L I B RAFLY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVtRSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 Mv555t 
 1&34 
 
 V.I 
 
CENTRAL CIRCULATION AND BOOKSTACKS 
 
 The person borrowing this material is 
 responsible for its renewal or return 
 before the Latest Date stamped below. You 
 may be charged a minimum fee of $75.00 
 for each non- returned or lost item. 
 Theft, mutilation, or defacement of library materials can 
 be causes for student disciplinary action. All materials 
 owned by the University of Illinois Library are the 
 property of the State of Illinois and are protected by 
 Article 1 6B of Illinois Criminal Law and Procedure. 
 TO RENEW, CALL (217) 333-8400. 
 University of Illinois Library at Urbana-Champaign 
 
 OCT 2 6 ENI'O 
 
 When renewing by phone, write new due date 
 below previous due date. LI 62 
 
TWO 
 OLD MEN'S TALES 
 
 THE DEFORMED 
 
 AND 
 
 THE ADMIRAL'S DAUGHTER 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. I 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY CONDUIT STREET, 
 
 1834. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 E. LOWE, PLAYHOUSE YARD, BLACKFRIARS. 
 

 THE DEFORMED 
 
In One small Volume, bound in Silk, 
 
 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 " This is the art of conversing and corresponding by means of 
 flowers ; take the jasmine, the heliotrope, the scented honey- 
 suckle, an inverted tulip, twine them together with the ivy, and 
 in lieu of presenting an unmeaning nosegay, you are oflfering a 
 delicate compliment, spoken, 'tis true, in perfumed silence, but 
 well understood by the initiated. It is a most novel and ingenious 
 amusement."— Morraing- Paper. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 
 
 Un Dieu descend toujours pour denouer le drame, 
 
 i^ Toujours la providence y veille et nous proclame 
 Cette justice occulte, et ce divin ressort 
 Qui fait jouer le temps, et gouverne le sort. 
 
 Lamartine* 
 
 The circumstances of life having thrown me 
 into very close communication with a certain 
 noble family, and made me acquainted with 
 a several events, which appeared to me remark- 
 able 1 1 have thought it well to record them in 
 the best manner I am able ; esteeming, as I have 
 always done, a faithful representation of human 
 conduct and its consequences to be the best 
 moral lesson which can be read to youth. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 I was young when I first became connected 
 with the family of the Marquis of Brandon. I 
 had just then succeeded to the severe toils and 
 the scanty remunerations of the medical admi- 
 nistration of the town of Carstones and its ad- 
 joining neighbourhood — a neighbourhood, I 
 may say, almost entirely in the dependence of 
 the Marquis of Brandon, whose magnificent 
 park nearly surrounded the pretty little town. 
 in which I was to reside. Indeed the principal 
 street of Carstones served, as it would seem, 
 but as an avenue to one of the outer gates of 
 the castle, and was terminated by the frowning 
 towers of what had once been the keep of that 
 vast feudal edifice, which for centuries had 
 been tenanted by this noble family. The town 
 in fact owed its existence to the vicinity of 
 the strong hold; and the castle built, as such 
 fortresses commonly were, on a proud com- 
 manding steep, towered above the little col- 
 lection of houses; inhabited by those who 
 seemed to combine, in their relations with the 
 
THE DEFORMED. 
 
 gl. 
 
 reat Baron of the strong hold, something of 
 the base submission of slaves, with the affec- 
 tionate dependence of children. But things 
 were now altered ; though, as far as dependence 
 and servility went, the present inhabitants of the 
 little town might have rivalled their ancestors ; 
 the outward manifestations of such sentiments 
 had, of course, changed their character ; and 
 in the castle itself, the ease and luxury of 
 modern refinement might be perceived ming- 
 ling somewhat strangely with the harsh outlines 
 and gloomy splendour of its ancient architec- 
 ture. Round the huge dark towers, shrubbe- 
 ries, flower-beds, velvet lawns, and well-rolled 
 gravel walks, might be seen ; the massive stone 
 casements, formed rather to exclude, than to 
 admit, the light and air, had been succeeded in 
 many places by sash windows of plate glass; 
 and on every side the contrivances intended to 
 promote security and defence were giving way 
 before those of elegance and comfort. 
 
 The vast gloomy hall, it is true, retained its 
 
 B 
 
 Q 
 
4* THE DEFORMED. 
 
 ancient character of stern magnificence. The 
 hght, penetrating the narrow Gothic windowsy 
 fell upon the waving banners, the once bright 
 and gorgeous armour, the shields, the lances of 
 other days and other manners ; and gleamed 
 upon the portraits of those fierce and power- 
 ful Barons, at once the terror and the protec- 
 tion of the domain over which they ruled ; while 
 gentle ladies in prim cap, starched ruff, and 
 jewelled stomacher; with the remarkably small 
 hand and regular oval countenance observable 
 in the portraits of our old English dames, still 
 gazed demurely on the rugged warriors frown- 
 ing grimly around. 
 
 The apartments in general offered a striking 
 picture of the contrast between recent and an- 
 cient tastes and manners. Many of them had 
 been fitted up as living-rooms, furnished and 
 adorned with all the elaborate luxury of our 
 times ; though, it is true, adapted by the skill of 
 the presiding artist as far as possible to the ge- 
 nius of the place, so that no glaring incongruity 
 
THE DEFORMED. 5 
 
 anight shock the eye. The massive carved and 
 gilded furniture, the rich satins, damasks, and 
 velvets, were in harmony with the ideas of an- 
 tique grandeur inspired by the vastness of the 
 building ; but the splendid mirrors, the extraor- 
 dinary vividness of the colouring displayed up- 
 on the walls and hangings, the splendid collec- 
 tion of pictures in gorgeous frames, the thou- 
 sand forms of elegance and beauty presented on 
 every side, reminded the spectator that all was 
 the work of recent art. One whole side of the 
 castle remained, however, unvisited by modern 
 improvement, and the long suite of its echoing 
 apartments still retained their character of 
 ancient, faded, gloomy splendour. The small 
 pointed windows of stained glass scarcely af- 
 forded at mid -day more than a twilight view 
 of the ponderous, tall-backed ebony chairs ; 
 the wide yawning chimneys, with their ample 
 hearths, and towering mantlepieces ; the dark 
 tapestry which waved and moved when the 
 opening door admitted the air. Beds were 
 
b THE DEFORMED. 
 
 there with testers reaching to the ceihng, from 
 whose heavily adorned canopies the long gloomy- 
 curtains hung in massive folds — antique cabi- 
 nets — strange, mysterious-looking chests — mis- 
 shapen figures, — grotesque and enormous jars — 
 all the treasures of rude uncivilized ages here as- 
 sembled, were arranged in the stiff, undeviating 
 order that had been preserved for centuries — 
 forcibly recalling those days when life appears 
 to have been a system of grave representation, 
 rather than of social enjoyment; where neither 
 companionship, nor gaiety, nor the happy do- 
 mestic negligence of our times could find a place. 
 The towers had been long abandoned to 
 the owls and bats; but those who chose to 
 climb to the summit were rewarded by one of 
 the richest and most varied landscapes to be 
 found, among the multitude which adorn this 
 land ; still, for the gaiety and luxuriance of its 
 scenery, deserving the name of merry England. 
 The vast domain of Brandon, acquired with all 
 its forests, streams, chases, and rights manorial 
 
THE DEFORMED. 7 
 
 and territorial at the Conquest, by the good 
 sword of John the Long, first Earl, stretched 
 far on every side ; intersected by a magnificent 
 sheet of water, presenting every variety of 
 sweeping lawn and undulating vale and hill, 
 interspersed with immense oaks and elms, and 
 crowned by the waving woods which rose in 
 splendid profusion : through the whole extent 
 of the park the long dark avenue might be seen 
 extending many a mile, while glimpses of the 
 blue and hazy distant mountains added soft- 
 ness to this charming picture. 
 
 The Marquis of Brandon was twice married. 
 When I first became an inhabitant of Car- 
 stones, the mistress of this almost royal abode 
 was a very fair and somewhat short woman; with 
 eyes of that greyish, whiteish blue which reso- 
 lutely defies expression ;-her hair was of a hue 
 equally uncharactered, it did not quite merit the 
 term sandy, nor was it red, nor was it flaxen, it 
 was a mixture of all three, or rather a shade 
 au juste milieu between them all — her features. 
 
8 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 however, were small and delicate, and bore an 
 air of so much quiet and unpretending gentle- 
 ness, without the slightest approach to imbeci- 
 lity, that it was impossible to look upon her 
 face without being pleased and attracted : it 
 was so with the graces of her person ; she was 
 low, insignificant, ill-grown, and indeed, ra- 
 ther lame; but there was a simplicity and 
 truth in her gestures, a tranquil composure 
 about her movements, an absence of every 
 thing affected or unnatural, without the slight- 
 est touch of vulgarity, so perfectly in keeping 
 with the grave sweetness of her voice and 
 countenance, that no one could regard her 
 without a feeling of respect and love. 
 
 The Marquis was, on the contrary, in spite of 
 his noble blood, rather singularly u7iaristocratic 
 in his appearance and manners — he was hand- 
 some, but he looked rather clownish — gay, but 
 a little vulgar — he could not be called foolish, 
 but he was certainly rather heavy — nor rude, 
 though he was unpolished and abrupt. He was 
 
THE DEFORMED. ^ 
 
 gauchCi in fact, both in body and mind, exactly 
 that thing which a nobleman ought not to be; 
 yet is it a defect from which the cares of a 
 Sevigne herself, cannot always protect the heirs 
 of great names and great fortunes. He was, 
 however, excessively good-natured ; but this 
 quality, in general of equivocal value, was ren- 
 dered in his circumstances positively danger- 
 ous, by the extreme indolence and facility of 
 his temper — an indolence and a facility so 
 great, that, insensible to the claims of his high 
 station, he suffered the authority and power 
 with which he was invested to devolve on any 
 one who chose to take the trouble of seizing 
 them — happy if with the habit of acting for 
 himself he could also have surrendered his re- 
 sponsibility — but that was impossible : he con- 
 trived, however, to shut his eyes to its import- 
 ance, if not to its existence — and considered 
 his high rank as a privilege which entailed on 
 others the necessity of labouring for him, while 
 it exempted him from the obHgation of exerting 
 
 B 5 
 
10 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 himself for others. In this alone, indeed, could 
 the sense of pride and privilege in this good-na- 
 tured man be discovered. It never seemed to 
 enter his thoughts that a thing so lofty and so 
 rare as a Marquis of Brandon could have been 
 created for the slightest purpose of utility. 
 His goodness was therefore merely passive — 
 he inflicted little pain; for he was neither harsh, 
 nor unkind, nor exacting; but he occasioned 
 little happiness, for he had neither attention 
 nor activity ; he never intentionally wounded a 
 single being, but he rarely would exert himself 
 for any one's advantage. No one was injured 
 at his hands — no one by his hand was pro- 
 tected from injury. 
 
 The Marquis had, like other young men of 
 his day, made the grand tour in company with 
 his tutor, and run the circle of London follies 
 to a certain degree; but as, like some other 
 of the very great families, his mingled less 
 with the world in general than might have 
 been expected from its rank and importance 
 
THE DEFORMED. 11 
 
 — he, like many other young heirs, had been 
 kept, in what has been caliecl a state of dry- 
 nursing, from his cradle to his majority. Edu- 
 cated by a private tutor, a grave and rather 
 dull young man, with him he had travelled, 
 seeing as little, learning as little, and experi- 
 encing as little, as could be contrived in the 
 course of visiting all the courts of Europe. 
 On his return to London, the eye of his care- 
 ful lady-mother had been upon him ; and 
 having continued to reside in his father's man- 
 sion long after he was of age, the watchfulness 
 of this busy and rather clever woman kept 
 him a good deal in awe, and a good deal in 
 order; therefore, when it was proposed to him 
 to marry Miss Kirkham, the only child of the 
 rich banker, with a fortune of c^oOOjOOO., he 
 made no objection; for he liked his ease, and he 
 began to wish for independence. His father, in 
 spite of his vast estates, he knew to be exces- 
 sively poor — poor with the poverty of a very 
 great man — before the wretchedness of which. 
 
12 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 the poverty of a common beggar sinks into in- 
 significance. His is the indigence of nature — 
 the want of a few things which the accidents 
 of the next hour may reUeve — anxieties, how- 
 ever pressing, which reach not beyond the 
 present moment — but the poverty of the great 
 is a system of hopeless, irretrievable embar- 
 rassment — often the work of successive gene- 
 rations — inextricably interwoven with the web 
 of their existence — a yoke — a burden, shackles, 
 which every successive proprietor puts on at 
 his accession, to lay down only in his grave. 
 A fortunate marriage, the acquisition by this 
 means of one of those vast fortunes, which the 
 unfettered nature of mercantile wealth, allows 
 to descend to female heirs, alone affords the 
 power to break this iron bondage, and shake 
 off the accumulated load of centuries. An 
 opportunity of this kind now offered itself to the 
 family of Brandon. The great banker. Kirk- 
 ham, had one only daughter, the idol of his 
 affections— <£500,000o he said he should lay 
 
THE DEFORMED. 13 
 
 down — actually lay down on her wedding-day. 
 He was himself a very old man ; — this daugh- 
 ter was the child of his old age — the child, 
 too, of a beloved Rachel, now no more — and 
 it might be expected, therefore, that the re- 
 mainder of his vast property would speedily 
 devolve upon the fortunate man who might 
 obtain the young lady's hand. Mr. Kirkham 
 doted upon his daughter, who returned his 
 affection with more than a daughter's duty. 
 To see her happy, I should not say was the 
 darling, it was the sole, object of his heart • 
 and, with the error common to parents, he 
 sought for her happiness in greatness, wealth, 
 and power. Not that he was blindly or sel- 
 fishly ambitious : had his daughter confessed a 
 worthy preference, he would have indulged it, 
 and sacrificed without a sigh all his airy cas- 
 tles: on the other hand, had the most dignified 
 in the land addressed her, wanting the recom* 
 mendation of good morals, and a good reputa- 
 tion, his proposals would have been, without a 
 
14 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 moment's hesitation, rejected. But Jane, this 
 beloved daughter, confessed no preference: 
 she had been brought up by a maiden aunt, 
 with the most exaggerated care and tender- 
 ness, suffered to associate httlie with those of 
 her own age and condition; and, under the 
 plea of ill health, denied not only the amuse- 
 ments common to her years, but the opportu- 
 nity of acquiring the elegant accomplishments 
 now so universal among her sex. 
 
 Accustomed to pass her time almost entirely 
 with her aunt and father, separated from the 
 society of her equals in birth, by the vast dis- 
 tance to which fortune had lifted her above 
 her natural connexions, her pleasures were 
 peaceful and few. With a beautiful flower 
 garden, which she cultivated with equal taste 
 and assiduity — a little carriage, in which she 
 and her good aunt took their daily drive, 
 visiting and blessing every cottager in the 
 neighbourhood : — her school, in which the 
 children were dressed by her purse, and often 
 
THE DEPORMED. 15 
 
 instructed by her care ; — her beautiful alms- 
 house for decayed gentlewomen, with its trim 
 gardens, fair stone fronts, cheerful lattice win- 
 dows, and venerable and happy inmates; — life 
 fleeted on in calm occupation, and unruffled 
 tranquillity. As for love, the passion, far from 
 having reached her heart, had scarcely even 
 occupied her thoughts ; and on marriage she 
 had reflected as little, when the proposal 
 of the Marquis of Brandon was laid in due 
 form before her. She perceived that her father 
 was proud and happy — prouder — happier 
 than she had ever beheld him in her life. She 
 heard that the Earl of St. Germains was ex- 
 cellent and amiable. She saw him — he ap- 
 peared to her young eyes good-tempered, 
 lively, and pleasing both in countenance and 
 manner. To be the wife of one of the first 
 nobles of England, — to belong to an ancient 
 historic family — to share in its grave dignities, 
 high duties, and glorious recollections, — Jane 
 was not insensible to all this ; — though so 
 
16 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 composed, she wanted not imagination, and 
 had under her gentle manner much concealed 
 enthusiasm. She married the Earl of St. Ger- 
 mains — he was a very kind husband, and she 
 was in her own way happy. 
 
 This happiness consisted in an almost un- 
 broken residence at Brandon Castle ; to which 
 place, after a very short time passed in Lon- 
 don, when she was presented, she retired ; for 
 her husband had come into possession shortly 
 before the marriage was concluded. A sense 
 of her own unfitness to adorn a town mansion, 
 or do credit to her husband's choice, amid 
 the glare and magnificence of fashionable life; 
 a discovery which her very first entrance upon 
 that stage enabled her to make, — determined 
 her, with a quiet good sense peculiarly her 
 own, to retire to a sphere where she might 
 find both dignity and useful occupation. 
 Having therefore once appeared at court,, she 
 laid aside those diamonds which might have 
 been the envy of queens, and sending them to 
 
THE DEFORMED. 17 
 
 her banker's, secretly resolved never to wear 
 them more; and having persuaded the good- 
 natured Marquis to indulge her wish of im- 
 mediately visiting Brandon Castle, there she 
 came and there she remained, the beneficent 
 genius of the country, 
 
 I think I see her now, in that low garden 
 chair, drawn by the well-known pair of demure 
 little grey ponies — with the innocent-faced boy, 
 who served her as a postilion, and followed by 
 her own groom in a grey frock, visiting our 
 little town, and stopping at my surgery door. 
 I hear her calm but pleasing voice enquire 
 for me; I come out and receive the gentle 
 apologies for the trouble she is giving. There 
 I stand, not unwilling, till minutes amount to 
 half hours, consulting on the health and wel- 
 fare of all the unfortunate around. Her good 
 sense — the precision of her ideas — the moder- 
 ation of her aims — the justness of her concep- 
 tions — ^the perfect purity of her intentions — 
 the matchless goodness and kindness of her 
 
18 • THE DEFORMED. 
 
 heart, still fill me with the deepest and most 
 affectionate veneration, whenever I recal those 
 days spent so peaceably, a blessing to herself 
 and to all around her. 
 
 Silent and good she steals along 
 Far from the world's gay busy throng, 
 With gentle yet prevailing force, 
 Intent upon her destined course ; 
 Graceful and useful all she does, 
 Blessing and bless'd where'er she goes. 
 
 Beside her sits her little boy, — he is not yet 
 four years old. Alas ! why should this excel- 
 lent creature have been visited by so severe an 
 affliction — the child is already deformed — And 
 his poor little head seems pressed forwards by 
 the unnatural curvature between the shoulders 
 — his legs are thin, and shew none of the beau- 
 tiful roundness of infancy — his fingers too are 
 long and slender — in shape resembling those 
 of a grown person, — his complexion is sickly 
 and pale — but his face is beautiful, though 
 of a strange and ominous beauty — his features 
 
THE DEFORMED. 19 
 
 are only too delicate, — his eyes are large, 
 dark and melting, but with pupils remarkably 
 dilated, — his hair is abundant and of a beau- 
 tiful colour. — There he sits by her side, sup- 
 ported already by those irons which vainly 
 strive to supply the deficiencies of nature; — 
 there sits the future Marquis of Brandon, the 
 heir of this immense domain, and of the vast 
 revenue of his mother. — It may be proper to 
 remark here, that Mr. Kirkham had been very 
 Hberal with respect to settlements, having se- 
 cured his prodigious fortune to his daughter 
 and her children, and in failure of them, be- 
 stowed it on the noble house to which he had 
 allied himself — the life interest was also given 
 to the Marquis in case of his surviving his 
 wife. 
 
 The little Earl of St. Germains sits upon 
 the lap of a person who must not be over- 
 looked, — Mrs. Cartwright. She was the '^adow 
 of an officer, who had fallen in battle the first 
 year of a marriage, formed under the happiest 
 
20 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 auspices, though unblessed with the smiles of 
 fortune, and she had been left unprotected, 
 and unprovided for. Her circumstances had 
 become known to Miss Kirkham; into whose 
 family she had been received in the character of 
 companion. — That character the most grievous 
 of all the forms of dependence; a place of which 
 the duties are so ill defined as to afford a con- 
 stant source of tyranny and ill-humour, while 
 the salary is calculated rather to compensate for 
 the specified, than for the exacted, sacrifices. 
 But Mrs. Cartwright had been more fortunate 
 than is usually the case. In the well-regu- 
 lated temper and perfect truth and justice of 
 Miss Kirkham, she had found a secui-ity 
 against half the ills of her condition; w^hile 
 the aflfectionate confidence and esteem which 
 she speedily excited, became a source if not of 
 happiness, at least of consolation. Miss Kirk- 
 ham was soon tenderly attached to the gentle 
 and sensible w^oman whose character, in many 
 points resembling her own, had acquired a 
 
THE DEFORMED. 21 
 
 kind of sacred elevation, by the sorrow she 
 had known, and the fortitude and resignation 
 she had displayed. Mrs. Cartwright had 
 been once extremely beautiful, she was now 
 so very pale and thin, that she had lost many 
 of her charms; but there was something more 
 interesting than beauty in that smooth fair 
 brow, over which her dark hair was plainly 
 braided, and in the delicate though faded 
 countenance beneath; while the neatness and 
 extreme simplicity of her attire added a pe- 
 culiar character to her appearance. It was 
 easy to see that Mrs. Cartwright was not of 
 this world, indeed her air was that of one set 
 apart for holy things; a sort of lay nun; a de- 
 votee in the best sense of the word: one who, 
 in the exercise of every duty, consoled by the 
 deep mysterious influences of her religion, 
 awaited in patience her dismissal from a scene 
 which had no longer charms for her. 
 
 Since the Marchioness had resided at Bran- 
 don, Mrs. Cartwright had remained constantly 
 
22 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 with her, sharhig in her active labours of love 
 for all; but more peculiarly in the incessant 
 care and tenderness demanded by the sickly 
 little boy, the only child that had blessed the 
 Marchioness of Brandon. 
 
 The day I have now in my mind was a sad 
 one to me. After she had detailed all her 
 little plans, for half-a-dozen of her poor 
 people, in which I was to bear my part, 
 the Marchioness spoke of one rarely the 
 theme of her conversation; she spoke of her- 
 self. 
 
 " Mr. Wilson, I have not felt quite well 
 lately, I think I had better have a little talk 
 with you. — Not in the street," added she, smil- 
 ing quietly. *^ Will you be kind enough, when 
 you have finished all your business to-day, to 
 come up to the castle and drink tea with me? 
 — You will find us at tea at nine, you know; 
 but if this is in the least inconvenient to you, 
 pray come to-morrow— my business can wait 
 very well." 
 
THE DEFORMED. 2S 
 
 ** I will certainly wait upon you, madam, at 
 nine ; and hope to bring a good report of our 
 patients." 
 
 ** Good morning, then, Mr. Wilson." 
 
 And the little pony chair, and the sober 
 groom, were soon out of sight. 
 
 I went at the time appointed, and had a 
 long interview with the Marchioness. What 
 was my grief! my anguish! — though a quiet 
 man, I will add, my despair ! to find that the 
 painful feelings of v/hich she so slightly com- 
 plained, were the symptoms of a dreadful in- 
 ternal complaint, already advanced too far to 
 admit of the slightest hope of a cure. She 
 saw the dismay written in my countenance, 
 which I found it impossible to conceal, her 
 colour heightened a little, a very little: — 
 
 " Mr. Wilson," said she, her voice just 
 shaken, " I perceive there is more the matter 
 here than I had imagined." 
 
 " Indeed, madam, I am sorry to confess that 
 there is: but care and skill I trust — " 
 
24 THE DEFORMED, 
 
 I was running on with the usual vain flat- 
 tery of my calling ; she stopped me. 
 
 *' Mr. Wilson, I perceive your kind wish to 
 encourage me, but I flatter myself that you 
 know me so well, that when I ask for the sim- 
 ple truth, as far as your skill enables you to 
 discover it, you will not attempt to disguise it 
 from me. I do ask for the truth, and you 
 may venture to tell it me. Is my complaint 
 dangerous?" 
 
 " I will disguise nothing, madam ; it is dan- 
 gerous." 
 
 " Very dangerous?" 
 
 ** Very dangerous." 
 
 '* Does it hold out any chance of recovery?" 
 
 " I do not choose on my single responsibi- 
 lity to say that it does not." 
 
 '* But you think it does not?" 
 
 I paused and then said, " I confess I am 
 ignorant of the means of arresting it, — but my 
 practice, as your ladyship knows, is not exten- 
 sive, and my opportunities of improvement 
 
THE DEFORMED. 25 
 
 have been few. I trust that by consulting the 
 first London physicians, some paUiative, if not 
 a decided remedy, may be found, — and your 
 life be prolonged many years to be a blessing 
 to us all." 
 
 My voice trembled as I concluded. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Wilson, I will not attempt 
 to tell you how very much I feel obhged by 
 this kind feeling, and the regard you have ever 
 shewn me ; and I am not flattering you when 
 I say, that I would rather trust my life in your 
 hands than in those of any medical man of 
 my acquaintance : still my life is of great im- 
 portance to some, and if you believe that my 
 chance of recovery will be in the least in- 
 creased by seeing a London physician ; pray 
 let one be sent for without delay." 
 
 ^' I am decidedly of opinion that a physician 
 ought to be called in." 
 
 " Then may I trouble you to write to 
 Dr. for me." 
 
 I returned home, as the FrenclT expressively 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
26 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 say, le coeur navre de douleur; for I had not 
 myself the shghtest hope that the mahgnant 
 and insidious disorder, of which the symptoms 
 were too evident, could be subdued. How I 
 lamented that indifference to her own concerns 
 which had made her so long delay to complain 
 of what she looked upon as a trifling ailment — 
 how I grieved for herself, for her unhappy 
 child — for her husband — for all of us! — For 
 the poor child, perhaps less than for the rest. 
 I had long considered it as a lost case, never 
 expected that he would be reared at all ; and 
 indeed, with a hasty impatience too common 
 to our short sighted race, had decided within 
 myself, than an early death would be the best 
 thing that could happen to him. 
 
 The London physician, a man of the first 
 eminence in his profession, arrived ; his opinion 
 justified mine, his resources were, alas ! no 
 greater. The complaint was one which had 
 hitherto baffled human skill ; it was beyond the 
 reach of remedies whether medical or surcjical. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 27 
 
 *' Mr. Wilson," said the Marchioness, " I 
 am sorry to give you pain ; and I know I do so 
 by putting questions under my present unfor- 
 tunate circumstances : you must, if you please, 
 
 tell me frankly, whether Dr. 's opinion 
 
 coincides with yours." 
 
 " It does." 
 
 " And he can do no more for me than you 
 can?" 
 
 '^ I greatly fear not." 
 
 " Now can either he or you tell me how long 
 this disease is likely to last ? — I will spare you 
 the pain of telling me how it ends." 
 
 I hesitated. 
 
 " What is the longest time that a person in 
 my condition has been known to live? — What is 
 the shortest period that has been known to ter- 
 minate life in this disease ? Pray tell me, [with 
 earnestness,] consider how much I have to do, 
 if possible, and deceive me not ! " 
 
 " Two months!" 
 
 *' Ah ! that is short — I must not lose a mo- 
 
 c2 
 
28 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 ment. Mr. Wilson will you have the kindness 
 
 to consult with Dr. , and adopt that plan 
 
 of treatment which will preserve to me the 
 fullest possible exercise of my powers while life 
 is granted." 
 
 The time of the Marchioness of Brandon 
 had never been misapplied, 
 
 " Her virtues walk'd their simple round, 
 And made no pause, and left no void." 
 
 But now the moments seemed doubled, and, 
 by her admirable method, she contrived, in 
 an incredibly short space of time, to arrange 
 the various business for the benefit of all around, 
 in which she had been so unceasingly and so 
 usefully engaged : and in such a manner that 
 her plans might be carried on and brought to 
 perfection by others, when her own influence 
 should be withdrawn. 
 
 This done, one anxiety, vast, incalculable, 
 pressed heavily upon her heart — her little boy. 
 I had always believed he would not live — in 
 this her judgment differed from mine — it was 
 
THE DEFORMED. 29 
 
 her strong impression that he would. Her 
 love had partaken of the calm energy of her 
 nature, it was serious, deep, devoted, — re- 
 flective rather than imaginative. — Well had 
 «he weighed every detail of his unfortunate 
 situation — well had she considered the fu- 
 ture consequences that must arise from the 
 strange disproportion which in his case ex- 
 isted between the gifts of nature and of for- 
 tune, and the still more important discrepan- 
 cy which was observable in the gifts of na- 
 ture herself — for, niggard to the helpless and 
 deformed frame, the mighty mother appeared 
 to have been lavish of her compensations to 
 the mind. The child already gave evidence of a 
 strength of character, and a power of observa- 
 tion, far beyond his age ; he appeared too, to 
 have inherited the composure of his mother's 
 temperament, and the calm seriousness of 
 her affection: his love for her shewing it- 
 self rather in his constant preference of her 
 society to every other pleasure, and the tena- 
 
30 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 city with which be silently kept close to her, 
 his large speaking eyes fixed upon her face, 
 than by bursts of tenderness, or abundance of 
 caresses. 
 
 To watch over the development of such a 
 mind, lodged in such a frame, had been the 
 object which the Marchioness had proposed to 
 herself as the future employment of her life. 
 She had hoped by a sedulous education in some 
 measure to avert the sufferings which threa- 
 tened a being constituted like her unhappy son ; 
 and that by strengthening the higher qualities 
 of his mind, its talents and its virtues, she 
 might oppose a shield to the innumerable evils 
 of his condition. She wished to develope his 
 intellect and refine his taste to the highest de- 
 gree, trusting that the pleasures thus afforded 
 might suffice to give interest to existence ; while 
 she fondly hoped, that her own devoted tender- 
 ness might afford some consolation to disappoint- 
 ed youth, for the loss of that more impassioned 
 affection which forms the natural happiness of 
 
THE DEFORMED. 31 
 
 -our early years, and which, she felt persuaded, 
 no qualities he might possess could ever obtain 
 for him. 
 
 Such had been the reflections, such the well 
 considered plans, of this affectionate mother; — 
 but now she was to be called away, and in place 
 of her own sedulous cares to substitute those 
 of others, far less deeply interested in their suc- 
 cess: warding off, as best she might, by deputy, 
 that host of evils which hang over the head of 
 the motherless child, even in the happiest cir- 
 cumstances, — and which were rendered infi- 
 nitely more distressing in this instance by the 
 helpless infirmities of the unhappy boy. 
 
 That the Marquis would marry again she 
 felt assured. Her discernment had taught her to 
 believe that his second choice would not resem- 
 ble his first; she foresaw many possible distresses 
 and hardships for the child of her affections, but 
 most of all, she lamented that her plans for his 
 education might fall to the ground. She has- 
 tened to obviate as far as possible these misfor- 
 
S2 
 
 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 tunes while yet she existed ; and she wrote to 
 the Marquis, then in London, informing him 
 of her situation, and begging him immediately 
 to come to her. 
 
 He arrived very much grieved and afflicted 
 at her situation ; for his affection, though not 
 passionate, was great, and his esteem immea- 
 surable. The influence she possessed was now 
 all directed into one channel. 
 
 ** My dear Lord, I have one or two requests 
 to make, and I am quite sure before I make 
 them, that they are granted — our poor little 
 boy-" 
 
 " Alas! my dear, you need have little anxiety 
 on his account," said the Marquis, while the 
 tears stood in his eyes ; ** I shall soon be quite 
 alone — a childless widower, and only have felt 
 happiness to estimate its loss." 
 
 " It is my opinion that my child will live, — 
 I would fain hope, to be a source of happiness 
 to you and to himself, — but he will require 
 more than ordinary care. Mrs. Cartwright, — 
 
THE DEFORMED. 33 
 
 you know how greatly I esteem her — is it asking 
 too much to request that she may have the 
 care of my son ? " 
 
 " For what length of time ? " 
 
 " I do not mean a tutor's, or a nurse's care, 
 may she stand in the relation, as nearly as pos- 
 sible, of mother to him ? " 
 
 Lord Brandon started ! 
 
 " Do not misapprehend me, I cannot," with 
 a grave smile, ** wish her to stand in any nearer 
 relation to you, my dear Lord, than she now 
 does — you cannot for a moment imagine it — All 
 I request is that, as long as it can be made 
 comfortable to all parties, she may remain with 
 my son, to supply my place — he will require 
 all a mother's tenderness, poor unfortunate 
 creature, to make existence tolerable — he will 
 find it in her." 
 
 " My dear Lady Brandon, much less would 
 be sufficient from you — I hope you well know 
 the perfect esteem 1 feel for you — that any re- 
 commendation of yours is sacred in my eyes ; 
 
 c5 
 
S4f THE DEFORMED. 
 
 I shall be but too happy to see Mrs. Cartwright 
 attached to my son, and a member of my 
 family, as long as she shall please to remain 
 there." 
 
 " You allow me, then, to arrange my plans 
 with her ? " 
 
 *^ Indeed, I shall be relieved from great 
 anxiety by your doing so; but alas! I fear 
 it will be in vain." 
 
 " No, my Lord, I trust it will not be in 
 vain. — I have another request to make. — IMy 
 dear father, on the birth-day of my little boy, 
 gave me =£10,000: he intended it to be laid 
 out in something by which I should ever re- 
 member him — there was no need of that — he 
 was not likely to be forgotten by me. — I asked 
 him a short time before he died what I should 
 do with it; for, indeed, my dear Lord, your 
 great liberality left me nothing to wish or to 
 want: — what I pleased, he said. — Will you 
 allow me the same license ? " 
 
 " How can you, my dearest Ladv Brandon. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 35 
 
 ask such a question? — But it is like yourself," 
 said her husband, greatly touched. 
 
 He had, indeed, gratefully appreciated the 
 delicacy, with which, after bringing him such 
 an immense fortune, she had behaved with 
 respect to all money matters, and had returned 
 it as far as lay in his power, by the most 
 unbounded confidence. 
 
 " Only tell me what you wish — it shall be 
 done. Is there any one you desire to provide 
 for — anything ? " 
 
 " I wish also to bestow as I please all my 
 jewels, except the diamonds my father gave me 
 at my presentation ; those I would ask you to 
 add to the jewels of your family, that I may 
 leave something in your house for my father to 
 be remembered by." 
 
 " Do in every thing as you please — only tell 
 me, can I in any thing else obey you?" 
 
 I will not enlarge upon the tender scenes 
 which followed. The Marquis felt — sensibly — 
 the value of what he was about to lose. The 
 
36 THE DEFORMED, 
 
 Marchioness was grateful for his affection, and 
 returned it with sincerity. 
 
 About a week after this she sent for me into 
 her room, and said :- — 
 
 " My dear Mr. Wilson, I have perfect 
 confidence in your honour — your integrity — 
 your good sense. — Will you undertake a matter 
 I have very much at heart ? I have lived long 
 enough with the great to be pretty well 
 aware of the system of such families — so much 
 splendour — so little comfort — such vast sums 
 expended — so much real want of money. My 
 little boy's situation, if he live, must be very 
 peculiar, and he will require a thousand things 
 which in ordinary cases would be justly thought 
 unnecessary. — His father will marry again!" 
 
 I made a gesture of disapprobation. 
 
 ' ' He will do right. — But a step-mother ! Ah ! 
 Mr. Wilson, I trust it is a prejudice — in short, 
 will you take charge of a sum of money for 
 me, — to give to Mrs. Cartwright, or to my 
 son — when — how — and in such portions as may 
 
THE DEFORMED. 37 
 
 be necessary? I shall take no acknowledgment 
 of this sum — I wish it to be as completely in 
 your power as if it were your own property — 
 and you will make use of it as you judge best for 
 my poor boy's benefit." 
 
 " But, madam, should I die ? " 
 
 " There is no providing against all contin- 
 gencies — dispose of it in that case by will, as 
 you may think proper — but if you live, as I 
 trust in God you will, many years, keep it — 
 you will find a use for it." 
 
 The sum was the o£'l 0,000. All her jewels 
 she gave me, desiring they might be sold, and 
 the money settled upon Mrs. Cartwright — she 
 left written directions with me to that effect. 
 And having thus set her house in order, this 
 excellent woman and sincere christian died 
 with the utmost composure ; and w^as buried, 
 by her own desire, in the most private manner 
 that was consistent with decorum. 
 
