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 THE 
 
 HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE MOTHER'S SECRET. 
 
 BY 
 THE ' AUTHOR OF 
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM," "TWO OLD MEN'S TALES, fee. 
 
 
 As gentle 
 
 As zephyrs, blowing below the violet, 
 
 Not wagging his sweet head 
 
 Cymbelink. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1855.
 
 PRINTED BY CHARLES BEVAN AND SON, 
 STREET'S BUILDINGS, CHAPEL STREET, GROSVENOR SQUARE.
 
 3 ' 
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In him alone 'twas natural to please; 
 His motions all accompanied with grace ; 
 And paradise was opened in his face. 
 
 Drtden. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening. 
 
 The day had been warm, and the sun, now 
 sinking towards the tufted hills of Windsor 
 Forest, shed a rich golden light upon the tops 
 of those fine trees, which adorn the Playing 
 Fields of Eton. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 The Thames, smooth as a mirror, and of 
 the deepest blue, was seen at a little distance, 
 gleaming with his green aits, through the foli- 
 age and between the noble and columnar trunks 
 of these secular trees — whilst the rooks were 
 slowly wending their homeward flight towards 
 the hoary towers of that castle, which over- 
 hangs and adorns this beautiful scene — its 
 western windows glittering in the sunbeams. 
 
 In short, it was one of those perfectly de- 
 lightful English evenings which are the glory 
 of our English summers. The Playing Fields 
 were quieter than usual, for the hubbub of the 
 day was over ; or, perhaps, the still influence 
 of the evening was felt by those imaginative 
 English lads there loitering and -wandering 
 about — for imaginative, English boys may most 
 especially be called; and there is something 
 within them that seems most peculiarly re- 
 sponsive to the sweet influences of Nature. 
 
 Groups of boys, from little fellows of nine 
 to ten years old, to youths upon the verge of 
 manhood, were scattered about in these beau-
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 6 
 
 tiful playing grounds. Some sauntering in 
 idle conversation with one or two others ; 
 some strolling alone, lost in boyhood's teeming 
 thoughts ; others, sitting upon the benches 
 beneath the trees with books, which they were, 
 reading with avidity — not lesson-books, you 
 may be sure, but novels ; perhaps, in their 
 way, quite as improving; — and ministering 
 high and generous food to the hearts and ima- 
 ginations of these young, ardent lads. Some 
 little fellows were playing hockey; some of 
 the magnates were resting upon their bats — 
 the last game of cricket having terminated — 
 all in their several ways enhancing the interest 
 and beauty of the scene, without disturbing 
 the tranquillising effect of this sweet evening. 
 Among the groups we distinguish two boys 
 of somewhat unequal height. The arm of the 
 taller one is thrown over the shoulders of the 
 
 Ml 
 
 other. They are walking alone together, and 
 seem engaged in that close, confidential conver- 
 sation which is the delight of those united by 
 the strong, fervent ties of a boy's friendship. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 See how they saunter along, choosing one 
 of the quietest and most retired walks, en- 
 gaged in serious discussion, and seeming little 
 to regard anything that is going on around 
 them — lost in the delightful interchange of 
 thoughts, bright and fervent, like themselves. 
 For they are both boys remarkable for the 
 wholesome freshness of their feelings and cha- 
 racters, for the earnest simplicity of their dis- 
 positions — and for more, both of imagination 
 and feeling, than is common even with youths 
 of their years. 
 
 They are both also distinguished, not alone 
 by these intellectual qualities, — they are as 
 celebrated in the school for their personal 
 beauty and their personal accomplishments, as 
 for their characters and attainments. At hare 
 and hounds, at the cricket match, at hockey, 
 at leaping, at running — who bear away the 
 palm but they ? They are the first in these, 
 as in all the rest. 
 
 All the rest, however, must be said with 
 one exception — their school exercises. They
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 5 
 
 were neither of them remarkable for these. 
 They both kept their places passably well, — 
 but they neither of them were particularly 
 celebrated in business with the masters. Not 
 "to aspire to glory, but to avoid disgrace," 
 seemed to be their only object here. And, 
 yet, there was something about them both, 
 that even the masters prized and were proud 
 of, they scarcely knew why. As for the young 
 community around them — as often happens in 
 such cases — by a peculiar instinct of their own, 
 which discovers the higher order of merit, 
 before it has made itself evident through any 
 peculiar achievements — these two were looked 
 upon, by the boys in general, as the glory of 
 the school. 
 
 Everyone was proud to be of their acquaint- 
 ance ; — even those who had not that privilege 
 took pride, in that they belonged to the same 
 community. Their dress and manners were 
 imitated : — their witty or clever speeches were 
 retailed : — the highest auguries were drawn as 
 to their future success in life; — everything
 
 6 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 was expected from them that was great and 
 renowned — nobody well knew why. 
 
 It was the influence of what the French call 
 caractere, I believe, that effected all this. — - 
 It is the secret of the strongest influences 
 that one human being can exercise over 
 another. 
 
 These boys both belonged to families of the 
 " middle remove" class of life, or, perhaps, 
 strictly speaking, one ought to say, the 
 " upper fifth" of society. Their parents were 
 wealthy and well-born, and lived at their 
 country-houses in their respective counties — 
 magnates upon a small scale in their particular 
 neighbourhoods. Both boys, at the seats of 
 their respective fathers, had enjoyed the same 
 free, wholesome English country life until they 
 were sent to Eton. That life of the woods and 
 of the fields — that enterprising life of nature, 
 which to the boy is so wholesome and so delight- 
 ful ; which, in itself, fosters so many free and 
 generous aspirations ; — and which, when home 
 affords other advantages equally necessary to
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 7 
 
 a just development, is the very best early 
 schooling a boy can receive. 
 
 These additional advantages, however, in 
 these two instances, had been denied. The 
 boys had lived at home, it is true, and had 
 neither of them been injured by the low or 
 vicious associations, or the false training of too 
 many schools ; — but this was alL Little pains, 
 except the most superficial discipline and 
 teaching, had been expended upon either of 
 them. They had both happened to belong 
 to those sort of people who have no idea of any 
 duty as regards the education of their children, 
 but that of sending them in due course of time 
 to the proper schools, and paying their bills 
 without grumbling. For the rest, they had it 
 all much their own way. As little boys, their 
 mothers, or their sisters' governesses had taught 
 them to read; — their mothers had also, I 
 believe, read a chapter in the Bible with them 
 on Sundays. As they grew older, a daily tutor 
 had given them an hour or two of Latin ; and 
 at about twelve years of age they were sent to
 
 8 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 Eton. At Eton the same course was pursued, 
 Eton was expected to do everything for 
 them. A few letters from home — baskets of 
 game and fruit ; a visit now and then from an 
 uncle or a father — a dinner to a selected party 
 of their particular friends — a sovereign into 
 the hand as they parted in the evening, had 
 been the sum of the care they had received. 
 
 In the holidays it was much the same, — 
 They saw little of their parents, who were 
 engaged in their own pursuits of visiting, or 
 gardening, or farming, or shooting, as the case 
 might be, and they happened neither of them 
 to have sisters capable or willing, as so many 
 are, of assisting insensibly in the improvement 
 of boys of their age — and supplying, in some 
 degree, the duties of a mother. Not even this 
 however, dispenses a mother from this sacred 
 duty, which she, and she alone, can adequately 
 perform, and which so many women most 
 admirably and successfully do perform. 
 
 Enough of this.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. y 
 
 The taller boy is a fine, handsome, nobly 
 developed creature, with fair hair, and large, 
 spirited, brave blue eyes : features bold and 
 regular — the very type of the old Norseman 
 beauty. Accordingly his fellows have nick- 
 named him the Viking. 
 
 The other is of a different kind. His figure 
 is symmetry itself — finely modelled to the per- 
 fection of united grace, activity, and strength; — 
 his features are beautiful — expressive of all 
 that is high and majestic, and all that is 
 tender and passionate at once. His dark 
 eyes melt and kindle — flash defiance when 
 excited to anger, or are suffused with but too 
 ready tears when softened by feeling; his 
 beautiful dark brown hair hangs clustering over 
 his fine intellectual brow, white as the waxy 
 tea rose. His fellows have named him the 
 Celestial Archer — he does, in truth, remind 
 one of that statue "which enchants the world — " 
 The Apollo who has just sent forth his shaft 
 from the twanging bow. But it is mostly in 
 the perfection and contour of his figure ; for in
 
 10 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 the face there is a something English, — some- 
 thing passionate, thoughtful, intense, and 
 deeply earnest, which the Grecian divinity 
 wants, after all. 
 
 That the community of Eton had honoured 
 them by thus surnaming them, would be in 
 itself a warrant how highly they were rated ; 
 how individually they stood out from the com- 
 munity. 
 
 They had not known each other before they 
 met at school ; but happening to lodge at the 
 same Dame's, and their rooms to be next door 
 to each other, an intimacy had sprung up, 
 which had soon ripened into a friendship — a 
 friendship the closer, perhaps, because with 
 many points of resemblance in circumstances, 
 early associations, tastes, and likings, they were 
 in character extremely unlike each other. 
 
 The Viking was brave, reserved, stern, cold, 
 and undemonstrative in his usual deportment. 
 
 The Celestial Archer was vehement, ardent, 
 positive, demonstrative. 
 
 The one was slow to anger — but his anger,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 11 
 
 once excited, was terrible. Cold, stern, and 
 measured in its expression, but deep, abiding, 
 and vindictive. 
 
 A word or gesture would kindle up the other 
 to a flame — which, at a word of apology or 
 concession, would as rapidly subside into cor- 
 dial forgiveness. The passion of rage which 
 found vent in the kindling cheeks and rising 
 tears, would melt again into drops of soft and 
 generous contrition, whenever his anger might 
 have carried him too far. I think I see him 
 now pressing a companion's hand in cordial re- 
 conciliation, and turning half away to hide the 
 too ready moisture that the heart-swell sent up 
 to his eyes. 
 
 We all respected and looked up with admira- 
 tion and a certain awe at the Viking — so ma- 
 jestic, so commanding, so self-possessed — but 
 we adored the Celestial Archer. As for me, at 
 least, I loved him with a passionate devotion 
 and admiration, which only the heart of a 
 schoolboy can feel. 
 
 No one pretended to rival the friendship
 
 12 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 these two felt for each other. It was their 
 privilege to be considered as standing upon 
 equal ground ; for the rest of us. we all looked 
 up to them involuntarily. 
 
 Now they are walking, as I said, together, 
 sauntering up and down, engaged in one of 
 those interminable conversations in which they 
 seemed to take such delight; more closely 
 united than ever by a circumstance which took 
 place at the beginning of this half. 
 
 The present conversation seems to be one of 
 more than usual interest, and so it is : — for it 
 is upon a subject to which the Celestial rarely 
 refers, and which is known only to this one 
 friend. Not for the universe would this proud 
 and delicately-feeling boy have exposed the 
 secret of his heart to any but the sacred, holy 
 eye of the one true friend. 
 
 He has a little narrow crimson ribbon which 
 he wears close to his bosom, and from which 
 depends a little tiny heart, in which is a very 
 minute curl of soft, brown hair. 
 
 The Viking does not laugh at his friend's
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 13 
 
 secret. To him such a love as his is a sacred 
 thing. They seldom enter upon the subject, 
 but when they do, it is with an earnestness 
 and delicacy which would do honour to any 
 heart. 
 
 " Yet, she is but a mere 'child/' the Archer 
 is saying, "eleven or twelve years old' at most ; 
 but she has the delicacy, sense, and goodness 
 of an angel- woman. So sweet and obliging in 
 her temper — so gay and lively in her spirits — 
 so intrinsically good — such an angel of love 
 and piety. It is enough only to see her saying 
 her prayers at church — as I do when I am stay- 
 ing there, and we go into their great pew — to 
 make one pious oneself .... and then her name 
 — Imogene ! What a sweet name, and so ex- 
 actly her."^ 
 
 There, my good reader, this is inserted to 
 show why the history of Imogene opens with 
 an account of the Celestial Archer. 
 
 To return to the circumstance which I was 
 about to relate, and which had still further 
 ri vetted this youthful friendship.
 
 14 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 They both of them belong to the boats. 
 
 Neither of them, as I hinted, was cele- 
 brated for sapping; they seemed contented jnst 
 to hold their own in the school, but appeared 
 indifferent to distinguished success upon the 
 forms — their pride appeared chiefly to lie in 
 surpassing the rest in all sorts of manly sports 
 and exercises. Boating and cricketing, of 
 course, they excelled in. In the last they 
 were forced to take opposite sides, for no one 
 would play a match against them united,— 
 and they each steered a separate boat, for 
 much the same reason. 
 
 How they managed to combine the rivalry 
 this excited with their perfect and unalterable 
 friendship, I do not exactly know. Sometimes 
 it seemed to me as if an unnatural fierceness 
 would flash up in the Viking's eyes, when the 
 Celestial Archer had beaten him at cricket; 
 and he would speak coldly and shortly to the 
 other when — the game over — he came to take 
 his arm with his usual affectionate cordiality. 
 Sometimes I could observe a flush of red-hot
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 15 
 
 colour just flare up into the cheek of the 
 Archer, at the tone of voice in which he might 
 be answered — but the thing was over in a mo- 
 ment — before a man could say, " Behold, it is 
 there," it was gone — and the friends were as 
 happy together as ever. 
 
 The incident which seemed so greatly to 
 strengthen this close friendship took place one 
 evening, when I myself chanced to be present. 
 I was one of the boaters. 
 
 It was a half-holiday, at the end of May, 
 shortly before the Midsummer vacation. There 
 was a small regatta at that bend of the river, 
 which is nearly opposite to Clifden, and we 
 were to row a match there. 
 
 Upon this occasion, as upon others, as I 
 have mentioned, the two friends steered sepa- 
 rate boats, and were opposed to each other in 
 the match of six oars. 
 
 What a beautiful evening was that ! How 
 lovely looked the woods of Clifden, as they 
 swept down those fine steeps to the Thames — 
 which, smooth as a mirror, and clear as crystal,
 
 16 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 reflected all the innumerable tints — the rich 
 yellows, browns, soft greens, and greys of the 
 spring foliage. The noble oaks and magnifi- 
 cent elms were towering, in all their wealth of 
 beauty and grandeur, above the lower cluster- 
 ing copse trees. The sun shone brightly upon 
 the landscape, giving a glow of life to every- 
 thing around ; white swans were floating upon 
 the gilded waters — the light boats were skim- 
 ming over the shining surface, forming little 
 ripples with their prows. Now a white sail 
 was hoisted, and spread its snowy wing to the 
 breeze which began to rise — the little skiff to 
 which it belonged, careering swiftly along — 
 yet to be passed by a six-oar, which rapidly 
 coursed along the water; the boys, in their 
 pink-striped shirts, bending vigorously to the 
 oar, and saluting the sailing boat with a shout 
 of triumph, as they swept gaily by. 
 
 The single-oared wherries, like shells afloat, 
 were not wanting there — the one man they 
 contained, urging them onwards with a speed 
 as astounding as beautiful — in short, the river
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 17 
 
 was a scene of gay confusion, enlivened still 
 further by the bright sun, the blue sky, the 
 white coursing clouds, the sweet fresh breeze, 
 and the varied crowd of spectators upon the 
 banks, in carriages, on horse-back, or on foot — 
 from the strange gipsy women of Burnham 
 Beeches, to the fair Queen of Clifden herself — 
 from the farming boy in his holiday suit, to 
 the most exquisite of horse or man that ever 
 adorned Rotten-Row. I was rather a singular 
 boy, I think, myself: — I always loved obser- 
 vation better than action — reflection upon my 
 own thoughts, rather than interchange of 
 thoughts with others. I used to mope about 
 a good deal by myself, and the boys, to their 
 credit be it said, let me alone — partly, because 
 I was, as a scholar, considered rather a credit 
 to the place — if I may venture to own so much 
 without being suspected of undue vanity — 
 partly, because I really was a very delicate 
 boy. There was no disguising this ; I was so 
 manifestly unfit to struggle and make my way 
 in the busy throng, that — with a sense of justice 
 vol. i. c
 
 18 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 and good nature common to boys, who, as I 
 think, are usually strictly just according to their 
 ideas of justice, and generally good-natured 
 where they suspect neither pretence nor affecta- 
 tion — I was suffered to live in my own way, a 
 good deal apart, and undisturbed, — it being 
 evident to the most superficial observer, that 
 with me this was rather a matter of necessity 
 than choice. 
 
 I loved to row alone in my wherry, keeping 
 a little apart, so as to have the water a good 
 deal to myself, and to watch, at a short dis- 
 tance, the proceedings of that busy crowd to 
 which I so little belonged. 
 
 And now the race between the six-oars begins. 
 
 Beautiful sight ! 
 
 How the light vessels skim over the water, 
 like sea-birds ! — how the steerers bend and bow 
 almost to a level with the benches of the boat! — 
 how the six rowers, with one sympathetic motion, 
 reach forward, rise and fall simultaneously ! — 
 how the accompanying boats fly onwards to be 
 present at the termination of the race ! — and
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 19 
 
 how cheering cries, responsive to the efforts of 
 the rowers, greet them from the crowds upon 
 the river side ! 
 
 Mermaid and Water-Lily — which will be the 
 victor? The Viking steers the Mermaid, — 
 the Celestial Archer the Water-Lily — now 
 this, — now that, has the lead. 
 
 The Viking has it ! — He is half-a-boat — he 
 is a whole length, a-head ! You see him just 
 cast up that noble head of his with a gesture 
 of exultation, and then bend and bow to his 
 task again. 
 
 The Celestial Archer glances at his crew. 
 "Now — now !" — with fresh vigour they bend 
 to the oar. The steerer bows himself almost to 
 a level with the earth. Forward they go, 
 cleaving the water, which breaks in light foam 
 around the prow of the swiftly flying little 
 vessel — forward ! — forward ! They pass ahead 
 of the Viking, just as he almost touches the goal. 
 
 A shout of triumph rang from all sides. 
 Both steerers had started up as by one im- 
 pulse. The Celestial Archer, his face all one 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 glow of joy and triumph, glanced proudly and 
 exultingly over his boat's-crew ; at this time 
 thrown negligently back, resting on their oars, 
 taking breath, after their almost super-human 
 exertions : then he directed a look at the adver- 
 sary, the defeated boat. It seemed as if he 
 expected sympathy even at that trying mo- 
 ment of defeat from the friend he loved — but 
 no. The face of the Viking was dark and sullen. 
 His mortification was, indeed, excessive. He had 
 the palm of victory in his very hand, when it 
 had thus been snatched away. He could ill brook 
 defeat at any time, and upon this occasion the 
 deafening shouts of congratulation which 
 greeted the triumph of the rival crew, came 
 with peculiar bitterness to his proud heart. 
 One glance was exchanged. The glowing 
 cheek of the Celestial Archer turned pale ; the 
 bright, generous, gladness of his eye was dim- 
 med; — he sat down quietly, and remained 
 silent, and as if exhausted, whilst the boat, 
 amid acclamations ringing from every side, 
 returned leisurely to the starting-place.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 21 
 
 The Viking, too, resumed his seat ; and the 
 defeated boat was quietly rowed away. 
 
 It was as they were returning in the even- 
 ing, that the accident I am about to mention 
 happened. 
 
 The two boys had left their larger boats, and 
 each was returning homewards in his own 
 wherry. They were late; the weather had 
 changed, the evening was dark and lowering, — 
 the sun had been some time gone down, and 
 the twilight was thickening almost to dark- 
 ness over the river, the clouds lay so heavily 
 around the horizon. 
 
 The two boys rowed at some little distance 
 from each other, not as usual, side by side, 
 exchanging their jokes, and lively, fanciful 
 conversation, but both silent and both moody. 
 The Viking mortified and sullen ; — the Archer 
 wounded to the very core of his heart. 
 
 He was but a boy — a warm-tempered, gene- 
 rous, loving boy : he had yet to learn that half 
 melancholy indulgence, which man, as he ad- 
 vances in life, discovers that he he must needs
 
 22 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 grant to the infirmities of his fellow-man. To 
 that heart of his which glowed so warmly, and 
 beat so freely within his breast, he expected to 
 find a responsive heart. His friend's triumph 
 would have been as his own. He had strug- 
 gled hard for victory ; — that was due to himself 
 and his crew — due to the generous, emulous feel- 
 ings of a breast which aspired to the crowning 
 excellence in all things ; — but had he been 
 defeated after he and his had done their best, 
 — had the victory been awarded to his friend — 
 it would more than have consoled him. He 
 would have rejoiced once more, as over and 
 over again, before this he had rejoiced — when 
 the strength and unparalleled vigour of the 
 Viking had triumphed over him. 
 
 Upon the water especially. 
 
 This was, indeed, the first victory against the 
 Mermaid, which the Water-Lily had achieved. 
 
 He did not weigh the infinite mortification 
 inflicted — when he, esteemed the invincible, 
 first takes his place among the vanquished — 
 against what he thought such cold and unkind
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 23 
 
 want of sympathy. He only felt acutely the 
 contrast with what his own feelings upon such 
 an occasion would have been, and at once 
 jumped to the usual conclusion of the hurt spirit 
 —that the Viking did not care for him at all 
 
 So, sorely wounded, and silent, and sullen, in 
 his turn, he quietly pursued his way — the 
 Viking preserving his moody attitude of stern, 
 gloomy pride. 
 
 I was at a little distance, observing the two 
 friends, and watching the aspect of things with 
 interest, and a sort of sadness upon my own 
 part, — when, suddenly, there was a loud cry \ 
 I started up, but only to behold one of the 
 wherries overset, and floating, keel upwards. 
 It was the Archer's, — and, before a man could 
 say, " 'Tis there," — the heavy plunge of the 
 Viking into the water was heard. 
 
 He had put on a large thick boat coat, for 
 the evening was chilly; he did not even stay to 
 throw it off, but plunged head foremost into 
 the river after his friend. 
 
 That sort of precipitation was not usual with
 
 24 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 him. There was a passion and vehemence in 
 it, which showed where his heart lay. 
 
 The wherry had been upset by a cord fas- 
 tened to the bank, and to a heavy coal barge 
 in the river, which, in the glimmering twilight, 
 the Archer had not observed; he had taken 
 the line between the barge and the shore. 
 The Viking was proceeding upon the outer 
 side. Their mutual repulsion of the moment 
 it was which occasioned the accident. 
 
 Both sank, and were lost to sight. 
 
 There was a general cry for help — a general 
 shriek, rather than shout, of horror. Sud- 
 denly, the head of the Viking appears above 
 the water, the heavy coat seems to weigh him 
 down; nevertheless, he gives one or two 
 vigorous strokes, raises himself for a moment, 
 looks round, and then dives again. 
 
 The men on board the barge, and some of 
 us in our boats, had by this time disem- 
 barrassed ourselves of our clothes, and all 
 that could swim had plunged into the river. 
 The first effort of some was to upturn the
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 25 
 
 boat, — we found the boy bad been sucked 
 under it ; others dived and plunged where the 
 Viking had disappeared, weighed down, it 
 seemed, by the weight of his clothing. 
 
 All passed in a moment's time — but what 
 ages are some moments ! 
 
 It was well we were there. Once more the 
 Viking emerges, but he is exhausted — he can 
 scarcely rise to the surface. He holds a body 
 supported by one arm, part of the clothing 
 between his teeth; he is making a superhuman 
 effort — his strength is fast giving way — his 
 eyes are becoming dimmed by the dreadful 
 death-stare ; but he has saved his friend ! 
 
 It was just in time. We cluster round him, 
 and the two are landed, both insensible, but 
 safely, upon the river's bank. 
 
 "Where am I?" was Albert Faulconer's 
 first exclamation, as, after the usual means
 
 26 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 had been employed for a considerable length 
 of time, he opened his eyes, and, after a few 
 convulsive heavings and struggles, recovered 
 the power of speech. 
 
 He looked confused, like one suddenly 
 awakened out of a profound sleep — stared 
 round — shook his head up and down, as if to 
 awaken his senses, and then asked again — 
 
 " Where am I ? Have I been dreaming ?" 
 
 "No, not dreaming: but dead you have 
 been, Archer," said one of his companions — 
 "how do you feel yourself now, old fellow?" 
 
 "Bather particularly uncomfortable, I should 
 say — but what's the matter ? — Where have we 
 all been? — this is not my bed." 
 
 u No, it's not your bed, sure enough," an- 
 swered another of his companions, Stanley; 
 " it's a poor bed, to be sure — but better than 
 the bed of the river, it seems to me." 
 
 "Cold work among the fishes — ay, Celestial? 
 What's that Shakspeare says about Phoebus 
 pillowing his head upon the wave — rather a 
 cold pillow, heigh ! my Archer ? "
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 27 
 
 "Young gentlemen, please to let the patient 
 alone," interrupted the apothecary, who had 
 been called in, and now returned from visiting 
 his patient in the next room — "the young 
 gentleman requires quiet — both the gentlemen 
 require quiet. Please all of you, but one, to 
 quit the room — one young gentleman to watch 
 and administer any little thing to the patient 
 that may be necessary, is all that is now re- 
 quired. I am sure we are greatly indebted to 
 you, for your assistance." We had all certainly 
 been rubbing with all our might, or running 
 to and fro, and offering every help in our 
 power. " But now nothing more but a good 
 sleep is necessary, after which the patient may 
 be safely allowed to return to Eton." 
 
 The Archer looked bewildered, but he turned 
 his eyes upon me, as if asking an ■explanation, 
 and laid his hand at the same time upon mine, 
 as if I were the one he wished to stay with him. 
 
 " Very good," said the doctor. 
 
 He had observed already how much more of 
 the old woman than of the young boy there
 
 28 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 seemed to be about me — "Very good — you — 
 Mister — Mister — Lenham. " 
 
 u Very good — you, Mister Lenham — please 
 to stay with us, and the rest of the gentlemen 
 may be released." 
 
 "Good night, then, Archer — Good night, 
 Celestial." 
 
 "Good night, Albert — Good night, Faul- 
 coner — pleasant dreams, and we'll tell Oxley 
 all about it, and that you'll be home to-mor- 
 row — He'll be home to-morrow night, doctor ?" 
 
 " Immediately after breakfast." 
 
 " And Hako— the Viking?" 
 
 " Mr. Hardress, do you mean?" 
 
 " Yes, to be sure. How's he ?" 
 
 " He has suffered most — but it's all right, I 
 hope, now — or will be soon." 
 
 " How's that?" cried I — " I did not under- 
 stand that — what's the matter with him ?" 
 
 " Oh, a trifle, a trifle," answered the doctor — 
 for his patient's face became suddenly suffused 
 with a crimson flush, as he started up, exclaim- 
 ing — " Hardress ! Hardress ! — What of him ?"
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 29 
 
 " Oh, nothing of any consequence/' replied 
 the man of medicine, with a sort of gentle vio- 
 lence replacing his patient's shoulders upon the 
 pillow — " You must both be quiet, and you'll 
 soon be as if nothing had happened." 
 
 The boys, one after the other, had by this 
 time departed out of the room — followed by the 
 doctor, after he had given me a few directions. 
 
 The Archer continued to hold my hand ; he 
 lay, however, some time quite still; his beau- 
 tiful eyes fixed upon the wall before him, lost 
 in his own thoughts, and as if endeavouring to 
 collect his recollections. 
 
 At last 
 
 " Now I have it," he said suddenly. 
 
 " I remember it — I begin to remember it" — 
 he went on — " It was like a dream at first — 
 but now it begins to get real — We were return- 
 ing home after the Regatta — eh ? — There was 
 a Regatta, surely — thafs not a dream ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! sure enough, that's no dream, 
 and here's your silver medal. / took care of 
 that for you — ' Token of the Victory of the 
 Water-Lily.' "
 
 30 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 "I remember — I remember it all now," 
 pushing away the medal — " take it away y I 
 hate the sight of it." 
 
 " Why? Celestial! 
 
 " I was coming home in my wherry, and it 
 capsized. Surely now I remember the plunge 
 into the water — it was so cold — and I was so 
 hot — I think I lost my senses at the first 
 plunge — I can't remember an atom more." 
 
 " Nor how you got out?" 
 
 " Not an iota — I think I must have struck 
 my head against something, for you know I am 
 a capital diver, and can hold my breath against 
 any one but the Viking," with a sigh. " It's 
 very odd he wasn't among 'era here." 
 
 " No — but that's because he's as bad as you 
 are himself. Didn't you hear what the doctor 
 said?" 
 
 " Oh, my head — it's all confusion, as if the 
 waters were rushing into my ears still — yes 
 — I remember now — Was he capsized too ?" 
 
 " No — no — he sprang into the water after 
 
 you."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 31 
 
 "After me!" 
 
 " To be sure he did — and saved your life." 
 
 The tears gushed up into his eyes — and 
 again a glow, beautiful as the glow of Heaven, 
 came over his face. 
 
 "He!— Hardress? He!" 
 
 " To be sure, who else ? — Who loves you as 
 he does ? — The rest of us stopped to pull our 
 coats off — but Hardress, down he plunged 
 headlong, with his heavy pilot blue on — and 
 it's a mercy he was not drowned to keep you 
 company. It was not like the Viking — I 
 never saw him do such a rash, impetuous thing 
 before." 
 
 He pressed my hand, glanced up into my 
 face- — one glance only it was — but such a 
 glance — he said nothing — his content seemed 
 too big for words — but his countenance was 
 enough. 
 
 There was another silence — then he began 
 once more — 
 
 " Tell me again."
 
 32 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " The doctor says you must be quiet," I 
 answered — for his agitation frightened me — 
 his chest seemed to swell almost convulsively, 
 as if his heart was too big for it to hold ; and 
 the tears every now and then came gushing to 
 his eyes, and rolling in large round drops over 
 his cheeks. 
 
