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5^>^k^i- 
 
 LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 \©33 
 
 V.I __ 
 
THE 
 
 PARSON'S DAUGHTER 
 
 BV THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 SAYINGS AND DOINGS/' &c. 
 
 " One child he had, a daiigluer chaste and fair, 
 His age's comfort, and his fortune's heir. 
 They called her Ejima :— " 
 
 Piuon. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREE'J' 
 
 (successor to IIENHY COLHIRN.) 
 
 1833. 
 
LONDON 
 
 BAYLIS AXD LEIGIITOX, 
 JOKNSO^'S-COURT, FLEET-STREET. 
 

 THE 
 
 PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 W 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Is not the elder 
 
 By nature pointed out for preference ? 
 Is not his right enrolled amongst those laws 
 "Which keep the world's vast frame in beauteous order ?*' 
 
 RowE. 
 
 " In France," says one of the most accom- 
 plished writers of the day, treating of French 
 statistics, " there is no primogeniture ;""' a start- 
 ling fact at first sight ; but for which, upon a 
 little consideration, we can find an easy solu- 
 tion. The fair authoress means to say that 
 there is no law of primogeniture in that happy 
 and well-regulated country. 
 
 VOL. 1. B 
 
25 THE PARSON S DAUGHTER. 
 
 We have not the slightest intention of going 
 into a discussion upon the merits of such a law, 
 or the advantages of its abrogation ; but v/e 
 have to put before the reader an example of the 
 effects its existence sometimes produces, in the 
 person of the Right Honourable Lady Frances 
 Sheringham. 
 
 He who denounced commingled pride and 
 poverty as one of the bitterest curses of man- 
 kind, could never have found a better illustra- 
 tion of his principle than in the daughter of a 
 nobleman, accustomed through life to all the 
 splendour and luxury properly incidental to her 
 station, mixing with society on terms of equality 
 with all that is great and gay by which she is 
 surrounded, suddenly bereft by the death of 
 her father of all the advantages and conve- 
 niences of the paternal roof, and sent forth upon 
 the world by an elder brother (now become 
 alike the depositary of all the family wealth as 
 well as all the family honours,) to seek protec- 
 tion and a home. 
 
 To this disadvantage, (the only alloy perhaps 
 to the scheme of society to which it be- 
 longs,) may be attributed many of those ill- 
 assorted matches made by ladies of quality, and 
 the innumerable indiscretions and even faults 
 
THE PARSON S DAUGHTER. 6 
 
 sometimes too justly ascribed to the younger 
 branches of noble families. They are, in fact, 
 proud and poor ; and the desire of maintaining 
 an appearance suitable to the rank and station 
 to which they were born, without the adequate 
 means of doing so fairly and prudently, leads 
 them into excesses and difficulties which not 
 unfrequently bring the honorary titles, which 
 they are by courtesy permitted to assume, into 
 contempt and ridicule. 
 
 But if these happen to be the results of in- 
 discretions committed by persons of high notions 
 and low means, of large expenses and small in- 
 comes, who, regardless of those considerations by 
 which more honestly inclined and better regu- 
 lated persons may be supposed to shape their 
 career through life, launch into extravagances 
 unjustifiable by their finances, what must be the 
 pain and mortification of a noble lady, who, satis- 
 fied of the irreproachability of her conduct, full 
 of the consciousness of her nobility, sensitively 
 alive to the respect due to her exalted rank, and 
 anxious beyond measure to maintain the place 
 in society to which her birth entitles her, feels 
 herself so constrained by circumstances as to 
 be unable to move with comfort or even ease in 
 the sphere to which she naturally belongs, and 
 B 2 
 
4 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 who, after having married for love, finds herself 
 at fifty-four, a widow, still handsome in person 
 and vivacious in disposition, with a pennyless 
 son of five-and- twenty, and a jointure of six 
 hundred a-year. 
 
 Such was exactly the position of Lady Frances 
 Sheringham a few years since, as the daughter 
 of the Marquess of Pevensey. She had been 
 the belle of her time, had given the tone to 
 society, and her name to bonnets, and with 
 some of the yet surviving beaux of a previous 
 age had been, in her day, when she was eigh- 
 teen, and men drank wine, a '' standing toast." 
 
 Like herself, the husband of Lady Frances 
 was of noble blood. The Honourable Herbert 
 Sheringham was the second son of Lord Wey- 
 bridge, and had borne off his charming prize 
 from a host of ardent rivals in all the enthusiasm 
 of triumphant love ; nor was their mutual happi- 
 ness marred for an hour until the death of his 
 noble father-in-law, the Marquess, with whom 
 they had almost entirely lived after their mar- 
 riage : that melancholy event, however, re- 
 duced the honourable husband and the right 
 honourable lady to the necessity of establishing 
 themselves, and, moreover, of supporting them- 
 
THE PARSON S DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 selves upon an income not exceeding twelve 
 hundred pounds per annum. 
 
 The personal fortune of Lady Frances was 
 neither more nor less than ten thousand pounds, 
 settled upon herself. Mr. Sheringham*'s income 
 was derived from two offices which he held 
 about the court, luckily just so unimportant 
 as not to be affected by a change of mi- 
 nistry, but which pleased his vanity, and 
 amused his mind, by bringing him frequently 
 in contact with his sovereign, and the circle by 
 which he was surrounded. To what particular 
 circumstances he was indebted for these small 
 advantages nobody ever exactly ascertained, 
 because his father, besides having very little 
 interest, professed whiggism in politics, which, 
 however meritorious abstractedly as a trait of 
 virtue, patriotism, and magnanimity, does not 
 of itself appear a sufficient reason for his son's 
 appointment to two quasi sinecures during the 
 existence of a Tory government. It was ge- 
 nerally thought that Lady Frances, anxious 
 to make the man of her heart something, 
 had exerted that influence which such a 
 being could not fail to possess, in his favour, to 
 gain the ear of one at whose disposal such ad- 
 vantages are placed, — no matter, Sheringham 
 
6 
 
 and the Lady Frances were as happy a couple 
 as are ordinarily seen in this world, and when 
 he was called away to a better, the recollection 
 that she had nothing left to live upon, but her 
 jointure (arising chiefly from her own fortune, 
 which, as has just been stated had been settled 
 upon herself,) of six hundred a year, was not 
 the most painful one with which her ladyship 
 had to contend. 
 
 Besides this jointure, Mr. Sheringham left 
 Lady Frances one son, the counterpart of his 
 lamented sire, in whom all her hopes and wishes 
 for the future centred ; and as her grief for the 
 death of her husband wore off, the feeling of 
 deep regret for one she had lost, gave place to 
 another of intense anxiety for the welfare and 
 success of him who was yet preserved to her. 
 
 And as he grew up, so did that anxiety grow 
 too. At Eton he received all he ever had of edu- 
 cation ; and when at his father's death it became 
 necessary for his mother to come to some decision 
 as to his future prospects, the struggle with her 
 feelings was by no means an agreeable one. 
 Fortune he had none, save what might be left 
 at his mother's disposal when she should shuffle 
 off this mortal coil ; and as for a profession, the 
 idea that her beloved George Augustus Fre- 
 
THE PARSON S DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 derick should be obliged to do any thing to 
 earn his bread was most repugnant to her lady- 
 ship's principles and feelings. Her brother, the 
 Marquess of Pevensey, was extremely kind to 
 his nephew, and she hoped for some assistance 
 from him ; but what could he do ? he was him- 
 self married, and had already nine right honour- 
 able lords and ladies to provide for ; and as for 
 interest he had none, since, like her late father- 
 in-law, his lordship was a rigid oppositionist, but 
 without either talent or influence sufficient to 
 alarm his adversaries into an adoption of the 
 soothing system. 
 
 George Augustus Frederick, however, having 
 in the course of his domiciliation at Eton con- 
 tracted a love of boating, and having moreover 
 once worn the uniform of a naval officer at one 
 of those morning masquerades peculiar to that 
 great and celebrated school, had taken it into 
 his head that he should like to be a sailor, and 
 although the Lady Frances so much objected to 
 the filthy smell of ships, and the horrid sickness 
 at sea, and the danger of battles, and all the 
 other evils " fishified flesh"' is heir to, the recol- 
 lection of Howe, and Duncan, and Nelson, coun- 
 teracted in some degree her aversion from the 
 service, and at length, by dint of solicitation on 
 
8 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 the part of the boy, and persuasion on that of her 
 friends, George Augustus Frederick was fairly 
 launched as a midshipman, under the especial 
 care and protection of her friend and distant 
 relation the Honourable Captain Baltyorum. 
 
 The great affair of George Augustus Frede- 
 rick Sheringham'^s start in life, unpromising as 
 it was, having been achieved. Lady Frances 
 began her course of existence, which comprised 
 a round of visits, a month at Lord Peven> 
 sey'*s — a fortnight with the Dawson^s in Glou- 
 cestershire — three weeks with the Howards in 
 Derbyshire — ten days at one house and six 
 days at another, till the London season be- 
 gan, when with a pair of job horses doing six- 
 teen week's work in three months, and rooms at 
 a hotel, where she never dined, her ladyship, 
 from being extremely agreeable, rather odd, and 
 particularly well versed in the popular topics 
 of ordinary conversation, contrived to keep her 
 head above water, and be as gay and as lively 
 as her more wealthy associates ; still managing 
 to make an allowance to her son to the full 
 extent permitted by his captain, and by him 
 considered adequate to the wants and wishes of 
 a Marquess's grandson located in the midship- 
 men's berth of one of his Majesty's frigates. 
 
THE PAIISOX'S DAUGHTER. V 
 
 But days wore on, and George Augustus 
 Frederick grew up to manhood; his time as 
 midshipman was served, and he had passed 
 his examination, when another term of service 
 as flag-lieutenant to a distant connexion in India 
 was entered upon and concluded, with promo- 
 tion to the rank of commander, and the enjoy- 
 ment of the moderate half-pay of seven shillings 
 and sixpence per diem, without a chance of fur- 
 ther employment. And thus at the age of five- 
 and-twenty, poor George Augustus Frederick 
 had reached what to him was likely to be the 
 head of his profession, and found himself again at 
 home, and without any earthly pursuit. Still, 
 however, warmly attached to his lady-mother, he 
 could not but feel satisfied that the pittance 
 of income which he derived from his commission 
 rendered a regular drain upon her slender funds 
 unnecessary ; and anxious as she was to enjoy 
 as much of his society as he could spare her, he 
 generally passed the intervals of his engage- 
 ments at her hotel. 
 
 But Lady Frances, delicate when young, and 
 unused in childhood or youth to much exertion, 
 became every season more and more sensible of 
 the inconveniences of her position in society. 
 The constant round of parties, to her who had 
 b3 
 
10 THE PARSOn'^S daughter. 
 
 no daughter to bring out, and no point to 
 carry, injured her constitution ; and (which peo- 
 ple say was still more important to her lady- 
 ship) her complexion; and she suddenly resolved 
 to withdraw herself from the fitful, feverish life 
 which she had so long been leading, and settle 
 herself, for at least eight months in the year, 
 in some quiet retirement at a distance from 
 London, where her health might be recruited 
 by the salubrity of the air, and her expenses 
 contracted by the cheapness of living ; and 
 having hit upon this prudent design, she 
 imparted to her darling son the intention she 
 had formed, and the project she had originated. 
 To him, the arrangement was particularly 
 agreeable ; for although no man of worldly 
 feelings ever permits his ears to be open to the 
 passing observations upon his nearest relations, 
 or allows his eyes to see the sneers and shrugs 
 which sometimes are exhibited upon the arrival 
 or departure of an excellent and exemplary 
 parent, George could not be so deaf or so blind, 
 try earnestly as he might, as not to perceive 
 that Lady Frances, a widow in her fifty-fifth 
 year, was a totally different object in society 
 from Lady Frances a maiden of eigliteen, or a 
 wife of twenty -three. 
 
THE PAESOn's daughter. 1 1 
 
 All the little playfulness of expression — the 
 downcast eye — the flushing cheek — the palpi- 
 tating heart — the lips — the smiles— the looks 
 themselves were there ; and such is the slow 
 and minute progression of the ravages of 
 time, that in the constant appeal of beauty 
 to her looking-glass, their effects are not per- 
 ceptible ; and as Gay, or, perhaps, his sarcastic 
 assistant, Swift, tells us of the " mother's 
 daughter " 
 
 Each time she looks she's fonder grown, 
 Thinks every charm grown stronger ; 
 
 But, alas ! vain maid, all eyes but your own. 
 Can see you are not younger. 
 
 The country, however, was the thing ; and the 
 the moment her ladyship had possessed herself 
 of this desire for rurality, every maxim of her 
 town-spent life was exploded ; her taste was now 
 all for green fields and trees, and shade and 
 flowers. A dairy was her delight ; a farm- 
 yard her hobby ; daisy-picking and violet- 
 plucking the only pursuits she really loved ; 
 and when she recollected the many happy hours 
 she had sj)ent in her dear father's time at 
 Grimsberry Castle, Cumberland, in her sainted 
 mother's conservatory, and the American par- 
 
12 
 
 terre, her anxiety to be fixed in a cottage and a 
 garden became romantically ungovernable. 
 
 To satisfy this predominating passion, and 
 put into execution her scheme of retirement, 
 Lady Frances gave up all visits, all calls, all 
 notes, and all messages, and drove inces- 
 santly and continuously, day after day, her 
 attenuated job horses from Christie's to 
 Squibb's, from Squibb's to Robins's, from 
 Robins's to Winstanley's, from Winstanley''s 
 to Phillips's, and from Phillips's to Christie''s 
 again, in search of a villa ; and many were the 
 journies her ladyship took, and many the dis- 
 appointments she met with. The old joke of 
 the hanging wood was nothing to the suffer- 
 ings she underwent ; and in one instance, when 
 she had travelled thirty miles to look at a cot- 
 tage which was described as having two views 
 of the Thames, she found her hopes blighted, 
 by discovering that the only method of seeing 
 that beautiful river twice on the property was 
 by looking out of the garret windows, whence it 
 was just visible at high water, and looking 
 down into the cellars, in which it regularly made 
 its appearance at every spring tide. 
 
 At length, however, such a '' particulars'*' 
 was put into her ladyship's hands by one of the 
 
THE parson's daughter. 13 
 
 most fashionable auctioneers, that there could be 
 no doubt or hesitation as to a drive down to see 
 the place. The only thing against it, was its 
 name ; but that, with female readiness, her lady- 
 ship thought might be changed. It was called 
 Slug Grove — but then there were serpentine 
 walks and sloping lawns, towering oaks and 
 graceful willows drooping into chrystal lakes ; 
 an elegant saloon opening into a conservatory, 
 with every requisite office and outbuilding ; 
 thirty acres of land immediately round the 
 house, and a pew in the church — all capable of 
 great improvement. 
 
 With all due respect for the auctioneer's 
 modest merits, this last particular was as- 
 suredly the most correct : the serpentine 
 walks were mere wriggles, the sloping lawns, 
 slippery beds of swamp, the drooping willows, 
 stumpy objects with no more curl in their 
 branches than there is in a dancing girl's hair 
 at four o'clock in the morning; the chrystal lake 
 was a duck pond covered with weeds like green 
 crown-pieces, and the conservatory, into which a 
 drawing-room (paper damp and ceiling cracked), 
 sixteen feet by fourteen, opened, turned out to 
 be a glassless greenhouse, in which grew a 
 plentiful crop of nettles and marsh-mallows. 
 
14 THE parson's DAUGHTEU. 
 
 The offices were in the last state of dilapidation, 
 the kitchen chimney had fallen down, and a 
 wandering hen had established her nest in the 
 oven ; and as to the pew in the church, it was 
 located in the gallery immediately over the 
 pulpit, the sounding-board of which excluded 
 not only its tenants from the sight of the 
 preacher, but from thesoundof his voice; while 
 the thirty acres of land consisted of marsh, bog, 
 and clay, agreeably and plentifully stocked 
 with thistles, chickweed, and dandelion. 
 
 The house had once been white, but the tear- 
 like drippings from its various windows had, 
 during the several years of its unoccupancy, 
 left deep green marks upon the walls ; and a 
 sort of verandah, which had once adorned its 
 front towards the road, after having become 
 filthily dirty, had fallen through, and left the 
 canvas, which once formed its alternated black 
 and green covering, dangling in ribbands 
 amongst its trelliage columns. 
 
 " This is not comfortable, George,**' said her 
 ladyship. " I am dying for a cottage; but 
 this is more humble than even I desire. The 
 slopes are mere slops, and the chrystal lake 
 looks a pool at commerce filled with green 
 counters." 
 
THE parson's daughter. 15 
 
 " Yes," said George, '' playing with leaves 
 for lives."" 
 
 *' La, ma'am,'' said the gardener, who was 
 showing the premises, " that weedy stuff is of 
 no signification at all as it were ; a little pa- 
 tience and half a dozen ducks would get rid of 
 all that in a fortnight." 
 
 " Ducks, sir," said Lady Frances. *' Ducks 
 on a chrystal lake — what an idea !" 
 
 The man, who saw that Slug Grove did not 
 exactly correspond with her ladyship's notions 
 of comfort or the picturesque, caught up George, 
 who was in an under tone expressing to his 
 mother his conviction that the place " would 
 not do ;" and anxious to be of use to the house- 
 hunters, suggested that there were two or three 
 other villas in the neighbourhood to be let. 
 
 " There is Belvidere, ma'am," said the gar- 
 dener, " a very nice retired place, right opposite 
 the limekilns J as you turn down to the Duke's 
 Head near the turnpike ; and then there is 
 Belle-Vue, built to match it, on the other side, 
 the front windows of which overlook Squire 
 Harbottle's stables and kennels ; besides which 
 it has a great convenience in hearing his honour's 
 house clock, which strikes every hour, chimes 
 the quarters, and plays Rule Britannia and 
 
16 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 the hundredth psalm tune, two hundred and 
 fifty times in the four and twenty hours. 
 
 " And who is Squire Harbottle," said George. 
 
 " He^s a man of large fortune, sir," said the 
 gardener ; " who seems never to know how 
 to spend money enough ; he buys every thing 
 he can lay his hands on, right and left. He 
 keeps the hounds here, and has his house full 
 of company from year's end to year's end ; he 
 shoots a good deal and drinks a good deal more 
 than he shoots, sir ; but he*'s uncommon affable." 
 
 '' Is he married .?" said George, who had at 
 sea known a namesake, but, as it turned out, 
 not a relation of his. 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied the man, " and has got 
 as handsome a lady for a wife as ever trod 
 shoe leather ; the kindest, sweetest lady as ever 
 breathed. They say the squire is rather too 
 rough in his ways, and too boisterous like for 
 her, for she's as gentle and as quiet as alamb." 
 
 " Is there any other place to let," said Lady 
 Frances, who took no great interest in the praises 
 of the Squire's lady, '' besides this Belvidere 
 and Belle- Vue which you talk of ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said the man, " there's Dale 
 Cottage ; but I don't think that would suit such 
 gentlefolks as you. It's all thatched, with case- 
 
THE parson's daughter. 17 
 
 ment windows, and covered over with nasty 
 ivy, and buried in trees: my master, which 
 owned this property, hated trees; down he 
 had them smash, smooth. ' None a your great 
 great long helms, and hashes, and hoaks, for 
 me,' he used to say, ' a sucking up the 
 nourishment and robbing the ground as is 
 under 'em ;' and to be sure there is no count- 
 ing for taste ; but as I says sometimes to my 
 old missus, I do think, trees is the greatest eye- 
 sores in the country as can possible be." 
 
 " 1 should like to see Dale Cottage,*" said 
 George, who having in his disposition an in- 
 herent turn for the conviviality of such 
 men as Squire Harbottle, and an equally 
 amiable turn for the society of such women as 
 the squire's lady, began to fancy that he should 
 less object to a domiciliation at Binford than 
 it before struck him he should. 
 
 And accordingly to Dale Cottage they went, 
 Snaith, so was the tree-hater called, leading 
 them across the slippery slopes by the side of 
 the weedy pond, and by the quagmire near the 
 gate, through part of the village, to the object 
 of their inquiries. It burst upon the sight of 
 the visiters in its most picturesque point of 
 view. Screened from the road, and commanding 
 
18 THK parson's daughter. 
 
 a lovely prospect, it seemed to offer quiet and 
 repose, and to promise the realization of Moore's 
 beautiful anticipation, who says, or rather 
 sings — 
 
 " I said if there's peace to be found in the world, 
 A heart that is humble might hope for it here." 
 
 It was one of the prettiest things imaginable ; 
 its interior was a perfect snuggery ; taste and 
 judgment had combined in its decoration ; 
 and although liere and there the envious damp 
 had left its mark in some of the corners 
 and crannies of its well-proportioned living- 
 rooms, it was altogether the very thing Lady 
 Frances wanted, and the very thing George 
 liked, and accordingly, after a very brief debate, 
 the resolution final was arrived at, that there 
 they would set themselves down ; and, in pur- 
 suance of this determination, after having opened 
 the preliminaries with the resident referee, they 
 were shewn over the gardens and grounds, 
 visited all the rooms, ascertained what they 
 should do still more to improve it, and further- 
 more engaged the requisite workmen to put 
 every thing in order for the reception of furni- 
 ture and themselves in a fortnight at the latest 
 from the day of first visiting it. 
 
THE P^\RSON's daughter. 19 
 
 From the gentleman with whom George had 
 to negociate the affair, he derived much infor- 
 mation as to the state of the little world at 
 Binford, in which, as in all the small country 
 towns and large villages of England, the good 
 and bad passions of mankind were all at work, 
 and where the charitable feelings and evil de- 
 sires, the subtle designs and little jealousies 
 of human nature were in as high a state of per- 
 fection as in the more important and elevated 
 circles of society. 
 
 It appeared upon investigation that Binford 
 possessed two very attractive qualities to per- 
 sons of small fortune and delicate health : it 
 had the reputation of salubrity and cheapness, 
 and the consequence was that it was thickly 
 populated with ladies who, if not of equal rank 
 with Lady Frances, possessed nearly a similar 
 income, the result of which commixture of 
 matured widows and matronly virgins was the 
 constant irritation of the whole neighbourhood 
 upon the slightest provocation. 
 
 Then, besides these foreigners to the land, and 
 emigrants from other places, there were the re- 
 gular inhabitants, who appeared to emulate the 
 little jealousies of the exclusive coterie, and 
 lived in the most unremitting hostility with each 
 
20 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 other, gilding their countenances with smiles, 
 and rather exhibiting by a worrying course of 
 civility of conduct, than by any open declara- 
 tion, the envy, and jealousy, and uncharit- 
 ableness so generally prevalent in such commu- 
 nities. 
 
 Who that drives through Binford, and sees 
 the elaborated smartness of Mr. Bunce's best 
 drawing-room window curtains, and the daz- 
 zling brightness of his brazen knocker, can 
 doubt that the graceful folds of the one and 
 the laboured splendour of the other are invented 
 and contrived to place the attorney's house and 
 appurtenances far before that of Mr. Popjoy the 
 apothecary, &c. ; or who that beholds the pers- 
 nickety neatness of the pebbly pavement in 
 front of Miss Whalebone's retreat from the 
 world, can hesitate to believe that its niceness 
 and prettiness are destined to excite the envious 
 admiration of Mr. Bookman, master of the "Bin- 
 ford classical and commercial academy," and 
 furnish conversation for her opposite neighbour 
 Mr. Pugh the churchwarden. 
 
 The Rector, whose name was Lovell, it seemed 
 was a widower, the father of an only daughter, 
 the pride and darling of his heart, the prop of his 
 house, the comfort of his declining years. She 
 
THE PARSO^j's DAUGHTER. 21 
 
 was fair, gentle, mild, and unassuming, highly 
 accomplished, but extremely reserved ; distant 
 and cold to strangers, but with a disposition 
 affectionate, and a mind pure and unspotted as 
 the driven snow. 
 
 From the contending influences and interests 
 which agitated his flock, Lovell had always con- 
 trived to keep himself surprisingly free; and 
 considering the character and principles of the 
 seigneur die village, he deserved no small credit 
 for his neutrality. 
 
 Mr. Harbottle was a curious specimen of the 
 almost extinct race of country squires. A swag- 
 gering, boisterous, bragging, drinking fellow ; 
 hard-headed, hard-hearted, passionate, ego- 
 tistical, self-opiniated, vain to an incalculable 
 degree of every thing he himself possessed, and 
 of the means which he had of accumulating 
 the finest and most expensive articles of use or 
 ornament ; but vainer than of every thing else 
 he had, was he of his wife, of whom we need 
 only repeat the gardener'*s unsophisticated eulo- 
 gium, to describe her to perfection. " She 
 was as handsome a lady as ever trod shoe- 
 leather ; the kindest, sweetest, lady as ever 
 breathed." 
 
 The association of this couple was strange ; 
 
22 THE parson''s daughter. 
 
 but she humoured his eccentricities with so 
 much good taste, seemed to be stone blind to his 
 faults, which glared upon every body else, and 
 gave him so much credit for good nature, 
 which he did not possess, that she contrived to 
 make the constantly varying visitors at their 
 house believe, that she was as happy with him 
 as she deserved to be ; with those who knew 
 them better, this amiable game was very difficult 
 to play. 
 
 His habits and pursuits linked him more with 
 his immediate dependants in the adjoining town 
 than to his more suitable companions in the 
 surrounding country, and accordingly the whole 
 presentable population of Binford were kept in 
 a perpetual agitation from the excitement, pro- 
 duced by the frequent, almost unremitting in- 
 vitations to the Hall, where festivity and hila- 
 rity were the order of the day and night. 
 
 The only person with whom Mrs. Harbottle 
 from choice associated, was Miss Lovell ; she 
 was frequently, indeed, almost constantly, her 
 companion during the mornings. The habits 
 and pursuits of her father led him to enjoy 
 a quieter life than that which he could have 
 lived in Harbottle's society, and his visits to 
 the Squire's dinners were few and far between. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 23 
 
 Emma Lovell, therefore, was seldom seen in 
 the evening circle at her friend's— that they were 
 friends, events which have occurred since the 
 period now spoken of, will amply prove. 
 
 The brief history of the state of affairs at 
 Binford which is here given, in order to put 
 the reader a little into the secret, George She- 
 ringlaam received at the hands of Mr. Bunce, 
 the attorney at law, with whom he had to talk 
 over the arrangements for renting Dale Cot- 
 tage; and if Mr. Bunce were somewhat more 
 verbose in his descriptions, and rather more 
 explicit in his illustrations, the reader has the 
 pith of his narrative, which, as he may not be, 
 (as George and Mr. Bunce were, during the 
 detail,) sitting after dinner, sipping his wine, 
 may equally well suffice for the purpose, with a 
 more protracted and elaborated detail of parish 
 matters. 
 
24 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The claims of ' the country' are paramount." 
 
 Parl. Speeches. 
 
 " Mercy on us, how time flies !*" said Lady 
 Frances Sheringbam to her son George. " Three 
 weeks have passed since we first saw Dale Cot- 
 tage, and those odious painters and paper- 
 hangers are still there. My patience is nearly 
 exhausted. Here is June, and we still in Lon- 
 don.-*' 
 
 " My dear mother," said George, " to you. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 25 
 
 who till this very year have been in the habit of 
 considering the June of nature the January of 
 fashion, and have valued the opening beauties 
 of spring only as they gave the signal for open- 
 ing the houses of your friends, this little delay 
 cannot be so very irksome ; another fortnight, 
 and we shall be located in our new residence." 
 
 " And do tell me, dear," said her ladyship, 
 '' that Mrs. Harbottle— is she a person to like ? 
 Shall I like her — will she suit me ?''' 
 
 " That I cannot pretend to say," replied her 
 son, (who, it may be as well to observe, had just 
 returned to his mother in London, from a second 
 visit to Dale Cottage, which he had paid to it 
 alone, in order by his presence to stimulate the 
 different workmen in their labours,) "but I 
 think I never saw a more charming person. The 
 man is a monster, without one redeeming qua- 
 lity that I could discover in a seven hours' sit- 
 ting." 
 
 " Ah," said Lady Frances, " I must judge 
 for myself; it very often happens, that where 
 so large a portion of admiration is claimed by 
 a lady, there is proportionately less left for her 
 husband. They were civil and hospitable, and 
 all that ?" 
 
 " Oh !" said George, " if men could eat en- 
 
 VOL. I. c ^ 
 
26 THE parson's daughtek. 
 
 trees of gold, or drink magnums of liquid silver, 
 so much the greater pleasure to Mr. Harbottle 
 to feed them ; but there is a coarseness, a rough- 
 ness, a something about him, repugnant to my 
 feelings, and which seem quite to subdue, and 
 overcome her." 
 
 *' Ah, I see," replied her ladyship, " you 
 have arrived at the point of commiserating the 
 sufferings of a woman, who, I have no doubt, is 
 as happy as a princess ; and having once taken 
 that course, the chances are, that your hatred 
 of him will turn into some marvellously foolish 
 affection for her!''' 
 
 " No," said George, " that is not likely; Mrs. 
 Harbottle seems to be provided already with a 
 commiserating friend ; but there was that Miss 
 Lovell, who went away after luncheon to dine, 
 PS she told me, with her sick father, the rector, 
 of whom my loquacious friend, Mr. Bunce, did 
 most assuredly not say half enough. She is 
 lovely — absolutely lovely ; but if she were mo- 
 delled in alabaster, or chiselled in marble, her 
 beauty could not well be colder than it is at pre- 
 sent." 
 
 " Mauvaise-honte, George," said Lady 
 Frances, " the mere awkwardness of rusticity. 
 I never give credit to those icicles for any thing 
 
THE rARSON'^S DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 but shyness, and a notion that it looks fine 
 to be prudish, and well-bred to be disagreeable. 
 However, I think by your account we shall 
 have plenty of specimens to select from, and as 
 of course Dale Cottage will give the ton^ we 
 may pick and choose as we like." 
 
 " I fear that Dale Cottage will never be 
 more than secondary at Binford/' said George; 
 '' the unbounded wealth of Harbottle, and the 
 unlimited circulation of it, the daily recurrence 
 of feasts — actual feasts — and all the other attrac- 
 tions of the Hall, will naturally overcome our 
 otherwise undoubted claims to precedency."" 
 
 " Oh i" exclaimed her ladyship, " I have no 
 intention of making a struggle against the aris- 
 tocracy of wealth ; I shall trust to the good 
 sense and good feeling of my neighbours to put 
 me at my ease ; and I think with a little display 
 of ingenuity, and a knowledge of how things 
 should be done, we may contrive to rally round 
 us, some of the best amongst them, and give 
 them such a reception as they are not quite used 
 to, in their somewhat obscure village.'' 
 
 " Let us begin,'' said George, " with treating 
 our future home with greater respect. Nobody 
 believes the place in whicli he is resident ob- 
 scure. You may rely upon it, the helpless 
 c2 
 
28 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 missionary at Fernando Po, or the isolated resi- 
 dent of the Seychelles, thinks, ' to himself,' that 
 the spot he inhabits is a place of the greatest 
 importance to the whole world, and that the eyes 
 of all Europe at, least, are upon him." 
 
 '' That may be quite true," answered her 
 ladyship, " but I imagine the Binfordites will 
 have no objection to a little refinement of their 
 style ; and when one considers with what very 
 small means, good taste and judgment may 
 contrive very agreeable things, I think I may 
 flatter myself that the little reunions at Dale 
 Cottage will not be altogether neglected, for 
 the more profuse displays of Mr. Harbottle's 
 mansion." 
 
 Thus it will be seen, that Lady Frances, 
 driven by circumstances from being a follower 
 of the great world, had already pre-determined 
 to become the leader of a little one, and, pre- 
 ferring to reign in Binford rather than serve in 
 London, had begun to anticipate gaieties of her 
 own in the country, as ill suited to her income, as 
 the enjoyment of gaieties provided by others, 
 in town, were to her constitution. 
 
 George said nothing at the time to dissuade 
 his lively parent from the course she, seemed to 
 have chalked out for herself, for, to tell the 
 
THE parson's daughter. 29 
 
 truth, his mind and thoughts connected with a 
 residence at Binford, were fixed upon other 
 objects than '' economicar suppers, or "judi- 
 cious'"* breakfasts. He had seen enough of 
 Emma Lovell, in the morning visit he had 
 paid to the Hall, to assure himself that time 
 and a continued association with such a person 
 were very likely to entangle him, and if matters 
 went on favourably, fix him for life. 
 
 This love at first sight, has often been a 
 subject of ridicule amongst slow-going people; 
 but nevertheless it has frequently turned out 
 to be both serious and lasting. There is a 
 sympathy between minds and persons, which in 
 all cases, even of common intercourse, speedily 
 attaches certain individuals to each other, who 
 neither attract, nor are attracted by certain 
 others. It is an old remark, that no man ever 
 looked on, at a game of chance or skill, played 
 by two people, both previously unknown to 
 him, without, in less than five minutes, feeling 
 an interest for the success of one of them, over 
 the other ; and there certainly are some unde- 
 finable points of accordance, some harmonies of 
 thought or expression, of which we are not 
 ourselves clearly conscious, but which almost 
 immediately attract the attention, and fix our 
 
30 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 thoughts upon the individual, who, as uncon- 
 sciously as ourselves, happens to possess them. 
 
 George Augustus Frederick Sheringham had 
 flirted and made the aimahle in every quarter 
 of the globe. The blondes of the Baltic, the 
 brunettes of the Mediterranean, the bulbous 
 beauties of the Cape, and the fair yam-stalks of 
 St. Helena, had all in their turn received his at- 
 tentions, and even reciprocated his smiles ; but 
 there was something about Miss Lovell which 
 had the power of utterly changing the cha- 
 racter of his admiration. With all the other 
 women he had seen, he could laugh, and flirt, 
 and talk ; and when the laughing, and flirt- 
 ing, and talking were over, he could take his 
 hat and go : and the next day, in some other 
 place, repeat a similar routine of entertainment 
 with some other beauty, and yet his heart be 
 safe as if '' twice cased in steel." Emma 
 Lovell he had seen but once, but the effect of 
 their meeting upon him had been very diffierent 
 from those produced during his previous but- 
 terfly course of flower sipping. Day by day, 
 and hour by hour, he felt that longing, wearying, 
 sickening pain of anxious hope to see her again, 
 which those alone can appreciate who have en- 
 dured it ; and the weeks seemed leno^thened into 
 
THE PARSON''s daughter. 31 
 
 years, and the days to weeks, until the final an- 
 nouncement of the chief artificer at Dale Cot- 
 tage, gave them notice that Dale Cottage was 
 ready for the upholsterers and furnishers. 
 
 No sooner did Lady Frances receive this happy 
 announcement than she proceeded to order from 
 Gillows, and Morel, and all the best handi- 
 craftsmen, each of his sort, the most elegant 
 furniture most suited to the style of her new 
 residence ; and, in the outset of her economi- 
 cal retirement, incurred a load of debt, which 
 her ladyship's gross income, superadded to lier 
 gallant son's half-pay, would not, if specially 
 reserved for that purpose, liquidate under four 
 or five years. But then she had such excellent 
 judgment in these matters, and knew so well 
 what should be done— and then the daughter of 
 the second, and sister of the third Marquess 
 of Pevensey, could not submit to be pitied 
 by Mr- and Mrs. Harbottle, and therefore, de- 
 spairing of coming into Binford upon an equality 
 with those plebeians, as far as money went, her 
 ladyship determined to take the lead in her 
 line, and submit to the quiet and respectable 
 population of that peaceable, but much neg- 
 lected village, what her ladyship was certain 
 would be for her a triumphant comparison be- 
 
32 
 
 THE PAESONS DAUGHTER. 
 
 tween the magnificence of wealth and the mag- 
 nificence of good taste. 
 
 It was a very rural hornet's nest into which 
 her ladyship was about to thrust her delicate 
 hands, but hornet's nest it was ; and little did 
 her ladyship anticipate the complicated results 
 of her occupancy of the cool sequestered grot, 
 at which she arrived just at the close of the 
 month of July, 1830. 
 
 Sheringham's first anxiety on his arrival at 
 their " shady, blest retreat," appeared chiefly 
 directed to the securing his mother a more com- 
 modious pew in the church, than that which 
 in point of right belonged to Dale Cottage ; and 
 Lady Frances, who was an extremely well regu- 
 lated person, and a constant attendant at divine 
 service, but who had never before perceived 
 any symptoms of such zealous activity upon 
 the particular subject of her accommodation 
 when there, on the part of her son, was amaz- 
 ingly puzzled at finding herself left alone on the 
 very first evening of their arrival at Binford, 
 by her darling and dutiful George, who, in his 
 anxiety for her convenience, had left his " fruit 
 untasted and his wine untouched," in order to 
 visit the Rector himself, to arrange the matter, 
 with which, in fact, he had infinitely less to do 
 
THE pauson's daughter. 33 
 
 than the churchwardens, who had already evin- 
 ced every disposition to behave handsomely in 
 that respect to a lady of his mother's rank and 
 station. 
 
 Those who recollect that the Rev. Mr. Lovell 
 had a daughter, will perhaps attribute a portion 
 of the filial devotion of Commander George 
 Augustus Frederick Sheringham to an affection 
 somewhat less instinctive ; and those who have 
 known what it is to be caught in a trap, set 
 for another, may perhaps sympathize with our 
 young and gallant friend, in the result of his 
 visit to the venerable pastor. 
 
 Sheringham called at the parsonage. His 
 heart beat as his cold hand pulled the bell at 
 the gate ; an affirmative to his inquiry, (almost 
 needless,) if Mr. Lovell were at home, brought 
 him speedily to his drawing-room door. He 
 was announced, and the excellent Rector received 
 him with the greatest cordiality. He was alone, 
 reading, the tea equipage was on the table; 
 Emma was not there, the chair she had occu- 
 pied, however, remained in its place. Shering- 
 ham seated himself: he would have given the 
 world to inquire after her — to name her name 
 even — but no, he dared not : such is the con- 
 sciousness of concealed affection, that the sim- 
 c3 
 
34 THE PARSON^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 plest question, or the most common-place ob- 
 servation, which any body and every body might 
 otherwise ask or make, if it bear upon the point 
 of interest, upon the one treasured object of our 
 solicitude, seems to us, from its importance to 
 ourselves, to be too important to be made or 
 asked. 
 
 " How beautiful the view is from this win- 
 dow," said Sheringham. 
 
 '* The prospect is charming," said Mr. Lovell, 
 '' and there is a serenity in the weather, and a 
 buoyancy in the atmosphere this evening, which 
 quite refreshes me. As an invalid, Mr. She- 
 ringham, I feel these things with a sensibility 
 which, in your state of health and at your time 
 of life, must be almost incomprehensible to you." 
 
 Hereabouts a servant appeared with a tea- 
 urn, which he placed upon the table. 
 
 " You will stay and take some tea, Mr. She- 
 ringham,'^ said Lovell. 
 
 It was the very thing Sheringham had been 
 trying at. — Tea would ensure a subsequent hour 
 for two perhaps) of Miss LovelFs society ; he 
 would see her in her home, the idol of her father, 
 in the exercise of filial duty, the sight of which, 
 would make her loveliness more lovely. 
 
 '*" I sliall be too happy, sir," said Shering- 
 
THE parson's daughter. 35 
 
 ham — and he forthwith surrendered liis hat and 
 gloves to the servant, who, having deposited 
 them on a table, proceeded to remove the va- 
 cant chair which he concluded Emma had occu- 
 pied, and place it '' in order" against the wall. 
 
 '' Let the tea be made out of the room," said 
 Mr. Lovell to the man, and, turning to She- 
 ringham, added, " this is very kind and neigh- 
 bourly of you, JNIr. Sheringham, for this is the 
 first evening for many days that my daughter 
 has dined from home. I felt myself so much 
 better to-day, that I forced her to accept one 
 out of fifty of her friend Mrs. Harbottle''s invi- 
 tations to dinner, and I feel extremely grateful 
 for your society in her absence." 
 
 If Lovell could have seen the expression of 
 his visitor's countenance at this announcement, 
 his gratitude might have undergone some qua- 
 lification ; luckily it ^vas getting dark, and 
 Lovell, moreover, was somewhat weak-sighted ; 
 but never was man so caught as Sheringham. 
 All that his reverend friend talked, after this 
 disclosure, seemed to his inattentive ear mere 
 gibberish, and the knowledge which he obtained 
 from an observation made by Lovell to the ser- 
 vant, that INIiss Lovell would not return from 
 the Hall till half-past eleven, which entirely 
 
36 THE parson''s daughter. 
 
 precluded the possibility of his waiting for her 
 appearance at home, so completely upset him, 
 that when he did, about ten o''clock, get away, 
 he left upon Mr. Lovell's mind a most unfa- 
 vourable impression as to his intellectual powers 
 and conversational qualities. 
 