 The sorrow of the little boy, when he com- 
 prehended, which, in spite of all our care, he 
 
38 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 speedily did, the great misfortune which had 
 befallen him, was, like his nature, rather deep, 
 than full of demonstration : — he said little, but 
 his cheek grew even paler than usual, and his 
 weakness and emaciation increased to such a 
 degree that it was the universal opinion he 
 would speedily follow his mother. Though 
 quiet in the day-time, it was found that his 
 pillow was wet with his infant tears, and sleep 
 and appetite forsook him. Yet he continued 
 to exist, almost, it would seem, without the 
 means of existence : there was a tenacity of life 
 about him ; and he dragged on, from day to 
 day, though we concluded that every day 
 would be his last. 
 
 I had a sister ; her name was Judy ; she 
 was some years older than I was, and while I 
 had been walking hospitals — struggling with 
 difficulties — and seeing the world ; Judy had 
 remained stationary in the small town of Car- 
 stones, with the same prospect invariably before 
 her eyes, till she almost believed that the uni- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 39 
 
 verse contained no other. The people of Car- 
 stones had the habit, common to the inhabit- 
 ants of small towns, of identifying their own 
 self-love with the importance of the little place 
 they lived in, and the dignity of the great family 
 to which they were appended. Every thing 
 that was done by the inhabitants of the castle — 
 every revolution in the housekeeper's or stew- 
 ard's room — every mutation in the under-gar- 
 deners' — every new dress, from that of the 
 Marchioness herself, when she appeared at 
 church, to that of the maid-servants coming 
 down to gossip in the town ; — their employ- 
 ments — their health — their visitors — their loves 
 — and their luck, formed the incessant sub- 
 ject of conversation at our little card-tables. 
 How the Marchioness looked, when my Lord 
 was coming down, how^ the little Earl had 
 slept, &c., &c., &c. 
 
 Louis XIV., in the midst of his splendour, 
 and with all the assistance of his exquisite 
 kingcraft, was not more a subject of excessive 
 
40 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 and indiscriminating interest to his courtiers 
 at Versailles, than were the family of Brandon 
 to the little people of Carstones. It is a great 
 error to suppose that man naturally loves inde- 
 pendance — this is only the taste of a few rarer 
 spirits: to look upwards, to fawn, to flatter, 
 and to lick the dust beneath the feet of riches 
 and of power, is not only the destiny, but the 
 taste, of the majority. 
 
 Whatever the Marquis or Marchioness chose 
 to do, was certain to be right at Carstones — 
 whatever Mr. Banks the steward, and Mrs. 
 Newcome, the housekeeper, chose to do, was in 
 general right and proper also — they were all 
 people of eminence and influence in their way. 
 Not so Mrs. Cartwright: whatever she did was 
 sure to be done wrong; she could neither look, 
 nor speak, nor walk, nor dress as she ought to 
 do — Mrs. Cartwright was 1 elow adoration, and 
 within the reach of envy. What was she ? a 
 poor officer's widow. And why should she have 
 been preferred to high places? to dine at the 
 
THE DEFORMED. 41 
 
 same table, sit by the same fire, and ride in the 
 same pony chaise with the Marchioness of 
 Brandon? Not one of the numerous disen- 
 gaged young ladies of five-and-thirty, at Car- 
 stones, but thought herself much better fitted 
 to have filled the place of agreeable companion 
 to my lady, than that cold, bloodless, inanimate 
 statue, Mrs. Cartwright. The possibility that 
 Mrs. Cartwright might be endowed with cer- 
 tain hidden qualities which gave her a value, 
 which they did not themselves possess, never 
 once entered their imaginations ; for of the ex- 
 istence of tastes or of endowments above their 
 own, except as far as dress and fashion and 
 riches went, they were totally ignorant. Had 
 they lived when magic and sorcery were believed 
 in, Mrs. Cartwright might have stood a fair 
 chance of being burned for a witch ; as it was, 
 she was accused of cunning, wheedling, and 
 toadeating, the sole methods of obtaining influ- 
 ence, with which the ladies of Carstones were 
 acquainted. 
 
42 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " Really, brother, it seems very strange ; so 
 we are not to get rid of Mrs. Cartwright after 
 all ! I hear she is to stay and take care of my 
 little Lord, poor dear little creature," said my 
 sister Judy, taking off her bonnet and her best 
 shawl as she came in from church. " There she 
 was, in the family pew, which is all hung with 
 black cloth — twenty shillings a yard, I've no 
 doubt — very handsome — and the pew for the 
 steward's room — and the servants' pews all the 
 same, and all the servants in black, and not a 
 dry eye among them, and my Lord weeping as 
 if his heart would break, poor dear, good man ; 
 and Mrs. Cartwright in deep black, as well 
 she may, I understand — but not a tear in her 
 eye, I warrant, looking as quiet ! and as com- 
 posed ! set as up ! as if nothing had happened. 
 — I can't bear the sight of her — so demure — and 
 so sly — wheedling and flattering the dear Mar- 
 chioness — and now ! — but it will not do, I can 
 tell her — my Lord never once looked at her 
 all church time — to be sure he did hand her 
 
THE DEFORMED. 43 
 
 into his carriage — but she'll never be Marchio- 
 ness of Brandon, take my word for it." 
 
 " And mine too, Judy." 
 
 " Ah, brother ! you men are so easily taken 
 in with a little affectation — but I know her — 
 mark my words ; you'll find Mrs. Cartwright a 
 very different person from what you and the 
 poor dear Marchioness suppose." 
 
 I said nothing — I even, for Judy was shrewd 
 at times, resolved to watch Mrs. Cartwright 
 narrowly. My situation, for I had been charged 
 by the Marchioness with the medical treat- 
 ment of her son, gave me good opportunities, 
 and I resolved to use them. 
 
 I visited the little boy once, often twice a- 
 day, but I had no fault save one to find with 
 Mrs. Cartwright, she sadly wanted spirits ; she 
 was so grave, so still, that she was really a 
 very unfit companion for a child. Every 
 thing that tenderness and care however could 
 do, she did — her attention to his health was 
 unremitting, — and I observed, that though 
 
44 
 
 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 cautious in avoiding dangerous excitement, 
 against which I had warned her, she was be- 
 ginning to develope his infant mind. She led, 
 or rather carried him, into the beautiful gar- 
 dens of the castle, filled his Httle hands with 
 the finest flowers, and taught him to distinguish 
 their names and forms — He had his aviary of 
 rare birds which he, with her, fed and tended 
 ^his apartments were gradually filling with 
 natural curiosities ; so chosen as by their abrupt 
 contrast, and well marked colours and outlines, 
 to excite the discriminating powers of children. 
 I could not suspect Mrs. Cartwright of having 
 studied Aristotle, or I should have supposed, 
 that from him she had learned to withhold every 
 form that was mean or vulgar from the eye of 
 the child. The prints with which his chambers 
 were filled were all from drawings by great 
 artists — the figures which adorned his shelves 
 and mantle-pieces were casts of the most beau- 
 tiful busts and statues — the servants who at- 
 tended him were all remarkable for something 
 
THE DEFORMED. 45 
 
 above their condition, in air and tone of voice. 
 No circumstance, however minute, was disre- 
 garded by Mrs. Cartwright that could serve 
 to increase the physical strength, develope tlie 
 mental powers, or form the taste and manners 
 of her charge. The Marquis was liberal in 
 allowing her the means of carrying her plans 
 into execution. Still I sighed over all these ex- 
 ertions, convinced that the delicate, suffering 
 child could never live to profit by them. 
 
 Judy had not long to groan with apprehen- 
 sion lest the Marquis should fall a victim to 
 Mrs. Cartwright's artful ways — for to a desire 
 to please the father she would persist in 
 ascribing all the kindness that was shewn to 
 the son. Report soon informed us that we 
 might expect another Marchioness of Bran- 
 don. 
 
 The Marquis, with his large hereditary 
 estates, ancient blood, and immense income, 
 was now, it may be supposed, a very consider^- 
 able prize in that great emporium for matri- 
 
46 THE DEFORivIED. 
 
 mony, the higher ranks of fashion. He, who , 
 before his first marriage had been quite at a 
 discount, had now, endowed as he was by the 
 vast fortune of his wife, advanced to a hi^h 
 premium : endowed, I say, for the poor Httle 
 deformed boy was of course regarded as a mere 
 cypher in the account. That he could Uve, was 
 universally decided upon as impossible, and the 
 Marquis was considered entirely as an unen- 
 cumbered man, possessed of one of the finest 
 fortunes in England. I am ashamed to say it 
 — but I believe it to be true, that even before 
 the first Marchioness ha,d closed her eyes, 
 steps were being taken, on the part of many, to 
 obtain the enviable distinction of filling her 
 place ; and no sooner did the Marquis re-ap- 
 pear in the world, than he found himself so 
 marked an object of attention and flattery, that 
 a stronger head than his might have been 
 turned by it. There were many competitors ; 
 the lady who carried off the prize was the 
 daughter of the Duke of L , the Lady Isa- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 47 
 
 bella Charlemont. We heard that she was the 
 most beautiful woman in London, and belong- 
 ing to a family of the very first distinction, 
 and we all were prepared to admire her ac- 
 cordingly; more especially, as our Marquis had 
 done us credit by marrying as he ought to 
 have done, and had not allied himself to that 
 odious Mrs. Cartwright. 
 
 The marriage took place at the end of April, 
 just eighteen months after the death of the first 
 Marchioness. — In July we heard that they were 
 coming down — in September they came. The 
 London road lay through Carstones, and I recol- 
 lect well that fine evening when they arrived — 
 carriages and four — carriages and four dash- 
 ing through the street, and up to the great gates 
 of the castle. The new Marchioness, in her 
 hat and plume of white feathers, with the 
 Marquis by her side — and splendid equipages 
 full of gentlemen and ladies following, with 
 a numerous retinue of servants and attendants. 
 Then the old walls rang wdth sounds to 
 
48 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 which they had for many years been stran- 
 gers. Festivity in all its forms — riding, 
 shooting, archery, in the morning — feasting, 
 dancing, music, and a little drinking at night. 
 The old grey-headed servants were dazzled 
 and bewildered ; the people of Carstones, ac- 
 customed to more sober doings, knew not 
 Vi'hether to be scandalized at, or pleased with, 
 this new order of things. Our streets were per- 
 petually enlivened with one gay party or other 
 passing through : rattling carriages — prancing 
 horses — splendid liveries — were constantly 
 to be seen. The green shades of the park 
 were gay with groupes of elegant men and 
 women, sketching or chatting, or reposing 
 under the trees ; the canoes and boats were 
 in constant requisition on the water ; the woods 
 and fields resounded with the firing of the 
 shooting parties. I can but give a faint idea 
 of the sort o^ tourhillon, which succeeded to the 
 peaceful quiet, to wl^ich we have been so long 
 accustomed. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 49 
 
 The Sunday after her arrival, our new 
 Marchioness appeared at church. The black 
 cloth, at twenty shillings a-yard, had va- 
 nished, and the pew was lined with crimson 
 velvet. The Marchioness, dressed in the first 
 style of fashion, with her bonnet and high 
 plume of feathers, stood by the side of her 
 Lord, who appeared enchanted with every 
 look and gesture. She was indeed a striking 
 contrast to her predecessor; — her abundant 
 dark hair hung in rich luxuriance over her 
 piercing and haughty black eyes, which 
 glanced restlessly around ; her complexion 
 was of the finest white and vermilion, her 
 nose was straight and well-shaped ; her lips, 
 like the scarlet pomegranate of Solomon, dis- 
 closed her even pearl-like teeth ; her figure 
 was lofty and majestic, and the whole was 
 set off by an air of magnificence, which formed 
 one of the finest spectacles of the kind that 
 I had ever seen. 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 The service over, the Marquis, leading 
 her by the hand with an air of proud exulta- 
 tion, into the church porch; which was a sort 
 of rendezvous for the better part of the con- 
 gregation to exchange civilities, chat a little 
 scandal, and so on, presented her, while her 
 splendid equipage, with its four pawing horses, 
 and elegant out-riders, waited, to such of 
 those assembled as were worthy of the honour. 
 Their homage — ^for the bows and courtesies 
 were so low bent, that they merited that appel- 
 lation — was graciously received : the beauty 
 smiled, moved, and spoke with the most amia- 
 ble condescension — stooping to address even 
 the most humble with honied words of bland 
 courtesy. I thought them sadly too bland, 
 and the courtesy sadly too much marked, — 
 but I was quite in the wrong, every one was 
 enchanted ; and one quarter of an hour of idle 
 civility, enforced by a splendid dress and 
 radiant smiles, had done as much to win 
 golden opinions, as whole years of benevolent 
 
THE DEFORMED. 51 
 
 exertion passed by the late Marchioness. It 
 was well. Honied words, smiles, and haughtily 
 courteous gestures, were all that the people of 
 Carstones were the better for the residence of 
 this lady at that time; but she staid only a 
 month, and then the whirlwind passed away 
 to some other place, and we were left to our 
 card parties again, and to our speculations on 
 the health of the little Lord. 
 
 The new wife had shewn so much tenderness 
 on being presented to the child, that it had 
 melted the hearts of all present, most especially 
 that of her husband. She kneeled down by 
 the side of the chair, on which the little crea- 
 ture uneasily reclined, kissed his pale cheek, 
 while a few pearly drops fell upon it. 
 
 ** Poor, dear, interesting little fellow, you 
 must love me very much — I am your mamma, 
 you know." 
 
 " No," said the boy, and the tears stood in 
 his large, melting eyes, " not mamma — don't 
 say so- — she was very little, and very pale, and 
 
 D 2 
 
52 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 very soft. — Not a grand, grand, great beauty, 
 lady, like you." 
 
 " Thank you, sweet boy — what a love! — 
 what a charming countenance ! My dear Mrs. 
 Cartwright — for you must be the Mrs. Cart- 
 wright of whom I have heard so much, how 
 happy I am to make your acquaintance — to 
 thank you for the tender care you are taking 
 of this dear little unfortunate — a care I hope 
 to divide with you, while it lasts, poor little 
 thing." 
 
 " I think he looks better, my dear Mrs. 
 Cartwright," said my Lord. 
 
 '^ I would fain hope so, my Lord, but 
 I own I see little amendment — I think 
 he suffers less pain than he did, but that 
 is all." 
 
 ** Alas ! Mrs. Cartwright, I am grieved to 
 hear you say so ; but we will hope time may 
 do much." 
 
 The child, while this conversation was 
 passing, had been engaged in shewing one 
 
THE DEFORMED. 58 
 
 of his books to a young lady of the party, 
 so that happily it was unheard by him. 
 
 The tender care announced by the Mar- 
 chioness, amounted to a visit now and then to 
 the boy's apartments, where she always staid 
 a very short time ; would shrug her shoulders 
 at the elaborate preparations for a finished 
 education making by Mrs. Cartwright, which 
 shrug meant to say, — " What nonsense, for 
 such a poor creature !" She, however, treated 
 Mrs. Cartwright with much civility — who, in- 
 deed, did not wear her Ladyship's good feel- 
 ings out by too often calling them into exercise ; 
 devoting herself to the child during the whole 
 time the Marchioness and her party remained. 
 I used to see his little garden chair, drawn by 
 the old grey-headed footman, and attended by 
 Mrs. Cartwright, creeping silently among the 
 shrubberies, while the laugh and the song 
 resounded from the windows of the castle. 
 
 The next summer brought grand doings. — 
 The Marchioness had been confined in Lon- 
 
54 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 don, and had given birth to a son. Four 
 months afterwards, she came down to Bran- 
 don, and signified her intention, in honour of 
 his christening, to give a grand entertainment 
 to all the neighbourhood, great and small. 
 
 It struck me as rather unnecessary, to cele- 
 brate with such marked festivity the birth of 
 a child with expectations so slender; for his 
 mother's fortune had been extremely small, 
 and from his father he could of course expect 
 little — but I held my peace. — Mrs. Cartwright 
 too, looked surprised when she first heard of 
 it. As to the people of Carstones, who were 
 all invited, they thought it the most natural 
 thing in the world — and so did the tenantry, I 
 suppose ; for there was every demonstration of 
 gladness and satisfaction — There was a grand 
 dinner for the labourers, plenty of ale, a dance 
 on the green, tables in the different halls for 
 the higher order of dependants, and a ball and 
 supper for the gentry. The beautiful hifant, 
 for I must own that in my life I never saw one 
 
THE DEFORMED. 55 
 
 snore beautiful, was exhibited with a pomp of 
 attendance almost regal ; and the Marquis was 
 congratulated on all sides upon his promising 
 son — heir was not said — but every one, it was 
 plain, looked upon the boy as the future heir 
 of these immense fortunes ; and the mother 
 evidently revelled in that exulting pride which 
 a vain woman would feel on presenting a son 
 of hers as such to the world. 
 
 I saw her in all the pomp of her beauty — 
 her dark hair, and white satin robe sparkling 
 with jewels, as she stood at the head of that 
 gorgeous drawing-room, surrounded by a 
 splendid group of noble and great per- 
 sonages, placing the infant, all lace and 
 embroidery, wrapped in a rich mantle, on 
 the arm of the obsequious nurse; after the 
 conclusion of those sacred and affecting rites, 
 which ought to quell the thoughts of sin, 
 passion, and pride, within a parent's breast; 
 but which here, administered from a golden 
 urn, at the hands of a right reverend bishop. 
 
56 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 with all the pomp and circumstance of an 
 aristocratic establishment, served but to foster 
 in their birth those venomous foes of human 
 virtue. 
 
 The real heir, meanwhile, too unwell to 
 leave his chamber, too much iil-treated by 
 nature to afford pride to any one, was sitting 
 moaning, and panting for breath, with his 
 hand in that of Mrs. Cartwright. 
 
 ** Oh, Mrs. Cartwright, I am sorry I can- 
 not see this pretty christening — but do make 
 them bring me my little brother. I want to 
 look at him, and they never let me see him !" 
 
 " No, my dear — don't to-day," said jNIrs. 
 Cartwright: she felt for the boy, what he was 
 too young to feel for himself. 
 
 " Why not ? he is so pretty." 
 
 He would have his own way, and the little 
 Lord Louis, bedizened, as I have said, with 
 lace and satin, was carried in. 
 
 " Let me kiss him, nurse, — you won't let 
 me kiss him." 
 
THE DEFORMED. ^ 
 
 " Let him, nurse! why don't you?" said Mrs. 
 Cartwright, somewhat impatiently, " don't you 
 see, that Lord St. Germains wants to kiss the 
 child?" 
 
 " Oh, by no means on earth, madam. — «, 
 Indeed, my lady does not like me to bring mv 
 Lord Louis into these rooms at all — she thinks 
 it vastly unwholesome — and as for kissing him, 
 I could not take upon myself to allow it upon 
 any account — It is as good as my place is 
 worth, Mrs. Cartwright." 
 
 Mrs. Cartwright was silent with indigna- 
 tion: she felt as if she ought to say some- 
 thing ; but she knew not what — she was quite 
 astovmded. 
 
 " You must, I am sure, have mistaken 
 Lady Brandon's orders," at length she articu- 
 lated. " It must be her wish to encourage 
 the affection which Lord St. Germains shews 
 for his brother." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, madam, it matters little, 
 poor young gentleman, who he shews affection 
 
 D 5 
 
58 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 for — he'll not be long, most certain, here, to 
 shew affection for any body." 
 
 " Very well, take the child away." 
 " The child!" repeated the nurse, as she 
 left the room, " the child, indeed ! — Lady 
 Brandon be glad! — glad, indeed! — poor little 
 crippled thing! — a pretty companion for you, 
 my jewel — well, it can't last long — it will be, 
 to be sure, a great mercy when it pleases the 
 Lord to take him — he can't last long — that's 
 one comfort." 
 
 *^ Mrs. Cartwright," said the little boy, 
 "what does the baby's nurse mean? — why 
 may I not kiss my brother? — I know very well 
 why she calls me poor young gentleman! — I 
 am indeed a poor young gentleman — I know 
 that very well; but why may I not kiss and 
 love my brother? — I think so much about him 
 — a great deal, indeed — I am older a vast, 
 vast deal than he Is — and I mean to be so 
 careful of him, and I shall give him my little 
 pony, because it is so quijt; and I shall give 
 
THE DEFORMED. 59 
 
 him my kings of England that you made me, 
 and all my best things — But I shall not give 
 him two things — not this," it was his little 
 locket, with his mother's picture and hair ; 
 " nor you, my good dear, dear Mrs. Cart- 
 wright!" 
 
 After this time my communication with the 
 house of Brandon ceased for awhile. The fa- 
 mily went abroad ; it was said, with the inten- 
 tion of visiting tlie baths of Carlsbad, to try 
 their effect upon the Earl of St. Germains. 
 Be that as it might, the absence lasted for se- 
 veral years, and eleven springs and winters 
 had passed over our heads, before the Mar- 
 quis with his family returned to the castle. 
 
 My communication with the family, I have 
 said, had ceased, but it was not entirely so, it 
 was maintained in some degree by my corres- 
 pondence with Mrs. Cartwright, who was punc- 
 tual in writing during the whole period of their 
 
60 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 absence. She remained still attached to the 
 young Earl in the capacity of gouvernante, for 
 his health continued such as to require the 
 most tender assiduity. What mortifications and 
 contempts she received at the hands of the 
 MarchionesSj in return for her cares, I never 
 exactly knew, for she, in no single sentence, 
 made the slightest allusion to her own situation 
 or feelings, except as they were connected 
 with those of the Earl. She had made a re- 
 solution to devote herself to the child of the 
 woman she had so much loved and honoured; 
 and no affronts to her pride, no insults to her 
 feelings, no vexations, no discomforts, nothing 
 in short but an absolute dismissal, would she 
 allow to separate her from the household of 
 which he formed a part. I learned afterwards 
 
 that she had borne all the insolences, to which 
 
 r 
 
 her equivocal rank in the family exposed her, 
 with the most serene and unflinching patience ; 
 appearing not to observe them wherever it was 
 possible, and when this could not be done, op- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 61 
 
 posing to every thing the imperturbable de- 
 fence of a spirit that would not be ruffled. 
 
 Her letters spoke of her young eleve with 
 an affection that would have been a passion, in 
 a heart less disciplined. She dwelt upon the 
 delicacy, the sensibility, and the strength of 
 his character, as it unfolded before her eyes. 
 Of his thirst for knowledge — his ardent and 
 poetic imagination — his nice discernment and 
 his exquisite taste — his grateful and docile 
 temper — his generous and affectionate heart. — 
 All, however, was clouded by the melancholy 
 consideration that these bright promises would 
 terminate in an early grave. I found that in 
 this respect Mrs. Cartwright but shared the 
 universal impression, that this highly-gifted 
 youth was the victim of a mortal disease ; and 
 that in spite of all his endowments, such a de- 
 liverance from sorrow and from mortification 
 was the greatest blessing his friends could de- 
 sire for him. 
 
 ** I have endeavoured unremittingly," said 
 
t>Z THE DEFORMED. 
 
 she, in one of her letters; " following as I 
 best might the intentions of his wise and ex- 
 cellent mother, to strengthen and nerve his 
 soul against those sufferings which I antici- 
 pate in future life, for one so exquisitely sus- 
 ceptible, placed under such peculiarly cruel 
 circumstances. I believe I have succeeded in 
 teaching him to endure — but, alas! how shall 
 I deaden the sense of pain — how allay the bit- 
 terness of mortification? — It is a feeble conso- 
 lation to know that he possesses the unflinch- 
 ing courage of the Spartan — the inexhaustible 
 constancy of the Christian — if his life be to 
 prove but one sad succession of anguish, phy- 
 sical as well as moral. Even now, young as 
 he is, how melancholy are his days ! Languish- 
 ing on a sick bed, or drawn in his chair round 
 these monotonous groves and gardens," she 
 was writing from their Italian villa, ^' a poor 
 helpless cripple, while others of his age are 
 rioting in all the enjoyments of health, and 
 youth, and vigour. The rare brightness of his 
 
THE DEFORMED, 63 
 
 intellect, it is true, affords him, in this prema- 
 ture decay, some of those more sober pleasures 
 which belong to riper years; but how forced 
 and unnatural are these in the place of exercise 
 and joy! How sickly and pale they appear to 
 me, compared with the animated existence of 
 his brother Lord Louis, the very picture of 
 health and beauty, springing as I now see him, 
 from his Arabian, on a return from an inspiring 
 ride round this enchanting neighbourhood. 
 
 " The very fragility of Lord St. Germains' 
 existence," she continued, " occasions serious 
 disadvantages in other ways; he is looked 
 upon by all as dying, and has been so ever 
 since we left England. I have had the utmost 
 difficulty in obtaining for him those advantages 
 of education, to which his rank, to say no 
 more, entitles him ; and this merely by persua- 
 ding the Marquis that they were necessary to 
 his present amusement; for that he should reap 
 any permanent advantage from them, appears 
 to all an impossibility. I confess I share in 
 
64 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 these anticipations, and should have felt my 
 courage fail, had it been necessary to urge 
 Lord St. Germains to mental exertion by the 
 stimulus of the slightest severity; but all my 
 difficulty has been to restrain this ardent and 
 enthusiastic spirit ; never weary of drinking at 
 the wells of knowledge, emulous of every per- 
 fection, and of every accomplishment: indeed, 
 my dear Mr. Wilson, it is difficult to express 
 the sensations to which a reflection upon his 
 character and circumstances gives rise; the 
 excessive admiration, or the excessive regret, 
 with which they inspire me." 
 
 In another letter, replying to one of mine, 
 which contained a few cautious enquiries, she 
 gave me to understand that Lord St. Ger- 
 mains lived a good deal secluded from his fa- 
 mily, and never appeared with the Marchio- 
 ness in pubhc; that Lord Louis seemed to 
 be considered by every one as the princi- 
 pal personage, and was treated in all res- 
 pects as the heir ought to be; in short, that the 
 
THE DEFORMED. 65 
 
 Marchioness seemed so fully persuaded that 
 the elder son would never live to be of any 
 service, either to herself, or to her children, 
 that she studied little to obtain his regard per- 
 sonally, or to cultivate the affection he seemed 
 to wish to bestow upon his brothers and sisters. 
 There were now four of them; three daugh- 
 ters having followed Lord Louis into the 
 world. 
 
 Thus passed, as I have said, eleven years; 
 when orders were suddenly sent from Paris to 
 put the castle in preparation to receive the 
 family ; and on a fine evening in July, the car- 
 riages once more swept up the little street, and 
 Brandon Castle was again alive. 
 
 This time it was not, however, peopled with 
 a crowd of fashionable visitors, but with that 
 swarm of — reptiles I had almost said — which a 
 great family usually brings in its train after a 
 
66 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 long residence abroad. The French, and the 
 German, and the ItaUan governesses, -my 
 lady's femme de chambre, and my young 
 ladies' Swiss bonne — my lord's French valet, 
 and my lord's French cook — my lady's — what 
 name ought I to give him ? man of virtu, who 
 chattered in broken English and looked after 
 pictures — Lord Louis's foreign tutor — his mo- 
 ther's Albanian page — these, with grooms, foot- 
 men, coulurieres, and under nurses, and a 
 whole tribe of inferior servants, soon filled the 
 long silent walls with noise and riot ; for the 
 household was, with all its air of pretension, ill 
 kept, and ill disciplined. Four times the ne- 
 cessary number of servants were retained in 
 each department, and a certain decorum was 
 wanting in their behaviour, when not under 
 the immediate eye of their superiors. The 
 foreigners were for ever quarrelling, the natives 
 always grumbling. Jealousy, idleness, and 
 vice, were the denizens of the stables and ser- 
 vants' hall ; corruption and peculation of the 
 
THE DEFORMED. 67 
 
 steward's and housekeeper's rooms ; how it was 
 above I had soon the means of observing. 
 
 When I paid my respects at the castle, I 
 was received by the Marchioness with great 
 apparent cordiaUty — she always, I cannot tell 
 why, vied with her predecessor in marks of 
 favour to me — and treated me as a mem- 
 ber of the body politic of Brandon. Medical 
 men are however frequently thus favoured by 
 great ladies. 
 
 After a little conversation, she asked me 
 whether I should not like to see the children ; 
 and opening a glass door, which led from her 
 dressing-room down a flight of steps, conducted 
 me to the pleasure-ground below. It was a turfy 
 glade hung round with large trees, and laid out 
 with a few flower-beds, now rich with glowing 
 colours. The first sound which attracted my 
 attention, was that of loud laughter. The 
 laughter proceeded from a group of little girls, 
 attended by two or three young women, whose 
 foreign dress, airs and graces, soon shewed 
 
68 THE DEFORiMED. 
 
 me they must be of France or Italy. The 
 little girls were none of them very handsome ; 
 they were pale, and cold looking — but they 
 had skins delicate as marble, large black and 
 haughty eyes, like their mother, eye-brows in 
 fine dark lines, and dark silken hair. Yet, 
 a certain stiffness, and want of expression, 
 pervaded their features, which, though regular, 
 gave no impression of charm or beauty to 
 the eye; they looked extremely fashionable, 
 but it was a foreign air of fashion, far too 
 decidedly so, to please my English eyes, and I 
 could not endure the womanly ways that these 
 little creatures, of eight, nine and ten years old 
 assumed ; nor the perfect self-possession, and 
 finished manner, with which they received the 
 introduction their mother gave me. They 
 soon sat down again on the grass, and resumed 
 their amusements and their bursts of laughter, 
 which sounded, to me, rather affected than 
 gay. A little way before them stood Lord 
 Louis. I never saw so beautiful a boy — he 
 
THE DEFORMED. 69 
 
 was yet scarcely twelve, but his fine luxuriant 
 growth, his glowing cheek — his liquid, ex- 
 pressive eyes — his hyacinthine locks of sunny 
 brown, as they curled clustering round his face ; 
 his noble and manly bearing, gave him the air 
 of one nearly two years older than he really 
 was. He was occupied with a French poodle 
 which he was endeavouring to train, to per- 
 form the manual exercise, when his mother 
 with a face beaming with pride and pleasure, 
 presented him to me — he gave me his hand, 
 with an air at once so frank, and so spirited, 
 that he won my regard in a moment. It 
 was the French poodle, I found, which was 
 the cause of all the merriment I had heard ; 
 his tricks excited by the lively boy, who sti- 
 mulated him to exhibition, were so amusing 
 that they almost put me to my smiles. 
 
 x\fter looking on this merry scene a little 
 while, I asked for Lord St. Germains — 
 
 '' Ah, poor creature, where is he indeed?" 
 said my Lady — " where is Lord St. Ger- 
 
70 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 mains, Geraldine ? " addressing her eldest 
 daughter. 
 
 *' Dear, mamma, how should I know," said 
 she carelessly, and continued her amusement. 
 
 " Don't you see him under the trees there 
 with Lilia:" said the second daughter, Lady 
 Isabella. 
 
 " He's ill to-day," said Lord. Louis, " he 
 won't come among us — and I suppose you'll 
 none of you go to him. 
 
 " It's not our business to nurse him," said 
 Lady Geraldine. 
 
 I went up towards the group of trees. There 
 in his chair, that melancholy wheeled chair, 
 sat, or rather lay, my unfortunate young friend. 
 — He had leaned back, and his eyes Avere 
 closed — and his expression was of that pain- 
 ful cast which rests upon the countenance, 
 when severe bodily anguish has at length 
 abated. His finely chiselled features were 
 pale and exhausted — a wanness, rather 
 than a delicacy, was upon his temples, over 
 
THE DEFORMED. 71 
 
 which hung his raven hair in dark heavy 
 masses — his mouth was in the least open 
 — but round it breathed the expression 
 of that repose, which succeeds to acute 
 pain. 
 
 " Hush ! " softly whispered a gentle 
 voice. 
 
 I looked down — on the footstool of his 
 chair sat a little girl, about nine years of 
 age — the most beautiful little being that 
 I had ever beheld ; her sweet infantine face 
 was moulded in the most exquisite form and 
 tinted with the richest roses; her hair, of a 
 fine auburn, threaded with gold, and slightly 
 confined over her brow, by a narrow blue 
 fillet, fell in abundance of waves and curls 
 over her lovely cheeks, and soft and waxen 
 neck and shoulders. The prettiest dimpled 
 linger in the world was laid on lips like 
 parted cherries; while her large brilliant eyes 
 of that clear dark grey, which reflects every 
 feeling of the soul, fringed by long silken lashes, 
 
72 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 were fixed on mine with an expression of the 
 most speaking earnestness. She had a book 
 open upon her lap, and seemed to have been 
 occupied in reading while she watched by his 
 side. 
 
 I approached very softly — " Is he asleep ? " 
 I whispered. 
 
 ** Ah out — mais il a tant sonffert — tant 
 souffert, mais il dortf il dort enfin — hist — hist,' 
 — and rising from her seat, she regarded him 
 her little features working with compas- 
 sion, and the tears standing in her lovely large 
 eyes. 
 
 " Does he then suffer so much pain?" 
 I replied. 
 
 " HelaSy oui beaucoup, beaucoup, — 7nais 
 quil est bon — quil est doux.'' 
 
 *' And who are you, may I ask, my pretty 
 little lady, who seem so kindly watching him ? 
 are you one of his sisters ? " 
 
 " Helas, noriije siiis LiliaJ" 
 
 " And may I ask why you are here instead 
 
THE DEFORMED. 73 
 
 of being with the rest ? hark ! how they are 
 laughing." 
 
 " I know it," said she, " they have got the 
 dog ; but I can't bear to leave him in his pain 
 all alone. Oh, I am so sorry for him, such 
 pain ! and all by himself too — si triste — si triste. 
 I like better to take care of him, than to hear 
 them laugh." 
 
 " Are you then such great friends ?" 
 " Ah, yes ! he is so good to me, he teaches 
 me every thing almost ; and when mademoi- 
 selle is very cross," (with the prettiest air of 
 confidence in the world), " I creep, creep away 
 to him — and though he is sometimes in such 
 pain ! — such pain ! — he says all sorts of kind 
 things to me — and comforts me — and tells me 
 to be patient and quiet — and when I am pas- 
 sionate and naughty, he speaks so gently and 
 so kindly, that I am ready to die with sorrow 
 and shame." 
 
 " Then you are sometimes naughty ?" 
 
 " To be sure I am — every body is naughty 
 
 VOL I. E 
 
74 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 but he. Ah, never! never! — he is never the 
 least tiny bit naughty." 
 
 This httle whispering conversation was 
 interrupted by a shght movement in the 
 sleeper. 
 
 " Ah, he is waking," cried the little crea- 
 ture — and, flying to his side, she put her face 
 close to his ; " You are better, are not 
 you ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear," in a low and languid 
 voice. '^ Have you been with me all this 
 time ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, and have read all that long piece 
 — I can say it now very well." 
 
 '* Not at present — How they are laughing ! 
 go to them, my dear little girl, I can do very 
 well by myself now." 
 
 " I would rather stay by you." 
 
 " But you have been by me all this after- 
 noon — and this dear little tongue must be sadly 
 tired of being so still — n'est ce i^aSj ma tres 
 jolie petite Lilia ?" 
 
THE DEFORMED. 75 
 
 " But I may chatter to you now, you know : 
 — but I forgot, here is a gentleman." 
 
 I advanced from behind the chair. " I 
 fear, my Lord, you must have quite forgotten 
 Mr. Wilson." 
 
 " That I shall never do," with the most 
 polite air in the world. " Mr. Wilson, I am 
 very happy indeed to see you again — Will you 
 excuse me rising ? — I am almost a prisoner — 
 Still in this self-same chair, though I fill it 
 somewhat better than I once did." 
 
 " Your Lordship is indeed very much 
 grown ; and, I hope, improved in health and 
 strength since I had the honour of seeing you 
 last.'' 
 
 "I cannot boast much of that — Existence is 
 to me still an effort and a pain .... That 1 exist 
 at all, I believe, astonishes all the world, and 
 no one more than myself — but having struggled 
 so long, I begin to think that I am to live; 
 and, much as I sometimes endure, I assure you 
 the expectation is an agreeable one. Now, my 
 
 E 2 
 
76 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 sweet little Lilia, you must go and tell some 
 one to bring a chair for Mr. Wilson — for 
 if be bas a little leisure, I mean to keep him 
 by me for a space. I live, sir," turning to 
 me, " in tbe open air, and I too well remember 
 the kindness you used to shew me, not to feel 
 sure that you will sit by me, and indulge me 
 with your company here." 
 
