned, that it went to his heart ; and, pressing the hand which she had unaffectedly offered him at their first greeting, the good old man endeavoured to wean her thoughts from the melan- choly turn they had taken, by adverting to Emily's wish of acquiring an accomplishment, which it was no longer in his power to impart to her. " It would be a delightful task," observed the stranger, thoughtfully, and in her native language^ as if speaking only to herself, and pursuing the cur- rent of some idea which his remark had excited. Mr. Moreland had travelled in Italy, previous to his marriage ; and the stranger was at once startled and deeply affected at hearing herself addressed in 7(> EMIl.Y MORELAND. the pure harmonious accents of her native country f but still more was she gratified and interested, v, hen she discovered that her new friend had visited tlte land that s^ave her birth, and that a period of lhirt\ years had not effaced the vivid recollection of its beauties and delights. Before they reached the cottage door, at which Mrs, Moreland (whom Emily, bounding on before them like a fawn, had already apprised of their new guest,) was waiting to receive them, Rosalia Orsini, by which name the stranger announced herself, and Mr. Moreland were as completely familiarised to each other, as if they had been friends for years. Proud, justly proud, of her husband, her grand- daughter, and, perhaps, a little proud of the excel- lent management which gave to their humble cot- tage such an air of neatness and simple taste, Mrs. Moreland's liking for her visitor increased with every commendation which the latter bestowed on the objects that engrossed so large a share of her thoughts ; while Mr. Moreland, in retracing with the lovely Italian the happy months he had spent in visiting the " sweet south," forgot all that had oc- curred since those joyous days, to silver his hair and wrinkle his brow. The sun was sinking behind the hills, before Ro- salia Orsini thought of quitting society so congenial to her mind, or Emily had recollected that she must part with the beautiful lady, whose hand she fondly retained in her own, as she stood by her side, listen- inff, with silent attention, to the animated conversa- tiou which seemed to aiford so much delight t« her EMILY MOUELAND. ti grandfather. At length, however, the fair stranger hinted at the necessity of retiring, and inquired the nearest way to the little village where she had taken up her temporary residence. Mr. Moreland was astonished. Too Avell bred to ask a question, on a subject which had, nevertheless, more than once recurred to his mind, he had come to the conclusion that his new friend, from her superior manners and appearance, must be a visitor at some gentleman's seat in the neighbourhood; and that a caniage was, in all probability, waiting at some ap- pointed spot, to convey her home. What, therefore, was his surprise to find that this young, beautiful, and accomplished female, was travelling alone, and unattended even by a single servant ; and that, having been struck with the beauty of the surround- ing scenery, and feeling also the necessity of a few days' rest, after considerable fatigue, she had resolved on remaining at the little inn where the coach, in which she was journeying towards London, had stopped to change horses, and which was about three miles from Mr. Moreland's residence. Emily's beautiful eyes filled with tears, at the first indication that her new friend was going to leave them ; and a long soft whisper to her grandfather revealed at once her sorrow, and her wishes that he v/ould press the beautiful lady to stay with them. Mr. Moreland's eyes consulted those of his good dame, and the result was, a cordial invitation to re- main, for as long a time as she pleased, with them, if she could reconcile herself to their humble mode ot life, and scanty accommodations. 78 EMILY MORELAND. Signora Orsini was agitated beyond utterance *bi some moments, and Mrs. Moreland, literally taking silence for consent, slipped away, to commence im- mediately the necessary preparations for her guest's accommodation. Emily was in raptures;— at one minute she was bustling about by the side of her grandmother, at- tempting to assist her in laying the best white quilt over the bed, and adjusting the muslin drapery, with which the old lady had decorated the dressing-table; and the next, she was again at the side of the object of her admiration, listening, with sympathy and ten- derness in her mild eyes, to language which she imagined conveyed a tale of sorrow, from the tears with which it was delivered, and those with which it was listened to by her grandfather. The kindness, the confidence, with which she was treated, had drawn from the unfortunate Rosalia Orsini a full detail of the causes which had made her an alien to her country, and a wanderer, without friends or home, in a land, to the manners and language of which she was almost a stranger. The narrative could not raise her in Mr. More- land's estimation, for he had already been convinced that her mind was as noble as her manners were pure and unaflected ; but he was gratified at learn- ing, from her own lips, that no taint of weakness or frailty had blurred the fair page of her history, and that, though she had suffered, greatly suffered, it was not that she had deserved to do so. He was re- joiced, too, to find that, though far from rich, Ro- salia was not destitute, but possessed a competency, EMILY MORELAND 7.9 for a mind like hers, which could despise or view with indifference the pomp and trappincjs of wealth ; and a little, as he candidly acknowledged, selfish feel- ing mingled with his more exalted ones, as he learned that, from henceforth, she was free to chuse her dwelling-place, and that hitherto she had met with none possessing such attractions as the Vale of St. Clare. With such a friend and companion for himself, such a preceptress for his grandchild, Mr. Moreland felt his retreat would, indeed, have gained inestimable value ; and though he was not quite so sanguine as Emily, in supposing that Signora Orsini could be content with the confined accommodations of their humble cottage as a permanent residence, he thought there would be little difficulty in procuring, in the neighbourhood, a retreat which would suit both her wishes and circumstances. Farmer Wilson, indeed, had two pretty pleasant rooms, which had been built purposely to accommo- date a rich relation, who used to spend some weeks every summer with them, until, in a fit of dotage, he married his cook-maid, and was thenceforth compelled to exchange the charms of the Vale of St. Clare for a rustic villa at Paddington. This fatal event having completely put an end to Dame Wilson's hopes of a fat legacy, the rooms had ever since been kept closed, or only opened to air and preserve the neat and good furniture, which he had presented to them, in return for their attention to his whims and oddities. A hint from him (Mr. Moi eland) to the Farmer would, he knew, be sufficient to ensure Sig- nora Orsini being received as an inmate, upon very ^<(^ EMILY MORELAND. moderate terms ; and though Dame Wilson possessed not one of the most amiable and pleasant tempers in the world, she was an excellent domestic manager, and the Signora would be too independent of her, and too much above her, to be annoyed by her failings. The point was therefore settled in Mr. Moreland's mind; and on the following morning, before his guest had left her comfortable bed, he walked over to the farm, and introduced the subject which had occupied his thoughts the greater part of the night. Mrs. Wilson pursed up her thin lips with one of her demurest and sourest looks, and, before her hus- band could reply, she observed, " that it was rather a pertklar sort of thing to take in a single young woman ; and one, too, who, coming from foreign parts, couldn't have no friends nor relations to look after her character " " That's the very reason, Dame, why she ought to be kindly treated," interrupted the Farmer, with more decision than he usually assumed. " That's the very reason that she wants a comfortable home and kind treatment, because she's got no naVral friends, and is a stranger in a strange country !" " Ah, but " began Mrs. Wilson, in the sharpest key of her sharp voice, but again her wise and pru- dent remarks were doomed to be interrupted ; for Mr. Moreland, with more austerity than ever she had seen him wear, declared, that if Mrs. Wilson felt any kind of doubt, or hesitation, as to the eligi- bility of the proposal he had made, he could easily find some one less scrupulous, or, at least, more dis- posed tc place confidence in his recommendation. "1 do not ask it of you as a favour," hecTstinued, EMILV won ELAND. 81 " because the lady I wish you to accommodate, pos- sesses ample means to remunerate you, for all she will receive; though I certainly should feel oblig^ed by every particular mark of kindness and attention paid to one, who, as Isaac justly observes, has a greater claim on our feelings, from the circumstance that she is far removed from all allied to her by the ties of kindred. I will not, however, press what ap- pears to be inconvenient or disagreeable to you, particularly as I know that I can procure for her, instantly, the little cottage which David Evans built for his mother, and which has stood empty since her death. It will only want a little additional furni- ture, to make it exactly what my friend would wish, and therefore I will step over at once, and arrange with him." Mrs. Wilson was confounded and humbled — too narrow-minded and sordid to appreciate justly Mr. Moreland's character, and impatient of that supe- riority before which she could not but feel her "spi- rit rebuked," (though raised, as she considered, by her husband's comparative wealth and importance, infinitely above the inhabitant of the cottage in the valley,) she had intended only to magnify the obliga- tion she should confer in yielding to the wishes of the latter, and to display her own wisdom and prudence, — acquired, as she often boasted to her gossips, by seven years' residence in the kitchen of a gentleman's house in London — " I've served a 'prenticeship," she used exultingly to observe, " in the only place where there's any thing to lam; and the deuce is in it if I don't know a little more than a parcel of country 4. u ^2 EMILY MORELAND. bumpkins, who ve never been more than a day's journey from their nests!" In the present instance, however, the wise woman found that she had overstepped her mark; and, hard as it was to humble to the object of her dislike, she was obliged to submit to it, rather than let Davy Evans run away with the prize she had affected to despise, but which, in reality, she felt would make a very desirable addition to her strong box. All preliminaries were now, tlierefore, arranged to Mr. Moreland's satisfaction, and the latter re- turned, with a light step and cheerful heart, to the cottage, where he found the breakfast on the table, and smiling faces to welcome him to it. Signora Orsini heard with gratitude the result of his morning visit; and Emily, though she was at first rather disappointed that her new friend was to be separated from her, even by the short distance be tween her grandfather's cottage and Daddy Wilson's, soon became reconciled by the reflection that she could go there when she pleased, and stay as long as she liked. " That is, if you will not be tired of me, and tell me I am troublesome, and ought to be at home, help- ing my grandmother, as Dame Wilson does some- times," she observed, whon communicating this plea- sant arrangement to her friend. The Signora smiled, and looked at her, as if she doubted the possibility of her being troublesome, while Mrs. Moreland gravely remarked that she sup- posed that was when she interfered too much with Dame Wilson, who liked to have every thing her own way. EMILY MORELAND. 8^ '' No, indeed, grandmamma — sometimes, it is be- cause I want Daddy Wilson to sing * Robin Hood and the fat Friar,' when she wants him to reckon how much the eggs and the chickens, and the butter and cheese, will fetch next market-day — and I know he don't like it at all," replied Emily; " and some- times it is when I ask William all about the storm that he was in, when he went to sea; and she don't like that, because he lost all the money that she trusted him to carry with him, to put in the great Bank in London ; and then William tells her that she ought to be thankful that his life was saved, when so many poor creatures were drowned. But she's a hard-hearted woman, for she says that he will never do her half the good that her two hundred pounds would have done her in her old age, though he is her only child, you know, and such a good-tem- pered lad, too ! And one thing I dislike her for, more than all, is, because she is so cross and surly to the poor people who sometimes come to beg a little milk, or a bit of bread and cheese, — though she has such plenty ; and she says my good Daddy Wilsoh is a fool, for listening to them ; and that nobody would give him any thing, if he wanted it! though that wa wicked story, for I and grandpapa, and all of us, would give him any thing in the world ; and so I told her one day : — but she only said 1 was a pert little hussy, and had nothing to give, any more than those who were bring- ing me up, to turn up my nose at my betters !" "Betters, forsooth!" repealed Mrs. Morelai.d, who was the only one of the little party who had felt any resontfnent at this exposition of Dame Wilson's 84 EMILY MORELANI). unauiiabie qualities — "lietters!" slieiepeaieti, •' who does she call your betters? — Not her ignorant con- ceited self, I hope; for, if she does, I shall soon let her know " " Pshaw, pshaw, my good woman !" interrupted Moreland, who had in vain endeavoured by his re- proving- looks to silence this angry recrimination, " you must not encourage a child like Emily to fancy herself superior, or even on an equality with a wo- man of Dame Wilson's age and experience. It can- not be supposed that our notable neighbour can always feel disposed to bear with patience Emily's wild and childish freaks, which Isaac's good-nature, as well as his son's, leads them too often to encou- rage; but the old woman, probably, has as much good-wiil towards her as either, at heart; and Emily must learn to bear, without resenting, such petulant expressions as those she has repeated, and which I would rather she should have forgotten altogether." Emily's downcast look and tearful eyes evinced the impression which this rebuke, gentle as it Avas, had made on her sensitive mind ; and Signora Orsini^ though by no means prepossessed in favour of her intended hostess, by this natural and simple delinea- tion of some of the prominent traits in her character, contrived to shift tlie subject altogether, by mention- ing the necessity of her return to the Inn, where her portmanteau was deposited, in order to defray her expenses there, and have it removed to Dame Wil- son's apartments, which were to be ready for her by the evening. '^I'o Emily*s great delight, Mr. Moreland proposed EMILY MORELANI). 85 that they should accompany her, the latter leniark- inu^, with a smile, that he could not venture to en- counter the impatience for her return, which he knew her absence would occasion in more than one bosom. With strict injunctions from Mrs. Moreland not to delay on the road, as she should have their dinner ready precisely at two, which was an hour later than their usual time, they departed; Emily fondly hang- ing on one arm of her new friend, while the other was given to Mr. Moreland. Their path lay close to the house which was hence- forth to be the residence of Signora Orsini ; but, a» Mr. Moreland had promised Mrs. Wilson that he would not introduce the latter until all was in order to receive her, she was content with reconnoitring her intended home from the outside, and declared herself delighted with its situation, and the neatness and order which were so striking in the appearance of the house, garden, &c. " Cleanliness and industry are Mrs. Wilson's re- deeming qualities, for a host of petty faults," ob- served Mr. Moreland, who saw that Emily was at some distance, replying to the salutation of a pet lamb, which had descried her, and came bounding to the gate to meet her. "1 would not," he con Jnued, " encourage in my little girl the propensity to set forth the unamiable propensties of our neigh- Dour; but, I must confess, she is a woman whom it is impossible to like. To you, however, 1 have no doubt she will be civil and attentive, and that will be sufficient for your comfort." 86 EMILY MORELAND. Emily rejoined them, observing, with a sorrowful look, that she knew neither Daddy Wilson nor Wil- liam were at home, " for poor Flora, (the lamb,) was quite hungry : and she did not dare go to ask the cross old Dame for some breakfast for the poor thing, though she wouldn't feed it herself, if they stayed all day," she added, with tears in her eyes at the thought. Signora Orsini's assurance that they would bring some bread for her favourite, on their return, soon banished this transient cloud from her brow ; and her vivacious remarks kept both their faces decked with smiles, until they came in sight of the churchyarc', where a plain marble slab, with only her name and age carved on it, distinguished the spot where Marian Mo4'eland rested from all her sorrows. Emily's step became thoughtful and sedate, and her beautiful blue eyes were turned, first upon the silent memorial of a mother, Avhom she had been taught to love and to regret, and then rested upon her grandfather, whose lips quivered with strong but restrained emotion. Emily crept softly round to his side, and pressed hi? withered hand between her own, with a beseech- ing look, as she tried to draw him gently forward, w the path which led close along the skirts of the hum- ble lesting-place. The quick eye of Signora Orsini had instantly se- lected the unostentatious memorial from the ruder and more rustic ones that surrounded it; but it was not until, stepping forward, she read the simple in- tjct iption, that she was aware of the chord that was EMILY MORELAND. S? now SO painfully vibrating in the bosom of her con- ductor. Not a word was spoken, or could be spoken, by either; but Moreland's heart gratefully thanked her for the silent tear, which she gave to the fate of one so young, so beloved, thus doomed ^ematurely to the grave; and Emily's gentle glance told her that, young as she was, she too could feel and acknowledge her sympathy. " At some future period, my dear," said Moreland, m a low voice, when they had proceeded some dis- tance from the spot which had awakened such painful feelings, " I will relate to you the short but sad his- tory of her, who was the delight, the pride, of her fond parents' hearts; and whom my memory, at this moment, places before me, innocent, beautiful, and engaging, even as that living representative of her, who alone remains, at once to console me for her loss, and to remind me of the cause of it. How can I look at that lovely child," he continued, glancing at Emily, who was now preceding them, the narrow path not allowing her to keep her station by her grandfather's side — " how can I see her, possessing all the qualities that distinguished her hapless mo- ther, and not tremble for her safety ? Tremble at the apprehension that some barbarian may be tempted, by those very qualities, to consign her, like my Ma- ,ian — my murdered Marian -to shame, to despair, to death!" Deeply affected, yet unable to offer consolation lo sorrows which .-^he felt no human counsel could as- suage, »o>alia Orsini replied only by a sigh, raising, 88 EMILY MORELAND. at the same time, her expressive eyes to Heaven, as if invoking celestial aid, to soothe the wounded spirit of the bereaved father. " Yes, it is. there," solemnly responded Moreland, to this silent appeal for him. " It is only there 1 can look for con9olation; and tremblingly, humbly, en- treat for protection to the child whom, in all human probability, I shall soon leave, without any other protector, or, at least, such feeble ones, as will be but a poor defence against the snares and temptations of the world!" It was at this affecting moment that Rosalia Orsini vowed never to desert the lovely girl, who, uncon- scious of the interest she excited, but still pensive and thoughtful, from her observation of her grand- father's emotion, was walking slowly on, turning every minute an anxious eye upon the countenance which she had often beheld clouded with melan- choly, but never so agitated as at the present mo- ment. " I am," observed the Signora, in her own har- monious language, " I am but young, it is true, and without connexions in that world which I have bade adieu to for ever; unless, indeed — but no, I will not suffer myself any longer to indulge a hope! — This valley must, therefore, henceforth be the boundary of my wishes; but should Emily, at any future period, require my care — though long distant be the day in which she will lose one so much m.ore compe- tent and powerful to protect and watch over her welfare — yet, should that day arrive, and the effort? of Rosalia Orsini can avail her, in the busy aiul RJMU.y MORELAND. 89 treacherou-5 world, she will never shrink from a duty which she here voluntarily swears to perforin I*' A benevolent smile, at the entnusiasm and warm feeling of his young friend, brightened Mr. More- land's pensive features; and Emily, who was atten- tively watching the expression of his countenance, though unable to comprehend what was passing, eagerly hailed the omen of returning tranquillity, and, with all the happy thoughtlessness and buoyancy of childhood, renewed her harmless frolics, and gam- boled with her favourite Clara, as though her vivacity had never received check or interruption. The village of St. Clare, though not boasting more than twenty houses, and those mere labourers' cottages, with the exception of the parsonage house, the apothecary's, the inn, and " the shop," as the extensive store was called, from which the whole neighbourhood was supplied with every article of either luxury or necessity, which their own culture could not produce, was quite a new world to Emily, who had never before travelled so far, and seemed io think the congregation of so many houses and peop-le together, quite a subject of wonder. She was highly entertained, too, with the arrival and departure of the stage coach, and its motley assortment of passen- gers; and it was almost with regret that she quitted the parlour window of the inn, from which she beheld so many (to her) novel sights. Keeping the turnpike-road, as more convenient to the man who carried the Signora's baggage, than crossing the fields, the little party arrived at Farmer Wilson's front gate, just as the Farmer and his son 4. N 90 EMTLY MOREL AND. vere alighting from their horsts, having been to the market-town on business. The frank yet respectful welcome with which the Farmer saluted them, and the modest reserve of the young man, highly prepossessed Signora Orsini in their favour; and, having seen her luggage carried into the house, and discharged the porter, she pro- ceeded with Mr. Morelandj to pass the remainder of the day at the cottage, without having been intro- duced to Dame Wilson, who was still busied in dust- ing, and sweeping, and scolding her maid; and, not wishing to be seen in her mob nightcap and checked apron, was content with reconnoitring her intended inmate tnrouffh the chamber window. CHAPTER IV. Oh, but ill, When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high heart Bears its first blow ! It Icnows not yet the part Which life will teach — to suflfer and be still ; And, with submissive love, to count the flowers Which yet are spared. Mrs. Hemans. Rosalia Orsini, at thd titiid she became an in- habitant of the Vale of St. Claire, was not appa- rently more than twenty-five; and possessed, most eminently, that letter of recommendation — a beauti- ful and intelligent countenance, and a particularly dignified and elegant form. EMILT MORELAND. 91 Sorrow and suffering had, it was true, robbed her theek of its bloom, and dimmed the lustre of her fine black eyes ; but there were moments, when, alive only to the excitement of present pleasure, she forgot the painful past, and shone forth with all the brilliancy of her best and happiest hours. To the inhabitants of the secluded and solitary cottage in the valley, she became, from the first mo- ment of her residence among them, an invaluable acquisition ; while Emily, ever ardent in her attach- ments, soon learned to estimate truly, as well as to love and admire, her accomplished friend and pre- ceptress. Two years glided rapidly away, unmarked by any occurrence of importance; but, at the termination of the second, Mr. Moreland's health began very visibly to decline, and with pious resignation he looked for- ward to an event which he felt was inevitably not far distant, and to which he endeavoured to reconcile his afflicted family. So gradual, however, were the approaches of the insidious disorder which was undermining his frame, that they still indulged the fond hope that he would eventually conquer it ; and he was still in this fluc- tuating state, when Signora Orsini learned, through the medium of a newspaper, which was regularly forwarded to her from London, some information, which, after dreadfully agitating her for some hours, occasioned her sudden departure from the valley, no one knew whither, but Mr. Moreland, by whose ad- vice and assistance she seemed to be guided. This was an event which Emily had never eoDtem- 92 EMILY MOREL ^ND. plated; and her grief and astonishment knew no bounds, when she found that her friend was actually gone^ without even promising when she would return, though her musical instruments, her implements for drawing, and a great part of her clothes, being left behind, seemed to ensure her coming back. She had taken no formal adieu, either; for she had supped with them on the preceding evening, without men- tioning her intention of commencing her journey at daybreak the following morning. Yet. when Emily, hurrying over her breakfast of bread and milk, has- tened to Farmer Wilson's, she found the nest deserted — its tenant flown. "Did she say nothing at all about me?" inquired the sobbing girl, after the first emotion of surprise had subsided. " Yes, Miss, she said you was to go on with your lessons, the same as if she was here," returned Dame Wilson, in a sharp tone ; " but, in my mind, it w ould be much better you should be laming to milk a cow, or manage the dairy, than to be spending your time on such flim-flams as madam can teach you! What will be the good of your parley -vousing, and thrum- ming and singing, like a play actress, without you had a fortin, and was a born lady^^ instead of '* "Instead of what? Instead of what?" demanded Isaac, who had entered unobserved behind her. " Bless me, you need not snap one's head off"!" re- plied the startled Dame, " I was not going to say any harm." ** You had better not," returned the Farmer, eulkily, and, beckoning Emily to follow him, he pro- EMILY MORELAND. 93 ceeded to the garden, to show her a beautiful myrtle in flower, which the Signora had purchased in the village, when he had accompanied her in the morn- ing to the coach, and desired it might be placed ex- pressly under Emily's care, until she returned. "You are sure, then, she will come back?" in- quired the latter, beginning to feel somewhat re- assured. "Yes, as sure as can be," returned the Farmer; "and she told me to tell you, that she would write to you yourself, if she was detained long." Emily's tearful eyes sparkled at this proof of con- sideration for her ; and the thought that she was con- sidered of importance enough to have a letter written expressly to her, seemed to be her chief consolation for the loss of her "dear Signora." Regardless of Mrs. Wilson's sour looks and ill- natured sarcasms, she visited her friend's apartments every morning, and practised, over and over, the lessons she had given her, or read attentively the books which she had marked for her perusal. A whole month, however, passed, before any in- telligence from the Signora, further than a short note, addressed to Mr. Moreland, assuring him of her safe arrival in London, reached the valley; and Emily began to fear that she was forgotten, when her doubts and suspense were terminated by William's bringing from the post office, when he returned from market, a letter addressed to " Miss Emily Moreland." Emily's heart fluttered so violently that she could scarcely thank William for bringing it, or satisfy the Farmer's anxious inquiries, when she opened it, 94 r.MlLV MOREL AND. whether '* Madam" was well, and coming back soon; but, having at length glanced through the important epistle, she replied satisfactorily to both questions^ and then flew off to show her prize at home. " Stop, Miss," observed William, as she was scam- pering out of doors; "in the first place, here is another letter for your grandfather, and, in the second place, you promised to give me something, if I brought you one to-day." " What shall I give you ? Tell me, quickly, dear, dear William, for I am in such a hurry," replied Emily, with her eyes still fixed on the letter. " Well, then, give me a kiss, for it is a long time since you have condescended to bestow one on me, though you did not use to be so particular." Emily stared at William with astonishment; his cheek was flushed, and his eyes looked wild, but family scarcely knew what intoxication meant, and she never suspected what was the fact, that her old playfellow had been drinking too freely at the mar- ket. She recollected, however, the Signora's obser- vations about preserving a dqe distance between herself and William, and hesitatingly replied — '^ I have not grown particular, William,— but what was all right and proper, when 1 was but a child, you know, would not be so now,-^now I am a woman," she added, with a laugh. " Pshaw 1 that is all lu nsense !" returned William, angrily; "but I know who has put such notions into your head, and is teaching you, more ^nd more every day, to hold yourself above them th^t are yoor true friends ! Mother has often told me hpw it would be ''* EMtLV MORELAND. f»3 *' i am sure your mother is very wrong, then," re- turned Emily, with warmth, " for I love you all, as dearly as ever, and always shall love you ; so now shake hands, and be friends, and to-morrow I will bring you that pretty poem that I told you of, that describes a shipwreck almost as well and as naturally as you do." William did shake hands, but all his manoeuvring could not tempt Emily to join him in a game at romps, as she had been used to do ; and, as he followed her down the garden, declaring he would go home with her, she dexterously slipped through the gate, closing it after her; and then, with the speed of a fawn, bounded along the sloping path, and was soon out of sight. Breathless with the speed she had ejterted, she ar- rived at the cottage, outside the door of which her grandmother was seated, in the shade, enjoying the pure breeze, and nimbly plying the spinning wheel) which served to fill up, usefully and pleasantly, hours which would otherwise have hung heavy on her handsk "1 have got a letter at last!" exclaimed Emily, with sparkling eyes. " Read, dear grandmother, read!" and she threw her white arms round the old lady's neck, as the latter, putting on her spectacles, prepared to obey her. " It is a pretty letter — a very pretty letter," ob- served Mrs. Moreland, after she had, for Emily's satisfaction, read it aloud — " and it contains very good and affectionate advice ; and yet, my dear child, I almost wish, sometimes, that you had never seen this Signora Or&ini." 96 EMILY MORELAND. Emily looked at first astonished, and then angry, at this observation. "Now that is very naughty o you, and just like that good-for-nothing William Wilson, and his cross old mother, who is always try- ing to persuade him that the dear Signora is spoiling me, though, I am sure, I was a thoughtless, rude, ignorant little girl, when she came here; and all I do know, she has taught me." Mrs. Moreland sighed heavily, but she did not re- ply ; and the entrance of her husband, to whom Emily instantly communicated the pleasure which she had received, put an end to the conversation, which, how- ever, young as she was, was not soon forgotten by the intelligent girl. In silence Mr. Moreland read the letter which was addressed to him, from Signora Orsini; and, after a few minutes' reflection, observed, that he was glad to find their amiable friend would rejoin them in a week or two. " I shall be easier and happier," he thoughtfully observed, " when she is here ; for I feel my strength hourly decay, and her presence will be both an assistance and a consolation to you, should my presentiments prove correct, that I shall fall with the leaves, which are already beginning to lose their glossy green." Mrs. Moreland took off her spectacles, wiped away the tears that rendered them dim, and again put them on, to gaze intently on the pale features of the beloved partner of her heart ; while Emily, weep- ing without restraint, thiew herself inlo his arms, and, in almost inarticulate accents, expressed her hopes that her dear grandfather would not die. KMILY MORRLAND. 97 The old man gently pressed her to his heart, ag he calmly pointed out the necessity of being resigned to an event, which, in the course of nature, must hap- pen in a few years, and which, even now, could not be considered as premature ; and then, with a view of changing the melancholy current of thought which his observation had excited, he recurred to Signora Orsini's letter. Too deeply, however, had his prophetic words affected the sensitive Emily, for her to recover her spirits, and the evening passed in thoughtful melan- choly on all sides ; and, though the fond g,irl read over the letter again, before she went to rest, she thought more of her grandfather than the writer, and felt, deeply felt, that even the amiable and ac- complished Signora could never be so dear, or so valuable, as the protector she was about to lose. The leaves, which Mr. Moreland had pointed out as emblematical of his own destiny, were already rustling in the breeze, and beginning to curl in circling eddies beneath Emily's feet, as she softly paced up and down the garden, before Signora Orsini returned to her home. Mr. Moreland was no longer able to join his dar- ling, even in these short walks ; and, with learful looks, the latter watched by the side of his couch, or, stifling her grief, in obedience to his counsels, be- guiled his sick and weary hours by reading to him, or singing his favourite anthems, which the Signoia had taught her. She was thus engaged, when Rosalia Orsini, who hid arrived late the preceding night, unexnecledly 3. o 98 EMILY MORELAND. entered ; and, if she beheld with so»'row the altera uoii which disease had already Wrought in her valuable i'riend, and the pervading melancholy which that alteration had occasioned, in the countenances of his little household, they were not less struck with the sad traces of grief and suffering, which were visible ill her hollow cheek and wasted form. For some moments, no one but Mrs. Moreland could utter a word. Age and long suffering had blunted in her that excessive sensibility, which, though it enhances the pleasures, doubles every pain to its unfortunate possessor With comparative calm- ness, therefore, she was cnauled to welcome the Sig- nora's return, at the san.e tiuje expressing a hope she did not feel, that her presence would be the means of reviving Mr. Moreland's strength and spirits. " Though vou are sadly altered yourself, njy dear,** she observed, " and look as if you wanted good nurs- ing, and our good air, to set you up again." A faint flush was visible in the Signora's cheek for a moment; but she tried to smile, as she replied, that she hoped her coming would be the signal for a general restoration. The effort, however, was too painful — the flush faded into deadly paleness, and her voice choked, before she could finish the sentence. " I need not ask you a single question, my dear, as to the result of your journey — I see that your hopes have been all frustrated ; and I earnestly trust that henceforth you will try to forget that you have ever even indulged such, and, if possible " " 1 will do all that is possible, my dear sir,*' inrer- rupted iiosalia; '* 1 will henceforth cease to talk, or EMILY MORELAND. 99 even, voluntarily, to think of the past, a^id will look only to the future for consolation." *•• Jt is to the future we must all look for comfort and recompence for the sufferings of this transitory state," returned Moreland, with emphasis. His friends felt the application, and looks of sad and mournful meaning were exchanged between Emily and Signora Orsini. *' Why should you be so averse," continued Mr. Moreland, *' to hear an event spoken of, which is inevitable. I feel that every hour I am hurrying to the last, and I would wish you to accustom your- selves to contemplate the approaching change with the same serenity I feel." Emily, unable longer to conceal her grief, rushed out of the room, to give free vent to her overchaiged heart ; and when, at length, having dried her tears, she returned, she found her grandfather engaged in earnest conversation with the Signora, in her native language, in which she (Emily) was not yet suffi- ciently proficient to understand more than that it related to herself, and that her father was more than once alluded to. Emily was now old enough to comprehend that some painful mystery was connected with the history of her surviving parent, whose name she was for- bidden to mention, or even to recur to his existence ; and she felt, therefore, deeply interested in discover- ing what was the purport of the directions, which her grandfather was evidently giving respecting- hhv.. She could only understand, however, that in tlie event of certain circumstances occurring to the Sijj- 100 EMILY MORELANB, nora, this now interdicted parent wai to be applied to, to take charge of his daughter. Eniil\'s heart beat high, at the bare idea that there existed a possibility of her ever seeing and being ac- knowledged by one, whom she could not reconcile herself to believe, could be so very, very unamiable, though he had unfortunately fallen under her grand- father's displeasure. The entrance of Farmer Wilson, who regularly attended every evening, since Mr. Moreland's con- finement, to render what little services he could, put an end to the conversation ; and Emily, who returned with the Signora to her residence, and remained all night with her, in vain endeavoured to introduce the subject V, hich was still uppermost in her thoughts. Exactly a week after Signora Orsini's return, Mr. Moreland calmly resigned his life into the hands of his Creator. So entirely unexpected was this event, at the moment it happened, that Emily was eagerly describing to him the gay appearance of a party of sportsmen, whom she had that morning encountered in the valley, one of whom had accosted her, and, lifter : ome c rs> ry inquiries respecting her con- nexions in the neighbourhood, had presented her with the fruit of his morning's sport— a pair of fine pheasants. She had not, however, concluded her narrative, and her animadversions on the cruelty of killing such pretty ct\aiu.es as the pheasants, which her eyes were fixed on, with the big tears trembling on their fair lids, when her grandfather suddenly extended Jus arms towards her, and, before she had time even EMILV MORRI-AND. 10 ♦b call for assistance, laid his head on her shoulder, and, with a deep sigh, expired ! Emily's terror and grief, at discovering the loss she had sustained, were at first violent in the extreme ; but Signora Orsini's gentle admonitions, and the silent fortitude with which she beheld her grand- mother submit to her bereavement, at length pre- vailed ; and, though she still wept over the insensible form of her beloved parent, and contemplated with ag'ony the features which were never more to smile upon her, she no longer refused to be comforted, or " sorrowed as one without hope." Her assumed for- titude, however, was put to a severe test, when she beheld the preparations for the removal of her de- parted friend to his last mortal habitation ; and her audible sobs excited the pity of all, whom respect for one, whose life among them had truly deserved these testimonials, had drawn together to witness the funeral. Too much absorbed in grief to notice those around her, Emily leant on the Signora's arm, unconsciotijji of the notice or the pity she excited; but, deeply as Rosalia was affected, it did not escape her observation that there was A person present, who, though he ap- peared as a stranger, and an indifferent spectator, was evidently somewhat more than either. She saw that he avoided the possibility of being observed by Mrs. Moreland, who, contrary to her friends' advice, had persisted in being present at the distressing ceremony; and she remarked, also, the eagerness with which lie pressed near to Emily, when the latter advanced to the edge of thcj g-ave, to (ake 102 EMILY MORELAND. one painful look at the coffin, before the earth should hide it from her sight. ^ The same grave which had received his daughter, was now opened to admit the mortal remains of Moreland ; and Emily, as her aching eyes glanced into the dreary receptacle, instantly comprehended that the mouldering coffin which she there beheld was her mother's. The discovery seemed to add fresh poignancy to her grief, and she withdrew again, to conceal herself behind her grandmother, that she might not aggra- vate the not less heavy, but more chastened affliction of the latter. The stranger, who thus attracted the Signora's observation, was a tall, elegant man, in the prime of life; yet bearing, in his handsome and strongly marked features, very evident marks of the ravages of either dissipation or ill healtli. There was an in- definable expression in his eye, which, though, at the present moment tempered by the interest he evidently took in the mournful scene, impressed Rosalia with the idea that it was to the former cause, that his pal- lid and sunken cheek, and his evidently attenuated form, were to be attributed; and she shrunk with distinctive dislike, as she was convinced he preme- ditaiedly contrived to approach quite close to her and Emily. Her surprise, however, was increased, when, at the conclusion of the ceremony, Farmer Wilson, who was supporting the widow of his de- ceased friend, turned round to look fo- the latter, and, as his eyes encountered those of the stranger, started as if they had met those of a basil'sk. EMILY MORELAND. 103 The stranger, who did not appear until that ino- inent to have recognised the supporter ofMrs. More- land, turned hastily away, and tried to assume an air of indifference; but Farmer Wilson was too acute and intelligent to be easily baffled ; and the glance which he gave, from the object of Rosalia's curiosity, to Emily, at once confirmed the suspicion she had formed, that in the person now before her she beheld the father of her interesting charge — Reginald de Cardonnel ! All that she had heard or anticipated of this per- son at once rushed into her mind, as she again turned to gaze upon him ; but De Cardonnel was gone, and, following the direction of Wilson's eyes, she saw him hurrying through the churchyard gate, ac- companied by a boy, who appeared nearly of the same age as Emily. " It was a strange thing!" observed honest Isaac, the moment he had an opportunity of speaking to the Signora alone; "a very strange thing, wasn't it, Madam, that he should happen to come into this part of the country, just at this time; for I don't believe he has ever visited it since, as 1 have often told you, he came just in time to see the poor thing that he had murdered laid in her grave. I wonder how he felt, when he saw her coffin to-day; for, I dare say, he did see it, as I understand he had been lingering about the church-yard a long while before we came there." "His feelings certainly could not be very enviable, my good friend, ' replied Rosalia ; " yet I am re- joiced, for his own sake, that he still possesses sufI?- Iftii KMILY MORELAND. cient sensibility to feel an interest for his child, and respect for her protectors, which, I think, was proved by his conduct to-day." "'• It is odd, too," replied the Farmer, " that he should never have made any inquiries after her, for so many years; but, I suppose, he has a family by this time, and had almost forgotten this poor neo- lected one ; though, I'm thankful to say it, she has had better advisers and guardians than he would have ever made." The Signora thought so too — yet she almost wished, as she learned that Mr. de Cardonnel was on a visit at a relation of his lady's, only six miles off, that Emily could be made more perfectly known to, and secure her interest in the heart of one, whose protection she might, some time or another, stand in need of. The commands and wishes of her deceased friend, Mr. Moreland, were, however, too sacred to be wil- fully broken. He had expressly desired her to make known to Emily, at a proper time, the history of her unfortunate birth ; but to discourage, as much as possible, any wish of the latter to hold any corres- pondence with her father. If, indeed, circumstances were to compel Signora Orsini to quit England, or oblige her to resign her charge, and Mrs. Moreland should not be living, there was no one to whom she could so properly delegate her trust, as to De Car- donnel, if he would accept it; but most earnestly did Mr. Moreland pray that this moment might nevei arrive. tt'aithful to ihe trust reposed in her, the Signora FMILY MORELAND. 105 carefully concealed from Emily the circumstance of her father's presence at the funeral ; and Wilson, to whom Mr. Moreland had been equally perspicuous in stating his wishes, was as prudent and as silent respecting an event which, he properly observed, could only make the poor child uneasy, without doing her any good. He acknowledged, however, to the Signora, that he felt greatly disappointed, when, after some days passed in expectation of hear- ing of or from Mr. de Cardonnel, he learned, on in- quiry, that the latter had left Oldbury Hall, where he had been visiting, and had returned with his lady and family to London. " He cares nothing about the poor child!" ob- served honest Isaac, with a sigh, " and therefore it's a good thing. Madam, that we didn't mention him to her." In this the Signora perfectly agreed, and, in a short time, Reginald de Cardonnel was as little thought of, or mentioned, by the inhabitants of the Valley of St. Clare, as he deserved to be. The increasing infirmities of Mrs. Moreland, who, though she appeared not to grieve very deeply for the loss of her husband, never after regained her usual cheerfulness and activity, induced Signora Orsini to accede to her wish that the latter should reside entirely at the cottage, with her and Emily. There were other reasons also why such a change had become desirable : for poor Isaac Wilson, in consequence of an in. prudent exposure to cold and wet, had been seized with a fever, which left him in n state of mental iraberility, almost approaching to 5 V 1m EMILY MORE LAND sficonfl childhood; and his termagant wife, whose temper was rendered still sourer and more ungovern- able, by the extravagance and ill habits which her son William had falleH into, contrived, now she had the sole authority in her hands, to make the abode of the Signora, whom she had never liked, most truly uncomfortable. Emily was more rejoiced at this arrangement than she liked to avow, even to her friend Rosalia; for the conduct of William Wilson, whenever she met him, in her visits to the former, at his father's house, was such as excited in her mind feelings of mingled disgust and terror; and as her poor old friend Isaac was no longer in a situation to receive either benefit or consolation from her visits, she was most happy in being released from the necessity of going to the Farm. Emily w as now nearly sixteen, and the beauty and native vivacity, which had made her so irresistibly admired as a child, were beginning to ripen into the still more fascinating and more polished charms of womanhood. She was rather below the middle height in per- son, but so faultless in form and proportion, that no one who beheld her could wish her other than she was. Her complexion was that clear and transparent olive, which so peculiarly harmonizes with the nar- row arched brow, the oval face, and intelligent fea- tures of the Grecian style of beauty. There were some, indeed, who thought Emily Moreland too pale to be perfectly beautiful ; but it was only those who had never seen her animated b) EMILY MORELAND. 107 pleasure, or glowing with the impulse of that keen sensibility, which, when kindled, added brilliancy to those eyes, that, even in repose, shone with lustre outvying the diamond, and deepened the faint blush on her cheek into the brightest and purest hue of the rose. The bad habits into which William Wilson had unhappily fallen, had, perhaps, quickened his per- ception of Emily's personal beauties, while they were every hour lessening his esteem and admiration for those mental charms and virtues, which as eminently distinguished her. Emily was not wholly devoid of vanity— what beautiful woman is?— but she was too pure, and too innocent, to feel flattered by such homage as Wil- liam Wilson offered to her charms ; and, though she pitied and mourned the state of degradation to which he had fallen, she felt heartily rejoiced when shf was no longer exposed to the unpleasantness of meet- ing with, and being obliged to hear his compliments and professions. William, however, was not disposed so easily to re- linquish the views he had formed ; and, though treated with the most repulsive coldness by Signora Orsini, who hadseen and heard too much,in the last few months of her residence at the Farm, not to feel the necessity of keeping him at a distance, he continued to take advantage of Mrs. Moreland's partiality for the son of her good old friend Isaac, and her ignorance of the worst parts of his character, and was often a troublesome visitor at the cottage, though prevented, by the care of the watchful Signora, from being any j>'3culiar annoyance to Emily. EMILY MORELAND. With rothing of more consequence than this 1© disturb the peaceful inhabitants of the cottage, the time passed on till Emily attained her seventeenth year; on the very anniversary of which, a blow was suddenly struck, which for awhile demolished the whole fabric of domestic peace and happiness. CHAPTER V. Sceneseof my childhood, the breath of your flowers Is loaded with memories too {)ainful for blisfs ! I'litiids of my childhood, there's gloom in your bowers, Oh,^wbere are the bright-beaming glances I miss? The injunctions of the deceased Mr. Moreland, that the mystery of Emily's birth, and the desertion of her fixther, should be concealed from her, until Sig- nora Orsini should consider her mind and under- standing sufficiently matured and firm to bear such a communication, had been strictly attended to, both by the former and Mrs. Moreland ; to the latter, indeed, any recurrence to the circumstances which had occasioned the loss of her still-regretted Marian, was too painful to be borne with equanimity; and the considerate and kind-hearted Emily never ven- tured to hazard an inquiry that would revive recol- lections which occasioned such pain to her venerable relative. But to the Signora she was less reserved, on a subject which frequently recurred to her Uiind, with all the pangs oi uncertainty and suspense ; and the latter, considering that her younir ^'-iend and KMILY MORELAND 109 pupil had fully attained the period which MrvMori*- land had assigned, as proper for the communicaiion, at length complied with her request. Seated under the shade of the spreading trees, which shrouded the cottage from the evening sun, and sufficiently removed from the aged mother of the sad subject of her tale, to prevent her observing and sharing in the emotion it excited, Rosalia Orsini re- lated, to her tearful and trembling auditor, the mournful history of her mother's sorrows and her father's guilt, almost in the very words in which it had been narrated to her, by the anguished father, who was now sleeping in the same grave with his ruined and murdered child, and adding, if possible, still greater interest to the pathetic story, by placing in Emily's hands the lettery and papers, which had been found after Marian's death by her sorrowing parents, and which more fully displayed the baseness and cruelty of Reginald de Cardonnel, than the most eloquent narrative could have done. Emily gazed, with tear-swollen eyes, on these tran- scripts of her parents' sentiments and feelings ; she tried to read them, and as she recollected that her father was still in existence, tried to hope that he was not so guilty, so cruel, as the Signora repre- sented ; but again she remembered, that the very hope reflected on her mother, and, in an agony of grief, she relinquished the attempt to peruse the letter she had unfolded, and to which she beheld, for tlie first time, the name of her father appended. " Let me prevail on you to defer, till to-morrow, my beloved girl, the perusal of these sad evidences of the truth of my narrative,' observed the Signora ; 110 EMILY MORELAND. " you are already so agitated, that it will be scarcely possible to avoid exciting the observation of your grandmother, and you are aware that her spirits are already greatly depressed." Emily yielded to her friend's request, and the packet was returned to the latter, who immediately rose and entered the house, to deposit it in her desk, from which she had taken it. She was scarcely gone, before Emily observed that a small slip of paper, which had escaped Rosalia's observation, had fallen on the turf at her feet, and she could not resist the impulse to read it, when she saw that her mother's initials were appended to it. It was an attempt to embody in verse some of the painful feelings and presentiments which oppressed the unfortunate Marian ; and Emily, viewing it with all the partiality of a daughter, conceived it of suffi- cient value to be treasured in her bosom, to be again perused, when unobserved by her cautious friend. The lines were addressed to a friend, who had offered the unfortunate writer two wreaths, one of roses and lilies, and the other of laurel, and were as follows : — " No, if thou twin'st a wreath for me, Of yew and cypress let it be — Fit emblems of my fate : The rose and lily now would be To me an idle mockery, The laurel come too late. • The rose and lily symbols are Of all that's young, and gay, and fair) And I — what ara 1 now? The laurel whicli, in life's gay spring, I fandly, vainly, hoped to win, Aias, 'iwuuld crush my brew I EMILY MORELAND. Ill •* Then weave the yew and cypress wreath, For soon this aching heart, beneath Their shade shall cease tc beat ; The rose and laurel long be thine. The grave's sad emblems only mine — For me alone they're meet." It was not possible that Emily could easily shake off the melancholy feelings which the knowledge of her parent's history had created ; but she succeeded in dissembling, before her grandmother, the oppres- lion which hung upon her heart, and retired early to her bed, that she might indulge the painful thoughts which could not be banished from her mind. It was now the middle of summer, and the weather, for some days, had been oppressively hot and sultry. Emily lay opposite to the little casement, through which she could see the dark heavy clouds, which betokened an approaching storm, gathering slowly and silently over the tops of the hills ; but tired nature at length overcame even the tumult in her mind, and, scarcely thinking of that which was gathering abroad, so soon to scatter terror and destruction, she sank into a profound sleep, from which she was awakened by a confusion of sounds, of which she could discern nothing distinctly, but the voice of her grandmothe. calling loudly for help Emily was on her feet in an instant, and the heat and suffocating smoke, which burst in at her little window, left her not a moment in doubt what had occurred. The small rick of hay, which was to pro- vide for the winter subsistence of their cow, had been tired by the lightning, which was now mingting 112 EMILY MORELAND. its vivid blue light with the red glare of the flames, while the heavy peals of thunder which rolled jver their heads, together with the violent gusts of wind, that every moment seemed to shake the cottage to its foundation, and bowed the lofty trees around it to the very ground, rendered the scene still more awfully terrific. Scarcely had she reached the bed- side of her terrified grandmother, and, with the as- sistance of Signora Orsini, succeeded in getting her out of bed, before they discovered that the wind was bringing with it large flakes of the burning hay towards the cottage. " The thatch — the roof will be on fire in a few minutes !" exclaimed Mrs. Moreland, clasping her hands, and tottering with trembling limbs to the win- dow," and then," she continued, turning an anguished look on Emily, " then all will be over !" " Emily, my child," exclaimed the Signora^ in ac- cents that betrayed the alarm she felt, " you are not dressed — hasten to put your clothes on — I will assist your grandmother. " Emily flew to her own room, and, before she had finished her hasty toilet, her grandmother's fears were realised — the thatch was in a blaze — and they were compelled to abandon their habitation, leaving nearly all they possessed in the world a prey to the devouring flames. Unable to move from the spot to which they had conveyed the now hapless Mrs. Moreland, Emily stood, with pallid cheeks and aching heart, by her s*de, silently watching the progress af the destructive element ; but it was not until the\ were surrounded EMILY MOREI^AND US by the alarmed inhabitants of the neighbouring- cot- tages, (who had hastened to give their assistance, though alas^ too late !) and heard their pressing offers of an asylum for them, that the distressed girl fully comprehended the nature of the calamity that had befallen them. Among those who were now engaged in deploring the ruin they beheld, one of the loudest was William Wilson ; but Emily could not help observing, that M'hen a discussion took place, as to where the suffer- ing Mrs. Moreland could be best accommodated, he shrank back in silence, and made no offer of that, which was certainly the most eligible for her — his father's house. The Signora, however, knew that the apartments she had occupied there were still empty ; and, though she did not like Dame Wilson, she considered that ner poor friend would be more at home, and better accommodated there, than she could be in any of the small cottages, the owners of which were so anxious to have her for their guest. Without hesitation, therefore, she made the pro- posal to William, though somewhat surprised that it had not occurred to him, who was ever so forward in his professions ; and, as he could offer no objection to such a reasonable proposition, particularly as the Signora, aware of the mercenary disposition of his mother, took care to tell him that she herself still possessed ample means to pay for all that they should require, it was concluded that Mrs. Moreland should be conveyed thither immediately — the men under- taking to carry her in the chair, supported by pillows, 6. Q H4 EMILY MOUELAND. which the Signora had, at the first alarn), conveved into the little summer-house ai the bottom of the garden, which now afforded them shelter from the storm, which had destroyed almost every other ves- tige of their pleasant habitation. Resigned to any thing that was proposed to her, Ihe aged mouruer was conveyed to the farm-house, which she had never visited, since the master of it had been unable himself to welcome her. The news of the fire, together with her fright at the storm, had roused Dame Wilson from her bed, and the sound of the voices of those who were ac- companying the houseless sufferers, brought her to the gate, long before they reached it. " So, I suppose this is your doings — bringing them here !*' she exclaimed, in a harsh tone to William, who had hastened on to apprise her of their approach. Emily, who overheard this ungracious salutation, could not distinctly hear William's reply; but it seemed to have some little effect on his mother, who, ivith more civility than usually distinguished her manners, advanced to meet the mournful group, ex- pressing her hope that Mrs. Moreland had received no other injury than the fright. " 1 shall never recover it!" returned the poor old lady, with a deep sigh-—" 1 shall not trouble you long — and 1 know Isaac will not refuse me a shelter." "Ah, poor man, he would be sadly hurt, could he understand what has happened," replied Mrs. Wil- son, " but it's no use to disturb him, poor soul ! — for his memory is (piite gone, and lie talks (juite at Kandom." SMILY MORELAND 115 Mrs. Moreland sighed, as much for her poor old friend as herself; but, though she had heard this sad account of hira, she looked at the vacant chair, which Isaac had been used to occupy by the kitchen fire- side, as if she expected to see him there. The kind-hearted and officious attendants of the sufferers, having seen them in safety, now took their leave, being well aware that they were not looked upon with the most pleasant eyes by Dame Wilson, who was sadly discomposed by the intrusion of so many dirty feet into her clean kitchen. The Signora now accompanied Mrs. Wilson, to prepare the bed, which she had been used to occupy, for Mrs. Moreland, who was completely exhausted by the terror and fatigue she had undergone ; and was no sooner left alone with Emily, than, leaning her head back on the pillow behind her, she fell into a profound sleep. The small candle, which the thrifty Dame had placed on the high mantel-piece, shed but a dim light in the large kitchen, and Emily felt her spirits sink still lower, from the gloomy appearance of the place, where she used once to be received with cordial welcome. The silent tears coursed each other down her cheek, as she sat gazing on the pallid face of her only surviving Relative, thus, in her old age, deprived of her peaceful and comfortable home, and thrown upon the charity of one kind friend, for the present, at least, if not for longer than Emily could at pre- sent foresee She was uneasy, too, at being compelled to ren)aia under the same roof with William Wilson, who wan 116 EMILY MORELA^D. now gone back to see what could be saved fioin Ihe ruins of the cottage ; and, among- other feelings of regret, she was deploring the loss of his father's pro- tection, when a door, that led from the kitchen to the back staircase, was softly and slowly opened, and Emily, with surprise and horror, recognised, in the pale face that was cautiously thrust forward, and the hollow eye that gazed round with a look of anxious scrutiny, the altered features of her poor old friend, Isaac Wilson. " Emily !" he softly articulated, while a ray of satisfaction seemed to gleam in his countenance, " Emily, I want to speak with you. I have long wanted to see you, but I am kept a prisoner in my own house — and they say I am mad ; but I am not mad, though I am not what I used to be ; and how should I, when my own flesh and blood rebel against me, and treat me like a child ? And but I am losing time, and I may not have another op- portunity. She forgot to lock me into the room, in her hurry, and I heard your name mentioned, and 1 know, too, that she is in Madam Orsini's room — so, I suppose, she is coming back ; and I am glad of that, for she is very good and kind but what was I saying?" He put his hand to his head, as if to recal his thoughts to the point from which they had wandered, and then resumed — " I know, now — I wanted to tell you that there is a sum of money, which your father sent me for you, locked up in my strong-box, with your name on it ; and I wish you would ask for it, and get it into your possession : for William is very idle and extravagant, and every fiMlLY MORELAND. 117 thing is going to wreck and ruin ; for his mother lets him have all his own way; and, perhaps, I have been thinking, but I don't know — I hope not — your money may go, too, when I am gone !" Emily listened with astonishment to this address, which was delivered with a strange wildness of look and tone, though it appeared coherent enough in matter. '^ Does not my grandmother know this ?" she de- manded, glancing her eye towards the still sleeping Mrs. Moreland. " No," returned Isaac, " though I have not time to tell you why, I have never trusted her with the secret — I wish I had trusted no one — for those who have Hush ! I hear her coming — do not betray that you have seen me, for if you do '* Mrs. Wilson's shrill voice approached nearer, and Isaac, in alarm, retreated up the stairs, closing the door softly after him. " Is she asleep," demanded Mrs. Wilson, looking at Mrs. Moreland, as she entered, " why, who were you talking to ?" she exclaimed, suspiciously glancing around, " I am sure, I could swear I heard a voice, as I came along the passage — didn't you, Ma'am ?" Unconscious of the importance attached to the subject, the Signora, to whom she addressed this question, replied in the affirmative ; and Emily could only evade further remarks by observing, that it was not improbable she had been speaking, though, in the harassed state of her mind, she was uncon Kcious of it. " Oh, then, you were talking to yourself ?'"* returned 118 EMILY MORELAND. the Darne, looking at her with a scrutinising and suspicious glance. Emily remained silent — for she could not bring herself to utter a diiect falsehood ; and the Signora, without observing her embarrassment, relieved her by speaking of the propriety of waking Mrs. Moreland, and inducing her to retire to bed. " I will do any thing you wish," observed the poor old woman, when they succeeded, with dif- ficulty, in arousing her. Mrs. Wilson shook her head — " She would rather," she observed, " see a person cry, and take on, when in distress, than seem so quiet and indifferent ;" and the Signora, as she assisted the object of their atten- tion to bed, felt that the observation was not en- tirely misplaced in the present instance ; for Mrs. Moreland, resigned and calm as she appeared, was evidently very ill ; and Emily, who, with her friend, watched the remainder of the night by the bedside of her aged relative, soon learned from Rosalia's looks that another affliction, in all probability, awaited her. Their fears were but too well founded. Mrs. Moreland continued to grow hourly weaker and weaker, and in less than a month, her prediction, that her distress and terror would prove her death, was verified ; and Emily beheld her last natural protector laid in the grave. It was not merely the sorrow of losing one so de- s^^rvedly dear to her, that now pressed so heavily ou the youthful Emily ; she felt, in all its force, the melancholy state in which she was now placed, with- EMILY MORELAND. 119 out one natural tie in the world, and totally uncer- tain what might be her future fate. She knew no- thing of Signora Orsini's family ties, and, though she appeared perfectly independent of any con- nexions, she might not always remain so ; and then, perhaps, she (Emily) might appear in the light of an intruder. But, even were not this to happen, her friend was certamly not rich, and she sfiould be sorry to be a burthen to her. Such were the thoughts that passed, in her desponding moments, through Emily's mind. During the illness of her granamother, and her consequent affliction at her loss, she had thought but little of any other subject, though, as she sometimes casually heard the name of poor old Isaac mentioned, the recollection of her transient interview with him, and his assertion, that her father had deposited some money for her with him, would recur to her mind ; but she thought less of what concerned herself, and which, in fact, she could scarcely believe had any foundation but in the chimeras of her poor friend's brain, than she did of the means of rescuing the lat- ter from his imprisonment— for such evidently he was enduring; since, in no one instance, did Emily again see him, though she frequently visited the kitchen, as much with a view of observing whether he was allowed to join the family at their meals, as to avoid giving Mrs. Wilson more trouble than was necessary. Isaac, however, was never there ; nor could Emily have known that he was still in the house, but that she, more than once, heard his voice in his own room. 120 EMILY MORELAND. apparently engaged in violent contention with his son, whose threats and abuse she could distinctly understand were occasioned by his father's refusal to comply with some request, that the latter con- sidered unreasonable. Once, only, Emily ventured to observe, (in addition to the daily inquiry as to his health,) that she thought it must be very prejudicial to him, to remain so many hours alone, as he must necessarily do, as long as he confined himself to his room. " It is better than exposing himself, and making himself a laughing-stock, by talking nonsense, and acting like a fool!" replied Mrs. Wilson, in a surly tone. " But that could not happen with those who are his friends," returned Emily; " neither you or I should feel inclined to make him a laughing-stock ; and it is possible that society and exercise might gradually restore both his health and his mind to a proper " "You are very clever, no doubt, Miss Emily," in- terrupted Mrs. Wilson, with a malicious smile ; " but as I don't think you quite clever, or quite old enough, to perscribe better than Doctor Rawlings, I shall fellow his advice and my own knowledge, though you may think little of it." Emily saw it was useless to persevere in an effort, which only irritated without convincing ; and might, indeed, be injurious to the individual whom it was intended to benefit. To Signora Orsini, however, she now communicated what had passed on the night of the fire, and her suspicions that some other motive EMILY MORELAND. . 121 than regard for the poor old man*s health was the cause of his seclusion. Rosalia was at once surprised and interested; but she did not hesitate to believe, that the story the old Farmer had told respecting- the money was correct, as it fully corresponded with various hints which he had dropped in the course of conversation, of his being- in possession of some secret, which would prove ad- vantageous to Emily. She determined, therefore, without delay or prevarication, to apply to Mrs. Wilson on the subject, though she had but little hopes of inducing her to act honestly, without having recourse to some more powerful measures than mere persuasion. To Emily, however, it appeared of much more consequence to devise some means of relieving poor old Isaac from his melancholy situation ; and the im- portant consideration that they could only learn from him the exact sum which was withheld, and the cir- cumstances under which it was received, determined Signora Orsini to submit to a short delay, in the hope of obtaining- an interview with him In pursuance of her advice, therefore, Emily en- deavoured to lull Mrs. Wilson into security, by ab- staining- from even mentioning the name of her hus- band, and aflfecting- not to observe the ill-conduct and vicious habits of her son, whom she appeared particularly desirous of recommending to the formei, on every occasion. This was a hard task to Emily, who, though she felt a reluctance to avow to her friend what she con- sidered almost a degradation to acknowledge to her- 122 EMILY MORELAND. self, was convinced that William Wilson and hb mother entertained hopes that she regarded the for- mer with sufficient partiality to bestow on him her hand, were she not restrained by the pride of the Signora (whom they both detested) from following her own inclinations, and persuaded to indulge more ambitious views. More than once, when Emily had found it neces- sary to repress the freedom and confidence of Wil- liam's manners towards her, in the presence of his mother, she had been compelled to listen to hints of this nature, and denunciations of hatred towards her whom she now felt was, indeed, her only true friend; and she revolted from giving even a tacit encourage- ment to their presumption, by seeming to be blind to those faults, which were every day being strengthened by habit, in one whom she had certainly once es- teemed as a brother, but who had long since forfeited every claim to her favourable consideration. There were moments, indeed, in which William Wilson appeared sensibly alive to his own degrada- tion; and, more than once or twice, Emily heard him avow to his mother his resolution of breaking off all his dissolute connexions, by either enlisting into a marching regiment, or going to sea ; but to both these expedients his mother was decidedly opposed, and Emily could not misunderstand her hints that it would be far better that he should get married, and settled at some distance, where he would return to his former habits of sobriety and industry. A sigh, and a glance at Emily, who, though she aifected not to see it, could not entirely avoid betray- KMILY MORELAND. 123 iug her consciousness of what was pointed at, was generally William's only reply to this prt dent ad- vice; but the fit of contrition seldom lasted many hours, and Emily generally discovered that their conversation had ended in his mother's supplyin<^ him with the means of returning to his old haunts, to dissipate his melancholy, and lay in a stock for future repentance. A month had elapsed from Mrs. Moreland's de- cease, before Emily could collect resolution to visit the now ruined spot of her former residence ; but the suggestion of the Signora, that it might yet be re- stored to its pristine state, — should she be fortunate enough to succeed in obliging Mrs. Wilson to make restitution, or should Isaac be sufficiently restored to health, to resume his place in the world, — raised a train of thought in the mind of the affectionate girl, which led her, almost unconsciously, to the wicket gate of the little garden, which, partly burned up and withered by the flames, and the remainder trodden down and defaced by the feet of those who had been led by curiosity or interest to visit the ruin, presented a spectacle of devastation from which the dejected and sensitive Emily turned away, with bitter tears. *' Another spring may restore all your flowers, my dear girl," observed Rosalia, who easily guessed the source of her tears. Emily turned her eyes disconsolately towards the blackened and mouldering walls, which alone re- mained of that pretty neat dwelling, where she had passed so many happy hours; but she thought less of the ruined cottage, than of those whose kind hearts 194 EMILY MORELAND. and benevolent dispositions had made 't the abode of peace and happiness. " Life has no second spring," she softly murmured, as, with a deep sigh, she unfastened the wicket, and passed into the garden, followed by her friend, whose own feelings were too intense to allow her to oft'ei any consolation. Fragments of the furniture, which was nearly all destroyed, were laying about among the ruins, and Emily's tears flowed faster than ever, as she picked up a piece of half-burned wood, which she immediately recognised as having been a part ot the spinning- wheel, which had formed her grandmother's principal pleasure and occupation, up to the fatal night, which, it might be said, had closed all her occupations and pleasures in this world. She was still standing amid the ruins, her eyes mournfully fixed on this sad memento of days for ever gone by, when she was surprised by the sudden barking of her little spaniel, which was still the con- stant attendant of her rambles; and, on looking round, to ascertain the cause, she discovered that a stranger, who did not seem to observe her vicinity to him, was leaning over the palings of the garden, as if contemplating with pity and compassion the devastation he beheld. Emily stood, for a moment, silently observing one whom she had never yet seen equalled for manly beauty, and intelligence of look and feature. The stranger was a tall slender youth, apparently about eighteen or nineteen, and, though clothed in a plain rustic dress, possessed such a commanding look EMILY MORELAND. 12 J and form, that no one who beheld him could doubt his being of much superior rank to the style in which he appeared. His large and brilliant dark eyes were of a somewhat pensive cast, though the smile with which he regarded the puny efforts of' the little spaniel to intimidate him from entering the grounds, over which the faithful animal still seemed to con- sider himself the guardian, was at once playful and animated. "Who can it be?" said Emily, softly; but she looked round in vain for an answer, for the Signora had wandered to some distance in the orchard, which was at the back of the cottage. "Poor fellow!" said the stranger, opening the wicket, and trying to coax the dog to come near to him ; " poor fellow ! what are you doing here, alone ? Are you come to look at your former home, or are you seeking your former friends?" The spaniel, as if conciliated by the sound of his voice, now ceased its noise ; but, instead of comply- ing with his invitation to advance, he retreated to- wards the spot where Emily still stood, sheltered by the ruined wall ; and the young man, with his eyes fixed on the dog, continued to follow it, until his progress was arrested by his discovering the fair mis- tress of the little animal. For a moment he remained undetermined whether to advance or recede, while Emily, with a confusion she could not account for, stooped to caress the spaniel. "I ought, I believe, Madam," observed the stran- ger, smiling, " to apologise for my intrusion ; but 126 EMILY MORELAND. you will, I am sure, believe me, when 1 say, that I had not any idea of the treasure, which this little animal seems to be so faithful a guardian of. I was, indeed, influenced by curiosity to follow him, ima- gining it possible that he had belonged to the former inhabitants of this now desolate spot, which I re- member to have seen some few years back, and admired with all the enthusiasm of boyhood, ' for then is the age of admiration !' " *' It was, indeed, a sweet place!" said Emily, in a faltering voice, and averting her head, in order to conceal her tears. The young man was silent for a moment, and then, in a voice still more soft and insinuating, said, " I am afraid I am more inexcusably intrusive than I at first apprehended. I am fearful that I am trespassing upon sorrows," glancing at her mourning dress, *' which have some connexion with this scene of de- solation. Yet, if it were possible for me to offer if, as a stranger, I could dare hope " The sudden appearance of Signora Orsini, who entered through a breach in the ruined wall, close to which he was standing, interrupted his address; and, evidently disconcerted and confused, he bowed to the latter, who regarded him with the most intent and earnest looks. ^' Who is it?" she abruptly exclaimed. " Tell me, pray tell me, who are you? — and what has brought you here?" The young man looked astonished — and Emily, who beheld, in the pale cheek and agitated look of her friend, sufficient cause for alarm, though uncon- \ A /takers, j.i ■ MHIFIBEIR^T JLlEglLUIE EMILY MORELAND. 127 scious what could have occasioned it, endeavoured to explain that the stranger had been unpreraedi- tatedly drawn to the spot, by the appearance and gambols of Clara. " It is strange ! I could scarcely have known— and yet the age !" murmured Rosalia, still keeping her eyes intently fixed on the now crimsoned face of the youth. " Will you, Sir," she continued, trying to assume a firmer tone, " will you satisfy my feelings — my curiosity, I should say, — by explaining who you are, and how you came to be in this part of the country?" The stranger's agitation evidently increased, and Emily thought there was something like haughtiness, if not resentment, in his manner, as he replied — *' I certainly, Madam, cannot refuse to comply with so reasonable a request — though it is rather awkward to be myself the formal historian of my birth, pai'entage, education, pursuits, occupation, &c. &c. If it will be any satisfaction, however, to you, I willingly inform you that I am the adopted son of Lord Hazleden, my parents having died during my infancy, and bequeathed me to his care. So, at least, I am taught to believe. For the rest — my name is Herbert Leslie, and I am at present merely on a pleasurable excursion, to visit some friends, who reside seven or eight miles from hence. A wish to see the country, unembarrassed by the forms and constraints of the sphere of life in which I am (however undeservedly) placed, and a sportive desire to surprise the famiJy I am on my road to isit, by my unexpected appearance, were my chief 128 EMILY MORELAND. motives for appearing- in a garb, which you may, perhaps, think not exactly accordant with the account I have given of myself; and which I shall certainly regret assuming, if it have the effect of prejudicing either you or — " glancing at Emily, and gracefully bowing — " that lady against me." " Was ever tale with such a gallant modesty rehearsed ?" thought Emily, as she courtesied in reply to his compliment, with a smile, which, though half re- strained by timidity, was nevertheless exactly such as was calculated to assure the handsome and fasci- nating stranger, that he had no reason to fear her decision in his favour. Signora Orsini seemed to recover her self-posses- sion, and her naturally kind and pleasing manners, as the young man concluded his explanation. " Forgive my seeming rudeness. Sir," she observed, offering him her hand ; " you will, I am sure, pardon it when I tell you, that I was so powerfully struck with your resemblance to one, very nearly and dearly connected with myself; one, who " she brushed away the tear which was stealing down her cheek, and, after a short pause, added — " I need not, I am sure, ojffer any other plea in excuse for my abrupt- ness, than again to assure you, that the resemblance between you and the person I allude to is so striking, that, incredible and impossible as it certainly is, that there could exist any connexion between you, I can- not even yet divest myself of the idea that you were the unfortunate offspring of a fatal marriage, and EMILY MORELAND. 129 that youi object here was to introduce yourself as such to me." " It is singular, certainly," observed the stranger, with a look which evinced the deepest interest in the slight hints the Signora had let fall ; "were the per- sons or person to whom you allude, natives of Eng- land? J would not be impertinently curious — but it is natural, unconnected as I am by all ties of blood, that I should feel Yet, I am ridiculous, in suffer- ing myself to be thus led into the regions of romance, by a mere casual resemblance of feature or counte- nance ! The history of my birth is too common, and too devoid of mystery, to allow me to doubt its ve- racity.'" *' I will reply to your question at once, to set your doubts at rest — if my hasty remarks should have raised any. They were not natives of England, though one was for some time resident here ; and bui we will, if you please," she continued, her voice faltering, and her whole look and manner evincing the deepest distress, " drop a subject, which I can never bear to contemplate. Emily, my dear girl, I have alarmed and distressed you," she continued, turning to the latter, who had indeed beheld the emotion of her beloved friend with the deepest sym- pathy: " Come," she added, trying to re-assume her usual vivacity, " it is time to dismiss this sombre hue from our minds, and contemplate, with delight and gratitude, the blessings thiit are yet left us. *' * l-ife Iiath iis rliarms : — yes, though my heart Ha'i moiiin'd its glitleiing prospects all o'erthrown ! — ■ Has blerl with bitt'rest agony to part Wuh those it lovpil. — Yes, though I've known 6. 8 130 EMILY MORELAND. Neglect and penury ; — felt the keen smart Of disappointed Iio])«s, and heaved the bitter groan For feelings slighted, confidence abused : — Yet stiU Life hath its charms; and I can gaze around, Enraptured with this world of beauty, till, My sorrows all forgot, my heart will bound With pleasure, and ray eyes will fill With tears of gratitude, and ev'ry sound Seem sweet ; and ail helow — above. Speak to my heart of beauty, light, and love.' " The words, the sentiments, were her own ; and Emily felt, that, however little merit they might claim as a poetical composition, they had, in her eyes, the greatest recommendation, — that of being the faithful transcript of an amiable and feeling heart. Mr. Leslie seemed to think so, too ; for his manners towards the Signora became still more respectful and animated; and Emily, in becoming an interested listener to, and participator in the conversation that ensued, gradually lost that timidity and reserve which were foreign to her natural character ; and, in this instance, she would fain have persuaded her- self, had been only created by the novelty of her in- tercourse with one so superior and refined as the stranger. A casual remark from the latter, respecting the place they had just quitted, (for they had now left the cottage garden, and were slowly proceeding along the narrow path, which wound gently round one of the swelling green hills that overlooked the Vale, until it terminated at the gate of the Farm, which was now their home,) drew from the Signora a simple but pathetic detail of the calamitous event, which had deprive f them of their loved dwelling. EMILY MORELAND. 131 " My poor Emily," she continued, " has to-day, for the first time, visited the scene of our former happiness ; and, though I agree with her in believing that it can never be to us what it has been, yet I am willing to hope, and to inspire her with hopes, that we may soon be enabled to restore the cottage to all its former beauty and usefulness. Mr. Leslie looked as if he would have asked what obstacles could retard the immediate execution of this design, had not the fear of being considered in- trusive or inquisitive, prevented him. He therefore only hazarded, in reply, an inquiry, how long they had resided in that sequestered spot ; and learned, with evident surprise, that Emily had passed all her (as yet short) life there; had never been beyond the limits of a day's journey in the neighbourhood, and had never hitherto wished or sighed for other scenes or other pleasures, than that small boundary afforded her. " Yet it were pity that such a flower should ' Blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desart air ;' " murmured Leslie, addressing himself to the Signora, who glanced on him a look full of arch meaning, as she replied, pursuing the metaphor — " ' The hnmble violet, Which blooms in secret 'neath yon hedge-row's shade. Dies if transplanied to a richer soil.' " "I deny your inference," returned Leslie, blushing and smiling at the same time " I do not mean to )32 EMII.Y MORELANl). say that culture could improve the beauty, or the sweetness of your secluded flower ; but, surely, it might " " More of this hereafter," interrupted the Sig- nora, who saw that Emily, though she had not heard the whole conversation, felt confused from the con- sciousness, which was excited by Leslie's glance, that she was the subject which had given rise to it. "We are taking you out of your road. Sir," ob- served the Signora, abruptly stopping, as they reached the brow of the hill. " Yonder," she continued, pointing to a path which branclied oft' to the left, " yonder is the direct way to the village through which you must pass, if, as I understand you, you are on your way to Clare Hall." " That is certainly my final destination," returned Mr. Leslie; "but the evening is already so far ad- vanced, and and, if I dare avow it, I am so un- willing to renounce the charms of your society, that, unless you absolutely forbid it, I shall defer my journey till to-morrow, and attend you, at least as far as the door of your mansion, even if I should be sure that it would be inhospitably closed against my admittance." " A pretty modest way of asking for an invita- tion," observed Rosalia, smiling; " and, as I cannot handsomely get off, I suppose 1 must even submit to bear with your company at our tea-table." Mr. Leslie looked all animation, and declared himself all gratitude, for this "condescension," as he termed it. *' I am afraid,' observed the Signora, half se- EMILY MORELAND. 133 riously, and half in jest, " that I am committing a sad breach of etiquette, in thus alloAving your visit, without a formal introduction ; but, as I have had but little experience in Vusage du beau tnonde, in England, I hope some allowance will be made for me, should I be acting incorrectly." " You are not a native of England, then. Madam," observed Leslie. " I have been debating with my- self that point, for the last ten minutes; for, though your English tongue is so perfect that it would de.- ceive any one, there is a certain tone, which, to those who have visited Italy " "Ah, you have, then, been in my own — my still dear native land," interrupted Rosalia, with vivacity; " and you have, perhaps," she continued, " gazed on the scenes where my happy happy childhood was passed, and which I must now never hope to revisit," She passed her hand over her brow, as if to veil the agitation this thought excited; and then, after a short pause, looking earnestly at Leslie, said — " I cannot hear you talk of Italy in that voice, and with those well-known features, without too faithfully recalling scenes and events, which I wish to forget, if possible, for ever! It is a strange coincidence — most strange ! But, tell me, what were your induce- ments to visit Venice ? You said you were at Venice, did you not ?" " VVhy, certainly, I resided for more than a month in the city ofa hundred isles," replied Leslie, "though I am not aware that I mentioned it before. It was only natural, however, that you should think it im- possible that a traveller could visit the land of the 134 EMILY MOIIEL vNl>. pleasant south, without seeing- its chiefest pride and wonder." Signora Orsini was silent — her thoughts were wandering amidst the marble columns, or gliding along the silent waters of her native city; and Leslie, deeply sympathising in the feelings, which spoke so intelligibly in the tears and sighs which Rosalia in vain attempted to check, endeavoured to conceal his observation of them, by addressing some remarks to Emily, on the beauty of the prospect which lay be- fore them. The hours which Leslie passed in the society of Emily and her protectress, appeared to fly with winged speed, to more than one of the party ; and all seemed to feel regret, when the hour of separa- tion arrived. " You will not, I hope, refuse me admittance, if I should again wander into this neighbourhood, during my (I am now afraid) short stay at the Hall?" ob- served Leslie, as he arose to accompany William Wilson, who had undertaken to be his guide to the village where he was to rest for the night ; and who had been twice to the parlour door, to signify his fear that the gentleman would stay till it would be too late to get into the George Inn, or any wher-e else, before Leslie could prevail on himself to utter the final adieu. " We shall certainly expect to see you, pour prendre conge, before you return to London," replied the Signora, with frank cordiality, but, at the same time, with a look and manner which said, you must not expect any further indulgence. EMILY MORELAND. IS'J Leslie hesitated — but William again impatiently pressed his departure, and the former, raising botli the fair hands he held to his lips, repeated his •' good night," and followed his dissatisfied and murmuring fi^uide. CHAPTER VI. Alas, misfortune's cloud unkind, May summer soon o'ercast ; And cruel Fate's untimely wind All human wishes blast. Logan. The meeting- with Herbert Leslie was a new era in Emily's life, and, for the first two or three days, her friend Rosalia only smiled at the warmth and inge- nuousness with which she expressed her feelings, when speaking of him ; but when, at the end of a week, she began to calculate the probability of a speedy visit, on the supposition that he would not stay much longer at the Hall; — when she beheld her anxiety about her personal appearance, which, at other times, she never studied beyond the most per- fect neatness and propriety ; and, above all, when she surprised her contemplating, with sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks, the now- withered violets which Leslie had gathered for her on their way, — the Sig- nora began to think that she had acted imprudently, in allowing the visit of this interesting and accom- plished vountf ros'P and to hope that he would, in 136 EAIl LY JJOIl KLAM). the gaieties of Clare Hall, forget the humble inhabi- tants of the farm ; and, by neglecting to perform his promise, nip in their bud these indications of youth- ful affection. Unsuspicious of the revolution which had taken place in her friend's mind, the innocent Emily again wondered, " whether Mr. Leslie would come to-day," as she stood at the bow window, which commanded a considerable distance of the road which he must come, from the place of his present residence. " Do you, then, depend so religiously upon his promise, or our attractions, my dear," observed the Signora, " that you think it impossible he may return to London, without bestowing a thought on those who, as the mere acquaintances of a few hours, can scarcely have a right to expect that he will turn so far out of his direct road, for the sake of a ceremonial leave-taking? For my own part," she continued, V, ithout appearing to notice the consternation which was visible in Emily's countenance, " 1 should be, I confess, more surprised at itis keeping- his promise^, than his omitting so to do; for, among the gay and brilliant company which, I understand, are assembled at the Hall, it would be vanity to suppose it probable that a fashionable young man, as Mr. Leslie is, would not find sufficient attractions to banish such humble individuals as you and 1 from his memory." Emily scarcely knew what she felt, as the Signora, with an assumed air of indifference, concluded her speech ; and, without seeming to think it required an answer, began to arrange her drawing materials on the table, for her morning's avocation, dciiM EMILY MORELANJ. 137 Anger, surprise, niortilication, and a tumult of in- definable feelings were swelling in the poor girl's bosom, at this unexpected overthrow of her hopes. Could the Signora be unjust, or was she herself un- reasonable in expecting that one, who seemed all truth, and candour, and ingenuousness, would act consistently with that character ? It was true, she knew but little of the world, or of men's hearts. She sighed, as she recalled the lesson which her unfortu- nate mother's fate had impressed on her memory, to distrust the fairest appearances ; and yet, never — oh, never could she believe that the impress of truth and sincerity, which was stamped on Herbert Leslie's features, or the open-hearted frankness which marked his manners, could be assumed, to disguise a light, a frivolous, or a deceptive mind ! "He will come — I know he will!" she involun- tarily exclaimed aloud. The Signora looked up from her drawing, with well-dissembled surprise. " And if he should not, my dear girl, we shall neither of us break our hearts, I trust, at his neglect," she observed. "Oh, no, indeed! I am sure I should not care, if I were never to see him again !" replied Emily, while her heightened colour and faltering voice contra- dicted the assertion. "Only," she continued, " for the sake of his own character, I should wish him to keep his word — especially as he made so great a point of gaining your permission to come, and seemed to take so great an interest in our comfort and happi- ness." ^i-''! -ii^-*^- •' Alas^my dear girl, you have not as yet had, an a. T 138 EMILV MOREL AND. 1 earnestly hope you never will have, much expe- rience in the hollowness of those professions, whici eyery man of fashion and gallantry thinks it necessary to offer, to a young and beautiful female. I say, beautiful — because I rely too much on your good sense, to fear that your knowledge that you possess Nature's bounty in this respect, will do you any harm ; and because, too," she added, smiling, " I cannot doubt, that, if your looking-glass had not be- fore told you the flattering- tale, Mr. Leslie's eyes would have revealed it. Why that sigh and blush, Emily? It is as natural that, at his age, and with his disposition, he should admire you while present, as that the next beauty he meets should efface you from his recollection." Emily sat quietly down to the (able, and drew out her work ; and her friend, thinking that she had al- ready said enough to damp any unreasonable expec- tations, contrived soon to change the subject; not, however, without breathing a secret wish, that Leslie might never come to defeat her prudent admoni- tions. " He is precisely," she reflected, " as far as can be judged from so superficial an acquaintance, the man whom I should select for my beloved girl; but, situated as they both are, it would be madness and folly to encourage such feelings for a moment, even if he should really be as much prepossessed in hef favour, as my innocent Emily evidently is in his." For many days after this conversation, Emily was silent, pensive, and thoughtful ; but, to Rosalia's great satisfaction, Herbert Leslie no longer formed EMILY MORELAND. 130 the theme of her conversation ; and when week after week passed away, and he came not, as she had pre- dicted, she could not but feel that she had acted prudently, in preparing Emily's mind for the disap- pointment. " So, the great folks at the Hall are all gone to London, Miss!" observed Dame Wilson, as she was one day laying the cloth for dinner. The Signora was reading, but she slily raised her eyes from the book, to see what effect this intelligence had on her young friend. To her great satisfaction, all was calm and serene in that expressive face; and the resumed her book again, as Emily, in a ibeerful Vv)ice, replied — " I suppose they are like other birds of passage, flown off, for the winter, to a climate more con- genial." " I should have thought your fine spark, that's been staying there, mout have come \o bid you good bye, and thank you for your civility," rejoined the Dame, in a tone of affected good humour, but real malevolence. "Indeed ! — then you and I thought alike, for once," returned Emily, smiling with irresistible archness at the Signora, v/ho had again raised her eyes to the bright intelligent face, which was now more than usually animated. " Yes, indeed," observed Mrs. Wilson, who was evidently determined to leave no part of her new* untold; "but it don't want many guesses to find out why he didn't !" she added ; " for he's a-going to be "Quarried to a great lady that was down there, tli. 140 KMILY MOUELANl). Ijord Mayor of London's daughtei, 1 believe she is. Howsomever, let her be who she will, he's to have her weight in golden guineas, as soon as they're mar- ried ; and she's none of the lightest, I can assure you, for I seed them both in the pheaton, as they drove down the road ; and a comely piece she is — only she's a good bit older than him; and, for my part, I can't think what she could see in such a boyish chap, and one, too, that's only been bred on charity, I hear, when she mout have had the picking and choosing among lords, and dukes, and barrowknights, with such a for tin. ^' "Mercenary, too, and at his age!" said Emily, addressing herself to the Signora, who, though she felt inclined to doubt that there was any real foun- dation for the tale she had just heard, could not sup- press a feeling of disappointment, at this trait in the character of one, whom, though policy induced her to suppress it, she secretly respected. " I suppose he was afraid of making Madam jea- lous, if he came here," added Mrs. Wilson, who felt angry that her previous observations had been so coolly received; "for Jenny Dobson, who's been helping at the Hall, ever since she and the old gen- tleman her father corned down, says as how she couldn't a-hear him out of her sight." " What a delectable life he is likely to lead, with such a fascinating and amiable partner!" observed Emily, shrugging her shoulders. " Quite as good and pleasant as he deserves," re- turned the Signora, with real and undisguised con- tempt. EMILY MORELAND. 