 "Tell me again — Do you think anything 
 does one good like that? — And I could be 
 thinking that he did not care for me !" 
 
 I thought it best to tell him all that I 
 could recollect of what had happened. 
 
 "- In his arms ! — You are sure he had his 
 arms round me ... . And so you brought us 
 to shore .... Clasped in his arms ! — You 
 did not part us ?" 
 
 u Not till we got you safe to land. He 
 clenched you so firmly, that we thought it 
 better not to try to part you." 
 
 " Then, if we had died, we should have 
 stiffened so — eh ? — And would they have 
 buried us in the same grave, do you think ?" 
 " Perhaps so — I have heard of such
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 33 
 
 things being done — but you didn't die, you 
 see." 
 
 " I wish we had — I almost wish we had — 
 I'd so liked to have been buried so. They'd 
 have put a stone, or a marble, or something or 
 other over us. There we should have been 
 together — and at the last trump we'd been 
 found there together ..." 
 
 " How you talk ! — Don't be so foolish." 
 
 " Foolish ! — Yes, I know. It's more than 
 foolish, perhaps, it's wrong. One ought to be 
 very thankful — but somehow, Lenham, I wish 
 it had been as I say — Oh, I'd have liked 
 to have died with his arm round me — he saving 
 me. Yes, it's foolish, and perhaps its wrong, 
 but, Lenham, I would." 
 
 Poor boy ! 
 
 "I am sure it's foolish, and I believe its 
 wrong," I said. " Why should you wish to die ? 
 — you ought to thank God, and I hope you do 
 and will, for saving your life — that's what my 
 mother would tell me to do, I know," — said the 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 34 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 young preacher. They used to call me the 
 
 minister at Eton. 
 
 " I don't know for that — I never had a 
 mother of that sort — I mean, that told me 
 much about such things — I suppose she left it 
 to the parson — I might have been more like 
 you, Lenham — and that sort of thing, if I'd 
 had a mother like your's. — One wants a mother 
 of that kind sometimes, to put things into a boy's 
 head, he won't take from any body else. — Don't 
 you love your mother very much ? — As much 
 as I do Hardress, I dare say." 
 
 " A thousand times more." 
 
 " That's impossible." 
 
 " A mother is so soft and kind. — A mother 
 flings herself into the flames to save her child — 
 and she never pouts when he wins the medal." 
 
 I was sorry I said that — when his face 
 clouded over painfully. 
 
 " That's not like you, Lenham, to remind a 
 fellow of such things — and it's not fair to 
 compare the two. — A mother's glory — her 
 selfish glory is in her son — he can't be her
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 35 
 
 rival — he never is her rival — it's not fair to 
 talk so." 
 
 " I own it's not fair — I wish I had not said 
 it." 
 
 "That is like you, Lenham — now I know 
 you again — I will say you are the fairest fellow 
 I know — -You may be a preacher — they may 
 call you l Praise the Lord Barebones,' if they 
 will, but you are the fairest of them all — 
 Hardress himself, is not more bold to speak the 
 truth, or stand by a fallen man." 
 
 I have compiled a story, that I thought 
 worth recording, from the various materials 
 which came to my hand. Some, as has already 
 appeared, from my own personal experience and 
 observation, the rest from the reports and 
 records of others. 
 
 I thought that the observation of human 
 nature, and, in some of its rarest examples of 
 excellence, when placed under circumstances 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 the most unique and exceptional, might afford 
 matter for not uninteresting observation ; — 
 but I am no artist in the arrangement of sto- 
 ries ; — and am, indeed, rather a sceptic as to 
 the advantage of most conventional methods of 
 arrangement. 
 
 Thoughts, feelings, and events, thrown down, 
 as they occur to the writer, have often a force 
 and nature about them, which might be 
 lost by an attempt upon his part at a certain 
 symmetrical arrangement, for which his some- 
 what untutored genius may be ill fitted. — 
 I will, therefore, beg my reader to pardon the 
 method of my story, if I can succeed in inte- 
 resting him in the story itself, and allow me to 
 carry him back some years before proceeding 
 with my Eton narrative.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 37 
 
 -A 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 And the pure and good intent 
 
 Of the child he noted well, 
 
 And the high and holy bent of the thoughts. . . 
 
 Mrs. Acton Tindal. 
 
 The course of my relation leading me to a 
 different place, and a different period of time — 
 my obliging critics, I repeat, must please to 
 excuse these abrupt interruptions, and to re- 
 member, that — in relating the history of men's 
 lives, it is well, nay it is necessary, to seize 
 upon those portions of them which are charac- 
 teristic of their dispositions, or important to 
 their destiny, passing over the remainder with 
 little or no notice. — A history is not a daily 
 chronicle— It does not profess to relate all that
 
 38 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 happened — It is a series of pictures connected 
 less by the links of time than of circumstance. 
 These breaks and pauses in the narrative seem 
 to me to be essential, so far as the omission of 
 insignificant details is essential, to every tole- 
 rable relation. 
 
 And so, having attempted thus much in my 
 own defence, I proceed to carry out my prin- 
 ciple, in a somewhat outrageous manner, for I 
 must carry you back to the very fountains of 
 those events, which are about to fill my tale. 
 
 From two far-distant springs this current of 
 my story will appear to rise ; but they flow 
 towards each other as they descend to the 
 ocean, and will be found to mingle in time. 
 
 "What is to be done?" 
 
 "What can be done? — What ought to be 
 done ?" 
 
 " Was ever situation so cruelly perplexing ?" 
 
 If one did but know what was right ! — If 
 one could but be assured what was true ! 
 
 What credit ought, in common sense, to be
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 39 
 
 attached to such an assertion uttered at such a 
 moment ; when reason seemed tottering upon 
 her seat ; when passion was all aroused ; when 
 the unaccountable vehemence of hatred, which 
 had so long animated the unhappy victim, had 
 assumed every appearance of the wildest ma- 
 lignity and revenge ? 
 
 The two friends sat over the expiring 
 embers of the fire in Lady Emma's dressing- 
 room. Pale, and cold, and shuddering ; — yet 
 forgetting to arouse the flame that might have 
 cheered them. 
 
 She had been a prey to the most cruel per- 
 plexity as to the duties demanded of her. She 
 had already, as she now thought, mistaken her 
 part, and her mistake had brought down this 
 heavy dispensation upon her head — but how, 
 how was every perplexity now increased, every 
 line of duty inextricably, as it would seem, 
 entangled ! 
 
 What must they do ? 
 
 " Oh ! that Alice had but lived one half-hour 
 longer ! — that she had but left some unques-
 
 40 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 tionable proof behind, that the fact which she 
 had, in that moment of agony, so passionately 
 asserted — was, if true — indisputable." 
 
 w Patience — patience — dear Emma !" said 
 Grace; " and now, if you would but go to bed — 
 Sleep, in cases of this nature, is the best coun- 
 sellor. — If you could rest — then you could 
 pray — and then light would come." 
 
 " Light ! — No, Grace — It has been put out 
 of the power of even Providence itself to give 
 me the light I need — for the woman is dead — 
 dead!" 
 
 " Oh, Emma ! don't say so. — If we are not 
 allowed a clearer light as regards the fact — 
 light to guide us to the duty required in this 
 wretched uncertainty to which you seem con- 
 demned, you will surely find. Those gleamings 
 of brightness which come into the soul — that 
 voice speaking within, which we cannot gain- 
 say — are realities, and the most important of 
 realities. — Let us try to rest, and compose our 
 spirits with this assurance — to-morrow we shall 
 be able to see more clearly what ought — or
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 41 
 
 rather what can be done. — Will you not go and 
 give little Imogene a kiss before you lie 
 down ?" — Grace added, as Lady Emma, in a 
 bewildered, weary, wretched manner, list- 
 lessly rose to ring for her maid. 
 
 "What?— Yes, perhaps, I ought." 
 
 " Ought ! — Your poor little child ! — Surely 
 that will be a comfort to you !" 
 
 "My child!— Oh, Grace!— That is the 
 most horrible part of all. — I feel as if she could 
 never be as a child to me again — She's not my 
 child — She's Alice's — she's the gamekeeper's, 
 child." 
 
 •'My dear Emma!" 
 
 " Oh ! I know she's my child in blood !" — 
 she broke out wildly — "but it's all been such 
 a horrible deception — I don't know who is — 
 or who is not — what is or what is not — but 
 Oh ! — Oh, me ! — I do feel — and it's the only 
 thing I am sure that I do feel — that I have no 
 child any more." 
 
 " Poor little thing," said Grace. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! Poor little thing ! — Poor little
 
 42 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 thing ! And what are we to do with her?" 
 
 " Do with her? — Do justly and kindly by 
 her — Emma, you astonish me!" 
 
 " Do I ? — Then it's no more than I astonish 
 myself — I verily believe my heart is turned to 
 stone." 
 
 She looked so wildly and unnaturally that 
 Mrs. Birchell felt there was nothing to be done 
 but to get her to bed as soon as possible. 
 
 She rang for the maid, and saw her friend laid 
 upon her pillow, where, to the immense present 
 relief of Mrs. Birchell — by this time nearly 
 quite worn-out herself — the poor bewildered 
 sufferer fell almost instantly fast asleep. — 
 Leaving Emma to the care of her maid, Grace 
 stole softly out of the room ; but before re- 
 tiring to the one which had been prepared for 
 herself, she stole into the chamber, at a little 
 distance from that Lady Emma occupied, which 
 had been, since her return home, appropriated 
 to Imogene. 
 
 Strange to say, she found something of the 
 same hallucination which possessed Lady
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 43 
 
 Emma, stealing over herself. — Do what she 
 would, she could not regard the little girl in 
 the usual light. — A certain prestige, that 
 surrounded her, was gone. — The descendant of 
 a good family, the heiress of an immense for- 
 tune, this little creature had been hut half-a- 
 dozen hours ago ; and now what was she ? — 
 The subject of a fraudulent imposture — the 
 descendant of a menial, and a guilty menial, — 
 and, if justice were done, penniless. 
 
 " Oh, folly ! guilt ! baseness ! detestable 
 meanness of human nature! — or of my own 
 nature l M Grace was tempted to exclaim — 
 " that this innocent victim of the sins of 
 others, should excite a diminished interest — 
 when she is so deeply, deeply to be pitied !" 
 
 But Grace might have her imagination per- 
 verted by infirmity ; — her actions never. — 
 The more she felt wrongly, the more she strove 
 to act rightly, in this case — as in all others. 
 So she went to visit the poor forlorn being, 
 stripped at once and so cruelly of all the adven- 
 titious circumstances of life ; — when, had the
 
 44 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 child still been, what she had been thought 
 a few hours ago — Mrs. Birchell, wearied to 
 death as she was, would have gone straight to 
 her own chamber. 
 
 She went up to the small bed where the 
 little girl was peacefully slumbering, her nurse 
 in a four-post hard by, treble locked in snor- 
 ing repose beside her. 
 
 The little creature's pillow was trimmed 
 and fringed with lace ; her quilt was of Eider 
 down ; her curtains of fine muslin, lined with 
 satin, drawn up with silken tassels. 
 
 The simplicity which Lady Emma had im- 
 posed upon herself and her child, had not been 
 observed here, — perhaps, because the furniture 
 was there already, and it would have cost 
 money to have altered it — perhaps, because the 
 matter had been overlooked — so these delicate 
 and elegant associations which affect the ima- 
 gination so strongly as connected with indivi- 
 duals, were all assembled about the child's 
 alcove. 
 
 She lay sleeping there, her tiny arm clasped
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 45 
 
 round a very old and ugly doll, with a dis- 
 figured nose, a crushed cheek, and hair in that 
 terrific state of disorder that well-worn wigs of 
 hideous dolls are apt to assume. The doll 
 was carefully wrapped in a shawl, which one 
 hand of the little sleeper still held together. 
 It seemed as if her last care before she fell 
 asleep had been, to prevent this ancient 
 favourite from taking cold. 
 
 The child's face, as she lay there, was a study 
 in itself. Peace there was — for every child's 
 face when asleep is peaceful; and yet, over 
 the little brow a shadow hung — something 
 earnest, fervent, serious ! Not that cherub face 
 of sleeping innocence which Grace was wont to 
 contemplate with something approaching to 
 rapture in her little foster-boy, — but a some- 
 thing more beautiful still. 
 
 The features were delicate and regular ; — ■ 
 but in quite a different style from his. They 
 had less of the waxy roundness, in him so 
 surpassingly beautiful. They were almost too 
 much formed for those of a child of her age :
 
 46 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 the contour of her face approached too much 
 to the oval — and the skin was pale and colour- 
 less, without, however, looking unhealthy. 
 The hair, too, which had no curl, and hardly a 
 wave in it, was brown, and cut nearly short 
 about the head. Yet, was there a strange 
 charm about the child. Mrs. Birchell thought 
 she had never observed it before; — and she 
 gazed with interest and tenderness ; — but the 
 longer she gazed, the more her heart began to 
 fail her, — she fancied she discerned an un- 
 doubted likeness. 
 
 She stood there a long time, almost lost in 
 her reflections, and, forgetting herself, the hour, 
 — everything, but a sort of pitying regret, 
 — and a dreamy trembling apprehension of 
 what should happen next. 
 
 Her candle shook in her hand ; — trying to 
 recover it, she made a slight noise. Enough 
 to disturb the child, but not the nurse. 
 
 Little Imogene opened her eyes for a 
 moment, but closed them again immediately, 
 only stretching out her arm to pull the cover 
 over her dolly, murmuring,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 47 
 
 "I hope you wont be cold, 00117,'' — and 
 was in the land of dreams again. 
 
 " I have thought so much of the mother, 
 I have scarcely observed the child," was Mrs. 
 Birchen" s reflection, as she entered her own 
 room ; — relieved by the interest she felt 
 already springing up in her heart towards this 
 hapless one. — " Now, the poor little thing 
 ought to be considered before anyone — Poor 
 little creature ! — What a face of character and 
 feeling ! And what a fearful fate is hers ! " 
 
 Not such was the sentiment with which the 
 accession of the great heiress to her father's 
 vast possessions — the natural consequence, as 
 every one supposed, of his death — was hailed 
 by the numerous domestics and dependents 
 of this large household. 
 
 The late conduct of Lady Emma, aided by 
 the dark inuendoes and hints of Alice, had
 
 48 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 been so utterly unintelligible, had appeared so 
 capricious and unreasonable, and was so 
 extremely in opposition to every taste and 
 prejudice of the servant- world, that she had 
 lately become extremely unpopular in the 
 domestic empire. 
 
 Occupied with her own miserable thoughts, 
 she had not the slightest perception of the 
 change that had taken place in public opinion ; 
 perhaps, had she been aware of it, she would 
 have heeded it the less, as what she lost in 
 popularity, was more than repaid to her child. 
 
 Imogene, compelled to adopt the simplicity 
 of attire and habits which Lady Emma had 
 imposed upon herself, was regarded by the 
 household in general, and by her own nurse 
 more especially, as a victim to the most inex- 
 cusable and unaccountable tyranny. The lit- 
 tle creature was too young to trouble herself 
 much about such matters, yet she would some- 
 times innocently ask nurse, why she might not 
 wear any of her pretty frocks ? and say, ' she 
 was so tired of rice-pudding.'
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 49 
 
 The Nurse was upon the whole prudent and 
 conscientious in her way of dealing with this 
 matter, and, much to her credit, she patiently 
 forbore, in the child's presence, from making 
 any comments upon these, to her most unna- 
 tural, proceedings — putting the subject aside 
 as well as she could; but she repaid herself 
 for this species of self-constraint, by giving 
 vent to her disapprobation before the upper 
 servants ; and more especially in conversation 
 with Alice; in whom she found something 
 more than sympathy. It was, therefore, with a 
 feeling approaching that which an heir expe- 
 riences on falling suddenly into an inheritance, 
 which will considerably raise his position 
 among his fellow-men, and elevate him in 
 his own opinion into quite a new creature, — 
 that Mrs. Nurse had put her charge to bed 
 upon the night of her father's death. 
 
 She had indulged herself in once more bring- 
 ing out the muslin night-caps, trimmed with 
 most delicate Valenciennes lace ; and the 
 night-dress, made up in the same fanciful man- 
 
 VOL. I. e
 
 50 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 ner, with bows of pink ribbons; and had 
 ventured upon her own responsibility to array 
 the future mistress of Haughton in a style 
 that harmonised with her ideas of what was 
 due to that exalted station. 
 
 The little heiress had been far too sleepy to 
 notice this change at the time, but when she 
 awoke in the morning, as she usually did be- 
 fore Nurse, and lay there in her little bed, 
 amusing herself as well as she could, and 
 patiently waiting till Nurse should please to 
 arise and get her up— she perceived that she 
 had her beautiful tilings on again, and kept 
 eyeing the bows of ribbon that adorned her 
 tiny cap with much satisfaction, as she tried to 
 fit it upon the head of the hideous old doll 
 that lay beside her. 
 
 The Nurse turned in her bed. 
 
 "Nursy! Wont you wake?" said little 
 Missy — " I'm tired of bed, and I want to ask 
 you something." 
 
 "Bless me! Miss Aubrey!" — starting up 
 and looking at her watch — " if it ain't eight
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 51 
 
 o'clock. Have you been lying awake long, 
 my darling — Miss Aubrey, I mean ? " 
 
 " Not very long — but I want to get up ; 
 and why, too, have I got my beauty cap on 
 again ? " 
 
 " Why, my darling — Miss Aubrey, — because 
 it's proper, now." 
 
 " What do you mean by proper now ? — 
 Wasn't it proper yesterday ? " 
 
 " Perhaps, it was — but things are altered 
 since yesterday." 
 
 " I don't understand " 
 
 "No, you sweetest, innocent babe, how 
 should you? But things is altered, and so 
 you'll find — at least it shan't be my fault if 
 you don't." 
 
 " I wish you'd get me up, Nursy, I am so 
 tired of bed." 
 
 " Wait a little moment, I'll soon be ready, 
 Miss Aubrey, and have you up in a trice." 
 
 " But why do you call me Miss Aubrey ? 
 It doesn't sound nice — I like Imogene — and 
 darling, best."
 
 52 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " Because you are Miss Aubrey, now — sure 
 and certain, and for ever and aye. Neither 
 Master nor Miss can ever come to turn you 
 out, or share and share. Miss Aubrey you 
 are — and Miss Aubrey you must be — let those 
 gainsay it who will. And now you are Miss 
 Aubrey, I hope there will some one or other 
 be found who will see to your being treated as 
 such — of which I will be the first, and do my 
 part and portion to see you justiced, and not 
 dressed and fed like a beggar's brat — great 
 heiress as you are — and none can prevent 
 
 you." 
 
 The little girl opened wide her eyes ; sit- 
 ting up in her little bed, and staring fixedly at 
 Nurse, who was hastily going on with her own 
 toilette, while she thus delivered herself, more 
 as if she were talking apart than addressing 
 the child ; which, indeed, she was ; — venting 
 her feelings without regarding the little listener, 
 who, in mute attention, devoured every word 
 as it fell. 
 
 " Great what ! — Heir-ess !— What's that ?
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 53 
 
 I'm not great — I'm very little, still. Look, 
 what little arms I have — why, they're not 
 bigger than Miss Dolly's arms, I do declare — 
 I wish I knew what you were talking about, 
 Nursy. Miss Aubrey I am? I don't like 
 Miss Aubrey. I'm Imogene— I like to be 
 Imogene." 
 
 " Oh ! but you'll like better to be Miss Au- 
 brey — wont you? and ride in a coach and 
 four, and have two footmen with powdered 
 hair, and canes in their hands, hanging behind ! 
 and rosettes and ribbons as long as my arm at 
 the horses' heads — as Mrs. Aubrey, that last 
 was — not Lady Emma, I mean — used to have. 
 It's a grand thing, I can tell you, to be a great 
 heiress. There's no end of the feasts, and the 
 bonnets and the toys . . . and, bless me ! 
 Miss Aubrey — you must part with that nasty 
 old doll ! — It's not for such as you to play with 
 such a filthy old thing as that." 
 
 Imogene hugged her doll to her honest little 
 heart ; 
 
 " But I love Dolly— Nursy — because every-
 
 54 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 body's cross to her, and calls her ugly, but 
 me." 
 
 " Oh! but you mustn't give into such fancies, 
 now. — You'll have lots of beautiful wax dolls, 
 now — and you must throw that dreadful thing 
 away to the dogs " 
 
 " Dolly," said the little girl, looking into 
 the face of her broken-cheeked old friend — 
 " don't you be afraid — never mind what Nursy 
 says — I won't let you be thrown to the dogs — 
 that I won't — and I won't love the beautifullest 
 wax doll that ever was born in the world bet- 
 ter than you. — No, that I won't. — Go, lie you 
 there, and don't be afraid, and I'll get you up 
 and dress you as soon as Nursy has done me." 
 i One touch of nature makes the whole 
 world kin.' 
 
 The heart of Nurse swelled — 
 "And ain't it a heart of gold ? " she said, as 
 she lifted her little treasure from the bed, with 
 a kiss so honest — that, for a moment, all the 
 visions of her own and Miss Aubrey's grandeur 
 were forgotten.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 55 
 
 As the dressing went on, the child resumed 
 her prattle. 
 
 " I want you, Nursy, to tell me what's come 
 — that it's so different- — Mamma never came 
 to kiss me last night. — I know she didn't — 
 she thinks I'm asleep — but I always know 
 somehow when Mamma comes. — Why did not 
 she come last night ?" 
 
 "Poor little dear! — Well, you must be told 
 some time or other — Mamma was crying — be- 
 cause, you know . . ." 
 
 " Crying — poor Mamma — she's often crying 
 — but she kisses me — " 
 
 " Ah ! but . . . this was a great deal 
 more than common crying — your Papa — " 
 
 " Papa ! — Papa ! — dear Papa ! — He doesn't 
 cry — and he doesn't speak to me much — but 
 I love him, so — " 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " So big ! — so much ! — more than Dolly — 
 more than Mamma — more than everybody — " 
 
 Nurse turned her head away, and stole her 
 hand to her eyes.
 
 56 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " I didn't often hear you speak so of your 
 Papa — little Missy," she presently said. 
 
 "No — because Mamma said, 'Hush!' — 
 when I spoke of Papa — I thought I mustn't." 
 
 " You'd be very sorry not to see your Papa 
 again." 
 
 "Not see Papa again!" — with a faint cry. 
 " Oh ! but I will see Papa again !" 
 
 " So you shall, you little darling ! when 
 you go to God in heaven." 
 
 " Heaven ? It's up there — a long, long 
 way. I'll go to Papa, after breakfast, my own 
 self — and take him some flowers out of my 
 own — own garden — that's what I'll do, Nursy." 
 
 "No, poor little dear, you mustn't." 
 
 " Why mustn't ? — and why do you say, 
 i poor little dear?' " 
 
 " Because — because — your Papa's dead — 
 and that's what makes you Miss Aubrey." 
 
 " Dead !— what's dead ?" 
 
 " Put in a coffin and buried." 
 
 "What's coffin! — what's buried! — what's 
 dead! — I want to go to Papa — 1 will go to
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 57 
 
 She began to stamp with her little foot, as 
 if she intended to be naughty. 
 
 " Oh, don't do so — don't be naughty, Miss 
 Imogene. You should go to your Papa, pretty 
 dear — and I would take you — but he's gone 
 away for ever and ever — he's gone to God — 
 you mustn't be sorry, little darling — it's best 
 for him, poor gentleman, that it is." 
 
 The little girl stood like one almost stupified 
 with amazement. Her mind was overpowered 
 and bewildered with ideas that she could most 
 imperfectly comprehend ; but, gradually, some 
 notion of the truth seemed to dawn upon the 
 infant mind ; the tears slowly gathered to her 
 eyes, then began to roll silently down her 
 cheeks. She cried, not as the child cries, 
 but as the man weeps. 
 
 " I want to know about Mamma. Is she 
 gone away, too, for ever and ever — up into 
 the skies?" 
 
 "No, my precious; she's in her own room." 
 
 " Why didn't she come, and kiss little 
 Moggie, last night? Are you certain, sure, 
 she's not gone up in the sky, too ?"
 
 58 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 "Yes, darling, certain, sure." 
 
 " Is she crying about Papa?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, crying sadly, I dare say/' the 
 conscientious Nurse replied — uttering what she 
 only half believed; but to have the child 
 imagine that her mother did not weep for her 
 father would have been, according to her 
 ideas, a thing too terrible — and I think she 
 was right. 
 
 " I must go to her," said the little girl, 
 hurrying on the frock, into the sleeves of 
 which she was just thrusting her slender arms. 
 
 Nurse said nothing. 
 
 " I must go and comfort Mamma," said the 
 little one — " make haste. Oh, Dolly ! you 
 must go too — I can't stop to dress you." She 
 laid hold of her dolly, pressed it to her little 
 heart, gave her hand to Nurse, and began 
 pulling her towards the nursery-door. 
 
 " Why don't you come, Nursy ? — why don't 
 you come ? " 
 
 " Suppose my lady shouldn't be awake?" 
 
 " Oh, she will, or she wouldn't be crying.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 59 
 
 If you won't come, I'll go by my own self — I 
 can get to Mamma's room, all by own self, 
 now." 
 
 Nurse was obliged to give way, though half 
 afraid to appear, unsummoned, before her lady. 
 The conduct of Lady Emma, during the few 
 hours which had elapsed since her husband's 
 death, seeming to all the household more inex- 
 plicable than ever — more especially to Nurse, 
 jealous as to everything which concerned her 
 little darling. Above all, deeply had Nurse 
 resented what she thought the unfeeling neg- 
 lect of the night before. 
 
 However, the importunities of the child 
 were irresistible, and, holding her by the hand, 
 she led her to her mother's door, and knocked. 
 
 "Who's that?" was responded in a some- 
 what impatient voice. 
 
 "It's Nurse and little Moggie," was the 
 answer, in the sweet, bird-like tones of little 
 Imogene — " I want to come to you, Mamma." 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 She had risen from her bed, for she could
 
 60 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 not sleep, and was sitting in her long, white 
 dressing-gown, negligently thrown back in a 
 large arm-chair — looking like the ghost of her- 
 self. Her face was so colourless — her eyes so 
 dead — the whole countenance ghastly, as that 
 of Lazarus, when he rises from among the 
 dead, in that awful picture of Haydon's. 
 
 " Little child," she said — she still was so 
 haunted by that feeling, the worst of all her 
 strange and varied sufferings, that the child 
 was someway become a stranger to her — 
 "Little child, what are you come here for?" 
 
 " It's not little child— it's little Moggie. 
 Papa's gone to the sky, Mammy, dear — and 
 little Moggie and dolly's come to comfort you." 
 
 She came in, carrying the old doll pressed 
 to her bosom, went up to her mother, and laid 
 her tiny, slender hand upon that of Lady 
 Emma, which was resting upon the arm of the 
 chair — "We're so sorry — so sorry. But you 
 must'nt cry — because poor Papa's gone up 
 there — and Nursy told me, as we came along, 
 he'll be very happy — and we must be glad."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 61 
 
 " Did Nurse tell you to come to me?" 
 
 a No ; I came of my own self — self — because 
 you know little Moggie is your comfort — and 
 your little own — so love me, Mamma, love 
 me — why don't you love me ? " 
 
 "Oh!— I do!— I do!— I will!— I will!" cried 
 poor Emma, catching the little pleader in her 
 arms, and almost drowning her with tears, which 
 now burst forth abundantly and wholesomely — 
 and her better heart, like the green-buds after 
 a shower, sprung to life again, as they flowed 
 — " What a wretch— what a double wretch I 
 am !" — and again she covered her with kisses 
 and embraces. 
 
 The little child responded to all this in a 
 way little children rarely do ; but her sympa- 
 thies were beyond her years. She kept kissing 
 and soothing her mother, for her little bosom 
 was swelling with compassion. Children are 
 usually terrified and confounded by the expres- 
 sion of passionate emotion, even when shown 
 in the transports of affection to themselves ; 
 but this little girl was already old by her
 
 62 THE HEIRESS OP HAUGHTON. 
 
 heart, though such an innocent, guileless little 
 creature in every way. 
 
 She fondled and comforted her mother by 
 every means in her power ; at last, the deluge 
 of tears ceased, Emma recovered herself, dnd 
 placed the child upon her knee. The little 
 head, as of wont, was fondly laid against her 
 bosom — but, oh, horror of horrors ! — the heart 
 which had yielded to the first gush of emotion 
 — again with a strange, unnatural caprice, felt 
 hardened — cold as stone — as the passion sub- 
 sided — 
 
 "Was it her child? — Oh, no — it was Alice's 
 child — Not an Aubrey — but an impostor." 
 
 She hated herself — she pressed the little 
 delicate cheek against her breast; but the 
 warmth within was gone. It was as if the 
 poor little girl were herself the changeling — 
 so capricious, unnatural, and out of calculation, 
 are the conflicting feelings, the moral contra- 
 dictions, which attend upon the consequences 
 of a heavy crime. 
 
 You must not hate poor Emma. The feel- 
 ing was involuntary.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 63 
 
 It was the climax of her misery, to be con- 
 scious of it. She will try to vanquish it — she 
 will most sedulously conceal it — but Alice has 
 her full revenge. The happiness in her child 
 is shipwrecked with the rest. 
 
 All has gone down together.
 
 64 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Fold his hands, so waxen white, 
 Close the pale lids o'er his eyes; 
 To his kindred's burial place 
 
 Bear him 
 
 Mrs. Acton Tindal. 
 
 The funeral was over. 
 