 " I need not assure your Lordship of my 
 great pleasure in doing so," said I, struck 
 and affected by all I saw, and gratified to find 
 myself so cordially welcomed, by one, in whom 
 I took so deep an interest. The little Lilia 
 fluttered away like a butterfly, pausing from 
 flower to flower — His eyes followed her. 
 
 " What a very sweet and pretty child !" I 
 said. 
 
 " The sweetest, dearest little being in the 
 universe! — how charming some children are, 
 Mr. Wilson ! — what aftectionate hearts and 
 tender feelings ! — Would you believe it, this 
 dear little thing, from the moment she first 
 
THE DEFORMED. 77 
 
 came into this family, has attached herself to 
 me, evidently from the purest sentiments of 
 compassion — She sees my isolated situation; — 
 and forsakes every pleasure, and neglects every 
 amusement, to flutter round me, like a little 
 cherub .... This very day has that creature 
 held my hand for nearly an hour, while I was 
 very ill — and then when I sleep, she sinks 
 down at my feet, and sits the very picture of 
 silence, — * More patient than the brooding 
 dove, when that her golden couplets are dis- 
 closed.' Though when I am well, it is the 
 merriest, wildest, little spirit " 
 
 " She must be a great amusement to 
 you," 
 
 " Ah! she is much more than that — I am 
 unfortunately," with a slight sigh, " very fond 
 of children, and am not, as you know, a very 
 engaging companion for such volatile beings — 
 The affection and company of this little girl 
 are a consolation for some disappointments — 
 carry a sweetness with them . . . Besides, I think, 
 
78 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 pretty creature, I can be of use to her — that 
 is gratifying to one who longs to be busy, as I 
 unluckily do — I endeavour to repeat some of 
 the excellent things Mrs. Cartwright has la- 
 boured to teach me, to this far softer and 
 more docile mind — and I really think my little 
 pupil will do me credit ;" smiling, " though 
 nature has been so prodigal, I almost fear to 
 meddle with her handy work." 
 
 The little lady now came flying back, fol- 
 lowed by a footman carrying a chair. I sat 
 down by Lord St. Germains' side. 
 
 " Now, dear little Lilia, you must gather 
 Mr. Wilson a nosegay as large as your head." 
 
 Away she flew over the grass, her white 
 frock fluttering, like the wings of a swan, be- 
 hind her ; and we continued our conversation. 
 
 I think there must be something in me 
 which invites confidence : for, young as Lord 
 St. Germains had been when we last met, I 
 was treated by him as an old friend the mo- 
 ment we met again; though certainly there 
 
THE DEFORMED. 79 
 
 were many subjects which he did not enter 
 upon till some time afterwards. He began to 
 speak of his travels, of the various countries he 
 had visited ; displaying the most ardent enthu- 
 siasm for the beauties of nature, and the most 
 refined taste in those of art. Probably because 
 I was a medical man, he talked more openly to 
 me than he would otherwise have done, of the 
 effect produced by his peculiar situation upon 
 all his views and sentiments — for he seldom 
 alluded to himself except in confidential con- 
 versations with a very few of his friends. 
 
 " I am aware," he said, " and I think to 
 their full extent, of the disadvantages under 
 which I lie — to be deformed is a heavy mis- 
 fortune, the bitterness of which I have only, 
 perhaps, begun to taste — The time for that is 
 not yet fully come — but I should have found 
 it more easy to reconcile myself to being a 
 sort of monster in the eyes of the world, if I 
 could have hoped to win approbation and re- 
 gard by acts of energy and of virtue. Unhap- 
 
80 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 pily, the miserable helplessness of my con- 
 dition renders that very difficult, and seems 
 to condemn me to a woman's obscurity, with- 
 out her usefulness. Reflections such as these 
 might have driven me, as they sometimes have 
 well nigh driven me, to despair, — had not the 
 wisdom of Mrs. Cartwright rescued me. She 
 has taught me to look upon life with diflferent, 
 and, I hope, purer eyes, — as a theatre of duty 
 rather than of success ; — and where the first 
 duty is obedience, — the second, not to bury, in 
 fretful impatience, the single talent in a nap- 
 kin. She has stimulated me to endeavour to 
 improve my small one to its full extent — and, 
 in this endeavour, I have found peace, and, 
 since this darling child came amongst us — 
 happiness. I hope to live now to be of some 
 service to my fellow -creatures. — It will be 
 something, at least, to shew^ that personal de- 
 fects, however great, need not irretrievably 
 blast the career of a resolute man. And the 
 hunch-back lord, miserable cripple as he is, 
 
THE DEFORMED. 81 
 
 may, perhaps, leave some worthy evidence of his 
 existence behind him, when he closes it. — " . . 
 
 He was interrupted by Lilia, who flew to 
 him, her face streaming with tears. 
 
 " My Lilia, what is it ?" 
 
 '' They will not let me get any flowers — and 
 the Marchioness is angry with me for touching 
 her roses — I said they were for you, but she is 
 very, very angry, and bade me take care how 
 I presumed to gather her flowers— and they 
 are all very cross with me — and, oh ! where 
 shall I get flowers for you? sweet flowers — 
 such as I used to gather for you at Fontain- 
 bleau — orange flowers, and carnations, and 
 roses, that you loved so — and I dressed your 
 room all over with them when you were ill !" 
 
 *' Never mind, little girl, we — " kissing the 
 tears from her glowing cheeks and brimming 
 eyes — " we must not touch other people's 
 things, you know — no one likes that— I did 
 not know they were in the Marchioness's gar- 
 den when I sent you. We must have a pretty 
 
 E O 
 
S2 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 little garden of our own in some nook or other; 
 and then my Lilia shall bury me in roses, if 
 she likes. But don't cry — it is wrong and 
 weak to cry — and I would rather never touch 
 a rose more, than that my Lilia should do 
 what is wrong or weak." 
 
 " But it is so hard," said the little one, 
 indignantly sobbing, '* they take every thing 
 themselves, and they give you nothing. — Lady 
 Geraldine has a lap full of roses— and you, 
 who are so good, and so ill " 
 
 " My dear, roses are more proper things 
 for Lady Geraldine than for me. You know 
 I am quite a man now, and roses are for 
 ladies." 
 
 " But you like them, though." 
 
 '' I like them, my Lilia, when you bring 
 them. But if you will fill your frock with 
 daisies, it will do as well — I saw some under 
 the trees. Go, and gather me a load of them." 
 
 Away went Lilia again. I was silent, and 
 looked surprised and heated. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 83 
 
 " Mr. Wilson, may I ask of you one great 
 favour ? — .... I hope to see very much of you 
 while I am here — Will you be so kind as to 
 endeavour not to see for me some few things 
 which I desire to be blind to myself?" 
 
 I soon after rose to take my leave ; Lord 
 St. Germains first exacting a promise that I 
 would visit him very frequentlyo 
 
 " You loved my mother, Mr. Wilson. — ^May 
 her unfortunate son presume upon that regard, 
 and look upon you as his friend? Helpless 
 as I am— it is absolutely necessary for me to 
 have some one in whom I can place implicit 
 confidence, and make, in short, a second self — 
 one who will have the benevolence, and the 
 patience, to assist a feeble being in its efforts 
 at action. — Will you be this friend, Mr. Wil- 
 son ? You may perhaps wonder at, or, ra.ther, 
 despise me, for shewing so much forwardness 
 and unreserve— but I feel as if I knew you 
 very well — your kindness to me before I left 
 England, made a strong impression on my 
 
84 THE DEFORMED, 
 
 childish feehngs, and your correspondence 
 with Mrs. Cartwright has increased my res- 
 pect for you. Besides, are you not my guar- 
 dian ? Are you not the friend selected by 
 my mother, to be mine in the hour of my 
 need ?" 
 
 It is unnecessary to add that I was much 
 touched by all this ; he could not for a moment 
 doubt the interest I took in him. He felt it, 
 and took my hand. 
 
 " Mr. Wilson, you are the man I have 
 been in search of. I thank God he has granted 
 me what I so much wanted." 
 
 On my return home, I found Judy in an 
 ecstasy. The Marchioness had been into town, 
 with that beautiful Lord Louis on horseback. 
 *' She stopped at Mr. Derne's for some writing- 
 paper, looking so charmingly — and Lord Louis 
 ordered I don't know how many things at Mr. 
 Blore's for his dog-kennel — He has a hundred- 
 and-fifty dogs, I do believe — and there was fol- 
 lowing him such a King Charles! black and tan. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 85 
 
 with such ears, and the sweetest Httle head ! and 
 last of all, brother, they called here — for the 
 little darling had hurt his foot, and they thought 
 to find you at home. — So, when I saw who it 
 was, though you know I never go into the 
 shop under any circumstances — yet I would not 
 leave them to the boy, so I just popped my best 
 bonnet over my cap — and put on my new black 
 apron, and looked very tidy — I assure you, and 
 I went down to the door, and I said — * I am 
 most concerned, my Lady, that my brother is 
 not at home* What is the matter with the 
 sweet httle darling — your Ladyship's dog?' and 
 then she said, ' Not my Ladyship's, but Lord 
 Louis's dog. Miss Wilson — this is Lord Louis,' 
 looking proudly up at him — and then he lifted 
 up his head like an archangel, as he is, all 
 glowing with his ride, and said — ' I can't ima- 
 gine what the deuce is in Fanfan, mamma — she 
 certainly runs lame^ and I can see nothing the 
 matter with her foot.' And then I said ' May 
 I presume, my Lord' — and sure enough, there 
 
86 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 was a thorn, which I extracted — and my Lady 
 said, * Thank you, Miss Wilson;' and my Lord 
 said — ^ Off with you, Fanfan,' and away they 
 cantered to the castle. — Ah ! he is a noble 
 boy, and will well become his great estate." 
 
 " His great estate ! Judy, what are you 
 talking of.''" 
 
 *' Oh, I had forgot; it's not his estate just 
 yet, to be sure — but sure it will be, for they 
 say the poor cripple can't last long." 
 
 I turned from her, and I felt it was of no 
 use to jbe angry, I thought it a sort of profa- 
 nation to discuss Lord St. Germains' circum- 
 stances in such a conversation as this. 
 
 A few days afterwards, I paid a second visit 
 to the castle — I then saw my friend Mrs. Cart- 
 wright — I found her occupying the ancient 
 part of the castle — Lord St. Germains and her- 
 self having retired to these deserted chambers, 
 where they had formed a sort of estabhsh- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 87 
 
 ment of their own, removed from the noise 
 and hurry of the other apartments. She seemed 
 gratified by the impression her pupil had made 
 upon me. She told me that the little Lilia 
 was a humble connexion of the Marchion- 
 ess, and had been received into the family 
 with a view to her speaking French with the 
 little girls ; that her education had been 
 entirely neglected, and was not likely much 
 to have advanced, under the care of her cousins' 
 governesses — much too fine, and much too indo- 
 lent, to throw away their labours upon a being 
 so insignificant : that the child had early at- 
 tached herself to Lord St. Germains, evidently 
 from the most generous feeling of compassion ; 
 and that he, much touched by her sensibility, 
 and interested by her situation, had, in a 
 manner, adopted her as his own: that he 
 had carefully instructed her in every thing 
 which she was capable of at present acquiring, 
 of which her progress in English was some 
 proof — to say nothing of music, in which she 
 
88 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 was already a proficient for her age : but that 
 he was still more intent upon forming her 
 mind and character, so as to prepare her to 
 endure the numerous ills of her situation, 
 without servility and without impatience. 
 
 " These two unfortunate young creatures," — 
 said she," unfortunate in circumstances so exact- 
 ly opposed, yet coloured with the same character 
 of mortification, seem to have been drawn by 
 a secret sympathy towards each other ; and the 
 little Lilia is to Lord St. Germains every thing 
 he could desire in an affectionate sister, while 
 he is a father and protector to her. You see 
 our apartments are distinct from those of the 
 rest of the family — and our presence in the 
 general circle appears little desired ; so that 
 our life is solitary enough at times — but it is 
 enlivened by this sweet little being, and she is 
 so glad, I believe, to escape from the haughty 
 governesses, and from her cousins, who love 
 her little, that she is for ever with us ; and, 
 being not much wanted, and not much missed, 
 
THE DEFORMED. 89 
 
 is seldom enquired for — They are now together 
 very busy, making a garden." 
 
 Mrs. Cartwright was not fond of gossiping 
 — She never, but to me, I beheve, mentioned 
 any circumstance that passed in the family — 
 but she gave me to understand that the Mar- 
 quis, easy and indolent, left every thing to the 
 Marchioness — that she, imperious, self-willed, 
 and cold-hearted, governed with little regard 
 to justice, or an equitable attention to the respec- 
 tive rights of the members of her family — and 
 that no expense was spared upon Lord Louis : 
 that his pleasure or advantage was consulted 
 at the expense of every other consideration — 
 he being the idol of his mother's heart, who 
 evidently still looked upon him as his father's 
 future heir. He had his dog-kennels, and his 
 stables already, and, though a mere boy, had 
 the tastes and habits of an expensive man. — His 
 sisters were somewhat differently treated — To 
 make them fashionable — elegant — accomplished 
 — distinguished — was the mother's sole aim — 
 
I 
 90 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 little regard being paid to any other consider- 
 ation. Health might be a little attended to — 
 but the morals — the temper — all that forms 
 the disposition and character, were totally 
 and entirely overlooked. Abandoned to inte- 
 rested governesses, the little girls v<rere flattered 
 into pride — tempted to meanness — and initi- 
 ated even thus early, into those arts which are 
 thought so useful in the great world. Dress, 
 accomplishments, and personal attractions, were 
 the incessant theme of their conversation, and 
 the objects of their thoughts and wishes ; and 
 these ill-conditioned French women were not 
 ashamed to propose to creatures so very young, 
 the consideration of making excellent matches, 
 like their mother, as the motive for all their 
 exertions. 
 
 In the meantime, every thing was denied 
 to Lord St. Germains — or, I ought rather to 
 say, would have been denied, had he not, 
 with a simplicity in unison — and a firmness and 
 a pertinacity which seemed scarcely consistent. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 91 
 
 — with the usual gentleness-^even softness — of 
 his demeanour, persisted in asking for, and in 
 obtaining, all he thought necessary for his.own 
 improvement and rational well-being — at the 
 same time that a murmur never passed his lips 
 at all that was done for the others — and he 
 sedulously abstained from interfering with the 
 proceedings of the Marchioness, in the slightest 
 degree. 
 
 " He gave an example of this yesterday — 
 You were present when poor little Lilia was 
 repulsed while gathering a few roses — He took 
 no notice whatever of the affront ; but soon af- 
 terwards he went to the Marchioness, and peti- 
 tioned for a particular spot, about a quarter of an 
 acre, which lies in a remote part of the shrub- 
 beries, quite neglected, and asked to be allowed 
 to have it for a garden. — She seems quite to 
 dislike granting him the smallest indulgence — 
 as if it were a concession to rights she would 
 fain never acknowledge — but the request was 
 made with so much respectful plainness, that 
 
VZ THE DEFORMED. 
 
 she could not refuse — so Lilia and he are very 
 busy there this morning." 
 
 There I went, and there I found them — 
 and who so proud or so busy as Httle Liha ? 
 — The young Lord was in his chair, as usual, 
 with a small table before him, covered with 
 plans, which he was explaining to the happy 
 child. -^ His design was to make a sort of 
 botanic garden of this spot : but he was pro- 
 mising to the tiny fairy, a world of roses, car- 
 nations, and orange-flowers. Several work- 
 men were employed preparing the ground : and 
 Lilia, all animation, was receiving orders, 
 measuring, chatting, and running about. Their 
 books lay upon a bench near, and LiHa's 
 work-basket. — Her book was the Robinson 
 Suisse — his, a volume of Wordsworth's Poems. 
 
 After the first salutations were over, " I 
 find you bestowing much happiness, my Lord !" 
 was my remark. 
 
 " And receiving it," was his reply. " What 
 a sweet and calm afternoon ! — how soft is the 
 air! — how soothiuG: the various sounds that 
 
THE DEFORMED. 93 
 
 reach us in this quiet corner ! — the hum of the 
 insects — the distant lowing of the herds — the 
 very sound of the mattocks and spades, as my 
 labourers ply their work in my little Lilia's 
 behalf. . . . How beautiful an opening into that 
 glade, where the deer are reposing, their glossy 
 coats tinted by the mellow sun-beam! — how 
 dark the foliage of the noble trees that hang 
 around us ! — and that sweet child, what a 
 brightness her fluttering gestures and playful 
 smiles give to this little landscape !" — .... 
 "It is indeed a glorious world, Mr. Wil- 
 son, and I feel that heavenly moments are 
 granted to us here — which make it a privilege 
 even to exist — poor miserable creatures as we 
 too often call ourselves." 
 
 I said I had often experienced what he 
 was now feeling ; and that I rejoiced from my 
 soul that he had so disciplined his mind as to 
 be capable of tasting the enjoyments offered 
 to him, without blighting them by repining or 
 discontent. 
 
94 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " Mrs. Cart Wright has taken great pains 
 with me, and has endeavoured to impress upon 
 my mind that it is better to face inevitable 
 calamity at once with courage, and gratefully 
 accept such alleviations as the nature of the 
 case allows — than to endeavour, by a feeble 
 self-flattery, to delude the imagination, by con- 
 cealing the reality and the extent of an evil. 1 
 think I have considered my situation in all its 
 bearings — and have endeavoured to estimate 
 it justly — Doubtless, the disadvantages I en- 
 dure are very great, but they may be supported 
 by a proper resolution; and the better parts 
 of human life, I may still consider mine — 
 ennobling thoughts, efforts at virtue — the sim- 
 ple pleasures of nature — and I hope, in some 
 degree, of affection — the love of that little 
 darling ! — .... but I am weak there — How it 
 has raited me in my own self-estimation ! — yet 
 that is but a reed to lean upon," with a gentle 
 shake of the head, " and I liave other, and 1 
 trust, more stable supports. Do you knov/ 
 
THE DEFORMED. 95 
 
 this book?" — pointing to the one lying before 
 him — " It is to poets such as Wordsworth, 
 that minds hke mine he under everlasting 
 obligation." He opened at the Excursion. 
 
 " What an admirable poem ! — replete with 
 wisdom and with consolation. I have endea- 
 voured, (but you will smile at my simplicity,) 
 to form myself in some measure upon thoughts 
 such as these — thoughts, so well becoming a 
 solitary — for such, alas ! I am, — and to rest my 
 philosophy upon the noble foundations which 
 are here pointed out : 
 
 Alas ! the endowment of immortal power 
 
 Is match'd unequally with custom, time, 
 
 And domineering faculties of sense, 
 
 In all. — In most with superadded foes 
 
 Idle temptations, countless, still renew'd, 
 
 Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world- 
 
 And in the private regions of the mind, 
 
 111 govern'd passions, ranklings of despite, 
 
 Immoderate wishes, pining discontent. 
 
 Distress and care. — What then remains ? — to seek. 
 
 Those helps for his occasions ever near, 
 
 Who lacks not will to use them — Vows renew'd 
 
 On the first motion of a holy thought, 
 
96 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 Vigils of contemplation, praise, and prayer, — 
 A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart. 
 Flowing however feebly, never flows 
 Without access of unexpected strength — 
 But, above all, the victory is most sure. 
 For him who, seeking faith by virtue, strives 
 To yield entire submission to the law 
 Of conscience — Conscience reverenced and obey'd, 
 As God's most intimate presence in the soul. 
 And his most perfect image in the world- 
 Endeavour thus to live — these rules regard — 
 These helps solicit — 
 
 He paused — his pale and sickly counte- 
 nance was illuminated for an instant — then, as 
 if ashamed of all he had been saying, he began 
 once more to apologise, and to attribute to his 
 sickness, and to his infirmity, this tincture of 
 romance, as he called it, in his temper — ''And 
 you will not forget, Mr. Wilson, that I have 
 lived little with men at present — and that 1 
 have, till now, wanted the advantage of having 
 my ways of thinking corrected by communica- 
 tion with minds more masculine than my 
 own. — But now I will have done talkins^ of 
 
THE DEFORMED. Ji 
 
 myself — for really, if you have time, I have so 
 much important business to speak upon — that 
 I scarcely know where to begin." 
 
 He then asked me what funds I had which 
 he might call his own — " The income I mean." 
 I explained to him that it amounted at this 
 time to «£600 a-year; for which, or for any 
 part of the principal, he could draw upon me 
 as he wanted it. 
 
 " I shall want it directly for my child and 
 myself," said he laughing ; '* and it will not 
 be half enough ; so I mean to get my father to 
 pay for my own education — while I provide for 
 that of others — like a true enthusiast, you know ; 
 who always overlooks his most natural wants 
 and duties." 
 
 He then told me that he must immediately 
 have a tutor, who must be a gentleman in his 
 manners ; but, above all, a profound scholar — 
 " I wish to be a scholar. And dear Mrs. 
 Cartwright, with all her pains — has never been 
 able to obtain for me the means. I must obtain 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
98 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 them now for myself. If my father cannot 
 afford me that indulgence, I shall pay for it ; 
 but I think he will not refuse." 
 
 " It is impossible he should," cried I. 
 
 ** I am sure he will not, if he can help it : 
 but his is an expensive family. In his rank, it 
 is lamentable how much apparent wealth and 
 real poverty there is." 
 
 " His very mother's remark," thought I. 
 
 " Mr. Wilson, I know you will find me what 
 I want. For my lovely one,^' added he, " much 
 is not yet necessary, and my education will be 
 finished before her's begins : but an education 
 she shall have." 
 
 " I should have thought," I said, ** that the 
 means were already provided in the young 
 ladies' school-room." 
 
 " No," replied he, " not for Lilia," and 
 dropped the subject. 
 
 Lord St. Germains then proceeded to ask 
 me several questions relating to the old depend- 
 ants of the family, and the situation of the poor 
 
THE DEFORMED. 99 
 
 upon the estate; and made me explain in 
 detail what had been his mother's arrange- 
 ments to secure the welfare of the cottagers. 
 Her benevolent plans had been sadly neglected 
 during the long absence of the family ; and 
 want, vice and disorder had succeeded to com- 
 fort, industry, and regularity. He lamented 
 with me this change, and promised to spare no 
 exertions to restore things to their former situ- 
 ation ; a promise he amply redeemed. Young 
 as he was — and helpless as he was — the ener- 
 gies of his mind triumphed over his situation ; 
 and, from the corner of his chamber, he con- 
 trived to regulate these matters so well, that 
 in a few years, from the most idle, poaching, 
 squalid peasantry in the country, our cottagers 
 became remarkable for respectability and good 
 conduct. 
 
 As we were thus discoursing, we were inter- 
 rupted by the joyous cries of Lilia. 
 
 " Oh, they are coming — they are coming." 
 " And several men, wheeling barrows full 
 
100 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 of plants and flowers, entered the garden* 
 Lord St. Germains now devoted himself to his 
 little friend — pointing out to her, on the plan 
 before him, the place each plant was to occupy, 
 and explaining in words suitable to her childish 
 understanding, the reasons of his arrangement. 
 She was charming — now fixing her large eyes 
 so seriously on his face — now clapping her 
 dimpled hands and springing for joy, as she 
 understood his ideas. 
 
 " Ouiy mais il sera charmant — charmant — 
 notre petit jardin! Ah, St. Germains! good 
 St. Germains ! dear St. Germains, Que votis 
 etes amiable ! — amiable ! — " 
 
 I was as busy as she was, assisting and talk- 
 ing, and laughing: when a noise was heard 
 in the thicket — First rushed in two beautiful 
 setters, whose appearance sent Lilia scream- 
 ing and flying to the chair of her protector — 
 They were followed in a moment by Lord 
 Louis, glowing with exercise — a noble figure. — 
 He carried his light gun in his hand, but threw 
 
THE DEFORMED. 101 
 
 it down, as he approached, with an air of 
 vexation. 
 
 "How are you, brother? What a charm- 
 ing spot you have found for you and your 
 pretty, sweet, lovely little pet ! — but, Lilia, why 
 do you cry, and run away from my dogs? — 
 they will not hurt you, you foolish little 
 thing." 
 
 " Indeed, Louis, we must excuse her : they 
 came upon her so unexpectedly; but she will 
 be wiser in time, won't you, Lilia ? " 
 
 " I don't like such great horrid creatures,'* 
 said Lilia. 
 
 " You don't like them! why did you ever 
 in your life, you foohsh, confoundedly pretty 
 creature, see such a couple of noble animals ? 
 Only look at them, St. Germains — you have 
 the eye of a painter. Are they not quite a 
 study?" 
 
 " Noble dogs ; where did you g^t them ? " 
 
 ** Oh, Pitson got them from Lord Clare's 
 keeper — broke on purpose for me — -a hundred 
 
102 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 guineas the pair — well worth a hundred and 
 fifty." 
 
 I looked down — so did not Lord St. Ger- 
 mains. He only laughed, and said : 
 
 " You are a clever fellow, Louis. I shall 
 think you a cleverer when you see your one 
 hundred again." 
 
 " And now," cried Lord Louis, " what the 
 devil bewitches my mother, I cannot guess; but 
 a crotchet is come into her head, that I am too 
 young — too young! heaven help her! to be 
 trusted with a gun. Not use my gun !" added 
 he petulantly. " One might as well be dead, 
 as submit to this tyranny. I'd rather be dead, 
 if I mayn't have my pleasure — A thousand 
 times rather be dead." 
 
 " Ah, how silly you are. Lord Louis :" said 
 Lilia, " how very — very silly; — what ! be dead 
 because you may not shoot: you who have 
 horses, and Fanfans, and pheasants, and guinea 
 pigs and rabbits — all of your own — own — own." 
 
 " You know nothing about it at all, you 
 
THE DEFORMED. 103 
 
 silly little exquisite charming darling ; so give 
 me a kiss, and don't lecture me,^^ 
 
 ** No I shan't," said Lilia, " I have made a 
 vow — " 
 
 " You a vow ! " 
 
 " I shan't kiss any one in this house but 
 Mrs. Cartwright." 
 
 " Nonsense ! that piece of grey marble I" 
 
 " She's not a piece of grey marble," said 
 Lilia, firing up, " and you are a very, very 
 naughty boy to call her so — She's very good — 
 she's very clever — she's very kind. And if she 
 IS pale, that's prettier than great red cheeks, 
 like yours." And her's were crimson. 
 
 " Softly, my Lilia," said St. Germains, " de- 
 fend your friends, but don't abuse your adver- 
 saries. 
 
 " Oh, let her abuse me, the pretty little 
 vixen, but I will have a kiss, 
 
 " No brother, not now, you will vex the 
 child. Shall I speak to the Marchioness about 
 your gun ? " 
 
104 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " That was what I was just going to ask 
 you, St. Germains; I really shall be prodigi- 
 ously obliged to you — it is monstrously absurd, 
 is it not?" 
 
 " We must remember," said St. Germains, 
 ** she is a woman and a mother ; and a doat- 
 ing mother. So much love as you receive will 
 bring its inconveniences." 
 
 " I wish she would give me a little less of 
 both then," was the undutiful answer ; " how- 
 ever, do see what you can make of her. She 
 minds you a good deal, I can tell you, when 
 you speak in the proper way." 
 
 " But I am afraid I shall not be able to 
 speak in the proper way, in this case," said 
 St. Germains, laughing, " that is, according to 
 your ideas of the proper way — very decisively — 
 for you are her own son, and she has a right — " 
 
 " Don't talk of rights, bothering — Will you 
 do it or not ? " 
 
 " I will try ; but I will not speak in a man- 
 ner that you ought not to wish me to do ; 
 
THE DEFORMED. J05 
 
 that is to say, imperiously, decisively, as you 
 call it." 
 
 " Well, well, manage it any way, but let me 
 have my gun, and, Lilia,lwill shoot you a dove." 
 
 " Don't," said Lilia, " I don't want a dove 
 shot, I'm sure." 
 
 " Why, you simpleton, I thought you loved 
 birds!" 
 
 " I don't love to have them shot — and I 
 don't love you for shooting them!" 
 
 " Don't you? but you must — for I cannot 
 live without shooting, nor without sweet pretty 
 Lilia loving me: and so, good bye — for you 
 are so cross, IM better be off;" and he left us, 
 whistling away his dogs. 
 
 We were all silent for a short space. — At 
 last, " He is a fine boy, is he not, sir?" said 
 St. Germains. 
 
 " It is somewhat of a pity he is indulged so 
 far," I ventured to say. 
 
 " I don't know," was the generous answer. 
 *' I hope it will do him no serious harm, and 
 
 F 5 
 
106 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 it must be so pleasant to be adored by a mo- 
 ther, that I cannot regret it." 
 
 For myself, I found it difficult to sympathise 
 with this generosity. I stood pondering upon 
 the unjust partiality which, while it denied to 
 one son the means of accomplishing the no- 
 blest purposes, lavished money without reserve 
 upon the most idle tastes of the other. 
 
 The summer passed on. In the course of 
 it, I procured for Lord St. Germains the at- 
 tendance of a gentleman of my acquaintance, 
 an excellent scholar ; under whose instruction 
 he soon made an astonishing proficiency in 
 those branches of learning which, whether 
 justly or not, are considered by us as essential 
 to the character of an accomplished gentleman. 
 He at the same time commenced those schemes 
 for ameliorating the condition of the peasantry, 
 which, as I have before stated, produced in a 
 few years such excellent results. Little Lilia, 
 under his fostering and gentle care, continued 
 to expand in loveliness; her gay smiles and 
 
THE DEFORMED. 107 
 
 heart-cheering laughter, her winning frolics 
 and caressing ways, compensating to him for 
 many hours of suffering and despondency. 
 
 Lord Louis went to Eton, where he was 
 speedily distinguished as the handsomest and 
 cleverest boy in the school ; and also for a 
 reckless wantonness of expense which, even in 
 that seminary, renowned for fashion and for 
 folly, not to say vice, made him quite remark- 
 able; but his fine talents and generous temper 
 endeared him to all, in spite of his faults, and 
 appeared in some manner to justify the exces- 
 sive fondness of his mother. 
 
 So time rolled away, and years passed over 
 our heads, bringing with them few changes, 
 except as regarded the growth of all these 
 young creatures. Lord St. Germains slowly 
 ripened from a tender and sensitive youth to 
 a manhood of deep and powerful feeling. His 
 understanding strengthened with his years, and 
 acquired a firmness and an expansion truly 
 
108 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 wonderful, considering the life he had led ; but 
 his health amended Httle. He appeared still 
 hovering upon the edge of the grave, visited at 
 intervals by cruel pains — a cripple, walking 
 and moving with difficulty, — and his deformity, 
 though somewhat less apparent to the eye, 
 still rendering him remarkable wherever he 
 went. He came of age during this interval, 
 and, by his own desire, the day was marked 
 by feasts and gifts to all the poor upon the es- 
 tate, and by dinners to the tenants and to the 
 gentlemen of Carstones; but he came not 
 down to Brandon, his sense of his appearance 
 being chiefly shewn, in a somewhat studious 
 anxiety to avoid representation of every sort. 
 
 Lord Louis went from Eton to Oxford, 
 where he continued his career of splendid ex- 
 travagance, mingled, however, with rather less 
 of vice than might have been expected. The 
 example of his brother acted upon him cer- 
 tainly in the most salutary manner; he loved 
 and he respected St. Germains, and though 
 
THE DEFORMED. 109 
 
 often careless, and sometimes rude, treated 
 him with deference, and with something al- 
 most like tenderness. 
 
 Some summers were passed at other coun- 
 try seats, and I lost sight of them all, once 
 more, for a year or two. 
 
 It was early in June of the year 18 — , that 
 the family came down once more to Brandon 
 Castle to spend the summer — A summer, how 
 eventful! — Seven years have elapsed since last 
 I presented them to my readers. They are 
 all much changed in appearance. Lord St. 
 Germains has acquired a brow of stronger 
 character, an eye of deeper expression; he is 
 become a thoughtful — energetic man — yet 
 possessing deep sensibility. No one can look 
 upon his very striking countenance without 
 being assured of this. 
 
 The form of Lord Louis has expanded into 
 a grace and beauty which render him pre-emi- 
 nent, even among the handsomest race upon 
 
ilO THE DEFORMED. 
 
 earth, the aristocracy of England. His coun- 
 tenance glows with animation — his brow is 
 clear and open — his eye sparkling, his lips 
 haughtily curling, yet endowed with a smile of 
 ineffable sweetness — his figure tall, symmetri- 
 cal, with an elegance, and yet energy of ges- 
 ture and action, singularly beautiful. His mo- 
 ther, on whom years have laid an unkind hand, 
 gazes on him with a restless, anxious, uneasy 
 love. Her eye is become hard, her complexion 
 withered — her countenance unquiet — unsatis- 
 fied longings — uneasy fears, and the dark pas- 
 sions — rankling jealousy — evil discontent — bit- 
 ter envy — have on it marked their lines. 
 
 The young ladies are just what one should ex- 
 pect from their education — fashionable, haugh- 
 ty, and cold — polite in their manners — ill regu- 
 lated in their tempers — accomplished, without 
 taste or imagination, worldly wise, with much 
 real folly — over-taught, with much real igno- 
 rance — " seeming — seeming — seeming " 
 
 Mrs. Cartwright is grown more grey and pale 
 
THE DEFORMED. Ill 
 
 than ever. She is much in her own apart- 
 ments, or rather, in those of Lord St. Ger- 
 mains; for they still preserve the custom of 
 having one sitting-room together. 
 
 But Lilia! how lovely is Lilia! she is just six- 
 teen, and has ripened into something so sweet, 
 that though it may be possible for others to con- 
 ceive, it is out of my power to describe her. — 
 She is formed, not like the Venus we love to 
 paint, but, if possible, she is still more charming. 
 That cherub face on which glows a radiance 
 scarcely of this world, a glory of youth, health 
 and innocence — those large, speaking, melting 
 eyes — that round and dimpled cheek — that 
 mouth of dewy roses — that form so soft, so light, 
 so childlike still — those torrents of shining 
 brown ringlets of hair which defy control, and 
 fall over the ivory neck and shoulders, shading 
 that fair brow and that sweet smiling counte- 
 nance. . . . Then she sings — from those parted 
 lips pour swelling floods of enchanting music, 
 flowing like a stream upon the air, and 
 
112 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 filling as with a volume of sound all those 
 lonely, echoing ancient apartments, where Lord 
 St. Germains and Mrs. Cartwright are. 
 
 .... He was reading, as usual, when I came 
 into the room, placed in the deep embrasure of 
 one of the old Gothic windows ; the sun pour- 
 ing through the stained glass and transparent 
 foliage of a vine which mantled over the rich 
 stone-work, a gleam of purple and golden light 
 into the room. At the remote end of it Lilia 
 sat at her pianoforte, giving the full melody of 
 her voice to one of those delightful songs by 
 German or Italian masters, the beauty of 
 which I first learned from her to appreciate. 
 — Mrs. Cartwright sat at her work, at a small 
 table not far from Lord St. Germains. 
 
 I approached the window unperceived by 
 Lilia, who was occupied with her instrument. 
 On seeing Lord St. Germains, I was imme- 
 diately struck with the very great improve- 
 ment which had taken place in his appearance. 
 The hue of health had succeeded on his coun- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 113 
 
 tenance to the paleness of disease — his frame 
 had acquired strength and firmness — he looked, 
 in short, quite well. He received me with the 
 utmost cordiality. I complimented him on his 
 appearance, and said I had never seen him 
 look in such good health in my life. 
 
 ** I believe," said he, "it is impossible not 
 to be well, when one is happy — It will give 
 you pleasure, my dear Mr. Wilson, as my 
 oldest friend, to hear, that I am quite happy. 
 My painful disorder seems to have subsided — 
 all my wishes are gratified — .... I look upon 
 myself as the happiest man upon the face of 
 the earth. — .... But I must present you to 
 my pupil — Lilia, my dear, here is Mr. Wil- 
 son — " going up to her. 
 
 She came forward, holding by his hand, — 
 he with an air of pride and pleasure, mingled, 
 she with a sweet blush as he presented her to 
 me. I was quite astonished at her beauty, and 
 for a moment could not speak for admiration. 
 
 " Mr. Wilson," with the softest tone in the 
 
114 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 world, '^ how very glad I am to see you again 
 — I hope you have not forgotten little LiHa ?" 
 
