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 LI B RAFLY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 
 or ILLl NOIS 
 
 825 
 
 v.\
 
 THE 
 
 BRIDAL OF DUNAMORE, 
 
 Printed by J. Darling, Leadenhall-Street, Lwidon.
 
 BRIDAL OF DUNAMORE ; 
 
 AND 
 
 LOST AND WON 
 
 TWO TALES. 
 
 BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, TRECOTHICK BOWER, MAID OF THE 
 
 HAMLET, MUNSTER COTTAGE BOY, VICAR OF LANSDOWN, 
 
 HOUSES OF OSMA AND ALMERIA, S,c. 
 
 VOL. L 
 
 ►<»<t«<t- 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR 
 
 A. K. NEWMAN AND CO. LEADEN HA LL-STREET. 
 
 1823.
 
 
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 05 
 
 O THE 
 
 BRIDAL OF DUNAMORE 
 
 *' ——Oar race have long been foes; 
 Bat we are not foes." 
 
 VOL. 1. B
 
 THE 
 
 BRIDAL OF DUNAMOUE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " A rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. 
 A narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and 
 aged trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had 
 torn from the shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is 
 there, and the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's 
 beard.'' 
 
 i\T a considerable distance from the me- 
 tropolis, a wild and solitary tract, known 
 by the name of Dunamore, stretches itself 
 along the eastern coast of Ireland, form- 
 ing part of the inheritance of the ancient 
 family of Glenmorlie, that for a succession 
 B 2
 
 4 
 
 of ages resided here, in an old abbey, ro- 
 mantically situated at some distance from 
 the village. 
 
 This, much frequented in summer as a 
 bathing-place, is built on the decline of a 
 steep hill, gradually sinking into a fine 
 strand, whence the green cliffs, darting 
 into immense headlands, form a noble but 
 dangerous bay, from the iron-bound nature 
 of the coast. Hence to the abbey appears 
 little better than a desert ; there the woods 
 that partially screen its time-struck towers, 
 where whistles in the sighing breeze the 
 dark mass of years, again give sign of cul- 
 tivation. 
 
 The village, though chiefly consisting 
 of poor straggling houses, is not unplea- 
 sant to the eye, from its romantic appear- 
 ance, perched as are some of the buildings 
 on high rocks, while others lie nestling in 
 snug hollows, as if to screen themselves 
 from the fury of the storms, that are here 
 tremendous. 
 
 Exposed to all the fury of the ocean, 
 nature's barriers alone could here resist
 
 the waves that break and dash against 
 the shore, with a noise resembling the dis- 
 charge of the loudest artillery. This ex- 
 posure gives, in general, a bleakness to 
 the aspect of the place, though in sum- 
 mer the fields and rocks are bestrewed 
 with aromatic herbs and wild flowers, 
 while wild honeysuckles and roses com- 
 pose the hedges — a bleakness heightened, 
 in some parts, to desolation, by the inter- 
 mixture of bog, heath, and rocks, in the 
 fields, the solitary bays that indent the 
 coast, and the abject poverty of the poor 
 cotters — a poverty, however, that has no 
 effect on their characteristic cheerfulness. 
 Most of the old customs are here kept up 
 — the holidays enjoyed with even luxuri- 
 ous indolence — the jig-houses filled of an 
 evening, and the wakes attended with all 
 that boisterous mirth that is certainly re- 
 volting to the feelings of a stranger, though 
 perhaps more owing to indifference about 
 death than any want of natural feeling. 
 When Johnson viewed the luxuries of 
 Garrick's villa at Hampton — " These are
 
 the things," he said, " David, that make 
 a man unwilling to die." Certain it is, 
 that either owing to the slavish life they 
 lead, or some other cause, the common 
 Irish seldom evince any concern about 
 death ; at all times speaking with calmness, 
 and even pleasure, of the spot in which 
 they expect to rest ; and if ever evincing 
 any thing like anxiety on the subject of 
 their death, only about their wake and 
 funeral ; thus setting an example of com- 
 posure and resignation on it, that even 
 philosophy, at times, might fail of doing. 
 
 The strand, in fine weather, is a de- 
 lightful promenade; nor is a walk over the 
 cliffs unpleasant to those who have cou- 
 rage for it, rent as they are into frightful 
 fissures, where one false step must be in- 
 evitable destruction. Nor does the place 
 altogether want attraction during the sum- 
 mer months, when even the Persian looms 
 themselves could not produce such a car- 
 peting as covers the rocks and fields ; but 
 when again the glooms, the storms of win- 
 ter, prevail — when again the savage blast
 
 howls round the casement, " the flaky 
 snow descends, and even the faithful dog 
 seems conscious of his shivering masters 
 misery," it is then indeed sufficiently de- 
 solate to chill the feelings. This however 
 was not exactly the case, through the hos- 
 pitable kindness they made a point of 
 shewing to all within the reach of its in- 
 fluence, during the residence of the Glen- 
 morlie family at the place ; but for years 
 previous to the period at which this story 
 commences, it had been entirely given up 
 to the care of domestics. 
 
 Mr. Glenmorlie, its proprietor, long, 
 long before its desertion, was a gentleman 
 that, even in his day, when hospitality 
 was so common as scarcely to be estimated 
 as a virtue, was praised and celebrated 
 for his. His fortune was immense, his 
 establishment noble, and his door open to 
 all ; but while the rich and elegant par- 
 took of his sumptuous banquet, the needy 
 and the friendless were cheered by his 
 bounty. But with all this generosity of 
 disposition, there was a selfish considera-
 
 8 
 
 tion for his own gratification evinced, and 
 an openness to flattery that considerably 
 took off from his better qualities. 
 
 He was twice married, and by each 
 marriage had a son. His last lady was 
 beautiful, but unprincipled, and by her 
 artful blandishments obtained such an as- 
 cendancy over him, as to induce him to 
 make a will in favour of her son, to the 
 utter prejudice of the one he had by his 
 first union. Convinced, however, that by 
 doing so he should commit an act that 
 would affix a stigma on his name, he en- 
 deavoured to excuse, if not justify it, by 
 pretending that his eldest son had, in 
 many instances, acted in a manner to of- 
 fend and disoblige him ; but as he could 
 bring forward no specific charge against 
 him, this was doubted, and his attempt 
 to justify himself at his expence only an 
 additional cause for censure and reproach. 
 In short, instead of leaving behind him 
 that character for unblemished integrity 
 he had once enjoyed, he left behind him 
 a name stigmatized for injustice.
 
 But railing, nor raving, nor invective, 
 could rend away the seal from the bond. 
 The younger son, according to the tenor 
 of the will, took possession of the proper- 
 ty, with only the exception of a small 
 freehold bequeathed to the eldest. The 
 friends and connexions of the family, ac- 
 cording to their respective interests and 
 feelings, sided with the respective parties. 
 Proceedings were commenced to set aside 
 the will, under the plea of its being made 
 under undue influence ; but after a long 
 and expensive contest, the suit was ulti- 
 mately dropped, and the unfortunate Ro- 
 dolphus obliged to abandon all those hopes 
 and brilliant expectations he had long in- 
 dulged in. Married some years before his 
 father's death, a large family aggravated 
 his feelings on the occasion. Melancholy 
 took possession of him — he gave himself 
 up to gloom and indolence — shrunk even 
 from mixing with his own family — and 
 finally died, a victim to the keen sense he 
 entertained of the injury done him. 
 B 3
 
 10 
 
 His children, but slenderly provided 
 for, were exposed to a variety of priva- 
 tions ; and each new trial exciting addi- 
 tional ill- will to those who so unjustly 
 enjoyed their birthright, there was for a 
 time nothing but strife and animosity be- 
 tween them. 
 
 In process of time, the fortunate branch 
 became ennobled by an earldom. George, 
 the second earl of Dunamore, was a man 
 of a proud and austere temper, tenacious 
 of worldly respect, and boastful of here- 
 ditary distinctions. With such a disposi- 
 tion, it may be supposed he could not 
 think, without an unpleasant sensation, on 
 the blot on his escutcheon ; but while it 
 rankled in his recollection, making him 
 often feel a sense of degradation under the 
 fortune he enjoyed, he at the same time 
 indignantly repelled the slightest allusion 
 to the act by which he had become the 
 representative of his ancient house. 
 
 But though impelled by pride to at- 
 tempt its vindication, he was, in reality, 
 so impressed with a conviction of its in-
 
 11 
 
 justice, as to be anxious in the extreme 
 to make every amends in his power for it 
 to the party it had injured; but hitherto 
 his efforts for the purpose had been haugh- 
 tily repulsed. Of the legal heir, one de- 
 scendant now alone remained, a young 
 lad, residing with his grandmother in the 
 ruins of an old castle, that stood upon the 
 small estate bequeathed to his progenitor. 
 Of this small property little now remained; 
 and lord Dunamore repeatedly offered to 
 take the boy under his protection ; but 
 his grandmother, born herself a Glenmor- 
 lie, and brought up with all those feelings 
 that a sense of injury excites, scornfully 
 rejected these offers ; preferring rather to 
 see her grandson, though the idol of her 
 heart, want the advantages of education 
 and patronage, than owe an obligation to 
 the person who enjoyed his birthright ; 
 several friends interfered on the occasion, 
 but her obstinacy was invincible. 
 
 The boy himself said nothing on the 
 subject. Of a mild and passive temper, 
 he seemed perfectly content to resign him-
 
 12 
 
 self to her will ; he was indeed a melan- 
 choly wight — 
 
 " Baubles be heeded not, nor gauds, nor toy, 
 And yet poor William was no vulgar boy;" 
 
 seeming not to desire a higher enjoyment 
 than was derived from loitering over the 
 ]ieglected fields — indolently watching the 
 waves breaking on the shore — or being 
 listlessly stretched upon the grass, poring 
 upon the brook that babbled by. 
 
 But the sudden death of his grandmo- 
 ther put an end to all further opposition 
 to the wishes of lord Dunamore, who no 
 sooner learned the event than he had him 
 brought to the abbey. At first William 
 was shy and fearful, nor did he ever seem 
 as if he felt himself at home. The earl 
 tried to inspire him with a wish to enter 
 life, but in vain ; and at last became sa- 
 tisfied to let him remain as he pleased. 
 
 The family of lord Dunamore consisted 
 of his lady and one daughter, about the 
 age of William, and, like him, of rather a 
 melancholy turn, and inclined to loneli- 
 ness, and gloom, and superstition. Many
 
 13 
 
 circumstances had conspired to occasion 
 this, and depress the natural cheerfulness 
 of youth — the incurable sorrow of the 
 countess her mother for the premature 
 death of a number of children, had con- 
 verted Dunamore Abbey, from a residence 
 of festive hospitality, to one of melancholy 
 seclusion; and this, together with the 
 neighbourhood of the abbey, had early 
 contributed to give a gloom to her temper. 
 The gloom which a melancholy country 
 is apt to diffuse over the fancy has been 
 described as compatible enough with oc- 
 casional and social merriment, but by no 
 means to be experienced without danger 
 in solitude ; and in this, through the dis- 
 taste conceived by her mother to society, 
 lady Elenora had been brought up ; and 
 hence, without any thing to vary the 
 scene, or give excitement to Iier spirits, it 
 is not to be wondered at that her mind 
 became imbued with that deep melancholy 
 that renders it particularly susceptible of 
 fearful impressions, by a place where " the 
 mournful dashing of the waves," the por-
 
 u 
 
 tentous noises which every change of wind, 
 and every increase and diminution of the 
 waters, are apt to raise in a lonely region, 
 full of chasms and rocks, continually met 
 her ear; and the aspect of nature was 
 often as dismal and distressing. There 
 were people who said, the severe afflictions 
 of her parents were but a just judgment 
 for their enjoyment of what they possessed ; 
 and the idea never recurred that she did 
 not tremble with presageful fears of far- 
 ther visitations to their house. 
 
 But though she did not mix in life, she 
 was neither unseen nor unthought of 
 Shortly after William's taking up his re- 
 sidence in the family, she became the wife 
 of her cousin, sir George Glenmorlie ; and 
 in process of time William himself led to 
 the hymeneal altar a young lass, for whom 
 he had early conceived a boyish regard. 
 
 Unfortunate as her mother, however, 
 of a numerous offspring one daughter only 
 was spared to lady Elenora ; and, finally, 
 like her, in deep affliction at these depri- 
 vations, she, in a degree, withdrew from
 
 15 
 
 the world, and fixed her permanent abode 
 at Dunamore. 
 
 While her daughter was yet an infant, 
 the earl and countess died, and shortly 
 after William and his wife, leaving be- 
 hind them an infant son, whom lady Ele- 
 nora, then countess of Dunamore in her 
 own right, immediately adopted; and, 
 nestled in the very bosom of pity and 
 kindness, the little orphan felt no want of 
 those he had lost. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Next to her own daughter, he soon be- 
 came the object of her greatest tenderness, 
 and sir George not only seemed to share 
 in her affection, but to concur in all her 
 plans and projects for him. In reality, 
 however, he did neither, regarding him 
 with an eye of envy and ill-will, instead 
 of kindness, and secretly determining on
 
 16 
 
 traversing, if possible, his benefactress's in- 
 tentions respecting him. 
 
 These she had no hesitation in reveal- 
 ing to sir George. It was her wish to 
 have a marriage effected between him and 
 her daughter ; led by a superstitious feel- 
 ing to believe, that the severe calamities 
 she and her mother had experienced 
 were a punishment from Heaven for the 
 sins of others. 
 
 Sir George scoffed at the idea, and 
 would have openly opposed her wishes, 
 but that she had too much in her power 
 to allow him to run the risk of provoking 
 her. As a means however of disap- 
 pointing them, he determined on detach- 
 ing his daughter, as much as possible, 
 from her; and accordingly making her 
 disinclination to enter the world again a 
 pretext for committing her in a great de- 
 gree to the care of her aunt, lady Am- 
 bresbury, he invited her ladyship over 
 from England, where she was settled, to 
 the Irish capital, where the young lady 
 was so well managed, as by degrees to
 
 17 
 
 imbibe something very like contempt for 
 her mother and her protegee, and finally 
 decide on giving her hand, in due time, to 
 her cousin, the young lord Ambresbury ; 
 but, in order to prevent the chance of any 
 ill consequence from this, it was deter- 
 mined that it should not be announced to 
 the countess till it was first tried whether 
 it could not be made to appear that it 
 was owing to Henry himself that his mar- 
 riage with her had not taken place. 
 
 In the neighbourhood of the abbey 
 was a gay pleasant family, of the name of 
 Keating, but between whom and the fa- 
 mily there a kind of hereditary dislike 
 had long subsisted. There was a number 
 of young people belonging to it, and from 
 a double motive the countess had early 
 cautioned Henry against forming any ac- 
 quaintance at the house. For a time he 
 scrupulously attended to the caution, but 
 the emissaries of sir George were at work ; 
 and by degrees, spite of all his resolves 
 and precautions, Henry was drawn in to 
 form an intimacy there. Once formed, it
 
 18 
 
 was too delightful to wish to relinquish 
 it, tired as he was of the eternal sameness 
 of the abbey, where, from one end of the 
 year to the other, all went on in the same 
 dull, uninteresting, monotonous kind of 
 manner, for he had none of the drov/sy 
 indolent propensities of his father ; on the 
 contrary, he was all animation and enter- 
 prise, and would early have entered the 
 army, but for his patroness. Ever on the 
 alert with regard to him, she soon disco- 
 vered the cause of these now-frequent ab- 
 sences from home that had alarmed her 
 suspicions, and quickly took him to task 
 about it. 
 
 Henry, all regret and repentance for 
 having disobliged her, gave her every as- 
 surance she could desire of greater steadi- 
 ness for the future, and for a time ad- 
 hered to his promise ; but the temptation 
 to break it was resistless ; one of the con- 
 sequences that sir George, when secretly 
 laying himself out to get him drawn into 
 an intimacy with the Keatings, had fore- 
 seen as likely to result from it, had oc-
 
 19 
 
 curred. He had fallen in love with one 
 of the handsome daughters of Mr. Keat- 
 ing, and to persevere in keeping away 
 from her residence was more than he had 
 resolution to do. 
 
 The consequence of the renewal of their 
 intimacy was a speedy marriage. Her 
 parents could give her no fortune, and 
 making sure of Henry's being amply pro- 
 vided for by his patrons^ they not only 
 readily consented to their union, but did 
 all in their power to hasten and promote 
 it ; but once secure of her (and Henry's 
 courage almost failed him), he knew not 
 how, without a friend to soften matters 
 for him, to declare at the abbey what he 
 had done ; for sir George had artfully con- 
 trived to impress him with a conviction 
 that he, even more than the countess, dis- 
 liked the Keatings. However, it must be 
 done ; and so, accordingly, a few days after 
 his — he could hardly tell whether or not 
 half- repented marriage, he repaired to the 
 countess's dressing-room, where the chief
 
 20 
 
 part of every day was passed in reading 
 or working. It was an upper apartment, 
 for the sake of the prospect, and looked 
 down upon a steep chasm at the side of 
 the building, where a turbulent mountain 
 stream dashed onward towards the sea, 
 through masses of broken rock. — " Well, 
 what news, Henry ?" she demanded, as 
 he entered ; her usual question whenever 
 he returned from any ramble. 
 
 He shook his head. — " Oh, none !" 
 
 " Well, according to the old adage, 
 * No news is good news." 
 
 " Not always," said Henry, as he threw 
 himself dejectedly on a chair. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter ?" with a 
 good-natured smile, and for the first time 
 attentively observing him ; " you look as 
 dull this morning as an old judge. Have 
 you spoiled your new fowliiig-piece, or 
 has Miss Beauty got lame ? or has the 
 purse got low sooner than was expected ? 
 or have you been disappointed of a card 
 for the approaching ball at Waterton ?"
 
 21 
 
 " No — nothing of this kind has hap- 
 pened to trouble me, and yet troubled I 
 am." 
 
 " So T perceive. Come, relieve your 
 mind, by telling me what it is about ?" 
 
 " I fear," said Henry. 
 
 " Then I am to infer it is something 
 that will make me very angry." 
 
 " Oh, so I dread, so I dread !" said 
 Henry, starting up and traversing the 
 room with unequal steps ; " but I swear," 
 he continued, suddenly stepping before 
 her, " that to atone for what I have done, 
 there is nothing, in consequence, that I 
 will not do." 
 
 " Very well, proceed to confession then, 
 and by the time you have concluded, I 
 shall consider what penance to inflict. 
 But I hope, Henry," suddenly changing 
 her tone, and regarding him with auste- 
 rity, " it is not any thing about the Keat- 
 ings I am to hear ?" 
 
 Henry, for a moment, hid his face in 
 his hands ; then, throwing himself at her 
 feet, he confessed his marriage ; " and
 
 now," cried he, *' that you know all, 
 what would you have me do? for I am 
 aware of what I have to fear from sir 
 George." 
 
 " Then, upon my honour !" said her 
 ladyship, laying her hand upon her heart, 
 " since you ask me, I see nothing for you 
 but to open one of the windows here, and 
 leap out." 
 
 " I will not break my word this time," 
 said Henry, and starting up, he flew to a 
 window. 
 
 She rushed after him. — " Witless boy !" 
 she exclaimed, throwing herself upon his 
 arm, " what do you mean ?" 
 
 " To obey you," replied Henry. 
 
 " Obey me !" she reproachfully repeat- 
 ed, as she closed the window ; " when to 
 do so would have been to make me hap- 
 py, you refused. Unfortunate boy !" she 
 exclaimed, as she threw herself, overpow- 
 ered by emotion, on a chair, " what will 
 become of you ? Madly — rashly, you 
 have defeated — frustrated my intentions, 
 disappointed my hopes, and blighted all
 
 your own prospects — prospects that the 
 proudest, the greatest, might have envied 
 you. But go — I cannot compose myself 
 while you remain here." 
 
 Henry sorrowfully obeyed, with a sting 
 in his heart at the idea of what it was 
 now evident his folly had lost him. But 
 his aifection for his gentle Rose was too 
 sincere to permit him long to regret what 
 he had lost by his marriage with her— -"And 
 yet, on her account, poor innocent wretch !" 
 be cried, " should I not regret it ; for to 
 what misery probably has it been the 
 means of dooming her ?" 
 
 Scarcely could sir George, under the 
 semblance of stern displeasure, conceal the 
 joy he felt at the communication of his 
 lady ; but while he artfully kept this up, 
 he affected to be ready to have something 
 done for Henry. 
 
 Great was the pleasure of the countess 
 at hearing this, as she would not have 
 liked to have acted in opposition to his 
 will, and yet would have been miserable
 
 24> 
 
 to have had no provision ^de for the of- 
 fender. 
 
 Completely deceived by sir George, she 
 readily consented to let him arrange all 
 matters respecting him. This was all he 
 wanted to prevent the alienation of the 
 large property she had at her control, and 
 to which indeed was owing his fear of of- 
 fending her. Henry was speedily given 
 to understand that he never would be re- 
 ceived at the abbey again, but that, on 
 condition of his leaving the kingdom im- 
 mediately, he should receive two thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 Great was the indignation of Henry at 
 this attempt to banish him the kingdom, 
 by those who, if he had not been an in- 
 jured person, would have had no power 
 to prescribe to him. The recollection of 
 this, he thought, when the first burst of 
 indignation at his conduct had subsided, 
 should have operated to prevent any thing 
 so wounding to his feelings; and under this 
 idea, for a time, he indignantly hesitated
 
 2f5 
 
 to accept what was offered to his accep- 
 tance. But his situation was desperate. 
 Of the wretched patrimony inherited from 
 his father, there was not sufficient for 
 even the necessaries of life. His wife's 
 family neither could nor would do any 
 thing for her, if they had had the power, 
 now that they saw, by his being thrown 
 off by his patrons, they should derive 
 none of those advantages from her alliance 
 with him that they had expected ; and fi- 
 nally he was forced to subscribe to the 
 conditions of sir George. 
 
 Matters were so arranged that the 
 countess knew nothing of his departure 
 till he was far on his way from the king- 
 dom. She was all despair and repentance 
 on hearing it, blaming herself for her 
 harshness towards him. The marriage of 
 her daughter with her cousin immediately 
 after took place, and from this period the 
 countess was never more seen or heard of, 
 except as a being of deranged intellects. 
 
 Sir George did not survive the marriage 
 VOL. T. c
 
 of his daughter above a few years ; but bis 
 death occasioned no change in the con- 
 dition of the countess ; she still continued 
 under the control of creatures entirely de- 
 voted to him and lady Ambresbury, 
 whose only care about her was, that she 
 should be kept out of the sight of any 
 one who could detect the fallacy of the 
 reports spread about her, in order to inva- 
 lidate any instrument which she might 
 have privately executed in favour of 
 Henry. 
 
 That she could not but sometimes feel 
 some compunctious visitings of nature for 
 this conduct to a parent who had always 
 merited the appellation of one, may be 
 supposed ; but still, as they occurred, she 
 flew to dissipation to banish them. 
 
 The property of lord Ambresbury lay 
 in England, and there their residence was 
 fixed. A son and daughter constituted 
 their family. Edwald, a fine, noble, 
 handsome, open-hearted youth, was about 
 seventeen when he took a romantic whim 
 into his head of visiting the old abbey
 
 27 
 
 at Dunamore, of which he had heard so 
 many curious records and traditions. With 
 some difficulty he obtained permission, but 
 on the express condition of his not attempt- 
 ing to see his grandmother, under the 
 pretext of a melancholy impression being 
 likely to be made upon his mind by her 
 sight. 
 
 In compliance with this stipulation, he 
 was for some time at the abbey withou 
 attempting a thing of the kind, when one 
 of the old domestics that had been dis- 
 missed, obtaining admission to him, gave 
 him such hints as led him, without further 
 delay, to seek the apartments where she 
 was secluded, and introduce himself to 
 her. The result of this was a terrible 
 conviction on the mind of Edwald, that 
 she had been the victim of the greatest 
 injustice and cruelty ; and with all the 
 warmth of youth and feeling, he would at 
 once have stood forth her champion, had 
 she permitted ; but by this time complete- 
 ly subdued by age and sorrow, and un- 
 c 2,
 
 willing to expose her daughter to that 
 stigma she was aware must attach to her, 
 were her unnatural conduct disclosed, she 
 declined letting him risk embroiling him- 
 self with his family on her account, satis- 
 fied that from what she saw of his dispo- 
 sition, she might depend on his solemn 
 promise of befriending Henry or his fami- 
 ly, should they ever come in his way, and 
 on whose account alone she could have 
 wished for his interference for her. 
 
 From this time Edwald was in the 
 habit of making frequent excursions to 
 the abbey. His real motive for them was 
 carefully concealed, and he had the satis- 
 faction of thinking he greatly contributed 
 to making the poor recluse there some 
 amends for the past. 
 
 All his generous feelings awakened 
 about Henry and his family. He lost no 
 time in contriving to have inquiries made 
 after him, but to no purpose ; from the 
 time of his leaving Ireland, he had never 
 been heard of, and by many it was be*: 
 lieved that he and his wife were dead.
 
 $6 
 
 He was near twenty when his grand- 
 mother died, and his mother immediately 
 succeeded to the title and estate of Duna- 
 more ; and now that the former could not 
 be injured by the disclosure, he revealed 
 to the latter all that he had become ac- 
 quainted with at the abbey, with an ear- 
 nest request that she would promise to 
 be the friend of Henry or his family, if it 
 could be discovered either that he was 
 living, or had left any. 
 
 Far however from complying with 
 this request, she accused him of credulous 
 folly, for ever having given credit to the 
 statement that had occasioned it ; and fi- 
 nally concluded by declaring, that nothing 
 should ever induce her to trouble herself 
 about those for whom he so ridiculously 
 interested himself.
 
 so 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 She, with her widow'd mother, 
 Liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd 
 Among the windings of a woody vale. 
 By solitude and deep-surrounding shades^ 
 But more by bashful modesty, concealed. 
 
 The modest virtues mingled in her eyes', 
 Still on the ground, dejected, darting all 
 Their humid beams into the blooming flowers ; 
 Or, when the mournful tale her mother told, 
 Of what their faithless fortune promis'd once, 
 Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star 
 Of evening, shone in tears. Kookhy Hall. 
 
 Sweetly sequestered in woods stood the 
 ancient seat of the still more ancient fami- 
 ly of Ambresbury, in Wiltshire. Several 
 fine pieces of water, dispersed through 
 the grounds, with the river Avon flowing 
 at the bottom of the extensive gardens, 
 augmented the beauty of the situation. 
 Ai picturesque bridge, thrown across the
 
 SI 
 
 river, led to a finely-wooded hill, whence 
 there was an extensive view of the neigh- 
 bouring downs, and a fine tract of coun- 
 try. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the beauty and 
 grandeur of the forest scenery about the 
 mansion. Towards the extremity of the 
 park it was of a less magnificent, but 
 perhaps more picturesque description, the 
 rugged thorn and hardy fir there predo- 
 minating over the oak, the ash, and the 
 elm ; but the glades among them, with 
 their trooping deer, were inexpressibly 
 beautiful, from their silvan softness. In 
 one of the most sequestered of these stood 
 a small cottage, rudely fenced in by old 
 massy paling, and lost in the unpruned 
 luxuriance of the honeysuckle and roses 
 that rambled over it. In this lived the 
 widow and daughter of Henry — in this 
 sought to shun 
 
 The cruel scorn 
 WHiich virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet 
 rrom giddy passion and low-minded pride.
 
 S2 
 
 Henry quitted Ireland for America on 
 a speculative plan. It did not answer ; 
 and after many years of painful vicissitude, 
 he died without the comfort of thinking 
 he had been able to realize any provision 
 for his family, and in consequence en- 
 joined his wife to return without delay to 
 Europe, to see what could be done there 
 amongst their connexions for them, from 
 whom he now regretted having suffered 
 his resentful feelings to occasion so com- 
 plete an estrangement. 
 
 In compliance with this injunction, his 
 widow prepared, immediately after his 
 decease, for her departure thence; but her 
 daughter only accompanied her. They 
 had formed an intimacy with the com- 
 manding officer of a British regiment sta- 
 tioned near the place where they resided, 
 and his family ; and having heard their 
 story, and pitying the situation of the 
 widow, he kindly offered to take her son 
 under his protection, and procure him a 
 commission.
 
 33 
 
 Mrs. Glenmorlie landed in England, 
 and thence immediately vv^rote to Ireland, 
 to make inquiries after their connexions 
 there. The result of these was most dis- 
 tressing : of her own family, scarcely one 
 remained, and none that had either ability 
 or inclination to serve her ; and lady Du- 
 namore was no more. As soon as she had 
 a little recovered from the shock imparted 
 to her feelings by these disastrous tidings, 
 she decided on trying, as her last hope, 
 what an application to the present lady 
 Dunamore would do, and accordingly pro- 
 ceeded to Wiltshire. At first she thought 
 of a personal application ; but when she 
 reflected on her character, which she had 
 early understood, she decided on writing, 
 her mind being too sore, her spirit too 
 wounded, to be able to endure the ap- 
 prehension of encountering scorn, or cold- 
 ness, or derision ; and accordingly stop- 
 ping at a small inn contiguous to the 
 park, thence dispatched a letter to her, 
 c 3
 
 S4> 
 
 detailing her situation, and imploring re- 
 lief. 
 
 In vain she appealed to the humanity 
 of lady Dunamore : humanity for her ex- 
 isted not in her breast. She knew not 
 how it was, but she had always felt as if 
 the possessions of her house were not se- 
 cure, while any of the injured branch re- 
 mained in existence. To afford them the 
 means, therefore, of endeavouring to sup- 
 port this, was not by any means her plan, 
 and an answer accordingly, of the most 
 unfeeling description, was returned to the 
 application for this, containing a positive 
 prohibition against ever being troubled by 
 one of the kind again. 
 
 None but those who know what it is 
 to have hope extinguished within their 
 bleeding bosom, can picture to themselves 
 what the unfortunate Mrs. Glenmorlie 
 felt at the receipt of this letter. Her brain 
 became nearly bewildered by her situa- 
 tion, the expences of travelling having, 
 by this time, nearly exhausted her means*
 
 35 
 
 In this terrible predicament she heard, by 
 chance, that there was a small cottage to 
 let hard by, and it instantly occurred to 
 her to become its tenant, till she could 
 collect herself, and see to what account 
 the few articles of value she had remaining 
 could be turned. Her plan was soon car- 
 ried into effect; but she had not been 
 long in her new abode, when terror, anx- 
 iety, and fatigue, brought on a fever that 
 endangered her life. 
 
 It was now the turn of Constance to 
 feel despair, and no language could give 
 utterance to the horrors that assailed 
 her. She not only beheld herself on 
 the point of losing her mother, but of 
 losing her without human aid or con- 
 solation for herself at the dreadful mo- 
 ment, and with difficulty could she pre- 
 vent herself from shrieking aloud in the 
 wild anguish of her soul. At length she 
 suddenly decided on writing to Edwald, 
 and her whirling brain got cool on form- 
 ing the decision. She had heard some- 
 thing of him — that he was reckoned ami-
 
 $6 
 
 able and feeling, and she determined to 
 put him to the test. 
 
 The astonishment of Edwald at the re- 
 ceipt of this letter may easily be con- 
 ceived, given up, as he had, by this time, 
 almost all hope of ever hearing any thing 
 of the family. That which had led to it he 
 lost not a moment in realizing; and if pity 
 and interest had previously been excited 
 by it, how were they heightened on be- 
 holding the writer ! But we shall pass 
 over the scene that ensued : suffice it, that 
 every thing that was requisite being now 
 provided for Mrs. Glenmorlie, her disor- 
 der speedily took a favourable turn ; and 
 the tranquillity imparted to her mind, by 
 the knowledge of having obtained such a 
 friend, as soon as she was in a condition 
 to hear the circumstance, quickly effected 
 her complete recovery. 
 
 There was no longer a necessity for her 
 remaining in this obscure retreat, but the 
 importunities of Edwald prevailed on her 
 to do so. He could not elsewhere, at pre-
 
 37 
 
 sent, enjoy their society, and he could not 
 bear the idea of relinquishing it ; but 
 when by degrees she perceived indications 
 of a growing attachment between him 
 and Constance, she began to repent her 
 acquiescence in his wishes. 
 
 Trembling at the idea of her daughter's 
 peace being trifled with, she shortly came 
 to an explanation on the subject with 
 him. The result quieted every appre- 
 hension. He avowed the most ardent 
 passion ; mentioned the sanction he was 
 convinced it would have received from his 
 grandmother, had she been living ; and fi- 
 nally, by his arguments and representations, 
 prevailed on Mrs. Glenmorlie to consent 
 to his marriage with Constance as soon as 
 he was of age ; till when he feared indu- 
 cing her to become his, lest, through the 
 arbitrary temper of his parents, of involv- 
 ing her in any thing unpleasant. 
 
 What moments of ecstacy were these 
 that were now passed at the cottage ! The 
 anxious heart of the mother, at rest about 
 the future prospects of her child ; the
 
 S8 
 
 child assured, for the remainder of her 
 days, of a generous protector ; and the 
 lover, of clasping, in his selected bride, 
 all that high fancy forms, or lavish hearts 
 can wish ! 
 
 How impatiently did he fly from com- 
 pany, to wander with her through the fo- 
 rest glades — to feel her hanging on his 
 arm — to read in those eyes, so sweet and 
 so sedate, the varying emotions of her 
 soul. 
 
 Once led to regard him as her future 
 husband, the sensitive Constance no longer 
 shrunk back from listening to the avowal 
 of his attachment ; and in giving utter- 
 ance to its impassioned effusions — in pic- 
 turing to her scenes of anticipated bliss, 
 be experienced a happiness transcending 
 what he had ever before experienced. 
 
 But malignant eyes were upon them — 
 his frequent absences from home, his ab- 
 tracted manner when there, and the vague 
 excuses he made for not pursuing his 
 usual sports and exercises, at length began 
 to alai-m his mother; inquiries were the
 
 S9 
 
 consequence of her suspicions, and the re- 
 sult of these a discovery of the continu- 
 ance of Mrs. Glenmorlie in her neighbour- 
 hood, and his attachment to her daughter. 
 
 How did she now regret from selfish- 
 ness not having afforded her the means of 
 quitting it ! But it was not too late, she 
 trusted, to remedy the mischief that had 
 ensued from her obduracy to the applica- 
 tion for this. She acquainted lord Am- 
 bresbury with the discovery she had made, 
 and a plan was laid between them for get- 
 ting Edwald away. Open opposition to 
 his wishes, they were aware, would prove 
 ineffectual, and they accordingly decided 
 on having recourse to artifice, for prevent- 
 ing what filled them with indignation but 
 to think of 
 
 Lord Ambresbury suddenly pretended 
 to be summoned to France by a dying 
 friend, and desired Edwald to prepare to 
 accompany him. Edwald knew not how 
 to refuse, and yet most unwilling was he 
 to consent ; but it was impossible for him 
 not to do so ; and a hasty leave of the dear
 
 m 
 
 inmates of the cottage was the conse- 
 quence. Of his truth, his sincerity, nei- 
 ther mother nor daughter had the slight- 
 est doubt ; neither, from the artful way in 
 which matters had been managed at the 
 Hall, of any treachery there ; and yet, not- 
 withstanding all this, a presageful fear 
 seized the heart of each on his intended 
 journey being announced, and all that had 
 so recently seemed certain and secure ap- 
 peared to dissolve away, like a glittering 
 illusion before their eyes. 
 
 He had not been long gone, when, re- 
 turning one evening from a melancholy 
 walk they had been taking in the forest, 
 they found Mrs. Glenmorlie's desk broke 
 open, and the whole of the money he had 
 supplied her with taken away. This was 
 a most distressing circumstance ; however, 
 the conviction that he would not delay, 
 the moment he was acquainted with it, to 
 prevent its subjecting them to any incon- 
 venience, prevented the consternation it 
 excited from being of any long continu- 
 ance; and under this conviction, Mrs.
 
 41 
 
 Glenmorlie not only continued her usual 
 expences, but accepted bills for her son, 
 which, by the desire of Edward, she had 
 written to him to draw on her. The pe- 
 riod for settling these was drawing on ; 
 and the people she dealt with about the 
 place were beginning to get importunate 
 for the arrangement of their demands ; but 
 still no remittance arrived, neither had one 
 line been received from Edward since his 
 departure, and she neither knew what to 
 think, or what to do. The agony of her 
 mind was heightened by the terrible state 
 of terror and distress into which the con- 
 duct of Edwald had also thrown Con- 
 stance ; and, in a word, her strength again 
 sunk beneath the conflicts she was endur- 
 ing, and her life was despaired of 
 
 Deserted, as she now had reason to be- 
 lieve, by the man she loved — destitute of 
 the means of procuring her mother any 
 relief — and not only this, but trembling 
 every moment with dread of seeing her 
 dragged from her dying bed to all the 
 horrors of a prison, what did not the mi-
 
 42 
 
 serable Constance now endure ! Chilled 
 with wo, pale, inanimate, loathing life, 
 she was kneeling to her God in agony too 
 great for utterance, when the name of 
 lady Dunamore was whispered in her ear, 
 and a gleam of hope diffused itself through 
 her anguished heart, under the idea that 
 she had discovered her situation, and had 
 come, touched at length with pity and 
 compassion, to minister to her affliction. 
 