 What on earth could be more distressing? And 
 then, when he got to Dale Cottage, to undergo 
 the natural reproaches of his mother, for his ab- 
 rupt and undutiful desertion of her ! Her lady- 
 ship, however, whose mind was still very much 
 alive to all the conduct of les affaires de coeur^ 
 was so extremely amused by the detail of her 
 son's discomfiture, which he could not resist 
 giving her, that the rest of the evening 
 hung less heavily, and before midnight, the 
 anxious young commander retired to rest, com- 
 paratively happy in the consciousness of being 
 in the same village with Emma, and v/ith the 
 certainty of " falling in with her," as he would 
 nautically have phrased it, on the following 
 day. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 37 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Hail to thee, worthy Timon ; and to all 
 That of his bounties taste — The five best senses 
 Acknowledge thee their patron ; and come freely 
 To gratulate thy plenteous bosom ; the ear, 
 Taste, touch, smell, all pleas'd from thy table rise. 
 They only now come, but to feast thine eyes." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Before the next noon had arrived, numerous 
 indeed were the visitors to Dale Cottage. All 
 the coterie, the exclusives of the Paragon, had 
 deposited their tickets, and Harbottle, who ac- 
 companied his lovely wife on her visit, insisted 
 upon it that Lady Frances should dine at the 
 Hall, and begin their acquaintance, as he hoped 
 they should maintain it, without ceremony. 
 
 Her ladyship accepted the bidding, because 
 it was almost impossible, without rudeness, to 
 decline it; but, however much policy might 
 induce her to keep up an acquaintance with the 
 Squire and his lady, Mr. Harbottle's manners 
 
38 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 and style of conversation were exactly the re- 
 verse of her Ladyship's notions of the agreeable. 
 It is said that women love by contraries — that a 
 fair woman admires a dark man, that a short 
 woman admires a tall man, and so on ; but 
 however opposite Mr. Harbottle might be in all 
 his inclinations and attributes to Lady Frances, 
 it did not seem probable that the mere force of 
 contrast would in their case generate any thing 
 like affection between them. 
 
 The first wound which the hard-hearted Squire 
 inflicted upon Lady Frances, was in the shape 
 of a note which arrived about four o'clock from 
 Mrs. Harbottle, dictated by her husband, or 
 rather written in his name, offering to send one 
 of his carriages for her Ladyship, to take her to 
 dinner. At Windsor such things are not rare, 
 and a royal coach may be often seen trotting 
 about the town, just before seven, picking up 
 dowagers and their daughters at their lodgings 
 to carry them to the Castle ; but for Mr. Har- 
 bottle to make this sort of offer, while Lady 
 Frances had her carriage in her coach-house, 
 and while post-horses were to be hired at the 
 Duke's Head, struck Lady Frances as something 
 particularly presumptuous and impertinent. 
 However, she shrugged up her shoulders, and. 
 
THE PARSON S DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 throwing an expression of patient suffering into 
 her fine countenance, sent a verbal message of 
 thanks, and an announcement that she would 
 be ready at the appointed time. 
 
 Alas ! poor Lady Frances knew not the ex- 
 tent of the unintentional affront which had been 
 offered to her dignity. At the hour named, the 
 carriage came, and when George Augustus 
 Frederick and his motlier approached it, they 
 found already in it, two of the dowagers of the co- 
 terie, and Miss Lovell, who had been previously 
 picked up by the amateur omnibus of Binford. 
 All her ladyship said, when she beheld the 
 crowd of strangers, was, '' Well !"'— but it was 
 uttered in a tone so movingly pathetic, that her 
 son, who had anticipated the many " rubs" his 
 mother would meet with, from the sharp corners 
 of ]Mr. Harbottle*'s angular mind, could scarcely 
 refrain from laughing. Asfor himself, he quietly 
 disposed himself on the coach-box, satisfied 
 that if for a few minutes he might be doomed 
 to be the companion of the coachman, his neigh- 
 bour at dinner would be that sweetest of all 
 living girls, the Parson's daughter, who sat 
 within the carriage, amidst the painted dow- 
 agers, pale and placid, like a virgin lily in the 
 middle of a bunch of peonies. 
 
4U THE PARSON S DAUGHTER. 
 
 The drive was not a long one ; a few minutes 
 brought them to the gates, and subsequently to 
 the door of Binford Hall. 
 
 The ladies descended from the carriage, and 
 crossed the hall to the drawing-room, which 
 faces the door. By a new gaucherie of the 
 marshalled servants, Miss Oliphant was an- 
 nounced before Lady Frances, and being 
 " first named in the commission," walked into 
 the room before her ; a circumstance which 
 Lady Frances resolved at the moment never so 
 far to forgive, as to invite Miss O. to Dale Cot- 
 tage upon any of the occasions when the elite of 
 the village were summoned. 
 
 *' Lady Frances, I'm glad to see you,^' said 
 Harbottle. "Much squeezed, eh ? — comfort- 
 able carriage, isn'*t it "? — Hobson''s build — five 
 hundred and twenty guineas — all snug -and 
 comfortable ; a few pounds one way or another, 
 you know, make no diff'erence to me. How are 
 you, Sheringham, how d'ye do ? You came on 
 the box — easy, eh — comfortable as a couch — 
 had springs on purpose —not above ten pounds 
 extra—what o' that — as I say, comfort's comfort. 
 What object's money — eh, Ma'am." 
 
 The last exclamation was addressed to Mrs. 
 Eaglesfield, another of the dowagers, who ex- 
 
THE PAUSON's daughter. 41 
 
 isted upon two hundred a year in the smallest 
 possible cottage. 
 
 " I say, Sheringham," Said Harbottle, in an 
 undertone, " don't you think that's a pretty hat 
 my wife has got on ? — French : 1 think it very 
 becoming." 
 
 Sheringham, whose skill in millinery was not 
 very profound, said something about Mrs. 
 Harbottle's making any hat look well. 
 
 " Five naps in Paris," said Harbottle ; " paid 
 for it myself — made her a present unawares. 
 She's not looking well to-day — hot weather — 
 eh ? — Do you know Charles Harvey ?^'' 
 
 " I had the pleasure of being presented to 
 him the last day I was here," said Sheringham. 
 
 " Capital fellow !" continued Harbottle. — 
 " Harvey, you must be very intimate friends 
 with Mr. Sheringham. I'm sure youll hit it 
 off amazingly well. What do you think of the 
 chestnut .^" 
 
 " Capital hack," said Harvey. 
 
 '' How long is it till dinner.?" said Harbottle, 
 casting his eye on a French clock, superbly 
 mounted, and supported by the Graces. '' I 
 should like to shew Sheringham the chestnut — 
 is that clock right .?" 
 
 " Those clocks very seldom are," said Sher- 
 
42 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 ingham, who did not exactly know what he was 
 saying, inasmuch as his eyes were fixed upon a 
 much more striking object than a clock during 
 the conversation. 
 
 '' Never go right!" said Harbottle ; '' Ha! 
 ha ! ha ! why that 's a chronometer — a splendid 
 going clock. 1 stand none of their nonsense ; 
 a few naps one way or the other make no dif- 
 ference to me. I ordered the fellow to put in 
 good works, just such asBreguer would not serve 
 the French navy with. So he did. Then as 
 to the mounting of it — why, in all the other 
 clocks of that pattern that IVe ever seen, there 
 are only three Graces, so when the clock stands 
 on the table, you see but ona Grace at a time. 
 I ordered the fellow to clap me on a dozen. 
 There they are, you see ; so now, whichever 
 way you look at it, there you see three Graces 
 at once. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Harvey, ring the bell, 
 there's a good fellow."" 
 
 Harvey, was a remarkably agreeable person, 
 with a fine intelligent countenance and a most 
 agreeable manner, and the smile that played 
 over his features, while he implicity obeyed 
 the mandate of his opulent and imperious host, 
 was not lost upon Sheringham ; nor did the look 
 which succeeded that smile, and which was di- 
 
THE parson's daughter. 43 
 
 rected to his opulent host's lady, less escape his 
 observation. They passed over his features as 
 rapidly as the shadow of a cloud flits over the 
 green sward on a bright and breezy day, but 
 they made Sheringham think that there was an- 
 other helle in the house, besides the one he had 
 been ordered to ring, over whom he had some 
 sort of influence. 
 
 *' How long is it to dinner, sir," said Har- 
 bottle to a servant who entered the room. 
 
 " The second bell will ring in about five 
 minutes,"" said the man. 
 
 " Five minutes," cried Harbottle ; "- come 
 Sheringliam, come along ; we can look at the 
 horses before they dish up — plenty of time — 
 come along." 
 
 To his dispraise it must be said, but true it 
 is, Sheringham had not that taste for horses 
 which many very excellent gentlemen have 
 — perhaps his nautical pursuits and amphi- 
 bious life militated against his sporting pro- 
 pensities ; for if truth be to be told, nothing 
 could be more uninteresting to him than poking 
 about a hot stable and looking at the tails 
 and hinder legs of half a score animals about 
 which he could never have any personal inte- 
 rest, compelled, perhaps, by the assiduous at- 
 
44 THE parson''s daughter. 
 
 tendons of their master to look at the beautiful 
 pasterns of a decided kicker, or go up and 
 test the crest of a confirmed biter — but the 
 die was cast, and out went Sheringham. 
 
 " Jenkinson,"' holloa'd Harbottle, as he en- 
 tered the court-yard ; " Where's Jenkinson ?" 
 
 " He is in the house, sir," said a helper, who 
 was cleaning harness. 
 
 " What the devil is he doing in the house, 
 sir.?" 
 
 " Helping to wait at dinner, sir," was the 
 reply. 
 
 '« Where's Watt's .?" 
 
 " Don't know, sir." 
 
 " And Hopkins .?" 
 
 '' Can't say, sir." 
 
 " Have you got a key of the hack stable .?" 
 
 '' Yes, sir." 
 
 Sheringham's heart sank at the affirmative — 
 at this moment the second bell rang. 
 
 " Here, boy," cried Harbottle, " bring out 
 the chestnut Mr. Harvey rode today;" — the 
 boy proceeded to obey orders ;— " have you," 
 continued Harbottle, addressing Sheringham, 
 " ever seen my wife's town chariot .'^" 
 
 " No," said Sheringham. 
 
 " Here, boy— never mind the chestnut — run 
 
THE TARSOn'^S DAUGHTEll. 45 
 
 and ask Jenkinson for the key of the coach- 
 house." 
 
 Away ran the helper, at the bidding of this 
 Timon. 
 
 " You must '^ust look at that carriage — Hob- 
 son again ; — he's always my man — but while he is 
 gone just let us look at the chestnut in the stall/' 
 
 And into the stable they went —and then began 
 a discourse about feet, and shoulders, and shape, 
 and make, which lasted till the boy came, not 
 with the key, but with Jenkinson himself, who 
 appeared suffused with all the heat of exercise 
 and exertion, to state that dinner was served 
 up, and that he believed the company were 
 only waiting his master's appearance in the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " Oh! well, we must go then;*" said Har- 
 bottle. " I'll shew you the chariot to-morrow, 
 come along — why, how time flies — I can't stop 
 that,--eh, Sheringham ? — Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 As they proceeded towards the drawing-room, 
 they were met by several servants, and Har- 
 bottle bustled forward, and of course took out 
 Lady Frances ; there were two or three of his 
 hunting friends of the party, who, without 
 regard to precedence, or " the order of going," 
 had appropriated each to himself, a lady to lead 
 
46 THE parson's DAUGHTEIl. 
 
 to dinner, and Sheringham, although placed 
 next Mrs. Harbottle at table, missed the oppor- 
 tunity he had so anxiously looked forward to, 
 of having on his other hand the gentle Emma, 
 who, in order to complete the series of mis- 
 haps which had befallen him, was placed at 
 the same side of the table, so that he was 
 deprived of the only happiness which could 
 have been left for him. — Indeed, it is a question 
 quite worthy of consideration in a discussion of 
 such matters, v/hether in his state of acquaint- 
 ance with Miss Lovell, his advantage would 
 not have been greater as her vis a vis, than as 
 her next neighbour. There is much to be 
 said on both sides, but as far as Sheringham 
 was personally concerned, he certainly would 
 have preferred being, as he would have pro- 
 fessionally called it, " alongside the Hooker." 
 
 But if Sheringham lost much by his separa- 
 tion from Emma Lovell, he gained a vast deal 
 by his proximity to Mrs. Harbottle — she was 
 lovely — accomplished — full of taste and feeling, 
 enthusiastic in her admiration of talent, and 
 perfectly qualified to appreciate it — at times 
 animated and volatile, and gay even to wild- 
 ness, but then there came suddenly over her 
 countenance, and surely over her mind (of 
 
THE parson's Daughter. 47 
 
 which her countenance was the lovely index) 
 a sudden gloom, which no effort of her's could 
 either check or conceal — the bright blue eyes, 
 which a minute before had sparkled with mirth 
 and joyousness, were dimmed with a tear, as if 
 a sudden consciousness had struck her that for 
 a moment she had been too happy. 
 
 Above all things there appeared — if not to the 
 superficial observer, to those who like Shering- 
 ham, looked deeper — in the midst of her mirth 
 a nervous anxiety while her husband was pre- 
 sent, which tliose who only saw his empty laugh 
 and heard his ostentatious conversation, could 
 scarcely comprehend — she knew him better — 
 his paroxysms of rage were sometimes violent, 
 and the coarse unfeeling observations in which, 
 late in the evening, he was occasionally in the 
 habit of indulging at her expence, mingled 
 as they were with fulsome compliments to her 
 personal attractions, kept her in a state of 
 constant agitation which it was her equally con- 
 stant endeavour to conceal. 
 
 Why had she married him ? — the answer, is 
 to be found in his wealth, and the influence 
 wealth gives — her own choice was never con- 
 sulted ; and a nearly bankrupt father, unable 
 to withstand the offer of an alliance by which 
 
48 THE PARSON'^S DxVUGHTER. 
 
 his credit was to be saved and his character 
 supported, had forced her into an union with a 
 being, in no one point assimilating with herself. 
 Yet that was done — and nothing could be more 
 exemplary than the conduct of Mrs. Harbottle, 
 although with the strangest contrariety of 
 character, Harbottle, after descanting on her 
 beauty, after going to all expenses imaginable 
 for ornaments to decorate her charms, was the 
 first to reproach her, on the slightest appearance 
 of gaiety or liveliness in her conduct, with a 
 desire to attract and captivate, and a diminution 
 of affection for him. 
 
 This disposition, brought into action from the 
 excitement produced by two or three bottles of 
 wine, which he was in the daily habit of swallow- 
 ing, was what she had to battle ; and her greatest 
 anxiety in the management of her bear, was 
 that he should dance amiably before company ; 
 an anxiety, however, which was not always 
 crowned with the most perfect success. 
 
 The dinner, which of course exhibited luxury 
 in every possible shape, passed off as dinners ge- 
 nerally do, and Mrs. Harbottle having exchanged 
 looks with Lady Frances, and having heard that 
 significant noise from her ladyship's lips, which 
 one of my fair— -my fairest — friends, once de- 
 
THE parson''s daughter. 49 
 
 scribed to me as something between a negative 
 and an affirmative, difficult to be explained, 
 but easily to be understood, gave or rather re- 
 peated the signal for moving, and the ladies 
 retired, nothing having occurred during the 
 whole of the banquet worthy of mention or 
 memorandum. 
 
 Sheringham active and gallant, stood door 
 in hand as the fair procession quitted the 
 dining-room, and liaving lingered in vain in 
 the hope of one glance, however transient, from 
 Emma, was returning to his seat, when Har- 
 bottle cried out suddenly — 
 
 " Sheringham, stop — stop, just where you 
 are for one moment — look at that sideboard — 
 the light falls just right upon it — did you 
 ever see so handsome a sideboard as that — that 
 cost me five hundred and seventy guineas — 
 Morel made it for George the Fourth, but they 
 split about the price." 
 
 " It is extremely handsome," said Shering- 
 ham. 
 
 " You may say that, Master Captain," ex- 
 ultingly replied the host turning from the 
 contemplation of the costly piece of furni- 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 ture, with an expression of countenance which 
 seemed to say— now 1 have done it. 
 
 And then he proceeded to expatiate upon the 
 absurdity of economy, and the nonsense of car- 
 ing for twenty pounds one way or another : from 
 which he glanced to his kennel and his dogs, 
 which were the finest in England let the others 
 be where they might ; and then his hunters, and 
 his hacks, and so on through every branch of 
 his establishment, moistening his egotism most 
 liberally with huge libations of claret, which 
 he periodically pronounced to be " exquisite,'' 
 " splendid," and " incomparable." 
 
 There is an indescribable sympathy in our 
 nature which I have before endeavoured feebly 
 I fear to describe, which brings individuals more 
 rapidly acquainted with each other in some 
 cases than in others. It was clear that Charles 
 Harvey and Frederick Sheringham were des- 
 tined to be friends; in the ordinary inter- 
 changes of sentiment and opinions, they mutu- 
 ally expressed congenial ideas and feelings, upon 
 the subjects which they cursorily discussed; and 
 when, after a tedious sitting and swallowing, 
 which however obsolete elsewhere, were in full 
 
THE parson's daughter. 51 
 
 force at Binford Hall, they quitted the dinner 
 table, either of them was satisfied that the 
 other was a remarkably agreeable person. 
 
 In the drawing. room were the ladies — if not 
 quite reduced to the state of the fair sleepers of 
 the American boarding-house, so graphically 
 described by Mrs. Trollope — at least languish- 
 ing in the last stage of ennui. Miss Eaglefield 
 and Miss Oliphant were not companions for Lady 
 Frances, nor, indeed, could Mrs. Harbottle her- 
 self pretend to refer to the habits and usages 
 of a great grandfather, to which relation of her 
 own Lady Frances was much accustomed to 
 allude ; and, therefore, they sat patient listeners 
 to the very agreeable conversation of the lady 
 of fashion, although all she said sounded to their 
 " unaccustomed ears" very much like the fairy 
 tales, and the histories which she recounted of 
 what w^as actually going on in London, were deli- 
 vered in a phraseology to them almost as unintel- 
 ligible as the inscrutable language of Mada- 
 gascar or the blasphemous absurdities of the 
 " unknown tongues." 
 
 There had been music — that is to say Emma 
 Lovell had been playing the harp — and had 
 been rewarded with " very pretty upon my 
 d2 
 
52 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 word," by Lady Frances, who did not add — 
 " considering" — but looked it as expressively 
 as if she had spoken. — The harp stood where 
 Emma had left it, but before Sheringham had 
 been able to get away from the " sublime port 
 and splendid claret," of his magnificent host, 
 she that " loved to touch it '' had betaken 
 herself to her paternal roof." — " Again baffled, 
 — thought Frederick, — does she do this on pur- 
 pose, or is there a fate in it." 
 
 " Well, Lady Frances," said Harbottle, " did 
 you think we were lost ? I know with you 
 fine folks in London wine is out of fashion, — 
 never out of fashion with me, at least in my 
 own house, where 1 know what I am drinking 
 — pure, pure unadulterated wine — import it all 
 myself — for as I say to Mrs. Harbottle, what 
 can it signify, a little more expense to secure what 
 is truly good— of course with people of fashion 
 and that sort of persons who live from hand to 
 mouth, a retail wine merchant is the only man 
 — but not with me — this is very handsome 
 Dresden, Lady Frances," continued he, helping 
 himself to some coffee, " I got this a bargain. 
 Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 *' I don't like Dresden clianey^'' said Lady 
 
THE parson's daughter. 53 
 
 Frances, " my poor grandfather had some 
 very fine, which I believe my brother Pevensey 
 has now; but I never had a taste for it." 
 
 " What say you to a little Ecarte,"" said tlie 
 master of the house. " Fanny, my dear, see 
 if you can make up a set or two ; they won't 
 play high, Lady Frances ; you need not be 
 afraid.'' 
 
 '• I seldom play cards," said her ladyship, 
 who could have eaten the man alive, for his 
 kind consideration in moderating the scale of 
 his play to her means. 
 
 '' Oh, then by Jove ! Fll show you the 
 house ;" said Harbottle. 
 
 " Is not it late, dear," asked his lady; who 
 was convinced that exhibiting the interior of a 
 modern villa, by way of sight, to a native-born 
 of Grimsberry Castle, was but a bad way of en- 
 tertaining her ladyship, and hoped to divert her 
 husband from his attentions and save her visitor 
 the trouble of mounting narrow staircases to peep 
 into pigeon-holes, and traversing long passages 
 to admire the arrangements of neatly papered 
 bed-chambers and dressing-rooms. 
 
 " Late — no — what do you mean by late .'^" 
 said Karbottle ; " you did not discover how 
 
54 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 late it was, till we came to you, and all at once 
 you find out how late it is." 
 
 " My dear Harbottle,'' said Harvey, '' it is 
 past twelve, and one should not begin a voyage 
 of discovery at such an hour as this." 
 
 "As she likes,"' said Harbottle, looking ex- 
 tremely angry; "have your own way — of 
 course, if Fanny says one thing and I say 
 another, you are the man to side with her, that's 
 natural." 
 
 It was clear to Mrs. Harbottle that her bear 
 had done dancing for that night, and, therefore, 
 she felt it best to leave him to himself, just 
 giving Harvey such a look as might induce 
 him to adopt a similar course to that which 
 she intended to follow— namely, to say nothing 
 more. 
 
 " Well, Lady Frances," said the Squire, 
 *• Fm not to shew you my house to night, 
 that's clear —so we will postpone it till some 
 better opportunity." 
 
 Hereabouts entered two or three servants 
 with trays and other implements indicative of 
 supper — crowds of glasses congregated upon 
 vast salvers, surrounding bottles of divers 
 dimensions. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 55 
 
 " Frederick," said Lady Frances, "it is 
 getting late, had you not better see— eh — " 
 
 " Oh, the carriage is ordered," said Har- 
 bottle ; ''we always send our friends home — 
 but then all we ask is our own time — if we find 
 the carriage, we must have the company ; and so 
 my lady, your ladyship must have some supper 
 and something hot after. I've got some rum in 
 this room as old — aye, as old as you are, I dare 
 say — capital stuff, four and twenty shillings a 
 bottle. Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 Rum! old as herself! the combination was 
 most revolting, and if the pattering rain against 
 the windows had not given powerful evidence 
 of the sort of night it was, her ladyship would 
 instantly have set out on her pilgrimage to 
 Dale Cottage, and left the Caliban of the vil- 
 lage to the full enjoyment of his abominable 
 practices. Her ladyship with difficulty kept 
 her temper, and the manner in which she re- 
 fused " any thing," was not so gracious as her 
 manners generally were. 
 
 Sheringham, himself, did not at all dislike the 
 sort of life that was opening upon him — his 
 feelings were not so sensitive, nor were his 
 nerves so delicate as his mother's ; he enjoyed 
 
56 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 the absurdities of Harbottle, without being 
 personally annoyed by his gaucherie, and in 
 the conversation of his new friend, Harvey, who 
 had been speaking liberally and loudly in praise 
 of Miss Lovell, anticipated much pleasure and 
 amusement in a circle which, as far as he could 
 judge, his right honourable parent was not very 
 likely to enter more frequently than necessary. 
 
 The party, excepting Lady Frances and Mrs. 
 Harbottle, who remained conversing with her 
 visitor, crowded round the little well-stored 
 table, and the elderly ladies, who thought, in 
 spite of Lady Frances's dictum against suppers, 
 that when they were at Rome they should do 
 as Rome does, disposed of a very considerable 
 quantity of cold fowl, tongue, jelly, cream, and 
 other combustibles, as Mr. Harbottle, in his jo- 
 cose manner, facetiously called them, and did 
 not hesitate to qualify the varied meal with cer- 
 tain potations of Mr. Harbottle's own "brewing,'"* 
 the fo7id of which, was the rum coeval with her 
 ladyship, whose feelings were more than ever 
 outraged, when her tormentor returned to the 
 charge about the rum, and added, " I know 
 the year when it was made, my lady, and I 
 have got a peerage in the library ; to-morrow 
 
THE parson's DAUGIITRU. 57 
 
 ril compare notes— that peerage is the deuce, 
 my lady, there we do catch you." 
 
 " I believe the peerages are vastly incorrect 
 as to dates,"" replied her ladyship. 
 
 It was not until past one, that Harbottle 
 would hear of the departure of his visitors; 
 then, he permitted the bell to be rung and the 
 carriage ordered ; then came the bustle of pre- 
 paration, and Harvey officiated in supporting 
 Miss Oliphant, while Sheringham performed 
 the same kind office to ^liss Eaglefield. Har- 
 bottle, himself, affecting great gravity and 
 steadiness, (scarce able to stand,) gave his arm 
 to her ladyship, who took leave of Mrs. Har- 
 bottle with mingled feelings of humanit}^ and 
 compassion, and was conducted by her beau, 
 who, wound up all his performances of the 
 evening, and eternally sealed his doom in the 
 estimation of his right honourable visitor, by 
 whispering familiarly/ to her, as they crossed the 
 hall, — " 1 say, don't you go and offer my ser- 
 vants any money for taking you home ; they 
 have plenty of wages and plenty to eat and to 
 drink — and 1 beg you won't— its no use having 
 my horses out at night, if you are to pay for 
 them." 
 
 D 3 
 
58 THE parson''s daughter. 
 
 To describe the look Lady Frances gave the 
 unconscious Harbottle, when he had made this 
 request, would be impossible — the die was cast. 
 She made him no answer — but involuntarily 
 drawing her arm from his, she gave a slight 
 shudder, and stept into his carriage, as she 
 resolved upon the instant, for the last time. 
 
 Sheringham followed his mother into the 
 coach, the door closed, and they drove off; 
 Harbottle saluting them with a view liallo, 
 which made the neighbouring dales and rocks 
 to echo. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 59 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Ambition ! thou art like the pelican, 
 The parent of a numerous race of cares, 
 Which prey upon the breast that gives them birth." 
 
 Bellers. 
 
 '' That's a miglity agreeable gentleman we 
 dined with yesterday,'' said Lady Frances to 
 her son, as she dropped a lump of sugar into 
 her tea cup at breakfast the next morning ; 
 '^ Why Frederick, lie is absolutely a mon- 
 ster." 
 
 " I am inclined to think with you." said her 
 ladyship's son, " but according to the proverb 
 which the elderly ladies last night quoted, and 
 which suggests doing at Rome what Rome does, 
 I think we may as well live upon terms of 
 
60 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 civility with him, so long as we are liis neigh- 
 bours." 
 
 " Of civility, decidedly," replied Lady 
 Frances, '^ but not of intimacy — one is civil to 
 a footman ; but I never yet saw any human 
 being with whom, I am sure, I never could 
 be intimate, till I made the acquaintance of 
 Mr. Harbottle ; and as for his wife, why 
 really—" 
 
 " Oh, my dear mother !" interrupted Frede- 
 rick, " not a word against the wife — she is one 
 of the most interesting specimens of patient 
 suffering I ever beheld." 
 
 " I admit that there is a sort of amiable at- 
 tention in her manner," said her ladyship, 
 " which gives the idea of her being amazingly 
 interested in whatever one talks to her about ; 
 but then there is something about her which 
 makes her to me very unsatisfactory ; that Miss 
 Lovell, I admit, is pretty." 
 
 " Beautiful !" exclaimed Frederick. 
 
 '• No, not that,'''' said Lady Frances, " pretty 
 is the word — a delicate skin, blue eyes, and light 
 hair, have their merits ; but there again the 
 manner is wanting — the air of a gentlewoman, 
 she has not a notion of it — she sneaks about a 
 
THE paiison''s daughter. 61 
 
 room, as if she were ashamed of herslef, and 
 gets out of one's presence as if she had com- 
 mitted some heinous offence. 
 
 " Rely upon it," said Frederick, " if Emma 
 Lovell were seen and known, she would catch 
 half the hearts in London — the reserve and cold- 
 ness which strike you as (/aiicherie, are to me 
 the most attractive points about her. I hate 
 the universal amiability of misses, who smile 
 alike on all around — give me something to win, 
 and something worthy to be won." 
 
 " Now my dear Frederick,''' said Lady 
 Frances, V "all I ask of you, is to do me the 
 favour not to fall in love witli any thing here ; 
 Binford is not the emporium at which 1 should 
 like you to barter your heart — a little harmless 
 flirtation with Mrs. Harbottle I do not inter- 
 dict, and I dare say she will be vastly happy to 
 enlist you as her gooseberry-picker, but for 
 mercy's sake do not commit yourself in anv 
 serious engagement." 
 
 " It strikes me that my young friend Mr. 
 Harvey already holds the appointment you 
 design for me, in INIrs. Harbottle's establish- 
 ment." 
 
 " There we differ," said her ladyshij) ; " that 
 
62 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 Mr. Harvey, if I am not mistaken, holds a 
 place much nearer her heart — a gooseberry- 
 picker ought neither to be so young nor so 
 handsome as Mr. Harvey — his duty is to 
 hover about, to watch his patroness's wants and 
 wishes; escort her, if she require it, to the 
 supper room, make way for her and secure a 
 place for her, stay by her, until somebody 
 comes up with whom she wishes to flirt, and 
 then withdraw and give his place to that person ; 
 to be constantly on the qui vive, to take off the 
 attention of any young protegee, who may be 
 rather de trop, and even go the length of 
 dancing with the protegee^ if necessary ; to hunt 
 up his patroness's shawls ; call up her carriage, 
 and if required go out shooting or sailing with 
 her husband, (as the case may be,) on the shortest 
 notice — these and a hundred less important du- 
 ties fall to the share of the gooseberry-picker ; 
 but Mr. Harvey's manner to Mrs. Harbottle, 
 has much more of empressement about it than 
 is either required or encouraged in that particu- 
 lar capacity." 
 
 Scarcely had her ladyship given her defini- 
 tion of the duties of the lady's staff oflicer, when 
 a noise of bells ringing, dogs barking, horses 
 
THE parson's daughter. 63 
 
 pfancing, and wheels grinding the gravel, 
 announced an arrival. It was Harbottle himself 
 — who entered, followed by Lady Frances's 
 footman, bearing a huge basket of fruit. Pines, 
 peaches, grapes, and all the other best products 
 of his houses. 
 
 " How d'ye do, my lady P""* said Harbottle, 
 '' I have brought ye some fruit my lady — how 
 d'ye do ? Not the worse for raking — my poor 
 wife has got a sad head-ache — I never have a 
 head-ache, ha ! lia ! ha ! — She is a delicate 
 plant— I have had the best advice in the 
 world for her every where, Paris, Rome, 
 Naples, and Vienna — all one to me where I am 
 — money is money, and I can always have my 
 money's w^orth — these are magnificent grapes, 
 ar'nt they — I calculate they cost me at least fi ve- 
 and-twenty shillings a pound ; but as I say, 
 what does it signify ? — Well, Frederick, what 
 are you for to-day .^" 
 
 " A little quiet," said Frederick, " I have 
 some letters to write, and I have promised more- 
 over to call at the Parsonage." 
 
 ** Oh, oh !" said Harbottle, with a laugh that 
 was loud and harsh enough to make the window 
 glass vibrate, " that's it — I know it— I saw it — 
 
6*4 THE PARSON^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I said to Mrs. H., I smelt a rat — Emma Lovell 
 has made a hole in Fred. Sheringham's heart — 
 ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Fred. Sheringham !" muttered Lady Fran- 
 ces. 
 
 " She's a charming girl, and a good girl, 
 but poor— not fifty pounds in the world, I be- 
 lieve, beyond the living, which, considering you 
 have nothing yourself is a bit of a drawback." 
 
 Lady Frances felt herself turning alternately 
 crimson and white, to think that she had so fallen 
 from her high estate as to hear a stranger in her 
 own house, calling her son Fred., discussing the 
 merits of an alliance with Miss Lovell, and 
 commiserating his poverty as the bar to its 
 completion. 
 
 " I am quite sure, Mr. Harbottle,'' said her 
 ladyship, '• that a son of mine will never incon- 
 venience the young lady by his persecutions." 
 
 *•' Oh, she likes him amazingly," said Har- 
 bottle, these women have a sort of freemasonry 
 of their own ; and the only difference between 
 their craft and ours is, tliat they see no use in a 
 secret, if they mayn't tell it, and so she told my 
 wife what an agreeable man she thought Fred., 
 and my wife told me — ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
THE parson's daughter. 65 
 
 " Fred., as you call him, sir," said her lady- 
 ship, " is, I am sure, highly flattered by the in- 
 formation." 
 
 " And uncommon lucky in securing my wife's 
 friendship too,"" interrupted Harbottle ; "you 
 may rely upon it — though I dare say you 
 know enough of such things without my tell- 
 ing — that a female friend will contribute more 
 to a lover's success in a month than all his own 
 labour and pains in a year without her — that's 
 the way I got Mrs. H " 
 
 " I am sure Mr. Harbottle,*" said Lady 
 Frances, " we are greatly indebted to you."*' 
 
 " / am, I sincerely admit," said Frederick. 
 '• You will find her up at lunch at the Hall," 
 continued Harbottle, " and remember, faint 
 heart never won fair lady ; and for all she 
 does seem so distant and reserved, when she 
 does take a fancy she is a most affectionate 
 creature— ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 '' Is she in the habit of taking fancies .'^" said 
 Lady Frances, who devoutly wished her fami- 
 liar friend at the bottom of one of his own fish- 
 ponds. 
 
 *' No, no, come hang it Lady Frances," said 
 Harbottle, " you are too sharp upon me — what 
 
66 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 I mean to say is, that I never in my life saw 
 one of those quiet, silent girls — iced beauties, as 
 Mrs. H. calls them, who when she did thaw was 
 not the most — ^" 
 
 " My dear Mr. Harbottle,'' said Frederick, 
 " do talk of something else ; my mother is in 
 an agony at the bare supposition of my acting 
 upon your advice." 
 
 " Agony," said Harbottle, " why my lady, 
 I think it would be a nice match enough— with 
 nothing on either side, you know, they can't 
 reproach one another, eh ? — Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Indeed, sir," said Lady Frances, drawing 
 herself up into a graceful attitude, " these are 
 subjects which one does not usually discuss in 
 this manner. I have no fear that my son with 
 the feelings and principles which I know him to 
 possess, will ever do any thing which will bring 
 sorrow upcm me, or discredit upon himself; 
 we are, however, yet such perfect strangers, 
 that the very conversation of this morning 
 repeated, as it may be, at luncheon, does not 
 appear to me to be quite prudent — agreeable I 
 am quite sure it is not." 
 
 '' Don't be angry Lady Frances," said Har- 
 
THE PARSON''s daughter. 6? 
 
 bottle, with as much ease and familiarity as 
 if he had known her for twenty years. " I 
 dare say old Lovell ^vould think twice before 
 he let his daughter marry a man without 
 money. I was only joking about that ; but I 
 said what I will say again, that she is a charm- 
 ing girl.*" 
 
 The conversation here took a more general 
 turn, and the praises of Emma Lovell, which 
 sounded, even in Harbottle's harsh voice like 
 music to Frederick's ears, gave place to a 
 conversation infinitely less interesting to Fre- 
 derick, and infinitely more mortifying to his 
 mother. 
 
 " I am going over,"*' said Harbottle, " to the 
 fifteenth and last days' sale at Macedoine Hall, 
 where I have made a good many purchases, and 
 I declare to you my lady T am glad the sale is 
 so nearly over, for I know I should go on mak- 
 ing purchases to the end of the chapter — Ha ! 
 ha ! ha !" 
 
 '* 'Tis a fine place,' said her ladyship ; "poor 
 dear Lord Errington, he was an agreeable per- 
 son enough." 
 
 " I dare say he was, my lady," replied Har- 
 
68 THE pahson's daughter. 
 
 bottle, '' I never had the honour of his acquaint- 
 ance — he and my lady cut me and mine ; so I 
 waited." 
 
 Frederick understood enough of this aiFair 
 between the families, and short as his acquaint- 
 ance had been with Binford, had been illu- 
 minated in this particular by his frined Harvey, 
 who had admitted to him in a sotto voce conver- 
 sation after dinner, that Harbottle, beyond the 
 mere pleasure of possessing divers and sundry 
 articles belonging to the late Lord Errington, 
 enjoyed a still greater delight in buying things 
 out of a house for money, into which house he 
 never had been admitted until by a five shilling 
 catalogue to view the " effects.'" 
 
 " Pray,"' said Lady Frances, " has Lady 
 Errington any family .?" 
 
 '« Three daughters,'' said Harbottle, *' no 
 great beauties ; they all take after their father — 
 Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Melancholy for themselves, poor dears, but 
 very satisfactory to their parents," said Lady 
 Frances ; '' and Lady Errington, who was she, 
 I quite forget.^" 
 
 " Upon my word I don't think I ever heard," 
 said Harbottle. " It was the same as in my 
 
THE parson's daughter. 69 
 
 case, I believe, the money was all on the man'*s 
 side." 
 
 " And whcit are you going to buy to-day, sir.?" 
 said Lady Frances. 
 
 ^' I really don't know," replied the Squire. 
 
 " What did you buy yesterday .?" said Fre- 
 derick. 
 
 *' Oh, ril show you," said Harbottle, pulling 
 out of his pocket a huge crumpled catalogue, 
 collated and concocted by that prince of all 
 auctioneers, Mr. George Robins ; — " here is 
 what I bought yesterday." 
 
 " Lot 387- — Two gold dragons with silver 
 tails and ameihyst eyes ; with moveable heads ; 
 for burning pastiles." 
 
 " For those I gave two hundred and forty 
 guineas — cheap at the money. His Lordship 
 paid six hundred pounds for them at Storr and 
 Mortimer's." 
 
 " Extraordinary bargains," said Lady Frances. 
 
 " Then," said the Squire—" Lot 594.— A 
 gold duck (the Errington crest), with music 
 inside, and mechanism to move it, containing 
 four beautifully cut glass scent bottles. I got 
 that," continued he, " for eighty-nine pounds 
 — the old Countess of Bromsgrove sat opposite 
 
70 
 
 to me and bid up to eighty-five, but I would 
 have had it if she had gone on till midnight, eh ? 
 Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 "It is a useful article," said Frederick 
 smilingly. 
 
 " That's not it," said Harbottle, " I did not 
 want either the duck or the bottles ; but to be 
 beat by an old dowager countess with a jointure 
 of not more per annum than it costs me to keep 
 my hounds, was what I could not stand — Ha ! 
 ha! ha!" 
 
 Lady Frances shuddered again just percept- 
 ibly. 
 
 ''Then my Lady," said Harbottle, "there 
 was lot 2538, 47th in the thirteenth day's sale. 
 ' A cedar bagatelle board, silver gilt clamps and 
 bindings, lined with purple Genoa velvet on 
 silver tripod stand, supported by gold ducks, 
 silver balls and ivory cues, complete.' That 
 was my last hit — got it home this morning. 
 The silver balls won't run upon the velvet, 
 and the ivory cues split the first blow Fanny 
 made : — but, no matter, there it is — and so I 
 must be off for the last day — adieu my lady. 
 Sheringham, remember, luncheon at half past 
 one — you know your way — and as for your lady- 
 
T«E PARSONS DAUGHTER. /I 
 
 ship, just treat us as old friends— don't stand 
 upon ceremony with us, you'll find us always 
 the same, old lady — no stiffness — no finery — 
 good day — good day. — Ha ! ha ! ha I" 
 
 And so he made his exit. 
 
 " Ceremony with the Harbottles'' thought her 
 ladyship — '' old lady !"' — " always the same" — 
 " no finery" — '' mercy on me, what notions the 
 people have ; as if money could purchase what 
 they most stand in need of." And after this re- 
 flection her ladyship proceeded to lecture her son 
 upon the necessity of taking care that he neither 
 made a fool of himself, nor was made a fool of 
 by the Parson's daughter. She then retired to 
 her boudoir to write manifold sheets of sen- 
 timent to divers and sundry of her noble friends, 
 with whom still intending to make her au- 
 tumnal visitations, (which she did with an archi- 
 diaconal regularity) to their various country 
 houses she as regularly corresponded, and Fre- 
 derick proceeded on the back of his pony to 
 Binford Hall, for the express purpose of meet- 
 ing the said Parson's daughter at luncheon. 
 
72 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " A murderous guilt shews not itself more soon, 
 Than love that would seem hid." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The monotony of a country life, as those 
 who have tried it must feel, is, of all things in 
 the world the most delightful : if that can be 
 called monotony which although each day's 
 arrangement may be the same^ presents a con- 
 tinued variety of minor incidents springing out 
 of the general order of things. 
 
 We have just announced the first luncheon at 
 Binford, at which were assembled the lady of 
 the house, Miss Lovell, Mr. Harvey, and Cap- 
 tain Sheringham. It proved so agreeable, that 
 
THE parson's daughter. ^3 
 
 an engagement was made to meet on the mor- 
 es o 
 
 row at the same hour — from that morrow and 
 that luncheon grew another, until, for ten or 
 twelve days consecutively, these " creatures of 
 habif passed their mornings together, except- 
 ing on the two Sundays, which intervened. 
 
 It was on the second Monday of this agree- 
 able association, (for the Squire was during the 
 day actively employed in some of those in- 
 vigorating sports, which do so much honour to 
 our countrymen,) that when the party broke up 
 to dress for dinner (for after the luncheon came 
 a drive ; and after the return from the drive, a 
 walk in the garden ; and after that, the separa- 
 tion for the day,) Emma Lovell found herself, 
 for the first time, too late for her father's 
 dinner; and Mrs. Harbottle felt annoyed beyond 
 measure, that she could not venture so far to 
 infringe upon the authority of her lord and 
 master, as to invite Sheringham to join their 
 family party. 
 