 ** Impossible to forget her. — Yet you are 
 so much grown, the sweet little plaything is 
 become — you must excuse me, such a very 
 lovely young lady " 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Wilson, fie ! you are on forbid- 
 den ground — you must not flatter — my guar- 
 dian here does not allow any one to say the 
 least civil thing in the world to me, — do you, 
 St. Germains? — He pays me the compliment 
 to think me quite vain and headstrong enough 
 already, without any encouragement. But I 
 hope you will ever keep your partiality for 
 your little friend — I have the greatest value 
 for it, I assure you. — But how do you think 
 St. Germains is looking ? " 
 
 " Most remarkably well." 
 
 ",Oh! how glad I am to hear you say so! 
 He has no pain now — no suffering ; and we 
 are so happy." 
 
 The eyes of Lord St. Germains were bent 
 
THE DEFORMED. 115 
 
 upon her as she spoke, with the most touching 
 expression. 
 
 " Ah, LiHa !" they seemed to say, " who 
 would not be happy — the object of so sweet, so 
 innocent an aifection !" 
 
 I staid chatting some time with them .... 
 LiHa gay and joyous as ever — the same wild 
 petulant creature she had been as a child — 
 with a heart as warm and generous as ever. I 
 saw they were the best friends in the world ; 
 arid they treated each other with an affectionate 
 familiarity which set my mind quite at ease: 
 for I had begun to fear, that the lovely Lilia 
 might prove rather a dangerous companion for 
 my young friend. 
 
 Whenever I saw them together, (and they 
 seemed almost inseparable,) he appeared still 
 the kind considerate tutor, she the willing, 
 though rather unmanageable, eleve. Provided 
 he was well, she, content and playful as a wild 
 fawn, sported about the woods and bowers, 
 blessed in her own existence — unvexed by care 
 
116 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 — untroubled with reflection. — She left all that 
 to him — and tenderly did he watch over her. 
 The others meanwhile treated her with a con- 
 temptuous neglect, which, I thought, had 
 something in it of envy. The Marchioness 
 affected to lament her dependant condition — 
 the sisters to speak of her as one of a caste 
 different from their own, and as poor Lilia. 
 Little did Lilia regard all this ; she returned 
 their neglect with indifference — their contempt 
 with a little saucy pouting now and then, and 
 bestowed as little of her company upon them 
 as possible ; lavishing all her time, all her 
 gaiety, all her sparkling merriment and inno- 
 cent caresses, upon Mrs. Cartwright and her 
 guardian, as she called him. 
 
 How often did we sit together in the little 
 garden, now a perfect paradise. He busied 
 with his various concerns — for, well knowing 
 the lamentable indolence of his father's tem- 
 per, and appreciating the evils thus occasioned 
 
THE DEFORMED. 117 
 
 to his tenantry and dependants, he was inde- 
 fatigable in endeavouring to obviate them. 
 While Lilia would be there at her little table, 
 in a sort of rustic bower they had made, read- 
 ing, writing, drawing — then starting from her 
 labours to frolic among the flowers, and by a 
 thousand gay wiles endeavour to overset the 
 gravity of her friend. It being evidently the 
 triumph of her malice to make him laugh when 
 he wanted to be serious, and smile when he was 
 trying hard to frown. The French term foldtre, 
 which I often heard them use, I thought was 
 invented for this bewitching creature. Then 
 she could be so charming with Mrs. Cart- 
 wright, so gentle, and so grave, as if she 
 feared to oppress her spirits by too wild a 
 gaiety, while Mrs. Cartwright returned her 
 attentions with a fondness, I thought it scarcely 
 in her nature to feel. 
 
 I never saw any being so perfectly in the 
 possession of supreme happiness as Lord St. 
 
118 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 Germains appeared at this time to be ; his 
 eyes and his countenance spoke the fulness 
 of his heart, which, indeed, his lips often, 
 in confidence, expressed to me ; describing 
 the charms of an existence, replete, to use 
 his own words, with the most exquisite enjov- 
 ment .... 
 
 Little did he think, little did I imagine, — 
 for wise as we considered ourselves upon some 
 subjects, we w^ere sad novices upon others — 
 little did we suspect where the magic lay, 
 which lent such a charm to every object. 
 
 A short time, and our eyes were opened. 
 
 I have spoken of Lord Louis, as if he had 
 come down with the rest of the family. — It 
 was not so, however — He arrived about a 
 month after the rest, and his appearance was 
 made the signal for a ball, which his sisters 
 were wild to give ; so cards were sent out, and 
 everv one was invited, far and near. 
 
 Should Lilia be at this ball ? The ladies at 
 once decided in the negative. The Marchion- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 119 
 
 ess said drily, that, at all events, she was too 
 young — besides, that it was cruel and improper, 
 to give a poor young creature, circumstanced as 
 she was, a taste for pleasures not belonging to 
 her situation. The young ladies all declared 
 it would be absurd to think of such a thing— 
 besides that, she had no dress suitable for the 
 occasion — a full dress ball it was to be — and 
 Lilia was allowed to wear nothing but white 
 muslin frocks. 
 
 Poor Lilia had depended upon this plea- 
 sure, as her cousins of the same age were to 
 be allowed to appear. Mrs. Cartwright, who, 
 with all her gravity, was the advocate of every 
 innocent enjoyment, and who hated to see a 
 cloud upon a countenance that she loved, was 
 quite disconcerted. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Cartwright," said Lord 
 St. Germains, " what is the matter? Your 
 Sereniti//^ for so he would call her in play, 
 " appears this morning in that extraordinary 
 state for you — quite out of humour." 
 
120 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 *'Ancl, indeed, so I am, my Lord. — Poor 
 little Lilia! — they do not mean to let her 
 appear at this ball/^ 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 " Oh, there are abundance of reasons, if 
 that would do any good ; but not one of them 
 contents me, much less the sweet thing her- 
 self, whose little heart has been in a flutter 
 of expectation. Ever since she heard Lady 
 Mary, who is one year younger than herself, 
 was to be there, she took it for granted she 
 should appear also — but it is decided other- 
 wise — and, poor little girl, she is terribly dis- 
 appointed. She is but a shabby philosopher, 
 my Lord, in spite of all your excellent teach- 
 ing." 
 
 " Alas, sweet Lilia ! her heart beats too 
 fast and too warmly for my discipline. — I 
 think she would not much mind the amuse- 
 ment, but she will feel the shght keenly^ — This 
 must not be." 
 
 " What must be done? Will you speak — 
 
THE DEFORMED. 121 
 
 will Jove descend and interfere ? I have safd 
 all I could venture upon." 
 
 " To be sure I will, if it be necessary, rather 
 than my little girl should suffer a cutting mor- 
 tification. I will go directly and speak to the 
 Marchioness about it." 
 
 He went immediately. 
 
 *' I am come, madam, as usual, with a 
 petition." 
 
 ** Every petition of your's. Lord St. Ger- 
 mains, is granted, before it is even made." 
 
 " 'Tis for Lilia." 
 
 *' Oh, you are excessively indulgent to the 
 poor girl — but what now ? " 
 
 " This ball ! Is it not a pity to deprive her 
 of the pleasure of dancing at it ? " 
 
 " I think she would be very much out of her 
 place there — and that it is time she should be 
 taught the difference between herself and mi/ 
 daughters — a difference perhaps too long for- 
 gotten. I think this a good occasion for 
 making her feel it." 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
]^22 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 *'Alas! poor little Lilia, she must feel that 
 early enough — may we not safely leave it to 
 an ill-natured world to instruct her, without 
 taking upon ourselves the odium of the lesson?'* 
 
 *' I think not — it is, in my opinion, the kinder 
 part, to educate young women in her circum- 
 stances, in habits of humility." 
 
 *' But this one ball, my dear madam — Indulge 
 me — she is still a mere child : spare her the 
 disappointment of being left out; she is too 
 young yet to bear it." 
 
 ** I very much disapprove of her appearing 
 in a place so unfitted for her." 
 
 ** I am truly sorry to persist, after hearing 
 you say so ; but out of indulgence to ine, con- 
 sent this once to act against your judgment. 
 I must entreat that Lilia may appear.' 
 
 ** As usual, my Lord, your will is to be 
 
 tni/ law — do as you please. I hold myself 
 
 '.absolved from all the consequences of a mode 
 
 of breeding her up which I never have, nor 
 
 ever can approve." 
 
THE DEFORMED. 123 
 
 With this ungracious permission St. Ger- 
 mains was forced to be contented : '^ I am as 
 weak as an old doating grandfather," said he to 
 me. " I absolutely cannot bear to disappoint 
 the child ; I want resolution to see that inno- 
 cent and affectionate countenance clouded in 
 the sHghtest degree." 
 
 I hinted that she might meet with mortifica- 
 tions at the assembly, being the object of so 
 much ill-will. 
 
 *' I have thought of that," said he, ** and 
 I mean to go myself. It will be the first thing 
 of the kind at which I was ever present j but 
 I must learn to conquer this weakness of 
 mine. I shall make the very best of my ap- 
 pearance, and walk about and take care that 
 nobody affronts my little girl — for with the 
 gentleness of the lamb, she has an indignant 
 spirit, and will fire up at insolence — I am very 
 much afraid." 
 
 " Oh you dear, sweet St. Germains!" said 
 Liha in raptures at the boon he had obtained, 
 
 G 2 
 
124 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 and too young and too heedless to dwell upon 
 the mortification of its having been at first 
 refused. " What a charming, charming, wise 
 man you are ! to mind my folly so much ; but 
 indeed, indeed, Mr. Wilson, I did think — when 
 I should hear the band, and perhaps the very 
 footsteps of the dancers, and be moping about 
 all by myself-— that it would quite, quite drive 
 me melancholy mad — Poor little Lilia ! I 
 sometimes think, what a desolate creature you 
 are ; but then I remember St. Germains, and I 
 feel safe : oh, you are the dearest, most de- 
 lightful St. Germains that ever has existed, for 
 the thousands and thousands of years, that 
 they tell me there have been St. Germains in 
 this old castle." 
 
 The Marchioness and the young ladies were, 
 however, in excessive ill humour at their de- 
 feat. No preparations were made for Lilia's 
 toilette — a plain white muslin frock was all she 
 was to be allowed to wear; and when Mrs. Cart- 
 wright remonstrated with the young ladies* 
 
THE DEFORMED. 125 
 
 maids, she was told that it was the positive 
 order of Lady Brandon that a muslin frock 
 was what Miss Lilia was to have, *' in order to 
 teach her to know her place." 
 
 " In order to make her feel like the depen- 
 dant she is," said Mrs. Cartwright, quite angry 
 again, to Lord St. Germains. 
 
 " Never mind, my dear Mrs. Cartwright, 
 there is a remedy for that ; we will take means 
 to make the muslin frock appear rather a mea- 
 sure of taste, than a mark of caste : you cannot 
 deny that with a few roses in her hair, our little 
 girl will look very pretty. 
 
 The eventful day arrived, and Lilia came 
 down to Lord St. Germains' drawing-room, to 
 join Mrs. Cartwright, who had promised to go 
 with her to the ball-rooms. I was there. She 
 entered fluttering, and blushing, and laughing; 
 her colour and eyes still brighter than ever; her 
 hair seemed more glossy, more wavy, more rich — 
 a few crimson roses were in it ; her dress, of the 
 
126 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 purest white, adorned with a profusion of falling 
 lace, set off the charining contour of her figure. 
 Her little foot glanced in its shoe of satin, as 
 she stepped with the lightness of a fairy over 
 the carpet, smiling at her own hurry. 
 
 " And now the night is come. I am so silly, 
 I don't quite like it so much. I feel so shy, and 
 so afraid ; but there will be a great many 
 people, and I shall not be much seen. Oh, Mr. 
 Wilson, have you been in the ball-room : is it 
 not beautiful ? I stole down to see it. Shall I 
 do, dear Mrs. Cartwright?" — figuring gaily 
 before her. *' Shall I do, St. Germains?" he 
 w^as gazing at her with an expression I had 
 never seen before — his colour went and came. 
 
 " Very nicely indeed, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Cartwright fondly. 
 
 " Shall I do, I say, St. Germains? Why 
 don't you speak ; something is wrong in me, I 
 am sure," rather anxiously. 
 
 '« Do !" said he, starting. '* Do?"— 
 
 *' What do you mean ? — How you look !" 
 
THE DEFORMED. 1^7 
 
 ^* Oh, forgive me, Lilia," — . . . .rousing him- 
 self; " you want something to complete your 
 dress, for this splendid occasion." 
 
 ** Ah^ yes, I want a thousand things," said 
 she laughing : "a diamond necklace, for in- 
 stance." 
 
 ** Such as this ? " said he, opening an etui 
 which was in his hand ; and taking out a simple 
 chain of diamonds, to which was suspended a 
 locket small, but set with jewels of very great 
 value. 
 
 " Will this do, Lilia ? to hold your dear Mrs. 
 Cartwright's hair, and to remind you of one 
 who only lives to see you happy?" 
 
 " Oh, St. Germains, this for me — it is not 
 
 fit for me : did you ? ," and her sweet eyes, 
 
 literally swimming with feeling, were lifted to 
 his face. "Did you? — were you so kind? 
 with all your wisdom, and all your philosophy, 
 and all your contempt for show and grandeur, 
 to think of my dress, and my appearance, and 
 the vanities of this foolish, foohsh heart?" 
 
128 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 She took the diamonds he presented, and 
 kissed them, and one tear, bright as the gems 
 she held, fell upon her hand. 
 
 " 'Tis not the diamonds — Oh, no — no — it is 
 
 your goodness, and your kindness, and your 
 
 consideration. I understand it all ; but, indeed, 
 'I 
 these are too good for me !" 
 
 " No, my dearest Lilia, nothing is too good 
 for you. It is the first present I ever made 
 you ; keep them for my sake." 
 
 " Is your hair there ?" asked she. 
 
 " No, my dear!" 
 
 " Then let me have some — let me have the 
 hair of my two only friends together;" her 
 scissars were out in a moment. Mrs. Cart- 
 wright severed from Lord St. Germains' head 
 one of his beautiful ebon curls, it was placed 
 with her own silvered sable among the dia- 
 monds; she then clasped the necklace round 
 Lilia's neck. 
 
 All had been moved by this little scene. 
 When Lilia began to smile as usual again. Lord 
 
THE DEFORMED. 1^9 
 
 St. Germains said it must be time to go into 
 the drawing-room. He took my arm — Lilia 
 hung upon that of Mrs. Cartwright. 
 
 We found the Marchioness and her daugh- 
 ters sitting at the head of the long suite of 
 apartments. None of the company had yet 
 arrived; Lord Louis, who had come doWn 
 from London just in time to dress, was 
 with them, chattering an exuberance of non- 
 sense, to a young French lady — a sort of 
 companion to the Ladies Brandon, the most 
 affected coquette it ever was my fortune to 
 behold. 
 
 The Marchioness quite started, when she 
 saw St. Germains. She turned pale, and 
 looked like one who had received a sudden 
 shock; but she came forward, and thanked 
 him graciously for the unexpected pleasure of 
 his presence. Lord Louis turned his face from 
 the French lady, and, seeing his brother, came 
 up with his usual animation, shook hands 
 heartily, and expressed his pleasure at seeing 
 
 G 5 
 
130 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 him looking so well. My turn came next ; 
 then it was : — 
 
 " Ah, Mrs. Cartwright, are you really, too, 
 come down from the hermitage ; and are you 
 become one of the wicked,, like the rest of us?" 
 
 " I hope not one of the wicked," said she, 
 
 " I merely came to conduct Miss de V and 
 
 to pay my devoirs." 
 
 " Oh, Lilia ! I missed you, but they told me 
 you were coming." As he spoke, his eye 
 glanced rapidly towards her. " Is this Lilia ? 
 why I left you the most darling little romp in 
 the universe ; and I find you — no matter — no 
 matter — will you dance the two first dances 
 with me?" 
 
 Lilia blushed, and looked pleased — I believe 
 she had not felt very sure that any one would 
 ask her. 
 
 " If you please." 
 .'^ li I please?'' — looking at her with the 
 most radiant expression, — " then you are not 
 engaged, and you will." 
 
THE DEFORMED. 131 
 
 Lilia moved forward to her cousins. 
 
 " Oh, St. Germains ! what an exquisite 
 creature she is become ! what a lovely, be- 
 witching girl I what a change in one short year 
 — how different from my sisters! how grace- 
 ful ! how winning ! how arch ! how soft ! only 
 look at her ! " 
 
 And he was following her in a moment, and 
 at her side, talking to her in the most animated 
 manner. She was laughing, and seemed to be 
 coquetting with him — an innocent coquetry I 
 mean — quite innocent — a little more gaiety, 
 and still more softness, even than usual, in her 
 looks and attitudes. 
 
 I heard Lord St. Germains sigh. 
 
 The room now began to fill with company, 
 and I was soon separated by the crowd from 
 the family party. 
 
 When the quadrilles began, I again saw 
 Lilia. She was dancing with Lord Louis, with 
 equal grace and animation, and certainly made 
 a most distinguished figure, in her white dress 
 
132 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 and the brilliant necklace which adorned it. 
 Her dancing was exquisite, and her beauty ex- 
 cited the admiration of the whole room. Every 
 one was crowding round the Marchioness, en- 
 quiring who Miss De V was. The Mar- 
 chioness was in a wretched humour ; for, while 
 
 Miss De V was attracting all the attention 
 
 from her own daughters, she had the mortifi- 
 cation to see Lord Louis completely eclipsed 
 by his elder brother. Lord St. Germains, on 
 this his first public appearance, if it may be so 
 called, was greeted by the whole neighbourr 
 hood, with equal respect and pleasure. Every 
 one seemed desirous to pay court and attention 
 to a man, who, though little seen, had made 
 himself, by this time, pretty well known by his 
 actions. 
 
 Lord Louis, for the first time in his life, 
 now found his just level, and, instead of being 
 treated as had hitherto been the case, as the 
 heir apparent of the titles and possessions of his 
 house, he sank at once into the insignificant 
 
THE DEFORMED. ]S3 
 
 place of a younger brother. — As for him, he 
 cared little about it, and, with his usual 
 thoughtlessness, devoted himself to Lilia — 
 equally disregarding his mother's mortification, 
 and what was due at such a moment to the 
 world in general. The Marchioness therefore 
 looked very cross, and, turning to St. Ger- 
 mains, said: — 
 
 ** I wish. Lord St. Germains, it were pos- 
 sible to divert Louis from this nonsensical 
 trifling with Lilia, and make him attend to 
 others.— Will you be good enough to speak to 
 him ?" 
 
 Lord St. Germains had been talking to a 
 knot of gentlemen ; but at this he turned— 
 his eye glanced hastily towards his brother — 
 Lord Louis was whispering — Lilia was blush- 
 ing, scarlet. I saw it all, as I thought, in a 
 moment. St. Germains turned quite white ; 
 but he took my arm, and said: 
 
 " Let us do as she says.'^ 
 
 We went up to them. 
 
134 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " Louis," said St. Germains, '* your mother 
 wishes you to disperse your attentions a little 
 more, and not limit them to those of your own 
 family." 
 
 " Upon my honour, I am behaving like a 
 bear — I'll go and ask the Lady Carltons to 
 dance, shall I? Lilia — mind you dance the 
 supper dances with me." 
 
 *^ You had better not," said Lord St. Ger- 
 mains. " His attentions may be wanted else- 
 where." 
 
 " She had better so — for I engaged her — 
 I will go now, and do my duty ; but nothing 
 on earth shall prevent me dancing those dances 
 with her — mind, Lilia!" 
 
 *' Oh, to be sure," said Lady Geraldine, 
 who stood by. " Mind, Lilia — don't let the 
 crowd, who will be pressing for the ho- 
 nour, lead you to break your promise — break 
 it to better advantage, my dear," with a 
 sneer. 
 
 " Lilia," said Lord St. Germains, " don't 
 
THE DEFORMED. 135 
 
 dance the supper dances with Louis — he is in 
 one of his thoughtless humours to-night — we 
 must remember the claims of others." — And 
 he walked away. 
 
 " Now/'' said Lady Geraldine, " you'll not 
 dance with Louis, I'll engage — no, no — we un- 
 derstand our own interests, with all our inno- 
 cent looks — we have begun with diamonds — 
 the next lead shall be in hearts — we are not 
 such very good children for nothing, it seems ! 
 — Virtue is its own reward. — Mind your good 
 guardian, child — and it shall have something 
 still better next time — who knows !" 
 
 Lilia's cheeks were all on fire at this speech 
 — she stood quite still, howe\'«r, and answered 
 nothing — she seemed reflecting upon some- 
 thing which had struck her for the first time — 
 presently she, too, moved away. 
 
 I saw Lady Geraldine and the sisters ad- 
 dressing her, in a sneering way, as I thought, 
 once or twice — and, to my surprise, most 
 certainly the supper dances were danced with 
 
136 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 Lord Louis, and by bis side at supper sbe sat 
 — and he, as if in defiance, was paying ber 
 every sort of attention, wbicb sbe seemed to 
 me to receive witb a conscious sbyness tbat 
 she endeavoured vainly to throw off. 
 
 I saw Lord St. Germains — for he did not 
 sit down to supper, not having danced — stand- 
 ing in one corner of the room ; he was looking 
 at them with a countenance in wbicb anxiety 
 and distress were so strongly painted, that I 
 was afraid it might be observed — I went' up to 
 him, and touched bis elbow. 
 
 " My Lord, pray excuse me — but the eyes of 
 fifty gossips may be upon you." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Wilson ; it is very kind 
 in you, to take an interest in one so utterly 
 and irremediably miserable — so lost — so lost!" 
 
 I was quite shocked ! — he who was usually 
 so calm. 
 
 " This is no time for explanation — wretch 
 that I am! I have discovered the secret of my 
 heart in the moment of its bitterest despair — 
 
THE DEFORMED. 137 
 
 take no notice — I want courage to fly — I want 
 strength to remain — miserable that T am — I 
 hate and abhor my brother — yes — " as his eyes 
 once more turned to Lord Louis, in all his 
 glorious beauty of countenance, literally speak- 
 ing with his eyes to Lilia, whose averted face, 
 and dropping lids concealed from us the ex- 
 pression of her features. — " I envy him, and I 
 hate him — I am become detestable to myself, 
 and contemptible to all the world — . . . .little ! 
 little ! did I anticipate the snare I was weaving 
 for my soul — I thought, till this moment, that 
 it was as a father, — as a brother, that I doated 
 . . . .Alas! alas! — it w^as with a passion for ever 
 forbidden to me !" 
 
 He paused, for they began to rise from the 
 table, and the loud music of the band once 
 more called together the giddy dancers. Lord 
 Louis and Lilia passed close by us, he had 
 hold of her hand, she did not now withdraw it. 
 " Lilia!" — . . . .said St. Germains, timidly. 
 She looked up in his face, with a wistful, 
 
138 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 uncertain expression ; but Lady Isabella fol- 
 lowed, and as soon as she heard her voice, she 
 turned to Lord Louis, and began bantering 
 and laughing, with a freedom far from pleas- 
 ing, and so they went away. — . . . . 
 
 At the end of the evening, I saw this beau- 
 tiful young creature, weary, jaded, and pale, 
 preparing to leave the room. 
 
 " Good night," said she, " Mr. Wilson," 
 very sweetly, but with a melancholy voice. 
 
 " I hope you have enjoyed yourself, Miss 
 De V ," I said rather drily. 
 
 " Oh, yes, a charming evening !" 
 
 " I fear Lord St. Germains will be tired,^^ 
 added I. 
 
 " Do you think so? Oh, I hope not! he 
 fancies himself weaker than he is." 
 
 This from you, thought I, and so soon ! — I 
 turned away, thoroughly disgusted — . . . . 
 
 ** It was such an evening," said Judy, who, 
 in crimson satin, trimmed with huge beads, 
 her flaxen wig surmounted by a large turban, 
 
THE DEFORMED. 139 
 
 had taken part in its festivity — " Every thing 
 so splendid, and so well appointed — and the 
 Marchioness looking the picture of happiness, 
 with her lovely family around her — and those 
 very sweet young Ladies Brandon, in those 
 lovely pink dresses ; but I cannot think where 
 Miss Lilia got that diamond necklace, if they 
 were diamonds — and surely it was very bad 
 taste to put it on her — it looked quite prepos- 
 terous, I must say; and I heard, indeed, the 
 young Ladies Brandon say as much, that dia- 
 monds on such a child were quite out of place ; 
 and that it was very ridiculous of Lord St. 
 Germain s to allow her tx) wear them — Poor 
 creature, without one farthing — they seemed 
 quite vexed about it, and they were very right. 
 And for my part, I could not help being sorry 
 when I saw Lord Louis, to think he would 
 never be Marquis of Brandon — such a fine 
 young man ! And poor Lord St. Germains, he 
 looked mighty well for Jmrif to be sure, and is 
 really wonderful, considering ; but he to be the 
 
140 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 heir; it certainly is a very great pity, and must 
 vex poor Lady Brandon most extremely/' 
 " I should not wonder if it did,'^ said I. 
 
 Never did scene of festivity produce such 
 disastrous consequences as this unlucky ball. 
 
 To begin with the Marchioness herself. It 
 was but too true what Judy said ; the idea 
 that Lord Louis, her adored, idolized son, 
 would never be any thing but a mere younger 
 brother, did vex her most bitterly. 
 
 The appearance of Lord St. Germains in 
 public, as the acknowledged head of his family, 
 had given as it were, the lie, to all her ambi- 
 tious hopes, and opened her eyes to the fal- 
 lacy of that expectation which she had so long 
 obstinately cherished, that the poor deformed 
 boy would never live to obscure his brother's 
 prospects. When he appeared however act- 
 ing, moving, and speaking, just like the rest — 
 the instant conviction struck her, that his life 
 was just, to use a business expression, as good. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 141 
 
 The conduct of Lord Louis had increased 
 her mortification. He, for whom she had la- 
 boured with such cutting anxieties, had taken 
 his proper place, as easily, and as good-humour- 
 edly, as if no other destiny had ever been antici- 
 pated for him ; and, absorbed by a foolish ad- 
 miration for Lilia, had devoted to her all his 
 attention, all the flower of his extreme per- 
 sonal beauty and lively talents, on this his first 
 public appearance in his native county. 
 
 To these causes of vexation were added 
 others still more pressing. The excessive and 
 wanton extravagance with which the establish- 
 ment of the family was kept up, had already 
 rendered the Marquis somewhat of an embar- 
 rassed man ; to this must now be added the 
 weight to Lord Louis's debts. He had la- 
 vishly spent, but he had done more — he had 
 played. Educated to deny himself no indul- 
 gence, and already smitten with that feeling of 
 satiety, which drives the man of pleasure to 
 vice ; he had played — he had played high, and 
 
I4f2 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 his mother, the confidante of all his distresses, 
 was haunted by the perplexity of having debts 
 to discharge, of which the apparent health of 
 Lord St. Germains shewed her the impro- 
 priety. Even she could not help feeling that, 
 as a second son, Lord Louis had been indulged 
 too far. Still her haughty spirit revolted from 
 acquiescing in what her reason told her was a 
 just viev/ of the subject ; she flattered herself 
 that, at least, it was impossible, or highly im- 
 probable, that St. Germains should ever marry 
 — and lulled her uneasiness, as well as she 
 could, with this flattering unction. 
 
 The Marchioness had been made unhappy 
 by the events of the evening — but she had 
 been unhappy before. Its baleful effects were 
 more discernible on one, hitherto blessed with 
 the peace and tranquillity of a virtuous and 
 well-regulated spirit — on one, whose tran- 
 quillity and peace that evening utterly de- 
 stroyed. Lord St. Germains, avrakened sud- 
 denly from his dream of happiness, and made 
 
THE DEFORMED. 143 
 
 aware of the fatal secret of his heart, aban- 
 doned himself at first to a grief and despair, 
 quite terrible in one hitherto so self-governed. 
 
 I was a sorrowing witness of some of those 
 bursts of uncontrollable feeling to which he 
 became a prey. 
 
 " Oh, Wilson ! what a change ! what a 
 fatal discovery ! my Lilia ! my sweet innocent 
 — how little did we either of us imagine that 
 the monster to whom you had tendered, in 
 spite of his deformity, your sweet, guileless 
 aiFection, could nourish in his heart a passion 
 that would render him for ever odious and 
 detestable in your eyes ; I who, even as a son 
 and a brother, have found myself loathsome 
 and hateful, to dare to cast a wish that way. — 
 All, all is over ; my happiness ! — but that is a 
 trifle — my life, the very spring of action, is 
 stopped — a heavy curse is upon me — I cannot 
 — no, it is in vain — I cannot recover that 
 blessed ignorance with which I delighted my- 
 self in her sunny smiles— her celestial, her 
 
144 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 adorable beauty. Now all is become poison 
 for me ; when she comes before me, my very 
 heart aches with her sweetness, — her softness 
 — all her thousand, thousand enchantments, 
 till breath and sense seem leaving me. — 
 Would to God they had left me, and for 
 ever." 
 
 " Alas, my Lord !" I said, *' do not abandon 
 yourself to this frightful despondency. Be 
 more just to your own merits. Why should 
 not you too endeavour to win — as thousands 
 of others have done before you ; consider the 
 many advantages you enjoy ! " 
 
 " Don't speak of them, Wilson — don't tempt 
 me with the cruel thought. Yes, there are 
 moments when I feel I could buy her — when 
 I could try to persuade her to barter her 
 loveliness to my doating self, for gold — Horrible 
 temptation! never, never; — gratitude might 
 do much ; ambition and vanity might do some- 
 thing — she is not quite an angel — But God 
 forbid — God forbid. Oh, Louis! Louis! how 
 
THE DEFORMED. 145 
 
 I envy you! — But do you think she loves him, 
 Wilson?" 
 
 I could not tell the truth — I said, I thought 
 not. He seemed relieved. 
 
 " I am spared that pain — I thank God. — 
 She is but sixteen — time enough for her to be- 
 gin the dreadful dream of passion — Yet a few 
 years, if this wretched heart would have al- 
 lowed — I might have still owned her as mine, 
 and satisfied the affections of her innocent na- 
 ture — Time enough to have died, when the 
 light had been for ever extinguished ; but now 
 even this is denied me — these few years of 
 peace are forbidden — .... my torments have 
 begun before their time." 
 
 I have said that I dared not hint to Lord St. 
 Germains that Lilia loved Lord Louis; but 
 what could I think? — From the evening of that 
 fatal ball she too had been entirely changed ; 
 clouds hung upon that once serene and open 
 brow — her eyes would suddenly fill with tears, 
 which she strove impatiently to hide, and often 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 have I caught her wandering in the woods by 
 herself, the very picture of melancholy des- 
 pondency. — Was this love? — and was it the 
 love of Lord Louis? 
 
 He had remained but three days at the 
 castle, and, during those three days, she had 
 been the object of his open admiration and 
 most pointed attention. He swore to his sis- 
 ters that she was the most beautiful and en- 
 chanting being that the world contained, — 
 that they did not approach her by thousands 
 of leagues — ^and that her softness and melan- 
 choly were more attractive, than all her spor- 
 tive graces had been — in short, his raptures 
 were as extravagant as they were undisguised; 
 indeed they were so thoroughly undisguised, 
 that even the Marchioness, to whom it might 
 have been expected they would have occasion- 
 ed some uneasiness, was quite indifferent upon 
 the subject. She simply offered no opposition 
 when he proposed returning to town, vowing 
 that the intolerable old castle was cnly fit for 
 
THE DEFORMED. 147 
 
 the antediluvians, or, the same thing, his an- 
 cestors at the time of the Roses. 
 
 He left us therefore at the end of about 
 three days ; and after he was gone, the depres- 
 sion of Lilia certainly increased, so as to be 
 remarkable to every one. Her manner, too, to 
 Lord St. Germains was altered — a shynes-s, a 
 constraint had succeeded to her former artless 
 familiarity. She never now went up to his 
 chair with a caressing, almost fond, manner, 
 to shew him her flowers, her drawings, her 
 birds, to make him laugh at her nonsense, 
 or sympathise in her admiration of some exqui- 
 site passage in her book. She was little, in- 
 deed, in his room, less with Mrs. Cartwright, 
 and much with the young ladies. Was 
 it that she had instinctively discovered his 
 feelings, and that, in spite of her better self, 
 they filled her with disgust ? Was it that her 
 partiahty for the other brother attracted her 
 to the society of his sisters ? The first, was 
 
 H 2 
 
148 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 the interpretation that Lord St. Germains put 
 upon it, and it completed his distress. 
 
 " I am betrayed," said he to me. *^ I have 
 betrayed myself, and the sweet thing flies me 
 with disgust and terror — How should she other- 
 wise, poor little creature ? She is driven from 
 her last asylum by a horrible monster, that 
 terrifies her young imagination like a strange 
 vision. — Oh, my Lilia! my lovely ! lovely Lilia! 
 why cannot I be your brother and your guar- 
 dian still? — But no, she has learned to detest 
 me — she fears me— she hates me — she, who 
 once sought all her joy and happiness in my 
 presence — . . . . My selfish passion has deserved 
 such a return." 
 
 Thoughts like these fastened on his mind. In 
 vain he strove to master them, and made heroic 
 efforts to conquer his sensibilities. The strug- 
 gle was too mighty for his delicate frame, and, 
 with anguish, I saw the foundations of being 
 about to give way — a disease more painful, 
 more hopeless than that of his mother had fas- 
 
 / 
 
THE DEFORMED. 149 
 
 tened upon his frame, and was rapidly con- 
 suming the springs of life, the disease of hope- 
 less love in all its bitterness, aggravated by the 
 perpetual presence of its object. — Such a situa- 
 tion, happily for human nature, is a rare inci- 
 dent in life, many circumstances must combine 
 to produce it, they were all united here. 
 
 I saw his cheek grow paler and paler, his eyes 
 acquire a ghastly brightness, while his voice lost 
 its clear and sweet intonation, and broke hollow 
 on the ear. I watched these symptoms with an 
 aching heart, I told him of his danger, I con- 
 jured him to let me try what could be done. — 
 
 " Not for the universe," was his reply. — " I 
 will not even attempt to succeed, where success 
 must prove a curse to her. — Shall I take advan- 
 tage of her youth, her inexperience, and wed 
 her to this hateful mass, this heap of miserable 
 infirmity ? — She could not even know herself 
 how detestable I might become to her. No, 
 no, let me be, my good friend, I shall recover 
 — or I shall not, 'tis no great matter." — 
 
150 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 Did Lilia perceive all this ? — The time had 
 been when so rapid a decay would have called 
 forth the sweetest attentions, the most lively 
 expressions of anxiety. Now all was changed. 
 She would indeed start forward, as in former 
 times, to move a footstool, or to place a pillow, 
 but then, shrinking back, would leave the 
 kind office unperformed. He noticed to me this 
 decline in her attentions, with a sigh ; " and 
 yet," added he, " it is better as it is." — I had 
 observed him indeed once or twice gently 
 repulse her, as she attempted to perform some 
 of these little personal services. 
 
 " Vous me faites mal, Lilia i" would he 
 say, " leave it, my dear, to Mrs. Cartwright." 
 
 Then she would retreat, colour like crim- 
 son, after a little while, make an excuse to 
 leave the room, and not, perhaps, return for 
 the whole evening. Fie would sigh, turn over 
 his books, ask for his pencils, and then beg Mrs. 
 Cartwright to play a game at chess, making 
 apologies for his dulness and inattention. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 151 
 
 Between this lady and myself no confidence 
 was exchanged; The deep gravity which hung 
 over her countenance alone betrayed her con- 
 viction that all the prayers of his mother, all 
 her own efforts, had been vain, and that he 
 was perishing, the miserable victim of that pas- 
 sion, from whose power they had so fondly 
 hoped to shield him. 
 