 The will had been opened, before it took 
 place, by Mr. Birch ell's desire. He said it 
 might probably contain some directions as to 
 the funeral — and, in the perplexity of Lady 
 Emma's mind, as to what in any way, under 
 the circumstances, ought to be done ; he 
 thought it would be best at once to adhere 
 to Mr. Aubrey's wishes upon the subject, if 
 the expression of any such, had been left 
 behind him.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 65 
 
 There were no directions of this nature, 
 but it was found that the whole management 
 of the late William Aubrey's affairs, and the 
 sole care of his child's pecuniary interests, were 
 left to a certain Mr. Glenroy, who was ap- 
 pointed sole executor, and also joint-guardian 
 with Lady Emma. 
 
 Who was this Mr. Glenroy ? 
 
 He resided, as it appeared, in the north of 
 Scotland — and, Lady Emma now recollected, 
 was one of the friends her husband had visited 
 during his late absence from home; but she 
 had never seen him, had rarely heard her hus- 
 band mention him, and felt not very agreeably 
 surprised to find herself thus placed in so 
 intimate a relation with a perfect stranger. 
 
 It was necessary, however, immediately to 
 write to him, and take his directions as to the 
 manner in which the funeral was to be conducted. 
 Had Lady Emma followed her own wishes, 
 this would have been in the most quiet and 
 private manner possible — and she had begun 
 to give some orders to that effect; but Mr. 
 
 VOL. i. F
 
 66 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 Glenroy's letter, when it arrived, at once altered 
 every disposition. 
 
 The letter began by lamenting that a very 
 severe illness, under which he was labouring, 
 rendered it utterly impossible for Mr. Glenroy 
 to travel to Haughton in time to pay the last 
 respects to a dear and honoured friend — but, 
 that Lady Emma might depend upon seeing 
 him as soon as it was possible for him to set 
 forwards. With respect to the funeral, he 
 said, that he thought he should best consult 
 what would doubtless be Lady Emma's wishes 
 — and what was due to the memory of the 
 departed — by directing that everything should 
 be carried out exactly upon the scale adopted 
 by his deceased friend upon occasion of his 
 father's obsequies. The late Mr. Aubrey had 
 been carried to the grave, with a pomp which 
 some might have thought superfluous ; but he 
 himself was of the old school, and took plea- 
 sure in honouring the dead — and he felt this 
 more especially when they belonged to a high 
 grade in society, and were distinguished for
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 67 
 
 their personal virtues and accomplishments, 
 as his late friend had been. 
 
 Mr. Aubrey, he added, would, of course, be 
 laid by his father's side, in the family vault — 
 where, as he concluded, Lady Emma would 
 wish a space should be left where, in due course 
 of years, she might take her place beside him. 
 
 Mr. Grlenroy's letter was stiff and formal, not 
 to say cold — but extremely polite and respect- 
 ful in its terms. It was plain that he had not 
 the remotest suspicion of what had lately been 
 going on at Haughton, still less of the dread- 
 ful discovery which had plunged the relations 
 of this vexed and unhappy family into such 
 inextricable confusion. 
 
 " And must it really be so ? Must the 
 alien, the usurper — the imposed son of a de- 
 pendant — the son who was no son — the brother 
 who was no brother — be carried to his grave with 
 all that pomp and circumstance of woe which 
 belonged to a station to which he had no title?'' 
 
 "Must this imposture be thus connived at in 
 silence — Nay, would not this very connivance 
 
 f 2
 
 68 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 be a positive support of wrong ? Would it not 
 increase the difficulty of proving the fact and 
 restoring the inheritance to the rightful heir ? " 
 
 " It is a hideous deceit ! It is the acting out 
 a pompous and enormous lie ! — it is impossible 
 — it must not be ! " cried Emma, in her agony. 
 
 "My dear friend," said Grace, "do not 
 torment yourself in this manner — there is no 
 remedy for it — nothing is in your power to 
 do — and with the power you lose the respon- 
 sibility. It is impossible, till Mr. Glenroy 
 arrives in person, to enter upon the subject 
 which presses upon us in this fearful manner. 
 Things must, till then, take their course — 
 Submit to necessity — and rejoice that 
 necessity is laid upon you. How painful 
 the task would have been, if, unhappily, the 
 arrangement of these matters had rested with 
 you. Dear Emma, be reasonable." 
 
 " I wish to be reasonable, I am sure — I 
 wish to do right — but the weight of this hideous 
 secret is too oppressive — Everything which I 
 do and say under the misapprehension that ex-
 
 THE HEIRESS OF ITAUGITTON. 69 
 
 ists around me, seems to me like treachery — 
 Oh ! how little do people know when they com- 
 mit a crime, the numbers that may be involved 
 in its consequences. — That poor little girl ! — 
 That loving, affectionate, little child, to have 
 all my feelings towards her de-naturalized. — It 
 is too shocking ! — Yet I can not help it — Every 
 mark of respect which she receives from the 
 servants around us — and you know how ready 
 such sort of people are to bow down before the 
 idol, upon an occasion like this — excites a 
 bitter feeling of indignation and contemptuous 
 pity upon my side. — If they did but know . . . 
 And then, the poor unconscious object of all this 
 reverence !— -who receives it with so much 
 simple wonder — How can I look upon her but 
 as a mere pretence? a poor puppet, dressed up 
 for a moment in borrowed robes — when 
 she is, in fact, stripped of everything ! Re- 
 duced to what ? — to be a servant's child ! — one 
 of themselves — less than one of themselves ! 
 because descended — not from honest industry — 
 but black and despicable crime — Oh, I could
 
 70 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON, 
 
 hate myself and her — I am very, very miser- 
 able—" 
 
 Grace was silent. — She looked at Emma 
 with a sort of mournful wonder — 
 
 " Is this Emma?" at last she said. 
 
 " No, it is no longer Emma," replied the 
 poor thing, bitterly. "I am changed like all 
 the rest. — The wife of an impostor — disgraced 
 and humbled. — The baseness to which I have 
 been kin, infects me too — I am — I don't know 
 what — and am changed I don't know how — 
 Grace, you will despise me — I cannot help 
 that. How the world will laugh and hiss — as 
 I and this poor child descend from the pedestal 
 to which we have been so unjustly elevated, 
 and sink into the obscurity which belongs to 
 the wife and daughter of the Gamekeeper's 
 son! — I shall feel it — I cannot help feeling it, 
 and you will despise me personally, Grace, for 
 bearing my unheard-of affliction, in so unwor- 
 thy a way. — So that I shall lose everything at 
 once — and, with the rest, your love and 
 esteem — and my own self-respect,"
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 71 
 
 " The situation is trying, but we must have 
 courage — and, above all, we must have sub- 
 mission. — The issues of things are unknown to 
 us — but we know in Whose hands all things 
 are. Obedience in this dark and unintelligible 
 world — unhesitating obedience and submission 
 to the higher Hand — is not only our first duty — 
 but our best wisdom. We are but of yester- 
 day, and know nothing. — Why things are — as 
 they are, it is vain to inquire — but He is 
 everything — or He is nothing.— Life is a 
 school, Events are our lessons. — Let us take 
 them so. — Let us submit at once cheerfully, and 
 without holding back any portion of the 
 heart, to the inevitable — for the inevitable is 
 His. — You do not know, dear Lady Emma — in 
 what form this particular distress may bear 
 upon you — what peculiar exercise of virtue it 
 may demand in future ; — at present it is that 
 of patience under the weight of an almost 
 insupportable secret — but this must be borne, 
 until Mr. Glenroy arrives — When he comes — 
 we shall have the assistance of a sensible man
 
 (2 THE HEIUESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 in deciding upon the next step ; and do let us 
 be thankful that there is some one who has a 
 right to a very influential voice in our pro- 
 ceedings. — What you would have done, — if you 
 had been left to decide alone, and with only 
 myself and Mr. Birchell to advise you? — It 
 really makes one tremble to think." 
 
 " But this funeral ! — So conducted ! — It is 
 a step — it is a fact — and all in the wrong 
 direction. — What will the world think when it 
 learns, that I suffered these invitations to be 
 sent, and all this hideous, sickening funeral 
 ceremony to be prepared, knowing all the time 
 what he was, and what I was — He a robber 
 and an impostor, — and I an accessory to his 
 sin. — Oh, Grace ! Grace ! what shall I do ?" 
 
 " Bear it," — said Grace, firmly. 
 
 " And the child?" 
 
 ' 'The same with the child. It is impossible — - 
 it would be very wrong, Mr. Birchell says, 
 in a matter of this weight, to proceed hastily, 
 and that the man, your late husband" (Emma 
 shivered) — "has selected, is the one who
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 73 
 
 alone ought first to be consulted. — I repeat it, 
 you must wait with patience till he comes." 
 
 And so the day of the funeral arrived. 
 
 The preparations for it, under the directions 
 received from Mr. Glenroy, were upon a really 
 ostentatious scale. — Such funeral rites had 
 been the custom in the family of Aubrey ; — 
 and upon this occasion they surpassed even 
 those that the piety, the remorse, or the pride 
 of William had offered to his father's memory. 
 
 There was not a dependant of the whole 
 household who had not felt for their master 
 during the late scenes that had taken place in 
 the family ; — and of which, as is the manner 
 in all households that ever yet were, they were 
 perfectly aware. — The conduct of Lady Emma — 
 the motive for which being the only part of the 
 business to which they had not the slightest 
 clue — had appeared to them as the excess of 
 unfeeling caprice. Such sentiments were fos- 
 tered in every way by Mrs. Craven, whose 
 aversion, not to say hatred, of Lady Emma, 
 strengthened every day — and the affecting
 
 74 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 death of the Master — attributed by all to 
 its true cause — a broken heart, filled every 
 honest mind with a mixture of indignation and 
 pity, which rendered Lady Emma more unpo- 
 pular than ever. — Her coldness in the matter 
 of the funeral — a matter to which people of 
 that class attach a sacred importance — looking 
 upon the due celebration of it as, in truth, with 
 them it mostly is — as a pious sacrifice to the 
 memory of the dead — was regarded with a 
 sentiment approaching to horror ; — there was 
 not a dependant among them who was not 
 anxious, as far as in him or her lay, to atone, 
 in his several capacity, to their master's 
 memory, for the implied affront. 
 
 The orders dispatched by Mr. Glenroy were 
 received with enthusiastic approbation. That 
 gentleman was immediately pronounced to be 
 one of the right sort, — and every heart was 
 united in the desire to see his directions carried 
 out to their full extent. 
 
 The steward, to whom the arrangement of 
 the whole was confided, had thought it only
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 75 
 
 respectful to apply to Lady Emma, and ask 
 whether she had any particular wishes upon 
 the subject, which she would desire to have 
 attended to. 
 
 " I have received a letter from Mr. Glenroy 
 this morning, my Lady — as concerns the 
 funeral " — speaking in a lower voice. 
 
 " So I understand" — she answered coldly — 
 " I have heard from him myself upon the 
 subject." 
 
 " Doubtless, my lady — and I suppose every- 
 thing is ordered as you would have wished." 
 
 "Not as / should have wished,"— she said 
 — " but Mr. Glenroy has not thought proper 
 to consult me." 
 
 "I am very sorry, my lady, if your feel- 
 ings . . . ." 
 
 " Say no more about it — Mr. Glenroy has 
 given his orders : that is enough." 
 
 " But is there nothing you would like to 
 have arranged in any particular way, my lady — 
 Mr. Glenroy desires me to consult you as to the 
 details — though he has decided, himself, upon
 
 76 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUOHTON. 
 
 the scale on which things are to be conducted. 
 Eight horses ; twelve mourning coaches, with 
 six horses each ; ten bearers ; all the tenants 
 in deep mourning on horseback ; all the men 
 from the works, men and boys in deep mourn- 
 ing, on foot, to follow four-and-four. It will 
 be a noble sight — a finer sight even than the 
 funeral of the late Mr. Aubrey, because the 
 tenants are increased in number ; and the men 
 at the works and mines more than doubled. 
 The expense of clothing the whole will be 
 great, — but Mr. Glenroy has ordered me upon 
 this occasion to spare nothing. There will 
 not be a dry eye upon the occasion. My mas- 
 ter, the late Mr. Aubrey, was universally be- 
 loved and respected. It will be a noble 
 funeral" — repeated the steward, warming as 
 he went on with the subject. 
 
 A cold and bitter smile, so slight as to be 
 scarcely perceptible, was upon Lady Emma's 
 lips, as she listened without interrupting him, — 
 when he stopped, all she said was — 
 
 "You have your orders — I have none to give."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 77 
 
 The steward retired, — his heart swelling 
 within him, resolved that he, at least, would 
 not fail in what was due to his late master. 
 
 The body was laid in a coffin covered with 
 crimson velvet ; a pall with the escutcheon of 
 the family embroidered in silver on the corners, 
 and bordered with a deep, rich silken fringe, 
 was thrown over it ; the room was hung with 
 black; huge silver candlesticks, supporting 
 enormous waxen tapers, gave a lurid light ; — 
 it was more like a princely lying-in-state, 
 than the sacred silence and modesty of that 
 chamber in which a private individual lies 
 dead. 
 
 And yet, there were no great ones who came to 
 visit it — but the tenants and their wives and chil- 
 dren arrived from far and near, and the iron- 
 founders, and the miners, and their wives and 
 families, were every one admitted to gape and 
 stare in a sort of stupid admiration. In silence 
 the long, long train of dependants ascended the 
 stairs, with stealthy steps, as if afraid to let a foot- 
 fall be heard, in the profound stillness which
 
 78 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 enwrapped the mansion, — and tears were in the 
 eyes of some, and were running down the care- 
 worn cheeks of toil-worn women and wives, whilst 
 children with eyes open wide with wonder and 
 curiosity, stood grave and awe-struck, for the 
 great master to whom they all looked up, was gone. 
 
 It should have been the mother who held 
 the, as it was supposed, heiress of this enormous 
 wealth and influence up to the window, to 
 watch the crowd as it defiled in one long line 
 through a side court and gateway of the castle. 
 The mother should have been there to have 
 told her child why and wherefore they were 
 come, and to have impressed the infant mind 
 with a foretaste of the duties devolving upon 
 her — but no mother did this. 
 
 In Lady Emma's eyes, the poor child had 
 no part whatsoever in what was going on, — 
 but had a far different lesson to learn : a les- 
 son which she felt every day that passed was 
 only rendering more painful and difficult. 
 
 But Nurse had her own ideas upon the 
 subject.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 79 
 
 That Lady Emma, in her opinion, grievously 
 neglected her duty, in not taking this oppor- 
 tunity of making an impression upon the 
 young heiress, — teaching her to honour and 
 imitate her father, — -was no reason why 
 she should do the same. She had carried the 
 child into the room where her father s coffin 
 with all its splendid accompaniments lay. 
 
 " Do you know where you are, Miss Aubrey, 
 dear ? " she said, as the little girl whom she 
 held in her arms clung, half curious, half 
 frightened, to her neck. 
 
 "No — what's that great pink thing? — and 
 the black cover over it ? " 
 
 "That's your dear papa's — Mr. Aubrey's 
 coffin — he's asleep in it." 
 
 " No — its not a bed — he's not asleep. It's 
 not like a bed." 
 
 " Look at it, love — you cannot understand 
 it now. Isn't it very grand and beautiful ? " 
 
 " It looks dark and bright — things shine. 
 But it's very black — I'd rather go away — let 
 me go, Nurse."
 
 80 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " That's your father's coffin, Miss Aubrey — 
 that, all crimson velvet and silver — and that 
 all black velvet and silver is called his pall — 
 And all those beautiful candles there is lighted 
 for him — and it's put because your papa was 
 a very rich gentleman — as you are now a little 
 rich lady, my jewel . . . but you must mind this 
 thing, your papa was a very good gentleman, 
 and very kind to those as was poor and in want — - 
 and you'll be that too — won't you, precious ?" 
 
 She afterwards took the child to a window, 
 from which she could see the long line of people 
 coming and going from their visit to the lying- 
 in-state. 
 
 " What quantities ! — and quantities ! — and 
 quantities of people, and boys, and little girls, 
 too ! — what are they doing, Nursy? — There's 
 some of them crying, I do declare." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Aubrey — some of them is 
 crying — for they're coming from what I showed 
 you this morning before the doors was opened. — 
 All these loads of people are come nobody 
 knows how far."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 81 
 
 « What to do ?" 
 
 u To see your papa's coffin — because he was 
 a very fine rich gentleman, as you are going 
 to be a very fine rich lady — -you may have 
 gold frocks if you like it ; and be as grand as 
 the Princess Royal herself — and so, please the 
 pigs, I hope in good time to see you." 
 
 " Did papa wear gold coats ? — I never saw 
 him but in black coats." 
 
 " No, dear — -because he didn't love to be 
 fine himself — but one thing he did love — and 
 that was to clothe the naked, and to feed the 
 hungry ; and that was better than a gold 
 coat, precious, wasn't it ?" 
 
 " Were all these people very hungry, some- 
 times?" 
 
 "Yes, very, very hungry, now and then, 
 when times was bad." 
 
 "What's times bad?" 
 
 " Nothing for people to eat." 
 
 " And papa gave the people something to 
 eat ?" 
 
 " Aye, that he did." 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTOtf. 
 
 " And he didn't wear a gold coat." 
 
 "No, dear — He liked to give the gold to 
 buy people things to eat." 
 
 "I'll not have gold frocks," — said the child — 
 u I'll give people to eat — when I'm like papa. " 
 
 " Oh ! you little angel ! — and so you shall — 
 for you will be like your papa — you are going 
 to be as rich, and as fine, and as great a lady, 
 as ever there is in this land, be the other who 
 she may." 
 
 " I don't quite understand, Nursy — but 
 shall I have something to give the people to 
 eat?" 
 
 " Loads and loads." 
 
 " Legs of mutton — and great pieces of 
 bread — and puddings, too ?" 
 
 u Heaps of them." 
 
 "I am so glad — Are the people hungry 
 now ?" 
 
 " I dare say they're hungry enough — for 
 they've many of them walked a great way." 
 
 " Where's my legs of mutton and pieces of 
 bread?— I want some."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 83 
 
 - " Oh ! you darling innocent !— you've not 
 got 'em yet — you'll not have 'em till you're 
 bigger — and till Mr. Glenroy comes." 
 
 " Who's Mr. Glenroy ?• — I want some now." 
 
 "Well, dear, you must wait a bit — look 
 what a many they are !" 
 
 " They'll want a many legs of mutton and 
 slices of bread; — I hope they'll get some." 
 
 " Yes, dear — Mr. Keitson, the steward, has 
 seen to that. Every one of them as chooses 
 to call at the South Lodge can have a slice of 
 bread and cheese and a draught of beer " 
 
 " That's good of Mr. Eeitson— I love Mr, 
 Eeitson." 
 
 "It's Mr. Glenroy ordered it. — He was afraid 
 the people might be hungry." 
 
 " Good Mr. Glenroy— I like Mr. Glenroy." 
 
 " Mamma," said the child, who had been 
 sitting for some time silent at the feet of her 
 mother, who was seated upon the sofa, read- 
 ing — " What do you think Nursy says ?" 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTOff. 
 
 a I am sure I don ? t know— but you must 
 not mind what Nursy says—mind what I 
 say, 
 
 " Mamma, she says, I'm got a very great, 
 
 rich, grand lady— as rich as the Queen — but 
 
 I'm not to have a gold frost as the Queen has— 
 
 but a black frock instead — because I want to 
 
 be like papa— and Im going to feed hungry 
 
 people." 
 
 " Nurse talks a great deal of stupid non- 
 ■ 
 
 sense — you re not going to be any such thing — - 
 I wish Nurse would hold her tongue— I shall 
 be forced to send her away, if she does not, w 
 said Lady Emma, impatiently. 
 
 " Send Nurse away ! — " cried the child, 
 turning pale, and lifting up at her mother an 
 appalled, scared look ; — such as during some of 
 Lady Emma's inexplicable proceedings of the 
 last few weeks, the bewildered little girl had 
 at times cast upon her — " Oh, mammy ! 
 mammy ! don't ! — pray don't !" 
 
 " Well ! well ! — be quiet— Don t look fright- 
 ened out of your wits !— Only, you must pro-
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 8-5 
 
 mise me, you won't mind a word that Nurse 
 says, for I'm afraid she's a very foolish woman — 
 and I'm sure she does not know what she's 
 talking about." 
 
 " But I like to foe a fine rich lady, like the 
 Queen," said the child ; " because then, Nurse 
 says, I can buy legs of mutton and lumps of 
 bread, and feed hungry people — I wanted 
 some directly, but she says that won't be till 
 Mr. Glenroy comes, and I'm bigger." 
 
 " You want to be rich and great, like the 
 Queen — what to do, do you say ? " asked the 
 mother, her eye softening. 
 
 " Feed hungry people.— Be like papa — 
 and wear a black coat, and feed hungry 
 people.™ 
 
 The tears swelled to Lady Emma's eyes 
 Once more the heart of stone began to melt — 
 the human heart of flesh to beat. 
 
 "Is that what you want to be rich and 
 great for, little child?" she said 
 
 "Yes— that I do " 
 
 " Like your papa — did you say ? "
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTOKV 
 
 ^Yes, Xnrsy says so. There's quantities, 
 and quantities, ami quantities of people came 
 here — men and women, and little boys and 
 little girls — und she showed r em me — and they 
 all looked sorry ; and Nurse says, it's because 
 they were come to see that grand black room 
 — something about papa- — and they were all 
 s«> sorry — because papa's gone to Heaven — 
 and because when papa was rich, he wouldn't 
 like wearing a grand gold coat- — but he liked 
 feeding hungry people ;. and people sre very, 
 very hungry sometimes, she says, because they 
 can T t get nothing at aB to eat ; and papa has 
 legs of mutton, and pieces of bread, instead! of 
 gold coats — and he gives them to the hungry 
 people— and they're so glad — and I'm so glad 
 — and they love him very much — and cry 
 about him — and so ought I — but I can't cry 
 about him ? because I'm too little." 
 
 Lady Emma clasped the prattler to her 
 heart. The child hung about, nestling her 
 little head against her mother's bosom — and 
 kissing the folds of her dress.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 87 
 
 u Love me, mamma/' she whispered. "You 
 don't love poor little Moggie." 
 
 " Does Nurse tell you that ? " — said Lady 
 Emma — drawing a little back. 
 
 « No." 
 
 "Nol—Tvho then?" 
 
 " Me tells myself," whispered the little child, 
 in a voice so low as scarcely to be heard. 
 
 Lady Emma's heart smote her once more. 
 And yet, even then, she could not clasp the 
 poor little thing again fondly to her bosom, 
 and kiss her, and console the aching heart 
 with caresses. 
 
 A shadow — a figure — the detested figure of 
 Alice Craven seemed to rise like the spectre of 
 evil between them. She disengaged herself, 
 though with great gentleness, from poor little 
 Moggie's clasping arms, and said — 
 
 " You must not talk in this way, Imogene — 
 you must not think I do not love you." 
 
 " Mustn't I ? — then I won't." 
 
 "It makes me sorry to hear you talk in 
 that way."
 
 88 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " I won't make you sorry — I'll be sorry all 
 by myself." 
 
 " But you mustn't be sorry — -you have no- 
 thing to make you sorry. You must not 
 fancy foolish things, and then you won't have 
 anything to be sorry about, little girl," said 
 the mother, patting her cheek. 
 
 The child said nothing — but stooped down 
 to pick up her doll, which had fallen from 
 her lap, when she started up to embrace her 
 mother. She busied herself in smoothing the 
 rumpled frock; and then examined, with 
 considerable attention, one of the arms, which 
 was slightly injured by the fall — after which, 
 she lifted up her little stool to carry it 'to its 
 place, as the custom was, before she left the 
 room. 
 
 "What — are you going away ? " asked her 
 mother. 
 
 " I want to go to Nursy — I can open the 
 door myself . . . self." 
 
 "What — are you tired of being with me?" 
 
 The child was silent.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 89 
 
 " You don't like being with me." 
 
 One wistful, expressive glance; — and her 
 eyes were bent down upon her dolly's face 
 again. 
 
 " You love dolly better than me." 
 
 Silence — but the doll pressed close to the 
 little bosom. 
 
 "Well, go away, if you like it — I never 
 keep any one who doesn't want to stay with 
 me." 
 
 Two big tears, and the little breast heaving. 
 
 " Yes, go away, go," — cried the wretched 
 Emma — " go away — poor, poor little girl ! 
 But, Imogene — but, little Moggie ! don't think 
 I am unkind — I can't help it — I don't mean 
 to be unkind." 
 
 But, at the words, little Moggie, the child 
 had fallen down at her mother's feet, and had 
 kissed the hem of her garment. 
 
 Lady Emma felt as if her heart was being 
 torn in pieces. Every demonstration of feel- 
 ing — every look of this child, only the more 
 forcibly brought to her recollection her pas-
 
 90 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 sionate progenitors — She fancied every expres- 
 sion and gesture to be the expression and the 
 gestures of the race from which she sprung — 
 and every thing of the kind seemed only the 
 more to increase the sense of unnatural alien- 
 ation, which tortured her. 
 
 She could not feign — to feign was impossible 
 with Emma. Sincerity was the one strong 
 virtue of her character. A great and sacred 
 quality, but wanting so many others to give it 
 the full value. 
 
 But she did what she could — she lifted the 
 little worshipper from the carpet, placed her 
 upon her lap again — and with her eyes full of 
 tears, said — 
 
 " Little Moggie — can understand — papa is 
 dead — and I am very unhappy — and when 
 people are very unhappy, it feels as if they 
 couldn't love and be kind. They are so very 
 unhappy. And so I can't kiss and play with 
 little Moggie as I used to do — because I'm so 
 very, very unhappy;" — and the tears now 
 ran fast down her cheeks — " and so she
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 91 
 
 mustn't be sorry — because, though I don't 
 show it much— I think little Moggie — is a 
 very, very dear, good little thing — and I hope 
 she'll always be a good little thing, and then 
 God will love her — for He loves and cares 
 very much for poor little children who have 
 no papa. He has promised he'll take care of 
 them- — and He always keeps his promise ; — 
 and you must try to think of this, when poor 
 mamma is very, very unhappy, and can't be 
 kind to you — and don't mind, little Moggie, 
 what Xursy says to you about being rich and 
 great, like the Queen. It's nonsense — nobody 
 else is rich and great, like the Queen. There's 
 only one Queen in this country — and, besides, 
 you must not think about being rich — or wish 
 to be rich. God does not like people to wish 
 much about being rich — and he does not love 
 people one bit better for being rich — only 
 foolish people do that — so don't think about it, 
 little Moggie ; and if Nursy talks about it, 
 tell her she mustn't — and don't you mind her; 
 for, whether little Moggie is rich or not
 
 92 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 doesn't matter — she shall manage, somehow, 
 to feed hungry people." 
 
 And with that she kissed her — and sent the 
 little child quite content and happy away. 
 
 There was something in the tone of this 
 last speech and more especially the repetition 
 of the endearing epithet, ' little Moggie' — 
 which answered to the yearnings of the infant 
 heart. 
 
 And Emma felt more calm and peaceful, 
 after this, than she had done since the awful 
 evening. The terms upon which she was 
 placed, as regarded her child, were altered; 
 but they had assumed a truthtful and definite 
 form. To be good to her — if she could not 
 worship her, as she once had done — in that 
 way she would, and she could, love her. 
 
 Note. — The Editor of Aubrey has made a mistake 
 with regard to William Aubrey's funeral. — It was that 
 of Alice alone, that was conducted with so much sim- 
 plicity. — With regard to the other, things were as I 
 
 have related. 
 
 J.L.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 93 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 Dread Gods ! I know these things shall surely be ! 
 But other, wilder whispers throng mine ears. 
 
 W. C. Bennett. 
 
 Grace came to Haughton that evening. 
 
 " I am so glad you are come, Grace — I have 
 had a painful, and yet a consoling morning. 
 That little child is a very interesting being " 
 
 " So I always thought her," said Grace ; 
 " and if we were only actuated by the very 
 most ordinary Christian feeling, we should, 
 both of us, take far more interest in her than
 
 94 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 ever we did before — I am ashamed of my own 
 heart." 
 
 " So should I be of mine, if I were not 
 weary of contests with my heart," said poor 
 Emma, in the wearied tone of one quite worn 
 out with internal conflicts ; — "when will the 
 time come ? — Will it ever come ? when my 
 feelings may take their natural course. What 
 has life been to me but a pretence — an effort 
 after that, which it was my duty to feel, and 
 which I could not feel — I ought to have loved 
 my husband when I did not — to have hated 
 him when I could not — to have tolerated 
 Alice Craven when I hated her — to forgive 
 her now, when my whole soul hardens against 
 her — and now, most horrible of all, my child ! 
 — Tliis unnatural, this almost insane alienation ! 
 — For she is my child — and yet how is it that I 
 feel as if she were scarcely any longer mine — 
 as if she belonged to aliens and strangers, not 
 to me. — Oh ! this is a dreadful, and an un- 
 pardonable feeling; and now my whole life 
 must be one struggle to conceal that which I
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 95 
 
 ever must and shall feel — and to affect a love 
 which has been driven, as if by an avenging 
 angel, from my breast, in atonement for the 
 dreadful wrong in which I have so innocently 
 shared. — Oh! what a strange, strange thing 
 the human heart is ! — And my life, as I look 
 back upon it ! — What a labyrinth of confusion 
 — ' a tale told by an idiot, full of noise and 
 fury, signifying nothing.' — Oh Grace! dear 
 Grace ! what a shipwrecked creature I am!" 
 