 A pony pha?ton was ready to take Miss Lovell 
 home, but strange to say, although she was late 
 — she, the distant, timid, and retiring Emma, 
 declared a preference for walking ; and in reply 
 to her fair friend's most reasonable statement 
 
 VOL. I. 12 
 
74 THE parson's daughter, 
 
 as to the greater expedition of the carriage, 
 declared that as she was too late for papa, it 
 could not be helped, and as he must have dined 
 long before, a few minutes one way or the other, 
 could make no difference. Frederick's arm was 
 therefore accepted, and Mrs. Harbottle with 
 Charles Harvey for her supporter having cha- 
 peroned Emma to the lodges, the gallant son 
 of Neptune, (and of Lady Frances Sheringham,) 
 escorted her through the quiet village of Bin- 
 ford to the Parsonage; where he safely deposited 
 his divinity at the door of the divine. 
 
 " I think," said Mrs. Harbottle as they were 
 walking homewards, to Charles, with whom she 
 had grown into a habit of confidence ; * ' our 
 new neighbour and our fair friend seem to sym- 
 pathize amazingly." 
 
 "So do I," said Harvey, " how animated 
 she has grown — those mild blue eyes upon 
 which a man fancied he might look with impu- 
 nity, are now lighted up into a fire and bril- 
 liancy hitherto imperceptible. I suppose, like 
 the " snow on Jura's steep," of which Moore so 
 sweetly sings, the ray has beamed, whose touch 
 is fire; and your iced beauty is about to 
 melt." 
 
THE pahson's daughter. 7^ 
 
 " Not into tears, I hope," said Mrs. Har- 
 bottle ? — '' I know no human being for whom I 
 have a higher regard than I have for Emma 
 Lovell— and fervently do I hope and pray that she 
 will think, before she concludes on such a step as 
 marriage. A momentary decision involves the 
 happiness or misery of a whole existence. He 
 seems amiable, high spirited, and kind heart- 
 ed; extremely well-mannered, very agreeable, 
 and generally accomplished ; but it requires 
 time and experience to study the character of 
 the man who for ever and aye, is to have the 
 controul, the guidance, and devotion of one's 
 whole life and conduct, and with whom at all 
 times and all seasons, and under all circum- 
 stances a woman is to be linked." 
 
 *' Why, Fanny," said Charles Harvey, (who 
 sometimes went the length of calling her by her 
 Christian name,) '' you have all on a sudden 
 turned lecturer; and as lecturers often do, preach 
 what you do not practice — how long did you 
 know Harbottle before you married him /" 
 
 "Charles, Charles," said Mrs. Harbottle, 
 pressing the arm she leant upon, as if to check the 
 turn the conversation was taking, " do not 
 quote my case as an example for any body else. 
 
76 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 I have every reason to be happy with my 
 husband — wealth, and all indulgences that he 
 can afford me, are at my command — but our 
 marriage was one which, God forbid I ever 
 should offer as a precedent for the guidance of 
 others. He was rich, and appeared good 
 humoured and lively, and was a great favourite 
 with my father. I was a child when we married, 
 and dutifully obeyed that father's command. I 
 made his happiness, and — "" 
 
 " Well,'' said Charles, " and — " 
 " — Secured my own," continued she, after a 
 pause. " I ought to be happy, I am happy— 
 but — don't misunderstand me — it is a kind of 
 happiness which would not gratify the better 
 regulated mind of Emma Lovell, superior as she 
 is to me in every thing. — All I desire is within 
 my reach, nothing that I express a wish for, is 
 denied me, but as you, who live with us so 
 much, must see and feel, there are times when 
 the peculiarities of His temper and character 
 create pain, and sorrow, and anxiety for me ; 
 but he intends well and kindly, and — what I 
 mean — and 1 am sure I can scarcely tell how we 
 havebeen led into this strain of conversation — I — 
 that is — in short — to Emma Lovell, such a match 
 
THE PARSON S DAUGHTER. 7l 
 
 would be misery. She shrinks from the bois- 
 terous mirth in which he delights ; she is 
 unambitious, and would, I am sure, without 
 talking romance, prefer a cottage, with the 
 man she could really love and esteem, to 
 a palace with a being like — like — I mean a 
 being of an uncertain character, whose pursuits 
 were not congenial with her own, and whose 
 temper, influenced by habit, was not to be de- 
 pended upon. — In short, I think — I think that 
 — Sheringham appears to have made such an 
 impression upon her, that if you — are anxious — 
 not — to lose — her, you had — better be on the 
 alert." 
 
 "- 1 !" said Harvey, " I— I— would not — 
 my — " He said no more; — but he felt that 
 he would have given the world to speak : his 
 tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, his cheek 
 flushed, and his heart beat, and they walked 
 on ; and Fanny, not seeking to break the 
 silence, kept her eyes upon the ground, and, 
 with an air of gaiety which a starting tear be- 
 lied, struck up the grass with her parasol, as 
 they passed along, by way of seeming thought- 
 less. 
 
 The first dinner bell sounded as they reached 
 
78 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the door of ttie house — but the silence remained 
 unbroken. Fanny had surely disclosed more of 
 herself and her feelings, in describing the feelings 
 of her friend, than she had ever disclosed before 
 to Harvey, or even intended to disclose then. 
 He, on the other hand, had declared in brief, 
 but striking terms, his total indifference towards 
 Emma Lovell, with a devoted affection for 
 whom, Harbottle, was fond of charging him. 
 
 They walked forwards to the Hall door, still 
 without speaking ; and whenthey arrived there, 
 it seemed as if their silence had been so long 
 protracted, that any effort to get up a new con- 
 versation would be vain. They reached the 
 steps — and having in a hurried manner with- 
 drawn her arm from that of Charles, Mrs. Har- 
 bottle ran hastily into the house, without utter- 
 ing a syllable, or even so much as looking at 
 her companion. 
 
 Harvey went to his room, to dress for dinner; 
 but whether on his head or his feet, was to him 
 a matter of uncertainty ; he felt as if he were in 
 a dream, or had just awakened from one. Little 
 had been said in his walk with Mrs. Harbottle, — 
 but never was the eloquence of silence more 
 powerful ; — yet what had happened.^ After all. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 7^ 
 
 she had spoken only interestedly ' for others — 
 she had admitted the kindness and affection of 
 her husband; in fact, she had expressed nothing 
 but an anxious desire that George should not 
 refer to hei\ as an example for other girls to 
 follow, in their decisions upon matrimony. 
 
 Fanny's sensations were far different from 
 Harvey's. With a heart and mind full of the 
 highest principle and imbued with the strong- 
 est feelings of the purest honour, she felt con- 
 scious that in the confidence of friendship which 
 she entertained for him, she had let slip, for the 
 first time in her life, to man, the secret, that 
 with all " appliances and means to boot,"" her 
 happiness was not complete — that in her hus- 
 band she vainly sought for the companion and 
 friend — and that, however strongly bound by 
 religion and duty to "love, honour, and obey" 
 him, she hopelessly, yet constantly, endeavoured 
 to attach him to herself by gentler ties than 
 those which duty prescribes, and make him 
 love her, for qualities which she possessed, 
 and of which, without vanity, she knew the 
 value, but which every day's experience con- 
 vinced her, he could not justly appreciate. 
 
 It is true that Emma Lovell possessed this se- 
 
80 THE parson's DAUGHTER. 
 
 cret of her heart; for she was in her entire 
 confidence ; and to Emma Lovell she had often 
 urged the merits of Charles Harvey, whose 
 mind, and temper, and disposition, and charac- 
 ter, she used constantly to assure her, were 
 formed to make her happy ; and in the frequent 
 repetition of his praise, she was sincere and 
 disinterested beyond suspicion : while Har- 
 vey, on the other hand, fascinated by the 
 conversation and society of Mrs. Harbottle, 
 saw in her, only the charming companion and 
 the amiable friend, without a thought or wish 
 which could unpleasantly interfere with the re- 
 collection that she was the wife of his kind yet 
 boisterous host, whose unbounded hospitality 
 he constantly eulogized, and whose honour 
 he would at any hour have vindicated with 
 his life. 
 
 Up to the period of the conversation just 
 recorded, these had been his sentiments, these 
 his opinions ; but one of the moments which de- 
 cide the fate of woman, and man too, had ar- 
 rived, and his thoughts took a new turn. The 
 mirror of his mind no longer reflected Har- 
 bottle as the thoughtless, rattling, open-hearted 
 Squire ; he saw him the very contrast of tender- 
 
THE parson's daughter. 81 
 
 ness and gentleness ; he beheld him harsh, 
 coarse, vain of his wealth, and violent in his 
 temper; his accomplishments he reduced to 
 two — hard drinking and hard riding : on these 
 he piqued himself, and by alternating his adop-. 
 tion of them, either drank till he grew, first 
 peevish and then passionate, or rode till he was 
 fatigued to death, and slept away the evening 
 on one of his crimson velvet sofas, the beau-ideal 
 of a tired post-boy. Add to this, that the 
 leading characteristics of his mind, beyond the 
 vanity of riches, were a sweeping suspicion of 
 female virtue, and a splendid contempt for female 
 intellect, and Harvey could no longer hesitate 
 in deciding that he had all along been mistaken, 
 and that Fanny must be, and indeed was — 
 a miserable woman. 
 
 And so slie was — but rendered less miserable 
 by the endurance of the ills which actually sur- 
 rounded her, than by her indiscreet confession 
 of them to Charles. Her manner while dress- 
 ing, was so wild, and her language so incoherent, 
 that her maid endeavoured to persuade her not 
 to go down to dinner ; for well trained souhrettes 
 have a vast dread of those incoherencies in lan- 
 guage which temporary excitement sometimes 
 e3 
 
82 
 
 produces ; inasmuch as they know that ladies 
 occasionally give grounds for great suspicion or 
 alarm, by uttering words which in fact have no 
 meaning, but which, coupled with passing 
 events, by interested people, may really place 
 them in very awkward situations. Mrs. Har- 
 bottle, however, struggled with her feelings, 
 and came into the drawing-room before dinner 
 looking as lovely and as calm as if nothing 
 beyond the ordinary events of the day had 
 occurred. 
 
 Harvey ""s embarrassment was more visible • 
 unpractised in the art of lady-killing, and 
 wholly unskilled in the hypocrisy so essential 
 to support the double character which he seemed 
 most involuntarily destined to play, he felt a 
 necessity for restraint which he had never ex- 
 perienced in that house before. Fanny had 
 given him her confidence; she had trusted more 
 to him than she had ever yet trusted to man. 
 He felt that if he sat down by her, as he 
 was wont to do, and joked with her upon 
 the common occurrences of the day, she might 
 think him either devoid of sympathy in her 
 unhappiness, or presuming upon the favour 
 she had unquestionably shewn him : while, if he 
 
THE parson's daughter. 83 
 
 assumed a colder and more distant manner, 
 she might fancy him ungrateful for her con- 
 fidence, or, as the friend of her husband, 
 outraged by the candour of her negative ad- 
 missions. 
 
 Mrs. Harbottle saw his difficulty, and did 
 not suffer him for a moment to hesitate as to 
 the course he was to pursue with regard to her. 
 She spoke to him as if nothing had been said, 
 appeared to have forgotten all that had passed, 
 and took upon herself to detail the proceed- 
 ings of the morning to the Squire, who brought 
 home to dine with him, two of his favourite 
 neighbours, much in the habit of bowing the 
 knee at his shrine, and remaining with him 
 till two or three o'clock in the morning, in the 
 enjoyment of what are called the pleasures of 
 conviviality. — So far all went well. . 
 
 " Master Charles," said the Squire, after 
 Mrs. Harbottle had retired from the dinner 
 table, " the wine is with you ; why you seem 
 squeamish to-day — drink, man — drink; that's 
 my own importation, stands me in twelve and 
 sixpence a bottle, but what does that matter — 
 what's money made for, as I say, but to circu- 
 late ? Come, fill a bumper. Gad, I suspect 
 
84 THE parson'^ daughter. 
 
 he's in love, gentlemen — upset by a pair of blue 
 eyes. I know the secret : our Parson's daughter 
 here, has picked up a London lover, who is 
 going to snap her up from Charles, and he is 
 down-hearted about it. Is not that it, Charles ? 
 Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 To describe the horror which this appeal 
 excited in poor Charles, whose heart was burst- 
 ing — who saw the bumper proffered by the 
 hand of his hospitable, hard-headed host, con- 
 scious as he was of the real cause of his low 
 spirits — is impossible. He tried to smile, but 
 the effort was vain ; and he swallowed the wine, 
 tasteless to his palate, by an almost convulsive 
 effort. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said Harbottle, "I pity 
 you with all my heart ; I hate crossings in love: 
 of course, with mz/ fortune, I knew none of 
 them — plenty of girls ready to jump at me, 
 and I took my choice, and married Fanny, be- 
 cause I liked Aer, and because the liking was 
 mutual ; and so we had no weepings and no 
 willows, but all mirth and merriment. She 
 cried a bit, I recollect, at starting, but the sun 
 soon shone, and we have been as happy as the 
 day is long, ever since. Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
THE parson's daughter. 85 
 
 The turn the conversation had taken was 
 painfully distressing to Charles, who sat listen- 
 ing to the praises of Fanny, and the often 
 reiterated eulogies on her beauty, and the still 
 oftener repeated declarations of her goodness, 
 in a state of fever, from which he was only 
 relieved by the starting of a new subject, and 
 a proposition, by the Squire, to make up a 
 fishing party for the morning. 
 
 " I think," said the Squire, " I can promise 
 you a southerly wind ; if I am wrong — for 
 money won't buy a wind, except in Lapland — 
 we must put up with a westerly one ; and, if it 
 happens to be cloudy, I care little, for my part, 
 from what quarter it blows. But then we must 
 be stirring early. Charles, you will be in your 
 glory. Mr. Harvey is a dab at killing trout ; 
 drake-fly, wasp-fly, or stone-fly, all one to him. 
 I never saw a fellow handle a rod, or land a fish 
 more knowingly." 
 
 On any previous day to this, Harvey's eyes 
 would have glistened with pleasure at the anti- 
 cipation of the promised sport ; in one instant 
 would he have responded to the call of his host, 
 and have entered into all the arcana of the art, 
 with an animation and precision most gratifying 
 
86 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 to the shades of Messrs. Walton and Cotton ; but 
 to-night, the proposition (tasteless as the prospect 
 of the diversion itself, had become), involved a 
 variety of doubts and uncertainties. He was 
 engaged to the repetition of that day''s luncheon 
 on the morrow — his absence would perhaps an- 
 noy Mrs. Harbottle — ^his promise had been 
 given. Why, then, when Harbottle, perceiving 
 his hesitation, inquired if he had any engage- 
 ment to prevent his joining them — why did he 
 not at once say that he was engaged to the 
 luncheon and subsequent drive with his wife, 
 Emma Lovell, and George Sheringham ? 
 
 It was the consciousness — it was the self- 
 accusation — it was the combination, in his own 
 disturbed mind, of the simplest and most inno- 
 cent of arrangements with other and more 
 important events, which stopped his mouth. 
 For the first time in his life, he felt a restraint 
 upon his tongue when he attempted to speak 
 the plain truth ; and for fear of exciting a 
 suspicion, when there was in fact nothing to 
 suspect, he declared himself free from all en- 
 gagements, and ready to attend them. 
 
 " Well said, Charles," cried the Squire. — 
 '' Pass the wine, gentlemen. Well send for 
 
THE parson's daughter. S^ 
 
 Hallett, and tell him to get the tackle in order, 
 and have the boat ready to take us to Swim- 
 mer's Ford, not later than five o'clock— earlier 
 if you please. We'll send dov/n breakfast to 
 the Ford, and enjoy ourselves like aldermen. — 
 Charles, go like a good fellow into the drawing 
 room, and tell Fanny our scheme, and see if 
 she has any objection to it. I think it is always 
 amiable to ask, though I do follow my own 
 vagary afterwards — ha ! ha ! ha ! — and I say, 
 Charles, tell her we are coming to coffee forth- 
 with." 
 
 Fifty times had Charles been sent on similar 
 embassies, and had Fanny been his sister, he 
 could not have more fraternally nor yet more af- 
 fectionately fulfilled his mission. To-night, he 
 felt as if there were something wrong, some- 
 thing improper, something guilty in it. He 
 went, but hesitatingly, and when he reached the 
 drawing-room, instead of feeling disappointed 
 at Fanny's absence, it was the greatest relief 
 to him to find, that (being, as one of the 
 servants said, unwell) she had already retired 
 to rest. 
 
 But then he must labour under the imputa- 
 
88 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 tion of levity and heartlessness till the next 
 day's dinner time. He had broken his engage- 
 ment with Mrs. Harbottle, to join her husband 
 in a sport, which, however agreeable, detached 
 him entirely from the party which he himself 
 had been most active in making up. This he 
 could not endure. What could he do to escape 
 the suspicion of such fickleness ? — Of course beg 
 Harbottle to explain to his wife his anxious 
 wish that he should go with him, and make 
 his excuse, (if, considering the terms on which 
 they had so long lived, excuse were neces- 
 sary) for not joining them at luncheon. 
 
 That he could not do. He was on the point 
 of joining in one of the '^ uncongenial pursuits" 
 of her husband, to which she had alluded, if not 
 by words, at least by implication, and he could 
 not make him the medium of communication to 
 announce this change in his resolution ; a change 
 effected in fact for her sake, or rather for fear of 
 mentioning the "once familiar word" which the 
 recollection of the unlooked-for conversation of 
 the morning had ''forbidden him to speak." 
 
 Oh, mischief, mischief, how easily art thou 
 generated! What was his resource.? Whilst 
 
THE parson's daughter. 89 
 
 he was doubting — hesitating — trembling — aye, 
 trembling — an inkstand caught his sight — paper, 
 pens, wax, all the implements were there — a 
 note to Fanny — a few words would explain all. 
 How could he endure the suspicion which he 
 knew must attach to him, of cold-heartedness, 
 or somethino: worse ? — In less than five minutes 
 a note was written, folded, sealed ; — but how 
 to be delivered — this was his doubt. He open- 
 ed the drawing-room door, and in the lobby, 
 passing onwards to her mistress's room, he met 
 Mrs. Devon, Mrs. Harbottle's maid. The co- 
 incidence was strange, but accidental ; here 
 were the means direct. 
 
 " Devon,"" said Charles, feeling himself as 
 pale as death, '' give that to your mistress." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Devon, and passed on. 
 
 It was done — the rubicon w^as passed — there 
 was nothing in the note that Harbottle and a 
 jury of husbands might not have read, as we 
 may presently see, but it was a note — the first 
 he had ever found it necessary to write, the first 
 that maid had ever been asked to carry. 
 
 He returned to the dining-room, was rallied 
 by his host upon his long tete-a-tete with his 
 
90 THE PARSON**S DAUGHTER. 
 
 wife, announced her retirement, and swallowed 
 more wine ; to wine succeeded coffee, to coffee 
 liqueur, to liqueur, broiled bones ; to those, all 
 sorts of potations, and at half-past one the 
 party separated for the nighty to meet and begin 
 the day at half-past four. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 91 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I would have some confidence with you, 
 That decerns you nearly." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 *' I SHOULD like to know," said Mrs. Devon, 
 as she sat at breakfast with the house- steward, 
 the gentlemen out of livery, the groom of the 
 diambers, and other privileged persons of the 
 household, " the meaning of your master's 
 sending that note last night to my lady." She 
 addressed herself to Harvey's valet. 
 
 " What does it signify, Mrs. Devon .?" re- 
 plied Evans. " I suppose my master had vsome- 
 thing to say to her, or he would not have sent 
 it ; besides, I should have thought you had too 
 
92 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 much tact^ as we call it, to talk about such 
 things." 
 
 " Tact ! Mr. Evans," said Mrs. Devon, " I 
 like that vastly. When there is reason to be 
 cautious, I believe nobody has more tact than 
 I ; but every body knows what is expected of 
 them when they come to a place. When I lived 
 with Lady Saxmundham, as charming a lady as 
 ever drew breath, if she sent for me even, I no 
 more dared go into the room without knocking, 
 than I dared fly, especially during the hours of 
 morning calls ; and all the time that Sir Harry 
 Framlingham used to come there, day after day, 
 before they were found out, I was always ready 
 at the bottom of the back staircase, to take any 
 letter he might have to leave ; and I'm sure 
 when I was examined on the trial, nobody who 
 knew so much, could have said so little as I did. 
 — I like your talking of tact to me /" 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Hollis, the house-stew- 
 ard, " I don't like to hear of these things 
 going on. I have often thought Evans's mas- 
 ter rather too much all-in-all in our family. 
 I have lived with my master ever since he 
 was a boy ; I know his good nature, I know 
 his violence of temper, and I believe when he is 
 
THE parson's daughter. 93 
 
 in a passion, nothing but blood would quench 
 it ; and so for a double reason I dislike all this 
 conversation, and I hope we shall have no more 
 of it here. My mistress is, I dare say, a very 
 nice lady, and in my opinion — " 
 
 " Too good for this world, Mr. Hollis," in- 
 terrupted Evans ; '' for if she had only managed 
 Mrs. Devon as Lady Saxmundham did, we 
 should not have heard this story of the letter, 
 which I must say, Mrs. Devon might as well 
 have not told" 
 
 " I don't know that I should have noticed it, 
 as it is," said Mrs. Devon, somewhat angry, 
 " only that no confidence is placed in me ; trust 
 me, and you might as well try to get a secret 
 out of an oyster. But if I find out things of 
 my own head, I have a right to do as I please ; 
 and what made me think of it the more, was the 
 flurry my lady was in before dinner. I'm sure 
 I never saw her so in my life, and — " 
 
 Here the sudden ringing of Mrs. Harbottle's 
 bell put an end to the conversation. 
 
 From this brief extract, the reader may in 
 some degree comprehend the extent of mischief 
 innocently done by the agitated, wretched Har- 
 vey, v/ho had inadvertently, and with no ill 
 
94 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 meaning, sown the seeds of dissension in that 
 family, the fruits of which were not to be housed 
 even in his lifetime. 
 
 But if the billet, innocent as it was, which he 
 wrote, had created a sensation amongst the ser- 
 vants, what had been its effect upon Fanny ! 
 The moment she saw Devon enter the room with 
 a note, her worst fears were excited, and in the 
 sequel, her worst anticipations realized. Not 
 only did its appearance convince her, that her 
 incautious admissions of the morning had em- 
 boldened Charles to adopt a mode of addressing 
 her which he had never before attempted ; not 
 only did she see in this change of circumstances 
 a change of feeling on his part towards her, but 
 she saw, what is was clear he had entirely 
 overlooked, that the novel, and it may be 
 added, suspicious mode of communication which 
 he had adopted, through the medium of her 
 maid, (whose connivance in her whole lifetime 
 she had never sought, and whose confidence 
 she had never made,) could not fail to expose 
 her to the observation of the whole clique of 
 upper servants. 
 
 These were the minor considerations which 
 perplexed her at the moment, but they sank 
 
THE PARSON\s daughter. 95 
 
 into nothing when she read the following lines, 
 written evidently in haste and trepidation : — 
 
 *' I have been invited to join a fishing party 
 with him^ to-morrow. I am, as you know, en- 
 gaged to you, with Emma, and Capt. Shering- 
 ham, at luncheon. I felt it was better to accept 
 the invitation. We start at four to-morrow 
 morning — we shall meet at dinner. I could not 
 go without explaining why I did so, and when 
 I came to the drav/ing room, you were gone. 
 '' Ever yours, 
 
 " C. H.^^ 
 
 The worst she feared had come to pass. One 
 day before, what would it have signified whether 
 he broke an engagement with the wife to accept 
 an engagement with the husband ? They lived 
 on the most intimate terms — they were as one 
 family — he had now separated the community 
 
 of interests between them Why ? — ^because 
 
 she had set him the example in the morning. 
 
 Her first impulse was to explain the whole 
 affair to Harbottle when he should come from 
 supper ; but at that period of the evening, or 
 rather morning, he was usually ill-calculated 
 
96 THE parson'^s daughter. 
 
 to comprehend clearly the points of any detail 
 submitted to him ; and she felt sure that the 
 lurking daemon, jealousy, which never yet had 
 shewn itself on account of Harvey, would be 
 roused into fury, if in the confusion of his 
 ideas he jumbled the note written by Charles 
 and sent clandestinely to his wife, by her maid, 
 with the recollection of the intimacy in which 
 they all lived. Had it been morning she would 
 have made the matter a laughing one — as it 
 was, silence was her only resource ; but if any 
 thing had been wanting to add to the pang she 
 already felt, it was the too certain assurance 
 that the character of Harvey's affection for her 
 — for she was conscious of his affection — was 
 totally changed in the course of tlie last twelve 
 hours. 
 
 On her own course she was resolved. 
 
 The morning dawned clear and fine, and 
 scarcely had the clock proclaimed the hour of 
 four, when Harbottle, who had purchased a 
 sound sleep of three hours (as he professed to 
 purchase every thing else), with wine and other 
 libations in which he had indulged, rose quietly 
 and proceeded to dress for the promised sport; 
 leaving the lovely Fanny in a sweet slumber, 
 
THE parson's daughter. 97 
 
 as he imagined. But, no ; sleep had been a 
 stranger to her eyes that night, and when 
 she came down to her solitary breakfast, she felt 
 wretched — unrefreshed — unhappy. 
 
 When Emma Lovell arrived at the Hall, 
 which was before the appearance of Captain 
 Sheringham, Fanny, who kept no secrets from 
 Iter, and who looked to her as the only con- 
 solation she possessed in the world, communi- 
 cated the whole of the circumstances which had 
 occurred the day before, and felt comparatively 
 happy when she had thus unburthened her 
 mind to her friend, and ascertained not only 
 that the resolution, to which she had come, met 
 with Emma's approbation, but that she even 
 consented to do all in her power to carry it 
 into effect. 
 
 What that resolution was, time will shew. 
 
 While these affairs were in progress at Bin- 
 ford Hall, things were not altogether tranquil 
 at Dale Cottage ; Lady Frances began to think, 
 (short as the period Avas that had yet elapsed), 
 that the attentions of her son to somebody, 
 whether Mrs. Harbottle or Miss Lovell (she had 
 scarcely made up her mind which), were growing 
 too particular ; the repeated luncheons, the 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
98 
 
 frequent drives, and all the other incidents 
 of each succeeding day considerably annoyed 
 her, and she resolved, as a reasonable mother 
 had a right to do, at all events to call on 
 Mrs. Harbottle somewhere about the hour of 
 luncheon on that very morning, in order to see, 
 as her ladyship said, " how the land lay." 
 
 Her opportune arrival just as they were sit- 
 ting down to that sociable meal, (for meal, a 
 Binford luncheon decidedly was,) was by no 
 means disagreeable to the lady of the house, 
 although Frederick, who was most happily plante 
 next the fascinating Emma, could, if truth were 
 to be spoken at all times, have dispensed with the 
 presence of his excellent and right honourable 
 parent. Mrs. Harbottle felt, in her state of 
 mind, a relief from society, and although little 
 inclined to join in conversation, which required 
 much care or attention, the current of words 
 which flowed from the vermillion lips of Lady 
 Frances, was so perpetual and incessant, that 
 to see and liGten, was all that was required of 
 her companions. Upon the present occasion it 
 saved Fanny a world of trouble, and while she 
 was attending to her ladyship's anecdotes and 
 historiettes of good society, Frederick and 
 
THE parson's D aught put. 99 
 
 Emma found the most favourable opportunity 
 of doing that, which lovers invariably and inces- 
 santly do — talk about themselves. 
 
 Mrs. Harbottle carried her politeness so far 
 as to invite Lady Frances to accompany them 
 in their drive, begging her, if she would waive 
 ceremony, subsequently, to stop and dine with 
 them; and, as his mother was to be of the 
 party, she felt she could take the liberty with- 
 out a special reference to her lord and master, 
 of inviting Captain Sheringham to remain. 
 
 In pursuance of her plan of watching her 
 son and Miss Lovell, rather than in the expec- 
 tation of an agreeable day. Lady Frances ac- 
 cepted the invitation ; and an account having 
 been given of the cause of Harvey's absence, 
 the party proceeded to put into execution the 
 different parts of the programme as settled the 
 previous afternoon. How differently, however, 
 the day passed off from that which preceded it ! 
 — Fanny''s thoughts were occupied with her 
 own position, and Emma, conscious from Lady 
 Frances's manner, not only of the opinion she 
 entertained of her, but of the suspicion which 
 existed in her mind, as to her having a design 
 r2 
 
100 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 upon her son, was equally stiffened into the 
 most uncomfortable state of unsociability. 
 
 " This is neighbourly, my lady," said Har- 
 bottle, when he came home and found Lady 
 Frances seated amongst the family party ready 
 for dinner ; " I like this — I dare say, in time, 
 when the autumn rains have taken some more 
 of the London starch out of you, we shall get 
 on uncommonly well together. Ha ! ha ! ha !'"* 
 
 " In the autumn," said Lady Frances, *' I 
 shall, I am sorry to say, not be here. I go to 
 my brother Pevensey's, at Grimsbury, for a 
 month, and thence on a tour to different houses 
 until Christmas, which I always keep at his." 
 
 " And do you leave us too, Frederick," said 
 Harbottle to Sheringham. 
 
 " Not so methodically," replied the Captain, 
 " it depends a good deal upon shooting." 
 
 " If that's all," said Harbottle, " you need 
 not leave my lands — I have the best covers, 
 better preserved than any commoner*'s alive — the 
 largest birds, and the greatest number, for the 
 size of the property, in England ; I have spared 
 no expense, no pains, no cost, no trouble^ to 
 secure that advantage." 
 
THE parson's daughter. 101 
 
 cc 
 
 I am afraid I must not leave George 
 here," said Lady Frances, " he will get so much 
 attached to you all, that I shall have no chance 
 for a share of his affection." 
 
 " I am sure," said Mrs. Harbottle, " we will 
 take the greatest care of Captain Shering- 
 ham." 
 
 " Lay him up in lavender till your ladyship 
 comes back," said the Squire, " my wife is a 
 capital hand at petting a favourite — is not she, 
 Harvey.? Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 A more disagreeable reference under the cir- 
 cumstances could not have been well made ; 
 Harvey made a sort of unintelligible noise, and 
 affected to look pleased. Mrs. Harbottle felt 
 her heart beat, and was forced to hold her 
 breath; and Emma Lovell scarcely venturing 
 to look up, took a hasty glance, under her eye- 
 lids, at the state of the party. 
 
 " I am in hopes," said her ladyship, '' that 
 Frederick may get a ship." 
 
 " I used to be very anxious upon that point 
 myself," said Sheringham, " but somehow my 
 longing for employment, at least in peace time, 
 has considerably abated of late." 
 
 Another pause ensued. 
 
102 THE PARSON^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Harvey," said Harbottle, " are you tired, 
 you are as dull as a Dutchman." 
 
 " I am completely knocked up," said Harvey. 
 
 " Disappointed at your ill-success with the 
 trout, I take it," said Harbottle ; '' whether 
 Fanny sympathizes with you I cannot tell ; 
 but she, and even Emma, seem to me to be in 
 doleful dumps about something, eh ? Ha ! ha ! 
 ha!" 
 
 " My dear Mr. Harbottle," said Lady Frances, 
 " people cannot always command their spirits ; 
 besides, the surest way of keeping them down 
 is noticing the depression ; we have had a long 
 drive, and a long walk to day." 
 
 Fanny said nothing in her defence, and 
 Emma kept equally silent. It was in fact one 
 of those parties in which each person was occu- 
 pied with his own thoughts, and in which, 
 every body was acting his own particular part. 
 Harbottle was the only straight-forward, plane- 
 sailing, member of the community ; Fanny was 
 wretched ; so was Harvey, for he saw what she 
 was suffering. She, conceiving he did so, in- 
 creased her own misery by the apprehension that 
 he would attribute her low spirits to a cause 
 whence they did not spring, and sat in agonizing 
 
THE parson's daughter. 103 
 
 anxiety, waiting the arrival of the moment 
 when he was to be undeceived. 
 
 Upon Harvey, sick at heart, and now trem- 
 blingly alive to the horrors of his situation, the 
 truth had burst without a thought or con- 
 sideration of consequences, he had yielded him- 
 self to the fascinations of a lovely woman, whose 
 unaffected manners and generous kindness had, 
 in the course of a long and intimate acquaint- 
 ance, bound him heart and soul to her ; while 
 unconscious of the character his passion was as- 
 suming, he had gone on fancying that what he 
 felt was friendship pure and vmalloyed. Now 
 that his eyes were opened, and he found that he 
 not only loved, but that Fanny, as he fancied, 
 reciprocated that love, lie became indifferent to 
 every thing else, and unconscious of every thing 
 that was passing around him. To think, too, 
 that he, the cherished friend of Harbottle — his 
 favourite companion — pressed to become an in- 
 mate in his house — honoured, caressed, and con- 
 fided in — that he should be the viper in his bosom 
 — he the guilty wretch to work his sorrow and, 
 perhaps, his shame. These were the dreads and 
 sorrows of the high-minded, honourable Harvey 
 — and yet could he abandon her — a thought be- 
 
104 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 yond endurance. Could he at once break all 
 the links which bound him to her — quit the 
 scene of his happiness, and tear himself from 
 the only being on earth in whose society he 
 delighted. It was, indeed, a struggle. 
 
 All this was passing in his mind during the 
 early part of the evening, and it was not there- 
 fore to be expected that he should be a very 
 agreeable member of the Binford coterie. 
 
 Emma LovelPs intellectual powers were so 
 much concealed under an appearance, natural 
 to her, of diffidence, and as I have already said, 
 to strangers, of coldness, that Lady Frances, 
 with all her knowledge of the world, scarcely 
 thought it worth while to finesse with her ; so 
 that the Parson's daughter, perfectly alive to 
 the object of her ladyship's visit, and aware that 
 at the moment her ladyship was talking glibly 
 of a gay and fashionable world, to her unknown, 
 she was attentively watching the effect which 
 the detail of its pleasures produced upon her 
 young mind, leading her at the same time, by 
 no very refined process, to express her opinions 
 upon the advantages derivable from aristocratic 
 connections and the introduction to society, 
 which such connections would, probably affiDrd 
 
THE parson's daughter. 105 
 
 to a young woman of small means and smaller 
 pretensions, put herself upon an equality with 
 her ladyship, by playing a game too ; because, 
 innocent as she was, and unconscious as she ap- 
 peared to be, Emma not only saw that her 
 ladyship'^s conversation had in it a design, but 
 discovered the particular design which her lady- 
 ship vainly flattered herself she had most en- 
 tirely concealed ; and thus, between caution on 
 the one hand with her ladyship, and a recollec- 
 tion that she had in the course of the evening 
 an arduous duty to perform with respect to 
 somebody else. Miss Lovell was as little agree- 
 able as it was possible for her to be. 
 
 Sheringham, who knew every sinuosity of 
 his mother's mind, was equally alive to the 
 object of her visit and the general tone of her 
 conversation — but not willing to commit himself 
 and risk an interdiction, perhaps, of future 
 visits to the Hall, (which he would have felt it 
 his duty to obey, not only from the impulse of 
 of filial obedience, but because over and above 
 that, her ladyship's property was entirely at 
 her own disposal) turned his little galanteries 
 upon Mrs. Harbottle, who pleased in the midst 
 of her sorrow to be employed in conversation, 
 r3 
 
106 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 encouraged in his observations and remarks, 
 so that Harbottle and Harvey, finding them- 
 selves basketted, (as the phrase goes,) retired to 
 the adjoining room, and began a rubber at 
 billiards. 
 
 Lady Frances had then an opportunity of 
 engaging Emma in a tete-a-tHe on one sofa, 
 while Sheringham and Fanny were enjoying 
 the scene from another ; for if Emma were 
 Fanny"'s confidant upon some occasions, it is but 
 fair to believe that Fanny officiated in the same 
 capacity for Emma upon others ; so that Mrs. 
 Harbottle readily entered into the little con- 
 spiracy against Lady Frances with her son, 
 and played off an innocent stratagem against 
 her well-digested designs. 
 
 They were shortly interrupted by the return 
 of the billiard players. 
 
 " Why, Fanny," said Harbottle, " what is 
 the matter with Harvey ? does any body know? 
 can't make a hazard — missed the commonest 
 balls ; and has lost two love games." 
 
 " Upon my honour," said Harvey, " I can- 
 not account for it ; I believe the glare of the 
 water, the early rising, and all the other things 
 that have happened to me to day, have dazzled 
 
THE TAIISON's DAUGHTKR. 107 
 
 my eyes. I cannot play, and that's the 
 truth." 
 
 " Come, my lady," said Harbottle, " will 
 you play a game at billiards ? — capital table — 
 full sized — Thurston's — best he ever made — 
 eh — paid him ten pounds extra for the cushions 
 — ha ! ha ! ha ! — come." 
 
 " I never played billiards," said her lady- 
 ship, " I will go and see you play." 
 
 " Come Sheringham," said Harbottle, "come 
 and play. I like billiards, my lady, it sounds 
 such a pleasant game, all kisses and misses — 
 eh— ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 A faint smile played on her ladyship's ver- 
 millioned lips. 
 
 " With all my heart," said the Captain; — 
 and all the party adjourned to the billiard-room 
 except Harvey, who remained standing with his 
 back to the fire-place, looking more dead than 
 alive, and Emma Lovell, who lingered in the 
 drawing-room, as if she were looking for some- 
 thing which she had not lost. 
 
 " What has happened to you ?" said Emma, 
 speaking to Harvey. " You are looking 
 wretchedly ill ?" 
 
 '' T am ill," said Harvey. '• Til go to my 
 
108 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 room — sleep, I know, I shall not — but I am 
 only a bore here." 
 
 " Try the air of the conservatory,**' said 
 Emma; " come," — he hesitated — " I have 
 something to say to you." — He followed her. 
 
 The drawing-rooms opened into this conser- 
 vatory ; the lamps and candles within the apart- 
 ments afforded a subdued yet agreeable light 
 along the whole length of the building, dark- 
 ening, of course, towards the further end — a 
 charming light for lovers — and midway be- 
 tween the entrance and the termination of the 
 conservatory, was a fountain which played in- 
 cessantly, and made a rippling plashy noise, the 
 sound of which gave an idea of freshness in a 
 sultry evening, and at the same time rendered 
 the conversation which might be carried on, in 
 its vicinity sufficiently indistinct to baffle de- 
 signing listeners. 
 
 Along this dimly-lighted avenue, formed by 
 the loveliest and most fragrant — and of course 
 in Harbottle's house most expensive — exotics, 
 Emma Lovell proceeded with the astonished 
 Harvey, and they had reached the fountain 
 before she could muster courage to speak to 
 him. — At length she broke silence. 
 
THE PARSOn''s daughter. 109 
 
 «' I told you," said Emma, " that I had 
 something to say to you. I have undertaken 
 to say it — I have promised, and, therefore, will 
 fulfil my promise— but I fear that you will 
 think it most extraordinary in me, to make 
 such a communication to you ; indeed, I am 
 conscious, I will not say of its impropriety, but 
 of what must appear its indelicacy ; yet when I 
 tell you that there seemed to be no other course 
 left, and that I will shrink from nothing in the 
 way of friendship, I do think you will forgive 
 me.'' 
 
 " What can you mean, Emma .^" said Harvey. 
 
 " You have made Fanny miserable, Charles," 
 — said Emma, looking round as if she feared 
 being overheard, or dreaded some watching wit- 
 ness hid amongst the plants. 
 
 " I !" said Charles. " How? how.?'' 
 
 " By writing a note to her last night, and 
 sending it by her maid. — Listen. — I know all 
 that has happened : your conversation with her 
 after you left us yesterday afternoon. She has 
 told me all ; and she feels that if she had not 
 said something which you must have misunder- 
 stood or misconstrued, you would not have 
 taken a step which, besides all its other ills and 
 
110 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 miseries has exposed her to the remarks of her 
 maid, and the observation of all the establish- 
 ment.*" 
 
 " My only reason for writing," said Harvey, 
 '• was 
 
 " I know — I know," said Emma ; '' or ra- 
 ther I do not wish to know. — I want to impress 
 upon your mind, for the sake of relieving our 
 dear Fanny, that what she said with regard to 
 the unsuitableness of marriages did not refer to 
 her own position. 
 
 Here a shadow flitted across the light re- 
 flected on the pavement ; Emma turned round 
 and saw Fanny herself, who, having ascertained 
 that her friend was engaged in her afFpir, re- 
 turned to the billiard-room to keep Lady 
 Frances interested in the game. 
 
 " That she is happy, rely upon it — she will 
 continue so,- but you must be a party to that 
 continuance." 
 
 " I r said Charles. 
 
 " Yes, yow," replied Miss Lovell. " Fanny 
 would have spoken to you herself, but she felt 
 unequal to the task. I have, as you see, un- 
 dertaken it ; her sense of delicacy would neither 
 permit her to make the suggestion to you, nor 
 
THE PARSOn"'s daughter. Ill 
 
 (lid she feel at ease until she had, to avoid all 
 appearance of deception or secrecy, imparted all 
 the circumstances to me." 
 
 " Tell me," said Harvey, " in what way I 
 may be instrumental to the restoration of her 
 peace of mind, and her wishes to me shall be 
 commands." 
 
 " First you must let me tell you her motives 
 for asking this sacrifice," said Emma. '^' She 
 feels, however much you may have misinter- 
 preted her meaning, that she has lowered herself 
 in your eyes." 
 
 " Good heavens !" 
 
 " Stay, Charles, stay — those are her feelings. 
 She believes that she never again can meet and 
 associate with you as she has hitherto done. 
 We women are the best judges upon points like 
 these. Do not bid me search too deeply for 
 the causes of her decision — such is her feeling, 
 Charles. If, therefore, you remain the constant 
 inmate of this house, as yoa have hitherto been, 
 think what a life of restraint — of duplicity she 
 must ever after live. 
 