 Lady Dunamore was prepared to see 
 loveliness, but not loveliness so perfect, so 
 touching, as the wretched Constance's; 
 she no longer wondered, on seeing her, at 
 the passion of her son. 
 
 The deadly paleness of her face — the 
 languishing softness of her eyes, denoted 
 how much she stood in need of comfort. 
 Their silent appeal to the heart was not 
 unfelt, and for a moment lady Ambres- 
 bury forgot her resentment, and by a 
 bursting tear declared her sympathy in the 
 sorrow she witnessed. 
 
 Having introduced herself, though the 
 ceremony was needless, Constance already
 
 43 
 
 knowing her by sight, she proceeded to 
 explain the purpose of her visit ; she had 
 received a letter from her son, she said, 
 the effect of due consideration, confessing 
 the error he had been guilty of, in think- 
 ing — of acting, contrary to the wishes 
 of his family, and, with her forgiveness 
 for it, entreating her to take upon her- 
 self the absolving him from the engage- 
 ment he had had the imprudence to enter 
 into. 
 
 The fainting soul of Constance for a few 
 minutes rendered her incapable of hearing 
 more ; when she recovered, oh ! to what 
 intenseness of agony was it ! Did he then 
 wish to break his engagement to her ? and 
 was it in such a moment of unbearable 
 wo that the cruel avowal was to be made ? 
 She cast her appealing eyes to heaven, and 
 she implored the God of Mercy to take 
 her with her dying mother. 
 
 But the transient emotions of pity over, 
 lady Ambresbury was not again to be 
 moved by the sight of her distress ; she 
 rested not till she had wrung from her
 
 44 
 
 pale and quivering lips a solemn promise, 
 never more to hold intercourse with her 
 son, should he have the weakness, the te- 
 merity, to think of seeking the renewal 
 of their engagement — " And for your own 
 sake, as well as his, I ask this," she cried, 
 " since it must be evident to you, from 
 what has occurred, that very little depen- 
 dence is to be placed on his steadiness ; 
 and that the privations he must incur, 
 should he disoblige his father and me, 
 would speedily occasion repentance for the 
 headlong folly that had drawn them upon 
 him." 
 
 But the promise thus extorted was not 
 enough ; she proceeded to state that she 
 was acquainted with the melancholy con- 
 dition of her mother, and perfectly inclin- 
 ed to afford all the relief and assistance it 
 required, on one condition — that was, that 
 Constance should consent to give her hand 
 immediately to a person who had seen, ad- 
 mired her, and was ready to take her as a 
 kinswoman of hers ; but on no other, as 
 no other could quiet the apprehensions she
 
 45 
 
 laboured under, of something unpleasant 
 yet occurring to her son on her account. 
 
 But this was a condition to which not 
 even the necessities of her dying mother 
 could induce Constance to accede; she 
 shrunk from it in horror and disgust; and 
 loading her with reproaches, lady Arabres- 
 bury left her. But when, the next day, 
 bailiffs entered the house, and she saw an 
 effort made to remove her mother from 
 the bed, where she appeared to be breath- 
 ing her last, how did she shriek, in the 
 distraction of her soul, at having hesitated 
 about it ! Winged with despair, she flew 
 to the inexorable countess, and flinging 
 herself at her feet, called upon her to dis- 
 pose of her as she pleased, so she would 
 rescue her from the horror of the scene 
 with which she was threatened. 
 
 No time was lost in taking advantage of 
 the terror into which she was thrown. She 
 was just of age — a licence was therefore pro- 
 cured without difficulty ; and ere she well 
 knew what she was about, she became the 
 wife of a dependent of lord Ambresbury's.
 
 46 
 
 — " Yet, if the sacrifice avails," she cried, 
 as she recovered to a perception of the 
 misery to which she had doomed herself; 
 but, alas! it did not — her mother lived 
 not to benefit or to suffer by what she had 
 done for her ; and, in a state of insensi- 
 bility, she was removed from her lifeless 
 remains, and immediately taken from the 
 neighbourhood, and, through the artful 
 management of lady Dunamore, without 
 any one either knowing what had hap- 
 pened, or whither she was gone.
 
 47 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 'Tis well — 'tis solitude indeed — 
 
 *Tis dreadful — 'tis superb ! This sacred spot 
 No mortal man frequents. Beneath that wall, 
 That mouldering threatens ruin on my head, 
 I'll sit me down, and let no curious eye 
 Trace out ray hallow'd haunt ; let none appear. 
 Unless to make the scene more solemn still, 
 From out yon tomb its sheeted tenant rise. 
 And wail his woes with mine. Love laid him there- 
 Rejected love ! e'en then more blest than me. 
 Time might have made him happy, and his truth 
 Might have rewarded; but, ah! where's the hour ? 
 When shall it come to bring me peace again ? 
 Can it restore Constantia ? say, shall time 
 Open the grave, and force its marble jaws 
 To render back to life the beauteous frame 
 It has enclos'd ? No, no — she's gone for ever — 
 Ever gone ! 
 
 -Hark ! pretty warbler 
 
 And dost thou mourn thy love too ? how my soul 
 Doth pity thee ! 'Tis Philomel; and now. 
 Whilst all the forest sleeps, she tells her loss — 
 Her bitter loss, like mine. Yet she's blest too — 
 Pass but a summer, a short year^ and then
 
 48 
 
 She rests ; but I must wear this hated being ; 
 Perhaps for me Death has an age to wait : 
 And then Heav'n's vengeance 'gainst self-murder ! 
 Oh, insupportable ! The horrid thought 
 Throws grief on grief; and yet it cannot be — 
 The wound's too deeply giv'n ; 'tis not long 
 That I can last. Oh ! might, my love, thy ghost 
 But bless for once ray eyes ! wouldst thou but speak 
 The words of peace to my distracted soul, 
 I should be happy ! 1 would know the will 
 Of Heav'n ; but in this doubtful state I'm curst; 
 For there must be a Heav'n — nought but that 
 Could form thee as thou wast; from thence thou cam'st, 
 And thither art return'd. Yet if there be. 
 Why are things so ? why am I punish'd thus? 
 My love was ever pure as Vestal flames, 
 No gross desires ere tainted it ; and thou 
 Wast innocence itself. Is there a reason 
 I should be tortur'd thus? I've heard 
 That souls like thine in shades here oft return'd, 
 To soothe their lovers' sorrows, till the time 
 Of bliss arrive ; but here no comfort dawns — 
 No white-rob'd messenger of peace descends — 
 Nought to my plaint responsive, save the screams 
 Of night's foul bird — the owl, and hollow groans 
 From yon old fane, which, ever and anon, 
 With hideous noise, comes tumbling down. 
 Inscription in an old ruined Monastery in Normandy. 
 
 While these steps were taken for de- 
 stroying the happiness of Edwald by her 
 who should have been most zealous to
 
 49 
 
 promote it, Edwald himself was enduring 
 all the tortures of anxiety and suspense. 
 In vain was letter after letter dispatched 
 to England — no answer was ever received ; 
 and equally vain were the efforts he made 
 to leave his father ; on one pretext or 
 other, their stay on the Continent was pro- 
 longed, till upwards of a year had ex- 
 pired there, and Edwald had become ex- 
 hausted, both in body and mind, by what 
 he suffered. 
 
 Scarcely did he find himself again at 
 the Hall, ere, regardless of what might be 
 thought of the circumstance, he fled from 
 it, to visit the cottage. The day was 
 closing in as he reached it, but there was 
 no light from the windows to enliven the 
 gloom — no sound, no sign of life within ; 
 yet it was too early for the family to have 
 retired to repose, and his heart misgave 
 him at the first glance at the place. But 
 when, attempting to open the gate, he 
 found it locked, and on making his way 
 over it, the little walk leading up to the 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 
 
 cottage-door completely choked up with 
 weeds, a terrible conviction of the truth 
 flashed upon his mind ; still, however, he 
 lingered, but no voice replied to his call, 
 no sound met his ear, save the hollow 
 wind, sweeping in hollow gusts through 
 the shadowing woods ; and he at length 
 retreated, to try whether he could obtain 
 any satisfaction at any of the neighbour- 
 ing cottages, about its late occupants. 
 
 As he was making his way to the near- 
 est in his recollection, he encountered an 
 old woodman, muttering over to himself 
 the earnings of the day, as with his dog 
 he trudged homeward. Abruptly stopping 
 him, Edwald addressed to him the inquiry 
 he was so anxious to have answered. 
 
 ** Know what's become of un ?" repeat- 
 ed the old man, doffing his hat over and 
 over again ; " bless yer heart ! and be ye 
 igrant yersel, zir? But that's true, you've 
 been in foreign parts, they says, and it 
 may be moin hard to get news there loike 
 from this ; why, zir, the old lady be dead."
 
 51 
 
 " Dead !" exclaimed Edwald, with a 
 recoiling sensation. 
 
 " Ay, ZLire, zir, she be dead, and buried 
 too, zir, in that fearsome place, Yewly." 
 
 "And the daughter?" 
 
 " She be gone too, zir." 
 
 " Gone !" repeated Edwald, starting, 
 and grasping his arm — " you don't say 
 she is dead too ?" 
 
 " Noa, zir, noa ; she may be alive and 
 merry, for aught I know to the contrary, 
 but she vanished from this like a spirit, as 
 my old dame says, without never letting 
 nobody know nothing at all of the matter, 
 not even master Parkson himself, from 
 whom they had the cottage." 
 
 " Extraordinary," said Edwald, " that 
 no one should know whither she went." 
 
 " Yes, zir, zo it be, and zo zome of the 
 folks about here do say; but wherever she 
 be, they do say they wish her well, for 
 she was a koind soul, always ready to do 
 a sarvice to a neighbour, if she could.— 
 But be quiet. Ranger — I say be quiet," 
 D 2 
 
 iiKWERSTTt or w** 
 
 univer;
 
 52 
 
 speaking to his dog, who was whining 
 and jumping about him all the time. " I 
 hope you'll 'cuse him, zir ; but the poor 
 beastes have no manners loike; ya see, 
 zir, he expects sumat when he gets home, 
 and so that makes him impatient." 
 
 " And Mrs. Glenmorlie is buried at 
 Yewly ?" cried Edwald, scarcely knowing 
 what he said. 
 
 " Yes, zir, the poor soul be buried 
 there," and at Ed w aid's desire he pro- 
 ceeded to describe the exact spot. — *' Every 
 one to their fancy, to be zure, as my old 
 dame says," he continued ; " but to mine 
 'tis a strange one, to be rather laid among 
 nettles, and wild briars, and brambles, and 
 troubled spirits, and what not of other 
 rubbish, than in a clean, decent church- 
 yard, like our village one, with such foine 
 godly sayings on the gravestones to read. 
 It would do any one good, I'm zure and 
 certain, and make him prepare for his 
 latter end, to read this on farmer Thatch- 
 em's : —
 
 53 
 
 * Here be I, that once was stout, 
 
 And here thou'lt be, don't make no doubt ; 
 
 For thof 1 cannot come to thee, 
 
 'Tis certain zure thou'lt come to me. 
 
 The longest life is but a blast, 
 
 Zo make thee hay while zun do last." 
 
 "Good-night!" said Edwald, putting 
 some money in his hand ; " and if you 
 can make out for me where the daughter 
 is, you will oblige me." 
 
 Yewly was indeed a fearful place to the 
 neighbouring rustics, as old David said. 
 Centuries had elapsed since its desertion 
 and decay, and credulity had peopled it 
 with all that was appalling to superstition. 
 Founded as early as the heptarchy by a 
 Saxon prince, from whom the family of lord 
 Ambresbury boasted of their origin, a con- 
 siderable part of it was now but a massive 
 pile of ivy-mantled ruins ; yet still within 
 its mouldering walls was the burying-place 
 of the descendants of its founder. The 
 narrow walks winding through the trees 
 that filled up the extensive enclosure 
 about it were so overgrown with grass, 
 and choked up with briars and brambles,
 
 54 
 
 that it was difficult to make the way- 
 through them, or decipher the ancient 
 records of mortality the place contained. 
 Within the pile indeed some stately tombs 
 were still discovered, but in so perishable 
 d state, green with damp, and sinking to 
 decay, as to prove how fallacious is the 
 hope of those who expect to have their 
 names perpetuated to posterity through 
 such means. A massive arch, with a suc- 
 cession of others falling behind it, gave 
 admission to the place ; but tlie rich win- 
 dow of gorgeous colouring, that had once 
 emitted a purple glory through this grand 
 perspective, was no more. Trees, sprung 
 up from amongst the rubbish, spread them- 
 selves with ivy amongst the shattered pil- 
 lars, where, in place of the rich banner, 
 the long dank grass now waved over the 
 warrior's tomb. 
 
 Shunned by all but the melancholy and 
 musing, or the traveller curious in re- 
 search, or fond of indulging in the emo- 
 tions excited by grandeur in decay, the 
 owl here sung unmolested her strains of
 
 55 
 
 melancholy to the moonshine that slept 
 upon its mouldering battlements, and the 
 bat spread its leathern wings in security. 
 A kind of sluggish repose seemed always 
 to prevail around it ; no sound almost was 
 ever heard here, but the pent-up wind, 
 moaning through the long lone aisles, or 
 sweeping the hanging woods with a hol- 
 low murmur ; the lazy ass here enjoyed 
 himself in luxurious indolence ; and if by 
 chance a sudden storm drove a shepherd 
 with his flock, or a woodman to it, they 
 were not long ere they sought another 
 shelter. 
 
 Hither, now impelled by a resistless im- 
 pulse, Edwald guided his steps. The si- 
 lent tenant of the tomb could not satisfy 
 the anxiety that tortured his heart, and 
 yet he felt as if it w^ould be a relief to him 
 to visit the grave of Mrs, Glenmorlie. He 
 bent over it with strong emotion ; all that 
 had occurred in their parting interview 
 now recurred to his recollection, and the 
 more he reflected on this, the more he 
 wondered at what had followed, and for
 
 56 
 
 the first time a vague suspicion of trea- 
 chery crossed his mind. This at once de- 
 cided him on having no farther conceal- 
 ment relative to Constance — honour, faith, 
 humanity, all demanded that he should 
 now be explicit concerning her, nor rest 
 till he had discovered what had become 
 of her. He trembled when he thought 
 of all she must have suffered — all she might 
 then be undergoing ; yet should he, con- 
 trary to his presageful fears, find her in 
 health and safety, still what a damp upon 
 the happiness of the moment would be 
 the loss of her mother — that gentle being 
 whom he had loved with the affection 
 of a son, and to whom, he fondly hoped, 
 it would have been given him to have 
 made some reparation for the past! In 
 vain he thought of that happier state of 
 existence to which she was translated, 
 where there is fullness of joy and plea- 
 sure evermore ; grief the most acute per- 
 vaded his bosom for her, and with diffi- 
 culty he tore himself away from her grave. 
 Yewly was a favourite haunt of hers and
 
 57 
 
 Constance: on the very spot where she 
 now rested, had they all often lingered 
 together, to contemplate the sublime spec- 
 tacle of the setting sun, and listen to the 
 breeze sighing through the woods. 
 
 The explanation that now ensued was 
 what lord Ambresbury and his mother 
 had expected, but they bore it with pa- 
 tience, from knowing they had nothing 
 further to fear from Constance. Unsuc- 
 cessful in his diligent inquiries about her 
 in the neighbourhood, he became nearly 
 distracted, and unable to continue for 
 any time in a place. In one of his de- 
 sultory tours, he stopped for a few days 
 at a little retired village in one of the 
 northern counties ; strolling about the ro- 
 mantic environs of the village, he found 
 himself one evening in a secluded valley, 
 through which flowed, with an impetuous 
 but interrupted course, a rapid river. The 
 stones that impeded its current occasioned 
 those " plaintive hollow murmurings" 
 which, as a descriptive tourist observes.
 
 58 
 
 " are adapted to recall the gay wandering 
 mind from secular pursuits to philosophi- 
 cal contemplations, and bring to our re- 
 collection that tumultuous joys and plea- 
 sures form not the real happiness of the 
 soul." 
 
 Edwald wanted not any thing to give 
 a pensive turn to his thoughts; but what- 
 ever was in union with their melancholy 
 was pleasing to him; and he continued to 
 wander on, till roused from the reverie 
 into which he had fallen by the soft ac- 
 cents of a well-known voice, from an an- 
 tique summer-house, looking down on 
 the torrent below ; he sprung up the rocky 
 bank, and in another moment had Con- 
 stance in his arms; but how altered ! She 
 shrieked at seeing him, and, with a look 
 of terror, would have disengaged herself 
 from his arms, but he held her fast. 
 
 Through her husband, who was a rude 
 unfeeling man, she had long before be- 
 come acquainted with the treachery that 
 had been practised to separate them, and 
 her soul recoiled from the aorony of the
 
 5d 
 
 explanation that must now take place; for 
 she saw at once, by the manner of Ed- 
 wald, that he was in ignorance of her mar- 
 riage. — " And is this my reception ?" he 
 cried, reproachfully, " after so long a sepa. 
 ration?" as she struggled to disengage 
 herself from him. 
 
 " Leave me, for Heaven's — for mercy's 
 sake !" cried the agitated Constance, for 
 the servant to whom she had been speak- 
 ing at the time that Edwald had heard 
 her had quitted the building, and, in con- 
 sequence, she was in terror of seeing her 
 husband every moment enter. — " Leave 
 me," she conjured him, "and all that you 
 require to have explained — that you wish 
 to hear, you shall learn." 
 
 Edwald could not — would not obey her, 
 which perceiving, and aware of all that 
 was likely to result from finding him with 
 lier, she suddenly burst from his grasp, 
 and bolting the door communicating with 
 the garden on the outside, compelled him 
 thus to retreat by the way he had entered. 
 
 She had previously learned where he
 
 60 
 
 was in the village ; and he had not been 
 long returned to the inn, whither he has- 
 tened back for the purpose of addressing 
 a reproachful letter to her, when he re- 
 ceived the following from her, brought by 
 an old confidential Irish servant, who had 
 been for some time in the service of her 
 mother. 
 
 " Cruel must I call the chance 
 which has again brought about a meeting 
 between Edwald and me 1 He may ex- 
 claim at the expression — he may wonder 
 when he learns that Constance has prayed, 
 even fervently prayed, that they might 
 meet no more; but wonder will cease, 
 though not indignation, perhaps, when he 
 learns that she is no longer at liberty to 
 receive those assurances that rendered for- 
 mer meetings so delightful. He may — 
 lie will perhaps call her faithless, perfidious, 
 on learning this ; but, with the rest of her 
 sorrows, she must bear with patience the 
 loss of his esteem.
 
 61 
 
 *' Yet should she endeavour to justify 
 herself — but, alas ! it is useless now ! In 
 this moment, when about bidding him a 
 tinal adieu — in this moment of unutter- 
 able anguish, she conjures him, by all that 
 is feeling and generous in his nature, ne- 
 ver more to seek another interview with 
 her. 
 
 " She has an infant child — should dis- 
 grace attach to her, it must share in it, 
 and grow up perhaps to reproach tlie me- 
 mory of its wretched mother. 
 
 " Yes — memory ; for she feels in this 
 world her race is nearly run — in that 
 which is to come she hopes to receive 
 some recomj>ence for the sorrows that have 
 subilued her in this. Then destroy not, 
 oh, Edward ! that hope, by trying to make 
 her forget her duty. This nuist for ever 
 conclude iier correspondence with you — 
 must be her eternal farewell. Farewell ! 
 chilling expression ! she lingei*s over it — 
 over her last adieu to one who wa^ so 
 kind, so generous, so beloveil a friend. 
 
 " Constance/*
 
 62 
 
 We shall pass over what immediately 
 followed the receipt of this letter — suffice 
 it, that the explanation to which it led 
 to from the faithful Esther made Edwald 
 perfectly acquainted with the treachery to 
 which he had been the dupe. For some 
 minutes he stood suspended between his 
 savage eagerness to rush upon his mother 
 with reproaches, and his wish to implore 
 forgiveness of Constance for the wrong he 
 had involuntarily done her; but the latter 
 prevailed. In vain however the inter- 
 view he sought was implored. Constance 
 could not be prevailed on to mock her 
 Creator, by praying to him to guard her 
 from temptation, whilst she rushed volun- 
 tarily into it herself; and finding it use- 
 less to torment her on the subject, he re- 
 turned home. Here the scene that ensued 
 occasioned an estrangement of some time 
 between him and his parents : at length 
 the interference of mutual friends brought 
 about a kind of reconciliation between 
 them, but confidence on his side was for 
 ever destroyed in them.
 
 63 
 
 At length he again returned privately 
 to the neighbourhood of Constance ; he 
 was within a little way of the village, when 
 a funeral bell struck out, and presently 
 after he saw the melancholy procession it 
 announced approaching. He mechanical- 
 ly drew up his horse to the side of the 
 road to let it pass, and was vacantly re- 
 garding the hearse, when the name of De 
 Grey, Constance's husband, accidentally 
 pronounced, roused him from his abstrac- 
 tion, and eagerly inquiring, he learned 
 that he was indeed the person they were 
 bearing to the grave. 
 
 But the dawn of hope was but tran- 
 sient ; the person who gave him this in- 
 formation, not satisfied with this, proceed- 
 ed to inform him also of the malignant 
 disorder of which he had died, and that 
 his wife, in attending on him, had also 
 caught it, and was then despaired of. 
 
 Edwald heard no more; he spurred on 
 his horse to the house so lately prohibited 
 to him, and found that he had indeed ar-
 
 64 
 
 rived but in time to receive the last sigh 
 of Constance — it was breathed on his bo- 
 som : restored to her reason a short time 
 previous to her dissolution, she had heard 
 his frantic exclamations in the hall, and 
 desired he might be admitted to her. 
 
 She noticed him the moment he entered 
 — " Be calm, Edwald," she cried, as he 
 sunk beside the bed, and sobbed aloud ; 
 " regret not that my sorrowful pilgrimage 
 here is at an end." She raised her head, 
 but it sunk immediately again on his arm. 
 — " Oh ! what happiness," she continued, 
 " to breathe my last sigh on your bosom, 
 and be at liberty to assure you with it, 
 how dear ! how very dear " 
 
 Her lips quivered — she gasped — she 
 turned her dying eyes once more upon 
 him, and closed them for ever. 
 
 For hours after all was darkness and 
 horror ; he then gave orders for her fune- 
 ral, and actuated by something like fren- 
 zy, mounted his horse, and stopped not 
 again till he found himself at home. His
 
 65 
 
 wild and disordered appearance alarmed 
 his parents, but their anxious inquiries 
 obtained no satisfaction from him. 
 
 In the course of the evening, he con- 
 trived to draw his mother from the house 
 with him. The remains of Constance 
 were brought to Yewly for interment, and 
 all things being arranged according to his 
 orders, he now led his mother thither. 
 After sauntering about some time, he drew 
 her on, by imperceptible degrees, towards 
 it, through the conversation he forced 
 himself to keep up with her, for the pur- 
 pose of preventing her being aware of 
 what he was about. 
 
 The shadows of night were gathering 
 about it by the time they reached it, and 
 nothing could be more dreary, more deso- 
 late, than the aspect of the massive ruins, 
 stretching into the funereal darkness of old 
 yews and cypresses, while a moaning wind 
 swayed the long grass of the tombs, and 
 swept with a hollow murmur through the 
 woods. 
 
 " No, no ! I cannot go on indeed, my
 
 66 
 
 dear Edwald !" said his mother, stopping 
 short on perceiving whither he had led 
 her — "I have an absokite horror of that 
 place, with its glooms, and its graves, and 
 its inscriptions." 
 
 " And yet youth and beauty can rest 
 here without shuddering," said Edwald, 
 retaining his firm hold of her, and, despite 
 of her resistance, forcing her onward. 
 
 Within the very interior of the pile was 
 a chapel, still kept up in good preserva- 
 tion, and here the remains of Constance 
 were laid out, with funeral candles lighted 
 about the coffin. Lady Dunamore started 
 at the sight — " Good God !" she exclaimed, 
 '' what is all this ?" 
 
 The folding-doors of wrought iron un- 
 closed at the touch of Edwald — the pall 
 was thrown back — " And there," he cried, 
 pointing to the plate upon the coffin, " that 
 will satisfy you." 
 
 She read, shrieked, and started back, 
 and — "My God! my God! when and 
 where did this happen ?" were her excla- 
 mations.
 
 67 
 
 " Idle questions!" replied Edwald, with 
 all the fierceness of despair; " suffice it, 
 there lies your victim— the victim of cruel 
 ambition and treachery — all that remains 
 of worth, of beauty, and excellence, that 
 would have graced any station. But 
 hear me vow — hear me swear, by that 
 Heaven which has so soon recalled her to 
 itself, never to know another choice !" 
 
 Lady Dunamore shrieked — " Edwald ! 
 Edwald," she cried, " if you do not wish 
 to drive me to distraction, recall that 
 vow !" 
 
 But vain were her supplications, and a 
 kind of gloomy pleasure pervaded his soul 
 at the idea of the revenge it had given 
 him the power of inflicting. 
 
 The shock imparted to lady Dunamore 
 by what had happened occasioned a spee- 
 dy change in her disposition and manner ; 
 feelings never before experienced were 
 awakened ; but the amendment of her 
 heart took place too late for her happiness 
 — her son was entirely lost to her. The 
 deserted abode of Mrs. Glenmorlie became
 
 68 
 
 his residence, and the faithful Esther, with 
 the infant of Constance, its inmates with 
 him ; nor could any entreaties induce him 
 to enter society again, nor cancel the vow 
 he had taken. 
 
 At length lord Ambresbury, naturally 
 of a stern and unfeeling nature, became 
 so exasperated by his conduct as to desist 
 from seeing him. His mother, however, 
 all repentance for the past, continued to 
 keep up an intercourse with him ; but the 
 only one of the family he had any plea- 
 sure in seeing was his sister Clara. The 
 health of lady Dunamore at last yielded 
 to the anxiety of her mind, and in less 
 than a year after the death of Constance, 
 she followed her to the tomb. 
 
 Shortly after, the brother of Constance, 
 mournfully affected by these disastrous 
 events, came, at the earnest request of 
 Edwald, to pay a visit at the cottage ; he 
 was a very fine young man, and the inno- 
 cent heart of Clara soon began to feel a 
 prepossession in his favour. 
 
 Lord Ambresbury had hitherto trou-
 
 69 
 
 bled himself very little about her visits at 
 the cottage; but he no sooner heard of 
 the arrival of the young soldier than he 
 thought it time to interdict them, though 
 had he known all, he would have known 
 there was nothing to apprehend on that 
 account, Glenmorlie being under an en- 
 gagement to the daughter of his patron. 
 However, he knew nothing of this, and 
 even if he had, he would have pretended 
 ignorance, in order to have had an opportu- 
 nity of offering an insult where he hated. 
 
 Accordingly, as the little party were 
 sitting together one evening, he rushed in 
 upon them, with looks expressive of the 
 infuriate passions of his soul; and after 
 loading them all with reproaches, and ac- 
 cusing Glenmorlie of having formed the 
 same plan for ensnaring the sister that 
 had been formed for ensnaring the brother, 
 proceeded to drag his almost-fainting 
 daughter away. 
 
 Consideration for Edwald alone restrain- 
 ed Glenmorlie from resenting this accusa- 
 tion in the manner it merited ; but after
 
 70 
 
 such a one, he could not possibly think 
 of remaining longer with him ; and thus, 
 through the cruel conduct of his father, 
 was he deprived of a friend that was be- 
 ginning to acquire some influence over 
 him, and might gradually have succeeded 
 in winning him back to the society he had 
 renounced. 
 
 But to have him restored to this was 
 not now the wish of lord Ambresbury. 
 He had made proposals for a young lady 
 in the neighbourhood, but to accepting 
 which his family was an obstacle — mothers 
 and daughters-in-law seldom agreed toge- 
 ther ; and then his son cut off the hopes 
 of any she might have; and in malignant 
 rage at the idea of his being a bar to his 
 happiness, he felt infinitely more inclined to 
 thwart and prevent any thing that could 
 be done for his benefit than promote it. 
 
 Through his means, from whom no- 
 thing now was to be expected — no gratifi- 
 cation to either paternal pride or ambi- 
 tion, to be doomed himself to disappoint- 
 ment, was intolerable ; and after brooding
 
 71 
 
 for some time over the thought, he de- 
 cided on at least rendering him as wretch- 
 ed as possible, in consequence, by treating 
 him as a maniac, not without a horrible 
 hope of the treatment he would be sub- 
 jected to effecting what he wished ; while 
 at the same time he also decided on get- 
 ting rid of his daughter, by forcing her to 
 accept a proposal that about this period 
 had been made for her. 
 
 There was no one to interfere about 
 Edwald, or disprove his assertions about 
 him — assertions which the life Edwald 
 had latterly led had given but too much 
 colour to ; and he was remorselessly torn 
 from the cottage, and hurried to a place 
 of severe confinement ; while his terrified 
 sister was assured, that if she hesitated to 
 accept the offer that was made her, she 
 should be treated with the greatest severity. 
 
 Of this, from what had occurred to her 
 unfortunate brother, she made no doubt ; 
 but her very soul recoiled from the idea 
 of obeying the unfeeling mandate of her 
 imperious father; she not only abhorred
 
 72 
 
 the person, but character of the person, 
 who had proposed for her; and finally de- 
 cided on flying from the tyranny she 
 could not otherwise resist. An old friend 
 of her mother's lived in London, and with 
 her she determined to take refuge, till ei- 
 ther she was of age, or some measures 
 could be had recourse to, to induce her 
 cruel father to give up his determination 
 of forcing her inclinations. 
 
 No suspicion being entertained of her 
 intention, she found no difficulty in car- 
 rying it into effect. Disguising herself as 
 well as she could, she stole from the house 
 one night, with a small parcel, containing 
 a few valuables, after it was thought she 
 had retired to her chamber, and repaired 
 to a place in the park by which she knew 
 a stage passed to London. But with what 
 sensations of mingled grief, and terror, 
 and regret, did she quit her home ! and 
 how did her fainting soul seem to die 
 within her, when, in passing through a 
 gallery to the door by which she was to 
 effect her escape, a full-orbed moon, dart-
 
 7$ 
 
 ing through the windows, and giving to 
 her view the picture of her mother, re- 
 called those happy days, when, enjoying 
 maternal love and protection, she seemed 
 to have nothing to fear! 
 
 The herald of the morning was just be- 
 ginning to salute her ear with its melodi- 
 ous notes, when the expected coach ap- 
 peared in view, and took her up. She was 
 a little startled at finding three passengers 
 within ; but she soon found, or rather ima- 
 gined, she had nothing to apprehend from 
 them ; for though two of them quickly 
 resumed the slumbers which the opening 
 of the door, and the letting-in of the cold 
 air of morning on them had disturbed, the 
 other continued to observe her. He was 
 a young Scotchman, and was convinced, 
 at his first glance of her, there was some- 
 thing wrong. In this suspicion he was 
 confirmed on hearing her speak; her ac- 
 cents were not those of a person in the in- 
 ferior situation which her travelling with- 
 out protection might have warranted one 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 
 
 to believe, and his curiosity was strongly 
 excited ; while aware of the dangers to 
 which her youth and appearance exposed 
 her, he determined not to lose sight of 
 her till he had seen what became of her. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " Her steps were lonely, and her soul was sad, for Connel. 
 Was he not young and lovely, like the beam of the set- 
 ting sun ?'* 
 
 In pursuance of this determination, he 
 assisted in conducting her to a room, on 
 their alighting at the inn in London, and 
 where the scene of noise, confusion, and 
 danger, which, on driving under the gate- 
 way, was exhibited to the view of Clara, 
 nearly deprived her of her senses — with 
 coaches coming in and out — waggons load- 
 ing and unloading — passengers clamorous 
 about their luggage — porters running in 
 all directions — and ostlers forcing their
 
 75 
 
 way with their horses through all impedi- 
 ments. 
 
 A little recovered from her panic, Dun- 
 don aid proceeded to ask her whether he 
 could be of any further service to her? 
 She hesitated, and then falteringly men- 
 tioned the place she had to go to. Dun- 
 donald proposed her sending for her friend; 
 and trembling with terror at the idea of 
 proceeding to her by herself, from the im- 
 pression made upon her nerves by her en- 
 trance into London, Clara acceded to the 
 proposition, and a note was accordingly 
 dispatched to her friend ; Dundonald, to 
 her great comfort, continuing with her; 
 for from the attention he had paid her 
 throughout her journey, she could not 
 help regarding him something in the light 
 of an acquaintance, and she was endea- 
 vouring to enter into something like con- 
 versation with him, when she suddenly 
 missed her little parcel. Dundonald im- 
 mediately proceeded to inquire for it, but 
 in vain, and the consternation of Clara at 
 E 2
 
 76 
 
 its loss would have been inexpressible, but 
 for the friend she made sure of having to 
 receive her : what then were her feelings 
 may easier be conceived than described, 
 when the porter returned to say her friend 
 was dead ! The curdling blood ran cold to 
 her heart, at the horrible predicament in 
 which she found herself, and for a few mi- 
 nutes Dundonald thought life must have 
 forsaken her frame. 
 
 When, at length, by the gentlest sooth- 
 ings, he brought her a little to herself, he 
 conjured her to say how he could serve her. 
 — "Serve me!" repeated the distracted 
 Clara — " you cannot serve me !" and her 
 brain grew dizzy; and unable longer to 
 support herself, she allowed the woman 
 of the house to be rung for her ; and Dun- 
 donald, committing her to her care, im- 
 mediately took his departure for Rich- 
 mond. 
 
 A widow lady, of the name of Duncan, 
 resided there, from whose benevolence he 
 made sure of obtaining for the youthful 
 stranger that protection she so peculiarly
 
 7T 
 
 required. He was not too sanguine in his 
 expectations ; naturally compassionate, the 
 sympathy of Mrs. Duncan for the unfor- 
 tunate was heightened by a bitter know- 
 ledge of what sorrow was in her own per- 
 son. The moment she heard the affecting 
 detail of Dundonald, she was ready to 
 take wing with him — " For we canna be 
 ganging too soon," she cried, " lest any 
 harm should happen to the winsome little 
 soul where ye left her ; and, ah ! ye're a 
 bonny ehiel, Charley lad !" she continued. 
 " I wish all I had a wee regard for were 
 so sure of a gude birth above — always 
 ready to stand forth the champion of the 
 widow and the orphan. See what would 
 have become of the bonny bairn, gif an 
 she had come across any of those prowling 
 wolves that are ganging aboot with the 
 deil in their hearts, seeking whom they 
 may devour !" 
 
 The praise she bestowed on Dundonald 
 was not unmerited — never was there a 
 more feeling heart — never a more noble 
 nature : fortune alone prevented his being
 
 78 
 
 a universal benefactor to mankind; but 
 he was only a cadet, compelled, though of 
 a most respectable family, to make exer- 
 tions for support; confined, however, as 
 were his means, he still had had the power 
 of conferring obligations on Mrs. Duncan 
 that never were forgotten, and made her 
 regard him in the light of a son. 
 
 They found Clara in the delirium of a 
 fever; but an inn was no place to nurse 
 her in ; she was accordingly muffled up, 
 and conveyed to Richmond, where prob- 
 ably she never would have recovered, but 
 for the truly- maternal care that w^as taken 
 of her, and where, as probably, she would 
 have relapsed on regaining her senses, but 
 for the kind assurances of Mrs. Duncan, 
 of retaining her with her. 
 
 Convinced, from the honour and huma- 
 nity she had experienced, she might safe- 
 ly place confidence where she was, she 
 was no sooner sufficiently recovered to en- 
 ter into an explanation concerning herself, 
 than she frankly revealed her story. JNIrs. 
 Duncan had anticipated something of the
 
 7^ 
 
 kind, but not by any means that she was 
 of the rank she was, and felt a Httle un- 
 easy at learning it, from the inconveni- 
 ence she was aware she might subject her- 
 self to, from assisting to secrete a person 
 of her description from her family ; she 
 had given her promise to that effect, how- 
 ever ; and after what she heard of the cruel 
 tyranny of lord Ambresbury, she could 
 not think of breaking it ; and if she had, 
 Dundonald would have interfered, and his 
 interference was nevrsr vain with her. 
 