14J " Lauk! why you wouldn't have the young man give up such a chance, to marry " *' I am no Avay interested in Mr. Leslie's decision, Mrs. Wilson," interrupted the Signora, with more than her usual dignity and reserve, " and I shall be much obliged if you will hasten the preparations for our dinner." Disappointed in her aim, in the repetition of this exaggerated tale, Mrs. Wilson flounced out of the room, leaving the Signora and Emily to discuss the character of Herbert Leslie at leisure; which they did, with this deviation from their usual conversa- tions respecting- him, that the Signora was more inclined to be hasty and ajigry, and to accuse him of inconsistency, than Emily, who declared that she pitied, while she could not help despising- one, who could barter the heart's best aff*ections for g^old. It was not without a considerable struggle that Emily had attained the calmness and indifference, which had at once surprised and delighted her friend and protectress. To say that she had fallen in love with Herbert Leslie, during an interview of only a few hours, would be folly. Emily knew not what love was ; but it was the fiist time she had ever been in the society of a well-educated and agreeable young- man, — one, too, whose taste and sentiments seemed to coincide so entirely with her own, and whose sen- sibility and feeling-, she thought, could not be doubted. It was painful, therefore, to think that she had seen him for the last time ; but still more painful to be obliged to believe, that the warm inte- rest and sympathy he had expressed for her and ber 142 EM) LY MO IF,;, AM). friend Rosalia, had been mere words of course, no sooner uttered than forgotten. But it was too plain that this w as the case, and Emily, as she reluctantly acknowledged it to herself, felt mortified at her own credulity, which had been easily deceived by a fair and specious outside, and resolved never again to be so duped, but henceforth to believe men to be, what the Signora sometimes, in a fit of petulance, evidently occasioned by painful and harassing recollections, called them, "selfish, deceptive, and unfeeling all !" She heard, therefore, with little pain, and still less surprise, the tale which Mrs. Wilson, who had been terribly startled and alarmed at Mr. Leslie's intro- duction, had so triumphantly repeated ; and the ill- natured old woman conceiving, from Emily's indif- ference, that she had been mistaken in her conjectures respecting- (lie " proud conceited spark," as she gene- rally styled him, made no farther atten.pt to mortify her by the repetition of the stories she learned from her acquaintance at the Hall. In one respect, however, Emily felt the inconve- nience of the suspicions Mrs. Wilson had entertained ; for, emboldened by the removal of what she had sense enough to perceive, should she be correct, would prove an insuruiouniable ol)stacle to her son's pretensions, the old dame again commenced her sys- tematic attempts, not only to recommend her son to Emily's favour, but to contrive to give him frequent opportunities to plead his own cause ; and, harassed and humiliated beyond measure by iht perseverance of both mother and son, Einiiy at length found her- eelf compelled to acknowledge to the Signora, what EMILV MORELAND. 143 she had hitherto so carefully concealed, that not the slishtest suspicion had arisen in the bosom of the latter. " But, my dear child," she exclaimed, when Emily, her cheeks glowing with anger and shame, explained to her why it was that she declined walking alone, Av hen the former was slightly indisposed. " My dear girl, why have you tacitly encouraged this presump- tion, by keeping it from me !" • Emily could only acknowledge, what she felt was the fact, that she considered herself so degraded by being the object of such an attachment, that she was unwilling to speak of it. " Besides," she continued, " I have thought that my steady refusal to listen to such language, and my resolutely avoiding to see him for a moment alone, would induce both him and his mother to drop their persecution of me. I find, however, that I am mistaken, and that my forbear- ance only encourages them. Last night, indeed, the Dame contrived to trepan me into an interview with William, by pretending to show me a new brood of chickens, which my favourite hen had hatched in the granary ; but I had scarcely got there, before Wil- liam entered, and, before I had time to retreat, the old woman muttered some excuse for returning to the house again, and I was compelled, almost by force, to listen to his protestations and entreaties. . deed, he went so far as to swear, that, if I would accept his offer, he would destroy himself and ^le, too ; and, though I cannot for a moment suppose that he has any serious intention of acting so despe- rately, I became so much alarmed, that I resolved no konger to concerl his conduct from you/' 144 EMILY MORELAMJ. Rosalia affected to treat the threats of this mis- guided young' man with contempt ; but she could not conceal from herself, that unless Emily were speedily removed from her present situation, she was likely to meet with much uneasiness and annoyance on this sub- ject. How to remedy it at the present moment, how- ever, she knew not ; for her own remittances had been most unaccountably delayed; and the small sum, which Mrs. Moreland had possessed at her death, had been nearly all expended in her funeral. The produce of the few acres of land, which were now Emily's property, having- been bequeathed to her by her grandfather, after the death of his wife, had been nearly all consumed by the fatal fire ; and, in- dependent of all other sources of uneasiness, the Sig- nora was now suffering considerable anxiety, from the apparent uncertainty of a fresh supply, when the trifle she had still left should be exhausted. /ov.oil Unwilling to give pain to Emily, whose naturally lively spirits were yet depressed, from the recollection of the loss she had sustained, the Signora had not, in the most distant manner, alluded to her embarrass- ments; and, totally unused to the management of money, and almost ignorant of the value of it, Emily never even conjectured that it was the cause of the increased dejection and anxiety, which was visible in her friend's looks and manners. Now, however, it was, though almost inadvertently, betrayed; for, in the regret the Signora expressed that they could not immediately quit a place which had now lost all its attractions, Emily discovered that there must exist some cause, that she was unacquainted with, to pre vent her friend from acting as she wished. em'ily moreland 1 15 *' I have only one motive for wishing to remain here," she observed, " and that is, the hope that some opportunity may enable me to be of service to poor Isaac, which, independent of all selfish considera- tions, would be to me i.ie greatest satisfaction; but " Rosalia interrupted her — " I cannot see, my dear child," she observed, " how our remaining here is likely to forward that object ; on the contrary, I firmly believe that our residence here has been the means of injuring him, and increasing the restraint in which he is kept. But it is no use to regret this at the present minute, since there exists no possibility of remedying it. If, indeed " She paused, and seemed to be deeply reflecting on some alternative, which she did not care to name. Emily's eyes were earnestly bent on her pale and careworn face, and a suspicion of the truth, for the first time, flashed across her mind. " Will you allow me to ask, dear Signora, what is the obstacle that is so imperatively opposed to our leaving this place?" The Signora tried to smile. — '' Can you not guess, my dear girl," she replied ; " but do not alarm your- self too much — it will, I hope and trust, be speedily removed ; for I have this morning written again to my agent in London, and I cannot think I shall be long without receiving a satisfactory answer. If I should, however, — but I will not anticipate evil All will yet be right, I know — I am sure it will!" Emily's looks bespoke her consternation and re gret at this new evil The kindness, the more than maternal feeling, which had prevented her expe- 7. u 146 EMII-Y MORRLAN'D. riencing, in the most remote degree, the misery of dependence, had yet never effaced from her memory the consciousness of her obligations to Signora Or- sini ; but, having been accustomed to see the latter in the possession of every comfort, without any effort, or subject to any uncertainty, she had never reflected on the source from vrhence they were derived, or calculated on the probability of its being interrupted. Now, however, she felt — severely felt, that even her kind and benevolent friend was not placed beyond the reach of uneasiness and misfortune; and still more severely did she feel, that she was herself add- ing to the care and anxiety which the latter was en- during, and that, too, apparently without a hope of being able to requite her. At this moment, the recollection of Isaac Wilson's assertions, and the thought that she might relieve all her kind friend's uneasiness, could she prevail on Mrs. Wilson to ac- knowledge the truth, rushed into her mind ; and, without giving herself time for reflection, lest her courage should fail her, she went instantly in search of the old woman, whom she found busily employed, as usual, in her domestic affairs, and particularly sullen and repulsive, in consequence of having learned from William his ill success with Emily the evening before, to which cause she attributed his having been absent all night, and still remaining so. " I have a favour to ask of you, Mrs. Wilson," said Emily, trying to speak very calmly, but betray- ing, by her blanched cheek and heaving bosom, the agitation she so much wished to conceal. Mrs. Wilson, however, was skimming her milk, KMILY MORELAND. 147 and, probably, calculating how many pounds of but- ter she should be able to send to market, and she did not raise her eyes, as she sulkily replied — " You are very ready, I know, Miss, to ask favours, and 1 have very often been fool enough to put myself out of the way to grant them ; but I don't see that I get much gratitude, and, perhaps, I shan't be so easy again as I have been." " I trust, however, that you will not now refuse me," returned Emily, gaining courage as she pro- ceeded ; " indeed, you cannot, I think, well, as I have hitherto never mentioned the subject, though it would have been only just and proper, if I had done Ro. To come to the point, however, at once— I want you to advance me ten or twenty pounds, as may be most convenient, of the sum which was deposited in Mr. Wilson's hands for my use. Of course, it was intended that I should draw it, when I had a neces sity for it; and as that time is now come " " Money I — ten — twenty — pounds, — Miss Emily!' faltered Mrs. Wilson, turning pale, " I really don't understand you — I know nothing about What can have put such a thing into your head ? — It couldn't be William, I am sure, because he knows very well— that is, he cannot say that I have any money of yours, I'm sure!" " William has never mentioned the subject to me," replied Emily, coolly, "though 1 have been several times on the point of speaking to him about it, when he has made a parade of his great gene- rositj, in offering me his hand, after my heavy loss. It is, however, of very little use, Mrs. Wilson, to 148 EMILY MORELAND. affect ignorance, or attempt to baffle my claims, as I shall certainly take proper means to enforce them, if you persist in refusing the reasonable request 1 make. I have, as I said before, an immediate necessity for some money — if you will, therefore, oblige me, I shall consider it as a favour, and will not press for the remainder of the sum, until it is convenient to you to pay it, or my friend Isaac recovers, when, I am well convinced, all will be properly settled." " So, then, I suppose you have seen that poor crackbrained, foolish, old creature — and he has put this fine whim into your head!" observed Mrs. Wil- son, eagerly seizing the idea which the last sentence had unfortunately suggested. " You must, I am sure, be perfectly convinced that your vigilance has been too successfully exerted, Mrs. Wilson, to allow that," replied Emily, with pointed emphasis. " I have, indeed, been long anxious to see my poor old friend, and am certain, that, if he still retain any memory or understanding, he will not hesitate to avow that my claim is perfectly just. You will, however, think better than to deny it, when you recal to your recollection that the per- son who deposited it in his hands is still living, and will, of course, be easily brought forward to prove " " He can't prove notliing !'''' exclaimed Mrs. Wil- son, " he can't even prove that he was your father — for your mother died without so much as mentioning his najiie; and, even if he could jurove that he sent any money to my poor foolish husband, how can he or you move that it wasn't laid out for you, or given EMILY MORELAND. 149 to your grandfather, who was none so rich, but what he might be glad enough to get hold of something towards the maintenance of his daughter's- " "You have admitted quite enough, Mrs. Wilson, to prove, at least, your knowledge of the transaction," interrupted Signora Orsini, who had been an unob- served auditor of nearly the whole of the conversa- tion, which, though she thought it rash and ill-timed, and would fain have prevented it, yet, nevertheless, did not think it politic to interrupt, after its com> mencement, until (her fears being roused by Mrs. Wilson's look and manner) she came forward, just in time to prevent the outrage she was meditating against Emily's feelings. Mrs. Wilson stood for a moment paralized by the Signora's appearance and manner; but rage, at being apparently overreached, soon overcame all other feelings, and she broke out into a torrent of abuse, from the hearing of which the Signora hurried Emily away. "There is no alternative now, my dear child," observed the former, when they had entered their own apartments, and secured themselves from the intrusion of the irritated termagant, whose voice, however, pursued them even to this retreat; "we must only now think of devising some means of quit- ting this place; for it will be impossible to exist under the same roof with this furious woman, espe- cially if I should incur any debt to her, which must be the case, should my expected remittance fail ot arriving." Emily shuddered at the bare prospect of such a 150 EMILY MOREL AND. thing. ^' What can be done, dear dear Sigaora," she exclaimed, " tell me — cannot I sell the fields, the cottage!" She burst into tears, at the thoughts that rushed into her mind — " Any thing, every thing must be sacrificed!" "My dear child, do not thus agitate and unneces- sarily alarm yourself," returned the Signora, " though embarrassed at the present moment, by the failure of a supply which I had so regularly received, that no fear ever entered my mind, and therefore I had neglected to make any provision against such an ac- cident, I have still sufficient valuables left, to prevent any fear of distress. My only anxiety is, how to make them available. We are at such a distance from any town, and I have lived so retired, that I am probably unknown, even by name, to any one in the neighbourhood who might be disposed to assist me, if my very awkward situation were known to them. It is so unpleasant and embarrassing, too, to introduce oneself with a long story, where the hearer can have no preconceived interest. Yet," she con- tinued, after some minutes' reflection, " the new Curate looks very gentle and good, and, upon such ample security as I could leave, I should think he would not hesitate — at least I should have the benefit of his advice; and, though he is but a young man, he probably knows more of the world than I do, and could suggest some method. I will write to him, my dear " And without delay she seated herself at her escri- toire. Emily blushed and hesitated — she would have offered some opposition to tl is proceeding, \,ut she EMILY MORELANn 15 knew not >vhat to say, nor hardly what were her motives for not wishing the young clergyman to be chosen as her friend's adviser. The fact was, that she had, more than once, felt somewhat confused and oppressed by the Curate's eyes being fixed on her, with very unequivocal marks of admiration, when she had casually encountei^d him on her way either to or from the church, where she regularly attended, and to which he had been recently appointed. Once, too, they had met at the bedside of a sick cottager, to whom Emily had been administering the comforts which Signora Orsini's benevolence supplied, and whither the Curate, it appeared, had come — not only in the performance of his sacred function, but also with the humane inten- tion, in which he had been forestalled, of supplying the bodily wants of the poor widow. Very few words had passed between them on this occasion, for the young man seemed to be withheld, by some nameless emotion, from uttering those com- mendations which his eyes spoke; and Emily had modestly fled from hearing her own praises from the lips of the poor woman, who declared that, but for that dear young lady, she must have perished in want and misery. It was these recollections that now seemed to offer a sufficient reason why Mr. Evelyn (the Curate) should not be the person applied to. It savoured too much of vanity, too, she thought, even to hint at her objections, and she continued to blush and hesi- tate, until her friend's note was written, in which, liter stating that some unexpected circumstances 152 EMILY MOREIiAND. had arisen to occasion temporary embarrassment, the Signora requested the favour of an interview with him, in order to beneht by his advice; being, al- though some years a resident in England, and indeed of that neighbourhood, almost as much a stranger to the customs and inhabitants of the country, as when she first entered it. " Are you not satisfied with it, my child ? Have I said too much, or too little? — or what are your feel- ings on the subject?" she demanded, after having at- tentively watched Emily's expressive countenance, while she perused what she had written. " Oh, no — it is impossible to have worded it bet- ter," returned the latter, " only I could have wished — If it could be done without the interposition of a stranger — It is so mortifying ; and besides, my dear Signora, you have given no answer to my proposition. I know that Farmer Fairland wished much, at one time, to rent the land which belonged to my dear grandfather, and I think it is very probable he would purchase it, and " " To put a stop at once, my dear girl, to a scheme which could not, under any circumstances but your own actual necessity, receive my concurrence," in- terrupted the Signora, " I must tell you, that you have not the power of disposing of the property, until you attain the age of twenty-one, of which period you now want I be! eve nearly four years; so set your little heart at rest, on that subject. No, my dear child," she contir ued, more seriously, " not while I possess the means of providing food, raiment, and lodging, shall you ever give out of your own EMILY MORELAND. 15? nands the power, or renounce the hope of one daj becoming again the happy and contented resident of your own little property. In this case alone," she continued, putting- into Emily's hand a very beautiful ivory box, which she had before seen, but, from the Signora's deep sighs and silence, as she expressed her admiration of it, had conjectured that it contained some memorials of former times, which she was un- willing to recur to — " In this case alone," she re- peated, " are articles of value sufficient to ward off the attacks of poverty for a considerable period, though I should be sorry to sacrifice them; — but I do not fear it; — the failure of my remittance can, I am convinced, be only temporary, and, should I be compelled, for a time, to part with these relics of by- gone times, I do not indulge a fear that I shall be eventually able to redeem them. You may look at them, my child," she continued, observing that Emily deposited the box on the table without opening it; " they are the only remaining memorials of a family now nearly extinguished, and a pride and splendour which has been long humbled in the dust!" Emily opened the box, less from curiosity than the desire of averting her eyes from the painful sight of her friend's emotion, which she knew she could not bear to be observed, considering it a proof of weak- ness which she ought long since to have conquered. The contents, however, soon irresistibly fixed her attention. They were a necklace, bracelets, and earrings, of diamonds, of very antique fashion, but sparkling with the purest splendour. A locket, more modern in form, but set round with similir gems, and 7 X 154 EMILY MO a ELAND. containing two locks of hair; one of bright auburn, the other, a glossy black. But that which rivetted Emily's eyes and admiration, were the miniature re- semblances of two females, in one of which she re- cognised the beautiful dark eyes and features of the Signora, at an early period of life ; but never had even her fancy created such an image of perfect love- liness as the other presented ! The eyes, of the deepest blue, seemed to beam with light and life; and the profusion of auburn ringlets, hanging in the most graceful disorder o-ver a neck and shoulders of the purest symmetry and hue, gave to the whole the most bewitching air imaginable. " What a lovely creature ! what eyes ! and how beautiful the smile, that seems, while you look at it, almost to part the coral lips!" she exclaimed, in in- voluntary admiration — " Can it be possible that such a being ever existed, except in the painter's fancy?" " Laurentina Orsini was as far superior to that por- trait of her, as animation and intelligence could make her," returned the Signora, in a melancholy tone. " It was, indeed, impossible to do justice to her charms." " She was a relative of yours, dear Signora," ob- served Emily, in an inquiring tone ; " for, inde- pendent of the name, I can trace a striking resem- blance between these two," pointing to the portrait of Rosalia herself. "She was my eldest, my only sister," replied the Signora. Emily did not venture to ask another question — for she was well aware that there were some mourn- EMILY MORELAND. 155 ful circumstances connected with the history of Sig- nora Orsini's family ; and, wishing not to revive the recollections too powerfully in her friend's bosom, she returned the miniatures to their case, without any farther observation, and was about to close the casket, when the Signora observed — " There is another picture, which you have not looked at, Emily ; but which I wish you to see, to convince you that the vilest passions, that can debase and deform humanity, may be veiled by the fairest and most attractive features. Look at this," she continued, unfolding an envelope of black crape, which laid at the bottom of the casket, and had es- caped Emily's observation. Emily did look at the picture, which her friend thus introduced, with surprise — for the features of the young man which it portrayed were beautiful, and the large dark eyes beamed with intelligence and spirit. " That man was — is, I may say, for in all proba^ bility he still burthens this earth with his crimes — an execrable monster, insensible to the common feel- ings of humanity — a mean, mercenary, cowardly vil- lain!" Emily felt more than surprise — she shuddered with horror, as she gazed on the features, which she could almost fancy assumed a dark malignant smile, as she contemplated them. A moment after, they struck her as strongly resembling some one whom she had seen. She held the miniature in a different position, and, after a moment's observation, exclaimed aloud — *' Now I remember who it is ! It is Mr. Leslie, 156 EMILY AIORELAND. t ) whom this bears such a striking resemblance — onlj his forehead is higher, and his smile more open ; and there is a more pensive expression in his countenance than in this, which looks al vivacity." "•' You are right," returned the Signora, " the like- ness is most surprising; and will account to you for the emotion I betrayed, when first I beheld that young man. There were other points of resemblance, indeed, equally striking. The tones of his voice, his figure, his very walk, seemed formed on the same model ! Yet it could only be accidental, and, let us charitably think, that the resemblance extends no farther than to the person. There is, I hope, but one Molini in existence!" " Yet you must acknowledge that the similarity extends somewhat farther," replied Emily, "when you recollect that Herbert Leslie stands already con- victed of being deceptive and mercenary." Rosalia seemed startled by the observation — " It is, indeed, too true," she returned, with a sigh, " that is, if we can credit Mrs. Wilson's tale ; but let us dismiss this mournful subject, my dear girl, which has led me farther than I intended, and quite from that which introduced it. You are now convinced that I possess sufficient resources to banish any im- mediate fear of poverty, and to prevent my applica- tion to Mr. Evelyn raising in his bosom any con- temptuous feelings ; for, no doubt, he will be a bet- ter judge of the value of these diamonds, than you seem to be, from the slight notice you have bestowed on them." Emily -iniled at her friend's pretended reproof; EMILY MORELAND. 157 but she almost immediately after sighed, as she ob- served, that she could not be expected to be a very accurate judge, since she had never possessed, or even seen, a single article of the sort, except the chain (which she constantly wore round her neck, because it had been taken from her mother's, at the time of her death,) and the miniature which was then sus- pended to it, but which she did not wear, because she could not contemplate it, without remembering too keenly the errors of the original. *' How are we to send this note, my dear child?" observed the Signora, again recurring to her intended application to the young Curate. Emily was at a loss, but she recollected the grand- daughter of the poor woman in whose cottage she had met Mr. Evelyn, and who, she knew, would gladly oblige her by taking the letter to his house. " There is no fear, I hope, of your meeting young Wilson on the road," observed the Signora, anxiously, as Emily hastened to put on her bonnet and shawl. Emily started — but she almost immediately recol- lected that the widow's cottage lay in the opposite direction to the road which led to the haunt of Wil- liam and his associates ; and she replied by mentioning this circumstance, adding, " Besides, there is very little fear of his returning: so soon, for his excursions are generally now extended to two or three days. 1 hope, however, that I shall get out without seeing Mrs. Wilson, for T am absolutely afraid of again encountering her violence." '^ We will endeavour to ascertain whereabouts she is," observed the Signora, cautiously openings 158 EMILY MORELAND. the sitting-room door, and listening for the shrill ac- cents of the old woman's tongue, which was seldom silent. " You are safe, my dear girl, for she is up stairs — I can distinctly hear her. I suppose uhe is lecturing the poor sick man, and endeavouring to ascertain how you have learned the secret with which you so astounded her." Emily uttered an expression of pity and regret for her poor old friend, who was thus exposed to the persecution of a fiend; and then, conscious she could in no way, at the present moment, assist him, glided out of the house, and flew down the path that led into the valley, and in the direction of the widow's cottage. It was a gloomy afternoon, and now almost the close of autumn; and, as she slackened her speed, to gaze down upon the ruined cottage which had once been her humble and happy home, she felt her heart sink with a variety of melancholy forebodings. The poor widow's habitation lay nearly half a mile be- yond it, and Emily, as she continued slowly to ad- vance, kept her tearful eyes fixed on the blackened and roofless walls, close to which her path lay. All was silence around her, except the moaning of the blast, which every now and then swept away, in showers, the dry and rustling leaves, which were scattered in the now almost deserted path. She paused when she reached the wicket, to give a look at her ruined garden, now overrun with weeds ; and, as she shivered with the increasing chilliness of the cold wind, she recollected that just such an evening as this, and just at this time of the year, she had lost EMILY MORELANn. l5'3 her first friend — her grandfather; and from thence could date the commencement of sorrow and misfor- tune, which she had before known only by name. How often, at this season of the year, had she as- sisted him to clear away the leaves which were then, as now, thickly strewed over the beds of flowers, which he cultivated with such care I How often had they been compelled to resign their pleasant seat in the little summer-house, to retreat to the scarcely less pleasing comforts of the warm fireside ! She raised her eyes to look at the rude but tasteful retreat, which alone survived the general wreck, and started, with a feeling almost of terror, as she fancied that she be- held, in its now darkened recess, the figure of some one laying on the wooden bench which still remained there. "Yet why should I fear?" she reflected, the mo- ment after, " for, if there is any person there, it is not likely that it is any one who would harm me ! Probably, it is one of the lads belonging to some of the neighbouring cottages, who has visited the orchard for the sake of the fruit left on the trees when they were gathered, and is fearful I shall blame him ; or, tired with his labour, has gone to sleep, in that cold and now comfortless spot. I will not disy turb him, if it is so," she continued, as she turned to leave the gate, which she had not unclosed; but, the next moment, the intruder sprang on his feet, and, before she could advance many paces, had seized her arm, and, in an imperious tone, commanded her to stop and listen to one whom she had driven to ruin and destruction. 160 EMILY MORELAND. It was William Wilson who now stood before her, and Emily trembled less at the rudeness of his salu- tation, than at the wild and desperate expression of his countenance. "What are you here for? and why do you talk so madly, William?" she demanded, attempting- to con- ceal her fears under an assumed calmness. " Your mother is, as usual, fretting at your absence, and believing" that you are with your old companions. Do, pray, go home and convince her to the contrary, and let me go on ; for I have no time to spare, neither can it do any good, to allow you to repeat what I have told you, many times, I can never listen or assent to." " I have no home ! Do not talk to me of home !" he exclaimed. " I might, indeed, have had a happy home, if you had not been so proud and cruel ! I have been laying yonder, ever since the morning," he continued, pointing to the summer-house, " and thinking how happy I might have been, if you had consented to be my wife. Before this time I could have had the cottage rebuilt, and every thing in order, with the money that has been spent in mad and foolish rioting; and now see what I am by this time! A reward is offered for me as a murderer, and, when you see me dragged to a shameful death, you may say, ' This is all my work!' " Emily stood aghast with terror. She gazed, unable to speak, at his wild and haggard countenance, in which she read, too plainly, that this was not a mere picture, to terrify her. She looked at his hands, as if she expected to see on them the blood of his victim ; EMILY MOUELAND. 161 and then, as if suddenly remembering that she was in his power, and recalling, too, the horrible threats he had so lately uttered towards her, she made a violent effort to free herself from his g^asp, and es- cape. It was, however, the weak and futile effort of a trembling fawn, to escape the powerful grasp of the lion, which has seized it for his prey ; and, uttering a piteous supplication for mercy, she sank on her knees before him. "What are you afraid of, Emily?" he exclaimed, raising her from the ground. " Do you believe me such a cold-blooded villain, that I would take your life? Yet 1 have done worse — for I have robbed you of the money that ought to have secured you from want, and which would have made us both happy and comfortable, if you would have listened to me! But it is now too late to think of what might have been ! I must only think of what is to come ! I shall never have you for my wife, riow, Emily, there's no hope of that! I couldn't expect it now, even if 1 should be able to get out of the country, and save my life, which is more than I expect ! Indeed, I can't go, without money — and, even if mother has got a, few pounds left, which I do believe she has, for all her canting and swearing that she hasn't — I don't know how to get hold of the old woman, for I dare not come home, as they'll be sure to be after nie there I I suppose they have been," he continued, after a moment's silence, looking steadfastly in Emily's face, " and you thought to have me fast, when you advised WiC io txo there!'' ?. Y IC\2 EMILY MORELAND. "Good Heavens! what do you niean, William?" exclaimed the agitated girl, " I know nothing — have heard nothing — nor do I believe that any intelligence respecting you had reached your mother, when I left the Farm. Do me justice, William — you know well that I would willingly serve and assist you, if it were in my power. But this horrid acknowledgment — your appearance — and this melancholy place, alto- gether, have almost deprived me of sense or reason! Tell me what has happened, and what I can do to serve you, and, if even the worst should be true— " She shuddered and was silent, overcome by the horrid thoughts that rushed into her mind. " Come with me, then, into the summer house, and I will try to recollect, and to tell you what you may do," returned William, seizing again her reluctant hand, which she had contrived to release from him. " No, no, no — not there!" exclaimed Emily. "I cannot go there — but I will stay here with you, and hear all!" " And so expose me to be seen from the top of the hill, and be dragged to prison?" interrupted Wil liam, in a reproachful tone. "No one would think of searching for me in this direction, I dare say; but, if you persist in keeping me here, some one who knows me may pass, and then good-bye to every thing!" Emily hesitated for a moment — " I will trust you, William," she at length replied, with firmness. "I will believe that you will respect me, as the child ot those whose kindness and regard you so often ex- perienced in your boyish days; and vho regarded EMILY MORELAND. 163 you as my friend and protector, when they should be taken from me!" "And so I would protect you, Emily — you know 1 would, with my life!" returned William, as he led the way to the little summer-house; "and, but for your own obstinacy and pride, I should now be in a situation to do it. And, after all, why should you think yourself above me ? I don't want to reflect upon you, because there's none of us can help the faults of our fathers and mothers — but, at any rate, my birth would be thought as good as yours, if not better, any day ; for, as mother often says, there's no gentleman that would think you a match for him, even if you had a fortune, much less " " This was not the subject which I came here to discuss, William," interrupted Emily, with calmness, but her pale cheek crimsoning with shame and indig- nation at this unfeeling allusion. " I understood that you thought I could render you some service, or I certainly should not have consented to — to " She hesitated, fearful of exasperating him ; and William, with bitter emphasis, rejoined — " You would not have consented! — You must, you shall consent to hear me ! It is the last time, I dare say, that I shall trouble you, and I will have my own way now, if I've never had it before!" Too much alarmed at the increasing fierceness of his manner, to persist in remonstrating with him, Emily could only venture to remind him, that, if he detained her too long, some one would probably come in search of her, and that a discovery of his situation must then inevitably ensue. lb'4 EMILY MORELAND. "Who would come, then, to look after you,^^ he replied, "except, indeed, your * dear Signora?' And I just wish she would come across me, in the humour 1 am in now — I'd tell her a little of my mind, I can assure you ! I know well what I owe her — and, if I didn't pay ofFsome of the old scores before we parted, I wish I may " " Don't, pray don't give way to such mistaken feel- ings, William !" interrupted Emily ; " but try to col- lect your thoughts, and tell me what has happened, and what I can do to assist you." Thus reminded of the actual circumstances in which he stood, and which the vindictiveness of his feelings had, for a time, banished from his recollec- tion, William seemed for a moment to sink into des- pondency. " I must have a drop of comfort!" he at last ob- served, smiling; but with so wild and desperate an expression, that Emily felt more shocked than even at the ferocious look which he had worn but a few moments before. " I must have something," he re- peated, " to raise my courage — So here goes ! — Emily, to your hcaUh and happiness, whatever my fate may !:e!" Emily would fain have remonstrated against the in.>r{iinate draught that he took from a bottle, which he produced from a small recess in the summer- house, and which had been constructed by her grand- father, to hold occasionally a few books, her drawing apparatus, &c. ; but she was too fearful of offending him; and, after a short pause, as if to collect hiaself for the narrative, he retired farther into the c ; er, EMILY MORELAND. 1(>0 as if to conceal his countenance from her view, aiul commenced his detail of the causes which had \ed him to his present miserable situation. CHAPTER VII. Thou knovv'st me not! — My days are nunibei'd, and my deeds recorded. Byron. " I TELL you what, Emily," he commenced, " we can none of us help the faults of our parents, as I said before; and the truth is, that my mother, though s)ie is my mother, is no better than or, rather, I ought to say, is not so good as she ought to be. Father was always a foolish man in giving her so much of her own way, as he did ; but, there was one thing he would be master in,— and that was, in keep- ing the money himself. The old woman is a great deal too fond of money — that's the truth! And she was always contriving ways and means to cheat him, and add to her own savings, which were pretty con- sid rai/lo. " You have heard often enough of my being ship- wrecked, and all that, but you didn't know that the money that was then lost, I was carrying up to Lon- don, to stow away, unknown to father. When it was thought that I had gone to the bottom, with the rest of the poor fellows, the secret somehow came out ; and father lever properly forgave either of us. J66 EMILY MORELAND. Not that he cared about the money, as he said, but it was the system of fraud and deceit, which we had carried on so long — but this is neither here nor there, only there's other things connected with it, so that 1 may say it was the beginning of all my sorrows. Well, to go on with my story — mother always thinks the money went to the bottom of the sea, though I was saved ; but, the truth was, I had secured it about me, so that not a copper was lost ! Before, however, I had time to write and ease her heart, I found out that one of the boat's crew that had picked me up, and brought me safe into port, was an old schoolfel- low and acquaintance, though some years older than me. He was the son of a shopkeeper in our town here, and had run away, through some scrape he got into, before he was out of his 'prenticeship. You may be sure, I was glad enough to see a face that I knew, at such a distance from home. Besides, Tom Wil- liams was a fellow that every body liked, though he was always a 'nointed dog ; and, it seemed, he was just the same as ever — cared for nothing, so he could have his pleasure ! To make short of my story, Tom carried me into company, that, before many hours were over my head, had lightened me of a good part of my (or, I should say, mother's) guineas. 1 was terribly down, when I found what I'd done — but Tom soon cheered me up, and put it in my head that I'd a right to spend what was most likely intended to be mine, some day or another. So I went on, making the money fly, and wrote down home that I'd saved nothing but my life. The old folks be- lieved the tale, and father sent me ten pounds to EM1I>Y MORELAND, 167 bj'iiiis^ me home ag'ain, and reward those who had saved my life. I needn't tell you that all the old woman's money was spent, before I got back to the Farm; but that wasn't the worst! — Tom Williams was tired of the life he led at Falmouth, and wanted to come home, where he thought he needn't work quite so hard. So he got me to tell a long story to his father, about his bad health, .and his sorrow for past tricks, and the devil knows what beside, — so the old man sent for him, about a fortnight after I came home. " Tom went on pretty steady at first, though he would draw me in sometimes, when I met him at market, and then father's money often paid the piper; and, what between that and mother's pilfer- ings, the old man found that the Farm didn't bring in nothing like the money it formerly did; how- ever, this I will say, Emily, that you might have weaned me altogether from such doings; but you was above looking at me, latterly, and that often drove me to town, when I wouldn't have gone! Williams has got a sister, as great a devil as himself — and they two used to encourage me to every thing that was bad. Becky Williams is a good- looking girl, though no way to compare with you ; however, she made up for that, by persuading me that she was very fond of me, and, though I never thought of marrying her Well, I see you don't waat to hear this; but, the fact is, I soon ff^und that her liking to me was a dear bargain ; yet 1 was so proud of being thought a good-natured, gene- rous fellow that I humoured all her extravagant 168 EMILY MORELAND. whims, and 1 wasn't very nice how I got the money. Mother had often hinted to me that father had a good round sum under lock and key ; and I knew, if she had her share, she would not be very scrupu- lous; but we couldn't manage it no way, till he was taken ill, and then we didn't stand on much cere- mony about helping ourselves! I then found out, too, why the old woman was so anxious about get- ting me married to you ; for a good part of the mo- ney in the strong box, it seemed, belonged to you. And she thought, if once you were my wife, it would settle that account ; and, if the old man died, she could keep it all. But I was too deep for her; and, though I swore that I wouldn't tell you what, it appeared, was yet a secret to you — I also swore, that not a shilling of yours should be touched ! " But what's the use of oaths and resolutions, when a- fellow's hampered, as I was! Father got better, and began to think of business again — I'd pretty well sunk my share of the cash belonging to him — and mother was determined not to refund hers. So what to do, to hide the robbery, we didn't know; till, at last, the old woman bethought herself of opening the packet belonging to you, which was sealed up, and taking a part out, to supply what we had taken. I was very unwilling, at first, but she over-persuaded me, and I managed to take out a hundred pounds, and seal it up again, so that he shouldn't suspect it had Loen opened. " The old man, however, though he didn't find us out, begaTi to talk to mother about acquainting your grandmother with the little store he had in hand for EMILY mokeland; \(i9 you, as he thought she wouldn't be so prcud as to refuse it, now the poor old gentleman, Mr. More- land, was gone ; and we were driven to our wit's ends, to know what we should do ! The old man was still weakly, and sometimes a little childish ; and mother — who has got no more heart than a stone — at last proposed that we should give out, that the fever had taken away his senses, and so keep him shut up all his life. '"■ I was a little bit startled at this proposal, but 1 soon consented : and we have managed so well, that not a soul, but our own stupid maid, Jenny, has seen him besides ourselves, ever since!" Emily could have contradicted this assertion, bu( she remained silent, and he proceeded — " I'd got my mother into my power now, and, you may be sure, I didn't stand over nice about what ad- vantages I took ! In short — it's no use to mince the matter — all your money is gone, Emily ! She says, I've had it all — and I can't disprove it — for I've been so mad and desperate, that I took no account, as long as she let me have what I wanted, at the minute. *' I don't say anything as to what I did with it, for that's no use — but, however, I've been pretty well gulled and duped, I know that; though, I don't know how it was, I was never properly deceived—^ for I knew that both Tom Williams and his sister were mercenary and selfish; and now comes the worst part of my story! — Stop, I must have another drop of brandy, and then I'll finish it!" Again he took a large draught from the bottle, while Err. ily, pale, trembling, and horror-struck, sa^ 8 z 170 EMILY MORELAND devoid of motion, and almost of respiration, as he proceeded to finish the revolting- tale. " You know — though I don't suppose you do, either — but it is pretty well known, that old Wil- liams (Tom's father) was worth a good bit of money, and that he knew how to keep it; for Tom, with all his cunning" and manoeuvres, could never get a shilling- out of him, beyond what he allowed him as wages for taking the place of shopman, and Becky was no better off. " I couldn't conceal from them where my stores came from, and, when it was all spent, it set them upon wishing and contriving to ^ei at their father's hoard, which they knew he kept in a bureau in his own room, till he'd got sufficient to pop it in the Bank ; when he always took it there himself. " Tom would have contrived to pick the lock of the bureau, but he knew the old man would directly suspect him, and he would have been bundled out again, without mercy, and perhaps not find sufficient booty there to compensate him. " Two days ago, however, I was at the old haunt, when Tom told me that his sister had accidentally overheard that his father had seventy or eighty pounds in his bureau, and would, in a few days, make it up a hundred, when he would deposit it with his other savings. ' It would be a fine prize for us, Bill, if we could finger it,' he observed. I said, ' Ves, — but how is it to be done?' — ' I'll tell you what Beck and I have been planning,' he replied : — ' You know his room-window looks into the back yard, and he relies so much upon the dog, whose EMILV MORELAND. i71 kennel is close under the window, that he never fastens it. Now, you know, Tiger is so used to your nightly visits to Beck, that he would be no hin- drance to your getting into the old man's room ; and you can easily disguise yourself, so that he won't know you. He's a terrible old coward, and won't re- quire much to frighten him into giving up his rhino, and I'll take care that he shan't give any alarm, till you're safe off!' " Well — I gave in to this pretty scheme, and laughed, with the two dutiful children, at the thoughts of the fright the old chap would be in, when he saw a man in the room. " Last night was appointed, — I got into Becky's room first, pretty early, and she tied a piece of crape over my face, and gave me a large bead to hold in my mouth, to alter my voice. I then put on an old sailor's jacket belonging to Tom, and, leaving them to wait in their own rooms till all was over, crept into the yard. " Tiger, however, did not know me, and began to bark most furiously, till I spoke to him in my own voice, and he then came and licked my hand. I waited a few minutes, to see if his noise had disturbed the old man, — but all was quiet, — and I had got upon the shed, and had opened the sash, before he heard me. " There was a rushlight burning in the chimney — and, before I could set rny foot on the floor, the old man was out of bed, and running, as I thought, to- wards the chamber-door. I was after him as quick as lightning ; but he had already caught up a pistd 172 EMILY MORELAND. which lay on he bureau — ' Now, rascal, he cried out, ' surrender as my prisoner, or I will shoot you !' " I had dropped the bead out of my mouth, and I forgot that he would know my voice, when I an- swered — ' If you will let me go, I will swear never to molest you again!' — * Wilson ! — Bill!' he cried out, as if struck with surprise. The pistol was low- ered, and he seemed, for a second, to forget that he held it. I saw my advantage, and, rushing on him, wrenched it out of his hand. o'l/i^Mc, " ' You are in my power, now,' said I, ' and, with- out you swear on this Bible,' taking the one that always laid by his bedside, ' that you will keep this night's work a secret, 1 will take your life!' — ' I will die sooner than protect such a villain from his just punishment !' said he ; ' but you dare not fire ! Here is my boy coming to protect his father ! Tom, Tom,' he cried out, * Tom, come and see what ' " I didn't give him time to finish his speech, for I was mad — desperate ! I don't know what I was — but this I do know — that the pistol was fired, — the old man fell with a groan, — I heard the voices of the two hypocrites at the door, — and I jumped out of the window, and escaped ! " And now I've told you all, Emily," he continued, after a long pause, during which the horror-struck and terrified girl could utter no sound but convul- sive and heart-rending sighs : " If the old man »s dead," he continued, " I should think — I don't know, but I should think I may escape suspicion ; unless, indeed, which I've thought more than once, EMILY MORELAND. 173 they have planned to give me up, to prevent any suspicion of themselves." Emily shuddered — " Can there be such monsters ? — and a daughter too !" she exclaimed ; " but, surely, they could not think — they could not know " " They must have known that the old man had loaded pistols in his reach," replied William, "and they knew, too, that I was desperate, and half mad with liquor ! What can I think, then, but the worst ?" " But why do you linger here ?" exclaimed Emily, suddenly recollecting herself. " It will soon, per- haps " '* I want to learn whether the old man is dead," interrupted William, impatiently, " for if he is, and there has been no inquiry made for me at the Farm, all is safe, and I will come home to prevent suspi- cion. Now, you can serve me, Emily, by letting me know 1 have trusted my life in your hands, and it won't do to shrink now ? Why do you clasp your hands, in such despair ? A little while ago, you were forward enough with your promises, but when I point out what you can do " " I will do any thing, every thing, only pray let me go quickly, — for I dare not think — I dare not stop here !" exclaimed Emily, wildly ; " and if it should be known, too, that I have seen you ! " The sound of voices, evidently coming nearer to them, at this moment interrupted her. William started up — " Dare to betray me," he exclaimed, " and my blood be on your head !" Emily could not speak — she sank back on the 174 EMILY MORELAND. seat, and closed her eyes, as a faintness like death came over her. The voices approached still nearer but she looked not up, until the cheering and well- known accents of Signora Orsini met her ear. The recollection of William's threats against her friend rushed instantly into her mind. She gazed wildly round, expecting to meet the same ferocious look with which he had before expressed his wish that he might meet with her, whom he considered his enemy — but she was alone — the wretched being, whom she at once detested and compassionated, was gone ! With a strength that only terror and agony could inspire, she flew out of the summer-house, and down the walk of the garden ; and, with an in- coherent exclamation, seized the arm of her friend, who had just reached the little gate, and began to force her way towards their home, before she well comprehended that the Signora was alone, or unpro- tected. '- " My dear child," exclaimed the Signora, in alarm, " what is the matter with you ? Why have you stayed here, and why " " Come home, pray come home, and I will tell you ! — No, no, I forgot, — I must — I dare not — pray do not ask me ! Only come home, it is not safe to stay here, indeed it is not !" exclaimed Emily, look- ing anxiously round, and then, for the first time, discovering that there was a gentleman with the Signora, who seemed to be attentively watching her. " Who is this ? What does he want, my dear Sig- nora?" she added, in a suspicious whisper. '' What in the world possesses you, my child ? ' EMILY MORELAND. 175 replied the Signora, something- has aUirmed yon. And, though you say it is unsafe to remain here, yet I found you lingering here, apparently in no hurry to quit the spot. Recollect yourself, Emily, you are perfectly safe. This is Mr. Evelyn, the gentle- man that we were so anxious to see. A circumstance, which will shock you to hear, though you are not personally concerned in it, has brought him to Mr. Wilson's, and-^ " " I know it all ! Poor Isaac, it will be his death !" interrupted Emily, scarcely conscious what she was saying. " You know it, Emily ! You have, then, seen '* " Do not ask me whom I have seen !" exclaimed Emily, still hurrying on towards their own home, though her trembling limbs would scarcely support her. " Pray do not thus agitate yourself. Miss More- land," observed Mr. Evelyn, gently drawing her arm through his own, " but let us go home, and then you will be able to explain." " No, no, I can never explain," returned Emily. Mr. Evelyn again entreated her to be silent, and endeavour to collect her thoughts ; and the Signora, taking her other arm, they walked towards the Farm. Emily glanced in at the kitchen window as she passed, and shuddered when she beheld the wretched mother seated in a chair opposite. The light of the candle, that stood on the table by her, fell full on her pale and ghastly features, and showed the deep fur- rows of her brow, contracted by ir tense and painful thouffht. f 176 EMILY MORELAND. She ought not to be left thus to herself!'* ex- claimed the pitying Emily. " She will not allow any one to speak to her, ' re- plied the Signora, " and angrily rejected Mr. Eve- lyn's attempt to console her." The comparative security and comfort of their own apartment, restored, in some measure, Emily's com- posure, though she still trembled, and looked dread- fully pale. " And now. Miss Moreland, that we are safe from interruption, let me entreat you not to suffer any extorted promise, or mistaken motives of humanity, to induce you to conceal what has passed," observed Mr. Evelyn. " Your own safety, indeed, demands that you should reveal it, if you have any know- ledge of this wretched young man ; since the law allows no feelings of that kind to excuse what is considered as a participation of the crime ; and your even concealing that you have seen him, would subject you " Emily's ghastly and fixed look induced him to pause, and the Signora, taking her hand, in the most soothing terms entreated her to say whether she had seen William Wilson, or not. " I expect, every instant, that the officers of jus- tice will arrive, to search for the unhappy and guilty young man," observed Mr. Evelyn. " You will then, probably, be obliged to answer their ques- tions ; and, should you attempt to prevaricate, or elude their inquiries, I tremble at what you may be exposed to ! I know not, indeed It would, I fear, be compromising with my own duty, to conceu^ EMILY MORELAND. 177 what 1 have reason to believe, — that you know the retreat ofthe murderer." " No, no, I do not !" exclaimed Emily. " I saw him, it is true — but he fled at your approach, and is, T hope, far from that spot by this time." Mr. Evelyn shook his head. " You have suffered your gentle and compassionate nature to be imposed on," he observed. " I fear, too yet no, it cannot be possible that you feel any nearer interest in " He paused, and Emily's cheek reddened at the insinuation which it was evident he meant to convey. *' I can answer for Miss Moreland, Sir, on that point," replied Signora Orsini. " She is certainly interested in the fate of this unhappy young- man. She has been accustomed to consider him as her bro- ther, and his father has ever been her most zealous and active friend ; you cannot, therefore, be sur- prised, that, though she detests and abhors his crimes, she is anxious, at least, not to become an accessary to his destruction." " Is the poor man — is Mr. Williams indeed dead?" inquired Emily, with earnestness. Mr. Evelyn replied in the negative. He had vi- sited him, it appeared, in the exercise of his holy function, and had been present when he recovered his speech sufficiently to reveal that it was to William Wilson, his son's chosen companion and friend, that he owed his death-wound. " I hope I do not judge harshly," continued Mr. Evelyn, " but I really thought, in spite of the affected surprise and horror which the son and daughter of Williams expressed, that they were no! 8. 2 a 178 EMILY MORELAND unacquainted with the person who had assailed their father; and the old man's coolness towards both of them, seemed to say that he was not deceived. This, however, at present rests with themselves ; but, if this youngs man should be taken " The noise of contending voices interrupted this remark, and Emily heard, with increasing terror, that the officers of justice were come. Again she was exhorted by Mr. Evelyn to be frank and candid, in replying to the questions that would be asked ; but the silent look of agony which the Signora cast on her, as she pressed the cold hand she held to her heart, acted much more powerfully on her feelings than the Curate's remonstrances, and she exclaimed, in a hurried tone " Well, let them come — 1 will tell them where 1 saw him, and that is all they can have a right to expect !" In a very few minutes the house was filled with people ; some of them, friends of the injured Mr. Williams ; and others, those who had known and respected Isaac Wilson, and were now lamenting the shame and sorrow that had fallen upon his grey hairs. A formal search was commenced through the house for the delinquent, though it seemed a pretty general opinion, that home was the last place tha< William Wilson was likely to visit, or be found at. Pale and silent, Emily sat in a corner of their own apartment, the Signora screening her as much as possible from observation ; and Mr. Evelyn standing up before her, apparently from the same motive ; until, on the entrance of a young man, whose agi- EMILY MORELAND. ] 79 tated and perturbed countenance betrayed his deep interest in the affair in hand, the former beckoned to him, and, addressing him by the name of Wil- ^ams, said, " It is useless to waste your time here, for I un- derstand, from this young lady, that, an hour or two ago, she saw and spoke with the person you seek." '' Did he say What could he say ?" exclaimed Williams, in an agitated tone, and approaching close to Emily, who shrank with horror from him. " Where was it you saw him, Miss ?" demanded another man, pushing forward, and thus relieving her from the necessity of replying to one whose very look seemed to wither 1 er heart-strings. In a low and trembling voice, Emily explained how she had chanced to see him : and, in a few se- conds, the whole party were on the way to the ruined cottage, though they acknowledged there was little hope, from the darkness and gloominess ot the night, that they should discover him, even if he remained in the neighbourhood of that secludea spot. For more than an hour, Emily sat in the most pitiable state of alarm and expectation, listening to every sound that was borne on the evening breeze : — now fancying that she could hear the triumphant shouts of the successful pursuers of the wretched William, and then imagining she heard his voice reiterating, in sullen whispers, the denunciation with which he had left her. " If you betray me, my blood be upon your head !" It was in vain that the Signora tried to \v thdraw her thought* ^om 180 EMU.Y MORELAND. thij one point ; she had no thoughts, no ears, for any one else ; and Rosalia herself, suffering more than she could express, or Emily suspect, at length sank also into silence, which was only interrupted, from time to time, by the deep sobs or loud exclamations of the wretched mother, to whom Mr. Evelyn was aaain endeavouring: to administer consolation and support. ' ' • ■ • They were still in this situation, Emily sitting with her hand locked in that of her friend, when the sound of a strange foot, in the passage which led from their apartments to the other part of the house, made them both recoil with horror ; and, before either could speak, poor old Isaac Wilson, looking like the ghost of his former self, tottered into the room. Relieved from the dreadful apprehensions which had seized her, Emily started from her seat, and, laying her hand on the poor old man's, exclaimed — " My dear old friend, what has brought you here ? Did you know we were here ? But sit down — I am so, I was going to say, overjoyed to see you ; but " She gazed earnestly in his still placid and con- tented face, and instantly read, in its serene expres- sion, that he was yet ignorant of the blow that had fallen on him, and thought only of the pleasure of seeing her, and being restored, even for a moment, to liberty. Emily burst into tears, as she made this discovery, and the old man, in a low voice, inquired why she cried. " Whit has been the matter in the house, uiy dear <1 F.MILY MORELAND. 181 child ?" he said, " and who was it that unlocked my door, and left it open, without speaking a word ? I was all in the dark, and could not see them ; and 1 am so weak, and have forgotten my way about the house, so that I've been a long time getting here. There is somebody talking to the old woman in the kitchen, but I did not go in, for I thought some one was here, because I could see the candle shine against the laurel bushes, and I guessed it was either Madam Orsini, or my dear child." Emily looked at the Signora; she knew not how to evade the old man's questions, and she trembled, too, at the recollection, that if the throng, who were gone in pursuit of his son, returned there, the whole truth must burst at once upon him, and perhaps en- tirely upset the feeble intellects which cruelty and neglect, even more than sickness, had weakened. She had no doubt that some one of his former friends, actuated by either curiosity or suspicion, had taken advantage of the confusion to hasten to the old man's room, but had been prevented from entering, by the sudden rush out of the house in pur- suit of the criminal, which they had immediately joined ; but she knew not how to account to him for these strange occurrences, without betraying the truth; and the Signora seemed equally averse to hazard the effect of such melancholy intelligence. At this embarrassing moment, Mr. Evelyn re-en- tered the room. Isaac's attention was now entirely fixed by the stranger, and while in a whisper he inquired of Emily who he was, Signora Orsini contrived to explain to 182 EMILY MORELAND. the young cltvrgyman, that the poor, infirm, and emaciated creature he beheld, was the once active and happy Farmer Wilson, and that he was still ignorant of the dreadful situation in which his son's crimes and extravagance had placed him. Mr. Evelyn addressed him with kindness ; and Isaac, whose respect for the church and its ministers had ever been a prominent trait in his disposition, rising from his seat, attempted to make his best bow, as he replied, " I am very happy, indeed, to see you at the Farm, Sir, though I cannot make you so wel- come as I used to make Mr. Watson, your predeces- sor, who often favoured us with a call, to taste our ale, and new bread and cheese. But, since I've heen ill," continued Isaac, with a deep sigh, " every thing's strangely altered, and I hardly should know my own place again, I dare say, if I should get about in it, though I suppose that won't be allowed." " Why should it not be allowed, or what can pre- vent it, Mr. Wilson, if you feel yourself competent to the task ?" The poor old man sighed again — " I don't know, but I am sure I should be better, if they would let me try to do a little, and not lock me up." " They shall not do it — no one shall oppress or in- jure you — I will take care," interrupted Mr. Eve- lyn, with generous warmth. " Ah, but my son — he is so violent and head- strong," rejoined Isaac, with a melancholy shake of the head ; " and, to tell you the truth," he conti- nued, " I would almost as soon be shut up for ever, as be bullied and frightened by him, — though he shall EMILY MORELAND. IS3 never frighten nor persuade me out of what's right ; — and, by-the-bye, that brings to my mind some- thing I want to talk to you, Sir, about — now I've got an opportunity. Emily, my dear, will you leave me and Madam," meaning the Signora, whom he always called by that title, " together for a little while, and try and keep the old Dame from coming to interrupt us ?" *' I will take care she shall not do that, by locking this door," observed Mr. Evelyn ; " but it will be preferable, perhaps, for Miss Moreland to go into the garden, if she feels strong enough, than to visit Mrs. Wilson, who had better be left to her own thoughts." Emily gladly assented to this, for from the mount at the bottom of the garden she could see a long way down the path into the valley, if the night was clear. She guessed what was the subject which poor Isaac wished to discuss in her absence, and felt it an addi- tional proof of the natural kindness and delicacy of his feelings, that he refrained from alluding to the sad story of her birth, in her presence. " Poor old man!" she mentally exclaimed, " he little suspects how useless is the precaution he is taking !" Again her distracted thoughts wandered to the wretched culprit, who was perhaps, even at that moment, heaping imprecations on her head, for hav- ing betrayed the place of his retreat ; and, with clasped hands and aching heart, she stood upon the mount, straining in vain her eyes through the dark- ness, to discover whether there were any unusual lights or movements in the valley beneath her. She was still standing, lost in sispense and dis- fi84 EMILY MORELAND. quietude, when she thoight she heard a rustling sound along the wall over which she leaned ; and, with increased palpitation, she listened and gazed, till she became certain that she could discover some one stealing along under the wall, as if anxious to get round unobserved to the back door, which led to the kitchen. She could not hesitate a moment to be- lieve, that it was the guilty and wretched William she beheld ; and the recollection that he said he was without money, and could not leave the place, darted into her mind. She forgot, at that moment, all his crimes — she saw in him only the poor hunted wretch, whose steps were tracked by his pursuers, to revenge them in his blood ; and, without giving herself a moment's time for reflection, she flew through the garden to the kitchen door. The miserable mother was seated by the low and glimmering fire, — the only light she would aftbrd herself, when she was not at work, — and her apron, thrown over her head, concealed her features, and rendered her unconscious of Emily's approach, till the latter stood beside her. " You must go instantly to the back of the garden wall," whispered Emily, in accents so tremulous, that the old woman, throwing the covering from her head, stared at her without apparently comprehend- ing her. Emily's terrified look and significant gesture re- vealed wliat her words failed to do, and Dame Wil- son, seizing her arm, exclaimed *' He is here ! or perhaps you know that he is taken !" " No, no — follow me," replied Emily; " and, if EMILY MORELANIi* 185 you value his life, do not detain him one moment longer than is necessary ! The way through the fold-yard, and the outside of the wall, was nearly thrice the distance that Emily had come across the garden ; and, when the latter reached the outside of the gate, she could plainly discover the wretched culprit, still cautiously creep- ing along under the shadow of the wall; and point- ing with her hand, to direct the mother to the same object, she ran back again into the house, and reach- ing her own bed-room by the back flight of stairs, threw kerself, in breathless agony, upon her knees. A latent fear that she was doing wrong, in thus endeavouring to facilitate the escape of the guilty William, the personal terror she had suffered, and the horror which the narrative of the criminal had excited, combined with the preceding agitation she had suffered, had completely exhausted her strength, and she remained, with her head resting against the foot of the bed, unable to move, or scarcely even to think, for nearly an hour, until she was roused by Rosalia, who, having sought her in vain in the gar- den, had in considerable alarm come there to look for her. .-! loy't'i " My dear girl," she exclaimed, " why have you- remained so long in the dark and cold ? Mr. Evelyn has been so alarmed, that he has gone off to seek for you, imagining that you have been induced " '-.■■ Emily interrupted her, by faintly asking which way he had taken, unconscious of the time that had elapsed since she had seen William, and only appre- hensive that he might discover him. 8. 2 b IS6 EMILY MOIIDLAND. ;,. The Signora looked at her with surprise — "Of what consequence can it be, my dear child, which way he is gone, since you are here safe? But, come, let us go down, for I have left poor old Wil- son alone; and, though I have secured him from in- terruption by locking the door, he is frightened, 1 can see, to be left alone." . Emily tried to rise and obey her, but her limbs trembled so violently, that she could not stand, while a cold shivering fit evinced that the malady extended farther than to her mind. Alarmed at her appearance, her friend now hur- ried her into bed, and left her, to pi'epare some whey, in order to compose her to sleep. Emily's whole thoughts were now occupied with the fear that Evelyn, whose officious interference she could scarcely feel grateful for, would discover that William was in the neighbourhood, and that she had seen him again ; but those fears were removed, when the Signora shortly after informed her, not only that the former was returned, but that the party, who had gone in search of the criminal, had given up the pursuit until the morning, convinced, from his perfect knowledge of the neighbourhood, that it was useless to seek him in the darkness of the night. Relieved thus from her most pressing apprehen- sions, Emily endeavoured to comply with her friend's earnest entreaties to compose herself to sleep ; but it was in vain that she courted the aid of that sweet oblivious antidote to care and anxiety. Images of horror and dread hovered around her, and distracied EMILY MORELAND. 187 her, whenever she closed her eyes ; and, when the Signora stole softly into the room, to see what effect her prescription had taken, she found her with eyes glistening, and cheeks glowing with fever. CHAPTER VIII. My early friend ! oh ! thou alone Shalt listesi to its farewell tone ! Oh ! thou canst tell what tremors start — How bounds — how reels — how sinks the hearty When friends long join'd are doom'd to part, Their meeting all unknown. Howixi. Several days passed before Emily recovered suffi- ciently to leave her room, and, during that time, the most incessant search was kept up to discover the re- treat of William Wilson. This, however, Signora Orsini concealed from the former, contenting her- self with assuring her that no traces had been, or appeared likely to be discovered of the unfortu nate and guilty young man, who, she hoped, wouIa live sincerely to repent, and endeavour to atone for the crime he had committed. Emily learned, too, with great satisfaction, that old Williams, the man whom he had wounded, was still living, and that there were some hopes of his recovery ; and though that circumstance would not have altered the crime of his assailant, if he had been taken, it would at least relieve his conscience from the dreadful idea of 188 EMILY MORELAND having taken the life of a fellow-creature, and sent him to the great tribunal, with all his sins upon his head, " un'nointed, unannealed." The heavy blow which had fallen upon Mrs. Wil- son, rendered the exposure of her conduct towards her husband, and his consequent release from her tyranny, a matter of comparatively little import to her ; and, indeed, the benevolent Evelyn, who took upon himself the task of informing her that Isaac was no longer in confinement, nor should again be subjected to the restraint which his enfeebled state had given the opportunity of imposing, in pity to her already miserable feelings and degradation, avoided, as much as possible, censuring her conduct, 6nly giving her decidedly to understand, that he should himself personally take care that her husband should be properly treated for the future. Emily, therefore, had the satisfaction of seeing her old and trusty friend, the honest Farmer, once more restored to his old station at the kitchen fire-side, and able to give directions for the management of his affairs, though it appeared doul)tful whether his bodily strength would ever be sufficiently renovated, to allow him to resume his former activity. The crest-fallen and wretched mistress of the Farm shrank from encountering the eyes even of her own servants, who all rejoiced in the change of autho- rity, and for several days confined herself to her own room, under pretence of indisposition ; but her habits of active industry and domestic vigilance soon ren - fjered this seclusion unbearable to her, and she re- lumed to take her former share in the administration EMILY MOnELAND. 189 of affairs, on the very same day that Emily quitted her sick chamber ; Isaac, with his usual good-na- ture and love of peace, consenting- to this arrange- ment, without even uttering a single reproach to her. The intelligence of his son's bad conduct, and its consequences, though it grieved and affected him, when it was cautiously and gradually revealed to him by Mr. Evelyn, served to create very little sur- prise in his mind. " He had long been prepared for the worst," he said, ".for he knew that the course of life William had long led, and the total want of principle he had displayed, in his conduct towards himself, must terminate in bringing him to shame and disgrace. Emily, however, with whom he conversed (when he visited her in the Signora's sitting-room, as soon as she was able to receive him,) more unreservedly than he had done with any one else, could easily discover, that, though he endeavoured to appear resigned and tranquil, he was in reality deeply anxious and uneasy respecting the fate of his un- happy son. " He was once a good and a dutiful child," he ob- served, " and, but for bad counsels and bad com- pany, might still have remained so ; but, even as he is, when I think of him, wandering without a friend, Of, perhaps, even money to keep him from starving, my heart is almost broken ; and yet it would be harder s'.ill should he be taken, and " Emily gently interrupted the course his thoughts livere taking, and tried to infuse a hope, which she 190 EMTLY MORELAND. could scarcely herself indulge, that the guilty object of his paternal anxiety, roused by the dreadful situa- tion in which his crimes had placed him, might yet gain some secure asylum, and, by future good con- duct, endeavour to redeem his past errors. *' You are very good to excuse him, my dear, you, whom he has tried to ruin, I may say ; for, if I had died before all this came to light, you would have lost, it seems, every farthing of the money your fa- ther trusted in my care ; and, indeed, now it will be some time before I shall be able to make it good to you ; for, though the old woman has managed the Farm well enough, since she has had it in her own hands, yet he has contrived to draw so much, partly with her leave, and partly without, that it will be a long time before I can set matters straight again. However, you may depend upon it, my dear, I will do what is right by you I" : Emily had in vain attempted to interrupt this explanation ; poor old Isaac was determined to go on in his own way, nor would he suffer her to reply, when he found that her object was to assure him that she should never trouble him for the money, bul should ever feel in his debt, for the kindness she had received from him " The money is your^", child, and should be ho- nestly paid, if you were worth ever so much," he replied ; " but, when I know that you have nothing- else in the world to depend on, it makes me the more anxious to do it as quickly as possible. However, you've a kind friend in Madam Orsini, and I know she won't let you feel the want of it 1" EMILY MOREI.AND. 191 Emily sighed — for the observation reminded her ot the Signora's present embarrassment and uneaoiness, which had almost escaped her memory, amid the more pressing troubles which had occupied her thoughts. She could not doubt, indeed, from the perfect un- derstanding which evidently existed between her friend and Mr. Evelyn, that all present fears and embarrassments were removed ; but, independent of the knowledge that this was but a temporary relief, her former scruples and demurs, as regarded the young Curate, were rather strengthened than de- creased ; and she beheld, with a dissatisfaction she could neither conquer, or justify to her own feel- ings, the hourly-increasing intimacy between him and her friend Rosalia. *' What an amiable young man he is !" said the latter, when, on the second evening of Emily's con- valescence, he bade them adieu, after spending se- veral hours with them — " How just and noble are all his sentiments ! how kind and benevolent his dispo- sition !" she continued, looking at Emily, as if ex- pecting her to concur in these praises. Emily could not deny the merits of the young Curate, but she assented so languidly to the Sig- nora's warm commendations, that the latter instantly observed it. " You do not seem to think so highly of Mr, Evelyn as I do, my dear girl," she re- marked ; " yet, if I mistake not, he entertains to- wards you feelings which demand, at least, your gra- titude in return." '* I shall never, I hope, be eithei unjust or ungrale- W2 EMILY MORELAND. ful," replied Emily, colourings " but, I confess, I have been somewhat tired, this evenings, of Mr. Evelyn's attentions. I will tell you candidly, dear Signora, that I do not wish to encourage them ; and, besides, he seems to me to be too familiar — too con- fident — too much at home, considering I have only known him, as I may say, for a few hours." " But you must remember, too, dear Emily, that he has been my almost constant companion since you have been confined, and that I have been under the necessity of confiding to him circumstances which have given him a right to consider himself on the footing of a friend," returned Rosalia ; " and as to not wishing to encourage the attentions which he shews to you, what reasonable objection could you possibly oppose, my dear girl, to such an unobjectionable — such an advantageous offer, if he should make it ?" " I am sure, I earnestly hope he never will put me to the trouble of finding reasons," returned Emily ; " but of this I feel convinced, that, if ever I do marry, which, with my present feelings and prospects, does not appear very probable, it will not be to Mr. Evelyn." o The Signora remained silent a few moments, as if reflecting on what she had htard. " This is really unaccountable, Emily," she at length observed; " but I will not attempt to argue you out of such an unreasonable prejudice This, however, I will say, and seriously — that, from all I have seen of Mr. Evelyn, I consider that you would be acting madly and blindly, were you to refuse him, if he honours YOU with the offer of his hand." EMILY MORELANn. 193 Emily was both surprised and hurt, at the warmth with which her friend spoke on this subject ; but she refrained from replying, Avisely considering that so many circumstances might arise to prevent such an offer being made, (even allowing that Mr. Evelyn's attentions warranted her in believing that he enter- tained any serious intentions towards her,) that it would be folly to hazard offending her best friend, by opposing her. The subject was, therefore, dropped ; but Emily felt, with extreme sorrow and vexation, that, in proportion as Mr. Evelyn in- creased in her friend's estimation, (which it might be said he did, every hour that he passed with her,) the latter seemed the more inclined to press upon her consideration the advantages and happiness which must inevitably result from an union with him. Emily, indeed, could not deny that the offer, to a girl in her circumstances, was most unexception- able. Mr. Evelyn was young, handsome, well edu- cated, and well principled ; his connexions were most respectable ; his situation in life fully adequate to any expectations she could or ought to form ; and yet Emily could not love him. He was, she thouglit, too precise, too solemn, too- in short, he was not Herbert Leslie — and tlia/, was, after all, the grand secret. Indifferent as she appeared, and as she believed herself to be, to Leslie, he formed the standard in her imagination of what she could love, and Evelyn fell far, very far, short of that. The inquiries Avhieh Mr. Evelyn had, through some of his connexions in London, set on foot, res- 9 2c 194 EMILY MORELANDc pecting the house through whose agency Signora Orsini received her remittances from Italy, proved most unfavourable and discouraging. The princi- pal partner was said to be absent on business, and the other disclaimed all knowledge of Signora Or- sini's demands. " I would advise your friend, therefore," wrote Evelyn's correspondent, " to lose no time in coming up to town, and applying personally. If she does not, I am afraid she will be put off, until there will be a final blow to the house of Zachelli and Co., and she will then have to take her share with other creditors, and, eventually, get next to nothing." " What would you recommend me to do, my kind friend ?" demanded Rosalia, after reading this advice. Evelyn, to whom this question was addressed, replied, that, in his opinion, only one course could be adopted — to comply with his friend's suggestion, and set out at once for London. The Signora looked at Emily with an air of per- plexity, which Evelyn seemed immediately to com- prehend. " Miss Moreland will, undoubtedly, be perfectly safe here," he observed ; " but, should you be de- tained long, this place will appear very dull to her. Fortunately, I expect my mother and sister to arrive to-morrow, or the next day, on a visit of a few weeks, to the Bachelor's cottage. This will, I hope, obviate any objection that might exist to our young friend's removing thither, for the term of your ab- sence. 1 have just room to accommodate her com* EMILY MORELAND. 193 fortably ; and my mother and Edith will, I kr ow, he delighted at such an acquisition. They were already prepared," he continued, in a softened and somewhat confused tone, " to do justice, if, indeed, that is possible — to Miss Moreland's merits, and — " " What say you, Emily, to this truly kind and friendly proposal ?" interrupted the Signora, who saw, in the clouded brow of the latter, sufficient in- dication of the impatience and dislike with which she listened to this indirect avowal of Evelyn's hopes and wishes, to fear that she would too hastily reject the offer he had made. " Do you not think that it would be infinitely preferable that you should pass the interval of my absence, (as I must, it seems, go,) at the Parsonage House, than remain alone, in this solitary place?" Emily blushed and hesitated. She knew not how to avow her decided dissent from the suggested plan, without openly offending both her friends ; yet, to accept it, she thought, would be to give a decided encouragement to hopes, which she felt it impossible she could ever realise. Of the motives of Mrs. and Miss Evelyn's intended visit, which she recollected he had, but a few weeks before, mentioned as not likely to take place till the following spring, she could not entertain a doubt. Evelyn, indeed, had almost in plain terms declared, that he had bound himself never to take a wife, who had not received his mother's previous approbation. He had openly insinuated, that this promise alone prevented his formally requesting the Signora's per- mission tc address her young charge ; and the latter 190 EMILY MORELANIJ. had pointed it out to the passive, but not approving Emily, as a further and most convincing proot of the strict integrity and rectitude of his principles. Under the influence of this recollection, therefore, Emily determined, however painful to differ so di- rectly from her truly maternal friend, that she would remain at the Farm, and not be introduced to Eve- lyn's mother and sister, as one whom he was secure of having, whenever he found it convenient or pro- per to take her. The Signora looked more angry than she wished to avow herself, when Emily, in a gentle but firm tone, declared, she preferred remaining at the Farm, under the protection of her friend Isaac ; and poor Evelyn's countenance sufficiently betrayed his mor- tification, though she softened, as much as possible, her refusal, by pleading her scarcely re-established health, her want of spirits, and her habits of seclu- sion, which rendered her timid and awkward in the society of strangers, as the motives of her refusal. " It is that very timidity and inexperience, which will form your chief recommendation, in the eyes of my mother," observed Evelyn, with warmth. " She has a perfect horror of modern line ladies, I assure you ; and even thinks her own Edith, though she is both gentle and modest, somewhat too bold and con- fident, because she sometimes suff'ers her vivacity and natural spirits to carry her beyond the bounds of that reserve which the good lady's very old- fashioned education considers necessary and be- c ming. " Vou are doing yoiu' best now, I think, Mr. Eve- EMILY MORELAND. 197 iyn, to frighten me at the thoughts of meeting youf mother," observed Emily, laughing ; "for you must not think 1 am always the quiet and harmless little girl I appear to you now. On the contrary, I can as- sure you, that my natural disposition is rather wicked, and I am somewhat given to mischief, as the Sig- nora will, I am sure, testify ; and though sufficiently conscious of my own awkwardness and want of po- lish, to be shy of encountering strangers of superior breeding, I am afraid I should want but little en- couragement, to let them see that it is only confi- dence I want, to be as saucy and mischievous as any fine lady of them all." '" You can never betray any qualities, that will render you otherwise than charming," returned Evelyn, with a look which fully seconded his words ; " and I should be surprised and wounded, indeed, if my mother, with whose opinions and feelings I never yet, in a single instance, varied, should in this instance differ from me." " You must, at least, allow me to retain the possi- bility of gaining her good opinion, by keeping at a prudent distance," replied Emily, with more gravity. " I shall, indeed, feel honoured by the approval of one so rigid in her opinions of female duties as Mrs. Evelyn ; but, beyond that approbation, I can enter- tain no views. In the circumstances and situation in which I am placed, I know not how soon I may be — that is, I can have no decided views for the future. The friendship of such a lady as Mrs. Evelyn is cer- tainly most desirable; but-^you are aware, of course, Mr. Evelyn, that I am, at the pro ent moment, totally IQQ EMILY MOBELAND. dependant oil Signora Orsini; and should any cir- cumstances arise, to induce her io vvithdraw her pro- t.QQtipnj or even to repent that she had so far afforded " Pardon me, Emily — Miss Moreland, I should h^ye s,iid," interrupted Evelyn, with considerable agitation, " I cannot but see that you are cool — that you are vexed at the proposition I have made ; but \j^hich, I am satisfied, was accordant with the wishes o^your — I may say, our friend. I will not affect to deny, that my peace of mind, my whole happiness, d^p,ends on you, and on niy mother's opinion of you. I will not pretend to say, that 1 could have courage i|Q>^t ifl opposition to her wishes ; but, on that head, I have not the slightest fear. I cannot, for one in- s,taiit, doubt that the sight of you — a few hours' ac- quaintance only, with your mind and disposition, would dispel every lurking prejudice — would, iq sh,ort, convince her that I had discovered a treasure ! Why do you look so impatient, dearest Emily ? Siuffer me to call you by that sweet na,me, which is ever on my lips, as its possessor is ever present to my he^rt." " I cannot, indeed I cannot, Mr. Evelyn, listen to this language," exclaimed Emily. " Do not think n\e ungrateful, or unjust to your merit, when I say that 1 can never consent to be introduced to your mother, in the light in which, \t is plain, you have represented me. I have no wish — no intention, at present, but to remain as I am. Indeed, there are many many reasons why I should resolve never to indul^^e 1 am very, — you know I am, Mr. Evelyn, KMILY MORELANT). llX) very unforlunately situated; but, so long as the Sig- nora continues to regard me with kindness, I cannot be unhappy or discontented. You have, I will can* didly tell you, for I wish to act with perfect sincerity — you have, by attentions which I never can, which I never did, encoui'age, given rise to the first feel- ings of disunion that ever occurred between ray friend and me. It will be kind, it will be generous, and it will add, if possible, to the respect I feel for you, if you will, by voluntarily withdrawing those attentions, heal the breach, which must else, I fear, je inevitably widened beyond the possibility of a cure. One cannot control the heart, Mr. Evelyn ; and I feel that, sooner than act contrary to the im- pulse of mine, I should submit to even the loss of that affection which now fbrrtis my only happiness and blessing." "Cruel girl!" exclaimed Evelyn, "what do you require of me ? And with what mortifying energy do you endeavour to enforce your assurance, that you hate me!" " Hate you ! No, I never said — I never thought 1 hated you, Mr. Evelyn ; on the contrary, as a friend, as a brother, I can esteem and value you. I honour, I admire your character — I should be most unjust and ungrateful, indeed, if I did not ; — but the senti- ments I feel for you are not such as " " Such as you have felt, undoubtedly, for some more fortunate and favoured individual than myself, Miss Moreland," rejoined Evelyn, in a tone of re- sentment. " Yet, I know not how it is, either you must have strangely deceived Signora Orsini, or she 200 EMILY MOUELANI). has deceived me; for she assured me, your allecUotis were totally disengaged. I thought, indeed, that vou were so unconnected, that " ** It is quite useless to prolong this conversation, Sir," interrupted Emily, who felt that she had a right to be offended at the tone he had assumed. " I know not," she continued, " that I am bound to give any explanation of the motives which have prompted my wish to decline your particular attentions; but, to prevent any unpleasant discussion with Signora Or- sini, I will assure you, that she was perfectly correct in asserting that my affections are disengaged. They are so — but it is not in my power to bestow them on you." Mr. Evelyn's looks brightened a little. " I may, then, I feel I may, Emily, yet indulge a hope, that ray respectful attentions, my devoted affection, may, in time, make some impression in my favour. I know it would be the height of vanity, to expect that you can feel for me what I have done towards you, from the first moment I beheld you. Yet, I must flatter myself, that time-^ " ^' Never, Mr. Evelyn. I cannot mislead you, or encourage hopes that I am confident can never be realised !" The re-entrance of Signora Orsini, who had left the room on purpose to afford Evelyn the opportunity of making this declaration, put an end to Emily's earnest and energetic assurances ; but the looks of the latter evinced that he by no means despaired of eventually altering her determination; and the Sig- nora was, for a moment, deceived intoihe belief that EMILY MORELAND. all was settled as she wished. A second glance at Emily's countenance, however, undeceived her; and, with evident anxiety, she demanded, what they had concluded on, respecting the proposed visit to the Parsonage House. *' Miss Moreland is inexorably determined to re- fuse my suit, Madam," returned Evelyn, "and re- main here; though I must, with all due deference to a lady's decision, observe, that I think she entirely fails in the plea she alleges for it." " I cannot doubt that," returned the Signora, with an air of vexation; " for my own part, I think it a very ridiculous and quite indefensible decision ; but, of course. Miss Moreland is at liberty to act as she thinks proper." Emily's eyes filled with tears. It was the first time her friend Rosalia had directly condemned an act of hers, or spoke of her by the title she now applied to her; and she felt her dislike to Evelyn increase, for having been the cause of their difference. Signora Orsini would not, however, pretend to see her emotion, and, appearing to consider the matter as finally settled, she began to converse with Mr. Evelyn, respecting her journey, which she purposed to commence the following morning. " It is so long," she observed, "since I visited London, that it is by no means improbable that the only persons, whom I can claim as acquaintances there, may have left their house; and if so, I shall be compelled to reside at the coach inn, as it will not be worth w hile to take lodgings for the short time I shall remain. If, indeed," she added, with a des- 9 2d 202 BMILY MORELANl). pondent look, " I should be so unfortunate as to find ray worst feais realised — it will be necessary that Ii should make arrangements to remove thither entirely, since there only can I hope to succeed in turning: those acquirements to advantage, which have hitherto been merely a source of amusement, but must hence- forth supply the means of subsistence." Evelyn seemed not to have contemplated thjs pror bability. "And Miss Moreland," he observed, in a; faltering voice, looking at Emily, who had walked to the window to conceal her agitation — "Miss Moreland, will, I suppose, accompany me," returned the Signora, coolly. " Yes, to work fpr you — to save you, if possibly,; from every mortification, every degradation,!" ex- claimed Emily, bursting into tears, and throvving herself into the Signora's arms. The latter was,eyir-i dently affected, but she merely observed, that sh(?^ hoped there would be no occasion for any sacrifice on either side. " It would, however, be much less painful to me, Emily," she softly whispered, "to sulfer alone, and to know that you wepe well provided for." Emily pressed her fair hand on the mouth of her friend, with an imploring look; and Mr. Evelyn, who had walked away, to conceal the emotion which her ardent and unaffected manners had excited in his bosom, now returning, prevented any continuation of the s ibject, and he soon after arose to take his leave. ^' You will allow me to breakfast with you, dear Madam, fiiul accompany you to the coach," he oh- IflUlLY MORTELAKI). served; '*this evening, of course, will be devoted to pr^aring for your journey." Emily's looks almost expressed her impatience at this hint. " He will not leave us a moment to our- selves," she thought; but, to her great satisfaction, Rosalia only acceded to the former part of his speech, and did not, as she expected, press him to pass the evening also with them, and he departed. For some time, the Signora appeared lost in deep thought; and Emily, who dreaded a renewal of the discussion which was so unpleasant to her, remained also silent, though her looks, as she from time to time gazed on the Signora, proved that she deeply pat*- took of the uneasiness of the latter. At length, the silence was broken by Rosalia, who observed, that it would be necessary she should make some communi- cation to Farmer Wilson, respecting her intended absence. "It is fortunate, also," she continued, " that, as you are obstinately bent on remaining here, you will have a female near you, in whom you can confide. You do not, I believe, know that your old friend and attendant, Swsan, is expected here hourly. Isaac intended an agreeable surprise to you; for he told me it was to be a secret, that he had received a letter from her, announcing that the lady, with whom she has lived so long, has lately died at Bath, and left her an annuity, which will enable her to live com- fortably among her friends here. She Waited only to receive the first quarter of her annuity, and some arrears of wages, and shontcl then immediately com- mence her journey hither, to quii her native village no more." 204 EMILY MORELAND. Emily was, indeed, agreeably surprised; for, though she had not seen Susan since she was quite a child, when the latter left St. Clare, to travel with an invalid lady, yet she still retained the most perfect recollection of her kindness, and extreme fondness for herself, of whom she had taken the sole charge, during her infancy. It was with some difficulty that her friends had prevailed on her to accept a situation, which separated her from the object of her attach- ment; but Mr. Moreland, who had strongly recom- mended her to the lady, prevailed by his persuasions, and Susan quitted the valley with an aching heart, for she left behind her more than one, to whom that heart was most truly and tenderly attached Her cousin, William Wilson, was nearly of her own age; and not only the whole neighbourhood, but even the Farmer, had seemed to think that they were destined for each other; and William's attach- ment to his pretty cousin Susan was no secret to any one. Mrs. Wilson, however, had formed higher views for her son; William, too, soon began to think as she did, and poor Susan was doomed to "weir the wil- low;" but she bore it all very meekly and quietly, never blaming her inconstant lover, who, she said, would never do anything that was wrong, only he ijad let the old woman get the upper hand of him. Emily, however, knew but little of this; yet still the thought struck into her mind, how deeply poor Susan would be afflicted, when she should learn the painful circumstances which had rendered the aged father's home so cheerless, and his future prospects so honeleoc. For her own sake, she sincerely rejoiced EMILY MORELAND. 205 in the prospect of once more seeing the friend of her infancy; but she felt that poor Susan would be sadly disappointed, in the expectations she had most pro- bably formed, of passing her time in comfort and cheerfulness at home. " You have, it appears, completely rejected Mr. Evelyn's offer of introducing you to his mother and sister," resumed the Signora, " though, I have every reason to believe, it was with that sole view that he prevailed on them to expedite their visit, by three or four months." Emily replied, with mildness, that she had not been so ungrateful as to reject the offer of an intro- duction which must confer honour on her. She had only objected to appearing before them in a cha- racter which she felt could never belong to her. " It is useless to disguise it, dear Signora — I never can, I never shall, become the wife of Mr. Evelyn ; and 1 could not be blind to the fact, that they are prepared to meet me in that light." The Signora uttered an exclamation of impa tience, but Emily's mournful and deprecating look disarmed her anger. *' I hope, my dear girl," she at length observed^ " that you will never have reason to repent, that you have thus thrown away an eligible opportunity of securing yourself from most of the evils, at least, of life ; or, rather, I will still indulge a hope that you will, upon further reflection, see the folly of permitting mere nonsensical and romantic ideas tlius fatally to affect your true interest. Till I return^ therefore, I will say no more on the subject ; — it is son t;mily morel and probable," s1»e added, with a deep sig^h, '•'' that 1 may then Jiave some more powerful arguments to ^ffer/' Thankful for even this respite, Emily did not at- tempt to prolong the conversation; and the remainder of the evening being occupied with the necessary preparations for the Signora's journey, she escaped hearing even the name of Evelyn, which was now become so obnoxious to her. A night's reflection, however, did not seem to have operated very much in her favour, in Mr. Eve- lyn's mind; for his manner, when he made his ap- pearance, precisely at the hour the Signora had appointed, was more cold and formal than usual towards her ; and, indeed, he seemed studiously to avoid shewing her any attention, and addressed him- self, as much as possible, to her friend. •' How I wish he would fall in love with the dear Signora !" thought Emily, as she sat silently ob- serving them. " He :s not so much younger than her, and she is still, I am sure, a very beautiful and charming woman. She cannot either, as she says to me, form any reasonable objection to such a propo- sition.' An arch smile, which she was totally unconscioiitj of, played on Emily's lip, at the thought; it imme- diately caught the eye of Mr. Evelyn, whose resent- ful look made her start, as she accidentally glanced from her friend Rosalia's countenance to his. " You are fortunate, Miss Moreland, in discover- ing such pleasant food for meditation," he observed, in a low tone j " at the very moment, too, when your EMILY MORELAND. 