 " Oh, Emma," said Harvey, " why — why is 
 this necessary ? I have said — I have done no- 
 thing to forfeit her good opinion. I have done 
 
112 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 nothing to forfeit the friendship and affection of 
 her husband. Why should she feel ^" 
 
 " Why — why ask me that .?" said Emma. 
 '• That you are honourable and high-minded, 
 I know ; but you have betrayed a feeling which 
 renders your continued residence here wretched- 
 ness to her, and, as I am certain, wretchedness to 
 yourself. You are surprised to hear me speak 
 in this new character, Charles. The cause makes 
 me eloquent, and although I am convinced I 
 need do no more than throw myself upon your 
 honour and generosity, in this case, I would, 
 were it necessary, appeal to you in the name of 
 God, to leave her." 
 
 " Emma,'" said Charles, '' you will break 
 my heart : am I to give up the society of her 
 whom of all others is dearest to me." 
 
 " Hush, Charles, hush !" said Emma ; " con- 
 sider a moment how you are talking; reflect 
 for an instant, and you will see that all I have 
 said to urge your departure from this house is 
 faint compared with the last few words you 
 yourself have uttered " 
 
 " But as a friend," interrupted Harvey. 
 
 " I did not mean," said Emma, " to have 
 argued this part of the subject at all ; I am 
 
THE parson's daughter. 113 
 
 not competent, and if I were, it would not be fit 
 I should. My communication is merely this ; 
 Fanny feels — why I cannot now recapitulate — 
 that her peace of mind depends upon your — 
 not abandoning the house or her acquaintance 
 altogether — but upon your varying the scene of 
 your existence, and for the present leaving 
 Binford. That is the extent of my communi- 
 cation. We have been led into the discussion 
 of other points unintentionally. I have ex- 
 pressed her wishes, which you have said you 
 should consider as commands. We shall now 
 see how you will act ; but in conclusion of 
 what I had to say, I am to add from her^ that 
 although she feels this sacrifice necessary to her 
 comfort, and even respectability, she asks it with 
 pain and sorrow, and that in parting from you, 
 she does so with unaltered esteem and regard, 
 and with the wish that every happiness on earth 
 may attend you." 
 
 " Is it possible," said Harvey; "is it pos- 
 sible that I " 
 
 " Hush, hush," said Emma, " they are here. 
 Walk on. I feel half guilty myself. / was 
 asked to make a sacrifice — I did not hesitate." — 
 
 '' Well, upon my word, Miss Lovell," cried 
 
114 THE PAUSON''s daughter. 
 
 Harbottle, '' why we have lost you and your 
 sighing swain. — What have you done with him, 
 Harvey, eh — where have you got to — why 
 
 Harvey .?" 
 
 And so he continued calling, and marching 
 along the conservatory, followed by Shering- 
 ham (who was in fact miserable at the long 
 disappearance of the missing pair) , Lady Fran- 
 ces and Mrs. Harbottle bringing up the rear. 
 There they might have \^ alked and long have 
 searched, and yet in vain, for neither Harvey nor 
 his exemplary monitress felt equal to encounter- 
 ing the boisterous mirth of their vivacious host, 
 and having walked rapidly along in advance, they 
 left the conservatory by the door at the other 
 end of it, and passed on to the terrace walk, 
 where Harvey having fervently pressed Emma's 
 hand, rushed fromher towards anotherdoorof the 
 house, while she, proceeding leisurely, in order 
 to collect her flurried spirits, entered the bil- 
 liard-room by one of the windows which opened 
 on to the lawn, and when the hunting party re- 
 turned to the drawing-room, was found en- 
 sconced in the corner of a sofa assiduously read- 
 ing a novel ; a pursuit in which she might have 
 obtained considerable credit, if Harbottle, who 
 
THE PARSO:Ni's DAUGIITEll. 115 
 
 was as quick as his neighbours at wliat he called 
 " finding things out," had not observed that she 
 was holding the volume upon which she was so 
 attentively occupied, upside down. 
 
 This discovery, added to her long conversa- 
 tion vvith Harvey, and his subsequent disap- 
 pearance, created great apparent merriment 
 amongst all the party, and they laughed, as 
 Scrub says in the play, " most consumedly." 
 Harbottle, because he really enjoyed it and 
 always laughed, Lady Frances, because she 
 was convinced that Miss LovelFs tHe-cuUte 
 with Charles Harvey must entirely satisfy her 
 dear George Augustus Frederick of the absur- 
 dity of thinking of her any longer, and Mrs. 
 Harbottle, because her heart was breaking, and 
 that nothing but a violent display of affected 
 mirth could conceal its real anguish. 
 
 Harbottle sent to make inquiries after Harvey, 
 and word w^as brought that he had retired to 
 rest ; and then Emma had again to endure 
 all the rallying of having ill-treated, and re- 
 jected him ; and all the reproachful and even 
 fierce looks of the gallant sea-captain, who 
 took every opportunity while his mother''s 
 watch '' was slack,"" to telegraph his beautiful 
 
116 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 prize with signal activity ; while she, having de- 
 liberately turned her book the right way, pro- 
 ceeded with immovable serenity to continue 
 reading, or seeming to read, until the accus- 
 tomed trays, and eatables, and drinkables made 
 their appearance. 
 
 For a merry, wealthy, happy party, never, 
 perhaps, did there separate for the night, a more 
 agitated, worried, miserable collection of people, 
 than the then present company, save and except 
 always the Master of the House. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 117 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 This, this has thrown a serpent to mj heart, 
 While it o'erflowed with tenderness, with joy. 
 With all the sweetness of exulting love ; 
 Now, nought but gall is there and burning poison." 
 
 Thompson. 
 
 It cannot fail to strike the reader that simple, 
 and just, and honourable as were the events of 
 this curious evening, the appearance of affairs 
 in general was not only extremely suspicious, 
 but well calculated to excite various contending 
 feelings in most of the assembled company ; 
 all of which feelings, however, as it turned out, 
 were perfectly unfounded in reason or reality. 
 
 Lady Frances went home satisfied that there 
 was no danger to be apprehended from the 
 eagerness of the Parson's daughter to ensnare her 
 
118 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 son, and equally assured that his advances to- 
 wards the wife of the Squire were not more likely 
 to be well received. She, adept as she was in all 
 the tracasseries of flirtation, and the economy of 
 conservatories, had made up her mind that 
 something decisive had been done that night in 
 the case of Emma and Harvey ; and although 
 she inclined to believe that he had proposed 
 and been rejected, still the coldness which 
 seemed to exist between Emma and her son, 
 during the morning, and which arose from a 
 studied caution on the part of the young lady 
 of which her ladyship scarcely suspected her 
 capable, aided naturally, however, by the anti- 
 cipation of the act of duty vfhich she had subse- 
 quently to perform for her friend, and which en- 
 grossed most of her thoughts, superadded to her 
 total abandonment of him in the evening, com- 
 pleted her security ; and when, while they 
 were lighting their bed-room candles at Dale 
 Cottage, and her ladyship was winding up the 
 day with her accustomed bottle of soda-water 
 modified in the tumbler by a brown composition, 
 which her butler called syrup with a very 
 fine name, (but which the unmedical student 
 would ignorantly have described as old cogniac,) 
 
119 
 
 her ladyship ventured to try the effect of a little 
 playful satire upon the manners and conversa- 
 tion of Miss Lovell, and she found Frederick, 
 instead of firing up and bursting out as her de- 
 fender and advocate, admitting that he thought 
 she did not look quite so well as usual, and. that 
 her manner was very unsatisfactory, and that she 
 was not the sort of person a man of condition 
 would like to walk into a drawing-room with, 
 hanging on his arm, her ladyship received the 
 filial adieux of her dear George Augustus Fre- 
 derick for the night, with a complacency and con- 
 fidence which it must be confessed had been 
 strangers to her mind during the last three 
 weeks. 
 
 But what a night for Frederick ! devoted, 
 as he really was to this amiable, admirable 
 girl — a pattern for her sex — all kindness, all 
 gentleness, all sweetness and truth — to think 
 that, having encouraged his addresses, as she 
 had decidedl}^ done; having, not perhaps di- 
 rectly or personally, but hypothetically, in con- 
 versation with himself and Mrs. Harbottle, ex- 
 pressed her approbation of temper, qualities, 
 and accomplishments, such as he could not be 
 so blind as not to perceive himself possessed of. 
 
120 
 
 that approbation having been expressed in a 
 manner which Mrs. Harbottle had led her to 
 adopt, with a view to induce her devoted lover 
 (for so he had unconsciously become,) to hope 
 for that conclusion to his suit which she herself 
 so much desired — to think that at once, ab- 
 ruptly, inconsiderately, and cruelly, as he felt it, 
 she should abstract herself from the assembled 
 party with a man for whom, twenty-four hours 
 before, she had declared a total indifference 
 in the character of lover — upon which she had 
 before been rallied — seemed to him so wilfully, 
 so unnecessarily coquettish aijd heartless, that 
 he could only reconcile it with the exemplary 
 rectitude of principle which he had previously so 
 ardently admired in the whole course of her 
 conduct, by exclaiming, as thousands of his fel- 
 low-men have exclaimed before him, and will 
 exclaim when he shall be no more, " What ex- 
 traordinary creatures these women are !" 
 
 Emma herself suffered deeply and bit- 
 terly. She- had made a sacrifice which no- 
 thing but a noble and pious resolution to 
 fulfil all the duties of life could have induced 
 her to risk, in holding such a conversation as 
 she had held with Charles Harvey; her mind, 
 
THE parson's daughter. 121 
 
 her moral courage, rose above the difficulties 
 which presented themselves to the interference 
 of a girl inexperienced in the world's ways- 
 unmarried — unprotected, except by her own 
 purity of heart, and consciousness of rectitude, 
 and to her discussion of such a point as that, in 
 which she had engaged with a man, suspected too 
 of being her lover. 
 
 What could she have done ? how could she 
 have acted.? her dearest, best friend, had near 
 her at the moment no friend but her ; her 
 conscience, in its " small, still voice," had 
 spoken volumes to her. Fanny — her dear kind 
 Fanny had reverted with dread and trem- 
 bling to the momentary slumber of her pru- 
 dence, or perhaps the momentary awakening of 
 her feelings, as one fraught with destruction to 
 her own happiness, and — what perhaps she held 
 as dear — the happiness of another. She was on 
 the very edge of a precipice. The intervention 
 of Emma's hand could prevent her fall — was 
 it to be refused ? Fanny could not remove 
 herself from the scene of difficulty and danger 
 — to rescue her from both, Emma had stept from 
 her natural sphere in society, and ventured 
 all, to preserve her friend. But it must not be 
 
 VOL. T. G 
 
122 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 supposed that she had been led blindly to as- 
 sume the character of adviser or monitress, nor 
 that she did not see the peril and delicacy — 
 perhaps indelicacy — of the service she had un- 
 dertaken. She saw it clearly — but as has been 
 said before, she risked every thing — and felt 
 happy in having, as she believed, succeeded 
 in bringing Harvey to understand the necessity 
 of his breaking oif his constant association with 
 Harbottle's family, without committing her 
 friend by any admission of a partiality for him, 
 which, even if it existed, had taken no form, no 
 character, which the most rigid virtue could 
 have disapproved. 
 
 But when she laid her head upon her pillow 
 and recollected the pain she had evidently given 
 Sheringham, the reproachful look which he cast 
 upon her as she quitted the house, flashed 
 strongly upon her. The world might think of her 
 conduct — if the world could ever know it — as it 
 pleased. What Lady Frances mighthave thought 
 of her, or what the Squire might the next day 
 say of her, were matters of perfect indifference 
 to her, strong as she was in the consciousness 
 of her good intentions; but that Sheringham 
 should think her — as it turned out he did — the 
 
THE parson's daughter. 123 
 
 frivolous, heartless flirt, which she must have 
 appeared, was bitterly painful to her — the more 
 painful, because she never could explain to him 
 the real circumstances of the case ; and because, 
 if, as she sincerely hoped and really expected, 
 Harvey should quit Binford on the morrow, 
 his sudden disappearance would confirm the al- 
 ready excited suspicions of the Captain, that the 
 lengthened conversation between them on the 
 preceding evening, however it might have ter- 
 minated, was upon a subject personally interest- 
 ing to themselves, and of a nature which the 
 repeated protestations of the young lady would, 
 if he had not seen it, have led him to believe 
 one, which could not for a moment have been 
 entertained by her. 
 
 Harvey's meditations — although not amongst 
 the Tombs — were of a deadly character — he had 
 been awakened suddenly from a delightful but 
 perilous dream. He felt at first indignant and 
 then ashamed that Fanny had betrayed him ; 
 he could not have mistaken her meaninoj — she 
 had admitted that she was not happy, and he 
 had sympathized with her affliction — no thought 
 had ever entered his head which could militate 
 against her peace of mind, her honour, or the 
 g2 
 
124 THE parson's daughtee. 
 
 iionour of her husband. Why then expose 
 him ? Why drive him from her presence ? — for 
 the sake of appearances ? — No — for he had lived 
 on terms of the closest intimacy with her, for 
 months, and no human being had dared to 
 whisper a suspicion of any consequent impro- 
 priety — what was all this ? did she dissemble 
 when she wished him happiness, at the moment 
 in which she was destroying the only happiness 
 he possessed? and did she really wish him 
 away ? what could it mean ? 
 
 Harvey v/as the least vain person in the 
 world; and amongst all the reasons which he 
 imagined Fanny to have for seeking a separation 
 from him, that, which was certainly first amongst 
 the number never struck him. He w^as told he 
 had a duty to perform, the fulfilment of which 
 alone could secure her peace of mind and ensure 
 her respectability — that duty, heedless of the 
 pain it might inflict upon himself, and without 
 questioning her more, he resolved to do. 
 
 To describe the pangs which Fanny herself 
 endured would be difficult ; the complication of 
 fears and reproaches with which her mind was 
 filled — the sensitive recollection of the fatal 
 walk — for so it proved to be — in which she 
 
THE parson's daughter. 125 
 
 felt she had betrayed a sorrow which for 
 years she had concealed; the consciousness 
 of a change in Harvey's manner consequent 
 upon that confession ; the pain of parting witli 
 him, who while he joined in the pursuits of her 
 husband, seemed to temporize with every thing 
 disagreeable which might occur, soothe him 
 when irritated, and even support him in liis 
 proper place while mixing with the lower classes 
 of his neighbours, who were, in fact, his most 
 frequent associates. A young man, who was of 
 that husband the chosen, and certainly the 
 most agreeable companion ; suitable to him by 
 his skill in all the sports of the field, and by 
 a kind adaptation of his manner to the temper 
 of his host; — in short, she felt that she was 
 breaking a link in the chain of their society, the 
 loss of which would create disorder and con- 
 fusion in the establishment, and render her 
 existence even more painful than it was. But 
 she felt that she had trusted herself to the 
 extreme limits of prudence, and that she dare 
 not hesitate to decide upon the course she had 
 to pursue. 
 
 ^yhat Harbottle suffered during the same 
 night will require no great trouble, nor many 
 
126 THE parsom's daughter. 
 
 words to describe ; once safely deposited upon 
 his sinister side, his rubicund cheek snugly re- 
 posed upon an eider-down pillow, he fell incon- 
 tinently to sleep, and when he awoke described 
 to his fair Fanny the misery he had felt in a 
 dream, that a five pound fish (at least,) had 
 snapped off the top joint of his four guinea rod 
 just as he thought he had safely landed him. 
 
 Happy Harbottle ! 
 
 When the breakfast hour came, Fanny did 
 not appear. Mrs. Devon, however, exhibited 
 her pretty plump person, to make her lady's 
 excuses. — " My mistress, sir" said she, " has 
 got such a very bad headache, that she will 
 breakfast in her dressing-room." 
 
 This was communicated to the Squire, as he 
 stood at the Hall door watching the chestnut 
 cantering round the sweep before it. 
 
 «' Headache," said the Squire, '' what an odd 
 thing to have — she did not tell me she had a 
 headache — well — I hope she '11 soon get better 
 — give my love to her, and say so." 
 
 <« — Yes, sir," said Mrs. Devon, with a look 
 which either he did not see, or seeing did not 
 comprehend ; ^' I hope she will, sir, Pm sure.^^ 
 
 '' Holloa/' cried the Squire, seeing Hollis 
 
THE parson's daughter. 127 
 
 crossing the Hall, '^ we are ready for breakfast 
 — where's Mr. Harvey.''' 
 
 " I don't know, sir," said HoUis, with an ex- 
 pression of countenance, very different from that 
 of Mrs. Devon, but which, if the Squire had 
 been like Lady Frances, on the " look out" 
 for effects, might have struck him. 
 
 " Is he up," said the Squire; " have you 
 seen him about ?''^ 
 
 " No, sir," said Hollis. " Evans says, his 
 master has got a very bad headache this 
 morning, and I rather think he has gone out to 
 walk." 
 
 " What !" said Harbottle, " Harvey got a 
 headache too — that's mighty strange. Why 
 he had a headache last night, and still has got 
 a headache this morning — that's odd. Your 
 mistress has got one this morning and hadn't 
 one last night — what is it ? — any thing in the 
 air — or the water — or the wine.^^ — can't be in 
 the wine because at the price T pay, there isn't 
 a headache in a hogshead of it." 
 
 " No, sir," said Hollis, " I don't think it has 
 any thing to do with that sir." 
 
 This observation, Mr. Hollis, who was an ex- 
 emplary servant of the family — old, and conse 
 
128 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 quently familiar with his master, favoured, and 
 therefore presuming — meant should lead to 
 some further interrogatories; but Harbottle's 
 head was as firm as the wall of a fives' court, 
 and the harder you hit him with a hint the 
 stronger it came back to you, without having 
 made the slightest impression. 
 
 " Well, then,"" said the Squire, " I must 
 breakfast by myself. / have no headache luck- 
 ily, so cut me some of that cold roast beef — 
 give me two eggs — a hot kidney, and a cup of 
 chocolate, just to begin with. 
 
 All this was put en train^ and Hollis hovered 
 about, full of anxiety to make a coup^ perhaps, 
 with a good intention, which would infalli- 
 bly have destroyed the peace of half a dozen 
 innocent people ; but he was as yet, unsuccessful, 
 for a footman remained in the breakfast room 
 during the greater part of the Squire's solitary 
 repast, and before it was over, his head keeper 
 obtained an audience, to depict in glowing 
 colours the iniquitous proceedings of certain 
 poachers, who, early as it was in the season, 
 had been setting snares for the hares. This 
 announcement superseded all other topics — the 
 breakfast itself, elaborated as it was in its deli- 
 
THE TARSOn's daughter. 129 
 
 cacies was speedily concluded, and in ten 
 minutes, the Squire on the back of the very best 
 cob in England, was cantering down to the scene 
 of villainy. 
 
 The complaint nick-named cholera has made 
 great ravages in every country it has visited ; 
 the plague in its time has done even yet more 
 mischief; but neither the plague nor cholera 
 ever did more in a small circle than head-ache 
 at Binford on the m^emorable day now under 
 discussion. Harvey — wath a violent headache — 
 anticipating that Mrs. Harbottle, after what had 
 occurred the night before, would rather avoid 
 the breakfast table, felt above all things in the 
 world the impossibility of maintaining his usual 
 tone of conversation in a tete-a-tcte with the 
 Squire; he, therefore, (anxious moreover to 
 evince to Emma Lovell the firmness of the deter- 
 mination to which he had come during a sleep- 
 less night) resolved to walk to the Parsonage and 
 beg a breakfast of the exemplary Rector ; know- 
 ing, as he did, that as that reverend and worthy 
 divine was incapable of moving from his room 
 without assistance, and wholly unable to walk 
 about for pleasure — as walking is sometimes 
 g3 
 
130 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 called— he should have an opportunity in a 
 short stroll after breakfast along the laurel walk 
 which led to the church, to " say his say" to his 
 charming daughter, who having assumed the 
 character of plenipotentiary on the part of Mrs. 
 Harbottle, and having stated the preliminaries 
 of the treaty which she wished to enter into, had 
 unquestionably subjected herself either to a con- 
 ference with the other high contracting party, 
 or to the evil of heaven knows how many pro- 
 tocols, which, after all, might like their name- 
 sakes upon greater occasions have come to 
 nothing in the end. 
 
 This scheme he put into practice — was most 
 readily accepted as a guest by the Rector, and 
 heard with dismay the account of Miss LovelFs 
 headache, which was so extremely violent, that 
 she could not come down to breakfast. Here was 
 another " case"" — decided — nor was his distress 
 at all alleviated by finding an ancient maiden sis- 
 ter of the Rector's (whose stay with her brother 
 had afforded Emma the opportunity of spend- 
 ing more time at the Hall, than her exemplary 
 attention to her father would otherwise have 
 allowed her ;) without a headache, and in the 
 
THE parson's daughter. 131 
 
 full possession of all that well-matured flighti- 
 ness, which, to a young man in Harvey's temper 
 of mind, was worse than death itself. 
 
 Breakfast proceeded slowly — the conversation 
 flagged — Mr. Lovell was, as usual, amiable, 
 and even eloquent ; but as far as Harvey was 
 concerned, his eloquence was wasted in the 
 desert air. Miss Lovell the elder was pertina- 
 ciously particular as to the number of lumps of 
 sugar he chose in his tea, and whether he liked 
 cream; went through the catechism of her office 
 with a rigorous punctuality most exemplary, and 
 had just attained the ultima thule of her know- 
 ledge, when the door opened and Captain Sher- 
 ingham was announced, to the great delight of 
 the Rector, who was charmed at seeing his neigh- 
 bour — to the astonishment of Harvey — and as it 
 turned out to the inexpressible dismay of the 
 gallant Captain himself. 
 
 The moment he saw Harvey domesticated at 
 the Rectory, he started back — he cast his eyes 
 round — Emma was not there — this soothed him 
 for the moment, but he looked as white as a 
 slieet. 
 
 " Why, my dear Captain Sheringham," said 
 
132 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 •the Rector, «' you don't look well; what on earth 
 is the matter with you ?" 
 
 " Nothing, sir," said Sheringham, '' nothing 
 but a violent headache. 
 
 Another instance of the prevailing epidemic, 
 for which the present appearance of affairs did 
 not promise any thing like alleviation or cure. 
 However much the temporary absence of Miss 
 Lovell from the breakfast table might at the 
 first blush of the scene have calmed Shering-ham's 
 apprehensions, the presence there, at that period 
 of the day, unusual as he knew it was — of 
 Harvey, combined with the agitation so per- 
 ceptible in his countenance, and a nervous 
 anxiety of manner which it was impossible for 
 him to conceal, confirm.ed him in his worst sus- 
 picions. What but a conversation of the deep- 
 est interest, could have detained Emma with 
 him for nearly an hour in the conservatory the 
 evening before ; and what termination could 
 that conversation have had, but one propitious 
 to the hopes and wishes of Harvey, which could 
 have induced him, contrary to his usual course 
 of life, to follow up so protracted and particular 
 a dialogue by so early a visit to the Rectory. 
 
THE pauson's daughter. 133 
 
 Breakfast disposed of, and the Rector wheeled 
 into his library, a scene followed, the like of 
 which is often enacted in higher places, and by 
 more important personages, which, being per- 
 formed by two individuals, is in colloquial 
 phraseology called — one seeing the other, out. 
 
 Harvey was seriously anxious to have a 
 few minutes conversation with Miss Lovell, 
 in order to announce the resolution at which 
 he had arrived, having pledged himself to 
 her, not to touch upon the subject of their 
 conversation, to Fanny, nor to make any re- 
 ference to its object, to her during his stay at 
 Binford, even if the opportunity should acci- 
 dentally be afforded him ; a circumstance which, 
 however, Emma, told him she did not think 
 would occur,. since Fanny had resolved to avoid 
 the possibility of a tete-a-tete with him. He 
 therefore was fixed in his resolution to see the 
 Parson's daughter. 
 
 Sheringham, on the other hand, first irri- 
 tated by the marked preference, as he considered 
 it, which Emma had shown the evening before 
 to Harvey — then goaded still more by the 
 well-timed and well-turned insinuations of his 
 world-knowing mother, was now wound up to 
 
134 
 
 the highest pitch of jealous indignation, by 
 finding his rival, as he thought him, and his 
 favoured rival, as he believed him, established 
 in the very citadel. 
 
 " Are you going towards the Hall ?" said he 
 to Harvey, with a strained civility. 
 
 " Not yet," replied Harvey. 
 
 " Where's Harbottle," said the Captain. 
 
 " At home, I suppose," replied Harvey ; " if 
 you want to see him, I dare say you will find 
 him alone." 
 
 " Is Mrs. Harbottle ill.?" said Sheringham. 
 
 " Not that I know of," said Harvey ; look- 
 ing a little confused. 
 
 " I thought she seemed feverish last night," 
 said Sheringham. 
 
 " I did not observe," said Harvey. 
 
 '* No, you were botanizing all the evening," 
 said Sheringham ; "did you discuss all the 
 merits of the Darwin school. I am afraid Miss 
 Lovell got cold." 
 
 " No," interrupted her aunt, " she has no 
 cold, only a headache — she is not used to the 
 late hours which she has been keeping at Mr. 
 Harbottle's since I have been stopping with my 
 brother, and given her a holiday." 
 
THE parson'*s daughter. 135 
 
 " Shall you go to the Hall to luncheon ?" 
 asked Harvey. 
 
 " I don't know," answered Sheringham ; '' I 
 think not — I am engaged with my mother, 
 and-" 
 
 " I amgoing over to Smedley," said Harvey. 
 
 " When do you start .?" 
 
 " — Not yet — not till two." 
 
 '' Will you come to us^ and we will drive you 
 over.P" said Sheringham. 
 
 *' I cannot do that," replied Harvey, for I — 
 I have to meet a person — that — " 
 
 '' Oh I" interrupted Sheringham, " I don't 
 want to question your proceedings ; every man 
 has his own particular pursuit — perhaps you 
 are going botanizing again." 
 
 " Not I, indeed," said Harvey, in a tone, 
 which as it sounded somewhat melancholy, was 
 extremely agreeable to Sheringham's ears. 
 
 At this moment a footman entered the room, 
 who walked directly up to Harvey, and in a 
 sonorous voice, the tone of which strongly re- 
 sembled the sound of a cracked trumpet, deli- 
 vered this message. 
 
 " My young lady, has sent down word, her 
 
136 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 compliments, sir — she begs you won't go away 
 till she has seen you." 
 
 Harvey made a sort of unintelligible answer, 
 expressive of his obedience to her wishes. She- 
 ringham stared with amazement at this open 
 and unequivocal address to his rival, and the 
 servant who had been told by Miss LovelFs 
 maid to deliver her message to Mr. Harvey, (she 
 not being aware that any other visiter was in 
 the house.) strutted out of the room, banging 
 the door after him, with a theatrical air, leaving 
 the party in a profound silence, broken only by 
 the retreating sound of his creaking shoes along 
 the lobby. 
 
 " Well,"" said the Captain, after a moment's 
 pause; '' I'll go — I suppose my mother will 
 like to drive early, and I am too dutiful to keep 
 her waiting — good morning Mr. Lovell — good 
 morning madam — good day, sir." 
 
 Saying which, the last words being addressed 
 somewhat significantly to Harvey, (who, con- 
 scious of what was passing in Sheringham's 
 mind, and anxious, without daring, to unde- 
 ceive him, felt them sink deeply into his heart,) 
 the gallant sea-officer quitted the Parsonage, 
 
THE parson's daughter. ISJ 
 
 breathing vengeance upon his rival, and all sorts 
 of maledictions upon the fickleness and frailty 
 of women generally, but of Miss Emma Lovell 
 most especially and particularly. 
 
 Things certainly did not go smoothly, and 
 appearances fully justified all the feelings which 
 agitated Sheringham's mind ; feelings, of the 
 strength of which he had no idea until they 
 were thus suddenly and violently called forth. 
 He had gone on loving, and loving without 
 exactly knowing the condition of his own heart, 
 and had been playing with Emma Lovell 
 the same game of entanglement, that Harvey, 
 with equal unconsciousness, had been carrying 
 on with her friend Fanny. It is wonderful to 
 see the blindness of man to his own position, 
 and not less wonderful to see to what trifles 
 his sudden enlightenment is sometimes owing. 
 
 As he walked home, the first decision to which 
 the Captain came, was, that whatever he might 
 eventually determine upon, as the line of conduct 
 to pursue, he would not let his lady mother into 
 his confidence. Stay in Binford he could not — 
 would not — to be the tame spectator of his 
 rival's triumph, and the consequences of 
 Emma's heartlessness. It was clear she could 
 
138 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 not quit the scene of action ; for even if after 
 her marriage Harvey took her to his own 
 house and home, still the position of her father 
 in Binford, and her affectionate intimacy with 
 Fanny, would bring her constantly thither, 
 and indeed, the well known friendship of the 
 Squire himself for the bridegroom elect, would 
 render their visits neither few nor far between. 
 What had he best do ? If he did not confide 
 his secret to Lady Frances, the facts would 
 very shortly speak for themselves; for She- 
 ringham thought, (and reasonably enough it 
 must be admitted) that after the conservatory 
 scene in the evening, and the verbal message of 
 the morning, the announcement of Emma^s 
 acceptance of Harvey could not long be de- 
 layed ; that he could not wait for ; because his 
 mother would have gained so complete a vic- 
 tory over him, and would consequently there- 
 upon indulge herself in so triumphant an ex- 
 posure of the fallacy of all his doctrines and 
 opinions about that amiable, unsophisticated, 
 candid, affectionate child of nature, the Parson's 
 daughter, that she would drive him mad. In 
 the course of his progress homeward he at last 
 formed a final resolution. 
 
139 
 
 Harbottle, who though he was ordinarily 
 obtuse enough, and took things quietly when 
 they went on quietly of themselves, was not 
 an unconcerned spectator of the events of this 
 memorable morning ; and the more concerned 
 perhaps, inasmuch as his own personal comfort 
 had been infringed. He had been left to break- 
 fast alone ; his wife pleaded a headache for not 
 coming down, which she had not even men- 
 tioned half an hour before ; Harvey's absence 
 was unusual ; and then he began to think the 
 manner of Hollis, the butler, was strange, and 
 that Mrs. Devon's conduct had something odd 
 in it too ; and at last, after revolving all these 
 circumstances in what he called his mind, as he 
 walked his cob back from the fields of poach- 
 ing, he hit upon what he believed to be the 
 truth ; and coupling the strange dispersion of 
 his little domestic party with the conservatory 
 scene of the preceding evening, came to the 
 determination that Harvey had popped (as 
 he called it) to the Parson's daughter, and that 
 the Parson's daughter had refused him. Full 
 of this happy conceit, his anxiety to get hold 
 of his young friend^ to rally him upon the 
 
140 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 repulse he had encountered, was particularly 
 strong. 
 
 Unfortunately, however, Mrs. Harbottle 
 knowing that her husband had quitted the 
 house, and not knowing that he had returned, 
 and being in the most nervous state of expecta- 
 tion of the appearance of her old friend and 
 ally Emma Lovell, happened to present herself 
 to the eyes of her admiring husband as he was 
 crossing the hall, and she w^as descending the 
 staircase. 
 
 '« Why, Fan,'' said the Squire, '' your head 
 well already ! — glad of it, old lady. Well, 
 where's Harvey ? Is he gone away for ever ? 
 What has happened to him — love, I suppose, 
 eh, Fan? — love, and a little indiscretion in 
 bringing things to a conclusion too hastily ? — 
 Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " I am sure," said Mrs. Harbottle, " I don't 
 know. What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Oh, fie ! Fan," said the Squire, " as if you 
 and Emma were not in each other's secrets. 
 What was all that talk in the greenhouse last 
 night about .^" 
 
 " Last night V stammered Mrs. Harbottle. 
 
THE PARSOX'S DAUGHTER. 141 
 
 " Yes, last night, Mrs. Grave-airs," said 
 her husband ; " none are so blind as those who 
 won't see, my love ; none so deaf as those who 
 won't hear. Do you think to trick me ? No 
 no. Fan — I'm wide awake to all that is going 
 on. 
 
 Fanny felt herself ready to sink through the 
 earth. 
 
 " Nothing can be more natural," continued 
 Harbottle; " so far from blaming Harvey, my 
 idea of the thing is simply this, give a young 
 man encouragement, and you must look out for 
 the consequences ; and I know that you — I saw 
 it by your manner — you set her to do what she 
 did last night, which has upset poor Charles; 
 and will no doubt drive him away from our 
 house, and rob me of one of my most agreeable 
 companions. I knew something had happened 
 while he was out fishing, he was as dull and as 
 dead as a ditch water, and what the evening 
 before had begun, last night concluded. I tell 
 you what, mistress Fan, you women would do 
 well to consider in the first instance — it is the 
 premier pas, that coutes, as the French say, 
 and I do think, after fooling a man like a 
 child in leading strings, for half a year, to let 
 
142 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 him go, slap bang, as I call it, in a minute, is 
 an infernal shame.^"* 
 
 The opinions of Mr. Harbottle, delivered so 
 oracularly, founded, as they were, upon an 
 apparently perfect knowledge of facts, startled 
 his already agitated lady into a state of hysteri- 
 cal feeling, a kind of April sensation of rain 
 and sunshine, which it required all her physical 
 strength, and all her mental determination to 
 check. It was impossible that he really did 
 know the nature of Emma's conversation with 
 Harvey on the preceding evening, and yet hold 
 the mild and moderate language in which he 
 addressed her ; nor was it upon the cards, that 
 he should argue upon the heartlessness of his 
 own wife's conduct, in first encouraging and 
 then repelling the attentions of her husband's 
 friend. What could it mean ? Into her mind 
 never at the moment flashed the idea that he 
 believed in the existence of an attachment, on 
 the part of Harvey, towards Miss Lovell, be- 
 cause she knew of her own knowledge — some- 
 what hazardously obtained — that his affections 
 were otherwise directed, and moreover, because 
 she also knew that Emma's heart was irrecover- 
 ably gone, and that no power on earth could 
 
143 
 
 wean or force her from her devotion to Shering-- 
 ham, of whom she had expessed to her friend 
 her unqualified admiration. 
 
 But while Fanny was thus doubting how to 
 receive the agreeable raillery of her husband, 
 whose playfulness very much resembled in cha- 
 racter that of the heavy animal, which as the fable 
 tells, attempted to ape the lap-dog, who should 
 arrive in sight, on the lawn, but Emma Lovell, 
 leaning on the arm of Charles Harvey, evidently 
 in earnest conversation with him upon some in- 
 teresting topic, in which both parties had been 
 so much absorbed, that they had not seen the 
 unfortunate Captain George Augustus Frederick 
 Sheringham, R. N., whom they had passed, as 
 he was slowly sauntering homewards under the 
 trees, debating whether he should put into im- 
 mediate execution the design which it has already 
 been mentioned he had formed, and which the 
 very agreeable spectacle he had just witnessed, 
 did not in any degree conduce to procras- 
 tinate. 
 
 The sight of the coming couple exhilirated 
 the Squire so much, that quitting his lady, who 
 had not strength either to accompany or follow 
 him, he gave his usual view holloa, which 
 
144 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 echoed through the woods, and then ran forward 
 to meet the much disconcerted pair. 
 
 " I'm glad to see this," said the Squire. " I 
 have just been talking over your long gossip 
 of last night, with Fanny, She has confessed, 
 at least she has not denied, that I have found 
 out the whole secret, and I have given her 
 a good jobation, as 1 call it, for breaking up 
 a snug party, and driving you away." 
 
 Emma looked at Harvey — Harvey looked at 
 Emma. 
 
 " Why, you think I don't know the whole 
 affair," said Harbottle. " I'm not such a fool, 
 Charles, as you and my wife think me ; but I 
 care less about it, for as I see you here together, 
 I conclude you have made matters up and I 
 shall hear no more about going off, and going 
 out, and leaving me to breakfast by myself, 
 my wife ill with a headache, and my friend sick 
 with a heartache." 
 
 " I don't quite comprehend you," said Emma. 
 "What possible connection can my innocent 
 conversation with Mr. Harvey have with his 
 going out and leaving you this morning, or why 
 should our walk in the conservatory necessarily 
 imply a quarrel ?" 
 
THE parson's daughter. 145 
 
 " Why did he slink to bed ? — Eh, master 
 Charles, answer that ; stole aM ay, sly fox — could 
 not face us after the interview, good, bad, or 
 indifferent, which ever it was : and you. demure 
 Emma, who look, as I say, as if butter would 
 not melt in your mouth, why did you snub the 
 poor fellow as you did ? / lieard what you were 
 at — a man cannot help his feelings, and what if 
 he did fancy he was better thought of, than he 
 really was, why, as I say, the woman ""s always 
 to blame. Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Upon my word," said Miss Lovell, increas- 
 ing her rate of walking, '' I do assure you I 
 do not in the least understand what you are 
 talking of. Though Mrs. Harbottle and I — 
 and — " 
 
 And so away ran Emma, too much bewildered 
 to comprehend in the least the extraordinary, 
 and to her ear, equivocal allusions of the 
 Squire. 
 
 " Well, Charles," said Harbottle, when Em- 
 ma had, like a sylph, flitted across the lawn, 
 and joined her equally amazed and agitated 
 friend, " Where did you breakfast .?— at the 
 Parson's .?" 
 
 " I did," said Charles. 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 THE PARSOn''s daughter. 
 
 " That's right," replied his friend ; " faint 
 heart never won fair lady — knocked down last 
 night, up again this morning ; the ircB amorum 
 as 1 used to say at school, turned into the 
 integratio ajnoris — that^s good Greek is'nt 
 it? well, you got snubbed for your bold- 
 ness and went to bed to cry, / dare say — at 
 'em again says you — so you breakfasted with 
 the Parson, foraged upon the enemy, and took 
 your prisoner." 
 
 " I am going away for a week or two," said 
 Charles, " so I went to the Rectory to take 
 leave of Mr. Lovell and his sister.**' 
 
 " Oh, you are going away," said Harbottle^ 
 " and arn''t I as good as a witch ; and our little 
 snow-drop, as I call her, is the cause." 
 
 " No," said Harvey ; " I have really busi- 
 ness in London which must be attended to; 
 here the days fly so sweetly and so rapidly, 
 that unless I make a dash and break the charm 
 at once, I shall go on in a dream of blessed 
 happiness and be ruined for my negligence." 
 
 " Come, come. Master Harvey," said his 
 hospitable host, " you have no business in 
 London ; you have been snubbed — the women- 
 folk, as I call them, have driven you away ; 
 
147 
 
 however, you must do as you please. I force 
 no man, only I do bargain for three days more 
 of you — try us for only three days — I'll engage 
 that Emma shall not poison you, and Fanny 
 will enter into the same compact. I have got 
 some pleasant folks coming here to stay till 
 Friday, and go before that, you positively shall 
 not." 
 
 Harvey who. after a severe struggle with his 
 feelings, had agreed to the condition of with- 
 drawing himself, felt a sort of secret satisfaction 
 at being forced, by Harbottle, to break that 
 condition, so that by doing a douce violence 
 to his conscience, he might safely affirm that 
 he was unable to refuse the pressing invitation 
 of Harbottle to stay three days more, without 
 exciting a strong suspicion in his mind, that 
 there really was some serious reason for his 
 sudden departure ; he, therefore, with his eyes 
 fixed upon Fanny and Emma, and perfectly 
 conscious of the subject of their conversation, 
 made an odd sort of unintelligible noise, which 
 might serve for a negative or an affirmative, but 
 which Harbottle, (who with all his faults was 
 the most hospitable creature breathing) instantly 
 construed into a favourable reply to his invi- 
 n 2 
 
148 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 tation ; and having heard it, he hurried with his 
 friend to join the ladies, and inform his wife 
 that he had succeeded in keeping Charles till 
 Friday morning, in spite of the ill-treatment of 
 Miss Lovell. 
 
 The reproachful look which Emma glanced 
 at the unhappy young gentleman was lost 
 upon the Squire, whose attention not having yet 
 been that way directed, was not devoted at that 
 moment to Fanny ; perhaps, if it had been, he 
 might have read in her lovely countenance, a still 
 stronger evidence of the dismay which the altera- 
 tion of Charles''s resolution had excited in her. 
 
 The dread which she endured had been thus 
 created. In the anxiety of her heart to put 
 a stop to a delusion which appeared to her 
 to subsist at least on one side, and which 
 must lead, as she felt, to misery or ruin, 
 perhaps, to both, she had taken such a 
 course as proved her consciousness of its ex- 
 istence. After the conversation which she 
 had begged Emma to have with Charles, 
 she could no longer affect to be ignorant of 
 the turn which his friendship — at least — had 
 taken; nor were the subsequent declarations 
 of Harvey to Miss Lovell in their morning's 
 
THE parson's daughter. 149 
 
 walk at all calculated to put Fanny's agitation 
 to rest ; in fact, she herself, with the best pos- 
 sible motives, had fired the train — a day's delay 
 might cause its explosion. AYith this conscious- 
 ness of how far she had committed herself, and 
 a knowledge of Charles's affection for her (since 
 confessed to Emma,) every hour's procrastina- 
 tion of his departure accumulated new pains and 
 perils for them both. 
 