 " There is a rock to anchor against, dear 
 Emma, and, sooner or later, you will find, as 
 thousands before you have "found, that there is 
 one — and one only haven from the storms 
 and tempests of life; — As to your painful 
 feelings with regard to your child, believe me 
 they are only the effect of the nervous excitement 
 you have gone through, and the severe shock 
 you have received. Time is necessary to let this 
 tumult of the spirits subside — when the hurry 
 of tins dreary week is over, you will feel 
 quieter — and will have time to collect your 
 thoughts, and decide what is your duty to
 
 96 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON, 
 
 do ; and then your affections will take their 
 natural course once more." 
 
 Emma shook her head. 
 
 "It is dreadful to begin this new life by 
 the acting of a fearful lie ! " — she said. 
 
 " There is no remedy — Try not to think 
 of it " 
 
 " I will bury myself in the deepest cellar of 
 this vast wilderness of a house, rather than 
 witness what I think so false — and, therefore, 
 so wrong." 
 
 " You will stay quietly here, I hope. — It is 
 not necessary that you should do anything sin- 
 gular or extravagant — in no case would you be 
 expected to appear. Shut the double -door 
 which separates you from the house, and you 
 will hear nothing." 
 
 " I shall hear the lumbering roll of this 
 detestable procession. They tell me the car- 
 riage of every gentleman in the county will be 
 there to do honour— to whom? Geoffrey 
 Craven, the gamekeeper's son ! " 
 
 " Oh, Lady Emma ! In the sacred presence 
 of death, too ! "
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 97 
 
 " Death is truth — It is the great, the only 
 truth. — No pretences and deception about 
 that. — Oh, Grace, to have this hideous lie 
 throw its shadow over even death ! " 
 
 It seemed impossible to turn her thoughts 
 from viewing the subject in this irritated and 
 painful manner. Mrs. Birchell determined to 
 endeavour to divert her mind to another sub- 
 ject, which, though equally painful, would be 
 different. — 
 
 " You will have to consider, when this is 
 over, the steps that in justice ought to be 
 taken as regards the little girl." 
 
 " There is not much consideration required, 
 I should think, as to that," replied Emma, 
 with a coldness almost approaching to hard- 
 ness — " It will only be necessary to declare 
 the facts — That I was the wife — and that she 
 is the child of an impostor and a beggar ; and 
 then yield up all the stolen inheritance that 
 can be recovered, to the rightful heir, whoever 
 that may be; and so retire to that penury and 
 disgrace, which are the portion of those who 
 
 vol. i, H
 
 98 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 have bound themselves up with, and shared in, 
 the profits of great crimes." 
 
 " But, we have but very slender and imper- 
 fect evidence of the fact." 
 
 " Oh ! there is not the slightest doubt of 
 the fact, now the eyes are opened — There is 
 enough in the faces themselves to assure any- 
 one who chooses to see, of the fact — I wonder 
 it never struck me before. The child belongs 
 to Alice Craven, not to me — one would think 
 there was not even a drop of my blood stirring 
 in her veins." 
 
 " She is like her father " 
 
 " And her father?— Who is he?" 
 "Nay; that is the very matter in question 
 — who is he? — The whole story seems so 
 romantic, so incredible — I find myself already 
 staggering in my belief — and Mr. Birchell, 
 who is not influenced by the impression that 
 last awful scene made upon us, is very much 
 inclined to question the whole story." 
 
 "He may — but I don't. — A thousand mi- 
 nute circumstances unremembered at the time,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 99 
 
 but well remembered now, confirm it. And if 
 they did not — the likeness is in itself enough !" 
 
 " But, dear Lady Emma — there are others 
 to be satisfied besides ourselves. — Mr. Birchell 
 says — that this being the case of an infant, 
 your convictions and your renunciations would 
 be of little or no avail." 
 
 " The child, then, is to stand between me 
 and what I know to be justice. — The child, 
 then, is to be made and to make me an acces- 
 sory after the fact." 
 
 " Justice must and will be done to the child, 
 as well as to others. The law, my husband 
 says, will not suffer her to be robbed of her 
 inheritance upon trifling grounds " 
 
 " Oh, I see how it will be ! The usual 
 thing. — The law will interfere to defeat the 
 claims of justice. — The descendant of the game- 
 keeper will reap the rightful inheritance of the 
 child of the true heir — an inheritance obtained 
 by double crimes — black with deceit — black 
 with perjury and treachery. — I see very well 
 how it will all end." 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 
 
 " Dear Emma! be patient — " 
 
 " So I will when justice is done." 
 
 " Consider how awful it would be to rob 
 your own child unjustly." 
 
 "It never can be unjustly — Even if William 
 Craven had been Mr. Aubrey's son — which 
 now I know he was not, — he gained the in- 
 heritance by a mean and base deception- — and 
 that child of his has no more right to it than 
 you have." 
 
 "Ah, Emma! how bitterly you think and 
 speak." 
 
 "Do I — yes, I know I do. — There are 
 situations which turn every feeling to bitter- 
 ness — but let justice be done — only let justice 
 be done — and then I shall be my natural self 
 again. — Then I shall be able to love Alice 
 Craven's child — when, if she were the usurping 
 heiress, I should almost hate her." 
 
 " Oh ! "- — cried Grace, in a deprecating voice, 
 as if warding off something too horrible to be 
 acknowledged. 
 
 "" I should — I should— I should try to hide'
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 101 
 
 it — I should take up my burden. — Yes, Grace, 
 I should pretend to love the child — I must 
 pretend — I should deceive everybody but my 
 own dry, desert, alienated heart — but what 
 does that matter ? " 
 
 In this incoherent, excited manner she con- 
 tinued for some time to talk ; but at length 
 she became calmer, and listened to Mrs. 
 BirchelTs plans. The main part of which con- 
 sisted in the proposal to lay the whole of the 
 circumstances before two lawyers" of the highest 
 reputation that were to be found, and listen 
 to their opinion, before taking any irrevocable 
 step — or making the story public, until future 
 proceedings had been well and carefully 
 considered. 
 
 The idea of a serious appeal of this nature, 
 pacified Lady Emma, for the present. Fully 
 persuaded as she was, herself, of the justice of 
 her views, she felt not the least doubt as to 
 what the decision of the counsel must be. She 
 had a sort of instinctive dread of the doubtful 
 result of a public trial, with all its pleadings,
 
 102 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 for right side or wrong — but an appeal to two 
 well-instructed men, in their chambers — who 
 could have no interest in distorting the truth, 
 or defeating the ends of justice, seemed all 
 that she could desire; and, strengthened by- 
 such opinions, she felt she should have no 
 difficulty in carrying out the course she had 
 already resolved to adopt, — that, in short, 
 of stripping herself and her daughter at once 
 of possessions acquired by such a fearful, 
 double injustice. Further than this she did 
 not at present go. What they were to do 
 afterwards, she would not at this moment allow 
 herself to think of. 
 
 Upon one thing alone she was steadily re- 
 solved — to do justice at any cost — and to 
 suffer nothing to weaken this resolution, 
 neither the remonstrances of friends — nor cer- 
 tain hesitations from within. Those hesita- 
 tions of fear — those questionings of interest — 
 those misgivings, as to the absolute nature, 
 after all, of the duty imposed — all those tam- 
 perings, with the determination to make an
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 103 
 
 immense sacrifice to a possibly doubtful right, 
 which besiege the human soul in such dire ex- 
 tremities, now tormented her — but she reso- 
 lutely refused to listen. And, in justice to her, 
 under this great trial — much of the unnatural 
 hardness of her feelings ought to be attri- 
 buted to the violence of the situation in which 
 she found herself. 
 
 In the meantime, the little child — the inno- 
 cent victim, of whose individual fate so little 
 seemed to be thought — was imbibing every 
 hour a fresh accession of such ideas as 
 would render her future downfall the more 
 painful. 
 
 The more Lady Emma endeavoured to hold 
 herself and the little girl apart from that gran- 
 deur and magnificence, in which she felt they 
 had no rightful share, the more every ser- 
 vant in the house — alienated by what they 
 thought such culpable caprice, and deeply
 
 104 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 offended by what they regarded as an affront 
 to the memory of their master — endeavoured 
 to make up for it, by heaping fresh marks of 
 respect and affection upon his little heiress. 
 
 That the child should be debarred from any 
 single trifling mark of dignity, which they 
 thought belonged to one, in their eyes, of 
 little less — and who, in fact, was, as the world 
 goes, really of little less importance than a 
 royal child — was what they resisted by every 
 means in their power. 
 
 Lady Emma had ordered the fashion of the 
 child's mourning ; but Nurse, in conveying the 
 directions, took care to add, that everything 
 was to be of the finest and most expensive 
 materials that it was possible to procure. Such, 
 in short, as it became Miss Aubrey to wear ; one 
 who would be the greatest heiress in the six 
 neighbouring counties, if not in all England 
 and Wales. The butler brought out the small 
 silver service, which had, in days gone by, 
 been in use for the little Edward ; — but 
 which the simplicity of William Aubrey's and
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 105 
 
 Lady Emma's taste had denied to their own 
 little girl. — But now Lady Emma was not 
 present, the beautiful little silver-gilt set was 
 brought out. 
 
 " What beauty little silver dishes! — Nursy — 
 Am I to dine off these?" 
 
 " Yes, Miss Aubrey. — It's proper you should 
 learef to use such things — it being your just con- 
 dition never to eat but off solid gold and silver" — 
 said the butler, pompously. — He had brought 
 up Miss Aubrey's dinner this day himself, that 
 he might have an opportunity of seeing the 
 little heiress, and paying his respects to her. 
 
 It was as if a gloriole was round the child's 
 head in his eyes. 
 
 And so he settled it at the housekeeper's- 
 room table. 
 
 " It's peculiar to our house, I think, Mrs. 
 Plumridge" — thus he laid down the law — "that 
 our heiress should be not only rich beyond 
 computation, as I am assured — but one of the 
 beautifullest little children eyes ever beheld. — 
 Many heiresses that it has been my fortune to
 
 106 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 see in the world, were ugly — most, only pass- 
 able at best — but our heiress bids fair to be as 
 gloriously beautiful as the greatest of Queens. — 
 And I hope, and I believe, that less than a 
 duke — or, may be, a real prince himself will 
 not satisfy her — when she comes to the years 
 of choice." 
 
 " I don't know for that," said Mrs. Plum- 
 ridge, grumpily ; "I hope my lady won't have 
 the choosing for her then — She's more likely 
 to marry her to some poor gentleman, artist, 
 beggar — than dukes or princes, if one may 
 judge by all one has heard." 
 
 "Ay, poor Mrs. Craven! — She used to re- 
 proach my lady with having a low taste — but 
 I never saw anything of it — on the contrary, I 
 think she had too high a taste, if one may say 
 so — One thing I know, of late at least — she 
 was used to look down scornfully upon my poor 
 master, that was." 
 
 " Ay, many a bitter word that brought out 
 from Mrs. Craven — but then Craven was a 
 bitter woman — and hated my lady, one must 
 confess."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 107 
 
 " Craven was her enemy — A serpent in her 
 path — that's sure — but then my lady so laid 
 herself out for it with her curious ways — 
 Craven, with all her faults, loved her master — 
 He had been her nurse-child — and that is more 
 than my lady perhaps did — at least, as a wife 
 ought to do." 
 
 " Well, poor man, he's dead — and now 
 who'll look sharp after the child, I wonder," 
 said Mrs. Plumridge, whose sympathies, as is 
 common among servants in most families, were 
 altogether with the children. 
 
 " Why, my lady, to be sure ! — who else ?" 
 cried the butler — " Who that knows anything 
 of law, but knows as the surviving parent is the 
 natural guardian of the child ?" 
 
 " The more's the pity — for Lady Emma 
 wants the natural affection" — (lowering her 
 voice) — " Nurse tells me that her conduct to 
 that child since its poor father's eyes were 
 closed, is something as exceeds belief"
 
 108 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Oh, stony heart ! why wilt thou wring me thus ? 
 
 Oh, heart more cold .... 
 
 Than these wild hills . . . 
 
 Than all these inland rocks. — Ariadne. 
 
 W. C. Bennett. 
 
 The child was held up by her nurse to a 
 window, from which she could watch the long 
 line of the funeral procession, as it drew up to 
 the hall-door ; and thence slowly denied in 
 what appeared almost an interminable length 
 of line down the approach, gradually disappear- 
 ing among the trees. 
 
 The eyes were fixed upon the scene, and the 
 little creature watched with mute, wondering 
 attention, and profound awe. To her young
 
 THE HEtRESS OF HAUGHTON. 109 
 
 imagination there was something inexpressibly 
 mournful and grand in these dark groups, and 
 the long cloaks, and the piles of sable feathers, 
 borne by the accompanying mutes. The teams 
 of black-draped horses, tossing their plumes, 
 with necks gravely arched, as if aware of 
 the solemn part they had to play — and the 
 dreadful gloomy hearse, and the mourning- 
 coaches following in a long, long line ! — This 
 was death, then. To her, this darkness, this 
 blackness, this slow solemn motion, these 
 waving catafalques, and plumes, and pawing 
 horses — this was what people meant by death ! 
 The little child shuddered, and yet her heart 
 swelled as at something noble and grave. — She 
 had not, like many another child, had her 
 imagination terror-stricken with a sort of hor- 
 rible disgust, at the aspect of this appa- 
 reil of death under its coarser forms — the 
 grandeur of the scene impressed her with a 
 melancholy but a lofty feeling. — As the pro- 
 cession of mourning coaches passed away, and 
 the gentlemen's carriages drew up one after
 
 110 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 the other to close the line, the child turned 
 away, and stepped down from the window- 
 seat, upon which she had been sitting. 
 
 " Stay, dear," said Nurse — " won't you see 
 the carriages draw up. Such handsome car- 
 riages — see, there's Lord Atheney's — and there's 
 Lord Delasterre's — and there's Sir Thomas 
 Tresham's — look, dear." 
 
 "They're not black," said the child, and 
 again turned away. " I don't like yellow 
 coaches at my papa's burial." 
 
 " Oh ! but you don't understand, you pre- 
 cious darling," said Nurse, taking her upon 
 her knee and kissing her ; then aside to one of 
 the maids standing by — " Did you ever see 
 such a sensible little creature ? All these car- 
 riages is come to do honour to your poor 
 papa." 
 
 " Do honour ?" — repeated the child, looking 
 puzzled. 
 
 " Yes; do honour, dear — because your papa 
 was the richest and greatest gentleman on 
 this side the country, as you are going to be,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 1 1 1 
 
 Miss Aubrey — and all these gentlemen come 
 to show how they loved and respected your 
 papa. They send every gentleman his carriage. 
 Law! — if there is not Sir John Faulconer's 
 carriage, of Drystoke. Now, that I do think 
 a compliment to my poor master — for it's a 
 monstrous way to come, and they hardly 
 visited. — Look, dear — what a number of car- 
 riages there are — and all to show love and 
 regard to your poor papa." 
 
 " Do the gentlemen send 'em — because they 
 loved papa ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear — because he was such a rich 
 great gentleman; " -put in the other maid — "I've 
 heard say — he could buy Lord Atheney ten 
 times over." 
 
 The child seemed not to hear this remark ; — 
 she turned her eyes to Nurse, and looked earn- 
 estly in her face, as a child does when it is 
 struggling to comprehend a new idea. 
 
 " Then every carriage is love to papa." 
 
 And she turned again to the window, and
 
 112 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 watched in silence until the last had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 " There was a great many," — she said with 
 a sigh of satisfaction, — as, the whole being over, 
 Nurse put her down from her knee, and went 
 about her affairs in the nursery. 
 
 The child was more than usually grave and 
 thoughtful the remainder of the day. The 
 pomp she had witnessed seemed to weigh upon 
 her. Whenever the nursery door opened, she 
 would look up wistfully from her little chair. 
 She appeared to be hoping some one would 
 come, but no one appeared, — bed-time drew 
 near. 
 
 "Mayn't I go and kiss mamma, Nursy, 
 before bed-time ? " she asked. 
 
 " Why, my lady hasn't sent for her," whis- 
 pered Nurse to herself, — " but sure, I may ven- 
 ture to take her." 
 
 She took the little one in her hand, led her 
 to, and knocked at Lady Emma's sitting-room 
 door. 
 
 "Who's that? Come in."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 113 
 
 Nurse opened the door, and the little I mo- 
 gene presented herself — in deep mourning, 
 and still carrying her doll, who wore a black 
 sash. 
 
 It was almost as if a shell had fallen in the 
 midst of an assembly of conspirators. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Birchell and Lady Emma 
 were together. Each drew back as if con- 
 science-stricken. They were, in fact, at that 
 very moment engaged in considering the form 
 of the opinion which was to be submitted to 
 the Counsel, and which they expected would 
 deprive this little girl of everything she pos- 
 sessed in the world — -of place — family — fortune 
 — everything. 
 
 The child had her eyes bent to the ground, 
 as she entered, the picture of modesty and sen- 
 sibility — and, we may add, of infant beauty, — 
 for, whether she promised to grow up handsome 
 or not, Imogene was a most interesting child. 
 
 " Imogene ! " exclaimed the mother. 
 
 "Miss Aubrey did not like to go to led 
 without kissing you, Lady Emma," said Nurse, 
 
 VOL. I
 
 114 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 in a tone in which deep censure was hidden, 
 but imperfectly, by the forms of respect. 
 
 " Come and kiss me, then, my dear," — said 
 the mother. And the litte girl, the colour 
 rising to her cheeks, crossed the room, and 
 dropping upon one knee, kissed her mother's 
 hand. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Birchell remained immoveable 
 — miserable and immoveable— filled with in- 
 tense pity, with something approaching to re- 
 morse — to horror — at what they were engaged 
 in — and yet, with the dreadful conviction that it 
 was their duty to persevere. Every painful 
 feeling exasperated by that self-disgust, which 
 the practice of concealment, however necessary, 
 occasions to the ingenuous mind. 
 
 They watched Lady Emma in silence. 
 
 She raised the little girl from her knees, — 
 and said gently, — but yet coldly, — 
 
 " Don't do that again, Imogene — you know 
 I do not like it. — Good night, little girl — go 
 to sleep ;" — and she bent down and Idssed her 
 forehead ; and the child sadly, and with
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 115 
 
 her little head all drooping under the reproof, 
 slowly went away. 
 
 " This is insupportable," cried Mr. Birch ell 
 — as the door closed. 
 
 " So I told you," said Emma — "It is in- 
 supportable ; " and she pressed her hand almost 
 convulsively upon her heart — " but let us go 
 on with what we were about." 
 
 And they proceeded in the business. The 
 will was not to be opened, except to examine 
 whether there were directions for the funeral, 
 until the next morning, in expectation that the 
 night's post might bring a letter from Mr. 
 Glenroy, saying that he would be there. So 
 they had employed this evening in preparing 
 the paper they had decided upon sending. — 
 For Lady Emma, of course, considering her- 
 self guardian— as every mother naturally 
 does — in the case of her own infant child, felt 
 the most racking anxiety to have all things 
 placed as soon as possible upon then 1 proper 
 footing ; in order that the little girl might, as 
 speedily as could be done, be released from 
 
 12
 
 116 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 
 
 the false and improper situation in which she 
 was at present placed — every hour of which 
 was, as her mother saw, only increasing the 
 number of those impressions which would ren- 
 der the impending fall the more destructive 
 to her happiness. As for herself, she felt the 
 burden of her present feelings so insupportable, 
 that she was impatient for any change that* 
 would release her from them. Her friends felt 
 all this for her, and as they really saw no ad- 
 vantage, but greatly the contrary, in the least 
 unnecessary delay, — they had, as I said, spent 
 the afternoon of this day in preparing the 
 relation to be laid before the counsel whom 
 they had determined upon consulting, not only 
 as to the point itself, but as to the proper mea- 
 sures to be pursued for the legal verification 
 of the fact, and the restoration of the inhe- 
 ritance to the rightful heir. 
 
 They concluded the business before they 
 parted for the night, — and thoroughly dis- 
 satisfied with themselves, with the employ- 
 ment in which they had been engaged, and
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 117 
 
 with everything around them, sought their 
 harrassed pillows. 
 
 Oh, how infectious and wide-spreading is the 
 evil resulting from a heavy sin ! 
 
 Lady Emma was sitting, silent and melan- 
 choly, at her solitary breakfast the next 
 morning. 
 
 The papers relating to the statement had 
 been prepared the preceding night ; the in- 
 structions for a case to be laid before counsel, 
 were before her, — and, from time to time, she 
 took up first one paper, then another, and 
 looked them over with a most wearied eye, 
 and wretched expression of face. 
 
 The pains of every description which she 
 had to suffer, it is melancholy to dwell upon. 
 All was maze and confusion within ; but one 
 feeling alone never varied, — it was the 
 resolution to have the truth brought to light — 
 and justice done. 
 
 So she sat in profound solitude, and the
 
 118 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 silence which surrounded her, and which had 
 succeeded to the bustle of the preceding day, was 
 almost too awful. She had her window open, 
 — but not a sound was to be heard. There 
 was no voice of singing in the woods ; — even 
 the very winds were hushed into the perfect 
 stillness of an autumn day. No echoing of 
 cheerful labour from the fields,— no hum of a 
 large busy household in the mansion. As she 
 laid down the papers, and, falling back in her 
 chair, drearily contemplated the scene before 
 her, this deep silence felt most oppressive. 
 
 Then, as in Clarence's dream, — visions of 
 many things came wandering by. Scenes were 
 now allowed to recur, which, during her life of 
 wifehood, she had driven most conscientiously 
 from her mind. ' The vision, as of an angel with 
 bright hair/ arose,— to be followed by the 
 mournful spectre of him, whose relations with 
 herself had been attended by such a melan- 
 choly fatality. Again, the dark sad eyes turned 
 wistfully upon her, as they had so often done, 
 seeming to ask for that which she could so im~
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 119 
 
 perfectly give — and then, that dark death-cloud 
 came over them ; — the death- cloud from a 
 broken heart, which she had broken — and re- 
 gret, self-condemnation — astonishment at her 
 own harshness, was mingled with that strange 
 intuitive antipathy, which a woman of delicacy 
 feels at the idea of a degraded love. 
 
 She was aroused from this painful reverie 
 by the sound of a carriage approaching, which, in 
 the universal silence, was distinctly heard at a 
 considerable distance. It was not the light gig of 
 the solicitor who was hourly expected, it was 
 the roll of a large, heavy travelling carriage, 
 and the tramp of four horses. Presently, 
 there was -a loud ring at the door-bell, the 
 bustle of an arrival, and shortly afterwards, 
 the butler, knocking at the door of Lady 
 Emma's room, informed her that Mr. Glenroy 
 was come. 
 
 " Mr. Glenroy!" she cried, very much 
 hurried, and looking dreadfully nervous. — For 
 well she felt that now the decisive moment 
 wate arrived, and that, even before the con-
 
 120 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 sultatiorr with the counsel, which had seemed, 
 at least, to delay the inevitable decision, — 
 everything would be irrevocably determined 
 by this old friend of the family, so soon as the 
 fatal secret should be disclosed to him. Poor 
 thing ! like many another feeble one involved in 
 circumstances which she feels too overpowering 
 — she looked to delay— -to a reprieve, as a sort 
 of comfort. 
 
 "Mr. Glenroy!" she repeated, — "I did 
 not expect him so soon. — -Pray show him into 
 the morning-room — -Inquire whether he has 
 breakfasted — I will wait upon him im- 
 mediately." 
 
 Hurriedly she went to her dressing-room, 
 swallowed a glass of water, looked into the 
 glass, passed a wet napkin over her red and 
 swelled eyelids, pushed back the few hairs 
 which had strayed from the very small bands 
 allowed to appear under her widow's cap, 
 threw a large crape scarf over a figure only too 
 beautiful in its close weeds— and, trembling, 
 hesitating, faltering, left her own apartments
 
 THE HEIRESS OF IUUGIITON. . 121 
 
 for the first time since her husband's death, 
 to proceed down stairs. 
 
 She had never seen Mr. Glenroy before, for 
 he resided in a remote part of Scotland, and 
 had never visited England since she had 
 become connected with Mr. Aubrey's family ; 
 but she well knew how greatly he had been 
 esteemed and valued by them all. Not only 
 because he was a man of large possessions and 
 of a most ancient and respectable family— but 
 because he was regarded as their closest friend, 
 — their best adviser, — the one, in short, whose 
 opinion was consulted upon every emergency, 
 or great passage of life. 
 
 She had heard Edward mention him occa- 
 sionally with much respect — but, William, she 
 knew, more particularly held him in the 
 highest esteem and value — as his father, indeed, 
 had done before him. 
 
 Distance alone, — for in the travelling of 
 those days a distance to that extent afforded a 
 very serious interruption to a friendly inter- 
 course — had probably prevented Mr. Glenroy
 
 122 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 from exercising any influence upon Mr. 
 Aubrey's, the father's, last dispositions. Upon 
 various accounts, Lady Emma had reason to 
 believe that in these he had taken no share; and 
 for this reason she felt the more well inclined 
 towards him — and to look upon him with 
 satisfaction as the arbiter to whom she might 
 appeal with confidence. 
 
 Still, as I said, his arrival, so unexpectedly 
 early, produced that hurry and nervousness, 
 which we feel when some awful decision, — 
 which we know must finally arrive, but which 
 we believe is delayed for an indefinite period, — 
 is suddenly and at once brought before us. 
 
 Trembling, then, and nervous, her colour 
 rapidly changing, her eyes lighted up with an 
 anxious expression, which only made the whole 
 beautiful face more beautiful, she laid her 
 hand upon the lock of the door — it opened, and 
 the fair vision, clad in her deep sables, was 
 presented to the eyes of Mr. Glenroy. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy was sitting by the table, his 
 arm extended upon it. He was a tall, spare
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 123 
 
 Scotchman, of almost gigantic proportion* — 
 his high cheek bones, and features large and 
 strongly marked, though thin and gaunt 
 The expression of his face was sensible and 
 grave to sternness, almost to harshness — his eye 
 penetrating, searching, and severe — his whole 
 appearance that of a man of birth and high 
 breeding, though with a certain formality in 
 the courtly dignity of his manners, which spoke 
 of days gone by. 
 
 He rose as Lady Emma appeared, slowly 
 dilating to his great height, which was hardly 
 observable when seated — and with a counte- 
 nance, whose gravity was scarcely softened one 
 shade by the entrance of this lovely vision — 
 made his somewhat stiff and highly polished' 
 salutations. 
 
 (i The Lady Emma Aubrey, I presume." 
 
 She slightly bowed her head. 
 
 " Madam, I hope I see you as well as the 
 present melancholy circumstances will admit." 
 
 Again she bowed her head in silence, and 
 a slight spasm passed over her face.
 
 124 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 They both sat down without saying more. 
 It was not till he had resumed his seat, 
 that Mr. Glenroy, in a dry, unmelodious, and 
 most inflexible voice, thus went on : — 
 
 " I fear, Madam, I may have come upon you 
 somewhat suddenly — I had reason to expect 
 I should not be able to join you so soon, but 
 travelling produced an effect rather unusual 
 with me — I found I gathered strength as I 
 proceeded, and during these last three days, I 
 have been enabled to press forward, at a rate 
 that brings me here nearly a week earlier than 
 I had anticipated." 
 
 "I am very glad you found yourself 
 better, Sir," in a faint nervous voice ; but, 
 rising, and putting her hand upon the bell — 
 " I desired them to ask whether you had 
 breakfasted — You will take some refresh- 
 ment?" 
 
 " I breakfasted, Madam, at six o'clock this 
 morning — My usual mess of oatmeal porridge 
 suffices me till noon — I will take nothing, I 
 thank you, Madam, at present."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 125 
 
 Silence again. 
 
 An awful silence she felt it to be — Mr. 
 Glenroy sat there looking so grave and imposing 
 — his tall figure terrifically erect, — his stern 
 eye, thin lips, unflinching mouth, and long 
 and most determined — some might have said — 
 obstinate-looking chin, appearing anything 
 rather than encouraging to her timidity. 
 
 He seemed to expect his hostess to speak 
 next, 
 
 It was indeed her turn — He did not, however, 
 encourage her by even looking at her, far less 
 by any of that softening of the countenance 
 which she was so generally accustomed to find, 
 greeting the approach of her youth, grace, and 
 beauty, now rendered doubly interesting by 
 her mourning dress, and the heavy cloud upon 
 her countenance. It would almost seem as if 
 he had not even observed whether she were 
 beautiful or not — nor heeded that she was 
 young, and timid, and suifering. To him she 
 was " Madam," the relict of the house of 
 Aubrey, and she seemed to be nothing more.
 
 126 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 The silence became painfully oppressive to 
 her, yet she could not force herself to speak; 
 at last, Mr. Glenroy broke the awful pause by 
 saying, — with a sort of formal abruptness — 
 
 " I understood the reading of my late friend 
 Mr. Aubrey's will would be postponed until to- 
 day. — I conclude the usual search has been 
 made — and that his last testament was 
 found in its proper place. — My friend was a 
 practical and exact man of business. — Man, 
 in that, as in everything else," — was the brief 
 encomium which closed the sentence. 
 
 " The last will," — began Lady Emma, in a 
 trembling voice — a that was regularly executed, 
 is inthehands of his solicitor, Mr. Welland,— but 
 there was another disposition of his property, 
 which, in Ms last moments — he was ... he 
 was very anxious to make — but — ..." 
 
 " But, ... did he execute it . . ? " asked 
 Mr. Glenroy, turning round sharply, and 
 fixing his severe questioning eyes upon Lady 
 Emma — 
 
 "No, . . . No, . . . He — he could
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 127 
 
 not, — but there can be no doubt as to his in- 
 tentions . . ." 
 
 "With intentions in such cases, Madam., 
 the law has nothing to do," — Mr. Glenroy 
 replied, coldly. 
 