207 companions were discussing a subject which, it might be naturally supposed, would inspire very diflTerent thoughts." Emily saw that the Signora was occupied at her desk, and did not seem to attend to them, and she replied, with some asperity — " I do not feel myself bound to explain to you. Sir, what was the subject of my thoughts at that moment ; but I will tell you, that it was of sufficient importance, in my mind, to render me quite inattentive to what you were sayr ing ; perhaps it was quite as well, until you learn to exercise a little more regard to my wishes and feel- ings, than now distinguishes your conduct." Evelyn would have apologised and explained, but Emily felt too much irritated against him to afford him an opportunity of so doing, as long as she could prevent it. Unfortunately, however, as she thought, his accompanying the Signora to the coach gave him a plea to call on his return, which shr could not refuse ; and, apparently aware that she would not voluntarily grant him a similar opportunity, Mr. Evelyn again entered into a long and elaborate discussion of his feelings and sentiments, which only, as she candidly told him, had the effect of addition- ally confirming her in the belief, that her rejection of him was final and decisive. " There is some mystery in this. Miss Moreland," he passionately exclaimed, as she rose, for the third time, to remind him that it was nearly the hour at which he had said, on his first entrance, he had some profesriional duty to attend to. " There is some 208 EMILY MORELAND mystery," he repeated, snatching up his hat, " but I will discover it, and " " And — what, Mr. Evelyn ?" said Emily, with firmness. " I will not attempt to mortify you by insinuating," she continued, in an ironical tone, " that, irresistible as you seem to think yourself, there may exist other causes in my eyes than pre- engagement, to induce me to refuse you ; but I would caution you not to dare, in order to satisfy your own self-love and vanity, — not to dare, I will repeat, surmise aught injurious to my character, even for verity and candour. I can scarcely be- lieve," she added, in a lower tone, " that it is to Mr. Evelyn, the kind, benevolent, charitable Mr. Evelyn, I am under the necessity of addressing this language ; but, I trust, reflection will show you the injustice, as well as the folly of your conduct ; and, until that period arrives. Sir, I shall bid you fare- well !" Ai.d she walked out of the room, leaving the angry and disappointed lover, to execrate his own folly and impatience. KMILY MORELAND W9 CHAPTER IX. Oh, fly, 'tis diie Suspicion's uiien. And, meditating plagues unseen, The sorceress hither bends ; Behold — her torch in gall imbrued; Beholo- -her garment drops with blood, Of f overs and of friends. Akenside. The spirit which had supported Emily in her inter- view with Mr. Evelyn, soon sank when she was left alone, coolly and dispassionately to reflect on her situation. Should the Signora either succeed or fail in the object of her present journey, she foresaw that she must expect a renewal of the persecution that had commenced, on the subject of Mr. Evelyn's pre- tensions. If, indeed, she failed, and was in reality reduced to comparative poverty, Emily felt that it would appear the height of ingratitude and madness, to refuse an offer which would give her the power of repaying the obligations which she acknowledged to her friend. " And yet," she mentally reflected, *' what chance of happiness could I have with a man, who would accept, from compulsion, the hand which my heart denied him !" She thought of the descrip- tion which he had so animatedly given of his mother, and a hope that the proud old woman, who evidently considered her son as a match for the most exalted, would awaken in him a kindred spirit, and induce him to reject, with scorn, the idea of suing to one so much beneath him for acceptance. " And yet, what 2 E 210 EMILY MORELAND. a wayward heait is mine!" she sighed, "for, in reality, what have I to object to this young man, except that he is a little too solemn and sententious, and too well satisfied with himself and his acquire ments, and his precise, starched, old-fashioned mother, whom he quotes upon all occasions !" The sigh was succeeded by a smile, as she fancied the disappoint- ment of the old lady, whom she was determined to believe rigid, forbidding, and morose, coming, with her spectacles on her nose, and all her faculties sharpened for observation, to take a survey of her son's intended wife; and then finding the bird had preferred its liberty, and, just as they thought to pop it into the cage, had spread its wings and flew away. Emily, however, was obliged to confess to herself, that, for once, she had been uncharitable, when she beheld Mrs. Evelyn, who arrived two days after Sig- nora Orsini's departure, and was, on the following morning, introduced to the former by Mr. Evelyn. The old lady was, indeed, rather reserved and ob- servant in her manners, but her mild placid features beamed with benevolence and kindness; and Emily blushed fbr herself, as she listened to the sweet and gentle accents of her voice. Edith Evelyn, the daughter of this amiable woman, was about the same age as Emily, and, though pos- sessing very slight claims to personal beauty, was both pleasing and attractive in her appearance and manner. Nothing beyond mere common-place conversation passed in their first short interview; but Emily, though determined beforelKind to resist every ap- proach to intimacy, had not resolution to refuse wiien EMILY MORELAND. 211 Mrs. Evelyn pressed her to spend the following day at the Parsonage House. " He cannot, surely," she thought to herself, when they were gone, *' have acknowledged to them, what has passed between us, or they would show some re- sentment in their deportment towards me." She was, however, mistaken. Mr. Evelyn had confided to his mother the mortifying rejection he had met with ; but the good old lady viewed her son with too partial eyes to believe, for a moment, that any young woman, whose affections were not pre-engaged, could long persevere in treating him with indifference ; and she therefore resolved to act as if she knew nothing of what had passed between them. The offer of Mr. Evelyn, to wait on her in the morning, and conduct her to his house, had been re- jected by Emily, decidedly, yet as mildly as possible ; and the former, in pursuance of his mother's advice, forbore to press the request, as soon as he saw it was not agreeable to her. The morning proved clear and fine, though cold; and Emily, (refusing old Isaac's offer of walking part of the way with her, observing that there could be nothing to fear, in a walk of three miles,) set off, in better spirits than she had felt for some time. There had been a slight frost in the night, and every shrub and tree was glittering in the sunshine, as she passed lightly along the few fields that lay between the Farm and the high road. She paused more than once, to gaze around her, and admire the bright and beautiful scene ; but, at length, she reached the last stile, and, as she crossed it, heard 212 EMILY MORELAND. the village clock strike one. The appointed dinner hour was two, and she had promised to be there early -" I shall not impress the old lady with any favourable opinion of my punctuality," she thought to herself, ** if I do not quicken my pace a little." She walked briskly on for another quarter of a mile, without meeting any one ; but, at length, the heavy tramp of a man's foot was heard along- the hardened road. She looked up, expecting to see some of the neigh- bouring rustics, to all of whom she was known. But it was a man of somewhat superior appeaiance, as to dress, than any of them; but, as she slightly glanced at his face in passing, she thought it was some one whom she had seen before, though she could not re member where. The man courteously touched his hat, and Emily returned his salutation. He stopped, as if encouraged by this to speak, thouffh it was not without embarrassment in his countenance. " I think I am not mistaken. Ma'am — you are Miss Moreland, are you not?" Emily replied in the affirmative — but it was in a faltering tone, and with trembling limbs ; for she re- cognised in the stranger, as soon as he spoke, the in- famous and unprincipled Williams, — the companion and seducer of William Wilson ! " Do not be alarmed, Miss," he rejoined, observing her evident emotion. " 1 do not wish to ask you any unpleasant questions — but, as I have understood that you were the last person that saw poor Bill Wilson, and had some conversation with him " "I had," said Emily, with marked emphasis, "I EMILY MOBELAND. 213 had a long conversation with him, nor did he con- ceal " " I've no doubt he made out a good story," inter- rupted the man, with evident confusion, " though it would have done him very little good. Miss More- land, if he'd been taken. However, I never wished that — and, though I was obliged to join against him, I can truly say that it was clean contrary to my wishes." " I have no doubt of it," returned Emily, disdain- fully ; " but why all this to me ? You cannot suppose that I take any interest in your feelings." " No, certainly, Miss, you know nothing of me, nor I of you; for Bill was cursed shy of ever talking about you, though Becky often plagued him about you; but I have been a good many years away from these parts, and only knew the name of Moreland ; and 1 little thought that my sister had such a rival, for he always pretended " ** It is of no consequence to me what he pretended, or you believed," interrupted Emily, haughtily; " but I would wish you now clearly to understand, that William Wilson never received from me ih& slightest encouragement, to form any pretensions to me, that could clash with your sister's. And now, Mr. Williams, I trust, our communication is at an end; for, I will candidly tell you, that I know too much of the causes and promoters of William's crimes and misfortunes, to wish to see you again." " I see how it is!" exclaimed Williams, with ve- hemence, all the bad passions of his nature struggling in his countenance. " The rascal was fool enough 214 EMILY MORELAND. to 1 guessed as much^ — I only wanted to ascertain it clearly! But I defy both him and you ! Even if you were to come forward with your story, I am not such a fool as not to be prepared for it; and neither you nor the devil himself could prove that I had any hand in it; and nobody would think much the better of yoUj for trying to clear your sweetheart, as every body thinks him, at the expense of the innocent ! But I'll tell you what, Miss Moreland," and he ap- proached close to her, and, clenching his hand, as- sumed a threatening attitude — "you had better, for your own sake, keep your knowledge to yourself; for I'm not one of the kind to put up with an injury quietly; and if I hear a syllable of this matter breathed, or even that you have told that you have had any conversation with me, I swear, solemnly, that your life shall be the sacrifice ! Tom Williams never yet suffered any wrong, without revenging himself! And it won't be those beautiful eyes, that look so scornfully at me, nor those rosy lips, which, I dare say, are ready to call me every bad name they could utter, that will save you from this — " unclosing a knife, which he had deliberately drawn from his pocket, " if you utter one syllable against me !" Emily shuddered with terror, though she endea- voured to conceal her emotion, under an appear- ance of calmness and contempt of his threats. " You have a much better security for my silence," she con- temptuously observed, " than your empty threats could impose. I have hitherto concealed my know- ledge of the part you and your sister acted, partly because I considered that, as you have said, even RMILY MORELAND. 215 your conviction could not benefit the unfortunate wretch whom you have made your tool and dupe ; and because I did not wish to increase the sufferings of your injured father, by exposing the conduct ot his worthless and ungrateful children." " You are very ready with your remarks, I think, Miss Moreland," returned Williams, with a look of deep-seated malice, that increased Emily's dismay and abhorrence ; and, when she attempted to pass him, and proceed on her road, he placed himself be- fore her, observing, that he should not let her go, till he had some better security for her silence. " Let me pass, instantly," she demanded, indig- nantly, " or, depend on it, no consideration shall shield you from exposure !" " Let me first whisper another little secret in your ear," he replied, with a fiend-like smile. " The place where Bill Wilson is, at this moment, is known to me ; I know those who have seen and conversed with him, within the last three days ! Breathe but a word, therefore, respecting me, and you shall soon have the satisfaction of hearing that he is safe in the hands of justice ; and let him and you both see what good your accusing me will do !" Emily heard this intelligence with the deepest sorrow, for, though she was far, very far, from feel- ing, towards the unfortunate and guilty young man, the sentiments his detestable seducer seemed to im- pute to her ; yet the thought of his forfeiting his life, horrid and abhorrent as was his crime in her eyes, was most revolting and painful. She had not, however, time to utter any reply to 216 EMILY MORELAND. the diabolical wretch, who appeared to enjoy her consternation, for that moment she beheld, advancing down the road towards them, Mr. Evelyn and his sister, who had evidently come part of the way, pur- posely to meet her. The quick eyes of her companion instantly disco- vered that the persons who were approaching wei'e known to Emily, and, without uttering another word, except " Remember !" — he darted over a stile, and was out of sight in a moment. It would have been difficult, at the moment Mr. Evelyn, his sister, and Emily, met, to have told which of the three countenances betrayed the most consternation and dismay. " We seem to have come very mal d, propos, Miss Moreland," uttered Evelyn, with difficulty. Emily could scarcely reply — " Oh, no, indeed — I am most happy, truly happy, to see you. I have, in- deed, sincerely repented that I refused your kind offer of fetching me ! I will never again hazard so long a walk alone — yet I thought that I was so secure i" " You have been insulted, alarmed, Emily!" in- terrupted Evelyn, with vehemence. " Who was the wretch ? But it is, perhaps, not yet too late to in- tercept him !" — and he darted away, in the direction Williams had taken. " Hear me, Mr. Evelyn ! For mercy's sake, hear me' Do not attempt to follow him ! The attempt will be 1 am lost, if you go !" She sank, fainting, into Miss Evelyn's arms, and the sight of her situation, rather than her words, in- stantly brought Evelyn back to her. EMILY MORELAXD. ;Sl7 It was some time beforCj with the a,d of the ter- rified Edith's smelling bottle, she recovered suffi- ciently to recollect her situation, and make an effort to free herself from Evelyn's ar»ns, who, as he pas- sionately strained her to his bosom, called upon her, by every kind and endearing epithet, to revive and bless him, once more, with the sound of her voice. " I am better," returned the blushing girl, again trying to escape from his embrace. " I am, indeed, much better only let us go from this place. I am so very cold !" She shuddered, more from the remembrance of what she had suffered, than the effects of cold; and Evelyn, passing his arm roun.-i her waist to support her, while she leaned on his sister, on the opposite side, moved on without at- tempting to utter another question. Long before they reached the Parsonage, the anxious Mrs. Evelyn had descried them from the window ; and Emily again felt the torture of being obliged to reply to questions, which she dared not answer with truth and candour. " She has been dreadfully alarmed, that is evident. Madam," observed Evelyn ; " but let us get her into the house, that we may pursue the wretch, who escaped only because I had no suspicion that Miss Moreland was not voluntarily listening to what he was saying to her. She w ill give me some clue to his discovery " "No, no— I cannot! He is let him go! Punishment will, some time or other, overtake him ; but I can do nothing !" exclaimed Emily, incohe- rently. 10. 2 F 218 EMILY MORELAND. Mrs.. Evelyn exchanged a look with her sdu^ which expressed at once surprise and suspicion ; but she said no more, until she had placed her on the sofa in the parlour, and prevailed on her to take some hartshorn and water " You had better leave us, Charles," she observed, in a low tone, " there may be reasons, which prevent her revealing before you " Eveljn instantly took the hint, and left the room. " Now, my dear Miss Moreland," observed Mrs. Evelyn, " I trust, for your own sake," laying a strong emphasis on the words, " and for the sake of society, if this man " " Will you forgive me, dear Madam, and judge of my conduct with charity and candour, if I tell you, at once, that there are reasons why I cannot reveal what has passed ! There are some circum- stances connected with that man, which render it im- possible that " " You have said quite sufficient. Miss ?»Ioreland," returned Mrs. Evelyn, coolly. " I feel, certainly, that I have no other claim than that of a very re- cent acquaintance, on your confidence ; but I would, if possible, impress on your mind, that mystery and conceahnent, in the conduct of a young female, are seldom unattended with danger — never can be sepa- rated from disgrace." Emily started — she was about to reply, with that natural spirit which always revolted from unjust ac- cusation, but a moment's reflection restored her equanimity. '"^ I cannot, Madam," she replied, " expect from one, who, ycu truly observe, is but a EMlLr MORELANIJ. 219 very recent acquaintance, and, I am convinced, but very imperfectly acquainted with my character, the roost implicit confidence in the rectitude of my con- duct and intentions; but I have heard it asserted, that the voice of truth speaks with irresistible force to those in whose bosoms she makes her residence. I cannot doubt, Madam, your honour and sincerity ; and to those qualities I appeal for belief, when I solemnly declare, that, in the recent transaction, which has, and probably will occasion me so much uneasiness, I feel that I do not deserve the slightest t^hadow of blame^ but Am deeply entitled to your pity." " I cannot doubt you, Miss Moreland," returned Mrs. Evelyn. " It is impossible to doubt your si«- cerity, though I cannot but think you are misled by some romantic notions.'* Emily shook her head. Mr. Evelyn re-entered the room, and Emily ex- erted her utmost efforts to regain her composure, though she could not but see, that, whatever his mo- ther might believe, he was far from being satisfied with her conduct. The day, which Emily, in spite of her former pre- judices, had anticipated so much pleasure from, passed away very hea^aly. She could neither forget her unpleasant interview with Williams, nor avoid seeing that it was constantly present to the thoughts of her companions; and she was more than once confused and distressed, by some pointed remark of Mrs. Eve- lyn's, on the subject of mystery and concealment in the conduct of females. 220 EMILY MORELAND. Sofiie casual allusion to her first introduction to Sijnora Orsini, brought on a number of questions from Mrs. Evelyn, as to the history and connexions of the former. Emily candidly avowed that she knew^ as little of the one as the other. " There were some painful circumstances," she observed, " connected with the Signora's former life, which distressed her to speak of, and therefore she had never pressed hei on the subject." Mrs. Evelyn *s countenance became still more clouded ; and she looked at her son, as if to reproach him with having deceived her, in his representation of Signora Orsini's situation. " Mr. Moreland, I suppose, was better informed, in this respect, than yourself, my dear," she gravely observed, " or he must have shown a strange Avant of caution, in confiding you to the care of a female, under such suspicious circumstances." Emily's cheeks glowed with resentment — " No one who knows Signora Orsini, Madam," she observed, " would, for an instant, indulge a suspicion of her beins: other than the most exalted and amiable of her sex. 1 know not what she thought proper to confide to my dear grandfather, respecting her his- tory ; but I am sure, that, had he never known more than he saw of her conduct, he would have acted just as he did." Mrs. Evelyn smiled — but Emily saw it was rather in pity of her weakness and credulity, than in appro- bation of her feelings; and this discovery, on her part, did not tend to revive those sentiments of re- spect and cordiality, which she had, on their first in- EMIZiY MORELAND. ^l t«rview, felt disposed to accord to the former. Tlie only one of the family party, indeed, with whom she could feel perfectly at ease, was Edith Evelyn ; but, though the sprightly, good-humoured girl did and said all in her power, to render Emily as comfortable, and as much at home, as she could, it was very evi- dent that she was constrained and checked by her fear of her mother, who seemed to regard, with a watchful and jealous eye, the intercourse between her daughter and one, whom she was but too much disposed to regard with suspicion. Most heartily did Emily rejoice when the hour of separation arrived, even though she was compelled to allow Mr. Evelyn's attendance home. *' I know not whether there exists any real cause for alarm. Miss Moreland," he observed, as they were about to commence their walk ; " but I have provided myself" (showing her a large stick) " with the means, at least, of protecting you. For my own part, I have hitherto considered myself in perfect safety, in my long and often lonely walks." " I hope you are so still," returned Emily, ob- serving he looked to her for an answer; " but, at any rate, it can do no harm to be always properly prepared to resist violence, if it is prudent to resist at all." Evelyn appeared disappointed, that his observation had drawn from her no definitive declaration, as to whether he had cause for apprehension; and Mrs. Evelyn's maternal anxiety instantly took alarm. " If you think there is any cause for fear, Miss Moreland," she observed, "it will be advisable that my servant should also accompany you." S22 EMILY MOR£LAND. Evelyn angrily objected to this, and Emi/.y, though she would have gladly accepted the attendance of the servant, who, she thought, might be some check on her companion, and prevent his renewing a subject, which she did not wish again to be brought into dis- cussion, was compelled, by her desire to relieve Mrs. Evelyn's evident alarm, to declare " that she had no reason to fear any interruption; nor did she believe that there existed the slightest cause to suppose, that Mr. Evelyn need feel himself otherwise than secure, as formerly." '* You can have no motive for saying this, unless you were convinced of it, Miss Moreland," replied Mrs. Evelyn; "and I will trust implicitly to your assurance, and feel as little impatience as I possibly can, for Charles's return." Emily was on the point of saying, that she would willingly exchange the attendance of Mr. Evelyn for that of the servant, and thus put an end to all fear on the part of his mother ; but the evident impatience and anger with which he heard the proposal, dis- couraged her from saying any more, and, having again repeated her belief that there was no cause for fear, they departed. No sooner were they alone, than all the reserve and coolness, which had marked Mr. Evelyn's man- ner in the presence of his mother, vanished, and Emily was compelled to listen to his fervid assurances of unalterable attachment. "I will not, I cannot believe, my adored Emily," he observed, " that there can be aught in your con- duct, or connected with you, that should discourage EMILY MORELAXD. 223 me from indulging the hope of one day calling you my own. I acknowledge that, during this uncom- fortable and vexatious day, there have been moments that I have feared that you had been drawn into a connexion — into a secret attachment — which must annihilate my hopes ; but reflection has told me that I wronged you. Your own candid, innocent coun- tenance declares you incapable of deceit, and though T can in no way satisfactorily account for the circum- stance, or, at least, for the mystery and silence you preserve, respecting the occurrence which took place this morning, I am willing to confide implicitly in the rectitude of your conduct and intentions, though, I confess, I am grieved beyond measure that you think it necessary to preserve a secrecy, that injures you in the opinion of one, whom I have every reason in the world to wish should view you with " Emily rather impatiently interrupted his harangue. " I should, certainly, Mr. Evelyn, wish to stand well in your mother's opinion, because it can never be a matter of indifference, what a respectable, and, I have no doubt, an amiable woman thinks of me; but I cannot suffer you to mislead yourself — and I again repeat, that it is impossible for me to feel any sentiments reciprocal to those you avow, but which, I earnestly hope, you will henceforth endeavour to forget." " Never, Emily ! I shall never feel otherwise than I do at this moment," returned Evelyn, with energy. " Yet, if I thought — if I knew — that your heart was already given to another — and if that other were one likely to secure your happiness — 1 would never breathe a word of my own feelings again. No, Emily, 224 EMILY MORELANI — I wf ulcl endeavour to prove, at least, that I wi3 worthy of your love, if I could not obtain it." Emily was silent — she could not but feel grateful for this disinterested declaration ; but Evelyn spoke again of his mother's prejudices and suspicions, and the favourable impression was destroyed. Provoked and irritated beyond the power of con- cealment, she replied, to his entreaties tliat she would look upon Mrs. Evelyn as her best friend, by assuring him, that she had no wish to conciliate one whose uncandid disposition she despised ; and Evelyn, who considered his mother a paragon of excellence, felt so offended at Emily's unqualified censure of her, that the remairider of their walk w as passed in silence, and they parted, at the threshold of her dwelling, with barely the interchange of common civility. "Thank goodness, 1 hope I am rid of the trouble- some fellow, and all who belong to him!" she ex- claimed, as she hastily shut the door upon him, and ran into her own apartment, where a cheerful fire seemed to welcome her return, from constraint and formality, to the comforts of home and liberty. " So much for my first introduction into society; at least, society of my own sex," she (^ontinued, seat- ing herself at the table, on which Mrs. Wilson had placed the candle she had lighted, observing, that she did not expect her home so soon, or she should have laid the cloth for supper " I do not feel inclined to eat, thank yoj," replied Emily ; and Mrs. Wilson was about to quit the room, saying, that she should go to bed, wh«n, suddenly turning round, she exclaimed — " Oh, I forgot to tell you that a man has been here, EMILY MORELAND. 225 who said he had a letter for you; but he wouldn't leave it with me; and said he would call in the morn- ing." Emily was astonished and agitated. Who could it be from? The Signora was not likely to send ih such a manner; and yet, who else could have occa- sion to write to her? She would have asked a thou- sand questions, as to the appearance of the stranger — what he said — and whether Mrs. Wilson was sure that he really had a letter for her — but the latter, who was apparently offended at the man's having refused to entrust her, seemed determined to give no satisfactory answer. She knew not what sort of a man it was, for it was dark when he came into the kitchen, and asked ab- ruptly for Mi\s Moreland; and she knew only that he had a letter, because he said so — though lie wouldn't say who he was, or where he came from. "I don't believe he was a stranger though^" she continued; "because I found he had been round to the windows of your room first; and, when he found that all was dark, and nobody there, he came in a great hurry to the kitchen-door, and asked where you were gone? I told him you were gone to Mr. Evelyn's, — and then he asked me a power of ques-» tions about Mr. Evelyn, and whether he was court- ing you, and if I thought it likely he would marry you." "And whdt did you say?" demanded Emily, with extreme surprise, and almost breathless with a thou- sand contenc'ing feelings and thoughts, that rushed intof her mind. 10. '^ « 220 EMILY MORELAND. " I said, that 1 didn't know what right he had to ask me such questions — I wasn't used, I told him, to say all I knew or thought about such things. Mr. Evelyn might, or he might not, intend to ask you the question ; but I thought, if he did, it would be a fine thing for one that had " *' I don't wish to bear any more," interrupted Emily, angrily; "nor can I think, Mrs. Wilson, that you acted consistently with your usual prudence, ia talking in such a manner to a perfect stranger; and, pray, where was your husband during this conver- sation, for I cannot believe he would have joined in it?" Mrs. Wilson entered into a long and angry vindi- cation of herself ; but she compensated Emily, in some measure, for the mortification she had endured, by communicating the intelligence that Susan had ar- rived, and that Isaac was now gone with her, to visit one or two of her old acquaintances. She forgot, in a moment, all her anger, and all her uneasiness at the stranger's visit; but Mrs. Wilson was not now in a humour to answer her inquiries as to how Susan looked, what she said, &c; and Emily was obliged to postpone the gratification of her interest and cu- riosity, until the return of her old friend, whose joy at seeing her could scarcely be confined within the bounds of moderation. *' Good gracious!" she exclaimed, "can it be pos- sible, that this is the same Emily, that I nursed when she was a babe ? And yet there are the same eyes ana eyebrows, and the same sweet, smiling, rosy lipsi that I used to kiss a thousand times in a day; but EMILY MORELAND. 2i2t what an old woman I must be grown, without suk-^ pecting it. "* Nor would any one else suspect it, I am sure, dear Susan," replied Emily, smiling, ** for time ap- pears to have stood still with you ; and, except being rather thinner and paler than you used to be, I set but very little difference in you." Susan sighed — " I have had a good deal to fret and vex me, lately," she replied. " I have lost a very good and kind mistress, and I have been both dis- tressed and annoyed by But I won't think, now, of melancholy subjects ! What is passed, cannot be recalled — and we must only hope that the future will be better!" The clasped hands and uplifted eyes of poor old Isaac, proved how deeply he felt this remark, though l^^inily scarcely knew whether it was intended to ap- ply to the subject which had occasioned all his sorrow, or whether it alluded to some other unfortunate cir- cumstances, in which Susan had been interested. The moment, how ever, that they were left alone, her doubts were terminated; for Susan, with tears in her eyes, began to speak of William Wilson, and the sad course of life which he had fallen into. " You will be surprised, I dare say, to hear, Miss Emily," she observed, " that I have seen that unror- tunate young man, within the last three months." Emily was indeed surprised, and Susan went on to relate, that she was returning from a walk in the neighbourhood of Bristol, where her late mistress's family resided, when she was struck with the appear- ance of a young man, in sailor's clothes, ivho, after 22$ fiMlLY MORBLAND. looking attentively at her for a few minutes, and turning first red, and then pale, addressed her by name, inquiring if she ' had quite forgotten her poor cousin William ?* I thought my heart would have burst — he looked so wan and miserable ; and when I asked hipi what had happened, and how long he had left St. Clare, he burst into tears, and told me never to mention the name of St. Clare to him, for he had quitted it for ever. " I took him home with me, for the lodgings were now my own ; and there I heard from him a story, that almost drove me out of my mind. ' If it had been any one but you, Susan,' said he, ' I should not have dared to make myself known ; but, though I know I did not behave to you as I ought, I know your good heart too Avell, to fear that you will betray me !' " God knows, I would have died sooner than have betrayed him ! But I was terrified to death, every moment that he stayed, after I understood what had happened. I soon found that he had come to Bris- tol, in hopes of getting on board a ship, as a sailor ; but he had very little hopes of succeeding, and pro- posed to go to Falmouth, only he was without money. " 1 ^ave him ten pounds, which was all I could raise at the moment, as the executors had not then ettled with me ; and the money 1 had previously saved, 1 had bought into the Bank ; but this seemed quite a fortune to him, and he almost overwhelmed me with his gratitude. All I thought of, was to get him off J for I was afraid some discovery would take EMILY MOREL AND. 2i9 place of who he was, and that would ha>e been bringing both of us into trouble. " Well, at last, he went, promising- me that he would leave Bristol at day-break next morning, and not write to me till he had got a ship, and was in perfect safety. I thought there could be no fear of his act- ing imprudently, after the severe sufferings he had endui-ed, and his seeming-sorrow for his faults ; but yet I felt uneasy, and wished that I could know, to a certainty, that he was gone. " Three days, however, had only passed over, be- fore I was called down to speak to a man, who, the landlady said, seemed intoxicated, and she therefore did not like to let him come up stairs. " My heart failed me — for I thought directly of William — and, sure enough, it proved to be he ; and, as she had said, quite inebriated. He began a long nonsensical story, to account for his being still in Bristol, and ended with declaring that he could not brinff himself to leave Eng-land and me. If I would consent to have him, and go to America, he had an excellent opportunity of settling there. " You may think, dear Emily, how I felt and looked at this offer ; even if I had not known, from his own lips, the life he had been leading, it was not likely that I could, in a moment, forget all his slights and disdain, when I was poor and humble. " I tried, however, to be as mild and gentle as I could, though I would not give him the slightest encouragement to believe I should ever change my deteimination towards him. Oh, Emily, how dread- fully docs vice alter people ! I could never have 230 EMILY MORELAND. believed that William could have uttered the shock- ing language and threats that he did, when he found that I was not to be made a dupe, by his pretended love. However, to make short of my story, I was obliged to buy his absence, by raising a few more pounds for him ; and, at last, had the satisfaction of knowing that he was gone, having employed my landlady's son to see him safe off, by the coach, to Falmouth. I have not since heard of or from him; but I have had many uneasy moments, from the fear that he would not, evrn now, quit England; but would remain until his money was spent, and thus be disabled from going at all!" Emily was grieved at this account, though she had anticipated even worse, from her knowledge of Wil- liam's violent disposition. She commended, how- ever, Susan's prudence, in having made his quitting Bristol the only terms on which she would grant him further assistance; and she was still better satisfied at finding that she had concealed from him her in- tention of making St. Clare her future residence. EMILY MOUCLAND. 231 CHAPTER X Oh, enviable, early days. When dancing Pleasure'B thougbtleas max*. To care, to guilt, unknown ; How ill exchanged for riper times. To feel the follies and the crimes Of others, or my own. Burns. Subjects of more importance had nesnly banished Mrs. Evelyn, and all connected with her, from Emily's mind; but when, on the third day after her visit to the Parsonage House, she received a letter from Sig- nora Orsini, in which she spoke so much of Mr. Eve- lyn, she began to reflect that it was rather singular, that she had neither heard from, or seen, any of the Curate's family. '^ Were it not that I know it would grieve the dear Signora," she reflected, "how happy should I be, to think that they had entirely dropped me; but that it would grieve her, I can have no doubt; for, even at the distance she now is, she seems to think more of Mr. Evelyn, and his family, than any other subject." Of her own afliiirs she spoke but distantly, though sae seemed to entertain little apprehension of all being eventually settled to her satisfaction; and that at no very distant period; as the partner, whose ab- sence had occasioned the temporary disarrangement of afllairs, was hourly expected to arrive in town. The receipt of this letter, which came in the ordi- 232 EMILY MOREL AND nary way, by post, once more brought forward the subject of the stranger, who had called during her v^sit to the Parsonage, under the pretext of having a letter to deliver to her. Nothing more had been heard or seen of him ; and, though the subject had often been discussed, between herself, Farmer Wil- son, and his niece, no reasonable conjecture, as to who he really could be, or what was his business, occurred to either of them. Emily, indeed, more than once, thought of Herbert Leslie ; yet she knew not why, if he did think proper to call on her, he should assume any mystery or con- cealment. " It is scarcely probable, though, that he recollects the inhabitants of St. Clare," she reflected ; '' and if, as I suppose there is little doubt, he is mar- ried " She broke off abruptly from the train of thought which was rising in her mind, by asking Susan some questions, which led to a long conversa- tion on the fine places and great folks which the lat- ter had seen and lived among, and of which subjects she was always delighted to talk Emily longed to ask her if she had ever, during her residence in the great city, heard or inquired aught respecting Mr. de Cardonnel. The word " father," she could never bring herself to utter, though she never forgot that it Was his due. Susan, however, she thought, seemed to avoid any observa- tion that could lead to the mention of his name ; and Emily's feelings at length overcoming all reserve, she herself ventured to put the question she had sa long wished to ask. " I can tell you but little good of him, my dear," EMIL^ MOKELAND ^H'li returned Susan, with a sigh, and a blush, which seemed to be caused by some unpleasant recollections. " You do know, then, that he is living, dear Susan," rejoined Emily, her cheeks glowing, and her bosom beating, at being thus allowed to speak of one, whose name she had never even uttered to any other person. " 1 will tell you all I know, my dear child," re- turned Susan, '' if you will have patience. It is nearly twelvemonths ago, that my mistress was on a visit, far a few weeks, to a relation in Gower Street, Bedford Square, in London. The lady of the house was a widow, with only one daughter, a very pretty girl, not more than sixteen ; and I had not been in the house more than two days, before I found this young lady. Miss Julia, was carrying on a love-affair, unknown to her mother. " I felt sorry, because she was a good-humoured, thoughtless girl, with no fault, that I could see, but a great deal of vanity ; and I was very sure this gen- tleman, let him be who he would, could mean no good towards her, or he would have come at once to her friends, and not have been carrying on a correspon- dence through the servants, all of whom he had bribed lo assist him. I soon learned all the particulars from the housemaid, and 1 found that the young lady had been accidentally met by her lover in tlie Park ; that he had watched her home, written to her, and that she had only hitherto been preven ed, by her mother's domestic habits, and great care of her, from having had an isterview with him. < He has been here once iu livery, as a visitor to Thomas, our footman,' con- tianed Kitty, the girl who was telling me all this, 10. 2 n vS34 EMILY MOUCLAND. ' and a fine handsome gentleman lie is, though a good deal older than our young lady ; but he was as generous as a prince, and, indeed, Thomas says he is either a lord or a duke, though he was as free among ps in the kitchen, as if he had really been no more than a footman. However, as if the devil would have it so, Miss Julia could not get out of her mo- ther's sight, even to speak to him for a minute; and so he was obliged to go away, quite disappointed; but, now you are here, they'll manage better, I warrant.' " Not if I can help it, thought I ; for I was sure, if he was a nobleman, and not a very young man either, he could have no good intentions towards the young lady ; but I pretended to laugh, and IhiiLk it very clever to outwit the old folks; and so, by hint- ing to Miss Julia that I had found out her secret, I got the foolish, vain girl to tell me every thing herself, and then I promised I would assist her, if I could. " It was accordingly planned by Mrs. Kitty, that Jhe gentleman should come to the house as my bro- ther, just arrived from the country ; for, though Mrs. Westwood, Miss Julia's mother, would not suffer any visitors to her maid-servants, she would not, of course, interfere with me. " I had always the privilege of sitting in a httie back parlour, as my mistress did not wish me to as- sociate with London servants; and it was arranged that Mr. Claridge, as he called himself, should be shown in there, and sit with me, till Julia could find an opportunity of coming down stairs; when I was nie fancied or accidental noise, and Emily wat oblij^ed to yield to her entreaties, and accompany her to the kitchen, where they found the old Dame busily ply- ing her knitting needles, as usual, by the fire-light, and the tired servant girl nodding over hers, in an opposite chair. "What new figary is in the wind, now, to bring you both here?" she exclaimed. ''I'm sure some- thing extraordinary must have happened, to occasion me the honour of a visit, when my husband is not in the way." " I wish he was in the way now," replied Susan, putting her candle upon the table, and creeping in between her aunt and the fireside ; " I wish he would come home ; for Emily and I are almost frightened to death, at seeing a man at the parlour window." " A man ! — who in the world could he be ? Did you see him ?" she demanded, looking at Emily, who replied in the negative, while Susan proceeded to give a still more exaggerated and terrific account than her previous one, of the alarming vision she had beheld. The old woman's natural shrewdness, however, instantly detected the folly of her niece's statement: and she seemed disposed to treat it as an entire fa- brication, when the Welch girl, who had been roused from her sleep by the terrific tale, observed, that she had seen an odd-]ooking strange man down in the valley, when she went to drive the cows up, at dusk. " I did pid him goot night," continued the girl, "pw/ I couldn't tall what he did say; and he had a EMILY MORELAND. 273 cteat cloak, that he did wrap apout him, and made him look so pig as a giant !" " There, now, didn't I tell you — and yet I know you didn't believe half I said — but now, I hope, you are convinced !" burst triumphantly from Susan, who beheld, in this relation, a perfect confirmation of her exaggerated statement. Emily, however, saw nothing in the girl's observa- tion, which could warrant any alarm at the appear- ance of the stranger; for it was evident he had not shunned her observation ; and his wrapping his cloak around him, was easily to be accounted for, as the night was sharp and piercing. The Farmer at this moment entered from his visit to Lambert's cottage, with whom he had been dis- cussing the price of pigs, &c. at the day's market, over a jug of ale, until it had been so often re- plenished, that he was considerably elevated beyond his usual pitch. All Susan's terrors, and wonderments, and con- jectures, were immediately laid before him ; but Isaac's knowing shake of the head, at once convinced Emily that he did not believe the man to be a robber. " Pooh, pooh, I tell thee what — I know all about it!" he observed; "and thee need'st not frighten thyself at all about him, Susan; for it's only a poor gentleman, that's crazed for love, and wanders about not quite right in his head; but he's as harmless as a dove, and wouldn't hurt man, woman, or child ; and he's a very good-looking personable man, too, considering, and speaks as soft and as sweet, aye, as 3iiy little Emily herself! And as to his eyes looking^ 12. 2 N 274 EMILY MORELAND. malicious, why he's got as fine a pair oi aparklers as you would wish to see!" " And where have you seen him ? and where does he live? and what brought him peeping in at our window, to-night ?" demanded Susan, all in a breath. *' Oh, I'm not going to tell you every thing, in- deed!" replied the Farmer. "I can keep a secret better than that, I hope; but he has been living at Lambert's; and I don't believe he has any evil in- tentions towards you, or any body else ; — and so go to bed, and dream of " " I shall do as I please about that," interrupted Susan, pettishly catching up the candle ; " but I can tell you this — It's not much like a gentleman, to come peeping into people's windows — and so I shall tell your mad friend, if I see him." The account which Isaac had given of the stranger, (whose mal d, propos appearance at the window had occasioned so much uneasiness and misconstruction,) while it excited feelings of sympathy in Emily's mind, effectually removed all personal apprehension, or vague ideas as to the identity of him who had oc- casioned them. With Susan, it was matter of great rejoicing that they had thus effectually got rid of Mr. Evelyn's society ; yet she could not shake off the terror, which the supposed evil intentions of the intruder had created in her mind ; and the circumstance con- tributed materially to increase the dislike she had already taken to the country, and her longing after the delights of the Metropolis. Ashamed, however, to acknowledge that she had EMILY MORELAND. 275 SO soon changed her mind, as to the future disposi' tion of her life, she contrived to attribute ail her dis- content and wavering to Emily's account, anxiously watching every expression of gloom on the counte- nance of the latter, and settii g down every sigh, as occasioned by the monotony of the life they led. At length, she came to the direct point. "• I had almost sworn never to see London again," she observed, " but I think I must alter my inten- tion, for your sake, my dear Emily ; you are pining yourself to death here, without a hope of a change; whereas, in -London, something or another new is always starting up. Besides, there will be so much to see, for you that know nothing of the world, that I am sure you would soon be as cheerful and happy as you used to be." The colour rushed into Emily's ciieeks at the sug- gestion. " I should be sorry," she replied, " if you were to subject yourself to any inconvenience, or expense, on my account ; yet I acknowledge that my present situation is very irksome to me, nor do I see any hope of amending it, while I remain here. In London, 1 might, perhaps, be enabled to turn to some account the advantages which I owe to the kindness and care of my lost friend ; yet I should shrink from encountering scenes so new and strange, without the protection of some more experienced friend ; and " " Say no more, my dear," interrupted Susan, with an air of importance, which almost obscured the kindly feelings that beamed in her eyes during Emily's speech ; " I am already decided, and we will 270 EMII>V MO ft ELAN n. begin our preparations directly. Yet 1 should have liked you to have had a new hat ; and your pelisse is very old-fashioned, tlioujj^h it is a «»;.)od colour. I hate to travel in shabby clothes, for we don't pay a farthing; less, and are treated as if one was no body, by the coachman and innkeepers, and the rest of them on the road." Emily smiled at her friend's ideas of a^reatness ; but she objected decidedly to any attempts to im- prove her wardrobe , conscious that Susan's taste and hers would be completely at variance in the article of dress ; and perfectly satisfied with the ample provision, which her indulgent and partial friend the Signora had made for her. in that re- spect. Susan, however, was not easily persuaded out of a matter, on which — as, indeed, on most others — she considered herself a much nmre competent judge than Emily ; and the latter was obliged to compro- mise by agreeing, that if, on their arrival in London, she should find that there was any necessity for in- creasing or altering her wardrobe, she would be guided by her in doing so. Nothing now remained, but to communicate to Isaac Wikon the i)la:i she had formed. Emily felt that this was a most unpleasant task ; but Susan shiank from it, and she was therefore compelled to make it known herself. Isaac heard her with astonishment, which would scarcely allow her to go on, as she attempted to point out to him the folly and impossibility of her con- tinuing as she was at presejit, and the probability thai EMILY MORELANO. 277 she might, in London, establish herseli in a respect- able and comfortable situation. " But Mr. Evelyn don't know anything about this, does he?" demanded Isaac, when she ceased speaking. " I thought, I am sure, that I should soon see you at the Parsonage House — for every body sees that he dotes upon you, and it's all over the place that you are going to be married directly ; but, if this is the case, I was sadly mistaken " " You were, indeed, I assure you, totally mis- taken," interrupted Emily. " Mr. Evelyn is nothing — never has been anything — more than a common acquaintance to me." The old man looked disappointed. " I can't doubt your word, child," he replied ; " but I was in hopes that it was only some lover's quarrel, and that it would be made up yet ; but, if what you say is true, it is all over, and I may as well hold my tongue, though I wish Susan had been at the bottom of the sea, in- stead of coming here to put such thoughts into your head. If you are determined to go, I must see what I can do about getting you some money ; for liunnun is a poor place without a good lot of cash, and I shouldn't like you " Emily interrupted him. " I do not want money, at present ; at least " she stopped short, from the painful thoughts that forced themselves upon her mind. " I tell you what, my dear," replied the Farmer, *' I don't want to hurt you, nor disparage Susan, be- cause she's always been a good girl, and I know she has a sincere kindness for you ; but, at the same time^ nial1 nresent, and hinting tl' >t she would rather he EMILY MORELAND. 28J should defer his intention of digging up one of the flower beds at present, she walked on towards the summer-house, where she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life. The same hand which had been so busy in the garden, was also visible here ; for the vine had been newly nailed up over the trellis-work, and all looked as if it had been recently occupied by some one. Some pieces of written paper, torn to frag- ments, were scattered on the ground, and Emily's quick glance soon discovered a small volume lying in the recess, which had been originally constructed for the purpose of such deposits. She eagerly opened it, and found that it was a volume of poetical selections, and in the first page was written — " The gift of Julia Dorrington to " All Emily's skill and penetration, sharpened as they were by her ardent desire to ascertain who this book had since belonged to, were insufficient to en- able her to decipher the name which followed, and which had been purposely erased, or rather blotted out. But the name of " Julia Dorrington" brought with it a train of new thoughts and reflections. It was the name of the rich and beautiful female, whose charms had stifled the last lingering remains of honour in the bosom of Reginald de Cardonnel, and steeled his heart against the claims of Marian More- land. It was " Julia Dorrington," who had beoome the then envied, the since neglected and deserted wife of that unprincipled libertine ; and on whom was it so likely she should have bestowedsuch a gift as this book, as on th*? man who then possessed her hpsrt. 12. 2 o 282 EMILY MORELANl). li^mily endeavoured to discover if there was any date, which could lead to a conclusion; but, though she turned over every leaf, nothing of the kind re- warded her search. The blush, however, which had deserted her cheeks, and had been succeeded by the paleness of deep emotion, at the thoughts which had rushed into her mind, again revisited them, at dis- covering the name of " Emily," recently written under the following poetical sketch. " There first I saw her — Her dark and eloquent eyes, mild, full of fire, 'Twas Heaven to look upon ; and her sweet voice, As tunable as harp of many strings. At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul." Again her conjectures were all put to flight. " It could not be her father, who had written this magical word. It was not like the sober feeling of a parent, to apply this animated description to his child. And yet " Most unwillingly she quitted her retired seat ; but the sound of the church clock reminded her that she had already been absent much longer than she had intended to be, or than Susan would think reasonable. kt first she hesitated what to do with the volume tvhich had occasioned her so much speculation ; but she considered that it was not probable that the stranger who, by Lambert's account, had quitted that part of the country, would return to reclaim a book, which he had perhaps totally forgotten. It would be spoiled, if it were left there any length of time ; or, perhaps, be taken away by some one^ to whom it would be of no use; and, at length, she d€- EMILY MOJIELAND. 283 cided on taking it with her, trusting to chance to enable her to return it to its owner. With a heavy heart, Emily quitted a spot so de- servedly dear to her; and, on the following morning, bade adieu to St. Clare and its inhabitants, leaving to Isaac the task of informing Mr. Evelyn of her de- parture, and of the motives which led to it. Every thing was new to Emily; and the bustle of their departure from the inn, and the timidity she felt at being seated opposite to a fashionably-dressed young man, who was their only travelling companion, prevented her giving way to those emotions which her parting with Isaac excited. Neither Susan or the stranger ever possessed any portion of that re- serve and timidity which kept Emily silent, and they soon engaged in a conversation, in which plenty of laughter and noise supplied the deficiency of wit and sense. Emily said nothing, unless immediately applied to for her opinion ; but she was not inattentive to what passed, nor could she help feeling that the stranger's abundant pretensions to rank and fashion, harmonised very poorly with the occasional vulgarity of his manner, and his ignorance of the meaning of words, which he sometimes most ludicrously misapplied. At first she was led to believe that his doing so was the effect of design, and intended to ridicule Susan's consequential assumptions, on subjects of which she was profoundly ignorant; but further observation convinced her that she was mistaken, and that it was really " in sober sadness," that he was committing the blunders which sounded at once so laughable and 284 EMILY MOUELAND. pitiable in her ear, that she more than once caught herself actually blushing for iiim. Mr. Gilbert, however, for so he announced himself to be called, was far from participating in this in- genuous feeling. Enveloped in the impenetrable armour of self-sufficiency and assurance, he dashed on through thick and thin, shrinking from no subject which could possibly be brought forward, and settling all as much to his own satisfaction as to that of the lady, who was evidently quite fascinated with his prodigiously fashionable display, and assumed great connexions. " I declare," he observed, " I don't actually believe any of my friends will know me, when I get to town ! I am so horribly behind-hand with the fashion ; but I've been rustificating among the Welsh mountains, for the last three months, just to oblige a partic'^lar friend, who has got a seat down there, and there wasn't a tailor w'thin fifty miles, that could make an article fit for a gentleman to wear. So I was obliged to put up with the things I carried down with me, rather than submit to be made a Goth or a Wandal, as Lady Maria says." This, as was intended, drew from Susan a very complimentary observation on his appearance, in the course of which she contrived to let him know, that she was a tolerably sufficient judge of fashion, having only a few weeks since (juitted Bath, at that time, the rendezvous of ail that was gay and elegant. " I intended myself to have spent the winter at Bath," returned Mr. Gilbert, " but my friend, the Honourable Mr. Hawkins, was so pressing, that I EMILY MOHEJ AND. 285 could not resist his remonstrances^ though I'va been piao^uily dull, and couldn't have held it out, I am sure, but for Lady Maria, who is uncommon gay and witty. Such a creter for fun and frolic ! She's very handsome, too, quite an Adonis, I do assure you ; but, somehow^ or another, she arn't exactly to my fancy. Vvn yery particular \n my taste; and yet, as Jack Hawkins used to say, he couldn't think what I could find to object to. I must confess, I was sorry, because I really believe the poor girl was fond of a certain person that shall be nameless. However, she's going either to the Continent, or to France, or Italy, or some of them places, and I hope it will all wear off — for, 'pon my soul, I couldn't bring- my mind to think of matrimony, just at present!" Emily could scarcely suppress the expression of the contempt she felt for this unmanly braggart ; and even Susan's faith in her new acquaintance seemed shaken, and her flippancy checked for a short time; ])ut again the wish of showing off, though not pre- cisely in the same way, prevailed, and Avith silent mortlHcation Emily listened to the confidential in- tercourse which was gradually established between them. The stranger, however, with all his foppishness and garrulity, was evidently more than a match for Susan in cunning; and he contrived, without dis- closing a single particular respecting himself, beyond his avowed assumption of the rank of a gentleman, to draw from the former every essential circumstance of her situation in life; her object in travelling to London ; and her total want of connexion in thai place. 286 EiMlLY MORELAND. It was very evident, too, to Emily, that he was fully competent to discover, if not to take advantage of, her friend's weakness of intellect, and total want of caution ; and it yet remained to be seen, whether he had any purpose to answer, in the manner in which he addressed himself to her reigning foibles. Wearied with the incessant nonsense which she was compelled to listen to, her head aching from the want of sleep, and the jolting of the coach, to which she was so totally unaccustomed, Emily sighed a hundred times during the night, for the quiet repose of her own chamber; and, until she replied with an asperity she seldom felt, or indulged, was continually annoyed with some coarse joke ; such as — " Don't sigh, but send, Miss; and if he won't come, take me instead;" or something of the same level. As his conversation, however, with Susan became more particular and confidential, his notice of Emily relaxed, until, wholly unnoticed by either of them, she shrank still closer into the corner, and endea- voured to abstract her thoughts from all that was passing around hei. Morning broke, and both Mr. Gilbert and his talkative companion, tired out, at last, dropped off to sleep, while Emily, though sick and shivering, found some relief in gazing through the dim glass at the fields and hedges, and sometimes was gratified by the sight of a neat white cottage, in which her fancy pictured the inhabitants enjcying that calm repose for which she sighed in vain. The sun v/as shining brightly, and the sight of the husbandmen and labourers, plodding along the road lO their several occupations, had diversified iUfi RWILV MORELAND. 287 p^ene for more than an hour, before Emily's compa- nions began to shake off their slumbers. Emily dreaded to hear Mr. Gilbert recommence his tiresome and unmeaning' garrulity; but sleep seemed somewhat to have sobered him, and, though he was still evidently desirous of cultivating the intimacy he had commenced with Susan, he was far less intrusive and egotistical than on the preceding day. With extreme dissatisfaction and dismay, Emily heard him repeatedly allude to a future intercourse, which he seemed to reckon upon as settled ; and which was to be cemented by an introduction to his mother and three sisters, whose friendship, he pro- mised, would be instantly accorded at his recommen- dation. Already she began to think of the Farmer's pre- dictions and cautions, and already she began almost to repent that she had so rashly engaged in a project^ which, she feared, would bring on her mortification and sorrow, if not disgrace; but it was too late to retract, and she could only hope and pray, that, be- fore they arrived at the end of their journey, some- thing would happen to break off the threatened con- nexion. Poor Emily's evil star, however, was destined at that moment to have the ascendancy; and when the stage-coach stopped in Holborn, she had the morti- fication of hearing a hack sent for by Mr. Gilbert, into which he stepped, along with them, and they were driven, by his direction, to a very showy millif^ ner's shop, in the neighbourhood of Oxford Street, 288 EVllLY AlORELAND. where he said he could procure them proper and respectable apartments. Emily trembled, as she heard the sum which her friend agreed to pay, for the handsomely furnished rooms to which they fvere shown ; but she was some- what consoled by hearing her decline to take them for any specific period, determining;, in her own mind, that she would exert her utmost influence to prevail on her not to embark in an expensive mode of life, to which she knew her finances were unequal. The officious and persevering Mr. Gilbert, having seen them, as he expressed himself, " quite at home and comfortable," at length, to Emily's great relief, quitted them ; and the latter, deferring all her observations to a future opportunity, gladly retired to the bed which was prepared for her, and, exhausted by fatigue, soon forgot either that she was in Lon- don, or the mortification which had attended her entrance into it. It was dark before she awoke sufficiently to recollect the novelty of her situation, and with some difficulty she contrived to find her clothes, and dress herself. She opened the chamber-door, and listened, forget- ful almost which way she was to take; but the well- known laugh of Susan almost immediately saluted her ear, and, guided by its sound, she crept down the stairs, and opened the door of the sitting-room, where, to her surprise, she beheld, seated at the tea- table, and " quite at home," Mr. Gilbert, and two smart vulgar-looking girls, who she readily conjec- tured were hi? sisters. Shivering, pale, and dejected, Emily advanced EMILY MORELAND> 28^ almost close to the table, before she was seen, or at least noticed, by any of the jovial party: but her melancholy look, and the coldness with which she replied to Mr. Gilbert's inquiries, seemed to restore Susan, in some degree, to her recollection, and she commenced a long apology to Emily, for apparently neglecting her, saying that she intended to send her tea up to her room, supposing, from her being an inexperienced traveller, that she would not be suffi- ciently recovered to rise. " I should certainly have preferred remaining in my own room," returned Emily, " if I had been aware that you had company; but, imagining that you were as fatigued as myself " " Oh, no, my dear — I am not such an inexperienced traveller as you are," interrupted Susan^ forcing a laugh. '" Anybody may see that," observed Mr. Gilbert, echoing the unmeaning laugh, *' for you look as blooming and fresh as ever; while Miss What's-her- name looks as pale and dismal as a stewed witch !" " La, for shame, Augustus!" exclaimed one of the young ladies, " I declare, I never heard any thing so unpolite in my life!" " You're a deal more unpoliter, Miss," replied the brother, with an angry glance, " and I desire you vjon't take no such liberties with me!" A contention now ensued between the brother and sister, from which Emily shrank, with so much con- tempt and disgust visible in her countenance, that both parties suddenly stopped short, as if conscious liiey were betraying and exposing themselves. 13. " 2 p 290 EMILY MORELAND. Susan, too, looked grave and disconcerted; but a whisper from Mr. Gilbert, of which Emily only caught the words "envious" and "jealous," pro- nounced with great emphasis, soon restored the smiles to the face of the former, and the business of the tea- table proceeded without further interruption. " And so you've never been in London before, jjfem?" observed one of the young ladies, drawing her chair close to Emily, who very briefly replied that she had not. " Dear me, well — I declare — I quite envy you — you will have so much to see, and so many pleasures that will be quite new to you ! Now, I've seen every sight in London, and sometimes I'm so tired of every thing, that I wish I could run away into the country, and live quite solitary." " I cannot say that I have any inclination to live quite solitary," replied Emily, smiling, " but, I con- fess, I feel already that I should be very glad to be back again." "La! what before you've seen the Theatres, and Astley's, and the Panorama, and the Exhibition, and Vauxhall, and the Parks, and Kensington Gar- dens, which will soon be filled, if the weather keeps fine? Oh, you don't know half the delightful places you have to see yet!" "And which it is probable I never may see," said Emily, when the communicative and voluble young lady paused to take breath. " La, my dear ! why not ?" demanded Miss Gilbert, or rather Miss Matilda, the other sister claiming the title of seniority, " why, my brother has already en- EMILY MORELAND. 29T gaged Mrs. Wilson for Drury Lane, to-morrow night, and Covent Garden on Monday ; and then, on Sunday, we shall of course go to the Park, if it's fine ; and, surely, you'll never go to mope yourself to death, at home!" Emily was about to say that she certainly should not consider herself included in Mrs. Wilson's ar- rangements, but she caught the eyes of the latter fixed upon her, with a look of anxiety and kindness, and she could not bring herself to utter a word which might mortify and wound her feelings. She there- fore merely replied, that her joining in the pleasures they projected would depend on circumstances; and then, turning to her friend Susan, endeavoured, by speaking to her, to put an end to the importunities of Miss Gilbert, who, though apparently good-na- tured, was not of the sort that could ever assimilate with her. With all her folly and vanity, which constantly made a dupe of her better sense, Susan possessed sufficient discernment to discover that her new ac- quaintances were not exactly what they wished to be thought. The flattery and attentions of the bro- ther, added to a tolerably good person, and very dashing appearance, had rendered her wilfully blind to his very evident assumption and ignorance ; but this veil could not be cast over his sisters, who, though equally smart and gay, were obviously of a class which could make no pretensions to fashion or gentility. The contrast, indeed, between them and Emily, even though the latter was in complete dishabille, and silent and dispirited, was so striking, that the pre* 292 EMILY MORELAND. suming and flippant Gilbert himself seemed to feel it, and accordingly treated the former with much more respect than he had before been inclined to shew her, while Susan, whose natural habits of deference, and real affection for her, had again resumed their in- fluence, attempted, by every means in her power, to compensate for her transient neglect and forget- fulness. Ever grateful and considerate, Emily in her turn exerted herself to appear contented and even cheer- ful, and the evening passed off better than she had anticipated ; the whole of the party, with the ex- ception of the former, engaging at cards, and thus leaving her uninterruptedly to the enjoyment of the fireside and her own thoughts. *' What would the dear Signora think?" she re- flected, as the boisterous mirth and exultation of the winners, or the snarling contentions of the losers, reminded her of the society into which she was thus strangely thrown. The reflection brought with it a long train of regrets, and fears, and conjectures, from which she was not aroused, until a sudden pause in the noise a.round her discovered that she was the object of their earnest attention ; and, hastily drying the tears which were coursing each other down her pale cheeks, she replied to Mrs. Wilson's earnest interro- gation, " that she was well — though her spirits were depressed, she could scarcely tell why." " Well, that is strange !" observed Mr. Gilbert, " for the air of London has generally quite a dif- ferent effect upon most young ladies ; for my own EMILY MORELAND. 293 part) if I travel any distance from the dear place, I*m sure to have the blue devils — but I no sooner g;et back within the smell of the smoke, than they fly off, and ' Richard's hisself again V " Emily did not reply to this effusion, and one of the Misses observing, " that taking notice of people, when they were nervous and low spirited, only made them worse," the card-party took the hint, and re- sumed their game, in which they soon became too much interested, even to bestow any attention on one who was so little suited to them. The hour of parting, at length, to Emily's great satisfaction, arrived, and, after abundance of chat- tering anticipation of the pleasure which they were to derive from their visit to the Theatre on the fol- lowing evening, and several attempts to draw from Emily a decisive promise that she would be of their party, the visitors departed. CHAPTER XIII. Ail, fair delig'hts, that o'er my soul. On Memory's wing, like shadows fly ! Ah, flowers, which Joy from Eden stole. While Innocence stood smiling by ! But cease, fond heart, this bootless moan — Those hours, on rapid pinion flown. Shall yet return, by absence crowned, And scatter livelier roses round. COLERIDGI! Nearly the whole of the following day was passed by Mrs. Wilson in bed, recruiting from the fatigues S94 EMILY MOREL AND. of her journey, and probably avoiding- also, by thdl means, a discussion from which she seemed to shrink, as to the acquaintances she had formed. Emily, indeed, had resolved, if the subject was in- troduced, so as to give her a fair opportunity, that she would freely declare her opinion. She felt that it was almost impossible for her to be too fastidious or exact in the choice of her society; but she could make allowances for Susan, who had hitherto been so much confined by her attendance on her mistress, that she would naturally be anxious to enjoy those pleasures which she had been so long denied. At the same time, there was something about the Gil- berts, which, independent of their vulgarity and ig- norance, convinced her that they were far from bein;^ fit associates, even for her friend Susan, and much less for her. The time, however, for dressing- for the play arrived, before Emily could get an opportunity of saying a word on the subject. "What do you intend to wear, my dear?" inquired Susan, with a look of solicitude, which Emily could easily interpret. " It will be no disappointment to you, I hope," re- turned Emily, " that I intend staying- at home. I am not, in fact, sufficiently recovered from fatigue, nor can I sumraop spirits to enter into the pleasure of such an entertainment; besides, 1 really " ^' Well, my dear, I won't try to persuade you," interrupted her friend, evidently anxious to avoid a discussion, the subject of which she was well aware of. "On Monday, however," she continued, as she was leaving the room, " I hope you will not object." EMILY MORELAND. 295 "I will tell you candidly, at once," commenced Emily, but, before she could complete the sentence, the bird was flown, and she saw no more of her until she was full dressed, when she just looked in to say " Good evening," Mr. Gilbert and the Misses being already at the door, in a hackney coach, waiting for her. '^What shall I say to them for you, my dear?" she observed, running to catch a hasty look at herself in the glass, and evidently delighted at the reflection of her charms. " Just what you please," returned Emily, with an air of indifference. " I do not consider myself at all bound either to apologise or account to them, I as- sure you." Again Susan was off, and Emily, taking a book, sat down quietly to pass the hours till her return. It could not be supposed that, at her age, and with her disposition, Emily was indifferent to the thought of visiting the Theatre. It was, in fact, a treat she anticipated with great satisfaction; and she felt, for the first half hour or so, rather dull and dissatisfied; but the certainty that she was acting properly, soon consoled her for what, as she reflected, would per- haps be only a temporary deprivation ; and she soon became so interested in the volume she was reading, that she forgot the play and its visitors, and looked up with surprise when a young woman entered to inquire if she wished the cloth to be laid for supper. "What time do the Theatres close?" inquired Emily. 296 EMILY MORELAND "**Oh, ma'am, they won't be ove.' for these two hours, at soonest," replied the girl; "and then, per- haps, Mrs. Wilson won't be at home for two hours more, because Matty Gilbert told me that they were all to go to her mother's to supper, and they're sure to keep it up very late." " Indeed! then you know the Gilberts well?" ob- served Emily. "Oh, yes. Ma'am," replied the girl, with a sig- nificant smile; " they are cousins of mine. Mrs. Gil- bert and my mother are sisters; though,since they have been up in the world, and mother has been left to struggle with a large family, and cannot alford to dress and dash as they do, they can scarcely conde- scend to notice us for relations. Matty and I, indeed, are always good friends, for she is not so proud and upstart as Miss Joanna and Miss Gilbert, as their mother calls her ! But it is all the old woman's fault, as my mother says, for she has brought them up to think so much of themselves, though their father and mine were both of the same trade, and both kept butcher's shops in Clare Market; only my father died very young, and then my mother was left to do the best she could. But, as mother says, the money that old Gilbert left can't last for ever ; and then the girls, if they don't get married, or Mr. Augustus don't marry a fortune, as they think he will " " But is Mr. Gilbert in no trade or profession ?" interrupted Emily, who was anxious to learn all she could on the subject. ** Oh, dear, no — he has tried two or three things, but nothing would do ; though, I believe, he has got some- EMILY MORELAND. 297 thing to do now, as a rider to a tailor, a cousin of his father's." This was a term which Emily did not comprehend, but the young woman explained it by saying that a " rider" was a person who went through the country collecting orders and bills for tradesmen. " He pretends," continued the girl, " that he's only been out on pleasure; but Mrs. Trenchard says she knows, from good authority, that's what he has been doing, for these last three months, with his conceited talk about Lord This, and Lady T'other, who, I dare say, would hardly look at him, or speak to him." Emily thought this was a very probable conjecture, and such as completely explained all that she had been unable to comprehend ; and, having listened patiently to the poor girl's complainings of the scorn and insolence with which Mr. Augustus treated her, she dismissed her, observing, that she would not trouble her about supper, as it seemed improbable Mrs. Wilson would return till late. The confidence which was thus established between Emily and Ellen, who was an apprentice to Mrs. Trenchard, was highly prized by the latter; and on the following morning, Emily was entertained, during the greatest part of her breakfast time, with anecdotes of the Gilbert family, all of which were confirmatory of their extravagant habits, and inor- dinate propensity for pleasure. The foolish old mo- ther, it seemed, fancied her children were all so beautiful and accomplished, that it was impossible they could fail to captivate, wherever they were seen, and was thus rendering them tota ly unfit for tlie 13. 2q 208 EMILY MORELAND. Situation for which nature and fortune intended them. Two of the girls had, it appeared^ had a good opportunity of marrying respectably, soon after their father's death; but the old woman turned up her nose at the bare mention of a tallow-chandler, and a baker; and the foolish girls being persuaded into the idea that they ought to look higher than to trades- men, they rejected their suitors, and set up at once for fine ladies. Mr. Augustus, however, had always been a pro- fessed Adonis, and the fine gentleman of the family, having, from his boyhood, quite disdained his father's occupation, and the air of Clare Market. For this refinement he was indebted to an aunt, who had taken him, in his infancy, to the more classic purlieus of Kennington Common, where she lived upon an an- nuity of a hundred a year, bequeathed to her by a single old gentleman, whose housekeeper she had been for some years. At her death, however, the young gentleman found himself obliged to return home, with only about fifty pounds, the old lady's savings, and a plentiful stock of assurance and conceit, to make his way in the world; for his father, the old butcher, declared that he would never advance a farthing, to aid him in making a greater fool of himself than he now wasj and, unless he consented to put on an apron, and learn to assist in the business, he should not have a shilling of the money that had been made in it. Fortunately, as the young man thought, the old man died suddenly, before he had time to alter his will, aa he had threatened; and Mr. Augustus found him- EMILY MORELAND. ' 291) self free to consult his inclinations, with a luoiet} of his father's property, amounting to about seven hun- dred pounds, to assist his speculations, which Avere nothing less than captivating and marrying some heiress, who could raise him to the acme of his am- bition — a horse and groom, a morning lounge in Bond Street, and the Theatres in the evening. Ellen, however, hinted that she believed he was beginning to moderate his ambition, his pocket being very low ; and Emily could not but comprehend the significant hint which was given her, that Mr. Gilbert would not think Mrs. Wilson very undesirable, if, as was supposed, she possessed a tolerable property. Emily had surmised as much, even before Ellen spoke of his present views; but she determined that, at least, her weak-minded friend should not fall into the trap, without an effort to save her. She was, however, obliged to promise secresy to Ellen for the present, as she said that her mistress and Mrs. Gilbert were dear friends, and Mrs. Trenchard would never forgive her, if she heard she had said anything about them. "You had better let them go on for the present,'' observed Ellen, " and I shall be sure to hear evary thing from Matty; and then, when you think it is tijiie to open Mrs. Wilson's eyes, we can contrive some way of bringing it all out." Emily smiled at the mingled cunning and simplicity of the poor girl, who was so desirous of revenging Mr. Gilbert's numerous insults and slights, by defeat- ing his matrimonial plot; but she looked graver, when, after a great many blushes and hesitations^ 300 E M I L V M O U i: li A N D. Ellen a\()\vtnl tliat she had once reffiirded Auffustus with very difleient reelini>s — he had been, in fact, her professed admirer in secret, having pretended that his mother's ambitious views alone prevented liis open avowal of his aflection ; but, encouraged by her simplicity and trusting confidence in him, he had at length dared to insult her with proposals of a very difl'erent nature; and, when she indignantly spurned them, liad ridiculed her presumption, in supposing he ever intended to make hei h's wife. " lie told me," continued the poor girl, sobbing, " that as it was necessary for every man of fashion to have a mistress, he had intended to bestow that honour on me; but, if I was such a simpleton, he should make anotlier choice; and that I should bit- terly repent n)y folly, when I sat at the corner of the shop window, sewing till my fingers were sore, and my eyes ached, while he dashed by in a curricle and pair of greys, with a smart girl by his side! " 1 can't tell you how I abused him. Miss More- land — 1 know I said a great many spiteful things of liim and his family, and what their pride and vanity would all come to; but who could help it, provoked and insulted as I was?" "Who, indeed!" thought Envily, who felt hei contempt for the would-be-fop changed into hatred and disgust, at this proof of his total want of feeling or principle. " And did you not make his conduct known ?" she demanded. > " Only to Matilda," she replied, " who had known all about our meetings, and walks of a Sunday, and who thought, as well as me, that he really liked me; EMILY MOllELAND. 301 but when she reproached him, he coolly told her that he had no more liking for me than any one else, only he thonght that I was a good-looking, shewy girl, and would do credit to his taste, if he brought me out. Matty w-as ready to tear his eyes out," con- tinued the poor girl, " but she knew she should get into sad trouble, both with her own mother and mine, if it were found that she had encouraged our pro- ceedings ; so we were both forced to hold our tongues, though she gives him a rub whenever she can, and he hates her like poison, because she tells him that his treatment of me will come home to him." The sound of Mrs. Trenchard's sharp voice, as she left her bed-room, where she regularly indulged until nine, while her apprentice supplied her place below, recalled poor Ellen to a recollection of the time she had lost in relating her mortification and disappointment, and she hurried away, leaving Emily to reflect on the baseness and heartlessness of the being, who, she feared, had already gained but too great an ascendancy over her friend Susan. Her brow was still ruffled with these reflections, when Susan, who had not been many hours in bed, entered the room, looking pale, haggaid, and dis- contented. Emily expressed her fears that the night's dissipation had not done her any good. " Why, indeed, 1 don't feel very well, this morn- ing," she replied ; " but, the fact is, I could not sleep, after I got to bed." " I am sorry foi that," returned Emily, " for, I am sure, you must be very much exhausted by so many hours '* 3('2 EMILY MORELAMI). '• Oh, I should not care about that," she hastily replied ; " but, the truth is, I was very much vexed last night by some remarks about you." " Me !" returned Emily, with surprise, " who could possibly think it worth while tq say any thin^ about me ?" " Why, the Gilberts seem to think. Miss More- land, that you set yourself quite above them and me, and they asked me a good many questions about you ; and, at last, it came out, that it was at the house of a near relation of Mrs. Gilbert's that your poor mother lodged, when she was in London, and they knew all the whole story ; and, indeed, I could not help thinking with them, that it is a little hard that you should consider yourself so much above me and my company !" " Above your company, certainly," returned Emily, proudly, " I do and ever shall consider my- self; but never above one who has been what you have been to me, Susan ! As to what such people as the Gilberts may say, or think, respecting my poor " She burst into tears of mingled sorrow and indig- nation ; and Susan wept also, from the conviction of her own folly, in having been drawn into an ex- posure of Emily's situation i and thus, by an ill- grounded resentment, exposed her to the petty con- tempt and malice of people, who, she could not con- ceal from herself, were so completely inferior to her, that no comparison could or ought to be drawn. " I wish 1 had never seen these Gilberts !" she at last observed, " for y )ur sake, my dear, that I do !" EMILY MORELAND. 303 " And I sincerely wish so, for your own," replied Kmily, calmly, " for I much fear, that " She paused, afraid of infringing her promise to Ellen, and Susan's self-conceit instantly took fire. "• As to myself, Miss Moreland, I think I am ar- rived at sufficient years of discretion, and have enough experience of the world, to know how to choose my company ; and though the Gilberts may not suit you, who have been brought up so cleverly, they are quite good enough for me, I assure you." " T doubt it, I doubt it, very much, Susan," replied Emily, warmly ; " there are very few, I fear, whom 1 should think good enough for such a heart as yours ; and, I am sure, the Gilberts are not among those few. I hope that you will never find to your cost that I am right." Susan remained silent ; but Emily saw that what she had said had made some impression on her mind ; and, fearful of weakening it by saying more, she endeavoured to change the subject, by asking- some questions relative to the entertainment she had received the preceding evening. " It was a very fine play," replied Susan, in a dis- consolate tone, " and we had a capital seat in one of the dress boxes ; but I did not enjoy it as I should have done, if you had been there ; and I believe it was my talking so much about you, and wishing so often that I could have persuaded you to come, that set them on to " " Well, never mind, my kind friend," interrupted Emily, whose grateful feelings were completely aroused by this avowal, " we will say nothing more 304 EMILY MORELAND. on that head ; and, though I cannot promise you to like or love these people, I will promise, if it will be any gratification to you, that I will go witli them and you on Monday." " You are a good dear girl !" returned Susan, com- pletely conciliated by this assurance, which Emily half repented at the moment she uttered it, so much did she dislike to make her first entree in public with the Gilberts. The day was passed in comparative comfort, for, except a short call from Mr. Gilbert in the course of it, to inquire if Mrs. Wilson was quite well, and had caught no cold, during which Emily was, as she considered, fortunately engaged in her chamber, un- packing and arranging her trunks, none of the new acquaintance made their appearance. Susan's manner, however, Emily thought, did not seem improved by this short visit ; she was colder and more constrained than was natural to her, and Emily sighed from the painful conviction that the art and flattery of this worthless young man were every hour gaining increased ascendancy over Susan's mind. " What do you think Augustus had taken in his head, my dear ?" observed the latter, abruptly, after a long reverie, in which she had evidently been re- calling something to her mind. Emily smiled, as she replied, " that it was scarcely possible that she could guess" — she was about to add, " wha might enter such a head ;" but she re- pressed the latter part of the sentence, and Susan rejoined, EMILY MORELAND. 305 ** Why, he thought, from my wearing black, and rallingmyself Mistress Wilson, that I must of course be a widow. It was, to be sure, very foolish of me, for I certainly am not too old to keep the title of a maiden, and Miss Wilson would sound as well every bit as Mistress. He vows and declares, indeed, that he will never call me Mrs. Wilson again." Emily tried to smile, but she sighed at the same time, for the foolish vanity this speech betrayed ; but Susan was busily engaged at the glass, trying on a very fascinating new cap, which Mrs. Trenchard had sent up as the very last fashion, and, during the dis- cussion on its merits which ensued, the previous sub- ject was forgotten. A walk through Bond-street and Piccadilly, just at the fashionable hour, was Emily's first introduc- tion to the sights and gaieties of London, and agree" ably occupied nearly the whole of that portion of the day which she was accustomed to call '' after- noon," but which she learned, from her companion and guide, she must henceforth consider as " morn- ing," there being no such word in the vocabulary of the fashionable world. At first, the novice found herself considerably an- noyed by the numerous groups of idlers who passed them, from whose inquisitive stare not even the ex- treme plainness and simplicity of her appearance could protect her ; but the repeated assurances of her companion, that there was nothing more than common in this, which was only a habit, somewhat re-assured her; and the novelties which met her view, on every side, in the shops, the equipages, the 13. 2 tt 31)6 EMILY MORELAND. sometirae'S elegant and often outre dresses of the females, soon suflSciently attracted her attention, to render her less sensible of this annoyance. She was, however, somewhat mortified by finding her companion recognised, and familiarly, though not disrespectfully, greeted by more than one livery servant i and she almost instinctively shrank behind, when one, in a flaming livery, with a gilt-headed stick, almost as big as himself, joined his old ac- quaintance, and walked by her side down the street a short distance, to talk of what had occurred, while they were residing in the same hotel at Bath. The gentleman of the shoulder-knot had, how- ever, discovered that Emily's old-fashioned straw bonnet concealed a very beautiful face ; and, evi- dently considering her as of no higher stamp than her companion, and being, besides, a professed con- noisseur in beauty, he turned two or three times to address some common-place remarks to her, whose blushes he probably attributed to bashfulness, and a proper sense of the high honour his notice con- ferred on her. It was precisely at one of these moments, that Emily, turning away her eyes to avoid his saucy stare, met those of Herbert Leslie, fixed upon her with a look of such surprise, and almost contempt, as drove the bright blush from her cheek, and made her gladly catch hold of Susan's arm for support. "What is the matter, my dear?" exclaimed the latter, loudly. Emily could not utter a word, and the young man's levity instantly subsiding, he exclaimed — " Good heavens! slm will faint— let us take her into a shop." EMILY MORELAND. 307 Emily, however, withdrew from the support he would have afforded her, and, uttering^ some confused observation that the unusual bustle and noise had made her giddy, she attempted to walk rapidly on^ not trusting herself to look whether Leslie was still observing her. But the faint sickness which had seized her, would not go off, and she was compelled to yield to Susan's loud entreaties, and enter the nearest shop, where she was instantly accommodated with a seat and a glass of water, which soon had the desired effect of relieving her. *' Zounds ! I must run — I am five minutes past my lady's time!" exclaimed the servant, who had been very solicitous for her recovery. " I wish 1 could have seen you safe home ; but Mr. Stevens, I am sure," looking at the master of the shop, " will let his boy run for a coach, for I would not advise you to attempt to walk." Mr. Stevens was all civility — " He would do any thing to accommodate any friends of Mr. Thomas," he said, and Mr. Thomas, after a short whisper with Susan, ran off to attend his engagement, as he called it. Emily soon, however, declared herself perfectly recovered, and, having waited till the persons whom curiosity, or perhaps humanity, in some instances, had induced to loiter round the shop door, had dis- persed, in consequence of finding that there was nothing very serious to attract them, she thanked the master of the shop for his civility, and, taking Susan's arm, departed. But it was in vain that she DOS EMILY MOllELAND. tried to raJly her spirits, or even to collect her thoughts, sufficiently to reply to Susan's questions and remarks. Afraid to raise her eyes, lest she should encounter those which had had so powerful an effect upon her, she scarcely knew how she reached home ; and, on entering Mrs. Trenchard's shop, she threw herself into the nearest chair, quite exhaustea with the exertion she had made. " What a beautiful creature 1" exclaimed a bold, highly-rouged, fashionable-looking woman, staring Emily rudely in the face, " yet it looks more like a statue of marble, than a creature of flesh and blood!" " She is ill. Ma'am," returned Susan, somewhat indignantly; " come, Emily, my dear, rouse your- self, and let us get up stairs." " Is Miss Moreland ill?" exclaimed Ellen, who at that moment came from the back of the shop, with some article of dress, for the inspection of the lady. '' Moreland ! Moreland ! — I should know that name, and those features!" exclaimed the latter, thrusting Ellen, who was anxiously approaching Emily, on one side. " She has never been in London, Ma'am, till within the last few days, and therefore I think you are mistaken." " I am not mistaken, though — for just so she looked, and just at her age She is from the coun- try, you say? — what part? — where does she come from? — and who does she belong to?" Susan was about to reply, but Emily, who seemed to have heard only the last question, burst into tearSj EMILY MOilELAND. 309 and softly exclaiming— "Who, indeed I" — attempted to reach the stairs, which, however, she could not accomplish, without the assistance both of Ellen and Susan. " I am better now — I wish I had not gone out — I wish I could stay here for ever, and never see any- one again !" she passionately exclaimed, as soon as she was seated in their own apartment. " I hope you don't suffer yourself to be hurt by the remarks of Lady Haviland!" observed Ellen, *' every body knows she's half mad ; though, since his lordship and her are come to live together again, she seems a good deal better than she used to be ; but she's as full of whims as an e^g is full of meat, as Mrs. Trenchard says." Emily, however, had been too severely hurt and mortified, before she saw Lady Haviland, to pay much regard to what she had said, though it had struck upon a chord in her bosom, which never failed to vibrate most painfully. Her thoughts were fully occupied by Herbert Leslie, and his expressive look ; and she was glad when the conversation which had arisen between Susan and Ellen, respecting Lady Haviland, was concluded, and she was left to herself. "What a strange destiny is mine !" she exclaimed, scarcely conscious that she spoke aloud, until Susan, somewhat resentfully, observed, that, though it cer- tainly was not exactly what could be wished, still there was not so much occasion to fret, as might have been. " I am not inclined to Iret or repine, my dear friend," returned Emily, recollecting herself, " nor 310 EMILY MORELAND. am I ungrateful for the good that is still, left me; but 1 have been vexed and mortified — I cannot, in fact, explain — but you will forgive me — I am yet but a child in the world. A little more experience will fortify my mind against such trifles, for, after all, it is but a trifle that has discomposed me now." " It was, indeed, not worth notice," replied Susan, who imagined she spoke of I^ady Haviland's observation, " though, if it had not been that you were so ill, and I was anxious to get you up-stairs, I would have given her a good set down for her rude- ness, even if I'd known she was a titled lady ; though, 1 declare, I thought she was a lady of a diff'erent description, from her bold look and manners." Not very solicitous to undeceive her, Emily suf- fered her friend to continue her declamation against Lady Haviland's rudeness, until the dinner was placed on the table, and, not unpleasantly to either party, changed the subject. Anxious to gratify her kind friend, Emily tried to eat, and to appear composed; but the bitter wound her pride and feelings had received, was still smart- ing, and Susan's casual allusion to Thomas, " Lady Derwent's smart footman," as she called him, seemed to tear it open afresh. She could not doubt that Herbert Leslie had supposed her the voluntary companion of the gentleman in yellow livery and silver lace — " And yet, what need I care?" she re- flected, " what is Herbert Leslie to me, or why sho uld his opinion be of more consequence than that of the most perfect stranger?" Again she fried to rally her spirits, and discuss, EMILY MORELANI). 311 with her companion, the novel sights she had wit- nessed, even in this short excursion ; but, though she could not succeed in talking gaily herself, she, at least, set Susan's tongue in motion on a favourite subject, and the latter continued to expatiate, with- out being conscious that Emily was scarcely aware even that she was talking, until she was obliged by actual weariness to desist. The indisposition which was still too visible in her countenance to be doubted, on the following morning afforded Emily an undeniable pretext for declining the proposed walk in the Park, for which the Miss Gilbert's very early made their appearance. Susan, indeed, would, without any affectation, have evi- dently preferred remaining with Emily, whose pale looks and sunken eyes seemed to give her considera- ble uneasiness ; but the latter, aware that it would be a great sacrifice, resolutely insisted that she should be better, if left alone ; and the new scarlet shawl and leghorn bonnet were at length put on, and Susan departed. Emily's indisposition and solitude, which had been so much dwelt upon while she was present, were soon, however, forgotten; and she was left to enjoy, unmolested, her own reflections, until a late hour in the evening, when the return of Ellen, who had been, it appeared, to pay her usual Sunday visit to her mother, restored her (Emily) once more to the reality of her situation, which had almost been forgotten, in melancholy retrospections of the past, and visionary forebodings of the future. "Is it not almost tea-time, Ellen?" demanded Emily, after assuring her that she was much better 5 3)2 EMILY MORELAND. a fact, which her pallid cheeks and swollen eyes were far from confirming. Ellen stared — " Why, good gracious, Miss More- land," she replied, " is it possible that Mrs. Trenchard has been so neglectful, as not to send up, to know whether you chose to have tea ? Why, it is past nine, or you would not see me here — for I never come till it strikes nine. But, I suppose, Betsy is not at home, and Mrs. Trenchard is too great a per- son to come herself to wait upon you, as Mrs. Wilson is out." Emily coloured and sighed. It was something so entirely new to her, to be considered, or to consider herself, as subordinate to Mrs. Wilson, that she for a moment revolted from the thought; though she well knew, the good-natured and good-hearted girl meant not to inflict pain or mortification, by her heedless remark. Ellen, however, had flown to fetch the tea equipage, and, before she returned with it, Emily had overcome all the sensations of mortified pride, and was as calm and smiling as ever. Whilst she was taking her tea, Ellen, whose time (as she observed) was now her own, continued to entertain her with anecdotes of the Gilberts, who were, she said, much nearer the end of their gay career, than she had imagined ; for her mother had found out that the old woman was getting deeply into debt, wherever she could. " So, I suppose," she continued, " they will hardly be able to hold out much longer, — without, indeed, Mrs. Wilson is foolish enough but, I beg your pardon. Miss Moreland, I forgot •" Emily smiled; but, l)cfore she could reply, tho EMILY MORELAND. 313 voices of the Gilberts, in high glee, were heard on the stairs, and Ellen retreated by another door, to avoid meeting them. After the first inquiries after Miss Moreland's health, and an assurance from Miss Gilbert that they could hardly prevail on Mrs. Wilson to finish her tea, she was so anxious to return to the invalid, a long dissertation on the pleasure they had enjoyed, and the fashions they had seen in their afternoon's excursion, followed. " Mrs. Wilson has been so stared at, and so ad- mired," Miss Gilbert observed, "that her and her sisters stood no chance with her." Emily's eyes spoke, pretty intelligibly, her disgust at this coarse flattery, which the object of it received, however, with great complacency, merely replying — " Aye, my dear, but then you should recollect that I have the recommendation of novelty ; now, you, I dare say, regularly frequent the Park." " Yes, yes, they have been seen there, till they are as w ell known, and as little noticed, as the sentry- boxes at the gate," replied the brother, with a horse- laugh at his own wit. " That's just like you, Augustus," replied Ma- tilda, with one of her most significant looks. " Mrs. Wilson did not tell us, though, that she had a beau in town !" interrupted Miss Gilbert, with a sly glance at Emily. " Pooh, nonsense, I tell you it's no such thing," replied Susan, smiling, with an exp-ession of gratified vanity. " The gentleman that spoke to me was, 1 a^ure you, only a common acquaintance ; and, in- 14. 