 Fanny's desire for his going, was not founded 
 upon any hope of being relieved from the 
 misery of her own thoughts by his absence ; 
 she felt that having one object constantly 
 in the mind, was even more dangerous than 
 having it always in sight — for as somebody 
 (I forget now, who) has said, " We are not 
 accustomed to keep such an exact guard over 
 our thoughts, as we are compelled to keep 
 upon our actions ; and when the mind once 
 gives itself up to a separate pleasure, the heart 
 grows jealous, and slyly steals in for its share." 
 
 The thing appeared, however, decided, and 
 both the ladies felt that their taking any part 
 in persuading Mr. Harvey not to stay, would, 
 besides irritating the inflammable Squire, have a 
 very extraordinary appearance, and one which 
 
150 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 might lead to explanations by no means season- 
 able or agreeable. 
 
 They, therefore, contented themselves with 
 a few common-place observations, and having 
 made those, fell off as it were, in their walk 
 with the beaux, and left the Squire and his 
 friend to visit the stables, and eventually to 
 ride together ; the Squire having previously 
 begged his lady to invite Lady Frances and 
 the Captain to dinner, she having expressed an 
 intention of going to make a visit at Dale Cot- 
 tage during the morning ; an intention founded 
 on the determination of avoiding the usual 
 " luncheon" at home. 
 
THE pardon's daughter. 151 
 
 CHAPTP]R VIII. 
 
 " Oh Love ! how are thv precious sweetest moments 
 Thus ever crossed, thus vexed with disappointments." 
 
 RowE. 
 
 " What a trial will the three next days 
 be for 7726,'"' said Mrs. Harbottle to Emma, 
 when they parted from the men, and were on 
 their way to Lady Frances ; " and yet, I do 
 not see how, without exciting Ids suspicion, 
 Charles could have refused to stop.'" 
 
 " Nor I," said Emma. 
 
 " To think," continued Fanny, half in soli- 
 locjuy, " that I should have reduced myself to 
 such a position as that in which I actually find 
 myself; did you hear, Emma, what 1 said just 
 this moment ? did you hear me talk of exciting 
 his suspicion ? — how fallen am I in my own es- 
 timation within the few last hours of my life ; — 
 
152 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 up to yesterday, neither had I fear of his sus- 
 picions, nor he cause to be suspicious. I had no 
 care for the events of the day ; no anxiety, no 
 watchfulness — all — all was clear, and plain 
 before me — I had no deceit— and even if I had 
 tlioughts to conceal, I had no wishes to sup- 
 press ; but now, owing to my own weakness, — 
 wickedness is it not? — I am the sport of feel- 
 ings, of which a week ago I had no knowledge, 
 and the victim of apprehensions which were 
 then strangers to my mind. 
 
 " My dearest Fanny," said Emma, " you 
 unjustly accuse, and unnecessarily agitate your- 
 self; you have done all that you could do ; 
 conscious of the possibility of your feelings 
 being misconstrued by a young man, who 
 is living on the most intimate terms in your 
 family, you have caused the expressions, 
 which you perhaps inadvertently used in a 
 conversation with him, to be so explained, as 
 to set the matter entirely at rest. After 
 feeiling that such an explanation was necessary, 
 I agree with you, that his going, merely as 
 removing an object from your society, which is 
 associated in your mind with regret, is most 
 desirable : at your entreaty I tell him so ; he 
 
THE PARSOJJ'S DAUGHTER. 153 
 
 assents to the proposition ; do, therefore, bear 
 up for these next three days, mix in general so- 
 ciety, affect a gaiety, if you have it not, and 
 hereafter when you meet him again, you will 
 
 eet upon as friendly terms as ever." 
 
 "Ah, Emma," replied Fanny, " that in- 
 advertence, as you call it— has been the ruin 
 of my happiness; you may rely upon it, the 
 affection which is declared is never so strong 
 as that, which betrays itself — a premedita- 
 ted speech is never half so eloquent as an 
 involuntary sigh, and those words in which 
 I inadvertently betrayed the real feelings of 
 my heart, will be sooner or later fatal to some 
 of us." 
 
 " My dear Fanny," said Emma, " if you 
 treat the matter so very gravely, and feel it so 
 very deeply, I shall begin almost to fear, that 
 the agitation which Charles's brief stay occa- 
 sions, will be succeeded by a bitterer feeling 
 when he goes." 
 
 " No, no, no, I declare to you," said Fanny, 
 emphatically, *' I have no hesitation in telling 
 you ; why should 1? — you know it — you 
 must see it, that I admire Charles. T think 
 him a delightful companion — I am charmed 
 h3 
 
154 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 with his society, his conversation, his accom- 
 plishments; and I could have gone on for 
 ever, happy in his acquaintance upon the 
 terms, on which I have now been so long en- 
 joying it ; but little as I may be supposed to 
 know of the world, I know that my mind 
 is unsettled; — that I have committed myself ; — 
 that his feelings towards me will undergo a 
 change ; — and that being conscious of an interest 
 on my part, which ought not to exist, he — '"* 
 
 " — Dearest Fanny," interrupted Emma, 
 " indeed, indeed, he understands and feels ex- 
 actly as he ought, and as you must wish him to 
 feel. I fear I have incautiously alarmed you 
 by repeating some of the expressions of affec- 
 tion and admiration, which; in the course 
 of our conversation he made use of; but is it 
 not natural he should do so.^ you candidly 
 admit the gratification you have experienced 
 in his society, and the admiration you feel for 
 his conversation and accomplishments — why 
 should he not reciprocate those feelings ? — 
 Surely there is neither sin nor shame in this. — 
 Is there to be no such thing as friendship in the 
 world .?"'' 
 
 " You are too kind — too indulgent to your 
 
THE parson's daughter. 155 
 
 unhappy friend," said Mrs. Harbottle, '' you 
 endeavour to soothe me into a belief of my 
 total innocence in this affair — you think me 
 innocent. I feel myself so ; but no mail, I am 
 sure, can be persuaded that a woman woukU 
 complain of her unhappiness, and appeal to the 
 friend of her husband in her distress, without 
 some object ; and then — oh, would to heaven I 
 had died before 1 had spoken those words.'' 
 
 " Fanny, 1 must insist upon your calming 
 your feelings,'' said Miss Lovell: — " they are 
 needlessly excited.— The delay of these three 
 days — however much I may lament it, — because 
 in your present temper of mind, it will, I know, 
 annoy and worry you — is, in fact, a matter of 
 no consequence : — he sees the propriety of part- 
 ing.—" 
 
 ^' There," said Fanny, '' there, Emma, you 
 have said it ; as / talk of my husband's suj^- 
 picions, he admits the propriety of parting from 
 me. When were we — when were our names be- 
 fore associated ? when before were our interests 
 spoken of in common ? No, no, my happiness is 
 gone for ever. I trust in his honour implicitly 
 and confidently ; but to be obliged to trust 
 
156 
 
 any man, except my husband — even in thought 
 — Oh, no, no, no.'' 
 
 " Dearest Fanny,'' said Emma, " I can enter 
 into all your views. I respect your principles, 
 « I admire your delicacy ; but for his sake 
 and your own, strive against these feelings. 
 He is pledged to me not to seek, and you 
 have resolved not to permit any thing like a 
 conversation apart with him— surely you can 
 treat him like any other visiter." 
 
 " I fear not, Emma," said Mrs. Harbottle, 
 " the consciousness that I have betrayed a feel- 
 ing towards my husband, such as I expressed to 
 him, must always keep him in my thoughts ; 
 and the confidence I reposed in him will ever 
 be associated in my memory with himself; but 
 with this I will struggle —and, by the help 
 of Providence, I will conquer it." 
 
 This conversation (which brought the ladies 
 to the gate of Dale Cottage), gave Emma 
 more uneasiness than any communication she 
 had yet had with her friend, for, from its tone 
 and character, she almost feared that Fanny 
 had been deceiving herself, as to her real feel- 
 ings towards Harvey ; and that in point of fact 
 
THE rARSON''s DAUGHTER. 157 
 
 she began to repent of having made the eclat^ 
 by letting her friend into her confidence, and 
 deputing her to break off her association with 
 him. 
 
 It was, however, but a transient alarm. 
 Fanny's was a situation of difficulty as well 
 as delicacy ; she had acted upon the im- 
 pulse of feeling— she had decided according 
 to the dictates of prudence — she had resolved 
 upon her course — she had followed it ; and 
 yet, we must allow her to have been in some de- 
 gree blamelessly influenced by a gentler sentiment 
 towards one of whom she thought so highly, 
 and with whom she did not believe herself 
 capable of conversing collectedly upon the topic 
 nearest her heart. 
 
 That she was right as to the effect the 
 whole affair was likely to produce upon 
 Charles, we have already seen ; and it cer- 
 tainly seemed something like a strange inter- 
 position of fate, that Harbottle should so 
 peremptorily refuse his consent to Harvey's 
 departure. So, however, it was, and the three 
 days trial had not yet begun. Those three 
 days in France, nick-named, in the jargon of 
 the modern revolutionists, ^'glorious,'''' were 
 
158 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 scarcely more eventful to a nation, than the 
 coming Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, 
 were to the house of Harbottle. 
 
 In answer to the inquiries of the fair pedes- 
 trians at Dale Cottage, they were informed, 
 that Lady Frances was gone to Smedley, a 
 romantic village in the neighbourhood. 
 
 " To be sure," said Emma, " I might have 
 saved you your visit, Fanny ; for my father told 
 me that Captain Sheringham was going to 
 drive Lady Frances over there.^' 
 
 *' The Captain is not gone with my lady, 
 Miss," said the footman, '^ her ladyship is 
 driving herself." 
 
 " Shall I leave the message, Emma," said 
 Fanny, " or shall I send a note when we get 
 home." 
 
 The difficulty did not appear insurmountable 
 in either way, and it was altogether overcome 
 by Mrs. Harbottle's performing both evolu- 
 tions, leaving a verbal invitation to dinner 
 then, and " reminding" her ladyship and the 
 Captain with a note afterwards. 
 
 " Do you know, Fanny," said Miss Lovell, 
 as they were returning to the Hall, " I begin 
 to have some doubts as to the evenness of 
 
THE parson's daughter. 159 
 
 Captain Sheringham's temper ; there was a 
 sort of sullenness almost amounting to ill-na- 
 ture in his manner to me last night, which — 
 
 " ought,"' interrupted her friend, " to 
 
 have been in the highest degree satisfactory to 
 you ; that is^ if he happens to be as dear to you, 
 as I believe him to be : he w as in an agony of 
 despair and jealousy during the whole of your 
 conversation with Charles ; and whatever doubts 
 I had before of the serious character of his 
 attachment to you, the conduct of which you 
 affect to complain, set them completely at rest.'' 
 " Our long absence," said Emma, " must 
 have had a strange effect ; but I heed neither 
 Mr. Harbottle's jests nor Captain Shering- 
 ham's frowns. I know I was doing a duty 
 to my friend — that it was a painful one, I ad- 
 mit; and as matters have since turned out, 
 perhaps it would have been as well that that 
 conversation had not taken place." 
 
 In order to avoid the society of the now 
 dreaded Harvey, Mrs. Harbottle suggested 
 visiting the Parsonage, and making a stay 
 there during the period of the day usually 
 appropriated to luncheon at the Hall. The ex- 
 pected visiters would not make their appear- 
 
160 THE PARSO^^'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ance much before dressing time, and as for 
 any ride or drive, which the ladies might 
 propose, it would be impossible to decline 
 the attendance of Harvey and the Squire, or 
 most probably Harvey alone, if they encoun- 
 tered them before the carriage or horses were 
 ordered. 
 
 This arrangement was made — they proceeded 
 to the Rectory, and having thence dispatched 
 her note to Lady Frances and the Captain, 
 Mrs. Harbottle remained with her friend till 
 it was time for her to return home, and at a 
 period when she was pretty sure of not meeting 
 either her husband or his friend. 
 
 In due time came the " pleasant," " agreeable 
 people/' to enjoy whose society, Charles was 
 made prisoner. Three hard-headed fox»hunters, 
 with rosy cheeks and thick scrubbing-brush - 
 looking hair — one of them with a fair delicate 
 bride, and a brown boisterous sister-- a silent 
 man with a talkative wife — and a deaf lawyer 
 from the next market town. They were the 
 dearest friends Harbottle had, out of Binford, 
 that is to say, they were (like his more imme- 
 diate neighbours,) his creatures, his satellites, 
 and he could rule and command them with un- 
 
THE parson's daughter. 161 
 
 qualified potentiality ; and therefore it was, that 
 he desired Lady Frances should be present to 
 witness the exercise of his authority. The gra- 
 tification of this passion for social superiority, 
 gave an air of swaggering authority to his man- 
 ners, and his dicta were upon such occasions 
 fulminated in a tone of authority, which he 
 scarcely knew how to subdue, when he was 
 placed, in what to him was the painful situation 
 of being in the society of his superiors. It is a 
 shrewd remark, and made by a shrewd person, 
 that the man who loves to be the highest of 
 his company, will, in all probability, in time 
 sink to be the lowest of it. 
 
 It would be vain as it is unnecessary to de- 
 scribe the feelings of Fanny and Charles, during 
 the painful half hour before dinner ; he endea- 
 voured to make conversation with the sportsmen, 
 and Fanny tried to be more than ordinarily lively 
 and chatty with the ladies. Harbottle was in 
 high spirits, and Emma Lovell in high beauty. 
 
 " Fan, dear," said the Squire, "is the car- 
 riage gone down for the Sheringhams.f^ 'g^d, it's 
 late. Breguer has just struck seven, second bell 
 has rung, dinner serving, never wait. As I say, 
 Snagthorpe, what's the use of giving five hun- 
 
162 THK parson'^s daughter. 
 
 dred a-year to a cook, if the man has not fair 
 play? In dining and fighting, eh ! — time's the 
 word. Capital cook he is, as, indeed, I believe 
 all of you here know pretty well. Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Lady Frances Sheringham," was announced. 
 — Mrs. Harbottle rose to meet and receive her; 
 and Emma's lily cheek flushed, and her snowy 
 bosom heaved, and her heart beat, as her ladyship 
 advanced. Anxious to know whether the clouds 
 of the preceding evening liad vanished from 
 George Sheringham's features, and resolved, 
 under the opinion of Mrs. Harbottle, to let the 
 sunshine of her eyes dissipate any slight gloom 
 which might remain, if she perceived encou- 
 raging symptoms of a favourable change in the 
 weather on his part, the timid girl looked 
 round to observe the expression of the gallant 
 Captain's countenance. 
 
 But if her heart palpitated then — and it did — 
 and her cheek flushed, and her bosom heaved, 
 what happened, when Lady Frances had reach- 
 ed the middle of the drawing room, and before 
 she had received the ^' accolade" of Mrs. Har- 
 bottle, Emma saw the door closed, and saw no 
 Captain George Augustus Frederick Shering- 
 ham make his appearance to be shone upon. 
 
THE PARSON''s DAUGHTEll. 1G3 
 
 For a moment she fancied that he had turned 
 to speak to some of the guests in the other draw- 
 ing room; but no, he was not there. 
 
 " Lady Frances," said the Squire, " where is 
 the Captain?" 
 
 '' Why, upon my word, Mr. Harbottle," said 
 her ladyship, " I know just as little as you do ; 
 he promised to drive me to Smedley, but when 
 the poney phaeton came, he was ' absent without 
 leave,' as he would himself say. I therefore 
 drove myself, and when I returned I found a 
 note from him, saying that he had received a 
 letter which held out hopes of employment; and 
 that, anxious not to lose a moment, he had start- 
 ed without waiting to take leave of me, or, as 
 he adds, of ' any body else.' He tells me I shall 
 hear in a day or two, and the servants think he 
 is gone to town. Voila Vhistoire.'''' 
 
 More comforts for the company. Emma saw 
 in an instant the cause of Sheringham's sudden 
 departure. The gloom of the preceding even- 
 ing had, by the unforeseen events of the morn- 
 ing, been converted into anger; and the jealousy 
 which had no doubt been smouldering through- 
 out the night, had burst into a flame, on his 
 
164 THE PARSON^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 finding his imaginary rival seated at the Rector's 
 breakfast table. 
 
 Fanny, of course, felt the same conviction ; 
 her eyes met Emma's, — their looks were mu- 
 tually intelligible. 
 
 " Gone, is he?*" said the Squire; '^ now that's 
 all your fault. Miss Emma; that's just the thing, 
 two strings to your bow, or, as my friend Snag- 
 thorpe here would say, two beaux in your string. 
 You thought to worry him last night, by carry- 
 ing off Master Charles, and now, by Jove, he is 
 gone, ha ! ha ! ha ! Broken hearted, I dare say, 
 my Lady. Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " I really believe," said Lady Frances, '' that 
 he is yet safe and heart-whole, not that I am in 
 his confidence ; for although he is somewhat ad- 
 dicted to flirting, he has not a grain of senti- 
 ment in his composition. I fancy his present 
 object is a ship, rather than a wife." 
 
 Her ladyship, whose opinion of the cause of 
 her son's departure was not entirely at variance 
 with that of the Squire, delivered these last few 
 words in a marked manner and a particular tone, 
 looking Emma full in the face, who, conscious 
 of her ladyship's meaning, was ready to sink 
 
THE parson's daughter. 165 
 
 through the floor. How long she might have 
 been able to battle against her feelings, it is 
 impossible to say ; luckily the announcement 
 of dinner put an end to the struggle. 
 
 After a two hours' display of boisterous mirth 
 and empty ostentation, the ladies left the dining 
 room, and the sportsmen to the enjoyment of 
 their social pleasures ; of which, however, the 
 fair creatures were still made in some degree par- 
 takers, for the shouts, and huzzas, and tally-ho's 
 which marked the admiration of the gentlemen 
 for the toasts and sentiments which emanated 
 from the Squire, in the chair, made the house 
 ring again, and echoed through the hall to the 
 more peaceful recesses of the drawing-room. 
 
 Coffee having been twice or three times or- 
 dered, and as many times countermanded, and 
 *' more claret" having been as many times call- 
 ed for, it appeared to some of the quietest mem- 
 bers of the community, time to join the ladies ; 
 and accordingly the deaf lawyer led the way, fol- 
 lowed by Charles Harvey, who, though pledged 
 to Emma to seek no private conversation with 
 Mrs. Harbottle, felt that he was not pledged to 
 remain any longer where he was. The advanced 
 guard was soon followed by the main cm^ps 
 
166 
 
 d'armee, and the rear brought up by Harbottle 
 himself, whose appearance, on his entrance to 
 the drawing room, convinced his anxious lady 
 that he had arrived at that state in which most 
 of all, she dreaded to see him, when his mind, 
 such as it was, was just brought to a state of 
 oscillation between outrageous merriment and 
 savage rage, and when the balance was so equal, 
 that a grain in either scale would predominate. 
 In these humours he was habituated to the use of 
 what he imagined raillery ; and if before dinner 
 he had acquired an idea, (or as he used to call it, 
 a notion,) of any thing which might be going on, 
 and in which his associates might be engaged, 
 he would in the evening, after his copious liba- 
 tions, which were to his mind what varnish is to 
 a picture, and brought out all its beauties or de- 
 formities, as the case might be, invariably 
 try back upon the graver conversations of the 
 earlier part of the day, and bring forward again 
 all the arguments he had previously adopted, 
 and the observations he had previously made, 
 but with a tenfold strength of language. 
 
 Knowing this peculiarity, Fanny was convinc- 
 ed that Miss Lovell would come under his par- 
 ticular observation, the moment they met ; and, 
 
THE PAUSON's daughter. 167 
 
 moreover, was she convinced that the turn of the 
 conversation, while tormenting to Emma, would 
 probably induce a quarrel with Lady Frances, 
 who had expressed herself after dinner in no 
 very equivocal terms, as to her views and in- 
 tentions with respect to her son. To these ap- 
 prehensions on the part of Mrs. Harbottle, was 
 superadded the impossibility, in case the con- 
 versation should take that turn, of avoiding a 
 discussion upon the conservatory scene, which 
 must necessarily place Charles and herself in 
 an equally embarrassing position. 
 
 '' What are you two doing in this corner.'^" 
 said Harbottle, addressing Lady Frances and 
 Mrs. Snagthorpe, who were playing at ecarte. 
 
 " Why," said Lady Frances, '' — this— lady 
 (her name was impracticable) and I have been 
 endeavouring to while away time, which I 
 suppose has been flying with you, till you 
 joined us.*" 
 
 " Ah !" said the Squire, looking vacantly, or 
 as he meant it, wisely, at the table, " for my 
 part I do like wine, and I don't like cards — 
 I don't understand cards. I never play for 
 pleasure, and I won't play for money; Avin- 
 ning a hundred or two pounds would be no 
 
168 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 object to me, and losing half as much would 
 put me in passion." 
 
 " Yes," said her ladyship, " as poor Mr. 
 Sheringham used to say, playing high is pur- 
 chasing anxiety at a thousand pounds an hour." 
 
 '' Come," said the Squire, " let's all do some- 
 thing ; has every body seen the house ? If they 
 haven't, I'll shew it, Hollis get candles ; and — 
 come. Lady Frances, I'll be hanged if you have 
 seen my house yet." 
 
 '' Well, let me finish my partie,'''' said her 
 ladyship. 
 
 "Partiel — oh, that's French," said the 
 Squire ; " I hate French, and I hate every 
 thing but having my own way — Come, who's 
 for up stairs.?" 
 
 Some of those who had, and some who had 
 not visited the galleries and passages of his man- 
 sion, followed the Squire in his progress. 
 
 Fanny and Emma hoped that Lady Frances 
 would have done a douce violence to her feel- 
 ings, and joined the exploring party ; — but no,— 
 she remained at her ecarte : and as Mrs. Har- 
 bottle was doomed to be Mrs. Snagthorpe's ad- 
 viser, the two ladies most interested in passing 
 events had no opportunity of communicating 
 their ideas or opinions. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 169 
 
 Emma Lovell, it must be confessed, was in a 
 worse position than her friend. Fanny had 
 chalked out a line of conduct, she had followed 
 it, and however much a few hours delay might 
 militate against her entire tranquillity or cause 
 her some transient uneasiness, her point was car- 
 ried, her object was gained, and she would at 
 the end of the week be restored, if not to per- 
 fect repose, at least to the comparative com- 
 fort of feeling conscious that she had acted 
 prudently and honourably, and that however 
 great the sacrifice might be which she had 
 made, the result which she proposed in making 
 it, had been secured. 
 
 But, with Emma the case was wholly and 
 entirely different. — Secluded from the world, 
 living in the quiet fulfilment of every duty, 
 filial and social, in the small circle of which she 
 was the pride and ornament, her thoughts and 
 wishes strayed not beyond the boundaries of 
 the fertile valley in which her father had taken 
 up his rest, and her gentle mind, unused to the 
 excitements of gaiety or the allurements of 
 flattery, full of tenderness and kindness, had re- 
 ceived with unaffected pleasure the attentions 
 and devotion of such a man as Sheringham. 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
170 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 That he was charmed with her we know, for 
 in his character and disposition there were a 
 frankness and ingenuousness which rendered 
 it impossible for him to conceal his feelings, 
 even if he had thought it essential to endeavour 
 to do ?o. 
 
 Emma, unschooled in the world's ways, was 
 equally incapable of duplicity ; and thus either 
 of them seemed confident in the affection of the 
 other. Although a word of love had never 
 been exchanged between them, Emma, con- 
 scious of his regards, felt pleased and gratified ; 
 and he, almost assured by her manner that 
 when the moment of declaration came, he should 
 not be rejected, loved and lingered on, happy in 
 her society, and delighted with the traits of 
 excellence in her character, which were daily 
 developing themselves. 
 
 What had she done? — Conscious as she felt 
 herself that Sheringham always feared the 
 rivalry of Charles Harvey, she had selected 
 Charles as the partner of a protracted dialogue, 
 apart from the rest of the society, which dia- 
 logue had terminated by her disappearance, 
 and her assumption of a character, and for 
 the first time in her life the enactment of a 
 
THE parson's DAUGHTEH. I7I 
 
 part, to disguise the real truth. She tested 
 Sheringham's conduct by her own feelings; 
 she reflected upon what she should have suf- 
 fered if he had singled out some fair girl 
 to devote himself to, for the evening, and 
 abstract himself with, and if at the end of a 
 lengthened conversation they had parted evi- 
 dently under the influence of strong feelings — 
 thus it was she judged her own conduct ; — thus 
 did she revolve the events of the preceding day, 
 and coupling those with the occurrences of the 
 morning at the Rectory, arrive at the resolution 
 that she had behaved in a manner unjustifiable, 
 because inexplicable, to the being of whose 
 love for her she was conscious — a consciousness 
 acquired, it must be confessed, by a process, the 
 result of which was the incontrovertible cer- 
 tainty that she loved him. 
 
 " Here we are, here we are !"" cried the 
 Squire, dancing into the drawing-room, follow- 
 ed by his group of equally merry friends — 
 " that ecarte not done yet — I say, Fan, dear 
 Fan, let us do something till supper; let's 
 play blind-man's-bufl", hide-and-seek ; Miss 
 Snagthorpe is all for a game." 
 
 Here the burst of noise was terrific. 
 I 2 
 
172 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 " Hunt the slipper, any thing," cried Harbot- 
 tle ; •' What's to be had for fun, let's have ; 
 what's to be had for money, we will have. 
 Ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 Here Lady Frances, having in vain attempt- 
 ed to stop her ears, laid down her cards, paid 
 her points, and drawing on her glove retired to 
 the sofa. 
 
 " What shall it be, my lady ?" said the 
 Squire, " eh, hunt-the-slipper; bless your old 
 soul, you'd like it, I know you would. Ha ! 
 ha! ha!" 
 
 " Hide-and-seek," cried the voices of several, 
 who were convinced by the sinuosities of pas- 
 sages and difficult ascents and descents which 
 they had just traversed, that the house was ad- 
 mirably calculated for that game. 
 
 " So be it — so be it," said Harbottle, '^ who 
 shall hide — let's see — somebody who knows the 
 house ought to hide first. Fan — Fan, you 
 should hide — you and Charles Harvey — you 
 two first — Come — where is he— Come, away 
 with you ; stow yourselves away in some dark 
 corner, and cry whoop when we may follow ; 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! They've played at it a hundred 
 
173 
 
 times before, so we shall have old nick's work 
 to catch them ; ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 What was to be done ? Nothing but com- 
 ply ; the least check to Harbottle''s will, when 
 in his present humour, would have produced 
 something not very unlike a paroxysm of mad- 
 ness. Fanny, per force, obeyed — and Harvey, 
 scarcely conscious of what he was doing, 
 accompanied her to the hiding-place, ac- 
 cording to her husband's directions. 
 
 They proceeded along the passages, and hav« 
 ing ensconced themselves in a dark room, the 
 door of which happened to be open — the signal 
 was given, and the seekers set forth. 
 
 Charles had, involuntarily — unconsciously, 
 taken Fanny's hand, — it was as cold as ice and 
 shook fearfully. 
 
 «' Good God !" said Charles ; " What a situ- 
 ation to be thrown into, after what has oc- 
 curred." — 
 
 '' For heaven's sake, Charles," said Fanny ; 
 " remember your pledge — I — trust to your 
 honour." — 
 
 ••' One only word," replied Charles ; '^ re- 
 member when I am gone." — 
 
174^ THE parson's daughter. 
 
 " No, no,"" said Fanny, " not one syllable — 
 they are here, they are here."" 
 
 And, accordingly, the train of thoughtless 
 ones swept by, making all the lobbies and 
 staircases ring with their boisterous mirth as 
 they passed the door. Fanny ran off, followed, 
 of course, by Charles, to some other place of 
 security from the mimic hunters. 
 
 Two minutes afterwards a third person quit- 
 ted the room, which they had temporarily oc- 
 cupied, who had not been seen in it by either 
 Charles or Fanny. 
 
THE PAUSON's daughter. l/^ 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 « You think yourselves the finest gentlemen 
 When you are most to be despised and pitied ; 
 Not monkies can be more ridiculous ! 
 Besides the infamy you must contract 
 In the opinion of the good and wise. 
 As soon I'd choose a madman for a friend ; 
 You vomit secrets when o'ercharged with wine— 
 You often quarrel with the best of friends— 
 And she must be as bold as is a lioness 
 ^Mio takes you for a husband. Drink, in short, 
 Provokes you to all folly, to all vice, 
 Till you become a nuisance to mankind." 
 
 Shad WELL. 
 
 When the next morning's sun awakened the 
 Squire from his slumbers, to a consciousness of 
 existence, he felt as if amidst the chaos of 
 events and incidents of the preceding evening 
 he recollected having done a vast many foolish 
 things, the precise nature or character of 
 
176 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 which, however, he could not establish at all to 
 his satisfaction. He had either said or done 
 something outrageous to Lady Frances, and 
 something excessively silly to Miss Snag- 
 thorpe, and had affronted Emma Lovell, and 
 scolded his wife before her guests ; but as 
 the detail of all his follies would not be by 
 any means entertaining to the reader we will 
 leave him to the enjoyment of that sort of re- 
 trospective feeling, of having somehow com- 
 mitted himself the night before, which fre- 
 quently worries a man in the morning, but 
 which is never wrought to a much higher 
 pitch than when he wakes to the certainty of 
 having lost half his fortune before he went to 
 sleep. 
 
 The only permanent sentiment in Mr. Har- 
 bottle's mind, was resentment towards his un- 
 happy Fanny. Upon what particular account 
 he could not so well remember, but the point 
 was established, and, therefore, as she either 
 was or seemed to be wrapped in peaceful slum- 
 ber when her excellent spouse thought proper 
 to bestir himself, he did not disturb her repose 
 by inquiring into the cause of quarrel, or soli- 
 citing her forgiveness of his intemperance. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 177 
 
 Not he ; his usual course after one of these 
 exhibitions was to proceed silently, perhaps 
 sullenly to his dressing room, and having made 
 his toilet without calling any servant to his 
 assistance, go down stairs into his own room, 
 and having loitered about, having no pursuit 
 which led him to read or write, excepting, in- 
 deed, after the arrival of the post, to answer 
 any business letters which he might receive 
 from his banker or his lawyer, generally 
 stroll to the hall door, where, having inhaled 
 some of the freshness of the morning, he used, 
 if he fell in with his ancient serving-man, and 
 now house-steward, Hollis, endeavour to learn 
 from him such particulars of his own indivi- 
 dual conduct on the preceding evening, as in 
 the whirl of his brain he had himself for- 
 gotten — and this he usually did with what he 
 considered a prodigious deal of tact and dex- 
 terity. 
 
 It so happened upon the particular morning 
 in question, that he encountered this man on his 
 return from the breakfast parlour, whither he 
 had been to inspect the preparations for the 
 matin meal. 
 
 " Hollis," said the Squire, " were you up 
 I 3 
 
178 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 when the carriage came back from taking Lady 
 Frances and Miss Lovell home ?" 
 
 *' Yes, Sir," said Hollis, " it was about two 
 o'clock." 
 
 '•' Pray, did I — I forget," said the Squire, 
 " did I give the coachman any orders about 
 having two carriages ready for the ladies to- 
 day .?"— 
 
 '' I did not hear, Sir," said Hollis, " but PU 
 send to the stables and inquire." 
 
 '^ No," said the Squire ; " 111 go— myself — 
 pray — did Lady Frances say she would come 
 up and join the party, when she went away .?" — 
 
 " No, Sir," said Hollis ; " I understood her 
 ladyship quite different from that. — She seem- 
 ed, I thought, in a great passion and taking 
 about something. I believe it was chiefly on 
 account of something you said to her about the 
 Captain and Miss Lovell, Sir." — 
 
 So much of this dialogue as the reader has 
 yet overheard, will, perhaps, serve to show the 
 familiar nature of the communications which 
 frequently passed between this uncouth master 
 and his long-tried servant. The sequel will, 
 perhaps, enlighten the said reader somewhat 
 farther. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 1 J^ 
 
 '' What !" said Harbottle, " did I joke my 
 lady about that, - and did Miss Lovell hear 
 me ?"— 
 
 " Yes, to be sure she did, Sir," said Hollis, 
 " so did all the servants ; for it was in the 
 hall ; and Miss Lovell seemed very much vexed 
 and frightened." 
 
 • ' And was Mr. Harvey there ? What did 
 he say ?^^ said Harbottle. 
 
 *' I really dont know," said Hollis somewhat 
 significantly, " I dont think Mr. Harvey was 
 there — I think most likely he was not." 
 
 " Because," said Harbottle, continuing the 
 conversation in his strange and unaccountable 
 manner, ' ' he is Miss Lovell's sweetheart, and 
 is going off* from us on her account." 
 
 " Indeed, Sir," said Hollis, " I should not 
 have thought that— however -I shan't be very 
 sorry to see his back turned to this house." 
 
 " Why, Hollis .?" said the Squire,, " I know 
 / shall be very sorry, but when once a woman's 
 in the case there's an end of everything, so if 
 he must go, he must." 
 
 " / say nothing, Sir," said Hollis, " but my 
 belief is, that it would have been just as well if 
 he never had come here." 
 
180 
 
 " I dare say it might for him, poor fellow," 
 replied the Squire carelessly, his thoughts not 
 in the slightest degree directed into the chan- 
 nel to which his " excellent " domestic was en- 
 deavouring to invite them, and he turned away 
 to visit the stables without suffering himself to 
 be farther edified by his valuable retainer. 
 
 Fidelity in an ancient servant, is most admir- 
 able and praise-worthy, and much to the credit 
 of this Hollis would it have been if he could 
 have saved his master from dishonour, or his 
 mistress from disgrace ; but truth must be told, 
 far from being the faithful steward that his 
 master believed him to be, he was a mixture of 
 baseness and dishonesty — Time had blanched 
 his head, but his heart remained as black as 
 ever. In his master, from the time of his coming 
 of age, he had found the dupe of his artifices ^ 
 the victim of his chicanery ; and when Harbottle 
 married, Hollis felt that a mistress of the house 
 would be a check upon his spoliations and mis- 
 doings. A prudent housekeeper, selected by an 
 aunt of Mrs. Harbottle's, was placed in charge of 
 the establishment, and although the wasteful li- 
 berality, or rather reckless ostentation of her 
 husband, experienced no great reduction by her 
 
THE PARSOT^'s DAUGHTER. 181 
 
 exertions, yet method and order had, in some 
 degree, been introduced into the establishment; 
 and when alone with him, abstracted from parties 
 and visiters, Fanny's mild and cheering influence, 
 which he thought it manly and spirited to deny 
 and ridicule before strangers, won him to habits 
 of regularity and an attention to his expendi- 
 ture, which, lavish as it was, was at least re- 
 ducible to account, a circumstance which, while 
 Hollis reigned with absolute power, never had 
 occurred ; and, then again, whenever she was 
 able to interpose her persuasion between his 
 desire to buy, at the recommendation of his fa- 
 vourite servant, objects which, like his pastille- 
 burning dragons, and his duck-mounted ba- 
 gatelle-board, were neither useful nor orna- 
 mental, she applied herself to do so, securing a 
 solid satisfaction for her husband, at the price of 
 a rooted and inveterate hatred from his creature. 
 In the whole heart and disposition of Fanny, 
 there was nothino^ that was not kind and amia- 
 ble, affectionate and charitable. She had lost 
 her mother so early in life as to be unconscious 
 of the bereavement, and had been educated 
 under the care of an aunt, the sister of her fa- 
 ther ; and, when chance threw Harbottle in her 
 
182 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 way, she was every thing that man could seek or 
 desire in a wife ; modest and unaffected, accom- 
 plished and beautiful ; gay without levity, and 
 sensitively alive to every right feeling without 
 the slightest particle of prudery, her counte- 
 nance, animated with intelligence and ever-va- 
 rying expression, was the index of a genuine, 
 pure, and unsophisticated mind. In her manners 
 there was a winning sweetness, an inherent 
 gracefulness, which courts may improve but 
 cannot give, and while the joyous smile of 
 harmless pleasure played on her dimpled cheeks, 
 there was ever beaming round her, the pure ra- 
 diancy of virtue to sanctify her beauty. 
 
 And this was the being whose happiness, 
 whose fame, whose very existence perhaps was to 
 be endangered by the malicious insinuations of 
 a demon in human shape — scarce that — not be- 
 cause he felt anxious for either his master's ho- 
 nour or happiness, but in order if he could, to 
 overthrow the regularity of his establishment, 
 and bring back the chaos which had, in other 
 days, produced such profitable results to him, 
 and out of which he now proposed to realize a 
 handsome competence for a ragamuffin son and 
 a tawdry daughter. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 183 
 
 This wortliy domestic had long been seeking 
 some opportunity to poison his master's mind, 
 and the innocent playfulness of Fanny's dispo^ 
 sition, misconstrued by the low and vicious 
 imagination of HoUis into something like levity 
 and impropriety, induced him constantly to 
 watch her actions, in hopes of fastening upon 
 her, some indiscretion of sufficient importance 
 to awaken his master's doubts; for he had 
 cunning enough to understand, at least one of 
 the minds with which he had to deal, and he 
 knew that if once he could lead the Squire 
 to suspect, in the slightest degree, the rest 
 of the game would be easily played, by his 
 own violence of temper, which if it led to no 
 other consequences would, in all probability, 
 bring about a separation between him and his 
 lady ; but the sneaking spy had watched in 
 vain, and listened fruitlessly — nothing could he 
 discover in the conduct or character of his 
 mistress which malice could misrepresent into 
 impropriety, until, like music to his attentive 
 ears, did he hear his lady's maid detail the 
 history of the note of which she had been the 
 bearer from Charles. 
 
 This little episode in the family history, to 
 
184 THE pahson's daughter. 
 
 which a most unjust colouring had been given, 
 by the flippancy of Mrs. Devon, was quite 
 sufficient, as the first stone of his fabric, 
 and as if the evil genius of poor Fanny had 
 been at work against her, he happened ac- 
 cidentally — really accidentally— to be passing 
 through the room in which she and Charles 
 took refuge from the " seekers," in their inno- 
 cent game, and merely stopped to see what 
 might happen when he found them run in. 
 What he then heard made a valuable addition 
 to the scanty supply of matter for impeachment, 
 already in his possession, and furnished ample 
 materials for the first story, which he intended 
 to raise upon his slender foundation. 
 
 When Harbottle returned to the house and 
 met his assembled friends at the breakfast table, 
 his anxiety to know if he had really miscon- 
 ducted himself seriously towards Lady Fran- 
 ces, was rather whetted than allayed by the ob- 
 servations of Hollis upon their separation in the 
 evening. Mrs. Harbottle, as the ingenuous ser- 
 vant had said, was not present at tlie party, 
 and could, therefore, give him but little conso- 
 lation; but Snagthorpe, who had attended 
 them to the door, and escorted Miss Lovell to 
 
THE parson's daughter. 185 
 
 the carriage, afforded him some information 
 which was any thing but satisfactory. 
 
 " I must admit," said the sporting Snag- 
 thorpe, " that you did certainly hit her ladyship 
 hard — you talked to her of the vanity of birth, 
 and the vice of pride. How the conversation 
 took that particular turn I do not presume to 
 know — so it was — and when she was telling us 
 the history of something that had occurred at 
 a party in London, you told her that a large 
 party seemed to you to be a general combi- 
 nation of a vast number of people to make 
 each other uncomfortable, and ended by say- 
 ing, that nobody but a fool or a pickpocket 
 could enjoy a crowd." 
 
 " Ah," said Harbottle, " but as her lady- 
 ship is neither a pickpocket nor a fool, that could 
 not offend her. Ha ! ha !'"* 
 
 '' But then," continued the jovial sports- 
 man, " you told her that Miss Lovell, the 
 Parson's daughter, was too good for her son, 
 the Captain ; and you believed, after she had 
 rejected Mr. Harvey for his sake, that her la- 
 dyship had packed him off to his quality friends 
 to be kept out of harm's way." 
 
 " The deuce I did," echoed the Squire ; " did 
 
186 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 you hear me say that Charles ?'' Ha ! ha ! 
 ha! 
 
 " No," replied Harvey," " I — was not in the 
 hall at the time." 
 
 " And what said she in return .?" said the 
 Squire. 
 
 " Why," continued Snagthorpe, feeling his 
 details extremely well received by the party, 
 who were convulsed with laughter, during the 
 shewing up ; " why, her ladyship said, that if 
 Miss Lovell had given up Mr. Harvey for her 
 son's sake, there was a lady of your acquaintance 
 who did not seem inclined to give him up for 
 anybody's sake. 
 
 " Why, what did she mean ?" said Har- 
 bottle. 
 
 It was a *' merry jest," a " righte pleasaunte 
 conceite." Poor Snagthorpe, though jocose, 
 never fancied, as how indeed should he, what 
 Lady Frances really and maliciously meant, 
 for certainly the particularly reserved conduct 
 of Charles and Fanny towards each other since 
 the arrival of the new visiters, was very unlike- 
 ly to lead him to suspect that the mistress of 
 the house was actually the object of her noble 
 guest's attack. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 187 
 
 " What does she mean, Charles," said Har- 
 bottle. 
 
 Charles acted chameleon to perfection, and 
 varied his colour prodigiously. — Fanny turn- 
 ed crimson. 
 
 *' I, I can t think," said Charles. 
 
 " Do you know any of his secrets Fan,''' 
 said the Squire to his wife, who luckily was 
 sitting with her back to the light. 
 
 " Oh not I,"— replied she. 
 