 It is difficult to conceive circumstances better 
 calculated to increase his fatal disorder than 
 those under which Lord St. Germains found 
 himself, or to imagine the extent to which 
 Lilia had become necessary to his happiness. 
 Mortified in all his affections, with a heart 
 formed for tenderness, ever since she had en- 
 tered the family and attached herself sponta- 
 neously to him, a new spring of life had ap- 
 peared to animate his existence. Gratified by 
 the devotion of the warm-hearted little child, 
 his disappointed heart had adopted her as his 
 own, and in protecting her happiness, and pro- 
 viding for her instruction and improvement, 
 
152 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 he had found a delightful interest for his lonely 
 hours, while her gaiety and her petulance, the 
 lively spirit discernible in every thing she 
 said and did, sweetened and cheered his once 
 melancholy existance. As elder brother and as 
 little sister, how perfectly happy they had been! 
 His improved health, his animated looks, his 
 life of cheerful action, bore testimony to his 
 felicity. But now all this was over, a passion 
 the most intense, long nourished unknown to 
 himself, bad been manifested by the bitter 
 pangs of jealousy; and, bursting at once upon his 
 astonished soul, had reversed every circumstance 
 of his condition. She whom he had guided and 
 controlled as a sister, as a mistress, only in- 
 spired him with feelings of fear and of humilia- 
 tion. The innocent affection he had been proud 
 to display, and she to receive, had been ex- 
 changed for a sentiment which he believed, 
 if known, would inspire her with horror, and 
 cover him with derision in the eyes of the 
 world. Her very presence became a source of 
 
THE DEFORMED. 153 
 
 ainguish — though when she was absent he 
 seemed scarcely to breathe. 
 
 It was plain to me that the life of Lord St. 
 Germains was threatened with a rapid decUne. 
 
 What the Marchioness thought, I do not pre- 
 tend to say ; but I never saw so great a change 
 in any human being — She seemed as it were, 
 to breathe again, her countenance resumed its 
 colour — her step is elasticity — all the restless 
 anxiety that had darkened her brow disappear- 
 ed. She lavished expressions of interest upon 
 the situation of Lord St. Germains — enquired 
 after his progress with the greatest anxiety — 
 and omitted no mark of affectionate attention, 
 in short, she played the part of tender mother 
 to perfection. 
 
 " She is truly angelic," said Judy, " I think it 
 is quite affecting to see her, she came down her- 
 self to-day to speak to me about the asses' milk 
 — Mr. Dean has an ass, as I told you, brother." 
 
 " My dear Judy, you need not tell me, Lord 
 St. Germains won't drink asses' milk." 
 
 H 5 
 
154 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " Oh ! how can you say so ! — The Marchio- 
 ness said to me so condescendingly, and in her 
 sweet manner, * It is the very and the only 
 thing for him, don't you think so, Miss Wilson ? 
 — I am excessively concerned about him,' said 
 she, * and I think of writing to his father, he is 
 in very great danger, does not Mr. Wilson 
 think so ?' — I said I did not know what you 
 thought, but for my part I knew he must die ; 
 then the tear came into her eye, and she said 
 — * What a loss he w^ould be to his family — 
 and to the neighbourhood, and to herself in par- 
 ticular, for you know,' says she, ' he has shewn 
 me more than the duty of a son, and I have 
 loved him with more than the affection of a 
 mother :' — how generous of her ! — when all the 
 time, poor creature, he has been keeping her 
 own beautiful son out of the estate !" 
 
 " I wish to God, Judy," said I, out of all 
 patience at last, '* you would make an end of 
 this everlasting theme. ^\ hat do you mean 
 by keeping him out of an estate which never 
 
THE DEFORMED. 155 
 
 was hiSi and if there be power in medicine 
 never shall be ?" — . . . . 
 
 I went up that night again to the castle. 
 Lord St. Germains was very ill; — he was grown 
 so feeble that he could scarcely walk across the 
 room ; he was, for the first time I had ever seen 
 him, in tears ; he was reading a little torn book 
 when I entered, he put it hastily behind the 
 cushion of his chair, and passed his hand 
 across his eyes. 
 
 " You are not so well this evening, I fear," 
 said I. 
 
 " Not worse, not worse, but moved — melted 
 — cut to the soul. What is there about you, 
 Wilson, that I confess to you every thing — 
 weaknesses that would disgrace a child? — Is all 
 of manhood utterly lost ? — . . .You will wonder,'' 
 after a pause, " what has thus touched me. it 
 is one of her books, I recollect giving it to her 
 when she was quite a little child ; it has been 
 read and re-read, and is now all torn and tatter- 
 ed — so like her, little careless thing, I never 
 read the story before, it is very pathetic." 
 
156 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 He took the book and showed me the title. 
 It was the httle fairy tale of Zemire and Assor, 
 or of the Beauty and the Beast. 
 
 " Ah ! if those days could return ! and I — 
 under the mask of my deformity, were sensible 
 that I concealed the power to charm and to 
 delight, how would I too humble myself to 
 implore, and to kneel, and to sue, like the 
 subject of that touching tale. — Alas ! alas ! my 
 tortures at times exceed my strength." — 
 
 He was much agitated, and his frame shook 
 under the struggle to repress his emotion; 
 after a time nature sank, and he fell back 
 in an uneasy slumber; his hand hung list- 
 lessly over the arm of his chair — he looked 
 the picture of extenuation. — I was hidden by 
 one of the deep windows, and watched him, my 
 heart torn with grief and regret, when the door 
 slowly opened, and LiHa glided into the room. 
 She had a bunch of roses in her hand, they 
 were the first specimens of some plants Lord 
 St. Germains had procured for her from Nor- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 157 
 
 mandy. — She came softly forward — and, per- 
 ceiving he was asleep, and imagining him to 
 be alone, she laid the roses beside his book, 
 and then stood long gazing upon him. I could 
 not see her countenance, but I did see her 
 sink upon her knees, and imprint one rapid 
 kiss upon the pale and wasted hand which hung 
 suspended — He moved, — she started, and sud- 
 denly left the room. 
 
 I was struck with her flushed face, but at- 
 tributed it to the heat of the weather. 
 
 I staid all that night by Lord St. Ger- 
 mains. I did not tell him what I had seen, 
 thinking it best not to agitate him either by 
 pleasure or by pain. 
 
 The next day I was forced to announce in form 
 to the Marchioness that I thought him in very 
 great danger, and almost despaired of his Hfe. 
 She received this intelligence in her boudoir. 
 
 A vast heap of bills were lying before her, 
 and a letter from Lord Louis— it contained, as 
 1 afterwards learned, an account of his em- 
 
158 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 barrassments, of his large debts, and of the 
 impossibility of his making head against them. 
 He, who had literally nothing, either in pos- 
 session or in expectation. — He expressed 
 his apprehensions that he must quit the 
 kingdom. 
 
 She looked up anxiously from her employ- 
 ment as I entered the room. I never saw a 
 countenance in which mortification, harass, 
 perplexity, were more visibly expressed. 
 
 '' Well, Mr. Wilson, to what am 1 indebted 
 for this visit ?" 
 
 " Madam, I am the unwilling bearer of 
 very painful intelligence." 
 
 " What 1 — what !" — with a faint cry, 
 ** what more ! — my son! — Lord Louis ' 
 
 " Madam, is well, for anything I know to 
 the contrary : but Lord St. Germains — " 
 
 '* Oh ! what of him ?"— peevishly. 
 
 '' He is very ill." 
 
 " Oh! as usual, I suppose, — one of his 
 tiresome lingering attacks, which render him 
 
THE DEFORMED. 159 
 
 a burden to himself " and to others, I 
 
 mentally added for her. 
 
 " I am afraid, madam, he is worse than 
 usual — worse than I have ever seen him." 
 
 " You don't say so — What's the matter ?" 
 
 " A more general decline of the powers of 
 life, than I have ever before witnessed, I think 
 it right to make your Ladyship acquainted 
 with the truth — Will it be impertinent to add 
 that I think the Marquis his father, should be 
 informed that his life is in danger ? — A few 
 months, perhaps a few weeks, perhaps a few 
 days — may end it," said I in a broken voice, 
 for his mother was then before me ; and I 
 imagined I saw the anguish she would have 
 felt, painted on her gentle countenance. 
 
 The Marchioness heard me in perfect si- 
 lence — Fler eyes were bent on the papers before 
 her, then gradually the clouds rolled away 
 from her anxious countenance, and with a 
 sigh, or rather a deep drawing of her breath, 
 like one relieved from an intolerable burden, 
 
160 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 she began slowly to re-fold the papers before 
 her, and, having put them carefully into her 
 writing-desk, she seemed suddenly to recollect 
 herself, and, turning to me with as much con- 
 cern in her face as she could throw over it, she 
 said, 
 
 " This is very afflicting news, Mr. Wilson, 
 and wdll grieve us all deeply ; I will write to 
 my Lord." — 
 
 I made my bow, and withdrew. 
 
 Three days after, the Marquis arrived. His 
 son was by this time worse, but at the sight 
 of his father, he seemed to rally a little : at 
 least the unaffected grief which the Marquis 
 testified at his situation, roused his interest, 
 and softened the bitterness of his feelings. 
 
 " I had not thought that I had made any 
 part of my father's happiness, such a constant 
 source of mortification as I must have been 
 to him ; I feel grateful for such an affection, 
 and would fain live a little longer to shew my 
 sense of it, but it will not be." 
 
THE DEFORMED. 161 
 
 The apartments of Lord St. Germains, now 
 that his life was despaired of, were crowded by 
 his friends. His step-mother, his sisters, even 
 the French governesses, were busy proffering 
 their attentions. He received them all with 
 patience, and even with a sort of gratitude, 
 but found little in them of consolation. As 
 for Lilia, she appeared lost in the bustle, 
 overlooked by every one, rarely addressed even 
 by St. Germains. She moped about, looking 
 wretched, when no one appeared to observe 
 her ; but preserving, in public, her spirits in 
 a wonderful manner. 
 
 I was astonished that no one surmised the 
 cause of Lord St. Germains' illness. I could 
 not be sure of Lilia, but the others never ap- 
 peared to suspect it in the slightest degree; — 
 so blind are we to what lies directly before 
 us. They had probably never read the story 
 of Antiochus. I had, and I saw the symp- 
 toms described by the historian all represented 
 in this unfortunate young man. Lilia never 
 
1G2 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 entered the room, but the crimson mounted 
 to his temples ; and it was evident his heart 
 beat 'till he could scarcely breathe. His voice 
 faltered when she approached him, and was 
 almost inarticulate when he addressed her. 
 Though when she spoke, he would often seem 
 to turn away inattentive or indifferent ; Lilia 
 came less and less into his room, at last she 
 did not come for a whole day. 
 
 The next evening I was called to see her. 
 She was ill, very ill, and in bed. A neglected 
 cold had generated a pleurisy, she was soon 
 in imminent danger. — 
 
 I have said, that I had been much estranged 
 from this lovely young creature : unjustly, 
 I own. Was she to blame that she prefer- 
 red one brother to the other ? " Was she to 
 blame that she shrunk from a passion she could 
 never return? 1 had, indeed, been unjust 
 but I could be so no longer. Her softness, her 
 patience, her gentleness, her piety on her sick 
 and lonely bed, vvere worthy of her teacher. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 163 
 
 He had made this sweet and playful girl, a 
 being of magnanimity and power, a being 
 worthy of himself. Oh ! how I grieved over 
 his misfortune, as I witnessed every hour fresh 
 proofs of excellence, which justified his idolatry 
 and his despair. She never once mentioned 
 him to me, or to Mrs. Cartwright, who was 
 her constant friend and nurse, and devoted her- 
 self to her as much as was possible, consistently 
 with the attentions necessary to Lord St. Ger- 
 mains ; and to conceal from him the se- 
 cret, which, without exchanging confidence, 
 we tacitly agreed to do, persuaded that 
 to hear of it would have killed him at 
 once. — 
 
 Poor lovely Lilia, she grew worse and 
 worse; with her too, anguish of mind ap- 
 peared to add poignancy to physical suffer- 
 ing. I despaired of her, and my heart 
 bled over the young creature, whose blossom 
 had been so suddenly and unexpectedly 
 blighted. I visited her day and night, and 
 
164 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 watched her hke a child of my own, but my 
 skill was unavailing, she appeared to me to be 
 sinking. 
 
 One evening I was sitting in her room, the 
 hour I shall never forget — the moon was 
 rising with calm solemn brightness, on a 
 clear, still night, over the distant woods ; the 
 fall of waters, the song of one solitary night- 
 ingale were the only sounds heard. The moon- 
 beams fell on the massy stone frame-work of 
 the antique window now half opened, and 
 thence in large bright masses on the bed and 
 floor; I thought she slept, and, fearful the light 
 might disturb her, rose softly to let down the 
 curtain. 
 
 I found she was awake and leaning on her 
 arm — gazing with her large effulgent eyes upon 
 the landscape ; while one or two big tears stood 
 upon her cheeks — Something was in her hand 
 which was pressed closely to her heart — she 
 heard me move — and looked up at me wist- 
 fully, — hesitatingly :— 
 
THE DEFORMED. 165 
 
 " Mr. Wilson, it is a hard question for one 
 so young : must I die ? " 
 
 " I trust not, my dear young lady." 
 
 " But am I likely to die? Am I in danger? 
 I feel very, very weak. And then — " and the 
 tears rolled rapidly down — "And then I am so 
 unhappy." 
 
 " You so unhappy ! sweet Miss De V , 
 
 what can make you so unhappy?" 
 
 *' Are we quite alone?" 
 
 " Quite." 
 
 " Then I will do it now, while I have 
 breath. Pray come near me, dear Mr. 
 Wilson." 
 
 I approached, and sat down by the bed 
 side. 
 
 She opened the hand that had been pressed 
 to her heart. 
 
 " You remember it?" — said she. 
 
 It was the diamond locket with Lord St. 
 Germains' hair. 
 
 " You were there, when it was given to me 
 
166 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 on that fatal, fatal night. Oh, Mr. Wilson, 
 why was he so good ? — why was he so kind ? 
 and all to ... . " 
 
 *' To what, my daar young lady?" 
 
 *' To make me so wretched — so wretched." 
 
 " My dear Miss De V , what should have 
 
 made 2/ou so wretched ?" 
 
 " Alas ! alas !" and her cheeks — temples — 
 very hands, were dyed with a sudden crimson. 
 " Did you not see it ? They told me all 
 the world did see it — would see it, and that 
 I was degraded for ever in his eyes. But now 
 I am going to die ; now, at least, I may tell 
 him, without suspicion of mean, hateful in- 
 terested views. Oh, how little they knew me ! 
 I may tell him, on my deathbed, how I 
 honoured him — how I blessed him — how I 
 prayed for him — how I thanked him — how I . . . . 
 Oh, Mr. Wilson, you are good and gentle, like 
 himself, and I am not afraid— don't tell him 
 that his unkindness has cut me to the soul — 
 don't tell him how bitterly I repented that one 
 
THE DEFORMED. 167 
 
 act of disobedience— don't tell him all that his 
 cruel, cruel sisters said ; but when I am gone, 
 give it to him —this locket I mean — .... let 
 me hold it in my hand till I die, and place this 
 lock of his own hair — .... the last indulgence 
 he ever granted me, was to cut it from his 
 head, — lay it with me in my coffin — that is — that 
 is — if it is not wrong" — .... 
 
 **He! — whom do you speak of? — Lord 
 Louis? You surely wander." 
 
 " Lord Louis? what do you mean? Ah, 
 he has been kind too ; but I am not thinking 
 oi him on my death bed.'' 
 
 I was struck dumb. Was it possible? was 
 she ignorant of the passioK she had inspired ? 
 Were her young affections still his in ail their 
 first purity — .... But what if she were made 
 aware of the nature of his feelings ; would dis- 
 gust and dislike take their place ? And, alas 1 
 alas ! was it not all too late for both ? 
 
 I was for a moment or two silent and rumi- 
 nating. When I looked again, the colour had 
 
168 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 faded to a deadly pale. Shame and grief were 
 painted on her countenance. 
 
 " Alas even you^' she said, with a tone of 
 tender reproach, " even you despise me. Oh ! 
 that I had carried my secret with me to my 
 srave. Yet to leave him without one word of 
 explanation, without one word of gratitude ; 
 after all my neglects, and after all my cold- 
 ness." 
 
 " My dearest, dearest young lady, for Hea- 
 ven's sake, for his sake be comforted ; take 
 this draught — save yourself — save yourself for 
 mi. 
 
 " Alas, no I he loves his poor Lilia no 
 longer. I was very wTong to disobey him; 
 very, very wrong; but they sneered so at me. 
 I could not — I dared not. Oh, I was very 
 weak; and he has turned off his little Lilia, 
 and he loves her no more." 
 
 " Ah Miss De V , if you knew how 
 
 well! — too w^ell for his own peace." 
 
 She coloured again like a rose, her eyes fell — 
 
THE DEFORMED. 169 
 
 " Ah, Lilia, is it possible that your grati- 
 tude, that your affection, can stand the test? 
 
 Is it possible, Miss De V , that you have 
 
 not seen, what he is dying in agony to over- 
 come ?" 
 
 " Is it then as his sisters said — he does not 
 wish to disgrace himself?" said she in a hollow 
 tone. 
 
 " Disgrace himself! what can you mean?" 
 
 She was much confused, and stammered 
 out — 
 
 " I mean — they said — oh, Mr. Wilson!" and 
 the ingenuous frankness of her childhood shone 
 once more upon her brow. *' They made me 
 ashamed — his sisters I mean, — of my affection — 
 of my regard ; they told me it would disgrace 
 him in the eyes of the whole world, if he 
 thought of me for a moment : and for me — oh, 
 the horrible, horrible accusation, — that I ho- 
 noured him for his wealth, and flattered him 
 for his gifts, and would sell myself for his 
 gold!" 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
170 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 The idea of him, as a lover, had then been 
 presented. It certainly was not that sus- 
 picion which caused this estrangement. A 
 flattering sweet hope rose in my heart. 
 
 Had I been the lover himself, I vow, I could 
 not have been more interested. 
 
 ** But there would not be a shadow of 
 degradation in Lord St. Germains thinking of 
 
 you, my dear Miss De V . Your family is 
 
 as good as his own ; and, were it not, is he the 
 man to regard such absurdities? Alas, if no 
 other obstacle presented itself, he might yet be 
 blessed — he might yet live." 
 
 '' Live !" repeated she. '' Oh, Mr. Wilson, 
 tell me — tell me! is it — can it?" She sud- 
 denly covered her face in her pillow. 
 
 " My dear Miss De V , is it pos- 
 sible that you have not seen — may he — dare 
 he plead for himself, and ask your afi^ection 
 in the name of a dearer sentiment than grati- 
 tude — than regard ? May I tell him — can you 
 give him hope ?" 
 
THE DEFORMED. 171 
 
 " Tell him nothing — he would despise me ! 
 No — no ! let my secret die with me — let him 
 not scorn my folly and my weakness." 
 
 This was enough. I read in her ingenuous 
 confusion, in her radiant eyes, in her endea- 
 vours to hide the smiles that stole to the cor- 
 ners of that lovely mouth, the happiness of my 
 friend. I could have kneeled down, and 
 thanked heaven aloud. But then the thought 
 of their mutual danger, the dread that the 
 boon came too late, agitated me to a distraction 
 that was quite uaworthy of my temper and 
 years. 
 
 Having explained as softly as I could to 
 
 Miss De V the situation of Lord St. Ger- 
 
 mains, and added the assurance that what I 
 had to tell him would call him back even from 
 the very gates of death ; I entreated her for 
 his sake to endeavour to compose herself. She 
 took the draught I gave her, and, with the 
 docility and confidence of a happy child, laid 
 
 I 2 
 
172 THE DEFORMEI>. 
 
 her head upon her pillow, and in five minote^v 
 was fast asleep. 
 
 As she slumbered, I seemed to see health 
 visibly returning to her countenance. — Quiet 
 and rest I now believed would save her. I ne- 
 ver moved from my chair that night. Luckily 
 she was almost forgotten. Mrs. Cartwright 
 had once softly opened the door. I had signed 
 to her to allow no one to come in till I rang. 
 
 Lilia slept all that night. About six in the 
 morning she moved, and sighed, looked at me, 
 and her cheek suddenly crimsoned again. 
 
 ** My dear Miss De V , you are better 
 
 —you will live." 
 
 " Shall I ? ah, keep my secret !" 
 
 *' Most carefully — God bless you — now for 
 your breakfast," said I, almost beside myself 
 with joy. 
 
 Her attendants came. I left with Mrs. Cart- 
 wright such directions for care, that she was 
 quite amazed. 
 
THE DEFORMED. 173 
 
 *' Oh, she is of value inestimable," I whis- 
 pered. " She will save him." 
 
 I now left the apartment, and flew, rather 
 than walked, to my other patient. 
 
 When I entered the room, which I did very 
 softly, he opened his curtain. 
 
 " I am not asleep, Wilson. My night has 
 been tedious enough. I am quite glad you are 
 come ; but what brings you here so early ? " 
 
 " Why, my Lord, I have got a new medicine 
 which I think" — 
 
 He sighed, and shook his head. 
 " A famous new medicine, my Lord ; one 
 that saved the life of the son of Seleucus. 
 Please heaven it will do as much for you ! " 
 
 " Wilson," said he, gravely, " I do not un- 
 derstand you. This is a strange hour — is it 
 possible ? a man so temperate'' — . . . 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my Lord. I believe I 
 am intoxicated ; but it is with hope, not wine. 
 Hope for the man I most love upon earth ! 
 My Lord, can you find fortitude to hear tidings 
 
174 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 that will render this world for you a paradise ? 
 Can you hear that Lilia — yes — your Lilia — 
 Oh, my Lord, how shall I find words deUcate 
 enough to tell you ? Your heart has found its 
 echo in her's !" 
 
 He rose suddenly in his bed, then sunk back 
 upon his pillow, so pale that I thought for a 
 moment he was gone. 
 
 " No, no," said he, in a voice of utter despon- 
 dency. " Her compassion — her noble, gene- 
 rous heart has betrayed her. It is impossible. 
 You have urged her, Wilson, 1 see it too well." 
 
 " As I hope to live, my Lord, I have done 
 nothing — said nothing. The whole has been 
 to me, most unequivocally, and most unexpect- 
 edly, betrayed." 
 
 '* Tell me all." 
 
 He lay quite still while I related to him 
 what had passed ; adding what Lilia had told 
 me ; that the unfortunate diamond necklace — 
 I suppose by exciting the jealousy of the young 
 ladies — had drawn upon her a most unprovoked 
 
THE DEFORMED. 175 
 
 attack from the sisters, who had declared thut 
 they thought, and every body else thought, that 
 she was only flattering Lord St. Germains for 
 what she could get; and perhaps hoped to 
 entangle him in a marriage that would be an 
 everlasting disgrace to him. The secret of her 
 heart had been thus rudely betrayed to Lilia ; 
 and, agonised by the discovery which she be- 
 lieved all the world had made, and which she 
 supposed would excite the contempt of Lord 
 St. Germains, she had taken refuge in cold- 
 ness, absence, flight, — like a timid fawn, 
 springing, at any risk, from the danger she 
 feared. 
 
 The idea of Lord St. Germains' passion had 
 never crossed her mind. She saw only cold- 
 ness and estrangement in his altered manner, 
 and their timidity had only served to confirm 
 their mutual mistakes. 
 
 As a conviction of the truth slowly took 
 possession of Lord St. Germains' mind, the 
 glorious spectacle of his countenance was such 
 
176 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 that I shall never forget it while I live — hope 
 — happiness — rapture — intense gratitude — as 
 those eyes, literally of more than earthly beauty, 
 were raised in inward prayer. 
 
 " Mr. Wilson, I shall live," he said, at last. 
 I shall live to thank her, and to bless her; 
 and, God of Heaven ! to make her happy ! My 
 Lilia, my Lilia, my sweet enchanting one ; 
 darling of my pride ! idol of my heart ! Yes — 
 yes — I ought to have known it; our hearts 
 were made for each other. Was it possible 
 that what agitated every pulse of my being, 
 should find no answering chord in yours? 
 Oh, Wilson," turning to me with a sweet 
 luminous smile, " what a world of nonsense 
 I am talking ! Forgive me, and feel my 
 wrist." 
 
 I did so ; and the blood which had been hur- 
 rying in dreadful agitation through his veins, 
 now flowed with the even current of perfect 
 health. 
 
 Three more days, and I had the inexpres- 
 
THE DEFORMED* 177 
 
 sible satisfaction of announcing to these two 
 tender beings that they might meet. Over 
 that meeting I draw a veil : it was a scene too 
 sacred to be exposed to vulgar eyes, when two 
 lovers, rescued by their mutual truth and good- 
 ness from the very jaws of death, met to open 
 upon a promise of happiness rivalling the joys 
 of heaven, Lilia, transformed at once from 
 the thoughtless child, to the feeling, blushing 
 woman. He, rendered almost beautiful, by the 
 charm his felicity shed around him. 
 
 Happy, happy lovers ! Three weeks of 
 sweet, unclouded joy were theirs, while they 
 remained with Mrs. Cartwright, a good deal 
 secluded in the large suite of apartments 
 which had been appropriated by Lord St. 
 Germains ; recovering, by gentle degrees, the 
 strength which their sufferings had so much 
 impaired. 
 
 Lord St. Germains told me that as soon 
 as he was well, he should at once disclose his 
 secret to his father, and ask his consent to an 
 
 i5 
 
178 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 immediate marriage, with permission to occupy 
 one of his country seats. And with his usual 
 mental activity, he was already planning to 
 make his abode a blessing to all around, and 
 to begin, with Lilia, to discharge the cheerful 
 duties of a useful life. She, moulded by his 
 hand, and virtuous, reasonable, and good, with 
 all her playfulness, entered into his views, and 
 shared his feelings : shewing in every look 
 and tone such a sweet, confiding, perfect 
 love for him, and every thing about him, as 
 might have made the vainest and handsomest 
 coxcomb proud and happy. What ineffable 
 sweetness was it then to him, whose whole 
 life had been one struggle with mortification, 
 to find himself the object of such an affection— 
 the possessor of such a heart ! But I talk like 
 a doting old man : the recollection is still too 
 much for me. I have often left them, to hide my 
 tears of joy ; for I loved him like a son, and 
 honoured him like a superior nature. I was, 
 however, forced to quit this scene of happinesii 
 
THE DEFORMED. 179 
 
 for about a week, so of what passed in that 
 interval I can only speak by hearsay. 
 
 As soon as Lord St. Germains was able to 
 quit his apartments, he proceeded to inform 
 his father that he had fixed his affections upon 
 
 Miss De V ; that he had been so fortunate 
 
 as to meet with a return, and that he prayed 
 his consent to an immediate union. His father, 
 a kind-hearted, plain man, immediately signified 
 his satisfaction at his son's happiness, and his 
 readiness to make all the proper arrangements. 
 He expressed to Mrs. Cartwright his joy that 
 Lord St. Germains had found one woman ca- 
 pable of appreciating his excellent qualities. 
 He visited Lilia, kissed her affectionately, 
 calling her his beloved daughter ; and then, in 
 the fulness and simplicity of his heart, v/ent 
 down to communicate the agreeable intelligence 
 to the Marchioness. 
 
 What passed between them I never knew. 
 
180 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 I had watched her narrowly. I had seen the 
 clouds, which she vainly strove to dispel, ga- 
 thering again over her brow, as the intelligence 
 of Lord St. Germains' convalescence reached 
 her. Darker and darker they gathered over 
 that haughty countenance. 
 
 When, however, it was communicated to 
 her that an event so wholly unexpected as 
 Lord St. Germains' marriage was about to 
 take place ; an event which entirely closed all 
 prospect of that ultimate succession for Lord 
 Louis, of which she had allowed herself to 
 make sure ; her rage and disappointment at 
 last burst all the bounds of decency ; though, 
 I believe, she did manage to conceal the real 
 origin of her violence from the undisceming 
 eyes of her husband, by affecting to cloak it 
 under indignation at what she called the mesal- 
 liance, the degradation of his son by a marriage 
 with a mere dependant, a child of charity, a 
 child of shame; for so she scrupled not to 
 declare the unfortunate Lilia to be. 
 
THE DEFORMED. ]8J 
 
 Accustomed to yield to her influence in all 
 things, and to evade rather than to oppose her 
 wishes, when they did not coincide with his 
 own ; the Marquis was quite unfit to make 
 head against the storm. As usual he began to 
 think that there must be much reason, where 
 there were so many words — to waver in his 
 judgment, — to see things in a new light — and 
 finally to be persuaded totally to alter his opin- 
 ion — and to agree that the match was a mon- 
 strous piece of imprudence, impropriety, and 
 so forth. He concluded by declaring it must 
 be thought of no more — a determination to 
 which he appeared resolved to adhere, with 
 that stubborn obstinacy in which infirm minds 
 love to take refuge. 
 
 Lilia was assailed with a torrent of abuse 
 by the Marchioness and by the young ladies — 
 abuse, which it may be hard to believe, can 
 pass from right honourable lips — but so, alas ! 
 it is — Passion, the passion excited by the sud- 
 den overthrow of selfish hopes, can be as vio- 
 
182 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 lent, can be as rude, in these mechanically 
 regulated children of false refinement, as in 
 the basest vulgar. 
 
 They threatened to turn her out of the house 
 — to expose her to shame — to drive her friend- 
 less on the world ! 
 
 The unhappy Lilia, almost terrified out of 
 her senses at the storm, was sinking, almost 
 fainting, on the floor in the Marchioness's 
 dressing-room, where this scene of violence 
 passed, when the door opened, and Lord St. 
 Germains entered. 
 
 No longer slow or halting in his gait, but 
 as if inspired by a sudden energy — he walked 
 firmly across the room to where Lilia stood, 
 looking as if she could stand no longer. 
 
 " Silence, young ladies," in a voice of 
 thunder. '' Have done with this disgraceful 
 noise — Has all decency quitted the earth? 
 And is the betrothed wife of your eldest brother 
 a fit subject for your outrageous contempts ?" 
 
 ** Your wife, my Lord," said the Marchio- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 183 
 
 ness bitterly, — ** Yes, when she is your wife— 
 we must all learn to mock her with idle cere- 
 mony — While she remains my dependant — as 
 the forgotten child of my brother's youthful 
 errors — I shall treat her as her disgusting 
 treachery deserves. But she is not your wife 
 yet. Your father has empowered me to say 
 that he forbids this marriage — this degrading 
 marriage, under pain of his eternal maledic- 
 tion.*' 
 
 Lilia clasped her hands, shuddered, and, 
 with a faint cry, sank upon her knees, exclaim- 
 ing " Ah! — no — no — no — " 
 
 " My dear Lilia,^' said Lord St. Germains 
 with great composure, " this is no place for 
 you — Can you walk ? — Go to Mrs. Cartwright, 
 I will be with you soon." — He handed Lilia to 
 the door, and then, returning, placed himself 
 before the Marchioness, who, exhausted with 
 passion, had sunk upon a chair. 
 
 " What am I to understand, madam, by the 
 threat of my father's malediction, if I persevere 
 
184 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 in an engagement, for which I have this very 
 morning received his hearty congratulations? 
 I ask you — have you presumed to interfere be» 
 tween me and my father ! I have borne much, 
 perhaps too much. — There are things, madam, 
 you had better not attempt to make me endure." 
 
 " I have said what I thought proper," said 
 the Marchioness, more than ever enraged by 
 his firmness. " I have said he was disgracing 
 his house by so weak a compliance — I say so 
 still. — Your marriage ! — Have you yet to learn 
 what you are ? I am ashamed of you, my Lord ! 
 What ! — purchase a wife with your gold ! " 
 
 The colour flew up to his temples — His 
 passion mastered him. 
 
 " Madam, you shall find — there are words 
 never forgiven and never forgotten ! " and he 
 left the room. 
 
 He went straight to his father, and at once 
 declared that no power on earth should sepa- 
 rate him from Lilia — that if his father refused, 
 as he threatened, a provision, he would live 
 
THE DEFORMED. 185 
 
 upon what remained of the money his mother 
 had provided for him — for that his resolution 
 was unalterable — Lilia should be his wife. All 
 this was said with great respect, but with an 
 air of determination which could not fail to 
 have its effect on the Marquis. He veered 
 once more — again declared himself satisfied 
 with the match — and, having done so, as the 
 shortest way of avoiding further contention, 
 he ordered his carriage, and left the house 
 for London. 
 
 The rage of the Marchioness, when she 
 found that he was gone, leaving the marriage 
 irrevocably decided upon — seconded by the 
 jealous vexation of her daughters — and the 
 envious exclamations of the governesses, it 
 would be difficult to describe. The noise, the 
 ferment, the tumult, can be judged of only by 
 those who have had the misfortune to live in 
 families — unprincipled, selfish, and violent. In 
 the midst of the confusion, Lord Louis unex- 
 pectedly arrived. 
 
186 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 His mother's eyes sparkled with exultation 
 when he was announced — a champion when 
 most wanted. She trusted to his vehemence 
 to aid her cause, and triumph over his hrother's 
 resolution. Hearing his mother was in her 
 dressing-room, he ran lightly up stairs ; but, 
 when he opened the door, he was shocked at 
 the disorder in which he found her, with his 
 sisters. 
 
 " My dearest mother, what can have hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 ^' Oh, Louis ! Louis I — my pride ! — my joy ! 
 — welcome to your miserable mother ! " 
 
 " Miserable ! Who has dared ? Mother, 
 who has dared ?" 
 
 " St. Germains." 
 
 " St. Germains ! — impossible ! — he never 
 would — he never could — he is too sensible, 
 and too good. — Mother, what is this ?" 
 
 " Oh, Louis ! he is going to marry." 
 
 *^ To marry! impossible! — how ! to whom?" 
 
 " Yes," cried his sisters at once, " to Lilia." 
 
THE DEFORMED. 187 
 
 *' To Lilia ! — what a sacrifice ! " 
 
 " Oh ! far from that," cried Lady Geraldine 
 sneering. " Oh ! quite a love match, I assure 
 you. Liha is desperately — over head and ears 
 in love — We've had such a scene." 
 
 " No ! you don't say so — Lilia love him ! — 
 is it possible ? — Does she i-eally, sincerely, love 
 him? — value him, as she ought to do? — and at 
 her age too ! — God bless her honest, affection- 
 ate heart! Oh, the sweet child ! — I always said 
 she was the best and dearest creature in the 
 world — 1 must run and congratulate St. Ger- 
 mains immediately, for he is a happy fellow, 
 and well he deserves it.- — How heartily glad I 
 am ! " and he was gone in a minute, with his 
 usual impatience, totally unheeding the effect 
 his words produced upon his mother. 
 
 He passed quickly through the long galle- 
 ries which separated the apartments of St. 
 Germains from those of the rest of the family ; 
 leaving the Marchioness, as I have since heard, 
 in a state which defies description. 
 
188 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 The human heart is strangely constructed, 
 and it is difficult to calculate what may be the 
 effect of a sudden impression. The manner in 
 which Lord Louis had received the intelli- 
 gence, of what his mother had worked herself 
 up to consider, as the most disastrous, cruel, 
 and overwhelming event that ever befel a 
 human creature, seems to have operated upon 
 her in the most sinister and extraordinary 
 manner. — Disappointed in her expectations of 
 support and sympathy — mortified to the very 
 quick, to see her own son, the efficient cause 
 of all the bitter feelings she experienced, re- 
 joicing openly and unfeignedly in that which 
 she had reprobated so loudly — her counte- 
 nance, they say, took a hue so dark, that even 
 her usually careless daughters observed it. 
 
 " He triumphs every way," she was heard to 
 mutter. " Yes, even Louis — even Louis. Let 
 it be — let it be — a second son — a poor depend- 
 ant, second son — obeyed by every one — ruling 
 every thing — his father — my children — my- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 189 
 
 self—my son — Lilia — children — honours — for- 
 tune." 
 
 I can only very imperfectly relate what fol- 
 lowed on that eventful night. 
 
 The Marchioness had, as her private at- 
 tendant, one of those venomous reptiles whom 
 the pen of our great poet has, in its overflow- 
 ing gall, cursed with an eternal celebrity : — 
 
 Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 
 
 With all the kind mendacity of hints ; 
 
 While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles — 
 
 A thread of candour with a web of wiles. 
 
 A plain blunt show of briefly spoken seeming — 
 
 To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming. 
 
 A lip of lies —a face form'd to conceal, 
 
 And, without feeling, mock at all who feel — 
 
 What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
 
 Eternal evil— latent as she lurks — 
 
 To make a pandemonium where she dwells, 
 
 And reign, the Hecate of domestic hells ! 
 
 Mrs. Grace Holdfast was one of those which 
 pride and a haughty contempt of others, when 
 based, not upon power and energy, but upon 
 weakness and vanity, select as a confidante, 
 for the violent and bitter feelings of a heart 
 
190 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 too feeble to endure, unsupported, its own ve- 
 hement emotions. Such was the Marchioness 
 — violent, without force — rash, without cou- 
 rage — proud, without dignity — haughty, with- 
 out self-dependance — contradictions which are 
 the very cradle of wickedness. She wanted, 
 at once, a flatterer and a master — to encou- 
 rage her where she was faiUng — to urge her 
 forward where she hesitated. She found both 
 in Mrs. Grace Holdfast. 
 