2 s 314 EMILY MOIIELAND. deed, hardly that; though he always behaved very po- litely, when we met. I little thought, indeed, that he saw us yesterday, when you were taken so ill, my dear," turning- to Emily ; " for he came up to me in the Park, and asked me if the young lady he saw with n.e, in Piccadilly, was quite recovered." " It was not very polite, however," observed Mr. Gilbert, with an air of pique, " for him to see you in such distress, and keep out of the way, instead of coming to your assistance." " I suppose he thought we had quite sufficient assistance without him," observed Emily, trying to conceal her vexation and confusion, by assuming an air of indifference. " I understood you was by yourselves," rejoined Mr. Gilbert. " Oh, no — there was a young man — a person whom I knew something- of," observed Susan, hastily, con- fused in her turn, lest her great friends the Gil- berts should discover the rank in life of her ac- quaintance. A long silence succeeded this avowal. Mr. Gilbert was evidently surprised, and alarmed, at the disco- very that Mrs. Wilson was not so entirely uncon- nected and unknown in London, as he had imagined; and the latter felt conscious that there was a mys- ttiy, which she did not wish to exist, yet knew not how to explain, without betraying what she was so anxious to conceal. Emily was silent — for she was recalling to her mind all the vexatious circumstances connected with this occurrence, and yet feeling half gratified with EMILY MORELAND. 316 the solicitude which had prompted Herbert Leslie to inquire after her. "^ I think I have seen the y o mi g feller, somewheie or another," observed Mr. Gilbert, with an air of consequence ; " but I know many people by sight, though I can't remember their names.' "His name is Leslie," observed Mi's. Wilson ; " but, I assure you, you are quite out, if you think he's any beau of mine" " Well, he's a very handsome, elegant, young man," added Miss Matilda Gilbert, " and nobody, I am sure, need be ashamed of owning his acquaint- ance, let him be who he will." " Oh, he's a real gentleman, I assure you,** re- joined Mrs. Wilson, hastily, " and keeps his ser- vants and horses ; at least, he did, when he was at Bath." " How he stared at Matilda and me !" observed Miss Gilbert, looking at herself, with a self-satisfied air, in the glass. " Yes, indeed, if he'd really been a sweetheart of mine, I shouldn't have been best pleased at the look he gave you. Miss Matty,'* observed Mrs. Wilson, smiling. " Me ! La, how can you say so ?" returned Ma- tilda, her eyes brightening, and the rouge deepening on her cheeks. " I'll be hanged if he wasn't quizzing her fright- ful bonnet," said the elder sister, with a spiteful look at Matilda, who was really a pretty girl, though spoiled by the art and affectation which were em- ployed to set off. as she supposed, her natural charms. 316 EMILY MORELAND Emily thought, at the minute, and it was not V, ithout some uneasiness that she made the reflection, that it was very probable that Herbert saw more to look at in Matilda, than her frightful bonnet, which, by the bye, though not so fashionable as her sister's, became her extremely well, and gave additional loveliness and archness to her gipsy features. " I don't know whether it was my bonnet, then, or Mrs. Wilson, that was the attraction," replied Ma- tilda, with a provoking smile, " but I can tell you this, that the gentleman sent a person to watch us home ; for I saw him speak to a young man, and look at us, and, just as we were going in-doors, 1 turned round and saw the young man standing at the corner ; and, after we got up into the drawing- room, I peeped out, and he was just passing, and looking at the number on the door." " And more shame for you, Miss, to encourage him by looking out," observed Mr. Augustus, sharply; " but I don't believe a word of it at all, or else you'd have bragged before — for I'll be bound you fancy he's in love with your ugly face !" Disgusted with the rising contention, which Emily now comprehended the secret motive of, and angry that the name of Herbert JLeslie should be thus brought in by such people, she endeavoured to give a turn to the conversation, by inquiring, with an assumed laugh, " If they could find no one in the park worth noticing, but this Mr. Leslie ?" " Well, that's just the cleverest thing I've heard Miss Moreland say yet," observed Mr. Gilbert, with an appro\ ing air; " for I'm sure, by the fuss that's EMILY MORELAND 317 made about him, one would think this Leslie 'vas quite something extraordinary ; and, instead of that, he's a mere nothing- of a feller^ with his cravat tied in the fashion of twenty years ago." Emily's contemptuous smile seemed not entirely lost upon the self-sufficient fop, who in vain tried, by humming a tune, and slapping his boots with his stick, to disguise his confusion ; while Miss Gilbert and her sister, not heeding his remark, continued to descant on Mr. Leslie's person, the colour of his eyes, his teeth, hair, &c. until Emily began to dis- play such evident signs of weariness, as could not be disregarded; and the party, in consideration of her indisposition, separated for the night. " How strange !" observed Susan to herself, after sitting for some time, silently gazing on the fire, without apparently recollecting that she had a com- panion. " What is strange !" enquired Emily. " Oh, only, my dear, that Mr. Leslie should never speak yesterday, when you were with me ; and to- day, he slipped away from a whole party of gentle- men, to follow and speak to me." Emily did not think it strange at all, but she merely replied that she could form no judgment on the subject, and it was soon dismissed for one much more congenial to Susan's heart — Mr. Augustus Gilbert, whose soft speeches and flattery had made so deep an impression, that Emily saw that any ob- servations she might make to his disadvantage, would be very unwelcome. She was, therefore, as cautious as possible, in reply to her friend, who, 318 EMILY MORELAND. evidently doubtful aud suspicious, even of her owli prudence_, was yet not willing- to listen to anything that could impeach it ; and would fain have drawn Emily into giving a favourable opinion of one, whom the latter more than suspected was deserving of a very opposite one. " I am never very hasty in forming a decided opinion of any individual," observed Emily, in reply to her questions. " The very limited society to which I have been confined, has not afforded me much op- portunity for observation. Mr. Gilbert may be a respectable young man ; but, certainly, his education has been sadly neglected, and " " His education is, at least, equal to mine," inter- rupted Susan, hastily ; " that is to say," she added, as if recollecting the full import of her observation, " I mean, that T am not capable of understanding where he is deficient, though you may be. But there ought to be some allowance made — he was an only son, and quite a spoiled child ; and, he says himself, he plagued his father so, in finding schools for him, that would humour him, and put up with his ways, that the old man, at last, gave up the thought of making him a scholar, and let him do as he liked." A long pause ensued, during which Susan seemed anxiously waiting to hear what Emily had further to urge. *' I will tell you at once, candidly," observed the latter, at last, " I am very well convinced — nay, I have reasons to know, Susan, that you have formed an erroneous opinion of these people, from their dashing appearance, and the consequence they as- EMILY MORELAND. 349- sume. Do not be angry with me, my dear friend, when I heg, I entreat, that you will be on your guard, tnd not enter into any engagement with that man, who, I am fearful, indulges hopes and designs " " Which you would not have found so very shock- ing. Miss Moreland," interrupted Susan, sarcas- tically, "if it had been you they had been fixed on; but there's no accounting for tastes, you know ; and so it happens that he sees more attraction in me than in you, which, I confess, is not very flattering to a young lady, who has been taught to think herself above all the world for beauty and accomplishments." Emily's indignation was only exceeded by her as- tonishment, at this observation. A moment's reflec- tion, however, during which Susan, avoiding meet- ing her eyes, and evidently half ashamed of what she had said, had been lighting her candle to retire to bed, induced her to suppress all reply, which could betray her feelings. She, therefore, only observed, that such an accusation was totally unworthy of an answer, and, coolly returning Susan's " good night," they parted. Emily, however, could not think of sleep; she felt that all hopes of remaining with Susan, until some opportunity off*ered of improving her condition, were at an end ; for she could never tamely submit to in- sult and insolence, and that she was certain would be her lot, should Mr. Gilbert maintain the ascen- dancy he had already acquired over the mind of her former friend. " Yet I will not leave the field to him, without at least one effort to open her eyes to the ruin she will 320 EMILY MORELAND. bring upon herself, should she persevere in forming this unfortunate connexion," she reflected; and, with this determination, she sat down to write to Susan a full explanation of her feelings and intentions. *' If this young man is what he pretends to be," she observed, after some introductory remarks, " he will not hesitate to give you some more satisfactory re- ference as to his circumstances, &c. But, even then, should all prove correct, I am sorry to say it, he is the last person I would select as a husband for my friend; and, for I will not deceive you, he is the last whom I could voluntarily make a companion. Con- vinced, therefore, that our remaining together can only be productive of uneasiness to both, while you retain your present feelings, I have deternuned to separate at once; and, before you receive this, shall have secured myself a home, suitable to my humble circumstances and expectations." Before Susan had quitted her pillow, Emily, dressed as plainly as possible, had ventured out alone, having first made some inquiries of Ellen,^ respecting the different streets in the neighbourhood. She had, however, many more difficulties to en- counter in her attempt, than she had reckoned upon ; and she was about to turn, despairingly, away from a door,where a neat quaker-like woman had answered her inquiry, by saying, with a shake of her head, that she never let her apartments except to gentlemen ; Mhen attracted, as it appeared, by the expression of Emily's countenance, the woman observed, in a friendly tone — **Thou canst look, if thou wilt, at a room which EMILY MORELAND. 321 I have vacant; but I am doubtful thou wilt think the accommodation not equal to thy wishes." " I want nothing but cleanliness and comfort," re- plied Emily, gently, as she followed her up the stairs, which were as white as scouring could make them. The old lady made no reply, but ushered her into a small chamber, the furniture of which was stu- diously plain, but neat and clean to the utmost par- ticularity. " This is exactly what I should wish," observed Emily, looking round her with a feeling of comfort, such as she had not experienced since she had left the Valley of St. Clare ; " what are your terms, Madam, for this room? 1 should give but little trouble, for I must learn to " She paused, unable to conclude the sentence. " I have always had seven shillings a Aveek for this room," observed the old lady, '*but, if thou and I can agree, I will take six of thee." Emily thought this very reasonable; she would not have objected, indeed, to the first-named sum, but prudence whispered her to be silent on that subject. "And, now, 1 must know what are *hy means to pay this sum, and what occupation thou followest? — or what friends thou hast to depend upon ? — for thou art very young to be left to thyself." Emily with difficulty suppressed her tears, as she replied, that she was at present without occupation. It was her intention, she said, to ofi'er her services, as a governess or teacher in a school. '■' The means of paying you, Mo jam, this will 14. 2 T 322 EMILY MOn ELAND. ensure you," she continued, taking from her purse one of the four five-pound notes which Farmer Wil- son had given her; "you can, if you please, keep that in your possession ; though, I will candidly tell you that I hope, before I have remained as long with you as that will pay for, I shall be better pro- vided for." " I hope so, too," returned the old woman, gazing wkh her piercing eyes still more intently in Emily's face; "but thou hast friends, of course, to recom- mend thee — without friends, I fear " The tears, which had stood in her downcast eyes, rolled down Emily's cheeks, as she replied, that she knew not that she possessed any friends who could advance her pi!rposes. " I am not quite destitute, either, of friends," she continued, summoning up her spirits, and trying to smile; "but they are not in circumstances to benefit me much, in the way I pro- pose to adopt." "Thou art not, T hope, rashly undertaking this," replied the old woman, " thy father and mother " " I have neither, Madam," replied Emily, with deep emotion, " nor any relative living, to whom I am accountable. When I spoke of friends, they were such as chance, not nature, has given me." The old woman took off her spectacles, wiped them, and again gazed in her face, before she replied — " I will trust to thy tale, for thy face voucheth for its truth; only one thing thou must understand — I will have no company keeping, no idle young people here, nor gadding abroad at late hours. My hou^e is, as thou seest it, plain and homely, but quiet and of EMIT. Y MO RE LAN I). 323 good repute. There are only two staid elderly men, who are never out after ten at night, and thou must comply with the same rules, if thou abidest with me." Emily's spirit somewhat recoiled from the dicta- torial tone in which this was uttered ; but she con sidered that it ensured her a safe and respectable home, and this determined her to accept the offer. " I do not fear giving- you any dissatisfaction on those points, Madam," she replied, " and will there- fore consider myself as settled." " And when wilt thou come ? and where art thou now abiding?" inquired the old woman. Emily replied, that it was uncertain whether she took possession that evening, or the following day, but that w ould be the extent of her stay, in her pre- sent residence ; and, having named Mrs. Trenchard's as her abode, she bade the old woman good morning, and was about to leave her, when the latter called her back. "Surely, thou art not going to be so foolish, as to trust thy money in the hands of a stranger?" she ob- served. "Thou art, indeed, but a child — but thou should'st know better how to take care of what is so necessary in this world." Emily would have declined taking the note, but the old woman was resolute, and the affair was at length compromised, by the latter's depositing one pound in its stead. With a I'ghter heart than had beat in her bosom since her arrival in London, Emily retraced her steps to Mrs. Trenchard's, where she found Susan in great surprise and consternation, awaiting her at the 324 EMILY MORELAND. breakfast table. The coldness and petulance, which had distinguished her manner on the preceding even- ing, had entirely vanished, and, grateful for the anxiety which her countenance, as well as words, betrayed, Emily could not resolve to hurt her feel- ings by avowing, at once, what had been the object of her ramble. She, therefore, evasively replied that she had been looking about her a little, observing, with a forced smile, " You knoAV, my dear Susan, it will not do for me to sit down by the fire side, and indulge all my countrified terrors of London streets, and Lrondon dangers — 1 must learn to encounter them all by degrees, or how can I ever expect to get my living among them?" " Don't talk so, for goodness' sake?" replied Susan, her eyes filling with tears. " Get your living, indeed ! Do sit down, and take your breakfast, and teli me where you have been." " Seriously, then, I cannot tell you that, except that I have been up one street, and down another, still keeping Oxford Street in view, and thus coming, as you see, safe home again. But," she added, after a pause, " I will not deceive you — 1 had an ob- ject in view, and, before many hours are passed, I will explain to you what that object was." Susan looked as if she would have pressed for an immediate explanation ; but Emily's manner seemed to discourage her, and she only observed, that she knew the latter would never do anything that was not right and proper, and would therefore wait her own time. " I have promised to go out with the Gilberts, this EMILY MORKLAND. 'it* morning;," she observed, in a careless tone, but with something- like confusion in her looks. " I suppose it is useless to ask you to go with us, but, recollect, you engaged to go to the Theatre to-night, and you cannot now, with that bright colour in your cheeks, plead illness as an excuse." Emily hesitated — " It will be the last, as well as the first time," she thought to herself, "and it will look ill-natured, and a refinement upon prudery, if I refuse." Susan looked rather mortified at even this slight hesitation, but Emily's assurance that she would be ready at the appointed time, restored complacency to her features, and she retired to prepare for her morning's excursion. Susan's eyes glistened with pleasure, when, on entering Emily's bed-room, to bid her farewell for the morning, she found her employed in looking over the few ornaments she possessed, and selecting such as she considered most appropriate, it being the first time of her laying aside her mourning habit. "Ah, now, that's something like!" exclaimed Stisan. " I shall have some hopes of you, now ; and, after all, Emily, you must allow that it would be downright nonsense, to come up to Liondon, and set yourself quietly down by the fireside, where you can neither see or be seen, any more than you could at St. Clare." Emily could not deny the truth of this; but she sighed deeply at the mention of that beloved spot, Avhich, deprived as it was now of its greatest attrac- tions, was still inexpressibly dear to her; and Susan 326 EMILY MORELAND. proceeded, almost unheeded by her auditor, to detail all the advantages which must, according to her, arise from the hitter's dismissing from her thoughts and countenance that melancholy which had hitherto ob- scured them, until, reminded by the clock that she had already exceeded the hour of her engagement with the Gilberts, she hastily broke off, with an in- junction to Emily not to be afraid of dressing too smart, as the Gilberts intended to be very dashing indeed. " Matilda's head runs on nothing but Mr. Leslie," she added; "but 1 rather think, my dear, between you and I, she would stand but a poor chance by your side, either witli him or any one else." It was fortunate that Susan was quitting the room at the moment she uttered this, or the contempt and indignation which Emily felt, at being thus classed with one of the Gilberts, as a candidate for Herbert Leslie's admiration, would at once have destroyed all the harmony which now subsisted between them, and have betrayed, probably, the interest, which, in spite of all her resolutions of indifference, she could not help still feeling towards her former friend. The task of selecting and arranging was suspended, and Emily, leaning her elbow on the table, sat for more than an hour, recalling to her memory every circumstance connected with one whose fascinating and impassioned manner, on his first introduction to her at St. Clare, formed such a striking contrast with his subsequent neglect and indifference. "Matilda Gilbert, indeed!" she repeated to her- self, in a tone of contempt, which betrayed fully her EMILY MORET,AKD. 327 consciousness how little she haa to fear from such an insignificant girl, were there not other causes for that change of sentiment, which Herbert Leslie's altered manners and long neglect betrayed. Ellen entered to receive her directions for dinner, and Emily started, at discovering how long she had been engaged in reflection on a subject which she had often resolved never to think of again. " So, you are going to the play with them, Miss Moreland?" observed the latter, as she was laying the cloth. Emily replied in the affirmative. *' Matty is half wild about somebody that fell in love with her, she says, in the Park yesterday," con- tinued the girl. "She just ran in this morning, to tell me, and ask me whether I thought you would go to-night. I suppose, she is afraid of your taking her new beau from her; so she will not be much pleased, to find that you are going." Emily's cheeks crimsoned as she hastily replied — " Why, surely, she has not the vanity to suppose that Herbert Leslie 1 mean the gentleman that — She does not expect him to be at the Theatre?" Ellen stared in surprise — "I did not know," she at length observed, " that you were acquainted with the gentleman. Miss Moreland t nor I don't know anything about his going with them to the play; but 1 know she came here, coaxing Mrs. Trenchard to let her have a wreath of flowers, unknown to her mother; though, I can tell her, Mrs. Trenchard won't trust her mother, any more than her, again, for they have run a larger bill now than ever they'll pay." 328 EMILY MOHET.AiVO. " Well, but whiit did she say about, the Theatre?" interrupted Emily, inipatiepitly. *' Oh, she oiily said to me, slily, that she'd got a new beau — such a handsome man, that she had met in the Park, yesterday ; so I thought, by her anxiety to have the flowers, that she expected to see him to- night, thouffh I did not understand he was a friend 5 7 o of yours, but thought it was some acquaintance she had picked up in the Park." *' He is no friend of mine, I assure you, Ellen," returned Emily, recollecting herself, and assuming a tone of indifference ; " but, as I happen to know that he is in a very different sphere of life from the Gil- berts', I felt surprised at the idea of his associating with them." " Oh, dear, there's no saying how gentlemen will stoop, to answer their own purpose," returned Ellen, with a sagacious look. " Matilda is certainly a very pretty girl, and it won't be the first time that plans have been laid " Emily rather petulantly interrupted her — " I do not want to hear any more of the history of people who are so totally indifferent to me as the Gil- berts !" but, almost immediately, observing that her remark had confused and hurt the poor girl, she added, in a gentler tone — " I have just now so many subjects of more importance to occupy my mind, that I can scarcely bestow a thought on what does not at all concern me." Ellen looked as if she scarcely credited this asser- tion, though she observed, " that, certainly, they were not much worth thinking about ;" and, anxious EMILY MOttELANI). 3'^ to make some reparation, for the hastiness of her manner, Emily requested Ellen's acceptance of a very pretty pair of ear-rings, which had been given her by the Signora. A less gift than such a piece of finery as this, would have secured pardon for a greater offence with poor Ellen, whose means of procuring such articles were much inferior to her inclination ; and she departed, exulting in her acquisition, and leav- ing Emily in such agitation of mind as scarcely left her power of reflection. Could Ellen's hint be founded in reality ? Could Herbert Leslie be a seducer, and Matilda Gilbert the object of his views ? She recollected what the latter had said, respecting his having employed some one to follow them home ; and, connecting it with the circumstance of Matilda's anxiety to appear to advantage in the evening, she was led to conclude, that the latter had seen him since, and probably ap- pointed a meeting at the Theatre. All that she had laid out for her own appearance was instantly thrown aside, and, with a look of the deepest chagrin and vexation, she sat down, determined that she would not go at all. In a few minutes, a second thought occurred — she would go, to let him see how much she despised his conduct ; she would go, if it were only to have an opportunity of putting the thoughtless girl upon her guard against him, for she was certain he could have no honourable intentions towards one, who, after all, possessed only personal attractions, and was distinguished for nothing else but silline^ and 14 2u 330 EMILY MORELAND.- afFectation, rendered bearable only by an appearance of extreme good-nature. Mrs. Wilson returned in time to swallow a lat*; and hasty dinner, and Emily's hurried and absent manner escaped her notice. " Do you expect any one beside the Gilbert family, to accompany us this evening ?" inquired the latter, trying to assume a very indifferent air. Her voice, however, betrayed the interest she felt in the inquiry, and Susan looked at her with sur- i prise, as she replied — " Only a young man, that is paying his addresses to Caroline Gilbert, the sister that you have not seen, but who is sufficiently recovered, she thinks, to go with us to-night. But what reason had you for asking, my dear ? We shall be quite safe, even if we had only Augustus to protect us ; for he is so well known to the people about, that there is no danger of our being molested." Emily was silent, for she did not wish to own the true motive of her inquiry, and, in a few moments, they separated to dress. Though scarcely conscious that she did so, Emily bestowed unusual pains on her appearance ; and her friend Ellen, seemingly equally concerned that she should appear to advantage, devoted the half hour allowed her for tea, to assist her in dressing. " Oh, how beautiful you do look now ! You have got such a bright colour, and your eyes sparkle so,** she observed, stepping back, and surveying Emily with looks of unfeigned admiration. '* You are a little flatterer," replied the latter, :.:n:ilL¥ MvD^aijfV^iMB; EMILY MORELAND 3-il gmiling-, " and I doubt if 1 shall receive as great a conipliineiit from any one else, to-night. Mrs Wil- son, for instance, will I know find fault, because I have not made myself smarter." " I'm sure I dont know what could improve you," returned Ellen, " except, indeed, a coronet of flowers for your hair, which is rather too plain for the fashion. Do let me fetch you two or three from the shew-room to look at — they are so beautiful, and so becoming !" Emily had not time to utter a negative before she had flown down stairs, and as quickly returned with a box of flowers. " There," she observed, as she placed a wreath of ©arnations, most beautiful and delicate in colour and construction, on her head ; " There ! can any thinji^ look more lovely, or contrast more delightfully with your glossy dark hair, than they do ? And they give you such a noble look, too ! Oh, pray do have them !" Emily laughed at the eagerness with which her officious attendant pleaded for this addition to her appearance ; but she could not but acknowledge, as she surveyed the eff'ect in the glass, that they really were ornamental and becoming ; and she was on the point of deciding to keep them, when she recol- lected that she had not yet ascertained their price. " Half-a-guinea," returned Ellen, " and that is considerably less than what we have charged for similar ones, within this week. Lady Haviland paid a guinea and a half for two, exactly the same, on Friday, when you saw her in the shop." 332 EMILY MORELAND. '' Yes, but, my dear girl, half-a-guinea is more than I can afford to throw away, for an article which it is possible, and probable, I may never wear again,'* replied Emily, beginning to unfasten the flowers. Susan at this moment entered. " Oh, what a beautiful coronet ! — don't take it off, my dear, for it is impossible you can place it on to better advantage. You look delightfully, indeed !" Emily did not immediately remove the flowers, but she declared, with an air almost of regret, that they were too expensive for her to purchase. Susan, however, insisted that they were an abso- lute bargain — as cheap as dirt — when she heard the price; and Ellen declared that it would be quite a sin and a shame to take them off, they added so much to the brilliancy of her appearance. Emily glanced her eye towards the glass, and thought again of Herbert Leslie — the box was closed, though a feeling of reproach and vexation, at her own weakness and extravagance, entered her mind, as she drew the half-guinea from her purse ; and this uncomfortable feeling was still more in- creased, when Ellen observed, with an air of triumph — " I am so glad you have got them — for it's the very wreath that Matty Gilbert wanted, and Mrs. Trenchard would not let her have it." " I am sure then I would not have had it, if 1 had known that," returned Emily, whose proud spirit lecoiled from anything that looked like petty triujsjph or malice. EMILY MORUr.AND. i333 Ellen made a signal to her to be silent, as Mrs. Wil- son had re-entered the room ; and Emily was allowed no longer time to hesitate, for the Gilberts were already in the sitting-room, and she was obliged to follow Susan down stairs, where they were waiting to take tea, before their departure for the Theatre. The eyes of the three Miss Gilberts, their brother, mother, and the gentleman who accompanied them, were all intently fixed on Emily , as she entered the room, and, with somewhat more than even her usual dignity, returned their salutations. To such of the party as she had not before seen — the old woman. Miss Caroline, and her admirer Mr. Osborne — she was formally introduced by Mrs. Wil- son, whose natural consequence seemed not a little increased by the evident impression which Emily's appearance and manners made upon her new ac- quaintance. " I can't think how Shakespeare came to insert,^* observed Mr. Gilbert, staring at Emily through his eye-glass, " that a beautiful woman needs not the aid o{ hornament. I'm sure Miss Moreland contra- dicts him flat — for I never saw her look to such ad- vantage as she does now she's dressed." " Aye, they say, ' fine feathers makes fine birds,' " observed Mr. Osborne ; " beg your pardon. Miss- meant no offence — hope none is taken. It's only a way I've got — must have my joke, if I lose my friend — mustn't I, Carry?" " La, Mr. Osborne, why do you ask me ?" returned Miss Caroline, to whom tiiis appeal was made; "you're always applying to me, and it looks so very articular." 334 EMILY MORELAND. "Particular! m ell, you know I mean to bepai- ticular! you wouldn't have me be particular with anybody else, would you? — because, if you do, say so at once, and here's a young- lady that looks very good-natured, and I dare say we shall agree very well together, don't you think we shall. Miss?" Emily shrank back timidly, and scarcely knowing- how to reply to the vulgar familiarity and assurance of this new addition to the jjolished circle into which Susan's folly had introduced her ; but she was spared the necessity of speaking, by Miss Caroline's reply- ing, with an air of perfect self-sufficiency, "that she should be very glad if he could find any young lady that would be troubled with such a bear, and take him off her hands." uj '•;;;■) I. ' ; "Jealous — for two-pence half-penny!" observed Mr. Osborne, chuckling, and rubbing his great red hands with an air of delight. " You shall see how I'll plague her, now. — I'll make her as mad as a fury, by pretending to make love to you," jogging Emily's elbow. " Oh, I beg you will not make me instrumental to your barbarity. Sir," returned Emily, smiling con- temptuously at the air of self-conceit which shone in his fat rosy face. " Oh, lord, bless you, it's only fun ! — She knows I arn't serious — It's only a way I've got," replied Mr. Osborne, very seriously. Emily, however, retreated from him, and made a place for herself between Matilda Gilbert and her mother, who were both observing her in silence. "Well, and how do you like London, Ma'am?" inquired the old woman, whose coarse voice and EAllLY MORKLAND. 335 masculine manner were even more repellant and un- attractive than her looks, which were not very deli- cate or inviting. Emily made some very slight answer to this in- quiry, which was delivered in a manner that evinced no kind o»f interest, but a mere desire to say some- thing, by way of commencing a conversation. It was, however, soon prevented by Mr. Osborne, who, placing himself behind Emily's chair, observed, " that he was not going to be tricked in that manner. Carry had turned him over to Miss Moreland, in the presence of all ihem witnesses, and he should stick by the bargain." " Carry and you are always falling out before com- pany," observed Mrs. Gilbert, with a laugh which was succeeded by a half-concealed frown, and ex- pressive glance of reproof at her daughter. " That's as much as to say, we make it up behind people's backs, I suppose," replied the facetious Mr. Osborne; " but, 1 assure you, that is not my way — is it. Carry?" Carry, however, had received her mother's hint, and she affected to look so pensive and discontented, that, hastily whispering to Emily — " It won't do, will it, to carry the joke too fai' — she's been very ill lately, and I don't want to hurt her," he retreated, to the great satisfaction of the latter, who, relieved from his troublesome familiarity, and determined, if possible, to make herself comfortable, for the few hours she was obliged to pass in society so new and so unsuitable to her, addressed herself to Matilda, oKserving, that she seemed out of spirits, but she 3yC EMILY MOREL 8lND. hoped the entertainment of the evening »vould revive her. "Oh, I don't care a farthing for the play, I can assure you," returned Matilda, " and I know I look quite a fright, don't I? I have got such a cold, and that always makes me such a figure, I hate to go out." " I wonder you can tell such falsehoods, Matty," observed the eldest sister, " for, I am sure, I never saw you more eager than you were to-night, to go anywhere. Indeed, Carry said she knew you had got tiomething in your head beside the play, or you wouldn't have been so anxious and eager to go.'* Matilda blushed as she angrily disclaimed any par- ticular motive, and Emily's assumed vivacity va- nished, as Herbert Leslie and Ellen's insinuation came again into her head. CHAPTER XIV. To you my soul's affections move. Devoutly, warmly true ; My life has been a task of love. One long, long thought of you. If all your tender faith is o'er, If still my truth you'll try ; Alas, I know but one proof more — I'll bless your name, and die ! Moore Tme first act of the play, which was " The School for Scandal," was just concluding, as the party, with whom Emily was so reluctantly associated, entered the box appropriated to them ; it being considered EMILY MORELAND. 337 by Ml. Augustus Gilbert, who was the arbiter elegantiarum, the very acme of vulgarity, to be seen in the Theatre before the commencement of the per formances. The splendour of the house, the gaiety of the sur- rounding company, and the entire novelty of all she beheld, was sufficient to engross Emily's whole at- tention, and render her for awhile forgetful of the unpleasant fears and expectations which had occupied her, on their way to the Theatre. The second act commenced, and her attention be- came riveted to the stage; and, though sometimes annoyed and disturbed by the loud whispers of her companions, she was soon so much delighted and interested, that she did not observe that the very cir- cumstance she had anticipated and dreaded, had taken place. Herbert Leslie was there — had recog- nised, and from an adjoining box was watching her every look and action. " There's my beau ! I thought he would be here !" observed Matilda Gilbert, leaning across Emily, to spoak to her sister Caroline. " Where ! what the gentleman that you met in Hyde Park ? Is that him ? Lord, what a handsome fellow !" replied the latter. Emily involuntarily turned her eyes in the same direction, and encountered the expressive ones of Herbert, fixed full on her. Matilda's exulting tone was suddenly exchanged for one of extreme discontent ; for she could not mis- interpret the mutual emotion which this exclian;;^ f glances occasioned. 15. 2%, 3^ EMILY MORBLAND. " How I do liale (o he crammed up in a corner, in this manner," she observed, " where one can't get near, to speak to anybody (hat one cares about. You miajht let me sit there, Caroline, if you had any good-nature." " No, indeed, I'm very comfortable, I assure you, and 1 shan't chanj^e," was the complaisant reply. " Will you have my place ?" inquired Emily, who was seated between the sisters. Miss Matilda looked as if she scarcely believed her serious, thouijh she accepted the offer without hesi- tation ; and Emily, again endeavouring to fix her attention lo the stage, turned entirely away from the rest of the party, and in quite an opposite direction to that in which IVlr. Leslie was placed. In a few minutes she heard some one enter the box, but she resolutely avoided looking- round. The voice, however, could not be mistaken. It was Herbert Leslie, who was professing his pleasure at seeing her companions, and hoping they were well entertained. Every voice was instantly raised to reply, and Emily blushed at the intense anxiety which was visible in the whole family, to promote the views which they supposed induced Mr. Leslie to come among them. A general move w as made, to enable him to seat himself by Matilda, who, however, seemed not alto- gether satisfied that she was really the object of attraction, and was evidently watching Emily's countenance, while she replied to his inquiries. BMILT MORELAND. S39 Mr. Leslie seemed quite at his ease, and talked away, in the gayest style, to her, though Emily could fancy it was rather in a vein of sarcasm than com- pliment that he remarked upon her appearance. At last came the dreaded observation, which compelled her to take some notice of him. " You have not yet introduced me to your fair neighbour," he observed, in a tone sufficiently audi- ble to reach Emily's ear. " Who is she ? Not one of your sisters, I think, by the features." " Dear me, I thought you knew Miss Moreland," returned Matilda, "she is a friend of Mrs. Wilson's, and, I'm sure, I could have sworn you were ac- quainted !" " Indeed," returned Mr. Leslie, " I must confess that I should draw a very different conclusion, from appearances ; but do pray try your influence with the young lady, to induce her to favour me with a glance, that I may ascertain whether I have any claim upon her former friendship." Emily's indignation at the levity with which this was uttered, superseded every other feeling, and turn- ing suddenly round, she observed — " It would be affectation in me, Sir, to pretend not to have heard what you have said — I have only to observe, that I have no wish to rank Mr. Leslie among my friends j)r acquaintances." " Well, to be sure, how rude !" exclaimed Ma- tilda, while Leslie, apparently lost in thought, but entirely unabashed, kept his eyes fixed on Emily's glowing face, which was now again turned lo the stage, though she was totally unconscious what nae passing there. 340 EMILY MORELAMD. " Then you did know Miss Moreland all the while, you deceitful thing !" continued Miss Mi- tilda, tapping him affectedly on the shoulder. " You hear she disclaims me altogether," replied Leslie, making an effort to resume his vivacity. " Oh, I dare say, she has some good reasons for it," interposed Miss Gilbert, who was sitting im- mediately behind Emily. " It isn't always pleasant, or convenient, to be known ; and, I dare say, Mr. Leslie understands it all very well." Emily turned round involuntarily, yet most anxiously, to observe the effect which this malignant speech had upon the person to whom it was ad- dressed, and beheld Leslie's fine eyes fixed on the speaker, with a look of mingled surprise and contempt. '' Upon my word, you give me credit for much greater penetration than I possess, Madam," he gravely observed. " I confess myself completely in a labyrinth at the present moment ; and most uncer- tain, where I thought myself most sure." " There's one thing I'm sure of — that we shall be hissed, in a minute, for making such a noise," ob- served Matilda, in a tone of pique. Leslie seemed to recollect himself, and addressed something to her in a whisper, which had the imme- diate effect of restoring her good humour. At the conclusion of the third act, Mr. Leslie ab- ruptly quitted his seat, and, without any apology, left the box. The ladies' tongues were immediately in motion, and Mr. Leslie was declared " a rude, impertinent, consequential fellow," by all but Miss Matilda, who was too much interested, although disappointed, to pronounce so hasty an opinion. EMILY MORELANO. 341 Emily could scarcely refrain from smiling, but the train of her thoughts was soon interrupted by her friend Susan, who having been seated at some dis- tance, with Mr. Augustus Gilbert, had not heard what had passed between Leslie and her. " What is this tale Mr. Osborne has been telling me, about your being an old sweetheart of Mr, Leslie's, my dear ?" she inquired. " It is only some of his rhodomontade, 1 suppose — for, as I told him, if you were acquainted with Mr. Leslie, you must be very sly indeed, never to have mentioned it to me." " I never saw Mr. Leslie but once before our coming here," replied Emily, calmly. " There, now, you see what nonsense you have taken in your head !" exclaimed Mrs. Wilson, turn- ing to Mr. Osborne, and forgetting, at that moment, that Emily had not been with her, when she had previously met Mr. Leslie ; and, therefore, her having seen him, even once, required some explanation. '^ There, Matty, cheer up, child !" whispered Mr. Osborne, loud enough for Emily to hear, " things are not so desperate as you fancy ; but, I'm sure, if you don't look a little pleasanter, you'll never catch him, for your looks are enough to turn all the cream in a dairy sour." The re-entrance of Mr. Leslie, however, at this moment, had a much more powerful effect on Miss Matilda's countenance than this elegant remon- strance ; but, to the great discomfiture of all, he contrived to evade their attempts to seat him in his former situation by Matilda's side, and dexterously 342 EMILY MORELAND. slipped himself into a vacant place, immediately be- hind Emily. " Are you inexorably determined to disown me ?'* he softly whispered, leaning over her shoulder. " At least, if you will allow me no other privilege of ancient friendship, you will suffer me to inquire if the Signora Orsini is quite well, and if she too is as barbarously inclined towards me as yourself." " I have not seen the Signora for some months, Sir," returned Emily, scarcely able to repress the tear, which this unexpected inquiry forced into hei eyes. " I am sorry to hear it, very sorry," observed Les- lie, with emphasis. " Forgive me, but I am afraid you will find few whose friendship can be an equiva- lent for the loss of hers." " 1 have not, I trust— at least, I know I have not deserved to forfeit her friendship," replied Emily; " the Signora is, unfortunately, absent from Eng- land.'' Her voice faltered at the recollections that rushed upon her mind, and Leslie, in a gentler tone, added — " Indeed, I had some suspicion that was the case; but is it possible that she could make no better ar- rangement than pardon me, I am fearful of offend- ing you, and " looking at the Gilberts, who were all attention, though endeavouring to look very in- different and unconcerned, " this is not a place where ' I can say what I would. Will you allow me to see you alone, to-morrow, at any time you please?" Emily hesitated and blushed — but the recollection of his lonjr noirlect and indiffcrace ruhsed into her EMILY MORBT.ANU. 343 mind, and she coolly observed that she must decline any such proposal. " I understand you, Miss Moreland," replied Les- lie, in a resentful tone, " I had, indeed, for the mo- ment, forgotten that — but, can it be possible that Mr. Evelyn can be so negligent " "Mr. Evelyn !" repeated Emily, in surprise, turn- ing full round upon him, " What — who — has autho- rised, or how did you know " " It is of little consequence how I know it, Miss Moreland," rejoined Leslie, gravely; "but this I can solemnly affirm, that, had 1 seen you safe under his protection, I should never have intruded myself upon your recollection ; nor will I do so any longer, if you will satisfy me that your present situation is perfectly comprehended by him, and has his entire sanction." " I can assure you. Sir, that I do not consider Mr. jd^velyn's sanction any more necessary than any other person's," observed Emily ; " and why you should suppose it so, is to me a complete mystery." " I can trust the evidence of my own eyes, Emily — pardon me, 1 should have said Miss Moreland — but, as I said before " The loud repetition of "Silence!" from several voices near them, reminded both Leslie and Emily where they were; and tlte latter again turned to- wards the stage, though her mind was now such a complete chaos, that it was totally impossible for her to derive the smallest entertainment, or even com- prehend what was passing. •* Will you give me leave to speak to Misd More- 344 EMILY MORELAND. land a moment, Sir ?" said Mrs. Wilson to Leslie, the minute the curtain dropped, and just as he was about to renew the conversation which had been in- terrupted. Leslie arose, and Susan came directly behind Emily. " Do you observe that tall, handsome man in the stage-box, who is, every now and then, looking this wTiy through his glass?" she inquired. Emily was not long in ascertaining the person she meant. " Yes, I see him — who is he ?" she demanded, with a trembling anticipation of the reply; for the features, even at that distance, and altered as they were by time and dissipation, were too striking not to remind her forcibly of those which were engraven on her memory. *' Do you remember the story I told you of a young lady, who had, but for me, been taken in by a gen- tleman, whose name was no stranger to you '* " Yes, too well — but, surely — I hope that it is not so! In pity, Susan, do not keep me in suspense!'* replied Emily. " Then, as surely as you and I sit here, that is the identical young lady who sits by his side, and that is himself your father!" she added, lowering her voice still more. Emily gazed and shuddered, till she felt her sight grow dim, and the loud throbbings of her heart sink into deadly faintness; but Susan did not observe the change, for she was employed in descanting on the cruelty of Mr. de Cardonnel, as she still called him, and the folly and wickedness of the girl, M'ho had deserted her respectable home and affectionate pa- EMILY MORELAIfD. 345 rent, for a life of infamy and vice. After I had taken such pains, too, to open her eyes," she continued, *' and had told her how he treated your poor mother." Emily could bear no more — " Pray let me pass — let me go home!" she repeated, rising, and gasping for breath. " Go home !" exclaimed two of the Miss Gilberts, ** what, when we came expressly to see the new pan- tomine, which everybody is in love with ! Impossible ! Besides, we have no coach waiting, and '* " What is the matter ?" interrupted Leslie, press- ing forward from the back of the box, to which he had retired, in order not to intrude on Mrs. Wilson's communication to Emily. But the sight of the pale countenance and agitated look of the latter, rendered any reply to his question unnecessary, and, without paying the slightest attention to the Gilberts, he exclaimed — "You are ill, Emily, let me support you — or shall 1 get you a glass of water, while your friend— " Emily again faintly articulated her wish to return home immediately, and Leslie flew off to send for a conveyance, while Susan, forgetting what had caused Emily's indisposition, or even apparently that she was ill, continued to express her astonishment and ulmost indignation that the latter had never told her that Mr. Leslie was an acquaintance of hers ; and Mrs. Gilbert very significantly observed, that she believed it would not be the last discovery Mrs. Wilson would make of the kind. " Well, to be sure, what deceit !" exclaimed Ma- tilda ; " and to think I should be made such a dupe 15. 2 Y 346 EMILY MOHELAND. of, as lo let him get out of me that we should be here to-night, and whereabouts we should set.^' *'It serves you right," returned Augustus, ''you're always taking it into your head that men have fallen in love with you !" *' And if you had a proper spirit, you would not let her be made a fool of, without resenting it !" interrupted one of the other sisters. Leslie re-entered the box, and they were all silent, Matilda scornfully turning her back, to mark her resentment. " I have borrowed a friend's carriage," he ob- served, *' where shall I tell the servants to set you down ?" addressing Mrs. Wilson. *' You had better let me go home with Miss More- land," said Mrs. Gilbert. " I know you have set your mind upon seeing the pantomime ; and, be- ** sides," she added, in a lower voice, " Augustus will be quite miserable, if you go." Augustus's languishing look confirmed this asser- tion, and Emily in vain endeavoured to rid herself of the company of Mrs. Gilbert, who was now doubly disagreeable to her, from the malignant remark she had recently made, and the hypocritical assumption of kindness, which she now thought it politic to put on. Leslie's looks plainly expressed his discontent at this arrangement, which, however, he did not know how to object to. " I will assist you. Miss Moreland," exclaimed Mr. Augustus, officiously stepping forward, and offering his arm, as Emily arose from her seat. Leslie, however, with very little ceremony, placed EHttLV MORELAJrb. 3$7 her hand through his arm, and observing—^* You had better take care of that lady, Sir," nodding to his mother, led the way through the lobby. Her whole thoughts engrossed by what she had re- cently beheld, Emily paid but little attention to Leslie's remarks ; but, when he pressed her to allow him to call upon her, she replied, " It cannot have escaped your observation, Mr. Leslie, that these people are already offended at the discovery that you that there exists any acquaintance Ije- tween us. Could they know, indeed," she added, iii a tone of more vivacity, " how very little reason I have to pride myself on the circumstance, it ^tould at once, I should think, silence " "What do you mean. Miss Moreland?" inter- rupted Leslie, with animation. " It may, indeed, be no subject for you to pride yourself on, that, in one short interview, you excited feelings in my bosom which neither time, absence, or even the conviction of your total indifference to me, and attachment to another, have ever weakened ! These, indeed, you n»ay consider trifling circumstances, but to me -" "Will you go to my house. Miss Morelatid ?'* in- terrupted Mrs. Gilbert, trying to assume a tone of tenderness, " I think it will be much better than going to Oxford Street ; particularly as I shall be puzzled to get home from .thence, — unless, indeed, this gentleman will be kind enough to direct his servants to set me down at my house." " Certainly, if Miss Moreland wishes to go home." '* Oh, yes, that is exactly what I wish— I would, indeed, rather go home alone ?" observed Emily, hastily. 348 EMILY MORELAND. " Oh, depend upon it, I shan't leave you, without you are quite recovered," returned Mrs. Gilbert ; " but shall I trouble you, Sir, to tell my girls that they will find me at home. " That gentleman. Madam, I presume, intends re- turning to the Theatre," replied Leslie, coolly look- ing at Augustus ; " I have another engagement to attend to." •/ Mrs. Gilbert looked disappointed, and was about to remonstrate ; but Leslie again addressed himself to Emily, whose heart was fluttering at the declara- tion he had just made. " I shall certainly take the liberty of inquiring after your health, to-morrow," he observed ; '' even a total stranger would not be denied that privilege, if he had been a witness of the indisposition, which is still so evident in your countenance and trembling frame." They were now at the steps of the carriage — Leslie assisted her in, and, in a low tone, bade her adieu; then, coolly bowing to Mrs. Gilbert, made way for her son to perform the same office for her, while he gave some directions to the servants whc attended. " Try and find out who the carriage belongs to, and don't be stingy, but give the men a shilling or two," observed Mr. Augustus, putting his head into the carriage, just as it was going to drive off Emily sank into the corner, so totally engrossed with what she had seen and heard, that she scarcely heard her companion's remarks upon the beauty of the carnage, the richness of the livery, the brilliancy EMiLY MORELAND. S49 of the k-inps, and her reiterated assertions that she should never relish getting into a filthy hack again. " Goodness me ! if we ar'n't in Oxford Street al- ready !" she at length exclaimed ; " well, to be sure, how we have dashed along ! And how that spiteful old devil, Mother Trenchard, will stare, when she finds who's a-stopping at her door, in such a grand set-out ! I suppose, Miss Moreland, there's no occa- sion for me to stay with you, as you seem quite reco- vered." Emily eagerly replied that she was quite well, though her pale cheek contradicted the assertion. " Well, I'll just get out with you, my dear, and see you to your room — the servants, I dare say, won't object to wait for me," she replied, as the carriage stopped. Emily, however, disclaimed all wish of giving additional trouble, declaring that she was quite strong and well, and that Ellen would assist her. Ellen was already at the side of the carriage, and, though evidently surprised at seeing who it con- tained, her anxiety for " her dear Miss Moreland" got the better of her curiosity, and she scarcely noticed Mrs. Gilbert, though the latter, deter- mined that she should observe her in her dignified station, very condescendingly inauired how her mother was. " Oh, very well, thank you, I believe," returned Ellen, hastily. " Do, pray, dear Miss Moreland, lean on me — how you tremble !" Emily tried to appear very firm, and bade Mrs. Gilbert good night, — a ceremony which, in her con- 350 EMILY MORELAND. templation of her new consequence, the latter had forgotten. " Dear, dear, what a change!" exclaimed Ellen, as soon as Emily was seated in her own room, " you looked so blooming and beautiful, when you went out, and now here you are, come home again, just as you did the other day, looking as if you were sinking into the grave." " Oh, how I wish that I was there, for then I should find rest!" exclaimed Emily, bursting into tears. Ellen's tender heart melted at this sight, and she wept also, though unconscious why she should do so. " How I do wish I could do any thing to serve or comfort you!" she, at length, observed. " I am sure it is very hard that one so kind and considerate, and that has been brought up so, as I'm sure you have, should be unhappy and without a friend, too — except such a one as me, that can do you no good. As to Mrs. Wilson, I can see plainly, she's too much taken up with those Gilberts, to care about any one else." Emily had, indeed, been forcibly struck with the indifference and coldness of Susan, who appeared hear- tily glad to get off from accompanying her home, and had scarcely seemed to notice her, when she departed *' It is time, indeed, my good girl," she observed, as she leant on Ellen's shoulder, " that I should shake off this weakness, and exert my independence. To- morrow, I shall leave this house, Ellen; and I hope and trust you will see me, some day, in a very dif- ferent situation — one in which I can show you how I value your disinterested kindness!" EMILir MORELAND. 351 £llen*s tears increased — she did not like the thought of Miss Moreland's going, though she hoped it was for her benefit. *' If I should never see you again," she observed, ** I am sure I shall always pray for your prosperity; for, I am certain, nothing in this world can be too good for you ; and, if it was only to mortify the Gil- berts, I should glory to see you in the station you ought to be, and mistress of a carriage and servants, and every thing that could make you happy!' Emily smiled through her tears at the simple girl's definition of happiness, and Ellen, suddenly recol- lecting herself, exclaimed — " By the-bye, Miss Moreland, how curious it was that Lady Haviland should be present a second time, when you were taken ill — I suppose she recollected you again, and lent you the carriage." "Lady Haviland!" repeated Emily, in surprise. '* I did not see her ladyship. Indeed, Ellen, it was a gentleman who accommodated me, and I under- stood it was the carriage of a friend, which he had borrowed." ** Oh, indeed, well that might be," replied Ellen, " but it was Lady Haviland's carriage, for I spoke to the footman, who often comes here, with orders from his lady. I could hardly believe my eyes, when I saw old Madam Gilbert's fat ugly face popped out through the window; and, whoever the gentleman was, I think he'd get in fine disgrace with my lady, if she was to know that he had put the butcher's greasy wife into her carriage. I don't suppose she would hardly condescend to go into it 352 EMILY MORELAND ajT-ain for she's the proudest and most fantas* tical woman that ever lived, though she's not bad- hearted, if she takes a fancy to any body." Emily paid but little attention to this character of Lady Haviland — she was thinking of Leslie, and re- calling to her mind something Susan had hinted, but not distinctly, of some mysterious circumstances con- nected with him and some lady of high rank. She had been too fearful of betraying the interest she felt in the subject, to question her at the time; but the apparent intimacy which existed between him and this Lady Haviland, recalled them now with double force to her mind. " Was, then, the appa- rently honourable and ingenuous Leslie a professed libertine? — and, if so, should she not be worse than impruaent, to allow him the privilege even of a friend, as he had called himself?" She would not see him — she would leave the house, the first thing in the morning, and thus prevent even the possibility of her resolution to avoid him being shaken by his fascinating and persuasive manners ; and, with this determination, she dismissed Ellen, and retired to bed, just in time to avoid Susan and her party, who returned from the Theatre a few minutes after she had left the sitting-ro3m. BMILY MORET.ANU. 35S CHAPTER XV. Love's clierish'd gift, the rose he gave, is ftded t Love's blighted ilower can never bloom a<>;ain. Wee|), for thy fault, in heart and mind degiaded, tVeep, if thy tears can wasii away the stain. Anow. During the whole night, Einilv's thoughts were divided between her uneasiness at the disclosure which she was compelled to make, of her intention to leave her friend Susan, and the grief which her discovery of her father, under such circumstances, occasioned her. The necessity of exerting herself, however, at length aroused her. She had but a few hours left, to make every necessary preparation ; but every thing was arranged, and she was ready, before Susan arose. The first glimpse of the latter's countenance, as she entered the room, where the breakfast was laid, convinced Emily that something had greatly dis- turbed her temper; but she did not keep her long in suspense, for the very first words she uttered, were a reproach for duplicity, in having concealed her inti- macy with Mr. Leslie. " For such a young girl. Miss Moreland, and one, too, brought up as you have been, I must say," she observed, " that you possess more art than I could have believed possible! Indeed, I am heartily sorry that ever 1 was the means of bringing you to London, though 1 little thought, when you talked so seriously |5. 2 z 354 EMILY MORELAND. of the opportunity which a visit to London would afford you, of getting into some way of living gen- teelly — I little thought, I say — what you had in view, and that I and my friends should be made such dupes, by one *' " I cannot suffer you to proceed in this strain, Susan," interrupted Emily, calmly, but firmly. " If there is any intention of making a dupe of you, it is entertained by those whom you call your friends, and to whose kind offices, I am quite aware, I am indebted for this insult. To put an end, however, to all un- pleasant contention or recrimination between us, I will at once acquaint you with my intention to leave you, and put in practice that for which alone I came to London." " Leave me, Miss Moreland!" she exclaimed, with astonishment, " in the name of goodness, what do you mean?" " I mean exactly what I have said," returned Emily. " I have taken an apartment, which* will better suit my circumstances and intentions, than the mode of life which you have adopted, and which, I confess, has been completely opposite to what I ex- pected. Not that I mean to find fault " "No, indeed, I should think not!" exclaimed Susan, her face flaming with passion, avid yet evi- dently in extreme confusion, " I should think, indeed, you are the last person that ought to find fault; for, I am sure, I have behaved handsomely to you ; and if I choose to spend my money, and enjoy myself '* " I have neither the wish nor the right to interfere," observed Emily, when she paused, from utte? EMILY MOREL'AND. 356 inability to command her voice. '* I have, indeed," «he continued, "• no intention of so doing, though, for your sake, and for the remembrance of that kindness with which, until now, you have ever regarded me^ I could have wished to have possessed sufficient in- fluence with you, to induce you to pause, before you plunge too far to recede. Before we meet again, we may probably both be ditferently circumstanced; but, be that as it may, be assured, whenever you feel disposed to claim it, I shall be most happy to renew our former friendship." The forced calmness with which Emily uttered this, was about to yield to a passionate flood of tears; out she was suddenly recalled to a feeling of her own dignity, when Susan, after a few moments' reflection, observed in a contemptuous tone, " This is exactly what I was told would happen ! 1 am hot deceived. Miss Moreland, with all your fine speeches ! I know, very well, what and who is at the bottom of this ; and I can only tell you, that I think it would much better become you to look to your own conduct, than to be making remarks upon mine. Mr. Leslie, I dare say " " I beg, I insist," exclaimed Emily, with passionate indignation, " that you do not introduce that person's name again to me! The time will come, when you will be convinced of the injustice you are now guilty of; but let me, as the last — the only — favour I shall ever ask of you, request that you do not degrade me in his eyes, by letting him see the suspicions you have formed, or rather that have been infused into your mind. He nill be here, most probably, this morning; 350 EMILY MOREI.AND. and let me entreat you, if ever I was dear to you, that you will not breathe a syllable, either of ivhat has now passed, or what has been sujjgested to you, by people who are interested in parting us, and who will, I hope, when they find they have their wish, suffer my name to be forgotten. I have now only one thing to arrange, and that must be done as quickly as possible, as I wish to avoid encountering the per- son whose name, I hope, I have heard for the last time. What I allude to," she continued, after a moment's pause, to recover her composure, " is the settlement of my share of the expenses of our journev to London, and our residence here. It never was my intention to burthen you with those expenses, and therefore 1 shall insist on paying a fair share of the money you have expended." ** I won't have a farthing, Emily — Miss MorelanH J I won't touch a single halfpenny of the money!'' ex- claimed Susan, with vehemence. " If you don't mean to insult me, you will put it back. You well know, that it was friendship, and nothing else, that induced me to ask for your company to London; and, if anything has happened to alter your views '' " Not on my part — do me justice, Susan — I am still unaltered," interrupted Emily; "my purposes, my wishes are the same, as when at the Farm we first conversed on the facility which a residence here would afford me to accomplish them. It is you, Susan, that are changed — not changed, either — for I be- lieve, firmly, that your heart is still kindly disposed towards me, though you suffer your understanding to be the dupe of " EMILY MORELAND. 357 A footstep on the stairs, and a voice, which her fears induced her to think must be Leslie's, caused her to pause in the middle of her intended vindication of herself; and, hastily throwing upon the table one of the notes she had taken from her purse, without waiting to see whether Susan either observed or ac- cepted it, she retreated through the bed-room, and was already hurrying on her bonnet and cloak, before she reflected that she had bade adieu to the last re- maining friend of her infancy, for ever! Ellen '.« exclamation—" Dear, dear, surely you are not realhj going, now, for good!" first recalled her wandering thoughts. She tried to smile, as she replied, " That she hoped it would be for $rooc?," but the effort was too much for her exhausted spirits, and she was obliged to sit down, and give way to the tears which a sudden re- collection of the important step she was taking, forced from her in showers. " Dear ! how sorry I am ! I hope it was not what I foolishly said, that has hurt you," observed Ellen. Emily could not reply, for her tears drowned her words; and the poor girl, in alarm, entreated her to let her go and fetch Mrs. Wilson. *' I'm sure," she continued, " if she sees how dis- tressed you are at the thoughts of ffoins: " Emily interrupted her, to assure her that she was mistaken — there were other causes for her tears. " Besides," she continued, in a doubtful tone, " Mrs. Wilson is engaged— there is a stranger with her — is there not?" Ellen replied in the alRiniative. " 1 have not seen 358 EMILY MORELANd. him," she said, " but one of the girls told me, that a gentleman had just gone up-stairs to Mrs. Wilson, and that you had run out of the opposite door, as she showed him in. I guessed you were here," continued Ellen, " and that was the reason I made an excuse to bring up the shawl you left down-stairs; but I little expected to find you in this manner!" Emily started up — " Will you oblige me by send- ing for a coach, instantly?" she observed, while the bright colour flashed into her cheeks, at the proba- bility of what might arise, in this interview between Leslie and her weak-minded friend, whose discretion, in attending to her request of silence, she very much doubted. *' I can call a coach from the stand in an instant—^ for there are plenty opposite our door," observed Ellen ; " but are you really, really determined to go ?" " Do not delay a minute, there's a good girl," re- plied Emily, hastily tying her bonnet, " I will follow you." Before the coach could drive up to the door, sne was on the step, and, in another instant, had sunk back in the corner of it, to avoid the looks of sur- prise, which her extraordinary and agitated appear- ance had excited, both in the shop through which she had hastily rushed, and in those who were passing along the pavement. The trunk was brought down, without any inter- ruption from Mrs. Wilson ; and Emily, before she could well believe she had really left her, was driven up to the door of her new residence. The old lady looked, Emily thought, more sour EMILY MORELAND. 359 and repulsive than on her first visit; and she grum* bled terribly at the coachman's dirty shoes, which, in spite of his enforced scrape at the door, left their print on every step of the newly-scoured stairs. " My Gemini! if every body was so perticler as you, I don't know how the world would go on," ob- served the man, laughing; "but I hope you won't be so cross with this pretty young lady, as you are with me." The old woman muttered a dissatisfied remark, from which the man seemed to understand that she was no friend to pretty faces; and Emily retreated and closed the door of her little room, to avoid hear- ing the contention which seemed likely to arise, from his disposition to jocularity, and her crabbed retorts. The stairs were all cleaned down again, though not without abundant exclamations, before Emily's privacy was interrupted. She had been sitting without taking off either bon- net or cloak, disconsolately musing, exactly where the old woman had left her, and she neither spoke nor moved at her entrance. '* What is the matter with thee, child?" she de- manded, looking somewhat more kindly. " Can I get thee any thing ? — or wilt thee come down and sit awhile in my room, while I put a fire here, and make it comfortable?" Emily started up, and tried to assume a more cheerful air, as she replied, with thanks, that she did not want any thing, for she had just breakfasted. " Breakfast !" repeated the old woman, in a tone of surprise, " why dost know that it is past noon? I 360 EMILY MORELAND. hope thou art not going to keep such hours here, of, I am sure, if thou dost " Emily smiled, as she interrupted the intended lec- ture by observing, " that she had always been accus- tomed to early hours ; but the friends she had been with " She paused, and the smile was converted to a sigh. " I should expect such /n'ends would be very un- fitting a young woman, who has her livelihood to get," observed the old woman; " but I am going to the market, to provide dinner for my lodgers, against they return from the city. If thou wilt that I bring with me what thou wilt need, I will do it." Emily thankfully accepted the offer, but she in- curred two or three reprimands for thoughtlessness and extravagance, from the profuseness of the orders she gave. " Thee know'st, I fear, but little of the means of husbanding the little thou hast," she observed; " but, if thou wilt be guided " " I am most anxious to be so, dear Madam," re- turned Emily, in one of her gentlest tones, "pray act for me, as if 1 was your own daughter, who ' The poor old woman's furrowed countenance un- derwent a sudden convulsive movement ; she sank into a chair, and hid her face with her hands, while her bosom heaved with violence, until a flood of tears burst forth to relieve her. Emily was deeply aflected by this unexpected dis- play of feeling, the source of which she easily con- ceived to have arisen from her unguarded expression having reminded the poor woman of a daughter, EMILY MORELAND. 361 whom she had, perhaps, lost under some peculiar circumstances of affliction. She attempted to offer some consolation, but the old woman pushed her angrily away. " Don't speak to me — thou knowest not what thou sayest!" she exclaimed. " -Let me alone!" Emily felt hurt and disappointed, but she did not reply; and the old woman, having wept for some minutes in silence, suddenly dried her eyes, and ob- serving that she should be late, if she did not go at once, hurried down the stairs. " And I am now, indeed, alone in the world, left to struggle and think for myself!" Emily repeated to herself, as she looked round her small apartment. The thought pressed too heavily to bear indulgence, and she endeavoured to drive it, and all the train it brought with it, away, by unpacking and placing in the drawers all she could now call her own. This task, however, was soon completed, and again she sat down, unable to resist the melancholy that over- powered her. " How many dull, unoccupied hours might she not have to pass in that place, before she could attain her object of active employment!" This reflection brought with it others, not less unpleasant and embarrassing. How many difficulties and re- buffs might she not encounter, even in her pursuance of the object she had in view, and how valuable now would be the advice of a friend, capable of directing and recommending her. Again Leslie rushed into her mind, but she was determined to look at only what she conceived she had learned of the dark side of his character, and 16. 3 A 362 EMILV MOREL.AND. forget the looks, the manner, the eloquence, which had taken her fancy prisoner, and would have almost tempted her to despise the suggestions of her under- standing. " I shall never see him again, — I hope," she added, after a long pause, and with a deep-drawn sigh, which more than half contradicted the assertion. She was still, however, dwelling on the same sub- ject, when the unlocking of the street-door warned her of the return of her hostess, and she hastily wiped away the tears, which had, almost unconsciously, strayed down her cheeks. Scarcely could she refrain from expressing her surprise at the complete trans- formation which the old lady's countenance had un- dergone, during this short absence. All traces of grief had vanished, and she was full of bustle, ac- tivity, and importance. An account of what she had expended for Emijy was rendered to the utmost far- thing, in spite of the assurances of the latter that it was quite unnecessary ; and the tea, sugar, bread, butter, &c. were all carefully deposited in their several places — the old woman, all the while, des- canting on the necessity of order and economy. " The man w ill bring thee coals and wood, in a little time," she observed, " and then thou canst light a fire, and make thyself at home and comfortable." Emily sighed at the name of " home and comfort;" it had been some time since she had known either the one or the other; for comfort had fled with that dear friend, of whose present circumstances or fate she was still in ignorance ; and, with her, home likewise ha J vanished; for she could ntver feel herself at EMILY MORELAND. 3G3 home, \^ here she was conscious she was (onsidered as a dependant. The task of making a fire was so entirely new, that it occupied her rather an unconscionable time, and she had nearly given up the affair, at last, as hopeless, when the old woman entered to bring the fire-irons, which had been kept down stairs for fear of rust, and afforded her the necessary assistance and instructions; not, however, without many admo- nitions to be more careful of wood, which was a A^ery dear article, and sundry pettish observations on the unnecessary " litter'" she had made with the coals. Emily began to feel her spirits sink lower than ever, at the prospect of being condemned to associate only with one whose mind seemed so totally absorbed in the petty cares, which she had hitherto been to- tally unaccustomed to consider as necessary. She sighed heavily, as she obeyed the old woman's in- structions in putting back a part of the wood into the closet, and the latter, seeming instantly to compre- hend her feelings, observed in a friendly tone, and laying her hand on hers — " When thee hast lived a little longer in the world, and hast seen as many of the turns in it as I have, thou wilt feel that attention to little things is as necessary as to great ones. So, do not be angry, with one who wishes thee to profit by her experience, without feel- ing the pain she did in gaining it." Emily's heart melted at the voice of kindness in which this was uttered, and she gratefully pressed the withered hand which was laid on hers, while she renmrked, in a tone between tears and smiles, that 364 EMILT MOIIELAHD. she had been hitherto £ spoiled child, ai d had much to learn as well as unlearn. The old woman nodded kindly to her, as she left the room, and Emily attempted to put in practice the lesson of content and resignation which she had been preaching to her own heart, by seating herself by her little fireside, and endeavouring, by diligent ap- plication to a piece of ornamental work, which she had begun at the request of Susan, and still intended for her, to prevent those melancholy thoughts which would, however, still steal in and dim her eyes with tears, and compel her to relinquish it for a few mi- nutes, to recover herself. The quiet and loneliness which seemed to prevail in the house, so contrary to what she had been ac- customed to, contributed to foster the depression of her spirits. She pictured to herself the cheerful con- versations, the instructive and entertaining occupa- tions, which had made the time so short and so plea- sant, while she enjoyed the protection and society of Signora Orsini. The delightful walks, the mountain scenery, the fragrant and blooming garden, too, for what were they exchanged ? She glanced her eyes, disconsolately, through the window, from which no- thing but the tops of the houses, red tiles, and smoking chimneys, were visible, and again sighed bitterly at the contrast. A loud knock at the street-door roused her from these painful reflections, and for a moment, forgetful that her retreat was unknown to any one, she listened with anxiety to the sound of a voice, which she fancied itrongly resembled Herbert Leslie's, EMIl.Y MORELAND* 365 The ddor, however, was closed, and all again' silent, and Emily, blushing for the folly which thus connected Leslie with every occurrence, again sat down to her work, resolving, for at least the hun- dredth time, that she would never think of him again. "Wilt thee come down, and take thy tea with me?" inquired her hostess, putting in her head at the door; " thou art strange and lonely, I dare say, in this room." Emily gladly complied with the invitation ; she felt that she was indeed " strange and lonely," and that any society was, at that moment, preferable to her own thoughts. The clean hearth and cheerful fire seemed to re- vive her spirits, as the old lady kindly seated her in the best place, and drew the tea-table, with the old- fashioned tea equipage, all ready set, close to her. There were few hearts which could be impene- trable to the graces and gentleness of Emily More- land's manners; and that of Mrs. Inglis, her hostess, though fenced round with the thorns and brambles of forms and habits, was not hard by nature. All the sourness and suspicion which had, at first, made her manner so repulsive, gradually disappeared, and she entered into conversation as freely and unreservedly as she had before been the contrary. Emily had suspected that Mrs. Inglis had lost a daughter, and that some distressful circumstances had attended that loss ; but she now heard, from the poor old woman's full heart, the particulars of her be- reavement. " Martha," she said, " had always been more lively 366 EMILY MORELAND. and gay, than the tenets of the sect to which she be- longed tolerated. But she was as innocent and harm- less, as the lamb that frolics by its mother's side in the field," observed Mrs. Inglis, her dim eye lighted up with maternal pride, as she recalled the image of her darling to her memory, and endeavoured to des- cribe her to Emily, whose tears, more than her words, declared her sympathy in the fond mother's affliction. " I know it was sinful, it was wicked," she conti- nued, '' to look with pleasure and satisfaction at the outward beauties of the person — but 1 have sat, for hours, looking at her fair face and sweet smiles, and the glossy hair, which, though her father, who was very strict, would have cut close, and combed straight, would still turn into ringlets, and curl round her neck and forehead. " She was just turned of sixteen, when her health began to be very delicate; and her spirits, that we had been so often obliged to check and reprove, all at once seemed to fail, and she would sit for hours, without seeming to notice any body, but as if she was lost in thought; yet, if I asked what ailed her, she would deny that any thing was the matter, or that she was changed — but what can deceive a mother's eye? " There was a young man, whom, in his infancy, we had often foolishly and presumptuously talked of, as a husband for our Martha. His mother was a widow of the same persuasion as ourselves; and Edward Redmond, her son, was intended to succeed his father in his business, when he should be old enough. Ho was three years older than Martha, EMILY MORELAND. 367 and, as bis mother used to look to my husband for counsel and assistance in her worldly affairs, the children, as well as ourselves, were often together. " Edward was more serious and thoughtful than my Martha, and sometimes I was grieved iu my heart, when neighbour Redmond would shake her head at Martha's innocent gambols, and tell her that her Edward would not behave so unseemly, nor would he like her, if she did not change her deport- ment. " Edward, however, with all his seeming sanctity, was scarcely eighteen before he betrayed symptoms of a turn of mind, which not only gave his mother great uneasiness and sorrow of heart, but occasioned us, particularly my husband, who, I have said, was very strict in principles and conduct, to look with coolness and suspicion upon him. •"' He became a constant frequenter of ' places of amusement,' as they are called; he entirely deserted our places of meeting; the plainness of our apparel, our very speech, were become odious to him ; and, to complete all, he signified to his mother his desire of becoming a soldier, or, as he called it, ' a defender of his country.' " I was sorry for the boy, and T was sorry for my friend, whose heart was nearly broken; but it never entered my mind that 1 had most cause to grieve for my own child, who was silent whenever Edward Redmond was mentioned. It did come into my mind, once or twice, that she did not seem to consi- der his conduct so heinous as it really was, but I was fearful of searching into her thoughts, and fearful, 368 EMILY MORELAND. too, of bringing upon her the anger of her father, who, I knew, would never pardon her, should she attempt to defend the boy. " As I told thee, however, she pined away soon after this happened, though I then little suspected that she thought more of Edward Redmond than any other companion of her childish days, which could scarcely be said to have passed awaj'. *' Trouble and affliction came upon me all toge- ther : — my husbandj in one day, lost his friend and brother, and a great part of his substance, which he had ventured in his hands, and with which, conside- rably improved, he was returning from America, when the vessel was wrecked, and all was lost, " This was a sad blow to our comfort, and, per- haps, it was his own inward grief that made the father less quick-sighted to the alteration in our child. Altered, however, she was, and much did I grieve that our narrow circumstances would not allow me to take the advice of a friend, who thought that sea-bathing and change of air would restore her, as she appeared to be consumptive. " When I returned home one evening, after a conference with the friend who had given me that advice, she looked, I thought, more pale and wan than ever, and I could not help betraying- my fears and my sorrow. She looked up at me with surprise, when I sat doivn, and, bursting- into tears, bewailed my po ferty, which prevented me from taking- the means to restore her to health, for she had herself seemed to favour the idea of going- into the country She guzed on me or a moment, with such a look as EMILY MORELAND. 369 1 can never forget, and, throwing herself on her knees, she said, clasping her hands with strong agony, " ' Oh, mother, mother, do not heap coals of fire on my head, with this kindness ! I am a wretch, a guilty wre-tch, that deserves neither pity nor assis- tance. Oh, let me die, let me die, before ' " My husband came into the room at this minute, and something like a dread of the truth rushed into my mind, though all was darkness and confusion ; but he was a stern man, and I feared lest my child should incur his reproof. I tried to raise her, but he darted forward, and, seizing my hand, threw it away, and came between us. " ' Let her be !' he cried, ' She is no more thy child nor mine ! Let her seek assistance from the man who has humbled her, and brought shame upon our name !' " Martha sank down upon the floor, and I forgot every thing but that she was my child, and in distress. I struggled, I prayed to him, to let go his strong hold, and let me assist her, but he was resolute ; he forced me out of the chamber, and into my own, which he locked upon me. " Oh, what did I feel, as I heard him return into the room, in which 1 had left my poor child. I lis- tened for the sound of his voice, lifted up in up- braidings against her — but all was silent ! And then I thought that it could not be real — that all she had uttered was the effect of frenzy and delirium — and, after all, what was the guilt of which she accused herself? She had, perhaps, in her fear of her father, magnified some trifling transgression. It might be 16'. .3 B 370 EMILY xMOllELAND. that she had been seduced into one of those fault? which her gay disposition rendered her prone to, hut it was impossible she could be what her words implied. Sinful wretch that I was, almost did I feel, at the moment, inclined to blame the restraints that our religion imposes, and which I thought had disturbed my child's mind ! " I cannot tell thee half I thought or said, for I continued to talk, though no one replied to me. Darkness came on, and still my husband came not to release me. I was now angry, as well as grieved — I called, but in vain, for there was none to reply to me. At length, I heard a loud knocking at the street-door, and I recollected that Sarah, our only handmaiden, had been sent for to her mother, and that there was no one in the house but my husband, my child, and myself. " I know not what terror came over me, when 1 found that no one went to open the door ! I was in the back part of the house, but my screams reached the ears of the person at the door, and in a few mi- nutes it was broken open, and I was released. " I rushed to the room where I had left my child — I was in darkness, but I knew the spot where 1 had last seen her — and there I found her — still, cold — a senseless corpse ! Yes, my gentle, lively, innocent girl had lifted her own rash hand " *' Pray, for pity's sake, spare yourself!" ex- claimed Emily, who beheld with terror the agony which distorted every feature of the wretched mo- ther, as she repeated this dreadful tale. '* \ can scarcelv tell thee what fcllowed," she cou» EMILY MORELAND. 371 tinned, '' but I know that I was roused from one horrible feeling by another— the sight of ray husband, in a slate of total insensibility, sitting on a chair op- posite the body of his child. His reason, his recol- lection, even his speech was gone, and he never re- covered these faculties, but lived for several months in a state which rendered the approach of death a blessing even to me, bereft and childless as I now was. " After what I have already told thee, it is almost needless to say that I soon discovered it was to Ed- ward Redmond all these miseries were owing. He had found means of seeing my child, when I had thought him far distant and forgotten by her ! He had poisoned her mind against her parents, had in- troduced her to scenes which her naturally gay dis- position made her but too well relish ; and, finally, he had succeeded in destroying her principles, as well as 1 will not dwell upon it ! He is gone, where his victims preceded him, to the judgment- seat of Him who knoweth the secrets of all hearts. May he find there, the mercy which he denied and despised here ! " I could scarcely have wished my child to have lived, overwhelmed as she was with shame and mi- sery ; for she had discovered, that the triumph of her seducer was no sooner completed, than he became the husband of one who possessed that in which only she was, as he said in one of his vile letters, de- ficient — a fortune. " ' I love you, Martha, and only you,' he wrote, * but love will not enable us to live upon air. My 372 EMILY MORGLAND. mother has discarded nie. The profits of ray com- mission as a lieutenant will not pay my tailor's bill, and how, then, could I support a wife, who brings me nothing but her charming self? Be reasonable, my beloved, and consent to my plan — the widow's fortune will bestow all that is wanting to our hap- piness. You have nobly cast aside some of your foolish scruples, and do not now stop halfway in the course, when the prize is sure.' " This letter completed her despair. She re- plied to it by writing to the woman to whom he al- luded, but she treated her with contempt, and mar- ried him immediately. " The fate of my child and her parent, however, awakened remorse in his bosom. He found, teo late, that money would not stifle the reproaches of con- science, and the means he took to drown its voice increased the sting. For four years he lingered, the wretched victim of his own vices — and now he, too, is forgotten in the grave, except by her whom he bereaved of all that she loved upon earth — loved too much ! — for that sin am I now punished !" Emily could offer no consolation, for the subject was one which came too near her own heart ; but the memory of her mother was sacred with her — she could not betray her weakness, nor could she dwell on the cruelty of him to whom she owed her being. Sincerely, however, did she compassionate the feel- ings of the unhappy mother, and truly did she feel the value of that pious resignation, which had enabled her to surmount the sorrows which would have been sufficient to have overwhelmed a mind EMILY MORELAND. 373 vmsupported by religion ; though she could not avoid feeling that it would, in all probability, have been better for the unhappy girl whose fate she lamented, had that religion been less austere and rigid in its forms. A long pause of gloomy contemplation followed, M'hich neither seemed inclined to interrupt ; but both started when the kitchen-door was opened, and a tall precise-looking man entered. " I beg pardon for my interruption," he observed, drawing back ; " but I have rung twice, and I felt surprised that I remained unanswered." Mrs. Inglis bustled upon her feet, and acknow- ledged her inattention. " It is the first time, since I have been in the house, that such a circumstance has occurred," con- tinued the gentleman, still looking with curiosity at Emily, " and I was really alarmed. I see, however, you have a fair excuse," and he bowed to Emily, with old-fashioned gallantry, and a smile at his own wit. Mrs. Inglis looked grave, and fidgeted towards the door, as she observed that she would bring up the tea-kettle, which she knew was what he wanted, in a minute. " Oh, I am not in a hurry ! Do not let me disturb you and this young lady from her tea," he observed, approaching still farther into the room, " I can wait very well, for a few minutes." Mrs. Inglis, however, would not resume her seat ; and the stranger, equally determined, as it appeared, not to be repulsed by her evidert wish to get rid of 374 EMILY MO R ELAND. Ijini, ol)servecI, "Indeed, sooner than be the means of disturbing your comfort, I would forego my tea ;ilto»cther ; though, I confess, I am a regular tea- drinker, and never so much enjoy it as when I take it with the ladies." Mrs. Inglis looked still more repulsive. She was evidently divided between her fear of offending a good lodger, and her dislike of the gallantry which he appeared inclined to display; and the latter, taking advantage of his known importance to his landlady, seemed inclined to consult no other feeling than the gratification of his inclination. *' A very cold day. Miss, for the time of year," he observed, addressing Emily, who very distantly re- plied in the affirmative. " I assure you, I felt it very keen, sitting still for some hours in a counting-house, without fire — though it is but a little place, either." Emily did not reply at all to this gratuitous infor- mation, and, after a short pause, during which she felt conscious that he was looking at her, and endea- vouring to hit upon something which would force her into a reply, Mrs. Inglis again, somewhat sharply, observed, that the water in the kettle was boiling to waste. " You forgot that, just now," returned the gentle- man, smiling, " and can you wonder that I should, when I have the same excuse?" Emily did not smile at this second allusion to her- self, and the intruder, with a very profound bow to her, departed. " I am glad he did not nsk thee any questions, EMILY MORELAND. 375 which could betray to him that thou art an inmate of this house," observed Mrs. Inglis, when she re- turned. Emily did not reply, but she felt rather surprised that there should exist any motive for concealment of the circumstance. " I could not have thought that friend Townsend could have been so troublesome," continued the old lady, after a short pause of apparent reflection ; " but it is the first time he ever entered this room, or was forced to wait, and now I cannot conceive how I could have been so lost, as not to hear his summons." Emily thought it both natural and excusable, con- sidering the subject which occupied her attention at the moment ; but she felt much more surprised at the effect which custom had wrought \n her hostess, who, in her habitual attention and occupation, seemed to have entirely forgotten the agitation which had, so short a time before, shook her whole frame. " I am afraid I am an intruder. Madam," observed Emily, who thought there was an approach to the resumption of that snappishness and austerity which had distinguished the manner of Mrs. Inglis, when she had first seen her. " I do not think thee an intruder," returned the old lady, " but it would, perhaps, be as well if thou wert to go to thy own room for an hour or two, till friend Townsend goes out for the evening. I will tell thee when he is gone, and then, if thou likest the company of an old woman better than thine own, thou canst come down here again." 37G EMILY MOREI/AND. Emily felt uncomfortable at this imposed restraint — it argued, she thought, no good of the character of Mr. Townsend, to be thus cautious and distrustful towards him ; and she could not anticipate wiih much satisfaction a residence in a house, where it was ne- cessary to conceal it. But, unwilling to give offence to her positive, and rather too-assuming hostess, she returned to her own apartment, resolving that, as Mr. Townsend appeared to depart and return at re- gular and stated periods, she would take care to avoid all unpleasant remarks, by confining herself to her own apartment, when he was likely to be at home. Long before she had anticipated, Mrs. Inglis came to invite her down, observing that she could bring her work and her candle, and that would save her burning her own fiyre ; proceeding, at the same time, to take off the coals, which Emily had jult before heaped on the grate. Emily blushed at her own want of economy, su necessary in her situation ; but she had been antici- pating, with something like satisfaction, having a comfortable fire to return to when she quitted Mrs. Inglis for the night, understanding that she retired regularly at ten o'clock to bed. "There, that will do!" observed the old lady, after demolishing carefully every vestige of fire, ** now you will have nothing to do, when friend Townsend knocks at the door, but to take thy candle and go up to bed." Emily quietly assented, and in a few minutes was comfortably established with her work at the fire-side. EMILY MORELAND. 377 The old lady produced her knitting, and for some time they continued industriously to employ them- selves, in silence. Mrs. Inglis's eyes, however, were oftener employed in gazing at Emily than on her work, and a frequent deep sigh, that broke from her bosom, betrayed the melancholy complexion of her thoughts. Emily forgot her own troubles ; forgot all that was unpleasant or repulsive in her companion's manners and disposition, in her earnest and unaffected desire to soothe the sorrows which she so truly com- passionated. She endeavoured to lead her to subjects which she thought might detach her mind from those which now pressed upon her; but there were so few ideas common to both, that it was almost impossible to sustain a connected conversation ; and, after se- veral ineffectual attempts, she was compelled to re- linquish the hope of interesting her, and relapse into unsocial silence, till the loud knock and ring of the bell announced the return of the obnoxious Mr. Townsend, and, in obedience to the previous arrange- ment, she retired to her room. The second day of her residence was but a repe- tition of the first, and the third was still more irk- some, for the weather was too wet to allow Emily to go out, and Mrs. Inglis was occupied with her washing, and so cross and petulant that she would scarcely bear speaking to. Emily had finished her work, and she tried draw- ing; but the recollections that employment brought with it, were too poignant, and she relinquished the pencil in despair. 16. 3 c 37H EMILY MORELAND. The few books she possessed were turned over and over, without being able to engage her attention. All were " flat, stale, and unprofitable," for her thoughts were wandering to other subjects, and for two or three hours she sat lost in reflection, and for- getful of all but the past — the happy — never-to-be- recalled past ! The sound of a heavy footstep, though evidently approaching with caution her apartment, recalled her to recollection. She started up, and, for a mo- ment, stood undecided whether she should reply to the gentle rap that demanded admission. " Yet what should I fear?" she reflected, "since I know Mrs. Inglis is at home, and within hearing." The door was opened, and surprise and anger were both sufficiently legible in her countenance, when she beheld the same person whose assiduities had ap- parently given Mrs. Inglis so much dissatisfaction, on the first evening of her (Emily's) residence there. "Then I am right?" he observed, with a smile of satisfaction. " Excuse me, my dear Miss, but I sus- pected you occupied this room, though Mrs. Inglis tried to make me believe otherwise ; and I was de- termined to ascertain whether I was right, in spite of her cross looks." Emily hesitated how to reply, her natural timidity preventing her uttering all her resentment would iave dictated; and the gentleman, taking advantage of her hesitation, advanced towards her with a fa- miliar smile. "You and I must be better acquainted, my dear," EMILY MORELAND. 379 he observed, *' for you are just what I admire — shy and quiet — and I dare say we can manage " An indignant look stopped him short in the middle of his sentence. " I beg you to understand, most ex- plicitly. Sir," replied Emily, "that I decline all ac- quaintance with you, and am not at all ambitious of your admiration — particularly for qualities I do not possess. I am neither so ' shy,' nor so ' quiet,' as you express it, as to bear with insult, though 1 am willing to believe it is not intended. I hope this is the last time you will need such a hint." Completely abashed at her manner, (so different from what he had been accustomed to, and expected to meet, in a companion of Mrs. Inglis's,) the poor man, in spite of his natural self-conceit, stood con- founded and abashed. " I am. very sorry. Miss," he at length commenced, " if I have said or done any thing to offend you. All I wished was to make myself agreeable, and — and " " There is only one way,' Sir, to render yourself agreeable," replied Emily, scarcely able to restrain a smile, yet looking very grave and reserved ; " and that," she continued, " is by returning to your own apartment, and forgetting altogether my being in this house." The good man looked, or tried to look, very tender and gallant, as he replied, " that the last part of her commands it was quite urtpossible to comply with ; she must allow him to think of her, if he was forbid to see her." But her reserved look checked his gallant effusions, and she closed the door upon him, before 380 EMILY MORELAND. he had well turned from it. in a manner which could leave him no doubt that she was serious in her inten- tion of keeping him at a distance. The thought of what Mrs. Inglis would say, if she discovered that he had been to her, had scarcely darted into Emily's mind, before she heard the sharp voice of the old lady, uttering some expression of astonishment at seeing him there. Emily could not hear his answer, but she awaited with impatience the visit, which she had no doubt she should receive from her hostess, whose resentment, she believed, would be equally excited with her own. But, to her great surprise, Mrs. Inglis did not come up stairs for more than an hour; and then, though she spoke immediately of Mr. Townsend's intrusion, seemed to make very light of it, and spoke of him as a very good-hearted man, though somewhat self-satisfied and consequential in his manner, " He is possessed, too," she observed, of plenty of that, without which there is no living in the world; and, if he tells the truth, he has none who hare any claim upon him, for he is without friend or relation in the world." " Then he is truly pitiable'" observed Emily, with a deep sigh; " that is, if he has a heart to feel the want of those connexions." Mrs. Inglis did not reply, but invited Emily to take her tea down stairs ; and the latter, feeling the soli- tariness of her own apartment the more irksome from the late intrusion, readily consented. The tea-things were not removed before M«. Townsend, though with somewhat more of deference EMILY MORELANI). 