 Silence again. — 
 
 Presently Mr. Glenroy began once more — 
 
 " The will, I presume, which is in Mr. 
 Welland's hands, is the one containing the well- 
 considered and most judicious disposition of his 
 property, which my friend, the late William 
 Aubrey, showed to me, when last he was with 
 me in Aberdeenshire. A testament, which, after 
 some slight modifications suggested by myself " 
 — among others, but Mr. Glenroy did not 
 mention this, was the suppression of a very 
 handsome legacy left him in compensation for 
 the trouble which would be imposed by the 
 office of Executor, — u was put into a proper 
 form by a very first-rate conveyancer in whom 
 we had both perfect confidence, — and was, I 
 believe, to prevent the risk of accident, lodged 
 in the hands of Mr. Well and— A copy of it
 
 128 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 having at the same time been forwarded to me. 
 This, I presume, is the will that Mr. Welland 
 produces." 
 
 " I don't know, — I can't tell, — I know 
 nothing of all this," 
 
 " I should think very probably not," re- 
 marked Mr. Glenroy, with some emphasis upon 
 the last word. 
 
 Another pause. — 
 
 It was again broken by Mr. Glenroy in- 
 quiring — 
 
 "Mr. Welland? — Is he expected here this 
 morning ? " 
 
 " I appointed twelve o'clock — It is half-past 
 eleven, now,"— looking hurriedly at her watch, 
 — and feeling, she knew not why, excessively 
 frightened. 
 
 Why should she be frightened ?— What had 
 she to do. — Nothing, but most disinterestedly 
 to renounce for herself and her child, the im- 
 mense inheritance which, by the executed will, 
 she believed would devolve to them, through 
 the declaring a secret most injurious to her own
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 129 
 
 interests — why should she feel ashamed and 
 afraid to do this ? 
 
 It was his manner, surely — His terrible, dry, 
 cold, imperturbable manner, — but she must 
 summon up courage, she must do her duty ; 
 — cost what it would, she must stand by the 
 truth — justice should be done to Edward. 
 
 Ah ! — in that name lay the conscious weak- 
 ness, that made her woman's heart a coward. 
 
 Yet the very weakness was in itself a source 
 of daring. 
 
 It is the very weakness of the mother which 
 makes her brave the lion in his fury. 
 
 " There are a great many circumstances," 
 Emma began again, in a faltering voice, " that 
 ought to be explained .... that must be ex- 
 plained Mr. William Aubrey The last 
 
 hours of his life were very awful and after- 
 wards — there was a dreadful scene." 
 
 " I dare say — I can believe it, Madam. My 
 friend, I am sorry to say, had lately not been 
 a happy man" — in a tone so grave and 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 serious that it almost amounted to re- 
 proach. 
 
 She bent down her head, and answered in 
 a low voice — 
 
 "No — Tt was impossible that he should 
 be " 
 
 "And why was that? — He was a man 
 (raising his voice, and speaking for the first 
 time with something approaching to feeling) — 
 " who had every right to be happy. — A man, 
 more universally esteemed — or with more just 
 right to universal esteem, never existed — whe- 
 ther we consider his fine intellectual powers — 
 the firmness and uprightness of his character — 
 his great munificence, or his strong affections. 
 In one instance alone — a weakness, which the 
 Lady Emma must forgive a dry, old Scotch- 
 man for qualifying, in its excess, as a weakness 
 — one shared, perhaps, by some of the greatest 
 men that have ever existed, but which, I own, 
 has ever appeared unaccountable to me — an in* 
 firmity I will not, therefore, at all believe to be 
 inconsistent with the finest- moral and intellec- 
 tual qualities — In one instance there was ..."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 131 
 
 But Emma now raised her eyes and fixed 
 them upon Mr. Glenroy, with such an ex- 
 pression of displeasure and astonishment that 
 even he was moved by it. 
 
 " Madam," he said, "perhaps, you do not 
 altogether coincide in this opinion." 
 
 "No" — she answered — her courage return- 
 ing with her surprise and displeasure — " I do 
 not" 
 
 " I have not to learn," — was the now some- 
 what indignant reply — " that Lady Emma 
 Aubrey was not exactly in the habit of regard- 
 ing my friend's great and good qualities by 
 the estimate affixed through the opinion of all 
 the world." 
 
 " I estimated Mr. Aubrey's abilities as 
 highly as any one living," — she answered with 
 spirit — "but that one weakness, as you are 
 pleased to term it — and to which you have 
 ventured to allude in my presence — obscured 
 his other qualities in my eyes." 
 
 Mr. Glenroy could only answer with a look 
 of surprise, at least equal to her own — speedily 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 to be succeeded by one of mingled pity and 
 contempt, as he muttered to himself — " And so 
 this is what a man gets by making himself the 
 slave of a woman !" 
 
 With a smile almost of derision upon his 
 thin, sarcastic lip, he added, — 
 
 "I should have thought the Lady Emma 
 Aubrey would have been the last to quarrel 
 with an infirmity of this nature." 
 
 " And why, Sir ?" — and her eyes began to 
 sparkle — " must I be supposed to be the last 
 to quarrel with an infirmity of this nature? 
 Because I profited by it ?" 
 
 Silence was, as she thought it, the almost 
 contemptuous reply to this question. 
 
 " And by what right," she cried, kindling 
 with excitement and passion, rising impetu- 
 ously from her chair, and coming up to him — 
 " And by what right do you take upon you to 
 suppose — that one, a total stranger to you — 
 would be actuated by such mean, base, despic- 
 able motives of self-interest ?" 
 
 " So, so," was Mr. Glenroy's mental ejacu-
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 133 
 
 lation — "here it comes — rather more violent 
 than even I had been taught to expect. — My 
 dear Madam," he said — " be calm, I entreat of 
 you. — No offence was intended, I assure you! 
 I entreat you to be composed — It was an idle 
 remark." 
 
 " An idle remark !" — returning to her seat, 
 and sitting down, feeling deeply offended. 
 
 " Why," resumed Mr. Glenroy, and the 
 sarcastic smile returned to his harsh features 
 as he spoke — "I have not in general found 
 ladies inclined to be so deeply offended at the 
 accusation of having, through their charms, 
 exercised almost unlimited power over the 
 hearts of clever and sensible men. — I am an 
 old bachelor, Madam, and I cannot say that I 
 have, during my life, known much of such 
 experiences — but, permit me to say, you are 
 the very first young lady I ever met with who 
 was offended at the implication of having exer- 
 cised, perhaps, a little too all-powerful an 
 influence over her husband." 
 
 "Was that all you intended to imply by
 
 134 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 what you said ?" — Lady Emma asked, with an 
 air of displeasure. 
 
 "Yes, indeed — what else could I possibly 
 intend? I knew but that one weakness in, per- 
 haps, the most manly character it was ever my 
 lot to meet with. — Tour ladyship must forgive 
 me if I sometimes lamented the extent to which 
 it existed.— I am no professed admirer of your 
 sex. — I never was — I should not be what I 
 now am, I suppose, if I had shared in the 
 common delusion." 
 
 Lady Emma remained silent — she seemed so 
 astonished at his roughness that she could not 
 speak. 
 
 He appeared not to notice her emotion, but, 
 after a moment's pause, went on. 
 
 " As it seems best that we should come to 
 an understanding as soon as possible, and also, 
 in justice to my own sincerity, may I beg 
 your ladyship to allow me to acknowledge, 
 candidly, this further fact, that I did every- 
 thing in my power, during my friend's life- 
 time, to weaken an influence which 1 thought
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 135 
 
 excessive — And now that I have owned thus 
 much, doubtless you will be angry, Madam — 
 and I cannot wonder, but I must bear it." 
 
 He expected her, as he would have termed 
 it, to fly out again at this — but she did not 
 move a muscle of her face. She only looked 
 up quietly in his, and seemed satisfied with 
 him so far. There was nothing Emma valued 
 like truth. 
 
 On his side, he appeared better pleased with 
 her, and he went on to say — 
 
 " I do not know whether you are prepared 
 to find to what extent my exertions, so directed, 
 have influenced the tenor of my late friend's 
 will." 
 
 " However that may be, is a matter of little 
 moment," was her reply. " That will — what- 
 ever it contains — was written under a totally 
 mistaken impression as to facts. In all justice 
 and equity, the paper left unfinished in his 
 last moments, is the testament which ought to 
 be abided by." 
 
 Mr. Glenroy gave a low, almost inaudible
 
 136 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 whistle, at this most unexpected, and, as he 
 thought, almost impudent assertion, and fixing 
 his eyes, which looked as if they would pierce 
 her very soul, upon Lady Emma's face — 
 
 " That paper you speak of was not legally 
 executed, as I believe you gave me to under- 
 stand ? " 
 
 " No — most unfortunately not — but I hope 
 that will not render it difficult to do justice," 
 — she said. 
 
 "Difficult! Amounting to impossible!" — 
 was the reply, with an air of confidence and 
 satisfaction. 
 
 It must be plain to every one, who has fol- 
 lowed the course of the above conversation, 
 that Mr. Glenroy had arrived at Haughton, not 
 only without inclination to be charmed by or 
 show indulgence to Lady Emma — but, for 
 some reason or another, with a very strong 
 prejudice in her disfavour.
 
 TUE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 137 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! Woman's 
 
 pleasure, woman's pain — 
 
 Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a 
 
 shallower brain. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Twelve o'clock struck, and, punctual to a 
 moment, Mr. Welland's gig drew up to the 
 door. 
 
 "Mr. Welland," said the footman, opening 
 the door of the morning room. 
 
 "The solicitor?" — asked Mr. Glenroy — 
 " Madam, by your leave, may he be shown 
 in here ? " 
 
 " Yes ; — show, Mr. Welland in. Are Mr. 
 and Mrs. Birchell come ? " 
 
 "Not yet, my lady."
 
 138 TIIE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Birchell. — May I take the 
 liberty to inquire who Mr. and Mrs. Birchell 
 may be; and the concern they have in this 
 business ? " asked Mr. Glenroy, coldly. 
 
 "They have much/' — was Lady Emma's 
 equally cold brief answer. "Mr. Welland, 
 good morning," — as that gentleman entered 
 the room. "Charles — rundown towards the 
 vicarage, — beg Mr. and Mrs. Birchell to be 
 so good as to make haste. They promised to 
 be here by a quarter to twelve." 
 
 Mr. Glenroy looked round as this order was 
 given, but he made no remark. With a some- 
 what ceremonious bow he turned to the soli- 
 citor : — " Good morning, Sir, — Mr. Welland, I 
 presume." 
 
 "The same, Sir — I have the pleasure, I 
 believe, to salute Mr. Glenroy. — Sir, it was 
 very good of you to come ; — I hope the rapid 
 journey has not inconvenienced you." 
 
 " Not at all— I feel the better for it— I 
 deeply regret that I was not able to reach 
 Haughton yesterday."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON. 139 
 
 " I trust Mr. Glenroy will find that every- 
 thing has been carried out to the last iota — 
 exactly as he directed." 
 
 " I doubt it not, Sir. — Is that the will, may 
 I ask, which you hold in your hand ? " 
 
 " It is, Sir — a copy of the will forwarded to 
 me by Messrs. Joy and Brothers, of Lincoln's- 
 Inn — upon the outside the name of the execu- 
 tor is written down, with directions to apply to 
 him in any matter relating to the funeral." 
 
 " Give me leave to inquire whether you are 
 acquainted further with the contents of the 
 will?" 
 
 " Not in the least — the late Mr. Aubrey 
 never entered into conversation with me upon 
 the subject of these his particular dispositions, 
 though, I flatter myself, I was so happy as to 
 enjoy much of his confidence ; — but, indeed, 
 since his return from his last visit to Scotland 
 — which was about the time this will was deli- 
 livered into my custody — Mr. Aubrey's spirits 
 and health were in so lamentable a state, that 
 he was obliged to postpone all matters of 
 business."
 
 140 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " So I have been given to understand." 
 
 " Lady Emma," — as she was rising to leave 
 the room, impatient to learn whether Mr. and 
 Mrs. Birchell were coming or not — "I con- 
 clude we may proceed without delay to the 
 business upon which I am come ; — my time is 
 limited, and there may be much to be done. 
 I should propose that the head servants of the 
 household should be summoned to hear the will 
 read — such has been the usual custom in this 
 family, and I see no reason to depart from it." 
 
 "And my friends, Sir? — Are we not to 
 wait for them ? " 
 
 "I don't see what Mr. and Mrs. Birchell, 
 as I understood their name to be — have to do, 
 or ought to have to do, in this business." 
 
 But, as he spoke, Mr. and Mrs. Birchell 
 were heard entering the hall, and were ushered 
 by Charles into the morning room. 
 
 Emma started up to meet them, giving a 
 hand to each — Mr. Glenroy rose from his chair 
 to his full height, and made a stately bow. 
 
 "Mr. Glenroy— Mr. and Mrs. Birchell," —
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON, 141 
 
 was all that passed; for the servants now crowded 
 into the room,, most curious and impatient to 
 hear the will ; and Mr. Welland, opening the 
 paper with considerable deliberation and so- 
 lemnity, proceeded to read the important docu- 
 ment. 
 
 The dispositions were, in many respects, dif- 
 ferent from what had been in general antici- 
 pated. A handsome addition was made to the 
 life interest, derived by Lady Emma, from a 
 very liberal marriage settlement ; but, with 
 the exception of one thousand pounds, to be 
 paid into her hands at her husband's decease, 
 nothing was left in her own power. The 
 whole of Mr. Aubrey's immense property was 
 bequeathed to his daughter, only shackled with 
 two rather singular conditions. The one, that 
 during her lifetime she should not be allowed 
 to alienate any part of it — except for the pur- 
 poses of settlement on occasion of her own 
 marriage, in case she should marry. Even the 
 income, to any amount exceeding one fiftieth, 
 she was not to have the power of disposing
 
 142 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON, 
 
 of, except for her own use and benefit ; — un- 
 less in sums, of which the highest amount to 
 be bestowed on any one individual during any- 
 one twelve months, was specified. Subject to 
 this condition, the immense income which she 
 would enter into possession of, was to be en- 
 tirely at her own disposal. And a very large 
 allowance was ordered, till such time as she 
 came of age, with the express direction that 
 she should continue to reside at Haughton 
 Hall with her mother, so long as both mother 
 and daughter should remain unmarried, and 
 the mother continue to desire it; and that 
 during the daughter's subsequent life, Haugh- 
 ton Hall should, even in case she married, be 
 made — as much as circumstances would admit 
 — her principal home. 
 
 With respect to the subsequent disposition 
 of the property, it was left to collateral rela- 
 tions, provided the daughter did not attain the 
 age of forty years, or survive her mother — in 
 either of the latter cases, the disposition, if 
 she lived to the age mentioned, lay with her, 
 under certain limitations and conditions;
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 143 
 
 No mention whatever was made of Edward 
 in this will. It was evident that it had been 
 executed before the least surmise that Edward 
 lived had been entertained ; but it was like- 
 wise evident that, for some reason or other, 
 the confidence which Mr. Aubrey had ap- 
 peared to place in Lady Emma had been 
 withdrawn. 
 
 A still greater proof of this — and one which 
 she felt to be exquisitely painful — was, that, 
 instead of being appointed sole guardian of the 
 child — Mr. Glenroy was united with her in 
 that high trust ; so that no important step, 
 which in any way regarded her, could be taken 
 without that gentleman's sanction. 
 
 It would have been easy to have traced to 
 its source the origin from whence this unusual 
 disposition flowed, if the little party at 
 Haughton had had the slightest suspicion of 
 the influence exercised by Alice Craven — not 
 only over the mind of William Aubrey — but, 
 what seems much more unaccountable, over 
 that of his friend Mr. Glenroy.
 
 144 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 She had, in fact, spared no pains to bias 
 this confidential friend of the family, as re- 
 garded Lady Emma. She seemed to have a 
 sort of prevision of what Lady Emma's feelings 
 and conduct would be, should certain circum- 
 stances arise; and her efforts were unremitting, 
 so to represent matters as to obtain the exer- 
 tion of Mr. Glenroy's influence in the way she 
 desired — so that a will might be framed such 
 as in any event to secure the Aubrey property 
 to William's children. 
 
 Lady Emma's behaviour had given a good 
 deal of colour to Alice Craven's insinuations; 
 and William Aubrey, after having, by the 
 large income he allowed her for her life, se- 
 cured to her the enjoyment of everything that 
 money in this world can give — yielded, with 
 some difficulty, to the representations of his 
 friend, and put the destiny of his child, or 
 children, out of reach of her control. 
 
 Large legacies to all his servants, and a com- 
 fortable annuity to Alice Craven, closed the 
 testamentary directions. The provision for
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 145 
 
 Alice Craven was just such as suited the con- 
 nection which had all along been understood 
 to exist between herself and William Aubrey. 
 There was not the remotest indication what- 
 ever to lead to the suspicion of any nearer 
 relationship. 
 
 Mr. Welland finished reading. 
 
 The servants retired, well satisfied with 
 their personal share in their late master's 
 liberality, and exulting that the child was now 
 acknowledged as the indisputable heiress of 
 this immense fortune. Not one among them but 
 walked away several inches the higher, in his 
 own opinion, at least, upon the latter account. 
 
 Mr. Welland turned to Lady Emma, and 
 begged to wish the heiress happiness. Mr. 
 Glenroy rose slowly from his chair, and ap- 
 proached the table, as if to take possession of 
 the will. But Lady Emma had risen also — 
 and, laying her hand upon the document, she 
 said, in a firm voice — 
 
 vol. I. L
 
 146 THE HEJltESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " Before this will can be acted upon, there 
 are certain facts which ought to be made 
 known." 
 
 But Mr. Birchell laid his hand upon her arm. 
 
 " Wait till we are alone with Mr. Glenroy," 
 he whispered. 
 
 "And why should I wait? What there is 
 to disclose, ought, and will soon, be known to 
 all the world." 
 
 "Mr. Welland," said Mr. Birchell, "a 
 word with you, if you please;" and the two 
 gentlemen quitted the room. 
 
 There was then silence. Lady Emma 
 seemed to be waiting for Mr. BirchelTs return 
 before speaking again ; Grace sat looking 
 very nervous and uneasy, watching her friend, 
 whose face was grave and composed, as that of 
 one who had to brace herself up to a great 
 effort of courage. Mr. Glenroy's countenance 
 would have been worthy of the observation 
 of all of them, had they not been too 
 much occupied by their own and each other's 
 feelings to note the symptoms of strong emotion
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 147 
 
 which might have betrayed themselves through 
 the rigid features of the old Scotchman. 
 He sat in an attitude of calm, almost stern, 
 expectation; his eye upon Lady Emma. There 
 was keen observation — there was suspicion in 
 it — and about his mouth a very slight, but 
 bitter smile. 
 
 Mr. Birchell, in about five minutes, re- 
 turned, and, sitting down by the table with a 
 certain frank, straightforward plainness, habi- 
 tual with him, came to the point at once, in a 
 manner which became him remarkably well, 
 saying — 
 
 " You will excuse me, I am sure, clear 
 Lady Emma — but I took it upon myself 
 to carry off Mr. Welland before the very 
 serious disclosure you have to make was laid 
 open to Mr. Glenroy. In a business of this 
 delicate nature, (excuse me for offering my 
 opinion) the fewer people admitted into 
 confidence, till your course is decided upon — 
 surely the better." 
 
 Mr. Glenroy's grey penetrating eye was now 
 
 l 2
 
 148 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 turned upon Mr. Birchell with an expression 
 of more approbation and satisfaction than had 
 been visible in it since he made his entrance 
 into Haughton Hall. Then, turning with his 
 usual, somewhat stately gravity, 'to Lady Emma, 
 " I wait, Madam, to listen to any communi- 
 cation your ladyship may please to make." 
 
 The coldness, the ill-concealed suspicion and 
 displeasure, which Emma felt to be altogether 
 uncalled for and unwarrantable, as regarded 
 herself— by arousing her indignation, served to 
 nerve and to strengthen, rather than to depress, 
 a spirit ever prompt to rise against what she 
 thought injustice and unmerited ill-will. 
 
 She therefore answered with some dignity. 
 
 "The secret that weighs upon my mind ? 
 and which every law of justice and honour 
 demands that I should proclaim — is one that 
 injures no one but myself and a most unfor- 
 tunate child. The grave has closed over those 
 who would have had to share in the suffering 
 entailed by a very heavy crime. They have 
 escaped- — we are left to bear the consequences 
 of it."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 149 
 
 "Crime, Madam!" repeated Mr. Glenroy, 
 gravely. "And with what new crime has 
 Lady Emma to load the memory of the man 
 who can be no longer made miserable by her 
 ill opinion?" 
 
 There was a murmur of disapprobation 
 from Mr. and Mrs. Birchell at this harsh 
 speech ; but Lady Emma, full of her purpose, 
 seemed scarcely to have heard it, and yet 
 there was a sort of allusion to it in the next 
 thing she said. 
 
 " Mr. Aubrey was, I believe, completely 
 unaware of the fraud that has been com- 
 mitted. It was not till after his eyes were 
 closed, that the secret was betrayed." 
 
 She stopped and hesitated a little before she 
 could steady her voice for what rather abruptly 
 followed. 
 
 " He was ignorant of what was to us re- 
 vealed. — My husband was no son of the house 
 of Aubrey. He was an alien, and an usurper, 
 imposed upon the family by his nurse, Alice 
 Craven — Geoffry Craven, the gamekeeper, was 
 his father.''
 
 150 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " And by what right," cried Mr. Glenroy. 
 starting up from his seat in what seemed 
 a gust of sudden irrepressible passion — " Upon 
 what evidence does any one upon earth pre- 
 sume to assert such a scandalous falsehood of 
 my friend?" 
 
 They all stared in speechless astonish- 
 ment at his violence — which, aware of its 
 impropriety, he seemed to conquer by a strong 
 effort. He resumed his seat, saying, "I had 
 been prepared for much— but this exceeds 
 all expectation. The domestic treachery 
 must, indeed, be signal that could hazard 
 such an attempt as this. Madam— I am at 
 a loss to conceive your object," he added, 
 struggling hard for composure, though every 
 limb was shaking. 
 
 Lady Emma stood in silent amazement 
 at this most unexpected attack. Mr. Birchell 
 took up the word. 
 
 " As Lady Emma Aubrey's friend," he said, 
 " I must take so far the liberty of interfering 
 as to say, that this appears to be a most unjust 
 and unwarrantable outrage upon her feelings."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 151 
 
 " Her feelings !" interrupted Mr. Glenroy, 
 and he muttered, something to himself, the 
 words " destroy — Husband's name and honour 
 — child !" were audible. 
 
 It was evident that every word and action 
 of the helpless young creature were perverted 
 by him, through the influence of some injurious 
 and deep-rooted prejudice. 
 
 " Better anything," said Mr. Birchell, 
 firmly, u than that the name of one, or the 
 prosperity of the other, should depend upon 
 an imposture and a fraud." 
 
 Mr. Glenroy answered only by a sort of low, 
 scornful whistle. 
 
 "It is plain you do not believe us," said 
 Mr. Birchell. 
 
 "Who will ? Who can ? Whom do you expect 
 to find weak enough to credit such a romance ?" 
 was the angry answer. 
 
 " You have not even listened to the evi- 
 dence upon which it rests." 
 
 " True, but I am ready to hear it. What 
 is it that the lady has to bring forward in 
 support of this wild asseveration?"
 
 152 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " Simply the solemn declaration of Alice 
 Craven herself, made in the agonies of death 
 before Lady Emma and my wife." 
 
 " And the confirmation of that declaration 
 was " 
 
 " There was that in the circumstances of the 
 moment, which seemed to render further con- 
 firmation as unnecessary as it was impossible." 
 
 " The declaration was made with due deli- 
 beration and calmness, I am to suppose ?" 
 
 " The woman was almost beside herself with 
 grief. She hardly knew what she said or did." 
 
 " She was in that state," added Mrs. Bir- 
 chell, " when deception is impossible — when 
 truth finds its utterance in feelings beyond 
 control." 
 
 " And in that state of bitter rage and agony 
 — when revenge is most sweet," — -observed 
 Mr. Glenroy, composedly — "Madam," turning 
 to Mrs. Birchell — "for you, I believe, were 
 present — please to relate to me the facts just 
 as they occurred." 
 
 She did so as calmly as she could ; he lis- 
 tened with deep attention. He seemed struck,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 153 
 
 and moved, as much as it was in his nature to 
 be moved, by the relation — and, after she had 
 ceased speaking, remained a considerable time 
 silent, and as if engaged in well considering 
 what he had heard, before uttering his 
 opinion. 
 
 The other three sat silently awaiting, in a 
 sort of awestruck expectation, what would be 
 said next — it came at last. 
 
 Turning to Lady Emma — with something 
 more even than his ordinary formality of de- 
 portment — yet with an eye certainly in some 
 degree softened, he said — 
 
 " Madam, I think I did you injustice — and 
 I take leave to crave your pardon." 
 
 "It is granted," she said, with a sort of 
 wearied indifference, as of one who had already 
 suffered too much to be sensible to a fresh 
 wound. 
 
 " As for the foul and preposterous falsehood 
 with which, in her mouth — the poor half-mad- 
 dened woman left this world, to meet the Lord 
 of truth — let me pray of you to think no more 
 of it. Great misery and great confusion have
 
 154 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 arisen in families from vague rumours and 
 romantic stories of this description, creeping out 
 among the vulgar, who are always but too 
 ready to lend credit to such tales. Let me 
 thank you, sir, in the name of my departed 
 friend," — turning to Mr. Birchell — " for your 
 prudence in preventing this preposterous in- 
 vention from spreading further. And hence- 
 forward I would make it my most urgent 
 request, in behalf of the child to whom I am 
 appointed guardian, and the family whose 
 affairs are entrusted to my charge — that the 
 matter may not again be alluded to, even in the 
 most secret conferences — and that this un- 
 happy woman's most criminal lie — for her sake, 
 and that of all concerned — may with her be 
 buried in eternal silence." 
 
 Lady Emma seemed endeavouring to speak 
 — but there was something in this decisive 
 manner of laying the subject at rest, which 
 imposed for the moment even upon her. 
 
 He interrupted her, indeed, as she was 
 struggling for words, by saying, with some 
 feeling : —
 
 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON. 155 
 
 " I craved your pardon, madam — for I had 
 done you injustice — I now am inclined to be- 
 lieve that it was a mistaken sense of duty 
 which led you to what, at first I own, appeared 
 to me the most barbarous and unnatural of ac- 
 tions. — This apology is your due, and I wish to 
 make it amply and at once — because I for one 
 am henceforth resolved never, upon any consi- 
 deration, to return to the subject." 
 
 " And, now," he added, taking up the will, 
 " I will, with your permission, retire with this 
 document to the room appointed for my use — ■ 
 as, with your leave, madam, I intend to tres- 
 pass for a day or two upon your hospitality. 
 Our joint-guarclianship of this child will neces- 
 sitate much comparison of views and con- 
 sideration of plans. It is no ordinary care— 
 The young lady will be one of the greatest 
 heiresses of her time. Our views upon many 
 points, as regards her rearing, may be different; 
 but I hope at least to be met in that spirit of 
 mutual conciliation which will alone render a 
 difficult undertaking feasible."
 
 156 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 And, with a grave bow, he was rising, as if 
 to leave the room. 
 
 But>— 
 
 "This is impossible!" cried Lady Emma, 
 starting up at last — " things cannot, and must 
 not, be settled so. The just rights of others 
 must not be thus disregarded and ignored. It 
 would be wicked — it would be unpardonably 
 criminal to profit, or suffer others to profit 
 by what, in my heart and conscience, I be- 
 lieve — I know — to be a criminal imposture and 
 fraud." 
 
 He was leaving the room, but he turned at 
 this, and looked at her with an almost awful 
 sternness. 
 
 u He is dead, who had any near interest in 
 this matter. And it ill becomes the relict of 
 his brother to incline to the support of such 
 a lie — an inclination which can have its 
 source only in feelings to which I will not 
 presume to allude. That subject is out of my 
 province, nor is it my wish to be forced to 
 explain my meaning further."
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 157 
 
 And he left the room. 
 
 The last words brought the blood rushing 
 in torrents to Lady Emma's cheek, and the 
 fire almost flashed from her eyes — but, pre- 
 sently, that burst of passion subsided. What- 
 ever her faults or mistakes, she was truth and 
 candour itself. Her conscience, in the hidden 
 chambers of her breast, whisperingly assented 
 to the justice of the implied accusation. Could 
 she lay her hand upon that wildly-throbbing 
 heart of hers, and say — that it was quite, quite 
 pure from secret bias ? The colour subsided, 
 and the face became pale, and the eye sad and 
 spiritless as ever, when , sighing heavily, she said— 
 
 " What upon earth ought we to do ?" 
 
 In one view, indeed, they seemed to have 
 arrived at a termination, such as it was, of 
 their doubts and difficulties. 
 
 }Ir. Glenroy appeared to have taken up his 
 own resolution at once, and that without the 
 slightest scruple or hesitation. And that he 
 was a man whose resolutions, once taken, 
 would be difficult to shake, was evident — little 
 of him as they had as yet seen.
 
 158 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 
 
 But for themselves, though perhaps for a 
 moment unsettled in their convictions, by his 
 way of regarding the subject, they soon re- 
 turned to their first impressions, and felt that 
 sort of instinctive conviction of the truth of 
 Alice Craven's story, which, in spite of our- 
 selves, acts upon us almost like demonstration. 
 
 But what availed it ? 
 