 Holdfast was, in her sphere, such as we 
 may suppose to have been that servant, at 
 once illustrious and base, who ruled to evil, 
 the destinies of a regent, and a queen. Pos- 
 sessing, under a servile and vulgar exterior, a 
 mind of masculine daring, and of fiend-like 
 ambition — to govern her mistress — and through 
 her the fortunes of a noble and powerful house, 
 was the secret pride on which she fed. She 
 had identified herself so completely with the 
 Marchioness, that she in a manner adopted 
 all her passions. — She, too, had long looked 
 
THE DEFORMED. 191 
 
 upon Lord Louis as the proper heir of Bran- 
 don — and with bitter contempt and hatred 
 upon St. Germains, as a poor, miserable, dis- 
 eased being — " a mildewed ear, blighting his 
 fairer brother." She, too, shared, and more 
 than shared, in the stinging envy with which 
 the elevation of Lilia was contemplated 
 throughout the household — and anticipated, 
 with an imagination of unusual strength, all 
 the change of feeling and circumstance which 
 must, sooner or later, ensue — when Lilia and 
 St. Germains, at the head of a rising family 
 and immense fortune, should dole out their 
 kindness and their assistance, to the fallen, 
 impoverished, and dependant members of the 
 second house. 
 
 The rest of that evening the Marchioness 
 spent alone with Mrs. Holdfast, in her dress- 
 ing-room. Lord Louis, having found his bro- 
 ther, and congratulated him with his usual 
 warmth and frankness, had begun, for the first 
 time, to understand that something was amiss 
 
192 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 — and, having learned that it arose from the 
 violent opposition offered by the Marchioness 
 to the marriage, and having, in spite of his 
 carelessness, in some way divined the disap- 
 pointment which lay at the bottom of all this 
 ebullition of feeling, he felt mortified, and very 
 angry; for he had a good and right heart, with 
 all his faults, — a heart from which jealousy and 
 envy were as far removed as one pole from the 
 other. He was vexed at his mother, and he 
 spent the rest of the evening with St. Ger- 
 mains, Mrs. Cartwright, and Lilia. 
 
 They had all been disturbed, more espe- 
 cially Lilia, by what had passed in the morning 
 — Her cheeks were yet flushed, and her eyes 
 sad and heavy — but Lord Louis, all gaiety and 
 affection, soon restored the smiles to her inno- 
 cent countenance. St. Germains appeared con- 
 soled for the pain and mortification he had ex- 
 perienced, by the generous conduct of his bro- 
 ther. He was evidently, as Mrs. Cartwright told 
 me, much gratified by the behaviour of Lord 
 
THE DEFORMED. 193 
 
 Louis, whom he had always loved with 
 the tenderest affection — gratified and con- 
 soled to find the bosom of the son, unstained 
 by the selfishness and meanness of the 
 mother. 
 
 He had been strangely ruffled, but his usual 
 composure was now restored. " He sat," said 
 she, " in that antique window, (which I so well 
 remember) — in his large chair, looking tran- 
 quilly on the declining sun, whose broad red 
 orb was sinking behind the horizon — while a 
 glow of the richest crimson, gold and purple, 
 illumined the sky. At his feet on a low 
 stool was Lilia ; the last rays of the evening 
 gleaming upon the vines and twisted plants 
 that ornamented the apartment, and falling 
 softened upon that hair, of which it is impossi- 
 ble not to think whenever one is imagining her 
 — so peculiar was the charm it added to her 
 beauty, so rich its floating folds, so unspeak- 
 ably graceful all its affluence of curls, waves, 
 and ringlets. By her side was Lord Louis, on 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 the ground, amusing himself by whispering in 
 her ear a thousand innocent mahcious trifles — 
 which sent the- crimson into her cheeks in glow- 
 ing streaks, bright as the heavens they were 
 looking on; — and," said Mrs. Cartwright, " I 
 thought she resembled one of those inhabitants 
 of heaven with their sweet cherubic faces, that 
 the old masters love to represent — leaning from 
 the clouds of the sky amid the angelic host ; 
 happiness, love, tenderness, beamed upon that 
 ruby lip and smiled in that eye, investing her 
 with a sort of radiance of feeling and purity. 
 Lord Louis, too, I was so much pleased with 
 him and all his ways, that I thought he looked 
 something almost too beautiful, and too good, 
 for this world. I sat, half shaded by the cur- 
 tain, regarding them — It was a moment, 
 Mr. Wilson, that paid me for many pains, — I 
 saw the eyes of St. Germains raised, as if to Hea- 
 ven, once or twice — He was offering the thanks 
 of his righteous and grateful spirit, to the 
 Being he worshipped in the depths of his in- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 195 
 
 most soul. He looked round, and seeing where 
 I was, without moving so as to disturb the 
 two whisperers at his feet, he held out his 
 hand, took mine and pressed it, I understood 
 him well." 
 
 The Marchioness, while this scene of peace 
 was passing at one end of the castle, remained 
 as I have said, in her own room. She was heard 
 to pace the floor with vehemence — her voice 
 was elevated, so as even to penetrate the well 
 fitted doors of these splendid apartments — She 
 was evidently talking and gesticulating with 
 violence. After a while, however, all this ceased, 
 and Mrs. Holdfast was seen to go down stairs, 
 and, contrary to her usual custom, at that time 
 of the evening, to leave the house. 
 
 It was autumn, and the day was closing in 
 — but no candles were ordered into the Mar- 
 chioness's dressing-room. The young ladies 
 were assembled as usual in the saloon, but the 
 lady mother did not appear. The daughters 
 were not in the habit of attending her when 
 
 K 2 
 
196 THE DEFORMEI>. 
 
 she was indisposed, either in body or mind. 
 Such care always devolved upon Mrs. Holdfast. 
 So they spent the evening, dawdling about the 
 room with their French governesses — playing 
 now and then a few notes on their pianoforte, 
 humming Opera airs, hanging over the fire, 
 and sp on. They were all sad and dull, after 
 the excitement of the morning. 
 
 At length, says one, " I suppose mamma 
 won't come down again, and as for Louis, it is 
 too bad, he has been in St. Germains' room all 
 the evening ; I never thought he would have 
 taken that side." 
 
 "So foolish, and so ill-natured !" said an- 
 other. " But I shall go to bed, for I don't 
 know what's amiss, but I never felt so un- 
 comfortable in my life. 
 
 " Ah ! cest que voiis ave% tant de sensibi- 
 lite r said one of the French ladies : " et moi 
 aussiije n en puis plus.'* 
 
 Lady Geraldine, the picture of gloomy 
 discontent, now rose to go. As they went 
 
THE DEFORMED. 197 
 
 to their rooms, they stumbled upon Hold- 
 ^st. 
 
 " Holdfast, how's mamma ? — Why ! what in 
 the name of Heaven is the matter with you, 
 Holdfast ? — You are as white as a sheet." 
 
 " What she never was before, and never 
 will be again," said one. 
 
 ^' But are you as silent, as well as pale 
 as a ghost ?" said Lady Geraldine. " Can't 
 you say what's the matter, woman ?" 
 
 Holdfast had all this time been endeavour- 
 ing to pass on without answering. She was ac- 
 customed to treat the young ladies at all times 
 in her own way. She now, however, stopped. 
 
 *^ Matter ! — what do you mean by matter ? 
 nothing's the matter — what do you mean ?" 
 
 " Nay ! what do i/ou mean, you grumpy 
 old thing !" said Lady Mary. " You look in 
 the oddest way." 
 
 " I suppose, I may look as I please without 
 troubling you," said she roughly, " and 1 want 
 to go to bed." 
 
198 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " Off with you then, old crab!" said the 
 girl. 
 
 The young ladies had been in bed about 
 two hours, when Lady Mary started up. 
 
 " Something is the matter indeed," said she. 
 " Good God, what a cry !" 
 
 They were all at once raised from their 
 pillows. There was a cry — such a cry ! — a wail, 
 so wild, so clear, so shrill, that the very flesh 
 seemed to creep upon their bones. It rang 
 through the still immensity of that building, 
 with a piercing unearthly vehemence. 
 
 " Again ! and again !" said Lady Geraldine. 
 ** God of Heaven, what is the matter ?" 
 
 ** Au nom de Dieu, quest ce que c^est?'' 
 said the French governess, rushing into the 
 room. 
 
 The door was now wide open, — hurried 
 steps were heard — the whole household seemed 
 roused — there was a rapid opening and shutting 
 of doors — murmuring voices — stifled calls — a 
 low-toned noise of confusion, if 1 may so ex- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 199 
 
 press myself — above which, at intervals, were 
 heard the loud clear shrieks of one in 
 agony. 
 
 " Where shall we go ? — what can it be ?" 
 cried all three together. " Oh ! it is impos- 
 sible to stay here. Let us run to my mother's 
 room." 
 
 Dressing gowns were hurriedly cast on — 
 they were at the Marchioness's door — the 
 horror of the moment, overpowering every old 
 habit and custom^ they were flying, like 
 frightened birds to their mother's wing. Mam- 
 ma ! mamma ! Holdfast I let us in — let us in," 
 as the shrieks quicker, and quicker, more 
 and more piercing, reverberated through the 
 apartments. 
 
 Holdfast came to the door. She only half 
 opened it. 
 
 " Let us in ! let us in !" cried the terrified 
 girls, rushing forward. She was forced back 
 and they ran, with one impulse, into the 
 room. 
 
200 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma !" but to look at her was 
 enough — They shrunk back appalled. She was 
 standing bolt upright, stiffened, in the middle 
 of the apartment, as perfectly white, and almost 
 as rigid as if she had been dead — Her eyes were 
 fixed and staring, and she seemed to be drink- 
 ing in the horrid sounds, insensible to every 
 other perception. 
 
 " Mother ! mother ! mother !" 
 
 The sound roused her, but it was to 
 fury. 
 
 ** Go away ! get away ! what are you here 
 for? how dare you come here ? get away from 
 me — fly my eyes? — hide yourselves from my 
 sight ! — take them away ! — Good God! — Hold- 
 fast are you mad ?" 
 
 The terrified girls shrunk to the door, alike 
 afraid to remain, or to depart. 
 
 The door was rudely opened again. It was 
 Lord Louis. — . . . 
 
 " Almighty God ! it is all over — he is dead 
 — he is gone — !" 
 
THE DEFORMED^ £01 
 
 The mother fell flat on the floor — Holdfast 
 flew to her, bent her head over her, and was 
 busy, endeavouring to relieve her, while the 
 sisters gathered round Lord Louis. 
 
 He paced the room with an air of dis- 
 traction. 
 
 *' Only four hours ago, and he was as well 
 as I am , and now he is dead ! Four hours 
 ago, and he was the happiest and the best of 
 human beings : and now he is nothing ! — now 
 he is nothing; and Lilia — poor — poor — poor 
 Lilia ....," 
 
 " Dead ? — what ? — who ?" exclaimed they, 
 breathless. 
 
 <f Why, your brother; our brother I the best 
 and dearest friend and brother that ever man 
 possessed ! St. Germains, the best, the kindest, 
 the worthiest fellow that ever walked God's 
 earth," — .... and, covering his face with his 
 hands, he sank into a chair, and shed a torrent 
 of tears. 
 
 The Marchioness was by this time sitting 
 
 K 5 
 
202 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 on the floor, supported by Holdfast, who was 
 soothing and composing her. Her eyes were 
 fixed intently on her son ; but at these last 
 words, — and when he burst into tears — as if 
 some secret sympathy had rent the cold ice of 
 her soul, she fell into violent hysterics, and 
 her shrieks, laughter, sobs, and ravings, were 
 horrible — were appalling. Holdfast, the reso- 
 lute Holdfast, trembled and shook like a wretch 
 in a fever. The young ladies screamed aloud. 
 ** Mother, have done ! " said Lord Louis 
 rising fiercely. " Have done ! It is impossible 
 to bear this — Controul yourself — Hold her 
 hands, Mrs. Grace. Have done, mother, with 
 this screaming. All the shrieks of hell will not 
 awaken him — He is as dead as that — " dashing 
 on the floor a piece of marble, which stood 
 near. " Have done, mother, and let them put 
 you to bed." 
 
 " For the love of heaven, young ladies," 
 said Mrs. Holdfast, in a tone of entreaty, which 
 she had never before been known to use, " call 
 
THE DEFORMED. g03 
 
 for some help — I cannot bear it any longer," 
 and she gnashed her teeth in an agony of 
 horror. 
 
 It was all too true — St. Germains was dead. 
 Four hours ago, he was in the full enjoyment 
 of his vast intellect, a thinking, powerful being, 
 and now he was a lump of miserable clay ! 
 His servant, whom accident had brought 
 into his room, had discovered that something 
 more than usual was amiss. Mrs. Cartwright 
 had been called, Lilia had followed — Hers were 
 the shrieks, as his lips fell in the last ghastly 
 agony ; as his eyes rolled on her, without sense 
 or sentiment; hers were the shrieks which 
 had filled those vast vaulted chambers. Well 
 might they fill those vaulted chambers with their 
 miserable outcry ! They were the shrieks of a 
 heart broken in the full energy of its feehngs ; 
 the cries of the soul, bursting its youthful tene- 
 ment ; the agonies of death, by mortal sorrow. 
 That young, affectionate heart, was not left 
 to mourn the being so devotedly loved and 
 
204 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 worshipped. The beautiful tresses of Liha 
 swept over the bosom of her lover — and on his 
 heart that faithful head — was laid like a 
 cropped flower. 
 
 Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
 Ah ! — happy ! — but of life to lose the worst ! 
 That grief — though deep — though fatal, was thy first ! 
 Thrice happy ! — ne'er to feel, or fear the force 
 Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse. 
 And that dread pang, where more than madness lies ; 
 The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 
 That winds around and tears the quiv'ring heart ! 
 Ah ! wherefore not consume it and depart ? 
 
 They were buried together. Something strange, 
 hasty and mysterious involved the whole busi- 
 ness — a private examination was made, but the 
 precarious state in which Lord St. Germains 
 had been known to exist, ever since his ear- 
 liest childhood, seemed to afford sufficient 
 grounds to account for this sudden catas- 
 trophe ; particularly when the agitation of the 
 preceding day was recollected. The funeral 
 
THE DEFORMED. 205 
 
 took place quite privately ; the Marquis coming 
 down from London to attend it. 
 
 It was a fine morning in autumn, when I 
 returned home from my journey : a misty grey 
 morning. The sun was just beginning to pene- 
 trate the soft haze, and to beam gladly upon 
 the trees, calling out the songs of those few 
 birds which made that season still cheerful 
 by their warblings. I journeyed pleasantly 
 along, enjoying the agreeable tranquillity of 
 spirits, which my habit of early rising usually 
 procures me; but when I entered Carstones, 
 and rode up the well known street, I was 
 struck with the air of gloom which pervaded it. 
 Looking round me, I perceived that the shops 
 were all shut; that the children, usually at 
 their noisy plays in the market-place, were 
 hushed. There were few passengers, but many 
 people were standing at their open doors, and 
 many faces were at the windows. Suddenly the 
 bell of the church, which stood at a Httle dis- 
 
206 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 tance on a green eminence above the town, began 
 to toll. The tolling of a funeral bell is always 
 a most mournful and heavy sound to me ; but 
 now it struck me with more than usual melan- 
 choly. I hastily rode up to my own door, and 
 throwing the rein of my horse to my boy, who 
 came out, asked what was the matter. 
 
 " What has happened ? why are all the 
 shops shut up ?" 
 
 " Lord St. Germains is buried to-day." 
 
 I thought I should have fallen on the pave- 
 ment, 
 
 " Lord St. Germains ! what can you mean, 
 Richard?" 
 
 " He is to be buried to-day ; and Miss Lilia, 
 too ; and sure they say it will be a mortal fine 
 sight, but we shall none of us have the heart to 
 look on it. A better never went to his grave, 
 than he who goes there this day." And he 
 brushed his eyes with the back of his hand. 
 
 I hurried into the house: Judy was not 
 as usual to be seen fidgetting here, there, and 
 
THE DEFORMED. 207 
 
 every where, she was up stairs in our sitting 
 
 room. 
 
 " Why Judy!" I cried, " what are they say- 
 ing ? What has happened ?" 
 
 " Oh ! brother, such a thing !" 
 
 " They tell me — but it is impossible. The 
 Marquis he means; but he cannot be dead, 
 and 1 never to have heard of it." 
 
 "No, not the Marquis — Lord St. Ger- 
 mains ; and Lord Louis came down here, his 
 own self, bless him, to ask when you would 
 be back. He wanted you to be at the funeral. 
 He takes on so, poor young gentleman ; as if 
 for the world, there never was such another 
 as his brother." She was running on, but I 
 begged her to tell me all ; and then I learned, 
 with many interruptions, much of what I have 
 related. 
 
 I am not writing my own history ; I have no 
 wish to dwell on what I felt. 
 
 I attended the funeral of the two beings 
 I most loved and honoured upon earth. I saw 
 
g08 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 the long train descend the Castle hill, and 
 sweep mournfully up the street of Carstones — 
 the waving plumes — the mourning crowds — I 
 see them still — I saw Lord St. Germains laid 
 in the tomb of his ancestors — with his faithful 
 little Lilia by his side — Lord Louis would have 
 it so. Never shall I forget him, as he stood in 
 his long black velvet cloak, bowing his beau- 
 teous head over the coffin of his brother, as 
 sobs became groans, and groans ended in pas- 
 sionate tears, while he called upon St. Ger- 
 mains and Lilia — He was knit to my soul from 
 that hour. 
 
 The poor Marquis was likewise much af- 
 flicted : and he shewed his grief with an honest 
 homely sincerity which moved the hearts of 
 every one. 
 
 As for the neighbourhood in general, — few 
 deaths ever excited so much sensation. Lord St. 
 Germains was deeply and universally regretted, 
 both by poor and rich. Short as had been 
 his career, the power of his active intelligence 
 
THE DEFORMED. 209 
 
 was generally felt and appreciated, and the 
 prospect of seeing him, at some future period, 
 lord of this great domain, and head as it were 
 of the county, had been every where contem- 
 plated with satisfaction. 
 
 It seemed for some time as if nothing could 
 console Lord Louis (for so I shall continue to 
 call him). He had loved and honoured St. 
 Germain s more than any other human being ; 
 and, insensible to the splendid prospect now 
 opening before him, he shewed, without affec- 
 tation, that he valued such a man, and such a 
 brother, more than castles or estates, bonds, or 
 bank bills. He soon went away from Brandon ; 
 seeming to feel nothing but pain in every thing 
 connected with the place. 
 
 Wave, however, succeeds to wave — the 
 waters of oblivion speedily cover the grave of 
 the wisest, the most honoured, and the best. 
 The sensation which the sudden death of Lord 
 St. Germains had excited — the pity which 
 dwelt upon the tomb of the young and lovely 
 
210 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 Lilia, died away, and, in a few months, every 
 thing appeared to have resumed its wonted 
 course. 
 
 The Marchioness had been long in recover- 
 ing from the violent agitation into which she 
 had been thrown, on the tremendous night of 
 Lord St. Germains' death ; for some weeks she 
 was quite unfit to appear, or to mingle in the 
 ordinary society of her own family. Her appear- 
 ance was entirely changed — She became pale, 
 and complained that even the sudden shutting 
 of a door made her tremble and turn faint. I 
 saw her about three weeks after Lord St. Ger- 
 mains' death, and I thought her nervous system, 
 I must say, in a most deplorable state, recollecting 
 her, as I did, so haughty — so dignified — so cold. 
 I could not remark, without great compassion, 
 the change which had taken place. She was 
 tremulous and terrified, could not sleep by night, 
 nor rest by day; in short, was suffering under 
 what appeared to me a regular nervous seizure. 
 
 Holdfast, whom I never liked, was grown, as 
 
THE DEFORMED. ^11 
 
 I thought, more disagreeable than ever — her 
 assiduous, and ahnost servile, attentions to her 
 lady were changed in their character. Assi- 
 duous she was, indeed, more than usual ; but 
 her attentions rather resembled those of a cross 
 yet careful nurse, to a troublesome child, than 
 the respectful attendance of a servant upon a 
 noble mistress. 
 
 Time, however, as I have said, wore away. 
 Month rolled on after month — the disorder of 
 the Marchioness gradually subsided, and by the 
 end of the year she was haughtier and prouder 
 and colder than ever. She began at last to 
 take an open pride in the great expectations 
 of her son; for at first she seemed so insensible 
 to gratification of every sort, that even this 
 appeared to afford her but a feeble pleasure. 
 She assumed a wider authority than she had 
 ever done before, and acted still more com- 
 pletely the part of grand lady and grand 
 princess. 
 
212 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 Eighteen months had now elapsed, and the 
 day approached when Lord Louis was to come 
 of age. He had never entered so fully as one 
 might have expected, into the pleasure of his 
 inheritance, though that he was indifferent to 
 its advantages I do not pretend to say — and he 
 told his mother that he had no wish that his 
 approaching majority should he signalized in 
 any very remarkable manner. But her love of 
 splendour, of representation, of magnificence, 
 was all alive again : and her idolatry of her son 
 greater than ever. She declared she would 
 have the event celebrated as it ought to be for 
 one so magnificently endowed — so highly gifted ; 
 and at Brandon Castle ; for that, being by 
 far the most princely domain belonging to the 
 family, there alone could its heir, with due 
 propriety be honoured. 
 
 Brandon Castle was become to me a place 
 of gloom and shadow. All that old side of it 
 which Lord St. Germains used to inhabit, was 
 
THE DEFORMED. 21S 
 
 shut up, and totally abandoned. I never could 
 tell why ; but I observed that not a servant in 
 the castle would enter it even by day-light, if 
 it were possible to avoid so doing. 
 
 As for me, I fled from all that could remind 
 me of a loss so deeply lamented — a feeling 
 v^hich was united in my mind with a painful 
 distrust — a sort of formless disagreeable sus- 
 picion. I never saw Mrs. Holdfast without 
 a kind of creeping of the flesh. Her looks, 
 indeed, were more offensive to me than ever — 
 I caught something almost fiendish in her ex- 
 pression, at times. But, as I intended to say, 
 all that side of the castle was utterly deserted 
 — for Mrs. Cartwright, it is needless to relate, 
 had left Brandon immediately after the fune- 
 ral of those alone dear to her; and had be- 
 taken herself to a distant retreat, where she 
 waited in patience, as she told me, her dis- 
 missal from a world in which she could no 
 longer occupy a post of usefulness. 
 
 Lord Louis, as I have said, appeared to 
 
214 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 share my feelings — He came very little to the 
 place, and seemed to dislike particularly the 
 idea of revelry in such a scene. But the 
 Marchioness was determined, and the 10th of 
 July was appointed for rejoicings, on a scale 
 of magnificence unknown even in the annals of 
 this splendid family. 
 
 The tables were laid for five hundred people 
 on that magnificent lawn, which those who 
 know Brandon will recollect is surrounded by 
 an amphitheatre of woods, and crowned at its 
 extremity by the lofty towers and grand front 
 of the feudal castle or palace; call it which you 
 will, for it was both. The first board was laid 
 on this occasion for the nobler guests ; and from 
 this, as in the olden time, a continued succes- 
 sion of tables was set, for every one, even to 
 the poorest tenant, and meanest retainer of the 
 family. The tables were covered with plate 
 of gold and silver, loaded with viands, adorned 
 with the most beautiful fruits and flowers, 
 brilliant with the abundance of shining orna- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 215 
 
 ments of glass, china, and marble, that were 
 glittering in profusion on every side. 
 
 The company was splendid, and distin- 
 guished crowds of gaily-dressed people were 
 gathered among the trees, or surrounding the 
 tables. Loud sounded the triumphant music 
 of the several bands. The clear notes of the 
 trumpet rang shrilly through the woods, a 
 signal to the revellers to come ,to the feast. 
 The day was superb, gleaming under one of 
 those bright, glowing suns which, when break- 
 ing out upon our scenery, before long heats 
 have destroyed the verdure of the groves, and 
 the brilliant emerald of the grass, produces 
 such a shining effect to the eye. 
 
 What a scene ! — There stood the Marchio- 
 ness in a robe whose magnificence exceeded all 
 I had ever before imagined; a circlet of jewels, 
 sparkling like a crown in her dark hair. She 
 looked splendidly beautiful. Her daughters, a 
 shewy group, stood round her — her husband 
 was by her side — her son, the noble — the beau- 
 
gl6 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 tiful Lord Louis ! — I see him now — But my 
 thoughts were far away — they were resting on 
 that grave where so much goodness and excel- 
 lence lay buried, forgotten by all but me. 
 
 I thought of the good Marchioness — her 
 career of benevolence, so soon closed. I 
 thouo-ht of all the unjust and selfish and unge- 
 nerous feelings and actions of the one, who 
 now reigned triumphant in her stead. There 
 she sat as upon a throne, receiving the homage 
 of multitudes for that son of her pride — all her 
 vain and wicked aspirations gratified, and the 
 favourite established in his brother's place. 
 
 But, while I was gazing, the scene of triumph 
 suddenly changed its aspect. Dark, heavy, 
 lurid clouds began to gather round the hori- 
 zon — low rolling thunder was distantly heard — 
 a sudden silence in the woods succeeded to the 
 noise and stir of life among the birds and in- 
 sects, and the distant herds might be seen 
 creeping to cover. A universal stillness was 
 in the air, over which, shadows, dark as night, 
 
THE DEFORMED. 217 
 
 were slowly stealing — A stillness every where, 
 save round the immediate scene of revelry. 
 
 The dinner had, in the mean time, pro- 
 ceeded. The wine had freely circulated, the 
 hum became louder and louder — the noise of 
 the instruments appeared, to my senses, more 
 triumphant. I looked on the sky : all was 
 dark, threatening horror — on the tables, all 
 exulting joy. 
 
 On a sudden, there was a general ringing 
 of glasses — a general rise — a general shout— 
 They were drinking health and happiness to 
 the heir. Hip ! hip ! hip ! Hurrah ! ! 
 
 I saw Lord Louis, his head bending in 
 proud and graceful acknowledgment of the 
 honour he received. One ray of the sun shot 
 between the dark clouds, and illuminated his 
 face. The next moment — a crash of thunder — 
 loud — terrible — rattled through the sky, and 
 one bright flash penetrated, for a second, the 
 horrible gloom. One flash ! — and a cry, a 
 universal cry, rent the air — Lord Louis ! Lord 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 Louis ! — the thunderbolt had fallen — .... he 
 lay dead at his mother's feet — . . . . 
 
 The confusion that ensued — for a deluge 
 of rain followed immediately the fatal flash, — 
 rain — as if the very windows of heaven were 
 once more opened, pouring their torrents up- 
 on a world of sin — prevented me from seeing 
 clearly, or remembering much that came after. 
 
 I saw the Marchioness, her hair and clothes 
 all drenched and dabbled with wet, carried 
 shrieking passed me, through a darkness almost 
 like that of midnight. — I saw Mrs. Holdfast 
 holding her, quivering, shaking, tremblmg, 
 — the daughters flying on the wings of fear 
 for shelter. The splendid crowd at once dis- 
 persed — while the wind was bending the trees 
 to the very earth, the rain streaming from the 
 clouds, the hoarse thunder howling, rattling, 
 and clattering through the sky. 
 
 Last of all, I saw the dead body of Lord 
 Louis. — Four young men, dressed in the ex- 
 treme of fashionable elegance, with counte- 
 
THE DEFORMED. 219 
 
 nances pale with horror, and hair matted over 
 their bare heads, were carrying the lifeless 
 form between them. His head, yet beautiful, 
 leaned on his shoulder, perfectly senseless — 
 perfectly still. 
 
 The whole scene had literally stupified me, 
 and passed before me like a dream. Nor did 
 I move till I heard my name loudly called. — 
 " Mr. Wilson !— Where is Mr. Wilson ?— Can 
 nothing be done ? " 
 
 They came to me, and hurried me into the 
 castle. Nothing could, indeed, be done for 
 Lord Louis. The lightning had penetrated 
 his breast, and the flash had scorched and 
 slightly blackened his face — This was all — but 
 life was utterly extinct. 
 
 The daughters were standing in the cor- 
 ridor, all pride, all ceremony over — shrieking 
 " Mr. Wilson ! Mr. Wilson ! come to mamma ! 
 come to mamma ! " 
 
 I ran up stairs. I entered the room of the 
 Marchioness. She appeared to me raving mad. 
 
 T 2 
 
220 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 She was screaming with all her might, and 
 tearing off large locks of her raven hair — Her 
 eyes were distended with horror — " Yes, I see 
 him! — I see him! — he is there still!— He came, 
 like the mighty archangel, in the storm — he 
 rode upon the blast. They have struck me in 
 the soul — All is over at last. — Louis I Louis ! 
 Louis ! — you for whom I have perilled salva- 
 tion! — offended God — ^ called up his mighty 
 rolling thunders — Where, where are you? — 
 Gone — gone — gone. — Is it you at my feet? — 
 My life ! my pride ! my son ! " 
 
 As the thunder rolled and crackled round 
 the windows, her horror and distraction in- 
 creased. 
 
 "Another blast for me ? I come ! — I come ! 
 Mighty God ! — Hide me, — hide me from his 
 rage. Ha!" with a shriek, the most terrible 
 I ever heard — and she seized Holdfast firmly 
 by the arm, till her fingers seemed to meet 
 in the flesh — " Devil ! are you here ! — seize 
 her! — take her! — She bought the poison! — 
 
THE DEFORMED. 221 
 
 slie mixed the cup ! — I saw her smile — the 
 she devil! — I saw her smile while she did it! — 
 the tempting wily serpent ! Seize her ! — take 
 her ! — rack her !^ — she has murdered us all ! — - 
 she has damned my immortal soul ! " 
 
 Mrs. Holdfast looked aghast at this ad- 
 dress — Unable to release herself — deserted by 
 her usual presence of mind, she stared stupidly 
 at the Marchioness, as if paralyzed — but I 
 went up to her. 
 
 " Mrs. Holdfast, this is a serious accusa- 
 tion," said I. — " There is something here more 
 than common. — Lady Mary, may I entreat 
 you to call for help ? " 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" said Mrs. Hold- 
 fast at last, angrily — ** Let me go, if you 
 please." 
 
 But I still detained her, while the Mar- 
 chioness, whose senses were evidently gone, 
 continued to rave in the most incoherent 
 manner. 
 
 So she continued to rave for many, many 
 
222 THE DEFORMED. 
 
 years; the slightest ray of intellect never vi- 
 sited her more. 
 
 Mrs. Holdfast was arraigned, tried, and 
 executed. It was proved that she had been 
 down to my surgery that very evening, and 
 bought the poison from Judy. Judy confessed 
 it, after much circumlocution. 
 
 Brandon Castle was absolutely deserted. It 
 has been shut up ever since. I do not know 
 what has become of the young ladies. I have 
 heard that these dreadful scenes were not pro- 
 fitless to them. The old Marquis is still alive. 
 
 This is all I now recollect of this history — 
 the latter pages of which I have written with 
 so much pain, that I begin to think I was very 
 foolish to attempt to write it at all. 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE 
 
 ADMIRAL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
Ye gentle pow'rs, that day by day unseen, 
 Where souls, unanimous and link'd in love, 
 In sober converse spend the vacant hour. 
 And give the hasty minutes as they pass 
 Unwonted fragrance, — come and aid my song. 
 In that clear fountain of eternal love 
 Which flows for aye at the right-hand of Him, 
 The great Incomprehensible, ye serve- 
 Dip my advent'rous pen, that nothing vile, 
 Of the pure eye or ear unworthy, may 
 In this my early song be seen or heard. 
 
 HURDIS. 
 
THE 
 
 ADMIRAL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 At the end of the village of Middleton, on the 
 western borders of Wiltshire, stands a hand- 
 some, though rather ancient, red-brick house, 
 adorned with stone facings round the windows, 
 doors, and at the angles of the walls, and with 
 urns and balustrades of the same material at 
 the top. y 
 
 This style of architecture has something 
 handsome and imposing about it — the large or- 
 namented door, the flight of stone steps, the 
 
 l5 
 
226 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 profusion of long narrow windows — the excel- 
 lence of the brick-work, the fine freestone by 
 which it is relieved. The apparent stability of 
 such edifices conveys an impression of equal 
 stability in the station, fortune and habits of 
 those to whom they belong, which does not 
 exactly attach to the more classical elevations 
 of cast iron, and cement, which characterise 
 the present aera of our architecture. 
 
 These impressions of stability, in situations 
 somewhat remote from the metropolis, are not 
 yet altogether illusory. Even in this age of rest- 
 less changes, of fleeting attachments, of ever 
 varying schemes and plans of life, some few 
 may be found who, whether wisely or not, pre- 
 serve their local attachments undiminished — 
 still cling with a mixture of reverence and fond- 
 ness to the abode of their forefathers, the cradle 
 of their own infancy — still honour with a hal- 
 lowed sentiment the antique apartments where 
 parents once presided with a grave dignity, 
 well becoming those grey hairs of which they 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 227 
 
 were not ashamed. For them the genius of the 
 place still haunts the smooth walk, the trim- 
 hedges, the formal parterres, even the very 
 walls and elaborate iron gates, which enclose 
 the ancient courts — and they deprecate and re- 
 sist that spirit of change, under the name of 
 improvement, which would sacrifice all the re- 
 collections of the passed to the comforts and con- 
 veniences of the present — holding light by our 
 more spiritual, in comparison with our more 
 sensual, enjoyments. 
 
 The individual mansion which I am about 
 to describe was a remarkably well preserved 
 specimen of its kind. It stood surrounded by a 
 large garden, court, and shrubberies, where all 
 the features of a different age and different 
 manners were carefully preserved. In the 
 front was the court, bordered on each side by 
 lofty elms, where a rookery had for more than 
 a century subsisted, whose cheerful, noisy in- 
 habitants had successively, from generation to 
 generation, annoyed the gardeners, and diverted 
 
228 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 the children, belonging to the mansion. This 
 court was separated by a broad straight gravel 
 walk, which, though intended to admit horses 
 and carriages to the house, was kept so scru- 
 pulously and exactly smooth, that to bring 
 horse or carriage upon it appeared almost like 
 a profanation. On either side were plat bands 
 of green turf, mowed, rolled and swept, till 
 every well disciplined blade of grass was as 
 exactly of the size and height of its brother as 
 the pile upon a piece of velvet : even the rooks, 
 which swung on the high branches of the spread- 
 ing elms above, appeared to respect the deli- 
 cacy below — or the ever active hand of the 
 gardener removed, as it fell, every twig and 
 leaf which those busy citizens might let drop ; 
 for certain it is, the perfect neatness of the place 
 was never impaired for a moment. 
 
 A wall surrounded the court, ornamented, 
 like the house, with white freestone, and boast- 
 ing, like it, urns of the same material at the 
 angles; while, on either side the gate, frowned 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 220 
 
 in stone, as erst the grim bears of Bradwardine, 
 two fierce leopards, the crest of the family who 
 now here resided. A gravel road ran entirely 
 round the court, separating the grass from the 
 wall; while exactly opposite the entrance rose 
 a flight of fair stone steps leading to the mas- 
 sive doorway and handsome ponderous oaken 
 door of the house itself — the front of which 
 stretched on either side, magnificently adorned 
 by a long succession of windows ; inserted before 
 taxation had taught us economy of light, among 
 a thousand other good and bad economies. 
 
 The back of the house was, however, what 
 pleased me the most — There lay the garden, of 
 a kind I have always delighted in — it reminded 
 me of a description which I found in an old book 
 I often read, called the Spectator — Such a wil- 
 derness of walks, and hedges, and fruit trees, 
 and flower borders, — arbours, summer houses, 
 strawberry beds, rose bushes, vines and apricot 
 trees, treillages, fountains, and canals — And 
 those pretty basins of water, transparent as 
 
230 THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 
 
 crystal, with the trees dropping over them their 
 flowery branches, as if, like the beautiful Nar- 
 cissus, enamoured of their own image. Here 
 were often to be seen, disporting themselves, 
 little fairy water fowl with tiny webbed scar- 
 let feet and downy breasts ; and, that beau- 
 tiful, but long forgotten, favourite, the mellow 
 carp, its scales more shining than the burnished 
 gold, would come to the bank, and open his 
 yellow, leathery mouth, to receive the food 
 dropped into the water, by a pair of the fairest 
 hands that ever were ungloved to feed a pet. 
 