381 and respect in his manner than before, made his ap- pearance with some trifling excuse ; and, to Emily's great surprise and dissatisfaction, Mrs. Inglis did not seem to discourage his attempt to enter into conver- sation. The unfavourable state of the weather, the pro- bability of a cold and wet spring, and the dirtiness of the streets in the city, were severally discussed without Emily's having uttered a word, or appearing to take any interest in the conversation. At length Mr. Townsend ventured to address her particularly, by asking what part of London she had been most accustomed to. " I have been in London only three weeks, Sir," replied Emily, with coolness. " Oh, dear, then you have seen very little of it yet, I suppose ?" he returned. Emily merely assented to this observation by a bow, and Mrs. Inglis added, " Ah, it will be well for thee, perhaps, if thou seest no more than thou hast seen. There is little good to be learned, but much evil to assail thee, in this place." *' It is a bad place, indeed," rejoined Mr. Townsend, " without a proper protector. 1 hope, however, that is not your case. Miss ?" Emily hesitated — she knew not how to reply to this home-thrust; and Mrs. Inglis immediately ob- served, that she was sure, if that were the case, she had much better have remained in the country. Unused to the tone of implied superiority which both her companions assumed, Emily's usual spirit 382 EMILY MORELAND. anJ pride seemed to forsake her, and she turned away, unable to conceal the tears which evinced her wounded feelings. " I hope nothing I have said," Mr. Townsend be- gan, but, before he could finish the sentence, Emily arose and left the room, without replying to Mrs. Inglis's observation that she had not finished her tea. In a few minutes, the old lady followed her — " I am sorry, my child, if I hurt thy feelings," she ob- served; " 1)ut 1 will tell thee, candidly, that neigh- bour Townsend is very anxious to learn thy history. He was, like me, taken at first sight with the modesty and gentleness of thy looks. He is, as I told thee before, a man of good substance, and without kin- dred or friends, and he is arrived at an age which renders him more to be relied on and trusted than a \oung, thoughtless num. He is fearful, he says, that tliou art in distress, and, if thou wilt trust him with Ihy history " " I am in no distress, my dear Madam, that Mr. Townsend can alleviate," replied Emily; " nor have ] any history to communicate, farther than that death liaving deprived me of my natural protectors, who were unable to make any permanent provision for me, I am under the necessity of ei^deavouring to pro- vide for myself. This is really all I have to commu- nicate, and I hope will put an end to all suspicion or conjecture on my account." " But wilt thou tell me from what part of the country thou hast come, and who and what were th\ friends?" said the old lady. " I do not ask thee because I suspect thee, or from mere curiosity ; but, EMILY MORELAND. 383 1 will tell thee at once, that friend Townsend re- gards thee with a very favourable eye, and a candid explanation to him may " " I cannot consent, Madam, to give any farther explanation, with the view of cultivating Mr. Town- send's good opinion," replied Emily, blushing, with a mixture of shame and vexation, at the insinuation which it was plain Mrs. Inglis meant to make. " I think, indeed," she continued, resuming all the pride of her nature, " that I have quite sufficiently ex- plained my actual situation ; but it has been from deference to you, and not from any view of gaining Mr. Townsend 's good opinion, which is, and ever will be, a matter of perfect indifference to me." " He will be sorely grieved to think so," replied Mrs. Inglis, half smiling at the decision of her man- ner; " however, I will faithfully report to him what thou sayest, though, I think, thou art in the wrong, to be too hasty in rejecting " Emily shook her head impatiently; the subject was, indeed, too re- pugnant for her to enter into any discussion; and Mrs. Inglis, after inviting her to come down-stairs again, as soon as he should be gone out, which she would know by hearing the street-door shut, left her to herself. This was a new and unexpected source of mortifi- cation; for Emily felt very fearful that the confirma- tion she had herself given, of her unprotected and isolated situation, would not have the efifect she wished, of totally discouraging Mr. To wnsend's views. There was something, too, in his looks and manners, which was far from prepossessing her in favour of the 384 EMILY MORELAND. rectitude of his principles; and though it was very evident he had engaged Mrs. luglis in his favour, by his profession of honourable and upright intentions, Emily felt a secret, an unaccountable distrust of him, which made her sincerely regret the chance which had thrown her in his way. Unwilling, however, to appear ungrateful for the kindness which she was sure prevailed in Mrs. Inglis's heart towards her, she hastened down-stairs, as soon as she heard the signal of Mr. Townsend's departure ; and, to her very great satisfaction, his name was not mentioned in the conversation that ensuea, in the course of which Emily unreservedly detailed the means she intended to adopt, of advertising, &c. and the old lady promised, unasked, to accompany her to the place proper for her purpose, on the following day. " And if I should not succeed," said Emily, with a sigh, " I have no immediate fears of want, as I have a sum sufficient for my necessities for a considerable period ; and, besides, I think I could, by my acquire- ments in ornamental works of different kinds, secure enough to satisfy my moderate wants and wishes." " It would be a pity that one so desirous of being honourably independent, should ever want encou- ragement," said a strange voice behind her, " yet, if you have no other recommendation, young lady, than merit, I much fear you will find Pardon me, I ought rather to apologise for having intruded upon your counsels, than thus have introduced myself by discouraging your hopes, and damping your ex- pectations." I EMILY MORELAND. 38i> Emily arose, with diffidence and respect, to return the courteous bow of the stranger, who was a tall venerable-looking man, whose bronzed complexion and mutilated arm at once betrayed his profession, even had he not been attired in a faded naval uniform. "Will you forgive me?'* he continued, respect- fully taking Emily's hand, and again bowing, as he did so. " It was an impulse which I could neither resist or reason upon, to listen to the sentiments which were delivered in so impressive, and, I will add, attractive a manner. If, however, I am very much to blame, I cannot consent to take the whole on myself; for my good Dame Inglis was a partner in my crime, as she saw me at the door, and did not discourage me." ** I was too well aware of the value of thy friend- ship, not to be anxious to secure it for one, who, I believe, deserves it," returned Mrs. Inglis, in a voice of strong emotion. The stranger raised his finger, as if to enjoin silence. " I am not going to talk >f thy good deeds," replied Mrs. Inglis, impressively " Every one who knows thee will soon discover thee." " Will you give me a cup of tea, and let me sit down ? for I have stood all this time upon my lame leg, and, I assure you, it reminds me that I have no business to tax its services any longer, after a wal' of seven miles," returned the gentleman, smiling. Mrs. Inglis hastily bustled to accommodate him with the easy chair, while Emily, with the natural kindness of her disposition, removed the carpeted 17. 3 D vB6 EMILY MORELAND. btool, on which a favourite cat belonging to Mrs, Inglis had been seated, and placed it so that he could rest his swollen leg upon it. " You are desirous, I see, of completely subduing my heart," observed the stranger, smiling ; " but I am fearful that you are a coquette, for I believe I am not the first captive you have made in this house." The last observation was made in a tone evidently designed not to reach the ear of their hostess, who was bringing down, from her corner cupboard, the additional china cup and saucer, to accommodate her evidently welcome guest. " Any other conquest I have made, Sir," replied Emily, returning his inqui- sitive look with one of the most perfect candour, " has been, I assure you, alike unwished and unwel- come." Captain Fortcscue (for so her new acquaintance was called) returned a look of intelligence, which said he could believe her, and the subject was dropped. " I little thought what an addition the good dame was about to make to our society, M'hen she told me, on the morning that I left town, that she had let her vacant apartment; but I was so hurried then, that I made no inquiries, nor did I think of mentioning the circumstance, until it was broached to me by my com- panion at dinner to-day." " I should have mentioned it myself, as soon as 1 thought thou wert rested from thy fatigues," replied Mrs. Inglis briefly. '' Ah, you are very considerate, I know, my good old lady; but do you not think I ahall sooner forget EMILY MOKELANU. 387 my aches and pains, in your and this young lady's society, than moping over them up-stairs alone?" " I know that thou never rememberest thine own infirmities, when thou canst alleviate the pains of others," replied Mrs. Inglis; "and I was willing that thou should'st have time to rest and nurse thy- self." " Nurse myself! no, faith, not I, while I can hope for the services of two such skilful nurses as you and this young lady — I beg her pardon, I have not yet been formally made acquainted with the name " " My name, Sir, is Emily Moreland," returned the latter, blushing with unaffected modesty. "Moreland!" repeated Captain Fortescue; "ft is a name 1 have reason to respect — one of my best and dearest friends was named Moreland. It would appear almost romantic to indulge the idea, yet I cannot help fancying Will you tell me, my dear, who was your father, or grandfather, for it is more likely that he should have borne that relationship ?" Emily briefly explained her regretted grandfa- ther's name and situation in life, and Captain For- tescue, with pleasure sparkling in his eyes, ex- claimed " Then, my prepossessions did not for once deceive me — for I fancied, the moment I looked at you, that you strongly resembled some one whom I had for- merly known, though it is so many years since Reu- ben Moreland and I met, that, until you mentioned your name, it did not occur to me that it was his fea- tures to which yours bear so marked a resemblance Poor Reuben, 1 recollect well how I used to envj^ 388 EMK.Y MOREl, A>fn. him his fine complexion and features, f>f which, how- ever, he always appeared totally unconscious, and used to seem quite surprised at the preference all the girls distinguished him witli, while I was overlooked, or only mortified with repulses. But he is dead, you say? — Gone to that world, to which I am hastening after him!" A long and serious pause ensued — " My old friend, then, left a son," at length observed Captain For- tescue, "since your name tells me " Emily hung down her head, while blushes of the deepest scarlet betrayed her confusion. "What have 1 said, to occasion this?" observed her companion. " I would not, for the world, give you a moment's pain, yet 1 see I have touched a chord that is discordant to your feelings. I will ask only one more question — Is your father living?" "He is living!" returned Emily, in a faltering voice, "but he is not the son of Mr. Moreland. My mother was his daughter, and I bear her name — be- cause — " and she burst into tears, " I have no legal right to any name !" Captain Fortescue paused for a moment, unable apparently to comprehend her; but the truth, at length, flashed upon his mind. "Poor child! I understand you,'* he at length replied, " and my poor friend, Moreland, then, was so unfortunate in his child — but is she living?" " My mother was one of the best and most amiable beings that ever existed," returned Emily, warmly; '*and, except in that offence, which she expiated with her life, never gave her parents one moment's EMILY MORELAND. 389 pain ; and, in that instance, she was the victim of treachery!" She stopped, unable te command her voice to proceed, and Captain Fortescue, kindly taking her hand, entreated her to be calm, and to believe that he would be the last to wound her sen- sibility, by reflecting on the memory of her mother. " But, my dear child," he continued, "let me ask }ou, does not this man endeavour to lessen the evil he has brought upon you, by protecting and support- ing you? If he does not, he is doubly a villain — and, old as I am, I would tell him so, be his station what it may." " Some years have elapsed," replied Emily, sigh- ing, "since he evinced any interest in my welfare. At the present moment, I know not whether he is even aAvare of ray existence ; and, I am sure, he little suspects that I am so near as to have seen him within a few days." "Seen him!" repeated Captain Fortescue, "and without making yourself known to him?" Emily replied in the affirmative — " Why should I remind him of a circumstance, which must cause him to blush before his child ?" she observed. " Neither will that respect I owe to the memory of my mother, allow me to feel towards her destroyer with kindness, even though he is my father. No, I shall never so- licit the notice of one who has hitherto treated me with inclifference and neglect." "And whom, then, have you to depend on, my child?" inquired the Captain. " Your observations would lead me to conclude that your grandfather and his partner " 390 EMILY MORELAND. Emily's agitation increased — " Alas !" she replied, clasping her hands, " they are both laid in the silent grave, and I am without a friend in the world ! Yet, I will not despair — Oh no, I will hope that " "Hope every thing, my dear child," interrupted Captain Fortescue; "and never again, while Ned Fortescue is living, say that you are without a friend ! But you must be unreserved with me — you must can- didly tell me what is your situation, and what are your plans — and then I shall be able to judge what course to pursue for your benefit." Emily commenced an unreserved and unaffected detail of all that had occurred, to occasion her pre- sent destitute and friendless situation; but, though she descanted, with all the partiality of friendship, on the good qualities and accomplishments of the Signora Orsini, and dwelt most emphatically on the maternal kindness and care with which she had watched over and fostered her, it was very evident, from Captain Fortescue's look and mannei', that she had failed in impressing him with a very favourable opinion of her absent friend. " I am afraid, after all, my dear, that this Signora was, to use a common but very significant phrase, ' No great things.' It is seldom, indeed, that a fe- male can have any honourable motive for assuming the veil of mystery and secrecy, as far as relates to her own history; and I really think, that, far from regretting the loss of this lady, you ought to rejoice that she has herself freed you from your dependance upon her. You think me uncharitable, and I do not blame you for feeling grateful to one who certainly EMILY MORELAND 391 appears, whatever her real circumstances or history may be, to have behaved with kindness towards you. I have, however, lived long enough in the world, my dear, to know that I am warranted in what I have asserted." Unwilling as Emily felt to concede a single point which could militate against that respect which she was certain her friend Rosalia's conduct had, at every period of her eventful life, merited, still she could not oppose the observation of Captain Fortescue; and, though her countenance expressed her dissent and dissatisfaction, she remained silent; but when Mrs. Inglis, who, though busied with the duties of the tea-table, had listened with evident interest to the conversation of her guests, enforced by some re- mark the opinion Captain Fortescue expressed, Emily felt it impossible to restrain the dictates of her heart, and she entered into a vindication of her absent friend, which, if it failed to convince her auditors, at least impressed them, still more deeply, with the conviction of her own ingenuousness and upright disposition. The perfect candour and openness, too, with which she spoke of her present resources and future hopes, had its due weight both with her hos- tess and her new friend ; and the latter, with equal sincerity, observed, that, " though he feared she was rather sanguine in her expectations, and that a life of dependance would present many difficulties and sorrows that she nosi did not foresee " ''A life of dependance, Sir!" reiterated Emily. " Is that term applicable to " " I know what you would say, my dear child," in- 392 EMILY MORfiLAND. terrupted Captain Fortescue, " and perhaps, indeed without doubt you are strictly correct ; your services would, in reality, free you from all obligation to those with whom you would engage. But, alas! in this strange world, you will meet with but few who can understand, or will act, upon this principle; and you will find that, if necessity compels you to accept a subordinate station, you must submit to many mor- tifications which, at present, you can form no estimate of. Do not, however, let my remarks dishearten you — they are intended only to prevent your raising your expectations too high — a fault which is very natural at your age." Emily's spirits sank still lower at this remark ; al- ready her apprehensive mind began to suggest the obstacles which Captain Fortescue had thus hinted at; but the latter, after assuring her that he would exert all the influence he possessed, and direct her exertions where they might be most likely to promote her plans, contrived to divert her attention from her own immediate cares and circumstances, by speaking of a subject which could not fail to interest her — the youthful days and character of her revered grand- father, Reuben Moreland. I EmiLY MORELANH. HO'J CHAPTER XVI. -The time arrives, the dangerous time, 'When all those virtues, opening novF so fair. Transplanted to the world's tempestuous clime. Must learn each passion's boisterous breath to bear. Mason. Equally delighted, the one in listening to, and the other in repeating, anecdotes of him whom both alike esteemed and appreciated, the time passed unheeded, until the now well-known knock and ring of Mr. Townsend, occasioned Emily to start up, and, seizing the candle, she was about hastily to retreat, but was prevented by Captain Fortescue, who, with evident astonishment, exclaimed — " Why this haste. Miss Moreland ? There is no necessity, I trust, for you to avoid any one — much less a quiet old bachelor, like Mr. Townsend!" Emily blushed and hesitated, but Mrs. Inglis had already let him in, and she heard his voice in the passage, inquiring if Captain Fortescue was returned. " He has not been out," returned Mrs. Inglis, very laconically. " Oh, then I shall find him up stairs," rejoined Mr. Townsend. " No, he is in the kitchen," replied Mrs. Inglis, though evidently with reluctance. " In the kitchen !" — Mr. Townsend stepped hastily back, though his foot was on the stairs, and opened 17. 3 B 394 EMILY MORELAND. the door; but it is impossible to describe the look of vexation and surprise with which he beheld Emily and her companion, who was holding her hand, and trying to prevail on her to reseat herself. " Upon my word, you seem very comfortable here !" he at length observed, advancing into the room. " I declare, I am quite sorry to interrupt you, I am sure " " It is a sorrow you could have easily prevented, my good friend, if there existed a necessity for it ; but it fortunately happens that your presence is no interruption to me, and, I hope, not to Miss More* land?" looking inquisitively at her. Emily very gravely replied that it could be no in- terruption to her, as she was just on the point of re- tiring for the night ; and, having lighted her candle, she wished Captain Fortescue good night, and, bow- ing distantly to Mr. Townsend, left the room, evi- dently much to the dissatisfaction of the latter, who would have made a faint attempt to detain her, but was discouraged both by Mrs. Inglis and Captain Fortescue's looks. In a few minutes, Emily heard them both retire to their own sitting-room, which they inhabited in com- mon, and, almost immediately after, Mrs. Inglis came up to her. " Wilt thee have any supper, child ?" she observed, in a tone of unusual good-humour. " I thought thy 6re would be extinguished, and I came to ask thee to return to mine. Thou wilt not be disturbed, fo" neither of thy two new friends will leave their room again to-night." EMILY MORELANS. 395 Emily saw that to refuse would be to offend, and, with a light step, she followed the old lady down again, though she almost repented it, when, as she passed the dining-room door, she heard Captain Fortescue, in a tone of anger, say — " I desire, Sir, I may hear no more remarks of this kind! I have already told you that she is the daughter of an old friend of mine, and I will now further tell you, that I consider her under my protection." Mrs. Inglis had stopped on the stairs at the com- mencement of this speech, uttered in a tone so un- usual to Captain Fortescue, and she now turned a look, aghast with surprise, on Emily. " Surely they will not disagree, after living so peaceably for years together!" she observed. " I hope not," returned Emily, anxiously. Mrs. Inglis led on, and Emily lost Mr. Townsend's reply, which she was most anxious to hear. All Mrs. Inglis's good-humour had vanished, be- fore the supper cloth was spread, and the frugal meal of bread and cheese placed on it. '^ I shall be truly sorry," Emily observed, ''if I should be the means of creating dissensions between friends." " I should be sorry, too," replied Mrs. Inglis; " friend Fortescue is a truly humane and kind- hearted man, and to his benevolence I am indebted tor almost all I possess. To his recommendation, also, I owe but I will hope that they will not be so unwise, as to differ on such a trifle." Emily could again only hope so, too; and Mrs. Inglis, after repeatedly opening the door, to listen 390 BMILT MORELAND. whe:her she could hear their voices, at length sat down with the expressed hope that all would yet turn out for the best. " And if it does not, at least I have meant for the best," she added, in a lower tone, " though I have broken through all my resolu- tions, in taking a female into the house." Emily felt the half reproach, but, conscious it arose more from the petulance of temper than any want of right feeling, she suffered it to pass without reply. The following day passed without her seeing either Captain Fortescue or Mr. Tovvnsend; the former, she understood from Mrs. Inglis, was con- fined to his room with a cold ; and the latter, though he had inquired after her, did not make any attempt to renew his intrusive attentions. The weather, which had confined her to the house, and rendered her situation so gloomy, now became fine and clear ; and Emily, feeling that she had no longer an excuse, even to herself, for delaying the unpleasant task, proceeded at breakfast, (a meal which she now regularly took with her hostess, nei- ther of the gentlemen rising so early,) to make some inquiries as to the mode necessary to be pursued, in order to insert an advertisement in one or two of the newspapers. She found, however, that Mrs. Inglis was as uninformed as herself on the subject. " But I will ask friend Fortescue," she observed, "when 1 carry up his breakfast; and he will, I dare say, be able to give thee proper directions." Emily had already written what she thought pro- per and necessary, to make known her wishes for a EMILY MORELAND. 397 situation ; and she now liastened to equip herself for lier morning's walk, against the hour Avhen Captain Fortescue should arise, and g-ive her the necessary directions. This task was soon completed, and she was sitting in anxious and melancholy reflection, when the door of the kitchen softly opened, and Mr. Townsend entered. " Are you alone. Miss Moreland ?" he asked, look- ing cautiously round. Emily replied in the affirmative, adding, however, rather hastily — " Mrs. Inglis will be here. Sir, di- rectly; she is only attending Captain Fortescue." " I know it," he replied, with a significant look; " and I know, too, what she is conferring with him about. When I was passing the chamber-door it was open, and 1 heard your name mentioned ; so I thought it no harm just to listen a bit. Now, I've got some- thing to offer for your consideration, my dear, that I think will be better worth your while than shutting yourself up, and burying yourself alive, as one may say, in a school, or dancing attendance upon some fine lady, that will treat you worse than a favourite cat, or a lap-dog ! So, don't go and throw your money away upon advertising, but just consent to meet me, after business is over — say, four o'clock — at any spot you please, between this and the Royal Exchange, and we will talk further. Here I cannot say any thing, without being interrupted and dictated to like a school-boy." " Excuse me. Sir," replied Emily, blushing- and hesitating, between fear, resentment, and timidity. " Excuse me — I can have no secrets from my friends, Mrs. In2:Hs and Cantain Fortescue, they " 398 EMILY MORELAND, " Pooh, don't be a silly girl ! What do such old- fashioned frumps know of the world," he replied, *' or what can they do to assist you, beyond mere talk and preachment ? I don't ask any thing- unrea- sonable — only hear what I've got to propose. There, now, there's the old woman coming — promise to meet me, there's a good girl !" Emily retreated from his familiar manner, and would have angrily replied, but Mrs. Inglis was already at the door ; and Mr. Townsend, giving Emily another significant look, hastily passed out, observing that he should be late in the city. • "And who has kept thee, I wonder," observed Mrs. Inglis, looking after him with a dissatisfied air. " Not me, I assure you. Madam," returned Emily, with spirit, " for, you may rely upon it, his atten- tions are far from welcome or pleasant to me." " Thou art quite right, child," replied Mrs. In- glis, " though yesterday I should not have said so ; but the wickedness and deceit of men are beyond conception I I thought that he meant faithfully and uprightly towards thee ; and that, though he is thine elder, his offer of taking thee for his helpmate was too advantageous to be slighted ; but I have since learned from one, whose lips would not utter a falsehood, that he has no such intentions. He seeks only to draw thee into a snare, and I hope " Emily smiled contemptuously as she observed, that, novice as she was, she was perfectly aware what Mr. Townpend's intentions were. " But we will not waste another thought on him." she continued, " what does Captain Fortescue say on the subject I mentioned ?" EMILY MORELAND. 399 " He wants to see thee first," replied Mrs. Inglis, '* and is now putting on his clothes, for that purpose. In a few minutes, his bell announced that he had left his chamber, and Emily followed Mrs. Inglis tc the sitting-room. Captain Fortescue looked much worse than he acknowledged himself to be, but he was much con- cerned that he could not accompany her to the city ; and he would have insisted on her having a coach, but that Emily assured him that she was actually unwell for want of her usual walks, and was not the least afraid of walking alone. Having, therefore, received from him full directions how to proceed, she was about to wish him good morning, when he stopped her, observing, that he had something more to say, but must first be assured that she would not feel offended, but consider it, however mistaken, as the dictates of friendship towards her. " You make such a formal preparation, my dear Sir," replied Emily, smiling, " that you half frighten me from listening to you ; but I hope you do not re- quire an equally formal assurance, that I shall be most happy to receive your advice on any subject." " I would only then, my dear, caution you against Mr. Townsend. I know that, precise and old- fashioned as his appearance is, and temperate as his life appears to be, he is at bottom an unprincipled rake, to whom every fresh face is an attraction. I know, too, that he has endeavoured to impose upon Mrs. Inglis that his intentions towards you are honourable, though he has never scrupled to avow to me that no consideration on earth should tempt him into matrimony, and 400 BMII.Y MORELAND. " But, my drar Sir, you do not, I hope, think so despicably of me, as to fear that I should, for an instant, give encouragement to the attentions of such a being as Mr. Townsend ?'* interrupted Emily, her face glowing with humiliation at the thought. *' I do not fear his fascinating manners, or the charmp of his person," replied Captain Fortescue ; " but it is necessary, also, to be on your guard against artifice and cunning; and that, I know, he possesses in an abundant degree. In transactions between man and man, he is what the world calls a just and upright man; but with woman he holds no faith : with them it is his maxim, as with soldiers in war, that every stratagem to gain a victory is allowable !" Emily's eyes sparkled with indignation, but Cap- tain Fortescue, satisfied with the hint he had given, turned the conversation by again speaking of the way she must take, and exhorting her to be careful, bade her good morning. With less trouble and difficulty than slie had anticipated, Emily found her way to the Strand, though neither her eye nor her ear were yet suffi- ciently accustomed to the bustle, the hurry, and the apparent confusion of the crowded streets, to pre- vent her feeling considerable annoyance. She had studiously avoided, in her dress, all that could attract the attention of the passers-by ; but her large bonnet and thick veil could not so entirely obscure her beautiful features, as not to attract con- siderable notice ; and, more than once in the course of her walk, she was distressed by the perseverance with which she was followed and observed, by those BMILY MORELAND. 401 to whom her evident diffidence, and desire to elude ob- servation, were even greater charms than her beauty. At length, however, she reached the office of the newspaper which Captain Fortescue had recom- mended ; but her vexation and surprise were un- controlable, when, just as she was turning into the door, a heavy kand was laid on her shoulder, and the discordant voice of Mr. Townsend sounded in her ears. " I thought I should catch you I" he exclaimed, *' and yet I was almost about to give it up, for I've been walking up and down till I'm quite tired, wait- ing for you ; as I knew, if you did come, it would be to this office, because it is Fortescue's favourite paper, and, indeed, I believe he has a hand in writ- ing for it sometimes ; but I don't mind the trouble I've taken, as you have come at last." Emily had been unable to interrupt him in his gra- tulations of himself on his success, but she now very coolly observed, that he had taken very unnecessary trouble, as she was fully determined to have no communication with him, to which Captain Fortescue was not a party. " But you shall listen to me now," he replied, very peremptorily interfering to prevent her enter- ing the passage. " Let me pass. Sir, instantly," said Emily, an- grily, " this is both insolent and unmanly." *' I only want to prevent your throwing your money away in this foolish advertisement, for I am sure I could prevail on you, if you vould only hear me, not to think of going to service." 17. 3f 402 EMILY MORELAKD. " To service !" repeated Emily, indignantly. " Yes, child, what is it better that you propose ? Ah, you don't know what you are running your head into — and don't you think, now, that a nice little house, and a servant or two at your command ; a ride out in a gig in the country on a Sunday, and " " 1 insist 1 will not be insulted in this man- ner !" exclaimed Emily, passionately wresting her hand from him, and darting into the office, heedless where she was going, or what was thought of her appearance, so that she escaped from the hateful being, whose very looks seemed an insult to her. Several gentlemen were in the office when she entered, who beheld her with looks of surprise and curiosity, and one courteously made way for her to come up to the desk. The confusion and agitation of her spirits, how- ever, were such that, on taking out her pocket-book, in which she had deposited the draught of the adver- tisement, she mistook the paper, and presented him with one on which was written, in the hand-writing of her deceased mother, the name and address of her father, Reginald de Cardonnel, Sir James Dorring- ton's, Portland Place. The man to whom she handed it, read it aloud, before she comprehended the mistake she had made. " What is this. Ma'am— a death ?" he demanded. " Oh, no, no — that is wrong— give it me, pray," she exclaimed, in a faltering voice, " that is not the paper, and, with a trembling hand, she received it from him, and began to search her pocket-book for the right one EMILY MORELAND. 403 The man turned away, and began to converse with a gentleman who stood near him. while the one who had receded to make way for her, observed, in a compassionate tone — " You are agitated, Madam — allow me to hand you a seat; perhaps, in a few moments, you will re- collect what you have done with the paper, which appears of so much importance." " It is of little importance. Sir," replied Emily, *' though the loss of it, at this moment, is awkward. It is merely an advertisement," and again she com- menced an investigation of the contents of her pocket- book. " How provoking !" she at length exclaimed, observing the gentleman seemed to await the result of her search with considerable interest, " How very remiss I have been ! I must have left it behind me !" " Probably, you can recollect the heads of it, and I will write a fresh one for you, if you have no ob- jection?" observed the gentleman. Emily coloured and hesitated — her pride, for a moment, revolted from thus exposing her situation in life to a stranger ; and the gentleman, seeming immediately to understand her reluctance, dre>^ back, apologising for having made the proposal. " She is about to advertise for a husband, perhaps,' ' said one of the others, in a whisper loud enough tj reach Emily's ears. Emily no longer hesitated — "If you will have the goodness, Sir, I will trouble you," she observed, addressing the gentleman who had made her the offer; "for ray hand," she continued, "trembles so, that I fear I could not write intelligibly." 404 EMILY MORELAND. The stranger bowed, and taking pen, ink, una paper, placed himself so as to screen her from the observation of his companions, while he wrote what she dictated. " Moreland is quite a knight-errand !" observed the man who had before made so insolent a remark upon her. Emily started at the name of Moreland, which she immediately comprehended was the appellation o»' the gentleman who was so kindly disposed towards her. For a moment, she forgot what she was about, and cast an anxious glance at features, which strongly reminded her of one who had borne the same name — her revered grandfather. There was, in fact, just such a resemblance as might be expected, between a son and his father; and Emily's fancy was already busy, forming a thou- sand conjectures respecting the individual before her. " You have not yet decided what address to affix," observed the stranger, raising his eyes to her face, with a smile. "My name is Moreland," she replied; "Emily Moreland — but it will be sufficient, I suppose, to affix the initials E. M. ?" It was now the stranger's turn to be surprised. " Emily Moreland !" he repeated, " that is sin- gular. There has been more than one female of my family who have borne that name — yet it is not pos- Rible!" " It was the name of my grandfather's favourite sister, I have been told," returned Emily, in- genuously. EMILY MORELAND. 405 "Your grandfather!" replied the stranger, "may I ask who, or what he was?" " The chief part of his life was passed as the Curate of Arlington — his name was Reuben Moreland," re- plied Emily. The gentleman's eyes sparkled—" I have, then, the honour to be related to you," he observed ; " for I am the son of an elder brother of Reuben More- land." Emily cordially gave her hand, and returned the look of satisfaction with which her newly-discovered relative greeted her ; but all her exultation vanished, when he made the same inquiry, and almost in the same words as Captain Fortescue had done, respect- ing her father. Her eyes sought the ground, as she replied, some- what evasively, " that he was living, and, she believed, well in health." " But — pardon me, I do not wish or intend to wound your feelings," returned Moreland, "but, if I may be allowed to draw a conclusion, from the wish expressed in this advertisement, your circum- stances are not very prosperous. Will you tell me what and where your parents are? The descendant of Reuben Moreland, certainly, has a claim upon his relatives, whatever might have been the error which separated his father from his family. Of that I know very little, for, I acknowledge, I have hitherto had but little curiosity respecting one, whose existence was all that was known to me. His son, however, ought not to suffer for his folly, let it have been what it mi"ht." 406 EMILY MORELAND. " My grandfather never was, never could be, guilty of any thing that deserved the name of folly," inter- rupted Emilvj with warmth; "but, if his conduct rendered him an alien to his family, I feel that 1 have still less claim to their consideration — for I am not the child of his son — he had none — but of his deceived and ruined daughter; ruined, because the man she loved was too prudent to act as my grandfather acted, and despise the distinctions of birth and for- tune." There was an evident struggle in Mr. Moreland's bosom, between pride and feeling, as he listened to Emily's agitated exposition of her situation, and gazed on her expressive and beautiful features. " This is a stain," he exclaimed, in a low voice, " which I knew not existed ! But you are much too young, to comprehend the value of those distinctions which you seem to estimate so slightly, and yet feel so forcibly the deprivation of. I am sorry, however, very sorry, that a bar is thus placed between you and those relatives, who, under other circumstances, would, I am sure, be proud to acknowledge and assist you." " I want no assistance, Sir, though I thank you for your kind wishes," replied Emily, in a tone still prouder than his own, and recovering all the forti- tude which the mention of her mother had shaken. " I did not make myself known to you, with the view of soliciting your favour, but from an impulse which I now sincerely repent," she continued. "You will have no cause, I hope, to repent it," returned Mr. More-land, in a gentler tone; " but this EMII.T MORELAND. 407 is not a place fit for the discussion of this subject. Allow me to recommend that you defer the insertion of this advertisement, until you either see or heai' from me. As the representative of your grandfather, whose memory you appear to respect, I request this," he continued, observing that she appeared tc hesitate. Emily could have remonstrated on the inconsistency of his assuming authority in the name of one, whom he had just before seemed to wish to disclaim all al- liance with J but she was too timid to refuse a request thus strongly urged, and, after a moment's reflection, she replied, " that she would certainly await his communication, though she could not renounce her right to be guided by her own discretion, after all." Mr. Moreland replied " Certainly," with more coolness than his manners had hitherto assumed ; and a pause ensued of considerable embarrassment on both sides, which was terminated by Emily's rising to depart. *' You have not walked all this distance, and alone, I hope?" said Mr. Moreland, resuming the kindness of tone and look which had at first prepossessed Emily so strongly in his favour. The recollection of the annoying importunities of Mr. Townsend, rushed into her mind as she replied in the affirmative; and she cast an anxious glance towards the door, as if to ascertain whether he was still there. *' Do you expect some one to accompany you home?" inquired Mr. Moreland, immediately com- prehending her look. «M!LT MORELAND. " Not with my wish or consent," returned Emily, olushing ; " but " " I recollect — you were greatly agitated when you entered," interrupted Mr. Moreland; " seme one, 1 suspect, has been unmanly enough to intrude upon your unprotected situation ; but do not be alarmed — 1 will see you safe." Emily felt almost as reluctant to accept the arm, which her sensitive feelings suggested was offered her with an air of condescension, as she was to ex- pose herself to a repetition of Mr. Townsend's low- bred insults. Mr. Moreland's manner, however, was too decisive to allow her to hesitate, and she there- fore accepted it, unobservant of the look of surprise with which she was beheld by Mr. Moreland's two companions, who, having left the office previous to the explanation which had taken place, at this mo- ment only returned to it, and were therefore uncon- scious of the tie which existed between her and her companion. " You are coming back, I hope, Fred. ?" observed one of them, addressing Mr. Moreland, " for, you recollect, the business that brought us here is not yet settled." " Certainly ; I only wish to see this young lady safe," replied the latter. " I will be back as soon as I have accomplished that, which will be only a few minutes." " And what will the old lady at home say, if she knows " " Pooh, I will explain, when I return," replied Mr. Moreland, gravely; "you will be surprised, ; can assure vou." DMILY MORELAND. 409 *• More mysteries V observed the other gentleman, smiling-; but Mr. Moreland made no reply, and Emily, anxious to escape, hurried on out of hearing: Mr. Moreland looked anxiously and inquisitively around, when they reached the street ; but Mr. Townsend, Emily's tormentor, was not in sight, though she felt almost convinced that he V7as still on the watch for her. *' If I see you to a hackney coach. Miss " he hefcitated, as if unwilling to pronounce the name; and Emily prevented the necessity of it, by observing that she believed she need not give him even that trouble, as the person whom she wished to avoid was apparently gone. " Excuse me — I cannot feel satisfied with your conjecture — I am too well aware of the dangers which a female of your appearance is likely to en- counter in this place," replied Mr. Moreland, " par- ticularly if, as I presume is your case, she is unac- customed to traverse the streets alone." Emily assented to this last observation, adding — " I am not only unaccustomed to the streets, but almost a stranger to London, having only entered it, for the first time, within the last few weeks." " Indeed!" returned Mr. Moreland; " though," he added, correcting his expression of surprise, " I had, at first sight, conjectured that those blooming cheeks and diffident manners were not cultivated in the hot-bed of London. I had forgotten, however, in more important considerations, to ask you where the little you have yet seen of life had been spent?" *' I have never quitted the Valley of St. Clate, 18. 3g 410 EMILY MORELAND. (the spot where my dear grandfather, for the last sixteen years of his life, resided,) not even for a sin- gle day," replied Emily; " until the loss of all my friends compelled me to seek the means of providing my own subsistence." " Your mother, then " said Mr. Moreland, iu an inquiring, yet hesitating tone. " Died within a few months of my birth," returned Emily, with emotion, " and her sorrowing parents now rest in the same grave." Mr. Moreland was visibly affected by the deep, yet unaffected pathos with which Emily pronounced this brief abstract of her history. " Will you allow me to ask with whom you are residing in Liondon ?" he observed, after a long pause. " You have, of course, some friends here?" " None, but such as chance has thrown in my way. Sir," she replied. " The mistress of the house in which I rent an apartment is a kind and respectable woman, and there is a gentleman— Captain For- tescue — to whom my grandfather was well known, who was, in fact, his intimate friend in youth, and now professes considerable interest for his forlorn and friendless descendant." "Captain Portescue!" repeated Mr. Moreland, with evident surprise and agitation ; " and does he call himself your friend ? I am sorry for it — for his character does not stand very high in the world, I can assure you." Ejiiily's surprise now exceeded that of her com- panion. — " He appears a very kind-hearted, benevo- lent man," she observed ; "and my landlady praisaH SMILY MORELAM!. 411 him, in the highest terras, as an universal bene- factor." Mr. Moreland shook his head — " There are those in the world who speak of him in very different terms," he replied; "and one case I could imme- diately mention, in which his conduct towards a fe- male has been most base and cruel. In fact, it is on behalf of that female that I am now come to endea- vour to trace his present residence, which he care- fully conceals from the victim of his art and hypo- crisy." " It cannot, surely, be the same person of whom we are speaking. The Captain Fortescue / mean is a man far advanced in years," replied Emily. "And so is the person of whom I am speaking," returned Mr. Moreland. " It was !?is advanced age, and his assumption of charity and benevolence, that seduced the unwary young woman 1 allude to, into the net he spread for her. She was poor and humble, when she met with this hoary villain — for such he has proved himself! He affected to pity her situa- tion, and gave her some employment as a sempstress, which gained him an introduction to her home There his kindness and attention to her aged and helpless mother, who depended entirely on her exer- tions for subsistence, so won on her respect and gratitude, that when he affected to be struck with her valuable qualities, and hinted his desire of making her his wife, she forgot, as she said, the dif- ference of their age, and the disagreeableness of his person, and thought only of contributing to his hap« piness and (hat of her mother, vvho would be thus 412 EMILY MOREFjAND. removed beyond the fear of want. There were many circumstances, which, had she been less simple ana credulous, might have excited distrust in her bosom ; but she was too confiding-, and inexperienced in the ways of the world, though she was strictly virtuous in principle, I believe j and, indeed, that was proved by the arts he was obliged to resort to, in order to complete his purpose. But I will not offend you by repeating this part of the story— it is sufficient to say, that he succeeded. The discovery of his baseness, and her daughter's misfortune, was too much for the poor old mother, and she has found a refuge in the grave from all her afflictions ! But the daughter is still living — and it is to compel her betrayer to pro- vide for her, and the child she is about to bring into the world, that I now wish to discover his residence. The address, which he had given her, proved, like all the rest of his conduct towards her, false and de- ceptive ; but I had learned — no matter by what means — that he was, in some way, connected with the newspaper, in the office for which we have just met; and I was endeavouring, when you entered, to elicit, from the man behind the counter, the information I wanted, without giving him a suspicion of my pur- pose." " Good Heaven, how deceitful are appearances * 1 could have pledged my life for his honour! And Mrs. Inglis, too, how is she deceived!" exclaimed Emily, who could no longer refuse her conviction to her companion's assurances of Captain Fortescue's baseness. '* Vou can, then, it appears, give me the desired EMILY MOKEL,ANL>. -il^ information as to this man's residence?" observeu Mr. Moreland. " He is living in the same house as myself," replied Emily, " and it was from him I received the direction to this office." " In the same house — the mistress of it vaunting his good deeds and benevolence? I am fearful you pardon me, but, I think, the sooner you quit your present residence the better," returned Mr, Moreland. " And you Avere recommended thither, I suppose, by Captain Fortescue, whose pretence of having been a friend of — of Mr. Moreland's — your mother's father — I totally disbelieve." " Oh, no, it was there I first met Captain Fortes- cue — he had no hand in my going thither — it was mere chance and accident alone revealed to him who I was." " An accident, which, it appears, he well knew how to take advantage of," returned Mr. Moreland, with bitterness. "Would to Heaven," he added, "that 1 could devise some plan to prevent the necessity of your return to this place, which, I much fear, is no fit residence for you! And this woman — Inglis, 1 think, you called her — she is, no doubt, acquainted with his real character, and conceals it from you, for her own interest !" Emily's pure and unsuspicious heart recoiled from this sweeping condemnation of one, whom her rela- tive could have no reasonable grounds to decide so fcarshly upon. She had, it was true, just learned a lesson of distrust, even of the fairest appearances, had she wanted any other than that her own existence 414 EMILY MORELAND. inculcated; but still it was impossible any one could assume those emotions and feelings, which she had seen shake the faded form of Mrs. Inglis almost to annihilation, as she related the story of her own suf- ferings from the perfidy of man ; and she entered into a warm vindication of the poor old woman, which was listened to, if not with distrust, at least without conviction, on the part of her newly-found relative. " I shall not let many hours pass, before you either hear from, or see me," he observed, without reply- ing to what she had said respecting Mrs. Inglis ; " but, even for those few hours, I recommend to you caution. Distrust your own eyes and ears, if they would lead you to place confidence in aught such a wretch as that Fortescue can advance !" The coach, which he had beckoned, drew up to the pavement as Mr. Moreland finished this sen- tence, and the necessity of a reply from Emily was prevented. Mr. Moreland handed her in, and having given the coachman directions, and discharged the fare, somewhat to Emily's mortification, though she knew not how properly to object to it, he bade her adieu, repeating his promise that she should hear from him speedily. Emily's mind was divided by a thousand busy thoughts, during the drive to Portland Street ; but the most unpleasant was the anticipation of meeting Captain Fortescue — of being obliged, either to dis- semble the knowledge she had gained of his charac- ter, or of being compelled to account for that EMILY MOUELAND. 415 change which she felt she ought to make, in her conduct towards him. The intelligence, however, with which Mrs. Inglis met her, as soon as she alighted from the coach, totally changed the cur- rent of her thoughts. " I am glad thee art come, my child," observed the latter, " for our poor friend Fortescue is, I fear, smitten with the hand of death. He has had a fit, from which he is but now recovered, and he has expressed a wish to see thee. I believe he wishes thee to write to some of his kindred, to come to him." Emily forgot all her purposed coolness and cau- tion, at this intelligence ; and she followed, with trembling steps, the careful Mrs. Inglis to the bed- side of the invalid. "Can that countenance conceal a de-praved heart?" was the first thought that struck her mind, as she gazed on the pale placid face which met her view. Captain Fortescue was sleeping, and, though his features still bore the impress of the violent ronvul sion which he had suffered, there was an air of piou resignation, of sweet and patient feeling, in their ex- pression, that forcibly portrayed the calm of a pure and untroubled spirit. " He bade me distrust the evidence of my own senses," thought Emily, recurring to the caution Mr. Moreland had given her ; " but ought I not rather to distrust his information ? I cannot — I will not believe that this is the death-bed of a hypo- crite !" The invalid opened his eyes, and their gladdened expression evinced that he recognised Emily, and 416 EMILY MORELAMD. was rejoiced to see her. " I am worse than when you left me, my dear," he articulated, with difficulty — " another such attack, indeed, as I have suffered during your absence, will, I suspect, prove fatal to my existence in this world ; and I know not how soon that attack may come ! I have thought of you a good deal, within the last few hours, and 1 could have wished, for your sake, that my time had been extended a little longer — but the will of Heaven be done!" He paused to recover breath, and Emily's tears flowed freely, as she continued to hold the cold hand which he had extended towards her. " I have some relatives," he at length continued, " whom I should wish to see, as soon as possible; partly because I esteem them^ and partly that 1 think an introduction to them may benefit you. Will you open that desk, my dear ? You will find the neces- sary materials for writing what I shall trouble you with." Emily obeyed, and a few lines, calculated to pre- pare his relatives, without alarming them more than was necessary, were written, according to his dicta- tion. They were addressed, as he desired, to his niece Eliza. " You will find a direction card in that drawer, my dear," observed Captain Fortescue. " It has the name and address of Mrs. Evelyn, my sister, on it. I cannot give you the directions, properly, for 1 have not visited her since she removed, but the card will inform you how to direct the letter." Emily started at the name, but, in a few minutes. EMU.Y MOIIEL.AND. 417 the card was found, and in the neat, delicate, and formal hand-writings, she immediately recognised that of Eliza Evelyn ; her brother having- repe-atedly, with excusable pride and fraternal affection, showed her (Emily) the letters which were addressed to him by his sister, as only to be equalled by Emily's own writing. It was not without infinite vexation and mortifi- cation that she reflected on the probability of her present circumstances being made known to the Evelyns, from whom, of all people in the world, she wished most to conceal herself; partly because she felt convinced that the mother and daughter would consider her as deservedly punished for her re- jection of Mr. Evelyn's proposals, and partly be- cause she gave credit to the latter for sufficient feel- ing and sensibility, to be hurt at knowing the altera- tion which had so unexpectedly taken place in her prospects. It was impossible, however, to leave Captain Fortescue in his present situation, or, at least, while he appeared anxious for her to remain ; and she could only hope that she might see him sufficiently recovered, before the arrival of his relatives, to enable her to enter into the subject of her own con- nexion with, and wishes to avoid them, and thus prevail on him to abandon the intention which he hinted at, of endeavouring to interest them in her favour. But her hopes did not appear likely to be realised ; for the Captain's disorder seemed to in- crease with every hour, and she felt too much in- terest in those more serious cares which appeared to 18. o H 418 E M 1 L Y M O H E L A N D. occupy his attention, to venture to intrude upon him the subject of her own situation. All that had been uttered by Mr. Moreland, de- rogatory to the character of the sufferer, was com- pletely disregarded and forgotten by Emily, as she beheld the resignation with which he bore the severe attacks of pain, and the amiable solicitude he dis- played, lest he should afflict those around him, or give them more than necessary trouble. In the intervals of pain, Emily read to him, and when he was unable to attend to her, his earnest and anxious look seemed to implore her not to leave him. The evening closed in, and the medical gentleman, who had been called to him, announced that a fa- vourable change had taken place. It was likely, he said, that the deep sleep into which he had fallen would last for some hours, and he recommended that the utmost quietness should be observed. Emily closed the curtain, and sat down to await the appearance of Mrs. Inglis, who had been called away by some domestic occupation, and had entreated her not to leave the chamber until her return. All tho events of the day passed in review, in her mind, as she sat leaning her head on her hand, when those reflections were interrupted by the entrance of some one whom she supposed to be her hostess. " I am glad you are come," she observed, in a low voice, and hastily rising to prevent the latter ap- proaching the bed, to disturb the patient ; but her surprise and confusion rendered her for a moment motionless, when, by the faint light of the candle which was placed on a table at the farther end of the rMILY MORELAND. 419 room, she recognised the features and figure of JVlr. Evelyn. It was evident that he did not, at first, know who it was that addressed him — but Emily could not re- main long" concealed — her reply to his first question made him start. His eyes, which had been anxiously turned towards the bed, were now intently fixed on her features, and, in a faltering voice, he exclaimed — " Good heavens ! can it be possible ? Is it, indeed, really Emily — Miss Moreland— that I behold? How am I to understand this mystery ?" " There is no mystery attending my appearance here, Sir," returned Emily, endeavouring to speak with calmness. " Chance has made me an inmate of the same house as Captain Fortescue; and his kind- ness to me, as well as his former friendship with my grandfather, gave him every claim to my attention.** " May I flatter myself, too, Emily, that the know- ledge of his alliance with me did not lessen the " " 1 knew not. Sir, till within these last few hours, that Captain Fortescue was related to you," inter- rupted Emily, gravely. Mr. Evelyn looked disappointed, and, when he again spoke, it was to inquire her candid opinion as to the chance of his respected relative's recovery. Emily repeated what had been recently said to her on the subject, and IMr. Evelyn then explained to her that his mother and sister were below, with Mrs. Inglis, awaiting his report of Captain Fortescue's situation, before they ventured to visit him. *' You will accompany me to them?" he observed, looking earnestly at Emily. " I am sure my mother 420 F.MILY MOHELAND. will be most grateful to you for your kind attentionsi here; and, as to former occurrences " He hesitated, as if struck by some painful recollec- tions ; and Emily, coolly withdrawing the hand which she had given him, only because she was fearful it would look like affectation to refuse his proffered one, observed that she neither wished or sought any recompence, beyond the gratification of her own feel- ings, for the trifling attentions she had been enabled to bestow on Captain Fortescue. " In fact," she continued, blushing and casting down her eyes, " if Mr. Evelyn considers me entitled to any consideration from the circumstance, he will fully repay it by ab'^taining from mentioning my name to his mother and sister, on the present oc- casion." Evelyn sighed — " It is, I see, useless to hope, Miss Moreland," he observed, "that time or circum- stances should change your determination to regard with dislike those who, in spite of every reason to the contrary, still feel, I am convinced, the deepest interest in your welfare. I will, therefore, if it is your wish, avoid mentioning that I have seen you, though it is scarcely probable that Captain Fortescue Avill remain silent on the subject; and the name of Emily Moreland is, I assure you, too deeply im- pressed on the mother's as well as the son's me- mory, to be heard with indifference, or without the wish of inquiring farther respecting her who bears it." " I am truly grateful for Mrs. Evelyn's kind re- membrance of me," replied Emily, with emotion, « but " SMILY MORELANO. 421 Mrs. In^lis entered, and interruptea the confe- rence — " Thy mother is anxious," she observed, " to know if she may be permitted to come up?" address- ing Mr. Evelyn- Emiiy stole out of the room, before either of tbem could observe her intention, and retired to her own apartment, anxious only to escape the observation of the correct and cold-hearted Mrs. Evelyn. An hour elapsed, and she remained undisturbed; and, with great satisfaction, she concluded that Mr. Evelyn had attended to her request, and refrained from announcing to his mother his discovery of her residence there, " There is a man, who calls himself a friend of thine, in the room below," observed Mrs. Inglis, abruptly entering the chamber, with a candle in her hand, which she raised to Emily's face, as if to scru- tinise the expression of her features, while she an- nounced this visitor. Emily started, more at the altered expression of her hitherto kind hostess's looks and manner towards her, than at the intelligence she had communicated. " Did he say his name was Moreland?" she de- manded, scarcely conscious what she was saying. " No— how could he say that?" replied Mrs. Inglis, with asperity. " It is not long since I heard thee avow thou hadst no kindred living! Thou art known already, it seemeth, to more than are willing to acknowledge thee— but it is beyond probability that " " I know not, Madam," interrupted Emily, " what can have occasioned these observations — but I wish. 422 EMILY MORELAVD. at once, to put xn end to them. You allude to Mrs. JEvelyn- -T am, certainly, known to her, and I would willingly decline all further acquaintance, either with her or her family. My reasons for this, I am not bound to give ; but I dare fearlessly assert, that I have never acted so as to disgrace the notice she has been pleased to bestow on me. As to the person who now waits to see me, he is, if I cojijecture rightly, a near relative of mine, whose existence I certainly knew not of, until within these last few hours. If you distrust this assertion, you are wel- come to be present at our interview." Mrs. Inglis looked doubtful ; she seemed as if she wished to believe, yet had reasons to distrust the assertions she had just heard. " It is strange," she, at length, observed, " that thou should'st not mention to our friend Fortescue thy knowledge of his kinswoman; and, still more strange, that she should be so particular in her in- quiries respecting thee, yet refrain from asking to see thee. Indeed, I will tell thee plainly, that she appeared greatly disturbed at hearing thou wert an inmate of this house; and I heard her say to her son, that she earnestly hoped and entreated that he would not seek to see thee again — but I forget that this man is waiting to see tnee, and he does not appear to be one who will very patiently await thy leisure." Emily hastily followed her down stairs, and, to her great surprise and confusion, beheld Mr. Moreland in conversation with her troublesome persecutor, Mr. Townsend, who, it appeared,had just returned from his usual evening exc jrsion. EMII.r MORE I, AND. 423 " I acknowledge, Sir, I was somewhat doubtful of the assertion, that Captain Fortescue was ill; but I cannot suppose you have any reason for wishing to prevent my having an interview with him. I shall, therefore, postpone the business I had with him." At this moment, Mr. Moreland caught sight of Emily, and, suddenly pausing, he turned to her, and kindly taking her hand, observed — " You have not yet recovered, I see, from the agitation of this morning. I am afraid, indeed, that my visit is pre- mature — but I have felt so anxious " He looked round at Mr. Townsend and Mrs. Tnglis, as if to give them a hint that their absence would be desirable; but the latter was detained by suspicion and curiosity, and the former for a moment remained transfixed by astonishment, and the fear that Emily had or would reveal his insolent importani- ties to the haughty stranger, for such Mr. Moreland had appeared to him, though his address to Emily was gentle and kind, Emily's thoughts, however, after the first moment of surprise at seeing him there, were engrossed by subjects of more importance than the contemptible being who now absolutely trembled before her; and Mr. Townsend, at length seeming to comprehend that his absence was wished for, retired, followed by Mrs. Inglis, who could no longer devise any plau- sible reason for remaining in the room. " I almost wish I had deferred my visit till to- morrow," observed Mr. Moreland, leading Emily to a seat, " for you look quite ill ; but, upon my return home, 1 found with Mrs. Moreland a relative whose 424 EMILY MORELAND. name you probably have heard— Lady Rachel More- land. T communicated your unfortunate situation to her, and was happy to find that she perfectly agreed with me, as to the necessity of your being immediately removed from it. Lady Rachel is a very amiable woman at he.\rt, though her manners are somewhat cold and stately ; and to one who sets apparently but little valae on the forms and dis- tinctions necessary to be preserved in society " (Emily blushed at the implied censure, though scarcely conscious she deserved it) — " her ladyship may, perhaps, at first, appear repulsive. Her in- tentions and actions, however, are ever such as do her honour ; and this, T think, you will acknowledge, when I tell you that it is her wish to receive you under her own roof and protection." Emily's voice faltered as she tried to express her gratitude for this condescension ; for such she saw, kind and considerate as Mr. Moreland's manner was towards her, he wished her to consider this purpose of his relative. " There is one circumstance which it is necessary I should mention, though I fear it will pain your feel- ings," he resumed, after a considerable pause,during which he had been attentively watching the expres- sion of her beautiful and speaking features. " You will forgive my recurring to the unhappy circumstances of your birth, my dear girl, — but you must be aware that your bearing the name of Moreland will give rise to inquiries, which it will be impossible for Lady Rachel to reply to. Our connexions are numerous, and it would oxcite their desire of knowing who you EMILV MORELAND 425 really were, if you were introduced by the name of our family. Those unhappy circumstances which I have alluded to, would then, in all probability, be brought forward, and both you and ourselves would feel severely the disgrace 1 cannot bear those tears, Emily — I feel, as deeply as yourself, the pain 1 am obliged to inflict — but I will only add a few words more. You must be aware, my dear girl, that you have no legal right to the name you have hitherto borne ; and it will, I hope, be no great sa- crifice to comply with Lady Rachel's only stipula- tion, in return for a certain and respectable pro- vision for your life — I mean, that of renouncing your present appellation." Emily tried to reply, but tears choked her utter- ance ; never had she so deeply felt the humiliation, the disgrace, as Mr. Moreland had said, which a mis- judging world attaches to the innocent oftl^pring, for the crime of the guilty parents. A pause ensued, during which Mr. Morelana seemed scarcely less agitated than herself. "What shall I say to Lady Rachel ? he at length observed, taking Emily's hand ; " not," he conti- nued, in an earnest tone, " not, I hope, that an adherence to romantic and visionary notions induces you to refuse a real and substantial good ?" " Oh, no," replied Emily, striving to resume her usual calmness. " Oh, no — you will, if you please, Sir, say to her ladyship, that I accept with gratitude her intended kindness,and am henceforward entirely at her disposal. The name she is pleased to bestow on me, I shall henceforward adopt. Of course, that 18. 3 '. 42(5 EMILY MORELAND. of — of — " she hesitated a moment, and then witn forced calmness added, " of my father, would be as improper as that I have hitherto borne?" "Certainly,' replied Mr. Moreland, "that has occurred to both her ladyship and myself. It mat- ters not, therefore, what you call yourself; but that is a card which her ladyship desired me to give you, with the intention, if you do not object, of con- sidering it as yours." Emily's tearful eyes could scarcely read " Miss E. Russell" written on it ; but she felt it was, indeed, of little consequence, as Mr. Moreland had said, what she was called, and it was therefore decided that she should deliver that card as hers, when she should call on Lady Rachel, which Mr. Moreland fixed for twelve precisely, on the following day. " It is late," he observed, looking at his watch : " I will not detain you any longer from that rest, which is, I am sure, absolutely necessary to you, and which I hope you will uninterruptedly enjoy. I must not have you," he added, smiling, "discredit the description I have given of you to Lady Rachel. She is, — rather oddly, you will think, for an old maid, who are generally judged to entertain very different feelings, — but she is particularly partial to seeing handsome faces about her; and I have absolutely known her reject the services of a female domestic, merely because Nature had been unkind enough to bestow on her a homely set of features." Emily tried to smile at this novel trait of charac- ter, and the implied compliment of Mr. Moreland , but it was only an effort, for her heart was weighed EMILY MOIIELAN U. 427 down with heavy anticipations of the future, and deep regrets for the past; and the only moment of satisfaction that it could be said she felt, during this interview, was that which terminated it, and left her free to indulge, unobserved, her own medita- tions and feelings on what had passed. CHAPTER XVII. Lovely Nature is expell'd, And Friendship is romantic held ; Then Prudence comes, with hundred eyes, The veil is rent — the vision flies I The sallies of the soul are o'er, The feast of fancy is no more, And ill the banquet is supplied By form, by gravity, by pride. Loc.iN. The hour appointed for Emily's visit to her in- tended patroness arrived, without her reflections on the strange turn her affairs had taken, or her antici- pations of the future, being interrupted by any one. She had, indeed, on her first rising, ventured down stairs, to inquire how Captain Fortescue had rested during the night; but though the answer she re- ceived from Mrs. Inglis was satisfactory, as far as it regarded the invalid, who, she said, was considerably better, the manner in which the reply was given, was any thing but pleasing; and Emily, at once in- dignant and hurt at the feelings which evidently pervaded the mind of Mrs. Inglis, retired to her own 428 EMILY MOR ELAND. room, without attempting to ask another question, (>r enter on the subject of her own affairs and prospects. For the first time, she contemplated her intended Aisit with exultation, rather than fear and distasto, which the slight sketch Mr. Moreland had given lier of Lady Rachel's character had raised in her mind ; r.nd, for the remainder of the morning, she tried to ] anish every other feeling but that of hope and con- fidence, in the new prospects that presented them- selves to her. As the hour, however, drew near, fear and trepi- dation, as to the result of this first interview, gra- d ually gained the preponderance over more agreeable anticipatio'ns; and when the coachman of the hack, which, in compliance with Mr. Moreland's hint, she had taken, let fall the massy knocker of Lady Ra- chel's mansion, and threw open the coach-door, she shrank back into the corner of the seat, unable to command her spirits sufficiently to attend to the in- vitation to alight, from the jolly good-looking por- ter who had taken her card. There was something, Emily thought, rather ambiguous in the civilities of this consequential per- sonage, who, having discharged the c^ach, ushered her into a parlour, observing that he would let her know when his lady was ready to receive her. Emily's spirits sank still lower, as she seated her- self in the large, gloomy- looking, and comfortless room to which she had been ushered. It was a spacious, old-fashioned, dark-wainscoted room, without a single ornament to relieve (he eye KMILY MORELAND. 429 which wandered round its bare walls. The furniture looked primeval with the mansion ; and the closely curtained and blinded windows, excluding all view and nearly all light from without, increased the heaviness and gloom of all within. Emily felt an oppression almost to sickness, as the thought of her light and pleasant chamber at St. Clare, where the tendrils of the woodbine, which she had herself planted and wooed to wind round her casement, chastened without obscuring the bright blaze of day. She would have risen from the couch on which she was seated, and tried, by walking up and down the ample room, to have aroused her sinking heart; but the stillness that prevailed around her, rendered even the slightest movement so audible, that she startled even at rising from her creaking seat, and sat down again with a trepidation, which the next moment she laughed at, without being able to conquer. From this unenviable state she was at length re- lieved by the summons of a tall, solemn-looking footman, whose deferential manner was, in Emily's opinion, scarcely a compensation for the sly glances with which he surveyed her from head to foot. " The whole household," thought Emily, as she turned her burning cheek away, and beheld two or three female domestics peeping, with looks of eager curiosity, over one another's shoulders, from the half unclosed door of a room opposite to that which she was quitting, "are already, it seems, acquainted that a new dependant is coming to share the favour of their mistress." 430 EMILT MORELAND. The thoughts that rushed into her mind, at once dispelled all the timidity and fear which, a moment before^ had made her head feel dizzy, and her steps unsteady; and she entered the room where Lady Rachel was waiting to receive her, with a look so elevated, yet modest, that the latter involuntarily arose from her seat, and had returned her respectful salutation, before she apparently recollected the difference of stations between herself and her visitor, and sank again into her chair, motioning, at the same time, to the latter to sit down on one which was placed opposite to her. Lady Rachel Moreland, if she ever possessed any personal charms, had long outlived them. She was a tall, spare, angular figure, w ith a complexion of the darkest hue ; large, severe-looking grey eyes, that seemed to search into the very heart of those she conversed with, while the masculine hooked nose, and, indeed, the whole contour of the features, contradicted the assumed smile in which the mouth was constantly dressed, and which appeared adopted to display the only charm of her face — a set of fine white teeth. " Sit down, Miss Russell," said her ladyship, gra- ciously waving her hand. Emily's blush deepened at this immediate appli- cation of the new name, to which her ear was not yet accustomed. The footman closed the door, after receiving some order from her ladyship, to which Emily, whose beating heart was bounding high in her bosom, did not attend. E M 1 L V M O U t r, A N D . 4^)1 A pause of some njomcnts succeeded. Emily was in vain trying- to quiet the tumult of her spirits ; and Lady Rachel was engaged in contemplating features, which even Envy itself could find no fault with. " There is a striking family resemblance, certainly,' ' said Lady Rachel, drawing up her erect form to a still more perpendicular height, and surveying her- self in a large mirror opposite. Emily would not see the folly and vanity of this observation, but in a faltering voice replied — " May 1 be allowed, Madam, to hope that resemblance may plead in my favour with your ladyship, and induce you to forget the disqualifying circumstances at- tendant on " She paused, unable from the agi- tation of her spirits to proceed. " Compose yourself, ray dear," observed her lady- ship, in the same cold manner in which she had first addressed her, " I did not mean to hurt your feel- ings, by alluding to a circumstance, which it will be as much my wish and interest as yours to bury in oblivion. I can only, in fact, wonder at the impru- dence and folly, which, in conferring on you a name to which you could have no claim ; and, indeed, if J rightly understood my kinsman, Mr. Moreland, (though the fact seems scarcely credible,) openly bringing you up as a descendant of the Moreland family, perpetuated the shame and infamy which an unworthy member had brought upon it." Emily almost gasped for breath — Could it be her dear, her revered grandfather, whom she thus heard stigmatised with folly and imprudence?— Her re- ejretted mother, who was pronounced unworthy and 432 EMILY MORELAND. infamous ? Tears of the bitterest anguish iseemed to scald her cheeks as they fell, while -Lady Rachel proceeded to lament the possibility that the secret of Emily's birth might be revealed, and load with shame all those connected with her. " What would the world say," she observed, " if it could know " Emily arose, and interrupted the unfeeling- and unfeminine observation — " I will spare you. Madam, the possibility of the mortification you anticipate, by declining the honour your ladyship offered me, of your protection. You will do me the justice to re- collect that I did not intrude myself upon you, or make any claims upon the family which are so anxious to reject me !" " Sit down, child — sit down, Miss Russell." re- peated Lady Rachel, with evident trepidation. " Do not mistake my observations — they were not intended as any reflection on you. How, indeed, could you be considered blameable, who are yourself the heaviest sufferer from other's faults ? No, no, my dear, be assured you have mistaken my meaning ; and happy, most happy shall I be, if, by the advan- tages which my fortune and protection can confer on you, I can compensate for the evils that have been brought upon you by those faults. " My cousin Moreland has told me all the parti- culars of your situation, and I dare say you feel, as well as me, the necessity of your immediate removal fiom it. Under these circumstances, I have already «>iven orders to my housekeeper to prepare a bed- room for you ; and I hope this will be the last time that either of us will feel any necessity for recur- EMILY MORELAND. 433 ring to those events, which make it impossible for me to present you to my friends in your real character. I have told my people that you are the orphan daughter of some early friends, who have been dead some years ; and this account of yourself I must re- quest you to bear in mind, that my servants consider you as the orphan daughter of a deceased friend, and that they are instructed to treat you with the greatest respect." Emily bowed her thanks, and Lady Rachel, rising from her seat, with a stately step crossed the room, and unlocked a small escritoir, from which she took a paper. " I did not exactly understand your present situa- tion, as to pecuniary affairs, Miss Russell," she ob- served ; " but it is possible you may have contracted some debts — if that is the case, the inclosed note will, I hope, enable you to discharge the obligation. If it should not be sufficient- " Emily withdrew the hand which she had stretched forth to take the paper, before she was conscious of its contents. " I am obliged to your ladyship," she observed, *' but I have really no necessity to tax your bounty. The sum I brought up from the country is yet unex- hausted. I have been a tolerable economist, for I was too fearful of incurring obligation " " A convincing proof of your prudence," inter- rupted Lady Rachel, in a tone of approbation. " I commend you, I assure you, highly ; for, without proper prudence and economy, even the most ample resources must be inadequate to our expenses. I 19. 3 k 434 EMILY MORELAND. have myself a tolerable income, yet I have so many demands on it, that were I not, as you say, * a to- lerable economist,' I should soon find myself em- barrassed." The paper was returned unopened to the escri- toir, and Lady Rachel, ringing the bell, desired that Mrs. Morgan should attend, and conduct Miss Russell to her room. " You can then, my dear," she observed, '^ return and make what arrangements you think proper, for the removal of your trunks, &c. only taking especial care that none of my servants may obtain any clue to your lodgings, or discover the change of your name." Glad to be, by any means, released, Emily readily followed Mrs. Morgan up stairs, to the room ap- pointed for her, which, however, was very little in unison with the pomp and state which Lady Rachel assumed, and to the gloomy space, and dark heavy furniture of which, even her own little room at Mrs. Inglis's seemed preferable. There was a small dressing-room adjoining, how- ever, which was somewhat more cheerful and moder- nized; and Emily heard with pleasure that this was to be appropriated solely to her use. " I've done my best to make it comfortable for you. Ma'am," observed the housekeeper, " for my lady leaves every thing to me; and, I assure you, I've no small charge on my hands." Emily expressed her thanks, though she could not help being struck with the second-hand airs of im- portance, of this copyist of Lady Rachel's stateliness. *' You haven't been long in London, I believe, BMILV MORELAND. 485 Madam?" said Mrs. Morgan, twinkling her little grey eyes in Emily's face, with a look of curiositv and expectation. " No," was the concise answer, and given in a tone of reserve which was intended to repress any further observation. It had not, however, the effect intended, for Mrs. Morgan rejoined — " Aye, so I understood from my lady. Miss, though she didn't exactly say what part of the country you came from." Emily turned a deaf ear to this hint, and, having finished her survey of her intended apartments, she observed, that she had some little business to tran- sact, before she should take final possession of them. Mrs. Morgan looked as if she would have liked to have learned all the particulars of that business ; but Emily's look and manner seemed to awe her into silence, and she led the way down stairs, without uttering another interrogation ; and, having inquired of the porter which way she must take to Oxford Street, from whence she knew she could easily find her way to Mrs. Inglis's, Emily bade adieu, for the present, to the gloomy mansion, which was to be her future residence. Mrs. Inglis's taciturnity and sour looks seemed increased by Emily's absence ; and she scarcely vouch- safed a reply, when the latter, following her into the kitchen, demanded if she was at leisure, as she wished to speak to her. • Tho 1 canst say what thou needest say," re- turned the old lady, beginning to take down the china, from a cupboard which she was clearing out; " but I have no time for idle con\ ersation." 436 EMILY MORELAND. " I want only to tell you, Ma'am, that I am going *o leave you, and to thank you for your kindness to me. I am indebted to you," she added, taking out her purse, " for one week's lodging, as I leave you without the notice I agreed to give of my in- tentions." " Well, but thou art not going to-day — so sud- denly, art thou?" demanded Mrs. Inglis, relaxing somewhat from the asperity with which she had be- fore spoken. Emily replied in the affirmative — and the old lady, fixing an earnest and penetrating look on her coun- tenance, observed — " Well, well, I have no right to question thee — ■ nor, perhaps, any reason to regret thy departure; — yet I do hope that the step thou art about to take is in the right path, and that thou wilt not listen to evil counsel, but prefer the toils of honest industry to the flowery enticements of vice, which will inevi- tably lead to destruction. Our friend Fortescut will be indeed surprised at thy sudden departure, for " The voice of Mr. Evelyn, which Emily imme- diately recognised, interrupted the old lady's exhor- tation ; and, making a sign to the latter not to be- tray that she was there, she retreated behind the screen, which was placed between the door and the fire. " My mother wishes to see you in the sick room, Madam," observed Mr. Evelyn, as he entered, " the invalid fancies himself so much better as to have oc- casion to employ you as cook, instead of nurse; and she wants to debate the point with you." EMlliY MOilELAND. 437 " I will come to her in a moment," returned Mrs. Jnglis, seeming as anxious to prevent his^ discovering Emily there, as the latter herself. Mr. Evelyn still stood, hesitating apparently how to address her on the subject which occupied his thoughts. " Your house is a very quiet one, Madam," he at length observed. " I do not think I have heard a voice or a step this morning, since your male lodger went out." " No," replied the old lady, " there has been no one in the house since breakfast, except myself, and I have been as quiet as possible, that I might not disturb thy kinsman." " Miss Moreland is out, then ?'* said Mr. Evelyn : " Does she spend much of her time from home ?' " No, she has never been out until yesterday, since she came here," returned the old lady; " but she is about to leave roe entirely, in a few hours." " Good heavens, this is sudden!" returned Eve- lyn. " I hope, my good Madam, that you have not been prejudiced by " Emily darted from ner concealment — " I will not take any unfair advantage, Mr. Evelyn," she ob- served; " and, though I do not think myself obliged to account to any one for my actions, T will still so far do justice to your friendly feelings towards me as to tell you, that the exchange I am about to make, is to the house of a relative — a lady of rank — who has condescended to offer me her protection." " I am most happy to hear it," replied Evelyn, with warmth. " You cannot doubt — I am sure you cannot — that I am most anxious for your welfare.'* 438 EMILY MORELAND. Emiiy courtsied, and, before Evelyn could devise any means of detaining her, which his look spoke his wish to do, passed onwards to her room, to pre- pare for her final departure. A very short time was sufficient to make every necessary arrangement, and, anxious to get away without another interview, she softly glided down stairs, to inquire if Mrs. Inglis could recommend any one ta carry her trunks, &c. to the coach-stand, which was but a short distance from the house. " And why wilt thou not have a coach to the door at once?" inquired Mrs. Inglis, with a look of suspicion. " Is it that thou fearest it should be known where thou art going to sojourn?" Emily's cheek flushed with anger at this insinua- tion. " It is not that I have any cause for fear," she replied; "but there may be reasons — I know not why I should hesitate to avow, that there are reasons — why I wish my future situation to remain a secret from some in the house." " From thy real friends, I am apt to think," replied the old woman, shaking her head ; " but it is of little avail, I know, what I can say — so I will fetch the man who comes here of a morning to clean shoes, and thou canst employ him, if thou likest." Emily thought every moment an hour, while the old woman was gone; but she remained uninter- rupted, until her return with the man, who, pursuant to her directions, conveyed her trunks down stairs, and from thence to the coach-stand, from whence she was driven to Lady Rachel Moreland's residence. " My lady breakfasts precisely at twelve. Miss," baid the housekeeper, w!io received her on her ar- EMILY MORELAND. 439 rival, when she was about to leave Emily for the iiight, " and she desired me to say, that she expects to find you in her dressing-room when she comes doven, as she always observes the strictest punc- tuality." Emily's heart sank within her at this address. There was nothing very particular in the communi- cation — but she thought the servant's manner bore the air rather of delivering an order for her attend- ance, than a piece of information; and she felt that it would have been more delicate, if Lady Rachel Moreland had conveyed the information herself. " Yet what business have I, the outcast of society," she exclaimed, with a bitter shower of tears, '* a being without a name — dependant on charity — what right can I have to indulge such feelings ? No, I must henceforth endeavour to bend my mind to my situation, and submit, without murmuring, to the lot which not my own follies " She checked the thought, which would have reflected on the mother whose memory, in spite of the one sad error, which had exiled her from society, and consigned her to an early grave, she still held in reverence; and, throw- ing herself on the bed, endeavoured to lose in sleep the consciousness of the sad change in her situation, since the happy times when, a simple rustic maid, she ranged without restraint through her native valley, plucking the wild flowers, whose uncultivated sweet- ness were the truest and fittest emblems of herself, or listening, with clasped hands, her large dove-like eyes turned with earnest attention to his face, to the instructions which her beloved grandfather con- 440 EMILY MORELAND. sidered necessary for her future welfare. How would he have recoiled, could he have known that the be- loved object of his care was, at no very distant period, to become the dependant on those proud and rigid relations, whose names he so cautiously abstained from introducing, even when drawn, by her (Emily's) innocently inquisitive questions, into giving some detail of his former life. The Signora, too — her whose very gifts were al- ways so bestowed as to make the donor appear the person obliged, rather than the receiver, — what would she think of the mixture of ostentation and meanness, which distinguished not only Lady Rachel Moreland herself, but apparently prevailed through the whole arrangement of her household ? Always accustomed to early rising, and possessing less temptation than usual to remain in her dismal- looking, uncomfortable bed, Emily, as soon as she heard some one stirring in the house, endeavoured to find her way down to the room where Lady Ra- chel and her had sat on the preceding evening, and where her eye had been caught by something which she wished to examine at her leisure. It was the minature of a young man in a hunting- dress, with his hand on the head of a spaniel; but though the style of the painting was so eminently different, and the age much earlier than that of the resemblance which she had seen in the possession of her friend the Signora, yet the features were the same. They were so strongly marked, that it was impossible to mistake them. The more Emilv examined them, the more she was EMILY MORELANl). 44t convinced they were the same she had seeii before; but her surprise and observation of this picture had, for a moment, abstracted her thoughts from the pro- found attention which Lady Rachel conceived the wise aphorisms she was uttering-, respecting prudence, conduct, proper economy, &c. required; and, sur- prised that her auditor did not instantly reply when she paused, having nearly exhausted her breath, she observed — " Rut T hope I need say no more on this head. Miss — a — a — Russell — though, unfortunately, you have not been brought up in the very best school for the acquirement of that knowledge and wisdom, so ne- cessary in your peculiar situation." The last words fell on Emily's ear, without her being conscious of their connexion with Lady Ra- chel's previous exordium, though she could not but fully comprehend their degrading application ; and her dreams of Italy, the Signora, and all connected with the portrait, vanished at the austere look and sharp voice of her future patroness, as she observed — " When you have finished your critical observations, Madam — for such, I presume, they are, as I cannot suppose you have any particular interest in those pictures — when you have quite finished, 1 say, I will request your attention for a few minutes, if it will not very much distress and fatigue you." Emily apologised — but the apology seemed worse than the offence, for the old lady remained sulkily, or, as she would probably have styled it, dignifiedly silent, for some moments, and then, to Emily's great 19. 3l 442 EMIKY MOREfiAND. satisfaction, commenced speaking- on an indifferent subject. To return, however, to Emily's morning visit to the portrait, which she was so desirous and deter- mined to inspect. The shutters were closed when she entered the room, and, with some difficulty, she found her way to one of the windows, the heavy bar of which she, for a time, in vain essayed to move. " I shall be obliged noAV to return, without accom- plishing my intention," she thought: "and, after all, what folly it is — I- shall have plenty, unfortu- nately, 1 fear, too many opportunities of contem- plating those remarkable features." At the very moment, however, of relinquishing her project, and just as she was turning away from the shutter, her hand touched the spring of the bar — it fell with a heavy crash, and a shrill bell, which had been attached to it, now added its sound to that which seemed, to poor Emily's ears, to reverberate through the large half-furnished room like thunder. Emily stood in the middle of the apartment, uncer- tain whether to endeavour to retreat to her own room, or to brave the inquiries which, she rightly judged, would follow this invasion of the household's morn- ing repose ; for, though she had distinctly heard one step pass her chamber door, before she ventured to leave it, yet the silence that reigned through the house, as she descended the stairs, had convinced her that the greater part of Lady Rachel Moreland*3 eslablishnien* were still indulging in sleep. EMIliY MORELAND. 443 She had, however, no time for retreat — for, on turning her head, she discovered the face of a rude country-looking njan, with a candle in his hand, which he held inquiringly forward into the room, while he wisely kept his body outside the door. " I have got thee fast, however, whether thee beest thief or ghost ; and there thee shalt stay, till steward comes to ax thee thy business !" he exclaimed, though his terrified look and receding posture gave no very convincing proof of his courage. " Nance shan't laugh at I any more for a coward, I'll be bound," he continued, " for I'll see now if we cannot stop thy gammocks ! Aye, ring away, my lady, it isn't the first time this ghost, or witch, or whatever she is, has made thy bell tingle — though 1 never before knew her to play her tricks in broad day-light, and that's the reason, I s^pose, she can't get away now, aa she did when 1 met hei on the big staircase." Ever alive to impressions of mirth and ridicule, Emily could no longer forbear giving way to the fit of laughter which, in spite of her awe of the invinci- ble gravity of Lady Rachel Moreland, and her solemn household, seized her: and when the half- dressed domestics, whom the pealing summons of their mistress had frighted from their beds, two hours before their usual time, arrived at the scene of action, they found the half-terrified, half-doubtful Peter, still guarding the door; and their new inmate. Miss Russell, whom all the rest had seen, almost convulsed with laughter, at the notion he had taken of her being, as he said, a witch or a ghost, and the truly comic and ridiculous gestures which accompanied his 444 EMILY MOU ELAND. avowed intention of detaining her to give an account of herself. "What is the meaning of this, you booby?" ex- claimed the steward, forgetting his usual delibera- tion, and seizing poor Peter by the collar. " Is it you that has raised all this disturbance, and terrified my lady almost into hysterics?" Emily's mirth was stopped- — she was desirous at *>nce to save the simple, terrified Peter from an im- putation which might, perhaps, cause him the loss of his place ; and she was awed into silence by the an- ticipation of the lectures on decorum, and all the et ceteras, which, she doubted not, would be set in array against her, as soon as her formal relative should learn the cause of the noise which had created so much disturbance. A very few words from Emily, explained the mys- tery of her appearance. The steward bowed, but very sententiously expressed his fears that the alarm would have a very sad effect on his lady's nerves. "I am very sorry for it," said Emily, colouring, as she passed him, chagrined, however, more at his manner than his words ; but, before she could reach her own chamber, a summons to the bedside of Lady Rachel absorbed all other feelings than those of im- patience and vexation, at the lecture she knew she was about to encounter ; and she entered the room with a look which, probably, was more expressive of those sensations, than that deference to which Lady Rachel had been so implicitly accustomed. The o d lady was raised in bed, propped with pil- lows, enveloped in a whole host of dirigy flannels, EMILY MORELAND. 445 and with cheeks pale as death ; while her maid, with oflicious attention, kept applying a smelling-bottle to her nose, and wetting her temples with a hand- kerchief. '*' Come here ! — what is all this i What could in* duce you to be prowling about the house, at this time of the morning ? What did you expect to dis- cover? — what, I say, did you think to find? Oh, that I was ever persuaded, by that mad-headed nephew of mine, to act so contrary to common sense, as to admit into my establishment a person of whom I know nothing ; and who, the very first morning, is found roving about the house ! What were you going to open the window for?" " To admit the light," replied Emily, very coolly and laconically ; " and to reply. Madam, to all your questions at once, I merely went to that room, be- cause I could find no amusement in my own, until your hour of getting up. 1 am sorry that my habit of early rising has created so much disturbance, but I can only say, it was totally unintentional, and that I am quite unconscious of any desire to give ofi'ence." The dignity with which she spoke, the bright flush of indignation burning on her fair cheek, and her eyes sparkling as she glanced at the lady's-maid, who whispered something in Liady Rachel's ear, seemed to make an impression in her favour, in the old lady's mind. " Pshaw, you are always taking some wise whim in your head!" she replied, in a peevish tone. The maid shrank back disconcerted, darting a look of no very pleasant import at Emily, and the old lady continued, addressing the latter, 446 EMILV MORELAND. " For the future, Miss Russell, you will be so good as to refrain from breaking through the estab- lished rules of my household. You can return to your room — I shall reserve what I have further to say, till a future opportunity." " What are the established rules ?" thought Emily, with a smile of contempt, as she curtseyed and left the room ; " to lie down, and rise up, at the word of command, I suppose !" " Miss, — Miss !" exclaimed a voice, in a loud whisper, as she ascended the staircase. Emily looked over, and beheld Peter, to whom she had been such a source of mystery. " I do humbly beg your pardon, Miss," he conti- tinued, looking very imploringly, " but " ' " Oh, it is granted, I assure you," returned Emily, smiling, but anxious to cut short the conference, lest she should be accused of another breach of decorum. " I ha' got another favour to ax, Miss," said Peter, as Emily ascended another stair. She looked back — " Be quick, then, my good lad, for I am hurried," she replied, rather impatiently. " It be for you to speak a good word for me to our lady, for stewai'd swears as I shall go, and I hav'nt a friend in Lunnun, only my poor old mother down at St. Clare, and I sent her almost all my half- year's wages, for all Miss Nance sulked " " St. Clare !" re-echoed Emily, " why, surely, you cannot be Peter, the son of Mary Jenkins, the old widow at Bramble Cottage ?" " Oh, dear, I be the very same !" exclaimed Peter, ready to burst into tears, at the recollections this nMILr MORELAVD. 44*7 mention of his native place excited. And, lauk-a- mercy, it never can be Miss Emily Moreland that I do see ! Yes, it is — Oh, all's right now, I ben't afeard — but they told me some other name, and said you was come from foreign parts." " And you must not betray that you know me, Peter," whispered Emily; "I am called Russell here, and am obliged to forget St. Glare altogether ; and, if you wish to keep your place, you must do the same." Peter stared in silent astonishment, and Emily, giving him half-a-crown, observed — " Be silent and cautious, Peter ; and, if I can befriend you, depend on it I will." The opening of a door now sent her off, with the speed of a fawn, to her own room ; and Peter re- treated by a different direction, murmuring, however, as he went — " Forget St. Clare ! that's a thing, quite unpossable ; and I'm sure I don't know how I shall keep my tongue within my teeth, if I hears 'em abusing Miss Russell, as they called her, as I did just now in sarvanfs hall, and know all the while it's my Miss Moreland, as they're becalling." 