 If Mr. Glenroy's impressions were just — and 
 there appeared great reason to believe that 
 at least this would prove to be the case — namely, 
 that the world in general might attach no 
 more weight to the wild assertions of the dying 
 woman than Mr. Glenroy did — if it were true, 
 as they now, for the first time, began to think 
 it probably might be — that no court of justice 
 in the world would deprive a minor of her 
 inheritance, upon so vague and improbable a 
 story ; supported, as Mr. Birchell felt assured 
 the claims of that minor would, and perhaps 
 ought to be — bythe full weight of her guardian's 
 power and influence — what was to be done ? 
 
 For her own satisfaction, Mr Birchell said 
 Lady Emma might, if she so pleased, take the
 
 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON. 159 
 
 opinion of counsel upon the point, hut he now 
 began to feel little douht as to what that opinion 
 would prove to he — still their own convictions 
 remained unchanged. 
 
 A thousand trifling circumstances, evanescent 
 resemhlances passing over the face — tones, 
 looks — all which had been unnoticed before, 
 were remembered, in corroboration of that, 
 which those two who were present at Alice's 
 death, could not have helped believing without 
 any corroboration at all. 
 
 Lady Emma's wretchedness and perplexities 
 now seemed scarcely to be endured. — Thus 
 doubly to rob Edward, and that the child she 
 had, until this horrible period, loved so dearly, 
 should be set up as the object to benefit by 
 this intolerable injustice, which would render 
 a double crime successful, was agony. She 
 walked up and down the room wringing her 
 hands with a gesture of helpless despair. — 
 
 At length she stopped suddenly, — 
 
 " I must speak to him again. — I am a 
 coward — that cold, stern manner of his makes
 
 160 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 a coward of me. How often in my life have I 
 been betrayed by my own want of courage. — 
 But here — at the turning point of existence 
 I will prove myself at least no mean, un- 
 principled dastard, " — 
 
 Mr. Birchell shook his head. — 
 
 " If Lady Emma intends to try further 
 remonstrance with Mr. Glenroy, I fear it 
 will be of little or no avail. — Yet I think 
 she is right to attempt it, —and I think she is 
 right to make the attempt alone.- — Her words 
 will have more influence — and he will set him- 
 self less obstinately to resist them, when there 
 are no standers-by to witness what he would 
 despise in himself as a weakness. 
 
 " I will go then/' she said, " at once — Give 
 me a glass of water, dear Grace, — and God 
 grant me courage and strength — He is my 
 witness — that from my heart, I believe that 
 what I do is for the establishment of His holy 
 truth and in defence of right." 
 
 She swallowed the water, went to one of 
 the long mirrors which reflected the beauty of
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUOHTON. 161 
 
 her face and figure at full length — a beauty 
 which her widow's weeds seemed rather to 
 enhance than diminish, so well their mournful 
 simplicity harmonised with that pale earnest 
 face of hers. She smoothed her hair, arranged 
 some part of her dress, which in her excessive 
 agitation had fallen slightly into disorder, 
 and then left the room. 
 
 VOL. L M
 
 162 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A saying hard to shape in act." 
 
 Tennyson, 
 
 In expectation of Mr. Grlenroy ? s arrival, a 
 suite of apartments, according to the usual 
 custom in this magnificent house, had been 
 prepared for him. They consisted of a bed- 
 room, dressing-room, and sitting-room. 
 
 To these, as soon as he left the morning room 
 where his first interview with Lady Emma 
 had taken place, he had been conducted by 
 direction of the butler ; and we find him now 
 sitting at the open window, with a small table
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 163 
 
 before him, upon which the will lies. But he 
 is not reading it. One hand rests upon it, — 
 but his eye, through the open window, is fixed 
 upon the splendid landscape stretched before 
 him — now glowing with all the rich, varied 
 hues of the closing year ; whilst the grey mists 
 of a fine autumn day, are still floating round, 
 and softening to a sort of touching solemnity 
 the wondrous beauty of the scene. 
 
 The tall gaunt Scotchman sat, as usual, 
 quite erect though backwards, in his chair. 
 His frame seemed to be of iron, that could not 
 bend. His strong, harsh features, expressive of 
 so much stern gravity and manly determina- 
 tion, were now overspread with a more than 
 usual seriousness, — though the accustomed 
 sternness of the expression was softened 
 with a touch of human feeling. 
 
 He was thinking of his friend — of the man 
 he had loved — the only man — the only 
 human being, perhaps, besides his mother, 
 whom he had ever truly loved, — and of that 
 friend's untimely and most unhappy fate. 
 
 M 2
 
 1G4 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 And all these woes had been the con- 
 sequences of his fatal infatuation for a woman. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy belonged to an old Scotch 
 family — genuine descendants of the ancient 
 Covenanters — and something of the iron 
 temper of those by-gone days seemed to have 
 descended upon, and still to linger around, him. 
 A firm, unswerving spirit of stern religion — 
 which belongs more to the awful temper of the 
 Old, than to the gentle love and mercy of the 
 New, Testament — unflinching rectitude, pas- 
 sions controlled with a giant force ; but a 
 heart insensible to, and nourishing a mingled 
 feeling of distrust and contempt for, whatever 
 belonged to the softer feelings. Love for him 
 was nothing but the childish Cupid — a weak- 
 ness unworthy of a wise and religious man. 
 He had never in his life been subjected to its 
 influence, and he had no conception of the 
 passion in its loftier and more ennobling form. 
 He looked upon it as a mere infatuation and 
 slavery — and the basest of slaveries — slavery 
 to that, which was in itself worthless.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 165 
 
 He had, therefore, lamented, as one would 
 lament the incurable sickness of a valuable 
 man — over his friend's infatuation for Lady 
 Emma. He had, upon this account, from the 
 first, taken up a sort of prejudice against her; — 
 and he had been, therefore, but too ready to 
 listen to the insinuations which Alice had 
 found an opportunity to make, and to those 
 distorted facts which she failed not to lay 
 before him. 
 
 For Alice had long been in correspondence 
 with Mr. Glenroy. How she contrived first 
 to enter into this communication, it is 
 immaterial to relate — suffice it to say, that, 
 having once contrived to establish a re- 
 lation with so influential a friend of the 
 family, Alice had taken sedulous care to main- 
 tain it — and she had of late, — since her appre- 
 hensions had been awakened by Emma's pro- 
 ceedings, after her return from the seacoast, and 
 for the cause of which she had no suspicion — 
 exerted all that influence which she contrived 
 to obtain over those with whom she came into
 
 166 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 connection, to persuade Mr. Glenroy so to advise 
 William Aubrey, that his property should be 
 settled in a manner which would deprive 
 Lady Emma of any power in its ultimate dis- 
 position. She had not even rested here ; but, 
 anxious and distrustful, had ultimately con- 
 trived that even the guardianship over the 
 child should be so arranged as to prevent 
 the mother having unlimited power even 
 there. 
 
 As Alice represented the case, Mr. Glenroy 
 had been made to believe, that she was totally 
 indifferent to the happiness of her husband, 
 and that this indifference extended even to his 
 child. That her heart was given to the me- 
 mory of his brother — and that her infatuation 
 was such, that any adventurer claiming descent 
 from that brother — as to the reality of whose 
 death some vague and unfounded doubts had 
 been raised — might, in all probability, persuade 
 her to sacrifice her child's interests and her 
 own, even for the satisfaction of claims ground- 
 less in the eyes of any one but herself, but
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 167 
 
 which she might persist in helieving to be 
 just, 
 
 It was with his mind poisoned by preju- 
 dices of this description against Lady Emma, 
 and as much, or still more so, against her 
 friends, the Birchells, that Mr. Glenroy had 
 arrived at Haughton Hall ; and what had 
 taken place upon this present morning was 
 little calculated — even with a mind more in- 
 dulgently disposed than was his — to weaken 
 the impression he had taken up. 
 
 The readiness with which, as it appeared to 
 him, this romantic and preposterous story had 
 been received, had only afforded him a fresh 
 proof of the exaggeration, romance, and culpable 
 indifference to her husband's and child's inte- 
 rests, which he had been led to expect in Lady 
 Emma. For Alice, in spite of the declaration 
 into which grief and passion had hurried her, 
 was — be it observed — almost as jealous for 
 the interests of the child, as she had been for 
 those of the father. 
 
 And so he sat and mused over the past, and
 
 168 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 gazed upon the fine possessions which lay spread 
 on all sides around him ; — and such heart 
 as he had, — and he had a heart, after all- — 
 melted within him when he thought of the 
 father's fate, and of the little orphan girl — and 
 such generous feeling as he possessed, was all 
 aroused to protect this defenceless being, and 
 preserve to her the rich inheritance, her right 
 to which he had never allowed himself for a 
 moment to question. He had, in fact, dis- 
 missed that part of the subject from. his mind 
 as unworthy of examination, by that kind of 
 resolution with which people are found able to 
 discard from their thoughts, that which they do 
 not, and are resolved they never will, admit. 
 
 So complete was his — as we may surely call 
 it — obstinate blindness upon the subject, — that 
 it did not even in the slightest degree disturb 
 his conscience. He took it so entirely, and 
 at once, for granted, that the whole was an 
 absurd lie, that he did not think himself bound 
 even to inquire further into the evidence upon 
 which it rested.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 169 
 
 To do this would have been to him, much 
 what it would have been to you or me, to 
 inquire into the evidences of Buddhism. He 
 sat there, therefore, certainly not employed in 
 re-considering this part of the subject, which he 
 had at once dismissed from his mind. He was, 
 indeed, rather lost in reverie at this moment 
 than engaged in reflection, and indulging a 
 tenderness to which he was little subject ; but 
 he felt the loss of his friend acutely, and the 
 place, and the circumstances — even the very 
 character of that autumn morning, softened 
 him in an unusual manner. 
 
 There was a slight tap at the door — the lock 
 turned, and the melancholy figure of Lady 
 Emma presented itself. 
 
 He did not start. — Mr. Glenroy was never 
 known to be so taken by surprise, as to give 
 such a testimony of nervous weakness — but he 
 rose slowly from his chair, and approaching 
 her, said — 
 
 " Were you in want of me, Madam ? — I am 
 quite at your service."
 
 170 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 And he made as if he were going to follow 
 her out of the room. 
 
 " I wished to speak to you alone — And 
 what better place than this ?" — she said, en- 
 tering. 
 
 He gravely placed an arm-chair opposite to 
 the one he had been occupying, and they both 
 sat down without speaking. 
 
 She found it difficult to begin; — but she 
 struggled with the nervous feelings, with which 
 something even in the very look and presence 
 of Mr. Glenroy filled her. She called up every 
 consideration of duty and honour. She 
 thought of Edward, of his wrongs, and of his 
 sufferings — till her cheeks gradually recovered 
 a little colour — her frame its firmness — and at 
 last she was able to speak, and with only the 
 slightest perceptible trembling in her voice — 
 she said — 
 
 " I have come to speak to you without 
 witnesses — because I think it is best to make 
 this appeal to your sense of right, when 
 alone. — The manner," she went on more hur-
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 171 
 
 riedly, for already her heart began to quail 
 beneath that eye, fixed upon her with an 
 almost awful gravity of attention — " the 
 manner — in which — as it seemed to me — to all 
 of us — that this most important secret was at 
 once put aside by you — seemed to me — seemed 
 to us — inconsistent with truth — inconsistent 
 with rectitude — inconsistent with justice — 
 and" — warming as she proceeded — " I, for one, 
 will never — never consent, that either I or mine 
 shall profit, in the slightest degree, by so mon- 
 strous an imposture, and so wicked a deception." 
 
 Mr. Glenroy made no answer at first. His 
 keen eye, bright and piercing as that of the 
 basilisk, seemed penetrating through and 
 through her, — but her conscience was clear; 
 there was no feeling to be ashamed of now. — 
 She was acquitting herself of a most painful 
 duty ; and what is very painful justifies itself 
 to the conscience at once. 
 
 "Then am I to believe," at last he said, 
 " that it is your intention and that of — that 
 Mr. and Mrs. Birchell, to persist in giving
 
 172 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTOX. 
 
 credence to this absurd and most pernicious 
 imposture." 
 
 " Imposture !" she repeated — 
 
 " Yes," he said, " imposture ! — for there, 
 if imposture there be, the falsehood lies. — If," 
 he went on, — " the assertion were really ever 
 intended to be made — and of this, as the terms 
 are reported to me, I have the greatest doubt 
 — it can only be attributed to the wild ravings 
 of a grief which had passed the limits of 
 sanity, — or to a spirit of revenge, of which, 
 — as, certainly, there was no love for 
 Lady Emma in the case, I believe the woman 
 might have been capable. You cannot sup- 
 pose, Madam, that having been the intimate 
 and confidential friend of all the parties through 
 so many years, — during which, not the 
 slightest iota of a suspicion ever entered into 
 the head of anyone of us, — neither of his 
 father, nor of himself, nor of myself, who were 
 all in very constant communication with this 
 woman — this Alice Craven — his nurse, or, per- 
 haps, his foster-mother . . . you cannot, allow
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 173 
 
 me to repeat it — suppose that I can credit 
 this tale for an instant, or believe that such a 
 fact, — if fact it were, — if there were a shadow 
 of truth belonging to it — could thus have 
 remained for such a series of years totally un- 
 suspected by any one of us — so that not by one- 
 single circumstance in all that long period of 
 time, — not by the approach of a circumstance 
 — not by look, not by syllable — should the 
 slightest indication have been given of the 
 existence of so portentous a secret." 
 
 He spoke with a clearness and decision 
 which might give reason to suppose that he 
 had been employing the last hour in carefully 
 reviewing past circumstances, and endeavouring 
 to discover whether among them anything 
 could be observed which might corroborate 
 or contradict the tale. But, in fact, he had been 
 doing no such thing. He had rejected the whole 
 story, I repeat, from the first, not only from its 
 glaring improbability, and the apparent romance 
 of the whole relation, but still more by an effort 
 of the will. Mr. Glenroy was one of those,
 
 174 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 whom, when .resolved not to believe, it is im- 
 possible to convince. To abide by his first 
 conclusion, and save the memory of his friend 
 from debasement, and the fortunes of his child 
 from ruin, was the determination at which he 
 at once arrived; — and, having done so, his 
 naturally obstinate temper rendered his re- 
 solution immoveable. — At the same time, fully 
 alive to the fatal effects of such doubts and 
 questions arising in families, he determined 
 steadily to resist any attempt to stir this matter 
 in any way, and to use all his power and 
 influence to bury the whole question in eternal 
 silence. And so Emma found; and as well 
 might she have beaten herself to pieces, in 
 the vain attempt to soften a rock, as have 
 endeavoured to move Mr. Glenroy one line 
 from the position he had assumed, or engage 
 him even to listen to what she had to urge 
 upon the subject. 
 
 He ended the conversation by saying — 
 "It is utterly useless, Madam, to urge the 
 matter further to me. — 1 will not pain you by
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 175 
 
 saying all that I feel at this' (excuse me, 
 Madam, if I call it so) unnatural spectacle 
 of a young mother thus warmly espousing in- 
 terests at variauce with those of her own child ; 
 — nor," he added, with a tone which began 
 to assume considerable severity, "will I listen 
 to certain suggestions as to the cause of this 
 sad deviation from the usual course of feeling, 
 which have been whispered at various times to 
 me ; — nor will I give vent to the mingled 
 contempt and indignation with which the con- 
 duct of those you are pleased to call your 
 friends fills me. — In brief, here I stand to 
 protect the interests of William Aubrey's child, 
 and, so help me God, I will, to my last breath, 
 protect them. — He shall not, while I have 
 breath to remonstrate left within me, be thus 
 despoiled of an honourable name, though his 
 ear is dull, and his heart insensible to injury. 
 I am sorry," he continued, after pausing a 
 moment to recover his usual calmness, " that 
 it is not a son; — but, son or daughter, the 
 care of their interests has been committed to
 
 176 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 ine, — and the confidence thus reposed, shall 
 
 not, by me, be betrayed Let me pray 
 
 you, Madam, for the second — and, I hope, for 
 the last time, to suffer this most preposterous 
 invention to die away in that silent contempt 
 with which it alone ought to be treated." 
 
 " But how can I ? — how can I ? — how can 
 I?" she cried, in a piteous voice, — "how can 
 I keep silence? — how lend myself to such 
 dishonour! — such wrong! — such imposture! 
 such crime ! " 
 
 " Again ! " — he cried, sternly. — " Will Lady 
 Emma Aubrey never be tired of reiterating 
 tins absurdity? — What spirit of enmity? — 
 What cruel, unnatural aversion thus urges her 
 to the destruction of an only child ? . . . One 
 has heard of mothers cutting their children's 
 throats," he added, roughly, — as, throwing him- 
 self back in his arm-chair, he fixed his eye upon 
 her, as if he would have controlled a maniac. 
 
 It is useless to pursue the description of 
 such scenes further. — They all concluded as 
 they began. — Mr. Glenroy was immoveable in
 
 THE HETRESS OF nAUGIITON. 177 
 
 his resolution, and he evidently as con- 
 scientiously believed himself to be in the right 
 upon his side, as Lady Emma could do 
 upon hers. 
 
 She spoke of her intention of obtaining the 
 most eminent counsel's opinion. He offered 
 no objection, only requesting that suppositious 
 names might be given in the case submitted, and 
 to this she, upon her side, consented. Mr. 
 Glenroy, taking it in a manner for granted, 
 that, in case the opinion coincided with his 
 own, the matter should be laid at rest for ever. 
 In the meantime, till this opinion could be 
 obtained, tilings, by a sort of necessity, pro- 
 ceeded in their usual course, and Mr. Glenroy, 
 as executor, began various arrangements 
 relating to the future disposition of matters 
 at Haughton Hall, where, according to the 
 last instructions of William Aubrey, the 
 heiress and her mother were to continue to 
 reside. 
 
 vol. i. N
 
 178 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 The little child had remained in her nursery 
 during the whole course of this agitated day. 
 
 The post being gone out, bearing with it 
 the Case as agreed upon to be submitted to 
 counsel — a calm succeeded. 
 
 Lady Emma, wearied out with fruitless oppo- 
 sition — most miserable, and dissatisfied with 
 every one, angry at her own too feeble resolu- 
 tion — in wretched quarrel with herself, for 
 having been thus borne down by an obstinacy 
 which had failed in the slightest degree to 
 shake her convictions — yet had forced herself 
 to appear that day at the head of her table. 
 — For she thought it proper to assume the 
 place, and to discharge the usual duties of 
 hospitality to her husband's friend. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Birchell also dined at Haughton — they 
 would not forsake her upon this first day, — 
 and she, of course, had kept them in ignorance 
 of Mr. Glenroy's painful and most unjustifia- 
 ble insinuations. 
 
 The ladies went into the drawing-room soon 
 after dinner, and were followed almost im- 
 mediately, by the gentlemen.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 179 
 
 It was a small, but beautifully fitted up 
 room, one of the smaller drawing-rooms. — 
 The chairs were covered with rich Lyons satin, 
 embroidered with bouquets of roses in their 
 natural colours ; — white satin, and soft pink 
 velvet, were the curtains ; — the carpet, repre- 
 senting the forms and hues of wood moss, was 
 as soft and elastic to the tread — fine mirrors, 
 reaching from ceiling to floor, reflected the 
 numerous lights with which, as a matter of 
 course, the room was illuminated — pictures 
 adorned the walls — rich china, and fine vases 
 and flowers, the consoles — the tables were 
 covered with splendidly bound volumes — rare 
 prints, and valuable maps, were there also — 
 everything that luxury, and wealth, and fine 
 taste could combine, was lavished here — and 
 what a contrast ! 
 
 The melancholy widow, in deepest black, 
 sat pensive and abstracted by the side of the 
 chimney, where a bright wood fire was blazing, 
 — lost to all that splendour to which she formed 
 so melancholy a contrast. Mr. Birchell, by the 
 
 2
 
 180 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 table, was listlessly examining a map ; — Mrs. 
 Birchell silently plied her needle. — The giant 
 form of the stern Scotchman, appeared there 
 like a grim figure from some antiquated hall. 
 
 In violent opposition to the character of this 
 scene of modern luxury, he seemed not only to 
 belong to far distant and rugged northern lands 
 — but to ruder and sterner years, when the very 
 form of men seemed built upon different models, 
 from those of our softer days of refinement. 
 
 He reposed there in a ponderous chair, 
 covered with crimson velvet, and richly gilt, 
 apparently lost in silent meditation. 
 
 The luxury which surrounded these melan- 
 choly figures, showed like a mockery, or rather, 
 I should say, gave evidence of the bitter truth, 
 that lies under all mere luxury. 
 
 The clock ticked upon the chimney-piece, 
 telling off the unhappy hours — it chimed seven. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy then lifted up his head and ad- 
 dressed Emma. She started at the sound of 
 his voice, as if from a dream, so entirely had her 
 thoughts been abstracted.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 181 
 
 " I have been hoping and expecting, during 
 the time which has passed since we assembled 
 this evening, that the most interesting member 
 of this familly might have been presented to 
 me — I live so far apart, that I am ignorant of 
 the fashion of these things in England ; but I 
 thought, that before dinner — or at dessert, or 
 in the drawing-room, afterwards, the children 
 of the house were usually allowed to appear. — 
 I have been waiting patiently in this expecta- 
 tion. — It strikes seven — may I crave leave to 
 inquire, whether the young heiress will come 
 down this evening, or not." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," laying her hand upon 
 the bell beside her — " We were all so uncom- 
 fortable — I quite forgot." 
 
 " Oh," said Mr. Glenroy. 
 
 "Hardman," — as the butler entered — "if 
 Miss Imogene is not gone to bed, desire Nurse 
 to bring her down to bid us good night."
 
 182 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " There ! — I thought as how she'd be sent 
 for at Jast — didn't I? I'm so glad I had 
 her dressed, and was dressed myself" remarked 
 Nurse to the attendant nursery girl. — "There^ 
 darling, Miss Aubrey — you are to go down — 
 let me just put your sweet, pretty curls, a 
 little right — there — and a wet towel for these 
 precious hands. — Ain't she my own, own, jewel?" 
 — Nurse kept saying, as she took the little 
 hand in hers, and led her treasure down stairs. 
 — "You are to go and bid Lady Emma good 
 night, and then you'll see the great Mr. 
 Glenroy." 
 
 " I want to see Mamma — I don't like Mr. 
 Glenroy, because Maria says, it's he keeps 
 Mamma all day." 
 
 " Oh ! but you must like Mr. Glenroy, and 
 behave pretty to him, that's a dear." 
 
 "Why must I?" 
 
 " Because he's a very rich, grand gentleman, 
 and your own poor papa's best friend." 
 
 " Did he love my papa?" 
 
 " To be sure he did — dear ; — why, he and
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 183 
 
 poor master were the greatest friends ever was, 
 people say." 
 
 " Then I'll try to love him too." 
 
 "Do, and behave pretty — and don't be shy, 
 but go up to him, and ask him how he does, — 
 and say you're very glad to see your dear 
 papa's friend. Do you think you can remem- 
 ber to say that, my jewel ? Don't be afraid, 
 — there's nothing to be afraid of — he was your 
 poor papa's great friend." 
 
 " Would papa like me not to be afraid of 
 his great friend ? " 
 
 " To be sure, if he was here he would — 
 poor master ! " 
 
 " Then I won't be afraid, — and I'll say what 
 you said I must, — I remember. Shall I go to 
 him first of all?" 
 
 " Yes," said Nurse, " go up to him first of 
 all — after you have kissed your Mamma, you 
 know." 
 
 The door opened — and the little child pre- 
 sented herself, attended by her Nurse, who 
 continued standing at the half-opened door,
 
 184 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON. 
 
 partly to inspire her with courage, and partly 
 to watch how she would behave. 
 
 The child stood there for a moment in her 
 deep mourning frock, which made her delicate 
 lily-white complexion look still more soft and 
 flower-like ; — the hair hung in curls from the 
 small head, but not reaching to the shoulders, 
 — the head was a little upon one side, the fin- 
 ger at the lips. 
 
 So she stood a moment, looking the very 
 picture of infant modesty, — but Nurse stooped 
 down and whispered a few words, and the 
 child stepped forward to Lady Emma, again 
 bent upon one knee, and bent her lips to her 
 mother's hand. 
 
 Lady Emma hastily raised her. She could 
 not bear this attitude of humility which the 
 child had assumed, no one knew why — had 
 she, with the intuition of childhood, divined 
 her position ? or had she overheard something 
 of what was going on ? 
 
 She rose as bidden, but her mother did not 
 embrace her. For a moment the little girl
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 185 
 
 stood by her mothers knee, looking wistfully 
 at Mr. Glenroy, whose eyes were fixed upon 
 her ; — then she crossed to where he sat, laid 
 her little, soft, dimpled hand upon his brown 
 sinewy fingers, which looked as if they had 
 been hewn out of the solid rock, and with the 
 utmost gentleness and simplicity, said — 
 
 " I hope you are very well — I'm very glad 
 to see you, because you are a friend of my own 
 dear papa's." 
 
 And the stern old Scotchman, quite sub- 
 dued, threw his long sinewy arms round her, 
 pressed her to his bosom, imprinted kiss after 
 kiss upon the infant forehead, and a few, a very 
 few large tears rolled down his wiry cheeks. 
 
 He held her from him — he gazed at her— 
 he bent down his head again and kissed her — 
 he lifted her up, and placed her on his knee — 
 he pressed her little head against his bosom. 
 
 He was moved, melted, — shaken, to the very 
 soul, — he had never known what it was to love 
 woman or child before, — he gave all the love,
 
 186 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 long hidden in the recesses of his strong nerv- 
 ous soul, to this little creature at once. 
 
 " And what's your name, my pretty lass?" 
 he said at length, endeavouring, when he had 
 overcome his first emotion, to enter into con- 
 versation with the little girl, who still sat upon 
 his knee, his arm closely pressed round her. 
 
 " Little Moggie." 
 
 " Imogene," said the mother, correcting her. 
 
 "I like to be little Moggie best," — the 
 child said, in a low voice. 
 
 " Imogene is a prettier name — but I think 
 I like your other name best, too. Why do 
 you like it best ? " 
 
 " Mamma calls me little Moggie when she 
 loves me." 
 
 "And may I call you little Moggie, my 
 pretty lass ? " 
 
 " When you love me." 
 
 " I do love you." 
 
 "Very much indeed? — and you loved poor 
 papa very much indeed, didn't you ? " — inquired 
 the child.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 187 
 
 " More than my own soul," — said Mr. Glen- 
 roy, with much feeling. 
 
 " Is that a great, great deal?" 
 
 " Yes, my pretty little lass." 
 
 " Imogene, you will tire Mr. Glenroy," Lady 
 Emma said. 
 
 She felt an unaccountable feeling of dislike, 
 not unmixed with jealousy, at seeing her thus 
 placed upon his knee, — and at the sudden 
 sympathy which seemed to have risen up be- 
 tween the two. 
 
 Thus reproved, the little girl was hastily 
 getting down. 
 
 " Not so, my little lady," — said he kindly — 
 " You will not easily tire old Glenroy ; — why, 
 you are but as a butterfly upon Ben Lomond. 
 No, Madam, — she does not tire me at all — far 
 from it, — she is a very dear little woman, and 
 will love an ugly old monster for her poor 
 father's sake. Eh, little Moggie ; — is not that 
 so?" 
 
 The child answered by a gentle, spontaneous 
 embrace.
 
 188 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 She seemed at once to have taken to Mr. 
 Glenroy. The three spectators looked at each 
 other. 
 
 It was a cruel trial for poor Emma. — This 
 confusion and contradiction of all her feelings — 
 enough to have embittered a still warmer heart ; 
 — She could not but look upon the poor little girl 
 as an usurper — an innocent usurper, — but still 
 to her conviction most assuredly one, — an im- 
 postor, a pretender — a something false, untrue, 
 and unnatural. Even the strong instincts of 
 a mother give way before certain impressions, 
 — but oh, the dreadful ruin of the heart's best 
 feelings that in such a case is made. 
 
 She could only feel pained and irritated by 
 this mutual liking that had so unexpectedly 
 sprung up between the child and Mr. Glenroy. 
 She felt almost angry with the little girl, as if 
 she were intentionally lending herself to stimu- 
 late him to perseverance in the meditated 
 wrong. 
 
 She could not bear to see Imogene thus 
 clinging, as it were, to him as her friend and 
 protector.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 189 
 
 " Bid Mr. Glenroy good night, Imogene, — 
 and go to your bed — Nurse is waiting for you," 
 — said the mother, somewhat impatiently. 
 
 The little child coloured, as she always did 
 when her mother — as she had but too often 
 done in the misery of the late months — spoke 
 harshly to her, but she instantly slipped down 
 from Mr. Glenroy's knee and was going off to 
 Nurse, without speaking. — But — 
 
 " Don't be sulky, Imogene," — said Lady 
 Emma, — " bid Mr. Glenroy, and Mr. and Mrs. 
 Birchell good night, properly." 
 
 At that the little cheek changed to ashy 
 pale, and the poor little girl's eye fell, — but 
 she did not cry. — She put out her little hand, 
 and said in a very low voice — 
 
 " Good-night, Sir." 
 
 " Good-night, my bonny little lassie," — said 
 Mr. Glenroy, taking her hand once more in his, 
 and bending down and kissing her again, and 
 once again — " God bless thee, — thou art a little 
 dutiful, obedient woman, I see, — God in 
 heaven bless and help thee, my pretty — pretty 
 bairn."
 
 190 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 He then let her go. 
 
 She bade good night to Mr. and Mrs. Birchell, 
 the last kissing her kindly, and then was going 
 to her Nurse. 
 
 " Are you not going to bid me good night, 
 then?" — said Lady Emma, rather reproach- 
 folly. 
 