 In addition to the other charms of the place, 
 this delightful wilderness was absolutely peo- 
 pled with birds of every hue and song. There, 
 when the cherry was one sheet of white blos- 
 soms, might that delight of my eyes, little 
 Bully, with his crimson breast and velvet cap, 
 be seen, busily hunting for his prey ; while the 
 smaller yellow-wren glanced round the blush- 
 ing boughs of the perfumed apple-tree, in rapid 
 and incessant motion. Robin would be hopping 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 231 
 
 pertly in the walk ; the blue titmouse, chattering 
 among the lilacs — while the thrushes, black- 
 birds, and that complicated musician, the 
 nightingale, filled the green leaves with their 
 varied ramage, — as I think I have heard 
 my young lady call it, in a language which $he 
 loved too well. 
 
 I am a garrulous old man — and, before I 
 go on with my story, let me please myself with 
 the recollection of those bright clear mornings, 
 when I would be stirring, and all the household, 
 save the gardeners, in their berths — When the 
 lilacs in full blossom were bending under their 
 rich clusters of flowers, which the clusters of 
 the purple vine alone can rival in beauty — the 
 shrubberies gleaming, like sheeted gold with 
 laburnums — the gueldre-roses throwing up their 
 snowy foam into the air, as that sweet poet 
 Cowper has it — every plant, herb, and flower, 
 glistening with dew — the thrushes echoing to 
 one another from the topmost branches — hail- 
 ing, as it were, the glorious sun — as in his great 
 
232 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 .majesty he rolled up the shining sky. I often 
 thought of an engraving that hung in the small 
 parlour, from a picture by one Guido, I believe, 
 where the God of day, glowing with youth, 
 health, and vigour, is represented guiding for- 
 wards his rushing steeds — while the rosy light- 
 vested hours come dancing round his car, and 
 the fair Goddess Aurora scatters the sweetest 
 of flowers before them — those were days, days 
 of peace, of goodness, of happiness — Why am I 
 left alone to tread these silent walks ? to remem- 
 ber what was — to recal the fleeting shadows 
 of the passed — and from my recollection and 
 the recollection of others, try to compose a tale ? 
 
 This, to me, delightful old place, belonged, 
 when I knew it so well, to Rear-Admiral 
 Thornhaugh ; he lived at it with his only daugh- 
 ter, (for he had long been a widower,) — his only 
 daughter — the charming — the most lovely Inez 1 
 
 I often used to say to myself that I did not 
 know whether the old Admiral or his fair 
 daughter was most in character with, or most 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 233 
 
 adorned, the place. He, with his lofty and 
 manly figure, stern, weather-beaten, and battle- 
 riven countenance, set off by his venerable hair, 
 white as the driven snow : or she, with that 
 light elastic form, that face of delicate-speaking 
 features, those large piercing black eyes, that 
 hair, than which no raven's wing was ever more 
 dark or glossy ; those smiles — 
 
 " Which' went, and came, and disappear'd 
 Like glancing sun-beams on the dimpled water, 
 Shaded by trees ;" — 
 
 those bewitching gestures — that sweet musical 
 voice — that little saucy laugh — those wilful 
 naughty ways. 
 
 Miss Thornhaugh was not like an English 
 young lady — Indeed her mother was of 
 Spain — a most beautiful Spanish lady, whom 
 the Admiral married at Valencia, or at Seville, 
 and she came with him to England, where she 
 shortly afterwards died. Her daughter, every 
 one said, was very like her — Certainly she 
 wanted that rare pink and white which adorn 
 our beauties — there was a tint of olive some 
 
234 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 might not like ; but then her skin was smooth 
 and pohshed as the finest marble, and her 
 figure had a waviness and delicacy which I 
 cannot describe — a sort of graceful pliancy 
 about it that I never saw in any other. Her 
 feet and hands were so extremely beautiful, 
 they scarcely appeared natural — They seemed 
 to have been modelled by art. I once saw her, 
 like that beautiful Dorothea we read of in Don 
 Quixote, with those lovely feet bare, shining 
 through the transparent water of one of the 
 little canals. I believe it was after one of her 
 favourite carp which looked sick that she had 
 gone in, with her usual prompt way of doing 
 what she pleased ; be that as it may, I certainly 
 never beheld the work of any artist so exquisitely 
 formed as those feet of marble then appeared. 
 She used to dress, too, in a way of her own- 
 She rarely wore colours, but was always in black 
 •or white ; and her dresses were not trinmied, 
 and sticking so oddly out and about as those 
 of the best dressed young ladies we visited ; 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 235 
 
 one did not know how they were made. They 
 used to flow Hke a drapery round her hmbs, 
 confined by a band round her waist, where 
 usually would be a clasp of very rich jewels 
 and gold. On her arms she sometimes wore a 
 rich bracelet or so, and a splendid gold chain 
 now and then round her neck; but never 
 any thing in her hair, which was braided 
 about her head in a manner quite her own, 
 which I used to think very charming ; and she 
 had a way of wrapping a great mantle of 
 delicate lace, at times, about her that was 
 very striking. I was told she had it from her 
 mother, as well as the pattern of her black 
 satin shoe, which certainly was most prettily 
 fancied. 
 
 Miss Thornhaugh was all gaiety and good 
 humour — but as wild and as wanton as a bird. 
 She never much heeded what other people 
 thought or did, but went her own way, perhaps 
 one should say, wilfully — but it was such a 
 pretty wilfulness, that I, for one, could not 
 
236 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 quarrel with it. I never knew any living crea- 
 ture wounded by her ; she was, in spite of all 
 her sprightly carelessness, the kindest of human 
 beings to those who wanted kindness. An 
 angry or harsh tone never passed from those 
 beautiful lips, the many years that I knew her. 
 Some found fault with her for being a sad 
 coquette ; but I think it was mere envy ; she 
 certainly did smile, and laugh, and talk with 
 the young gentlemen ; but all she said and did 
 was so innocently gay, I never thought there 
 was too much of it — and I am sure they did not. 
 Then she had such a warm heart — How she 
 loved the old Admiral, her father ! and, as for 
 him, he adored her — he loved her as the apple 
 of his eye — She was the light of his footsteps — 
 the fountain of joy to his soul — She was to the 
 stern old seaman, after all the dark and rugged 
 passages of his life, like some strain of wild and 
 sweet music filling the intervals of the storm. 
 His features, on which the severity of the quar- 
 ter-deck had traced those linesj firm to rigidity, 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. S37 
 
 almost harsh in their stern dignity, would 
 relax and soften, at her approach, to a sweet- 
 ness quite remarkable; and his voice, which, 
 when a little raised, we could none of us hear 
 without an undefinable sensation, would melt 
 to her into the modulations of a lover. As 
 for denying her any thing in the world that she 
 wished for, or thinking any thing she chose to 
 say or do could be amiss, that never entered 
 into his head. She played with all his fancies, 
 which were some of them whimsical and obsti- 
 nate enough — She smiled him out of his anger, 
 for when there was reason he could be very 
 angry. She coaxed him to follow her ways, 
 when others found it impossible to bias him. 
 She prattled — she caressed— she made him do 
 all she wished and liked, just as I have some- 
 times seen a pretty little delicate girl teaze, 
 and caress, and fondle, and tyrannize over, an 
 immense, dignified, and rather surly, dog, that 
 no one else much cared to speak to. The com- 
 parison is irreverent, but it seems so just. 
 
288 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 Thus they lived together at the large house 
 at Middleton, visiting and giving dinners to 
 the gentlemen and ladies of the neighbour- 
 hood — Miss Thornhaugh dancing at all the 
 balls, and shooting at all the archery meet- 
 ings — till I believe she might be about nineteen, 
 and then the change came which I was always 
 expecting, and Miss Thornhaugh was engaged 
 to be married. 
 
 There was a young naval officer who was a 
 prodigious favourite with the Admiral, and he 
 had indeed told me once or twice, that Harry 
 Vivian, and none but he — should have his 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 239 
 
 darling daughter. Harry was a man after his 
 own heart — an honest, open-hearted, sensible 
 fellow — brave as a lion, and the best officer in 
 his Majesty's service : and Harry, and none but 
 he, should be his son-in-law. These thinsfs, I 
 thought, seldom turn out as planned, and 
 I felt as if the above-mentioned recommenda- 
 tions might not be those most exactly fitted to 
 engage the heart of so elegant a young lady. 
 Luckily, the good Admiral had the prudence 
 to keep his schemes to himself, so that the 
 perverseness of the beauty was not awakened 
 to oppose his design ; and when Captain Harry 
 Vivian actually made his appearance, he really 
 was so charming a young man, that I began 
 to hope that my old master would not be 
 disappointed. 
 
 Captain Vivian was all the Admiral said — 
 an excellent and able officer — open-hearted, 
 sensible and spirited, and possessing that frank 
 off-hand manner which I think so becoming 
 in our naval men. But the days are gone by 
 
240 THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 
 
 when such quahties were alloyed by a certain 
 unpolished roughness, that women of refined 
 taste could not have liked. Captain Vivian 
 was a perfect gentleman. No fine coxcomb of 
 the Guards, or of the Blues, could be nicer in 
 his dress, or more scrupulously refined in his 
 manners. Yet was the seaman's native gal- 
 lantry not lost, under these modern refinements. 
 Nor could the somewhat elaborate elegance of 
 the exterior, conceal the honest simplicity of 
 the most afiPectionate and direct character I 
 ever met with. Disguise, pretension, art, or 
 calculation, were alike strangers to Harrv 
 Vivian. A clear and plain understanding, a 
 warm and upright heart, spoke in the expres- 
 sion of those fair blue eyes, might be listened 
 to in the tones of the most agreeable voice in 
 the world, might be read, as it were, in the 
 very waves of that light brown hair, whicli 
 blew so pleasantly, round his open sunny coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 He came down to Middleton to visit the 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 241 
 
 dearest and oldest friend, of his late father, 
 Admiral Vivian. Need it be told that he fell 
 deeply, passionately, in love with Miss Thorn- 
 haugh ? I do not like the word passionately, 
 which I have used to express the character of 
 this attachment — Passion seems to me always 
 to have something selfish in it ; the attachment 
 of this young seaman too fervid, too devoted, 
 too vehement, to be expressed by the term 
 aiFection — yet possessed much of the generous 
 purity of that hallowed sentiment. 
 
 It shewed itself little by those jealousies, 
 whims, and mutual tormentings, which I have 
 been taught to believe distinguish the passion 
 of love in its most excellent degree — It was 
 a tenderness like that our immortal bard has 
 painted in his tragedy of Hamlet — a tenderness 
 that forbade even the very winds of heaven to 
 visit its idol too rudely — and enshrined its 
 object amid sacred and precious deposits — as a 
 thing too exquisite and celestial for the touch 
 and uses of baser life. 
 
 VOL. I. ^ M 
 
24^2 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 Had such sacrifices been necessary, Vivian 
 would have toiled his life out to have furnished 
 her with luxuries — would have exposed him- 
 self bare-headed to all the intemperance of 
 nature to have pillowed her head on down — 
 would have met danger, pain, death, unshrink- 
 ing, to have shielded her from the slightest 
 sorrow. His, was the devoted attachment of a 
 most sincere and feeling heart, enhanced by 
 that peculiar sentiment of mingled admiration 
 and reverence, with which the seaman regards 
 an elegant, refined, and beautiful woman. 
 
 Miss Thornhaugh was not insensible to all 
 this. She seemed soon to like him very much. 
 They were for ever together in that sweet gar- 
 den. He, as might be supposed, never weary 
 of tracing her steps amid her flowers and 
 birds ; and she nothing loath, smiling, and 
 laughing, and rallying, and coaxing — as she 
 was wont to do with her father, — but more 
 wilfully, more naughtily, more sweetly, as it 
 were. She would have wiled the heart out of 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER, 243 
 
 the coldest philosopher breathing — His, was at 
 her feet. 
 
 I well remember, one fine summer afternoon 
 — the sky blue and clear over head, and the 
 sun shining with a splendour rather brilliant 
 than oppressive — coming down the long gravel 
 walk in the flower garden, bordered with a yew 
 hedge on this side, on the other with the roses 
 all in full blow — a beautiful sight it was — I met 
 the party ; the Admiral walking rather loftily 
 and stately, as was his wont : (for he was a tall, 
 large man,) and his daughter, her veil floating 
 round her, gliding with those dainty mincing 
 feet by his side, prattling, and smiling, and 
 coquetting so prettily ; and that elegant young- 
 man, not much above her own height, his hat 
 off, his fair brown hair blowing lightly round 
 his face, those beautiful blue eyes fixed on hers ! 
 I thought what a charming couple they 
 would make, — and that day I believe it was 
 all settled. The Admiral was called away by 
 the gardener, and then Harry took that lily 
 
 M^ 
 
244 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 hand within his, and led her within the 
 treillage, now thickly shaded by the luxuriant 
 vines, whose flowers perfumed the air: and 
 there he told his tale of love. There, while 
 her beautiful cheeks were dyed with crimson, 
 with a faltering voice and trembling gesture, 
 did he confess his passion — a passion which 
 alone justified his supplications to so much 
 beauty, and to worth so far above his own. 
 He, the child of the ocean — untutored in the 
 arts and ways of men — unschooled — unpolished 
 — he had but his adoration and the poor offer 
 of his life and soul to make — (he might have 
 added, and of a very handsome fortune also). 
 She was too much cdnfused to answer him: but 
 her countenance was enough, and he soon 
 ended by thanking her in raptures, for what 
 had never been pronounced in words. 
 
 I do not imagine that Miss Thornhaugh 
 was precisely what ought to be called in love 
 with Captain Vivian ; but though she was very 
 fanciful, she was not foolishly romantic ; and 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 245 
 
 gratified by the devotion of such a heart, she 
 consented with satisfaction to an engagement 
 which was to introduce her to the realities of 
 life under auspices so flattering. Certainly, 
 she had known little of such realities at present 
 - — yet few possessed a riper understanding for 
 their years than she — There was nothing about 
 her of that silly nonsense apt to attach to girls 
 brought up as she had been — Her mind, on the 
 contrary, though imaginative, was remarkable 
 for its vigour and energy — Her father had in- 
 fused a most happy touch of his own character 
 into her disposition. 
 
 When Miss Thornhaugh was engaged to 
 be married, there were no nervous headaches, 
 no depressions, no anxieties, no would and 
 would not proceedings. She had no vain anti- 
 cipations of life, either as a paradise of pas- 
 sion, or a wilderness of disappointment. She 
 did not suppose that even the sedulous affection 
 of Captain Vivian, could preserve her from her 
 due share of its sorrows, and its cares — but, so 
 
246 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 protected, she was ready to engage with them 
 courageously. She expected much fehcity in 
 his attachment, much happiness in his society, 
 but ecstacies were out of her head. 
 
 As for him, he was less reasonable. His love 
 was of that kind which, when not justified by 
 the charms of his object, we regard as insanity, 
 and than which insanity itself, cannot be more 
 foreign to the usual habits of the mind. But 
 I will not attempt to describe his raptures at 
 the idea of possessing this charming being. He 
 loved as another loved before him, " not 
 wisely but too well." His passion interfered 
 with his modes of action — affected his very 
 tone and manners — gave at times an awkward- 
 ness, a niaiserie, as the French have it, to his 
 expression and gestures. These infallible signs 
 of a genuine attachment provoked Miss Thorn- 
 haugh, sometimes, to exercise her powers of 
 tormenting, in a way I was sorry to see. 
 She, vvho was good nature and kindness itself 
 to every living being, was a little too hard 
 
THE admiral's daxtghter. 247 
 
 sometimes upon this devoted lover— but this 
 never occurred before her father. The Admiral 
 was so fond of Captain Vivian that even the 
 love he bore his daughter seemed weak in com- 
 parison ; and I am quite sure that had he de- 
 tected her in the commission of any of her little 
 acts of tyranny, she would, darling as she was, 
 have paid dear for it. 
 
 Well ! The engagement soon became matter 
 of public discourse — settlements were being 
 prepared. Captain Vivian made frequent visits 
 at Middieton. That is to say, he made very 
 brief absences. After one of these, he came, 
 but not alone — He came, by the Admiral's 
 desire, accompanied by his particular friend, 
 Mr. Laurence Hervey. 
 
 Laurence and Captain Vivian had been 
 attached from boyhood. Their parents, now ail 
 dead, had been connected by ties of the closest 
 friendship, and the sentiment seemed to have 
 descended, if possible, with added intensity 
 upon their sons. The children had, as long as 
 
248 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 circumstances would admit, been educated to- 
 gether; and when the decided taste Harry 
 shewed for the sea, with the equal repugnance 
 manifested to it by Laurence, had at length 
 separated them — as in the parting of brothers 
 — distance seemed to do nothing in diminution 
 of aftection, and they felt united by a tie too 
 peculiar to themselves to be weakened by com- 
 petition with newer attachments. Accustomed 
 to share every thought and feeling with Lau- 
 rence, Harry was all impatience to introduce 
 him to his charming betrothed : and the Ad- 
 miral, discerning his wishes, had beoged the 
 pleasure of a visit from IMr. Hervey. 
 
 Nothing could be more unlike in appear- 
 ance than the two friends. I should imagine 
 the contrast might have been carried through 
 every feature of their dispositions, habits, 
 views, and feelings. Captain Vivian, formed 
 for activity, with light and animated gestures, 
 and speaking, glowing, rather ruddy counte- 
 nance: — Laurence, tall, pale, with an air of 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 249 
 
 languor, amounting almost to extenuation — 
 features of delicate outline, but strongly defined 
 character — a brow of reflection, almost of me- 
 lancholy — dark hair shading it, though not 
 heavily — eyes remarkably still, yet sufficiently 
 expressive when he was speaking — a very sweet 
 voice — and a calm smile that was both soft and 
 feeling. I remarked too, the extreme beauty of 
 his hand — the delicacy and whiteness of which, 
 though the fingers were rather too long, added 
 in a singular manner to the gracefulness of his 
 appearance: for though less fashionable and 
 complete, if one may say so, in his dress and 
 manners, than Captain Vivian, he was perhaps 
 as elegant in his way. — There certainly was 
 something in the unaffected repose, amounting 
 almost to indifference, which characterised his 
 face and deportment — still more refined, than 
 the carriage of a finished man of the world, 
 which, after all, he might be said to want. 
 
 I have said their mental were as strongly 
 contrasted as their physical qualities. One was 
 
 M 5 
 
250 THE admiral's DAI GHTER. 
 
 all life and action — the other all reflection and 
 enquiry. While one pursued a brilliant pro- 
 fession with ardour, the other had chosen no 
 profession at all; preferring the gratification of 
 his taste for study and speculation to all the 
 temptations of avarice or ambition. The one, 
 quick and prompt, with a native vigour and 
 good sense which taught him, as it were by 
 instinct, how to proceed, reflected little, read 
 less, and did much ; — the other, endowed with 
 an acute and discerning mind, examined much, 
 read immensely, and did nothing. Yet in 
 some things they closely resembled each other. 
 They were alike free from all that was narrow, 
 selfish, or interested, in their notions ; and 
 alike exempt from those irregular habits too 
 common with men of the world. 
 
 They came in late — the candles were already 
 lighted in the drawing-room — the fire blazing 
 bright, and crackhng. — The Admiral always 
 would have a good fire in an evening in Sep- 
 tember. 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 251 
 
 I thought Miss Thornhaugh looked beauti- 
 fully shy; and yet there was the suspicion of a 
 smile in the corners of her mouth, as Captain 
 Vivian, with a little too much fuss, and a little 
 too much hurry, (for, as I have remarked, honest 
 true love does not make us graceful,) presented 
 to her his long-limbed friend, who looked very 
 quiet, but excessively shy too. The Admiral, 
 who happily saw nothing at all of these little 
 awkwardnesses, welcomed Mr. Hervey with his 
 usual cordiality ; while I, who was always stu- 
 pid, stirred the fire, and made the room so 
 hot that Miss Thornhaugh could scarcely en- 
 dure it. 
 
 " And now, my dear creature," said she, in 
 her usual lively way, " as you have made my 
 cheeks an admirable colour, may I trouble you 
 to give me a screen, and let me obscure that 
 noble blaze a little. Mr. Hervey, if I do not 
 mistake, you will be glad to find another within 
 your reach, and not sorry for tea in this torrid 
 aone. Captain Vivian, will you oblige me so 
 
252 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 far as to ring that bell ? How far have you 
 come to-day?" 
 
 " From town — and with four horses," said 
 Laurence quietly. 
 
 " No doubt," said the Admiral ; " Harry is 
 not a fellow to loiter in the chase — all sails set, 
 eh ? how many knots an hour ? " 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I kept no reckoning." 
 
 " Ten to twelve miles an hour," said Lau- 
 rence. " Captain Vivian had the wand of the 
 enchanter ; and the horses flew, as if their im- 
 patience equalled his own." 
 
 *' I cannot conceive why you will be in such 
 a prodigious hurry, Captain Vivian," said the 
 young lady. " How vastly wise was he who 
 said a man of sense may be in a haste, but 
 never — . ..." but her father was there, and she 
 pursed up her pretty mouth, dropped her eyes, 
 and looked as innocent as a lamb. 
 
 Tea came in, and was handed about. — Miss 
 Thornhaugh never made tea — I think that was 
 ^ pity. I like the tea board, and the hissing 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 25S 
 
 urn, and the people gathering round; but 
 every thing that looked in the least like being 
 useful, was quite out of character with her. 
 She idled away her whole time. The Admiral 
 was too good a disciplinarian to render female 
 interference necessary in his household ; and 
 Miss Thornhaugh, though she presided at his 
 table and in his drawing-room, took no part in 
 his housekeeping. To tell the truth, that was 
 partly my doing — I had been the Admiral's 
 secretary, and when his friendship made me a 
 sharer of his fire-side, my old habits made me 
 love to be useful, and I became, in fact, the 
 maitre d'hotel. 
 
 While she was sipping her tea, how light 
 and gay was her attitude, how playful her 
 smiles, as she turned from her father to her 
 lover, from her lover to his friend ! for she 
 had soon recovered her self-possession, and 
 was all airy trifling. 
 
 Captain Vivian looked as if he could not 
 take his eyes from her face ; and this seemed 
 
254f THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 to make her at times impatient ; and if their 
 eyes met, she would turn hers almost haugh- 
 tily away. — His adoration was too undisguised, 
 it is true, and it perhaps offended her taste 
 and delicacy before a stranger. 
 
 As for that stranger, he watched her also 
 with looks of great, I might say deep, interest : 
 but what surprised me extremely, I did not 
 think he appeared to admire her very much. 
 He was the first man I had ever seen who had 
 the air of considering her with a critical eye — 
 Every one, in general, was so fascinated by 
 her charms, that even to investigate their 
 source seemed impossible, far less to discern 
 the slightest defect in them. When she spoke 
 saucily, as she did once or twice to Captain 
 Vivian, Laurence looked displeased ; and when 
 she addressed himself, with an insinuating po- 
 liteness which I should have thought no mor- 
 tal could have resisted, answered drily. 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 255 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 The next morning, Mr. Hervey was walking 
 much in the garden by himself — musingly— as 
 I thought; and when Captain Vivian re- 
 proached him for his stoicism, that he could 
 for a moment absent himself from the society 
 of so charming a creature, he smiled in his 
 quiet way, and said : — 
 
 '^ Nay, Harry, don't desire me to be intoxi- 
 cated, too. — The spectacle of one man thus 
 deprived of reason is surely enough at a time 5 
 
256 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 — You have emptied the cup yourself, and left 
 no poison for your friend — But, indeed," as 
 Harry's brow darkened, " she is a most beau- 
 tiful and charming creature, and furnishes the 
 very best excuse a man could find for what — I 
 beg your pardon — but really I cannot help it — 
 does seem to me a strange infatuation. You 
 lovers appear to us sober men as the dancers 
 do when I close my ears in a ball-room — one is 
 at a loss to conceive what causes all this ex- 
 citement and hurry. — But don't be angry, 
 Harry," for Captain Vivian looked heated — 
 " No, if I spoke truly, I should rather pity 
 you, and could wish you did not love so well." 
 " Perhaps," said Captain Vivian, with a sigh, 
 " perhaps I do love too well — at least it is 
 utterly out of the question that such a fellow 
 as I should meet with an equal return — but 
 then she is an angel — and to adore her with- 
 out reason or measure appears to me all that is 
 most reasonable in the world. Confess, Lau- 
 rence, confess she is an angel. '^ 
 
THE admiral's daughxer. 257 
 
 " An enchantress, without doubt," said Lau- 
 rence. 
 
 " But can you see a defect in that lovely 
 face — that faultless form ? Don't laugh at me, 
 Laurence. We are not accustomed to pass our 
 days among such beings. — We cannot imitate 
 you landsmen — you philosophers, in a heart- 
 less indifference, which I envy you as little as 
 you do me, my devoted — my happy passion." 
 
 Laurence smiled again : but his friend did 
 not see it. They were joined by the Admiral 
 and his daughter. Captain Vivian was at her 
 side — his arm was offered, with a look too 
 submissive. — It provoked her, and she would 
 not take the arm. 
 
 " No, no — not yet — let me enjoy my charm- 
 ing liberty while I may. — For the love of 
 heaven, don't let us anticipate ! Mr. Hervey, 
 I do hope you like my garden — I do hope 
 you admire the taste with which I have ar- 
 ranged all these parterres, and the know- 
 ledge of botany I have displayed. You are 
 
9.5S THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 a botanist, I conclude — Captain Vivian assures 
 me that you know of every thing upon the 
 earth, — and above the earth, — and under the 
 earth too, if he is to be credited. You know 
 we sea-men are a wee bit superstitious, and 
 whistle for a wind, and see flying Dutchmen — 
 and are apt to fancy science is art- magic — Eh, 
 Captain Vivian ? " 
 
 Captain Vivian looked annoyed. — He was 
 not exempt from trifling weaknesses of this 
 sort ; and she had taught him to be ashamed 
 of them. 
 
 " If you arranged this flower-garden, IMiss 
 Thornhaugh," said Laurence, to turn the con- 
 versation, *' I may safely compliment you on 
 your scientiiic knowledge, whatever my own 
 may be. — It is remarkably well done." 
 
 '^ Pooh!" said the Admiral, " she arrange 
 it ! she knows nothinor about it. I should be 
 sorry to see her poring over musty books, tor- 
 menting my ears with long names — or soiling 
 her dainty hands with pottering in a garden 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 259 
 
 — She knows a rose from a cabbage — That is 
 enough for a sailor's daughter." 
 
 " Alas, Mr. Hervey — all too true — There is 
 no knowledge in me— I have at least abstained 
 from that tree, if such there be in the garden. 
 *' I believe," laughing, " because it never was 
 pointed out to me. I never was bid not — so I 
 scarcely know one tree from another, except 
 by its beauty. I do think roses, and lilacs, 
 and honeysuckles, most delightful creatures ; 
 but I abhor their clever names." 
 
 " Then you have disposed them in those 
 charming arbours?" persisted Laurence. 
 
 " Too idle for that — no, I have left all to the 
 gardener — that old Adam — do you see him 
 there, Mr. Hervey ? — He loves this garden as 
 if it were his child — his own creation. — 
 Though it is not that — for you may be sure 
 those yew hedges with peacocks at the corners 
 are of the taste of our revered ancestors. — 
 No, I never give an order — ^it would break his 
 heart if I did." 
 
260 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 " Then what do you do?" 
 
 " Oh, I flutter about as idle and useless as a 
 butterfly — some think as ornamental," looking 
 at her father — *^ some as volage and as trifling;" 
 and she glanced at Laurence — then at Vivian. 
 He was still looking out of countenance. "Ah, 
 Captain Vivian, why do you not come to my 
 support, as usual? Why will you not give 
 your voice with me for the bella cosa far 
 nietite? Confess we both of us delight in it — 
 Confess we are content to worship the exqui- 
 siteness of nature, without analyzing — and dis- 
 secting — and examining — and losing all the 
 charm, in accounting for it — Vike philosophers T 
 
 " So you literally do nothing," continued 
 Laurence, amused, 
 
 " So I literally do nothing — and I never 
 mean to do more. I think business the most 
 ugly body in the world — ever since I read in 
 " Evenings at Home," how she was dressed in a 
 grey stuff, and her sash stuck with knitting 
 needles — scissors — bodkins — and crisping irons . 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. ^61 
 
 Acknowledge, Mr. Hervey, that is not very at- 
 tractive — except to the very wise.'' 
 
 Her arm was in Captain Vivian's by this 
 time. He had taken it on her addressing him 
 and held her hand in his — She looked pleased 
 and happy, as he did. *' We have a weak- 
 ness for the lady with the wreath of roses, have 
 we not, Captain Vivian ?" The we gained a 
 squeeze for the hand that he was holding. 
 
 " I believe if you had on the stuff gown — 
 knitting needles — crisping irons — and all — I 
 should think even that enchanting — But I 
 prefer the roses." 
 
 " I am sure / do," said Laurence, " and I 
 hope they last for ever, that is all." 
 
 " They would not be so sweet if they did," 
 said she. 
 
 Laurence looked pleased with her now. As 
 he afterwards said, there was no resisting her 
 on Captain Vivian's arm — she had such a gay 
 sweetness in her eyes — looked so happy — and 
 made him so exquisitely so ! Yet he confessed 
 
THE ADMIRAL S DAUGHTER. 
 
 he could not entirely like the situation of his 
 friend. " He should love her less — if he would 
 ensure his felicity — She ought to be controlled 
 — She has been too long idolised — Her lover 
 should exercise a certain authority over her — 
 she would love him the better if he did — Harry 
 niioht make her everything one could wish — 
 if he were not so foolishly in love — How can a 
 man of his sense surrender himself so blindly 
 to a wayward wilful girl? — Marriage is a grave 
 business — a man should not enter upon it as if 
 he were beginning a romance — She must be the 
 mistress of his family, the mother of his chil- 
 dren — why does he indulge every whim, and 
 flatter every caprice ? — But it is of no use 
 reasoning with one in a dream — indeed it only 
 vexes him — yet I do wish he would make her 
 a little more afraid of him — respect him a little 
 more." 
 
 Laurence felt acutely whenever he saw 
 Captain Vivian out of countenance at her 
 raillery — He confessed that she was spright- 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 26S 
 
 ly, but that her wit had scarcely sufficient poig- 
 nancy to put a man of spirit out of countenance. 
 His pride seerr.ed offended for his friend — ■ 
 though, had he been in Harry's place, he would 
 himself little have heeded Miss Thornhaugh's 
 playful impertinence — hut he coudd not endure 
 to see Captain Vivian's mortified, crest-fallen 
 look before her — It sometimes made him so 
 irritable, that he became really unjust, and 
 took that amiss in her which, on any other 
 occasion, he would have thought the most in- 
 nocent mischief in the world. 
 
 " I confess honestly," said he to her, with 
 some asperity, one day — after a little scene had 
 passed of the nature I have alluded to; " I 
 would cut and run if I were Harry — I never 
 will believe that a woman esteems the man she 
 dares to trifle with in this manner ; and if you 
 do not esteem him and that immeasurably — 
 allow me to say, you want a discernment into 
 character — common to all the rest of the 
 world." 
 
264 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 " I flatter myself I can discriminate as 
 justly as some infinitely wiser, and all that, 
 than myself — and know how to appreciate 
 these characters of immeasurahle perfection ; 
 but if Captain Vivian expects to have me in a 
 perpetual attitude of ador.ition, at his inef- 
 fable qualities — I tell his friend — and I am ready 
 to tell himself — that he is mistaken." 
 
 " He is very much mistaken in putting 
 himself into that attitude with respect to 
 yours." 
 
 " No doubt — Others are more measured in 
 their sentiments — But I know you don't like 
 me, Mr. Hervey — and I can't think why." 
 
 *' To be sure," said Laurence, and he could 
 not help smiling, " it is difficult to find a ivhy^ 
 for not adoring a being so faultless.'' 
 
 " I don't fancy myself without faults, what- 
 ever you may think — but I do detest being 
 told of them. My father never tells me of 
 them — Captain Vivian I believe really likes me 
 all the better for them — so it would be quite a 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 265 
 
 pity to correct them merely for a whim of 
 yours." 
 
 " A great pity certainly — faults are de- 
 lightful things — unfortunately they are a 
 sort of thing of which the charm has a 
 trick of escaping — Men sometimes get weary 
 of being tormented — and their feelings re- 
 fuse, after a certain period, to accept careless- 
 ness for kindness, and indifference for affec- 
 tion." 
 
 " Indifference !" 
 
 " Yes, Miss Thornhaugh, indifference — If 
 I were a woman — if I were you, I think I 
 should adore Harry — I love him well now 
 — but to be his chosen, his beloved — to 
 have excited all the passion of that honest 
 heart, to have melted such a high spirited 
 temper to very girlish softness — not because 
 he is weak, but because — his feelings are so 
 strong — Would I, if I were a woman, trifle 
 with such a heart ? — No, I should love deeply, 
 seriously, earnestly — as he ought — as he de- 
 
 VOL I. N 
 
266 THE admiral's daughter, 
 
 serves to be loved. Knowing how infinitely my 
 nature and qualities were inferior to his — I 
 would not childishly endeavour to lower him 
 to my standard — No — I would try to merit the 
 partiality I had inspired — To do credit to the 
 choice he had made." 
 
 " Vastly fine — -You know very much about 
 the matter. I shall be content with studying 
 to please him — Whatever my ignorance in other 
 matters may be, do confess I understand that. 
 I don't think he hates me yet — do you? — Do you 
 think he ever 'will ! And do you really believe 
 if I were to go moping about — striving to be 
 excellent — and deserving, and worthy of such 
 a paragon — which heaven knows I never 
 shall be — that he would like it ? Pooh ! you 
 are a child in these matters — all wise, and 
 grave, and most melancholily disapproving 
 as you now look. We shall do very well 
 if you will let us alone — I am breaking 
 him in — he will go beautifully in harness by 
 and bye — you yourself shall confess it — I am 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 267 
 
 more fit to drive than he — you know I am, 
 and " 
 
 ** And he is a great fool," said Laurence 
 bitterly. 
 
 " And what are you, Mr. Hervey ? — Can 
 you possibly be so very absurd — " 
 
 " I see you don't care for him — you could 
 not, if you did, use him as you do." 
 
 *' Don't I ? So much the worse for him — 
 We shall see whether any one will care more 
 for you. Fine as you are, Mr. Hervey, you may 
 be glad if you are ever loved like Harry 
 Vivian." 
 
 And so sh® left him, rather hastily ; and 
 away she went to Harry, whom she found some- 
 what sulky in the drawing-room ; and lavish- 
 ed on him such a thousand pretty smiles and 
 wiles, that they were the best friends in the 
 world before Laurence, in his indolent loung- 
 ing manner, had reached the house. 
 
 When he entered he was convinced that all 
 was forgiven — that half a dozen soft words had 
 
 n2 
 
268 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 dissipated all Captain Vivian's indignation^ 
 and that Harry was more a slave than ever. 
 He sighed and he smiled — She looked up at 
 him, as he entered the room, with a sort of 
 triumphant " you see how it is" air — and then 
 glanced with a little saucy smile at Captain 
 Vivian — Laurence felt angry again — " She is 
 deceiving him," he thought. 
 
 Laurence was greatly mistaken — But, unfor- 
 tunately, he had a bad opinion of women ; he 
 thought them for the most part shallow in their 
 understandings, volatile in their feelings, and 
 capricious in their tempers. He believed every 
 woman, at heart, a coquette, taking pleasure in 
 exercising an empire over men, by playing with 
 their best affections, while she recompensed 
 them with very little return of her own. — He 
 had lived much in the great world, and had taken 
 his ideas of the sex from what he witnessed in 
 the haunts of fashion and dissipation. — In truth, 
 he was little a believer in virtue of any sort, 
 for he had seen so much cant, pretence, and hy- 
 
THE admiral's daughter. ^69 
 
 pocrisy, that he always distrusted appearances. 
 He ought with this temper to have placed some 
 confidence in the reality of Miss Thornhaugh's 
 good qualities, because she was so far at least 
 from affecting any — but he looked upon her 
 with a jaundiced eye ; he almost would not be 
 pleased — He could not tolerate the empire she 
 exercised over his friend, especially as he be- 
 lieved, and justly, that it was of a nature that 
 wedlock would not destroy ; he thought Harry 
 was bewitched to see so many virtues, as well as 
 so many charms, in his idol — he never suspect- 
 ed how he might himself be bewitched and bear 
 an eye distorted by prejudice. Miss Thorn- 
 haugh was in fact much more resembling the 
 faultless image in Harry's heart, than the idle 
 trifler of his own imagination. 
 