448 EMILY MORELANO. CHAPTER XVIII. Who is she that winneth the heart of man, that siibdueth him to love, and reigneth in his breast ? Lo, yonder she walketh in maiden sweetness, with innocence in her mind, and modesty on her cheek. She is clothed with neatness ; she is fed with temperance ; humility and meekness are as a crown of glory circling iier head. Dodsley. The hours, till Lady Rachel's appointed one for breakfast, passed very heavily away, and Emily felt that, after the light supper of the preceding night, she should have no objection to the substantial com- forts of a good breakfast table, long before the striking of the third quarter, by the old house clock on the stairs, warned her that it was time to attend Lady Rachel's levee. The eld lady was not yet visible, when Emily was admitted by the constant attendant on her per- son, Mrs. Morg^an; and the former viewed with dismay the scanty preparations for a meal, which she had been some time anxiously anticipating. It was true, the small portion of coffee was en- shrined in silver, and the shavings of bread and but- ter, for they could not be called slices, were placed in exactest order on a plate, of the finest old china; but Emily felt that would have little effect in allay- ing the appetite which long fasting had given her. She thought of the substantial brown loaf, the EMILY MOREL (^ND. 449 fresh eggs, and the thick cream, which used to render her breakfasts at St. Clare a substantial as well as pleasant meal. The door, however, was thrown open, and Emily's visions of good living all vanished at the stern and austere air with which Lady Rachel returned her salutation in silence, and seated herself at the break fast table. " I will thank you. Miss Russell, to pour out the coffee," she observed. " I am unused to the task, and my maid, poor thing, has been so affected by the state your unaccountable conduct reduced me to, that her hand trembles too much to allow her to take her usual office. I dare say, however, you have been pretty well used to wait on yourself, so the effort will not fatigue you much." Emily tried to smile at this petty insinuation, which was rendered the more galling by the pre- sence of the tall footman, whose looks and manners had before offended her, and who would, of course, now feel himself still more privileged to treat her with familiarity. The single egg, which he brought in a small silver saucepan, was placed by the fire, and he withdrew ; while Emily, whose hand really trembled so from insulted feelings that she could scarcely perform the office, proceeded to make the breakfast. " Softly, softly. Miss Russell," exclaimed the old lady, as she was about to sweeten her coffee, " you do not seem to have learnt many lessons of economy, at your cottage in the mountains, or you would have known there is sufficient for two or three cups ; 19. 3 m 450 EMILY MORELAND. or, perhaps," she added, with a sneer, " your grand- father's fortune did not admit of the use of such luxuries as coffee and sugar ?" " My dear grandfather always found sufficient for the indulgence of every reasonable want and wish, Madam," replied Emily, the tears starting to her eyes. " Oh, dear, yes — I forgot — he came, I think, into possession of the splendid fortune of the woman he married, some years before he died," returned Lady Rachel, with affected recollection ; " and, pray, ivhat did she do with it, at her death — left it, I sup- pose, to her own low relations, and turned you upon the charity of your father's friends ?" Emily's tears were dried up in an instant — " My grandmother. Madam, I am certain, never for a mo- ment indulged a thought that 1 should be indebted to any one, but the kind and liberal friend, of whose protection accident alone has since deprived me. I am sure, an introduction to my grandfather's rela- tiveSy'' laying a strong emphasis on the word, " was the very last idea that would have entered her mind ; and, in fact, until my accidental meeting with Mr. Moreland, I knew not that there existed any one on whose kindness I could have any claim. She never mentioned the name of Moreland, except as belong- ing to her adored and respected husband." " Indeed — then, I must tell you, that it was not to her credit to behave so contemptuously towards a family^ who were never disgraced till she entered it." " You did not know my grandmother, Madam, or you could not say so," replied Emily, enceavouring EMILY MORELAND. 451 to conquer her indignation, as her beautiful eyes rested on the then cadaverous and contracted features of Lady Rachel, who from some cause, apparently beyond mere family pride, though that appeared the ostensible reason, was evidently dreadfully agitated. " Know her I" she repeated, with a look of aver- sion, " no, the creature knew better than to intrude herself upon me, though, I am told, she dared to say that she pitied me. She — the low, despicable wretch — dared to say she pitied Lady Rachel Moreland, the descendant of a family, whose pure blood had been uncontaminated by a single plebeian alliance, until Reuben Moreland forgot his duty, and dis- graced and ruined himself for ever !' Emily was silent, from mere surprise, at the vio- lence of Lady Rachel's manner — her eyes seemed to glance with supernatural fire, and big drops of per- spiration stood on her brow. Pity now superseded every other feeling in the gentle girl's bosom. " Forgive me. Madam," she began, " I did not know " " Know — what should you know ? What was there for you to know?" interrupted Lady Rachel, furiously. " They never dare say — I never put it in their power " " Will your ladyship allow me solemnly to assure you, that I never heard your name from the lips of my lamented relatives. It was, therefore, impossi- ble that they could reveal, even had it been in their power, any thing obnoxious to your ladyship." Lady Rachel seemed struck with the mildness and firmness of Emily's manner. 452 EMILY MORELAND. " I do not blame you, girl," she observed, '•' foi what you could have nothing to do with, and I am wrong to indulge these unbecoming feelings ; but recollections rushed on my mind at that instant, which never fail to overcome my fortitude." A suspicion, at this moment, for the first time, 'arted across Emily's mind, that she comprehended the source of Lady Rachel's emotion. She recol- lected that, between her grandfather and grand- mother, on one of the anniversaries of their wedding- day, which they always devoted to peculiar festivity, she had heard a conversation, which, though she could not entirely comprehend it, excited consider- able curiosity in her mind. On the old lady affectionately regretting th« good her husband had forfeited for her, he ex- claimed — " Good, — Martha ! That came not from your heart, or I am grossly deceived in you ; for I never thought you estimated mere rank and riches as good, unaccompanied by the virtues of the heart, which can alone render them blessings to others. She possessed none— she was proud, repulsive, ava- ricious, and selfish !" " Hush ! hush !" interrupted his affectionate wife, placing her hand on his mouth, " I never yet heard thee speak so harshly of any one, and she ought " The sight of Emily, who had stood all this time unobserved, now interrupted the conversation ; and the latter, though she wondered to whom it related, that it could have excited so much asperity, soon forgot it, until the sight of Lady Rachel's violence, and the corresponding traits which Emily had already EMILY MORELAND. 453 discovered in her character, confirmed the idea that it was her of whom Mr. Moreland had spoken, and the rejection of whose alliance had been the cause of the latter's estrangement from his family. A short silence followed ; Lady Rachel took up her cup of coffee, and Emily unconsciously followed her example. The old lady's natural peevishness almost instantly returned, and banished from her countenance every appearance of the feelings which had so lately shaken her whole frame. " I suppose I am expected to boil my egg myself?" she observed, looking disdainfully at the saucepan, which remained standing where the servant had placed it. Emily started up — she was ever anxious to oblige, and she forgot, at that moment, every thing but the age and infirmities of the frail being before her, and hastened to boil the egg, with an alacrity that seemed to make some impression on her companion, as she relaxed sufficiently from her dignity to observe, that she hoped Emily had rested well. " As well. Madam," replied Emily, " as the some- what extraordinary and agitating events, which have made so surprising an alteration in my circumstances, would permit." Lady Rachel seemed inclined to take this as a compliment, and observed, with an attempt to smile, ** Ah well, my dear, I hope we shall get over these sentinientals in a short time, and then we shall go on smoothly. I have got a great many little jobs that a young active woman, like you, will soon get through; 454 EMILY MORELAND. but which have been laying- by, because my maid's poor eyes have failed her. Indeed she is, like her mistress, a g^ood deal the worse for wear, though her attachment to me induces her to exert herself beyond her strength." Emily only bowed. It was, indeed, impossible that she could otherwise assent to Lady Rachel's praise of her attendant, whose countenance, even at the minute she was pretending to feel most, betrayed that she was incapable of what she made such pre- tensions to. Emily had conceived a strong prejudice against this woman, and she gladly changed the subject, though it was succeeded by a dissertation on the evil of departing from established rules, &c. occasioned by the events of the morning, which was scarcely more pleasant to her. " You can find, perhaps, something to do among your own clothes. Miss Russell," observed the old lady, when their scanty breakfast was concluded. " I have some orders to give, that will occupy half an hour, and then I shall expect to see you down stairs." Emily was glad to escape, even to the dark and comfortless solitude of her own dismal room ; and, lost in reflection on all she had seen and heard, would probably have forgotten that her stay there was limited to half an hour, had she not been reminded by the entrance of a housemaid to make the bed, who, in answer to her inquiry, replied that Lady Rachel was gone down to the drawing-room. Thither, therefore, she hastened, and found her EMILY MORELANI). 455 ladyship already seated at a large table, which was covered with pieces of old silk, gauze, &c. &c. "I was just going to send up for you. Miss Russell," she observed, " for you are five minutes beyond your time, and I always expect punctuality from my es- tablishment." Emily could scarcely bring herself to murmur an apology ; but Lady Rachel proceeded, without look- ing at her, in her investigation of the faded finery which lay before her. " You are something of a milliner, I suppose ?" she continued; "for most young ladies, now-a-days, I believe, contrive to dress themselves by the aid of their needles, if they are not taught to use them in any more useful way." Not knowing how to answer, never having made essay of her talents in this way, Emily only replied by taking up another piece of silk, and asking what it was her ladyship wished to have done. " Why, I will describe to you, if you can compre- hend me, a turban which Lady Louisa Derraot, the fashionable dame of the present day, had on at the Opera the night before last, and which attracted great admiration." Emily sat down to listen patiently to the most mi- nute, and therefore the most frivolous and ridiculous, description of the folds of gauze and satin, the bows of ribbon and tissue, and the flow of tassels trimmed with fringe, which, when it was finished, she compre- hended as little of, as when it was begun. The satin, however, that was to be the principal material, was to be selected ; and, after considerable 456 EMILY MOKELAN&. hesitation, and trying the effect of the different colours in all sorts of lig^hts, Lady Rachel chose a bright scarlet, contrasting- it beautifully, as she said, with a deep blue gauze for trimmings, to which, in order to make it more striking, was added a quantity of tarnished gold fringe. " Can it be possible," thought Emily, as she looked at tlie worn and withered face, which Avas bent so eagerly over the paltry finery, " can it be possible that a woman of this age can intend to exhibit herself in such a head dress as this will be ?" There was no time to hesitate, for Lady Rachel was impatient for her to commence operations ; and Emily, scarcely knowing what she was about, having selected all the satin and gauze of the favoured colour, requested to know where she could find a pair of scissars. " Dear me, I should have thought you were pro- vided with such things!" observed Lady Rachel, crossly. "It does not argue much for jour good housewifery!" " I have a pair up stairs, which I will fetch, Madam, if you will allow me?" returned Emily, mildly. " Oh, yes, and so waste half the remainder of the morning! No, you will find a pair, I believe, in that box." Emily readily found them ; but she was somewhat surprised at the contents of the box, consisting of the coarsest tapes, cottons, &c. very unlike the usual furnishing of a lady's work-box. *' What in the world are you about, Miss Russell ? Are vou going to cut the satin to pieces, without EMILY MORELAND. 457 making a shape ?'* exclaimed Lady Rachel, in a tone of alarm, which made Emily start, and utter a con- fused apology. The necessary materials for the shape were now produced, and Emily, anxious to please, if possible, proceeded to measure the old woman's head, with as scientific and interested an air as she could possiblj assume. " Remember, the curls I wear behind, when I am dressed, will make a difference, Miss Russell/' ob- served the vain and weak Lady Rachel. Emily thought of her grandmother's neat cap, with its border plaited round her face, which was only gently touched by time into slight lines, while the rosy hue of the cheek had not deserted it, but had faded a few tints only, and on the ever placid and sniling mouth was as fresh as ever. The contrast Mas striking, though Lady Rachel, Emily knew, could not be much older than her regretted relative ; for care and violent passions had indented the onte smooth and open brow of the honourable lady into deep furrows, and her thin and withered lips looked as if no colour had ever visited them. A deep sigh, at the recollections which this contrast excited in her mind, betrayed to Lady Rachel that her thoughts were not so intently fixed on the scarlet satin turban, as she had imagined. " I am afraid you are making sad havoc, Ma'am, with your scissars there!" she observed, in a sharp tone. Emily started from her reverie, to enter into a de- fence of the mode in which she had cut the satin. 20. 3 N 4I;8 EMILY M DRET^ANI). "Well, well, do go on with it, — and pray don't loiter, to sigh and look so sentimentally piteous, aa you did just now. I expect that odious made-up doll, old Lady Haycraft here, in a short time, and I should like to mortify her a little about this turban, for some- thing rhe said to rae, when we were admiring Lady Louisa's. She won't know, if you mind what you are about, but that it has come from St. James's Street ; for, though she pretends sometimes that all her millinery comes from there, I know sho is too stingy to afford half their price ; but goes there, stealing their patterns, and then keeps her maid up all night, to copy them, that she may make her friends believe that she has purchased the cap or bonnet, or whatever it is, that they admired the day before, but thought such an extravagant price. And then she drawls out, in her detestable tone, ' It's a dear bauble, I know, for I don't suppose it will make up again, when it is dirtied; but I must have my whim, if 1 take it in my head !' Oh, I know her — she can't deceive roe — for my maid got the whole of it out of hers, and the woman declared to her mistress that her poor eyes were quite ruined, with working at nights." " Good heavens, can it be possible that vanity can render people so unfeeling, as to require a fellow- being to sacrifice themselves for its gratification!" exclaimed Emily, who felt no incliTiation to make any reply to the former part of Lady Rachel's infor- mation respecting Lady Haycraft, but was seriously indignant at the concluding part. Ladv Rachel did not seem to think this, however, KMILY MOUlir,ANU. 459 worthy of further observation ; she therefore com- menced some remark on the flow of the long- piece of gauze, which was to fall on the left side, while on the other a larg-e ostrich feather, Emily now found, was ♦o be placed, so as to wave gracefully over the head. rt was with much pain, and not without several times meeting with a sharp reproof for her want of attention and comprehension, that Emily at length fulfilled all Lady Rachel's directions; and the head- dress, which looked much better, as to the brilliancy of the colours, than she expected, was completed. Lady Rachel tried to look very composed and dignified, but the pleasure with which she contem- plated this trumpery was very visible in her counte- nance, though she did not condescend even to ex- press her satisfaction with Emily's efforts, farther than by saying — " Aye, I see, with a little instruction, you will soon be able to do a job of this kind cleverly." A loud knock at the door occasioned the turban to be hastily snatched off; — for the vain old woman had been, for several minutes studying, before the glass, the most graceful way of placing it on her head. The cap she had worn was instantly replaced, but at that moment her eye was caught by the shreds of silk and gauze, which were scattered about. " What are you dreaming about, fool ?" she ex- claimed, in a tone that almost petrified Emily; *' you know well that I do not want that woman to linow tills is your making, and you are actually put 4C0 E A! 1 1. Y M O 11 E L A N !) . ting it before her eyes! Do cram them undtr the sofa — any where — and don't stare at me so stu- pidly!" Emily hesitated a moment — she was strongly tempted to walk out of tho room, and leave the arro- gant old woman to dispose of her finery how she could ; but prudence prevailed, and she assisted her in hiding the obnoxious shreds, &c. which was scarcely effected before the door was opened, and Lady Haycraft was announced. " You cruel creature, I thought you promised to spend the whole morning with me !" exclaimed Lady Rachel, advancing, with both hands extended, to meet her dear friend ; " and now you will have but two hours to bestow on me, for I know the Totter- tons always dine at four, and, I suppose, you have not tried to get off that engagement ? By the bye — how ridiculous it is that people like them should ad- here to such a custom !" *' It is ridiculous and troublesome too," replied Lady Haycraft, with her eyes fixed on the turban, which her friend had thrown aside, with a well-coun- terfeited air of indifference, " but, I assure you, I should have been here an hour ago, had I not for- gotten to give my servant orders not to admit any one, and the stupid fellow suffered those wild girls, the Duchess of Plumstead's two daughters, to come up, and I positively could not get rid of them, till I fairly turned them out." " Indeed I I did not know you were on visiting terms," replied Lady Rachel, evidently piqued at the iionour which she thought the visit of these " wild EMILY MORELAND. 461 jrirls," as Lady Haycraft familiarly called them, had conferred. " Oh, dear, yes — I am ot the Duchess's party to the Opera, to-morrow — but you do not visit her, I believe ?" replied Lady Haycraft. Lady Rachel concisely returned a single negative, and the two dear friends sal down together on the same couch, side by side. Emily had remained standing all this time, nearly concealed by the screen, and evidently unobserved by the visitor, whose eyes, as soon as she perceived her, expressed at once surprise and curiosity. A low whisper from the latter was answered by — " Oh, nobody, only a young woman from the country, whose father I knew something of, and who was of a good family ; so, this girl being destitute, I have offered her an asylum." " Ah, you are always so kind and considerate !" drawled Lady Haycraft, with a tone and look which completely betrayed the insincerity of her assertion. Emily sat down, her face glowing from what she could not avoid hearing, so audibly was Lady Ra- chel's speech uttered, but still retaining sufficient self-possession and calmness as to be enabled to meet Lady Haycraft's inquisitive looks with firmness. A conversation commenced, in which the foibles and failings of a number of individuals, with whom both the ladies were evidently on terms of the greatest intimacy, were freely commented on. Dis- gusted with their falsehood and hypocrisy, Emily tried to turn her attention from their conversation, by looking through the window near which she was 462 EMILY MORLLAND. seated ; but Lady Rachel soon shewed her deter- mination at once to prove the dependant state of her new inmate, and to keep the latter in constant em- ployment. " I will thank you, Miss Russell, to go to my dressing-room, and ask my maid for a clean hand- kerchief, and bring with you the muslin that lays on the chair. It will be a nice little job for you." Emily left the room, but not until she heard Lady Haycraft say — " Upon my word, poverty there does not seem to have brought humility with it ! your new dependant walks with all the state of a tragedy queen." The door was already opened, and Emily lost Lady Rachel's reply ; but she had heard enough to complete the mortification she had before suffered from the latter's manner, and she stood for some mi- nutes on the landing-place, endeavouring to conquer the bitter tears which indignation and wounded pride had occasioned. To increase this mortifica- tion, the favourite maid, whom she had expected to see in the dressing-room, at this moment came in an opposite direction, and, with a look of affected com- miseration, inquired if any thing had happened. " My dear lady arn't ill, is she. Ma'am ?" she added, in a tone of hypocritical alarm. Emily replied in the negative. " Dear me, then I can't think what can have given you cause to cry — for, I'm sure, my lady's kindness to you, and the comfort of being in such a house as this, after " Emily's eyes flashed fire at the insolent tone in EMILY MOREIiAN D 463 wliich this was uttered, and the woman, apparently awed by the look, suddenly stopped. " Your lady wants a clean handkerchief," ob- served the former, calmly. ** Very well, Ma'am, I will get her one,'-' replied the pert dame, trying to resume her former confidence. " I will take it with me," said Emily, following her towards the dressing-room. " Well, at any rate, I will bring it to you — you need not trouble yourself to come for it," she replied, with more civility than she had hitherto shewn. Emily stood a moment at the staircase window, but she suddenly recollected the muslin she had been ttiso desired to bring, and she quick!) followed Mrs Morgan towards the dressing-room, to fetch it. At the door, however, she paused, for it was half unclosed, and through the aperture she distinctly saw the same tall footman, who had excited her dislike, seated at the table at which they (Lady Ra- chel and herself) had breakfasted — the newspaper in his hand, his legs carelessly stretched out, and a bottle, glasses, and some sandwiches placed before him. " I could hardly keep this fine madam out, 1 as- sure you," said Mrs. Morgan, just as Emily, unob- served by either, stopped with feelings of the greatest surprise at what she beheld. " It's confounded provoking," returned the man, " that one's little stolen moments must be intruded on, by a prying minx like this." " Yes, and we shall never be safe now, you may depend on it — for my lady — — " 4G4 EMILY MOUELAND. At this moment she turned towards the door, with the handkerchief, which she had taken from a drawer, and beheld Emily. " I want the muslin that is on one of the chairs," observed the latter, coolly, without noticing the man, who had started in confusion from his chair. Mrs. Morgan turned pale, and hesitated, as she placed in Emily's hand the article she had asked her for, from the chair by the door. She did not speak, however, and the latter had nearly reached the drawing-room door, when she overtook her. " Miss Russell — Ma'am," she observed, in a fawn- ing tone, "shall I beg a favour of you? Don't mention to my lady that anybody was with me in the dressing-room — because, you see. Ma'am " " Certainly, I shall not, unless Lady Rachel asks me ; which, I dare say, is not very probable. In that case, of course, 1 must " " Oh, dear, she won't ask. Ma'am — and, I'm sure, you're too good-natured and considerate " Emily interrupted the compliment by la}ing her hand on the lock of the drawing-room door, which she had by this time reached; and the now humbled favourite, evidently only half satisfied by the con- cession she had gained, turned away with a look of malice, which did not escape Emily's observation, though she only smiled at its (supposed) impotence. Lady Haycraft was in the midst of a long tirade against her own maid, whom she had detected in some petty offence, when Emily re-entered the room ; and the latter could scarcely conceal a smile at the praises with which Lady Rachel loaded her own fa- vourite, Mrs. Morgan, in reply — declaring that she EMILY MOUEI-ANl>. 405 believed the faithful creature way so devoted to her, that she had no thoughts for any one else in the world, and would sooner die than see her injured or de- ceived. *' Yet, in spite of her vigilance," she continued, " and watching that I should not be imposed upon, 1 have been so unfortunate as to get robbed, two or three times, by dishonest servants, though I could not prove which, or who it was. However, I took the wisest course — for I sent them all off together, except Morgan, and my own footman, through whose ridelity I discovered the theft." Emily felt astonished at the facility with which, it was evident, this worthless pair deceived and duped their credulous mistress; but she soon forgot the subject altogether, in attending to the directions L/ady Rachel commenced, as to the running tucks,, and placing trimming on the clear muslin skirt, which she had brought down stairs. " It is one that I had taken to pieces, that it might be clear-starched," she observed, turning to Lady Haycraft, "and it is not worth while sending it to my dress-maker, to pay half-a-guinea for making it up again, if I can get it decently done, though I don't know what sort of a workwoman Miss Russell will prove, for I have had no specimen as yet." Emily's eyes involuntarily glanced towards the turban, which lay on the table opposite, and glaringly proved the falsehood of this aisertion ; and Lady Haycraft's quick sharp look instantly followed hers, and as instantly seemed to comprehend the whole affair. 20. 'io 466 EMILY MORELAM). '* Indeed!" she observed, jumping up, with an at- tempt at juvenile activity and cheerfulness, " then I am quite mistaken — for I have been really si^''"^ her credit for the construction of this stylish affair!" taking the turban in her hand, and twirling- it about with a smile of assumed contempt. " The most fashionable and expensive milliner in London would not be very well pleased, 1 think, if she heard your compliment," returned Lady Rachel ; "but, I really think, there is nothing about that turban that looks like home-manufacture, which, of all things, I detest. Though, I confess, if I thought Miss Russell could come near to this," taking the turban, which her friend was still narrowly surveying, and placing it on her head, with an air of conscious satisfaction, as she walked to the glass — " I acknow- ledge, I say, that I should be glad to save the shame- ful sum I am charged for the indulgence of my whim, in having a turban like the one worn by Lady Der- mot, the night before last, before they could be adopted by those who would fain be fine, but have not spirit enough to draw their purse-strings to pay for it." Lady Haycraft bit her lips. It was evident, she took the sarcasm which was intended for her, but she was determined to be even with her dear friend. " 1 can't think," she observed, " how you prevail on your tradespeople to make up second-hand materials. Dupin, my milliner, looks cross if I purchase new ones, for she thinks it is robbing her of her profit; but she absolutely abused me, when I asked her to use some crape that had been made up before." EMILV MOUELAND. 46» Lady Rachel tried in vain to conceal her vexation. She had flattered herself that at candlelight it would not be discovered that her gay satin and gauze were not quite so fresh as could be wished; and she had overlooked the certainty that her dear friend's " ferret eyes," as she frequently called them, would inevitably discover the fact sh,e so wished to conceal. " I never asked any questions about it," she ob- served; "but my milliner knows I am too good a customer, not to think it her interest to oblige me ; and besides, though you have found out, or rather guessed, because you knew I had satin by me of this shade, there is not one in a thousand that could de- tect that these materials were not new." " My dear friend, where is your glass, for good- ness' sake? No — no — I did not mean you to turn to the looking-glass, though you certainly look very killing in it ; but just take it off, and examine it with your eye-glass, and you will see that your work- woman has been careless enough to leave even some of the ends of the old silk that it had been sewed with, and has placed a frayed piece in the most conspicuous part, as if she was determined your economy should not escape any one." Lady Rachel turned round, pressed her thin lips together, and darted a look of fury and reproach at Emily, for her carelessness, which had thus enabled Lady Haycraft to triumph over her. "Another lecture, I suppose," thought Emily striving to appear unconcerned and indifferent, as she proceeded with her occupation. * Let me see what you are about, Ma'am !" ex- 468 EMILY MOIIELAND. claimed Lady Rachel, snatching the work rudely out of her hand. " You seem," she continued, " to have hut a poor notion of these sort of things — that tuck is, at least, a quarter of an inch too far from the bottom. " It is surprising," she continued, turning to Lady Haycraft, " that people, who have nothing to give their children, should not make them useful, instead of giving them a parcel of flimsy accomplish- ments, that can only serve to fill their heads with ridiculous notions of their own superiority, and render them totally unfit for the state they are destined to be placed in." " It is a pity, indeed," replied Lady Haycraft, in a sarcastic tone, " but, under your scientific instruc- tions, I cannot doubt that Miss — Miss What's-her- name will soon improve! I can't think, indeed, where you yourself acquired so much knowledge in the sublime mysteries of gown, cap, and turban making; for, really, you give your instructions in such a truly workman-like, or rather, I should have said, workwoman-like manner, that any one, who did not know Jjady Rachel Moreland, would swear you had served an apprenticeship to the trade! Now, I am such a careless creature, that I scarcely know one part of a dress from another ; and I am sure, if I was condemned not to have a new one, till I could put it together, or point out how it was to be done, I should be obliged to wear this old dress to tatters." Lady Rachel was forced to feign a laugh, to con- ceal her mortification and rage, which were every mouient growing more uncontrollable. EMILY MORELAND. 4(1^ *' What an abominable rattle you are!" she ex- claimed, in accents of assumed mirth, which were strangely contrasted with the expression of her coun- tenance. "But, really, my dear, yc u do give your tongue strange liberties; and any one but an inti- mate friend like me By the bye," (suddenly re- collecting herself,) " have you heard any thing par- ticular, respecting Sir Jeremy Wilmot?" "No!" returned Liady Haycraft, with a look of extreme curiosity and interest — " Have you?" " Only ray maid informed me, when I asked her, this morning, if she knew what the church bells were ringing for so merrily, that it was in honour of Sir Jeremy, who had this morning married his house- maid." Lady Haycraft turned as pale as the thick plaister of rouge she wore on her cheeks would let her — "'Impossible! I won't believe it . He could not be such a fool, I am sure he could not!" she ejaculated, with vehemence. "Why not?" demanded Lady Rachel, with a ma- licious smile. " He is not the first !" " No — but — but — " stammered Lady Haycraft, " I always thought him a man of sense, and " " Come, now, confess the truth," interrupted Lady Rachel, with a smile of triumph. " Has not Sir Jeremy been making pretensions in a higher quarter? Ah, I see how it is! Well, I am really sorry! Russell," (addressing Emily,) "ring for a glass of water — Lady Haycraft is faint, I can see. My dear creature, I would not have said a word, for the world, if I*d have known you felt so seriously ; but I really 470 EMILY MORELAND. thought it was mere flirtation between you and Sir Jeremy, and, indeed, I felt quite angry when I heard a gentleman say to Lady Dorcas at her rout the other night — (I was sitting behind the screen, and he did not observe me,) — * Who is that courting our friend Sir Jeremy so furiously, that the poor little man seems absolutely frightened, and shuffles about, at every word he speaks in reply to her, as if he was afraid of being drawn in to say something which may be construed into an acceptation of her?' " 'What a scandaliser you are !' said Lady Dorcas, (you know, my dear, what a malicious creature she is,) ' I am sure you can't mean Lady Haycraft, for she is old enough to be his mother ; and too prudent, I'm sure, to act in the manner you describe!' " ' I know nothing about her prudence or her age,' replied the gentleman, smiling, ' but this I do know, that I have been laughing, this half hour, at Sir Jeremy's attempts to extricate himself from her toils. At one time, indeed, 1 thought it was all over with the poor fellow, and that he would inevitably be trapped, for she began to attack him on his weakest side, and I saw he had a terrible struggle to resist an invitation to dine with her, and taste a curry of her cook's preparing, which she declared was su- perior to any thing of the kind to be met with in England, as her cook had lived seven years in India, and possessed the true receipt for making it in the same manner as it was served up at the Governor- general's table every day. Poor Sir Jeremy licked his lips at the very idea, and his miserable yellow countenance relaxed into a smile; — but the lady, EMILY MORELAND. 471 unfortunately, hinted with a t/?nder look that she would take care that it should be a t^te-ci-tite dinner, that nothing- should interrupt his enjoyment, and the little man flew off" again at a tangent, and pleaded prior engagements for six weeks to come.' " '^ What an excellent memory you must have, my dear friend'." observed L/ady Haycraft, bursting into a violent fit of laughter ; " but, do you know, that a memory now is the most vulgar thing in the world. It was only last night that my friend the Duchess was saying, that nobody thought of taking the trouble of remembering what had passed, or of learning any thing now, but actors and such sort of people, who are obliged to it. Apropos^ my dear Lady Rachel, do you know I have often thought, and, indeed, have heard it remarked by other people, that you would make an excellent actress. You have not only the requisite of memory, as you have just proved — but you have such a capital command of countenance! Now I, fool-like, always betray myself, if I attempt to dissimulate, or act a part foreign to my real senti- ments." The two friends looked at each other with eyes which, in spite of every effort, betrayed the rage and animosity which at that moment swelled both their bosoms. Emily, however, who was attentively observing all that passed, with a mixture of surprise and disgust at the malice and hypocrisy which was so visible in their conduct to each other, could not but allow that Lady Haycraft, far more than her " dear friend,'''' deserved to be considered as possessing the qualities 472 EMII.Y MORELAND. of an actress — for she still preserved the calmness and assumed nonchalance of her manner, and was thus enabled to triumph over her not more irritated, but less collected friend^ who could no longer com- mand either voice or recollection to continue the warfare. Her lips, white with pa&sion, quivered when she attempted to speak, and her whole frame shook with agitation. Really alarmed at her situation, Emily, though she anticipated a repulse, ventured, in a whisper, to inquire whether she should do any thing to assist her. LJ 1 '^ V M O K i; I> A N D . '*She had better be removed to her own room,' said Mr. Moreland. Lady Rachel assented, and, with more kindness than usual to her, observed, that if she (Emily) did not feel quite well in the morning, she need not rise, but should have her breakfast sent to her. Emily faintly uttered her thanks for this gracious permission ; and Mr. Moreland, as he assisted her to the door, Avhispered — " Forgive the thoughtlessness which thus wounded your feelings — I had at that moment entirely forgotten what -" "Would to Heaven I could for ever for^"et," said Emily, with a deep sigh. Mr. Moreland re-echoed the sigh, and Emily, leaning on the now servile and officious Mrs. Morgan, left the room. How many conflicting and distracting thoughts banished repose from her pillow that night ! At one moment she pictured to herself the noble-minded and sensitive Leslie, pining in solitude, and shrinking from that w orld which could so unfeelingly visit upon him errors of which he even knew not, till awakened by their sneers ; and the next, her thoughts reverted to the obscure hints which had been thrown out re- specting the wife of her father. She ecu Id not, she would not believe that Herbert Leslie had ever acted contrary to those high senti- ments of integrity and honour, which were so apparent in his manners and conversation, yet it was evident the world had said and thought otherwise, and again he pitied him, as she reflected thai if this report was known to him, what an additional bitterness it must iuipart io Iiis sorrows. HMILY MOR ELAND. •)()•? Her father too, it appeared, had found little hap- piness in the union for which he had broken all the ties of humanity and honour; — for which her gentle and innocent mother had been condemned to a pre- mature grave, and for which she was herself now sutfering all the miseries of dependance upon one with whose mind, manners, or disposition, she felt she could never, never assimilate. The resemblance between her own fate and that of Herbert Leslie struck her most forcibly; and yet a thought would intrude, that this discovery seemed to have removed the barrier between them. "While I believed him possessed of wealth and rank," she reflected, " it would have been madness to have thought of him at all; but now " She checked the ideas which, in spite of prudence, were springing in her mind, and with a deep sigh added — " Now I may regard him as a brother." The morning found her sufficiently indisposed to warrant her taking advantage of the per missio7i Lady Rachel had given her, of remaining in her own room ; and her breakfast was accordingly brought by one of the housemaids, whom various little marks of atten- tion and kindness had induced Emily to notice more particularly than any of the other domestics. " Dear me, how ill ycu do look. Ma'am !" she ob- served, " 1 hope ycu don't fret about any thing that nasty malicious crefer has said — for every body in the house knows that it's nothing but lies and mischief- making, just to get you out of favour with my lady, who is so wrapped up in her that she thinks there's nobody like her in the world. But she'll be found 504 EMILY Mon ELAND. out some day — I know she will — though she and her gentleman carry it now with such a high hand; but. as I said to the poor lad she got turned out of his place the other day, the wicked won't always prosper ; and if once my lady catches her at any of her tricks, it will be all up with her." " Who was it, then, that was discharged ?" inquired Emily, who had, for the last two or three weeks, missed the humble bow and compassionate look with which she used to be greeted by the simple rustic lad, the widow's son, from the Valley of St. Clare. The reply of the girl confirmed her suspicion that it was this poor fellow, who had been sent away at a moment's warning, for having offended the lady pa- ramount of the household. " It was all about you, too. Miss," observed the girl; "for madam was going on with some of her impu- dence about you, and the lad, who happened to over- hear her, was so mad, that he couldn't help speaking. — Well, one word brought on another, and at last it came out that he'd known you before you came to our house, though he wouldn't tell when, nor where. Away flew madam to my lady, and in a few mirmtes the poor fellow was sent for to the drawing-room, and the next news we heard was, that he had been sent off, without even letting him come to bid us good- bye — my lady's other favourite, ' tall John,' as we call him, being ordered to go with him to the roonv over the stables, to fetch his box, and see him off." Emily was truly grieved at this intelligence, which revealed at once to her the source of those before unintelligible hints and sneers, in which Lady Rachel EMILY MO«ELAXr». 505 had lately indulged herself, and which the former had felt so little applicable to herself, that she could sometimes scarcely believe they were intended for her. Unwilling-, however, to commit herself, by any remark, to her garrulous informant, she merely said that she was extremely sorry any one should suffer on her account, or that she should have been thought deserving of Mrs. Morgan's enmity. " Oh, no, it isn't that she thinks what she says, Ma'am," rejoined the housemaid, " but she wants to keep my lady all to herself; and she's been so jea- lous, ever since you came, that she is ready to cut your throat !" Emily could have assured her that Mrs. Morgan had nothing to fear, on the score of partiality from Lady Rachel ; but prudence again intervened, and she merely smiled, with some bitterness, as she re- called to her memory the numerous instances in which the latter had evinced not only indifference, but actual dislike. To the influence Mr. Moreland had acquired over her ladyship, Emily well knew, was attributable the unusual kindness with which she had been treated the preceding evening ; but she did not flatter her- self with any hopes of its continuing, when his ab- sence should have removed the stimulant, which ev4-- dently operated so forcibly on her ladyship — the wish of appearing amiable in his eyes. Contrary, however, to her expectations. JLiidy Rachel received Emily, when they met, with the same appearance of graciousness and condescension witx. which they had parted ; and, to the great sur- 29 3 T ' 506 EMILY MORELAND. prise of the latter, she was requested to prepare her- self, after dinner, to accompany her patroness to tVie Theatre. " That isj if you are well enough, my dear — for I do not wish to put any constraint on you." Tears started into the poor girl's eyes as she re^* plied, that she should be happy to attend her lady- ship, and their tite-ci-tite dinner passed off much pleasanter than any meal that Emily had yet taken with the stately lady of the mansion. " By ' what strange enchantments, and what arts withal,' can my kind friend have effected this sur- prising change ?" thought Emily, as with buoyant step she ascended the staircase, to select her dress for the evening, Lady Rachel having previously, though with rather more delicacy than she usually expressed her wishes, or rather commands, hinted that she expected " Miss Russell" would not make her appearance " too conspicuous.^' " Simplicity is the best ornament of young peo- ple," she observed ; " but that, I trust, your own good sense will suggest, without my aid." Emily bowed her thanks for this equivocal com- pliment, and determined that her ladyship should have no cause to complain of the obtrusiveness of her appearance. Her spirits were, however^ doomed to receive a check; for, while she was still engaged in selecting from her little store the most appro- priate dress, Mrs. Morgan, with one of her usual impertinent bounces, entered the room. " You'll please to recollect, IVIiss What's-your- uame, that my lady^expects to wear the blonde lact EMILY MORELAND^ cap, that you had to make up yesterday, and it isn^t half finished." " If you will bring me the ribbons and flowers, I will pin them on, and that is all that is wantinir, and which, I think, you might easily do yourself," replied Emily calmly, arid without seeming to notice her impertinence. " Oh, no. Ma'am, I'm sure I won't touch it — there's nobody can*t please my lady but you, of course — so you'd best keep it all to yourself, and then it will be sure to be right." " Indeed!" replied Emily, looking at her with a provoking smile, " I am very glad to hear it — so, pray, bring the ribbons, and I will do it directly." " You'd better come arid look for 'em yourself," returned the saucy domestic, ** you know best what will suit my lady." " Your lady has fixed on the peach-blossom gauze ribbons, and the two large bunches of lilac, that she purchased the other day, so I request you will bring them," replied Emily, with decision. Mrs. Morgan muttered something, which Emily did not choose to hear, and left the room. In a few minutes she returned, and uttered, in a sulky tone, " You need not trouble yourself, Ma'am, for my lady won't wear the cap now." Emily smiled, but made no reply, and the discom- fited favourite again flounced out of the room, con- viticed, apparently, by this trifling incident, that she had overstrained her mark, in attempting io mortify her supposed rival. " Don't I look frightful in this turban, Morgan ?" 608 EMILY MORELAND. observed Lady Rachel, as Emily entered her lady- ship's dressing-room, which she had been desired to come to, so soon as she had finished her own toilette. ** Your ladyship can never look frightful in any thing," returned the wily abigail, " though I cer- tainly do think your ladyship looks best in a cap, pertiderly with a deep lace border, because it makes the features look more delicater.^^ " I don't know — my features are not very mascu- line, I think," said her ladyship, looking again in her j^lass, and without appearing to understand Mrs. Morgan's very evident intention of calling back to her recollection Emily's neglect. *' Oh dear no, ray lady, I'm sure I didn't mean to 'sinuate no such thing,'* returned the maid, in a tone of alarm at the error she had committed, " nobody as seer your ladyship, can " '* Fetch me the scarlet turban that Miss Russell jnade — I think that becomes me best," said Lady Rachel, without noticing her maid's apologetical flattery. Mrs. Morgan darted out of the room, with a look of fury at* Emily, who had stood unnoticed by her ladyship, but who now advanced to undergo the scrutiny of her examination. "Oh, ycu are here, are you, child?" observed her ladyship, glancing at Emily from head to foot. ** Well, you look very well, certainly — very well," she added, in a tone which very little accorded with the words she uttered, and would have convinced the inost indifferent and impartial hfarer, that her lady- EMILY MORELAND. ship would have been much more pleased to have been able to find room for censure, than thus to be compelled to approve an appearance which was in<^ deed fascinating. '•• service to you " She paused, and Emily, encouraged by her manner, proceeded to detail to her the particulars of her for- mer connexion >^ith Rosalia Orsini, and the latter's singular desertion of her; she mentioned her having seen her in the street, and at the Theatre; and, last of all, related Lady Rachel's treatment of her re- specting the letters, which she had no doubt, she said, were from her friend the Signora. EMILV MORELAND. 547 Mrs. Lucy seemed lost in astonishment. "This is, indeed, most shameful!" she observed, " the reasons you have f^iven for silence, must cer- tainly prevent my directly speaking to Lady Rachel on the subject; yet, if it is possible for me to gain her ear for a few minutes, I shall certainly make an attempt to lead her to it. She has hitherto been in the habit of placing confidence in me, and, though there is certainly now an impediment in the way to our usual intercourse, I do not think " The entrance of Lady Rachel herself interrupted this conversation, and Emily arose in confusion. It was only the second time that her ladyship had con- descended, since the confinement of the former, to visit her bed-room ; and it was very evident, from her countenance, that no very gracious or amiable feelings had brought her now. " Pray don't let me disturb you," she observed, addressing Mrs. Lucy. " I merely called in to remind you, that if you go to the Concert this evening, you will probably like to arrange your dress, and Morgan will show you to a dressing-room." " Oh, I can do all I have to do here," returned Mrs. Lucy, " if Miss Russell will allow me. I have not had half talk enough with her yet." Lady Rachel looked still more sour than before. " Are you any better yet, child ?" she inquired, turn- ing to Emily. " Better!" said Mrs. Lucy, preventing Emily's reply. "Is it likely she will get better, while she remains moping to death in this dismal place ? I was just about to propose, when you entered," she con- f»43 EMILY MORELAND. tinued, " that she should try what a few days' resi- dence with me, at Hampstead, would do for her. It seems to me, that she only wants good air, and a little nursing, to bring her round. So, with yonr leave, and her consent, I shall run away with her to-mor- row morning." There could be no reasonable objection to this considerate proposal, but Lady Rachel seemed to consent to it with a very ill grace; and Emily's voice faltered, while tears of gratitude filled her eyes, as she replied, upon being referred to, " that she should be most happy to accept the offer, if " " I will have no i/s," interrupted Mrs. Lucy, good humouredly, "so I beg you will hold yourself in readiness to join me, at eleven to-morrow morning." " You will not go so soon as that, surely," said Lady Rachel. " So soon !" replied Mrs. Lucy. " I have ordered the chaise and old Thomas to be here at nine; but, as I wish to have an hour's conversation or so with you, tete-il-tete, before I go, and as I think eleven v/ill be a better hour for this poor invalid, I shall send them to the stables for a couple of hours." Lady Rachel looked rather silly at the mention of a tete-a-tete, of which she probably guessed the sub- ject; but, having premised that Mrs. Lucy must not expect to see her out of bed at that early hour, she added, with as good a grace as she could assume, that she should be happy to see her in the morning, and retired, without taking any notice of Emily, although she knew that the latter would have no opportunity of seeing her before her (Emily's) departure. EMILY MOUELAND 549 " I hope 1 have not done wrongs, in pressing this proposal, my dear." observed Mrs. Lucy, when the door closed upon her ladyship ; " but, as I have rea- son to think that I shall not long be a welcome visitor here, I should perhaps, if I had neglected this oppor- tunity of endeavouring to benefit you, have been shut out entirely." Emily assured her kind friend that nothing could be more gratifying to her, than the prospect of changing her solitary and gloomy chamber, for the society and comfort of her (Mrs. Lucy's) residence, and the latter, with a smile and a sigh, ob- served — " I fear, my dear, that my purposed conference with Lady Rachel will not end very pleasantly to either of us ; but I cannot consent quietly, and with- out an effort to save her, to see my old friend made the dupe of her weakness and folly, and the artful and selfish schemes of others. It was, indeed, prin- cipally with this view that I came here uninvited to- day, and I do not repent it, for your sake, though I acknowledge I utterly despair, from what I have al- ready seen, of effecting any benefit to that infatuated, foolish woman." Emily thought so too, but she did not feel herself called upon to make any remarks on the conduct of one, who, with all her faults, had certainly for some months afforded her shelter and protection. Having, therefore, repeated her injunctions to be ready at the appointed time, and desired her to go to bed early and sleep well, that she might be strong, for the long journey of to morrow, Mrs. Lucy quitted her young 550 EMILY MORELAxND. friend, whose joy, at this promised relief fram the monotonous and gloomy life she had lately led, was only exceeded by her gratitude to the kind proposer of it. CHAPTER XXI. The maid was haopy — but, for him, he felt Perchance like Lucifer once felt in Eden; She was too innocent herself, to dream of guile In him, and all he said, believed. Anon, Emily soon found the benefit of the change which had taken place in her situation. From the moment she quitted Lady Rachel's gloomy mansion, she seemed to breathe more free; and the cheerfulness of Mrs. Lucy's manners, the ease and comfort which seemed to reign in her neat and well-ordered house- hold, combined with the kindness of the mistress of it, to make ber feel quite at home, before she had been many days a resident there. Without any apparent wish of overloading her with attentions or obligations, Mrs. Lucy contrived to keep her guest perpetually occupied and amused; but her greatest source of pleasure was the garden, which was stored with flowers, now springing into verdure; and from a mount in which, she could gaze on a prospect which at once pained and de- lighted her, as it reminded her of her native hills aiid valleys. EMILY MORELANlJ. 551 A month glided rapidly away, and the colour began to revisit Emily's cheeks, and her step to resume its firmness; but, with increased health, the unpleasant conviction came, that her present state of calmness and comparative serenity could not endure for ever. Mrs. Lucy received a letter from Lady Rachel Moreland, in which, after a very slight inquiry as to Emily's health, she observed, that she trusted the latter would speedily be able to return to " her situa- tioTi'^ as she (Lady Rachel) was greatly in want of her assistance. " To make the wedding-dresses, I suppose," ob- served Mrs. Lucy, with a satirical smile, after reading this paragraph. " What say you, my dear — are you not all anxiety to obey her ladyship's summons, and partake of the gaieties and festivities, that will of course attend the celebration of this happy event?" Emily blushed and smiled — " I cannot be so hypo- critical as to say that I anticipate any pleasure from my return to Lady Rachel," she replied; " yet, if I can be of service to her, I should be ungrateful to wish to avoid " " I never understood, my dear, that you engaged with Lady Rachel, to save her the expense of a milliner or mantua-maker; and, even if you did, I am very certain you are quite incompetent to the duties she requires," returned Mrs. Lucy. " As your friend, therefore, I must protest against your re- suming your former avocations in her family. I should be very unwilling to recommend conduct that would even bear the appearance of ingratitude; but, unless you are tired of tne and iny ways, I shall cer- 552 EMILY MORELAND. tainly solicit a longer leave of absence, and let them get over the matrimonial bustle before you return — if you are determined on returning at all." " Is there any alternative ?" said Emily, summon- ing courage to speak at once on a subject, which she saw Mrs. Lucy wished her to enter on. " I will reply to your question candidly, Emily," returned the good lady. " I think there might be found an alternative. A lady, of whom I have some knowledge, and of whose heart I think much better than her head, has several times mentioned to me her wish of procuring a companion, in whose kind atten- tions and accomplishments she might find a resource against the many hours o^ ennui and discontent, which now oppress her. I do not promise you that the situation would be an absolute sinecure, for she is whimsical, capricious, and eccentric in her notions and habits; but, to compensate for this, she is liberal and enthusiastic in her attachments; and, had she not have been a spoiled beauty in her younger days, would, 1 am convinced, have been a very estimable woman. Some recent circumstances have induced her to form the wish of retiring altogether from the gay and dissipated circles in which she has hitherto moved, and I am convinced she has sufficient deference for my opinion, to accept any companion whom 1 should recommend, and to treat them with the re- spect and consideration due to my friend. If, there- fore, you are not resolutely bent on resuming your situation with Lady Rachel, which, by-the-bye, — in the event of the ill-assorted match, which I have no doubt will be concluded, before vou are sufficientlv EMILY MO R ELAND. 55?i recovered, in my estimation, to return, — will be a very improper situation for you, I will take upon myself to arrange matters, both with Lady Rachel and my friend." Any prospect, in Emily's opinion, was preferable to that of returning to Lady Rachel, and she ex- pressed her perfect concurrence with any plan that her kind and disinterested friend should propose for her, observing only that she was most anxious to avoid any imputation of ingratitude to her late patro- ness, whom she should hope still to retain as her friend. " I will tell you without reserve, my dear," ob- served Mrs. Lucy, " that I consider I am rendering a service to Lady Rachel, as well as you, in prevent- ing your return to her; since I am convinced that your society cannot be necessary to her happiness, under the circumstances of the imprudent alliance she is about to form. It would, indeed, be a piece of folly, which I think she would soon repent, were she to keep, in constant association with her young- bridegroom, one so calculated to heighten by con- trast the defects and disadvantages of the woman he has married. I am not inclined to attribute the slightest blame to either you or her husband, when I venture to predict, that she would be jealous of you in a month, if you were to remain as long toge- ther; and, much as she deserves to suffer for her folly, I should be sorry that you should, even invo- luntarily, be made the instrument of her punish- ment, setting aside the mortification and, perhaps, serious injury you would sustain, from such a feeling on her part." 24. 4 « 554 EMJ LV MORRLAND. ''It would, ii'deed, be a mortification beyond any 1 have hitherto experienced," replied Emily, "but 1 confess, Prom what I know of her ladyship's dispo- sition, it is not an ill-grounded supposition, for I have had many proofs of her possessing- a suspicious temper, even when there existed not the slightest cause to bring those suspicions into action." Emily then went on to relate the ridiculous scene that had occurred, on her first residence with Lady Rachel, mentioning, at the same time, that her de- sire to look at the picture, arose from having seen one in the possession of a friend, so exactly resem- bling this, in the features, that she could not but think they were meant for the same person, though at different periods of life. "Indeed!" replied Mrs. Lucy; "may I ask, who that friend was?" " It was the same lady whom I mentioned to you as my friend and protector. Madam, in my early days," returned Emily; " and who, I have reason to think, still retains her kindness for me, though we have been unaccountably separated." " Was she connected with the Moreland family?" demanded Mrs. Lucy, to whom the story of Emily's birth, and her claims on that family, were still un- known, the latter having studiously avoided saying any thing which could lead to a knowledge of her real situation, with regard to Lady Rachel. She therefore now merely replied in the negative, and then, observing Mrs. Lucy evidently expected some further elucidation, added, " She is not a native of this country, but an Italian." EMILY MORELAND. 555 *'An Italian!" repeated Mrs. Lucy, with evident surprise. " What was her name, or where did you know her? It was an Italian lady, that but I am perhaps asking questions that you are unwilling to answer. If so, excuse me — I am aware that there is a motive for the mystery which Lady Rachel has always preserved, as to your birth and connexions, and I would be the last person in the world to press you on the subject; but what you have just said, has awakened some recollections " " I have no reason, dear Madam, to conceal who the friend is, to whom I alluded," said Emily, ob- serving- that she paused and hesitated. " Her name is Rosalia Orsini — the last descendant, as she herself once affectingly said, of an ancient and honourable Venetian family." " Rosalia!" reiterated Mrs. Lucy, " that was not the name 1 will tell you, my dear, in part, what I allude to — and that will explain why I expressed curiosity on the subject. The picture you speak of, as decorating Lady Rachel's room, was the resem- blance of a young nobleman, a near relative of her ladyship, not more distinguished for the beauty of his person, than the dissoluteness of his conduct — and, I believe, I might without injustice add, the depravity of his heart. At an earlier age than is usual for young men to be sent to travel, he went abroad ; solely, I believe, from a desire, on the part of his parents, to detach him from the ruinous habits and society he had fallen into here. Change of country, however, it appeared, did not reclaim him ; and, most unfortunately, the person to whom his 656 EMILY MORELAND. father had committed the charge of him, was ve7y unworthy the trust reposed in him. The proofs of this became, at length, too glaring for even Lord Moreland to doubt, and his son was peremptorily recalled to England. " There was a beautiful girl, a ward of his father'.^, at this time resident with the family. She was young, gay, and thoughtless; and what recommended her still more than her personal attractions to Walter Moreland was, that she had a large fortune, inde- pendent of all control. She was on the point of marriage with a man in every respect suitable to her, and who had been the choice of her father, previous to his death ; and the wedding was understood to be delayed only till the proper period of mourning was passed. Not a thought, not a suspicion, it appears, arose in the minds of the family, of any sinister event arising to blight this promised harmony. The con- sternation and distress that ensued may, therefore, be easily conceived, when it was discovered, a few days previous to the intended nuptials, that the young lady was missing, and that Walter Moreland was the companion of her flight. " Pursuit was vain, for they had taken their pre- cautions so well, that it was impossible to trace them, until it was too late — The ill-fated girl was married to the heartless wretch ; and the still more pitiable young man whom she had deserted, stung to the heart by this disappointment of his long-cherished hopes, and the mortification of seeing himself thus held up to scorn and derision, in a fit of frenzy put a period to his own existence. EMILY MORELAND. 5&t *' Scarcely three months, I believe, had passed away, before a new subject of uneasiness arose, to disturb the family of this unprincipled young man, who was now entirely freed from the control of hi? father, by the possession of his wife's fortune. Lord Moreland received intelligence that, previous to his son's return to England, he had contracted an alliance with an orphan of noble family in Italy, and that the marriage had been legally solemnized, though under , a feigned name and character. The information could not be doubted — for it came from the unworthy tutor, who had been the companion of Walter Moreland's travels, and the abettor of his excesses This fellow, who, it appeared, had been disappointed in his exorbitant demands on the purse of his ci-devant pupil, now threatened publicly to bring forward undeniable proofs of that pupil's infamy. It was not only the honour of the Moreland family that was at stake, but the happiness, the fame, of the imprudent and thoughtless girl, whom they could not but love and pity. Lord Moreland wavered, temporised, and at length finally succeeded in purchasing the absence and silence of the pander to his son's vices; having first, as he believed, ascertained that there scarcely existed a possibility of Walter's being traced by the injured lady, whom he had so cruelly betrayed and deserted. " I know not exactly how long it was after this, but 1 krow that Mrs. Moreland had borne her unworthy husband a son, when, without any previous notice of such an intention, and without any plea for so doing, Walter Moreland suddenly departed for the Conti- 558 EMILY MORELAND. nent; and, to his father's great consternation and amazement, in company with the very man whom he liad most reason to dread, as being fully acquainted with his delinquency. They were absent for some months, and the father's agony, at the reflection that he was in some measure an accomplice in his plans, may be conceived by those who know what pain a naturally honourable and upright mind feels, on finding itself entangled by one false step in the in- tricacies of error. For nearly two years, the two associates in vice were absent; nor did the unhappy and deserted wife receive a single testimonial of affection from him, or of his regard for his child. Of his very existence she might have remained in doubt, but for his repeated demands upon his steward for money. These remittances were regularly accom- panied by letters from her and his father, but they remained unnoticed. Lord Moreland was, at this time, in too infirm a state to allow his attempting to follow and trace his son's steps, or his motives for remaining abroad; and his fears of the overwhelming consequences of a discovery to his daughter-in-law, whom he regarded with the affection of a parent, induced him to use all his influence with her, to pre- vent her adopting the step her l»ve for her unworthy husband would have prompted. '' To one person, at length. Lord Moreland re- vealed the secret which lay so heavy at his heart; that person was my brother, who was bound to his lordship, both by long and sincere friendship, and the strongest ties of gratitude. It was impossible to suggest any remedy for the evil , but my brother re- E >I 1 1. F M O U E L A N D • 559 wjlved at least to know the worst, and for this pur- pose he departed for Italy. It was long before he could gain any clue to trace the confederates; for the wily tutor, when he disclosed to Lord Moreland the guilt of his son, had cautiously refrained from giving either names or places connected with the transaction; and the agonised father, wishing, pro- bably, to know as little of it as he could, had not pressed him on the subject. " Long and weary, as ray poor brother often said, were his wanderings in search of this " unworthy scion of a noble stock;" but chance, at length, re- vealed in part the secret, just as he was about to re- linquish the pursuit in despair. "It was at a little town, I forget the name, but it was on the frontiers of France, that my brother alighted, intending to pass the night at the principal inn in the place. But I will repeat his narrative, as nearly as possible, in his own words," continued Mrs. Lucy, " for I have heard the mournful tale too often, not to distinctly recollect every particular. " ' 1 thought,' he observed, ' from the moment of my arrival, that the host and his wife seemed to re- gard me with an attention that I could by no means account for; but, the moment that we were alone, in the room to which I was shown, the man coming close to me, with an air of mystery and secrecy, whis- pered — ' You are an Englishman, Signor, — do you not expect to meet some one here?' "*No, indeed, my friend,' I replied, 'but, imme- diately recollecting myself, 1 added, ' Do you mean any of my countrymen ?' 560 EMILY MORELAND. " *• The man seemed uncertain what to say, but at length he replied—' There was an English gentleman here yesterday, but he is gone — and I know not what to think. He has left here a lady, who seems in deep distress and anxiety for his return.' *' ' Is she an Englishwoman ?' I hastily demanded. " ' The man shook his head. ' No, Signor, she speaks English, and seems to wish to be thought so, but I am pretty certain she is a native of this country.' '' ' Will you mention my arrival to her, my good friend, and say that I should be happy to be of service to her, if it is in my power.' " 'A few minu tes only elapsed, before the most beau- tiful creature I ever beheld rushed into the room, with traces of anxiety and terror strongly marked in every feature. " ' Do you come from my husband ?' she exclaimed, in broken accents. ' Oh, tell me, in pity tell me, that he has not abandoned me — that you are come to con- duct me to him ! And my child — my child — where is he? Why have they torn hini from me?' " ' I tried to soothe her, and to induce her to ex- plain her situation, in the hope that I might be able to assist her; but it was with difficulty I could pre- vail on her to afford me any clue to the cause of her distress, and then it was only in part that she would trust me. " ' She was the wife of an English gentleman, she said, but there were causes why her marriage had been hitherto concealed. But now he was going to take her to his family in England, and for this pur- pose he had sent her forward to the place I now be- EMILY MORELAND. 561 held her in, under the care of one whom he thought ais friend. ' But he is a treacherous, deceitful mon- ster !' she continued, bursting into an agony of tears; ^ he has dared to insult me in the basest manner, and has declared my husband has abandoned me to him, and will never see me again. Oh, God of Heaven! he cannot, cannot be such a monster ! Yet, his letter — Oh, tell me, tell me,' and she hastily put a paper into my hand — ' do I read it right ? — does it indeed renounce me?' " ' My first glance at this infamous letter convinced me of what I had all along suspected, that in this unhappy woman I beheld the wife of Walter More- land. For, though it did not bear his signature, I knew the handwriting too well, to admit a doubt of its being his. She watched my countenance in silence, while 1 read it, and when I had concluded, folding her hands, exclaimed — '' I see I have no hope — it is all over I' " ' I will not conceal from you, that there is no hope from this wretch,' I replied ; 'it is better, in- deed, that you should know the worst at once. The father of your husband is a just and honourable man, and a dear friend of mine; and, till I can hear from him, will you consent to place yourself under my protection ? I will take care that you shall not again be subjected to the insults of your husband's infamous associate. I will write instantly to Eng- land, for instructions how to act; and, if it is the will of his father that you should proceed thither, I will myself attend you.' *• ' But, my child!' she exclaimed, suddenly recol- 24. 4 c 562 EMILY MCRELAND. lecting herself, * I cannot leave the country witliout my child ! And yet, perhaps — oh God, they have murdered my child ! The wretch, Bessonet, told me, before he quitted me, that the man I called my husband was gone to England, to marry a lady of his father's choosing, and that he would take care that the child should never come forward to disturb his happiness. " ^I scarcely knew how to attempt to console her, on a subject on which I could not but feel there were the most powerful reasons to be apprehensive, for I believed Walter Moreland capable of any atro- city. I tound, however, that, even now, she was un- willing to think the wretch so bad as he appeared, and that her own heart pleaded, more strongly than any thing I could say, against the probability of his committing such an act. By degrees she became more calm, and I learned every particular of her un- happy story. " Herself and a younger sister were, it appeared, boarders in a convent, where they were receiving their education, when Walter Moreland, whom she knew only by his assumed name of Molini, his part- ner in guilt, who was but a few years older, taking the name of Bessonet, in lieu of Adderley, and pre- tending to be his near relative. What had been their first motive for this deception, I know not; out, it is certain, no very honourable cause could have prompted the disguise. It was at a religious festival that Moreland and Adderley first saw the tvvo sisters. They contrived to obtain an interview with them — Walter attached himself tc the elder, EMILY MORELAND. .063 and Adderley tried all his powers of persuasion to induce the younger to listen to his suit; but she was, it appears, proof against all his specious pre- tences, and resolutely refused to grant him a second interview. The elder, however, was completely fascinated by Moreland's elegant person and man- ners — She was, moreover, tired of the gloom and seclusion of a cloister, and longed to mingle in the gay scenes, and partake of the varied pleasures which he described in such fascinating colours. In spite, therefore, of her sister's tears and entreaties, she resolved on eloping with the gallant English- man, who, by bribery, had gained over the porteress of the Convent to assist in their plan. On the very eve, however, of the intended attempt, an accident discovered it — The guardian of the young ladies was sent for, the terrified girl was separated from her sister, and, by threats and persuasions, induced to consent to assume the white veil, as probationary to her being admitted finally into the religious sis- terhood. Moreland, fearful of the consequences which might ensue from the knowledge of his inten- tion, quitted the city, and, as it was supposed, the country; and the unhappy girl, thinking hercelf abandoned by him, submitted to her fate, consider- ing it as an expiation of the crime, which she was taught to believe she had committed, in listening to the addresses of a heretic. " ' The time of her probation was nearly expired, and her apparent resignation had completely set at rest all suspicion, when Moreland, who had secretly returned to the city, once more, by the aid of golt 564 EMILY MORELANU. and promises, succeeded in conveying a letter to her, in ^^hich he implored her not to sacrifice his and her own happiness for ever ; and again offered her the means of escape, if she would fly to his arms; and declared that, if she persisted in her resolution of renouncing the world, that the same hour should terminate his existence. This time he laid his plans more effectively than before. Under the plea of in- disposition, she was excused from attending reli- gious service in the chapel, and many hours probably elapsed, before her flight was discovered. At all events, the fugitives escaped the pursuit, which was undoubtedly raised after them. They reached France, were united, and from thence retired to Switzerland, where they knew they were safe. " ' Here they remained for some months, until, under the specious pretext of reconciling his father to their union, Moreland quitted her, promising to return on the wings of love, to conduct her to his family.' " What followed his arrival in England, I have already related," continued Mrs. Lucy. ' It seemed,' (my brother went on to state,) ' that during More- land's residence in England, he contrived to keep his injured wife comparatively happy and easy, by his letters, in which he pleaded his father's ill health, as the motive for not immediately communicating his marriage. She doubted not his love, or his ho- nour, and she waited patiently till the time should arrive, that he could, without injury to himself, acknowledge her claims. " ' Moreland, by the assistance of Adderley, had EMILY MORELAND. 565 learned, about the time he quitted England the se- cond time, that the sister of his wife, being left by her guardian's death at liberty, had renounced the Convent, and was on the point of marriage with a nobleman, who would of course enjoy that portion of the fortune which would have been hers, had she not forfeited it by her flight. He instantly, there- fore, repaired to Switzerland, and by a well-planned tale of being renounced by his father, in consequence of his rash marriage, prevailed on her to write to her sister, calling upon her, as an act of justice and affection, to save her from the ills of poverty. The scheme succeeded — a large sum was immediately re- mitted to the banker, through whose means the cor- respondence was forwarded, accompanied by the most earnest and affectionate entreaties, on the part of the sister, to let her know the place of her retreat, that she might once more have the happiness of era- bracing her. Under the pretext of conducting her to a place, where she might with safety meet her sister, — and declaring that the sum which he had now in his possession would enable him to reconcile his mercenary father, who only objected on account of the loss of her fortune, to receiving her as his daughter — the wretch prevailed on her to quit the peaceful home which had so long sheltered her, and accompany him to the place where I beheld her. " 'On some specious pretext, he contrived to sepa- rate her from the infant and its nurse, who accom panied them; and, under the protection of Adderley, jr, as she called him, Bessonet, she proceeded in one carriage, while he followed in another, as she 566 EMILY MORELANU. supposed, with the child, of which he appeared doat- ingly fond. " ' They reached the spot appointed for their night's rest, but the other carriage did not come up. She was in agonies lest some accident had happened, in the narrow and precipitous roads through which they had passed; but Adderley darkly hinted at some mysterious causes, which he believed had prompted her husband to take another road; and, terrified, bewildered, and unable to form any reso- lution, she suffered herself to be persuaded to go on with him, to the place appointed for her meeting with her sister. Long, however, before they reached it^ Adderley's true character unfolded itself. He dared to insult her with his pretended passion, and, when she threatened him with exposing his perfi- dious conduct to his friend, he boldly avowed that he acted with his sanction, and produced the execra- ble scrawl which confirmed his assertions. " ' The injured lady, at first, refused credit even to this — she declared it a vile and infamous forgery — and it was not until she reached the spot where she expected to find her sister, that she began to see that she had been deliberately entrapped into a snare, by the villain to whose keeping she had en- trusted her honour and liappiness. " ' I inquired,' continued my brother, ' if she could comprehend his motives for bringing her hither, as he might have left her still in Switzerland, and on what pretence his vile associate had quitted her. ' I can comprehend neither,' she observed, ' Bessonet, indeed, told me tliat it was planned with v. view of EMILY MOREI.AND 567 gettinfif possession of the child and the money — the latter he might have had — but, my child! Oh, God of Heaven, f t what purpose can he have taken my child from me ?' "'Again she gave way to all the agonies of despair, and I was endeavouring to soothe her, when the door was burst open, and u number of rude-looking men, in whom 1 soon recognised the Sbirri, or officers of the Inquisition, seized upon the hapless and terrified woman, while one, who ap- peared the superior, declared that she was their pri- soner, having been denounced as a nun who had broken her vows, and sacrilegiously stolen from her Convent. " ' She turned upon me a look of horror, which I shall never forget. ' This, then, is the vengeance with which that monster Bessonet threatened me, when he left me!' she exclaimed; but she was pe- remptorily ordered to be silent, and the man who had before spoken, viewing me from head to foot, demanded who I was, and what I was doing there. " ' I produced my passport. " ' You are an Englishman,' he observed, after looking it cursorily over, ' probably, you are a friend of the vile heretic, who seduced this woman to vio- late her holy vows. You must come with us, and answer for yourself.' " ' God forbid,' I exclaimed, ' that I should be the friend of such a monster! But I have no objec- tion to answer any questions that can be put to me. It is easy for me to prove that I have never visited this country till within the last three months, and odS EMILY MORE li AND that J never saw this lady, till I met her here, by accident, this evening.' " ' I am glad to hear it. for your own sake,' re- turned the man, 'but I should be wanting- in my duty, if I suffered you to depart, without ascertain- ing whether this is all correct. You must, therefore, go with us.' " ' I did not feel at all averse to this, for I thought that my presence would be some consolation to the wretched lady, who, with her eyes fixed, and her features pale and rigid as a statue, seemed scarcely conscious of what was passing around her. " ' The men lifted her in their arms, and I was about to follow, but was forcibly withheld. "'You must go with those men, Signor — there will be a carriage prepared in a few minutes,' said the principal officer. " ' I would have remonstrated, but he instantly left the room, and in a few minutes I heard the car- riage roll from the door, which conveyed the hapless victim of cruelty and perfidy to her doom. " ' In a short time, that which was intended for me was announced to be ready; my portmanteau was placed in it, and I entered the carriage, consoled for the inconvenience and restraint, which I knew a short period must terminate, by the hope that I should thus learn something of the fate of the un- happy womah who preceded me.' " My brother, however,'' continued Mrs. Lucy, " was deceived in this hope. He was examined and ve-examined. and for several weeks kept in close confinement; but '^ vvas at length evident to his m- EMILY MORELAND. f)(i9 terrogators that he had no connexion with the lady, or those who had participated in her crime, and he was at length set at liberty. " From that hour to this, however, I believe, no information, as to how his fellow-prisoner was dis- posed of, has been obtained, nor has the fate of her child ever been known. Walter Moreland, and his confederate Adderley, returned to England; but his father refused ever to see or countenance him; and, after leading a dissolute and abandoned life for some years, he suddenly disappeared, taking with him the remnants of his shattered fortunes, and, it is believed, retired to a monastery abroad; having, in consequence of a severe fit of illness, been struck with horror and remorse at the crimes he had com- mitted. " His second wife, if I may so call her, had long before sunk into the grave, broken-hearted at his neglect and the loss of her child, which died in its infancy — and Lord Moreland soon followed her. That branch of the family is, therefore, now, I may say, extinct; for though Walter Moreland's son, by his Italian marriage, would be undoubtedly heir to the title and estates, were he living, there appears little probability that he will ever come forward to claim them. " The knowledge of this sad story, indeed, has been confined to so few individuals, that little chance of tracing the poor child was afforded; if, indeed, the dreadful surmise, that it was destroyed by its unnatural father, was unfounded. And did you never hear the name of the unfor- 24. 4d 570 EMILY MORELAND. tunate Italian, Madam?" demanded Emily, when Mrs. Lucy concluded her narrative, which the latter listened to with the deepest interest. " I have heard it, I think," replied Mrs. Lucy, " but it has entirely escaped my memory." " Was it not Laurentina Orsini ?" said Emily, with trembling anxiety. " 1 think — I am almost certain it was," returned her friend, " but where, my dear girl, did you hear ' " It was the sister of my dear, dear Signora," in- terrupted Emily, bursting into tears. " Oh, could I but see her now ! Could I but tell her how^ deeply I feel for those sorrows which I have so often wit- nessed, without comprehending the source from which they sprang." " Was she, then, acquainted with the tale I have been repeating ?" inquired Mrs. Lucy. " I always understood from ray brother that it was judged best to suffer her to remain in ignorance of the fate of her sister, and that she never even knew the real name or the family of the fictitious Molini." '' How strange that chance should introduce her to that very family !" replied Emily, forgetting, at that moment, the assun)ed character that Lady Ra- chel had assigned her, " and how little did my dear grandfather suspect, when she revealed to him the source of her sorrows, that it was a near relative of his own, that had given rise to them." " Your grandfather, my dear," observed Mr*. Lucy, with surprise, " who, then, was your j^rami- father ?" EMILY MORELAND. 571 Emily's cheeks crimsoned, for she was conscious she had said too much to retract her words; but Mrs. Lucy, seeing her confusion, immediately added — " Pardon me, my dear, 1 was inadvertently led by your observation to ask a question, which I see gives you pain. Forget, I entreat, that I have ever asked it — and now let us dismiss this dismal subject alto- gether, and talk of something else, a little more cal- culated to raise our spirits." Emily, however, could not so easily dismiss the subject from her mind. She had little doubt that it was some intelligence connected with this detail, that had drawn the Signora so hastily from her peaceful retreat at St. Clare ; and she formed a thousand conjectures, some of them so wild and ro- mantic, that she could scarcely help smiling at her own folly, when they had passed. The interest which Emily had taken in this story, had almost driven from her recollection the conver- sation which had introduced it. She felt, therefore, almost surprised, when, on the following day, Mrs. Lucy observed, that she must leave her to amuse herself as well as she could, for a few hours, as she was going to pay a morning visit to the lady of whom she had spoken, as wishing to introduce her to. " She will see me, I know," she observed, " if I go alone — but, probably, if you were to accompany me, she would take it in her head to be denied. Be- sides, I can give her a better character of you, you know, my dear," she added, " if you are absent, than in your presence — lest I should shame youi modesty." 572 EMILY MORELAND. Emily smiled, and her friend, after numerous charges to her to be careful of herself, and not stay too long in the garden, as she was apt to do, ^leparte 1, observing that it was very probable she should not be able to return till late in the evening. " I am happy to say, I did not overrate my influ- ence," she observed, when she returned ; " her ladyship allowed me to make my own terms and stipulations — among which is one, which 1 trust you will not object to, that you shall occasionally pass a week or two with me, when you feel so inclined, which, I hope, will not be very unfrequently, as I begin to feel that my visiting days are very nearly over, and yet that I am not quite so comfortable as I used to be, without a little cheerful society at home." Emily's eloquent eyes, more than her words, thanked Mrs. Lucy for this proof of kindness, and the good lady proceeded — " I did not make any ar- rangements with Lady Haviland," she continued, " as to money matters ; for I know, if she errs on that point, it is on the score of profuseness; and therefore I do not fear her behaving handsomely. I thought, too, it would raise your consequence in her ladyship's eyes, to lead her to suppose that you rather sought protection and society, than any pecu- niary advantage ; and I will tell you candidly, that she is a little inclined to be haughty and tyrannical, with people of small consequence, though, I flatter myself, I have secured you against feeling these un- pleasant propensities; for, though I have not much to boast of, either in the way of wealth or ancestry, EMILY MORELANl). 0/o» she has always shown considerable deference ti»- wards me, and, I believe, is fully capable of feeling the value of a real and disinterested friend, who will neither flatter her foibles, nor encourage her follies. As soon, therefore, my dear, as you have received a formal dismission from Lady Rachel, (which I have no doubt will be the consequence of my representa- tion to her,) Lady Haviland will be happy to re- ceive you." Emily felt truly grateful for the kindness which had secured her an asylum, which, she could not doubt, would prove infinitely preferable to the un- gracious protection she had received from Lady Rachel Moreland; but she felt rather startled at finding that it was Lady Haviland, to whom she was to become a companion — for she perfectly re- membered that this was the lady whose abrupt and confident notice of her, while she was living at the milliner's, with her friend Susan, had so annoyed her ; and she recollected, also, that it was Lady Haviland's carriage which had conveyed her from the Theatre, on the night she had met Leslie there. The thought, however, that she might, through the medium of her residence with Lady Haviland, learn something of Leslie's present situation, and, per- haps, have an opportunity of seeing him, and thus be restored to her friend Rosalia, thrilled through her heart, and at once banished ail inferior consi- derations, and she could scarcely restrain her im- patience for the receipt of Lady Rachel's answer. At length it came, and though short and concise. It was (us Mrs. Lucy remarked) as satisfactory a& 374 EMILY MORELAND. could be wished for, since it expressed regret at losing Miss Russell's society, without any displea- sure at her inteation. " Do not think I am in a hurry to get rid of you, my dear," observed Mrs. Lucy, " if I propose that we visit Lady Haviland to-morrow. I know the impatience of her disposition so well, that 1 am only surprised that she has been able to restrain it so long-, although by coming here she would break through her resolution of not visiting for a twelve- month." " Has her ladyship made such a resolution ?" said Emily, smiling. " You may well smile," observed Mrs. Lucy, " but when you have known her a few months, you will cease to be surprised at any whimsicalities from her. Fortunately, however, they are such as seldom hurt any one but herself." On the following niorning, Emily dressed herself with neat simplicity, to attend her friend ; but the latter, after viewing her with attention, observed that she did not feel satisfied with her appearance. " You are not fine enough, my dear," she ob- served, " to please Lady Haviland — and, as I know you can make yourself smart, I shall expect you will do so." Emily complied with this intimation, and, imme- diately after breakfast, they drove to Lady Havi- iand's, whose residence was at Hendon. They were immediately admitted to her ladyship's dressing-room, and Emily's tremors soon subsided at the kindness with which they were received. EMILY MORELANU. 575 " I have been anxiously expecting you these two days," observed the lady, rising to receive them ; *' but I do not wonder that this young lady should be unwilling to leave Mrs. Lucy for my dull so- ciety." " You want a compliment," returned Mrs. Lucy, "or would force Miss Russell into paying me one; but I will relieve her from the necessity of being in- sincere, by telling the truth, that she has been much more anxious to be introduced to your ladyship, than I have, for the " " Miss Russell !" repeated Lady Haviland, inter- rupting her friend. " The name is certainly unknown to me ; and yet, I cannot help thinking I have seen those features before." " Probably you have, with Lady Rachel More- land," observed Mrs. Lucy. " I believe you know her ladyship, and Miss Russell has been some time resident with her." " It certainly was not with Lady Rachel," said Lady Haviland, still looking intently at Emily, who blushed deeply at this embarrassing proof of her ladyship's recollection of an interview which had been so transient, that she had hoped it would have been forgotten. La-dy Haviland, however, was soon withdrawn from the subject, on which she was not a little curious, by the entrance of a servant, who delivered her a note. She threw it upon the table, with an air of vexation — "How mal-apropos,^' she observed; "I thought to have been quite comfortable to-day — and now, 576 EMILV MORETiANi). Lord ilaviiand has taken it in his head to honour me with Iiis company to dinner, tliough I have not seen him this month. I have a great mind to say I am engaged, and not let him come to interrupt us." " Do not, pray do not," said Mrs. Lucy, earnestly ; " Emily and I will return home to dinner, and to- morrow " " No, indeed, I will Hot consent to any such thing," interrupted Lady Haviland; "and now I think of it, it is perhaps lucky that you are here, for it will prevent our having a fracas, which we should be sure to have, if we dined tete-ci-titey Emily did not feel her respect for Lady Haviland much increased by this avowal, nor did she look for- ward with much pleasure to the introduction to his lordship. " I must give him a good dinner," said her lady- ship, rising and pulling the bell, " or he will be crosser than usual — and I am sure that is quite bad enough. Though, as he is a devoted admirer of pretty faces, perhaps the sight of Miss Russell may put him in a good humour. Nay, do not blush, my love — I. was only giving you a hint not to be de- ceived into thinking Lord Haviland one of the most amiable men in the world, as I have heard him called, merely because he always thinks it worth while to dissimulate, when a beautiful woman is present." There was something in all this, that Emily did not like, though Lady Haviland spoke in the most fascinating tone, and accompanied it with the sweetest smiles. Mrs. Lucy, too, did not look EMILY MOREL AND. 577 pleased, and observed, that Emily had too much pe- netration and good sense to be deceived by flattery or fair pretences. The housekeeper entered to receive her lady's orders, and Emily had an opportunity of observing that Mrs. Lucy had not exaggerated, when she spoke of Lady Haviland's whimsical and haughty disposi- tion; for she was so contradictory in her orders, and so imperious when the housekeeper attempted to re- monstrate, that the poor woman seemed scarcely to know how to act. "Servants are the plague of my life!" observed her ladyship, when she at last dismissed her ; " they are so stupid, and so determined to have their own way, right or wrong." Mx's. Lucy shook her head with an air of reproof, and Lady Haviland, with a forced laugh, observed — "Ah, I know you think me wrong, as usual, and I am certain that you do not know what the trouble of bad servants is. But, allons! we won't discuss these subjects now. I want to show you what a beautiful harp my lord, in an unusual fit of gal- lantry, has sent me, instead of the crazy one that — you know what — *' and she laughed; "but I have left all that off now, and you must not tell Miss Russell tales." " Do not you tell her any, and, I will answer for it, she shall not know the history of the harp from me," said Mrs. Lucy. " Do you play, Miss Russell ?" asked Lady Havi- land, running her ivory fingers over the strings. " I Ijave long ceased to play myself, except to pass away 25. 4 6 678 EMILY MOR ELAND. a solitary hour— but I am still dotingly fond of my favourite instrument — and. if you can play, it will be indeed delightful." Emily had been long out of practice, and the thoughts of her, under whose tuition she had ac- quired her knowledge of music, now rushing into her mind, rendered her hand at first weak and un- steady; but she soon conquered this emotion. Lady Haviland was in raptures, and Emily was still playing, and accompanying the instrument with her voice, when the door, to which her back was turned, opened. Her ladyship held up her finger, in token of silence, to the person who entered; and Emily, supposing it to be one of the servants, pro- ceeded with her song till its conclusion, when a gen- tleman advanced, and was about to utter, apparently a rapturous compliment. The words, however, died on his lips, and he stooid as if motionless with astonishment — while Emily, the bright colour fading from her cheek, and her whole frame trembling with violent emotion, at- tempted in vain to rise from her seat, into which she sank back, and, hiding her face with her hands, burst inio tears. "What is the meaning of all this?" exclaimed Lady Haviland, in an impatient tone, " Do you know Miss Russell, my Lord? It appears " " I never, to my recollection, beheld Miss Russell — if that is this lady's name — before this moment," replied Lord Haviland, recovering himself; "but T was struck with the sudden change in her counte- nance, at the moment I approached her, and am now "^ost anxious to know the cause of it." EMILY MORELAND. 670 " I can give no reason," returned Emily, in a fal- tering voice, " only a resemblance, a striking resem- blance, to — to — one " " To some dear friend, I have no doubt," said Lord Haviland, trying to speak with perfect compo- sure. " 1 should be sorry to think I resembled any one whom you did not esteem, — may I flatter myself that was the case." Emily felt the insidiousness of the question, for she could not doubt that her father — and that it was her father who now stood by her side, and endea- voured by his looks, as well as words, to re-assure her — perfectly comprehended the cause of her agitation. She could not, however, trust her voice to reply — and she merely bowed in return; while Lady Havi- land, evidently dissatisfied with this attempted ex- planation, drew Mrs. Lucy to the farther end of the room, and, in a low voice, conversed with her for some minutes; Lord Haviland, in the mean time^ turning over the music books which lay scattered on a table near him, and, as if to give Emily an oppor- tunity of recovering herself, avoiding either to look at or speak to her; while the latter in vain strug- gled to repress her tears, or bring her thoughts into any thing like composure. " I have never yet doubted your honour, my Lord," said Lady Haviland, advancing to her husband, and looking him steadily in the face; " for, bad as you have been, and are, I do not believe you would de- liberately utter a falsehood. Will you pledge that honour, that neither under the name of Russell, or any other name, you have known this lady?" 5'SO KMILY MOllELANI). *' Then, most solemnly do I pledg:e that honojir," returned Lord Haviland, " that I never saw her till I beheld her here." "That is sufficient," said her ladyship; "and now, my dear girl," she continued, pressing Emily's hand, "I hope you will banish all unpleasant recol- lections, and consider me as your firm and sincere friend — one, who will anxiously endeavour to com- pensate you for past misfortunes " Emily, in faltering accents, expressed her thanks; but she could not but recollect that it was the beau- tiful Julia Dorrington — the fascinating female to whose charms her mother owed, in all probability, her ruin — and the father, to whom she herself was indebted for nothing but the disgrace of her birth — that now stood before her; and was it possible that with them she could be happy ? — " This house can be no asylum for me!" she mentally reflected, "and yet- " She ventured to raise her ejes to Mrs. Lucy's, and beheld in them only an expression of kindness and compassion. " 1 will confide to her all my unhappy story, and be guided by her opinion," was her instantaneous decision. The good lady seemed as if she read her thoughts — " Will you take a turn with me in the garden, my love ?" she observed; " the air will perhaps restore you." Emily took her arm, and in a few minutes they were seated together on a bench, far enough from the house to secure them from all observation. " I can almost anticipate what you would say to EMILY MO U ELAND. 581 me, my dear girl," observed Mrs. IjUcv, after a tno- ment's silence, " and I will tell you, also, that Lady Haviland has penetrated your secret. She is, how- ever, perfectly convinced that no stratagem or arts have been practised to bring about an interview be- tween you, and — shall I say — your father?" Emily bowed her head in silent acquiescence, and Mrs. Lucy proceeded. " It would have been indeed folly to have sus- pected that you were prepared to recognise in Lord Haviland but I will say no more on this subject. From her ladyship's own mouth I have repeatedly heard the sad tale, which first poisoned her domestic felicity. She knew not, Emily, the extent of Mr. De Cardonnel's guilt towards your mother, when she became his wife. She v/as young, accustomed to the unrestrained indulgence of every passion, and violently in love with her handsome and fashionable cousin, and was therefore easily persuaded to what she wished to be true. Some circumstances, how- ever, which I am not thoroughly acquainted with, revealed to her, soon after their marriage, that she had been imposed upon, and that the husband to whom she had given her heart, was in reality a heartless libertine; but she in vain attempted to trace the retreat of your unfortunate mother, and, gradually, the deep impression that her melancholy story had made on her mind, faded before new and repeated proofs of her husband's infidelity and licen- tious principles. I am far from wishiijg- to represent Lady Haviland's conduct as irreproachable, Emily — but she has had much to aggravate and provoke a 582 EMILY MOREL AND. temper naturally violent and irritable; and that her heart is really good, 1 hope 1 need not urge the pre- sent instance, that her warmest wish is to render you happy and comfortable. This, however, must be under the impression that Lord Haviland does not, nor will not, know the relationship between you ; at present, it seems barely possible that he can suspect it. It will therefore depend upon yourself to keep the secret, if you think it advisable." "I can have no wish, I am sure," observed Emily, " to make myself known to one " She paused, unable to proceed from the thoughts that over- whelmed her. '' That is sufficient, my dear," replied Mrs. Lucy. ** I am so well convinced of your prudence and rec- titude, that I am sure you will do nothing wrong; but, for your own sake, it will be necessary to be on your guard. I will candidly acknowledge that I do not think it exactly advisable that you should be- come a permanent inmate of this house, but Lady Haviland must have her way for the present, and we must trust to time and circumstances for the rest." Emily silently acquiesced. — She felt, indeed, that there was no alternative ; for to have rejected the offer of Lady Haviland, would have been to have thrown herself a burthen on Mrs. Lucy; and she knew, that, friendly and well-disposed as that lady undoubtedly was, her circumstances were too limited to allow her to indulge the natural generosity of her disposition, to this extent, without inconvenience to her. More composed, but still trembling at the thoughts E M I I> Y M O U E L A N D . 