 The consequences of the growing in- 
 timacy between him and Clara may be an- 
 ticipated. To the disposition already de- 
 scribed — a disposition that imparted a re- 
 sistless softness to his tones and manner, 
 he united all the advantages of a fine per- 
 son, and a cultivated and accomplished 
 mind ; and gradually gaining upon the 
 esteem and admiration of Clara, he stole 
 one image from her mind to substitute 
 another in it. 
 
 Viewing with him the enchanting beau- 
 ties of the place where they were — enjoy-
 
 80 
 
 ing with him the delicious sweetness of 
 the evening air, when the nightingale 
 tunes sweetest her love-laboured song, 
 how often was Clara lulled into a forget- 
 fulness of the past, till recalled by some 
 casual circumstance, yet perhaps without 
 her being able to say by what connecting 
 association with it — so hidden are the links 
 by which the past and present are con- 
 nected in our minds! But how beautifully 
 do these lines illustrate this ! 
 
 *' But ever and anon, of griefs subdued, 
 
 There comes a token, like a scorpion's sting, 
 Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; 
 
 And slight withal may be the things which bring 
 Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
 
 Aside for ever; it may be a sound — 
 A tone of music — summer's eve- — or spring — 
 
 A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, 
 Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound." 
 
 Mrs. Duncan knew not what to say to 
 their growing attachment ; she knew Dun- 
 donald had no independence for a family, 
 and considered lord Ambresbury's ever 
 taking his daughter again into favour very 
 uncertain ; but at length her wish to see
 
 81 
 
 him happy got the better of her prudence, 
 and she began pleading for him with Clara, 
 and with whose own heart seconding her 
 arguments for him, she shortly succeeded. 
 
 A journey to Scotland ensued ; and im- 
 mediately after their return from being 
 married, Clara addressed a letter to her 
 father, explanatory of all that had hap- 
 pened since her leaving the paternal roof 
 To this a bitter answer was returned — 
 Since she had chosen, he said, to forget so 
 long that she had a father, it was his de- 
 termination now not to remember the cir- 
 cumstance, but in new connexions to en- 
 deavour to find consolation for the ingra- 
 titude and folly of two degenerate chil- 
 dren. 
 
 Little as Clara expected from her un- 
 feeling parent, still she had not altogether 
 expected such an answer as this — " If not 
 from principle, at least from pride," she 
 thought, " some little provision would be 
 made for her ;" and the disappointment of 
 this expectation was a most severe one. 
 E 3
 
 That the daughter of such a house should 
 not, by settlement, have a fortune secured 
 to her, may appear strange; but through 
 the anxiety of her grandfather, sir George 
 Glenmorlie, to have her parents married, 
 lest of any disappointment of this favour- 
 ite wish from her grandmother, no delay 
 was allowed for making the settlements 
 usual on such occasions, and which after- 
 wards were put off from time to time, till 
 they at length ceased to be thought of 
 
 Dundonald, however, affected to think 
 lightly of what had so affected her, and 
 in reality did so, for he was young and 
 sanguine in his temper, and just then so 
 happy, from the secured possession of her 
 he loved, that all must go on well, he 
 thought ; and Mrs. Duncan reminded 
 them that they were her children, and that 
 whatever she had would be theirs; and 
 Dundonald, whose situation was in a mer- 
 cantile house in London, giving up his 
 lodgings there, they became permanently 
 fixed with her. 
 
 And never was there a happier little
 
 8S 
 
 domestic circle ; home was here what it 
 should always be — the resort of peace, and 
 love, and joy. Every thing to each other, 
 they were only anxious the present bliss 
 might continue : but, alas ! life is but one 
 great scene of eternal change ! how few, 
 for any length of time, can keep their frail 
 bark moored in the haven of tranquillity, 
 or bask in the sunshine, without feeling a 
 cloud intercepting the genial warmth! 
 Clara had just recovered from giving birth 
 to a lovely boy, when their more than 
 mother was taken from them ; and so sud- 
 den was her death, that the will she had 
 always intended to make in their favour 
 was not made ; so that whatever she died 
 possessed of went to a distant relative, 
 who having long regarded them with en- 
 vy and ill-will, had no hesitation in mak- 
 ing them quit the house immediately, 
 where so many — many happy hours — so 
 many blissful days, had been passed. 
 
 But this was but the beginning of sor- 
 rows — Mrs. Duncan was scarcely laid with- 
 in her grave, when Dundonald, through
 
 84 
 
 the malice of* some envious interloper, was 
 infoi-med he was no longer required in the 
 house where he had so long been. He 
 tried, however, to support himself under 
 the shock imparted by the intimation, by 
 a hope of soon obtaining another situation; 
 but this hope proved fallacious — day after 
 day he returned from town, still disap- 
 pointed, feeling, even to an excruciating 
 degree, that hope deferred maketh the 
 heart sick. Their finances declined; his 
 health became impaired, his temper alter- 
 ed ; and Clara, from being the most blessed 
 of wives, became the most wretched. Dis- 
 tress by himself Dundonald could have 
 endured ; but distress in which a wife and 
 child were to share, he had not fortitude 
 to support: yet sometimes, out of com- 
 passion to the miserable Clara, he would 
 force a sickly smile upon his countenance, 
 and essay to be what he once was; but 
 when their languid steps involuntarily 
 guided them to that loved — that regretted 
 home, now closed for ever against them, 
 where so much happiness had been expe-
 
 85 
 
 rienced, the sickening sensations of his 
 soul, at the torturing contrast between 
 the past and present, would send him back 
 with redoubled gloom. 
 
 At length he became so ill as to be un- 
 able to quit his bed, and without some 
 relief for his distracted mind, Clara saw 
 no hope of his recovering. Under what 
 she now endured, her sinking frame could 
 hardly support her : she was literally 
 alone, forsaken, faint, without a friendly 
 bosom to lean on for assistance, or friendly 
 voice to speak consolation to her ; but to 
 suffer herself to sink beneath her sorrows, 
 and he who was dearer to her bleeding 
 heart than ever must perish with her. 
 
 A hundred times she took up a pen to 
 address her father, to conjure him, if he 
 would not relieve her as a child, yet to 
 do so as a suffering fellow-creature ; but 
 as often she threw it aside, in utter de- 
 spair of succeeding with him. He had, 
 long before this, obtained the person for 
 whom he had literally sacrificed his chil- 
 dren; and just about this period, Clara
 
 86 
 
 suddenly heard of her elopement from 
 him. 
 
 She had scarcely heard it when it struck 
 her, that perhaps what he suffered from 
 this event might have had a softening ef- 
 fect upon him, and induce him to have 
 pity on her, if he but saw her — saw her, 
 as she was, wasted, worn down with sor- 
 row and fatigue. Yet how could she 
 leave her husband to present herself to his 
 view ? how commit him, in whom her 
 very life seemed centered, to the care of 
 others, when her own tenderest care was 
 insufficient for him ? Yet the journey to 
 the Hall was not a long one ; and so much 
 might be achieved by undertaking it, that 
 the pang of a temporary separation was 
 worth enduring for his sake ; and finally 
 she mentioned it to Dundonald. 
 
 After a slight hesitation, he strenuously 
 recommended her making the effort, and 
 she accordingly began to make prepara- 
 tions for her journey ; yet a thousand 
 times, in doing so, her resolution nearly 
 faltered, and but for the desperation of
 
 87 
 
 her situation, she would have abandoned 
 her design altogether, from a dread of dis- 
 appointment. But at last the moment of 
 heart-riving anguish came for taking leave 
 of her beloved : a hundred times she 
 gave him what she meant to be her part- 
 ing kiss, but as often she returned to re- 
 peat it — to look at him again — to press 
 his emaciated hands to her anguished bo- 
 som, and call upon the God of Mercies, 
 with quivering lips, to spare him, to re- 
 store him to her, to bless him with all the 
 blessings that his virtues, his faithful love, 
 and tenderness, deserved. 
 
 At last she was forced to tear herself 
 away, but at the door she turned to take 
 another look : it would have been well 
 for her if she had not ; for, oh ! never, 
 never, from that moment, from her tor- 
 tured imagination was effaced the last 
 ashy look of fainting tenderness she then 
 caught ! It was the first she saw of a 
 morning — the last she beheld at night ; it 
 was for ever present to her, sleeping or
 
 B8 
 
 awake, wringing, even at times upbraid- 
 ing, her widowed heart. 
 
 She was taken up at Brentford, and 
 about night-fall dropt at a little inn con- 
 tiguous to the Hall, and within the deep 
 shadow of the immense woods that here, 
 in all the pomp of foliage and luxuriance 
 of maturity, waved their gigantic arms 
 athwart the rugged and vegetative banks, 
 and in receding masses extended their 
 gloomy shades to an interminable dis- 
 tance, shedding a brown horror over many 
 a darksome dell and lonely byepath. 
 
 The view of these magnificent woods, 
 so calculated to inspire awe and admira- 
 tion, served but to heighten the anguish 
 of the desolate Clara, from the recollections 
 they revived. Merely pausing to assure 
 herself her father was at the Hall, she set 
 out for it, unrecognised by any one, owing 
 to her close disguise and altered appear- 
 ance. 
 
 On seeing her making towards the 
 woods, the woman of the house, who.
 
 89 
 
 from thinking there was something odd 
 in her manner, had been watching her, 
 followed to remonstrate with her on the 
 imprudence of venturing into their tan- 
 gled paths at such an hour, when day was 
 not only rapidly closing in, but there was 
 every reason to believe a storm was com- 
 ing on ; but she was not to be dissuaded, 
 and accordingly soon found herself within 
 the deep gloom of her native shades, whose 
 murmurs, bringing back the memory of 
 the past, robbed her almost of the power 
 of proceeding. 
 
 She had not left the inn many minutes 
 ere the storm that was apprehended came 
 on with tremendous fury, exciting such 
 alarm for her safety, as, with scarce a mo- 
 ment's intermission, one percussive peal 
 followed another, as to induce the people 
 of it to brave its violence in quest of her ; 
 but in vain they sought her, not knowing 
 the direction in which she meant to go, 
 till at length they gave up the fruitless 
 search, but not without the most fearful 
 misgivings about her.
 
 90 
 
 In the meanwhile, the object of their 
 humane solicitude, with difficulty, pursued 
 her way, now awed by the flashing light- 
 ning and astounding peal, of which it was 
 the dread precursor — now opposed by the 
 wild waving of the trees, that, with all 
 their branches depressed, now seemed as 
 if shrinking from the tempest, now toss- 
 ing them again on high, as if braving it. 
 
 Fearful of intruding abruptly on her 
 father, she had decided, upon considera- 
 tion, on first announcing herself to Orton, 
 the steward, a person who stood high in 
 his confidence, and on whose ready inter- 
 ference for her she thought she might 
 safely depend. 
 
 Just as she reached the building, she 
 saw a man issuing from it, and inquir- 
 ing of him for the steward, was directed 
 to a door in one of the turrets leading 
 directly to his apartments. To this well- 
 known door she accordingly proceeded, 
 and pushing it open, tapped at an adjoin- 
 ing door, and was desired to come in. 
 She obeyed; and found Orton seated by
 
 a fire well calculated to render him re^ 
 gardless of the tempest that raged with- 
 out, and busied in looking over some pa- 
 pers that lay scattered on a table. 
 
 The immediate uplifting of her veil 
 rendered it unnecessary for her to an- 
 nounce herself: but his immediate recog- 
 nition of her was by no means attended 
 with pleasure to Orton ; on the contrary, 
 there was no one whom he would not 
 rather have seen there than her, for her 
 confidence in him was utterly misplaced. 
 Artful, selfish, and designing, he was in- 
 capable of being actuated by any thing 
 but his own interest ; and to this he con- 
 ceived the reconciliation of lord Ambres- 
 bury with his daughter would be very in- 
 jurious. What had been might be; and 
 from the moment of lady Ambresbury's 
 elopement, he had meditated throwing a 
 handsome niece of his own in his lordship's 
 way. As yet he had had no opportunity 
 for this, owing to the state of mind into 
 which her conduct had thrown him, and
 
 92 
 
 the reflections it had forced upon him ; but 
 he did not despair of yet obtaining it. 
 
 Indulging this hope, rioting in the idea 
 of yet bearing rule in the lordly mansion 
 of Rookby, he could ill bear the idea of 
 being disappointed in his anticipations. 
 But a short time before, and he would not 
 have feared this through the means of 
 Clara, but latterly he thought he had 
 perceived something like relenting in lord 
 Ambresbury's mind towards her. He 
 had begun to speak of her, to talk of a 
 journey to Richmond ; and, in short, Orton 
 determined, if in his power to prevent it, 
 they should not meet. 
 
 As soon as the shock her unexpected 
 appearance gave him was a little recovered 
 from, he proceeded to make inquiries, 
 which convincing him he had nothing to 
 fear from any artifice he practised, he had 
 no hesitation in telling her that he deemed 
 it fortunate she had not appeared abruptly 
 before her father, he was still so exaspe- 
 rated against her ; but that, if she permit-
 
 93 
 
 ted his interference, and in the interim, 
 till the result of it was known, allowed 
 him to secrete her in the house, she might 
 rely on his best exertions to serve her. 
 
 Clara, though with a heart sinking 
 within her at the cruel hint he threw out 
 concerning her father, acquiesced in the 
 propostion ; and Orton, all alarm, quickly 
 led her to the place he had in view for 
 her concealment. 
 
 Rookby Hall was a very ancient edi- 
 fice ; one of the secret outlets belonging 
 to it, such as in former times few build- 
 ings of the kind were without, was a rude 
 cave, which, in after days, was converted 
 into a hermitage by one of the owners of 
 the place ; but, though much altered 
 since then, it still wore the appearance of 
 one, and was kept in good preservation, 
 as a memento of former times ; the apart- 
 ments into which it was divided consisted 
 of a chapel, a cell for repose, and another 
 for refection, and were all so artfully con- 
 structed, that their communication with 
 each other was difficult to be ascertained.
 
 94 
 
 The stony ascent to it without, narrowed 
 by thickets of briars and blackthorn, had 
 more the appearance of being a channel 
 for a little rill that trickled along it than 
 any regularly-formed path ; a romantic 
 dell opened beyond, where a chiding 
 stream played in wild eddies amongst the 
 sinewy roots of the old trees, and the frag- 
 ments of rock with which it was strewed, 
 and where, as the ivy-clad cliffs, richly 
 coloured with a variety of other dark and 
 creeping substances, alternately receded 
 and advanced, all those contrasted beau- 
 ties of light and shade — those tender sha- 
 dows that give such pleasure to the eye 
 and exercise to the imagination, were pro- 
 duced. Hither having conducted Clara, 
 he left her to meditate what farther he 
 should do to prevent v\^hat he dreaded, 
 
 A night of horror v/as the conseqnence 
 of being left by herself At lengtii, 
 unable to endure a longer continuance of 
 the suspense she was writhing under, she 
 suddenly started up, with a determina- 
 tion of ascertaining her fate at once — that,
 
 95 
 
 if destined to disappointment, she might 
 at least expire by her husband ; for expir- 
 ing she felt herself But Orton had taken 
 care she should not quit it, and Vvith wild 
 shrieks she called upon him to liberate 
 her : yet was she not impatient in giving 
 way to these agonies ? she suddenly re- 
 flected. Orton had promised — solemnly 
 promised, to see her father that night, and 
 let her know the result immediately ; and 
 he would not — he could not, break his 
 promise ; he could not trifle — he could not 
 dally with the feelings of a person situ- 
 ated as she was. Yet still he came not, 
 and despair and distraction seized her 
 soul at the minutes that were thus wasted 
 from her dying husband, and she wished 
 (oh, how fervently !), as in frantic agony 
 she dashed herself upon the ground, that 
 she had not undertaken this unfortunate 
 journey. 
 
 From something like a stupor she was 
 suddenly raised, and looking up, she be- 
 held Orton bending over her. — " What !
 
 96 
 
 still awake ?" he cried, as, on seeing him, 
 she started up. 
 
 " Providentially, perhaps," said Clara, 
 her eye at the moment glancing on some- 
 thing like an unclasped knife in his hand, 
 and, as she spoke, attempting to pass him 
 to the door ; but eagerly pursuing her, he 
 brutally pushed her back, and again 
 locked it on her. 
 
 Lord Ambresbury had been abroad that 
 day : returning at night, his horses got so 
 frightened by the storm, that he deemed 
 it advisable to quit the carriage, and pur- 
 sue the remainder of the way on foot. 
 The nearest entrance to the house was by 
 the one leading to the apartments of Or- 
 ton; and admitting himself by it, he turn- 
 ed into the adjoining room, and found him 
 standing there, with clenched hands and 
 strong indications of agitation on his looks. 
 On the door opening, he was advancing, 
 with a savage aspect, to thrust out the 
 intruder, when he beheld his lordship. 
 
 After regarding him for a minute with
 
 97 
 
 surprise — " Why, what is the matter, 
 man ?" demanded his lordship ; " you look 
 absolutely terrified." 
 
 In extreme confusion, Orton said, or 
 rather stammered out something about 
 the storm ; and then, in order to try and 
 divert his lordship's attention from him, 
 proposed lighting him to his own apart- 
 ment. 
 
 " No ; I will first warm myself at your 
 fire," said lord Ambresbury, advancing to 
 it as he spoke. 
 
 Enraged at his not permitting what he 
 wished, Orton followed, and, under the 
 pretext of making it better, thrust the 
 poker into the grate with a violence that 
 forced the principal part of the contents 
 out upon the hearth. 
 
 " Very civil, upon my word !" said his 
 lordship, as he started back. " Well, 
 since you have acted in this manner, be 
 so good as to take the trouble of lighting 
 me hence." 
 
 With great celerity Orton proceeded to 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 
 
 obey him, and they were quitting the 
 room when lord Ambresbury, treading 
 upon something, stopt to see what it was, 
 and took up the miniature of an infant 
 boy, that, on examining, suddenly struck 
 him as bearing a resemblance to his much- 
 injured daughter, brought thus suddenly 
 to his mind. — " Whose," in extreme emo- 
 tion, he demanded, " is this, or how did 
 it come into your possession ?" 
 
 Orton started and stammered, and, with 
 an execration against himself, for his care- 
 lessness in dropping it — for Clara had got 
 it done at Richmond, for the express pur- 
 pose of bringing it with her, and in hopes 
 it might aid his eloquence, had given it 
 to him — proceeded then to say, it was the 
 picture of a little nephew, his mother, in 
 the vanity of her heart, had sent to him. 
 
 Lord Ambresbury could not discredit 
 this assertion, yet, notwithstanding, had 
 he yielded to his feelings, he would have 
 kept the picture, for its cherub smile had 
 touched his heart ; but he was not a man 
 to like to have it thought he was capable
 
 99 
 
 of any weakness. Yet he had not for- 
 given Clara, but he was beginning to feel 
 that desolation attendant on standing 
 alone in life, and, on that account, to wish 
 to recall her. 
 
 He retired to repose, but the emotion 
 excited by the incident of the picture was 
 inimical to it, as well as the continued 
 violence of the storm, and rising, he slipt 
 on his nightgown, and repaired to the 
 study. This ancient apartment had much 
 the appearance of a Gothic hall : its roof 
 was composed of lofty arches, resting on 
 oak pillars, richly carved. At its extre- 
 mity was a low gallery, surmounted by 
 an immense window of painted glass, in a 
 deep recess at one side of which was a 
 secret door, opening on a winding stair- 
 case leading to the hermitage. 
 
 On gaining this apartment, lord Am- 
 bresbury tried to compose his mind by 
 reading. While thus engaged, he heard 
 a noise in the gallery ; and turning his 
 head, to his extreme surprise, beheld the 
 F 2
 
 100 
 
 steward emerging from the secret cavity 
 in the recess of the window. 
 
 He was hastily stepping forward when 
 he caught a ghmpse of lord Ambresbury, 
 and immediately started back, as if in- 
 tending to retreat ; but the voice of his 
 lordship recalled him, and he slowly de- 
 scended from the gallery. — " Where have 
 you been ?" was the interrogation of lord 
 Ambresbury as he approached him. 
 
 Regarding him w^ith a truly ghost-hke 
 aspect — " I fancied — I imagined," he 
 stammered out, " that the door of the 
 hermitage might have been left open ; and 
 so to ascertain, I w^ent there." 
 
 " An odd fancy, I think," said lord 
 Ambresbury ; " and supposing it had, 
 there was no great chance of any one be- 
 ing in the way to-night to take advantage 
 of the circumstance, I think." 
 
 " Why, perhaps not, my lord ; but," as 
 if scarcely conscious of what he was say- 
 ing, " but the storm of this night is really 
 enough to wake the dead." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh !" cried his lordship, " this
 
 101 
 
 is not the first storm you have heard in 
 your life ; so retire to your pillow ; but," 
 stooping as he spoke, and taking up a 
 knife, which unconsciously Orton had let 
 fall from his shaking hand, " what have 
 you been doing with this?" 
 
 " With that !" and he became of a still 
 more ashy hue — " oh ! I thought if any of 
 the bolts were dislodged, they might want 
 forcing back, perhaps ; and so I took that 
 with me on that account." 
 
 Lord Ambresbury thouglit it was odd 
 his acting in this manner, and that he 
 seemed strangely perturbed ; however, he 
 knew of no grounds for suspicion, and re- 
 suming his book, the steward retired from 
 the apartment. 
 
 The stormy night was succeeded by a 
 lovely morning, and lord Ambresbury 
 was slowly riding through the park, when 
 he perceived a group of country people 
 earnestly conversing. Stopping to inquire 
 what was the matter, he heard of tlie 
 strange disappearance of the stranger from 
 the inn the preceding night, and that
 
 102 
 
 they had been collected for the purpose 
 of searching for her. He listened atten- 
 tively — ^involuntarily, as he did so, recalled 
 the extraordinary conduct of Orton to his 
 recollection, became disturbed, and hastily 
 turning back, summoned him to his pre- 
 sence the moment he alighted, and with- 
 out ceremony at once taxed him with 
 knowing something of the female whose 
 disappearance had excited so much alarm 
 in the neighbourhood. — " No evasion — no 
 subterfuge," he peremptorily exclaimed, 
 on seeing him tremble and change colour ; 
 " I have heard enough to make me decide 
 on ascertaining the truth." 
 
 " Well then, my lord," said Orton, 
 finding evasion useless, " since you must 
 have the truth, your daughter has been 
 here." 
 
 " My daughter ! and why," indignantly, 
 " is it that to chance I am indebted for a 
 knowledge of the circumstance ?" 
 
 Orton sneered malevolently. Humili- 
 ation would not avail, he saw, and there- 
 fore he determined to give utterance to
 
 103 
 
 the malice inspired by disappointment 
 — " The time is not very remote," he said, 
 " when it would have been unfortunate 
 for any one to have let you know it by 
 any other means." 
 
 " Villain !" half- articulated lord Am- 
 bresbury, " you are now beginning to dis- 
 close yourself" Then, seized with sud- 
 den alarm about his daughter, he demand- 
 ed where she was. 
 
 " Safe," Orton coolly repHed. 
 
 But we shall not dwell longer on the 
 scene between them. Suffice it, that, in 
 revealing where she was, Orton pretended 
 that his conducting her there was merely 
 for the purpose of keeping her visit a secret, 
 till he had considered of the best mode of 
 announcing it. Whether lord Ambres- 
 bury believed this was his motive for do- 
 ing so, or whether Orton really meditated 
 any serious deed of atrocity, it matters not 
 to say. 
 
 Clara was found in a state of insensi- 
 bility. Two days elapsed ere she was 
 brought to herself; but when she was, and
 
 104 
 
 found what a delay had occurred, and 
 thought of the effect which agitation and 
 suspense might have upon her husband, 
 her brain got dizzy again, and she nearly 
 relapsed into the state from which she 
 was just recovered ; nor could the assu- 
 rance of her restoration to her father's fa- 
 vour speak peace or ease to her distracted 
 soul. 
 
 At length, through the very energy of 
 despair, she raised herself, and accompa- 
 nied by her father, set off for Richmond. 
 On stopping at the house where she lodg- 
 ed, there was no one to receive them ; but 
 the hall door lay open, and springing 
 from the carriage, she flew up to the 
 chamber of her husband. She softly laid 
 her hand upon the lock, but it resisted 
 her effort ; the key was taken out, and 
 her misgiving soul dying within her, she 
 dropt lifeless on the spot. When she re- 
 covered, she found herself reclined on a 
 sofa in the sitting-room, with her father, 
 tVie w^oman of the house, and some other 
 person standing by her. The moment
 
 105 
 
 she raised her eyes to theirs, she read, in 
 their looks, a confirmation of what she 
 suspected ; and bursting from them, she 
 again flew to the chamber of her beloved. 
 She would not be torn from it — she would 
 not be hindered from seeing him again — 
 from again gazing on him — from again 
 clasping him in her fond embrace ; but, 
 oh ! the agony of gazing on those marble 
 features — of folding him to her heart, 
 without feeling one returning throb in his 
 — of calling upon him without being re- 
 plied to — of thinking that in this perhaps 
 long lingering life, she should never more 
 hold communion with him — he who was 
 all and every thing to her — friend, father, 
 husband, in one ; that another had receiv- 
 ed his last sigh — the last glance of his 
 closing eyes — the last faint pressure of his 
 feeble hand ! 
 
 She was taken back to Rookby, but 
 weeks elapsed ere she was conscious of any 
 thing but the irreparable loss she had sus- 
 tained ; but, though in time her grief 
 f3
 
 106 
 
 seemed to obtain some mitigation, yet, in 
 reality, she every day became more sen- 
 sible of this ; her father was incapable of 
 imparting any consolation for it; and even 
 her little Alan, for a time, but augmented 
 her affliction by the recollections he re- 
 vived. 
 
 Her brother, by this time, was reduced 
 to that state in which his father had re- 
 presented him to be, without the smallest 
 hope of his ever being restored to himself; 
 so that lord Ambresbury began to look 
 upon her son as his future heir. To this 
 consideration, more than to any other cir- 
 cumstance, was owing the affection he 
 shewed him ; for he was naturally of a 
 cold selfish disposition, and in his heart 
 never forgave the step his daughter had 
 taken, though one to which his own ty- 
 ranny had driven her. He loved Alan, 
 however, as ardently as he was capable of 
 loving any one ; and not to have loved 
 him indeed would have been next to im- 
 possible, so artless, so affectionate, were 
 his manners ; b ut notwithstanding his par-
 
 107 
 
 tiality for him, he would not have been 
 sorry to have had his daughter give him 
 an heir by a more illustrious father. On 
 the first intimation, however, of his wish 
 for her making a second choice, Clara put 
 a stop to all persecution on the subject, 
 by avowing, in the most sacred and so- 
 lemn manner, her fixed determination 
 against ever changing her state again. 
 Worlds indeed could not have induced 
 her to give up the dear delight of cherish- 
 ing the memory of her husband — of hold- 
 ing communion with his spirit, and mak- 
 ing his virtues her constant theme. 
 
 Next to loving his Heavenly Father, 
 the first lesson she taught her infant son 
 was to love and revere the memory of his 
 earthly one, whom, with inexpressible de- 
 light, she saw, in every respect, he pro- 
 mised to resemble. The same sweetness 
 of disposition, the same kindness and be- 
 nevolence of heart, he earlv manifested, 
 and, with equal pride and pleasure, she saw 
 him likely to grow up all she wushed. 
 As he advanced in years, he became ac-
 
 108 
 
 quainted with the family-history, and 
 frequent were the conversations that en- 
 sued between them concerning the bro- 
 ther of Constance, and fervent their 
 wishes, that they had the power of mak- 
 ing him amends for what he had been un- 
 justly deprived of, and the unkindness 
 they learned he had continued to experi- 
 ence from fortune ; but on Alan, in the 
 warmth of his benevolence, dropping a 
 hint of this before his grandfather, lord 
 Ambresbury, who detested the whole 
 race, unjustly imputing to them the con- 
 duct that had entailed eternal remorse 
 upon his heart, vehemently protested 
 that if, by any chance or accident, he ever 
 discovered that, either directly or indi- 
 rectly, he or his mother held any kind of 
 correspondence or communication with 
 either Glenmorlie^ or any one belonging 
 to him, from that moment he would cast 
 them off, and banish them his presence, 
 though the next he should be compelled 
 to take in a beggar's brat for his heir. 
 This threat, which they knew him too
 
 109 
 
 well not to know he was capable of carry- 
 ing into effect, if provoked to it, com- 
 pelled them to suppress their real feelings, 
 as they were both completely in his 
 power ; for though the title and estate of 
 Dunamore must be Mrs. Dundonald's, if 
 she survived her brother, yet, till after 
 his death, which might not happen till 
 long after hers, there was no indepen- 
 dence for her or Alan — so they were 
 obliged to be cautious how they acted. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The person for whom so strong an inter- 
 est had been excited in their minds mar- 
 ried the daughter of his patron, and, after 
 a long series of military services, with- 
 drew on lialf-pay, and with the rank of 
 colonel, from the army, and . with his 
 family, consisting of a wife and daughter,
 
 110 
 
 became settled at what he almost con- 
 sidered as his native place, Dunamore. 
 
 The aspect of the veteran shewed what 
 the youthful soldier had been ; but the 
 cheerfulness and urbanity that distin- 
 guished the early period of his life was 
 injured by a rankling sense of injury, and 
 the mortifying privations to which injus- 
 tice and ingratitude had doomed him. 
 His wife, like himself, had been illegally 
 deprived of her paternal inheritance : her 
 father was an Irishman, and advantage 
 was taken of his enforced absence from 
 his native country, to make a fraudulent 
 transfer of a handsome estate that was en- 
 tailed on him there. This, however, un- 
 like the inheritance of Glenmorlie himself, 
 was retrievable ; but, on their applying to 
 some friends, from whom they expected, 
 and had a right to expect assistance for 
 obtaining redress, they were refused ; and 
 thus, whilst legally entitled to two fine 
 properties, found themselves absolutely 
 without an income almost adequate to their 
 wants.
 
 Ill 
 
 Colonel Glenmorlie, of a lofty temper, 
 often evinced extreme impatience under 
 these circumstances ; but his wife bore 
 them with greater equanimity. Naturally 
 of a mild and enduring disposition, re- 
 ligion had rendered her still more so; but 
 not all her resignation to the will of Hea- 
 ven could prevent her sometimes experi- 
 encing acute pangs on account of others. 
 
 Their daughter Rosalind, bounding in- 
 to life with all the buoyancy of youthful 
 spirits, knew nothing — felt nothing of the 
 cares that at times disturbed and distract- 
 ed the minds of her parents. The world 
 was just opening to her view, and every 
 thing appeared delightful to her ; while 
 all that was requisite to have her elevated 
 to that rank she wished for in it was, she 
 felt convinced, from a sanguine imagina- 
 tion and a high confidence in herself, to be 
 seen. 
 
 For this rank none could be more as- 
 piringly ambitious ; a life of retirement 
 was her utter detestation. It might do 
 very well for the plain and the uninform-
 
 1121 
 
 ed, and the untalented ; but for a person 
 conscious of high pretensions, the idea of 
 it was intolerable. Yes, a person of the 
 forjner description might be very well 
 satisfied to pass their days like Mrs. Prim- 
 rose in making gooseberry-wine, turning 
 the green sward like her daughters, and 
 playing Pope Joan with their neighbours ; 
 but for a person of the latter, how insuf- 
 ferable to be doomed to such a life ! and 
 she was all impatience for an establish- 
 ment that should relieve her from an appre- 
 hension of the kind : but to obtain this, it 
 was necessary she should enter other cir- 
 cles than those she at present occasionally 
 mixed in ; for, as yet, she had been intro- 
 duced to none more brilliant than those 
 of the neighbouring town of Waterton, 
 and in which there was very little hope 
 of her ever meeting any one she would 
 condescend to look upon with an idea of 
 accepting. Still, however, it was gratify- 
 ing to her to frequent them, both from 
 the admiration she excited, and for the 
 sake of a little change of scene; but for
 
 113 
 
 this occasional gratification she was in- 
 debted, not to her parents, but the kind- 
 ness of their next neighbour, lady Dun- 
 druna. They neither Hked the society at 
 Waterton, nor could think of trying to 
 vie with it ; and without an attempt of 
 the kind, there w^as no chance of any pro- 
 per attention or respect there ; and though 
 the notice of people they certainly con- 
 sidered inferior to themselves, with regard 
 to family, could be of little consequence 
 in the estimation of colonel and Mrs. 
 Glenmorlie, they did not like the idea of 
 encountering their slights. 
 
 Lady Dundrum was the widow of a 
 citizen of this place, who, in going up 
 with an address to the lord-lieutenant, 
 had been knighted. She was a lady who 
 would have been perfectly satisfied never 
 to have seen any thing green but a card- 
 cloth ; but the good knight, not dying 
 quite as rich as was expected, she was 
 compelled to give up the dear delight of 
 living all the year round where she would 
 have had the constant enjoyment of cards
 
 114 
 
 and gossiping, for a small residence at 
 Dunamore, whence, however, she always 
 contrived to manage matters so as to be 
 able to repair, for the greater part of every 
 winter, to Waterton. Having taken a 
 fancy to Rosalind, and conceiving the 
 chaperoning of a girl of her well-known 
 connexions and air of fashion, and lofty 
 pretensions, would add to her importance, 
 she always took her with her. 
 
 Rosalind was quite as much admired 
 and followed as either of them expected, 
 and was the means of drawing not a few 
 of the fashionable beaux of the place to 
 Dunamore during the season, where there 
 was a hotel open and balls every fort- 
 night, at which lady Dundrum was still 
 her chaperon ; for her mother's depressed 
 spirits made her dislike scenes of the kind, 
 and wish to confine herself to the society 
 alone of the few families who resided at 
 the place, unlike lady Dundrum, who 
 made it a point of visiting every one who 
 came there, the moment she knew who 
 they were.
 
 115 
 
 But lady Dundrum was not the ac- 
 quaintance whom colonel and Mrs. Glen- 
 morlie most regarded, nor even Bosalind. 
 The superior claims of the Woodburne 
 family to esteem and affection were both 
 felt and acknowledged. Mrs. Wood- 
 burne was the confidential attendant al- 
 ready mentioned of the colonel's mother : 
 her parents were respectable tradespeople, 
 who, after giving her an excellent educa- 
 tion, fell, through unexpected mischances, 
 into deep distress, and shortly after died. 
 Immediately upon their decease, she de- 
 cided on going over to Mrs. Glenmorlie, 
 from whose knowledge of her and her 
 connexions she felt convinced a dependent 
 situation would be more tolerable with 
 her than with any other person : nor was 
 she mistaken ; Mrs. Glenmorlie considered 
 her coming to her almost as a blessing, 
 and uniformly treated her more as an elder 
 daughter than a servant. 
 
 Compelled by the cruel conduct of lord 
 Ambresbury to return to Ireland, she was 
 seeking for a situation there when her
 
 116 
 
 condition became suddenly reversed by 
 the unexpected return of Mr. Woodburne 
 from Newfoundland, to whom she had 
 early been engaged, and their marrying 
 immediately after. 
 
 He was some years older than herself* 
 had always loved and admired her, and 
 was on the very point of asking her hand, 
 when, like her parents, experiencing a 
 sudden reverse of circumstances, he was 
 compelled to give up this intention for the 
 present, and go out to Newfoundland, to 
 an uncle, who had long been inviting him 
 there. After a residence of some years 
 with him, he died ; and possessed by his 
 death of a handsome independence, he 
 immediately returned to Ireland, to com- 
 plete his engagement to his dear Esther. 
 He was a man of excellent endowments : 
 naturally of a studious turn, he had, in 
 consequence, highly improved and cul- 
 tivated his mind. Few indeed could boast 
 of a stronger or better-informed one, 
 knew the world better, or were keener in 
 their observations; but a temper some-
 
 117 
 
 what stern, and a sarcastic manner, ren- 
 dered him, in general, more feared than 
 liked ; yet he had a heart of real feeling; 
 but he had no patience with the follies 
 and vices of mankind. 
 
 From the advantages she derived from 
 her union with him, as well as from her 
 natural manner, no one would ever have 
 supposed that JMrs. Woodburne had ever 
 moved in a subordinate station ; but 
 that she had, or rather that she and her 
 husband had been connected with trades- 
 people, was a fact too well known at 
 Waterton to allow of their being admitted 
 into the first circles there, despite of all 
 their virtues, their excellencies, and even 
 handsome independence. This, however, 
 gave Mr. Woodburne very little concern. 
 He quite as much despised those who had 
 excluded him from them, for their frivo- 
 lity, their adulation of wealth, however 
 acquired or debased, and their aiming at 
 what they never could be, as they de- 
 spised him for his birth and original situ- 
 ation in lifie ; and quietly withdrawing
 
 118 
 
 from them, fixed himself at Dunamore, 
 where, in embellisliing the beautiful cot- 
 tage he built there, cultivating the inti- 
 macy of a few select friends, and pursu- 
 ino: his favourite studies, he never found 
 time to regret his not being entitled to 
 the privilege of the entree into the 
 fashionable circles of Waterton. 
 