 '• She could not mean Miss Eaglesfield," said 
 the Squire to himself. — '' A lady of my ac- 
 quaintance. I'll go after breakfast to have it 
 out with her. Ha! ha! ha! and what said poor 
 Emma all this time ? — upon my life I never 
 will drink punch after supper again. Ha ! 
 ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Mr. Harvey," said Miss Snagthorpe, who 
 thought it necessary to play her part in the 
 slipslop conversation, ^' must surely be conscious 
 who the devoted damsel is." 
 
 " I am not aware,'"* said Harvey, '' I assure 
 you." 
 
 " I don't care a fig about Lady Frances," 
 said Harbottle ; " to be sure there was no ne- 
 cessity for affronting her; but I am sorry about 
 
188 THE pauson's daughter. 
 
 poor Emma, because I know it will vex her, and 
 though she did throw you over Charles, ^" 
 
 " Upon my word,*" said Mrs. Snagthorpe, 
 the fox-hunter''s pretty little delicate wife, 
 "you really are too bad Mr. Harbottle ; if 
 there is any truth in your story, you should 
 spare Mr. Harvey, and if none, you should 
 spare the young lady." 
 
 " Oh," said Charles, " I am proof against 
 his raillery. I admit every thing, which is the 
 surest way of avoiding discussion.'^ 
 
 " No, you don^t," said Miss Snagthorpe. 
 " You deny your knowledge of the lady of Mr. 
 Harbottle's acquaintance, who is not disposed 
 to give you up for any body." 
 
 Never did this Patagonian Miss seem half so 
 frightful to Fanny or to Charles as when she 
 brought this little bit of satire to bear. 
 
 " I find," said Charles, '* when the ladies de- 
 clare war against me, I have no safety but in 
 flight." 
 
 Saying which he rose from the table, — so did 
 Snagthorpe and one or two others who had 
 finished their breakfast. Harbottle, with a cer- 
 tain degree of good nature, into which he had 
 been brought by a consciousness of his misbeha- 
 
THE parson's daughter. 189 
 
 viour the night before, walked up to his wife's 
 chair, and in a tone of endearment half whispered 
 in her ear, " What do you think Lady Frances 
 really did mean about Charles ?" 
 
 " How should I be able to tell ?'' said Fanny, 
 who felt her cheeks burn and her heart ache, as 
 she condescended so to equivocate in an answer 
 to her husband, as that she might avoid telling 
 a falsehood while she yet denied the truth. 
 
 *' Well, Mrs. Snagthorpe," cried Harbottle, 
 turning from Fanny, quite satisfied with her 
 ignorance, " to-day Fanny will take you over 
 and shew you the fishing cottage I have built, 
 and we will order luncheon there — and you 
 shall go in the britscka — Snagthorpe, you and 
 I will ride — who goes in the phaeton ? — Har- 
 vey, drive some of the ladies, that is, if your 
 ravenous invisible will permit you. — Ha ! ha ! 
 ha ! I think you'll like my britscka, Mrs. 
 Snagthorpe — Hobson — completest carriage in 
 the world — cost me a mint of money — but as 
 I say, what does it signify ? — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 However, I must go down to the Parsonage, 
 make my peace with Emma, and call at Dale 
 Cottage, have it out with my lady, and ask 
 her here again to dinner.*" 
 
190 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 «« Indeed;' said Fanny, " Mr. Harbottle, 
 I think you had better not invite her again : 
 in all probability she will decline seeing you 
 if what they tell us happened, really did 
 occur ; and at all events, I don't think the 
 friends now with us are exactly suited to her ; 
 and, besides — " 
 
 " Psha ! nonsense !" said Harbottle; ''not 
 suited to her ! — if my dinners, and my carriages, 
 and my comforts are suited to her, my com- 
 pany is suited to her. I shall break her into 
 my ways." 
 
 *' I would much rather she did not come," 
 said Fanny, who for reasons which she could 
 not divulge, felt the strongest anxiety not 
 again to be thrown into the society of one who, 
 professing kindness, and friendship, and affec- 
 tion for her, could, in a moment of irritation, 
 however savagely excited, evince to her hus- 
 band a suspicion of the impropriety of her con- 
 duct, in a declaration which, however ground- 
 less in fact, clearly established two points — 
 one, that her ladyship believed her dear friend 
 actually guilty ; and the other, that so be- 
 lieving, she did not hesitate to betray her on 
 the first colourable opportunity. 
 
THE PARSO^j's DAUGHTER. 191 
 
 " / would rather she should come," said the 
 Squire. " I do not choose my friends to sup- 
 pose that I am to be whistled on and off like a 
 dog, by these beggarly lords and ladies — Come 
 she shall — I am vexed about Emma — but I 
 shall press her to come too "" 
 
 " I fear it will be difficult to succeed in your 
 invitation to her,'" said Fanny, " after your de- 
 claration with respect to her position relatively 
 to Captain Sheringham. I suspect enough must 
 have passed in their way home last night be- 
 tween her, poor girl, and the Captain's mother, 
 to render it little desirable to either party to 
 meet again. Feelings like hers cannot so easily 
 be soothed " 
 
 " Feelings !" exclaimed the Squire snapping 
 his fingers, " fiddledee about feelings — depend 
 upon it in this world the only way to get on, is 
 to put your feelings in your pocket, and the 
 less room there is in it to stow them away there, 
 the better." 
 
 " You do yourself injustice," said Fanny ; 
 «' your feelings are just as strong as any 
 
 bod/s." 
 
 " I grant you. Fan," replied the husband, 
 " when I am put upon — sneered at — ridiculed 
 
192 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 — injured — deceived — that I can feel and pretty 
 sharply too ; but I should think myself a great 
 fool to care about what is said between friends, 
 as I call all of us here— hard words break no 
 bones— do they, Tom !— Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 These last words were accompanied by a 
 tremendous slap on the back of our sporting 
 friend Snagthorpe, which made him stagger 
 again. 
 
 " No — no," cried the astounded Nimrod ; 
 * ' but hard thumps do, Harbottle." 
 
 Fanny followed her inexorable husband, 
 and kept entreating him not to persevere in 
 his invitation to Lady Frances — but in vain. 
 If she came she anticipated all that she should 
 have to undergo beyond her own private feel- 
 ings as regarded her ladyship's suspicions and 
 malignity. Constant references to Harvey and 
 his incognita favourite would lead to accusa- 
 tions and vindications intended to be jocose, 
 but which would be daggers to her, and would 
 in all probability betray Harvey (who was no 
 match for Lady Frances) into some dilemma 
 which might end in the most serious results. 
 
 The die, however, was cast, and nothing could 
 save poor Fanny from the rack which was pre- 
 
THE parson's DAUGHTEB. 193 
 
 paring for her but the wounded pride of Lady 
 Frances ; and from a closer acquaintance with 
 her ladyship, Mrs. Harbottle began to believe 
 that in spite of the dignified tone which she 
 had assumed on her first arrival at Binford, her 
 magnificence had so far adapted itself to cir- 
 cumstances, that she preferred the luxuries of 
 the Hall, gratis, to the delicacies of the cottage 
 even at a small charge ; indeed it appeared by 
 her words and actions, that although she did not 
 hesitate to make war upon her neighbours on 
 the slightest provocation, one of the leading 
 principles of her tactics was that of foraging 
 upon the enemy. The difficulty of the case to 
 Fanny was this : — immediately after breakfast 
 they were to start on the expedition to the Fish- 
 ing Cottage, and Harbottle, who was first going 
 to the Rectory and Dale Cottage, was to join 
 them there. They would not meet before their 
 departure on the excursion, and she could not 
 therefore know whether the Squire's invitation 
 was accepted or not, until it was too late to 
 make any arrangements to avoid its effects. 
 
 She had resolved in her own mind that if it 
 were, she could not support the presence of 
 Harvey during her ladyship's visit — she fore- 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 THE parson's daughtek. 
 
 saw all the consequences of his being of the 
 party — the next day he was positively to 
 go to London — she determined if she could 
 ascertain Lady Frances's answer to be in the 
 affirmative, to beg him at all events, and at 
 the hazard even of affronting Harbottle, to 
 take his departure that afternoon before dinner. 
 But then, her wish upon that point must 
 be expressed to Charles himself; therefore 
 before they quitted the Hall on their trip, she 
 sought him in the breakfast parlour — he had 
 left it — she looked into the conservatory — he 
 was not there — she lingered, hesitated — she 
 could not make up her mind to get ready for 
 her departure, until she had secured his absence 
 from dinner. 
 
 Harbottle was now actually gone — no time was 
 to be lost — the carriages were coming round — 
 Fanny crossed the hall — the library door was 
 open — she looked in, and there saw the object 
 at once of her search and of her avoidance. He 
 had entered the room by a door at the other 
 end of it, which led again into the drawing- 
 rooms, and was passing through it. When he 
 saw her, and in quest of him, Harvey started. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Charles,'' said she, " lis- 
 
THE parson's daughter. 195 
 
 ten a moment. You know what Lady Frances 
 said last night — he is gone to invite her here to 
 dinner to-day — hear me — if she came, and you 
 were here, I should die — cruel, deceitful wo- 
 man ! What I have to ask — '' Here fear, 
 anxiety, and a thousand other feelings almost 
 stopped her utterance. 
 
 " Speak, Fanny" — said Charles — " direct me 
 how to act."*' 
 
 " You are to go to-morrow," continued she 
 not much less affected than he evidently was; 
 *' that is your promise to him, not to me. 
 You were pledged to go yesterday — let me en- 
 treat of you go to-day — go — make any excuse — 
 leave a note — do not see him — you will be over- 
 persuaded — God forgive me — I think I shall 
 die — go — I could not endure your presence — you 
 could not bear the jests and follies which they 
 would commit — I am convinced we should be- 
 tray ourselves "" 
 
 We ! ! ! 
 
 " If the struggle kills me, it shall be done," 
 said Charles : " you see me no more." 
 
 '' Heaven bless you," said Fanny. " Fare- 
 well, then— no — no — no — Hush, I hear them 
 K 2 
 
196 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 coming — let me go this way — my eyes will 
 betray me — farewell, Charles — farewell ; once 
 more God bless you !" 
 
 She rushed from him to the other door, 
 which was ajar ; she pushed it open to pass out, 
 and discovered — Hollis listening. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 197 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 If powers divine 
 
 Behold our human actions (as they do) 
 I doubt not then, but innocence shall make 
 False accusation blush, and tyranny- 
 Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know 
 Who least will seem to do so ; my past life 
 Hath been as innocent, as chaste, as true, 
 As I am now unhappy." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 And what may have happened in the mean- 
 while to our excellent young friend Captain 
 George Augustus Frederick Sheringham, who, 
 it seems, had suddenly adopted the rarely used 
 manoeuvre in English nauticals, of running 
 away. 
 
 To be deceived by a girl of the world, with 
 whom a man has been playing the same game 
 as herself, and to be defeated in a running figlit 
 
198 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 of flirtation, or outwitted in a case of coquetry, 
 may be unpleasant at the moment, because 
 being deceived and defeated in any thing is far 
 from agreeable; but the pang is a thousand 
 times more severe when the object of our aff'ec- 
 tions happens to be such a being as Emma 
 Lovell. The retiring modesty of manner, the 
 soul-fraught tenderness of feeling, the gentle- 
 ness of expression, the excellence of purpose, 
 and the purity of thought which distinguish 
 such a being amidst a thousand, seem so many 
 sureties for sincerity and truth. 
 
 To be discarded by such a one as this, is the 
 bitterest of all human mortifications, because 
 either a man has been deceived wilfully by her 
 original assumption of appearances, which were 
 but superficial, or she has discovered something 
 in his character and qualities so much at variance 
 with what could be acceptable to such a being 
 (supposing her sincere), as to have induced her 
 upon acquaintance and reflection to withdraw 
 herself from an intimacy for which at first she 
 had no disinclination. 
 
 That Emma was attached to Harvey, Sher- 
 ingham had no doubt — that their conversation 
 in the conservatory had ended in her acceptance 
 
THE parson's daughter. 199 
 
 of his offer he was equally certain ; first, from 
 having seen him plante at breakfast at her father's 
 the next morning ; secondly, from her message, 
 openly delivered to him by a common footman ; 
 and, thirdly, by their manner and earnestness, 
 in the walk which they subsequently took to 
 the Hall, after his departure from the Parson- 
 age. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the sort 
 of ebullition by which the gallant Captain's 
 heart and mind were agitated in his saunter 
 homewards. He walked slowly for one minute 
 — rapidly for two — then he would stop— some 
 tree, some bush, some stile, some object which 
 he passed, brought to his recollection a word — 
 a look — a smile of Emma — aye, a smile — for 
 she had smiled on him " many a time and oft" 
 as they had walked along that very path — 
 then he doubted — then he feared — then he defied 
 — laughed at his own weakness, and whistled ; 
 as if, like Othello, he could — 
 
 " "WTiistle her off, and let her down the wind 
 To prey at fortune." 
 
 But that humour lasted only for a moment — 
 he stopped — stamped on the ground with vexa- 
 
200 THE parson's daughter! 
 
 tion and anger. Should he call out Harvey ? 
 Why ? — she had favoured — had accepted him. 
 Should he see — propose to her — he never 
 had done so, and had no more right to her 
 affections, nor hold over them, than any other of 
 the gallant commanders in his majesty's royal 
 navy — why did he complain then of her prefer- 
 ence of Charles — if he so much dreaded the 
 result, why had he not anticipated his offer ? 
 He would go back — he would speak to her 
 father — he would do something on the instant 
 that should decide the point. He turned hesi- 
 tatingly round to put this scheme into execu- 
 tion, when he beheld Miss Emma Lovell lean- 
 ing on the arm of Mr. Charles Harvey, pro- 
 ceeding by the nearest way from the Parsonage 
 to the park-gates, leaning, too, with a decided 
 pressure of one arm, while, with the other, she 
 appeared to be enforcing by action some argu- 
 ment of importance, with the strongest energy 
 and emphasis, while he appeared to receive her 
 observations with marked attention, animated 
 by occasional gestures, indicative of avowals 
 and protestations. 
 
 Away went all his resolutions; for all the 
 hopes on which those resolutions were founded 
 
THE PARSON^S DAUGHTER. 201 
 
 were by this horrid vision blighted — it was too 
 clear — the thing was settled, and nothing re- 
 mained for him but instantly to quit the scene 
 of his delusion and defeat. — Knowing, however, 
 exactly the turn of his Lady INIother's mind, 
 more especially with respect to his matrimonial 
 proceedings, and still more especially withhispro- 
 ceedings connected with this particular specula- 
 tion, he resolved to attributehis departure to some 
 other cause, which he should state in a note to 
 her ladyship, and ''' cut and run,"' without leav- 
 ing her any clue by which she might discover 
 the place of his destination, so that he might 
 for the present avoid any of those lectures upon 
 morals, manners, and matrimony, which her 
 ladyship was much in the habit of writing upon 
 certain sheets of shining musk-smelling wove 
 paper, and dispatching to him sometimes heb- 
 domadally and at other times even diurnally. 
 
 This resolution taken, the Captain ordered 
 his servant to pack a portmanteau, and forth- 
 with betook himself on foot to the turning by 
 the Binford finger-post, where having waited 
 some twenty minutes, he was picked up by a 
 London coach, in which (having sent his man 
 K 3 
 
202 THE PARSON^S DAUGHTER. 
 
 back), he and his portmanteau were speedily be- 
 stowed. 
 
 But while we are bound to relate the progress 
 of the flying lover, it is equally our duty to 
 cast one glance upon her whom he had left — 
 left under an impression — hastily, yet not alto- 
 gether harshly formed — of her falsehood and 
 heartlessness. Painful and agitating as his 
 sudden departure, so caused, was to Shering- 
 ham, what were its effects upon him, compared 
 with those which it produced upon Emma ! 
 
 Man, proud man, as he may well be called, 
 as far as human pride is concerned, loves — 
 fondly, devotedly loves ; his days are occupied 
 by thoughts of her whom he adores — his 
 nights, when not sleepless, are passed in dreams 
 of her : but then, his occupations — the toils of 
 business, practice at the bar, attendance in Par- 
 liament, politics, if a statesman — war, if a soldier 
 — ^his pursuits, if professional — his diversified 
 amusements, if a sportsman — society — wine — 
 cards, dice — all these excitements are at hand, 
 and as choice or necessity leads or draws him to 
 their adoption, each is acceptable and accepted 
 r— but a woman, who loves — a being like Emma, 
 
THE parson's daughter. 203 
 
 who had never loved before — whose whole mind, 
 whose pursuits, whose thoughts, whose senti- 
 ments, whose character are propertied by the one, 
 one engrossing passion, is — how differently is 
 she placed ! 
 
 Never was being more exemplary than she 
 of whom I speak. Her constant attention to 
 the wants and sorrows of her father's poor pa- 
 rishioners — her schools — her little housewifery, 
 by which the means of the cottagers' family 
 were to be increased during the winter 
 months ; her anxiety and readiness to forward 
 and support whatever could be advantageous 
 for the helpless infant or the aged sufferer were — 
 not unequalled — ^for, praise be to Heaven, there 
 are many like her — but they were warm and 
 energetic, far beyond that which common 
 observers would expect from a being so mild, 
 so modest, so gentle and so unassuming. 
 
 In those, it is true, she found a constant 
 resource ; and as the almoner of her excellent 
 father's bounty, her mornings were regularly 
 passed, previously to her almost daily visits to 
 Fanny. Once only had the uniformity of hen- 
 visits to the poor been interrupted ; once only 
 had she failed in inquiring after the health and 
 
THE PARSON S DAUGHTER. 
 
 comfort of her pensioners — and that once, was 
 on the morning after Sheringham abruptly 
 left Binford, and after the conversation which 
 passed in the carriage between her and Lady 
 Frances. 
 
 Lady Frances, who, up to the moment the 
 Squire volunteered his remarks upon her son's 
 absence, really had no suspicion how very much 
 Emma was concerned in his going, was by the 
 observations Harbottle made (coupled with the 
 agitated expression of Miss Lovell's counte- 
 nance) satisfied that there actually was a con- 
 nexion between the Captain's departure and the 
 young lady's apparent coldness on the preced- 
 ing evening. Her game, therefore, was to be 
 played — brief as the time allowed her was — 
 during the trajet from the Hall to the Rectory ; 
 (her ladyship insisting upon setting Miss Lovell 
 down before the carriage took her home ; al- 
 though the ordinary course would have been. 
 Dale Cottage first, Parsonage next) — and ac- 
 cordingly she began her skirmishing before 
 they had left the Park. 
 
 " What an extraordinary creature Mr. Har- 
 bottle is," said her ladyship, " isn't he, my 
 dear ?" 
 
THE parson's daughter. 205 
 
 " He certainly is very odd," said Miss 
 Lovell, " but at this time of the evening, 
 nobody accustomed to his society, ought to 
 mind what he says." 
 
 " Why," said her ladyship, " to tell you the 
 truth, my love, I never do, at any time ; if I 
 did, I never should enter his house after once 
 leaving it : there are such strange persons in 
 the world, that it is really necessary to accom- 
 modate our feelings and sentiments to the 
 things we meet in society ; but I am sure that 
 you, like myself, are quite aic fait upon such 
 matters, and regard the idle babbling of men, 
 particularly those who indulge in that hor- 
 rible and now exploded vice of drinking, as 
 mere nonsense." 
 
 "I assure you Lady Frances," said Emma, 
 " that I very much regret to see the odious 
 habit of which you speak, gain, rather than 
 decrease, with Mr. Harbottle." 
 
 " Why," continued her ladyship, " it really 
 is a matter of very little importance to me 
 what people do, if they have just enough 
 method in their madness not to involve other 
 people. Now my poor son. Captain Sheringham, 
 whose name he so coarsely coupled with yours — 
 
206 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 you know that sort of thingis quite unpardonable. 
 The fact is — of course you will not mention this, 
 my dear Miss Lovell — George is gone to Lon- 
 don upon particular business. I don't choose 
 to submit all my family history to Mr. Har- 
 bottle, and therefore I affected ignorance of 
 his movements : but the real truth is, as you 
 must see. George — I dont mean to say that he 
 has any very great chance of a peerage, because 
 there are two or three between him and the title 
 in his poor dear father's family — but there it is. 
 Well — then you know with my connexions, 
 and the sincere affection which my brother, 
 LordPevensey, has always evinced for him ; and, 
 indeed, I may say his own personal claims, it 
 is natural, that, wishing as I know he does wish, 
 to marry, he should be anxious to mix a little 
 more than he can here in his own immediate 
 sphere. — I am sure he is extremely happy at 
 Binford ; and, as a son, I have every possible 
 reason to praise and admire him ; and I know, 
 that in any settlement for life my wish would be 
 a command with him. But still you see, my love, 
 he feels himself buried in this sort of place ; and 
 as there is a person — of course all this is entre 
 nous — to whom he has been almost since child- 
 
THE parson's daughter. 207 
 
 hood attached, he thinks that an opportunity 
 has offered of pressing his suit in that quarter, 
 which may to be sure be rejected — heaven 
 knows — but that he has in confidence explained 
 to me to be the cause of his sudden flight." 
 
 " We shall miss him very much," said 
 Emma, "• in our little excursions." — It was 
 lucky it was dark, and that the lamps of the 
 carriage, like those of all good carriages, threw 
 no light inwards. 
 
 *' I," said Lady Frances, who never in the 
 whole course of her acquaintance with Emma 
 had spoken one half so much before, — " I con- 
 fess — but that of course, my dear child, is also 
 in confidence — I expect his projet to come to 
 nothing ; for, amiable and excellent, and I 
 may add, noble, as dear Catharine is — Ca- 
 tharine is her name — she has nothing in the 
 way of fortune — absolutely nothing; — and, of 
 course, poor George, who has himself nothing 
 in the world but his half-pay, cannot afford to 
 marry a girl without fortune ; and, what I 
 grieve at most is, that if Pevensey, or some of 
 them, do not make a little struggle now, the 
 poor dear girl will be so unhappy — for she 
 dotes upon him— and," added her ladyship, as 
 
208 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 the carriage drove in to the Rectory gate, " 1 
 happen to know that he is just as fond of her.'''' 
 
 They stopped at the house : Lady Frances 
 took leave of Emma with the most affectionate 
 tenderness ; bid her take care not to risk her 
 safety by putting her " dear foot"" into a little 
 puddle before the door : "wrap yourself up, my 
 love" i. e. in stepping out of the carriage into the 
 hall. "Good bye, dear, remember me kindly to 
 papa," — and so on — and thence her ladyship 
 proceeded to Dale Cottage. 
 
 Oh I if these plotters could but really compre- 
 hend how very short a way their efforts go against 
 a mind like Emma LovelFs, they would save 
 themselves all the trouble of what I believe Miss 
 Edgeworth calls " Policising." (If I am wrong 
 in the word, I have to apologize to that admi- 
 rable authoress, for 1 use it only from memory.) 
 Poor Lady Frances, painted and pencilled, and 
 petrified with horror at the insight into her own 
 family affairs, afforded by Harbottle, threw 
 herself back in the carriage, after she had parted 
 with her companion, and dipped her double- 
 chin in her swan's-down boa, perfectly satisfied 
 that she had utterly confounded the " Parson's 
 daughter." 
 
THE parson's daughter. 209 
 
 " I have settled that young lady's business," 
 thought her ladyship ; '• I had not much time 
 to do it in, but done it I have. Poor dear child, 
 what with patronizing her, and coaxing her, and 
 frightening her, she will never think more of 
 my George Augustus Frederick. '*' Of whom, by 
 the way, her ladyship felt an inveterate anxiety 
 to know something herself. 
 
 Emma, unused to the world and to worldly- 
 things, was endued with an inherent good sense, 
 which more particularly, more entirely belongs 
 to women than to men, and which taught her to 
 consider the facts and opinions expressed by 
 Lady Frances in the dark, as near to truth as 
 her ladyship's curls and complexion were in the 
 daylight near to nature. Genuine straightfor- 
 ward principle, impose upon it as you will, must 
 eventually come out bright and pure. Emma 
 had seen Lady Frances, in the glare of lamps 
 and candles, candidly avow her ignorance of 
 Sheringham's destination. She knew that to be 
 truth. Was she, with a mind like hers, likely 
 to be deceived by a second edition of this his- 
 tory, evidently prepared after the occurrence 
 of a conversation which, however disagreeable 
 to her ladyship, was infinitely more painful to 
 
210 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 Emma? Not she. She looked back on the 
 dialogue, or rather monologue in the car- 
 riage, with but one feeling — pity for her com- 
 panion, who, not only in contradiction of facts 
 established, but in direct opposition to the can- 
 did declarations of George himself, had uttered 
 falsehoods, the objects of which (so thinly were 
 they skinned over) were just as evident to Emma 
 as to Lady Frances. 
 
 Fanny, during this period, was perhaps suffer- 
 ing as much, if not more, than any of the other 
 personages of this little drama ; for, in addition to 
 all her personal feelings of distress and annoy- 
 ance, connected with what may perhaps be called 
 the main plot, she was distressed beyond mea- 
 sure at the position in which she had placed 
 her innocent friend. It seemed impossible to 
 undeceive Sheringham with respect to Miss Lo- 
 velFs real feelings, and although Lady Frances's 
 story about " dear Catherine," which, of course, 
 with the rest of the carriage dialogue was 
 repeated by Emma to Fanny at the very first 
 opportunity, might have a very slender foun- 
 dation, yet it was clear that somebody 
 called Catherine was somehow connected in 
 her mind with her son's settlement in life, 
 
THE parson's daughter. 211 
 
 and it was impossible to say what he might be 
 driven to do, in a state of desperation, if he fell 
 again into her society, or the circle in which 
 she moved. The blow once struck — the knot 
 once tied, and Emma's happiness, and perhaps 
 his own, would be for ever blighted. 
 
 The greatest change, however, that mani- 
 fested itself just at this period, was exhibited in 
 the manner and spirits of the Squire ; by dint 
 of repetition his faithful Hollis had at last 
 excited in his mind, if not absolute jealousy, at 
 least suspicion; and when Fanny returned, tired, 
 worried, and out of spirits, from the excursion 
 to the fishing cottage, she was conscious that 
 what she had apprehended had come to pass, 
 and that Mr. Hollis, who had been closetted 
 with his master after his arrival, had repeated 
 the disjointed conversation he had overheard in 
 the library, improved upon, most probably, by 
 some fanciful additions of his own. 
 
 '' So Fanny ,'"* said the Squire, with a scowling 
 look, which generally portended a storm ; " Mr. 
 Harvey is gone — suddenly — without stopping to 
 say good-bye, or shake hands, or any thing 
 else. He leaves a note to say he must go to 
 London on particular business;, and now I hear 
 
212 THE parsom's daughter. 
 
 that he is not gone to London at all ; that he is 
 for the present gone over to Ullsford, and that 
 he is expected to spend a week or ten days at 
 the Mordaunt's."" 
 
 " Upon my word," said Fanny, " I am not 
 at all aware of his engagements." 
 
 " You saw him, I think, before he went, 
 Fan," said the Squire. 
 
 *' I did." 
 
 " Alone in the library .?" 
 
 " Yes, alone in the library." 
 
 " I thought, perhaps," continued her hus- 
 band, " you had some particular wish that he 
 should go^ 
 
 " I had a particular wish that he should 
 go," replied Fanny, " he had promised to go 
 before." 
 
 " Who did his staying annoy," asked Har- 
 bottle. 
 
 " The reports which had been circulated 
 about his attachment to Emma, rendered his 
 remaining here injurious to her." 
 
 " Why more to-day than a week ago." 
 
 " After that long interview in the conserva- 
 tory,'' said Fanny, not quite so collectedly as 
 she usually said things. 
 
THE PARSON^'S DAUGHTER. 213 
 
 •' Ah ! that vvas it. Oh ! and that frightened 
 away the Captain, and now you are making up 
 a match between the Captain and the Parson's 
 daughter." 
 
 " I do not consider myself making up a 
 match," .said Fanny. 
 
 " Helping it on, though," said Harbottle ; 
 " my motto is, never meddle or make in 
 matters like these ; however, I suppose you 
 would rather she should marry him, than 
 Harvey." 
 
 " To ?7?^," said Fanny, " it is, of course, a 
 matter of perfect indifference." 
 
 " It may be," said Harbottle, " but a lady 
 sometimes grows so used to a favourite that she 
 does not like to lose him." 
 
 " Favourite !" exclaimed Fanny, *• what on 
 earth do you mean ?'"' 
 
 " Why I mean," said the Squire, in a tone 
 of the bitterest severity, '' I mean that every- 
 body in the house is talking of your conduct 
 with my * young friend,' as they call him. 
 Your own maid — your pet maid — Mrs. Devon 
 — Devil T believe would be a better word — 
 talks of his notes to you, and your conversations 
 with him. I have heard it all, Fanny, but I 
 
214 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 have affected for your sake, to treat the tale 
 with contempt, and threatened those who spoke 
 of it if they ever breathed it to me again, to 
 send them all packing." 
 
 " If you had so treated their intelligence 
 because you disbelieved it, rather than in con- 
 sideration of me," said Fanny, " you would 
 have better deserved my affection. Am I to 
 defend myself against these imputations — am I 
 to explain — am I to humiliate myself.^" 
 
 " No, no ! Fanny," said Harbottle. " The 
 principal part of the history, and which does 
 you the most credit, you have carefully concealed 
 from me. Harvey's going had nothing to do 
 with Emma Lovell. Come, come, no disguise ! 
 more people than two may be in a conservatory 
 or in a library, at the same time. I give you 
 credit for all you have done ; I should have 
 liked it better if I had been consulted. Kiss 
 me, Fanny ! all is forgiven and forgotten, as 
 far as you are concerned. But as for my 
 ' young friend,' as my servants call him, who, 
 under the mask of friendship, has made me 
 absurd and contemptible. For Aim" — 
 
 " Dearest William !" said Fanny, who 
 
 knew how terrible his revenge would be, if 
 
THE parson's daughter. 215 
 
 permitted to have free play ; " listen to 
 me : you say you have treated your informants 
 — spies upon my words and actions — as such 
 persons should be treated, and declared your 
 utter disbelief in all their histories for my sake, 
 is it not clear — consult your own judgment, let 
 reason master passion — is it not clear that any 
 steps taken against Mr. Harvey, in a case 
 where, if you consider him faulty, / cannot be 
 blameless" — 
 
 — " Yes, yes," interrupted Harbottle, " you 
 are blameless." 
 
 " But will the world think so, if my name 
 becomes publicly coupled with an object of 
 your avowed hatred and vengeance. If, as you 
 say you do, and as I deserve you should, 
 believe me innocent, and should it be your 
 intention to break off your acquaintance with 
 Mr. Harvey, would it not be better to let the 
 intercourse and intimacy cease, without any 
 open declaration of hostility .^" 
 
 " Perhaps it might," said Harbottle, '^ but 
 then," continued he, clenching his fist, " he 
 escapes scot-free/' 
 
 " Escapes !" said Fanny, " what has he to 
 escape from ? what has he done ? what act" — 
 
216 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Come, come, Fan/'' interrupted her hus- 
 band, " I cry peace, but I must not hear him 
 or his conduct defended. For your sake"" — 
 
 *' For my sake !*" exclaimed Fanny ; " be- 
 lieve me, if I did not think you were thoroughly 
 and entirely convinced of my innocence, your 
 tenderness or compassion would break my heart 
 — a heart, which God knows, has never enter- 
 tained a thought derogatory to your honour, or 
 harboured a wish injurious to your happiness. 
 I cannot live under your suspicions ; indeed — 
 indeed, it would be greater kindness to kill me 
 at once." 
 
 " Come, come, my poor girl !"''' said Har- 
 bottle, " no crying — no crying. I do believe 
 you innocent of any thing wrong. I myself 
 thought Mr. Harvey was getting rather too 
 free and easy, but I was confident in you, and 
 troubled my head little about it ; but when 
 other people begin to talk, and wink, and nod, 
 and laugh— that I cannot bear." 
 
 " The opportunity of checking any such 
 impertinences, if indeed you can imagine they 
 exist," said Fanny, " presents itself. Mr. Har- 
 vey is gone — let him never return. You parted 
 not in anger, and if you meet — " 
 
THE parson's daughter. 217 
 
 " Meet — God forbid that I should meet him,'''' 
 exclaimed Harbottle, with an expression of 
 countenance worthy the hand of Fuseli, " ex- 
 cept face to face, at twelve paces distant, 
 a-" 
 
 " Oh ! William, William," said Fanny, 
 " banish such thoughts — he has never deserved 
 your hate/' 
 
 " You think not,**" said Harbottle, *' was his 
 conduct in the library, when you parted, that of 
 a dear friend ? was — "" 
 
 " Oh pray ! pray William !'' sobbed Fanny, 
 " end this painful, dreadful conversation ; ac- 
 quit me entirely, or discard me totally, — I am 
 conscious of my own rectitude." 
 
 '^Do I deny it.?" 
 
 " Then for mercy's sake — for the sake of 
 justice, spare me all these allegations, raked 
 together by persons whose duty would be 
 better pursued to their master by attention to 
 their own services, than by poisoning his mind 
 with details of circumstances of which they 
 can neither comprehend the causes nor effects, 
 and which — " 
 
 " Come, come," interrupted Harbottle, " no 
 preaching, and no running down my servants, 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 who have for years and years been faithful to 
 me, and to whom I have been before indebted 
 for acts of kindness and affection, which I 
 am very proud of and thankful for. Dry your 
 eyes — I hate to see your eyes look red^and 
 dress for dinner. Let's have no more of this ; 
 it is all over, forgiven and forgotten as far as 
 you are concerned, but — '"' 
 
 Fanny knew enough of Harbottle to know 
 the meaning of the last word he uttered. She 
 was convinced that nothing but revenge for 
 what, by the exaggeration of spies, he had 
 been taught to consider Harvey's duplicity, 
 would calm or satisfy him ; and knowing too, 
 as she did, that whatever had occurred, trivial 
 indeed as it was, had its origin in herself, and 
 had arisen from the best and most scrupulously 
 honourable feelings on both sides, it was natural 
 that the forgiveness of her husband of what, in 
 fact, was no offence, should not release her from 
 an anxiety for another, to whom, as we have 
 already seen, she w^as sincerely attached as a 
 companion and friend. 
 
 Such scenes as this which I have endeavoured 
 faithfully, yet I fear faintly to describe, are not 
 so rare in domestic life as the still unmarried 
 
THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 219 
 
 world may fancy, and yet, with all its little ills 
 and evils, man knows no happiness until he mar- 
 ries. Let him possess a woman, of sense and 
 virtue, and of whom he himself is worthy, and 
 he will feel a solid and permanent joy, of which 
 he never was before sensible. " For," as some- 
 body says, " the happiness of marriage, like 
 the interest of money, arises from a regular and 
 established fund, while unmarried libertines 
 live upon the principal, and so become bank- 
 rupts in character and respectability." 
 
 To be sure, (as indeed the same authority tells 
 us), '' Uninterrupted happiness no man can or 
 ought to expect. Life is no sinecure ; fruits 
 do not now spring spontaneously from the earth 
 as they did in the garden, nor does manna drop 
 from the clouds as it did in the wilderness.'' 
 But, as a scheme of solid comfort, matrimony 
 affords to well regulated minds a double share 
 of pleasure in prosperity^ and a solace and sup- 
 port in sorrow and adversity. 
 
 The assembled party at Binford " needed no 
 ghost" to tell them that there had been a 
 family storm during the interval between their 
 return and dinner, even if the swollen eyes of 
 their hostess, and the forced smiles which, 
 l2 
 
220 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 strange to say, the angry frowns of her husband 
 drove her to assume, had not sufficiently pro- 
 claimed the fact, the ladies'* maids had commu- 
 nicated each to her mistress the outlines of the 
 domestic history ; for Devon, although in some 
 sort attached to Mrs. Harbottle, was too vain 
 of being trusted, ever to keep a secret, arguing 
 somewhat logically that a secret is of no use in 
 the world if one may not tell it ; and, therefore, 
 in the plenitude of her knowledge, and in the 
 exercise of her natural communicativeness, she 
 had mentioned to Mrs. Snagthorpe's and Mrs. 
 Dempster's soubrettes what she knew was to 
 happen when her master returned ; because Mr. 
 Hollis had forewarned her of the course he was 
 a&ut to pursue, in order to put her upon her 
 guard if she should be questioned by the Squire 
 about the note which Harvey sent ; Hollis be- 
 lieving her to have a sufficient quantity of the in- 
 herent spirit of intrigue, mingled with a certain 
 degree of affection for her mistress in her compo- 
 sition, to induce her to deny, in the most posi- 
 tive manner, ever having carried (or even seen) 
 a billet from Mr. Harvey to Mrs. Harbottle. 
 
 The caution of Hollis might lead the specu- 
 lative reader into the belief that, in the midst 
 
THE parson's daughter. 221 
 
 of all his mischievous proceedings, he had some 
 feeling: towards Mrs. Devon, which induced him 
 to let her into his confidence just as far as was 
 necessary to prevent her committing herself 
 in a falsehood, and being — as he was convinced 
 she would be by his irascible master — kicked 
 into the street on the instant of her detec- 
 tion. Upon this point, knowing little, we say 
 less. 
 
 To describe the sort of evening which was 
 passed after this scene, would be to recount the 
 duration of dullness, from the time dinner was 
 served till the ladies retired. Fanny made her 
 excuses, and left them early. Harbottle drank 
 much, and talked much . and even laughed much, 
 but the demon of revenge was lurking in his 
 heart, and when he reeled up stairs to bed, his 
 deepest regrets were occasioned by thinking that 
 Harvey was beyond the reach of his immediate 
 chastizement. He sat himself down in his dress- 
 ing-room, his temples throbbed, and his eyes 
 swam in his head ; he unlocked his pistol-case, 
 he poised one of the deadly weapons in his hand, 
 raised it, then dashed it upon the table with an 
 oath, as if in despair that Charles was at the 
 moment beyond the range of its bullet. He 
 
222 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 recurred to all his hospitality, his friendship, 
 his intimacy with Harvey : recalled to his re- 
 collection all the proofs which Harvey had seem- 
 ed to give of affection and friendship for him ; 
 turned over in his mind the numberless inci- 
 dents which had occurred, in which he and 
 Fanny had been engaged together — all such 
 thoughts and recollections being heightened and 
 exaggerated by the effects of the wine he had 
 swallowed. 
 
 To hunt down the miscreant whom he thought 
 had stung him — to call him out — to shoot him 
 if he could, were the objects of his present 
 anxiety ; but the certainty that such a measure 
 would give publicity to his suspicions — to his 
 shame, perhaps — checked his sanguinary desires. 
 He could not endure to become the mark for 
 ridicule or pity, as a dishonoured husband, and 
 in this struggle between the baser passion for 
 revenge and the more venial feeling of vanity, 
 the distracted man consumed the greater part of 
 the night, and when at last he laid his head 
 upon his pillow, sobered by reflection, and sad- 
 dened by suspicion, he fell into a fitful slumber, 
 from which he awoke next morning as little re- 
 freshed in body as he was relieved in mind. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Oh, m V hard fate ! why did I trust her ever ; 
 What storj is not full of woman's falsehood ? 
 The sex is all a sea of wide destruction ; 
 We are vent'rous barks, that leave our home, 
 For those sure dangers which their smiles conceal." 
 
 Lee. 
 
 Return we now to Captain Sheringham, 
 whose expedition to the metropolis in some de- 
 gree resembled that of Cadmus, who being sent 
 off by his father Agenor to pursue his sister 
 Europa, happened to be struck with the beauty 
 of a particular situation, and stopped to build 
 the city of Thebes on his way. Sheringham, 
 bound to London, and resolved upon cutting 
 the thread, if not of the fates, at least of his 
 connexion with the fickle Emma Lovell, began 
 to feel his animosity, like the courage of Sheri- 
 
I'Z-ii THE parson's daughter. 
 
 dan's Acres, " oosing out at his finger's ends'" 
 during the first ten miles of his progress. 
 
 It was not, perhaps, that his doubts had so 
 speedily abated, or that the impression which 
 what he had seen, had made, was fading from 
 his mind, at a rate so rapid as to entirely alter 
 his views and feelings, but it was the certainty, 
 in his present humour, if it lasted, that he 
 should take some decisive measure upon his 
 arrival in town, which would utterly and for 
 ever shut the door against any explanation, and 
 terminate irrevocably all further intercourse with 
 the only being for whom he had ever felt a sin- 
 cere and devoted affection, which induced this 
 modification of his passion. The faint glim- 
 mering of hope — and a small spark it was — that 
 in spite of appearances she was not the faithless 
 creature he feared her to be, increased gradually 
 as the distance between them lengthened, and 
 when he reached Ullsford, he ventured to stay 
 his flight; and, if he were not like Cadmus, 
 disposed to found a city, at least he felt a 
 powerful inclination to indulge himself by 
 building a few castles. 
 
 According to this plan he resolved to ensconce 
 himself in the best inn at that excellent market 
 
THE parson's daughter. 225 
 
 town, and write by the night's mail back to his 
 lady mother, informing her of his halt, and 
 begging to hear from her by return of post ; 
 tJiinking, by this proposition, with which he was 
 quite sure she would agree, to hear something 
 relating to the politics of Binford, which might 
 serve to throw a light upon his own parti- 
 cular affair, being at the moment decidedly of 
 opinion that the denouement oi Emma''s accept- 
 ance of Harvey was at hand, and that, in all 
 probability, that very day would be selected for 
 its announcement. 
 