583 of seeing the features, and hearing the voice of one whom she could not love, and dared not hate, — she returned with her friend to the house, and on the way was met by Lady Haviland. " Mrs. Lucy has told you, my dear," s'he observed, passing Emily's arm through her own, " what my surmises are — Am I right?" Emily faintly replied in the affirmative, adding, " I feel that it is necessary I should give an expla- nation of my appearing to your ladyship, and my kind friend, under a feigned name, — if, indeed, any name can be said to be feigned by her who has a title to none." " I recollected immediately," interrupted Lady Haviland, " that I had once seen you before, and had then been struck with your features, as bearing a striking resemblance to some that I had seen. You are surprised, my dear, but I once saw your mother, though she knew me not. I visited her in the assumed character of a friend of the good wo- man, at whose house she was then residing, and who had died a few days before, — and I shall never for- get that interview, for it wrecked, for ever, my peace and happiness, and convinced me I had mar- ried a villain!" " Hush! hush! do not use such harsh terms," in- terrupted Mrs. Lucy. " Has he not deserved them ?" replied Lady Havi- land. " The consequence of that discovery," she continued in a milder tone, " was a fever, which confined me to my bed for a long time; and, when I recovered, your mother had disappeared ; and since 684 EMILY MORELAND. that period J have suffered so much, that I have thought less of that sad story than I should other- wise, perhaps, have done. But when I saw you in Oxford Street, it rushed fresh into my mind. I made some inquiries respecting you, but could get no sa- tisfactory information as to who you were, though the name of Moreland seemed to corroborate the idea that instantly occurred to my mind. An affair, which more immediately affected me, again banished all others from my recollection, and you were for- gotten until this morning, when I instantly remem- bered where I had seen you ; and, I confess to my shame, suspected that my friend here was in your se- cret. I could not imagine that you were ignorant of the title your father has so long borne, and I thought it all a plot, which 1 was determined to pretend not to see, until I thought proper. Your agitation, however, and Mrs. Lucy's surprise, con- vinced me that I was wrong, and my resolution was immediately taken; and it shall not be my fault, my dear girl, if you do not enjoy every advantage that Liord Haviland's station and fortune can bestoWj though he shall not, at least for the present, know the just claims you have upon his protection." Emily could not give utterance to the gratitude she felt — all that she had seen or thought unamiable in Lady Haviland's conduct, or manners, vanished before this proof of her warm and exalted feelings; and she felt that it would be her duty, as well as inclination, to endeavour, by every attention in her power, to console one who had evidently drank deep of the bitter cup of affliction. EMILY M011ELAM> 585 Tbey returned to the room where they had left Lord Haviland, whom they found reading; but he immediately laid his book aside, and advancing-, with easy politeness, reproached them for having so long- deserted him. " You have been quite au desespoir^ I dare say," observed his lady, with an air of sarcasm, *^ at being deprived of my amiable society — particularly after such a long necessary absence; for, I have no doubt, ' affairs of state and moment' have detained you, most unwillingly^ from visiting me for the last month." '• Your ladyship is quite right," he observed, with a languid yawn, " I have been so immensely busy in the duties of my office, that I have not been able to spare a single day, until now, to private gra- tification." " Your country will owe you a vast debt, for such amazing self-denial," replied her ladyship, with a still stronger expression of sarcasm. "What time do you dine?" inquired Lord Havi- land, without appearing at all discomfited by this observation ; " I breakfasted early, and the ride has given me a keen appetite, I assure you." " I ordered dinner at six," replied his lady, " for i had no idea your lordship would favour me with such an early visit. Shall I ring for a sandwich, for it is only a quarter after five ?" His lordship politely prevented her rising to touch the bell, and Emily, whose flutterings had begun to subside, could not but feel a sensation of surprise at the perfect cool-breeding, which seemed to supply 25. 4 ? 686 EMTLY MORELAND. the place of all otlier feeling on his part, towards the woman whom, she could not doubt, he must once have beheld with such different sentiments. With Mrs. Lucy, Emily could plainly see, he was on no very amicable terms; yet, even to her, he was polite and attentive, though her manners were cold and distant. " Is there any news in town?" asked Lady Havi- land, as he seated himself again. " No, all is ' flat, stale, and unprofitable,' " re- plied his lordship, " I don't know when I have passed such a dull month in London, as the last has been — not even a tale of scandal, pour passer le terns! Oh, yes, I forgot — I have something, which will be news probably to your Ladyship — your old friend and admirer, Templeton, was yesterday united in the holy bands of matrimony, with a blooming bride of some threescore years and ten; but who possesses the means of gilding the fetters, pretty handsomely, 1 believe," " Templeton married, and to an old woman !" ex- claimed Lady Haviland ; " and who, in the name of all that's ridiculous, is she ?" " I really have forgotten her maiden appellation,** returned Lord Haviland, with an air of indifference, *' some Lady Barbara, or Lady Ruth, or some such antediluvian name." " 1 think I can refresh your memory, auvl gratify Lady Haviland's curiosity," said Mrs. Lucy, gravely. " Lady Rachel Moreland was the name of the bride, was it not?" " Oh, then, you have heard of the ridiculous af- EMILY MORELAND 587 fair?" replied his lordship. "Yes, faith, I believe that was her name." Lady Haviland said something in a low voice, of which Emily only caught the repetition of the name of Moreland — but, though it was evident her words conveyed a reproach, which was connected with that appellation, his lordship proceeded, without the least appearance of discomfiture or emotion — " I was riding down Piccadilly, and had arrived opposite to St. James's church, when I was stopped by the crowd of carriages, and had the supreme sa- tisfaction of seeing the happy bridegroom hand his lovely and blooming bride to their carriage. I must confess, he bore his honours meekly, for he never raised his eyes from the ground, and threw himself back in a corner, as if he were the blushing bride, whose thick lace veil precluded the necessity of her being equally solicitous to avoid the eyes of the gaping crowd." " Poor Templeton!" ejaculated Lady Haviland. " Rich Templeton, you mean," replied his lord- ship, smiling. " And poor Lady Rachel, I think I may add," ob- served Mrs. liUcy. *' Do you know her, Madam ?" demanded Lord Haviland. " Yes, perfectly well — I knew the whole family, from my youth." " Indeed!" was Lord Haviland's reply— but deli- vered with an air of indifference, which showed him perfectly callous to any hint on this subject. Emily turned away, to conceal her agitation and 588 tMILY MOR ELAND. disgust. She felt, more than ever, that she could never either love or respect her father, and she bit- terly regretted that she had thus unexpectedly been brought to be a witness of his unamiable qua- lities. Mrs. Lucy and her ladyship retired to a window, at the farther end of the room, and Lord Haviland, for the first time addressing Emily, inquired if she had seen the last new opera. " I have never seen an opera, Sir," she replied, with as easy an air as she could assume. " Indeed — then, I presume, you have never resided in London?" observed his lordship. Emily briefly replied in the negative. " May I ask, in what partof the country ?" inquired his lordship. " There are few places now, I think, so secluded, as to be out of the reach of dramatic exhibitions." " I did not say I had never seen a play, my lord," returned Emily, dreadfully confused by this home question, which she was totally unprepared to answer, and thus hoped to evade; " but your lordship spoke of operas, and it has so happened that I have never seen one." " You must, at least, have had the advantage of excellent musical instruction, and it is rare to meet with good masters at a great distance from the capi- tal," observed Lord Moreland. " I have had no instruction, but from a near and dear friend, my lord," replied Emily, ana, suddenly rising, she terminated this embarrassing conversation by approaching Mrs. Lucy and Lady Haviland. EMILY MORELAND. 580 *' My lord has frightened you away, 1 suppose, vvitlj compliments," observed Lady Haviland. " Not exactly — but he asked me a question, as to where I had resided, which I knew not how to an- swer," replied Emily, in an under tone. " Do not contradict what I shall say, and I will set that at rest, without forcing you to invent a tale," returned her ladyship, in the same manner. Dinner was announced, and Emily was, for tho present, relieved from her fear of further inquiries. " You speak Italian, I suppose, as fluently as Eng lish. Miss Russell," said Lady Haviland, when the cloth was removed, " from your long residence abroad ?" "Yes, Madam," replied Emily, "it is nearly as familiar to me as my native language." " Italy !" observed Lord Haviland, with an ex- pression of surprise, "that accounts for it. then." Lady Haviland could scarcely suppress a smile. at the complete success of her plan, which, as she afterwards observed to Emily, was the best that could have been suggested. " My lord's knowledge of Italy, or its language, is so limited, that it will be very easy to keep up the deception, even if he should be curious enough to ask any questions, which, I dare say, he will not. Do not think, my dear, that you will often be trou- bled to avoid his curiosity, for, I assure you, I am very little honoured with his company, and shall now care less than ever to see him." The evening passed away tolerably pleasantly, but Lady Haviland manifested considerable anxiety tc 5(X) EMILY MORELAND. be rid of his lordship, who, she whispered to Einily, seemed determined to stay, on purpose to tease her. " I don't want him to know, if possible, that you are to remain here, at least for the present; for, perhaps, with such an attraction, he will be coming oftener than I wish to see him." " What time will the moon be up to-night?" asked Mrs. Lucy, looking at Lord Haviland. His lordship arose hastily, as if just recollecting that it was late. " You do not go home of course, to-night. Ma- dam?" he observed. "Undoubtedly, I do," replied Mrs. Lucy; "and I am just thinking that I ought to have given John more definite orders, than merely saying " "I must be going, by Jove!" interrupted Lord Haviland, after consulting his watch. " I have really been beguiled into staying so long, that I can scarcely now get into town in time to keep a very particular appointment." Lady Haviland reiteratea the word " particular," with a significant smile; but her well-bred lord affected not to observe it, and in a few minutes his carnage was announced. " Thank goodness, he is gone!" observed his lady; " for I really began to be afraid that he meant to favour me with his company to-night. We are an affectionate pair, my love," she continued, looking earnestly at Emily, and trying to smile; but, in an- other minute, her feelings overpowered her, and she burst into an hysterical fit of tears. Emily felt deeply affected— Mrs. Lucy, however, EMILY MORELAND. 591 made a sign to her not to notice her ladyship, but to let her tears have their full course, and in a few mi- nutes she recovered herself. " It is not often 1 can shed tears," she observed, folding her arms and walking across the room, "but, when I do, they seem to relieve the weight that presses at my heart." " I shall not be tempted, though, to come often to see you," said Mrs. Lucy, " if you treat me with such scenes. The last time that 1 was here, you told me that you were quite contented, and determined, for the future, to be a sober, rational woman for the rest of your life." " And so I will," returned her ladyship, " but, to- day, you must make some allowance for me. You must acknowledge that it is not in human nature not to feel — keenly feel — how cruelly I have been cheated of happiness, by but I will say no more ! I only hope that it will be some time before he comes again, to interrupt my peace. But that I know it would afford my enemies a triumph, I would indeed yield to what I know would gratify him — a formal and entire separation, and never see him again. But your arguments have convinced me, that, in doing so, I should only give confirmation to that " " I shall positively run away from you, and try to find my way home on foot, presently," said Mrs. Lucy, " if you do not dry those tears, for the infec- tion has already spread to Emily, and I shall " " There, I have done — I will not say another word on this hateful subject; and Emily will, I know, give us ' Away with melancholy,' in her best ^92 EMILY MORKI-AND. style, to drive away all discordant thoughts. And, to prevent your iiidulging any uneasiness about your old charioteer, and his nags, I will at once candidly teli you that he has liad his supper, and gone quietly home, and your bed-room is ready for you, whenever you are sleepy." " I suspected as much," said Mrs. Lucy, shaking her head, " but I will not scold to-night, though you deserve it." The remainder of the evening passed away plea- santly enough, but Emily soon discovered that Lady Haviland was far from being- so well informed or intelligent as from her situation in life, and tlie ad- vantages she must have had of education and society, might have been expected. There was, however, considerable quickness and readiness in her manner, which, with an abundant stock of self-confidence, enabled her to take her share in conversation, with- out very palpably betraying her deficiencies; and from the smartness of her repartees, and the general vivacity of her manners, she was generally consi- dered a very clever, pleasant woman. They did not separate till a late hour, and Lady Haviland herself accompanied Emily to her cham- ber, which was handsomely and tastefully fitted up, as was the dressing-room adjoining. " I have chosen this roosn for you, ray dear," ob- served her ladyship, " because it is the farthest re- moved from my own, and will prevent your being- annoyed when, as sometimes happens, I am in a rest- less mood. At any and every time, however, you tviil consider these as your rooms, into which I shall EMILY MORELAND. 593 not intrude, except as your visiter. One of the housemaids will, for the present, attend you ; and, to-morrow, I shall desire the housekeeper to inquire for a younof woman, who will then be at your dis- posal — entirely at your disposal." Emily would have remonstrated against this as unnecessary, but Lady Haviland would not hear a word on the subject. "As Miss Russell," she observed, " it might per- haps have been superfluous; but as the daughter of Well, I will not say a word more, Emily — only I must have my own way — and so, good night !" CHAPTER XXII. If hinderances obstruct thy way, Thy magnanimity display, And let thy strength be seen; But O, if Fortune fill thy sail With more than a propitious gale, Take half thy canvass in. Cowper. Emily was now settled in a home, to which the most fastidious could find nothing to object. Every comfoj-t and luxury surrounded her, and Lady Ha- viland's whole wish and attention seemed devoted to make her happy. Grateful, however, as she really was, to her benefactress, and disposed as she felt to excuse and extenuate what she saw that was 25. 4 G 594 EMILY MORELAND. faulty in the conduct of the latter, she could not avoid being sometimes pained and afllicted, at wit- nessing the extreme violence and uncertainty of her temper, which was often irritated by the merest trifle into a state of madness, which hurried her into the most unbecoming and often unjust actions. So incessant, indeed, were her caprices, that it was scarcely possible for the most attentive of her domestics to comply with them ; and so tyrannical and overbearing were her commands, that nothing but interest could be supposed to attach them to her. Yet, with a species of romantic folly, which seemed to influence all her actions, she was con- stantly lamenting their want of personal attachment to her, and their utter selfishness and mercenary dis- positions. On these occasions, Emily was sometimes a suc- cessful mediator; but, unfortunately, she had only the same arguments to repeat, and, though Lady Haviland could not confute them, she soon began to show evident marks of weariness and impatience, when they were opposed to her self-will. Several weeks passed away, and Emily had be- come completely at home; accustomed to her lady- ship's eccentricities, she no longer felt either pained or surprised, when, as was sometimes the case, she was left, for whole days together, to seek her own amusements and employments, while her friend was absent upon secret excursions, from which she gene- rally returned with evident marks of dissatisfaction and sorrow. Durin*- all this time, the name, which was ever m EMII.Y MOKELAVD. 595 Emiiy's thoughts, had never been mentioned, though her ladyship sometimes spoke, without reserve, of friends to whom she had formerly been much at- tached, but whom she had either lost, or who had proved themselves unworthy of her friendship; and not unfrequently amused herself and Emily, by painting in lively colours the characters of her fa- shionable acquaintance. Still the name of Leslie was never mentioned, and Emily felt an unconquer- able reluctance to utter it herself. She remembered v/ith pain the scandalous tale which Mr. Moreland had repeated in her presence, at Lady Rachel's sup- per-table, as having been the cause of Leslie's re- tiring from the fashionable circles, in which he had formerly moved ; and, though she firmly believed that the whole had originated in malice and misre- presentation, she could not help suspecting that it bad been, in some measure, the cause of Lady Havi- land's evident unhappiness, which, though it might very naturally be supposed to arise from the un- happy terms on which she lived with her husband, still to an interested observer, as Emily undoubtedly was, frequently appeared to arise from some more secret source. Since the first day of Emily's residence with Lady Haviland, she had never seen him whom she could scarcely yet bring heiself to acknowledge as her fa- ther, though her ladyship, when speaking of him to her, regularly gave him that title. Once, in the course of a morning's ride, he had called at his lady's rural residence : but, fortunately, as she thought, Emily was in the garden; and, as he did 596 EMILY MORELAND. not stay many minutes, he did not then make the discovery that she was residing- with her ladyship. *' Though he did not forget," observed her lady- ship, in mentioning his hasty visit, " to ask after Miss Russell, and to inquire whether you were re- siding- with Mrs. Lucy, and who you were." " And what did you say, dear Madam ?" demanded Emily, anxious to hear in what manner Lady Havi- land had parried these home questions. " Only by asking him, in return," replied her lady- ship, " if he had any very particular motives for wishing to know — and, in that case, advising- him to apply to Mrs. Lucy, who, I had no doubt, could give him a very satisfactory account of your birth, parentage, and education. He flounced to the other end of the room," she continued, "looking daggers and poison; but neither his frowns nor big looks, as I have often told him, make any impression on me ; and so I let him walk himself into good humour again, though my poor Persian carpet felt the ill effects of his majestic strides, up and down the draw- ing-room; and, after a short interval, he recollected, I suppose, that that was not the way to accomplish his purpose, and therefore prudently said no more about it. He has threatened me, however, with his company for a week or two, at the end of the pre- sent parliamentary session ; his close attention to his senatorial duties being his ostensible motive for re- siding in town, though I happen to know, unfortu- nately, that pursuits of a very different nature keep him there. Oh, how paltry and shuffling are the arts to which a libertine resorts, to conceal his purposes!'* EMILY MOUELANU. 597 Eoiily sighed. ''Ah, my dear," continued Lady Haviland, " if you knew the pains which that man has taken, the decep- tions he has practised, the degradations and dangers he has suffered, to accomplish his purposes, yon would not wonder at my speaking of him with con- tempt. And, after all, for what? For the mere charms of a pretty face, or an elegant person, which, like a gay and useless toy, was nu sooner in his pos- session, than it was thrown aside and disregarded 1 do not believe that, except in one instance, which you know, Reginald de Cardonnel ever felt any thing resembling a serious attachment, and his va- nity and ambition made him throw that away. Flad he been the husband of your mother, he might have been a different being, perhaps — but I am giving you unnecessary pain, by recurring to this subject. What was I talking of?" " Of his — of Lord Haviland's intention, Madam, of passing some time here," replied Emily ; " and 1 was about to say, that, with your permission, I would take that opportunity of visiting Mrs. Lucy. I pro- mised, you know " " No, that will never do, my dear girl," inter- rupted Lady Haviland. " 1 should die with ennui, to be compelled to pass a week, i6te-d.-Ut€, with my lord. I can bear to be alone — but his society is po- sitively horrifying, without some one to help me to bear it. Besides, he might take it in his head to stay a month, if, as I suspect, his finances are rather low, and he has no new object to engage his at- tention." 598 EMILY MO R ELAN I). Emily felt b> no means comfortable at this pros- .pect, but she saw it would be of no use to oppose Lady Haviland's wishes, and she tried (o console herself with the hope that something might happen, to change his lordship's intention. The time, however, arrived, and Lord Haviland signified his adherence to his proposition, by sending over his valet to see that his apartments were pre- pared for him. " My lord desired me to inform your ladyship," said the man, whom Lady Haviland sent for into the breakfast-room, to ask some necessary questions, " that Mr. Frazer and Captain Templeton will dine here, to-morrow, with my lord, at six o'clock." Lady Haviland's countenance declared that she was by no means pleased at this information ; and Emily, though she had no occasion to fear meeting either of these gentlemen, could not help showing that she anticipated no pleasure in the proposed party. " I thought as much," observed Lady Haviland, when the servant quitted the room; "but 1 shall soon let Lord Haviland know that I am not going to have my house made the resort of his riotous, dis- sipated companions. As to that Frazer, I absolutely detent him." "And so do 1," said Emily, with particular em- phasis. " Do you know him?" demanded Lady Haviland, with surprise. Emily explained that she had seen him frequently at Lady Rachel Moreland's. EMILV MORELANO. 599 ** Oh, yes, I forgot," observed lier ladyihip, "ho is a sworn friend of Templeton's; and I recollect hearing it whispered, that he was the promoter of his intended marriage with some old dowager — but I had so much at the time pressing on my mind, that I paid but little attention to it." " I should be very glad to avoid ever meeting him anywhere," faltered Emily, looking down, and blushing at the recollections that rushed into her mind. " He has not surely dared " said Lady Havi- land, hastily, " but, be that as it will, my dear, you need not, under my protection, fear any imperti- nence from him." "I do not fear him," returned Emily, with firm- ness, "but I dislike and despise him!" "And so do I," rejoined Lady Haviland; "but, unfortunately, we cannot in society always avoid those we dislike ; and, as I shall not any longer be able to conceal from my lord that you are with me, it will be better to act without any restraint. Frazer knows well that I hate him ; and I think, too, that he would not dare — nor, indeed, shall he have an opportunity — for I will soon let him know that you have no secrets from me, and No, it will be best, my dear, that you should not seem to fly 'aim, for he will soon hear from Lord Haviland that you are in the house." Emily would again have pressed the possibility of her avoiding all disagreeables, by retiring to her friend Mrs. Lucy's for a short time; but she knew that she should oflfend, by seeming to impeach Lady GOO EMILY MORELAND. Haviland's judgment, and she was therefore obliged, however reluctantly, to acquiesce, and prepare, with as good a grace as she could assume, for the expected party. Ijong before the dinner-hour, Emily heard the ar- rival of the carriage which brought Lord Haviland; but she saw nothing of either him or his friends, until, on the ringing of the first dinner-bell, she de- scended, with a beating heart, to the drawing-room, and found them with Lady Haviland, conversing with great gaiety. Lord Haviland's look, as he advanced to meet her and take her hand, told her that he had been pre- pared to see her; but both Captain Templeton and his friend seemed for an instant doubtful whether it was really their former acquaintance — so different was her present healthy glowing countenance, and her whole appearance, to the dejected, pale, spirit- less girl, whom they had been used to see. Templeton, however, immediately flew, in his usual frank and easy manner, to shake hands with her; and Emily, scarcely knowing what she said, in- quired after Lady Rachel's health. " Oh, she is well, quite well," he replied, hastily; " but how little I expected the pleasure of seeing you here to-day, and seeing you, too, looking like the goddess of health and beauty, when 1 thought you were pining in sickness and solitude, with that old piece of formality, Mrs. Lucy." "To Mrs. Lucy I am indebted for being here, Sir," said Emily, gravely, "for her kindness first — " She paused, recollecting that what she was about to EMILY MORELAND. 601 Kay, would be a reflection upon his bride ; and Lady Haviland, quickly comprehending the cause of her embarrassment, relieved her by remarking, '^ Mrs. Lucy is my particular friend, too. Temple- ton ; and I shall not allow a word to be breathed to her disadvantage, because, perhaps, her age and her manners are not quite suitable to your youth and gaiety." " 'A hit, a palpable hit!' " said Frazer, in a low voice, but loud enough for all present to compre- hend him. " Mrs. Lucy and Lady Templeton, 1 believe, were sewing their samplers together, in the year " " Oh, we will have no dates," said Lord Haviland, smiling, " you know they are quite out of the ques- tion, with ladies' ages." " Frazer, do you not recognise Miss Russell ?" said Captain Templeton, pretending not to hear the latter's observation. " Oh, yes — but I am waiting patiently for my turn to congratulate her on her recovery," returned Fra- zer. " I know I stand no chance of being noticed, while you are in the way; but, I am sure, Miss Russell must be convinced that she has not a more sincere well-wisher than myself." Emily curtsied very distantly, in return for this compliment; and Mr. Frazer, with one of his insi- dious looks, observed, " Lady Templeton will be quite delighted to hear how well you are looking — for she told me, the last time I inquired after yon that she had very little hopes of your recovering. We wanted your services sadlv," he added, in a lower 26. " 4h t)02 EMILY MORELAND. tone, " to officiate as one of the bride's maidens ; for it was a sad mortification to the youthful bride, to be attended to church by two withered old maids, like " Lady Haviland interrupted him, by calling Emily to look at some new music which her lord had brought from town ; and the latter, glad to escape from one she so much disliked, and feeling very little curiosity on the subject of the nuptials, left him before he had time to finish the sentence. Frazer looked after her, with an expression of countenance which immediately attracted Lord Haviland's attention. " I suspect. Miss Russell is not very grateful for the admiration you feel towards her," he observed; " but, who is she, Frazer, or wnere did you first see her?" " Your last question is easily answered," replied Frazer — " at Lady Rachel Moreland's — but who she is, I believe, is not quite so readily told. Some of Lady Rachel's friends have good-naturedly sug- gested that she is a very near relative of that lady; but, I confess, I do not credit the tale — for, I think, were she the pledge of any affaire de cceur of the spinster's, she would either have kept her out of sight entirely, or treated her with a little more kindness and consideration than she did." "Lady Rachel Moreland!" repeated Lord ilcivi- land, with an air of reflection. " Yes, Lady Templeton that is," rejoined FiaztT. " I is strange," observed Lord Haviland, "l)ut I will try if I cannot fathom the mystery ! Can it he EMILY MORELAND. 603 possible? — and yet, the age — the features — her am the coast — 1 said we, but it was principally myself, for Lord Haviland passed but little of his time there ; and T, being just then suffering from one of those fits of languor and despondence which frequently drove me to shun l\\^ society, passed most of my t'mc in waii- ^KSo^c ^/ . ////('/ [ (■ ////// // V v/ ; /r(/ // ■//// • '^ /^f // . Zi/ndon . J-'ui'lishgd iu &. Yirt?/'' . 25, Imla/w EMILY IWORELAND. 631 (iex'ing alone about the lovely country whit h sur- rounded my residence. In one of those excursions, on a very hot day in Juno, I sought refuge from the overpowering" heat of the sun in a delightful grove, about a mile and a half from home, in which I had before, with a book, or sometimes no other compa- nion than my own melancholy thoughts, thrown my- self on the smooth green turf, and free from all fear of interruption, reposed for hours. On this day, to my surprise, however, I found my favourite spot pre-occupied ; for, on putting aside the branches, I beheld a beautiful boy, apparently Avearied with play, buried in a profound sleep. He was seemingly about four years old, and though dressed with perfect neatness, was evidently, from the texture of his clothes, not above the condition of a cottager's child. Never, however, had I beheld so perfect an image of infantine beauty and simplicity. It was not mere rustic beauty either — for the features, even in sleep, seemed to beam with intelligence, and the limbs were moulded by the very hand of symmetry itself. I stood gazing in silent admiration at the little wanderer, while a sigh of regret and envy, at the happy mother of such a child, broke uncon- sciously from my bosom. The boy continued to sleep, while I, seating myself at a little distance, re- mained silently observing him. At length, he un- closed a pair of radiant dark eyes, and fixed them on me with a look of surprise, but unmixed witli that bashfulness which might have been expected from a child in such a situation. ** * Are you not afraid to be sleeping here by Ct]2 I'-MILV MORKI.AND. yourself, my dear?' I inquired ; ' and will not your mother be alarmed at your being- away so long ?' ' "' No,' he replied, ' I often come here when I'm lired, and mammy is glad to get rid cf me, because lier head aches, and I make a noise.' '^^ '•'And where does your mammy live?' I asked. "' If you will come with me, I uill show you.' he replied, bounding up, and offering his hand. " I readily accepted his invitation, anxious to know more of a child whose manners as well as appearance seemed so much superior to his situation. " On my way to the humble cottage he had pointed to as his home, I learned that he liad no father. He did not know whether he was dead; but his mammy, he said, was going to die ! She had told him so, and the big tear swelled in his bright eyes as he re- peated it. '• ' And who will take care of you, when your mo- ther is gone?' I asked. " ' I don't know,' replied the child; ' perhaps, God Almighty will — for mammy says he is my only friend.' " A thousand thoughts darted into my mind at this innocent observation; and I hastened on in silence, with my little guide. " The cottage to which he led me, was not only of the humblest description, but the little garden in which it stood bore evident signs of neglect and desolation. " ' Mammy, here's a pretty lady come to see you,* said the child, as he entered. The poor woman made an elrbrt to rise from the chair, on which she was EMILY MORELAND. 633 seated, but she was evidently in the last stajje of a decline, and sank back again from weakness. " 1 inquired how long she had been ill, and learned that she had been for many months struggling with her disorder. " ' I have never been well, since I lost my husband,' she continued, the tears rolling down her pallid cheeks ; ' and, at the harvest last year, I worked harder than I had been used to, and was out in the fields in all weathers; and that, and grief together, I believe, brought me into this way; but I should not grieve at the thoughts of death, only for the sake of this poor child.' " ' You must trust in Providence to provide for your child,' I observed, ' and perhaps he may, even now, have met with a friend who is able to serve him — You have no other family, I believe?' " ' No, ma'am — I have none at all of my own,' she observed ; ' for William and I had only been married three months, when I lost him !' " ' Who is this child, then ?' I anxiously inquired, fearful that all my fine visions would be frustrated by her reply ; but how was I surprised, and, I con- fess, my selfishness delighted, by the story she re- lated! *' Her husband, it appeared, had belonged to a vessel which was engaged in a contraband trade with France, and which, the last time he had returned from that country, had brought over a gentleman and this child, who she believed was his own under some strange circumstances, with which she was un- ucouainted ; all she knew was, that he had given a 27. 4 M 634 EMILY MOIIELAND. laro^e sum to the captain to brinj^ them oiF. They landed safely, it appeared, and the gentleman, who said he had brought the child away, because its mo- ther's friends wanted to make a Roman Catholic of it — the mother being dead — was very anxious to get a nurse for the child, who was then quite young, until it should be of an age to send to school ; and William, her husband, thinking it would be an ad- vantage, and a companion, too, for her, when he was away, proposed that she should take it. She was at first unwilling, she said, for her mind misgave her that the gentleman had no great love for the child, and perhaps only sought to get rid of it; and, if she should have a family of her own, it would not only be a trouble, but a burthen to her. But, when she saw it, she said, she had not the heart to refuse, it was such a sweet baby, and the thought struck to her heart that it might fall into bad hands, and be neglected and ill-treated, if she did not take it. " The gentleman paid down five-and-twenty pounds with it, which was to be for one year's board, he said, and long before that time he would return; but he had never come back, she continued, and, the very next voyage, William was drowned, and she had been left to struggle with the child, as well as she could. All her friends, she said, had blamed her for persisting in keeping it, when its own father had deserted it, and would have persuaded her to send it to the parish workhouse; but she could not bring herself to take their advice, though she knew that must be its fate, when it pleased God to call her. *' ' But he m ist be sadly troublesome to you noiV, EMILV MORELAND. 635 my good woman,' I observed, willing to try her, be- fore I made the proposal which was already at my lips. ' You are too ill to have the care and trouble of a child, if even you were in circumstances to bear the expense.' " It was true, she said, that he was, sometimes, almost too much for her, though he was a kind- hearted little creature, and would sit, for an hour together, as quiet as a Jamb, when she felt very ill; 'but he is but a baby,' she added, 'and one can't always curb him!' "'You would not fret, then, after him,' I re- marked, ' if any person, willing and able to keep him, were to take him from you ?' " ' Oh, no, I should be happy, very happy !' she re« plied; 'for then I should have nothing to do or to think of, but to prepare for death!' " ' You may — 1 hope you will — get well,' I replied, *but, in the mean time, I will do all I can to render your mind easy — I will take the child home with me, and give you my solemn promise that he shall be well provided for, whether you live or die, if you will give him entirely up to me. I should like, however, to know if you have any clue, by which he might hereafter discover his parents.' " She had none, she said, for with her poor hus- band had perished all the crew of the vessel which brought the gentleman and his child to England; and there was, therefore, no means of tracing who or what he was. She had, however, preserved care- fully the clothes which the child had worn, when he was delivered to her. They were very fine and 636 EMILY MORELAND. beautifully made, and of a different fashion to any she had ever seen, thouj^h she had lived servant in several gentlemen's families, before she was married, where the children were expensively dressed; but these seemed more as if they had been made by some fond and proud mother, anxious to set her child off to the best advantage. ff**I acknowledged the justice of this remark when, having with my assistance reached a chest of drawers on the other side of the room, she produced the clothes in question, which were neatly folded, and appeared to have been but little worn. " I commended her for having taken such care of them, and she added, ' You may, if you please, ma'am, take them with you — if it won't be troubling you too much — I am uneasy about them, because my hus- band's mother, who sleeps with me every night, has always been very covetous of getting them for one of her daughters, who is married; and I know, if any thing happens to me, they will be laid hold of directly.' " I took the little parcel, and, in return, slipped into her hand a sum of money, which, small as it was in my estimation, compared to the treasure she had placed in my keeping, was sufficient to assure her that I had the means of keeping my promise, with respect to the child. " She was overcome with pleasure and gratitude — and I, eager to escape from her thanks, turned to the boy, who hed stood silently listening to all that passed, and inquired whether he would go home with me. KMILY MORELAND. 6:^ '^'^^"'No,' he replied, resolutely, ' I won't leave my mammy, — who is to get the water for her, and the sticks to make the kettle boil ?' " ' And do you do all this ?' I demanded. *' * Yes, and when I'm a big boy, I shall work for her,' be replied, * and get her money.' *' ' You are a good boy,' I replied, ' but I will gel somebody to fetch her sticks and water, and you shall come with me, that you may learn how to work.' " It was with difficulty, however, and not without a great deal of persuasion on her part, that he con- sented to accompany me home; and then it was only on condition that he should go to see her every day. " I was on the threshold of the door, before I re- collected to ask what name had been given to him, by the unnatural parent who had deserted him. " ' The gentleman said we might call him what av8 liked, for he had not been christened, which I thought very odd ; so, as I found he went himself by the name of Herbert, I called the boy by that name, and my name being Leslie, he styles himself Herbert Leslie, when he is asked his name.' " With this information I departed, with my young charge, who soon became perfectly familiar with me, and increased, every moment, the interest I felt for him, by his intelligent and lively observations, which seemed to promise all I could wish or hope for, in the child of my adoption. " All that I did hope," continued her ladyship, " has been realised by Herbert Leslie, except the affection which I vainly imagined my care of him would inspire! — But, to proceed A>ith my siory. 63S EM 1 1. Y MOREL AND. " Accustomed to regard iny actions and pursuit** with complete indifference, Lord Haviland, when he visited me, paid but little attention to the history I related to him of the child, who was now become my darling occupation and care. He was glad, I believe, of any thing which abstracted my considera- tion from himself, and concerned himself no farther about it. " I should have told you that the poor woman, his nurse, died a few weeks after our first meeting, and the boy became thus, as I flattered myself, entirely my own. " A thousand conjectures and whispers attended his first appearance among my friends, as they called themselves, — but I was then young and thoughtless, and 1 gloried in exciting their curiosity, without af- fording them any clue to its satisfaction. " The child had soon forgotten, in the variety of new faces and new scenes to which he was intro- duced, all traces of his former connexions ; and 1 have often smiled at the abortive attempts which 1 have overheard made to draw from him any eluci- dation of the subject. " From the servants who were with me, at the pe- riod I took him, nothing could be learned — for they were strangers to the country which I was then only making a temporary stay in, and as I never after- wards visited the spot, they could tell nothing re- specting the former situation of the child. " The inquiries of some of Herbert's companions, at the school where, at a proper age, I placed him, first excited his reflections on the subject of his birth. EMILY MORET.AM). 639 He questioned me, and I satisfied him then by assert- ing" that his parents were no more, and that he had been bequeathed to me by his dying mother. To take away, however, at the same time, all feelings of humiliation at the idea that he was dependant on my bounty, I told him that, though he was not the heir of a large fortune, yet he would possess a sufficiency to maintain his present rank in society. " Under these impressions, and with implicit be- lief in what I had asserted, he arrived at manhood, and 1 was proud and gratified at seeing my iares and affection (for I did regard him with the affection of a mother) rewarded by talents and conduct which would have done honour to the most noble stem. I exulted in the title of his mother, though I some- times sighed that I had no real claim to so proud a distinction. But how were my feelings shocked, when at length I discovered, that some malignant demon had dared to impugn the purity of my mo- tives ! *' By Lord Haviland, he had ever been treated with kindness. — He had taken no very violent interest in him, but he had rather applauded than blamed my conduct towards him ; but the whisper reached Her- bert's ear, though itwas conveyed in so indirect a form that he could not openly apply and resent it. Lord Haviland, too, had heard that the tongue of rumour had been busy on the subject of Herbert's alliance with me, and when, though I know, even then, he utterly despised the dark hints that had been thrown out, in one of the bitter moments which sometimes arise- even between hearts more attached than ours, 640 EMILY MORELAND. he dared to hint at what had been insinuated to him, I disdained explanation ! At that moment, indeed, I felt as if I could have been pleased that he believed it, that I might retaliate by making him feel as I had often felt for him. "* " At this moment, Herbert, with feelings already irritated by the same circumstance, unfortunately came into the room, and Lord Haviland, provoked at my taunts, let fall some expression which revealed to him what had been the subject of our conver- sation. " Respect for me had hitherto kept him silent, but he now not only entreated, he insisted on know- ing all the particulars. He would have proofs — full and satisfactory proofs — that he was not, as had been insinuated, the child of disgrace and infamy ! I be- came irritated, agonised, that even he should dare to suspect me, and I remained obstinately silent to his interrogatories respecting his birth — his father — his mother ? Why not bring them forward, to silence my accusers, and to put to shame those who had dared to taint the purity of my fame, to satisfy my husband, that he was really only the child of my adoption, and not, as had been asserted, of my dis- grace. " Yes, Emily, that was the false and infamous construction that had been put on my affection for him I A tale had been forged, of a clandestine and dishonourable attachment to some obscure indi- vidual, the consequences of which had been the birth of this boy, previous to my marriage with Re- ginald, who had been seized on by my friends as a fit EMILY MORF.LAND. fi41 person, from his youth and inexperience, to heal my wounded fame. " I need not attempt to describe the rage, the in- dignation, which seized my frantic mind, at hearing, from Herbert's own mouth, this slanderous tale re- peated ! I saw — I knew that Lord Haviland gave not the slightest credence to it ; but he felt it to be a means of revenging himself upon me, and he se- conded Herbert in his attempts to force from me an explanation. With scorn and indignation I resisted alike threats and entreaties, and dared them to be- lieve the worst ; — but I will not conceal from you, Emily, that a fearful thought of the impossibility, were I ever so inclined, to clear myself, pressed heavily on my heart. What, indeed, but my own unsupported assertions, have I now to oppose to those who dare suspect me ? Wounded and agonised as I was, however, I cautiously refrained from re- proaching Herbert with his obligations to me, for I knew the proudness of his spirit ; but from Lord Haviland he learned that from my own private for- tune alone he (Herbert) derived his present re- sources. I saw the blow was struck — but I could not deny it; and he acted just as I expected. The sura appropriated to him has remained untouched, and he has, I find, supported himself, ever since that fatal day, by the exercise of those talents which Na- ture had bestowed upon him, and education had fostered. " He did not, however, then wholly withdraw from us, but the wound still rankled, and fresh provoca- tions arose to inflame it. A lady of birth and rank, 27. 4 N 642 EMILY MORELAND. and fortune sufficient to have commanded the union of all in the man on whom she bestowed her hand, became violently in love with him. She had long been in habits of intimacy with me, and she unre- servedly confessed to me her attachment. She was young, too, and not unhandsome, and perfectly in- dependent of all control. I own I was anxious to pro- mote the match — I knew not that his heart was pre- engaged, and I was, perhaps, indiscreet in my zeal — 1 dared not compromise the delicacy of the lady who had entrusted me, by betraying her avowal to me, but I pointed out to him the prospect of success, if he would make the attempt. His refusal was firm, but moderate. He was not so presumptuous, he said, as to ofter to her or any woman's acceptance a being without fortune, without family, without even a name which he could justly claim, or to which he could establish any right. " The bitterness with which he said this, roused all my too-irritable feelings, which were increased by my having observed that, ever since the former scene occurred between us, he had seemed to attach him- self to Lord Haviland, rather than to me ; and, in public, constantly appeared as his companion. This indeed might be, as his lordship himself once con- descended to hint, to silence the voice of scandal, and prove the rumour that he believed in my disgrace unfounded; but, whatever was the motive, I deeply resented his conduct ; and, after another attempt to gain from me the secret I still pretended to be in possession of — his birth and parentage — he left me, with the avowed purpose of never again seeing or communicating with me." EMILY MORELAND. 643 " From that time, neither Lord Haviland, it I may believe his solemn assertion, nor myself, have been able to trace his steps. I have heard of him, indeed, and I believe that he is in London at the present moment; but he diligently shuns all communication with the associates of his brighter days, and, I have been taught to believe, finds, in the society of a fe- male with whom he has been frequently seen, though it has been in vain attempted to trace who or what she is, a compensation for the loss of the friends of his youth." With the most intense interest, Emily had listened to this detail, in which she saw, in Herbert's conduct, more to admire and to pity, than to blame. That he had been rash and hasty, in his renunciation of Lady Haviland, she could not deny — but there were ex- cuses to be found, which Emily's heart readily sug- gested; yet the last sentence her ladyship had ut- tered, struck a pang to her heart. Could it be the Signora of whom she spoke ? And, if it were, could it be possible that there existed between them any ties beyond those of friendship ? It was in vain she tried to persuade herself that it was unlikely— im- probable. The Signora was, it was true, many years older than Leslie ; but she was yet young and hand- some enough to be an object of admiration, and her manners and accomplishments were such as she be- lieved unequalled. She concealed, however, her feelings on this subject from Lady Haviland, and spoke only of Leslie's conduct, as it related to her ladyship. " I acknowledge 1 was wrong in the first instance, liMlLY MOllELANa. Eiuily," replied her ladyship ; " but. even were 1 willing now to put him in possession of all I know on the subject of his birth, v/ould he believe me that I know no more — or would he not rather think the whole a mere attempt to impose on him?" " Herbert Leslie could never be so unjust or un- generous," returned Emily; "but, even should he be so, you would then have nothing to reproach yourself with." " 1 cannot now humble myself to confess to him that I have been wrong," she replied. "But will you absolve me from the obligation of secrecy, if chance should throw him in my way?" demanded Emily, hastily. " You think, then, that he would not avoid you?''* said Lady Haviland, smiling. .^^^ " I do not think he would — I know not any reason why he should," replied Emily, blushing at her lady- ship's remark. " Act, then, as you think right and proper," ob- served the latter ; " only, remember, 1 will not sub- mit to his haughty interrogations. If he believes, he must believe implicitly— for I will go no farther than I have done.'* F.MILY MORELAM>. 645 CHAPTER XXIV. O thou, whom night and day I mourn. Far from my sighl too rudely torn, Yet never |)arted from my soul ; Impatient I would ask to soe Thee — thee alone — none, ncme but thee, E'en though 1 died of joy beyond contr< '. Old Song. Never had time appeared to Emily to move with Buch leaden pinions, as in the few days that intervened between the period of this conversation, and the de- parture of herself, her father, and Lady Haviland, for London ; but when, at length, they arrived there, and took possession of the mansion Lord Havi- land had engaged, which was situated in Piccadilly, and fronted the Green Park, her impatience in- creased, as week after week her eyes wandered from face to face, without discovering the features she so ardently longed to see ; and she listened in vain to hear his name mentioned, in the gay and fashionable circle who now again thronged around Lady Havi- land. Among those to whom her ladyship's doors were ever open, Emily with regret beheld Mr. Frazer, who, though he affected, in Lady Haviland's pre- sence, to treat her with respect and deference, yet, whenever an opportunity occurred, he annoyed her by his presuming familiarity, and his gross personal 646 EMILY m QUEL AND. flattery. In vain, however, she hinted her dislike of him to Lady Haviland — he had made himself accep- table to her ladyship, by a thousand little services and attentions — and his lively manners often relieved her from the languor and ennui which usually op- pressed her, when without company. " I know he is a good-for-nothing, worthless fal- low," she observed, in reply to one of Emily's re- marks, " but one can't have every body about one good and virtuous ; and, indeed, to confess the truth, Emily, your ' very good sort of people' are generally very dull sort of folks." Emily was vexed and hurt at the levity of this re- ply, and Lady Haviland, observing the change in her countenance, added, " If goodness and virtue wore always as pleasing a form as in Emily, no one would be able to endure the reverse, even gilded, as it often is, with an at- tractive outside ; but, for goodness' sake, let us dis- miss this sombre subject — for here is the very person who gave rise to it, coming with that wicked smile of his, that always foreruns a tale of mirth or Scandal." Emily would have retreated, but Lady Haviland entreated her to stay, and Frazer, after the usual salutations, exclaimed — " Do go to the window, dear Lady Haviland, and feast your eyes with an image of connubial felicity ! — There's a pair of turtle-doves coming up the park, billing and cooing, and looking — Oh, you must have a look, too," catching hold of Emily, and constraining her to approach the window— "they arc old friends* EMILY MORELAND.' 64? of yours, and, I am sure, you will be delighted to see them." Emily saw, at a moment's glance, that it was the tall stately figure of X^ady Rachel Templeton, who, leaning on her husband's arm, was pacing round the basin. Her eye, however, only rested on them a moment. She saw Captain Templeton bow to some one on the opposite side, and in the person thus saluted instantly recognised Herbert Leslie. A slight pressure of Lady Haviland's hand, which she had negligently placed on Emily's shoulder, in- formed the latter that she too saw who it was, for Herbert's eyes were now raised, with a look of sur- prise and earnestness, to the open window at which they were standing. He bowed respectfully, and Lady Haviland and Emily both returned the salute— the former with coolness, but the latter with a bright blush, and an animated look of pleasure, which did not escape Frazer's observation. " I did not know you were acquainted with Leslie," he whispered, as Lady Haviland turned away, and, humming- a tune, to conceal her agitation, walked to the other end of the room. "Indeed!" replied Emily, laconically, her eyes still following Leslie, who walked slowly on, and once or twice turned his eyes back, as if to be certain he was not deceived. Emily watched him until he was out of sight, and then relumed to her seat, her heart dancing with pleasure. She had ascertained that Leslie was in town — wa^ near her — and she could not doubt but 648 EMILY MOKELAND, that, by some means, she should be enabled to see and explain to him all her anxiety. Frazer observed her in silence for some time, and then taking his opportunity said, in a low voice, *' Lord Haviland must beware, I think, of Leslie, or he will " Lady Haviland turned from the window, at which she had stood for a moment, and he suddenly paused. Two ladies now entered the room, and Emily, who felt irritated and indignant at the manner in which she had uttered those few words, took care that he should not find an opportunity of again addressing; her. On the very following morning, however, her tor- mentor entered the breakfast parlour, just as Lord Haviland, with whom she had been breakfasting alone, her ladyship still retaining her old habit of laying in bed, was quitting it. " 1 will be back in a quarter of an hour, Frazer," he observed, " but I am particularly engaged at this moment. Do not go, however, for I have something to say you. Emily will entertain you till I come back." Frazer's eyes betrayed his pleasure, as he took the chair to which Lord Haviland pointed. " I wanted to see you alone," he observed, " for I have something to tell you — though I doubt whe- ther I shall have any thanks for my trouble." " You are conscious, perhaps, that your intelli- gence is not worthy of any," said Emily, gravely. " I saw Leslie last night," he continued, without noticing her observation — *' Oh, I have roused you. EMILY MORELAND. (349 have 1, at that name ? That beautiful blush betrays, at least, that my intelligence is not altogether so un- interesting as you would have inferred it to be I I could find it in my heart to envy the fellow, — but I am rather inclined to pity him, for his insensibility ! Would you believe it, Emily — he disclaimed all knowledge of you, and looked as freezing, when I expatiated on your charms, as if I had been talking of my g^randmother." '' Will you have the goodness to tell me what passed, Mr. Frazer ?" said Emily, who felt convinced that JLeslie did recognise her on the preceding day, and also was assured that he would not deliberately utter a falsehood. " Faith, I have very little to tell you," returned Frazer, " and I don't know that I should tell you that, only I hope it will just convince you that the fellow is not worthy consideration from you — you, of whose notice princes might be vain, and " " Pray, Mr. Frazer," interrupted Emily, " let me entreat you, for once, to speak without sarcasm — I have very particular reasons for wishing to know what Mr. Leslie said respecting me." " Sarcasm, Emily !" repeated Frazer ; " be as- sured, nothing is farther from my thoughts, when I speak of your charms. There is not a woman on earth, who could inspire the feelings in ray bosom that you do ! From the moment, indeed, that 1 first beheld you " " I will not listen to such language. Sir," inter- rupted Emily, again. " It is insulting to me, and to those who are my protectors, — and whom you call 28. 4 o €)->0 EMILY MORE LAND. your friends, — and I will not remain an instant longer with you, unless you refrain from it." " Well, then, I will talk of Leslie," he replied, " for then I know you will listen. I saw him, as I (old you, last night ; and, though we are not on the Dest terms in the world, I gladly sought an oppor- . " f am afraid this is a condition which will not be very satisfactory to Lady Haviland,'* observed Emily, who felt vexed at being thus foiled in the very point she was most anxious on, that of restoring^ Leslie to those advantages which he had renounced. " I shall not, however," she added, " say anything to her ladyship on this subject, but leave it entirely to you and herself to settle it." Leslie tacitly acquiesced in this arrangement, and again the conversation returned to what had occurred during their separation. Signora Orsini, though still melancholy and agitated by Emily's recent com- munication, endeavouring to overcome those feel- ings, and participate in the pleasure with which Emily recurred to the scenes of her childhood — the scene where she had first met those friends, to whose society she was now so unexpectedly restored. The moments glided swiftly away — Emily looked at her watch, and with surprise and sorrow found that she had already exceeded the period she had proposed to stay. " You are not going, I hope, to leave us so soon, Emily ?" said Leslie, at the same time glancing to- wards the window a look which involuntarily at- tracted her eyes. " I am obliged to be at home to dinner," she re- plied, " as Lady Haviland is not apprised of my ab- sence." " I am sorry to hear it, in a double sense," re- turned Leslie, very gravely. " In the first place, I dm sorry to part with you so soon — and, in the ^:e- cond, I must take (he privilege of an (.Id friend to EMILY MORELAND. €(!R7 say, that I am very sorry that the protector you have appointed for your walk is your own choice, and not, as I had imagined, Lady Haviland's." " What do you mean ? I have made no appoint- ment !" said Emily, hastily. "Mr. Frazer, whom, I believe, you saw with me, met me by mere acci- dent." " Is it by accident, too, Emily,". observed Leslie, *' that he is now waiting to escort you home ? I have seen fiim, within the last half hour, passing and re- passing, at least a dozen times." " He is a troublesome, presuming man," said Emily, with vexation. " He has either guessed, or learned from the servant who accompanied me, that I should return about this time, and has taken the opportunity of throwing himself in my way, merely because he is curious to know the particulars of my visit here, which he th.'nks his interference to pro- cure me the pleasure of this interview, warrants him to expect." " I wish he may have no worse presumption," ob- served L slie, significantly; "but, if you wish to avoid him, Emily, I can easily suggest the means — by accompanying you myself." Emily was not at all disposed to reject an offer so agreeable, and having promised, with Lady Havi- land's approbation, to devote a whole day, early in the ensuing week, she departed with her delighted companion. They saw nothing of Frazer during their walk, which seemed but too short to both of them ; but, at a short distance from the door of hi^ own mansion, EMILY MORfiLAND. Lord Haviland, who had been in the Park, rodf up, and, by looks more than words, expressed his astonishment at seeing them. Emily, however, saw with pleasure that Leslie and her father were not upon unfriendly terms ; and she felt almost angry with the former, for declining hib invitation to dinner, when they reached home. " We dine alone to-day, if it is only your boots that prevent you," observed his lordship ; " and, I think, I can undertake for the ladies excusing you." " I should not think it necessary to apologise to such old friends," said Leslie, smiling, " for my dis- habille ; but the fact is, I have a particular en- gagement." " Well, then, to-morrow ?" returned Lord Havi- land. " To-morrow, I shall hope to be favoured with half an hour's conversation with Lady Haviland, and, if she does not forbid it, I shall be happy to make one at your lordship's dinner-table," returned I^eslie, bowing. " You are determined to shew your wonder-work- ing power upon all of us, Emily," said her father, kindly pressing her hand, as they entered. " I have been maneeuvring, for several weeks, how to Ijring about a reconciliation between those who ought never to have been at variance, and you, it seems, have brought it all about without any effort at all — though how you became interested in it, or, indeed, knew any thing about Leslie " " 1 will tell you, candidly, dear Sir," interrupted Emily, blushing and smiling, " that he is one of my EMILY MORELAND. fi09 oldest friends — though I little suspected his acquaint- ance with you, when chance introduced him to me in the Valley of St. Clare." " I must not detain you, I suppose, now, to ask any more questions," observed Lord Haviland, " though, I confess, you have roused my curiosity very strongly — but the dinner-bell has rung, and I must postpone gratifying it." Lady Haviland, who was in the drawing-room, and, to Emily's surprise, with Mr. Frazer, did not ask a single question as to where she had been — but the latter, glancing his malicious eyes over Emily, observed that the air of Sloane-street seemed to have a wonderful effect in brightening people's eyes and complexions. " I really do not observe it," said Emily, looking full at him, " for I think I never saw you look worse, Mr. Frazer — and I believe you have pretty well tried the air, this morning !" " A fair retaliation !" observed Lady Haviland, laughing, while Frazer, though evidently discon- certed, attempted to join in the laugh ; and Lord Haviland, surprised at the unusual spirit Emily dis- played, so unlike her generally mild, and, towards Frazer, particularly shrinking, manner, seemed to view them both with astonishment ; — nothing further, however, was said. But to Lady Haviland, when they retired from the dinner-table, Emily gave a full narration of all that had passed during her morning excursion, not concealing or extenuating her vexation at Frazer's impertinent interference. " He is a troublesome fellow, certainly, my love," 670 EMILY iMOR ELAND. observed her ladyship, in reply ; '' but I think, should Herbert I^eslie make his amende honorable to-mor- row, you will have little further cause of complaint. Between Frazer and Herbert no good feeling has ever existed — He is the only person before whom Frazer's ' spirit stands rebuked,' and his re-estab- lishment here, on a friendly footing, will be the signal for the retreatof the latter." Emily fervently hoped her prognostication would prove correct, and having again repeated, at her ladyship's request, all that Leslie had said favour- able of her, they separated to dress for the Opera, for which they were engaged, with a large party. > To Emily's great surprise, on her return to the drawing-room, she found that her father, who had previously anticipated great pleasure from the even- ing's entertainment, which was to introduce a new singer to an English audience, now declined, under the trifling pretext of a head-ache, attending their party ; and that Mr. Frazer, whose company was looked on as a thing of course, had abruptly quitted the house, without either explanation or apology. The latter circumstance would have been matter of exultation to Emily, but she now scarcely thought of it, amid the anxiety and uneasiness which her fa- ther's manner excited in her mind. " Do go and try, Emily, whether you have not in- fluence sufficient with Lord Haviland, to induce him to change his determination to stay at home/* said her ladyship. " You will find him in the library — where, by way of curing the head-ache, he is writing, as busily as if his existence depended on bis ?:\llT/k' MORELAND. 671 despatch. lie has desired not be disturbed — but, as I promised to send him some Eau de Cologne, you can make that a pretext." Emily entered the library with no trifling anxiety, and it was not diminished when she beheld Lord Ha- viland sitting at his desk, but apparently so absorbed in thought, that he did not observe her entrance, and never raised his head until she spoke, and then he started and betrayed so much emotion, that she for- got, in a moment, all that she intended to say, and stood looking at him in silent astonishment. " 1 thought you were gone, my dear," he at length observed, taking up his pen, and affecting to look busily engaged. " We are very unwilling to go without you, my dear Sir,'* she replied ; " and, indeed, I really think you would find your head-ache better, in " " I cannot go, my love," he returned, anticipating what she was about to say ; " I have, in fact, Emily, independent of my being far from well, some busi- ness to settle, which must be done to-night. God bless you, my dear ! I shall not se-e you to-night, when you return I" — and he held out his hand to her. It was cold and trembling ; and Emily, se- riously alarmed, would have entreated permission to remain at home with him, but that he returned to his writing with a look which seemed to repress any attempt to interrupt him. " So you cannot persuade him ?" said Lady Ha- viland, when she returned to the draAving-room. " What obstinate, self-willed creatures these men are ! And Mr. Frazer, too, he may depend upon it, I shall not easily overlook his rudeness." fiTS FMILY MOREL AND." Emily was silent — a dread, a kind of undelinablt' terror had taken possession of her mind, and she would have given the world to have been able to re- nounce the entertainment which she had anticipated with so much pleasure. Unwilling-, however, to alarm Lady Haviland, and, indeed, unable to assign any rational cause for the feelings that oppressed her, she followed her ladyship to the carriage, and, during the drive, endeavoured to reason herself into the belief that her apprehen- sions were groundless, and that all would yet be v/ell. The brilliant assemblage of company, the gaiety of her own party, and particularly of Lady Haviland, who seemed to possess a more than usual flow of spirits, and even the divine voice of the new singer, — all failed to amuse her, or to banish from her mind the recollection of her father's perturbed look, when he first raised his eyes to her face, in their recent interview. To Lady Haviland's great vexation and anger, she espied Mr. Frazer in the pit, towards the conclusion of the performance — but he resolutely avoided look- ing towards their box ; and even Emily felt disap- pointed that he did not come near them, as she could not help including him in the recent affair, whatever it micht be. that had disturbed Lord Haviland, and flattered herself she might have learned from him something which would have given a clue to it. The Opera, however, at length terminated. Ladv Haviland's party accompanied them home to supper, and Emily slipped away to inquire for her father "His lordship has been in bed these two hourn, EMII.Y MORELAND. 6/J Ma'am," replied the servant of whom she made the inquiry. " Did he take any supper? Did he seem better?" said Emily, with anxiety. The man looked surprised — He did not know, he replied, and his lordship's valet had gone out as soon as his master was in bed, and had not returned ; but he thought his lordship could not be very ill, because he had ordered the carriage early in the morning, to go to Hendon. Emily knew that some vexatious circumstances had arisen respecting the house at Hendon, and though she felt surprised that her father should think it necessary personally to interfere in the business, which was in the hands of his solicitor, yet she tried *o persuade herself into the belief that this was the vexatious affair which had disturbed him, and, unaei this impression, returned to the party she had left, much easier than when she had quitted them. The morning light gleamed through the curtains of the supper-room, before Lady Haviland's friends separated. Emily, restored to comparative tran- quillity, had exerted herself to compensate for her former dulness, and had enchanted them by singing, again and again, the principal songs they had that night heard at the Opera — if not with equal effect, at least to their fullest satisfaction. And when, at length, she retired to her bed-room, her spirits were so overpowered with fatigue, and the previous exci- tation they had undergone, that she almost imme- diately sank into a sound sleep, forgetful alike of pleasure or of care. 29. 4 II C74 EiMlLY MOR ELAND. CHAPTER XXV. Vain man, 'tis Heaven's prerogative To take, what first it deigii'd to give, Thy tributary breath. In awful expectation placed. Await thy doom ; nor, impious, haste To pluck from God's right hand the instrument of death. T. Wartov. From a dream, in which she was living over again some of the happiest days of her life, in the Valley of St. Clare, Emily was awakened by a confusion of sounds in the chamber immediately adjoining- her own, and which was usually unoccupied. Surprised at this circumstance, she started up in bed to listen, and was in an instant convinced, by hearing several heavy and distinct groans, mingled with the sup- pressed murmuring of voices, and the trampling of feet, that some dreadful event had occurred ; but, before she could form a conjecture, or have recollec- tion even to ring her bell, her own maid, with terror and consternation in her face, rushed into the room ! To Emily's terrified interrogation she replied by entreating her to come instantly to Lady Haviland, who was in fits, she said, and she really believed would kill herself, and, every body about her. " What has occasioned it ?" exclaimed Emily, " VTho is in the next room ? — and what is the mean- ing of those dreadful groans ?" EMILY MCRELAND. <>75 " It is my poor master, Ma'am — they have brouajhl him there, because my lady should not hear him — and the doctor says she must not come near him yet; but she is so dreadfully headstrong, that nothing car persuade her to be quiet; and Mrs. Burton, her maid, has sent me to beg you will come and try what you can do." In an agony of terror, Emily attempted to ask the girl what had befallen Lord Haviland ; but her voice failed — her head swam — and she sank down on the foot of the bed, unable to assist in putting on her clothes, or to make a single inquiry. Before she could get out of the room, another deep groan was heard, and the girl, starting, exclaimed — "Oh, ray good gracious! the doctor is trying to get the ball out of his side, and, if he don't, they say he can't live an hour. Oh, what a wicked wretch that gentleman must be, to live here, day after day^ just like a brother, as one may say, and then to " " Who — who — what has happened? pray, teL me!" exclaimed tho terrified Emily. " Why, it is Mr. Frazer, Ma'am, that dined here only but yesterday — and, whatever they could have quarrelled about, goodness only knows! But they went out, it seems, this morning, to fight with pistols But, oh, dear me, how deadly pale you are! Do pray take a little hartshorn and water, or else I'm sure- Emily hastily drank off a glass of water, and col- lecting all her strength, took the girl's arm, and pro- ceeded to Lady Haviland's room^ — the shrieks from which prepared her for the scene she had to encounter. l?76 EMILY MORELAND. Lady Haviland was in strong hysterics, and it was some time before she appeared conscious of Emily'H presence, or that heartfelt distress, which, though it did not vent itself in exclamations or violence, was not less agonising than her own. At length, however, she became somewhat more composed, and able to listen to Emily's soothing entreaties, and her repre- sentation of the mischief she was doing to herself, by the extravagance of her grief. " For my poor father's sake," she whispered, as Lady Haviland hung round her neck, and sobbed upon her bosom, " you must strive to be calm ! He will, in all probability, wish to see you — and how will it be possible that you can administer to his com- fort, if you do not exert a little fortitude ?" " I will— I will strive to bear it, Emily," replied Lady Haviland. " I will try to follow your example — but, oh, what a shock is this, at a moment when all was smiling around me! When I was enjoying more happiness than I have known since I became his wife ! And now, to have him torn from me, and by a wretch " " Do not give way to despair," returned Emily, in a faltering voice, " the wound, perhaps, may, after all, not prove a dangerous one; and he may, with our care and attention " Her eye caught the look of Lady Haviland's maid, who was standing on the other side of the bed. She shook her head, as if to repress the flattering hopes Emily would fain have persuaded herself, as well as her friend, were well founded, and the latter, unable to finish the consolatory sentence, hid her face with EMILY MoRELAND. 677 her hands, and, for a few moments, gave way to the agony of her feelings. * " Are you not attempting to deceive me, Emily?" said Lady Haviland. *' Do you not know that he is dead? Oh, yes — I am sure — I am certain he is no more — and I am thus cruelly kept in suspense!" Again she would have relapsed into frantic impa- tience, but that a message from Lord Haviland's sur- geon, requesting to be admitted to see her, recalled her to comparative tranquillity. The solemn look of the gentleman, who was in- stantly admitted, presaged, to Emily's anxious heart, that he had no favourable tidings to impart. " I will not deceive your ladyship," he observed, in reply to Lady Haviland's agitated inquiry, " his lordship is in great — in imminent danger ; but the ball has been extracted, and there is a possibility, if he remains tranquil and undisturbed, that he may recover. His lordship is thoroughly sensible of liis precarious state, and wishes much to see your lady- ship—and, I suppose, that is the young lady," bow- ing to Emily, " for whom he has repeatedly asked, I own to you, I would rather defer the interview — but, as it appears impossible to tranquillise his mind without, I have been obliged, conditionally, to assent — but I must warn you that the slightest agitation may prove fatal, and that, therefore, it will be abso- lutely necessary that your ladyship preserve your calmness and fortitude." Ijady Haviland was ready to promise any thing, and every thing ; and Emily, suppressing her own feelings, offered her arm to assist her to the sick room. 678 KMJLY MORELANI). The curtains were closed, and the soilness of death pervaded the room, in which Emily saw nothing but the bed on which her eyes were iixed. The surgeon motioned them to remain quiet, and then gently un- closing the curtain, he whispered to the invalid a few words, to which he replied, in a faint voice — '' Let them come quickly, then, while I have yet power to speak !" Lady Haviland pressed forward, as if she would have thrown herself on the bed, but Emily, exerting all her strength and presence of mind, forcibly with- held her, and, by looks rather than words, enforced the promise she had made of restraining her feelings. The surgeon beckoned them to advance — and Emily, prepared as she was to expect the worst, shuddered at the awful change which had taken place in the appearance of her father. His countenance, ghastly from the effusion of blood which had followed his wound, was distorted with mental and bodily pain ; and as he turned his eyes alternately on his wife and on Emily, they ap- peared already glazed with the film of death. "lam going to leave you, for ever!" he mur- mured. " 1 feel that I have but a few minutes to live ! Oh, that in that short time I could atone — but no, a long life would not be sufficient to atone for the evils I have done, for the opportunities I have neglected ! Emily, my child, pray for me — pray for your wretched father — whose only conso- lation, at this moment, is, that he has died in de- fending your innocence from the aspersions of one — but I will not now revile him— he had a right to doubt EMILY MORETiAND. G79 my assertions. He knew, but too well, how often I had practised duplicity to accomplish my purposes — yet he had no right to slander innocence !" An exclamation of pain interrupted him, and the surgeon, who had retired with another gentleman to the window farthest from the bed, now hastily ad- vanced to remonstrate with his patient, for thus ex- erting himself in speaking. " It is of no use, Blundell — I feel I am dying," re- turned Lord Haviland. " Julia — Emily — tell me that you forgive me ! Oh, that I could forget, in this hour, how many there are whose forgiveness I need — whose curses will, perhaps, rise against me !" Emily sank on her knees, and hid her face on the bed, to conceal her agony ; while Lady Haviland, forgetting all her assumed fortitude, gave way to the most passionate exclamations of grief and despair. It was not until this moment that Emily discovered that the other gentleman who was present, and whom her grief and agitation had prevented her even bestowing a glance upon, was Herbert Leslie ; but now slie heard his well-known voice, endeavouring to speak peace and consolation to both the sufferer and his afflicted wife. To Emily, a fresh source of sorrow had arisen — for she had learned that she had been the source of the unhappy dispute which had terminated so fa- tally ; and, unconscious and innocent as she was, she still felt this a bitter aggravation of her grief. A long pause of silence succeeded — It was broken only by the deep sighs which, at intervals, broke from the sufferer, and betrayed alone his consciousness of 680 EMILY MOUELAND. his situation. The surgeon from time to time felt his pulse, and at length whispered a few words to Leslie, who attempted immediately to raise Emily from the position which she still kept, while the for- mer endeavoured to draw Lady Haviland from the bedside, by telling her that he had something to com- municate to her immediately^ Unsuspicious of his motive, she instantly complied ; but Emily, who saw the eyes of her dying father turned on her with a look of agony, resisted all Les- lie's attempts to draw her from him. For a moment he seemed to resume all his strength — he stretched out his arms to embrace her, while his eyes seemed again to resume their lustre, and he distinctly uttered a prayer for her happiness. Leslie stood by her side, and to him Lord Havi- land extended one hand. He took it with emotion, and the dying man, turning his eyes alternately from him to his daughter, attempted to give utterance to some words — but his voice failed — his eyes again grew dim — and, laying his head on Emily's shoulder, he expired ! It was some moments before Emily was conscious that the fatal moment was passed ; but Leslie, who felt the cold hand he held relax its grasp, gently relieved her from the lifeless burthen, and carried her in his arms from the room. Again the screams of Lady Haviland reached Emily's ear. Mr. Blundell had announced to her the fatal truth, and, regardless of all persuasion and remonstrance, she had again given way to all the violence of her nature. EMILY MORELAND. 681 Emily was calm, collected, and rational — but her cheeks and lips were ashy pale, and the convulsive throbs that heaved her bosom betrayed the internal agony she sustained. Leslie felt that there was infinitely more reason to dread the effects of her silent grief, than Lady Havi- iand's violent ravings, and frantic execrations on the author of it. He had no need to exhort Emily to fortitude, for she evidently strove beyond her strength to repress her feelings; but he tried to excite her tears, by speaking of the last words her father had tittered, which were to bless her, and he succeeded. "Shall I send for Signora Orsini, Emily?" he at length demanded. ^^ At such a time as this, forms and ceremonies may be dispensed with; and I know no one who is more effectually qualified to assist and direct you than she is." Emily assented, and Leslie despatched a note im- mediately to her, as well as one to Mrs. Lucy, to whom shje knew Lady Haviland habitually looked up for advice and assistance, in every difficulty. By the advice of Mr. Blundell, Lady Haviland was removed to her own room, where, overpowered by her own violence, and the composing medicine which the surgeon administered, she sank into a deep sleep, and in a few minutes Emily, relieved of all restraint, wept unreservedly on the bosom of her friend Rosalia, whose gentle and winning manners soothed her grief, without attempting to obtrude upon it by common-place unmeaning consolation. Before Lady Haviland had again returned to a consciousness of her sorrows, her friend Mrs. Lucy 29. 4 s 682 EMILY MORELAND. arrived; but Emily shrank with pain from the pro- posal she almost immediately made, that they fEmily and Lady Haviland) should leave the house, and. for the present, take up their residence with her. There appeared to her to be something unfeeling^ and unnatural, in thus abandoning the scarcely cold remains of him whose loss they deplored ; but custom, she knew, authorised it — and, as Mrs. Lucy seemed to think it necessary that Lady Haviland should be removed, she could not venture to oppose it, though she secretly hoped that her ladyship would not con- sent to the arrangement. Emily Avas not present at Mrs. Lucy's first inter- view with her friend; but, when she was summoned to the chamber, she found Lady Haviland compara- tively calm and tranquil. She had yielded, too, to the proposal of the former, and her maid had already began the necessary preparations for her removal. Emily would have objected — she would have re- quested permission to remain until the last duties were performed to her unfortunate parent, but she was fearful of offending, and she continued silent. " Mrs. Lucy tells me, my love, that your friend is with you. Perhaps, as it will be, I know, incon- veniencing Mrs. Lucy to have so large an addition to her family, you could go home with her for a week or two. We shall both of us, perhaps, be better separate." Emily, though the proposal was not unpleasant to her, felt rather hurt at it — for it by no means corres- ponded with the ardent attachment to her society, which Lady Hav^iland had hitherto professed; nor EMILY MORELAND. (^S5 did it appear, she thought, either kind or delicate, thus to throw her oflP, in the moment of affliction. She, however, assented, observing that she knew Sig- nora Orsini would gladly accommodate her. *' You can give what orders you please to Burton, my dear, respecting your mourning," said Lady Ha- viland; "and she will see that they are properly executed; and I shall trouble Herbert with the ar- rangement of all that is necessary to be done. There is a will, 1 understand, which was executed last night — Herbert will acquaint you with what relates to yourself at a proper time — but I am distressing you, I see, though, as these things must be mentioned to you, it is perhaps better it should be done at once. I have myself a hard task to perform, but I must struggle through it, as well as I can." Emily could not utter a word — she felt that, through all Lady Haviland's seeming kindness, there was an unusual coldness of manner — a something which was inexplicable, and which, probably, could not have been seen by any other person ; but which, to Emily's heart, spoke, in very intelligible language, a diminution of that warm affection which her lady- ship had hitherto evinced towards her. ^ "Why should I be surprised?" murmured Emily, as she slowly returned to the room where she had left her friend Rosalia and Leslie together; "she con- siders me as the unhappy cause of her misfortune; and, though she knows it is an involuntary fault, which I would have died to prevent, yet she cannot help resenting it." Emily repeated to Herbert the message with which (>S4 EMILY MORELAJVD. she had been charged by Lady Haviland, that she wished to see him, to enter into some arrangements with him. Leslie immediately left the room, and Emily then communicated to the Signora her ladyship's wish that she should become a temporary resident with her, observing, that if it did not meet her (Rosalia's) ap- probation, she should propose — what, indeed, would be most correspondent with her wishes — that she should remain in the house, until the necessary cere- monies had taken place. Signora Orsini, however, professed the greatest satisfaction at the arrangement proposed by her lady- ship, though she hesitated not to express her surprise that she should have chosen to leave her home, at such a moment. " But such, it appears, is the cus- tom," she added, "and it is not to be expected that Lady Haviland should havestrength of mind sufficient to break through its arbitrary laws." Emily again hinted her wish of being allowed to remain — but this, Signora Orsini opposed, observing that it would be a direct censure on Lady Haviland, and also excite many unpleasant conjectures. •She yielded, therefore, to the plan proposed, and in a few hours the house, which had so lately been the resort of gaiety and fashion, was deserted, except by the few servants who were left to watch by the lifeless remains of its late possessor. In the society of Signora Orsini and Herbert Les- lie, who seldom left them, except when employed in attending to the arrangement of the funeral obsequies of liis late friend, and fulfilling the directions cou- r.MlLY MORELAND. 685 tained in his will, which had been written, it ap- peared, the evening preceding the fatal event, Emily found the greatest consolation her sorrow would admit. She learned, as soon as she could bear to speak of the circumstances that had occurred, that Frazer's conduct and language had been of the most provoking description. He had dared not only to impeach Lord Haviland's veracity, when, urged by the hints he had thrown out respecting Emily, his lordship had in confidence avowed to him the rela- tionship that existed between them — but he had like- wise indulged in the most outrageous observations on Lady Haviland. Heated with wine, of which they had both taken very freely, and aggravated by the cool, sarcastic manner in which Frazer uttered these calumnies, Lord Haviland forgot all bounds in his rage. Two of the gentlemen who were to have been of the party to the Opera, at this critical moment entered, and Lord Haviland insisted that in their presence he should retract the slanders he had uttered, or consent to give him that satisfaction which alone could expiate the affront. It was in vain their friends, — one of whom, it ap- peared, was Captain Templeton, — the other, a gen- tleman whom Emily knew only by name, — interfered to bring about an amicable arrangement, and a meet- ing was finally agreed upon, the fatal result of which has already been related. Captain Templeton, it seemed, had acted as Fra- zer's second, and Mr. Balfoi r, the other gentleman, had been Lord Haviland's. 686 EMILY MORELAND. *' It was a singular chance," observed Leslie, in re- lating these particulars, " that led me, on that morn- ing, to the very spot they had chosen for their deadly purpose. I had been at first inclined to take my usual morning walk, in the direction to Kensington; but I know not what impelled me to change that in- tention, and take the road to Hampstead. I was sauntering carelessly along, when I was surprised at seeing Lord Haviland's carriage drawn up at the side of the road. I had previously passed a post-chaise, standing in the same manner, and I was now instantly struck with a presentiment that something extra- ordinary had occurred. " I demanded of the coachman, who alone was in attendance, what had occasioned his being there; and the man immediately replied, that he had brought his lordship and another gentleman from town, and they had alighted at that place, and gone over the fields, desiring him to remain there till they returned. " The man's manner convinced me that he, as well as myself, anticipated something serious was contem- plated; and I stayed not to make a single remark, but hastily inquiring which path they had taken, I ran as speedily as possible in that direction. Before, however, I could gain a sight of the parties, who Tvere separated from me by a high hedge, the report of two pistols told me that all was over — and in ano- ther minute I discovered a gate, by leaping which I came close to them. " Lord Haviland was on the ground, supported>by his friend Balfour; and the surgeon, Mr. Blundell, was endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed EMILY MO R Eli AND. 687 from his wound. Frazer and Templeton were stand- ing near him. " The moment I approached Lord Haviland, he said — ' Leslie, I am glad you are come to bear witness that Frazer acknowledges himself to have been wrong, on the subject that provoked our quarrel — and, remember, with my dying breath I affirm, that he was wrong — totally wrong!' " ' I do acknowledge it,' observed Frazer, who appeared deeply concerned at the fatal termination of the affair, ' and I will make every reparation, should it be in my power.' " Templeton now urged the necessity of imme- diately quitting the spot; and Frazer, extending his hand to Lord Haviland, exclaimed — ' Farewell — I hope yet that we shall meet again!' " The sight of a man advancing from the opposite side of the field, prevented his proceeding, and he and Templeton made a hasty retreat to the chaise which was waiting for them. " With the assistance of this man, who had been drawn to the spot by hearing the report of the pistols, we succeeded in removing Lord Haviland to the car- riage; and as Mr. Blundell seemed inclined to think rather favourably of his wound, he persisted in being carried to his home, instead of the nearest house, as the surgeon wished. Before, however, we reached Piccadilly, the motion of the carriage renewed the bleeding, and all hopes soon vanished!" Emily shuddered at this detail, which her own questions had drawn from Leslie, and in which the only circumstance that could afford the slightest 688 ElVni.\ MOREI.AVD. gleam of satisfaction was the assurance that Frazer had retracted his scandalous assertions, and had ap- peared to repent the fatal catastrophe which they had brought on. Leslie proceeded to inform Emily of the contents of the will, which had been before alluded to; and, with the greatest surprise, she found that all her father's personal property, together with an annuity of two hundred a year, were settled upon herself — Lady Haviland being, as the will observed, already amply provided for by her jointure, and her own private property. This, then, was the source, Emily could not doubt, of that coolness which she had observed in her lady- ship's manner towards her. It was not that Lady Haviland was mercenary — Emily had every reason in the world to know the contrary — but she had pene- tration enough to see that her ladyship was never so great a friend, as when the object of her bounty was totally dependant on her; and that to become inde- pendent of her, or to make even an effort to be so, was the greatest fault that could be committed. It was not, therefore, that she considered herself ag- grieved by the manner in which Lord Haviland had disposed of his property — but that it had entirely freed Emily from all dependance on her, was suffi- cient to deprive the latter of the warm interest she had hitherto felt for her. Though grieved even thus to have given Lady Haviland cause to relax in her friendly feelings to- wards her, Emily could not but feel deeply affected at this proof of her father's affection and considera- EMILV MOUELAND. 689 tion for her; but from the dim visions of future hap- piness which floated through her mind, on finding herself thus so far removed from all precarious de- pendence, she was soon diverted by the intelligence which Herbert Leslie had to communicate to her, and which he had hitherto forborne to speak of, because he considered it unseasonable to intrude upon her sorrows with his own hopes and expecta- tions. Emily's surprise, however, was only equalled by her pleasure, when she learned that, in all proba- bility, she had been the means of placing out of doubt the subject which had so long lain heavy at JLjeslie's heart, and discovering to the Signora that mystery which had for years occupied her thoughts, and which she had made so many unsuccessful attempts to un- ravel — the fate of her sister's child, the heir to the estates not only of Walter Moreland, but of the noble house of Orsini. The strong resemblance which Herbert Leslie bore to the well-remembered form and features of the Englishman, who, under the name of Molini, had seduced her sister's affections, and finally separated her from her friends, had, on their very first inter- view, struck Rosalia with astonishment; and, ro- mantic as the thought appeared, she had never ceased secretly to indulge the hope that in him she beheld the offspring of that beloved sister. Conscious, how- ever, that no one but herself could feel the |brce of this imaginary tie, she never spoke of it even to Les- lie, who, only partially acquainted with the sad story of Laurentina Orsini, dreamt not of theYeelings whicli 29. 4 1 G90 EMILY MORELAND. he inspired in the bosom of her devotedly attached sister. To her he was bound by admiration of her superior mind, by the congeniality of their pursuits and man- ners, and by the most sincere gratitude for a series of affectionate attentions, which had soothed him on a bed of sickness, and eventually roused him, from the gloom of apathy and despair, to useful and ho- nourable exertion. Emily listened with tearful pleasure whilst he re- lated the circumstances which had led to his meeting with the Signora, after her return to England. " I had been," he observed, " for some months re- siding in Sloane Street, and (though my habits, from circumstances which I need not explain to you, Emily, were rather unsocial and irregular) had been treated with particular kindness and attention by the respectable old lady whom I Ijoarded with. At my first entrance into the house, I was her only in- mate, and I paid but little attention when she in- formed me one morning, at breakfast, that she had let her first floor to a lady. ' A very handsome lady, too,' she observed, with a smile, ' though of suffi- ciently advanced years not to be alarmed at having a single young gentleman in the house.' " 1 have since recollected that she said a good deal more respecting her new lodger's accomplishments, manners, and retired habits — but I had no curiosity, and took no interest in the subject. I heard some- times the sound of a harp in the lady's apartments, but even music had lost its charms— and I not un- frequently retired into my little back room, and EMIl^Y MORELAND. 691 closed the door, to prevent being interrupted in my gloomy meditations by the strains to which I should once have listened with pleasure. " My incautious habits of exposing myself to all weathers, and neglecting, in spite of the admonitions of my good landlady, all care of my health, at length combined with the uneasiness of my mind to produce a very serious illness. I was confined to my bed; and the good old lady, — who was wholly ignorant of my former connexions, and to whom I was known only by the name of Herbert, being determined not to retain the appellation which Lady Haviland, in a moment of passion, had told me I had no claim to, — became seriously alarmed lest I should die. " I had no apprehensions of the kind myself-~or to speak more correctly of my feelings at that time, I had no hopes ; and the event proved I was most correct : — for I recovered, but so slowly, that I was for several weeks confined from mere weakness. I am, however, anticipating my story. I was no sooner able to quit my bed, than my landlady began to talk to me of the solicitude her lady lodger had shown for my recovery. All the little delicacies which had been offered to tempt my sickly appetite, had been, it appeared, supplied by her; and now that I was able to be amused, she had sent * stores of books,' as the good old lady expressed herself, ' and whole port- folios of drawings and prints.' " I could not appear ungrateful for such attentions. I turned over some of the volumes — they bespoke a cultivated mind, and refined taste in their selection ; but I could not read, and I closed them, for the pre- 692 EMILY MORELAND. sent, at least. The old lady, with kind officiousriess, spread before me one of the portfolios, and the very first picture that caught my eye, instantly fascinated 'my attention. It was a representation of an Italian festival — the scene, the dresses, were such as I had seen a hundred times in that lovely and romantic country, but these formed not its attraction to me ; but in the lovely face and form of the female who was leading off the merry dance, I recognised the striking resemblance of one who was never absent from my thoughts — need I say, Emily, that it was yourself, who " " I recollect the picture you speak of," interrupted Emily, blushing and smiling, "and recollect, too, how I wearied the dear Signora*s patience by my vagaries, when she was sketching it — but, pray, pro- ceed." "You will not be as much surprised as my good old hostess wa;^ at my sudden change, from listlessness and apathy, to the most intense curiosity, as I hastily turned over the rest of the pictures. At length my suspicions received the most rapturous confirmation — for, in one of the most finished and delightful land- scapes, I recognised the well-known ruined cottage in the Valley of St. Clare ; and on the margin beheld written, in an elegant Italian hand, ' Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale. Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail. To view the fairy haunts of long-lost hours. Blest with far greener shades, far fresher flowers.' " I wanted not the name of Rosalia Orsini, which, however, was annexed to this quotation from he '2^ ?