 But his chief delight was derived from 
 cultivating the mind of his daughter. 
 He educated her on his own plan, and 
 had no reason to regret the circumstance. 
 She grew up all he wished, and he was 
 not very easily to be pleased. INIild 
 and well-informed, without any lack of 
 firmness, where firmness was requisite, 
 he allowed of no gaddings, no visitings 
 from home, no waste of time on accom- 
 plishments she had no taste for. It filled 
 him with disgust to hear parents boast 
 of having compelled their daughters to 
 sit six or seven hours of a day at a piano, 
 trying to acquire what they had no 
 genius for, and which, when no longer 
 required as an embellishment, they would
 
 119 
 
 discard. Anna had no taste for music, 
 and having ascertained this, her father 
 ceased to torment either her or himself 
 about it, making her devote the time she 
 would have thrown away upon it to 
 what she had in reality a turn for — draw- 
 ing and reading. 
 
 Rosalind was beautiful, even faultlessly 
 beautiful, but Anna had no pretensions 
 to be considered so. To describe her, and 
 you would not have supposed her to be 
 particularly attractive ; but to look at her, 
 you would feel her to be so. Yet she had 
 neither brilliancy of complexion, nor any 
 striking symmetry of features or person ; 
 but there was a sweetness — a softness, 
 amounting indeed at times to languor, 
 in her looks, and an unstudied elegance 
 in all her movements, that were very re- 
 sistless. For the languor just spoken of 
 there was a reason assigned : it was whis- 
 pered that she had met with a disappoint- 
 ment, nor was the whisper an incorrect 
 one. In a visit with her parents to an- 
 other part of the kingdom, she met colo-
 
 120 
 
 nel Montmorency : her appearance and 
 manner struck him ; he got introduced, 
 became a daily visitor at the house where 
 she was, and finally proposed for her, and 
 was accepted as a match far exceeding 
 any expectations her parents could ration- 
 ally have entertained for her, being both 
 of noble birth and fortune. 
 
 Matters were arranging for their mar- 
 riage, when at a party, one evening, the 
 colonel encountered an officer of distin- 
 guished rank, belonging to a regiment 
 just arrived at the place. Both seemed 
 agitated by the encounter, and the emo- 
 tion they betrayed, exciting the curiosity 
 of Mr. Woodburne, occasioned inquiries, 
 the result of which was his ascertaining, 
 that, a few years back colonel Montmo- 
 rency had been the unfortunate cause of 
 estranging a married relative of the other 
 from her family. The moment he learned 
 this, he decided, that, with his consent, 
 his daughter never should become his 
 wife; no rank, no fortune, no w^orldly 
 advantages, in his opinion, being an equi-
 
 121 
 
 valent for the want of religious and moral 
 principles — the risk a woman must run, 
 with regard to her own eternal and tem- 
 poral happiness, who marries a dissipated 
 man, or one who, if he does not rush into 
 temptation, is at least incapable of resist- 
 ing it when it offers. His decision was 
 made known, but he left his daughter to 
 her own ; he did not command, but he 
 represented and appealed, and finally suc- 
 ceeded by doing so : she had early bee^ 
 taught to let her reason, not her feelings, 
 govern her; and when she found herself 
 sinking under any arduous conflict, to look 
 up for strength and support whence alone 
 it could be truly imparted. The lesson 
 was not now forgotten, and the result was 
 a triumph of the proudest nature to the 
 heart of her father. 
 
 But the lover did not so readily yield 
 submission to his will ; he pleaded, he im- 
 plored, he urged a thousand extenuating 
 circumstances in excuse for his error, and, 
 in agony, besought Mr. Woodburne to 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 
 
 have mercy, nor deprive him of the only 
 woman he had ever really loved. But all 
 would not do : yet it required the greatest 
 effort of resolution on the part of Mr. 
 Woodburne to maintain his inflexibility, 
 moved as he was by the distress he saw 
 he had occasioned, and doing ample jus- 
 tice, as he did, to the generous feelings of 
 Montmorency's heart ; but believing him- 
 self right, nothing could shake his resolu- 
 tion. 
 
 For a time perhaps his daughter, de- 
 spite of herself, thought he had been a 
 little too rigid; but still struggling with 
 her feelings, she gradually became convin- 
 ced of the propriety of his determination, 
 and, for every pang it had cost her, became 
 at length fully compensated, by not mere- 
 ly the heightened affection, but even re- 
 verence, with which her father regarded 
 her for the victory she had obtained over 
 herself 
 
 Yet a feeling of regret would now and 
 then be experienced, stealing the faint co- 
 lour from her cheek, and giving a sickly
 
 1^3 
 
 languor to her air ; fancy would stray after 
 Montmorency, for he was all that was cap- 
 tivating and interesting to the heart of 
 woman — handsome, gallant, br^ve, accom- 
 plished, and incapable of a premeditatedly- 
 dishonourable action ; and she would in- 
 voluntarily sigh at what he had endured, 
 and still might be enduring, for her. 
 
 Few however gave her credit for what 
 had occurred; those who actually knew 
 of an engagement between her and Mont- 
 morency, choosing to believe that it w^as not 
 her fault, but his, that it had been broken 
 off; and of this opinion was lady Dun- 
 drum. — " It was quite ridiculous," she de- 
 clared, " to think any thing else — to ima- 
 gine that either father or daughter would 
 have been silly enough to lose such a 
 match, merely because the lover was not 
 quite a sir Charles Grandison ; the fact was, 
 he had never been serious, and the report 
 of his being so entirely originated in their 
 wishes." 
 
 Anna left every one to their conjectures 
 G 2
 
 124 
 
 ■ — neither feeling nor generosity would 
 permit her to disclose the truth ; not even 
 to Rosalind, whom she considered in the 
 light of a sister, did she reveal it ; her 
 wounded heart indeed rendering her in- 
 capable of touching on the subject, even 
 if her delicacy had been less. 
 
 Rosalind returned her affection very 
 sincerely ; but still, notwithstanding her 
 esteem and regard for her, there were mo- 
 ments when there was an awkwardness in 
 her feelings about her ; lady Dun drum 
 had imbued her with the prejudices of the 
 people of Waterton, and a dread of losing 
 her cast there, should she be known to be 
 the intimate of Anna, made her often shy 
 and strange towards her. Yet never was 
 she so, that she did not immediately after- 
 wards reproach herself for ingratitude and 
 littleness of mind, in slighting so superior 
 a creature, for the sake of those frivolous, 
 empty-hearted, empty-headed beings that 
 composed the parties there : still she could 
 not rise superior to their narrow preju- 
 dices ; and while all delight in the com-
 
 125 
 
 pany of Anna at Dunamore, was all dis- 
 may and apprehension on seeing her at 
 Waterton : and this she was always sure 
 of doing there, for poor Mrs. Woodburne, 
 who was one of the sincerest of human 
 beings herself, and, of course, took every 
 one according to their seeming, always 
 made it a point of putting off whatever 
 business she had there till lady Dundrum's 
 visit to it, it was so pleasant to have a 
 friend to go to there immediately ; and 
 then when there, she was often in the ha- 
 bit of proposing that Anna, whom she 
 wished to be introduced more generally 
 into society, should accompany them in 
 some of their visits, or to the play, or an 
 assembly ; and these propositions put lady 
 Dundrum to the necessity of a thousand 
 evasions and subterfuges, for she by no 
 means wished to give offence, where there 
 was such ample power of giving good en- 
 tertainments, and rendering a variety of 
 little kindnesses. 
 
 Whether Anna saw through these eva- 
 sions, or suspected their motive, she kept
 
 126 
 
 to herself. Not so her father, however ; he 
 saw through one, and surmised the other; 
 and though he would not degrade himself 
 by speaking to lady Dundrum on the sub- 
 ject, he could not forbear giving utterance 
 to the contempt with which she had, in con- 
 quence, inspired him, neither to the indig- 
 nation he felt towards Rosalind. But Mrs. 
 Woodburne would not be persuaded to 
 believe any thing to the prejudice of the 
 latter ; and her husband ceased to try and 
 induce her, from the pain he saw it occa- 
 sioned her. Her affection for both Rosa- 
 lind and her parents, indeed, was of a de- 
 scription that would not permit her to 
 hearken to any thing to their prejudice — 
 for the former, in particular, from her 
 strong likeness to the little daughter of the 
 lamented Constance, whom she had loved 
 with the most passionate fondness, and 
 meant, had it lived, to have reared as 
 her own child, till her uncle claimed her. 
 Glenmorlie and his wife, however, on every 
 occasion, manifested the high estimation 
 in which they held Woodburne and his
 
 127 
 
 family ; they were never so happy in any 
 society, and the most cordial intimacy sub- 
 sisted between them. 
 
 The fondness of Mrs. Woodburne for 
 Rosalind was often manifested in presents, 
 that had a startling effect on her father 
 from their magnitude ; they seemed above 
 her means of making; but whenever he 
 remonstrated with her on the subject, and 
 her arguments and assertions failed of sa- 
 tisfying him, those of her husband were 
 called to her aid ; and as the colonel knew 
 him to be a man of prudence, and not a 
 person by any means to be ever hurried 
 away by any flighty or romantic notions, 
 he always felt easy when he had vindi- 
 cated her from the imputation of indis- 
 cretion. Still he did not like to see that, 
 both in number and value, their gifts to 
 her exceeded those to their daughter. An- 
 na had no taste for music — she did not 
 therefore require a harp ; and one of the 
 most costly description had been present- 
 ed by them to Rosalind ; but she certain- 
 ly had a right to expect that the orna-
 
 1^ 
 
 ments they gave her should equal in num- 
 ber and magnificence those they bestowed 
 on her friend, which never was the case. 
 
 The season for Dunaniore was commen- 
 cing, and some early visitors to it arrived; 
 they were known to the Woodburnes, and 
 a party, soon after their arrival, was made 
 to view Dunamore Abbey. Rosalind, as 
 a thing of course, was included in it ; but 
 her parents declined it — her father could 
 not endure the galling sensations excited 
 by the view of a place of which he had been 
 so unjustly deprived, and her mother would 
 not leave him ; but Kosalind was delight- 
 ed at the idea of rambling over it, her 
 knowledge of it having as yet been con- 
 fined to the exterior. 
 
 The party set out at an early hour, tak- 
 ing a cold dinner with them. The morn- 
 ing was lovely, and every countenance 
 wore a smile of hilarity ; but there is some- 
 thing inspiring in a rural party, a bustle 
 and deviation from the usual routine of 
 regular life, that is an agreeable excite- 
 ment to the spirits.
 
 129 
 
 Dunamore Abbey, of date so ancient 
 as to be uncertain, stood in one of those 
 deep, dark, secluded glens, for which Ire- 
 land is so remarkable, where all is wild 
 and romantic, solemn and obscure, alter- 
 nately calculated to inspire awe, and fill 
 with melancholy. The trees which diver- 
 sified the prospect were chiefly seen climb 
 ing the steep mountains, to form long ca- 
 thedral walks on their summits, or start- 
 ing from the rocky banks, save where a 
 beautiful grove in the centre, surrounding 
 the building, gave it still an air of monas- 
 tic seclusion ; through this the grand arch 
 of entrance was seen, while the spiry pin- 
 nacles of the pile rose in majestic grandeur 
 above the trees, the straight boles of 
 which, together with the verdure of the 
 ground under their deep shadow (perceiv- 
 ed at a great depth in the grove, in conse- 
 quence of their distance from each other), 
 produced an uncommon and solemn scene; 
 the very sunbeams that chequered the 
 ground seemed slumbering on it, whilst 
 g3
 
 130 
 
 the deer that herded under the trees suf- 
 fered no disturbance from the sight of 
 strangers. 
 
 A beautiful stream held a murmuring 
 course through the glen till it approach- 
 ed the abbey, when it began to assume 
 a different character ; and after being lost 
 to the eye for some time behind some 
 shrudbby banks, forming, by their breaks 
 and foliage, a rich foreground, again burst 
 both upon the eye and ear, in a fall of 
 some magnitude over craggy rocks, over- 
 grown with fern and brushwood. Here, 
 looking back, the abbey was seen rearing 
 its stately pinnacles above a noble screen 
 of wood, while, at the opposite side of the 
 stream, a picturesque cottage met the view, 
 designed for the accommodation of chance 
 visitors to the place. From the briglit 
 green knoll on which it stood, zigzag 
 steps, cut in the rock, wound through the 
 flowering plantations, to an ancient shrine 
 at the edge of the stream, and almost 
 within reach of the spray of the fall ; hence 
 a number of romantic walks diverged in
 
 131 
 
 various directions, commanding fine views 
 of the sea and adjacent country. 
 
 The housekeeper was in waiting to shew 
 them the interior, which was what Ro- 
 salind wanted to see ; and she flew from 
 room to room, admiring every thing she 
 saw, and describing what alterations she 
 would have made if it were hers. At 
 length they entered an apartment of so 
 magnificent a description, that she linger- 
 ed here for some time after all the rest of 
 the party but the Woodburnes had left 
 it. — " Well," she suddenly exclaimed, 
 " this is certainly a very delightful place, 
 and I think I should have become it very 
 well. To console me for its deprivation, 
 its destined lord, in common honour and 
 justice, should positively, come over, fall 
 in love with me, marry me, and thus 
 make amends for the past." 
 
 " And he will," said an unknown voice, 
 close to her. 
 
 Rosalind started, and looked wildly a- 
 bout her — " W'fe was that?" she de- 
 manded. L'
 
 132 
 
 ** Who?" repeated Mr. Woodbume; 
 " who do you mean ?" 
 
 " Why, the person who spoke this in- 
 stant." 
 
 " The person !" again repeated Mr. Wood- 
 bume ; ^ why there is no one here but our- 
 selves.'' 
 
 *•' Yet, positively, 1 heard another voice ;" 
 and she again looked round her. 
 
 " Oh, you imagined so !" said Mr. Wood- 
 bume ; " but this is quite a place for ro- 
 mantic fancies." 
 
 " Why, you would not attempt to per- 
 suade me out of my senses, I hope, sir ?" 
 said Rosalind, a little petulantly. 
 
 " Me ! no — I should be sony to try and 
 pei'suade you out of any thing that is use- 
 ful ; but you see there is no one, as I have 
 already said, here but ourselves." 
 
 " True so, I perceive, in this apartment 
 — but here ;" and she pushed open a small 
 arched door at the side of the fireplace, 
 which she had not before noticed, and 
 passed into another apartment ; but there 
 was no one in it, and she really began to
 
 133 
 
 feel surprised ; yet that her ear had not 
 deceived her she felt convinced, for she 
 had actually felt the breath of the person 
 who spoke upon her cheek. 
 
 Mr. Woodburne laughed at her air of 
 consternation, and his wife joined in his 
 mirth ; and the former was rallying her 
 on the subject, when they were called to 
 join the rest of the party. 
 
 Dwelling, however, on the recent inci- 
 dent, while her companions were hurry- 
 ing from one state apartment to another, 
 Rosalind kept looking into every place 
 they passed, and making her way through 
 innumerable galleries and passages by her- 
 self In traversing one, she suddenly 
 thought she heard Mr. Woodburne con- 
 versing with some one; and instantly burst- 
 ing into the apartment whence she heard 
 his voice, found him in deep conversation 
 with a stranger of most prepossessing ap- 
 pearance — young, majestically tall, finely 
 formed, and with a countenance of the 
 most captivating expression. Eith^ the 
 suddenness with which she bolted in up-
 
 134 
 
 on them, or some other cause, made them 
 both start at her appearance ; but Mr. 
 Woodburne almost instantly recovering 
 himself — " Yes," he said, but as if he had 
 not noticed her, and was only finishing 
 what he had been saying, " you are quite 
 correct, perfectly so, in your observations, 
 sir ; there is a great deal to admire and 
 applaud, and " 
 
 But Rosalind felt convinced, from his 
 manner, that he was speaking at random, 
 for the purpose of misleading her as to 
 what he had actually been conversing a- 
 bout, and this persuasion made her look 
 inquiringly from one to the other ; while, 
 as unconsciously, she kept advancing into 
 the room, the stranger kept retreating, till 
 he had vanished from it. — " Who is that ?" 
 in an eager tone, Rosalind demanded, the 
 moment she found he was gone. 
 
 " Don't you perceive he is a stranger?" 
 said Mr. Woodburne, evasively. 
 
 " Yes, I perceive he is a stranger to me, 
 but is he so to you ?"
 
 135 
 
 " Did you ever see him with me be- 
 fore?" asked Mr. Woodbiirne. 
 
 " No, but still you may know him, and 
 do you know I think you do — now do tell 
 his name." 
 
 " I cannot,''' said Mr. Woodburne ; " but 
 come here — I want to shew you this pic- 
 ture," pointing to the full-length portrait 
 of a female, opposite to which he was stand- 
 ing — " Do you know we were saying — 
 that is, I mean — " and he spoke in confu- 
 sion — " I was thinking you had a resem- 
 blance to it." 
 
 " Oh ! I have seen it already," replied 
 Rosalind, carelessly, " for we were in this 
 apartment before;" but suddenly stopping 
 to contemplate again the portrait of a 
 young warrior that was hanging beside it 
 — " Do you know I think there is a great 
 likeness between this picture and the 
 stranger you have just been speaking with, 
 and, Hke this sir Armascis, as I understand 
 he was called, I think he would very well 
 become the plume and casque." 
 
 " Yes, I believe he might look well e-
 
 136 
 
 novigh as a knight in a lady's bower; but 
 where are your companions ?" 
 -^'** Oh, Lord ! I don't know — gazing and 
 gdping about them, and keeping close at 
 the heels of the housekeeper, I suppose, 
 lest they should lose any of her scientific 
 observations ; but, for my part, whenever 
 I come to see a place of the kind, I always 
 make my escape, to have the pleasure of 
 exploring it by myself, for to me there is 
 nothing more monstrously stupid than 
 being led mechanically through it." 
 
 " Stupid enough," said Mr. Woodburne ; 
 " but come, suppose we rejoin the party, 
 they may else get uneasy, lest we should 
 have got ourselves involved in some of 
 the inextricable passages of the place, or 
 stumbled into some secret chamber." 
 
 Rosalind laughed, and followed him ; 
 and as they proceeded again, kept looking 
 into every little cell or chamber they pass- 
 ed, but without seeing any one. At 
 length they reached the apartment where 
 their companions were. 
 
 The curiosity of Rosalind was power-
 
 137 
 
 fully excited, and she took an opportunity 
 of slyly asking the housekeeper what other 
 parties were viewing the place that day ? 
 
 " None," she replied. 
 
 " Oh ! I thought there had ; we met a 
 stranger in another of the apartments, and 
 that made me think so ; can you tell me 
 who he is ?" with affected carelessness she 
 asked. 
 
 " Tell who he is ?" repeated the house- 
 keeper, in a vague tone, and staring at 
 her^ — " I — I — '' But a violent fit of cough- 
 ing here interrupted her speech ; and ere 
 she had recovered from it, Mr. Wood- 
 bume, with Anna, had joined Rosalind, 
 to direct her attention to some of the or- 
 naments of the apartment, which they 
 shortly after left to range about the grounds. 
 
 Their dinner was laid out in the cottage 
 already mentioned, to which the rocks 
 at the fall formed a rude bridge; and al- 
 together they passed what they considered 
 a very delightful day.
 
 138 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Who is it that they have got sick and 
 concealed at Mr. Woodburne's ?" asked 
 lady Dundrum, a few days after, of Rosa- 
 lind, as they were sauntering down to the 
 strand together. 
 
 " Sick and concealed !" repeated Rosa- 
 lind, in a tone of astonishment : " what 
 has put that in your head, my dear ma- 
 dam?" 
 
 " Oh ! it certainly is the case," resumed 
 lady Dundrum. " A chaise-and-four stop- 
 ped there the other night at a very late 
 hour, and a gentleman was seen alighting 
 from it, who has never since been seen ; 
 but the very next day an express was sent 
 to Waterton for doctor Woolmers." 
 
 Rosalind mused. Doctor Woolmers 
 had certainly been down at the time men- 
 tioned, and she had wondered who it was
 
 139 
 
 he had come to see ; and she now recol- 
 lected she had recently seen scarce any 
 thing of the Woodburnes, and that their 
 excuses for not coming out, or asking her 
 to stop when she called, had appeared ra- 
 ther vague and confused ; yet still it ap- 
 peared so improbable that this should be 
 owing to the cause assigned by lady Dun- 
 drum, that she could not believe it. 
 
 She could not help dwelling, however, 
 on what she had heard, and involuntarily, 
 on parting from lady Dundrum, her feet 
 took the direction of Mr. Woodburne's ; 
 and entering the parlour abruptly, she 
 found Anna and her mother there. 
 They were both quietly seated at work, 
 and appeared very glad to see her; and 
 after looking about her for some time, and 
 listening without either seeing or hearing 
 any thing unusual, she became confirmed 
 in her belief of what she had heard from 
 lady Dundrum being quite an idle tale, 
 and began to wonder at herself, for hav- 
 ing allowed it to make any impression on 
 her.
 
 140 
 
 The conversation involuntarily reverted 
 to the day they had passed at the abbey. 
 A great many anecdotes connected with 
 it followed. Rosalind spoke of the family- 
 history, and commented with bitterness 
 on the wrongs her father had sustained. — 
 " And to think," she said, " that the fa- 
 tnily in England should not have the feel- 
 ing or generosity to try and make some 
 arinends for these. There is Mrs. Dundo- 
 nald and her son: if they were what some 
 people have pretended to represent them, 
 they never could have acted in such a man- 
 tlet; he at least, his own master, in the 
 army, could well have contrived, if so in- 
 clined, to have shewed us some attention ; 
 but they are an abominable set altogether, 
 and I am sure I do not wonder at my fa- 
 ther hating and execrating their names ; 
 for my part, all I hope is, that I may ne- 
 ver see any of them, for my prejudice is 
 so great against them, that I am sure I 
 never could look upon them with an eye 
 of goodwill." 
 
 A deep sigh was heard; she started. —
 
 141 
 
 " Who is that ?" she demanded ; and with- 
 out waiting for a reply, she started from 
 her chair, and attempted to enter the ad- 
 joining room, which was Mr. Woodburne's 
 study ; but as she pushed against the door, 
 which was a little ajar, it was gently 
 closed against her. 
 
 She turned inquiringly to her compa- 
 nions. — " The wind has shut the door," 
 said Mrs. Woodburne, but without exact- 
 ly looking at her, while Anna kept her 
 eyes firmly fixed upon a little drawing she 
 was finishing. 
 
 Wondering, and musing, and reverting 
 to what lady Dundrum had told her, Ro- 
 salind reseated herself; but in the course 
 of a few minutes again starting up, she 
 ran into the garden, saying she wanted to 
 look at Anna's geraniums. She kept close 
 to the study-windows, but the blinds of 
 all were down, except one — that was a 
 little raised ; but on her approaching it, 
 •with an intention of looking into the 
 apartment, it was gently dropped, and a
 
 U2 
 
 doubt could no longer be entertained of 
 there being some one within. 
 
 That it could be of no consequence to 
 her to know w^ho it was, she felt persuad- 
 ed. This persuasion, however, could not 
 prevent her earnestly wishing to ascertain, 
 so powerful is the spirit of curiosity in 
 almost every breast ; and accordingly, on 
 Anna's joining her, which she almost im- 
 mediately did, she was tempted to ask 
 her; but when she reflected how very un- 
 likely it was that Anna would betray any 
 thing her parents wished to keep secret, 
 and the impropriety, not to say imperti- 
 nence, of any one's attempting to pry into 
 what others chose to keep secret, she 
 checked herself, though not without diffi- 
 culty, and finally decided on saying no- 
 thing on the subject. 
 
 A day or two after this, Mr. Wood- 
 burne left home for some time, but with- 
 out its being mentioned whither he was 
 gone ; and during his absence tidings were 
 received of the death of the long-suffering
 
 143 
 
 lord Dunamore and his father, with an in- 
 timation of his sister being in so languish- 
 ing a state, that it was not expected she 
 would long survive her accession to the 
 titles and estates of her family. 
 
 About this time the scene promised to 
 be changed with Rosahnd. The earl and 
 countess of Monteagle, coming over in 
 their beautiful yacht, to pay a visit to 
 their seat in the southern part of the king- 
 dom, got embayed, through a sudden 
 change of weather, in the dangerous bay 
 of Dunamore, and were with difficulty ex- 
 tricated from the vessel, ere it got dashed 
 upon the rocks. Colonel Glenmorlie was 
 active in his exertions on the occasion ; and 
 his house being nearest the spot where 
 they landed, the fainting countess was 
 conveyed to it. 
 
 On recovering a little from her terror, 
 they would have removed to the hotel ; 
 but aware that she would not be so well 
 attended to there as with them, the colo- 
 nel and Mrs. Glenmorlie invited them to 
 remain with them with so much cordial-
 
 144 
 
 ity, that the invitation was gratefully ac- 
 cepted ; and in the week that ensued, so 
 great a degree of intimacy took place be- 
 tween the earl and the colonel, that in 
 their rides and rambles about the place, 
 much of the family-history of the latter 
 was imparted to his lordship. 
 
 Lord Monteagle was, in a great degree, 
 a being of impulse — lively in his feelings, 
 and prompt in his services. The commu- 
 nications of Glenmorlie deeply interested 
 him ; and yielding to the feelings they 
 inspired, he swore he should be righted. — 
 " The scoundrel !" he exclaimed, alluding 
 to the person who kept fraudulent posses- 
 sion of the property of Mrs. Glenmorlie ; 
 " how 1 enjoy the idea of his being at 
 length ousted! would that we had met 
 before! but, thank God! it is not yet too 
 late for the purpose of enabling you to ob- 
 tain justice;" and he pressed his services 
 upon the colonel with so much warmth, 
 so much feeling, that the other could not 
 bring himself to refuse them. 
 
 The amiable countess, participating in
 
 145 
 
 the feelings of her lord, tnily rejoiced at 
 his conduct on this occasion ; and highly 
 interested by the family, and charmed 
 with Rosalind, determined on not letting 
 her wait for the perhaps-slow decision of 
 the law, to be introduced into the circles 
 she would adorn, and accordingly gave 
 her an invitation to accompany her at once 
 to Monteagle Castle. 
 
 We need scarcely say it was joyfully 
 accepted ; Rosalind was almost wild with 
 delight at it, and various were the feelings 
 which its announcement excited in other 
 bosoms; all however were unanimous 
 in thinking that she would never return 
 home unmarried. 
 
 But with all her affection for her— ^all 
 the delight she took in any thing that 
 promised to be of advantage to her, Mrs. 
 Woodburne was all dismay and apprehen- 
 sion when she heard of it. — " And oh 
 that they had never come — had never been 
 driven here !" was her exclamation, in a 
 tone of even agony, on hearing of it. " To 
 
 VOLr I* H
 
 146 
 
 think that after all was so well planned, 
 so well arranged, there should be a chance 
 of disappointment, for I know you will 
 be getting lovers," she cried, addressing 
 herself to Rosalind, " and getting mar- 
 ried ; and then there is an end of all our 
 delightful hopes and expectations." 
 
 " What hopes or expectations?" de- 
 manded Rosalind. " You did not hope or 
 expect," laughing, " to get me married to 
 your little dumpy favourite, Mr. Griffin." 
 
 " No matter, or at least it seems no 
 matter to me now, what favourite I ex- 
 pected to get you married to," cried Mrs. 
 Woodburne, dejectedly; " but perhaps, 
 after all, you wont go ; and do, my dar- 
 ling," throwing her arms round her neck, 
 and fondly kissing her — " do, my darling, 
 give up this invitation ; and take my word 
 for it, you wont regret it." 
 
 " But I shall not be very long away," 
 said Rosalind. 
 
 " Oh ! long enough — long enough, I 
 fear, to occasion greater disappointment 
 than you are aware of, except you would
 
 147 
 
 promise not to accept — not to think of any 
 one till you come back." 
 
 " Well, I will promise — positively pro- 
 mise," said Rosalind, laughing, " not to 
 accept or think of any one I don't like." 
 
 " Well, well, it can't be helped," said 
 Mrs. Woodburne, sorrowfully shaking her 
 head ; " all I can say is what I said be- 
 fore, that I wish the earl and countess had 
 not been driven hither." 
 
 " Now that is the first ill-natured thing 
 I ever heard you say, my own dear second 
 mamma!" said Rosalind; "knowing, as 
 you do, how often I have been wishing 
 to see something besides the stupid hum- 
 drums of Waterton." 
 
 She could not help being diverted by 
 Mrs. Woodburne's apprehensions about 
 her leaving Dunamore. The only way in 
 which she could account for her anxiety 
 to keep her there was by a wish she had 
 long imagined she and ]Mr. Woodburne 
 entertained to have her married to a rela- 
 tion of their own, whom they were often in 
 H 2
 
 148 
 
 the habit of talking to her about, and from 
 whom they were, about this time, expecting 
 a visit ; whether she went or staid, how- 
 ever, could be of little consequence with 
 regard to him, as a man who had made 
 his money in trade, as he had done, it was 
 out of the question she could ever think 
 of accepting; and to avoid an introduction 
 to him was an additional motive for the 
 pleasure she derived from the countess's 
 invitation. 
 
 At length the party left Dunamore, and 
 in due time arrived at the magnificent 
 Castle of Monteagle, where they were re- 
 ceived by the countess's mother, Mrs. Tre- 
 lawney, who had preceded them from 
 England, a very stiff, stately, imperious 
 lady, quite as fond of cards as lady Dun- 
 drum, and, if possible, still more so of in- 
 terfering about others. Though all joy 
 and flutter at the idea of accompanying 
 the countess, yet when Rosalind actually 
 found herself on the point of quitting 
 home, her spirits sunk ; scarcely, however, 
 had she entered Monteagle Castle, ere de-
 
 149 
 
 jection gave way to the intoxicating effect 
 produced upon her senses by the splendour 
 and magnificence that here met her view ; 
 she began to feel as if till now she had never 
 been in her proper element — to look back 
 with distaste and aversion on all she had 
 been accustomed to, and feel that if com- 
 pelled to pass her life amidst such scenes, 
 she must be miserable. 
 
 The countess, by her fond caresses and 
 extravagant admiration, innocently con- 
 tributed to heighten her vanity and ambi- 
 tion« Not satisfied with leaving it to 
 chance to have her noticed and admired, 
 she was continually extolling her to her 
 guests, and pointing her out as something 
 superlatively lovely, and lovely she cer- 
 tainly was — 
 
 " Her form was fresher than the morning n^se 
 When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure 
 As is the lily, or the mountain snow ; 
 
 While- 
 
 -a native grace 
 
 Sat fair-pro portion'd on her polish'd limbs." 
 
 But while the countess, by her partiality, 
 occasioned her to be flattered by some, she
 
 150 
 
 drew upon her not a little ill-will and en- 
 vy from others. Mrs. Trelawney was a- 
 mongst those ; she had a kind of antipa- 
 thy to beauty and excellence in any one 
 she was not immediately connected with, 
 and soon, accordingly, began to look with 
 a scowling brow upon Rosalind, and ex- 
 press her disapprobation at her having 
 been brought to the castle. — " Very im- 
 prudent, I must tell you, I think it was, 
 lady Monteagle," she said, " very impru- 
 dent, indeed, to bring that girl here ! It is 
 very ridiculous for people to trifle with 
 their domestic tranquillity, by putting 
 temptation in the way of any one. Men 
 are frail creatures, and there is no know- 
 ing what may happen from the circum- 
 stance." 
 
 " Nay, my dear mother," said the coun- 
 tess, laughing, " you shall not make me 
 jealous of Monteagle." 
 
 " Jealous ! really, lady Monteagle, you 
 speak strangely — God forbid I had an idea 
 of the kind ! I should be the basest of 
 women if I could insinuate any thing to
 
 151 
 
 his prejudice" (and here she spoke but the 
 truth) ; " but your son, lady Monteagle — 
 your son — what will you say, should he 
 take a fancy to your protegee V 
 
 " Oh dear ! I have no fear of that ; he 
 must admire her, as every one must that 
 has an eye for beauty ; but he knows our 
 expectations too well for him to think of 
 disappointing them." 
 
 " Yes, and so did your lord the expec- 
 tations of his father, and yet he disap- 
 pointed them," Mrs. Trelawney was on 
 the point of adding, but timely checked 
 herself This indeed had been the case — 
 the earl's marriage with her daughter had 
 been quite against the consent of his fa- 
 mily, particular circumstances rendering 
 it a very undesirable connexion in their 
 eyes, though they did ample justice to 
 her merits. 
 
 Highly disagreeable when she chose to 
 be so, Rosalind was more than once so of- 
 fended by the rude repulsive manners of 
 Mrs. Trelawney as to be on the point of 
 taking her departure, but still checked
 
 152 
 
 herself from yielding to the impulse of in- 
 dignation, by reflecting on what she should 
 lose by the circumstance. In the first 
 place, the earl and countess, whose imme- 
 diate guest she was, were all that was kind 
 and attentive ; and in the next, their son, 
 lord Orielton, was shortly expected to join 
 them at the castle from abroad; and vague 
 ideas had begun to occupy her mind con- 
 cerning him, such as induced her to wish 
 to prolong her stay at the castle, and finally 
 to decide on not minding Mrs. Trelawney, 
 or letting her drive her from it. 
 
 But Mrs. Trelawney was not the only 
 person whom her being an inmate in it 
 provoked and displeased — a neighbouring 
 family, of the name of Liscarrol, nearly 
 related to lord Monteagle, were equally 
 exasperated at the circumstance. Mrs. liis- 
 carrol had long made up her mind, that 
 nothing was wanting but an introduction 
 to lady Monteagle, to have her take her 
 daughters under her immediate protec- 
 tion, and introduce them into the brilliant 
 circles of London ; and she still persevered
 
 153 
 
 in thinking this would have been the case, 
 but for Rosalind, and accordingly could 
 not bring herself to look with calmness 
 on her, from the idea of her usurping the 
 place they should have occupied. Her 
 daughters participating in her angry and 
 jealous feelings, Rosalind had therefore 
 but very little pleasure in their society ; 
 they conducted themselves so artfully, 
 however, that while in reality they were 
 all spite and malice towards her, the coun- 
 tess had not the slightest suspicion of their 
 real sentiments, more especially as Rosa- 
 lind herself disdained speaking of the va- 
 rious slights she met with from them. 
 
 She had been some weeks at the castle, 
 during which she received an account of 
 the death of lady Dunamore ; when ac- 
 companying the family from it to a din- 
 ner-party one day at Mr. Liscarrol's, she 
 heard the Miss Liscarrols speaking in rap- 
 tures of a major Ancram, to whom they 
 had been introduced the preceding day, at 
 a house where they were visiting.—" With- 
 H 3
 
 154 
 
 out exception, I think him the handsom- 
 est creature I ever beheld," said Miss Lis- 
 carrol. 
 
 ^ And so elegant !" exclaimed Miss Pe- 
 nelope, her sister. 
 
 " And so accomplished !'* cried Miss 
 Annise, her other sister. 
 
 " And was so anxious for an introduc- 
 tion to us," said Miss Liscarrol. 
 
 " I quite long to have a glimpse of 
 him," cried one of the confidential friends 
 to whom these observations were made, to 
 the utter neglect of Rosalind, who was 
 allowed to occupy a solitary seat in one of 
 the windows. 
 
 *' And so do I" — " And so do I," cried 
 another, and another. 
 
 " And well, I rather believe you will 
 have an opportunity of gratifying your 
 curiosity to-day," said Miss Liscarrol ; *^ for 
 his friend, Mr. Glenmire, promised mam- 
 ma positively, that if they could possibly 
 excuse themselves from a party to which 
 they w^ere engaged, he and major Ancram 
 would be here to dinner."
 
 155 
 
 " Major Ancram !" repeated lord Mont- 
 eagle, overhearing them ; " that is the 
 name of a brave young fellow, who has 
 very much distinguished himself in some 
 of the recent campaigns on the Conti- 
 nent." 
 
 " Yes, the same we are speaking of," 
 said Miss Liscarrol ; " and I assure you," 
 in an affected tone, " he looks the hero he 
 is," and she was about launching again in- 
 to extravagant ^icomiums when he and 
 his friend were announced. 
 