 Having written his letter, the unhappy Cap- 
 tain ordered his dinner ; for he was not one of 
 those sighing swains *' Who," — the proverb 
 says — why, nobody has ever exactly ascer- 
 tained — " live on love, as larks on leeks," but 
 on the contrary, held that the diseases of the 
 mind were rather allayed than excited by the 
 refreshment of the body ; and while the repast 
 was preparing, he took a stroll about the 
 town. 
 
 There had been times when the sight of the 
 
 well-curled damsels, standing at the shop doors, 
 
 or working, or seeming to work, behind their 
 
 counters, would have excited his attention at 
 
 l3 
 
226 THE parso:n*s daughter. 
 
 least : the library, half-filled as it was, with the 
 best of the neighbours, would once have drawn 
 him into its gay vortex ; and the promenade, 
 at the end of the town^, called there the espla- 
 nade, had his heart been at ease, and his mind 
 in tune, would have charmed him, so thronged 
 was it, with pretty people, all looking as fresh 
 and gay as none but English-women ever look 
 by daylight. All these he now gazed at with 
 lack-lustre eye, and bent his solitary way to the 
 church-yard, where he lingered and loitered, 
 reading epitaphs and watching grave-diggers, 
 till it was time, as he thought, to return to his 
 hostelry. 
 
 There are periods of a man's existence, when 
 being left alone — all entirely alone, is very de- 
 lightful — this evening was one of those in Sher- 
 ingham's life — he could have been happy in no 
 society but Emma's, and that he was not des- 
 tined to enjoy. All conversation but her's 
 would have tormented him to death — alone, he 
 could think of her and of her falsehood, with- 
 out fear of interruption ; and after dinner, 
 while sipping his wine, and reading the " La- 
 dies Magazine for 1789 and 1790," adorned 
 with plates of distinguished persons, " He ever 
 
THK pakson's daughter. 2'2'J 
 
 and anon" lifted his eyes from the book to the 
 ceiling, as he came to passages in the pleasing 
 little romances of those days, under the titles of 
 " Eloise, or the Delicate Distress,"" — " Jacin- 
 tha, or the Cruel Uncle," — " Henry, or the 
 Stray Lamb," &c., which he could, by the force 
 of ingenuity, twist into an application to his own 
 unfortunate case ; and in this state of vegeta- 
 tion he remafned until about ten o'clock, when, 
 at about the period at which a London after- 
 noon begins, he betook himself to rest — or at 
 least to horizontal reflection — for so fixed were 
 his thoughts upon his false fair-one, that up, or 
 in bed, his cogitations were the same, the only 
 difference being in the attitude which he cliose 
 his body to assume. 
 
 The post arrived in the morning ; no letter 
 from Lady Frances in answer to his, whicli 
 she must have received early in the preceding 
 evening, and quite in time to reply to it — what 
 was the meaning of that — was she ill — or 
 would she not write ? In answer to the ques- 
 tions which the Captain put to the waiters at 
 the inn, and subsequently to the post-master's 
 daughter, he found no solution of the mystery 
 of the non-arrival of her dispatch. His mo- 
 
228 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 ther was an excellent correspondent, she loved 
 writing, and did nothing else all the morning 
 long than cover sheet after sheet of paper, not 
 only with lines horizontal, but lines perpen- 
 dicular, and lines diagonal, so that no possible 
 spot or corner of her letters should escape un- 
 written on. She could not surely be unwell — but 
 if she were, she knew by his letter where to ad- 
 dress him ; and supposing her illness sudden, as 
 it must have been, and so serious that she could 
 not herself write, her maid might have acted as 
 secretary for the home department for once. He 
 was, however, greatly annoyed by the failure 
 of the intelligence, and resolved upon going back 
 himself to Binford, by that night's mail, if some- 
 thing did not turn up in the course of the day. 
 He would then get there by night — neither 
 would his eyes be pained with the sight of Har- 
 vey and Emma taking the " walk of the affi- 
 anced,"" nor would they enjoy the triumph of 
 beholding the defeated and discarded lover 
 moping in solitary sadness under the spreading 
 ye^v trees, which shelter the walk from the Rec- 
 tory to the church. — That scheme was selected, 
 and another day of agreeable single-blessedness 
 was before him. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 229 
 
 He lengthened his walk upon this occasion, 
 and enjoyed his own thoughts uninterruptedly 
 in a stroll for upwards of five hours ; having 
 returned from which, and finding no news 
 from his lady mother, he again proceeded to 
 the worldly pursuit of dining. 
 
 As he passed to his sitting room, a man 
 whom he recognized as Harvey's servant, Evans, 
 touched his hat to him in the passage — Sher- 
 ingham was startled. What brought him here ? 
 a spy, perhaps. — To ask after his master whom 
 of all other people upon earth, he hated most 
 and least wished to see, would be absurd, and 
 yet — what should he do ? — at the moment he did 
 nothing but pass on — the waiter followed— of 
 him he inquired if Mr. Harvey was in the 
 house.'* — yes — he had just arrived. 
 
 " This," thought George Frederick Au- 
 gustus, " is deucedly provoking. What can 
 have brought him here.'*'' — " Is Mr. Harvey 
 alone.?" said the Captain. 
 
 " Yes, Sir," said the waiter, " he sleeps here 
 to night, and has ordered horses to-morrow 
 for his britcska to Mr. Mordaunt's. 
 
 " Oh," said Sheringham, "he is not going 
 backtoBinford.?" 
 
230 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 " No, Sir." 
 
 " That's odd," thought the Captain, '' that 
 now is very odd — I don't see why I should quar- 
 rel with him— we parted good friends — never 
 spoke so civilly since we knew each other, as we 
 did when we separated at the Parsonage— if he is 
 not going to Binford — eh — how is it — let me 
 see, she cannot have jilted him too — one down 
 another come on ? No, no, that cannot be — 
 but then, the conservatory — the breakfast — the 
 walk — these are so many '' handkerchiefs which 
 the Egyptian did to my mother give"*' — are they 
 all trifles, liffht as air ? — but then, he is here — 
 Enjf^ there — she is not coming away, he is 
 not going back. Oh, let me break the ice — let 
 me overcome suspicion — let us either fight or 
 be friends. Hang it, one way or another it 
 must end." 
 
 At the conclusion of this soliliquy, he gave 
 the bell a tremendous pull, and at his bidding 
 the waiter stood before him. 
 
 " Has Mr. Harvey ordered dinner ?" 
 
 ''• Yes, Sir." 
 
 *' Is he come down .?" 
 
 " No, Sir." 
 
 " Where is his servant .^" 
 
'j'HE parson's daughter. 231 
 
 " Here, Sir." 
 
 Evans appeared. 
 
 " When did Mr. Harvey leave Binford ?'' 
 said the Captain. 
 
 " About half-past two, Sir," said Evans. 
 
 '■ He is going to Mr. Mordaunt's ?'''' 
 
 " Yes, Sir, to-morrow." 
 
 " Does he return soon to Binford .'^" 
 
 " I think not, Sir ;" said Evans ; and in 
 saying it, George, who was watching him like 
 an Old Bailey counsel, saw an expression in 
 his countenance, which he vainly endeavoured 
 to suppress, and which meant more than the 
 simple answer seemed to convey. 
 
 " Come away suddenly — eh .''" said George. 
 
 " Very, Sir," said Evans. 
 
 " I wish — I wish," said Sheringham, " you 
 Avould go to your master — make my compli- 
 ments, and say that I am here alone ; and that 
 if he will do me the favour to join me at dinner, 
 I shall be too happy." 
 
 " I will, Sir." 
 
 Away went Evans. — This was curious — a 
 triumphant lover would not leave his prize thus 
 — what could it mean — was he in despair — had 
 he been beaten — rejected — deceived — it was- 
 
232 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 quite a case of sympathy — Harvey's answer in 
 the affirmative was couched in the most friendly 
 tei'ms, and Evans was directed to order the 
 people to blend the dinners — another case of 
 sympathy — the same soup — broiled whitings — a 
 roast fowl and egg sauce — an omelette aw<3? herhes 
 Jines, and a tart, had been ordered by both the 
 gentlemen ; four whitings instead of two, two 
 fowls instead of one, and so on in progression, 
 accordingly appeared, and shortly after entered 
 Charles Harvey himself. 
 
 When he came into the room he affected a 
 gaiety which Sheringham in an instant saw was 
 forced — ^he was delighted to see it — and in- 
 stantly shook hands with the man whom an hour 
 before he considered as his deadliest foe, with 
 the greatest cordiality. 
 
 '* You dont look well, Harvey," said She- 
 ringham. 
 
 " I am not well at all," replied Harvey, 
 '' but pray may I inquire what on earth took 
 you so suddenly from Binford, and what on 
 earth brings you here." 
 
 " Sympathy, I suppose," said Sheringham, 
 '' for your own questions echoed, would be 
 those most suitable to my inquiries about ?/ow." 
 
THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 233 
 
 " I am here," said Harvey, *' malgre moi-^-^ 
 I am going to the Mordaunts." 
 
 " You had not long fixed that visit," said 
 Sheringham. 
 
 " It depended entirely on my stay at Har- 
 bottle^s," replied Charles, " I promised when- 
 ever I left Binford, to go to Marchlands.'^ 
 
 " I had no idea that you were going to leave 
 Binford so soon." 
 
 " I did intend coming away the day be- 
 fore yesterday,*" said Harvey, *' but the Squire 
 would insist upon my stopping. I wish I had 
 not been persuaded to stay. I saw Miss Lovell 
 just as I left the village this afternoon — look- 
 ing handsomer than ever." 
 
 '• The devil you did," thought the Captain. 
 '• I wish you had kept that fact to yourself, at 
 least till we had dined." 
 
 " Lady Frances," continued Charles, " I did 
 not see; she dined with us yesterday at the 
 the Hall ; and I am afraid Harbottle was ex- 
 cessively rude. I know from the conversation 
 at breakfast this morning, that poor Emma 
 Lovell was made excessively uncomfortable by 
 his allusions.'*'* 
 
234 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 " Miss Lovell, too," said Sheringham, " his 
 allusions— oh ! " — 
 
 " About you^' said Harvey. 
 
 ^c Me !" 
 
 At this crisis, when the Captain was wound 
 up to a pitch of excitement and expectation, 
 which nobody not chin deep in love can pro- 
 perly estimate, the door of the room flew 
 open, and the master of the George appeared at 
 the head of his waiters, bearing the Siamesed 
 repast for the two disconsolate lovers. The 
 noise the men made in putting the things down, 
 rattled through the brains of the friends, for 
 such they now seemed destined to be, and by 
 the time the Yahoos, who invariably couple 
 noise with smartness, had, in their slap-dash 
 manner, arranged the table and placed the 
 chairs for the guests, they each wished the 
 meal over in order to get rid of the incum- 
 brance of the attendants, in whose presence it 
 was, of course, impossible to touch upon the 
 subject nearest their hearts. 
 
 The meeting between these two young gen- 
 tlemen was curious ; the circumstances were 
 such, and so peculiar that they produced in 
 
THE parso:n's daughter. 235 
 
 the course of the evening from Harvey what 
 perhaps nothing else upon earth could have ex- 
 tracted from his bosom, the confession of a 
 fervent, deep-rooted, and unalterable attach- 
 ment for Fanny. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed," said Harvey, " if any 
 human beino; had told me that, livintj as I 
 have been with Harbottle, it was possible I 
 should have allowed passion so far to gain the 
 mastery of reason, of principle, and of honour, 
 I would have felled him to the earth. Uncon- 
 sciously and unwittingly did I entangle myself 
 in this fatal attachment. Not one word of love 
 has ever passed my lips, not one thought has ever 
 crossed my mind, which I would have disown- 
 ed or disguised even from her husband ; but, 
 Sheringliam, the moment came when I was un- 
 deceived ; she painted her own unhappy circum- 
 stances to me ; she said little ; but then it was, 
 and then for the first time, I knew, I loved her. 
 All I have explained to you about my long con- 
 versations with that most amiable of beings, Miss 
 Lovell, rather added than diminished my affec- 
 tions. An appeal was made to my feelings to 
 my honour, to save her — save her from what — 
 George ? — was not this a confession that my 
 
236 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 fatal passion was in some degree recipro- 
 cated ? 
 
 " My dear friend,*'"' said Sheringham, " you 
 must not agitate yourself thus ; you have acted 
 honourably and wisely; time and reflection and 
 reason will overcome this — and — " 
 
 "Preach, Sheringham, preach," said Charles ; 
 *• but recollect, that the preacher is most ef- 
 ficient who acts up to his doctrines — had your 
 Emma (for yours she is, rely upon it, heart 
 and soul) — been torn from you, or had you 
 quitted her under the impression that you 
 never were again to see her, what would you 
 have done ^" 
 
 " Why, my dear friend," said George, 
 " precisely what / have been doing for the 
 last four-and-twenty hours, and you should 
 console yourself with the reflection that, how- 
 ever much you sufi^er, the object of your ill- 
 fated attachment is safe — safe beyond the reach 
 of pain or calumny." 
 
 " True, so she is," answered Charles, '' but 
 what a blank is my existence now. Where 
 shall I find solace, where dissipate regrets of 
 which I never anticipated the depth or extent, 
 until forced to endure them. Travelling— 
 
THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 237 
 
 travelling, must be my resource. On the con- 
 tinent, through scenes unconnected with any 
 recollections of her, I may perhaps be tor- 
 mented into other thoughts. But for life the 
 feeling lasts, here — here, in my heart." 
 
 " I thought,'" said Sheringham, " when I 
 first met you at Harbottle's, that you enter- 
 tained rather a favourable opinion of the lady 
 of the house, and I must admit that I also 
 thought her opinion of you was not much less 
 favourable ; but one sees so very much of that 
 sort of family compact in the general run of 
 society, that I, who make a point of never 
 interfering where I think my officiousness 
 might be superfluous, thought no more about it ; 
 but I declare to you that, the greatest surprise 
 your confidential communication has created on 
 my mind, is, the fact that the denouement of 
 the affair, is a thing of only a few days 
 old." 
 
 " Ah, Sheringham," said Harvey, " you 
 do not know what an admirable creature 
 that woman is — what, in point of fact she 
 suffers, and how she bears her sufferings ; but 
 never mind, leave me to a course of sorrow 
 which I deserve, and of repentance which I 
 
238 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 need. — As you justly say, thank God ! she is 
 safe and blameless ; and in that recollection 
 I am comparatively happy even in my misery. 
 You have a brighter prospect before you, and 
 so has Emma, for although in point of fortune 
 she may all her life as you say, be poor, she 
 will marry the man she loves and who is calcu- 
 lated to make her happy.'' 
 
 " But my dear fellow," said Sheringham, 
 who, having received from Harvey all the par- 
 ticulars of his interviews with Miss Lovell, 
 all the causes of their conversations and meet- 
 ings had, become the gayest of the gay, and 
 above all, most anxious to console and enliven his 
 companion. " You really are forerunning my 
 expectations. I have no assurance, but your 
 word, that Emma Lovell cares one single six- 
 pence about me. I have, like you, never spoken 
 of love ; she has never expressed any thing but 
 good-nature and kindness, and at those lun- 
 cheons -" 
 
 " Ah," said and sighed Charles Harvey. 
 " Those fatal fascinating meetings — now ter- 
 minated !" 
 
 '* Well terminated for all parties," said 
 George. '• No sorrow — hope — hope Charles.'" 
 
THE parson's daughter. 239 
 
 •' Where am I to look for hope — for com- 
 fort." 
 
 " Time and patience," continued the Cap- 
 tian, " are required to soothe us in all great 
 calamities ; but rely upon it — " 
 
 Here entered a waiter with a small brown 
 paper parcel, directed to Captain Sheringham, 
 R.N. George Inn, Ullsford, per Swannington 
 coach. It was a letter from Lady Frances, 
 thus enveloped innocently to defraud the general 
 post-office and secure the receipt of its contents 
 that evening, her ladyship having, from some 
 cause " yet unexplained," missed the day's post 
 — as ladies with a large correspondence some- 
 times do. 
 
 The seal broken, the packthread cut, George 
 read as follows : — 
 
 Dale Cottage, Aug. 30, 1830. 
 My Dear George, 
 1 cannot describe to you the pain and agita- 
 tion I suffered from your sudden and most un- 
 expected disappearance, and I assure you the 
 mortification I have undergone since, upon ac- 
 count of your flight, has, in no small degree, 
 encreased the effects of that uneasiness. I have 
 had Popjoy with me, and have taken an ocean 
 
240 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 of camphor julep and some other horrid messes 
 which he has sent me. I of course gave him 
 Halford's prescription, which, as usual, brought 
 me round a little, and your kind and affectionate 
 letter, has for the present effected my cure. 
 
 I had, last night when I came home, made up 
 my mind, certainly if you did not return, never 
 to visit the Harbottles again ; his rudeness is 
 beyond endurance, and under the influence of 
 constant intoxication in the evening, he throws 
 off every thing like restraint or a regard for the 
 common decencies of society. The people who are 
 staying with them are, a horrid wooden-headed 
 looking man, with red cheeks and a black bristly 
 head, whose name I have never been able yet 
 to pronounce, with a mawkish pale faced dawdle 
 of a wife, drest after the prints in the maga- 
 zines, and a sister who, upon my word, is not 
 presentable anywhere. Then there is an old 
 lawyer (Dumps I think they call him) as deaf 
 as a post, and as rude as a bear, with a prim 
 starched better half, who talks slip slop more 
 admirably than the Lady in the Rivals ; when 
 speaking of an open heath she talks of a dis- 
 solute situation in the country ; and while Mrs. 
 Harbottle, who really knows something, was 
 
THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 241 
 
 speaking of the arts, she volunteered her opinion 
 that " statutes were nasty things, but that of 
 pictures she had always heard the most beautiful 
 that ever was painted was the Anno Domini of 
 Apelles." 
 
 " At such things as these I could laugh if I 
 had any body to laugh with me, but the peo- 
 ple who are here, of course, see nothing ridicu- 
 lous in their own absurdities or those of their 
 companions, and sit round the room in sober 
 sadness, and fancy that society. 
 
 " What put me in a serious passion with Mr. 
 Harbottle were some very coarse allusions about 
 you and the Parson's daughter, and that too in 
 her presence ; now really a joke, if joke it may be 
 considered, at the expense of two people when 
 absent, is all very well ; but while the poor crea- 
 ture was present, filling her head with notions 
 which could only end in disappointment to her, 
 was too outrageous ; and when the Squire said 
 that she had given up Mr. Harvey for your sake, 
 I really was in such a passion as to tell him, that 
 upon that subject he had better look nearer 
 home, for that there was a lady of his acquaint- 
 ance who did not seem disposed to give up 
 Mr. Harvey for any body. 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
242 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 '' This morning the Squire called upon me 
 full of apologies for what he had been told had 
 offended me. He appeared to recollect nothing 
 of the matter himself, but some of his odious 
 friends had, at breakfast, recalled to his memory 
 my observation about young Harvey ; and you 
 cannot imagine what I suffered between the stu- 
 pidity of the man himself, and my own anxie- 
 ty not to be mixed up in any of their quarrels 
 or grievances. When he insisted, jocularly, of 
 course, upon my telling him who the lady was 
 who was so devoted to Charles, as he called him. 
 I could say nothing, but advised him to try and 
 find out, which I should not have done if I had 
 imagined he had the least chance of succeeding 
 in his scrutiny. He insisted upon my dining 
 with them to-day, to shew that I was not offen- 
 ded, and as I could not, in this place plead any 
 other engagement, I am going fully prepared 
 for the frowns of the lady, who, I have no 
 doubt, will erroneously attribute what I said in 
 a moment of irritation to annoy him, some little 
 tittle-tattle desire of shewing her up, which I 
 declare to have been the farthest thing in the 
 world from my intentions. 
 
 " I, however, took the opportunity of this tete- 
 
THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 243 
 
 d-ti'te with the Squire to set him right upon 
 the subject of Miss Lovell. I had indeed in the 
 course of our drive homewards from the Hall 
 talked at her, in describing the sort of person 
 I should like you to marry, and I believe from 
 the tone of voice in which she replied, for I could 
 not seethe expression of her countenance, that I 
 completed the affair entirely — gave her hopes the 
 coup de grace, and prepared her for woe and wil- 
 lows; but it struck me, as I know Mrs. Harbot- 
 tle, to be her chief— indeed only— friend and con- 
 fidante, that it would be wise to instill into the 
 thing which Mr. Harbottle calls his mind, the 
 conviction that any serious connexion with the 
 Lovells had never entered your head. I repre- 
 sented you as I think you merit, full of vivacity 
 and general admiration for nice and pretty peo- 
 ple, with a turn for flirting, and accomplishments 
 exactly suited to the indulgence of the pursuit — 
 be that as it may, I made them understand, that 
 you have no more idea of connecting yourself 
 with the Parson's daughter than the Pope has, 
 nor much more right than his holiness to think 
 of such a thing. That being yourself without 
 fortune, you certainly could only marry with 
 money, and that, therefore, putting all the 
 M 2 
 
244 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 other impossibilities out of the question, you 
 certainly could not — even if you wished it, — 
 which I am sure you did not, marry such 
 a person as the poor little girl whose head I 
 am really afraid you have turned. Having 
 charged the Squire with all these views and 
 intentions, I dispatched him to his wife to make 
 a confidence, and was not at all ill pleased that 
 he proposed taking the Rectory in his way to 
 join " the ladies" in some excursion to his fish- 
 ing-house, which has cost him more money than 
 fishing-house ever cost, and is not yet half 
 finished. 
 
 " I was so extremely unwell that I could not 
 write in time for today"'s post, and I therefore 
 have ordered them to forward this by the coach ; 
 and one of my principal reasons for regretting 
 my inability to write sooner is, that I am ex- 
 tremely anxious you should go to Somerfield 
 1 wish you to cultivate the acquaintance of Ca- 
 therine. She is an amiable creature, and though 
 somewhat older than yourself, so superior, and 
 with such an understanding and such a heart, — 
 and I dare say you will jokingly add, — and such 
 a fortune ; but there you will do me an injus- 
 tice ; I feel certainly, as I told Mr. Harbottle, 
 
THE parson's daughter. 245 
 
 that you ought not to marry without money, 
 but that is a totally different thing from marry- 
 ing for money. There are as lovely and as ex- 
 cellent young women, rich, as there are poor, 
 and although I have no desire to spoil you, 
 and perhaps see you with a mother's eye, I do 
 really think, considering your personal qualifi- 
 cations, and the circumstances of your birth, and 
 connexions on both sides, that you are fully en- 
 titled to aspire to the union of beauty and wealth, 
 in the lady with whom you link your fate and 
 fortune. A woman's heart is always disinterest- 
 ed ; a rich girl is as easily won as a poor one ; 
 it is true, friends and relations may in the one 
 instance thwart, while in the other, they would 
 encourage asuccessful termination to your suit ; 
 but as far as the being herself is concerned, I 
 have known the world a long time, and I never 
 knew a rich girl think of her riches, except 
 as affording the means of making him happy 
 whose happiness it was her anxiety to make. 
 
 *' You must be aware, dear George, that in 
 advising you to proceed, and not return to this 
 place, I make a great personal sacrifice ; in- 
 deed, I shall quit it very shortly myself. I 
 
246 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 am so entangled with these oppressive people, 
 and their inevitable hospitality, that I am 
 gened to death, and the horrid monsters 
 who compose the rest of the population, are 
 so detestable to me, that I cannot make up my 
 mind to get off of the invitations to the Hall, 
 by mixing in the other parties of the place. 
 
 To-morrow comes partridge shooting, and 
 the recurrence of that day brings forcibly to 
 my mind all the festivities at Grimsbury, and 
 the joyous meetings in which my poor dear fa- 
 ther, and my venerable grandfather before him, 
 took so much delight. All these things are 
 changed, and here am I destined, I conclude, to 
 pass the anniversary of that once really happy 
 day in the society of the Harbottles and their ex- 
 traordinary companions. However, do not dis- 
 turb your arrangements for me, and let me hear 
 from you as soon as you reach town. I will 
 furnish you with a periodical account of our 
 proceedings here; not but that I think, if I 
 kept a diary for your edification, I might de- 
 tail the events of Monday at the beginning of 
 each week, and put ditto, ditto, ditto, to every 
 succeeding day until Monday came again. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 247 
 
 Do not fail to write to me; and believe me, 
 dearest George, your affectionate mother, 
 
 Frances Sheringham. 
 
 P. S. Popjoy has just been here. He tells 
 me, he was sent for, this morning to see Miss 
 Lovell, whom he found extremely unwell 
 Poor thing, I have no doubt her indisposition 
 proceeds from the enlightenment she received 
 last night from me. However George, the 
 days when ladies died for love are past, and 
 I really think, as indeed I told Popjoy, 
 that his assistant who is a remarkably smart, 
 red and white young gentleman would, in the 
 shape of a husband, be of more service to her 
 than all the physic in his shop. There is 
 nothing like putting notions into young men's 
 heads. I am quite sure, Popjoy will tell the 
 lad what I said, and I am not much less sure, 
 that I shall get up a flirtation between them." 
 
 This letter and postscript came most op- 
 portunely, or rather inopportunely — opportunely 
 to open Sheringham's eyes, as to his lady 
 mother's manoeuvrings, and inopportunely as 
 far as their success was involved. They how- 
 ever corroborated, if they had needed corro- 
 
248 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 boration all the assertions and statements of 
 Harvey, as to his entire innocence of either 
 attachment or offer to Miss Lovell ; for her 
 ladyship in her anxiety to exhibit the success 
 of her conversation with Emma, had, in point 
 of fact admitted, that the object of her affec- 
 tions was George himself; and this she — the 
 woman of the world — sits down and writes to 
 him, as a probable means of inducing him to 
 relinquish the girl, whose head he had turned, 
 and of proceeding to Somerfield, to conclude a 
 match with " Catherine." 
 
 That her ladyship had over-reached herself 
 in this proceeding is clear; but it must be 
 admitted in vindication of her policy, that she 
 did not believe in the existence of a serious 
 attachment to Emma, on the part of her son. 
 His sudden departure she could not exactly 
 account for ; but such had been the bye-play 
 of the parties concerned, whilst under her 
 ladyship's surveillance ^ that what she really 
 thought; and what she did not in the slightest 
 degree allude to, was, that George had started 
 off in a fit of jealousy with Harvey, whom she 
 considered his rival in the good graces of Mrs. 
 Harbottle. Upon that point, therefore, she 
 
THE parson's dauc.htek. 249 
 
 never touched farther than to record her belief 
 of Harvey ""s success in that quarter, because 
 she was just as anxious that her son should 
 not entangle himself in any scrape with the 
 lady of the Hall, as that he should be in any 
 degree committed to her of the Parsonage — 
 all she desired was, that he should not return 
 to Binford, and when she had sealed the letter, 
 we have just read, she thought she had decided 
 that question finally and entirely. 
 
 The effect produced, however, was precisely 
 the reverse of that which was expected. Sher- 
 ingham had quitted his home distracted with 
 jealousy, and convinced of the destruction of 
 all the hopes of happiness to which his acquaint- 
 ance with Emma had given birth ; he was then 
 so far from being assured of her sympathy, 
 that before his eyes, as he believed, he had 
 evidence of her indifference towards him ; for 
 even in the depths of his distress, he could 
 not bring himself to imagine, that she could 
 have willingly and wilfully played the de- 
 ceiver's part ; he therefore concluded, that she 
 had always preferred Harvey, whom she had 
 known so much longer, and attributed to his 
 M 3 
 
250 THE PARSO:S'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 own vanity, the impression he had taken of her 
 partiality . 
 
 But now, Harvey's visit and Lady Frances's 
 letter had cleared up all his doubts; he had 
 not misconstrued the artless manner of the 
 amiable girl ; she was even now suffering, per- 
 haps, from his absence, coupled with the cruel 
 explanation of his mother; — there was not a 
 moment to doubt what his course should be — 
 he was resolved to return to Binford in the 
 evening of the following day, to proceed direct 
 to the Parsonage, and there put it beyond the 
 power of his mother to influence the abandon- 
 ment of his purpose, by proposing to his be- 
 loved Emma, and under the sanction of her 
 excellent and exemplary parent, plighting her 
 his faith and truth. 
 
 His intention was to take this step before 
 he saw Lady Frances. He had a double 
 motive for adopting this course. He should, 
 in tlie first place, avoid any discussion with her, 
 (for if he saw her, he felt he should be com- 
 pelled to communicate his intentions to her ;) 
 and in the second place, if,— and there is no 
 certainty in love, — Emma should refuse him. 
 
THE parson's DAUGHTEH. 251 
 
 or her father decline his consent to her mar- 
 riage under the circumstances, he could then 
 effect his retreat from the village, without in- 
 curring, in addition to all other evils, the 
 ridicule and exultation of his noble parent, 
 which she would, no doubt, triumphantly bring 
 into play against him in case of his defeat. 
 
 To Charles Harvey, the Captain, of course 
 communicated his design, who agreed in its 
 prudence and propriety ; but it was not without 
 a sigh that the unhappy Charles thought again 
 of Binford, and all that it contained— its 
 pleasures and amusements, never to be enjoyed 
 by him again, and the society so dear, in 
 which again Sheringham might rejoice, but 
 in which he must never more hope to mingle. 
 
 Sheringham saw what was passing in Harvey's 
 mind — the sad contrast between the dawning 
 hopes of future joys for his friend, and the 
 dark clouds closing in upon the setting sun of 
 his happiness. 
 
 " Rally, rally, my dear fellow,"' said Sher- 
 ingham, — " you will hereafter rejoice in the 
 step you have taken — no medicine is palatable ; 
 you have swallowed the bitter potion, and 
 you will in time recover ; if you had ventured 
 
252 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 to stand your ground, you might have been 
 beaten ; you fly, and will not be overtaken ; — 
 Religion, reason, honour, all point out to you 
 the wisdom and propriety of your conduct, 
 and you must not relax." 
 
 " I am firm, Sheringham," replied Harvey, 
 " but more astonished at the real state of 
 my heart and feelings, then I can describe to 
 you ; I admit, that during my acquaintance 
 and constant association with her, I admired 
 her understanding, her virtue, her feelings, 
 and I became attached to her — devotedly at- 
 tached as a brother — as a friend. By de- 
 grees I observed the coarseness and inde- 
 licacy of Harbottle in her presence. I have 
 often seen with pain the blush mantling on 
 her cheeks at expressions or allusions of his. 
 I could not but lament her destiny, and 
 pity her distress ; but all these feelings were 
 pure and disinterested ; nor till I was forced 
 from her presence, had I an idea of the in- 
 tensity of my affection, or of its ardour and 
 devoted character." 
 
 " How well then and wisely has she acted," 
 said Sheringham, " she saw the danger to 
 which you were blind, and like a guardian 
 
THE parson's daughter. '253 
 
 angel, has interposed herself to save you from 
 destruction." 
 
 Harvey who seemed perfectly bewildered at 
 the discovery of the real state of his heart, was 
 not exactly in the humour to agree with all 
 his friend''s propositions ; propositions, perhaps, 
 not the more acceptable from being made by a 
 lover at the very crisis of happiness, to a 
 wretched outcast, driven from the scenes in 
 which alone he loved to dwell. 
 
 The friends, however, agreed to remain 
 together till the following afternoon, when 
 Sheringham was to proceed to Binford to put 
 his plan in execution, and Harvey to fulfil his 
 engagement at the Mord aunts. 
 
254 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The fatal shock- 
 
 Has doubtless shivered her strong side, she sinks 
 So swiftly down, that scarce the straining eye 
 Can trace her tattered mast — Where is she now ? 
 Hid in the wild abyss with all her crew, 
 All lost for ever," 
 
 Mallett. 
 
 While the two friends are waiting at Ulls- 
 ford, preparatory to the execution of their dif- 
 ferent designs, let us for a moment look into 
 Miss LovelFs boudoir, where, at about twelve 
 o'clock of the day, we shall find her and Mrs. 
 Harbottle closeted together. 
 
 " My sufferings,*" said Fanny, '^ are indeed 
 more aggravated than I anticipated. My hus- 
 band's conduct to me is such, as would be little 
 less than I deserved, if I had failed in any one 
 
THE parson's daughter. 255 
 
 duty towards him. Oh, Emma, conceive last 
 night, his upbraiding me about Charles be- 
 fore Lady Frances, after all that had passed in 
 the afternoon, and after assuring me that he 
 acquitted me of all participation in what he 
 so cruelly called his misconduct." 
 
 " Is it possible .^" said Emma. 
 
 " Truth ; — not only did he refer to my par- 
 tiality to Harvey, but exultingly proclaimed 
 to Lady Frances that he had now found out 
 whom she meant by a particular friend of his, 
 who seemed not disposed to give up Mr. Harvey 
 to any body. If it were possible for me to repent 
 of having acted rightly, and done my duty ri- 
 gidly, his conduct and language would induce 
 me to regret that I took the decisive step I felt 
 it right to take, with regard to poor Charles." 
 
 " The unnatural league,"' said Emma, ''which 
 has been formed between Mr. Harbottle and 
 Lady Frances (who hate each other, I am 
 sure), is most dreadful ; for he, in the evening, 
 has no scruple as to language; and her lady- 
 ship, who has no tie to any of us, and came 
 here for nothing but to amuse herself at our 
 expense, at the least possible expense to herself, 
 encourages him in his discussions without in- 
 
256 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 tending to do so: for though he is your husband, 
 Fanny, you will, I am sure, admit that there 
 are times and seasons when he does not exactly 
 comprehend the meanings and intentions of his 
 associates." 
 
 " Emma, he is my husband," said Fanny, 
 *' and that must serve for answer. That he has 
 faults and imperfections, I am not so blind as 
 not to know ; but those I could cheerfully en- 
 dure — have cheerfully endured, and would make 
 any sacrifice to insure his happiness, and support 
 his respectability, but to endure cruelty — un- 
 deserved cruelty, — caused, too, by the malice of 
 his menials, who are now set to watch me, and 
 report to him, upon his return home, as to what 
 I have done, — where I have been, — what letters I 
 have written, what orders I have given, is indeed 
 a trial. — I will, however, submit. — I pray to 
 Heaven to grant me patience — and, with its 
 blessing, I will continue my straight course, 
 even if my poor heart break in the effort."" 
 
 " Pray, pray," said Emma, " do not agitate 
 yourself thus. Mr. Harbottle will overcome this 
 wayward humour, and " 
 
 " No, Emma, no," interrupted Fanny, " I 
 know his disposition too intimately to hope that, 
 
THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 257 
 
 his mind never divests itself of an impression 
 once received — let him make what declarations he 
 may, let him assure me, however earnestly, that 
 he either has no suspicion of my misconduct, 
 or that he has forgiven and forgotten my indis- 
 cretion altogether, — it is not so ; if he were to 
 live for ages, his feelings towards Harvey would 
 remain unchanged, unmitigated ; and one of my 
 consolations in sorrow is, that I forced him away 
 before the arts and insinuations of the people by 
 whom I am surrounded, had entirely alarmed 
 his jealousy. Besides, to be watched — mis- 
 trusted — doubted — oh, Emma, Emma, you can 
 have no conception of my unhappiness." 
 
 " Believe in my warmest sympathy,'"* said 
 Emma ; ^' I know what it is to be wretched 
 myself." 
 
 " Ah, dear girl," said Fanny, " and you may 
 well and justly believe that all my own miseries 
 are aggravated by a conviction, that the plan 
 which I adopted of soliciting your interference 
 with Charles, has so sadly interfered with your 
 happiness." 
 
 " Perhaps," replied Miss Lovell, " it is all for 
 the best; it is quite evident, that even if George 
 Sheringham should feel sufficiently interested 
 
258 THE PAllSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 about me to return after his delusion is past — 
 and it must surely be dissipated, after he hears 
 of his imaginary rival's departure — I should 
 have no chance of happiness. What Lady 
 Frances said, in our drive home the night before 
 last, was, I felt, intended to kill every hope I 
 might entertain ; and certainly, much as I own 
 to you I admire and esteem her son, I never 
 could consent to be admitted into her family 
 against her wish, or looked upon as an intruder 
 into a circle to move in which I have no am- 
 bition." 
 
 " Nevertheless, Emma," said Fanny, " my 
 belief is, that if Captain Sheringham were to 
 present himself before you, and, after announcing 
 his mother's disapprobation of the match, pro- 
 pose marrying you without her consent, you 
 would " 
 
 " Do not suppose anything," said Emma ; 
 " I have lived the life of a recluse until twenty- 
 one ; for the last four years I have made the 
 happiness, as he says, of my dear father. I 
 am unused to the world, and as yet, I believe, 
 unspoiled by its ways. George Sheringham 
 has attached me to him without any forced effort 
 on his part ; I knew and admired him for his 
 
THE parson's daughter. 259 
 
 principles, his talents, his accomplishments, his 
 good nature, and his agreeable conversation. 
 He is the first and only man who ever made 
 that sort of impression upon my heart or mind ; 
 and, if I lose his affection and his society, he 
 will liave no successor in either."" 
 
 ' ^ Dear Emma, " said Mrs. Har bottle, forgetting 
 her own griefs for the moment, in the delight of 
 hearing any thing so new and naive, " make no 
 rash vows ; my belief is, that Captain Shering- 
 ham will be here very shortly — for, after all, 
 it seems he has not gone to London. Lady 
 Frances affects great mystery about the place 
 of his present residence; but I suspect, from 
 something she inadvertently let slip last night, 
 that he is still very near us ; and that, if her 
 endeavours to keep you asunder fail, which 
 I hope and trust they may, he will be here 
 before many days are over.'' 
 
 In this supposition, as we know, Mrs. Har- 
 bottle evinced her usual discrimination into the 
 human mind, as far as the gallant Captain's in- 
 tentions were concerned ; but, agreeable as fe- 
 male society is, we must leave the ladies to 
 themselves for a short time, in order to take 
 
260 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 another glance at the Siamese willow-wearers 
 at Ullsford. 
 
 At breakfast these knights-errant met again, 
 to talk of themselves, for, as I have elsewhere 
 observed, egotism is the leading characteristic 
 of the lover, — himself, his mistress, his hopes 
 and views, his happiness and misery, form the 
 sole subjects of his conversation. They had, 
 however, so far exhausted the theme the night 
 before, that they were enabled to divide their 
 attention between their own personal grievances, 
 and the grilled fowl, and the eggs, and the 
 ham, and the coffee, and the London paper of 
 the previous day, which Harvey undertook 
 to skim for the benefit of his friend, who was 
 performing the operation, winch, at Cambridge, 
 is not called by so gentle a term as tea-making, 
 but which, in point of fact, amounts to neither 
 more nor less. 
 
 Charles, accordingly, recited aloud several 
 " we hear's," some few " we understand's,'" and 
 many extraordinary falsehoods of which " we 
 are credibly informed," all of which passed un- 
 heeded over the tympanum of Captain George, 
 until, at length, he proceeded to read the fol- 
 lowing — 
 
THE PAHSON'S DAUGHTER. 261 
 
 '^ Extract of a letter from Malta^ dated July 27. 
 " We have been greatly shocked by a 
 dreadful accident which has happened to an 
 English nobleman and his family, who have 
 been staying here for some time. On Monday 
 last, his lordship, together with his lady, 
 two sons and a daughter, proceeded on board 
 his lordship's yacht, in which he came from 
 England. The full complement of his men 
 were on board, and they proceeded on a cruise, 
 such as they were in the habit of taking daily. 
 It appears that the weather changed very un- 
 favourably in the middle of the day, and towards 
 the afternoon the wind blew with uncommon se- 
 verity. Accustomed to the sea, and confident in 
 his crew, his lordship felt no alarm ; and having 
 plenty of provisions on board, they resolved to 
 stand off from the island, and make the best of 
 it for the night. The weather getting much 
 worse as it grew late, and a heavy sea run- 
 ning, his lordship ordered his captain to let 
 the yacht run away before the wind, under 
 a close reefed square top- sail. The night 
 was pitch dark, and, about half past eleven 
 o'clock, she unfortunately came in contact 
 with a large ship close hauled, which struck 
 
262 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 her just amid-sbips, and in one instant, accom- 
 panied with a shriek of horror, the ill-fated ves- 
 sel sunk, with every soul on board. 
 
 '^ Robert Halsey and George Pytts, two of 
 the crew, are the only persons saved ; the force 
 of the concussion was such, that the bowsprit of 
 the yacht was torn out of the step, together 
 with several feet of the bulwarks, and part 
 of the cutwater, to which the bob-stay was 
 made fast. Upon this raft, so providential- 
 ly supplied, the poor fellows floated until 
 morning, when they were fortunately seen by 
 Captain Sale, of the brig Florentia, from 
 Liverpool to this port, who got them safely on 
 board, supplied them with every comfort, and 
 brought them to Valletta. 
 
 " The survivors describe the ship which caused 
 their misfortune to be a large black sided ves- 
 sel of about three hundred and fifty tons bur- 
 then ; but the night was so dark, that, of 
 course, in the confusion of the minute, they 
 had neither time nor opportunity to make out 
 what she was. 
 