^^a,J ay yi^yz^:^nuz^^/i-' 5 ** The Signora has told you, I believe, of lior meeting with William Wilson, and his attempts t> find you out. It seemed, however, as if fate was determined to baffle our every effort; and you n^ust forgive both her and me for coming, at length, to the conclusion that it was your wish to avoid renewing your former connexions." Emily shook her head, in reproof; but there was too much to gratify her, in this detail, to allow the indulgence of any unpleasant feeling. " To come to my own story, from which this may be in some measure considered a digression," resumed Herbert. " After your departure from Sloane Street, on that happy day which restored you to the society of your friend, I communicated to Rosalia the ex- planation which you had been the means of eliciting from Lady Haviland; but I cannot describe to you the effect it produced on her! I will not trespass upon your time and patience now, by repeating the whole chain of evidence which led to the conclusion — It is sufficient to tell you, that there cannot rea- sonably exist a doubt, that the protege of Lady Havi- land, and the long-sought heir of Walter Moreland and Laurentina Orsini, are one and the same person.'* Emily had been prepared for this result — she, therefore, expressed no surprise ; and the warm pres- sure of the hand which he held in his, and the tear which he kissed off her cheek, alone betrayed the pleasure with which she heard this confirmation of her hopes. *' It is not the least of my gratification," continued Herbert, after a short pause, during which feelings 696 EMILY MORELANO. too eloquent for words had kept them both silent . " it is not my slightest pleasure," he repeated, " that T am thus enabled to claim the proud privilege of relationship, already, to one who needed not that tie to bind me for ever to her. It will," he continued, '"'be a work of time and difficulty, without doubt, to establish legally my claim — but Emily will not, I know, be the last to acknowledge me a Moreland." " Would that the whole world would as readily admit your claim as myself!" said Emily, with energy. Herbert pressed her rapturously to his bosom, and Emily found the entrance of Signora Orsini, at that moment, a welcome relief from a scene which, under all circumstances, she felt was becoming too par- ticular. *' You have, I see, anticipated the pleasure I meant to have shared with you," observed the Signora; " for I read in Emily's eyes that she is acquainted with the secret which I have been dying to commu- nicate to her." No longer restrained by timidity, Emily freely expressed the pleasure she felt at the prospect that appeared of Mr. Leslie being restored to his rights. " Do not call me by that formal name still, Emily," observed the latter, with animation. " Call me Her- bert, if you like — for that, I believe, I have a legal right to claim." " I know not that," observed Signora Orsini, thoughtfully. *'• It is scarcely probable that your mother did not regularly bestow a name upon you, while she had you with her; and that name must, o EMILY MORELAND. 697 course — be it what it may — supersede the one you now bear." " Then I must still, it seems, remain a nameless being," said Herbert, smiling-; " or, at least, as Lady Haviland once bitterly observed, be indebted to charity even for a name." " Is it possible that her ladyship could have given utterance to such an ungenerous, such an unfeeling observation ?" said Signora Orsini. " You have never seen Lady Haviland in what she herself calls a downright passion, or you would not doubt that she could utter any thing which presented itself at the moment to her mind," replied Herbert. *' Yet her heart is good and generous; and I know she sincerely repented, probably the next instant, what the violence of her temper alone induced her to utter." Emily felt that this judgment of Lady Haviland was too correct to be disputed, and remained silent; but Signora Orsini, to whom the most unamiable traits of her ladyship's character appeared the most prominent, was not deterred from some severe re- marks on her conduct ; and Herbert, to whom it was evidently painful to hear her, v/hom he had so long considered his mother, censured with harshness, con- trived to dismiss the subject by speaking of the course he meant to adopt, to justify his claims, as the de- scendant of Walter Moreland and Laurentina Orsim. There was, he thought, one witness, who, if he were still living, could at once decide the whole question It was the wily, unworthy man who had accompanied the former as his tutor, and who, ac- 30. 4u 608 EMILY MORELAND. cording to the narrative of Mrs. Lucy, had been the confidant and abettor of all his plans. There could be little doubt that it was to him Walter had en- trusted the task of getting rid of the child, who was, after the unfortunate mother was securely disposed of, the only bar to the new connexion which he then contemplated ; and from Mrs. Lucy he hoped to gain some clue to the discovery of this man's connexions, as he could with propriety introduce the business to her and Lady Haviland, " which, of course," he added, " cannot be until after " He checked himself, for his words immediately re- called to Emily all the melancholy recollections which had been, for a time, banished by the interest- ing events which she had been made acquainted with. Herbert proceeded to observe, that it v/ould, in all probability, be necessary that Signora Orsini and himself sJiould visit Italy, and perhaps Switzerland, before his birthright would be fully established. *' But, at all events," he continued, " I shall make it the first and most important consideration, to endea- vour to trace to certainty the fate of my unfortunate mother. Who knows — " and his eyes sparkled with hope and animation, " but that she may yet exist to bless and acknowledge her son ! Recent events have made very considerable changes in the religious com- munities of Italy ; and my inquiries will not now, as formerly, expose either myself, or the object of my search, to danger. Do not look .so despondent, my dear, dear aunt — for so 1 will call you, without feai that my title will be disallowed by you, though the whole world should discredit my claim — the worst EMILY MORELAND. 699 that can result from our inquiries will be. to learn that the beloved being, whose loss you have so lon^ deplored, is removed to that better world, where, at least, you are sure of rejoining her." The Signora tried to conceal the emotion his words created — but it was in vain — tears of bitter remem- brance forced their way, and it was some time before either of the little party could resume theii tran- quillity. CHAPTER XXVI. Before the mansion lay a lucid lake. Broad as transparent, deep and freshly fed By a river which its soften' d way did take In currents through the calmer waters spread. Anon. The remains of Lord Haviland were, after the re- gular forms of inquiry into the cause of his death had been complied with, committed to the tomb of his ancestors ; and Herbert, after attending this last mournful ceremony, waited upon Lady Haviland, to receive her farther commands. She received him with that kindness and confidence which she had ever shown towards him, except when under the influence of mistaken suspicion, and those violent passions, which had so often, during her life, hurried her into actions inconsistent with her real disposition. 700 EMILY MO K EI. AN 0, Mrs. Lucy's calm, dispassionate reasoning had coti* inced JLady Haviland of the injustice of her resent- ment towards Emily ; and she now spoke of the latter with all her usual warmth and cordiality, and ex- pressed, in strong terms, her wish to see her; but Herbert observed, with secret satisfaction, that she did not seem to expect that the former would become her permanent companion, or be at all identified in her plans for the future. It would be necessary, she said, however painful to her feelings, that she should return to the house Jn Piccadilly for a iew days, in order to put Emily in possession of the property which was now become hers, as well as to bring all her own affairs in London to a final settlement, as she did Hot intend ever to make the Metropolis her residence again. " I have not yet," she observed, " finally deter- mined whether 1 shall go down to Dorrington Hall," (a seat which was her own property, having been settled on her by her father,) " or whether I shall take advantage of my right of residing for twelve months on the estate in Gloucestershire. I have, you know, Herbert, some friends in that neigh- bourhood, which will, perhaps, make that the most desirable, and it will likewise be the most acceptable to Mrs. Lucy, who has kindly promised to pass some months with me, and who has many connexions therCy with whom she will find some compensation for the melancholy hours she must expect to pass with me." Herbert agreed with her in thinking this would be the most eligible plan, and, after a few minutes' hesitation, she added — EMILY MOBELAND. 701 " I know not, Herbert, whether Emily has ac- quainted you with what passed between her and me. respecting a sum of money which was formerly de- voted to you?" Herbert replied in the negative. Emily had, in fact, assiduously concealed from him that her chief motive, in endeavouring to make his peace with Lady Haviland, was to secure to him the provision which he had before proudly rejected. " If that is the case, then," rejoined Lady Haviland, " I need not enter into any further explanation, but merely state that my intentions towards you remain as they were before the nonsensical affair that created the difference between us. Emily has, by her good offices, set that at rest; and, I believe, satisfied you, that, however impetuous and obstinate I may have been, I have never been otherwise than your sincere friend." Herbert expressed, in the warmest terms, his gra- titude for all her kindness; but, without either ac- cepting her liberal olTer, or olTending her quick feel- ings by a positive rejection of it, he seized the oppor- tunity of entering into a full explanation of all that had so recently been made known to him. The story was sufficiently romantic and mysterious to interest her, and engage her to the utmost in its final de- nouement. Mrs. Lucy, who had from motives of delicacy declined being present at this first interview, was impatiently summoned ; and, though at first startled and astonished at the idea that in the humble protege of Lady Haviland she beheld the heir of the Moreland fainiiy, she soon became convinced, even 702 LMILV iMORELAiNU. more strongly, if possible, than Herbert, or the san- guine and impetuous Lady Haviland, that such was undoubtedly the fact. Often, she said, had it occurred to her mind, even when Herbert was a boy, that he bore a striking re- semblance to some one whom she had known; but she had never imajrined that it was Walter Moreland whose handsome form and features were thus renewed to her memory. Now, however, as she gazed at him, and recalled to her recollection the striking traits of that unfortunate and guilty man, she was surprised only, as she said, that the strong; resemblance should so long have escaped her. In the strong interest which Lady Haviland now took in the final development of the mystery, Her- bert saw with pleasure that she had almost ceased to think of her own sorrows. She was now all anxiety to come to town, that the clothes, which she had carefully preserved, as his only clue to prove his identity, should any inquiry ever be made by the parents who had apparently deserted him, might be delivered to Signora Orsini, to whom she was now impatient to be introduced. Herbert could scarcely forbear smiling" at the eagerness which she displayed to give him every in- formation in her power, and the facility with which she settled all that was necessary to be done. One important piece of intelligence, however, he learned from her: — that some relatives of the poor woman who had nursed him were still living, near the spot where Lady Haviland had first beheld him. It was evident that Lady Haviland had been much EMILY MORELAND. 703 more solicitous to indulge her whim of adopting him entirely, and removing him from every chance of being reclaimed from her, than of tracing his origin ; and from these people, he flattered himself, he might probably gain some intelligence which she had not at the time sought fbr. Curiosity had, it appeared, within a few years, led her, while on a temporary visit in the neighbourhood, to inquire whether any of the family of Mrs. Leslie were remaining; and she had, without making her- self known to them, ascertained that the mother and sister-in-law of the poor woman were still living, in the very cottage from M'hich she had, twenty years before, removed Herbert. With this information, and charged with numerous kind messages to Emily and Signora Orsini, Herbert returned to Sloane-street ; Lady Haviland having finally settled to meet him, and the two former, at lier late residence in Piccadilly, on that day week. The Signora agreed with him that it would be advisable to go immediately to the people whom Lady Haviland had mentioned, and, on the very next morning, Herbert was on the road to Sussex. From the old woman and her daughter, however, he could learn little more than what he already knew. They remembered all the circumstances which Lady Haviland had related, and they recollected, likewise, the person of the gentleman who, with the child, had slept two or three nights at their house, before he had given the child into the charge of William Les- lie's wife. Herbert was convinced that this did not agree with 704 EMILY MJRELAND. the description of Ms father, or the miniature of him, which he now had in his possession, and which ho showed to them, demanding if he at all resembled tliat portrait. Both of them very positively declared that it bore not the smallest resemblance; and the daug-hter, looking at the picture, and then at Herbert, added — " I should think that was more likely to be your own picture, Sir — for, except there's a little difference in the colour of the hair, 't's as like you as two peas are like one another " Herbert smiled — " And this gentleman, (Mr. Her- bert, as you say he called himself,) was not at all like me, then ?" he observed. " Oh, no — I well remember he was a very sallow, long-faced man, with quite light hair and whiskers, and very small sunken grey eyes But I have just thought of it, Sir— there is an old man living at Hastings, who was a shipmate of my poor brother's, and was thought to be drowned when the brig was lost, and all the rest of the crew ; but he was picked up by a French ship, and carried back to France, and it was as much as six or seven years before any of us knew that a single soul was saved; and then, having got tired of living among foreigners, old Tom Lynam came back here, and settled at Hastings, and has got a fishing-boat and does pretty well. Now, it's very likely he could tell you a deal more about these mat- ters, because he was one of the crew, when the gen- tleman came over with the child." Herbert stayed only to reward the mother and daughter for this information, and immediately set EMILY M O R E r- A N D . 705 off for Hastings, where he soon discovered the object of his search. The old man scratched his head, as Herbert en- deavoured to recal to his memory the circumstances, respecting which he wished to gain some further par- ticulars. " I remembers it all very well, now," he replied. " It was the last trip, but one, that I ever made in an English vessel — and a tight little brig she was. It was off Bourdeaux that we took the gentleman you speak of, and his young one, out of a fishing-boat that came off to us; and I remember, too, how the captain cursed and swore, when he found she'd brought us only live lumber, instead of what we were looking after. Howsomever, the gentleman made it worth our while to bring him over, though I think it was no good as he was upon, smuggling the poor child away from its friends, and then leaving it among strangers, as he did. " I never, by-the-bye, rightly knowed what became of the boy — for Will Leslie was drownded, the very next trip, and six others. Poor fellows! I'd wea- thered many a hard gale with 'em, and little thought I should be the last left alive, out of 'em all ! " We never had any luck after that ere business. It was like a judgment upon our captain, for having any hand in it." *' And did you never discover any clue, as to who the child was, or where this Mr. Herbert, as he called himself, had brought it from? I will make it well worth your while, my friend, if you can give me the slightest information on that point." 30. 4 X 706 EMII.Y MORELANO. The prospect of reward evidently quickened the man's anxiety to recollect all that he could on the subject. " It comes into my mind, now," he replied, " that Will Leslie, who was a deep one, (though as good a fellow as ever broke bread,) said to me, that it might be the making of his fortune, if he could find out who the child belonged to; and when we landed again at Bourdeaux, he set his wits to work, to find out whether there was any talk in the place about a child missing, or any thing of that sort; and, at last, he told me that he had traced out that a very hand- some young gentleman, and a woman, who appeared to be a servant, had slept two or three nights at an inn in the city. They had a child with them, just answering the description of the boy that we had caried over to England — but it was taken away by another gentleman, who didn't stay but a few hours, and nobody knew what had become of it. " The landlady told Will, that the servant cried a good deal after the child — but she said it was gone to its mother; and a few fine clothes that the young- gentleman bought her, before he sent her off to Paris, where her friends resided, seemed to make all right with her. " The landlady, who knew Will Leslie well enough, said, that the young gentleman sailed next day for England; and, she supposed, she should see or hear from him again, as in his hurry he had forgot a small writing-desk, which was in his bed-room, and which seemed to be full of papers. " Will wanted very badly to get hold of this box-— EMU Y MORELAND 7(W hut the Fienchwoman was too cunning to let him have it — for she knew there was something in the wind ; and, as we never went back no more — for. in a week after this, the brig was lost, and not a soul left but me — I can tell you no more about it." Herbert inquired if he remembered either the sign of the inn, or the name of the woman who then kept it? The latter, he had quite forgotten; but the house, which was much frequented by English sailors, was called the Fleur-de-lis. Satisfied that he could gain no further information, Herbert rewarded the man ; and, scarcely stopping to take the necessary refreshment, came by the first conveyance to London again, to impart to his friends the result of his inquiries. At the appointed time, Lady Haviland was in rea- diness to receive the Signora, Emily, and Herbert, at the residence of the late Lord Haviland, in Piccadilly. Emily, who had trembled at the anticipation of this interview, was dreadfully agitated for some mi- nutes; but the violence of the shock was over with Lady Haviland, and her ladyship's comparative calmness and composure operated as a salutary re- straint on the feeling's of the former. With Signora Orsini's elegant appearance and manners. Lady Haviland seemed very much struck; and, in the most flattering terms, she congratulated Herbert and her on the discovery of an alliance, which must be productive of such reciprocal plei sure; while Rosalia, in her own peculiarly sweet ana unaffected manner, expressed in return her grateful sense of the obligations which Herbert, and conse- 708 EMi;[iY MORELAND. queiitly herself, were under to her lad)sh p, ibi her kindness to him. The whole party were soon on the best possible terms; and though Emily felt somewhat pained at ihe formal and scrupulous manner in which Lady Haviland pointed out the arrangements she had made, to put her in possession of the property bequeathed her by her father, yet, on the whole, she could not complain of any diminution of the kindness with which her ladyship had formerly treated her. Herbert explained, without any reserve, the steps he meant to pursue, to substantiate his claims, and the information he had gained in corroboration of her ladyship's narrative. Lady Haviland agreed with him and the Signora on the propriety of his proceeding to Bourdeaux immediately, " from whence," observed her ladyship, " you may either proceed to Switzerland or to Italy, or return to England, according to your success in gaining information." Herbert's eyes rested on Emily, with a look of thoughtfulness and regret which Lady Haviland seemed to interpret, for she added — " You are think- ing that I am laying a plan for a long absence, Her- bert, but it need not be so— for, should you find it necessary to remain any considerable time abroad, the best way will be for Signora Orsini to give you the meeting there. I myself would not object to a few months' residence on the Continent; and it would be, of course, not disagreeable to Emily, to have an opportunity of visiting the land of song. You would thus have all your friends about you." EMILY MORELAND. 709 • "It is a very pleasing-, and a very flattering pros- pect, certainly," observed Herbert, ''but there ar* other circumstances " " I will allow nothing to cross my humour, you know," interrupted Lady Haviland, "and I think J can answer for Emily, that she will throw no impp diments in the way." Emily was ready to attend her friends to the most distant quarter of the globe, she observed, if they required it; and, after a little more discussion. Lady Haviland's proposition was finally agreed to. In a few days, Herbert departed — and Lady Havi- land, who began to feel tired of her proposed plan of passing the first months of widowhood with only Mrs. Lucy as her companion, ^prevailed on Signora Orsini and Emily to be her visitors for a few weeks. In the delightful walks and beautiful scenery which surrounded St. Margaret's, as the seat was called which Lady Haviland inherited from her parents, Emily would, at any other period, have found sources of the purest delight; but now, — though grateful for the blessings she enjoyed, and often, when she reflected on her situation, impressed with wonder and admiration of the means by which she had been rescued from poverty and dependence, and gifted with friends and fortune, — she was melancholy and restless; for her heart was with Herbert — and a thousand tormenting fears and doubts, on his account, poisoned her present enjoyments. Occupied with these melancholy reflections, she was, one night, from the balcony into which the win dows of he>' apartment opened, enjoying- the delight- 710 EMU.Y MOKEI.ANb. ful freshness of the breeze, which scarcely curled tfte waters of the deep lake which flowed beneath, when she was surprised at discovering a small boat, which usually was moored at a boat-house about a mile and a half from the mansion, gliding along the still sur- face of the waters. The moon had risen, but her light was only sufficient to reveal to Emily that the person who guided the boat was superior in appear- ance to any of the servants or people in the neigh- bourhood. It was not likely, either, that, if any of them had taken the boat to enjoy a moonlight ex- cursion, they should approach so near to the house; and, with considerable curiosity, she watched its pro- gress, until it came close under where she was standing. The man looked up to her, as if rather desirous of attracting her attention than avoiding it. She thought he spoke, and, somewhat alarmed, she was on the point of retreating into her chamber, but a mo- ment's reflection showed her the folly of apprehend- ing any danger, at the distance she was removed from the person who had chosen this singular mode of communication, and again she advanced, and, leaning over the balcony, distinctly heard the words he uttered. " I have a letter for you. Madam," he observed, "if you will throw over a string, I will fasten it to it." Emily drew back. What letter could be sent to her, that needed this secrecy ? She was on the point of uttering a refusal to receive any communication in this clandestine manner, when the man added — Zondow. FuilijJurd/ by &. 'Pfra^e-. 2i->.Jri' I arc. EMILY MORELANU. 711 " It is from a person who is iu a foreign country, and I have promised to deliver it into your own hands — but I have been these three days trying to find an opportunity of seeing you alone." There was but one whom Emily could think of, *' in ?i foreign country," who could be interested in her — and, without a doubt, the letter must be from Herbert, she thought. Probably, it contained in- telligence which he was fearful of being communi- cated to Signora Orsini too suddenly, and that had occasioned the injunction to his messenger, to deliver it to her alone. With this impression, she flew back to her room for a ribband, to which the parcel was immediately attached; and, in a few minutes, the stranger, having respectfully bade her farewell, rowed swiftly back again — not, however, before the thought had oc- curred to Emily, that, though his voice and person were evidently disguised, they were not unknown to her. This suspicion was speedily confirmed, when, on her return to her chamber, she discovered that the letter, which formed but a small part of the parcel which had been conveyed to her, was written by one at whose name she shuddered with horror and aversion. It was Frazer — the murderer of her father — the calumniator of her own honour and innocence — whom she had seen, and who, in his letter, avowed that he had taken this method of beholding her, for the last time, and of expressing to her his remorse for his conduct, before he quitted England for ever. Emily's first impulse was to throw the letter from 712 EMILY MORELAND. her, with feelings of the greatest horror; but the expressions of deep remorse and contrition, which the very first lines conveyed, involuntarily excited com- passion and interest in her bosom, and, with tears blinding her eyes, and sighs convulsing her bosom, she with difficulty read to the conclusion this heart- rending avowal of guilt and penitence. He had resolved, he said, to retire for ever from a world which no longer possessed a charm for him ; but, conscious of the deep injury he had inflicted on her, he could not quit England under the painful impression that he had, by the act which deprived her of a father, condemned her also to the misery of dependance on one so capricious as Lady Haviland. " I know not," he continued, " whether my poor friend (for such I will still call him) had it in his power to make a proper provision for you; and though T do not doubt Lady Haviland's generosity, yet 1 know her disposition too well, not to be aware that dependance on her is precarious, and must be revolting to such a mind as yours. Of this, Leslie is a sufficient example. Were he rich, I should have no doubts of your prosperity — for I am fully aware of your feelings towards him, and it is impossible I can doubt your power. It was this feeling — it was the certainty that where he was my rival, I could not indulge a hope of success, that excited those bitter sensations in my bosom, which led But 1 will not pain you, or myself, by useless retrospections, but come at once to the subject, which has for some weeks occupied my thoughts. The sum enclosed will ut least b? a resource from actual poverty, should EMILY MORELANiy 713 circumstances render it necessary for you to leav*» Lady Haviland. It may do more — it may faclitate a union which will ensure your happiness, and that of one whom I have ever respected, even while I felt towards him the bitterest envy. " Let not the thought that you are incurring an obligation to one whom you must, I feel, reflect upon with hatred and contempt, intrude to render this bequest painful to you — I am but rendering you jus- tice; and I will acknowledge to you, with shame, that it forms but a small part of a sum which, a few years since, was transferred from Lord Haviland's possession to mine, at the gaming-table. Oh, Emily, with what horror do I recal the whole tenor of my conduct towards one, who trusted me with implicit confidence, and who owed all the misery of his life to ray example and evil course! And he is not the only one — I have yet much to do in the way of repa- ration — much still remains, that I never can expiate Let it be my consolation — slight as it is — that to- wards you I have done all that I can do, to repair the injury I have committed." It was some hours before Emily looked at the par- cel which accompanied this letter, and then it was with the firm determination that no necessity should ever prompt her to make use of a shilling of the money thus acquired. There appeared to be a con- siderable sum, in notes — but she made no attempt to ascertain their amount; and having again folded them in the envelope, she sealed them ^up, and de- posited them in her cabinet, resolving to consult Sig- nora Orsini as to how she should dispose of them. 30. 4 Y 714 E M 1 L Y M O R E I. A N D A surprise of a more pleasing nature awaited her, when, at rather a later hour than usual, from the disturoed night she had passed, she joined her friends in the breakfast-room. A despatch had been received from Herbert, which conveyed the pleasing intelligence that he had suc- ceeded in gaining possession of the writing-desk that the old sailor had spoken of, and which contained letters that established beyond a doubt the fact of his being the son of Walter Moreland and Ijaurentina Orsini, and afforded him also a clue to the manner and place in which his mother had been disposed of. *' There is no doubt, from the story of the old French landlady," observed Herbert, ^' that these important documents were left behind by my father, under the supposition that his accomplice had taken them with him. " I have my suspicions, however,** he continued, " that the desk was secreted, at the time, under the belief that it contained something more valuable than mere papers, which, it appeared, the old woman, (though speaking, from her constant intercourse with my countrymen, tolerable English,) could not com- prehend, although she has carefully preserved them^ she says, from a presentiment that they might one day prove of consequence; and, I believe, she has been fully confirmed in her opinion, by the reward which I bestovved on her." Herbert went on to state his intention of proceed- ing immediately to Verona, as he had reason to be- lieve his mother had been placed in a Convent in that neighbourhood, without any inquiry having been instituted as to her previous conduct. EMILY MORELAND. 715 " In fact, it appears clear to me," he continued, ' that a considerable sum of money was paid, to en- sure her reception ; and the promise of further sums held out, to secure her kind treatment. It is possible, therefore, that she is still in existence, though, ot course, the strictest measures have been adopted, tc prevent he»r making known her situation to hei friends. My only fear is, that the conviction of the baseness of him to whose keeping she had confided her happiness, and the uncertainty and suspense she must have suffered, as to the fate of her child, may have proved too much for her to support ; but it will even be preferable to ascertain that her gentle spirit has fled from a world which she had so much cause to loathe and detest, than to imagine her still pining amid the gloom of a cloister, uncheered by a hope of the renewal of those ties, which she must consider broken for ever. " I have now to revert, with hope, to the project which Lady Haviland suggested, of giving me the meeting in this delightful country, as soon as I had fixed on the most eligible plan to be pursued. I can easily imagine the impatience which my dear aunt must feel, while so far removed from the spot so in- teresting to her feelings; and I would advise you, without delay, to put in practice the plan we con- cluded upon. I confess it is not without apprehension and regret that I think of your taking this journey unprotected — but I know you are an experienced traveller. Lady Haviland, too, has more than once visited Italy; and Emily will, I trust, not be afraid to follow where vou lead. 716 EMIJ.Y MOHELAND. " Write to me, therefore, immediately, and I will make every arrangement for your comfort; or, if you should think it advisable, in spite of my impatience I will return, and conduct you myself. It will be only losing a little time, and I almost reproach myself for thinking that the sacrifice would be repaid, by the happiness I should feel at seeing you all, and being the companion of your voyage. I am very, very san- guine as to its happy results — and yet I almost tremble, lest I should excite hopes, the disappoint- ment of which will, I feel, be, if possible, more pain- ful to you than even to myself." " There is but one obstacle to my immediate de- parture," observed Lady Haviland, in a low voice to the Signora, " 1 have brought Mrs. Lucy here for two or three months, and half that time is scarcely expired. New I cannot, in common decency, say to her, ' I am going to Italy immediately, and therefore you must either go home, or stay here alone;' for as to my proposing that she should go with us, I know that no inducement on earth would bring her to set a foot out of her own country; and, therefore, to make the proposal, would only be a civil way of tel- ling her she must go about her business, — which is what I would especially avoid." The Signora could offer no counsel in this delicate affair — but Lady Haviland was spared all further embarrassment by Mrs. Lucy herself observing, that she had a plan to propose, which she hoped would prove agreeable as well as serviceable to all parties. A young relative of hers, she said, whose growing talents as an artist had been much admired, way on EWILY MORELAND. 717 the point of proceeding to Italy, to study; he hud already spent a short time in that country, but had been recalled on the death of his mother, and was therefore quite competent to undertake the office of chaperon, which she was sure he would be proud to undertake. "It will be the very thing itself," observed Lady Haviland, " and, in return for his good offices, I will undertake to bear all expenses, and probably may be able to be of farther service to him." Mrs. Lucy looked delighted — " I will write to him, immediately," she observed, " and prepare him to wait on you, the moment you arrive in London, which, of course, will be as speedily as possible." Delighted at having so easily avoided offending her respectable friend, Lady Haviland now only thought of the most expeditious mode of carrying her intentions into execution, and in two days every arrangement for their journey was completed, and Emily and the whole party set out once more for the Metropolis. Mrs. Lucy's relation, a gentlemanly, intelligent young man, almost immediately joined them, and making only a stay of one day and night in London, they bade adieu to their anxio is and gratified friend, and took the road to Dover. 718 EMILY MORELANJ>. CHAPTER XXVII. Back to the stirring world again, Its tumult and its toil ; Better to tread tlie roughest path, Than such a haunted soil. Oh, wherefore should I break the sleop Of thoughts, whose waking is fo weep ? L. E, L Totally unusetJ to practise those lessons of pa- tience which blunt the shafts of disappointment, and teach us to bear, without repining, the chances and changes of this mutable world, Lady Ilaviland was terribly chagrined at finding that the wind was un- favourable to their immediate embarkation ; and Emily, after a vain attempt to reconcile her to the inevitable delay, left her to the indulgence of her ill-humour, and with Signora Orsini and Mr. Leigh, their intended compagnon du voyage, w alked out to enjoy the beauties of the surrounding scenery. They had visited and enjoyed the view from the top of that " beetling cliff" which the immortal bard has so glowingly described, and were on theii return to the town, when Emily's eye was caught by a young man, in a sailor's dress, who was intently gazing at them. Though greatly altered by time, and the hardships of a sea-faring life, she could not be mistaken in the features — they were those of her earliest companion — of the guilty and unfortunate William Wilson. BMILY MORELAND. 719 Her ook of encouragement brought him in a mo- ment to her side, and Emily was most happy to see^ in the anxiety with which he inquired if she had heard lately from the Valley of St. Clare, that ab- sence and intercourse with the world had not entirely obliterated the natural feelings of affection in his bosom. Emily felt almost ashamed to avow that prosperity, and more immediate calls upon her attention, had prevented her making any particular inquiries into the actual situation of the friend of her youth, Isaac Wilson, and his unamiable partner. She had, in- deed, written a full and circumstantial account of her meeting with her father, and his recognition of her claims on his paternal tenderness, immediately after this event; but this letter had met the same fate as her former ones — it remained unanswered; and subsequent eveflts had prevented her making any further attempts to renew a correspondence so long interrupted. William was evidently hurt and disappointed ; he had been long wishing, he said, most earnestly to revisit his parents and home. " Not," he observed, a slight blush crossing his cheek, " that I now need any assistance from them, as I have for some time been very profitably and re- gularly employed ; but I long to see (hem, and convince them that the lessons of pain and adversity I have suflfered, have not been thrown away. To write, however, would have been useless, for I know that my mother, not being able to read herself, will be fearful of its betraying more to the old man than 720 KMILY MORELAND. she would like, and probably equally fearful of ex- posing my present circumstances and situation to any one else, would, in her great prudence, perhaps put the letter in the fire, rather than ask any person to read it for her." " The same motive has very likely operated with regard to my letters," observed Emily; " but, on my return to England, I shall speedily put an end to all suspense on the subject, by a visit to my dear native Valley." "You a re about to leave England, then ?" observed William, with a look of disappointment. Emily replied in the affirmative, adding — " I do not, however, expect to be long absent, and as I shall now know where to communicate with you, you may rely upon my making every effort to restore you to your father's good opinion, and, if possible, to your home." William shook his head mournfully. " I am fear- ful," he observed, " that I must never hope to re- turn to St. Clare, except for a short visit, which, if they were prepared to receive me, I might, perhaps, accomplish, without danger of its being known in the neighbourhood." " You know not what I may be able to effect, if I go down," observed Emily, smiling. " I am no longer destitute of that which removes all obstacles and conquers all difficulties ; and a timely applica- tion of a little of that, together with my persuasions, will, I have little doubt, reconcile those who might otherwise, perhaps, be inclined to give you some trouble." jgfPp '* EMILV MOKEI.AND. 721 William's looks, more than his words, expressed his gratitude. " Your situation, I know, is mate-« rially changed," he observed, after a short pause; " and I acknowledge, until I saw Signora Orsini, to whose kindness and humanity I have been so deeply indebted, I was fearful of addressing you, remem- bering how I had been denied and insulted, when I made a former attempt to see you, and thinking that perhaps I should again meet with similar treatment." An explanation now took place, and Emily learned that William had been treated with the greatest insolence and suspicion by Lady Rachel Moreland, who had even descended to a falsehood by declaring that she was authorised by Emily herself to forbid his attempting to renew any connexion with her. " She told me," continued William, " that you were only anxious to forget altogether people who could remind you of the circumstances of your early life, and who were totally unsuited to the circle you now moved in ; and she threw out some hints which, rendered constantly fearful by my consciousness of past errors, induced me to believe that you had com- municated to her those circumstances, and authorised her to alarm me with fears of my own personal safety, if, to use her own expression, I should again trouble you with my officiousness." Emily felt not less hurt that William should have so easily credited what he ought to have known was so contrary to her character and sentiments, than she did indignant at Lady Rachel's shameful and deli- berate misrepresentation. It needed, liowever, but few words to convince Wilson of the truth of her 31. 4z 722 E M 1 1. Y M O li E I> A MJ. assertion, that she had never even known of hU visit, and that Lady Rachel was the last person in the world to whom she should have confided any secret, which could reflect discredit on the friends of her childhood. The Signora and her companion, Mr. Leigh, who had fallen behind, after the first salutation had passed between the former and Wilson, now advanced, and Emily learned with pleasure, in consequence of some inquiry as to the state of the wind, that Mr. Wilson held the situation of steward to the vessel which they were to embark in ; and the latter seemed still more delighted to find that the pleasure of seeing and being restored, in some degree, to the good opinion of one, whom he still regarded with a feeling little short of adoration, was not to terminate with the present minute. In less than two hours, the little party received the welcome summons to go immediately on board ; and, during their short voyage, Emily had several opportunities of conversing with her old friend, and of seeing that he was respected by those with whom he was associated. To his inquiries respecting Susan, whose attach- ment to him the former felt was rather smothered than subdued by circumstances, she felt sorry not to be able to reply, with any thing like satisfaction. Emily felt that if Wilson's reformation was (as indeed she would not allow herself to doubt) sincere and lasting, that Susan would be much more likely to enjoy happiness and comfort with him, who had been the object of her first affection, and was, in EMILY MORELAND. 728 every respect, a much more suitable match for her, than the vain, silly, ignorant, and presumptuous Gil- bert, to whom she much feared, however, she was by this time united ; and she felt, too, that the possession of an attached and affectionate wife, and a settled home, would be the best guarantees for Wilson's future good conduct. Having therefore ascertained that William could, without any great inconvenience, devote a few da\s to a journey to London, on the return of the vessel to England, she exerted herself to persuade him to endeavour to see Susan, to whom she gave him direc- tions, by which she thought he would not fail to find her out, at the same time sending a few lines, and a very handsome present from herself, which she knew, though Susan was far from mercenary, would dispose her to receive her cousin with more cordiality, and induce her, perhaps, to lend a more favourable ear to the representations she (Emily) made in her let- ter, in Wilson's favour. "Susan is then still unmarried?" observed Wil- son, looking at the superscription of her letter. *' 1 hope so, for your sake and her own," replied Emily, smiling, " for I doubt if she will ever find one likely to recompense her for the loss of her cou- sin William, and the honour of being, at some time, the mistress of the Farm at St. Clare." William sighed — " 1 am afraid, Emily 1 beg your pardon Miss Moreland, I should say," he observed, " I am afraid that is a prospect I dare not indulge." " Only resolve to use your best exertions, and 724 EMILY MOKELAND put on your best looks when you visit Susan," re- turned Emily, smiling, " and half the battle is won. I must warn you, however, to discard the bine jacket and trowsers, and put on your Sunday suit, if you go wooing — for, however your good looks in them might please her, Susan has lived so long among very fine folks, that she is rather fastidious about first appearances." " I am afraid, then," observed Wilson, " that the Farm would be as little likely to captivate Susan's fancy, as her humble cousin." " I will answer for it," replied Emily, " that her cousin, if he has but proper confidence in himself, and she is still at liberty, will find that Susan re- tains first impressions too forcibly to hesitate for a moment ; — but I am afraid I am going too far, and probably should get into disgrace for betraying se- crets, though I am induced to do so, only in the hope of confirming the happiness of two friends, for whom I feel greatly interested." " You are very good, very kind," said Wilson, in a voice that shewed he was deeply affected ; " I know, indeed it was no secret to me, that Susan would once hare preferred me to the whole world, but I was then mad enough — presumptuous enough but I will not think of what is past. If she (Susan, I mean) possesses a small share of those kind feelinffs which have led you thus to restore me to self-esteem, by proving that you still regard me as not entirely unworthy of notice " " Susan will, I am sure, be most happy to restore — to see you restored to peace and happiness," inter- EMll.Y MORELAND. 725 rupted Emily, anxious to put an end to this conver- sation; "and, remember, if you do see her, and she is still single, I shall blame you for a tardy wooer, it ^\ie is not your wife, when I return to England ; with- out, indeed, you sliould wait for me to officiate as bridesmaid." William tried to smile at this raillery, but it was evident his thoughts were dwelling on recollec- tions which brought with them no sensations of plea- sure; and Emily felt relieved when a summons from the Captain obliged him to leave her. The voyage proved favourable; and Emily, with delight, beheld the sight of that shore which was to re-unite her to one, the loss of whose society not even her present advantages could compensate for. Nothing worthy of record occurred during the farther progress of their journey, until, at length, they were gratified by the sight of Herbert, who, with eyes sparkling with rapture he could not lind words to express, welcomed them to his native coun- try, for that it was such there could no longer exist the shadow of a doubt. The Signora's expressive features betrayed the conflict of emotions which agitated her bosom, as she gazed upon features which seemed to restore her at once to the hours of youth, those unsuspicious, Iiappv hours, when, never deeming that deceit could inhabit a form so fair, she had gazed on the fictitious IMolini, nor wondered that her sister should yield her whole heart to one so eminently gifted with those ?tt»'ac- tions, which, unfortunately, but too often, in the gentler sex, outweigh the more sterling qualities of heart and mind. 726 EMILY MOREL AND. Youn^ as she was, however, at the period when Walter Moreland, in liis assumed characte'', succeeded in winnings the affections of her sister, Rosalia Orsini had possessed sufficient prudence and penetration to be doubtful of the reality of the character he at- tempted to assume; but what avail the cautions of the most prudent and penetrating, when opposed to the violence of a first love in the bosom of an inex- perienced girl of eighteen? — and Laurentina was no more, when the destroyer of her peace and honour first fixed his basilisk eyes upon her lovely face. The first day or two of their re-union was devoted to the enjoyment of that happiness which the whole party felt, in meeting under such auspicious circum- stances; and the examination of those proofs, which had so providentially fallen into his possession, of the validity of Herbert's claims to the honours and titles of the two families of Moreland and Orsini. Rosalia shed torrents of tears as she recognised, in the impassioned letters addressed by the fond con- fiding wife to her beloved husband, the handwriting and expressive, romantic language of her beloved sister; and, with sensations of equal horror and de- testation, perused the deceitful expressions of ten- derness, the sophistical reasonings and professions, by which the pretended Molini had lulled to sleep her suspicions, and prevailed on her to await in obscurity his public acknowledgment of her and her infant's claims. The glow of ingenuous shame kindled, too, on Her- bert's manly cheek, at these proofs of his father's de- liberate treachery ; but, with the sanguine impetuosity of youth, he soon turned f»om the contemplation of EMILY MORELAND. 727 this revolting subject, to the more pleasing prospect of being enabled to discover his unfortunate mother, and restore her to the enjoyment of those social affec- tions which her letters proved her so fully capable of estimating. Emily entered fully into all these natural and amiable feelings. There was, indeed, so striking a similarity in the circumstances of both, that, had no other tie connected her to this interesting and noble- minded young man, she would have felt herself, as it were, interested in his fate, and regarded him as the brother of her affections. As it was, however, every hour passed in his society entwined more strongly the chain which his manners, his sentiments, his per- sonal graces, and, above all, the nameless charm which sensibility, combined with the utmost sweetness of disposition, threw over his most trifling action, had, from the first hour of their acquaintance, linked her heart firmly to his. Regarding her as the first of created beings, and inseparably connecting her image with every pros- pect of future felicity, Herbert looked forward with impatience — free, however, from doubt or anxiety — to the period which was to confer on him that title which was now all that was wanting to confirm his happiness. But Emily, though superior to unmean- ing forms, and affected pretexts for delay, still felt that respect for the memory of him, who, little as he had deserved her filial tenderness, was yet mourned with all the sincerity of grief that could have been felt by the most favoured daughter, demanded that she should postpone the ratification of Herbert's 72S EMILY MORELANb. happiness and her own, for some months to come. She wished, too, most ardently wished, that the dis- covery he so confidently anticipated, of the retreat of his unhappy mother, should first be completed, and that he might have the additional satisfaction of feeling that his choice was sanctioned by the approval of her, who could alone have the right to dictate on such a subject. To this indefinite prolongation of his happiness, Herbert, however, could not consent. He should, he said, undoubtedly be anxious that the most im- portant event of his life should have the approval of his mother — but it was impossible, utterly impossible, that, in the present instance, there could exist the slightest objection ; and if such a thing could, by possibility, take place, he should certainly, in the very first instance, prove a rebellious child, and con- firm his own happiness, even at the risk of her dis- pleasure. "Would you not second me, dear aunt?" he ob- served to the Signora, who had just entered the room. " 1 think I could almost promise I would," replied the latter, " even before I know for what it is you would require my co-operation, so convinced am T, that no undertaking of yours would be otherwise than just and reasonable; and now, pray, explain — for, to my great surprise, I read something like dis- sent in Emily's looks." Herbert did explain, and the Signora, while she alternately smiled and sighed at the sanguine antici- pation of her nephew that he should discover his mother, perfectly agreed v/ith him that Kraily would E M i Ti V M o u s: L A N » . 729 be very unreasonable to prolong the consummation of an event, for which they were all anxious, from any apprehensions of the sort she alluded to. It was, therefore, finally decided, that, at the end of two months from the present period, Emily should lay aside her mourning- habits, and become the wife of one who, in the title of her husband, conceived him- self more honoured and happy than in the possession of all that now awaited his acceptance. It was not, however, without some secret uneasi- ness that Emily frequently recalled to her mind a circumstance which Herbert, and his and her friends seemed totally to discard from their minds, but which she thought that a mother, uninfluenced by the strong partiality Signora Orsini felt for her, and perhaps «ot possessing so liberal and unprejudiced an under- standing, might, with some appearance of reason, consider a sufficient objection to her becoming the wife of a son, in whom would ur.doubtedly centre the honours and possessions of two noble families. She could not but remember, that, in the eye of the world, she was the offspring of crime and disgrace — and was it not highly probable that a mother, proud us she would justly feel of such a son, would consider a marriage with one of such dishonourable birth, and comparatively Ixumble fortune, as far beneath what she had a right to expect, or what she would expect for him ? The buoyant spirits of youth, however, and the kind and flattering attentions of her friends, pre- vented her dwelling on this mortifying theme, though it frequently recurred to her, recollection ; but with 31. 5 A 730 EMILY MOUl LAND. Herbert, apparently, such a thought never occurred, to disturb for a moment his visions of tranquillity and happiness. Six weeks elapsed, and all the various means that Herbert had taken, to ascertain the fate of his mother, proved futile. His hopes began to fade — and the Signora, though she had been less sanguine, felt, if possible, more disappointed even than himself, and openly avowed her conviction that her sister had fallen a sacrifice, either to grief or the cruelties of those into whose power she had been so treacherously betrayed, when their hopes were suddenly re-ani- niated, and their expectations excited, by a letter which Lady Haviland rev^.eived from Mr. Leigh, the young artist who had accompanied them from Eng- land, and who had quitted them, almost immediately after their arrival on the Continent, to proceed to Rome, where he intended to reside for two or three years, for the purpose of study. Though not perfectly acquainted with the history of Herbert, to whom he had been introduced but slightly, on his arrival at the spot appointed for the meeting of the latter with the party under his (Mr. Leigh's) protection, he had from Lady Haviland learned that his visit to Italy was principally occa- sioned by his hope of discovering the retreat of his mother, who had, by some untoward circumstances, been lost to her family for many years, and it was believed had taken the veil in some one of the nu- merous Convents in the Italian states. '• Recollecting, my dear Madara," wrote Mr. Leigh, *' the circumstance you mentioned to me respecting EMILY IMOIIELAND. 731 Ml*. Leslie, 1 am induced to transmit to you what has accidentally come to my knowledge, which I think it is not impossible may have some connexion with the source of his anxiety. " In consequence of a letter of recommendation Ironi a friend in England, I was introduced here to several respectable families, and in one of them was, I confess, struck with particular admiration of a beautiful gii]^ not more than seventeen, whose live- liness and natural graces were only exceeded by the loveliness of her person. " Free and unaffected, however, as she was in her general manners, 1 could not but be mortified at ob- serving that she treated me with peculiar reserve, and repelled, with a scorn which seemed quite unnatural to her, and foreign to her real disposition, every little attention which I offered to her. " I was, I own, considerably vexed and chagrined — I knew that her birth was not superior to my own, her fortune even more humble, as she was literally dependant on the family she resided with; and, I acknowledge my vanity, I did not think either my personal appearance, my education, or my manners, were such as ought to render me despicable in her eyes. Shall I own the truth? — I was more than half in love with the beautiful Venetian, for such I un- derstood she was, and, unable to withstand the strong impulse I felt to ascertain Avhat it was that rendered me so particularly the object of disdain, I at length summoned courage to mention the subject to Signor Nardini, the gentleman with whose family she re- sided. 732 EMILV ■'MOUELAND. "He smiled, as he assuied me that it had not escaped either his or his lady's observation, and they had questioned her respecting- it. ' It will be some con- solation, perhaps, to you to hear,' added my friend, ' that it is not to you, personally, that she has any aversion, but that she has an utter detestation of your country, and cannot be brought to believe that there can exist faith, honour, sincerity, or, in fact, a single commendable quality in an Englishman.' " ' This is, certainly, a sort of consolation,' I re- plied, ' but I cannot help remarking, that it is the strangest contradiction to general liberality of senti- ment I ever met with. I have particularly remarked^ in this young lady's conversation, her freedom from prejudice, and her superior judgment, which would, 1 should think, render her the last person in the world thus to suffer the difference of climate or coun- try to inspire her with contempt and aversion. Even (which may be the case) if she has met with some of my countrymen who have been worthless, I should think a whole nation ought not to be condemned for the faults of a few.' " ' I do not believe, my good friend,' returned Nardini, ' that Beatrice ever saw an Englishman before she met with you. It is scarcely six months since she quitted the Convent in which she received her education; and, since that time, she has con- stantly resided with my family. I rather think, from some hints she dropped, that the prejudice which has driven you to such despair has been imbibed from her constant association with and attachment to a eertain female in the Convent, named Sister Agnes, EMILY MO U ELAND. 733 whose misfortunes, and many years of severe penance and sorrow, it was whispered, had arisen from a love affair with an Englishman of rank. 1 do not think Beatrice is acquainted with the particulars of her story, but I know that Sister Agnes had confided to her that the chief source of the sorrow, which at times, it appears, almost disordered her understand- ing, and induced her to seclude herself, for weeks together, from the society of the sisterhood, scarcely admitting even the visits of Beatrice, whom she re- garded with the fondest affection, arose from her having been cruelly deprived of a son by his father, "who had betrayed her into error, and of whose fate she had remained, from the period of their separation, entirely ignorant. There are many other circum- stances of treachery and perfidy connected with this story, I understand, which fix a stigma on others concerned with the young Englishman, who was the principal party in this affair; and the knowledge of these circumstances, combined with Sister Agnes's constant cautions and invectives against the English, have produced an effect on Beatrice's warm imagina- tion, which we must trust to time and a further de- velopment of your worth to remove.' " I assure you, dear Madam," continued Mr. Leigh, " I thought less of Beatrice and her prejudices, than I did of the source of them. I knew, from an obser- vation of yours, that Mr. Leslie's father was an Englishman of rank, who had married an Italian lady — and, in short, the whole story — or, rather, the few events I had learned of the story of Sister Agnes ■ — seemed so strongly to correspond with the slight T31 EMILY MORELAND. sketch which I received from your ladyship, of the cause of your visit and that of your friends to Italy, that I could not divest myself of the idea that they Avould be found to be connected. " I have ascertained that the Convent alluded to is one of the order of Ursulines, situated near Velletri, not a day's journey from Rome. It would. I under- stand, be difficult to get an interview with Sister Agnes, who is never seen at the grate, and has appa- rently no connexion with the world beyond the walls of her Convent; but, in this particular, perhaps the name of Beatrice Da Vinci may be of service. " I have, through my friend Nardini, learned that the Sister parted with great regret from the lovely and interesting girl who had been peculiarly the object of her care, during her residence there. Bea- trice has not yet had an opportunity of visiting her since her departure, and I have been thinking that, if you were to pretend a commission from her to see Sister Agnes, you might procure an interview, which would probably enable you to satisfy yourself whe- ther there is any foundation for my suspicions." The impatience and suspense which this intelli- gence excited in the minds of the whole party, al- lowed them not to delay for a moment their departure for the place Mr. Leigh's letter pointed out; and, during their journey thither, a variety of plans were formed, and as often rejected, by means of which they were to gain the desired information. It was highly probable, the Signora thought, that Sister Agnes was prevented from intercourse with strangers by other causes than mere disinclination ; since it could EMILV MORELAND. 735 not be expected, though twenty-three years had elapsed since Laurentina Orsini had been lost to her sister and the world, the remembrance of her former errors, and the circumstances which had occasioned her seclusion, (if this was indeed her,) were not likely to be forgotten by the heads of the community to which she belonged, and would, of course, occasion her to be treated with greater strictness than those who had voluntarily renounced the world. It was therefore necessary to proceed with great caution, in their efforts to procure an interview, lest suspicion of their motives should be excited, and she should be perhaps entirely denied to them, or withdrawn from their reach. After much consideration, therefore, it was re- solved, as the safest though not the speediest plan, that they should go on at once to Rome, and, through Mr. Leigh's intervention, endeavour to interest the young Signora Da Vinci in their favour, and not only obtain farther information on the subject of their hopes and fears, but perhaps prevail on her to forward the object they had in view. "If she is truly the friend of the unhappy Sister Agnes,'- observed Lady Haviland, "she will be as anxious as ourselves to remove what it appears she considers the chief cause of the sorrow that still con- sumes her, by removing her uncertainty respecting the fate of her son; and if, as is highly probable, she is more circumstantially acquainted with the events of her friend's former life, it will be in her power to terminate, at once, our suspense as to the identity of the unfortunate recluse." 730 EMILY MOIIELANI). Warmly and sincerely as Emily entered into the hopes and fears that agitated the bosoms of her friends, she could not be insensible to the pleasure of visiting " the Eternal City," and of beholding, with her own eyes, the wonders and beauties of which she had heard and read such glowing descriptions. The weather was uninterruptedly fine, and the country through which they travelled so delightfully picturesque, that the attention of the whole party was frecfuently drawn off from the agitating and ab- sorbing object of their journey, to contemplate with rapture the charms of Nature. Emily, more espe- cially, was rapt in wonder and astonishment — she was never weary of wondering and admiring; and when, at length, the postilions with exultation, from the heights of Baceano, pointed to the cross of St. Peter's, glittering in the sun, her eager and enthusiastic look raised a smile even on the careworn and pensive fea- tures of Signora Orsini. Mr. Leigh instantly attended their summons. He had nothing to add to the information he had already given, but he immediately fell into their views, and expressed his conviction that Beatrice would be dis- posed to render them every assistance in her power. The next morning was appointed for an introduction to Signor Nardini, who, Mr. Leigh did not doubt, would be happy in the opportunity of serving any of his friends. The intermediate hours, rendered tedious by sus- pense, were devoted to a cursory view of soijie of the wonders of this celebrated city; and Emily gazed with delight and enthusiasm, not r.nmixed with re- EMILV MO U ELAND. 737 gret, at the glories which were fast fading before the destructive hand of time and neglect. Signor Nardini, a gentlemanly middle-aged man, maue his appearance, with his friend Mr. Leigh, at . the breakfast-table of the travellers. He entered immediately on the subject which occupied their thoughts, and observed, smiling, that if it were pos- sible for Beatrice Da Vinci to preserve her preju- dices against the English nation, after being intro- duced to the present company, he should have very little opinion of her judgment or understanding. '* That gentleman, however, I understand," he continued, pointing to Leslie, " will not come within the pale of her interdiction, as he is in reality a countryman of hers, and, as such, of course, I shall introduce him, with his permission." " And does this bewitching Beatrice still continue unpropitious?" inquired Lady Haviland of Mr. Leigh. He smiled — " I am not quite au desespoir^'' he replied, " and, 1 assure you, I anticipate great things from having you as auxiliaries. I do not suppose that she ex- tends her aversion to the ladies of England — and, indeed, I did flatter myself, last night, that she seemed somewhat to regret my leaving the company abruptly, on receiving your ladyship's note — and particularly when she found that it was the arrival of a lady that called me away, which I took care she should know." '' I confess I am very anxious to see this formida- ble beauty, whose charms, it seemB, are quite sufii- 31. 5 B 738 EMILY MO R ELAND cient to make you forget her insulting opinion of vour country," replied Lady Haviland; "but, allons, we shall see, this evening. Only remember^ I shal. be very angry with you, if she does not answer the expectations you have raised." "I am willing to abide the utmost severity of your ladyship's judgment," returned Mr. Leigh; "for, judging of her only with the eye of a painter, and setting quite aside all other feelings, 1 pronounce Beatrice Da Vinci faultless, in point of personal beauty." " The point, then, is perfectly decided," returned Lady Haviland, " for who will dare dispute the judgment of one, who must, from his studies, be a perfect judge of female beauty?" " We shall see," observed Herbert, looking at Emily, with an expression which seemed to say, ' I will not allow your judgment to be perfect, unless you acknowledge there is one, at least, who equals your divinity.' The hour appointed for their visit at length ar- rived; and, with anxious hearts, the whole party drove to the residence of Signor Nardini. The Signor and his lady, a lively agreeable wo- man, received them with every mark of attention ; but both Herbert and Emily were instantly fasci- nated by the appearance of Beatrice Da Vinci, to whom Mr. Leigh introduced them, observing, that he trusted he was offering a peculiar title to her favour, when he assured her that Mr. Leslie, in spitfe of his English name and English looks, was not a native of England. KMILY MORELAND. 739 A slight blush increased the brilliancy of the beautiful Beatrice's dark eyes, as she gracefully bowed to the strangers; but she did not attempt to repel the insinuation which this observation conveyed, except by a look of reproach to the speaker, which Herbert thought spoke more of kindness of feeling towards him than scorn. The first glance convinced Emily that Mr. Leigh had not overrated her charms, for she was indeed eminently beautiful; but Herbert, as he alternately gazed at her and Emily, was not so satisfied of her pre-eminence over one whom he had never before seen equalled; and before he had been half an hour in the room, he was decided in his opinion that any unprejudiced person would have yielded the palm of beauty to his Emily. The facility with which the latter conversed with her in her native language, delighted and interested the youthful Beatrice — yet her attention seemed, from time to time, to be intently fixed on Signora Orsini, who sat pale and silent, from anxious expec- tation, fearing even to utter a word that could lead to the subject in which all her thoughts were cen- tered. " You seem to look at Signora Orsini very intently, Beatrice," observed Signor Nardini. " She is a na- tive of the same city which claims the honour of your birth — yet I think it impossible you could have known her, for it is many years since she quitted Venice." *' I have certainly never seen the Signora before," replied the unconscious girl, "but her features, and 740 EMILY MORELANiy. the tone of her voice, strongly reriind me of a dear, dear friend, whom I would give the world to see at this moment." A look of intelligence passed between those who were anxiously attending to every syllable she uttered. " I can easily guess who you mean," returned Nar- dini, " but does Sister Agnes, whom you know I have been long dying to see, that I may scold her for spoiling you — does she really resemble Signora Orsini?" " She is very, very like her ; only dear Sister Agnes is still paler, and, I should think, much older. She is not so tall, either — and the colour of her hair is different; but their features, and more particularly the voice, are so alike, that I quite started when Sig- Dora Orsini first spoke." " Did you never hear that your friend Agnes had a sister ?" inquired the Signor. *^' Oh, yes — but it cannot be that lady,'* she replied, with considerable emotion, " for dear Sister Agnes has many times told me that she was dead — had died broken-hearted at her misfortunes." "She was mistaken!" exclaimed Herbert, in an agitated tone ; " in more than one instance she has been mistaken — for be assured that in that lady you behold the sister she lamented !" Beatrice threw her arms round the Signora's neck, exclaiming, with vivacity — " Can it be possible that you are Rosalia? And yet, I am sure it is so — for, from the first minute I beheld you, my heart seemed to claim you as a friend." EMILY MORELAND. 74l " My name is, indeed, Rosalia," replied the Sig- nora, as soon as she could speak, " and I have every reason to believe that, in the friend you speak of with so much affection, I recognise the sister whose loss I have so long lamented." ** Her name was " said Beatrice. " Laurentina," rejoined the Signora, " Laurentina Orsini." " It was, indeed, Laurentina — for such she has called herself to me; but the latter name she has never mentioned. It was a name, she said, which, till she brought disgrace upon it, had never been sullied; and she was desirous not to propagate the blot which her conduct had occasioned. Yet she was not guilty — she was cruelly, barbarously deceived, and I should hate and despise any one," she added, with vehemence, " who should dare to condemn her!" " There is no one here," observed Herbert, taking her hand, as if grateful for the ardour she displayed in his mother's cause, " be assured, there is not any one to whom her melancholy story is known, who does not regard your friend with the deepest com- passion for her sufferings. But of my feelings you will be a better judge when you learn, that I am the son whose loss you have heard her deplore, and who, until it was confirmed from your lips, has been trem- bling from fear that his mother had not survived her unexampled misfortunes." Beatrice was for some moments speechless with surprise, but the extreme emotion she saw visible in the countenances of all around, assured her of the 742 EMILY MOUELAND. reality of what she had just heard, and she gave ut- terance to the most lively expressions of joy. *' Dear, dear Agnes !" she exclaimed, " what rap- ture is in store for her? And yet,*' suddenly checking herself, she added, " how shall it be told to her ? — for she will certainly die with joy, if it comes suddenly upon her." ''' We have dared to rest our hopes on yourself," replied Herbert, " to undertake that difficult task. From your friends, and, indeed, from your own avowal we have learned, that you are most desirous of visiting the Convent, and " *' I will go with you instantly," exclaimed the im- petuous girl. " Oh, how honoured and happy I feel, in being chosen to be the means of communicating such joyful tidings to my dear mother, for such she has been to me." "It is rather too late to commence your journey to-night, Beatrice," observed Signor Nardini, smi- ling, " and you will need, too, some hours of sober reflection, to prepare you for the task; for you must be conscious that it will require considerable skill, to avoid a too sudden disclosure of such surprising and overwhelming events as the restoration of a sister and a son, whom your friend has for years considered inhabitants of the grave." " I do not think," replied Beatrice, " that she ever entertained a doubt of her dear Rosalia's death, though I know not how she had been led into that belief; but I have heard her frequently speak of the probability that her son was living, and pray that he might, some time or another, discover the secret of EMILV MORELAND. 743 his birth, though she could never hope to benefit by it, And is that Jady, too, a relative?" she suddenly observed, looking at Emily, who had been, by the kindest attentions, attempting to moderate the in- tense emotions of her beloved Rosalia, at this entire confirmation of her warmest hopes. " She has, as yet, no legal claim to that title," re- turned Herbert, in a low voice; "but a short period will, I trust, enable me to present in her a daughter to share her afi*ections." " I understand," observed Beatrice. " She will have reason, indeed, to rejoice at the happiness of her son." " And we have all reason, I am sure, to be most grateful to our friend here," said Herbert, " to whose warm interest in our behalf we have been indebted for this confirmation of our hopes." Beatrice smilirgly held out her hand to Mr. Leigh, as if perfectly comprehending that this would be a sufficient reward for the part he had taken in the discovery which had given her so much pleasure; and Herbert stole away to the side of Emily, to allow him the opportunity of making the most he could of her favorable disposition towards him. The arrival of other company, whom Signor Nar- dini had purposely delayed, till the explanation he anticipated had taken place, imposed, in some mea- sure, a restraint; which was beneficial to all par- ties. Music was introduced, and Herbert, in the enthusiastic admiration which Emily's talents and beauty elicited, felt for a time his attention with- drawn from any but the present enjoyment. 744 EMILY MOU ELAND. Seated close to ♦.he side of Signora Orsini, whom she scarcely ever quitted, Beatrice found, however, many opportunities of conversing- with her on the subject nearest their hearts ; and the former heard many interesting particulars of her sister, who, she learned, instead of supinely yielding to the indul- gence of her grief, endeavoured, by active employ- ment, as far as the rules of her order allowed, to beguile it of its fiercest stings. To her, almost ex- clusively, Beatrice had been indebted for all her acquirements; and though, at the first entrance of the latter into the Convent, eight years before the present period, Sister Agnes had frequently suffered from paroxysms of grief and regret, which had in- duced her to seclude herself from the sight of any human being, and, indeed, it was reported among the sisterhood, entirely deranged her mind — Rosalia learned with gratitude, that, in proportion as her feelings had become interested, and her attention occupied by her care of Beatrice's education, she had been more composed and regular in her ha- bits, and had even ijeen seen occasionally to smile at the frolics of her youthful protegee^ though that smile was frequently followed by a sigh, which seemed to lament that she had been, even for a mo- ment, involuntarily forgetful of her sorrows. " Dear Sister Agnes," concluded Beatrice, with a sigh of affectionate regret, " she has much felt, I fear, the loss of the wild girl whom she took so much pains with, and whose greatest merit was the sincere gratitude and affection with which she regarded her preceptress. Delighted as I was at the prospect of RMILV SIORET.AND. ■«45 liberty, and anxious as I certainly felt to soe that world of which I knew so little, I could have beem almost content to have renounced it all, rather than leave her; and actually contemplated requesting^ permission from my guardians to take the veil in the same Convent, that I might avoid a separation which, I knew, would occasion her an additional sorrow — but her gentle remonstrances and represen- tations dissuaded me, and I yielded to her proposal, that I should make a trial of the world for one year; at the end of which, if I should prefer a monastic life, she would offer no further objection." " Six months of that period are already passed, I believe," said Herbert, who had felt his attention too forcibly excited by all that concerned his mo- ther, not to listen to every word that Beatrice ut- tered. " Half the time is gone, and does Signora Da Vinci still think that she could confine her wishes within the limits of a cloister?" Beatrice smiled — " It is hardly a fair question — but T will tell you frankly, that I fear I could not. I should be ungrateful to my kind friends here, and — and No, 1 will confess the truth, even the society of dear Sister Agnes could not now reconcile me to the dull round of a conventual life, where ♦ Morn after morn brings the same changeless scene.' " " I am rejoiced to hear that you have decided so wisely," observed Herbert ; " it would, indeed, be a shame that such charms shoivld be buried in a cloister." 32. . 5 c 74fi EMILY MORELAND. " It would, indeed !" re-echoed Mr. Leigh, with a sigh, as he approached them. Beatrice looked archly for a moment in his face, but directly after turned away with an air of scorn and indifFererice, which completely destroyed the favourable impression which her first look had created. It was very plain, however, to Herbert, who was perhaps the most attentive observer on this subject, that Beatrice, in spite of her attempt to keep up the prejudice which she had at first felt against the young Englishman, was gradually becoming more sensible of his good qualities and personal recom- mendations; and the attention with which he was treated by Signora Orsini and her friends, seemed to have considerable weight with her ; and before they parted for the night, Mr. Leigh feli, as Herbert whispered in his ear, that he had no cause to despair of overcoming her aversion. It had been agreed, that, at an early hour on the following morning, the whole of the travellers^ with Beatrice and Mr. Leigh, who eagerly embraced the offer of Herbert that he should be of the party, should depart for Velletri ; and that Beatrice, with Emily and Mr. Leigh for her companions, should first repair to the Convent, whither they were to be, at a short distance of time, followed by Herbert and Signora Orsini, who, in the character of strangers desirous of seeing the interior of the Convent, would, Beatrice assured them, find ready admittance to th^ parlour, chapel, &c. The day proved unusually gloomy for this tine EMILY MORELAND. 747 climate, and, agitated with alternate hopes and fears, the whole of the party, with the exception of Mr Leigh and Beatrice, were silent and pensive. With Beatrice, every thing she saw or heard, af- forded matter for pleasurable animadversion and remark; and the flattering attention with which every word she uttered was received by Mr. Leigh, and the perfect agreement of taste, in their admira- tion of the surrounding scenery, seemed to render them better friends than they had ever been. The sun, which had not visited them with a single beam of his bright rays during the whole of the day, broke out with the most brilliant radiance, at the moment they first beheld the grey spires of the Con- vent, which it illuminated, as if with one sheet of liquid gold. Beatrice's eyes sparkled as she hailed the flatter- ing omen, and Signora Orsini, after gazing with a throbbing heart, and eyes which seemed as if they would penetrate the massy walls which had been so long the living tomb of her unhappy sister, threw herself back in the corner of the carriage, and gave way to a flood of tears. Herbert, too, was greatly agitated, but he suppressed his own feelings, and endeavoured to re-assure the trembling and agitated Rosalia, by reminding her that they were now near the termination of the suspense, the harassing doubts and fears, by which they had been so long agitated. At a short distance from the Convent gates, which the carriage passed on its way to the inn at which they were to put up, Beatrice, Emily, and Mr. Leigh alighted, and the rest of the party drove on. 748 EMILY MORELAND. The portress received Beatrice with (he warmest welcome, and, to her instant inquiry for Sister Agnes, replied that she was as well as usual, though her old habits of melancholy had returned with additional force, since she (Beatrice) had left the Convent. " The good mother abbess," she added, " is dan- gerously ill, I fear, past recovery ; and the sisters," she observed, lowering her voice, " are all strife and contention, about who is to succeed her. At pre- sent, Sister Francesca, who, you know, was always her favourite, performs all her duties; but she has, I fancy, but little interest outside the Convent, for she is not of noble birth, and, therefore, I suppose, she will soon be obliged to resign her dignity to some one else." " This is in some respects fortunate for our views,'* observed Beatrice, when they were left alone in the parlour, to which the portiess conducted her, while she went to mention their arrival to the superior and Sister Agnes, whom Beatrice requested most parti- cularly might be told she was there. " Sister Fran- cesca," she continued, "is a gossiping, good-natured soul, who is always delighted at the opportunity of seeing strangers; and it will be easier to conciliate her favour, than that of our lady abbess, who is not very indulgent, I can assure you." Emily's heart palpitated with expectation, when a nun entered behind the grating which stretched across the parlour, and prevented the nearer ap- proach of visitors; but the short, ungraceful figure, and plump round face, which even the severity of conventual discipline had not deprived of its rosy EMILY MORELAND. 749 hue and cheerful smile, at once told that this was not her whom Beatrice and Emily so earnestly expected. It was sister Francesca, whose salutation to the young English travellers was not less cordial than to Beatrice. " Holy mother, how you are grown, my child !" she exclaimed, after the first compliments; " I declare, I could scarcely have known you — and Sister Agnes, how she will be surprised! She is coming directly to see you — but you know her way — eyery thing puts ner in a flurry, poor thing; and our dear mother, alas! she will never see you again. She is going fast to receive the reward of her good deeds ! I wish we were all as well prepared — but we are sinful crea- tures, all of us. There are fine doings about who is to succeed her — but I do not trouble my head, though I am afraid we shall never get one like her, so good and kind to all. Sister Ursula, who, you know, is aunt to the Bishop of 1 forget his title — but no matter — she is thought to have the best chance ; but, I don't know, the Virgin forbid I should aspire to such an office, but there might be those chosen who are less fitted!" " Jealousy, vanity, and ambition, in a cloister,'* whispered Mr. Leigh to Emily; "surely, one might expect such feelings could find no habitation here." Emily had no time to reply, for at that momenta figure, which, from the bloodless countenance and unmoved serenity of feature, might have been rather taken for a statue of marble than a living creature, glided slowly forward, and fixed her dove-like eyes on Beatrice. 750 EMILY MORELAND. " Dear, dear Sister Agnes, how I have longed for this moment !" exclaimed the latter. Agnes' lips moved, but Emily could not catcli a sound she uttered. A slight emotion seemed to cross her brow, as she apparently at that moment dis- covered there were strangers present. She uttered a few words to Francesca, whose chattering seemed involuntarily to be hushed at her presence, and Bea- trice was admitted behind the grate, and immediately threw her arms round the neck of her beloved moni- tress. " We all love Sister Agnes," said Francesca, in a low voice to Emily, in whose eyes the big drops of sympathy had started ; " she has suffered, poor thing, a great deal — but that was before I came here, and it must be forgotten now." A summons from the Abbess to Francesca relieved them from the task of attending to her unmeaning chat, and Emily awaited with anxiety the result of Beatrice's communication to Sister Agnes, to whom she was addressing some sentences, which seemed to have roused her at once into animation, and she darted a look at Mr. Leigh which seemed to penetrate to his heart. " You are from England," she observed, in an agitated tone ; " yet Beatrice tells me that you are her friends. Dare I trust assertions — What can you know of me? What is it that you would tell me?" " They would tell you of happiness yet in store for you — of the certain termination of all the doubt and suspense that you have suffered for so many years," EMILY MORELAND. 751 exclaimed Beatrice, " but that they fear you will not have sufficient fortitude to bear it." " Can it be possible? Merciful Heaven, can it be possible?" she replied, clasping her snow-white hands, and raising them as if in adoration of the power whom she invoked, and remaining silent for a few moments; and then, again turning her earnest glance on Mr. Leigh, she exclaimed — " You are not — surely, you cannot be my " ^* I am the friend, only, Madam, of one who is now in agonising suspense awaiting the result of this in- terview — who implores you to bestow on him that blessing, of which he has been so long deprived. He was fearful of the effects of too suddenly venturing into your presence, but he stays only for your sum- mons " " He is alive, then in Italy, and I shall see him ?" exclaimed Agnes. " Oh, do not delay, for an instant — for my heart yet doubts the possibility. Surely, I am not deceived — speak to me, Beatrice — tell me that this is not one of those delusions which have so often overwhelmed my poor weak brain !" " Will you not trust your own Beatrice, dear, dear mother?" replied the latter — "have you not often told me that your heart still whispered that your son was living, and that even the thought that he might some time discover the fate of bis mother, seemed to enable you to bear with, and almost wish for the prolongation of your existence?" "And those visions which I have sometimes thought sinful, will be realised!" returned Agnes. " I shall see him — shall hear him acknowledge me for his 752 EMILY MORKLAND. mother ? Oh, God, thou hast indeed heard my prayers, and I will strive to deserve the blessing!" A signal from Beatrice was immediately understood by Mr. Leigh, who left the room with Emily, whose ao-itation was too excessive to allow her to witness the approaching interview. Herbert was already at the gate of the Convent. He was alone — for Rosalia's strength of mind had entirely deserted her, and Lady Haviland had pre- vailed on her to postpone, until Mr. Leigh's return, any attempt to see her sister. The first glance at Herbert was sufficient to con- vince the anxious, expecting mother that it was her son whom she beheld, and uttering faintly — " It is he — it is his very self! just so did he look " She sank, fainting, into Beatrice's arms. Herbert was in agonies — he would have given the world to have supported her, but the envious grate interposed, and he could only stretch out his arms, and, by the most endearing expressions, endeavour to awaken her to a sense of their mutual happiness. Sister Francesca entered, and Beatrice prevented her exclamations by a brief explanation of the cause of the scene she beheld. Mr. Leigh soon discovered that the latter had not been wrong in believing that it was fortunate Fran- cesca was invested with authority. The good soul was melted into tears of sympathy, but the sparkling diamond, which Mr. Leigh contrived to insinuate through the grate into her hand, had even a more powerful effect than his eloquence. All fears of future consequences vanished before this pov^erful EMILY MORELA.VD. 753 advocate. She retired for a few minutes, to make her arrangements to prevent intrusion, and Herbert was admitted, for the first and last time, to the extatic pleasure of embracing his mother, and receiving from her lips the holy kiss of maternal love. Agnes had revived to a full conviction of her hap- piness — but she was too sensibly alive to the danger that would result to her beloved son, as well as all concerned, should this transgression of the strict laws of the conventual life be discovered, to prolong this indulgence many minutes. Herbert returned to his former situation beyond the grate, and having suffered the penance of hearing Sister Francesca, with whispered eagerness, expatiate on the danger she had run, which she took great pains to assure them was from no mercenary views, they were again left to the pleasure of unrestrained intercourse, the vo- luble Francesca informing them she was wanted in a hundred different places, and could not possibly in- dulge her inclinations by remaining longer. Another joyful surprise still awaited the trans- ported Agnes. Beatrice was fearful of disturbing the comparative calmness of her beloved friend, by hinting aught respecting her sister; — but Herbert, (or, more properly, William, for by that name it ap peared his mother recognised him,) rightly consider ing that, prepared as her mind was, by the excitement it had already undergone, it would better bear the disclosure now, than at a future period, took occa- sion, in reply to one of the numerous questions she asked, to mention his aunt Rosalia, as one to whom he had, in part, been indebted for the discovery of his birth. 32. 6 B 754 EMILY ,MOR ELAND. His mother started — "Rosalia!" she reiterated. *' Do I hear you aright? my sister, did you say? Have I more wonders to hear! They told me she was dead — that I had sent her to a premature grave, and yet you speak of her as if " " You have been deceived in this, as well as in many other respects, my dear mother," returned William, gently. " I assure you that I have seen ray aunt very lately, and you will," he continued, seeing she bore this intelligence with comparative calmness, "you, too, will see her very shortly — for she has ac- companied me from England, and is now very near you." "My sister — my dear Rosalia!" murmured his mother, while tears of affection streamed down her pallid cheeks. " How often have I bewailed her loss^ and mourned, in bitterness of spirit, that T had been the cause of blighting her youthful prospects, and consigning her to an early grave ! Yet she lives to forgive me, and take from my last hours the stinging reflection that she, who had loved me so tenderly in this world, would appear as my accuser at the throne of mercy." " Are you sufficiently composed, my dear mother, to bear to see her immediately?" inquired William. " She is most impatient to " " Oh, yes — I am quite, quite calm," returned Agnes. " Do not delay one moment, lest some unforeseen chance should dash the cup of happiness from my lips, before I have drained it! Let me but once behold Rosalia, and I have not a wish on earth unsatisfied." Accompanied by Emily, who had now succeeded in conquering the emotions of her own heart, in the EMILV MOREI.AND. 755 hope of supporting and berfig of assistance to her dear friend Rosalia, the latter had already reached the Convent. The timely application of another bribe to Sister Francesca, who viewed, with all the delight that a child beholds a new toy, a beautiful pearl chain and cross, which Rosalia took from her own neck to place round that of the nun, procured them easy admittance to the interior of the Convent) and in a few moments Agnes was clasped in the arms of her weeping sister, who, for some minutes, was incapable of uttering a word in reply to her affec- tionate endearments. The sad change which had taken place in the once t)eautiful and blooming Laurentina, who, as Sister Agnes, could scarcely have been recognised, except by those so nearly connected with her, excited tears of the bitterest regret from her affectionate sister. "Wonder not that I am changed," observed the former, "but be rather surprised, as I have fre- quently been, that it has been possible for me so long to sustain life, under such accumulated agonies as I have felt— but we will not ungratefully dwell on past sorrows, but rather rejoice in the present moments of unlooked-for happiness !" The hour of parting came, at length, too soon for all — but it was impossible to trespass farther on Sis- ter Francesca's indulgence. They were at liberty, however, she informed them, to attend the vespers in the church; and though they could not hope there to distinguish Agnes from the sisterhood, yet the certainty that they were still near her, and beheld 750 EMILY MO R ELAND. her, though veiled from their conscious eyes, deter- mined them to accept the invitation. Emily had several times attended the celebration of public worship since her abode in Italy, but she had never felt so deeply affected, as at the solemn chaunt of the nuns on their entrance into the chapel; but Rosalia's emotions rose to a still greater height, when in the single voice, which rose with overpow- ering sweetness when the choral swell had ceased, she recognised the thrilling strains which had so often delighted her in happier days. Emily was fearful that Rosalia would faint — but the tears which streamed from her eyes relieved her, and they remained till the conclusion of the service. William's whole thoughts now were occupied with the idea of getting his mother out of the Convent. To leave her behind him, seemed impossible; but on disclosing his wishes to his mother she declared her determination to remain in Italy. William was in despair — he would have repeated his solicitations, have pointed out that vows which were forced upon her, and which were taken under false impressions, could not — ought not — to be con- sidered binding; but his mother gently silenced him. " Do not, my dear boy," she observed, " disturb that peace which I have with so much difficulty ac- quired, and which the reflection of your happiness Avill render doubly secure. Most solemnly do I now confirm in my heart the vows which before only my lips uttered ; and let the assurance that I have not » wish now that is ungratified, induce you to dismiss, EMILY MORELAND. 757 for ever, wishes which never can, never shal], for a moment, influence me!" The death of the Abbess, which took place before the travellers quitted the Convent, left Sister Fran- cesca more than ever at liberty to indulge them with unrestrained intercourse; and Mr. Leigh having undertaken the (to him) delightful task of conducting Beatrice to her friends in Rome, the remainder of the party prolonged their stay at Velletri to more than a month, during which they daily enjoyed, for several hours, the society of their beloved relative, who still, however, remained firm in her resolution to resist all thoughts of leaving her retreat. The period which Emily had fixed for throwing aside her mourning habit, now rapidly approached; and William's mind became occupied with the ar- rangements which it was necessary to form for his union. It was Lady Haviland's earnest wish that the cere- mony of their marriage should be performed in Lon- don, and, at her suggestion. Sister Agnes herself urged the subject to her son. It was impossible that William could offer any reasonable objection to an arrangement so congenial to his inclination, and having there taken leave of her, with an assurance that his happiness would be incomplete until he again beheld her, he returned with his friends to Rome, from whence, after spending a few days, in compliment to Signer Nardini and his family, they again set out on their departure for the port from which they were to re-embark for England, where, after a most delightful voyage, they arrived ip tiafety. 758 EMILY MORELAND. Within three weeks of their arrival in London, the public papers announced the splendid marriage between the heir of the Moreland title and estates, and a young lady descended from the same family. The beauty, the taste, the jewels, and the dresses of the bride, were all duly enumerated and admired, and Emily smiled as she saw the consequence which an accession of fortune had thus bestowed on one, who, only a short period before, had entered London with no other hope or ambition than that of being enabled, by her own industry and talents, to secure a humble subsistence. The Signora soon after returned to Italy, and ob- tained the Orsini estates; whilst Emily revisited the peaceful Valley of St. Clare, and, in the society of those dearest to her heart, traced over again the scenes of her infancy. Her poor old friend Isaac, however, did not live to welcome her whom he had always regarded as his own child; but Emily had forgotten none of the friends of her youth, and many were rendered happy by her benevolence. On the spot where had stood her grandfather's cottage, she gave orders for the erection of a plain but elegant house, to which, during her long and happy life, she frequently retired from gayer scenes, to muse over past vicissitudes, and render grateful thanks to that kind Providence which enabled her to surmount the difficulties which had once surrounded her. To her influence, too, it was owing that William Wilson was restored to his native home, and became a useful member of society; and, through her means EMILY MOllELAND. 759 and interference, Susan, who had been happily con- vinced of the utter worthlessness of the would be- fashionable Augustus Gilbert, in time to avoid the snare that was laid for her, consented to renounce her town habits, and become the industrious partner of her cousin William, whose farm was restored to its former respectability and comfort by Emily's timely assistance. To her kind friend, Mr. Moreland, to whom she was indebted for the introduction which finally led to all her happiness, Emily was also enabled to ren- der very material service; while, of all her early friends, none but Mr. Evelyn and his family rejected a renewal of her friendship. The pride of the young curate, and, perhaps, a softer feeling, led him to avoid every opportunity of seeing the former object of his affection; as he could not forget the slight Emily had shown him. The only drawback on the first years of Emily's marriage was the troublesome and expensive litiga- tion in which her husband was obliged to engage, in order to substantiate his claim to the Moreland peerage and estate; in which, one of his most in- veterate opponents was Lady Rachel Templeton, who could not, it appeared, brook the idea that the obscure girl whom she had condescended to patronise, should be raised to an equal rank with herself; but the decision was at last pronounced in favour of the son of Walter Moreland and LaurentinaOrsini; and the Earl and Countess of Moreland, William and Emily, were at length formally acknowledged, even by those who had most strongly opposed their claims. 760 EMILY MORELAND. An opportunity soon occurred which enabled ihe Countess to dispose to her satisfaction of the money which Frazer had conveyed to her, and which his death, soon after his departure from England, left entirely at her disposal. It was devoted to restoring- to comfort and re- spectability a young female, whom his arts had se- duced from the paths of virtue, and who still lives to bless the hand that raised her from despair. Lady Haviland, happy herself in the contemplation of the happiness that surrounded her, lived to an advanced age among her friends, enjoying, by turns, the splendour of that sphere which their rank obliged them to mingle in, and the comparative humility of that, which possessed to them infinitely more attrac- tions, in the Valley of St. Clare. FINIS. DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER FOR PLACING THE PLATES. Frontispiece to face the vignette title. Reginald became the object of their care .... to face page 30 The interview was repeated, &c 47 Marian, with a beating heart, &c 48 Portrait of Herbert Leslie 127 . Emily Moreland 331 She beheld a beautiful boy, &c 631 It was the representation of an Italian festival 692 She leaned from the balcony, &c 710 C. 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