 She turned at this, and came up to her 
 mother ; but, in her perfect simplicity, it was 
 impossible for her to affect what she did not 
 feel; though, like other children, quick in 
 detecting what is expected of them in the way 
 of demonstration of feeling, she did not, as 
 many children do, endeavour to affect it. — Her 
 kiss was as cold as the one she received, and 
 Lady Emma felt that it was so. 
 
 After the little girl was gone, — Mr. Glenroy 
 turned his chair a little away from the rest of 
 the party, and remained without uttering a 
 word for nearly the whole of the remainder of 
 the evening — sitting cross legged, and balancing 
 his foot up and down.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGITTON. 191 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the 
 
 Chords with might, 
 Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music 
 
 Out of sight. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 The party separated early. 
 
 The evening had been spent nnsociably 
 enough. 
 
 Lady Emma sat by the fire, reclining in a 
 large deep arm-chair, and lost in melancholy 
 thought — Mrs. Birchell plied her needle by 
 her side, without speaking — Mr. Birchell, at 
 the table, his head resting upon his hand, 
 continued to read — Mr. Glenroy, a little turned 
 away from the rest, scarcely interrupted his 
 deep reverie.
 
 192 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 Tea came, and then presently the Birchells 
 rose to go. 
 
 "Are you going away so soon, Grace?" 
 said Emma, rousing herself. "It is very 
 early." 
 
 "It is nearly ten o'clock, dear Emma — 
 more than time for us to be going home — and 
 time for you to go to bed — you are thoroughly 
 worn out. This has been a terrible day. You 
 will feel so much more comfortable, body and 
 mind, when you have had a little rest." 
 
 Emma sighed, and slightly pressed her fin- 
 gers against her heavy, heavy heart. 
 
 "Yes — that will be lighter," said Grace, 
 soothingly. 
 
 "Do you think so? No, never! — It will 
 not melt. — It will never melt again. — It is 
 harder and heavier than a stone." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! When you have had a little 
 good sleep. It is that you want." 
 
 " Good sleep ! — yes — perhaps. I have had 
 not one hour of sweet sleep since . . . . ' 
 
 "Well, then, try for some to-night — and, to
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 193 
 
 ensure it, go to bed before you are completely 
 wearied out." 
 
 "Mr. Glenroy," — whispered Emma. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Glenroy will excuse you — I am 
 sure." 
 
 The sound of his own name awakened him 
 from his fit of abstraction. 
 
 "What did you say, Madam?" turning sud- 
 denly around. 
 
 " Only that it is time Mr. Birchell and I 
 should be going home — and that I think 
 you will unite with me in recommending that 
 Lady Emma should immediately go to bed." 
 
 " I hope," he said, " Lady Emma will use 
 no ceremony with me ; but, if she will retire — 
 I, if you please, will walk a little of the way 
 with you. It seems a fine evening." 
 
 They went out accordingly together ; whilst 
 Lady Emma, who was most painfully ex- 
 hausted, tottered up-stairs to her own room. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy followed the Birchells through 
 the great hall. They opened the large door, 
 and stood upon the steps, with a feeling almost 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 of amazement at the excessive beauty of the 
 scene before them. 
 
 There, stretched under the rays of a bright 
 moon, the wide extended landscape lay, in 
 that sort of sleepy, hazy half-light and deep 
 shade, which gives such mystery and beauty 
 to nature. The tops of the pendant woods, 
 that hung in such rich abundance upon the 
 sides of the hills, were tinted with the pale 
 light, which gleamed upon the lake below, 
 throwing the foreground of the shore into 
 broad effects of shadow and brightness. The 
 far extended distance was sunk into a mellow 
 indistinctness — bright stars were gleaming 
 round the fair moon, as she glided in all her 
 majesty through the heavens. Not a sound 
 was to be heard but a rustling leaf; the tink- 
 ling of a distant sheep bell; and, far, far 
 away, the dull, low beating of the vast ham- 
 mers of the foundries — which scarcely could 
 be called a sound. 
 
 They all stood still and gazed. 
 
 "How gloriously beautiful f" cried Grace.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 195 
 
 "Splendid! — magnificent!" re-echoed her 
 husband. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy alone said nothing; but he 
 stood and gazed. 
 
 When Grace ventured to cast a glance at 
 his countenance, she was struck with the ex- 
 pression of it. 
 
 It was softened and changed. A deep and 
 serious awe had succeeded to the stern severity 
 of its expression — and this was softened by 
 certain lines of tenderness, such as the face 
 retains when, to borrow the happy thought — 
 'Von wit Men que V amour a passe par la,.' 
 
 And so it had been. That little child had 
 crept into Mr. Glenroy's heart. He had been 
 united by ties of the deepest friendship with 
 the grandfather ; — sympathies strong, though 
 to him almost unaccountable, had bound him 
 still more closely to the son. He seemed, to 
 himself, never to have really loved any one 
 much — perhaps, never any one at all — but 
 those two. 
 
 William Aubrey's death had made his heart 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON. 
 
 as a blighted desert, and the circumstances 
 which had attended it, had embittered, not to 
 say envenomed, every feeling. He was in 
 that state of stern, hard, dry suffering, perhaps 
 the most difficult of any to endure — when the 
 little child was brought to him. 
 
 The innocence and sweetness of the little 
 girl, and a something indescribable which there 
 was about her, few hearts could resist. It 
 was, no doubt, the instinct of her goodness — 
 but this sort of instincts seems to produce 
 their effects, without revealing the cause. To 
 this was added the interest her position had 
 already inspired. His persuasion that, but for 
 his interference, she might have been so dread- 
 fully wronged — the moral indignation he had. 
 felt, at what he considered the heartless insen- 
 sibility of the mother— that chivalry which is 
 aroused in the heart of a manly character, 
 by the idea of resisting oppression in the cause 
 of the helpless — all conspired to render the in- 
 terest inspired by this dear little girl irresistible. 
 
 His heart literally yearned to her. His
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 197 
 
 affections, in their full tide, once more found 
 a vent. He loved the child at once — as he 
 had loved the father and the grandfather — 
 because he had loved them — and, yet, for 
 herself too. And if anything could have added 
 to the force of this feeling, it was the observa- 
 tion of Lady Emma's involuntary coldness. 
 Nothing interests a stander-by like the suspi- 
 cion of unkindness or injustice, on the part 
 of parents, towards a child. It seems almost 
 a provision of nature, for the protection of 
 these unfortunates thus deprived. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy yielded to the sweet influences, 
 which now filled his soul, without restraint. 
 He had never married, and he was an only 
 child. He had not one single relation nearer 
 than the second cousin, who was heir to his 
 property, and whom he cared little about. 
 He would have been a lonely man upon his 
 remote Highland estate, if it had not been for 
 the part filled in his life by the Aubreys. It 
 was as natural as it was delightful to find the 
 interest still maintained — to have this dear
 
 198 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 little creature, not only committed to his 
 charge, but her preservation from hideous 
 disasters, almost entirely owing to him. This 
 last feeling completed the fascination which 
 seemed to have knit his heart to her so 
 closely, that he already felt that henceforward 
 her protection would be the one object — her- 
 self the one passion of his life. 
 
 We always want to get into the fresh air ; — 
 to expatiate under the infinite vault of heaven ; 
 — to be visibly in and with the infinite : — When 
 the heart is swelling with unwonted emotion ; 
 and, therefore, Mr. Glenroy had walked forth 
 with Mr. and Mrs. Birchell, to seek the relief 
 he desired. 
 
 His was a great heart with all its faults. 
 
 A strong, rigid, puritan, religious heart — 
 obstinate, proud, one-sided ; — but fearing God, 
 and strictly righteous in its dealings with 
 men. — An idea once taken up, however, was 
 not to be removed ; — and many a hard, and, 
 perhaps, many a virtually unjust action had 
 been done by Mr. Glenroy, under the conviction 
 of his obstinate and unpersuadable self-will.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 199 
 
 He was also a man given to violent and 
 unreasonable prejudices. 
 
 He had taken a dislike to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Birchell. He looked upon them as the sub- 
 servient friends — nay, flatterers — of a capri- 
 cious, romantic, and, — as far as her husband 
 was concerned, — most erring woman ; and he 
 could not feel, and he certainly would not show, 
 the least cordiality to them. He looked in 
 stern silence upon this scene of wondrous 
 beauty before him ; the natural exclamations 
 of their admiration and pleasure only irritated 
 and annoyed him ; — he was, in truth, in that 
 humour when man calls upon " expressive 
 silence," to muse the praises of the Almighty. 
 
 So he slightly touched his hat, and turned 
 another way. 
 
 They went home ; and he walked, or rather, 
 strode slowly along the lovely terrace walk, 
 which now lay sleeping in all the beauty of 
 the moonlight. 
 
 And he again fell into a reverie, musing 
 rather than reflecting. — The figure of that
 
 200 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 sweet, innocent child, as she sat there upon 
 his lap, leaning her little head against his 
 bosom, was before him. Again he felt the 
 gentle pressure against his heart, and the soft 
 warmth of that little clasping finger upon his 
 cold, hard hand, — and the whole man was 
 melted. 
 
 He had never sufFered himself to entertain 
 for a moment the story about Alice Craven ; 
 — he had dismissed the matter at once from his 
 conscience, as a romance, but a most danger- 
 ous romance ; and his efforts were directed 
 to prevent, in every possible way, such a 
 pernicious falsehood from getting afloat. He 
 had not lived in a remote part of Scotland all 
 his life, and belonged to an old legendary 
 Scotch family — not to be aware of the blood- 
 shed in olden times, and the misery in more 
 recent ones, that had been produced by such 
 vague and fantastical imaginations. It never 
 once occurred to him to investigate the truth 
 of a story he thus, without a moment's 
 hesitation, rejected. That was one of those
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 201 
 
 conclusions, at which having arrived, he at 
 once cast the subject aside, resolutely re- 
 fusing to afford it any re- examination. There 
 was a latent weakness, no doubt, in this 
 pertinacity. — Obstinacy is, in spite of all its 
 apparent strength, the offspring of hidden weak- 
 ness : — it is the refuge of a will, that wills 
 not the intrinsically true and right ; — but what 
 it chooses to regard, as the true and the right. 
 
 But enough of this. 
 
 I respected Mr. Glenroy in spite of his 
 faults ; no one who knew him could well help 
 doing that ; — moreover, I, in a manner, loved 
 him, and, if I lay stress on the point, it is 
 because I feel as if I wished to set him right 
 as far as I can, in your good opinion. 
 
 You must remember, likewise, that Mr. 
 Glenroy, like .many rigid characters of his 
 stamp, was very much given, also, to make 
 favourites; — and, as often happens, too, in 
 such cases, he was used to choose, as his 
 favourites, those who were not other people's 
 favourites.
 
 202 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON. 
 
 This disposition, if we were to analyze it, 
 would, I am afraid, prove . not to have quite 
 so amiable a source as at first appears. — How- 
 ever, there is much of the sense of justice in 
 it ; and so far, so good. 
 
 Because Edward Aubrey had been the 
 object of so much unjust partiality, Mr. 
 Glenroy had never liked him ; he had, on the 
 contrary, been positively unjust in his judg- 
 ment of him ; and it was upon this account, 
 also, that he had been the more easily prejudiced 
 against Lady Emma, by the highly- coloured 
 exaggerated representations of Alice, — who, 
 in her hatred, had, herself, beheld what had 
 passed, under the influence of that evil eye, 
 which, like a bad glass, discolours and distorts 
 every object. 
 
 Her conduct, which had required much 
 explanation to be excused or understood, even 
 by those who loved her best, had, reaching 
 him through this medium, filled his mind with 
 suspicion, distrust, and ill-will. 
 
 Still the evident candour of Lady Emma —
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 20o 
 
 the persuasion she was under, that she was 
 right — her simplicity, truth, and honour — 
 could not fail to produce some effect. — Mr. 
 Glenroy began to look upon her as upon one 
 betrayed by an abused imagination, and misled 
 by an infatuated partiality ; but still, with 
 more indulgence. For it was impossible to see 
 and speak with her, without the conviction being 
 fixed that her scruples were genuine, and that 
 there was not the slightest pretence, or double 
 dealing upon her part. He found himself forced 
 to respect such scruples, — though he looked 
 with contempt upon their foundation. — All 
 his various feelings, however, upon the subject 
 were centred in the one predominant anxiety — 
 namely, that the secret might be buried in 
 silence. 
 
 And so he walked and mused, and the 
 moon shone upon the sleeping landscape; — 
 and the bright, glittering stars of heaven 
 shone down upon him; and the soft, soft 
 night Avind gently stirred the branches around 
 and above him ; and the drowsy sheep-bell
 
 204 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 tinkled; and the deep, sullen beat of the 
 distant hammers mingled like a low bass 
 note, with all. 
 
 And Mr. Glenroy walked and mused, as we 
 all love to do. Yet, he thought not of making 
 that rigorous inquiry into his motives, or, as to 
 whether his proceedings were right or wrong, 
 which so few men honestly and with single- 
 mindedness attempt, — and so he walked till the 
 moon was sinking behind the tops of the distant 
 mountains, and then he went and laid his head 
 upon his pillow, — and slept, as he thought, the 
 sleep of the just. 
 
 The next day he was up early — went down 
 stairs, and was walking up and down the 
 drawing-room, according to his usual custom, 
 whilst he waited for breakfast, when, the door of 
 the room being open, steps were heard de- 
 scending the stairs ; — the heavy tread of a fat 
 woman, and the light trip of a little child, —
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 205 
 
 and soon, through the open door, he saw the 
 small mourning figure crossing the hall, her 
 hand in that of her portly Nurse. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy approached, and stood in the 
 door- way, watching the retreating form. 
 
 " Miss Aubrey, my dear — don't you see 
 your guardian, Mr. Glenroy ? " said Nurse, 
 stopping, when, upon turning round, she became 
 first aware of his presence, — " Go up, and 
 ask him how he is this morning, my precious, — 
 and say you hope he has slept well. — This 
 house is yours — Miss Aubrey, now. — Don't 
 forget to do your honours." 
 
 " My house ! — It's Mamma's " 
 
 "Well, never mind disputing about that 
 now. — Do as I bid you." — And she led Imo- 
 gene up to Mr. Glenroy. 
 
 The little girl held out her hand. 
 
 " How do you do, Sir — Mr. Glenroy ? — I 
 hope you have had a good night?" 
 
 Mr. Glenroy laid hold of, but would not 
 relinquish, the little hand. His face was bright- 
 ened by a gleam of unusual satisfaction, and his
 
 206 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 eye glistened ; — he drew the child gently into 
 the drawing-room, Nurse following, and once 
 more placed her upon his knee — and again he 
 looked down upon that sweet face, and gazed 
 upon the lovely infant smile, so expressive 
 of all that was innocent, simple, and good, — and 
 he felt his heart beating fast with strong and 
 strange emotions. — He had never known what 
 it was to be attracted by a creature so beau- 
 tiful before. That ineffable charm which great 
 loveliness adds to affections which have taken 
 rise in deeper sources, was quite a new feeling 
 to him. The beauty of the little creature 
 added a something inexpressibly delightful to 
 his other feelings. 
 
 " What a good, nice little lass you are," — 
 he said — "to come and speak to me in this 
 pretty way. — Do you know, little lady, that 
 your poor papa has left you to me to take care 
 of — that I am named your guardian ; — do you 
 know what that means ? — you very bonny lit- 
 tle lassie." 
 
 " Take care of me ! — Mamma takes care of
 
 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGIITON. 207 
 
 me, Guardian! — I don't know what is — 
 Guardian." 
 
 "To stand to you in your papa's place — to 
 take care nobody hurts his little lassie, now he 
 is gone away." 
 
 " I've no papa now," she said, sorrowfully. 
 
 " Will you try and love me, then, as you 
 did your papa ? — you loved him very much.' 1 
 
 Mr. Glenroy, I verily believe, had never put 
 love twice together in the same sentence in his 
 life before. 
 
 "You're not like my papa — but you are 
 very kind, I think. — Did papa say I must love 
 
 you?" 
 
 " He would wish you to try." 
 " Then I will try and love you." 
 " That's right — and now, my little lass, we 
 must begin to get acquainted as fast as we 
 can," Mr. Glenroy went on cheerfully, for he 
 was quite happy with the child upon his knee ; 
 — and already so softened by this altogether 
 new and most tender affection, that he might 
 be looked upon as an altered man. " And
 
 208 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 so, as I must go a drive out to-day, 
 perhaps you and Mrs. Nurse will come with 
 me — and then you can look about you, and 
 see some new things — and get acquainted with 
 me as we go along. — But first, I must know 
 whether little Missy will be afraid of smoke 
 and noise, and great big chimneys, and black 
 figures of men and women — and panting 
 steam-engines, and thundering hammers." 
 
 The little girl did not suffer Nurse to 
 answer. 
 
 " Little Moggie's never afraid, — and she 
 likes to see things," she said. 
 
 " Well, then, I must go down to Armidale 
 this morning, Nurse," — Mr. Glenroy went on, 
 turning to Nurse ; — " and if the drive will not 
 be too long for little Missy, I should like to 
 take her with me; — it will please the people to 
 see her," — he added — " if you think she will 
 neither be frightened nor tired." 
 
 Nurse, of course, was delighted at this 
 speech, and the proposal it contained, and 
 answered with much alacrity —
 
 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON. 209 
 
 " I am sure it will do Miss Aubrey a world 
 of good," she was going on. 
 
 " Oh ! I shall so like — -so like it," — inter- 
 rupted the little girl, clapping her hands — " It's 
 such a long, long time, since I have been a 
 ride." 
 
 " Indeed, so it is, Sir, — The poor little 
 dear has been quite moped. — It will be quite 
 a treat — I hope my lady won't object — 
 but . . . ." 
 
 " I'll settle it all with my lady — Mrs. 
 
 what is your name, pray ? " 
 
 " Watson, Sir"— 
 
 " Please, Mrs. Watson, let the little lassie 
 stay with me a wee bit — will you, my bonny 
 child ? — and if you see one of my men, tell him 
 to have my carriage out as soon as breakfast is 
 over." 
 
 " And so, little lady," — began Mr. G-lenroy, 
 delighted to be left alone with his treasure — 
 feeling her doubly his own, now he had her 
 quite to himself, — as, indeed, one mostly does, 
 as regards little children. 
 
 VOL. i. p
 
 210 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " And so, little lady — you are not afraid of 
 a scraggy, ugly, big old Scotchman, are 
 you?" 
 
 " No, " she said — and she laid her little soft 
 hand confidingly in his. — " You are very kind 
 and loved papa, and I'm not the least afraid." 
 
 " Not, though I'm so big and ugly." 
 
 " You're not ugly," she said, fixing her large, 
 intelligent eyes upon his face — "you look so 
 kind." 
 
 The heart of man could not help being gra- 
 tified at this innocent flattery. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy smiled, — 
 
 " Then you will not be afraid to go with me 
 and Nurse, you say, and see all the great, 
 noisy, ugly things, we are going amongst — 
 You must know, little lassie, I'm glad of that — 
 because you must be used to them — for they 
 will all belong to you some day or other — Nay, 
 they are yours now, little lady, and you must 
 learn not to be afraid to go among them — for, 
 little as you are, it is better that these people 
 that work for you, should know you and see
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 211 
 
 you, at times, that they may love those they 
 labour for — if it's only to teach them to work a 
 little for love, and give their rough hearts 
 pleasure," — he added aside. 
 
 " I don't understand," — the little girl said, 
 fixing her eyes with a perplexed expression 
 upon his. 
 
 " Well, mylittlelass — I don't suppose youcan 
 understand much — but it has pleased Him — 
 the great God above," he added, in a tone of 
 solemn awe, that went right to the little girl's 
 heart, " Him who putteth down one, andsetteth 
 up another — to give you very large possessions 
 — and you must try to understand, and to re- 
 member too — ' That to whom much is given, 
 of him much will be required.' — Poor little 
 bodie — but that's an awful way of considering 
 it, though, for so young a one." 
 
 The little girl looked only the more and 
 more puzzled — but still as if she were trying 
 to disentangle a meaning. 
 
 "Has nobody told you?" — asked Mr. 
 Glenroy. 
 
 p2
 
 212 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 "Told me— what?" 
 
 " That you are Miss Aubrey — a great 
 heiress — very rich, and very great." 
 
 " Yes ; Nurse and Mr. Hardman did — but I 
 don't know what it is." 
 
 " Who's Mr. Hardman?" 
 
 " He's the butler." 
 
 "And did nobody else? — Was it left to 
 mere dependent menials to break this great 
 truth to you?" exclaimed Mr. Glenroy, with 
 sudden indignation, "then listen, child, to me," 
 he went on in a manner that filled her little 
 heart with awe — " listen to the guardian ap- 
 pointed by your father — and who, so help me 
 God above, will be to you a second father — 
 listen and understand." 
 
 He lifted her up in his arms, and carried her 
 to the window, which commanded the whole 
 magnificent view. 
 
 "All this house — and all these gardens — and 
 dowers and trees — and all those great woods you 
 see there — and that lake of water and the fields, 
 almost as far as your eye can reach, belong to
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 213 
 
 you — even to that long line of black there ; 
 and all the hills, and hills behind the house, till 
 you get to Sarross Point — and the iron and 
 coal works at Armidale — listen ! do you hear 
 that low thundering noise ? — It is your ham- 
 mers that are going — mind, child — It was all 
 your father's — and now it is, every iota of it, 
 yours — and don't you forget that it is yours — 
 and let nobody — Mamma — or nobody — per- 
 suade you to think it anything but yours — for 
 yours it is. Look over the land, to the east, 
 and to the west, and to the north, and to the 
 south — for it is given unto thee, my child, to 
 possess it — and God give thee grace" he 
 added, with deep reverence, as he laid his large 
 hand upon the little head — "to rule injustice, 
 truth, and righteousness, over the kingdom 
 which He has given into thine hand." 
 
 It was a large, confused, indistinct idea 
 which was thus presented to her — yet child- 
 ren, at that age, have astonishing power of 
 comprehension — and wonderful strength and 
 nobility of heart — responsive to all that is
 
 214 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 great and good. — Little Moggie knew about 
 God — and loved, and tried to serve him too, 
 in her childish fashion. And she understood, 
 too, what righteousness, goodness, and truth 
 were; and, in a vague imperfect way, what it 
 is to be a great lady, and reign, too — for the 
 child was a dreamer over old tales. 
 
 The impression Mr. Glenroy wished to con- 
 vey was made upon her mind. She, in thought, 
 constituted herself, as it were, mistress of her 
 new possessions. She had a perception of the 
 position she was henceforward to occupy. She 
 felt that she was a personage — a something 
 great — and a halo, a kind of glory, seemed to 
 diffuse itself around her idea of little Moggie 
 — All this indistinctly, but strongly — and with 
 the idea of greatness, came the more generous 
 idea of great goodness. The little child deter- 
 mined never to be naughty again — That was 
 the present resolution of her young swelling 
 heart — but other feelings were not long in 
 springing up in it.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 215 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The staring eye, glazed o'er with sapless days, 
 The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
 The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 If people would but go back upon them- 
 selves, and recollect what they were at five 
 or six years old, they would be ashamed and 
 they would be exalted. 
 
 There would be much consolation, a sort of 
 generous pride in recollecting what one was in 
 the freshness of early creation, and life — deep 
 shame at acknowledging what one is, after 
 life has been ours to work upon. What has 
 been done with these rich talents of innocence, 
 generous love, and righteousness, — that
 
 216 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 directness of judgment, that quick intuitive 
 perception, which make up the wisdom of a 
 young child. — When we do thus count our 
 thoughts back, we are most of us astonished 
 to find, how much was in us at that time ; and 
 yet children are so little demonstrative of their 
 inner notions and feelings, that every child 
 upon whom we look down from an ad- 
 vanced station of life, continues mostly to 
 us only what a child appears upon super- 
 ficial observation to be. 
 
 We take little trouble to observe — and even 
 if we do observe, — it is difficult to penetrate 
 through that outside of infantine playfulness, 
 or apparent dulness and stupidity, and see 
 what is going on in the secret chambers 
 within. 
 
 As Imogene stood silent at the window of 
 Mr. G-lenroy's chariot, attentively watching 
 every object that passed before her eyes, it 
 was impossible for him, or indeed for any one, 
 to have divined the variety of impressions she 
 was receiving — or what was working within 
 her mind.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 217 
 
 The reserve, natural to all thoughtful 
 children, had been greatly increased in her by 
 the life she had led during the last month — 
 almost entirely confined to the company of her 
 silent and serious mother. She had found her 
 almost sole companion in her mute doll, to 
 which she talked a little, but even that only 
 in a low murmur ; for she felt in awe of her 
 mother. Suffering and melancholy, which 
 they cannot understand, fill children with 
 much of this silent awe. — The child had lost 
 the habit of prattling to any one but Nurse. 
 
 She now stood leaning against the window, 
 drinking in new ideas, with the ardent thirst 
 of awakening intelligence, — but neither mov- 
 ing, speaking, nor giving any external sign 
 of what she was feeling, except as far as this 
 mute attention was one. 
 
 It was the first time in her life that she had 
 been taken in this direction. 
 
 First they drove through the fine shrub- 
 beries, and plantations of Haughton Hall, 
 then between hedges and fertile fields ; where
 
 218 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 a few autumn flowers still lingered. — Here 
 the scarlet hips, and hawthorn berries hung 
 gay among the red and yellow changing leaves 
 of the wild briar and hawthorn ; and the 
 traveller's joy, creeping along the hedges in 
 wild luxuriance, showed its light downy seed 
 plumes; and the verbena its lovely pink, — 
 and the slow and climbing nightshade its 
 purple fruit. — And the little child thought 
 these hedges perfect wildernesses of beauty. — 
 She drank in this beauty which she as much 
 imagined as saw, with that intense delight, 
 with which children, wrapt in silent quietness, 
 — gather into their hearts such things. 
 
 But as they proceeded, this wealth of vegeta- 
 tion gradually began to diminish. The trees 
 looked stunted and unhealthy ; the hedges 
 ragged and broken ; the sloe was with- 
 out fruit; — and a few rare, half-blackened 
 berries hung among the scanty leaves of 
 the wretched looking hawthorns. — The wild 
 briar and the traveller's joy were seen 
 no more ; and the flowers were all gone,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 219 
 
 except a few bunches of yellow ragwort, 
 that still straggled along the way side. — The 
 carriage descended a steep hill, and then it 
 wound round the foot of an opposite ascent, 
 and as it advanced the hills seemed to close, 
 and the valleys to narrow. At length, thick 
 columns of smoke might be seen in the 
 distance, rising in columns and obscuring the 
 clear blue of the sky — and gradually the 
 valley, whose course they were following, 
 became grim and dark, and the air was thick 
 with smoke, and save now and then a 
 blackened scrub, — or ragged bush, or knot 
 of coarse grass, and still never failing ragwort 
 — all vegetation had disappeared. 
 
 The child said nothing, but turned and 
 looked upon Mr. Glenroy, as if for explana- 
 tion. He had been during all this time watch- 
 ing her with the greatest interest. 
 
 He made no answer to the mute appeal, and 
 she turned to the window again. 
 
 But now the windings of the road brought 
 them round the last spur of the hills, and the
 
 220 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 whole scene opened before them. The way 
 carried them to the almost precipitous edge of 
 a deep valley, or rather glen, beneath the level 
 of the one they had followed, and filled with 
 all the accessories of mining industry. 
 
 There were huge steam-engines, smoking 
 and clattering, and hissing — lifting up and 
 letting fall their enormous sea-serpent heads 
 with a monstrous and stunning force. Huge 
 horizontal wheels, black as soot, at the head of 
 the mining shafts, were turning with slow 
 endless motion ; heaps of coal and iron ore — 
 fires were burning, volumes of smoke rising and 
 casting a lurid shadow upon everything — clat- 
 tering chains, rattling carriages running to and 
 fro on the tram-roads — falling waters — at inter- 
 vals loud explosions from blasted rocks were 
 heard — men, black as demons and looking al- 
 most like the inhabitants of a cyclop ean world, 
 were passing to and fro amid the smoke, the 
 chain, the wheels, and fires. Busy industry 
 every where, but in one of its forms most repulsive 
 to a loving, woodland-fed, imaginative heart.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 221 
 
 The child's countenance was clouded over 
 with a mixture of disgust and fear — yet there 
 was a certain awe mingled, for such scenes 
 have a grandeur in them. The bleak, barren, 
 frowning hills that girdled in this glen, tra- 
 versed by inky paths so steep that they 
 seemed inaccessible — the gloomy barrenness 
 and dark atmosphere around, approached to 
 the sublime. 
 
 Certainly such scenes in mountain districts 
 are far less repulsive than in the wide ex- 
 tended plains and long sweeping hills of some 
 parts of England. 
 
 "Well, my little lassie — and what do you 
 think of it all?" 
 
 The child seemed almost too much stunned 
 and confused to answer. Suddenly an ex- 
 pression of acute pain came into her face, for 
 they had now approached a line of wretched 
 houses, before whose doors ragged, miserable, 
 barefooted children were scrambling about; and 
 scolding, ill-favoured dirty mothers, their hair 
 hanging in tangled masses from their ragged
 
 222 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 caps — their features perfectly begrimed with 
 the smoke — were passing in and out. One 
 had just seized hold of a little child that was 
 paddling in a dirty puddle, and with shrill 
 voice, and the aspect of a fury, had lifted up 
 her hand to punish the small offender, who 
 shrieked desperately for mercy. The shriek 
 was answered by the child in the carriage, who 
 flung herself upon Mr Glenroy's breast in a 
 transport of horror. He shouted to the ser- 
 vants, and the carnage stopped. 
 
 "What's the matter, my woman?" he 
 called out, addressing the virago. " What 
 has the wee bairn done ? Don't slay thine 
 own flesh and blood, Jenny, for nothing." 
 