 " The following are the names of the suf- 
 ferers : — Lord Weybridge and his lady; the 
 Hon. Howard Bouverie Sheringham, his eldest, 
 
THE parson's daughter. 263 
 
 the Hon. Spencer Cavendish Russell Shering- 
 ham, his second son, and the Hon. Caroline 
 Brandenburgh Sheringham, his lordship's only 
 daughter ; Mr. Thomas Hopkins, captain '' 
 
 *' Stop, stop,'' said Sheringham ; " what, in 
 the name of Old Scratch, are you reading 
 about ?'' 
 
 Harvey, who was unconscious of the title 
 which the head of George''s family bore, was 
 going on methodically to enumerate the crew of 
 the vessel who had perished, but, upon the 
 sudden exclamation, he stopped. 
 
 " Why, my dear fellow," said George, '' you 
 are making this up — this is gibberish of your 
 own, in order to astound me — it won't do, 
 Charles — I rejoice to see your spirits return — 
 but drowning a whole family to give me a 
 peerage is rather too romantic — it is carrying 
 the joke too far — it would not be tolerated even 
 in one of Colburn and Bentley's namby pamby 
 novels. — Ha ! ha ! ha !" 
 
 " Upon my honour it is here," said Charles. 
 '' What !" cried the Captain, «' dispose of a 
 whole family of Sheringhams as you would of 
 a litter of blind puppies." 
 
 '* Look there," continued Harvey. 
 
264 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 And he did look, and notwithstanding that 
 he saw it all in black and white, and that it 
 bore the stamp of authenticity, which to the 
 unenlightened mind is always conferred upon a 
 falsehood by appearing in a newspaper, he 
 could not bring himself to believe that so ex- 
 traordinary an event could have occurred, which 
 should at one fell swoop, dispose of all these 
 people, and place him in a situation which 
 three months before was so far out of his reach 
 as in the ordinary course of mortal events to 
 appear unattainable. 
 
 *' By Jove," said George, " but it looks like 
 truth. No man could sit down and furbish up 
 the facts and names which appear here without 
 foundation. What ought I to do ?"" 
 
 " Why," said Harvey, '' as T never unex- 
 pectedly succeeded to a peerage, I don't feel 
 competent to advise ; but you will hear more of 
 it of course. You had better start for Dale 
 Cottage directly." 
 
 " No, Charles, no," said George ; '' if the 
 report is false, I should needlessly agitate my 
 mother, and expose myself; if it should be 
 true, it will only be a stronger inducement for 
 me to go to Lovell's this evening before it is 
 
THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 265 
 
 known ; and if Emma accepts me for my own 
 sake alone, a poor half-pay commander in the 
 navy, it will at once secure me from attributing 
 her consent to ambitious, or interested motives, 
 and I, on the other hand, shall have the delight 
 of hailing her Lady Weybridge, with a hand- 
 some fortune, and a place in society, which, 
 dear angel, she is fully qualified to fill." 
 
 " But,'' said Charles, '• you seem in the 
 most of your anticipations with respect to her, 
 to forget your grief for the loss of all your re- 
 lations." 
 
 "■ Why," replied the Captain, " in the first 
 place I have not quite made up my mind to the 
 truth of the story : and in the next place, if it 
 be true, I never beheld the late lord but once in 
 my life, and that only when I was at Eton, and 
 his half-sovereign tip so affronted me that I 
 never sought or saw him afterwards. My fa- 
 ther's elder brother, whose son he is, was never 
 upon good terms with any of us — him I 
 scarcely recollect ; he was nearly twenty years 
 older than my father, and the present, or the 
 late lord, if late he be, married an extremely 
 disagreeable person, by whom he had the three 
 children enumerated in the newspaper and two 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
266 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 others who died young. The eldest must be 
 now — or was— fifteen, the second about thirteen, 
 and the girl about eleven. I confess that the 
 accident is a sad one, and I should lament it 
 in any case ; but for the little 1 have known or 
 seen of my relations, I am not disposed to feel 
 more than 1 should if it had happened to any 
 body else." 
 
 '' More especially,'' said Charles, " as a co- 
 ronet falls into the opposite scale." 
 
 " If the coronet," replied George, " should 
 become the fair forehead and blue eyes of my 
 dearest Emma, I should indeed value it, else I 
 declare to you I care little about it. I am, 
 however, decided in my course." 
 
 " I never saw a fellow bear elevation with 
 such philosophy," said Harvey ; " why, my 
 dear George, there are men — aye, dozens of 
 them — who are ready to forswear their prin- 
 ciples, their politics, their creed itself, for the 
 sake of the thing which has just dropped upon 
 your brows, and which you receive with perfect 
 indifference." 
 
 " To tell you the truth," said Sheringham, "it 
 is that very readiness, on the one side, to barter 
 honour and honesty for title, and the more 
 
THE parson's dau(;htei{. 267 
 
 shameful readiness, on the other, to grant it as 
 a political bribe and withhold it, from just and 
 honoin-able claims, that so far degrade the 
 dignity in my eyes as to make me indifferent to 
 the advantages it may give me in society, while 
 it puts me on a level with a host of adventurers 
 and pretenders, who, in return for their venality 
 and tergiversation, are permitted to be ac- 
 counted peers of the highest and noblest men in 
 the country.^' 
 
 " Do you consider, my dear friend, or lord,*" 
 said Charles, '' as the case may be, '' what a 
 narrow escape of " 
 
 what ke was going to add we know not. 
 
 for on the instant a carriage having been driven 
 up to the door of the inn, which " made the 
 very stones prate at its whereabout," — the room- 
 door was suddenly opened, and George's ser- 
 vant rushed in, more dead than alive with haste, 
 and presented his master with the following 
 note from Lady Frances, thus addressed: — 
 '' Lord Wey bridge," 
 
 &c. &c. &c. 
 This was conclusive : the black seal (wax 
 sent for, to the Binford " slioir express) settled 
 it all. 
 
 N 2 
 
26*8 THE pahson's daughter. 
 
 '' Dearest George, — A dreadful event has 
 happened in the family. I trust this will find 
 you still at Ullsford. I have given Roberts 
 orders to follow you if he can trace you. I 
 can explain nothing. Compose your mind, my 
 dearest son. A complication of miseries have 
 befallen your cousin and his family — its im- 
 portance and extent you may guess by the 
 superscription of this. I have sent the carriage. 
 Come to me instantly. There is much to settle 
 and arrange. I trust you are not gone forward 
 '* Ever your affectionate mother, 
 
 " Frances Sheringham.'" 
 
 '' Has any body arrived at the cottage, Ro- 
 berts .?"" said George to her servant. 
 
 '•' No, my lord^' was the answer. 
 
 It did not sound so much amiss after all ! 
 
 " My mother is quite well ?'''' 
 
 " Yes, my lord." 
 
 George rather liked the reply, and asked 
 another question just for the sake of the answer. 
 
 " When did you leave Binford V^ 
 
 " About half-past nine, my lord." 
 
 " Well, order horses, and go back imme- 
 diately." 
 
THE parson's daughter. 269 
 
 *' Yes, my lord," said Roberts ; and when he 
 got to the door, turning himself round added 
 inquiringly, " four, my lord ?" 
 
 *' Four ! what on a bowling-green road as 
 flat as a billiard table ? No, a pair. Sir." 
 
 " Very well, my lord," said Roberts, evi- 
 dently much disconcerted at his lordship's not 
 immediately altering his mode of travelling." 
 
 " Well, my dear lord," said Charles, " let 
 me sincerely congratulate you ; it is clear that 
 your bright hours are beginning, and it will be 
 no little consolation in my unhappiness to hear 
 of your brilliant progress." 
 
 " I assure you, my dear Harvey," said Lord 
 Weybridge, " this accession of rank and for- 
 tune — for the fortune is very extensive — has 
 but one effect upon me. I do not in the 
 slightest degree deny, what it would be affect- 
 ation not to admit — that the position in which 
 I am so suddenly and unexpectedly placed 
 has, as I have already said, considerable ad- 
 vantages in society ; but what 1 chiefly 
 look to is the increased means it may give 
 me, first, of exhibiting my devotion to that 
 dear girl ; and, next, of employing my means 
 and interest for the advantage of deserving 
 
270 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 people^ and for the advancement and support of 
 principles which I have always maintained, and 
 which I pledge my honour — I must do no more 
 now — I never will desert for earldom, marqui- 
 sate, or dukedom." 
 
 *' Your lordship's carriage is ready," said 
 the master of the George, who appeared in 
 propria persona, Men poudre, with a large white 
 waistcoat and top-boots. " I hope, my lord," 
 added the jocund Boniface, " I may be per- 
 mitted to congratulate your lordship, and to 
 solicit a continuance of the favours which your 
 lordship has been pleased to bestow upon my 
 house." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly," said George, " I fear 
 my connexions and pursuits will necessarily take 
 me away from your county ; but I shall, I 
 have no doubt, be occasionally at Binford, and 
 shall not fail to remember your courtesy and 
 attention." 
 
 The parting of Charles and his now noble 
 friend was extremely cordial. Lord Wey- 
 bridge apologized for the abruptness of his de- 
 parture, and promised to write him a suc- 
 cinct account of the state of affairs at Binford, 
 and a faithful report of his proceedings at the 
 
THE parson's daughter. 271 
 
 Parsonage, and having shaken hands with his 
 disconsolate companion, stepped into the chariot 
 which was to bear him to all he held dear ; 
 while Harvey, longing and half resolved to 
 accompany him, at least as far as the Binford 
 finger-post, nevertheless conquered his rash in- 
 clination, and ordering his horses, in half an 
 hour more was on his road to the hospitable 
 home of the Mordaunts. 
 
272 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Be thou blest Bertram ! and succeed thy father 
 In manners as in shape, thy blood and virtue 
 Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness 
 Share with thy birth-right. — 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The meeting between Lady Frances and her 
 son was of course most enthusiastic ; her lady- 
 ship caught the ennobled George Augustus 
 Frederick in her arms, and, after the fashion 
 observed by corporations to kings, presented at 
 once her addresses of condolence and congratu- 
 lation, concluding the latter with the use of the 
 somewhat homely adage, that " it is an ill wind 
 that blows nobody good." 
 
 Her ladyship's chief alarm upon the oc- 
 casion, had been excited by an apprehension 
 that the new lord might be overcome by 
 
THE parson's daughter. 273 
 
 the sudden surprise caused by the intelli- 
 gence of his unexpected accession to the 
 family honours ; but she soon found that all 
 her cares upon that point had been super- 
 fluous, since the common newspapers had made 
 him acquainted with the event even before the 
 receipt of her letter. 
 
 The dispatch which conveyed the news to 
 Lady Frances was written from London by the 
 Reverend Mr. Crabshaw, who had been tutor to 
 the two young Sheringhams, but who, on ac- 
 count of indisposition, had not as usual accom- 
 panied them in their excursion on the day of 
 the fatal accident ; he stated that he had, upon 
 his arrival in town, visited the late lord's soli- 
 citors, in whose hands he knew his lordship 
 to have left a will, and that tliey — who he pre- 
 sumed would also write to Lady Frances (be- 
 ing, as he himself was, ignorant of her son's ad- 
 dress) — were extremely anxious to see his lord- 
 ship, and that in his (Mr. Crabshaw's) opinion 
 his lordship ought not to lose a moment in 
 proceeding to visit their chambers, as, of 
 course, the unexpected and afflicting event 
 would cause a great change in the actual dispo- 
 sition of the late lord's personal property. 
 N 3 
 
274 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 '*■ You see, my dear George," said her lady- 
 ship, '' you havn't a moment to lose. What 
 an extraordinary and sudden alteration in your 
 position — from a poor half-pay commander in 
 his Majesty's navy to a peer of the realm " 
 
 " True," said George, " and if it might be 
 permitted for a sailor to joke upon so melan- 
 choly an accident, which has deprived him of 
 a family of cousins, about whom he knew little 
 and cared less, I might certainly boast that I 
 still owe my promotion entirely to the sea — how- 
 ever, I suppose there is no necessity for my 
 immediate departure." 
 
 '' I should say immediate," said Lady Fran- 
 ces, " I repeat my conviction that not a mo- 
 ment is to be lost — how do you know who are 
 your cousin's executors, how do you know but 
 steps may be taken which ought not to be taken 
 without your presence and concurrence : take 
 my advice, my dear George, order horses di- 
 rectly and be off." 
 
 " Hang it," said George, '* I have some- 
 times dreamt, or in my waking dreams, perhaps, 
 fancied myself Lord Weybridge, and I used to 
 think myself a great deal happier in the en- 
 joyment of my visionary title than I do in this 
 
THE parson's daughter. 275 
 
 accession to the real one. The change of sta- 
 tion will produce a change of scenes and cir- 
 cumstances, and I had begun to like Binford 
 
 so much " 
 
 " that you went away from it in disgust,'' 
 
 interrupted her ladyship, " two days ago ; de- 
 pend upon it, my dear George, when you have 
 tasted the sort of life which this accession to 
 title and wealth will habituate you, you will 
 soon learn to look upon the circle in which we 
 have been lately moving, with a mixture of 
 pity and disgust. I don't mean to deny Mrs. 
 Harbottle her merits, nor to gainsay the virtues 
 of ISIiss Lovell, but — what are such people as 
 Lovells and Harbottles in the scale of society 
 — what can be more flat, stale, and unprofit- 
 able than to live with people highly respectable 
 and vastly good, and very rich and all that, 
 who exist upon surmises and contradictions, 
 when, as you are now qualified to do, a man 
 can mingle in the very scenes of which the 
 amiable middling classes speak only tradition- 
 ally, and bear a part in transactions, the discus- 
 sion of which forms the subject of their uncer- 
 tain conversations. No, no^ from this day for- 
 
276 THE PARSON''s daughter. 
 
 ward, depend upon it, Binford is no place for 
 you." 
 
 " I dont quite see all that, my dear mother," 
 said George." " It is true I am Lord Wey- 
 bridge, and therefore, nominally, something 
 better sounding than I was yesterday ; but my 
 blood, my family, my connexions are all pre- 
 cisely the same ; and I am sure of this, that 
 hitherto amongst your associates and compa- 
 nions I have never found any very great favour. 
 Lady Gorgon, your most intimate friend, used, 
 when I went to her house, to drive her daugh- 
 ters out of my way, as a shepherd would his 
 flock from a wolf, and if ever I danced with 
 one of those Lady Janes and Lady Annes, the 
 looks of the duchess during the whole quadrille, 
 were like those of a basilisk." 
 
 " Ah, but then " 
 
 " " then, my dear mother, I was a com- 
 mander in his Majesty's navy, with the splendid 
 revenue of seven shillings and sixpence per 
 diem, and, therefore, noble as my blood was — 
 and I know you agree with me that it is noble 
 on both sides" — added the Captain smiling, 
 *' none of your noble acquaintances ever smiled 
 
THE parson's daughter. 277 
 
 upon me. Here I came to Binford, the same, 
 poor half-pay fish, and found " 
 
 " For heaven's sake, dont talk of what is to 
 be found here,'' exclaimed her ladyship. •' Go 
 to London and see what you can find therey 
 
 " Oh," said George, " I am quite prepared 
 for my reception ; George Sheringham, having 
 cast his skin and burst from the chrysalism of 
 a commander on half-pay into the splendid 
 butterflyism of a barony, will find mothers, and 
 aunts, and dowagers, and chaperones, pressing 
 forward to proffer the sweetest buds and blos- 
 soms for him to flutter and flirt withal — but 
 then Lady Frances is it not possible that your 
 ladyship's son may have sense enough to dis- 
 criminate between the favour and affection which 
 are bestowed upon him for himself alone, and 
 those which are excited by his title and fortune. 
 Depend upon it, one of the most difficult 
 positions in the world is, that of a young and 
 wealthy nobleman, who, differently placed from 
 men in different circumstances, finds ready ac- 
 cess to the homes and hearts of all the beauties 
 of his country. He sees their smile, he hears 
 their praise, he finds himself sought, he feels 
 himself admired. — Where vanity exists not in 
 
278 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 an eminent degree, doubt qualifies the pleasure 
 this encouragement inspires, and he imme- 
 diately begins considering whether he indivi- 
 dually, or the title and station he commands, 
 are the objects of attraction. For myself, I 
 honestly confess, I believe there never existed 
 such a thing as an interested young woman 
 upon earth — there may he ambitious ones, and 
 where the heart is not prepossessed, those might 
 prefer a coroneted lover to one who merely 
 wore a hat — still when a man knows that he 
 is so loved for himself alone — — " 
 
 " well, but my dear George," said Lady 
 
 Frances, " as you know no such thing, and as 
 you have thrown over poor Catharine, who, 
 dear soul, really was, I believe, very fond of 
 you once. What can you mean .?" 
 
 " Thrown over Catharine," said George, 
 " why, my dearest mother, I never knew any- 
 thing of her affection for me till you urged me, 
 the day before yesterday, to go and renew my 
 acquaintance with her, and I - — " 
 
 " Oh, well," said Lady Frances, " it's no 
 use talking of Catharine now. It was all 
 mighty well to talk of her yesterday, poor dear 
 thing, but that''s quite at an end now, so let me 
 
THE fakson''s daughter. 279 
 
 beg of you not to lose time in arguing points 
 which will keep for future discussion. Have 
 you ordered the horses ?^'' 
 
 " Noj no,"*' said George, " I cannot leave 
 Binford without going to take leave of the 
 Harbottles and the Lovells. I will order them 
 at three o'clock, and so travel till late, and be 
 in town by to-morrow noon." 
 
 " Surely my dear child," said her ladyship, 
 " you cannot think of calling upon anybody 
 before you go ; recollect your loss ; so many 
 relations lost at one blow. It would be in the 
 highest degree indelicate. 
 
 " My dear mother," said George, " what in- 
 delicacy can there be in just " 
 
 " Well, George, if you choose to do such a 
 thing, of course " 
 
 '^ I do — I assure you," replied George, " they 
 have all been extremely kind to me, and as I 
 cannot exactly fix the time for my returning 
 here, I " 
 
 " But," said Lady Frances, " you do not 
 seem to recollect that you had actually left the 
 place — were absolutely gone, without taking 
 leave of anybody." 
 
 '' That," said Lord Weybridge, " is pre- 
 
280 THE paiison's daughter. 
 
 cisely the reason why I am now so anxious to 
 make the amende honorable, for so gross a 
 rudeness ; so let me order the horses — say at 
 four — and I shall be able to make my little 
 round of visits and then start for the metro- 
 polis, of which I have so suddenly become so 
 bright an ornament " 
 
 '' As for the Lovells," said Lady Frances, 
 " a call there, except to leave a ticket, will 
 be useless. The young lady has been recom- 
 mended a change of air, and they have contrived 
 to lift poor Mr. Lovell into the carriage, and 
 the whole party have betaken themselves to 
 Merrington — where the waters and the company 
 and all the other attractions of the place are 
 supposed likely to be of use, either to him, or 
 his daughter, or his sister, or some of them. 
 I was surprised to hear of their movement, but 
 they went this morning." 
 
 " Well then," said George, who, truth to be 
 told, rather doubted the history. " I can do a 
 civil thing without much difficulty or waste of 
 time. The Harbottles are here I conclude, for 
 they have friends staying with them." 
 
 '^ They are here," said Lady Frances, " but 
 their friends, I rather think^ have left them." 
 
THE parson's daughter. 281 
 
 " Well then, I'll be off on my tour of civili- 
 ty," said George, " and be back long before 
 the carriage is ready. You have no intention 
 of coming up to town immediately, have you ?" 
 
 " Not unless I am wanted," replied her lady- 
 ship. " If I can be of any use, of course you 
 will send for me — but till my mourning is 
 ready and all that sort of thing, I otherwise 
 shall not quit the cottage." 
 
 Away went Lord Weybridge to fulfil his 
 self-incurred engagements, and away went Lady 
 Frances to write circular letters with deep black 
 edges to everybody whom she imagined could 
 be interested in the events which had occurred 
 — events which, for more reasons than those 
 which ambition might supply, were, in point 
 of fact, momentous to her, in the highest de- 
 gree, as far as her comfort was concerned ; for, 
 upon an enumeration of the costs and expenses 
 of furniture and fitting-up — calculated not 
 upon the bills, for they had not yet been 
 sent in, but upon the estimates — which made 
 the matter worse, — she found that she had so 
 very far exceeded her original intentions, as 
 everybody does who begins altering and deco- 
 rating, that her income for three consecutive 
 
282 THE pauson's daughter. 
 
 vears would not, if all appropriated to the 
 purposes of payment, meet the charge ; so that 
 in addition to the honour and dignity which 
 had accrued to her son, and was thence reflected 
 back upon herself, the supply of argent comp- 
 tant which his accession to the estates as wel 
 as title of his late cousin would secure, was 
 a happy relief for which she was really and 
 sincerely grateful to Providence, lamenting at 
 the same time with every decent feeling of 
 regret, the calamitous event by which her cir- 
 cumstances were so very much and suddenly 
 improved. 
 
 Lord Wey bridge, after having given directions 
 to his servant about the post-horses, proceeded 
 direct to the Parsonage ; where he found that 
 the history which his lady mother had given 
 him was but too correct. Mr. Lovell, alarmed by 
 the sudden indisposition of his daughter, had 
 quitted Binford for the watering-place specified 
 by Lady Frances ; not more, as the servant told 
 George, on account of the change of air, but 
 for the purpose of obtaining the advice of a 
 celebrated provincial physician, who was resi- 
 dent there. 
 
 From the Parsonage, George proceeded to the 
 
THE parson's Daughter. 283 
 
 Hall, revolving in his mind the scene he had 
 last seen enacted in the very path where Har- 
 vey and his beloved Emma passed him ; and at 
 the same time considering how he should shape 
 his conduct, so as to put beyond any future 
 doubt or contingency, his attachment and de- 
 votion to the lovely and exemplary girl. From 
 the tenour of his confidential conversations with 
 Harvey, he was inclined to anticipate any thing 
 rather than an agreeable interview with the 
 Harbottles. He hoped that he might encounter 
 them singly : but even then he felt how much 
 delicacy he must necessarily observe with her, 
 if he admitted that Charles and he had met; 
 which, for many reasons, he intended to do. 
 
 He was fortunate in his approach. The 
 Squire was out, but expected shortly in — Mrs. 
 Harbottle was at home, and received him with 
 her usual warmth and sweetness of manner ; but, 
 (certainly without anticipating who had been his 
 companion for the last twenty-four hours,) there 
 was a consciousness of something on her mind, 
 apparent in her expressive countenance, which, 
 might have been a dread lest George should 
 inquire after Charles Harvey. 
 
284 THE pakson's daughter. 
 
 The viper Hollis knew already, from George's 
 man, that Charles and he had been staying to- 
 gether at Ullsford. 
 
 " I suppose,'' said Mrs. Harbottle, '' that the 
 intimate friends of Captain Sheringham must 
 not venture to be so intimate with Lord Wey- 
 bridge." 
 
 " So,"" said George, " my fame and title have 
 preceded me, have they ? My dear mother seems 
 to have taken as much pains as the gazette writers, 
 to proclaim my style and title. You, my dear 
 Mrs. Harbottle, may depend upon it, that if I 
 were to become Emperor of all the Russias, in- 
 stead of an humble English baron — for which 
 title his imperial majesty, I dare say, has the 
 most sovereign contempt — I should never forget 
 the hospitality and kindness which I have expe- 
 rienced in this house, nor the many very very 
 happy hours I have passed under its roof." 
 
 " I regret to tell you,"" said Mrs. Harbottle, 
 " that one of our once agreeable parties — "" and 
 here she paused for a moment — " is, I fear, ex- 
 tremely unwell : — Emma I mean." 
 
 "I called at the Parsonage before I came 
 here," said George. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 285 
 
 " Did you ?" said Fanny, her eyes sparkling 
 with joy which she could not conceal. " Did 
 you, indeed ?" 
 
 " Indeed I did." 
 
 " 1 knew it — I knew it,'' said Fanny, '' I 
 would have staked my existence that you would, 
 — but Emma, who knows nothing of your ele- 
 vation — Emma would not have believed me, if 
 I had said so." 
 
 " Why should she have doubted me .^" 
 
 *' Your sudden departure — " 
 
 " Charles Harvey — '^ 
 
 " Oh, for mercy's sake," said Fanny, " don't 
 speak — he — he has no more thought of Emma — "" 
 
 " Hush !"" said Weybridge " for heaven's 
 
 sake, do not agitate yourself. He and I have 
 been staying together, the last day and a half, 
 at Ullsford, where, luckily for all parties, we 
 met by accident." 
 
 " With him, Captain Sheringham .?" said 
 Fanny. 
 
 " With him ?" replied his lordship. '' and 
 he has completed the friendly duty of entirely 
 undeceiving me with respect to those appear, 
 ances of that particular intimacy between him 
 
286 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 and Emma, which cut me to the quick, and 
 drove me from this dear dear village, in which 
 all that I care for on earth exists." 
 
 '' Not at this moment,""* said Fanny, " but — 
 pray, how did Charles — Mr. Harvey I mean — 
 prove to your satisfaction that — '''' 
 
 " Ask me no questions," said George. " Sa- 
 tisfy yourself of his honour and mine. Be 
 assured that both of us possess that feeling of 
 devoted friendship towards you, with which, as 
 I firmly believe, nobody, who has seen and 
 known your excellence and virtues as we have, 
 can fail to be inspired. He is an excellent, 
 amiable creature ; he has won my regard and 
 esteem in the last days of our acquaintance ; 
 and I hope and trust, in spite of all the crosses 
 and losses which man is destined to encounter 
 in life, he will yet be as happy as he deserves.*" 
 
 Lord Weybridge flattered himself that he 
 had got rid of that part of the subject in a 
 skilful manner, without too much exciting 
 Fanny's womanly feelings: — for it is impossi- 
 ble that any woman should divest herself en- 
 tirely of interest in a man who once has been so 
 dear to her as a friend — but he expected that 
 
THE parson's daughter. 287 
 
 those very feelings would have prompted her 
 to make some little — very little — additional in- 
 quiries about him. She however, disappointed 
 the peer, and, with a prudence quite philo- 
 sophical, checked her curiosity upon a subject, 
 to her of more importance than she desired his 
 lordship to consider it. 
 
 '^ But of Emma Lovell," said George, after 
 a pause, which he considered quite long enough 
 to give his companion the opportunity of ques- 
 tioning him ; " tell me sincerely and candidly, 
 when was she attacked by this illness ?'"* 
 
 " The evening of the day you left Binford." 
 
 " And why, may I ask," said George, " do 
 you connect 7ny departure in the morning with 
 when her indisposition in the afternoon ?" 
 
 " Because that/' said Fanny, " and a conver- 
 sation with Lady Frances on their way home, 
 from this, I believe to have been the cause, not 
 perhaps of any serious indisposition, physically 
 speaking, but of an indisposition to stay here, 
 at least for the present." 
 
 " I have heard of that conversation," said 
 George, " but tell me when does she return .^" 
 
 " You are serious in asking?" said Fanny. 
 
 '' Perfectly and entirely serious, my dearest, 
 
288 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 best of friends," said George; " I have not a mo- 
 ment to spare here. I start for London almost 
 immediately. I can have no opportunity of 
 seeing her either before, or, I fear, soon after 
 my departure. May I trust — may I entreat 
 you seriously, and from the very bottom of my 
 heart, to beg and implore her to bear me in 
 mind : — tell her, that hurried away as I am, 
 and uncertain of the immediate period of my 
 return, I have made you the depositary of the 
 master-secret of my heart, and tell her, above 
 all, that if she encourages my pretensions, and 
 favours my hopes, no human being in existence 
 shall separate us : — tell her, too^ my dear 
 Fanny, — so let me call you in the entirety and 
 purity of our friendship — that the gratitude I 
 feel for her kindness towards me, as the humble 
 impretending person she first knew me, has 
 made me more anxious to make this declaration, 
 the very first act I perform in my new, and, 
 as the world will consider it, superior charac- 
 ter; and I entreat you here, to bear witness for 
 her and for me, that if she consents — I am 
 pledged." 
 
 " She will consent," said Fanny, whose eyes 
 were filled with tears of pleasure at the happy 
 
THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 289 
 
 result of the acquaintance between Lord Wey- 
 bridge and her friend ; " and 1 shall be too 
 much rejoiced to send her tidings which I not 
 only know will gladden her heart beyond all 
 others, but which have given me a higher idea 
 of human nature, as far as you particularly, and 
 men generally, are concerned, than I ever had in 
 my life." 
 
 " Why," said George, somewhat archly, " all 
 men are not exactly alike in their views and 
 feelings." 
 
 " No," sighed Fanny, '^ I am aware of that." 
 ' Aware of what," said a voice of thunder, 
 which proved to be that of Harbottle himself, 
 who came bouncing into the room, after having, 
 under Hollis' suggestion, waited a minute or 
 two at the door before he entered. " Why, 
 Sheringham, my boy, how are you, eh ? — 
 Whafs all this Sheringham, — you are a lord 
 they tell me, eh ? — that's a pretty go ! — ha ! ha! 
 ha! — plenty o' money I hope: — a poor lord's 
 a poor thing; — but I give you joy of your 
 coronet, and wish you health and happiness to 
 wear it." 
 
 " Thank ye. Squire," said Lord Weybridge ; 
 VOL. I. o 
 
290 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 " I almost despaired of seeing you, for I am just 
 on the move."" 
 
 " Oh, to be sure," said Harbottle, whose fish- 
 like eyes and bloated cheeks denoted that he 
 had eaten luncheon, and was, moreover, out 
 of humour; " the moment I come in, out goes 
 every body else. Well, so you saw Mr. Harvey 
 atUllsford, eh.?" 
 
 " Yes," said Lord Weybridge, " he was there 
 all yesterday with me." 
 
 " Did he tell you any lies about us," said 
 the Squire. 
 
 " William," said Fanny. 
 
 " William," replied Harbottle; " yes it is 
 William. What is that gentleman stopping at 
 Ullsford for ! Did you bring any letter over 
 here from him ?'"' 
 
 " My dear Harbottle,'' said Lord Wey- 
 bridge, " I am not a general postman. — Harvey 
 is engaged to the Mordaunts for a day or two 
 and is gone over there." 
 
 " Oh, I thought you, — I beg pardon, your 
 Lordship, I mean — ha ! ha ! ha [—might have 
 had some message from him for my wife. They 
 are very great friends I believe." 
 
THE parson's daughter. 291 
 
 " Indeed we are," said Mrs. Harbottle, try- 
 ing to laugh ofF the barbarity of her boorish 
 husband's coarse and barbarous remark, " and 
 1 hope we shall always remain so." 
 
 " Yes, I dare say you do,'** replied the hus- 
 band. 
 
 " Well," said Lord Weybridge, " although I 
 am bound to apologize, I am compelled to take my 
 departure; my lady mother will rate me soundly 
 if I do not attend to my own business, and what 
 she calls the duties of my new station. So adieu, 
 Harbottle, I have just been telling your lady 
 that I never shall forget the kindness I have 
 experienced here, and which I hope to be per- 
 mitted to enjoy again." 
 
 '' Ah, thafs all mighty well," said Harbottle, 
 " but I don*'t think we shall see much more of 
 you, nor of Binford. I am sick and tired of every 
 thing. You are a lord ; if you turn out to be 
 a rich lord, the chances are you won't come 
 near me^ and if you are a poor lord, I shall laugh 
 at you. My best days are over, Sheringhani- 
 We have had the devil to pay here, and as for 
 your friend — ^" 
 
 '' Oh, pray, spare my friends," said Lord 
 Weybridge, who anticipated what was likely 
 
292 THE parson's daughter. 
 
 to follow ; " never let us look forward in antici- 
 pation of ill — you have every thing man on 
 earth can wish for, and I am going on, they tell 
 me, to a similar fate. As Queen Mary said, 
 when she lost Calais, that she was sure Calais 
 would be found engraven on her heart after her 
 death, so, if I thought I should never return 
 to visit you again, I believe Binford would 
 make an equally deep impression upon mine. 
 Heaven bless you both, be happy as you de- 
 serve to be, and, as Hamlet's ghost says in his 
 evanishing, ' remember me.' " 
 
 George took leave of them both affectionately, 
 but in going down the steps he added, in the 
 ear of Mrs. Harbottle — loudly enough, however, 
 to prevent the Squire from supposing that it 
 was a message from Harvey — " do not, on any 
 account forget my message to Miss Lovell. 
 Remember, I rely on you." 
 
 Knowing Emma's feelings upon this most im- 
 portant subject, it was not likely she would. 
 
 It is curious to reflect upon the wonderful 
 difference which existed between the immediate 
 pursuits of the three persons at that moment 
 collected, and at that moment separated. Har- 
 bottle, reduced by the irritating malevolence of 
 
THE parson's daughter. 293 
 
 his spies into a state of mind, distressing beyond 
 measure to himself, and dreadful to his unhappy 
 suffering wife, had brought himself to the adop- 
 tion of language with respect to Charles Harvey, 
 in his conversations with her, which no company 
 could bheck and no circumstances controul ; 
 and during the whole of that afternoon and 
 evening, although one or two of his congenial 
 neighbours dined with him, he could neither get 
 rid of the suspicion that Lord Weybridge had 
 been the bearer of some message from Charles, 
 or check himself in the frequently recurring 
 expression of that suspicion ; so that, what one 
 Avould think, even if he really believed in the 
 existence of any improper partiality on the part 
 of his wife, it would have been his first object 
 to conceal, he himself made the subject of re- 
 mark at his own table, and of conversation at 
 every other table in the parish. But the truth 
 is, his mind had room but for one idea at a 
 time, he had now got hold of one, and it en- 
 tirely occupied him — His judgment never con- 
 trolled his temper, and to his passions he sacri- 
 ficed every thing — hence the brutality which 
 his unhappy wife innocently suffered. 
 
 '^ Look upon this picture, and on this," 
 
 o 3 
 
294 THE parson's DAUGfifliS; 
 
 George, in the very hey-day of life, full of 
 spirit, vivacity, talent, and accomplishment, 
 was quitting the confined circle of all these do- 
 mestic evils for the great world, upon which he 
 was to enter the next day, with all the advan- 
 tages of rank and fortune. It is not quite cer- 
 tain whether this sudden uplifting of the com- 
 mander, whom Harbottle had been pleased to 
 patronize, had not added to the general acerbity 
 of his manner. George, however, took no of- 
 fence; he regretted deeply what he saw, for, 
 coupling the severity of the Squire's manner, 
 and the subdued wretchedness of Fanny, with 
 the ardent and strangely excited enthusiasm of 
 Charles Harvey, he could not but anticipate a 
 result the most to be dreaded: nor did he think, 
 in spite of all the young gentleman's protesta- 
 tions, that his lingering about in the neigh- 
 bourhood, — a fact much dwelt upon by Mr. 
 HoUis — was altogether so indicative of his 
 determination to abandon every idea which 
 could militate against Harbottle's honour, or 
 Fanny's respectability, as the said young gentle- 
 man wished it to appear. It seemed to George 
 (and he had seen a " case''' or two in his life) 
 by the alteration from what the Hall was a 
 
THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 295 
 
 month before, to what it appeared at the mo- 
 ment he ran down the steps at his present de- 
 partiire, that if things went on progressively for 
 another four weeks, as they had gone on, for the 
 four preceding ones, he should have very little 
 chance of running up those steps again, and 
 finding the master and mistress of the house 
 Standing together at the top of them to receive 
 him. 
 
 It is scarcely possible to describe on the other 
 hand the effect which had been produced upon 
 the spirits of Mrs. Harbottle by the visit of Lord 
 Weybridge, for, although conscience, which 
 makes cowards of us all, had hindered her from 
 making the slightest inquiry after Charles, still, 
 seeing the individual who had been his com- 
 panion, in fact ever since he had quitted Binford 
 Hall at her earnest solicitation, was something ; 
 but much more was it that the unexpected meet- 
 ing of the friends at Uilsford should have pro- 
 duced tlie much desired eclaircissement of the 
 apparent frivolity or fickleness of Emma, which 
 otherwise it would have been most difficult to 
 have brought about properly and satisfactorily. 
 
 It must be pretty clear to the reader that 
 Fanny was not long before she seated herself in 
 
296 THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 her boudoir to communicate to her dear suffer- 
 ing friend the whole of Lord Weybridge's 
 declaration, made more striking to the poor 
 innocent girl, by the circumstance of her pre- 
 vious ignorance of his accession to the title. 
 And the task was a relief to her, for she was 
 doomed, unless, indeed, the Squire might have 
 beaten up a recruit or two in the village, to a 
 tete-a-tete dinner with her churlish husband. 
 
 But even in this innocent, and as it could not 
 fail to be to her, agreeable pursuit, she was 
 forced to gratify her anxiety to despatch the 
 welcome intelligence to her friend by stealth, 
 and have recourse to stratagem to convey her 
 letter to the Rectory, whence it was to be for- 
 warded. For to such a pitch had Harbottle 
 tiow carried his suspicions, that he would have 
 insisted upon reading the contents of the epistle, 
 which if he had seen them, would have cor- 
 roborated his previously expressed opinion, 
 that his wife was making up a match between 
 the " Captain" and " the Parson's Daughter."" 
 
 Thus it was that mistrust on the one side 
 naturally bred deception on the other, and the 
 present life of the Squire and his lady ap- 
 peared to present rather a series of evolutions 
 
THE parson's daughter. 297 
 
 and manoeuvres, than the interchange of kind- 
 ness and affection, by which it had been hither- 
 to illustrated, and although the sufferings of 
 Fanny were considerably aggravated by the 
 sort of interference and surveillance to which 
 she was subjected, there is no denying the fact 
 that she herself had been the primary cause of 
 all her subsequent afflictions. 
 
 Nothing can more strongly point out to 
 women situated as Fanny was, the absolute 
 necessity of maintaining the straight course, 
 deviating neither to the left nor to the right, 
 than her own particular case. The moment 
 her delicacy had been alarmed — the instant her 
 mind was awakened to the state of her feelings 
 she acted morally, virtuously, and heroically — 
 but this was in the second stage of the. proceed- 
 ings ; and disguise it or palliate it as we may, 
 Harvey must have become an object of much 
 greater interest to her than he ought to have 
 been, at the period when she felt it necessary to 
 to her character and comfort that they should 
 part. Once admitted, the passion so closely 
 resembling friendship at its birth, goes on gra- 
 dually gaining an influence, till at last— as was 
 the case with poor Harvey — its victims awaken 
 too late to a certainty of the delusion. 
 
298 THE parson''s daughter. 
 
 . But to return to Lord Weybridge. When his 
 Lordship got to Dale Cottage, there stood the 
 carriage waiting ; he had been talking of Emma 
 and himself, and had no idea how time flew. 
 
 " Well," said Lady Frances, " and now 
 whom have you seen ?^^ 
 
 " Oh," said George, " the Squire and his 
 lady, of whom I have taken leave ; but, as you 
 told me, the Rector and Emma are gone to 
 that infernal watering place." 
 
 " I dare say," said Lady Frances, " you 
 contrived to send her your remembrances through 
 the Squire's lady, who is her great friend and 
 confidante." 
 
 " I did, indeed," said George; " and I 
 should have been very ungrateful if I had not. 
 But, come, you say I must go, and the sooner, 
 therefore, the better. You know how much I 
 hate farewells and adieus." 
 
 " And yet you have been making them," said 
 her ladyship. 
 
 " Yes, my dearest mother," said George; 
 '' but parting from a parent, upon an expedi- 
 tion like this, is a very different affair indeed 
 from bidding good-bye to a casual acquaintance." 
 
 '' You will write to me the moment you get 
 to town, George," said her ladyship. 
 
THE parson's daughter. 299 
 
 " Rely upon me," replied her son ; " I will 
 tell you every thing that happens ; and if I find 
 that any thing intricate occurs, I will run down 
 to you and talk it over. Upon my honour," 
 continued he, " now the moment approaches, I 
 feel it to be one of trial and difficulty ; my 
 position is altogether new and exciting, but, 
 strange as it may appear, I don'*t feel half so 
 happy as I am sure I ought to be." 
 
 " Of course not, George," said her ladyship, 
 " because the dreadftd events by which you are 
 so placed naturally disturb your mind. — I hope, 
 by the way, poor dear Lady Weybridge hadn't 
 her beautiful diamonds on board the yacht with 
 her at the time of the fatal accident. I should 
 not think she had." 
 
 " It makes little difference to me," said 
 George, ** whether she had or not. I want no 
 diamonds; and I declare to Heaven, now that 
 I am stepping into the carriage, to take pos- 
 session of I know not how many thousands 
 a-year, I would, if I could afford it, give twice 
 as much, if the people were all alive again, and 
 I in the quiet possession of just such an income 
 as would support me comfortably with " 
 
 " Catharine .?" 
 
300 THJE PARSON'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 '* Catharine be — hanged, my dear mother," 
 said the vehement baron ; *' you'll forgive the 
 strength of my language. — No, no, I mean with 
 her to whom I am sincerely attached, and—" 
 
 " — Come, come," said Lady Frances ; "let 
 Roberts, call your carriage. Get away with 
 you, you horrid Goth; — and don't talk of 
 attachments to any body just now, except to 
 me. Kiss me, my dear George, and begone. 
 Heaven speed you in all your proceedings, and 
 make you a better man, if there can be one, 
 than your dear father was, as you are now a 
 greater." 
 
 Fervently embracing each other, the fond 
 mother and dutiful son separated ; — she retired 
 to her boudoir, to write more letters, and he 
 dashed away for London. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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