 But little interested by what she had 
 been listening to, Rosalind scarcely gave 
 herself the trouble of turning her head ; 
 but when she did, what was her surprise, 
 perhaps her emotion, at recognising in 
 the handsome soldier the elegant stranger 
 whom she had encountered in the abbey, 
 and whose idea had often since recurred 
 to her imagination ! She felt herself co- 
 lour, and could not avoid looking earnestly 
 at him, to see whether he would recollect 
 her : she was not long in suspense about 
 this — having paid his compliments to the
 
 156 
 
 ladies of the house, he disengaged him- 
 self from Mr. Liscarrol, who began speak- 
 ing to him, and approaching her — " I 
 know not," he said, " whether Miss Glen- 
 morlie will allow me the honour of claim- 
 ing acquaintance with her, unintroduced 
 as I was when I had the pleasure of meet- 
 ing her ; but still I cannot refrain from ad- 
 dressing her, as if she would." 
 
 Rosalind bowed and smiled, and, to the 
 utter dismay of the Liscarrols, as well as 
 mortification of their set, he took a seat 
 beside her. 
 
 His voice was in unison with his ap- 
 pearance, and that Rosalind thought even 
 still more interesting than she had done 
 at first ; but that might have been owing 
 to his dress : he was in the deepest mourn- 
 ing, and an air of pensiveness, amounting 
 almost to sadness, hung upon his brow, 
 that seemed to intimate it was not the 
 mockery of wo he bore about him. The 
 day on which they had met was reverted 
 to ; but nothing escaped him like any ac- 
 knowledgment of being acquainted with
 
 157 
 
 Mr. Woodburne; and at length Rosa- 
 lind made up her mind to his being a to- 
 tal stranger to the place, contrary to what, 
 though she knew not why, she had often 
 previously imagined. 
 
 She never had felt more pleased — more 
 flattered, than by the pleasure he evinced 
 at seeing her, indicating, as it did, that 
 she had not been unnoticed by him on 
 their first meeting. It afforded her too a 
 kind of triumph she could not help enjoy- 
 ing, over those who had taken such pains 
 to slight and mortify her ; and altogether 
 elated by the circumstance, she had never 
 felt more inclined to render herself agree- 
 able. He sat by her at dinner ; and as 
 exclusively as politeness to others would 
 allow, his attentions were devoted to 
 her. 
 
 The Miss Liscarrols could scarcely re- 
 frain from downright rudeness, on return- 
 ing to the drawing-room ; but Rosalind, 
 now aware in what this originated, no 
 longer regarded it: she soon saw they 
 would have recourse to every manoeuvre
 
 158 
 
 to try and prevent his singling her out 
 again. 
 
 With the rest of the young people 
 they adjourned to the music-room, in or- 
 der, she was convinced, to intercept him 
 on his coming up from dinner, in his way 
 to the inner drawing-room ; but the stra- 
 tagem failed : on perceiving she was not 
 in the music-room, he quickly disengaged 
 himself from the party there, and joining 
 her in the next, again entered into conver- 
 sation with her ; but this was not long al- 
 lowed to continue uninterrupted; MissLis- 
 carrol watched his movements, and as she 
 seated herself at the piano, suddenly asked 
 him whether he was not fond of music. 
 
 Politeness would not permit him to de- 
 cline this indirect invitation to attend to 
 her, but he hesitated to obey it till he saw 
 whether Rosalind would accompany him. 
 
 When Miss Liscarrol saw them enter- 
 ing the room together, she flounced round 
 on her chair ; and venting her vexation 
 on the unfortunate piano, by giving it 
 what might be termed a thump, dashed
 
 159 
 
 at once into a bravura, which, from the 
 discordant nature of her feelings at the 
 moment, had any thing but harmony to 
 recommend it. 
 
 Her sisters and several others of the 
 party succeeded her at the instrument, 
 but Rosalind was not once asked to take 
 a seat at it. 
 
 Major Ancram looked his surprise at 
 the circumstance, and when at length he 
 found them entirely quitting it, for the 
 purpose of commencing dancing, could 
 not refrain himself from asking her. 
 
 " Oh, some other time !" she replied, 
 carelessly ; " but now to oblige you — now 
 would only be to delay an amusement 
 that is more agreeable." 
 
 " Impossible !" he returned, warmly ; 
 " nothing could be so delightful as to hear 
 you sing and play." 
 
 " Indeed !" cried Rosahnd ; " and pray 
 how do you know that ? Is it by divina- 
 tion you know I play so divinely as you 
 would have me to infer you are think- 
 ing?"
 
 160 
 
 " No, not exactly by that," he replied, 
 laughing and colouring ; "but still I do 
 know you both play and sing divinely." 
 
 " Well, I should like to know how you 
 have attained this knowledge ?" cried Ro- 
 salind. 
 
 " Why, suppose, from the expression 
 
 J) 
 
 " Oh, come, I hate studied compli- 
 ments !" said Rosalind, laughingly inter- 
 rupting him. 
 
 " But the compliments you receive can 
 never be studied ; they must be involun- 
 tary." 
 
 " Ah, that will do very well ! but," 
 glancing at the piano, " that is not my 
 instrument." 
 
 Major Ancram took the hint, and led 
 her to a harp in another part of the room ; 
 but aware of the advantage to which she 
 appeared at this elegant instrument, she 
 was in no hurry to commence playing. 
 
 Provoked at what had taken place, 
 Miss Liscarrol, after fidgetting about for 
 some time, at length losing all patience,
 
 161 
 
 'demanded whether she meant to play or 
 not ? adding, she never knew a perform- 
 ance that was worth twice asking for. 
 
 " Oh, when you hear mine, you will 
 be of a different opinion !" said Rosalind, 
 maliciously laughing. 
 
 Miss Liscarrol turned up her lip.— 
 " Some people are fortunate in a good 
 opinion of themselves," she said. 
 
 " Which is happy for them," retorted 
 Rosalind, " as it renders them blind to 
 that which others entertain of them." 
 
 " But," said major Ancram, checking 
 the involuntary smile which this retort 
 had excited, '' it is natural for Miss Lis- 
 carrol to be impatient for what she is 
 aware will afford her so much pleasure.^' 
 
 " True," cried Rosalind, " and as I like 
 to gratify my friends," and she laid an 
 emphasis on the word, " I shall not any 
 longer delay the pleasure she is so impa- 
 tient for." 
 
 Deteraiined not to enter into any com- 
 petition with Miss Liscarrol, she sung a 
 simple Scotch ballad. Various were the
 
 162 
 
 efforts that were made to interrupt or mar 
 her performance, but they all proved un- 
 successful, and major Ancram was en- 
 chanted. More, however, by looks than 
 words, he testified the delight he expe- 
 rienced ; yet, as she was quitting the in- 
 strument — " Were T to say what I think," 
 he cried, " you would deem me extrava- 
 gant." 
 
 " Then don't say it," replied Rosalind ; 
 " leave it to me to imagine." 
 
 " But do you think you could imagine 
 it?" 
 
 '' Yes, all." 
 
 " All !" he repeated, emphatically. 
 
 " Yes, all that commonplace gallantry 
 could dictate — that I have sang like a Ce- 
 cilia, and " 
 
 " Let me conclude the sentence for 
 you ?" he cried, warmly. 
 
 " Oh, no ! it is not worth finishing," 
 she exclaimed, and bounded away to join 
 the dancers with a gentleman who had 
 been for some minutes soliciting her hand, 
 and might perhaps have felt a little piqued
 
 163 
 
 and surprised at its not being asked by 
 major Ancram, but that she saw he de- 
 clined dancing, evidently from a feeling 
 of the inconsistency of it with his present 
 mourning habit ; and indeed nothing had 
 ever seemed to her more revolting to the 
 feelings than to see a person in the weeds 
 of wo partaking of such an amusement, 
 and admired him still more for the deli- 
 cacy and feeling it was manifest he pos- 
 sessed from this ; she felt delighted, when, 
 on the breaking up of the party, he was 
 invited, with his friend, to join it, the next 
 day, at Monteagle Castle, to dinner. 
 
 His attentions were the same on the 
 next as on this. Several parties ensued, 
 and at each successive one he was, if pos- 
 sible, still more particular than at the 
 last; so that she gradually became con- 
 firmed in her belief of his being a decided 
 admirer. It was a belief that conveyed 
 transport to her heart, for never had she 
 seen — never had she conversed with a being 
 who so truly answered every idea she had 
 formed of perfection.
 
 164 
 
 Lord Orielton ceasM to be thought of; 
 and how did she rejoice at not having 
 yielded to the entreaties of poor dear Mrs. 
 Woodburne to remain quietly at Duna- 
 more, and there patiently await the arri- 
 val of her poor droning relation with his 
 snug little fortune, as she pictured him to 
 be ! If she had done so, what should she 
 not have lost by the circumstance! 
 
 Several days elapsed in this manner, 
 when a party was made to view the mag- 
 nificent remains of an ancient church on 
 an island in a lake in the neighbourhood. 
 The earl and countess happened to be en- 
 gaged on the day fixed for it, but it was 
 decided that Rosalind should be of it, to 
 her extreme delight ; there were always 
 such opportunities for particular attentions 
 in such parties, and for detached conver- 
 sations ; and, in short, she quite antici- 
 pated with impatience the day for it : but 
 it was a day destined to be one of vexa- 
 tion to her. The morning or two pre- 
 ceding it, she received a letter from An- 
 na, informing her that the friend they
 
 16^ 
 
 had often been speaking of to her, and 
 had anticipated with such pleasure intro- 
 ducing her to, had at length visited Du- 
 namore, but only on his way to her 
 neighbourhood ; so that, in a day or two, 
 she might expect to see him with a letter 
 of introduction from her mother. 
 
 Nothing could possibly have discon- 
 certed Rosalind more than this intima- 
 tion. She had contrived to learn that 
 their relation, who, of course, was the 
 person she had no doubt that was now 
 meant, though a very good kind of man, 
 was the very reverse of what she could 
 like to have known as an acquaintance of 
 hers ; and the idea of introducing him — a 
 being so old-fashioned, quizzical, and 
 queer in his manners and appearance, 
 as he was represented to be, to the 
 sneering Liscarrols and the elegant An- 
 cram, was absolutely insupportable to her 
 imagination. Yet what was to be done ? 
 Indebted, as she was, to the Woodburnes, 
 for so many kindnesses, how could she 
 possibly think of slighting any friend or
 
 166 
 
 connexion of theirs ? JMerely to receive 
 the letter he brought, but take no notice 
 of him, would be to a certainty to offend 
 them, and cause herself to be stigmatized 
 for ingratitude. 
 
 At length, after much deliberation, she 
 thought, as she conceived, on an expe- 
 dient that would obviate all danger of 
 this, and extricate her completely out of 
 the dilemma in which she found herself 
 It was, when he called, to have him in- 
 formed that she had left the castle for an 
 uncertain time with some visitors who 
 had recently been there, and to confine 
 herself within doors for some days till she 
 should suppose he had quitted the neigh- 
 bourhood ; for, as she could not avoid 
 thinking she was his sole inducement to 
 it, she concluded, on being told what she 
 intended, his stay would not be of very 
 long continuance ; yet, with inexpressible 
 regret and reluctance, in pursuance of this 
 plan, she thought of giving up the de- 
 lightful party made for visiting the lake : 
 but it could not be helped, and it w^as
 
 167 
 
 better to endure the vexation which do- 
 ing so occasioned her, than the mortifica- 
 tion of being compelled to drag such a 
 being into company along with her. Lest 
 of any mischance, she was obliged to get 
 the family at the castle to sanction the 
 assertion of her being absent; so that it 
 was absolutely imagined in the neighbour- 
 hood she had actually left the castle for a 
 little time. She explained to the countess 
 her motive for wishing to have this 
 thought, and she could not help laughing 
 on hearing it ; but INIrs. Trelawney sneer- 
 ed, and said she gave herself great airs in- 
 deed. 
 
 The day after Anna's letter, the expect- 
 ed one from her mother was received : it 
 was brought by a servant, with a message 
 to know when it would be agreeable to 
 Miss Glenmorlie to see him. The answer 
 she had settled was given, and she heard 
 no more of the gentleman. 
 
 On the day of the party to the lake, the 
 family at the castle, as already mentioned, 
 were engaged from home, and obHged to
 
 168 
 
 decline going with them ; she passed it in 
 a restless, discontented manner. Unable 
 longer to endure remaining within, she 
 strolled into the park after tea ; and after 
 rambling about some time, found herself 
 near a rustic building, fitted up for the ac- 
 commodation of occasional visitors. She 
 was carelessly turning from it when she 
 heard her name pronounced, and the next 
 instant saw several of the party on which 
 her thoughts were employed, coming 
 down the steps to meet her, and amongst 
 them major Ancram. 
 
 " And pray, fair lady," was the almost- 
 general exclamation of those she was most 
 intimate with, as she returned with them 
 to the building, where, having landed 
 near the spot, tea was prepared for them, 
 " how is it that we see you here, when 
 we thought you had quitted the castle?" 
 
 " Oh, you must not ask !" said Rosa- 
 lind, laughing, diverted by the surprise 
 beholding her so unexpectedly had occa- 
 sioned, and elated by seeing Ancram her- 
 self in the same way.
 
 169 
 
 " Why, is it a secret ?" 
 
 «« Yes — that is, I meant it should be 
 so ; but I believe I must explain, in order 
 to prevent the danger of what I wish be- 
 ing counteracted. The fact is, I only 
 pretended I had left the castle, in order 
 to avoid an introduction to a person I 
 greatly disliked the idea of" 
 
 " Lord, I wonder you would take the 
 trouble ! what so easy as to have let them 
 know you did not like it ?" 
 
 " Ah ! but then I should have offended 
 the kindest friends in the Vvorld. It is 
 on their account entirely, not on account 
 of the gentleman's feelings, I assure you, 
 that 1 wished to avoid letting it be known 
 that I had a particular dislike to his ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 " Well, and what kind of being is he, 
 that you should have this dislike ?" 
 
 " Oh, hideous ! if he accords with the 
 idea I have formed of him in my imagi- 
 nation ! yet, notwithstanding, I feel that 
 on account of those who wished to have 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 
 
 introduced him to me, I should not have 
 played this trick with respect to him ; 
 but " 
 
 She paused, in utter surprise at the dark 
 contracting of Ancram's brow at the mo- 
 ment. She knew not how it could be 
 that what she had been saying could of- 
 fend him ; and yet it struck her, that to 
 this was owing the sudden alteration in 
 his countenance. In confusion and per- 
 plexity at the thought, she forgot what 
 she had been about adding, and moving 
 mechanically to a chair, remained for a 
 minute or two without again speaking. 
 Then again looking up, and trying to 
 rally herself — " Why, you seem," she 
 cried, addressing him, as he sat a little be- 
 hind her, " as if you had left your spirits 
 behind you in one of the old cells you 
 have been viewing." 
 
 " Really," he replied, but in a tone 
 very different from his usual one ; " yes, 
 really ; but places of the kind have some- 
 times an effect upon the imagination ; yes, 
 but, as it happened, I did not take any
 
 171 
 
 great spirits with me to leave behind ;'* 
 and he again sunk into a fit of musing. 
 
 Rosalind felt still more surprised, and 
 regarding him earnestly, became still more 
 confirmed, from the expression of his 
 countenance, when he caught her observ- 
 ing him, in her previous idea of having, 
 in some way or other, offended him. 
 
 The surmise was so painful, that she 
 at length tried to struggle against it, and 
 persuade hei-self that she must be mis- 
 taken, and that it was nothing but some 
 sudden depression that affected him ; and 
 reviving at the thought, she exerted all 
 her powers of playfulness to rouse and re- 
 animate him ; but all would not do ; he 
 continued silent, abstracted, and com- 
 pletely unlike what he was wont to be. 
 
 At length Rosalind, a little piqued, and 
 suddenly recollecting that the family by 
 this time might be returned to the castle, 
 and that her being missed might create un- 
 easiness, starting up, said she must be gone ; 
 but her retiring was opposed — there were 
 some musical instruments in the builds 
 I 2
 
 172 
 
 ing, and the party, intending to have 
 some playing and singing, could not think 
 of parting with her, but proposed that a 
 servant should be sent to quiet any alarm 
 that her being absent from the castle 
 might have occasioned. 
 
 Ancram listened quietly to the arrange- 
 ment; then slowly rising — " Permit me 
 to be the messenger ?" he said. 
 
 " Oh, no ! why should you take that 
 trouble ?" cried Rosalind, with quickness, 
 who, though piqued, was still unwilling 
 he should not be present when she com- 
 menced singing. 
 
 " I wish it," he replied, in a cold con- 
 strained tone, and departed. 
 
 Rosalind felt miserable — something she 
 saw was wrong, but what she knew not ; 
 and her ignorance on the subject served 
 to render her still more unhappy. She 
 tried to play — to sing; but she failed in 
 each effort, and pleading a sudden head- 
 ache, withdrew from the instrument, and 
 threw herself on a sofa away from the 
 party ; but her eyes were fixed on the
 
 17B 
 
 door, for notwithstanding the manner in 
 which Ancram had departed, she looked 
 to see him return ; but minute after mi- 
 nute passed away without again bringing 
 him, and unable longer to constrain her 
 feelings, she suddenly left her seat, and 
 took the opportunity of the attention of 
 the party being diverted from her at the 
 moment to slip away un perceived ; not 
 without a hope of encountering Ancram 
 by the way, or finding him with the fa- 
 mily at the castle, and of something, in 
 either case occurring, to remove the un- 
 easiness under which she laboured. But 
 in both these expectations she was disap- 
 pointed, and a restless night, in conse- 
 quence, made her rise early in the morn- 
 ing, to try whether the air would remove 
 the headache that ensued. Involuntarily 
 her steps took the direction of the rustic 
 building, and on reaching it, though she 
 knew not why, she listlessly sauntered into 
 it ; but how was she almost electrified into 
 animation again by finding Ancram there ! 
 — " You here !" she exclaimed, in a tone
 
 174 
 
 indicative of the surprise she experienced 
 at seeing him ; " you here !" and suddenly 
 becoming conscious of the emotion she 
 had betrayed, she blushed, and tried to 
 appear composed, by saying something, 
 in a rallying accent, of his being an admi- 
 rer of the beauties of morning to rise so 
 early. 
 
 " Certainly, I am indeed !" was the re- 
 ply ; " it was not, however, to admire 
 them I rose so early this morning, but to 
 prepare for my journey." 
 
 " Journey !" repeated Rosalind ; " what 
 journey ? you are not going, sure !" 
 
 " Yes, I am indeed ! the chaise that is 
 to convey me hence is at this moment ac- 
 tually waiting for me ; and I only de- 
 layed setting off to search for a letter 
 w^hich I missed this morning, and fancied 
 I might have dropped here." 
 
 Only delayed his departure to search 
 for a letter — not to take leave of her ! and 
 had all his attentions come to this ? and 
 had he actually meant nothing by them — 
 nothing but to amuse himself at the ex^
 
 175 
 
 pence of her tranquillitiy ! yet this was 
 inconsistent with his general character, 
 his manner, his sentiments ; and again 
 she gave way to the idea of having, in 
 some way or other, injured herself in his 
 estimation, and the w^orld, if she could, 
 she would have given to know how ; but 
 this was impossible, at least through her 
 own means, and, in inconceivable distress, 
 she turned aside to a window to conceal 
 the pain she was enduring. As she leaned 
 against it, the identical letter major An- 
 cram was in search of caught her eye, im- 
 mediately beneath it, on the outside ; and 
 stooping down, she picked it up. As she 
 was presenting it to him, involuntarily 
 glancing at the superscription — " If I did 
 not know," she cried, " that you are un- 
 acquainted with him, I should think this 
 letter was directed by a friend of mine, 
 the gentleman with whom I saw you con- 
 versing at Dunamore Abbey." 
 
 " Perhaps you would not err if you 
 did," said he, coolly, as he took the letter 
 from her.
 
 176 
 
 Rosalind started. — " What ! do you 
 know Mr. Woodburne, after all, then ?" 
 slie exclahned. 
 
 Ancram bowed. 
 
 " And yet conceal it from me !" she re- 
 sentfully cried — " conceal it for the pur- 
 pose of hearing me betray — expose myself 
 to you," and she burst into an agony of 
 tears. The truth at once striking her, 
 that, acquainted with the obligations she 
 owed the Woodburnes, the disgust ex- 
 cited by the ingratitude her recent con- 
 duct evinced towards them, had decided 
 him on thinking no more of her. Yes, it 
 was evident this was the case ; to this was 
 owing the sudden alteration in his man- 
 ner — the sudden contraction of that brow, 
 so open, so benevolent, so indicative, in 
 his own heart, of all that was noble and 
 generous. Fool ! — idiot ! to speak so in- 
 cautiously as she did — to aver herself cap- 
 able of such ingratitude — such artifice ; 
 but she was punished — properly punished 
 for it ; she had lost by it the esteem of 
 the only man for whom her heart had
 
 177 
 
 ever yet entertained a preferable regard ; 
 and nothing — no, nothing, she believed, in 
 the first agony imparted by the belief, 
 could compensate her for this. 
 
 " I should be concerned," cried major 
 Ancram, " if Miss Glenmorlie accused 
 me of having any unworthy motive for 
 what she has now discovered, or thought 
 me capable of turning to her prejudice 
 any thing I may have heard in conse- 
 quence." 
 
 " Oh no ! I accuse you of nothing of 
 the kind," she replied, " or believe you 
 capable of any thing ungenerous ; but still 
 I cannot but resent — cannot but feel hurt, 
 that you should have left it to chance for 
 me to discover what I have now done." 
 
 " But perhaps it was not my original 
 intention," returned Ancram, half-smiling, 
 " to leave it to chance, and perhaps I 
 only refrained explaining it myself, from a 
 hope that the kind friends to whom I left 
 mentioning it, might, at the same time, 
 prove I was not altogether unworthy of 
 those sentiments with which I wished to 
 i3
 
 178 
 
 inspire Miss Glenmorlie. Had she con- 
 descended to see me, as I solicited, after 
 receiving Mrs. Woodburne's intended let- 
 ter of introduction, all this would per- 
 haps have been satisfactorily proved to 
 her." 
 
 Rosalind started from the sofa on which 
 she had flung herself — " Mrs. Wood- 
 burne's letter of introduction !" she repeat- 
 ed ; " what ! was it from you it came ? and 
 were you the person — you the friend, she 
 meant, and not that odious relation of 
 hers I have alv/ays been in such dread of 
 knowing ?" 
 
 Ancram bowed. 
 
 " And, good God ! why did I not 
 know all this before ?" cried Rosalind^ 
 passionately ; " and what could be the 
 reason for all this mystery and conceal- 
 noent ? but it matters not !" she cried, 
 turning resentfully away ; " I have been 
 excessively ill-used throughout the affair, 
 and I resent it accordingly." 
 
 " No [" cried Ancram, warmly, " no ! 
 and I am convinced Miss Glenmorlie wiU
 
 179 
 
 think so herself, when she comes coolly to 
 reflect on the matter. There was no un- 
 worthy motive for the concealment, and 
 that alone could give her a right to say 
 she was ill used by it." 
 
 " And what was the motive then for 
 it?" demanded Rosalind, turning round 
 with quickness on him. 
 
 Ancram coloured, hesitated, attempt- 
 ed to explain, and then suddenly became 
 silent. 
 
 Rosalind looked earnestly at him, and 
 was prevented by his confusion from press- 
 ing the question. The truth indeed be- 
 came too evident to her to require it to 
 be repeated. It seemed evident to her 
 that he had taken a fancy to her, the day 
 on which he had met her at the abbey; 
 and through a romantic whim, wishing 
 to get acquainted with her sentiments ere 
 he disclosed his own, had got the Wood- 
 burnes to aid him in his plan for the pur- 
 pose, and a delightful one it would have 
 proved but for herself Yes, she alone 
 was to blame, she again became convinced.
 
 180 
 
 Yes, it was she herself alone who had de- 
 stroyed the favourable opinion which 
 others had inspired him with of her — that 
 favourable opinion without which she felt 
 persuaded he never would have thought 
 seriously of her; but was it irretrievable? 
 was it so utterly destroyed, that he would 
 persevere in his resolution of going ? and 
 she involuntarily turned her eyes inquir- 
 ingly on him. 
 
 He seemed to understand their lan- 
 guage, for approaching her — " Miss Glen- 
 morlie will not, I hope, let me depart," he 
 cried, " without relieving my mind from 
 the pain of thinking that any unworthy 
 suspicion of me lurks in hers." 
 
 " You are then really departing," cried 
 Rosalind, only attending to this illusion. 
 
 " Really." 
 
 Rosalind's lip quivered, and for a mo- 
 ment she was obliged to turn aside her 
 head. Then, endeavouring to appear un- 
 concerned, and anxious to know whether 
 he v/as returning to Dunamore. — " A fine 
 tale you will tell of me," she said, " I sup-
 
 181 
 
 pose, when you rejoin our friends at Dun- 
 amore." 
 
 " Miss Glenmorlie need not fear," he ra- 
 ther reproachfully replied, " any tale to 
 her prejudice from me. If she is as high- 
 ly thought of as I wish her to be, none 
 need desire to be more highly estimated. 
 But I delay her," he added, purposely, as 
 it seemed to her, avoiding touching upon 
 what she was so desirous of ascertaining ; 
 " and my friend Glenmire, who accom- 
 panies me hence, is, I dare say, by this 
 time, quite at a loss to know what has be- 
 come of me ; and so farewell ! God bless 
 you !" and, spite of her efforts to prevent 
 him, through pique and resentment at 
 his persevering in going, he would take 
 her hand. 
 
 Rosalind for a moment struggled to dis- 
 engage it ; then utterly overcome, she co- 
 vered her eyes with her other hand, and 
 gushed into tears ; she felt Ancram press 
 the hand he had taken to his lips — to his 
 heart, whilst broken and murmured sen- 
 tences escaped him : he relinquished it.
 
 182 
 
 Rosalind gasped, and pressing it against 
 her breast, as if to subdue the emotions 
 that struggled there, uncovered her eyes ; 
 but he was gone — gone without saying 
 whether they should ever meet again ; and 
 in agony at the thought, she rushed after 
 him to the door, but he was completely 
 out of sight ; and retreating into the build- 
 ing, she again threw herself almost dis- 
 tractedly on the sofa, and again burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Yet since he could so coolly, so easily, 
 so decidedly, part from her, was he worth 
 the pang she felt on his account — the re- 
 gard, the affection, of a heart so ardent, 
 so sensitive, as hers ? No ; and she strove 
 to revive — to reinspirit herself, at the 
 thought ; but had she not provoked what 
 she so resented? Yes, too certainly; and 
 — " Fool, fool !" she passionately exclaim- 
 ed at the idea, " to let him depart with- 
 out making an effort to vindicate myself 
 in his eyes — to prove that I was not the 
 light, the frivolous being I gave him so 
 much reason to imagine."
 
 183 
 
 Yet how could pride — how could deli- 
 cacy, have permitted such an effort ? would 
 not the motive for it have been evident, 
 and would this have been consistent with 
 the respect she owed to herself? No; and 
 since matters therefore must remain as 
 they were, she would not permit him to 
 occupy another thought ; but, despite of 
 this resolve, several days elapsed without 
 her being able for a moment to detach 
 them from him; and during which she 
 more than once was on the point of ad- 
 dressing Anna concerning him ; but the 
 detail into which she must enter, the ex- 
 planations she must give, to render her- 
 self perfectly understood, or rather obtain 
 for herself the information she wished for, 
 still checked her; for how could she bear 
 to acknowledge to the Woodburnes the 
 want of sincerity she had manifested in 
 her professions of regard for them ? and, 
 finally, she decided on silence relative to 
 all that had lately passed. 
 
 But though she should be destined ne- 
 ver to see major An cram again, she felt
 
 184 
 
 she should never be able to forbear wish- 
 ing to know to what cause or reason was 
 owing the Woodburnes not having been 
 explicit about him, since, as was now 
 proved to be the case, he was the person 
 whom, in hinting of, or alluding to a 
 friend whom they particularly wished to 
 introduce to her, was meant. There was 
 a mystery in the circumstance that puz- 
 zled and perplexed her; and finding the 
 more she dwelt on it, the more it did so, 
 she at length tried to detach her thoughts 
 from it 
 
 But the sneers of the Miss Liscarrols 
 more effectually enabled her to do this 
 than any argument she used with herself 
 for the purpose ; she had given them every 
 reason to imagine she considered Ancram 
 as a conquest, and their triumph at the 
 mistake into which her insolent vanity had 
 led her w^as not to be concealed. 
 
 Rosalind was not of a temper to let 
 such an one be quietly enjoyed over her; 
 reanimated by it, she quickly recovered 
 her wonted vivacity and playfulness of
 
 185 
 
 manner, and became as captivating as 
 ever. 
 
 Lord Orielton again began to be thought 
 of; his arrival was now daily expected; 
 and how gratifying would it be, she felt, 
 to have Ancram informed, through the 
 medium of the Woodburnes, of her hav- 
 ing achieved such a conquest ! Might not 
 the intimation be a means of recalling 
 him, and the idea decided her on it, if 
 possible. 
 
 Wishing to finish a work that had great- 
 ly interested her, she declined going out 
 one morning with the countess and her 
 mother, and was sitting reading in the 
 boudoir of the former, when some one en- 
 tered abruptly from the shrubbery into 
 which it opened. Rosalind turned to see 
 who it v/as, and beheld a very elegant 
 young man, whom she at once decided to 
 be lord Orielton, from his strong likeness 
 to the countess ; nor was she mistaken — 
 it was indeed lord Orielton she saw, who, 
 tired of being pent up for many hours in 
 a carriage, alighted at the first gate he
 
 186 
 
 came to, instead of driving round to the 
 grand entrance, and was passing the apart- 
 ment just mentioned, when a glimpse of 
 Rosalind within it, making him think it 
 was his mother he saw, he rushed in, as 
 already stated. 
 
 The moment he discovered his mistake, 
 he proceeded to apologize for the manner 
 in which he had entered, but with looks 
 that seemed inquiring who the fair stran- 
 ger was he was addressing ; and the flut- 
 ter of Rosalind at the unexpected incident 
 was heightened by the intenseness of his 
 gaze. So conscious was she of the emo- 
 tion it occasioned her, that on his ringing 
 to know the direction in which the earl 
 and countess were gone, she took the op- 
 portunity of slipping off to her chamber, 
 nor met him again till dinner-time, by 
 which time his curiosity respecting her 
 was fully satisfied ; but she soon became 
 convinced that curiosity was not the only 
 feeling with which she had inspired him, 
 and the conviction had the effect of ren- 
 dering her still more attractive. The re-
 
 187 
 
 suit of this soori became obvious, render- 
 ing the countess fully sensible of the im- 
 prudence she had been guilty of, in throw- 
 ing such a creature in his way. 
 
 Lovely as was Rosalind, and well-connec- 
 ted, yet neither she nor the earl could think 
 of sanctioning their son's attachment for 
 her, from the still more ambitious views 
 they entertained for him. Heir to an an- 
 cient title and immense possessions, they 
 could not think of allowing him to form 
 an alliance less illustrious than he was en- 
 titled to from these circumstances, and 
 accordingly decided, the moment they be- 
 came sensible of their hopes respecting 
 this being likely to be endangered, on 
 sending Rosalind away. A hint to a friend 
 at a distance occasioned an invitation to 
 lord Orielton, which he knew not how to 
 refuse, though most reluctant to accept, 
 from his unwillingness to quit his fair en- 
 slaver; and the moment almost he was 
 gone, the countess signified to Rosalind, 
 that the family being under a necessity of 
 returning to P^ngland much sooner tlian
 
 188 
 
 they had at first intended, she could not 
 ask her to protract her visit. 
 
 Raised as she had her expectations of 
 taking her over with her, the dismay and 
 astonishment of Rosalind at this intima- 
 tion were unutterable. The disappoint- 
 ment it inflicted fell like something chill- 
 ing on her heart, and tears — tears of bitter 
 mortification, burst from her, despite of 
 the efforts of pride to restrain them — tears 
 that so distressed and embarrassed the 
 countess, from the consciousness of what 
 they were owing to, as to make her has- 
 tily retire from the apartment. 
 
 To endeavour to make amends for the 
 disappointment she had inflicted, she load- 
 ed her with costly presents, and with fond 
 caresses mingled the kindest assurances 
 of regard ; but nothing could appease the 
 resentment of Rosalind ; with difficulty 
 she forbore repulsing those caresses, and 
 spurning these presents ; nothing prevent- 
 ed her but the reflection of the injury 
 she might do herself with lord Orielton, 
 by offending his mother.
 
 189 
 
 Angry as she was, however, with the 
 countess, she still felt persuaded she had 
 an affection for her — a persuasion that led 
 her to believe, if left to her own feelings, 
 she would not have acted in this manner. 
 To the influence of Mrs. Trelawney she 
 imputed her doing so, and the idea did 
 not tend to lessen her previous dislike to 
 that lady. 
 
 The countess intended sending her wo- 
 man with her, but relinquished the inten- 
 tion, in consequence of her being offered 
 a seat in the carriage of a family that were 
 going to Waterton, to embark thence for 
 England, and who kindly offered to send 
 her the remainder of her journey. 
 
 On a lovely evening in June she found 
 herself again at home, where all around 
 was now smiling in summer beauty. The 
 bright blush of the evening sky was re- 
 flected in the sparkling waves — the fields 
 were again bespread with flowers, and gay 
 groups of visitants to the place were scat- 
 tered about in various directions ; but no- 
 thing could cheer or console Rosahnd for
 
 190 
 
 the disappointment she had sustained; 
 the nearer she drew to the end of her 
 journey, the heavier became her heart. 
 After the expectations she had indulged 
 in — the predictions that were uttered, 
 how mortifying to return as she had gone ! 
 how malicious would be the sneers ! how 
 great the triumph of those who had en- 
 vied her the invitation of the countess, at 
 the circumstance! to return too without 
 any positive certainty of ever being in- 
 troduced into fashionable life again ! for if 
 her father failed in his lawsuit, there was 
 now but little hope of this ; and her an- 
 guish at the thought was augmented by 
 the heightened disgust and abhorrence 
 with which she now thought of a frugal 
 and retired life. 
 
 Every thing now seemed mean and in- 
 significant, compared with what she had 
 left behind her ; and in an agony of bitter 
 tears, at the thought that still what she so 
 much despised she might be doomed to 
 endure for ever, she fell into her mother's 
 arms. At first JNIrs. Glenmorlie imputed
 
 191 
 
 these tears to joy at finding herself again 
 at home, but she soon discovered her mis- 
 take ; the seeming unconsciousness with 
 which RosaHnd received her caresses, the 
 petulance with which she interrupted her 
 details of the little incidents that had oc- 
 curred during her absence, and the dis- 
 satisfaction and disgust with which she 
 looked around her — all soon tended to con- 
 vince her of her error, and the conviction 
 gave a pang of the severest nature to her 
 maternal heart. 
 
 But the disappointment experienced by 
 Rosalind was not entirely confined to her 
 own bosom ; colonel and Mrs. Glenmorlie 
 also felt disappointed and surprised, after 
 the professions the countess had made, at 
 her being sent back in the hasty manner 
 she was : too liberal, too rational, however, 
 to resent vv^ithout a conviction of having 
 cause, they proceeded to inquiries, and, by 
 dint of interrogation, at length began to 
 ascertain the truth. 
 
 Colonel Glenmorlie could not help feel- 
 ing hurt, greatly hurt, at the idea of his
 
 192 
 
 alliance being disdained; still, however, 
 when he reflected on the great expecta- 
 tions the earl and countess had a right to 
 entertain for their son, he could not won- 
 der at their not voluntarily relinquishing 
 them ; and what he could not wonder at, 
 he could not be offended at. 
 
 His wife thought as he did; but not soRo- 
 salind herself At the idea of being deemed 
 unworthy of the addresses of lord Orielton, 
 her haughty soul took fire, and whatever 
 partiality she had conceived for the family 
 became almost converted into hatred. 
 Alike she inveighed against them all, pro- 
 testing they were all alike base, fickle, and 
 insincere; and that whilst she lived, she 
 should regret her introduction to them ; 
 and in asserting this, she asserted but what 
 she thought at the moment, imputing, as 
 she did, to that circumstance, her loss of 
 Ancram — yes, it was on his account Mrs. 
 Woodburne had warned her against ac- 
 cepting their invitation — had conjured her 
 to remain at home ; but she would not at- 
 tend to her — she laughed at — she derided
 
 193 
 
 the effort that was made to detain her ; 
 and how, in her very innermost soul, did 
 she now regret having done so ! 
 