S70 THE admiral's DAUGHTER, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 So things went on; Miss Thornhaugh little 
 diverted from her amusement by the grave 
 looks of the philosopher — who, indeed, to tell 
 the truth, was no very great favourite with any 
 of us. We had our own ways of proceeding, 
 may-be not the wisest in the world, and we 
 looked with little kindness upon the man who 
 appeared, if not absolutely to disapprove, at 
 least not much to relish them. Captain Vivian 
 I could see, leaned to our side of the question, 
 and was in some measure less entirely one 
 with Mr. Hervey than he had been ; Laurence 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 271 
 
 perhaps perceived this, and attributing it to 
 the increasing influence of Miss Thornhaugh, 
 it was not hkely to augment his satisfaction in 
 that influence. All these different feelings at 
 play produced scenes lively and entertaining 
 enough to the observer of human character, as 
 1, from that chair on the lower side of the fire, 
 which it was my privilege to occupy just oppo- 
 site the Admiral's — used to be. 
 
 Miss Thornhaugh caught a cold — This cold 
 was so very becoming, that I half suspected it 
 was only a manoeuvre of coquetry. Her face 
 tied up with an elegant lace handkerchief, 
 contrasting delicately with her jetty hair — two 
 €yes looking most provokingly bright and saucy 
 above all the wrappings of an invalid — half a 
 dozen cachemeres, as it is now the fashion 
 to call them, about her, hanging upon her 
 shoulders, or over her arms, forming the most 
 charming draperies around her beautiful figure, 
 or thrown with happy negligence upon half 
 the chairs and couches in the room — Surely 
 
2'72 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 never sickness was more captivating. Captain 
 Vivian was happy — tending her, as only sea- 
 men, of all men on earth, know how. He was 
 so gentle a nurse, it was a pity there was not 
 more real occasion for his services — Mr. Hervey 
 seemed more out of humour than ever — espe- 
 cially when, after she had been reposing on 
 the sofa, covered up to the nose, whispering 
 and chatting with Harry, who sat close by the 
 head of the couch — a wave of the curtain might 
 give a glance of a charming moonlight, and she 
 would be up in an instant, and on the shining 
 gravel walk, — may-be with a shawl, may-be 
 without, just as it happened. 
 
 Could Captain Vivian, who followed her, 
 to assist her in gathering her bunches of roses 
 and geraniums, and who attended her through 
 all the mazes of the garden, object to such 
 imprudence? He remonstrated, as much as 
 he thought it his duty, and was but too happy 
 to have his remonstrances disregarded. The 
 Admiral never troubled his head with precau- 
 
THE ADMIRAL S DAUGHTER. 273 
 
 tions, nor with fears; he did not beheve, I 
 think, that there was such a thing as sickness 
 in the world — his lovely daughter had given 
 him no experience of it — Her maladies were 
 usually of this light nature, and she was ac- 
 customed to manage them as best pleased 
 herself. 
 
 She came in again with a colour like a rose, 
 coughing furiously. 
 
 " A delightful evening, Mr. Hervey — Only 
 conceive. Captain Vivian — there is your friend 
 with that very book which he has had in his 
 hand these three days. — There, read away;" 
 and she threw an immense heap of flowers 
 over it. 
 
 " Even this. Miss Thornhaugh," looking up 
 gravely, " shall not tempt me to seem the thing 
 that is not — nor to say that you are wise to go 
 out this evening — nor that Harry is wise to 
 allow you. How you cough ! " 
 
 " Well, I confess that I do cough, but I am 
 certain this charming air can only do me good, 
 
 N 5 
 
274 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 for this room is insufferably hot;" and she 
 threw up the window, and stood with her 
 shawl thrown negligently over her, just be- 
 fore it. 
 
 *' Well, Miss Thornhaugh, it is no affair of 
 mine^ — But I do wonder, Admiral — I do won- 
 der, Harry. — Why, Vivian! she will be in a 
 fever to-morrow." 
 
 She coughed again. 
 
 ** My dear Miss Thornhaugh ..." said Cap- 
 tain Vivian, and he made a gesture to shut the 
 windowo 
 
 ** No,'^ said she obstinately enough, but in 
 a low voice; '^ not to please him — Captain* 
 Vivian, if you are his slave, I am not — I will 
 do nothing at Ms bidding." 
 
 " Not even when he is right?" 
 
 *' Not even when he is right — but he never 
 is right — except when he is right cross." 
 
 " Then for my sake, Inez, do be persuaded; 
 it is so very cold." 
 
 " For your sake! ah, that is prettily said, 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 275 
 
 I do not mean expressed, every one says that. 
 But, Harry, you ai*e sure you don't ask me, be- 
 cause he bids you? — I hate tyrants — Shut the 
 window." 
 
 And she came back, shivering and Icokhig 
 as pale as she before had looked red. Laurence 
 now spoke out. He certainly was a strange kind 
 of person, with all his air of quiet languor — he 
 could be so authoritative, yet he never even raised 
 his voice ; and every body minded what he said, 
 though he spoke so low and carelessly, as it were. 
 
 " Miss Thornhaugh, I may be a tyrant — 1 
 wish I were absolute here, and I would send 
 you to bed — Captain Vivian, you don't under- 
 stand coughs — I do — and tell you that if this 
 goes on loDg ." 
 
 "To bed, indeed!" said she, "like a 
 scolded child ! I shall do no such thing." 
 
 " You had better." 
 
 *' Indeed, Miss Thornhaugh — you are ill- 
 do confess it for once," said Captain Vivian 
 pleadingly. 
 
^276 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 '^ Go to bed," said Laurence. 
 ** Then I wont," said she, provoked at his 
 interference. " I wonder how in the name of 
 heaven we existed before Mr. Laurence Hervey 
 came among us — Such a set of fooHsh, igno- 
 rant children ! It is a merciful thing we got on 
 at all. I wonder whether I am to be allowed, 
 most wise Signor, to get up in the morning — if 
 like a chidden child, I go to bed now?" 
 "No!" 
 
 " You will be very glad of that for one," — 
 a violent fit of coughing, and her hand at her 
 side. 
 
 "Why don t you go to bed?" reiterated 
 Laurence. 
 
 " Why, you had better, my dear," said the 
 Admiral, lifting his head from a book of charts, 
 which he was studying. " I never heard you 
 cough so before: what Mr. Laurence says is 
 really very wise — Bed is the proper place for 
 you. Don't go on coughing in that way." 
 " Oh ! to be sure— Now I must go. Harry 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 377 
 
 the longest day I live, I never will forgive you 
 for making a master of that tiresome man. 
 Any more orders ? " curtseying to him with a 
 vexed ironical air, as she took the candle Cap- 
 tain Vivian presented. 
 
 '' No more," said Laurence, rising and look- 
 ing as if he would not be provoked. " I wish 
 you a very good night, Miss Thornhaugh ; 
 and that you may not find cause, before morn- 
 ing, to be less angry with me than you are 
 now." 
 
 Cause enough she had, at least, to acknow- 
 ledge the wisdom of his advice. We did not 
 see her again in the drawing-room for three 
 weeks. Mr. Hervey had often proposed to 
 leave us during this time, but the distress of 
 Captain Vivian was so excessive, at the danger 
 into which Miss Thornhaugh had been thrown, 
 by his and her imprudence, that he was easily 
 persuaded to remain near him. 1 must say 
 he was very kind on this occasion, shewing 
 his friendship by a series of affectionate atten- 
 
278 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 tions, which quite surprised me, from a person 
 of so indifferent a temper. 
 
 Miss Thornhaugh at length appeared again, 
 looking pale and thin, but not one whit subdued 
 in spirit. She was, if possible, more wilful than 
 ever, and seemed determined to make the best 
 of the short time allowed her, to torment her 
 lover and his friend. 
 
 I say short time — and her malice was per- 
 haps increased by that circumstance. Captain 
 Vivian had, during her convalescence, been 
 pleading hard for shortening the period of his 
 probation. She had resisted and expostulated 
 and refused — but a " Pooh, pooh, nonsense," 
 from her father had settled the matter at once 
 — A month, and they were to be married. 
 
 Well — She came down, as I said, not quite in 
 humour at this, and with a spirit which seemed 
 only to have gathered strength, with what 
 might have quelled that of another. — There 
 happened to be a lady sitting in the drawing- 
 room, who had called upon her, and among 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 270 
 
 other female chat, the lady began to lament that 
 Miss Thornhaiigh could not be present at the 
 hunt-ball, which was to take place in a few days. 
 
 "Not be present! — My dear Mrs. Grandison, 
 what could possibly put so strange a notion into 
 your head? — I shall most certainly be there." 
 
 " You ?" said Captain Vivian. 
 
 Laurence was standing in a corner of the 
 room — He only lifted up his eyes with a signi- 
 ficant " Whew ! " 
 
 She was provoked at this, for she saw it — 
 She gave him a hasty, angry glance, and turned 
 her head quickly away — It was to vex him that 
 she said, 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Grandison. I shall most cer- 
 tainly go — Lord Edward Beauchamp is steward. 
 I would not miss it for the universe." 
 
 " Oh no!" said Mrs. Grandison, who was a 
 silly woman enough — laughing affectedly, " I 
 remember, my dear, that he was a great ad- 
 mirer of yours — In gratitude you ought to go. 
 You will break his heart if you don't " 
 
^80 THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 
 
 " And there will be a coxcomb the less," 
 said the Admiral gruffly. 
 
 " A coxcomb!" said Mrs. Grandison, " La! 
 Admiral, how can you say so? He's a most 
 elegant creature ; is he not, Miss Thornhaugh ? " 
 
 " I always thought so," was the answer, — 
 *' But here, we can rehsh nothing but quarter 
 deck manne 
 
 I felt sorry she said that — very sorry — So 
 was she, when the Admiral spoke — "Miss 
 Thornhaugh, that is the first speech of yours 
 I ever wished unsaid." 
 
 ** Then I wish my tongue had been bitten 
 off before I had said it, dearest papa," — was 
 the sweet tempered reply, going up to him and 
 smiling so gently — But her eyes flashed as she 
 added — "Let no one else take it as an apology." 
 
 Captain Vivian coloured and looked down — 
 His face, when his feelings were wounded, took 
 so sweet and melancholy an expressit>n, I won- 
 dered she could resist it. 
 
 " Too bad," said Laurence aloud, and left 
 the room. 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 281 
 
 Mrs. Grandison took leave, and we felt more 
 uncomfortable after she was gone. 
 
 At last, Captain Vivian raised his head, and 
 with a gravity and authority I had never seen 
 him assume before, though it became him well, 
 advanced and said, — 
 
 " Perhaps the time is not yet come when I 
 am warranted in making a request — almost 
 amounting to a command !" 
 ** A command I — No, indeed !" 
 " / have not forgotten — if you have — what 
 I suffered in consequence of my weak acquies- 
 cence in former imprudence— May I beg that it 
 may not be repeated ? " 
 
 " Sturdy begging. Sir! I always refuse such 
 petitioners !" 
 
 " You will not refuse me, Inez?" 
 " I shall, Captain Vivian.'^ 
 " I am very sorry for it," looking hurt, but 
 not abashed as usual. 
 
 " You cannot possibly suppose, that I shall 
 give up going to a ball, when a very old and 
 
THE ADMIRAL S DAUGHTER. 
 
 valued friend is steward merely — ... Lord 
 Edward would be excessively surprised that I, 
 of all people, should stay away — " 
 
 " And what in the devil's name," thundered 
 the Admiral — (she had quite forgotten that he 
 was present) '* does it signify, what ten thousand 
 perfumed puppies, like Lord Edward, think, or 
 don't think ? If Harry says you had better not 
 go — why you had better not go" — and so say- 
 ing he went out of the drawing-room. 
 
 " No," said Captain Vivian in the low tone 
 of deeply wounded feeling. " I beg leave to 
 retract my interference. If my wishes," with 
 softness, again, " if my anxious washes — if my 
 past sufferings, all plead in vain. Inez, if they 
 plead in vain, why, I have no desire to exercise 
 an influence that requires a father's command 
 to enforce it. I beg your pardon, Miss Thorn- 
 haugh. I have presumed upon my happiness 
 too far — I see it in your eyes — I had presumed 
 — fool ! — puppy ! — that ray wishes — my peace 
 — my . . . . " 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 283 
 
 His eyes were speaking volumes of tender 
 eloquence — hers were beginning to melt — she 
 was evidently relenting. I was about to leave 
 the room, when, unluckily, Mr. Hervey re- 
 entered. 
 
 The change was curious. Her figure bending 
 to catch the whispering accents of her lover, 
 who spoke low, and with his head bent down 
 —her veiled eyes seeking the ground — the 
 softened expression of her countenance — all 
 changed like a charm. She was erect in an 
 instant — her eye sparkling — her lip curling 
 and — 
 
 " Upon my word. Captain Vivian, you re- 
 quire vastly too much," was her reply. 
 
 ** I am answered," said he, and retreated a 
 few paces. 
 
 She ran on, as people sometimes do, who 
 wish to be contradicted. "So strange, to oppose 
 in this obstinate manner a trifling pleasure on 
 which I had set my heart — the last pleasure of 
 the sort I shall ever enjoy. Adieu, all such 
 
2S\f THE ADxMIRAl's DAUGHTER. 
 
 things for me, in a week or two — -A mere caprice 
 on your part — A mere exercise of tyranny, to 
 which you have been urged, I make no doubt, 
 by that most expert regulator of young ladies' 
 affairs, that delicate censor of female proprie- 
 ties, Mr. Laurence Hervey. I know his creed 
 well enough. We are to be restrained, and 
 controlled, and guided, even in the most insig- 
 nificant matters. No exercise of discretion even 
 in trifles for us. We are not gifted, at least, 
 some of us, it would seem, with good sense, or 
 good taste enough to decide for ourselves. But 
 he has mistaken his game, or your game, if he 
 thinks to rule me ! I detest tyranny. I abhor 
 jealous tyrants, and all their caprices; and to 
 show I detest them, here I vow ! " 
 
 " Oh, Miss Thornhaugh !" cried I, quite 
 forgetting how improper it was in me to inter- 
 fere. 
 
 " Even you ! " said she, turning quickly 
 round. " This is too bad. What a combination! 
 Poor Captain Vivian ! What, do you require 
 
THE ADMIRALS DAUGHTER. 285 
 
 SO much support to make your part good ? I 
 am sorry, sir, that we cannot discuss our tri- 
 fling disagreements without taking the whole 
 world into our confidence," looking at us all 
 with sovereign contempt. '* Lord Edward 
 Beauchamp, I'll engage for it, retains no ad- 
 vocates." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said Captain Vivian. " He 
 is happier in that, than I am." 
 
 " He ought to be — He can manage his 
 affairs of the heart without being backed by 
 his friends." 
 
 " If all this tirade be directed against me, 
 Miss Thornhaugh," said Laurence, at length, 
 " you may spare yourself the trouble of con- 
 tinuing it. — I beg to say, that so ridiculous an 
 idea as that of supporting Captain Vivian's 
 cause with you, never entered into my head 
 — 1 confess I have taken the liberty, once or 
 twice, to remonstrate with you, because I own 
 it did appear to me that I was the only crea- 
 ture in the whole circle of your acquaintance, 
 
286 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 sufficiently insensible to your fascinations to 
 possess the power of doing it with any effect. 
 I may have been romantic enough to conceive 
 that truth, when pointed out, might have been 
 admitted by a mind so candid as I once thought 
 yours. I believed too, as the friend of Captain 
 Vivian, what I might have to offer would have 
 been received with an indulgence it otherwise 
 had not merited. I . . . ." 
 
 " No," interrupted Harry, " not as my 
 friend — That is the last claim you should 
 prefer, to the indulgence of Inez — She is right 
 — She despises a passion too humble — too un- 
 controlled — She contemns the possession of a 
 heart that has, in its excess of devotion, per- 
 haps forgotten to respect itself. To be a sub- 
 ject for capricious tormenting has been the 
 highest excitement I have been able to afford 
 her — To be led captive to adorn the triumph 
 of another is, perhaps, the best reward she 
 destines for my infatuation — But that I have 
 still sense enough left to resist. She shall not 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 287 
 
 risk a life too precious, in order to indulge in 
 that pleasure — She may go to this hunt-ball — 
 I will not." 
 
 He turned away, for his voice faltered. — He 
 was evidently deeply wounded. 
 
 She looked up at Laurence— His eyes were 
 fixed on the ground — he seemed very sorry — 
 fortunately she could not read the marked dis- 
 approbation in them which always drove her 
 to defiance. So she turned to Captain Vivian, 
 who had walked to a window, evidently strug- 
 gling for that victory over himself, which he 
 felt that he ought to achieve. She hesitated 
 a moment — then rapidly crossed the room. 
 
 " Harry Vivian, I beg your pardon — I have 
 behaved in a very silly and unworthy manner 
 to you before these witnesses. It is right they 
 should hear me acknowledge it. I do acknow- 
 ledge, that I have trifled with your good opi- 
 nion in a manner that merits the severe punish- 
 ment of losing it for ever ; but restore it to me 
 this once — I will not forfeit it asain. I will 
 
288 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 certainly not go to this hunt-ball, as you think 
 I ought not." 
 
 " Mr. Hervey ! " The softness with which 
 she had spoken to, and looked at Captain 
 Vivian, giving way before her native spirit, as 
 she turned with a sparkling determination to 
 him: "Mr. Hervey! Be pleased to believe 
 this apology has no reference to your interfer- 
 ence, and that I can perform my duty to Cap- 
 tain Vivian without assistance of yours. '^ 
 
 " I never -doubted it," was his quiet answer; 
 " and I own, I think you have at last acted — 
 (I beg your pardon) as you ought at first to 
 have done ! " 
 
 It was my turn to feel angry then — The 
 tears were in my old foolish eyes at what I 
 thought so generous a submission — I knew 
 how much such a condescension must have 
 cost her, and while Captain Vivian took her 
 hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it, I was 
 bidding God bless them from the bottom of 
 my heart. What Mr. Hervey said, sounded 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 289 
 
 strangely cold and hard to my ears ; but she 
 did not seem to care about it. He went away 
 the next morning, and this was the last of the 
 lovers' quarrels. 
 
 Miss Thornhaugh from this time did seem 
 subdued — that is to say, there was a tender- 
 ness and softness about her, which might 
 somewhat impair those brilliant flashes of wit, 
 whims, and gaiety, than which, I used to 
 think, nothing on earth could be more en- 
 chanting; but her softness proved more be- 
 witching still. It is a comparison often made 
 — perhaps stale and common place — but so I 
 have seen the silver moon, on a clear still 
 night, tinting that sweet garden with a trem- 
 bling pallid lustre ; bestowing a staid and sober 
 radiance on the wilderness of bowers and thick- 
 ets, a tender brilliancy on those pleasant waters 
 — and then I have been led to think that hours 
 there are, yet more beautiful, yet more impres- 
 sive, than even those of the glorious, shining, 
 beaming day. 
 
 VOL. I. o f 
 
2J0 THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 They were married. 
 
 Bright shone the sun through the azure 
 sky — merrily rang the bells from our tall 
 church steeple, which rose behind a grove of 
 trees, at the opposite end of the town from 
 Middleton Court, as the Admiral's house was 
 called. Captain Vivian's elegant carriage and 
 four, the Admiral's chariot, of sober green, 
 and the carriages of one or two of the 
 neighbouring gentlemen whose daughters were 
 invited to the wedding, filled the court yard 
 with an unusual air of hurry and bustle — 
 while the little town wore an appearance of 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 291 
 
 festivity and gaiety, which reminded me of 
 things I had seen in foreign Catholic coun- 
 tries, where they have a custom of adorning 
 their houses, on occasion of their many pro- 
 cessions, with pieces of tapestry of gaudy 
 colours suspended from their windows. 
 
 As had been the custom in the town of 
 Middleton, from time immemorial, on occasion 
 of the marriage of any member of the family of 
 the Court — the streets were garlanded with 
 flowers, the windows and doors of the houses 
 bedecked with evergreens and roses, and filled 
 with faces awaiting in joyous expectation the 
 approach of the gay procession. 
 
 Down from her chamber at length came 
 the lovely bride — The transcendently lovely 
 bride — I must use a big word. She was at- 
 tired in a white dress; her raven hair, her dark 
 piercing eyes, softened by the delicate veil 
 that hung over — as one may have seen on a 
 fine moonlight night the brilliant orb softened, 
 but not concealed, by shadowy vapour. Those 
 
 0% 
 
292 THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 
 
 animated features composed by modesty and 
 by sentiment. Those lips wont to be parted 
 by such flashing smiles, if I may use so strange 
 an expression, now closed with a pensiveness 
 that was more captivating than any thing I 
 had ever before, or have ever since, seen. 
 
 She came down the ancient massive maho- 
 gany staircase, surrounded by the young la- 
 dies, her friends, who were to officiate as 
 bridesmaids ; looking like a tall virgin-lily 
 among the other flowers, tripping softly, half 
 reluctantly, forward, that small and delicate 
 foot relieved by the dark stair she was treading. 
 
 There we stood to receive her — The Admi- 
 ral and I, his faithful Achates, on one side, 
 — Captain Vivian, the picture of graceful gal- 
 lantry, as I thought, on the other — Behind 
 him his friend Mr. Hervey. 
 
 I will only say of Captain Vivian, that I 
 never saw a more charming countenance, one 
 more full of manly joy and tenderness, await 
 a bride, as he leaned eagerly forward on the 
 
THE admiral's daughter. 293 
 
 first appearance of the group at the head of 
 the stah's. The Admiral was as erect as ever — 
 perhaps more erect than ever; his countenance 
 beaming with pride and exultation — an honest 
 parent's best of pride — at the approach of his 
 lovely daughter. As for me, my old eyes were, 
 as usual, filling — I cannot look upon any thing 
 very beautiful without being touched by this 
 contemptible weakness — The eyes of Mr. Her- 
 vey never moved from Miss Thornhaugh ; and 
 I thought, at last, he did regard her with 
 something like the admiration she merited. 
 
 The Admiral handed his daughter, for the 
 last time, to his own carriage : the rest of us 
 followed as we might, and we were soon dash- 
 ing through the town. 
 
 I ought not to omit that among the ladies 
 assembled on this occasion was Miss Dorothea 
 — or, I should rather say. Miss Vivian. — She 
 was a sister of Captain Vivian — but, as I have 
 heard, above twenty years older than himself. 
 It was said she had been very handsome in her 
 
294 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 youth. — Every body declared that she was a 
 most excellent and superior woman — As for her 
 beauty, that was rather an old story — all that 
 remained of it now was a long thin face — with 
 large, hard looking eyes — a slight regularly 
 formed nose — and hps thin and compressed — 
 She carried her lofty figure perfectly erect, 
 never bending her head except for a sort of 
 stiff bow, which she intended as the extreme of 
 courtesy — Her immoveable frigidity formed, 
 certainly, a remarkable contrast with the flex- 
 ible figure and ever varying countenance of 
 Miss Thornhaugh. 
 
 Possibly she might be very good : at least, 
 she said a great deal about goodness; never 
 went to any public amusements, was always 
 employed in governing and advising the poor — 
 distributing good books — presiding at societies, 
 schools, and so on — I cannot think what made 
 me find her so disagreeable. 
 
 I don't know why she was invited to Cap- 
 tain Vivian's wedding. — She looked strangely 
 grim and out of place among all those merry 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 295 
 
 young people at the wedding breakfast, — like 
 death's head at a feast, as they say — and she 
 had a certain dignified air of disapprobation at 
 times on her countenance, when she looked at 
 my dear, sweet Miss Thornhaugh, which made 
 me hate her.— Such a contrast to her brother ! 
 What a pretty breakfast it was — that wed- 
 ding breakfast ! The Admiral would put the 
 bride and bridegroom side by side. — She resist- 
 ed, in her playful way, and said she hated such 
 old fashioned doings, and should sit by her 
 husband's friend, Mr. Hervey. Laurence did 
 not look as if he cared enough about the pri- 
 vilege to be so indulged — she had been amusing 
 herself the day before by bantering him, and he 
 did not like it — So I was glad to see her sit by one 
 who prized her, and doted on her, and idolized 
 her — even more than her fond, fond father, 
 or her more fond, and more foolish old friend. 
 She took me aside after breakfast, and, giv- 
 ing me a small box which contained a plain 
 ring with a stone of great value, begged me to 
 wear it for her sake. 
 
296 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 " I need not recommend my dearest, dear- 
 est father to you, Mr. Roper — You love him as 
 well as I can do — You have served him better 
 far — But if ever you for a moment feel coldness 
 creeping on between you and your old friend, 
 look upon this talisman — remember the daugh- 
 ter far away, who loves you dearly — but would 
 die for him." 
 
 Tears were in her radiant eyes as she spoke 
 — tears that affected me much — They rarely 
 were seen from Miss Thornhaugh — But though 
 she bore up courageously, they fell in streams, 
 as she flung her arms round the old Admiral's 
 neck ; and pressed kiss after kiss on his rugged 
 countenance, bidding him farewell, and an- 
 swering his blessings by her prayers. 
 
 But the leave-taking was over — Harry 
 Vivian placed his bride in the carriage, the 
 horses, which had been pawing and prancing, 
 and tearing up the gravel walk in a shocking 
 manner, dashed forward, and away they flew. 
 
 How dull every one feels when a wedding 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. ^9*7 
 
 is over, and the young couple gone ! all the ex- 
 citement and interest of the story at an end, the 
 book closed, and every body dismissed to com- 
 mon life once more ; to that common life, so 
 irksome to our natures, to our high imaginative 
 natures, that we are all incessantly striving, 
 though almost unknown to ourselves, to escape 
 its monotony ; some by action, some by ro- 
 mantic reverie, some by virtuous exertion for 
 others, some by vicious indulgence of them- 
 selves, striving to excite those high powers 
 which seem to lie undisclosed within the heart 
 of man. But love ! alas ! it seems to me that 
 love is the only passion which thoroughly and 
 entirely possesses this hidden power ; and I am 
 inclined to think that it is to this, and to this 
 alone, that divinity owes his hold upon minds, 
 of the best and fairest order. He comes under 
 so seducing an aspect — with visions so beau- 
 tiful, though so false — with promises so sweet, 
 yet so vain but where am I stray- 
 ing? I have not the wit to morahze; and, 
 
 o5 
 
298 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 though I think a good deal, how should I put 
 down my thoughts in a form to be useful to 
 others? I who have lived upon the stormy 
 roaring waters, listening to the hoarse voice of 
 the seaman ; submitting to the stern laws of 
 naval discipline ; where should I find skill to 
 speak of the softer passions? — of that softest, 
 most treacherous of passions, whose voice, like 
 that of the fabled Syrens, mentioned in Mr. 
 Pope's Odyssey, so enchanted men — that when 
 they heard — though the cruel rocks, whitened 
 with the bones of the betrayed, stood gloomily 
 warning before their eyes, — they could not, 
 they would not, but listen — they could not, 
 they would not, but be lost. 
 
 We stood all of us some time on the steps. 
 The wind had risen a little, and those large old 
 elms were rocking to and fro, and the rooks 
 waving on their branches. The Admiral was 
 looking up, as it seemed, towards them. I, 
 rather troubled at the state in which our beau- 
 tiful gravel walk appeared, was treading up and 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 299 
 
 down, with my hands in my pockets, endea- 
 vouring to repair the damage with my feet. 
 Mr. Hervey, in a deep reverie, was walking to 
 and fro beneath the trees, the ladies sauntering 
 under the portico. Nobody had much to say, 
 until Miss Vivian courteously- approached the 
 Admiral, and begged to order her carriage. 
 A signal for the young ladies to order 
 their's. 
 
 At this little stir, Mr. Hervey came up, with^ 
 " And it is time, Admiral, I should order 
 mine." 
 
 *' Yours! why you are not going to leave 
 us yet, Mr. Hervey ? I and my old friend here 
 shall be lost by ourselves. Where are you 
 for?" 
 
 " For the continent," said Laurence. " For 
 Paris." 
 
 " Sorry for it," said the Admiral, who never 
 could, or indeed had tried to conquer, the anti- 
 gallican prejudices of the days of naval vic- 
 tories and bumpers of port. " What the devil 
 
300 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 must all you youngsters go to Paris for, now- 
 a-days? What will you learn there — except to 
 make a palaver and strike your colours?" 
 
 " Much worse than that," said Miss Vivian 
 gravely. " He will learn to read Voltaire, and 
 deny his Maker." 
 
 " It is not necessary to go to Paris to do the 
 first," said Laurence. " Nor is the second an 
 inevitable consequence of such a proceeding." 
 
 " As for Voltaire, and Rousseau," said the 
 Admiral, " and a heap of infidel French jaco- 
 bins, who pestered the world when I was your 
 age, Mr. Laurence ; I don't suppose there's 
 much in their rubbish to hurt such a head as 
 yours; but I hate Paris — I hate the French, 
 and all their ways — their coxcomb airs — their 
 kickshaws — their congees — their high flying, 
 nonsensical, republican trash" .... 
 
 " Their irreligion," again interrupted iNIiss 
 Vivian, ** their horrid infidelity — their licen- 
 tious profligacy — their contempt of all the laws 
 of morality and decency." 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 301 
 
 "Really, Miss Vivian," said Laurence, "you 
 give the second, if not the first, nation in the 
 world rather hard measure." 
 
 " I give them what they deserve," said she 
 angrily, " and I wonder at, and I always shall 
 wonder at, and regret too, Mr, Hervey, your 
 partiality for a nation so odious and so danger- 
 ous. I know what I say has never the slightest 
 influence with you ; but I shall live to see you 
 repent of your contempt for all that is sacred 
 and respectable ; and your foolish engoiiment 
 — I hate to use a French word — for this blas- 
 phemous and licentious nation." 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Vivian," said Laurence drily, 
 " I don't know where you learned so much 
 about their Hcentiousness and profligacy. It 
 cannot be that you have stolen a march upon 
 us, and made a little actual experience at Paris. 
 I am very much afraid you must have been 
 reading wicked French novels," 
 
 "French novels? no indeed! but without 
 polluting the mind with such reading, or dis- 
 
302 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 gusting one's nicer sense by visiting Paris, one 
 may, if one chooses to observe, form a judg- 
 ment of the ways of thinking pecuHar to a 
 nation, and draw an inference as to their pro- 
 bable consequences. I know what I say — I 
 abhor utterly French irreligion, French indeli- 
 cacy, French gallantry. No son of mine, nor 
 daughter of mine — had I been a mother — 
 should have been contaminated by communica- 
 tion with a nation — which I look upon as that 
 monster typified in the sacred, mysterious, yet 
 unsealed book — as making many nations drunk 
 with the cup of her iniquities 5 as the mother of 
 blasphemies, the great mystical head of abomi- 
 nations. No ! no, Mr. Laurence — No son nor 
 daughter of mine should ever go there. So I 
 used to say to your poor mother, when Mr. 
 Hervey would send you abroad to complete 
 your education — I knew what would come — I 
 know what will and must come of it — " 
 
 ** Indeed, my dear madam — I hope that the 
 greatest harm that ever has, or will, come of 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 303 
 
 it is, that I prefer a French necessaire to an 
 English shaving-box — and a vol au vent to a 
 pigeon pie." 
 
 " Well, well, I have done." 
 
 I have observed that people of a cold tem- 
 per, and no great range of ideas, frequently see 
 particular objects with a justice that more bril- 
 liant wits might envy ; but they have too often 
 such a disagreeable dictatorial way of express- 
 ing themselves, that they force one, mistaking 
 excess of right for wrong, to believe that what 
 is so positively announced must have been has- 
 tily determined upon, and what so passionately 
 advocated be doubtless exaggerated — I felt at 
 this moment that nothing upon earth could be 
 so absurdly prejudiced as Miss Vivian — nothing 
 so reasonable as Laurence — I found cause to 
 alter my opinion. 
 
 Miss Vivian's warnings, whether just or not, 
 had, however, no effect at this time. 
 
 Mr. Hervey went immediately abroad, where 
 he remained, and chiefly at Paris during several 
 years. 
 
304 THE admiral's daughter. 
 
 Captain Vivian and his lady finished the 
 happiest honey-moon that ever was passed, and 
 went to reside at a very pleasant, though not 
 very large, house, which he took in Spring 
 Gardens. He had, as I have said, a handsome 
 fortune, but as he did not in the least intend 
 to abandon his profession, he made no pur- 
 chase. 
 
 Here they lived in elegant mediocrity, neither 
 mingling in the dissipations of the regularly 
 fashionable world, nor abstaining from the so- 
 ciety of those of their own rank and fortune. 
 Mrs. Vivian, in spite of all her professions of 
 idleness and indifference, managed her family, 
 and those affairs of her husband which fell 
 properly under her cognizance, as I always 
 hoped and expected she would. Without losing 
 her sprightly gaiety, she conducted all with 
 order and prudence — and, abating not one 
 whit of her elegant carelessness, contrived to 
 be both useful and good. Two sweet little 
 girls were born to them during this period. 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 305 
 
 They were neither abandoned to interested 
 nursery maids, nor did the charming mother 
 forget that she was a wife, to become a nursery 
 maid herself. A system of judicious superin- 
 tendence effected all that was desirable. The 
 children were healthy, active, and intelligent. 
 Graceful, lovely, beautiful, how could they fail 
 to be with such parents ? 
 
 Can any one forget that sweet sketch, drawn 
 by SirThomas Lawrence, of Mr. Calmady's chil- 
 dren ? I remember, the first time I saw the en- 
 graving in the shops, I thought it was intended 
 for Captain Vivian's Uttle girls. The eldest. Miss 
 Florence (she was called after the Captain's mo- 
 ther), had just that dark brown hair, curling in 
 natural ringlets, those shining eyes, that sweet 
 pensive smile which adorn the elder child in 
 that charming drawing. The other little darling, 
 Miss Georgy, had those flaxen curls, like her 
 father when a boy, those large eyes, that open 
 sensible forehead, and well defined small steady 
 mouth, which one observes in the other portrait. 
 
306 THE admiral's daughter. ^ 
 
 T never could tell which I loved the best. I 
 used to sit with one on each knee, by the side 
 of the ample, lofty fire-place in the drawing- 
 room at Middleton Court, while the wind might 
 be raving outside the house, and a cheerful 
 fire blazing within — filling their little hearts 
 with stories of a sailor's toils and a sailor's dan- 
 gers, teaching them to love an honest sailor; 
 breeding each, as I fondly hoped, like their 
 sweet mother, to make a sailor happy. Then 
 as I repeated some piteous story, the tears 
 would roll, silent and slow, down the cheek of 
 the eldest darling — while the little one would 
 kindle up, and be all alive at a tale of strife 
 and danger. 
 
 Captain Vivian and his lady spent most of 
 the summer, and great part of the winter, with 
 the Admiral — He never could bear to part with 
 them or the children, and was always begging 
 them to come back again — He loved the young 
 ones more fondly, if possible, than he had 
 loved their mother. 
 
THE admiral's DAUGHTER. 307 
 
 How often have I seen him walking up and 
 down his garden, a Httle prattler in each hand, 
 chatting and laughing like a child himself; 
 while the Captain and my sweet young lady, 
 arm-in-arm, were sauntering carelessly and 
 happily along, at peace with each other and all 
 the world — and certainly Mrs. Vivian's counte- 
 nance did then acquire a gentleness and sweet- 
 ness of expression (I thought it arose from her 
 constant habit of smiling on her husband and 
 children) which some might have thought it 
 had wanted before. 
 
 But let me pause — let me pause to weep — 
 Where are ye all ? — sweet innocents ! — blessed 
 beings! — where are ye? — my pen refuses its 
 office. — The task I have undertaken surpasses 
 my force 
 
 The remainder of the story is evidently by 
 another hand. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 E.LOWE, PLAYHOUSE YARD, BLACKFRIARS. 
 
~'J^