 Her first inquiry on reaching home was 
 after the Woodburnes, and her feehngs of 
 discontent were not lessened on learning, 
 a day or two previous to her arrival, they 
 had left home on a visit to a friend, with 
 whom they were in the habit of often pass- 
 ing a month or two during summer. Had 
 they remained, her curiosity, at least, if 
 not anxiety, about Ancram, might have 
 been satisfied. It would have been scarce- 
 ly possible, she thought, for them to have 
 avoided saying something about him, and 
 the mystery concerning him might gra- 
 dually have been revealed. Yet of what 
 consequence to her now to have it ex- 
 plained, or listen to any particulars about 
 him, convinced, as she was, of his having 
 ceased to think of her, from never having 
 heard any thing concerning him since his 
 leaving the neighbourhood of Monteagle 
 Castle? Had he continued to do so, he cer- 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 
 
 tainly would have contrived to have given 
 her some intimation of this through the 
 Woodburnes. 
 
 A little soothing and indulgence was all 
 that was requisite, Mrs. Glenmorlie fondly 
 flattered herself, to bring her back to her 
 former temper and habits ; but day after 
 day elapsed without effecting this, and at 
 length she decided on remonstrating with 
 her on the subject, conceiving she should 
 ill fulfil the duty of a parent, if she allow- 
 ed her to waste her time in murmurs and 
 repinings. 
 
 At the very first allusion to this, Rosa- 
 lind wrung her hands in wrathful agony. 
 " What !" she exclaimed, bursting into 
 tears of passion, " is it not enough that 
 1 am compelled to live in this odious place, 
 and associate with those I despise, but 
 that I must also be obliged to submit to 
 the drudgery of matters I detest ?" 
 
 Mrs. Glenmorlie clasped her hands, and 
 looked up to heaven — " Good God !" she 
 exclaimed, turning of a deadly paleness, 
 " have I then lost my child ? Oh ! how
 
 195 
 
 true is the observation, that we little know 
 what will be productive of happiness to us ! 
 How delighted was I at your invitation 
 to Monteagle Castle, and yet how bitterly 
 do I now regret the circumstance! Yet, 
 was your affection for your father and m^ 
 what I fondly assured myself it was, not 
 so immediately could your feelings be al- 
 tered, or your regard alienated from the 
 home they occupy. Unhappy girl ! how 
 many wretched beings would prostrate 
 themselves in gratitude to Heaven for such 
 a home as that you now detest and scorn ! 
 May you never know what it is to feel the 
 want of such an one ! But, alas ! Heaven 
 often punishes our discontent, by rendering 
 us blind to the blessings in our possession 
 till deprived of them. With what min- 
 gled horror and amazement may you yet 
 recall this moment, and revert to the ex- 
 pressions that have at once shocked and 
 amazed me !" 
 
 The natural affections, the warm feel- 
 ings of Rosalind, unsubdued, unmoved 
 K 2
 
 196 
 
 she could not behold the tears she had oc- 
 casioned her mother — unrepentant witness 
 the agony into which she had thrown her. 
 Shocked, confounded, she stood for a mo- 
 ment as if transfixed ; then flinging herself 
 at the feet of her mother, with bursting 
 tears she implored her forgiveness for the 
 pain she had given her, assuring her, if 
 she but gave her the consolation of saying 
 she had no doubt of her affection for her 
 or her father, she would strain every nerve 
 to be again all she wished. 
 
 Clasping her to her bosom, the fond 
 mother readily granted what she required ; 
 but how readily do we forgive where w^e 
 love, and yield to a belief essential to our 
 happiness ! — " No — I could not desire to 
 live, if I did not think I was loved by 
 those I love," said Mrs. Glenmorlie; "ex- 
 istence is only valuable to me, as I think 
 I am regarded by them; and now, my 
 dear child, let the past be forgotten ; I am 
 not altogether surprised that the disap- 
 pointment you met with should have been 
 felt; yet so often does imagination out-
 
 197 
 
 strip reality, or rather so seldom does the 
 latter come up with the former, that the 
 infliction of it perhaps has only saved you 
 from a greater one. However, were you 
 even sure that would not have been the 
 case, it is childish to regret what is not 
 attainable — worse indeed if we reflect on 
 the real sorrows and calamities of this life. 
 How trifling would your case of sorrow 
 appear to the mourners caused by that 
 treacherous element, last winter, that now 
 so beautifully reflects the vivid dyes of 
 heaven ! The bereaved orphan, the lonely 
 widow, the childless mother, the thou- 
 sands and thousands of wretches, that are 
 literally compelled 
 
 * To pick their wintry faggot from the thorn, 
 To seek their nightly shed, and weep till morn.* 
 
 Nay, do not seem impatient. I know we 
 cannot always argue in this manner ; that 
 when vexed, it is impossible not sometimes 
 to shew it : but then we should stru<xffle, 
 as much as possible, to obtain a command 
 over ourselves ; and in ceasing to think of 
 your recent disappointment, I must also
 
 198 
 
 beg you will cease railing against the 
 Monteagle family — to rail against them is 
 a base requital for their generous and un- 
 sought friendship to your father." 
 
 " Well, I am sorry I said any thing a- 
 gainst them," said Rosalind, " that is, with 
 the exception of Mrs. Trelawney — nasty, 
 spiteful, old creature ! I am sure it was 
 entirely owing to her that lady Monteagle 
 gave up taking me over with her to 
 England. I saw she was jealous of me, 
 from the moment I entered the house — 
 an abominable woman ! she is as spiteful 
 as an old maid, and as fond of gambling 
 as a black-legs. I am sure, if Pam 
 could ask her, she would marry him, for 
 the sake of always having him in her pos- 
 session, and that she would rather leave 
 her chamber without saying her prayers 
 than without rouge. I shall hate her as 
 long as I live." 
 
 " No, no !" cried her mother, " Heaven 
 forbid you were capable of that ! But let 
 me entreat you never to make use of that 
 expression again. I hate the word hate.
 
 199 
 
 from the rancorous feelings it gives an idea 
 of; from the lips of a young person, in 
 particular, it is revolting, as they at least, 
 inexperienced in the frauds, and deceits, 
 and villanies of mankind, should be in 
 amity with all." 
 
 Rosalind listened patiently to this lec- 
 ture, but was not, in reality, much bene- 
 fited by it. She was grieved, it is true, 
 at having pained her mother, and per- 
 suaded to think it ungrateful to speak far- 
 ther against the countess : but utterly to 
 subdue the feelings occasioned by her dis- 
 appointment was impossible, or to think 
 with complacency of her imagined enemy, 
 IVIrs. Trelawney. 
 
 The rankling feelings that still found 
 harbour in her breast, were not lessened 
 by the invidious triumph she conceived 
 enjoyed at her expence : on every counte- 
 nance she thought she perceived a sneer, 
 and discovered exultation in every voice 
 at her coming back so suddenly and un- 
 engaged ; and again and again she regret-
 
 200 
 
 ted ever having accepted the invitation to 
 Monteagle Castle. 
 
 She could not envy Anna — no, she 
 loved her too sincerely for that ; yet even 
 what she heard about her since her return 
 augmented what she felt at the disappoint- 
 ment of her own expectations. The fame 
 of her own charms had extended beyond 
 Waterton, and sir William Le Fleming, 
 a young baronet residing in the neighbour- 
 hood of that town, and but lately return- 
 ed from the Continent, came expressly to 
 a ball at Dunamore for the purpose of 
 seeing her. 
 
 The party with whom he came knew 
 nothing of her absence from it till after 
 their arrival. In the course of the even- 
 ing some of them took an opportunity of 
 inquiring from him how he bore his dis- 
 appointment relative to seeing the beauty 
 of the place ? 
 
 " Disappointment !" he repeated, " why, 
 surely I have not been disappointed of see- 
 ing her," and his eye involuntarily glanced
 
 201 
 
 at Anna, who happened to be there that 
 evening, attired with her usual simplicity, 
 and indebted to nothing but her natural 
 advantages for admiration. Each eye fol- 
 lowed the direction of his, and charms 
 which had not before been seen in her, 
 perhaps were now discovered through the 
 admiration he avowed. 
 
 The moment he entered the room, her 
 appearance had struck him ; and conceiv- 
 ing she must be the beauty of whom he 
 had heard so much, he waited not for the 
 ceremony of introduction to solicit her 
 hand. Her unaffected manner, and style 
 of conversation, did not lessen the admi- 
 ration her appearance had excited; and 
 when he discovered his mistake concern- 
 ing her, his heart felt he could desire to 
 see nothing more lovely. He resumed 
 the seat beside her, which for a moment 
 he had vacated — engaged her for another 
 set — continued wandering about, the next 
 morning, till he encountered her and her 
 father going down to the strand to walk — 
 K 3
 
 202 
 
 irnrhediately joined them, returned with 
 them to the cottage, and from that mo- 
 ment seemed to consider himself as an ae- 
 kridwledged acquaintance. 
 
 Anna could not be altogether blind to 
 the sentiments she had inspired, but she 
 had none of the ridiculous vanity that 
 would have led her to boast of what she 
 thought ; she knew it was very possible 
 for a person to admire without being seri- 
 ous, and besides, she had not yet suffici- 
 ently examined her heart to know whe- 
 ther, if he really v/ere so, she could bring 
 herself to give encouragement to sir Wil- 
 liam. But on both these points &he was 
 soon out of suspense — sir William no 
 sooner heard of her intended departure 
 from Dunamore with her parents, than he 
 declared himself; and, through the repre- 
 sentations of her father, she was induced 
 to give a conditional promise to become 
 his, if, upon a further knowledge of each 
 other's disposition and sentiments, it was 
 found they sufficiently agreed to let them 
 hope for happiness ih an union.
 
 S03 
 
 And this conquest might have been 
 hers, Rosalind reflected, had she remained 
 at home; for, attractive as was Anna, yet 
 beside her, what chance would she have 
 had of it ? So vanity whispered ; and yet 
 she by no means envied her it — on the 
 contrary, she rejoiced at her good fortune : 
 but still she could not avoid feeling an 
 unpleasant sensation at the idea of her 
 having got the start of her, with regard 
 to an establishment in life, so compara- 
 tively little as she fancied she had been 
 thought of when compared with her. Yet 
 she felt it would have been ungenerous to 
 have wished to have made a conquest of 
 sir William, feeling almost persuaded, as 
 she did, that she would have rejected him ; 
 and yet it would have been so gratifying to 
 her vanity and her pride to have had it 
 known that she had the power of rejecting 
 such a suitor — yes, that was what she ex 
 actly wanted; and it stung her to the soul 
 to think that she had not yet been able to 
 boast of one absolutely-decided conquest 
 or splendid offer.
 
 204 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 While she was indulging the idle regrets 
 of vanity on this account, lord Orielton 
 returned to Monteagle Castle; and finding 
 her gone, the pang he felt at the circum- 
 stance rendered him even more sensible 
 than he had been before of the sentiments 
 with which she had inspired him. A sus- 
 picion of the fact soon occurred — he quick- 
 ly discovered that artifice had been had 
 recourse to, to separate them, and, indig- 
 nant at the discovery, abruptly quitted 
 the castle, and proceeded forthwith to 
 Dunamore, without exactly saying whi- 
 ther he was going. 
 
 His unexpected visit to it extremely dis- 
 concerted colonel and Mrs. Glenmorlie, 
 more especially as they speedily ascertained 
 its being without the concurrence of his fa- 
 mily. However, the former soon decided
 
 205 
 
 how to act ; should the reserve of his man- 
 ner not succeed in inducing his lordship 
 to shorten this, he decided on acquainting 
 the earl with it, and, in the meantime, on 
 taking care to prevent any particular com- 
 munication between him and Rosalind. 
 To do this, however, required all the ad- 
 dress he was master of; so intent was the 
 young lover on obtaining an opportunity 
 for declaring himself^ and so well inclined 
 was the lady to afford it to him. He could 
 not help being hurt by the coldness with 
 which he was treated, both by the colonel 
 and Mrs. Glenmorlie; still he could not 
 bring himself to quit the place. 
 
 In pursuance of his determination, there- 
 fore, when the former found day after day 
 elapse without his giving any intimation 
 of his having an intention to do so, he 
 took him to task on the subject, plainly 
 informing him, that if he delayed his de- 
 parture much longer, he should certainly 
 apprise the earl of his visit to the place, 
 lest otherwise he should himself be un- 
 worthily suspected of what he was incap-
 
 206 
 
 able of. — " Aware of the sentiments of 
 the earl your father, my lord," he proudly 
 said, " neither pride, nor honour, nor the 
 sense of obligation I owe him, will permit 
 me to sanction those you entertain for my 
 daughter. Never, with my consent, shall 
 she enter a family that do not, in every 
 respect, think her worthy of their alliance; 
 if, therefore, you linger here, you will not 
 only compel me to send her hence, but 
 force me to do what may be the means of 
 creating a difference between you and 
 your father. Be advised, therefore, and 
 give np a pursuit that must prove un- 
 availing." 
 
 Lord Orielton, after some exertion of 
 his eloquence, finding neither arguments 
 nor persuasions of avail with him, at length 
 seemed to acquiesce in those he had used 
 with himself; and taking a formal leave of 
 the family, left Dunamore ; but he only 
 left it in the morning to return to it at 
 night, to lodgings provided for him by his 
 valet. Here he remained concealed for 
 several days, when, becoming convinced
 
 207 
 
 there was but little chance of obtaining 
 the opportunity he wished for of speaking 
 to Rosalind without letting her know he 
 was there, he decided on endeavouring to 
 do so. He durst not venture to write, 
 lest of the letter falling into the hands of 
 her father ; but he knew the part of the 
 house she immediately occupied, from her 
 having one day, in the garden, pointed out 
 to him a beautiful shrub that clustered 
 round the windows ; and could he gain ac- 
 cess to the garden at night, he conceived 
 he might be able to contrive some expedient 
 for letting her know what he wished. 
 
 The colonel's house was built on the 
 brow of a hill, and the garden descended 
 in terraces to a kind of Gothic building, 
 opening to fields extending to the very 
 edge of the Qliffs. Up these lord Oriel- 
 ton made his way to the fields, and through 
 them approached the garden ; but the 
 night unluckily happening to be dark, 
 and neither moon nor stars, though prob- 
 ably invoked to do so, choosing to un- 
 muffle themselves, he mistook the garden
 
 £08 
 
 of lady Dundrum, which indeed exter- 
 nally seemed to form part of it, for the 
 one he meant to enter; and in making 
 his way into it, alarmed a dog, which she 
 had as an out-centinel. At his first bark 
 her ladyship, whose head, when on the 
 pillow, never ceased running on White 
 Boys, Shanavats, and Caravats, and such 
 like desperadoes, took the alarm, and rous- 
 ing her man Pat, called out to him to fire, 
 and cry murder. 
 
 Pat obeyed, and her next-door neigh- 
 bours being awakened — " What is the 
 matter, Pat?" demanded the colonel, as 
 he flung up the sash of his chamber. 
 
 " Faith and troth, I don't know, sir," 
 Pat very leisurely replied. " I only know 
 my mistress called to me to fire and cry 
 murder, but for what I can't tell." 
 
 " Oh, my dear colonel ! I will tell you 
 myself," exclaimed her ladyship, thrust- 
 ing herself out of the window as far as she 
 could venture — " I will tell you myself — 
 there has been a most terrible attack me- 
 ditated to-night, and so I beg that you
 
 209 
 
 and your men will fire away, without de- 
 lay, all the blunderbusses and pistols you 
 have in the house." 
 
 " But are you sure, my dear madam,'* 
 asked the colonel, a little hesitatingly, in 
 consequence of having often before been 
 disturbed by mere fancies of her ladyship's, 
 " that you had no unpleasant dream ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, my dear colonel ! I myself 
 saw one of the gang, that I am sure con- 
 sists at least of twenty, making his w^ay 
 back again over the hedge into the fields ; 
 and Heaven knows but what the rest may 
 be lurking amongst these bushes and trees 
 here ; so fire, my dear colonel — fire, I im- 
 plore!" 
 
 " Suppose, my dear madam, we first 
 reconnoitered ?" and withdrawing from 
 the window, he slipped on his night-gown, 
 and forthwith proceeded to do so. 
 
 As he was searching about, the Hght in 
 lady Dundrum's window permitted him 
 to see something glistening on the ground; 
 he took it up, and bringing it close to the 
 eandle, perceived it was a ring of lord
 
 210 
 
 Orielton's, which he had remarked on his 
 finger as a very fine antique. The whole 
 affair was now explained — his lordship 
 had deceived him, and, of course, any fur- 
 ther search was unnecessary. 
 
 Having quieted the alarm of lady Dun- 
 drum, he went back, and found his wife 
 and daughter anxiously watching for him. 
 Involuntarily, as he entered, he darted an 
 angry glance at the latter — why she could 
 not tell, and was musing on the circum- 
 stance in her way back to her chamber, 
 when, the parlour-door remaining open, 
 into which her father had gone with her 
 mother, she heard sufficient to explain the 
 cause, and fill her mind with ecstacy. 
 
 The next day was spent by the colonel 
 in trying to find out the Romeo of the 
 preceding night; but in vain, through the 
 precautions the enamoured Orielton had 
 taken. Vexed and irritated, the colonel 
 returned home, yet not without a hope 
 that the disappointment he had experi- 
 enced in his project for speaking with Ro- 
 salind might have had the effect of in-
 
 211 
 
 ducing him to depart : till perfectly satis- 
 fied on this head, however, he deemed it 
 the wisest way to say nothing on the sub- 
 ject to Rosalind, lest if not, as he hoped, 
 her knowledge of it might lead to the de- 
 feat of all his precautions. 
 
 In the meantime, flattered by the per- 
 severing attachment of lord Orielton, Ro- 
 salind determined it should not be her 
 fault if he languished in vain for a meet- 
 ing. While her father was employed in 
 endeavouring to discover where he had se- 
 creted himself, she went out, and persuad- 
 ed, if still in the place, he would be on 
 the alert to speak to her, bent her steps to 
 a spot where, should he follow, their con- 
 versation would not be liable to interrup- 
 tion. She was not wrong in what she 
 thought — lord Orielton had a spy upon 
 her movements, and no sooner learnt whi- 
 ther she was gone, than he speedily fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Meeting succeeded meeting, and, all 
 hope respecting Ancram lost, Rosalind, 
 though sighingly, reluctantly, was almost
 
 brought to consent to an elopement, when 
 the unexpected interference of her father 
 prevented the step. For a few days, own- 
 ing to his having no suspicion of her 
 knowing any thing about the trick lord 
 Orielton had played him, he had not 
 minded missing her of an evening; but 
 when at length he found she could not sa- 
 tisfactorily account for the circumstance, 
 he determined to watch her, and, in con- 
 sequence, surprised her and lord Orielton 
 walking together beneath the cliffs. 
 
 His indignation at the circumstance 
 was too clearly evinced by his looks, to 
 render any other demonstration of it ne- 
 cessary ; a silent one of it, however, was 
 not sufficient for him — " After this, my 
 lord," he cried, as he seized the arm of the 
 affrighted Rosalind, who stood in an awe 
 of him that made her tremble at the idea 
 of having incurred his displeasure — " after 
 this, there is an end of all further forbear- 
 ance concerning you. I wished to avoid 
 the risk of creating domestic unhappiness; 
 but consideration for myself will not any
 
 213 
 
 longer permit me to be influenced by this ; 
 and as to this imprudent girl, should she 
 any longer, in utter forgetfulness of what 
 she owes to herself, attempt acting in op- 
 position to my wishes and commands, she 
 will find that in ceasing to remember the 
 duty of a child, I also have ceased to feel 
 the affection of a father." 
 
 The letter he immediately dispatched 
 to INlonteagle Castle occasioned a peremp- 
 tory one for the immediate return thither 
 of lord Orielton. Ere its arrival, however, 
 he had made up his mind to this, for the 
 purpose of following up the colonel's in- 
 vidious statement, as he termed it, by a 
 full explanation of his sentiments respect- 
 ing Rosalind. It failed, however, of pro- 
 ducing the effect he had hoped ; and the 
 agitation and vexation of his mind, unused 
 as he was to contradiction or opposition of 
 any kind, united to fatigue, brought on 
 an illness that shortly assumed a danger- 
 ous appearance. 
 
 In terror at the circumstance, his pa- 
 rents began to repent their inflexibility to
 
 214 
 
 his wishes ; the world had nothing to 
 offer them in compensation for his loss ; 
 and, at length, yielding to their apprehen- 
 sions, they implicitly declared he should 
 meet with no further opposition from 
 them. 
 
 Whether the assurance had any salutary 
 effect, or whether he might not have re- 
 covered without it, matters not; suffice 
 it, he shortly afterwards got better; and 
 as soon as he was in a state of convales- 
 cence, the earl wrote to colonel Glenmor- 
 lie, to acquaint him with what had passed, 
 and express his hope, that his first hesita- 
 tion about the marriage would not now 
 operate to the disadvantage of his son. 
 
 Colonel Glenmorlie had certainly been 
 greatly hurt by this ; his resentment, how- 
 ever, was not sufficiently powerful to in- 
 duce him to reject the overture now made 
 — a match so every way flattering to his 
 pride and ambition, and consonant, as he 
 had every reason to imagine, to the wishes 
 of his daughter, he could not bring him- 
 self to decline ; and, accordingly, an an-
 
 215 
 
 swer every way agreeable and satisfactory 
 was returned. 
 
 Matters were soon arranged — as the re- 
 quisite settlements prevented lord Oriel- 
 ton from marrying till he was of age, of 
 which he still wanted a few months, ad- 
 vantage was taken of the circumstance to 
 request that nothing might at present be 
 said of the affair, till the earl had himself 
 broke it to a family with whom he had 
 entered into a matrimonial engagement 
 for him. The colonel made no objection 
 to the proposition ; and after passing a 
 few days together, midway between their 
 respective residences, they separated, the 
 earl to proceed to England, and the colo- 
 nel to return to Dunamore.
 
 216 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 **:»^**t 
 
 The ardent wish of Rosalind was now 
 accomplished — she would soon be allowed 
 to boast of a noble conquest ; but the con- 
 viction imparted not the happiness she had 
 expected ; her fate irrevocably decided, as 
 she believed, she recoiled, with something 
 of horror, from the thought. Ideas re- 
 curred — an image was recalled, that ren- 
 dered her wretched ^at the contemplation, 
 and made her wish — vainly wish, that she 
 had not suffered herself to be engaged, 
 without giving herself time for further 
 consideration. Yet, after the encourage- 
 ment she had given lord Orielton, getting 
 herself so entangled as she had done 
 through pride and coquetry, how could 
 she have drawn back, after the consent of 
 his family was obtained to their union ? 
 No, it was impossible ; and for what she
 
 ^17 
 
 suffered she had herself alone to blame. 
 Suffered ! and was it really possible, with 
 such brilliant prospects as now lay before 
 her (her pride, her vanity, her ambition, 
 satisfied), that she did suffer any pain or 
 unhappiness — experienced any thing but 
 pleasure and delight ? Her sighing heart 
 could not answer the interrogation ; and 
 with equal surprise and pain, her mother 
 saw the colour fading from her cheek, and 
 a general languor pervading her frame. 
 
 At the other side of Dunamore Abbey, 
 about two miles from it, was another ro- 
 mantic bathing-place called Covetown. 
 The station for the packets between Wa- 
 terton and England, and extremely beau- 
 tiful and picturesque in its situation, it 
 had gradually become a very formidable 
 rival to Dunamore ; while that was the 
 resort chiefly of invalids, or families from 
 the adjacent counties, this was the favou- 
 rite and fashionable one of the gentry of 
 Waterton, who, between cards, balls, pub^ 
 lie breakfasts, and excursions about the 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 harbour, found means very agreeably to 
 pass their time. 
 
 Just at this time, some friends of lady 
 Dundrum's, who had taken a cottage 
 here for the season, being obliged to quit 
 it sooner than they had expected, made 
 her an offer of it for the remainder of the 
 time they had taken it for — an offer which 
 she most delightedly accepted, from the 
 superior gaiety and fashion of the place 
 to Dunamore, and invited Kosalind to 
 accom.pany her. The invitation was ac- 
 cepted — B^osalind was anxious to escape 
 from observation at home, and her mother 
 wished her to be compelled to make exer- 
 tions for shaking off the languor that 
 seemed oppressing her. 
 
 On returning from Monteagle Castle, 
 Rosalind learnt that lord Dunamore was 
 at the abbey, and had made an overture 
 for the acquaintance of her family, but 
 which had been coldly and haughtily de- 
 clined by her father, in consequence of 
 his having discovered that he had previ- 
 ously been in the neighbourhood ; and im-
 
 219 
 
 puting it therefore not to any considera- 
 tion of their relationship, but entirely to 
 the report that was by this time in circu- 
 lation of a change being about taking 
 place in his circumstances. 
 
 If his lordship was sincere in the wish 
 he had now expressed, why, he argued, 
 not have taken the opportunity of his first 
 visit to the place to intimate it ? But no ; 
 he then looked upon him as a needy, dis- 
 tressed man, one whom the hand of fate 
 had pressed down, never to rise again ; and 
 had he not since been led to regard him 
 in a different light, he never would have 
 intimated what he did ; and what, there- 
 fore, originated in feelings he despised, 
 he scorned and rejected. Yet, in believ- 
 ing what he did, there were many that, 
 from the general character of lord Duna- 
 more, would have thought him guilty of 
 injustice ; but colonel Glenmorlie was vi- 
 olently prejudiced against hinj, from the 
 family to whom he belonged. The inju- 
 ries his mother, his sister, himself, had 
 l2
 
 220 
 
 sustained from lord Ambresbury, had 
 never been effaced from his mind ; and 
 the rankling recollection he retained of 
 them made him think with dislike, al- 
 most amounting to aversion, of all con- 
 nected with him, and feel even a degree 
 of pleasure in having such an opportunity 
 or pretext as the present for evincing this 
 dislike. 
 
 Neither he nor Mrs. Glenmorlie had 
 seen the earl ; those that had, represented 
 him as extremely handsome and interest- 
 ing ; and much regret was evinced in the 
 neighbourhood at the little probability 
 there was, from his professional duties, of 
 his remaining long at the abbey. 
 
 Rosalind, from what she heard, could 
 not avoid a little curiosity to see him : 
 her wish for this, she made no doubt, 
 would soon be gratified at Covetown : but 
 she soon learned, that, though he did not 
 altogether decline the private parties that 
 were made for him, he hardly ever mixed 
 in the amusements of the place, but chief- 
 ly devoted his time to examining into the
 
 221 
 
 condition of his tenantry, and seeing what 
 could be done for the redress of such 
 mevances as came under his observation 
 ere his return to England. 
 
 Rosalind wondered, should they meet, 
 would he notice her? But no— she conclud- 
 ed not, from what had occurred respecting 
 her father ; and sometimes she felt a slight 
 sensation of regret at the thought, so un- 
 consciously had a feeling of esteem and 
 admiration been inspired by what she 
 heard concerning him. 
 
 Anxious to fly from thought, she en- 
 tered with avidity into all the gaieties and 
 dissipations of the place, and quickly re- 
 covering her vivacity, became the belle of 
 Co veto wn, as she was of Dunamore. 
 
 She had been some days at the former 
 when a party was made to visit the ab- 
 bey, in which she and lady Dundrum 
 were included ; and although both had 
 seen it before, both were very well pleas- 
 ed to see it again ; Rosalind, from the 
 delight she took in the contemplation of 
 its ancient grandeur ; and lady Dundrum,
 
 22^ 
 
 from going wherever there was a chance 
 of any amusement. 
 
 After a slight survey of the grounds, 
 the party proceeded to view the interior 
 of the building. In the last of the state 
 apartments they stopped. — " And pray, 
 Mrs. Housekeeper," demanded one of 
 them, a gentleman of the name of Mars- 
 den, " is there no chance of your lord 
 quitting the army, getting married, and 
 coming to settle here ?" 
 
 " Indeed I don't know, sir," was the 
 reply, " but I rather believe not." 
 
 " Why, young, and rich, and hand- 
 some, as he is, he does not mean to follow 
 the example of his predecessors here, I 
 hope, by devoting himself to a life of ce- 
 libacy." 
 
 « ;No — I hope not, sir ; that would be a 
 pity indeed !" 
 
 " But that's true," resumed ]Mr. Mars- 
 den ; " I wanted to ask you whether there 
 was any truth in the whisper I heard of a 
 marriage certainly having been in agita- 
 tion some time ago, from apartments hav-
 
 223 
 
 ing been fitted up for the immediate use 
 of a lady here ?" 
 
 Mrs. Sagely looked confused, and hesi- 
 tated to reply ; but at length, pressed to 
 do so by the curiosity excited by what 
 Mr. Marsden had said, acknowledged 
 that she believed there was some truth in 
 what he had heard ; for that certainly such 
 apartments as he alluded to had been 
 fitted up in the abbey, but which were 
 now shut up, with a positive command 
 that they should neither be shewn or 
 mentioned to any one. 
 
 " But to us you will shew them," was 
 the general exclamation, " and depend 
 upon our silence — our secrecy." 
 
 Mrs. Sagely hesitated however: she 
 pleaded the positive injunction of her lord, 
 and the irreparable injury she might do 
 herself, was it discovered that she had dis- 
 obeyed it ; but her wish to oblige render- 
 ed her unable to persevere in refusing 
 what was asked, and, though reluctantly, 
 she led the way to the prohibited apart- 
 ments.
 
 224 
 
 They formed a suite of three : the first, 
 a dressing-room ; the second, a work- 
 room ; and the third, a library, opening 
 to a garden ; and in their respective deco- 
 rations, taste and magnificence were in- 
 deed blended. 
 
 The dressing-room was hung with pearl- 
 coloured paper, edged with a deep border 
 of natural flowers, here and there stray- 
 ing into wreaths. The toilet stood be- 
 tween two immense windows, with dra- 
 peries of rose-coloured silk. At either 
 side of the table was a statue of a nymph, 
 presenting a basket of fillagree gold, filled 
 with all kinds of costly perfumes ; and op- 
 posite was a deep recess, elevated by a 
 few steps above the apartment, and with 
 rich draperies, corresponding with those 
 of the windows, hanging about it, to be 
 dropped at pleasure, so as to form a luxuri- 
 ous boudoir. The room besides contain- 
 ed several fine paintings of the Italian 
 school, the most conspicuous of which 
 were the Graces attiring Venus, and Juno 
 borrowing the cestus from her.
 
 225 
 
 The work-room, furnished with what- 
 ever was requisite for fancy-works of all 
 descriptions, was farther enriched with 
 cabinets of gems, shells, and minerals, and 
 likewise ornamented with some fine paint- 
 ings. 
 
 The library w^as of an octagon form, 
 something resembling an oratory. The 
 books were arranged in deep Gothic 
 niches, shut in by doors of wrought brass; 
 hence a flight of steps led to the garden 
 immediately attached to these apartments. 
 A Gothic greenhouse enclosed it at one 
 side, and on the other it was shut in by 
 a thick shrubbery. None but the choicest 
 flowers were cultivated here, and such as 
 were admitted were chiefly reared on al- 
 tars of green turf, disposed round a foun- 
 tain in the centre, where a Naiad was re- 
 presented leaning against an overturned 
 urn. A pile of rocks, at the bottom of 
 the garden, suggested the idea of a bath 
 within them, on the plan of the caves con- 
 structed in former times in Greece for the 
 l3
 
 226 
 
 nymphs, when the idea of nympholepsy 
 prevailed there, their deep excavations 
 forming natural reservoirs for water; whilst 
 a mysterious gloom pervaded each recess, 
 and creeping plants and flowers were nou- 
 rished all around by the irriguous soil ; a 
 naiTow opening near the summit gave ad- 
 mission to the place, exactly opposite to 
 which, on a tablet of the rock, was en- 
 graven — 
 
 Tiirice happy they, who on the sunless side 
 Of a romantic mountain, forest-crown'd, 
 Beneath the whole collected fclvade recline, 
 Or in the gelid caverns, woodbine-wrougiit, 
 And fresh-bedevv'd with ever-sportliig slrean^i. 
 Sit coolly calm. 
 
 Hence a descent of narrow stairs led to a 
 broad fountain, in a grotto of circular 
 form, bedecked with shells and sparry 
 icicles, and gloomily opening by a wide 
 arch, hung with tendrils of ivy and other 
 creeping plants, to a winding passage in 
 the rocks, ending in a lower grotto, where 
 the bath was constructed. Stars of pur- 
 pie and yellow glass, set in the roof, per-
 
 227 
 
 mitted but a softened li^ht to ffain ad- 
 mission here; while the moisture of the 
 place nourished all around the fountain a 
 variety of aromatic plants. In one place 
 was a group of statuary, representing the 
 story of the three nymphs, Eunica, Malls, 
 and Nycheia, becoming enamoured of the 
 boy Hylas, while dipping his vase in the 
 water ; in another, Diana, with her at- 
 tendants, reposing from the chase ; while 
 every cavity in the successive descents 
 was filled with mould, and planted with 
 herbs and flowers, in imitation of the gar- 
 dens formed in such places for those they 
 had been dedicated to. Winding stairs 
 led up from the bath to a dressing-room, 
 looking down upon a rocky defile, con- 
 taining a rude hunting-lodge, filled with 
 ancient implements of the chase. 
 
 While the rest of the party were look- 
 ing about them with admiration, Rosalind 
 was all astonishment and agitation at what 
 she saw. In her former visit to the abbey, 
 as she ran thoughtlessly about it, she had 
 laughingly mentioned what, if she were
 
 228 
 
 mistress of it, she would do ; and what- 
 ever she had then suggested, she now saw 
 executed. Who was it that had done 
 this — that had attended to her suggestions, 
 adopted her plans, and embodied her 
 ideas ? She was all wonder and perplex- 
 ity ; strange surmises began to rise ; and 
 hastily retreating to the house, she rushed 
 through the various galleries leading to the 
 apartment where hung the picture of the 
 young knight resembling major Ancram, 
 and dragging the housekeeper after her, 
 demanded, as she pointed to it, whether 
 that picture bore any resemblance to her 
 lord? 
 
 " To my lord," repeated the housekeep- 
 er, staring at her, as if with astonishment 
 at the emotion she evinced. 
 
 " Yes, to your lord ! to the earl of Du- 
 ll am ore r 
 
 " Oh dear, yes ! It is as like him as if 
 it had been drawn for him." 
 
 Rosalind wanted to liear no more : she 
 released her arm, and in anguish of hearty 
 in bitterness of spirit unutterable, turned
 
 229 
 
 to a window. The truth flashed upon 
 her mind : Ancram and the earl were 
 one : through a generous wish to make 
 amends for the injuries sustained by her 
 family, he had adopted the idea of making 
 her his, but, ere he revealed it, wished 
 to know whether she were worthy of the 
 distinction he meant to confer on her. 
 The Woodburnes were the confidantes 
 of his plan : through them he learned 
 whither to follow her from Dunamore, 
 and by them would have been introduced 
 to her by his proper name, but for her 
 own fault — but for his no longer, through 
 the light in which she had made herself 
 appear to him, feeling tjie wish that had 
 actuated him to desire this introduction. 
 Yes, it was through her own means he 
 had relinquished his wish for it, and all 
 idea of her ; it was she herself that had 
 marred the fehcity that was planned for 
 her ; and what — what on earth could make 
 her amends for the pain endured by the 
 reflection ? Yet might it not be possible 
 to retrieve his esteem — to convince him
 
 230 
 
 that what had so offended and displeased 
 him, had merely been the effect of the 
 thoughtlessness of a girlish heart, and not 
 owing to any want of love or gratitude to 
 those to whom love and gratitude were 
 due? But of what consequence would this 
 be now, entangled, engaged as she was 
 to another, through her coquetry and am- 
 bition ? Yes, her giving way to these 
 had sealed her fate ; but for her yielding 
 to these, she might still have been happy 
 — might still have regained all she had 
 lost ; and she could hardly suppress a 
 groan of anguish at the thought. She 
 glanced round the room : the housekeeper 
 had left it, and the voices of the party 
 sounded at a distance, and again she 
 rushed to the contemplation — the danger- 
 ous contemplation of the picture resem- 
 bling lord Dunamore. With what height- 
 ened admiration did she now gaze on it 1 
 and as she gazed on it, how did she won- 
 der that it had not made her at once sur- 
 mise the fact ! 
 
 When she thought of what she had lost.
 
 231 
 
 through not sooner ascertaining it, a feel- 
 ing of resentment kindled in her bosom 
 against the Woodburnes. — " But they did 
 not imagine I required to be put upon 
 my guard," she cried. " No; if they had 
 done so, they would never have wished 
 to have introduced one so loved and va- 
 lued as is lord Dunamore by them to me ; 
 and I — I alone am to blame myself in the 
 affair !" she exclaimed aloud, in the pas- 
 sionate agony of her soul. 
 
 She suddenly paused, and the deepest 
 suffusion of crimson flushed her cheek at 
 the idea of having been overheard, through 
 a slight movement she at the moment 
 heard near her. The apartments extended 
 in suites along the galleries ; and deter- 
 mined to ascertain whether any one had 
 been listening, she hastily flung open a door 
 leading to one of these. But how impos- 
 sible to paint her confusion, when, in the 
 room into which it immediately opened, she 
 beheld lord Dunamore reclined on a couch, 
 with his face concealed by his arm as it 
 rested on it !— " Oh, if he had heard her !
 
 232 
 
 But no ; he did not move — he did not stir ; 
 and in the persuasion of his being asleep, 
 overcome by the sultry heat of the day, 
 or the drowsy stillness of all around him, 
 she presently, in a degree, recovered her- 
 self. For an instant she stood looking 
 at him ; she then breathed a blessing on 
 him ; and wafting him a kiss -with her 
 hand, softly withdrew, and closing the 
 door, rejoined the party. But there was 
 an end of any further pleasure for that 
 day : one idea, one torturing reflection, 
 solely occupied her mind : that she was 
 miserable — miserable through her own 
 means, and must remain so — remain so 
 from the conviction that but for herself, 
 without any sacrifice of her inclinations, 
 all that pride, or vanity, or ambition, had 
 ever sighed for, might have been hers. 
 Yes, a union with lord Dunamore would 
 have gratified every ambitious wish she 
 ever formed ; and on this union how in- 
 tent had he been ! what a tender — what an 
 affecting proof of love — of the delight he 
 took in the contemplation of it, had he
 
 given her, in the even romantic attention 
 he had paid to her suggestions ! 
 
 Unable to converse — to participate in 
 any degree in the enjoyments of the par- 
 ty, she kept aloof, as much as possible, 
 from them. They dined and drank tea 
 in the cottage already described, and after 
 the latter, had a dance before it ; but re- 
 fusing to join in this, Rosalind stole away, 
 and seated herself on a rocky knoll at 
 some distance, where, every now and 
 then, the sound of music came minghng 
 with the rush of the torrent below, and, 
 despite of the feelings that oppressed her, 
 she could not help gazing with admiration 
 on the scene around her, than for the 
 pencil a more enchanting one could not 
 be conceived, with the purple shades of 
 evening hanging on the brow of the 
 mountains, and their darksome glens just 
 rescued from obscurity by the gleaming 
 of the torrents that dashed through them, 
 and the contrasting brightness of the yet- 
 illumined sea. 
 
 The party at length broke up, and she
 
 2S4 
 
 was summoned to rejoin them by the pre- 
 parations she saw making for departing. 
 The sun was by this time set behind the 
 mountains, after pouring, for a moment, 
 a flood of dazzHng glory over the scene, 
 and the cold grey hues of twilight gradu- 
 ally beginning to steal upon his track in 
 the heavens. The repose of coming night 
 already prevailed around : the birds that, 
 all day long, by their incessant warblings, 
 added to the cheerfulness of the scene, 
 were now at rest, and the flocks folded in 
 the quiet fields. It was an hour indeed 
 calculated to sooth any mind that was not, 
 like Rosalind's, torn by vain anguish and 
 regrets. 
 
 She left the enchanting spot in a state 
 of perturbation that made her wish to re- 
 turn immediately home ; but she had not 
 now her fond mother with her, to indulge 
 every whim and caprice. 
 
 Lady Dundrum could not think of 
 foregoing the game of cards and pleasant 
 supper that awaited the party at Mr. 
 Marsden's, and Rosalind, much against
 
 235 
 
 her inclination, was compelled to accom- 
 pany her. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The day after her visit to the abbey ter- 
 minated her suspense relative to lord Dun- 
 amore's intention of noticing her — as she 
 was sitting by herself, she saw him riding 
 up to the door ; he inquired for her, was 
 admitted, and, with a heart palpitating 
 with emotion, she received him. 
 
 What she had surmised respecting him 
 was right — through the representations of 
 his mother relative to her family, her aunt, 
 her father, an interest had been inspired for 
 her, that created a romantic wish to make 
 her a participator of the honours and wealth 
 she had been unjustly deprived of His 
 mother had contrived to enter into a pri- 
 vate correspondence with Mrs. Woodburne; 
 and, in the course of time, availing him-
 
 236 
 
 self of his being in the army to pay a stolen 
 visit to Ireland, he found himself confirm- 
 ed in this wish, which he confided to them, 
 by the opportunities which the Wood- 
 burnes secretly afforded him of seeing 
 Rosalind. 
 
 Aware of his grandfather having spies 
 in the neighbourhood, he feared either in- 
 troducing himself to colonel Glenmorlie, 
 or affording him that efficient assistance 
 he so ardently desired ; what he could do 
 with safety, however, he did; and those 
 magnificent presents that Rosalind was 
 continually receiving from the Wood- 
 burnes in reality came from him ; so that 
 Mr. Woodburne did not deceive colonel 
 Glenmorlie, when he assured him that in 
 making them Mrs. Woodburne did not act 
 inconsistently with prudence. 
 
 The delight of the latter at the idea of 
 an union between lord Dunamore and her 
 favourite was unspeakable, and with diffi- 
 culty could she observe the silence for a 
 time requisite on the subject; but though 
 she did contrive to maintain this, she could
 
 237 
 
 not avoid, from time to time, giving hints 
 of a favourite v^hom she yet wished to in- 
 troduce to her, and whom Rosalind mis- 
 took for the relation of whom she had 
 more explicitly spoken. Lord Dunamore, 
 however, though he did not venture to 
 make himself known to colonel Glenmor- 
 lie, ventured, through Mrs. Woodburne, 
 to make himself known to some of the old 
 domestics at the abbey, and there he took 
 up his concealed abode ; and there, over- 
 hearing what passed in the first visit of 
 Rosalind to it, was hurried, by a sudden 
 impulse of feeling, into the declaration 
 that had nearly been the means of prema- 
 turely betraying him to her, and conceiv- 
 ed the romantic idea of contriving a sur- 
 prise for her, by the adoption of all the 
 plans she had suggested. 
 
 At length he became completely his 
 own master, and there was nothing, of 
 course, to prevent the full disclosure of 
 his sentiments ; but ere he avowed them, 
 he wished to have a more perfect know- 
 ledge of hers. As yet he knew nothing
 
 £38 
 
 of her, but through the report of friends 
 — partial friends ; and he wished to be as- 
 sured she was indeed the lovely, the per- 
 fect, the intelligent being, she had been 
 represented, ere he entirely committed 
 himself To do this — to enable himself to 
 ascertain what he wished, he decided on 
 introducing himself to her by a feigned 
 name, lest in the first instance there should 
 be any restraint — any studied caution or 
 reserve; and accordingly, making him his 
 confidant in the affair, borrowed that of a 
 young Scotch kinsman, whom he greatly 
 resembled in person and manner. 
 
 All went on well — nothing for a time 
 occurred to induce a belief that she had 
 been too partially represented by the 
 Woodburnes, when her conduct respecting 
 the letter of Mrs. Woodburne induced him 
 to think they were indeed mistaken with 
 regard to her ; it evinced, in his opinion, 
 a levity, an insincerity, an ingratitude, 
 that made him shrink back from the a- 
 vowal he had been on the point of mak- 
 ing, with a determination not to bestow
 
 239 
 
 another thought on it, except convinced, by 
 a further knowledge of her disposition, he 
 might do so without incurring the imputa- 
 tion of w eakness or imprudence ; yet hard- 
 ly had he left the neighbourhood — hardly 
 taken what he was uncertain might not 
 be a final farewell of her, ere he began to 
 think he had judged her too hastily, too 
 rigidly, and to repent of his precipitancy. 
 Yet how could he return, without either 
 explaining himself, or appearing to trifle 
 with her? and accordingly he compelled 
 himself to proceed on his journey, yet not 
 without a feeling of embarrassment at the 
 idea of the meeting between him and the 
 Woodburnes; for, prevented by genero- 
 sity from being explicit with them, would 
 they not ascribe what had occurred to some 
 caprice or unsteadiness on his side? and 
 the reflection pained him — the reverence 
 and esteem in which he held them making 
 him wish to retain their esteem. 
 
 His embarrassed manner, however, de- 
 spite of him, betrayed what he wished to 
 conceal. It was evident to the Wood-
 
 240 
 
 burnes, that Rosalind was to blame — that 
 it was owing to something that had dis- 
 pleased him in her manner or conduct, and 
 not to any capricious change in his senti- 
 ments, that he had returned without the 
 explanation he had intended to her ; and 
 indeed it was owing to an apprehension 
 of this kind, that when away from those 
 who had a right to remonstrate with or 
 check her, she would be betrayed into some 
 indiscretion, through the levity and co- 
 quetry which, with all her partiality, she 
 was but too sensible she was inclined to, 
 that made Mrs. AVoodburne so unwilling 
 she should leave Dunamore. She did not, 
 however, attempt questioning lord Dun- 
 amore on the subject, both because she 
 was confident it would be useless, and she 
 could not bear to acknowledge to him she 
 was conscious of their being any failing in 
 her favourite. But though unknowing 
 how he should finally decide regarding 
 her, lord Dunamore could not avoid tak- 
 ing advantage of her absence from home 
 to make an overture for the acquaintance
 
 241 
 
 of her father — it was haughtily repulsed, 
 as already stated ; but though the circum- 
 stance pained lord Dunamore, he could 
 not bring himself to resent it, considering, 
 as he did, how much appearances made a- 
 gainst him ; unwillingness to have any ad- 
 ditional odium thrown upon his grandfa- 
 ther having induced him to conceal that 
 to his tyranny was owing his not having 
 before made this overture. 
 
 He heard of the arrival of Rosalind at 
 Covetown, and, in consequence, decided 
 on shortening his own stay in the neigh- 
 bourhood ; but he had not the resolution 
 to persevere in this decision, from what 
 occurred at the abbey ; taking refuge in 
 the chamber adjoining the one where hung 
 the picture said to resemble him, he un- 
 intentionally, as well as unsuspectedly, in 
 consequence, became a witness of the vio- 
 lent emotion of Rosalind at the discovery 
 she there made through this picture; and 
 hurried away by the feelings the sight 
 of it occasioned, would probably have 
 rushed out to her feet, but for the con si- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 
 
 deration due to her, the shock he was a- 
 ware it must give her to find she had been 
 overheard; and, influenced by which consi- 
 deration,when, through a slight movement 
 he made he had betrayed himself to her 
 knowledge, he had recourse to the artifice 
 already mentioned to spare her any pain 
 or confusion. Some struggles ensued with 
 himself, the result of which was, a posi- 
 tive determination, though he could not 
 forbear seeing her again, to avoid the re- 
 newal of all particularity on his side, ex- 
 cept convinced he might, without risking 
 his happiness, avow the sentiments she 
 had originally inspired. 
 
 " Well," he cried, as he advanced into 
 the room where she was sitting, " I once 
 asked whether JNIiss Glenmorlie would 
 condescend to let me claim acquaintance 
 with her — I now^ solicit to know whether 
 she will allow me the still greater honour 
 of claiming relationship with her ?" 
 
 " I don't know," replied Rosalind, agi- 
 tated almost to tears, yet trying, under 
 playfulness of manner, to conceal this agi-
 
 248 
 
 tation ; " since, if there was any great anx- 
 iety about it, it would have been demand- 
 ed before." 
 
 " Come, come," said lord Dunamore, 
 laughing, though somewhat confused, " I 
 see you are better-natured than you would 
 have supposed ;" so kissing the hand he 
 had taken, " remember, from this mo- 
 ment, you are my sweet coz ;" and they 
 seated themselves. 
 
 But into what conversation they might 
 gradually have slided, we cannot pretend 
 to say; for ere they had time to speak 
 above a few words, lady Dundrum came 
 bursting into the room from one of her 
 gadding visits. She had previously seen 
 him, and this her personal knowledge of 
 him being quite sufficient for her, without 
 waiting for the ceremony of a formal in- 
 troduction, she immediately addressed him, 
 expressed her pleasure at seeing him where 
 he was — her hope that Miss Glenmorlie's 
 being with her would be a means of in- 
 ducing him often to repeat his visit ; and, 
 after conversing with him for some time, 
 m2
 
 ^44 
 
 on a variety of topics, such as the differ- 
 ence between the bathing-places in Eng- 
 land and Ireland, the amusements of Cove- 
 town, and the sameness of those at Wa- 
 terton, proceeded to inquire whether her 
 young friend had been telHng him of their 
 recent visit to his residence — " That en- 
 chanting place," she cried, " with which 
 we positively are all in love — where na- 
 ture has left so little for art to do, and that 
 little has been done with so much taste, 
 and magnificence, and genius, by your 
 lordship." 
 
 " You honour me by your approbation, 
 madam," said lord Dunamore, but not 
 without laughing at the extravagance of 
 her compliments. 
 
 " Oh, my lord ! no one of the smallest 
 taste can deny you that ; for my part, had 
 I such a seat, I think I should never wish 
 to go outside the gate. — Ay, you may 
 smile, Miss Glenmorlie," which Rosalind 
 certainly did, from knowing her uncon- 
 querable passion for gadding. " I certain- 
 ly am not partial to retirement ; but were
 
 245 
 
 I mistress of such a seat as the abbey, I 
 need never fear wanting visitors, from its 
 manifold attractions." 
 
 " Well, should 1 ever take up my resi- 
 dence in it, I hope I shall find this to be 
 the case," observed his lordship. 
 
 " Oh, my lord ! don't fear that ; when 
 taste, and elegance, and hospitality, are 
 blended, none need fear a want of visitors." 
 
 Lord Dunamore bowed to the compli- 
 ment — it was the only way in which he 
 could reply to it. 
 
 " But much as I admired every place I 
 saw," resumed lady Dundrum, " there was 
 nothing I was so particularly delighted 
 with at the abbey, as the romantic bath, 
 and that exquisite little suite of " 
 
 Here a cough from Rosalind recalled 
 her to recollection ; and confounded by 
 what she had been so near betraying, she 
 stopped abruptly, coloured, stammered, and 
 at last blundered out something of a part 
 of the building quite distinct from that 
 she had meant. 
 
 Lord Dunamore became grave; from
 
 246 
 
 her his looks reverted to Rosalind, and his 
 keenly-inquiring glance made her invo- 
 luntarily decline hers. Not for worlds 
 would she have had him suspect the dis- 
 covery she had made at the abbey, and 
 yet she feared his ascertaining it, by the 
 embarrassment of her countenance. He 
 remained thoughtful for a minute or two, 
 evidently unconsciously twirling his watch- 
 chain about; then abruptly rising, he took 
 a cool leave, and departed. 
 
 The moment he was gone — " My Hea- 
 vens, madam !" petulantly exclaimed Ro- 
 salind, " how could you be so inadvertent 
 as to betray what you were so expressly 
 cautioned against mentioning ? There, I 
 dare say you have occasioned the dismis- 
 sion of the housekeeper." 
 
 " Oh Lord, child ! no — no such thing ! 
 I am sure lord Dunamore is not that ill- 
 natured kind of person to be so easily pro- 
 voked — it would be unnatural for so young 
 a man as he is to be so. Not but I am 
 very sorry for what happened to escape 
 me; but it was entirely from want of
 
 247 
 
 thought, or rather from being hardly able, 
 since I saw them, to think of any thing 
 else but those delightful rooms, and that 
 exquisite bath, with its garden, he had so 
 secretly fitted up ; they so much put me 
 in mind of what has been said of Rosa- 
 mond's bower, and the palace of Cupid 
 for Psyche, and a thousand other roman- 
 tic tales and traditions." 
 
 " I am sure I wish you had not seen 
 them then, since they have made an im- 
 pression so calculated to do mischief on 
 your imagination." 
 
 " Lord, my dear ! why will you persist 
 in saying so? I am convinced, as I have 
 already said, that lord Dunamore is not 
 the kind of captious being you would have 
 one imagine — his countenance gives me 
 full assurance of that ; so make your mind 
 easy on that score ; and tell me, don't you 
 agree with me in thinking him a charm- 
 ing creature, and wondering how any wo- 
 man on earth could possibly disappoint 
 him ? for, from what the housekeeper 
 said, I think we may infer it was owing
 
 248 
 
 to the lady the meditated marriage was 
 broken off: how I should like to know 
 all about it !" 
 
 " Pshaw !" cried Rosalind, peevishly, as 
 she turned away to a window, " this cu- 
 riosity about the affairs of other people 
 must be a very tormenting thing." 
 
 " Lord, my dear ! you don't seem in 
 one of the best moods possible to-day ; but 
 staying within doors, as you have done to- 
 day, is apt to make one fretful and sple- 
 netic ; but to be sure you mean to come 
 with me this evening to Mrs. Austin's?" 
 
 " Me, madam !" exclaimed Rosalind, 
 contemptuously ; " how could you possi- 
 bly imagine such a thing ? I am sure, if I 
 was, what you have just been so kind as 
 to tell me, fretful and splenetic, that is 
 not a place in which I should recover my 
 good-humour. The one evening I passed 
 with you there has been quite sufficient 
 for me; the lady of the house looking so 
 deplorably mortified and miserable, be- 
 cause she could not make up one solitary 
 card-table, from almost every one she had
 
 249 
 
 invited sending excuses ; and the son and 
 daughter alternately fatiguing and dis- 
 tressing you, the one by straining her wits 
 to try and keep up some conversation, and 
 the other by his ghastly attempts at face- 
 tiousness." 
 
 " Well, my dear, for all that, the Aus- 
 tins are very respectable people ; and it is 
 very ill-natured of their acquaintance to 
 make a point of refusing their invitations, 
 because their parties are not quite as well 
 attended or brilliant as others. They 
 should recollect what they used to be; 
 and indeed, I believe, between ourselves, 
 but on account of their family, they would 
 altogether relinquish having any, for their 
 circumstances are very much altered." 
 
 " Perhaps so, madam," replied Rosa- 
 lind, but in an accent of evident inatten- 
 tion to what she had been listening to; 
 " and perhaps to that may be owing their 
 parties being so stupid." 
 
 " Well, no matter, my dear ; out of 
 kindness I know you will come with me 
 m3
 
 250 
 
 this evening, that poor Mrs. Austin may 
 be as little disappointed as possible ; for 
 indeed I am afraid she is destined to be 
 again inundated with excuses, most of 
 those she has invited meaning to reserve 
 themselves for the grand affair of Mrs. 
 Grady to-morrow evening. Were they 
 indeed sure of meeting lord Dunamore — 
 for he also, I understand, has been invited 
 — but, of course, his going to such a par- 
 ty is out of the question." 
 
 " Oh, assuredly !" asserted Rosalind, 
 with a smile of derision ; " and notwith- 
 standing your eloquence, my dear madam, 
 I am sorry to be constrained to tell you, 
 that in the number of the expected ex- 
 cuses, mine must be included ; for really I 
 could not think of inflicting on myself the 
 penance of going to another of poor un- 
 fortunate Mrs. Austin's neglected parties." 
 
 Not entirely out of contempt did she 
 now refuse doing so, but partly from a 
 hope that by remaining at home she might 
 have a chance of seeing lord Dunamore 
 again in the course of the evening, in the
 
 251 
 
 walk she meditated. The walk was taken, 
 but in this hope she was disappointed; 
 and after wandering about till she had ab- 
 solutely fatigued herself, she returned 
 home out of spirits and out of humour, 
 vexed, perplexed, and tormented by a va- 
 riety of unpleasant reflections, the least 
 p^-inful of which v^as certainly not the 
 cruel manner in w^hich she had allowed 
 herself to speak of the Austins — the ut- 
 ter forgetfulness of her own recent situa- 
 tion, which her apparent want of feeling 
 for them evinced — for this implied want 
 she could have abhorred herself at the mo- 
 ment; she thought of her recent sneers 
 with absolute detestation of herself for 
 them, and felt that till she had done some- 
 thing to make amends for her conduct in 
 this instance, she could not be reconciled 
 to herself. 
 
 " Well, madam, I hope you had a plea- 
 sant evening ?" was her first inquiry, on 
 meeting lady Dundrum the next morning 
 at breakfast. 
 
 " Why, yes, my dear, it did turn out
 
 252 
 
 a very pleasant one indeed, though at first 
 there was no great hope of that ; for, as on 
 the evening you were there, poor Mrs. 
 Austin, owing to the number of excuses 
 she got, was unable to make up even one 
 table, there being but three whist-players 
 in the room ; and there we sat, stupidly 
 looking at one another, yet each trying to 
 look pleased and happy, in order not to 
 add to her too- evident mortification, when 
 in came lord Dunamore." 
 
 Rosalind started — " Lord Dunamore !" 
 '* Yes, my dear; and then the scene be- 
 came changed indeed — he directly made 
 up the fourth hand we wanted ; and then 
 he played rubber after rubber, without 
 ever appearing tired, though in his part- 
 ner, old Mrs. Nesbit, he had one of the 
 most disagreeable partners in creation, till 
 doctor Sheppard came in to relieve him ; 
 and then he joined the young people, 
 who had been vainly trying before to 
 make up a set for a quadrille ; and there 
 he exerted himself quite as much for their 
 amusement as he had before done for ours :
 
 253 
 
 and at supper he was quite the life of the 
 party — laughing, and chatting, and sing- 
 ing, and paying attention to every one, 
 and telling a thousand entertaining anec- 
 dotes, lieally, if 1 had not been in love 
 with him before, I should have lost my 
 heart then to him." 
 
 " I don't wonder at it," said Rosalind ; 
 " it certainly was very amiable of him to 
 act in such a manner ;" and a sigh escaped 
 her at the contrast she involuntarily drew 
 between him and herself. " Yet perhaps 
 he might have had some secret induce- 
 ment for going — Did he not look as if 
 he expected — that is, I mean, did he not 
 look in any way as if he was disap- 
 pointed ?" 
 
 " No, not in the least ; if he met with 
 any thing to disappoint him, he kept it to 
 himself, as politeness required. Nothing 
 could be more perfectly good-humoured ; 
 and by his apparent enjoyment of her par- 
 ty, quite reconciled poor Mrs. Austin to 
 it; and if I am not much mistaken in
 
 254 
 
 what I overheard, gave a pleasant fiUip to 
 the spirits of the captain, by the hopes he 
 inspired of doing something for his son. 
 It would be a glorious act for him to res- 
 cue the poor lad from the pining life he is 
 leading at home, owing to his father's in- 
 ability to make any exertion for him." 
 
 " An act, I am confident, he is capable 
 of," replied Rosalind, with warmth ; 
 " wealth, in his hands, will, I am sure, 
 prove a source of happiness to thousands. 
 But did he not," hesitating a little, " ask 
 for me?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ! almost immediately after 
 entering the room." 
 
 " Well," a little anxiously, " and what 
 did you say ?" 
 
 " I said you had a very bad headache, 
 which prevented you coming." 
 
 " You are sure you did not betray the 
 real reason ?" 
 
 " I ! do you think I would do what 
 might have made you appear ill-natured ? 
 No, no, my dear, let me alone for know-
 
 255 
 
 ing when to be silent ; none of my friends 
 or acquaintance shall ever have to accuse 
 me of want of discretion." 
 
 " As, to wit, this morning," RosaHnd 
 was on the point of laughingly adding, 
 but timely checked herself, from not be- 
 ing in a humour, at the moment, to wish 
 to vex her ; " and well, I suppose," she said, 
 " after going to Mrs. Austin's, there can 
 be no doubt of his being at Mrs. Grady's 
 this evening ?" 
 
 " Oh ! not the slightest — there will real- 
 ly be some inducement for going there, 
 besides good-nature; for her parties are the 
 most stylish in the place — every one makes 
 a point of going to them." 
 
 " And yet I understand she is not a 
 woman much liked." 
 
 " Oh, Lord ! how should she, without 
 any thing amiable or interesting about 
 her? but she gives superb entertainments, 
 and that is quite sufficient to get her rooms 
 filled." 
 
 " A proof we need not value ourselves 
 much upon collecting a fashionable crew
 
 256 
 
 about us. However, I must not be very 
 severe in my animadversions on the lady, 
 as I rather think I shall make one of her 
 party myself this evening." 
 
 " To be sure, my dear — why not? up- 
 on my word ! if you continued to mope 
 at home, I should beg a cell in the abbey 
 from lord Dunamore for you ; for there, as 
 the poet says, you would have room for 
 meditation even to madness." 
 
 Certain of meeting lord Dunamore in 
 the evening, Rosalind omitted nothing 
 that could improve her appearance ; and, 
 attired in white silk, with flounces of ricli 
 blond, and a coronet of pale flowers on 
 her dark hair, certainly did leave her toi- 
 let perfectly satisfied with herself 
 
 But though all was serene on leaving 
 the dressing-room, there had well nigh 
 been a little hurricane afterwards. Rosa- 
 lind wanted to delay going, till certain of 
 the rooms being full ; lady Dundrum, on 
 the contrary, wanted to go the moment 
 they were ready, lest the loo-table should 
 be filled up, and cassino and whist she de-
 
 257 
 
 tested — there was so much scolding at one, 
 and cheating at the other ; and, in short, 
 she got so fidgetty and teazing, not to say 
 peevish, that Rosalind was at last obliged 
 to give way to her. 
 
 But the good-humour this had discom- 
 posed was pretty well restored by finding 
 the rooms tolerably crowded ere they 
 reached the house, which, midway be- 
 tween AVaterton and Covetown, was 
 filled with fashionables fi'om both, as 
 well as the officers belonging to a regi- 
 ment quartered in the former; and in 
 flirting with these, Rosalind sought to 
 amuse herself till lord Dunamore came, 
 the mawkish country Misses, ranged 
 round the rooms like so many automatons, 
 as if just capable of simpering at one 
 another, and making a fashionable bend, 
 being her utter aversion, as were also the 
 beaux belonging to the place, with their 
 pertness and priggishness : but, by de- 
 grees, those she chose to honour with her 
 notice were called off to actual service, at 
 the different card-tables, by the lady of
 
 258 
 
 the house, and she would have been at a 
 loss for some one to converse with, but 
 for suddenly espying pretty, gentle, little 
 Miss Austin, sitting in a corner by her- 
 self, as much neglected as if she had been 
 an intruder, instead of an invited guest. 
 Rosalind immediately joined her ; and af- 
 ter a little chat, drawing her arm under 
 hers, they proceeded to promenade the 
 rooms again ; but in vain Rosalind looked 
 and watched for lord Dunamore ; and at 
 length, to her unutterable vexation, she 
 understood he had sent an excuse. 
 
 " What a pleasant evening we spent !" 
 said lady Dundrum, as they were return- 
 ing home. 
 
 " We !" repeated Rosalind, emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 " Why yes, my dear, did not you ?" 
 
 " Any thing but that," answered Rosa- 
 lind, still dwelling on the disappointment 
 she had experienced in not meeting lord 
 Dunamore. 
 
 " Really ! well, I am sorry for that, 
 though I am sure I don't know how it was
 
 259 
 
 you did not ; for there was every thing to 
 render it agreeable — beaux, and belles, and 
 cards, and dancing; for my part, I would 
 never wish to pass a pleasanter one — I 
 won seven guineas at the loo-table." 
 
 *' Oh ! that accounts then," satirically 
 observed Rosalind, " for your^ finding it so 
 pleasant." 
 
 " Well, my dear, I do not deny being- 
 better pleased to win than lose." 
 
 " To be sure, that is very natural ; and. 
 Heaven knows, you earned what you got 
 to-night, pinned as you were, for so many 
 hours, to a card-table, with every sense 
 and faculty apparently in suspension. I 
 observed your party sometimes ; and really 
 you all put me in mind of so many zoo- 
 phytes — tliere being nothing to decide 
 whether you belonged to the animate or 
 inanimate part of the creation, but now 
 and then a sigh or a gasp when Pam, or 
 the black ace, eluded your grasp." 
 
 " Ah, well ! only wait a little, my 
 dear ; you will then find the comfort of 
 cards."
 
 260 
 
 " I have not the presumption," rejoined 
 Rosalind, " to rail against what so many, 
 infinitely superior to me, I am sensible, in 
 every respect, sanction, by seeking amuse- 
 ment from ; I only contend it is odious to 
 see every sense apparently absorbed by 
 them, as if it was for something more 
 than amusement people sat down to play." 
 
 Lady Dundrum laughed significantly, 
 but said nothing; and Rosalind, having 
 vented her spleen a little by this philippic 
 against her favourite amusement, let the 
 conversation drop ; but how was her vex- 
 ation renewed, when, on entering the 
 house, she learnt that lord Dunamore had 
 been there, with an intention of passing 
 an hour or two with her, under the sup- 
 position of her not being sufficiently re- 
 covered, from what he had heard the pre- 
 ceding evening, to go out. 
 
 " And what an evening have I lost !" 
 was her internal exclamation on receiving 
 this information ; " and what should have 
 tempted me to go to the odious party I
 
 261 
 
 have been at, had I known I might have 
 expected him here !" 
 
 The next morning, at breakfast, a card 
 was received from him, inviting her and 
 lady Dundrum to a dinner party the com- 
 mencement of the ensuing week. Lady 
 Dundrum accepted the invitation with 
 ecstacy; and the moment breakfast was 
 over, hurried out, at once to announce it, 
 and try and learn who had been invited 
 to meet them. 
 
 Rosalind had not been long left by her- 
 self, when she also put on her bonnet for 
 a stroll. She had not got far from the 
 house, when she encountered lord Duna- 
 more. — " Happily met," cried he; " that 
 is, if you allow me to be your escort 
 wherever you were going." 
 
 " I was merely going to take an idle 
 stroll," replied Rosalind. 
 
 " AVhich to me is extremely delightful," 
 said he ; " so permit me ;" and as he spoke, 
 he drew her hand under his arm ; " and 
 now which way shall we bend our steps ?"
 
 2162 
 
 " Ob, as chance directs ! the place is so 
 romantic, that you could scarcely go any- 
 where you would not find the walk a plea- 
 sant one." 
 
 " And assuredly with such a compa- 
 nion," looking laughingly at her. 
 
 " Oh, that of course ! you could not 
 possibly have avoided saying so." 
 
 " How do you know? what if I was 
 not in the habit of saying what I do not 
 think ?" 
 
 " Pooh ! that is all nonsense : — if we 
 could believe that indeed !" 
 
 " Well, what then ?" 
 
 *« Why then your compliments would 
 be considered more flattering ; but I don't 
 know why you should have greater credit 
 given you for sincerity than other people." 
 
 " Well, when I set about convincing 
 you of my sincerity, I shall not rest till I 
 have succeeded ; but to let that rest for 
 the present — did you hear of my calling 
 on you last evening?" 
 
 " Yes ; but instead of calling on me, I
 
 263 
 
 fully expected, from your having been at 
 Mrs. Austin's the night before, that you 
 would have been at Mrs. Grady's." 
 
 " Oh ! in one place I was wanted, but 
 in the other I could be spared ; besides, 
 the idea of your not going afforded me 
 the hope of passing so much more a de- 
 lightful evening than I could possibly at 
 that lady's party, that I could not possibly 
 prevail on myself not to send an excuse." 
 
 Rosalind blushed with pleasure, and 
 how ecstatic would have been her feelings 
 at this avowal, but for the torturing re- 
 collection that occurred at the instant! 
 The agony it imparted contracted her 
 brow, and compelled her for a moment to 
 turn aside her head to conceal it. Alarmed 
 then at the idea of the conversation as- 
 suming a greater particularity, she exerted 
 herself to give a turn to it. 
 
 On returning home he sat some time 
 with her ; when he rose to depart — "Well," 
 said Rosalind, laughing, " to make you 
 amends for the terrible disappointment of 
 last night, if you don't know what to do
 
 264 
 
 with yourself this evening, you will find 
 us at home." 
 
 " Then expect me," he replied ; " and 
 now," kissing her hand, " adieu ! with a 
 thousand thanks for the dehghtful morn- 
 ing you allowed me to pass." 
 
 " Delightful !" Rosalind repeated to her- 
 self; and did he think so because it was 
 passed in her company ? What flattering, 
 what dehcious hopes would this have awa- 
 kened — his looks, his manner, the emo- 
 tion evinced by both the morning he called 
 on her — but for the terrible entanP'lement 
 
 in which she had involved herself! 
 
 « 
 
 She was musing on this in bitterness 
 of spirit, when lady Dundrum burst in 
 upon her, with the news she had been col- 
 lecting in her gossipping calls- — '* Well, 
 my dear," she cried, as she threw herself 
 upon a chair, " we shall have a delightful 
 party at the abbey." 
 
 " My dear madam," a little peevishly 
 interrupted Rosalind, " I have not the 
 least wish to know ; it half destroys the 
 pleasure of a party to know beforehand
 
 265 
 
 who is to be at it. I wanted to tell you 
 I have asked some one to drink tea with 
 you this evening." 
 
 " Really ! and who, pray ?'* 
 
 " Lord Dunaniore." 
 
 " Lord Dunamore ! Well, really, I am 
 quite delighted, and so glad that you told 
 me before I threw off my bonnet and 
 shawl, that I may try and make up a 
 party for him. I know the Austins are 
 disengaged, and I think I shall be able 
 to secure old Mrs. Nesbit and doctor Shep- 
 pard." 
 
 " No, no, my dear madam !" cried Rosa- 
 lind, attempting to stop her, " lord Duna- 
 more is not, by any means, so fond of cards 
 as you seem to imagine. I know — that is, 
 I am almost persuaded, he would rather 
 pass the evening with us in conversation/' 
 
 " Pshaw ! how stupid, my dear ! No, 
 no — I will do as I said," and away she 
 sallied, and, to the extreme chagrin of 
 Rosalind, succeeded as she wished. 
 
 Lord Dunamore was tlie last of the 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 
 
 party in coming, and Rosalind could not 
 avoid thinking that he was disappointed 
 in finding one there. He had too much 
 command over himself, however, to evince 
 any positive vexation ; but this was not 
 the case with Rosalind, and, but for the 
 Austins, she probably would have shewed 
 what she felt at the positiveness of lady 
 Dundrum ; but she was actually begin- 
 ning to like this family, and, independent 
 of this, there w^ere considerations that 
 made her w ish to avoid any thing that 
 might appear slighting to them. 
 
 Lord Dunamore w^as now her constant 
 attendant — the companion of her walks, 
 and her escort to the different parties in 
 the place ; and to w4iat could this be ow- 
 inof, but a revival of the sentiments he had 
 at first experienced for her? Her own for 
 him were daily becoming more ardent — 
 more impassioned ; in vain reflection point- 
 ed out the risk she was running, by en- 
 couraging such feelings — there w^as some- 
 thing too delicious in them, answered, as 
 she believed they were, by corresponding
 
 267 
 
 ones in his bosom, to permit her to have 
 resolution to resist them, more especially 
 as she flattered herself she should be able 
 to overcome them, whenever the moment 
 actually arrived for rendering that neces- 
 sary. 
 
 If for a time led to misjudge her through 
 her own fault, he had tried to think of 
 her without interest, that time was now 
 over. She saw that it was, in a thousand 
 nameless instances — in the sparkling glance 
 of his eye, whenever encountering hers — 
 in the fond familiarity of his smiles — in 
 his constant assiduities and attentions; and 
 she revelled, or rather would have revelled, 
 in the thought of being so dear to his 
 heart, but for the reflection — the torturing 
 reflection, of her engagement to another. 
 Haunted perpetually by this, her manner, 
 her conversation, often became involunta- 
 rily constrained towards him. 
 
 Nor was this her only cause of unhap- 
 piness — the light in which she allowed her 
 father to be considered by him, was an un- 
 N 21
 
 268 
 
 ceasing cause of reproach. Fearful of their 
 becoming acquainted, lest her engagement 
 should be revealed to him, and thus an 
 end put to those attentions that were so 
 delightful to her, even sooner than was 
 requisite, she permitted him to think that 
 the prejudice to which he justly imputed 
 the repulse he had already experienced 
 from her father was invincible; and the in- 
 justice she was guilty of, in permitting 
 him to think so, aware, as she was, that a 
 candid statement to her father of what had 
 occurred since her arrival at Covetown, 
 would at once have overcome every re- 
 sentful and indignant feeling, and induced 
 him eagerly to seek what he had before 
 coldly and haughtily repulsed, preyed con- 
 tinually on her mind, exciting at once re- 
 morse and apprehension. 
 
 Thought was too painful to be endured, 
 and she accordingly fled from it as much 
 as possible ; but it v/as not always to be 
 avoided ; and little could those who saw 
 her in her moments of forced gaiety have
 
 269 
 
 suspected the pangs that too often tortured 
 her in private. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The party at the abbey was numerous and 
 fashionable ; the officers belonging to the 
 regiment at Waterton were included in it, 
 and the band attended in the evening for 
 dancing. Kosalind saw herself the object 
 of general attention, and the circumstance 
 did not fail to give an excitement to her 
 spirits that rendered her extremely bril- 
 liant. To complete her triumph, how- 
 ever, it was requisite that her influence 
 over lord Dunamore should be perceived ; 
 but how was this to be accomplished — 
 how should she contrive to render this 
 visible ? for, tender as were his attentions, 
 they were still, in general, of that calm, 
 unobtrusive, unostentatious description, 
 that might escape observation, except par-
 
 270 
 
 ticularly directed to them ; she knew no 
 other method than by occasioning him 
 some emotion, nor no means of doing this 
 but by entering into a flirtation with an- 
 other. 
 
 Amongst the officers was a major Bal- 
 four, who had previously paid her much 
 attention, and on him she fixed, to try 
 what a Httle coquetry would do. He was 
 just handsome enough for the use she 
 ■wanted to make of him — that of creating 
 jealous}^ in the heart of another ; and af- 
 ter appearing to be wholly engaged with 
 him for some time, she suddenly suffered 
 her eyes to roll round with a vacant look, 
 and felt her heart flutter with dehght at 
 finding lord Dunamore was intently observ- 
 ing her. This was all she required to perse- 
 vere in her plan ; and ere she left the din- 
 ner-table, at which this sudden flirtation 
 had commenced, she was set down by most 
 of the company as either a great coquette, 
 or else very much disposed to give serious 
 encouragement to the handsome Balfour. 
 
 The gentleman, very much inclined to
 
 S7l 
 
 be of this latter opinion himself, joined 
 her the moment he returned to the draw- 
 ing-room, and again they appeared to be 
 quite engrossed by one another. The sti- 
 mulus requisite to make Kosalind perse- 
 vere in her coquetry was not wanting — 
 she saw lord Dunamore was hovering a- 
 bout the seat she occupied, with a flush 
 on his cheek that denoted internal agita- 
 tion ; and elated at having succeeded in 
 occasioning him some emotion, she deter- 
 mined to persevere in doing all in her 
 power to render it more visible. 
 
 There was a good deal of playing and 
 singing before dancing commenced, and 
 she was at length asked to take her station 
 at the harp. She hesitated — saw lord 
 Dunamore was in reality attending to her 
 without appearing to do so, and — " No, 
 really," she cried, " I don't think I shall 
 play to-night — dancing will be quite a suf- 
 ficient exertion." 
 
 " Nay, let me entreat," said major Bal- 
 four, with the air of a man who was sa- 
 tisfied he should not be refused ; " I shall
 
 272 
 
 be quite au desespoir if one song is not 
 granted." 
 
 " Well, rather than that," and she rose, 
 and carelessly passing her hand under his 
 arm, suffered him to lead her to the in- 
 strument. — " Well, now that I am here 
 to oblige you," she cried, and she laid an 
 emphasis on the latter word, " what shall 
 I play?" 
 
 " Oh ! something that breathes of pas- 
 sion," he replied, in a languishing tone. 
 
 She laughed, and was running her fin- 
 gers over the chords, when one of her 
 bracelets fell off; lord Dunamore and he 
 both stooped for it at the same instant, but 
 his lordship was the person who took it 
 up. He offered to put it on : for a mo- 
 ment Rosalind did not pretend to notice 
 him. — " Oh, no !" she then cried, " I wont 
 trouble you ;" and taking it from him — 
 " Here, major Balfour," she said, " I be- 
 lieve you are more au fait in these mat- 
 ters than his lordship," putting out, as she 
 spoke, her white hand to him. 
 
 He eagerly seized it, rapturously press-
 
 273 
 
 ed it to his lips, and then dropping on one 
 knee, put on the bracelet. 
 
 " Pish ! this is really being quite too 
 adoring !" said Rosalind ; and forcing away 
 her hand, she looked to see what effect 
 this had upon lord Dunamore; but he was 
 gone ; and in dismay and apprehension of 
 his having left her through disgust and 
 contempt, she precipitately quitted the 
 instrument, and walked to another part of 
 the room. 
 
 Yet why this alarm — this disquietude ? 
 Had she not purposely laid herself out to 
 make him uneasy? and was not the abrupt 
 manner in which he had withdrawn from 
 her side a proof of having succeeded in 
 the effort ? If she could be but sure she 
 had only inspired a feeling of jealousy, no 
 scorn, no contempt ! Almost unconsci- 
 ously she proceeded to seek for him ; but 
 what was her mortification, her disappoint- 
 ment, instead of finding him thoughtful, 
 abstracted, discomposed, to find him in 
 the next room, apparently free from agi- 
 N 3
 
 274 
 
 tation — no indication of it either in his 
 looks or manner, gaily laughing and chat- 
 ting with the party there ! 
 
 Was he then utterly indifferent ahout 
 her conduct? had vanity misled her? 
 Pride, self-love, were wounded even to 
 agony by the supposition : or did he think 
 a woman capable of the conduct she had 
 practised unworthy of feeling any uneasi- 
 ness about ? oh, yes ! that must be the case ; 
 for he certainly had appeared discomposed 
 at first by her coquetry with major Bal- 
 four; and his so quickly recovering him- 
 self was, doubtless, owing to the contempt 
 that coquetry had inspired : instead, there- 
 fore, of awakening still more powerful 
 emotions in his mind, she had probably 
 destroyed whatever interest she had pre- 
 viously excited, and — "Fool, fool!" she 
 internally exclaimed, " to suppose a cha- 
 racter like his was to be moved by 
 her artifices — affected by what he must 
 despise." 
 
 In the bitterness of this reflection, she not 
 only peremptorily, but even petulantly, re-
 
 275 
 
 fused dancing with major Balfour, to his 
 utter astonishment, after what had passed, 
 and was retreating to the set that was 
 now forming in the next room, when she 
 caught a glance of such meaning — such 
 comprehensive meaning, from lord Dun- 
 amore — of such mingled reproach, and 
 surprise, and tender upbraiding, as in a 
 moment revived her hopes and dispelled 
 her despair. Her hopes ! and what hopes 
 could she form that must not be at the 
 expence of his happiness? If she had 
 succeeded, or did succeed, in inspiring him 
 with an attachment to her, must she not 
 have to accuse herself of disturbing the 
 happy equanimity of his mind — of the 
 tranquillity, the repose, of that generous 
 heart, that so delighted in promoting the fe- 
 licity of others ? She could have smote her 
 breast at the thought — she could have bid 
 him fly from her with scorn and detesta- 
 tion; had he joined her at the moment, 
 she could have wept to agony. — " But of 
 what avail my tears?" she cried to her- 
 self; " thus it is that I am continuallv
 
 276 
 
 erring and repenting. How is it, that, 
 aware as I am of what I suffer when ob- 
 liged to condemn myself, I am continually 
 incurring self-condemnation? How is it, 
 but by not knowing how to maintain a 
 proper command over myself — by allow- 
 ing my feelings and passions, on the small- 
 est provocation or excitement, to gain do- 
 mination over me ? and so well taught, so 
 instructed, so remonstrated wdth on the 
 subject, as I have been by the best of mo- 
 thers — the most excellent of women ! But 
 I will amend when alas !" and she sigh- 
 ed deeply, " when I have no longer any 
 happiness to lose." 
 
 On lady Dundrum's retiring, he attend- 
 ed her to the carriage; Rosalind followed, 
 but apparently not noticed by him. Hav- 
 ing handed her ladyship in, he was re- 
 treating into the house, when Rosalind 
 laid her hand on his arm — '" So this is the 
 way you are serving me ?" she cried. 
 
 He coloured and looked confused. — " I 
 thought major Balfour was attending you>'* 
 he said.
 
 277 
 
 " No, you may perceive he is not." 
 
 " Oh ! then, of course, I shall have the 
 pleasure of handing you into the carriage." 
 
 " And is it only," with a little archness, 
 " because there is no one else here to do 
 so?" 
 
 Lord Dunamore looked earnestly at her 
 for a moment — " Where we imagine we 
 have power, let us not make an ungene- 
 rous use of it," he cried ; " adieu !" kissing 
 his hand as he retreated from the carriage, 
 " and dream of what I have said." 
 
 Dream ! she did indeed dream of it — 
 dwell on it — repeat it a thousand times. 
 Power ! had he acknowledged she had 
 power over his feelings ? — " But of what 
 avail to know !" was the anguished excla- 
 mation her recollected engagement exci- 
 ted; but she would fly for the present 
 from this recollection — she would be hap- 
 py while she could : in the few remaining 
 weeks she had to stay where she was, she 
 would concentrate all that might have 
 been the happiness of years; and when she
 
 S178 
 
 returned home, then, in sober sadness, sit 
 down to regulate her feelings. 
 
 But she could not adhere to this resolve 
 — the next morning brought a letter, for- 
 warded from home, from lord Oriel ton. 
 She received it with a recoiling sensation, 
 and hastening to her chamber, flung it pas- 
 sionately from her. Yet could she treat 
 the letter of lord Orielton with this con- 
 tempt — he with whom her future days 
 were to be passed — whom she would be 
 bound to reverence and honour ? She a- 
 gain took it up, and, with a hand render- 
 ed nervous by agitation, broke the seal. 
 Tender, affectionate, indicative of the most 
 sincere attachment, with mingled anguish 
 and remorse did she think of an engage- 
 ment where so much was due, whilst so 
 little was felt. Her feelings were not pas- 
 sively to be endured ; and putting on her 
 bonnet, she hastily left the house, taking 
 a direction in which she thought there was 
 but little chance of her encountering any 
 one she wished to avoid.
 
 279 
 
 She had not gone far, however, when 
 she met Miss Austin, and whom, after 
 conversing a few minutes with, she asked 
 to walk on wuth her, glad, after all, to meet 
 with some one — so insupportable were her 
 reflections. 
 
 Miss Austin excused herself, however, 
 but with evident reluctance, on the plea 
 of being obliged to hasten home — "Where 
 we are now all bustle and hurry," she said, 
 " preparing for the departure of my bro* 
 ther, who, perhaps you know, through the 
 kindness of lord Dunamore, is getting an 
 appointment in India." 
 
 " Not exactly," replied Rosalind, ** but 
 I am now happy to learn it." 
 
 " But this is not all," continued the full- 
 hearted girl, with a gush of grateful tears; 
 ** lord Dunamore is not only getting him 
 this appointment, but to you. Miss Glen- 
 morlie, I am sure I may disclose the fact, 
 without any risk of humiliation, but has 
 undertaken doing all that is requisite on 
 the occasion; thus adding kindness to kind- 
 ness, and obligation to obligation. Through
 
 280 
 
 the most untoward circumstances, my poor 
 father was suddenly deprived of the power 
 of doing any thing for his family, and his 
 anxiety in consequence may easily be con- 
 ceived; but from this he is now relieved — • 
 the heavy weight that hung upon his heart 
 is removed from it ; and, oh !" she added, 
 with all the enthusiasm of ardent and 
 youthful gratitude, " may the generous 
 being who has been the means of relieving 
 him from it be as happy in this life as he 
 must be in the next, for his benevolence ! 
 If in any fond wish he has been disap- 
 pointed, may he speedily and fully be 
 compensated for this disappointment ! In 
 short, may every blessing this life can be- 
 stow be his ! Never can I breathe a prayer 
 for myself^ without also offering up one 
 for him, his preservation and happiness. 
 But I am not the only person who has 
 reason to bless and embalm his name with 
 tears of gratitude — you know not the 
 good he has done since his coming into 
 the neighbourhood; for, like the silent 
 dews of heaven, his secret bounty largely
 
 281 
 
 flows, and brings unasked relief. But I 
 must bid you adieu, my dear Miss Glen- 
 morlie ; I am not only expected back im- 
 mediately, but now that we are so soon to 
 
 lose poor Henry " Her lip quivered 
 
 — the feelings of the sister overcame her ; 
 and wringing the hand of Rosalind, with 
 a tearful smile, she bounded off. 
 
 Rosalind was affected even to tears by 
 what she had been listening to. While 
 indulging them, she heard some one ap- 
 proaching, and hastily uncovering her face, 
 beheld lord Dunamore. Agitated by so 
 unexpectedly beholding him, she started 
 up from the grassy bank on which she had 
 seated herself, without making an effort 
 to conceal the tears that bedewed her 
 cheek. 
 
 Lord Dunamore looked grave and re- 
 served ; but at sight of these tears the 
 distance of his manner vanished, and — 
 *' Good God !" he exclaimed, " no ill news, 
 I hope, from home ?" 
 
 " No, thank Heaven ! the pang that 
 would inflict is at least spared me."
 
 282 
 
 " You relieve me by saying so, for I 
 was afraid, from your tears, the reverse 
 was the case." 
 
 " No, nor are they immediately pro- 
 ceeding from any other painful cause — on 
 the contrary, ' rather from pleasure." 
 
 " I rejoice to hear it, and would add — 
 might they never flow from any other 
 cause ! but that life will not permit of such 
 an expectation ; and a wish we cannot ra- 
 tionally look to being fulfilled, it is absurd 
 to utter ; all that I shall therefore say is, 
 that I hope you may be destined to shed 
 as few from any other as mortals in gene- 
 ral are !" 
 
 Rosalind bowed — " My doubting the 
 fulfilment of the wish cannot prevent my 
 being grateful for it," she said. 
 
 " Doubting it !" repeated lord Duna- 
 more ; " and why should you doubt it ? 
 Life is opening to you with fair and bril- 
 liant prospects." 
 
 " Perhaps so; but, like Juliet, perhaps 
 I have an ill-divining spirit. But to speak 
 of something else — perhaps I shall sur-
 
 283 
 
 prise you when I tell you that you have 
 been the real cause of my recent tears." 
 
 "I!" exclaimed lord Dunamore; "you 
 do indeed surprise me by the assertion ; 
 and pray may I inquire how ?" 
 
 " By the kind and benevolent action 
 you have just performed — in short, by 
 your generosity to the Austins. Nay, do 
 not blush to hear it has been mentioned. 
 Oh ! you know not the eloquence — the 
 pathetic eloquence it imparted to the lan- 
 guage of a sister, or how impossible it was 
 to resist the effect of that eloquence upon 
 the feelings ! But why, if we do not strive 
 to suppress our indignation at an act of 
 cruelty or baseness, should we hesitate to 
 yield to the sensations excited by one of 
 benevolence ? I know you will disclaim 
 all praise on this occasion — I know you 
 will tell me, that in doing what you have 
 done, blessed as you are with the power of 
 gratifying every generous impulse, you 
 have but performed your duty; and I al- 
 low this. But still this will not permit my 
 giving utterance to what I think on the
 
 284 
 
 occasion ; for when we behold the wretched 
 and forlorn, so often slighted as they are 
 by the great and the affluent, how can we 
 withhold the tribute of esteem and admi- 
 ration from him," and she involuntarily 
 laid her hand upon the arm of lord Dun- 
 amore as she spoke, " who so nobly proves 
 himself worthy of the kindness of a be- 
 nign Providence !" 
 
 " You affect me," said lord Dunamore, 
 in a tone indicative of strong emotion; 
 " but sweet is praise from the lips of those 
 we love; yet, whilst I lay the flattering 
 unction to my heart, permit me to repeat 
 what you have already said for me, that 
 in doing what you approve, I have not 
 merely performed a duty, but an impera- 
 tive one, since, notwithstanding w^hat 
 I now am, there was once a chance my 
 situation in life might have been different ; 
 and this reflection certainly gives all who 
 are unhappy a claim to my sympathy and 
 consideration. But," he added, taking the 
 hand that rested on his arm between his, 
 and pressing it to his lips, while his coun-
 
 285 
 
 tenance assumed an expression of the ten- 
 derest, liveliest, fondest admiration, " how 
 sweetly must she who thus appreciates an 
 act of kindness, perform one herself, when 
 occasion offers !" 
 
 Rosalind began to tremble with agita- 
 tion ; his looks — the softness of his tones, 
 made her fear that a dreaded eclaircisse- 
 ment was approaching; and rather than 
 see any tendency to which, she would 
 have preferred his retaining the cold re- 
 pelling air he had worn on first joining 
 her. 
 
 As a means of preventing what she 
 dreaded, she proposed returning home. 
 Lord Dunamore playfully tried to prevent 
 her ; but in vain — the letter of that morn- 
 ing had recalled her to a proper sense of 
 her situation : she saw she could no longer 
 persevere in her recent conduct, without 
 trifling with all that ought to be precious 
 to her ; in a word, that she had advanced 
 to the very verge of danger, and that no- 
 thing remained for her, but to make a 
 retrograde movement as fast as possible.
 
 2186 
 
 if she wished to prevent the utter destruc- 
 tion of her peace. 
 
 She had hoped to have found lady Dun- 
 drum at home by the time she got back, 
 but she was disappointed ; and dreading a 
 protracted tete-a4ete with lord Dun a more, 
 she could have railed against her at the 
 moment for this incessant love of gadding. 
 
 As with a feeling of embarrassment she 
 advanced into the room, she saw a billet 
 on the table, addressed to her from major 
 Balfour, begging her acceptance of a beau- 
 tiful bouquet of greenhouse plants that 
 had accompanied it. Scarcely allowing 
 herself to read it, she flung it, together 
 with the bouquet, away, and—" Coxcomb !'' 
 she exclaimed, " if he teazes me, I shall 
 certainly leave this to avoid him." 
 
 " But might he not be checked without 
 being absolutely shunned?" demanded 
 lord Dunamore, a little archly ; " I have 
 heard such things were possible ; and since 
 you have set my mind at rest about him, 
 I should indeed grieve that you quitted 
 this abruptly."
 
 287 
 
 " Oh ! complaisance obliges you to say 
 so ; but when once gone, you would soon 
 cease to lament the circumstance." 
 
 " Then you think me more insensible 
 than I really am." 
 
 " Oh, no ! only like other men of the 
 world — saying things without meaning." 
 
 " But suppose I am not, according to 
 your acceptation of the term, exactly a 
 man of the world ?" 
 
 " Well, perhaps not, only just suffici- 
 ently so to deem a little commonplace 
 gallantry no harm." 
 
 " And you accuse me of this to you ? 
 Do you remember, the other day, my tell- 
 ing you, on something of a similar charge, 
 that that was not the moment for assert- 
 ing my sincerity ? But it is now come ; 
 yet can I believe it doubted — that you, 
 so discerning, could remain utterly igno- 
 rant of the sentiments you had inspired ? 
 No, I will not so discredit your penetra- 
 tion, or my own feelings, as to admit such 
 a belief Yes, I see — by that averted eye, 
 that kindling blush, I should err to do so ;
 
 288 
 
 but to put the matter beyond all further 
 doubt, thus," catching her to his boson), 
 and straining her to it with passionate 
 fondness, " let me claim you as my own, 
 my destined bride !" 
 
 This was the moment that Rosalind had 
 dreaded — the moment she wished to have 
 warded off for ever, anxious as she was 
 to save lord Du nam ore from the humilia- 
 tion of a rejection, where he had such rea- 
 son to be sure of, and think himself en- 
 titled to acceptance ; and her confusion 
 and her distress were indescribable. She 
 struggled to disengase herself from his 
 arms — engaged to, almost the wife of an- 
 other; and yet to find herself enfolded in 
 his embrace — to feel the tumultuous throb- 
 bings of his heart against her bosom ! She 
 burst, with sudden agony, from him, and 
 throwing herself, panting, on a chair — 
 " Lord Dunamore !" she cried, " how have 
 you presumed to treat me in this man- 
 ner ?" 
 
 He looked astounded — "Presumed!" 
 he repeated.
 
 289 
 
 ** Yes ! presumed," laying hold, in de- 
 spair, of his conduct, to furnish herself 
 with something of a plausible pretext for 
 what she was enforced to. " I know not 
 what there has been in my manner, in my 
 conduct, to provoke," and she sobbed hys- 
 terically, " the freedom you have taken ; 
 but throughout this whole affair I have 
 been ill-used — treated as a person whom it 
 was only requisite for you to make up 
 your mind about, to be sure of having." 
 
 " Good God ! you hurt — you astonish 
 me by this ungenerous accusation !" cried 
 lord Dunamore. " How I have merited 
 it, I am utterly unconscious ; if, however, 
 I have unwittingly offended, pardon what 
 was not intended, nor suppose me capable 
 of wilfully offending any one, much less 
 her whom I wish to make my wife." 
 
 " Your wife ! oh, no, no !" in accents of 
 bitterness she exclaimed ; " you, so cool, 
 so considerate — oh, no, no ! you could ne- 
 ver seriously think of a person for your 
 wife you knew so httle about." 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 
 
 ^' But how do you know that is the case 
 with regard to you ?" said lord Dunamore, 
 recovering from his discomposure, and a 
 fond smile again brightening his counte- 
 nance ; " longer than she is aware of 
 have I known my Rosalind, not merely 
 by description, but sight. Her friends, 
 the Woodburnes But need I enter in- 
 to particulars ? does she not at once sur- 
 mise the fact ? They made me acquaint- 
 ed with her — they gave me opportunities 
 of seeing — of listening to her ; but not on- 
 ly there did I see her, or listen to her — 
 she cannot have forgot the day, the en- 
 couraging day, she passed at the abbey, 
 when she said, * The lord of the place 
 
 should come over, and ' And he had 
 
 come over, and seen her, and admired her, 
 and felt, that in prevailing on her to unite 
 her fate with his, he should indeed render 
 himself happy ; and this he now asks her 
 to do — asks her in full confidence of being 
 able to prove to her that he deserves no 
 suspicion of the kind she has just uttered." 
 
 ** No, no !" exclaimed Rosalind, shrink-
 
 291 
 
 ing back, " I cannot ; and even if I could 
 " and she paused, not knowing what 
 
 she was saying — what she would say. 
 
 " Nay, if you allude to your father, 
 cried lord Dunamore, " the explanation I 
 have to give will, I am convinced, remove 
 every prejudice from his mind; or if you 
 hesitate only because you think presump- 
 tion has mingled in my hopes, does this 
 look like presumption, like confidence, un- 
 worthy of either of us, thus," and he knelt 
 at her feet, " to solicit the hand of Rosa- 
 lind, and declare that my happiness de- 
 pends on its being granted ?" 
 
 Rosalind, for a moment, gazed on him 
 with passionate tenderness; then covering 
 her face with her hands, she again shrunk 
 back, and motioned him to rise : but, oh ! 
 the agony — the struggle of rejecting a 
 heart so devoted to her ! Her resolution 
 faltered ; but the stern rage of her father 
 — the vengeance of an injured lover, should 
 she falsify her engagement, were too ap- 
 palling to her mind not to reconfirm it ; 
 o 2
 
 292 
 
 and finding him about pleading still more 
 passionately for himself, she started up, 
 and retreated towards the door. 
 
 At this lord Dunamore suddenly stop- 
 ped, and the expression of his countenance 
 altered. — " From what I now see, I per- 
 ceive, madam," he cried, " that further 
 importunity would be persecution, and 
 shall accordingly desist from it ; but ere I 
 take my leave, permit me to say that I 
 grieve I have so long obtruded on you — 
 that I did not sooner allow myself to com- 
 prehend your real sentiments ;" then slight- 
 ly and distantly bowing, he departed. 
 
 Rosalind flew to the window to gaze 
 after him, as at her last gleam of departing 
 happiness ; and so their acquaintance, their 
 friendship, had ended ; and henceforth 
 they should be as nothing to one another 
 in the creation ; but while life remained, 
 she felt her heart could never be estran- 
 ged from him. — " My sentiments!" she ex- 
 claimed, as despairingly she raised her 
 streaming eyes to heaven, '* oh ! how little 
 in reality are they comprehended by him !
 
 293 
 
 how little does he surmise the wild anar- 
 chy, the sorrow, the confusion, he has ex- 
 cited in my breast !" 
 
 AV'ere those feelings endurable ? — was it 
 requisite she should doom herself to un- 
 happiness? — might she not venture to throw 
 herself upon the kindness and compassion 
 of her parents, and confess the truth ? But 
 no — her mother indeed might pity, and 
 be inclined to listen to her plea ; but her 
 father, stern, inflexible, unrelenting, in 
 whatever honour was concerned, would 
 he not spurn her from his feet, or trample 
 her beneath them, at the bare suggestion 
 of her wishing to break an engagement 
 she was bound by so many ties to adhere 
 to? and, cast from his regard, pursued 
 by the reproaches of an injured lover, 
 would lord Dunamore, the noble, the ge- 
 nerous, the dignified Dunamore, receive 
 her to his bosom? Idle hope ! How would 
 he shrink from an union where no confi- 
 dence could be placed ! for what proof of 
 steady affection for him could be deduced 
 from her conduct, receiving, as she had
 
 294 
 
 done, while yet his idea was impressed on 
 his imagination, the addresses of another? 
 Oh ! when he came to discover this — 
 when he came to discover that at the very 
 moment when she was alluring him to the 
 humiliation of being rejected by her, she 
 was not at liberty to receive his vows, 
 what would he — what must he think of 
 her ? — " Oh ! never after that let me be- 
 hold him again !" she cried ; " never en- 
 counter his indignant glance, his contemp- 
 tuous smile — never behold him again ;" 
 and could she bear to think she should 
 never more behold him ? and with these 
 regrets was she to become the bride of an- 
 other — of one so entitled to the fondest 
 love — so entitled to it by his own merits, 
 and the disinterested generosity of his at- 
 tachment ? 
 
 The wrong she did him by the senti- 
 ments she harboured — the ingratitude, the 
 disrespect she had been guilty of towards 
 him, now struck full upon her mind ; and 
 in agony — the agony of self-condemnation, 
 self-upbraiding, she wrung her hands, and
 
 295 
 
 — " Oh, unworthy of either !" she cried, as 
 in frantic distress she paced the room, 
 " unworthy alike of him I have rejected, 
 and him I have accepted ! Did they know 
 what I do, little would be the regret of 
 either for losing me — little the danger of 
 any rivalry between them, for one they 
 must then despise." 
 
 In this state of agitation she was sur- 
 prised by lady Dundrum. In extreme 
 confusion, she instantly retreated to a win- 
 dow, and leaning against it, pretended to 
 be engaged by something without, in or- 
 der to have a pretext for avoiding her 
 looks. — " So, still at home !" cried her la- 
 dyship : " well, upon my word, my dear, 
 you mope a great deal too much ; and this 
 is such a charming day ! But that is true 
 — did you see any thing of lord Duna- 
 more this morning ? for I just met him, 
 and it is very odd he merely passed me 
 with a bow, and looked as if there was 
 something disturbing him." 
 
 ** Very likely," said Rosalind ; " there
 
 296 
 
 are few people, I believe/' and she spoke 
 with difficulty, " but who meet occasion- 
 ally, let their station in life be what it 
 may, with something to disturb them." 
 
 " Very true, my dear ; but, liOrd bless 
 me, child !" catching a glimpse of her coun- 
 tenance, " you have been crying \ Why, 
 I hope you are not an illustration of your 
 own remark? But I suppose the fact is, 
 you have been poring over some melan- 
 choly love-tale : it would have done you 
 a great deal more good to have been ram- 
 bling about the cliffs and fields. Every 
 one was out to-day. But come, you must 
 rouse yourself, and get up your spirits 
 against evening, for you know we are en- 
 gaged to Mrs. Bolton's." 
 
 " Yes, but I must be excused going," 
 said Rosalind, as she sunk upon a chair, 
 " for my head is distracted." 
 
 " Distracted ! No wonder, I am sure, 
 for your eyes are as red as a ferret's with 
 crying. But come, a little rose-water will 
 cure that ; and when you find yourself in
 
 297 
 
 company, you will feel quite a different 
 being." 
 
 " I shall not try whether I should or 
 not, for into company I certainly shall not 
 go to-night ; for, exclusive of having a 
 headache, I w^ant to prepare for my depar- 
 ture to-morrow, for I must then return 
 home," — a resolution she had suddenly 
 taken, in consequence of being unable to 
 endure the idea of meeting lord Duna- 
 more again, after what had occurred. 
 
 " Home!" repeated lady Dundrum, in 
 a tone of surprise ; " why no, I hope not, 
 my dear, as I purpose remaining here some 
 time longer myself" 
 
 " I must, indeed," was the sighing re- 
 ply. 
 
 " Well, really, I am sorry — there are 
 so many delightful parties in agitation, 
 and I purposed, besides, giving one myself 
 the ensuing week. But, bless me ! what 
 shall I do? I cannot possibly think of 
 leaving you the last evening you will be 
 with me, and yet I so positively promised 
 o 3
 
 298 
 
 to call on poor dear cross Mrs. Nesbit in 
 my way to Mrs. Bolton's, that I am 
 afraid the testy little mortal will be quite 
 affronted if I disappoint her." 
 
 " On my account the risk must not be 
 incurred," said Rosalind, " more especially 
 as I have so much to do, I could not sit 
 quietly with you." 
 
 " Well, my dear, since that is the case," 
 said her ladyship, in a tone of revived 
 cheerfulness, relieved from the terrible ap- 
 prehension of being obliged to forego a 
 delightful loo party, " I believe I will 
 keep my engagement ; but, depend on it, 
 I shall not be late, nor will I leave you till 
 I see you take a cup of strong coffee, the 
 best thing in the world for a headache," 
 
 Rosalind could have shook her head, 
 and told her that hers was not to be re- 
 moved by such means; but she avoided 
 saying any thing that could excite the cu- 
 riosity of her ladysliip. 
 
 Her preparations for departing over 
 sooner than she had given her reason to 
 imagine, the Austins occurred to her
 
 299 
 
 thoughts ; and conceiving they might 
 think it unkind her not bidding them 
 adieu, she decided on repairing to them 
 for the purpose. She might have enter- 
 tained a similar apprehension with regard 
 to many others in the neighbourhood, but 
 it so happened the Austins alone excited 
 it, and this, perhaps, not so entirely from 
 holding them in preferable regard, as from 
 their being connected, in some way, from 
 what had occurred in her mind, with lord 
 Dunamore. 
 
 The evening was tranquil and lovely, 
 the sun was already setting, and the glow 
 of the evening sky threw a repose and soft- 
 ness on the landscape that was inexpres- 
 sibly beautiful. Rosalind lingered in her 
 walk. She was about quitting scenes of 
 enchantment — scenes which particular cir- 
 cumstances had rendered abstractedly in* 
 teresting to her, and she felt all that sad- 
 ness of heart which taking leave of such 
 never fails of occasioning. The groves of 
 Dunamore Abbey, with the spires of that 
 ancient pile, flushed with the crimson of
 
 300 
 
 the parting beam, were conspicuous in 
 the scene. 
 
 Rosalind in vain strove to withdraw 
 her eyes from them. — " Oh, bowers of 
 bliss ! oh, scenes of beauty !" she exclaim- 
 ed, " what happiness, but for myself, 
 might I not have enjoyed within you ! 
 but I knew not the paradise that was 
 created for me till all hope of possessing 
 it was lost." 
 
 The Austins were still at the tea-table, 
 but it was not till she had advanced en- 
 tirely into the room that she found lord 
 Dunamore was one of the party. She al- 
 most started with emotion, yet she knew 
 not how to regret what had afforded her 
 an opportunity of once more beholding 
 him. On their eyes meeting he distantly 
 saluted her, and then immediately resum- 
 ed the conversation with captain Austin 
 which her entrance had interrupted, leav- 
 ing it to the ladies and young Austin to 
 chat with her. Making an effort to reco- 
 ver herself, she proceeded to explain the 
 motive of her visit.
 
 301 
 
 " Going to lose you so suddenly !" said 
 Mrs. Austin. " Well, really, Miss Glen- 
 morlie, without flattery, I am sorry for 
 it ; and as to Harriet," alluding to her 
 daughter, " I believe I need not say that 
 she will be so too ; and here is lord Duna- 
 more also come to take leave : upon my 
 word, there will be quite a chasm in our 
 society here !" 
 
 Lord Dunamore ! and was he too going? 
 Yes, and certainly on her account — cer- 
 tainly to avoid her ! and the conviction 
 this imparted of resentment and displea- 
 sure, and a wish, or rather determination, 
 to think no more about her, nearly over- 
 came the composure she had been strug- 
 gling to regain. She glanced unconscious- 
 ly at him : his eyes were on her at the 
 moment, but the instant hers encounter- 
 ed them, they were averted. She sighed, 
 and wished to go, yet knew not how, 
 for this was probably the last time she 
 should be in his company, and the idea 
 seemed to chain her to the spot. 
 
 Suddenly addressing himself to her —
 
 S02 
 
 " Well, I must unite with my lady, Miss 
 Glenmorlie," said captain Austin, in ex- 
 pressing my regret at your leaving us ; 
 though, to be sure, the little distance to 
 which you are going affords some conso- 
 lation for your doing so ; but for losing 
 
 lord Dunamore now, do, my lord, 
 
 let us have the comfort of knowing, is 
 there any chance of your coming to settle 
 amongst us ?" 
 
 " Consider my professional duties," re- 
 plied lord Dunamore, evasively. 
 
 " Well, yes ; but then, if there was a 
 young and beautiful countess in the way, 
 might you not be induced to relinquish 
 the tented field for the quiet enjoyment 
 of your own delightful groves ?" 
 
 " I must wait till there is a young and 
 beautiful countess in the way," said he, 
 laughing, " to resolve that question." 
 
 " Well, it must be your own fault if 
 that be not soon the case." 
 
 Lord Dunamore bowed. — " You flatter 
 me by thinking so," he said ; " but per- 
 haps it may not be exactly as " He
 
 303 
 
 suddenly checked himself, coloured, and 
 turned off what he had been about saying 
 with a laugh. 
 
 " I did wish and hope, and began to 
 think," resumed captain Austin. 
 
 " My dear !" cried his wife ; her voice 
 recalled him to recollection, and in his 
 turn he coloured violently and looked 
 confused. His confusion, however, was 
 nothing equal to what he occasioned Ro- 
 salind by the significance of his glance, 
 rendering evident, as it did, his meaning 
 in what he alluded to ; and hastily she 
 turned away her eyes from lord Duna- 
 more, lest she should see by his looks that 
 it was as apparent to him as it had been 
 to her. 
 
 Ere her embarrassment had at all sub- 
 sided, the latter rose abruptly. — " You are 
 not going to leave us so soon, my lord, I 
 hope," said Mrs. Austin, in a tone of 
 alarm ; " you know you rather gave us 
 to expect, when you came in, that you 
 would stop the evening with us." 
 
 " Assuredly, but I have just recollected
 
 304 
 
 that I have some other farewell calls to 
 make ; and so you must have the good- 
 ness to excuse my prolonging my visit." 
 
 " Certainly, my lord, since that is the 
 case ; nor can I continue to urge Miss 
 Glenmorlie to lengthen hers, since, by go- 
 ing now, she will have the pleasure of 
 your lordship for an escort home." 
 
 " No, no !" exclaimed Rosalind, abso- 
 lutely terrified at this cruelly-embarrassing 
 suggestion, after the scene of the morn- 
 ing ; " no, no, by no means ! not for 
 worlds ! that is, I should be sorry to give 
 lord Dunamore that trouble." 
 
 " It would be a pleasure," he said, " but 
 that," and he spoke evidently under the 
 impression of awkward feelings, " I am 
 obliged to go quite in a contrary direction ; 
 so that to my young friend here," glancing 
 at young Austin, " I must delegate what 
 would otherwise have afforded me so 
 much happiness ;" and he proceeded to 
 shake hands with the family. 
 
 The heart of Rosalind throbbed vio- 
 lently. Would he, by overlooking her at
 
 305 
 
 the moment, place her in the awkward — • 
 the embarrassing situation of appearing 
 slighted by him ? He retreated towards 
 the door — their eyes encountered. He 
 paused — the natural generosity of his feel- 
 ings overcame every other sensation, and 
 advancing again into the room — " Miss 
 Glenmorlie," he said, extending his hand 
 to her, " good-bye ! and — and when you 
 see our friends, the Woodburnes, remem- 
 ber me to them." 
 
 Rosahnd bowed. She could not speak, 
 and ere she had at all recovered from her 
 emotion, he was gone, and she found her- 
 self again surrounded by the Austins. 
 They were too keen, too penetrating, not 
 to perceive that something was amiss. 
 The relationship between lord Dunamore 
 and Rosalind v\'as known to them, as 
 well as the admiration he had evinced for 
 her, and, consequently, the coldness of 
 their manner now towards each other 
 could not but appear extraordinary. They 
 had too much delicacy, however, to make 
 a comment on what they thought ; nei-
 
 306 
 
 ther did they tease the bewildered and 
 nearly-subdued Rosalind to remain longer 
 Avith them. They saw her home, and 
 the hour being late, took leave of her at 
 the door, with a hope that the intimacy 
 that had been commenced might be con- 
 tinued. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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