 The woman looked up; the blow was 
 arrested ; the closed fingers were loosened by 
 surprise — the child ran away, and hid itself. 
 The woman continued to stare at the car- 
 riage, and at the stranger's face, which ap- 
 peared at the window. 
 
 " What's the matter, good woman?" re- 
 peated Mr. Glenroy. u Do you think it's any 
 use to flyht a poor bairn in that way ?"
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 223 
 
 "Flyht! what's flyht?" said the woman, 
 sulkily. "The child's always a-going into 
 the puddle-hole, there; and who's to clean 
 him hut myself, I'd like to know?" 
 
 And half insolently, half sulkily, she turned 
 away and re-entered her house. The door 
 stood <*vide open ; as the carriage remained 
 standing there, you could see within. 
 
 What a scene of dirt and confusion, and 
 squalid misery, was displayed ! Not that I 
 intend to say that this is usually the case with 
 all colliers' and miners' dwellings. I have 
 never seen any dwellings of the working 
 classes more scrupulously neat, more filled 
 with all those little luxuries and ornaments, 
 which are the evidences of well-doing among 
 such — than I have observed in some houses 
 prepared by wives and mothers for the recep- 
 tion of these grim, sooty sons of the earth ; 
 but this too often is not the case. Where there 
 is slovenly indolence upon the part of the 
 woman, or habits of drinking upon that of the 
 man ; nothing can exceed the squalid wretched-
 
 224 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 ness that may be found in the dwellings of our 
 mining or manufacturing districts. 
 
 The picture I have now before my eyes 
 belongs to a period some years ago, when, cer- 
 tainly, there was much less pains taken by mas- 
 ters to improve the condition of their workmen 
 than what is to be met with now. At that time, 
 with few exceptions, things went on in general, 
 much as they were going on at the time I 
 am describing in Armidale. The proprietor 
 left the direction to the head manager, who 
 might be called in this case an inferior partner ; 
 not sharing profits indeed, but having, in addi- 
 tion to his salary, a percentage upon the 
 profits, which amounts in its moral effects 
 to much the same thing. The head manager, 
 however, in this case, was one who — provided 
 the work were well done, and no outrageous 
 acts of vice or disorder committed — was satis- 
 fied with things as they went on, and never 
 troubled his head about what at that time of 
 day he would have called the 'cant of progress : 7 
 and William Aubrey, though for a few gene-
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 225 
 
 rous and munificent actions he had obtained 
 a character for benevolence — which at this time 
 of day we should think he little deserved — had 
 been too much occupied by his self-misery to 
 pay any serious or continued attention to the 
 subject. Still less had an idea of this duty 
 occurred to Lady Emma, who had been edu- 
 cated to overlook such subjects — as people 
 too often were in those days. It had never 
 occurred to either to reflect upon the enormous 
 weight of responsibility that lay upon them — 
 upon the pressing nature of reciprocal obliga- 
 tions and duties — upon what they, refined, 
 educated, cultivated, with every means that 
 intellect, leisure, and wealth could give for 
 the benefiting the almost brute masses that 
 lay around them — owed of care and guid- 
 ance, to those who were labouring at their 
 charge. 
 
 Provided the wage was duly and liberally 
 paid, they looked no further. All obligation, 
 in their eyes, was thus discharged — and so, no 
 doubt, the positive obligation of justice was — 
 
 vol. I. Q
 
 226 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 and they little thought of the new, and much 
 more all-embracing law — that law of compre- 
 hensive love, which makes every one of these 
 rude colliers a neighbour and brother. 
 
 They lost almost as much as their depend- 
 ants by this indifference and blindness. Con- 
 ceive these two working together from a 
 sense of imperative duty — from a disinterested 
 desire for the good of others — and reflect 
 upon the bond of union it would have created 
 between them. 
 
 Oh, when the rich and powerful give them- 
 selves to labour for the ignorant and miserable! 
 Their possessions and immunities and accom- 
 plishments become, indeed, gracious gifts of 
 God ! The consequence of this inattention of 
 duty, of course, was, that this large district 
 of Armidale collieries was in a most neglected 
 condition. 
 
 " They don't seem particularly canny gude 
 wives, Nurse," remarked Mr. Glenroy to the 
 companion who sat beside him. " I don't see 
 as how there's much room for ye English
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 227 
 
 people to reproach our Scotch gude wives 
 with being slovens." 
 
 " But what can you expect, Sir — in the col- 
 lieries and iron works ?" remonstrated Nurse — 
 "Miss Aubrey, my dear — will you like to 
 come and sit upon my knee ?" 
 
 " The child seems quite scared," thought 
 Nurse to herself — " I cannot think what be- 
 witched Mr. Glenroy to bring the poor little 
 creature here." 
 
 "No, thank you," said the little girl — and 
 continued to stand at the window, watching. 
 
 "I want to find Mr. Standish — the head 
 manager," said Mr. Glenroy to a man who 
 happened to pass by — " Will you give my 
 postillion directions as to the right way ?" 
 
 The man proceeded to give the directions in 
 the usual complicated style — " Turn to the 
 left, and then go straight forwards ; and when 
 you pass the ' Three Jolly Colliers' — that's the 
 little alehouse — why then, turn to the right, 
 and so take the bigger road," &c. &c. 
 
 Whilst he was endeavouring to make him- 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 self understood, various loiterers — men, boys, 
 girls, and children — had gathered round the car- 
 riage. The handsome equipage — the chariot, 
 with Mr. Glenroy's shield, and its innumerable 
 quarterings upon a splendid mantle, all ermined 
 and looped with gold upon the panels — but far 
 more than all, the beautiful little girl, clad in 
 deep mourning, that stood and looked out ot 
 the window, excited universal interest and 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Who's carriage mun that be ? — It's not 
 th' old master's — That was dark blue — and 
 this orange like — and who's th' chil't? — It 
 can't be — the chil't — aye, but it is — It's Mas- 
 ter Glenroy — he as is named executor and 
 guardian under th' will — and that's the chil't 
 — sure enough, in th' carriage with him" — 
 were the questions and answers bandied 
 about. — The intelligence relating to the dispo- 
 sition of the will, so far at least, had already 
 reached Armidale. — "And sure, — but is it 
 not a pretty creature?" was added with a 
 burst of instinctive loyalty.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 229 
 
 Loyalty to the beautiful, young, and help- 
 less ! — How sweet it is ! — There was not a 
 heart among these rude colliers but swelled to 
 the delicate and beautiful little child — their 
 future Queen. Every one among them was, 
 for the moment, the better, for the tenderness 
 of that admiration with which she filled them. 
 They were softened by her beauty, her inno- 
 cence, and her infancy. — They were the better 
 for loving beauty, innocence, and a child. — 
 Every single feeling of this sort helps and 
 advances, and purifies the man. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy understood, by the instinct of 
 his own heart, what was going on. — He was 
 already the better for loving this little one — 
 He felt that every rough Proletaire among the 
 crowd around would be the better for it, too. — 
 He was proud of, and pleased with, the sensa- 
 tion thus created. — It happened to be the hour 
 of rest, and when the gangs of miners were 
 changing — so there were more people about 
 than usual. 
 • Mr Glenroy put his head to the side-window,
 
 230 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 and looked round. — A man came up and took 
 off his hat. 
 
 " If you please, Sir," he said, " and I may 
 make so bold — you be Mr. Glenroy, ben't you — 
 and that's the little lady as is to reign over 
 us?" 
 
 ■ • Eight — I am Mr. Glenroy — and I have 
 brought down this bonny little wee thing — 
 that you may all see her, and that she may 
 see you. — Yes, sure enough ! Reign over you 
 she will — so please the Great Ruler above — 
 She is the heiress to all her father's pos- 
 sessions — and a sweeter bud never promised 
 to blossom to a rose." 
 
 The people crowded round. 
 
 " These are your people — These are the 
 workmen that go deep into the ground, where 
 it is very cold and very dark, to work for you. 
 They used to go into the ground to work for 
 your father, — and now they are going to do it 
 for your 
 
 " I'm afraid of 'em" — she whispered, draw- 
 ing back, and clinging to Mr. Glenroy.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 231 
 
 " But you mustn't be afraid of them — my 
 wee lassie — for they love you — and work for 
 you." 
 
 " But they are so black and ugly." 
 
 "That's because they go into the dark 
 ground, to fetch out coal to make fires for you, 
 dear," put in Nurse. — " It's all for you — to 
 make fires and money for you. 1 ' 
 
 "But do they like going into the dark 
 ground ?" — whispered the little girl, pale and 
 agitated — half afraid — very sorry — and very 
 much stunned and surprised; — " because, if 
 they don't — don't let 'em go for me — I don't 
 want 'em to." 
 
 "They don't mind the dust and cold as you 
 would, little one — they are big men, you see — 
 big men are not afraid of dirt and cold — they 
 are all big men." 
 
 Mr. Glenroy forgot the poor little children, 
 sitting prisoners in the mines, for hours every 
 day, to shut and open doors. 
 
 "Don't they mind?— I'm glad— but I'm 
 sorry."
 
 232 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON, 
 
 O'J 
 
 " Sorry ! For why ? 
 
 " 'Cause they can't like it." 
 
 Mr. Glenroy pressed the little creature to 
 his bosom for a moment, — then he said — 
 
 " But there is one thing they will all like — 
 they will like very much to look at you ; — and 
 if you will put your little face to the window — 
 and say — ' My men, I'm very glad to see you — 
 and I hope you are all very well' — It would 
 make them so glad." 
 
 "Would it?" 
 
 u They would not care for the cold and 
 dark after that." 
 
 " Wouldn't they ?— Oh ! I'm so glad !— Put 
 me to the window." 
 
 " My men" — (prompting her) — 
 
 "My men," — began the sweet childish 
 voice — and there was a pause of expectant 
 silence — 
 
 " I'm very glad to see you " 
 
 " I'm very glad to see you." 
 
 u And*I hope you are all very well." 
 
 " And I hope you are all very well — and
 
 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUGHTON. 233 
 
 don't be frightened at going into the nasty 
 dark ground for me." 
 
 And, with the triumph of a little child at 
 having achieved a great enterprise, and added 
 somewhat of its own to another's dictation, — 
 she turned round and hid her face playfully 
 in the breast of Mr. Grlenroy's coat. 
 
 He could have devoured her. 
 
 "Very well — that's a good little lass. — 
 Drive on, coachman." 
 
 The carriage moved on — the crowd cheered, 
 — The noise made the little child tremble ; — 
 she still kept her face hidden in the breast of 
 his coat, and he put his arm round her and 
 pressed her to him — feeling all the time such 
 a world of new, sweet, unaccustomed, sensa- 
 tions ! Such a paradise of sweets was opened 
 up by this strong, strange love, — seeming 
 someway sweeter than even a father's love ! — 
 and perhaps it was so. — A stranger's love of 
 this sort, once excited, has a peculiar interest 
 in it. Besides, he was alone in the world, 
 and she seemed alone in the world, too. — On
 
 234 THE HEIRESS OF IIAUOHTON. 
 
 his side, at least, there were no rival affections 
 to divert this current of feelings. 
 
 The shouting ceased, and the little girl's 
 spirits returned. 
 
 " Now," said Mr. Glenroy, — " do you know 
 you have been a very good child — trying to 
 do what you were told it was right to do, — 
 and you have made a great many people 
 happy, — and a thought has come into my head 
 — You have given them a happy minute — you 
 shall give them a happy day. — Would it not 
 be a bonny thing to make a great feast, and 
 ask all these people who work for you to come 
 and eat a good dinner? " 
 
 " A feast ! — A real feast ! " — cried the child. 
 
 Little birthday feasts were the only feasts 
 she had ever seen, or had any idea of, pretty 
 thing ! — but a child's imagination always rises 
 very high at the idea of a feast. 
 
 " Oh ! that would be so nice ! " 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Glenroy— " I do think it 
 would be very nice, — for, do you see, my 
 bairn, these houses are not like your great
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 235 
 
 house at Haughton — and these ugly clothes 
 are not like your clothes, — and these little 
 boys and girls never get a feast, and sometimes 
 not enough to eat." 
 
 " But — but," — eagerly — " why have they 
 bad houses, and ugly clothes, and not enough 
 to eat? — I've enough." 
 
 " Everybody can't have enough." 
 
 " Can't they? — Why can't they — they 
 ought " 
 
 "Ah!" thought Mr. Glenroy — "here we 
 are, at the very onset, stumbling upon the great 
 problem, which puzzles us all, — how much 
 more does it offend the sense of justice in an 
 innocent child!" He did not exactly know 
 what to say. 
 
 "They ought to have dinners,"— pursued 
 the little reasoner, — " havn't they dinners ?" 
 
 " Not always." 
 
 "But why havn't they?"— Ill give them 
 some of my dinner. — I've dinner every day — 
 always." 
 
 " Yes, so you shall, — we will try and see
 
 236 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 whether they cannot all have dinners 'every 
 day," Mr. G-lenroy said, to pacify her, and 
 sighed at the impotence of the promise. 
 
 The events of this day made an indelible 
 impression upon little Imogene. 
 
 They had pursued their way to the Head 
 Manager's house, amidst scenes of new desola- 
 tion and that dreary desert of hideous barren- 
 ness, common to such districts ; — and the little 
 heart, with dismay, looked upon what appeared 
 to her so indescribably terrible and wretched. 
 
 The impression she so early received was 
 never effaced. It was all the stronger, for the 
 sort of confused darkness of the picture. But 
 with this sense of wretched gloom and dirt over- 
 hanging it — the most tender pity was awakened 
 — and the most generous and intense desire to 
 do something to make them all white and happy. 
 
 Children of little Moggie's age are perfectly 
 capable of such reflections and aspirations.
 
 TIIE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 237 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Smiling and loving — hoping still — 
 Ne'er cherishing a thought of ill, 
 Judging men's spirits by thine own. 
 
 Mrs. Acton Tindal. 
 
 The child was pensive and silent all the way 
 home. In truth, her little heart was full to 
 overflowing. When she came in, she was led 
 up into her nursery, to have her things taken 
 off. 
 
 It was a beautiful day. The nursery win- 
 dows stood wide open, and the fresh breeze 
 blew refreshingly in — as the curtains waved 
 up and down, giving glimpses of the beauteous 
 landscape outside.
 
 238 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 The little girl scarcely spoke, as Nurse was 
 taking off her bonnet and little cloak ; but 
 remained in a silence quite unlike her usual 
 prattling habits — for her heart was naturally 
 open and unreserved, as are hearts strong and 
 simple at once. 
 
 When her small toilette was finished, her 
 hair smoothed, and all made ready to go 
 down to Mamma, Nurse asked her to sit down 
 and wait awhile, as she had a few things to do 
 first. The child took her tiny stool, and sat 
 down at the window and looked out ; and, as 
 she looked out, she mentally contrasted the 
 glorious scene before her, with the dreamy 
 aspect of wretchedness of the one she had just 
 visited — and the young, thoughtful, heart was 
 very much puzzled. 
 
 This child had already been instructed in 
 the rudiments of religion, and she thought a 
 vast deal upon the subject. 
 
 People, who do not remember distinctly — of 
 which I think are the majority — what passed 
 in their minds at this early age, may probably
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 239 
 
 look upon this as quite precocious and un- 
 natural in my little favourite — who, I beg to 
 say, was not in the least precocious, but as 
 sweetly genuine a child as any I ever knew. 
 She seemed to belong to those — if, with great 
 reverence, I may presume, in such a work as 
 this, to allude to the beautiful and touching 
 incident — whom the divine Saviour took in 
 His blessed arms, declaring that ' of such was 
 the kingdom of Heaven.' 
 
 Little Moggie had sat many and many an 
 half-hour since the days, as we may call them, 
 of her affliction began — dating from the hour 
 her poor mother discovered the fatal secret, 
 which had shipwrecked all she possessed of 
 happiness. Often and often had little Moggie 
 sat silent and sad, infected with a sort of sym- 
 pathetic melancholy, imbibed, she knew not 
 why, from the sadness of her mother. Often 
 and often, too, had she sat upon that very 
 little stool which she now occupied, looking 
 out over this lovely view. To her fresh per- 
 ceptions, it was steeped in a living beauty,
 
 240 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 which, as we grow older, and our sensibilities 
 have lost something of their first delicacy, we 
 are no longer able to taste. And thus had she 
 often remained silent and quiet, thinking of that 
 great, great God whom she had learned to 
 know. — Wondering, and longing to see and 
 to know better, that Being whose dwelling was 
 beyond the measureless arch of blue which 
 spread above her head — whose infinite depths 
 the childish eye vainly strove to penetrate. 
 Often, when Mamma looked more sorry 
 and was more silent than usual, would her 
 pitying young eyes be fixed upon her, drink- 
 ing in the impression of that sad, wearied, 
 beautiful face, till her little heart was ready 
 to break. 
 
 She would come into her nursery, sit down 
 upon the little stool at the window and dwell 
 upon this melancholy picture ; and then she 
 would remember little texts out of the Testa- 
 ment, which had impressed her young heart 
 more especially — and these were usually such as 
 speak of the tender pity of our Saviour to the
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 241 
 
 sorrowful and broken-hearted of this world of 
 misery, the existence of which misery so per- 
 plexes a thoughtful child. 
 
 Little Moggie was not, therefore, unaccus- 
 tomed — young as she was — to seek light and 
 comfort, where all, from the least to the 
 greatest, may find it. And now, as she sat at 
 this window, looking over the beautiful world 
 of God, stretched out in all its splendid variety 
 of forms and tints, towards the wide encircling 
 horizon before her — she felt it very wonderful 
 that God, who is all good and all mighty, 
 should make such an ugly world as the one 
 behind the hills. That wonder it was impossi- 
 ble to satisfy — but the pain of it was softened 
 by the recollection of the good Saviour, who 
 came to help the poor, and to feed the hungry. 
 And then she recollected that He had ordered 
 everybody to do the same; and she wondered, 
 again and again, why these poor people were 
 ever allowed to be hungry, when she saw that 
 at her home there was so much and to spare ; 
 and she resolved, again and again, that, when 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 she was bigger — it should not be one feast, as 
 Mr. Glenroy proposed, though that would be 
 very nice — but everybody should have dinner 
 every day. 
 
 " Mamma," said little Imogene, as at length 
 Nurse, having finished what she was about, 
 had taken her down to Lady Emma's sitting- 
 room — "Mamma, I've had such a long drive." 
 
 Her spirits were cheered by the fresh air; 
 and, besides, Lady Emma stretched out her 
 arms to receive her, as she entered the room, 
 with an expression of pleasure not to be mis- 
 taken, and which restored the poor little 
 thing's old feelings of confidence. 
 
 "Mamma — I've have had such a long 
 drive." 
 
 "Have you, my love? — Where have you 
 been?" 
 
 " Oh ! such a long, long way — over hills 
 and hills, such monstrous hills — and down into
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 243* 
 
 such nasty black valleys and holes — and seen 
 such poor, poor, dirty people ; and it's all 
 mine, Mr. Glenroy says — all these monstrous 
 hills are all mine — and these poor dirty people 
 all work for me — and I'm so sorry. They 
 are in the ground all day. So we're going 
 to give them a great feast — arn't you very 
 glad?" 
 
 "Did Mr. Glenroy tell you all this?— What 
 did he tell you, little Moggie ? " asked Lady 
 Emma, taking the child upon her lap, and 
 her face immediately assuming its usual air 
 of serious, almost severe, anxiety and dissatis- 
 faction. 
 
 But she had called her little Moggie, that 
 was enough for the child — who pressed her 
 small head tenderly against her mother's 
 bosom. 
 
 "What did Mr. Glenroy tell my little 
 Moggie ?" 
 
 "Oh! he told me such a many things — 
 that all this beauty great house, and on and 
 on — over all the woods and the fields, is 
 
 r 2
 
 244 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON, 
 
 mine- — and I must mind and remember it is 
 mine — and all the monstrous, ugly hills are 
 mine, too — and that they are very ugly, but 
 they are full of what makes money — and those 
 poor, black, dirty men and women, work in 
 dark, horrid places, to get out coals and iron — 
 that makes knives and spades for me — and 
 there are great big chimneys, puffing away 
 and making things, all day long — but the men 
 and women are so black and dirty! — and 
 they scold the little children, because they 
 don't do as they are bid — and often they don't 
 get enough to eat, and sometimes nothing at 
 all — -and they are bad, and dirty, and don't 
 learn lessons — but Mr. G-lenroy says, because 
 they work for me that I may have dinners — 
 it is my business to see that they are not 
 hungry, and idle, and cross, and don't learn 
 lessons — and that when I am bigger, I shall — 
 and when I am bigger, I am sure I will — for 
 God, Mr. Glenroy says, hates rich people who 
 only think about having dinners and pretty 
 things themselves, and don't care for people
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 245 
 
 that work for them — and so he does — And the 
 Lord Jesus ordered those who had money, to 
 feed the hungry, and to clothe the naked — and 
 I am sure I will — that I will with all my 
 heart: 1 
 
 This childish harangue gushed forth in a 
 murmuring torrent of sweet words — not to be 
 interrupted, had there been any wish upon the 
 part of Lady Emma to interrupt it ;— but she 
 was silent, deeply affected, struck to the soul, 
 listening with feelings of mingled compunction 
 and dismay. 
 
 Were these the sentiments with which this 
 young being entered upon that doubtful inhe- 
 ritance, of which she was striving to deprive 
 her ? 
 
 Was this the spirit, in which the descendant 
 of the guilty Alice Craven, and her guilty son, 
 almost equally guilty, though in a different 
 way, entered upon that inheritance, which, 
 through such a fearful injustice, she seemed 
 about to receive ? — And, even in this short 
 time, had all her precautions proved vain ;. and
 
 246 THE HEIRESS OE HAUGHTON. 
 
 had the little imagination been filled with 
 dreams of greatness and power, from which it 
 would be so fearful to awaken her, when the 
 time of awakening should come — as come Lady 
 Emma felt assured it must and would. With this 
 distress was mingled an acute pang of remorse. 
 Was this the lesson given by a child ? This 
 being, in whose behalf a wrong so insupport- 
 able was, perhaps, about to be perpetrated. 
 Were these her ideas of the true use of riches ? 
 Whence derived? — Oh, not from her — - 
 not from her mother, returned the humbled 
 and repenting heart. 
 
 " I have lived these many years close beside 
 this scene of vice and misery — and what have 
 /done?" 
 
 " Have I ever visited — ever thought of 
 doing good there?" 
 
 " Have / gone among them to learn their 
 wants, and striven to help these outcasts of 
 civilization ?" 
 "No! Ah, No!" 
 She had been absorbed in her own circle of
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 247 
 
 sorrows, vexations, and feelings — selfishly ab- 
 sorbed — and every obligation more remote, 
 had been utterly and altogether left undis- 
 charged. 
 
 What William might have done — she did 
 not know — to her shame be it spoken, she did 
 not even know so much as that. 
 
 She was conscience-stricken— ashamed- 
 confounded — 
 
 Well might Alice Craven feel for her that 
 ill-disguised contempt which she betrayed — 
 she might well and justly feel it as for one 
 utterly spoiled and selfish. She had felt 
 indignant at what she thought a great in- 
 justice, for she knew that her heart was 
 generous and good ; — but what mattered that ? 
 What had her actions been ? 
 
 She remained silent ; but a little gentle 
 pressure encouraged the child, who, throwing 
 her arms round her mother, and looking 
 lovingly into that face, in which she read a 
 something that it warmed her little heart to 
 read, went on —
 
 248 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " The men were without coats, and had 
 great white sleeves tucked up to their 
 shoulders, and their arms so dirty and grim, 
 and they frightened me with their black faces, 
 and made a great noise, — and I was very near 
 crying, but I didn't — and Mr. G-lenroy said I 
 must make a speech to them." 
 
 " My goodness ! — He did ! — and did you ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I tried, because he said they would 
 like it very much." 
 
 " And what did you say?" 
 
 " Oh, I said what Mr. Glenroy bade me. I 
 don't quite remember ; but it began ' My men,' 
 — and said I was glad to see them ; and I said, 
 of my own self, I was very sorry they had to 
 work in the dark ground for me, because 
 I am " 
 
 " And what did they say?" 
 
 " Oh, they shouted and shouted, and seemed 
 so glad ; — but it was such a noise, I couldn't 
 help being frightened a wee bit." 
 
 " My dear little love, suppose all this should 
 be a dream," said Lady Emma, with unusual
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. * 249 
 
 gentleness, for her heart was quivering with 
 different emotions. 
 
 " Oh, it's not a dream. — They're real men 
 and women, Mamma " 
 
 " But suppose, I mean, that it should be a 
 mistake about all that Mr. Grlenroy told you." 
 
 The child lifted up her eyes, and looked in 
 Emma's face, as if she did not, in the least, 
 understand her. 
 
 " Suppose, I mean, that Mr. G-lenroy should 
 have been mistaken, when he said that all 
 these fine things belonged to you, Imogene, 
 and that they are none of them yours at all." 
 
 The child's countenance fell. 
 
 All her little castles of benevolence, which 
 she had erected with so much innocent delight, 
 melted, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
 into thin air, indeed ! 
 
 " Mr. Glenroy would be very naughty, if he 
 told me a story," she said, gravely. 
 
 " He did not intend to tell you a story." 
 began Lady Emma, anxiously — " He thinks 
 what he said was true, and that all these
 
 250 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 things are your own; but, perhaps, he is 
 mistaken. — Little Moggie," she said, very 
 seriously, " must understand this ; — perhaps 
 Mr. G-lenroy may be mistaken: and, then 
 not one thing of all these would belong 
 to her." 
 
 The perplexity into which this revelation 
 threw the mind of the child can scarcely be 
 conceived. She could, in the happy indifference 
 of her age, have received the intelligence, that 
 she possessed nothing, with the philosophy of 
 one ignorant of the value of that which she was 
 called upon to relinquish ; but, not to know 
 whether it was, or was not so — whether she was 
 this princess of a fairy tale, as it seemed to her, 
 — or a poor little girl, who had nothing at all, 
 like some of the other personages in the same 
 fairy tales, — threw her whole mind into con- 
 fusion. I do not know what she would have 
 done, if, to her relief, the confusion had not 
 settled, as it were, round one thought. 
 
 " Then shan't they have my feast ?" 
 
 " Your feast, child!"
 
 THE HEIRESS OT HAUGHTON. 251 
 
 " Yes ; Mr. Glenroy promised me I should 
 give them all a feast. . . . They never have 
 grand things and feasts," she added, in a sort 
 of whispering confidence, — clinging to her 
 mother, as if in her mother's power it lay to 
 gratify her or not — " and I'll be so sorry if 
 they haven't their feast." 
 
 Mr. Glenroy looked seriously displeased, 
 when next he and Lady Emma met. 
 
 " Madam," he began, rather abruptly, "my 
 powers as joint guardian with yourself, are 
 more extensive than you are possibly aware 
 of." 
 
 He had become acquainted with what had 
 passed between Lady Emma and her little girl 
 — the child, indeed, had met him as she was 
 returning from her mother's room, and running 
 up to him with all the confiding affection with 
 which he had already contrived to inspire her, 
 had asked him — whether it was a mistake that
 
 252 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 they were her hills and her men — and whether 
 the poor people might not have their feast. 
 
 "It's no mistake, my little woman," — he 
 said, again lifting her in his arms, and carrying 
 her to a window at the end of the corridor in 
 which they met. — u Mark me ! my lassie — 
 People often make mistakes — but /don't make 
 mistakes — what I tell you is true. — All this 
 house, and all those fields and woods, to that 
 dark line there — do you see it ? — and the hills 
 we went over to day, are yours — and nobody 
 else's — and don't you let any body take them 
 away from you, when you are bigger — but 
 hold them fast — and be a good lassie, and feed 
 the hungry, and clothe the naked — Freely thou 
 hast received, freely give— and I am a fool, 
 and an old dotard, if thou dost not make such 
 
 a queen over all this, as the county of '- 
 
 has not seen for many a long day." 
 
 He restored her to Nurse, and then went and 
 knocked at Lady Emma's door; for he was 
 much chafed, and was impatient to give out his 
 mind to her.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 253 
 
 " My powers, as joint guardian with yourself, 
 may be more extensive than you are aware.' 7 
 
 " I do not mean to dispute them, Sir," she 
 replied, gravely, — " I may be hurt at — and 
 1 may deeply lament, my husband's want of 
 confidence in me — I may think it hard — cruel 
 — that a stranger should intermeddle between 
 me and my child — but I submit, and I am at 
 a loss to conceive how I may have given occa- 
 sion for this somewhat sudden assertion of your 
 powers." 
 
 " Madam, I think you are doing what is very 
 unadvised and wrong — and you have taken an 
 imprudent step, as regards the child, without 
 consulting me." 
 
 " As how, Sir ? — Am I to be controlled in 
 any steps I choose to take, as regards my little 
 girl?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly, such is my intention, if the 
 steps be such, in my opinion, as will interfere 
 with her true happiness and best interests. — 
 Nay, more — with the right formation of her 
 character. — Madam, it is impossible to say,
 
 254 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 what a miserable ruin may be made of that 
 child's disposition — her earnest temper, and 
 noble heart, — by the contradictory ideas to 
 which you would make her a prey. — Only look 
 uponyour own distress andperplexity — contrast 
 it with the tranquility which attends upon a 
 clear and determined course such as mine. 
 I ask you to reflect, which state is the one 
 to be desired for a young child — and I would 
 ask you to picture to yourself the frightful con- 
 fusion to which the uncertainty as to her rights 
 would expose her. — If" he said, impressively, 
 " I had any doubt as to this child of William 
 Aubrey's being the undoubted heiress of this, 
 his property, I might hesitate too, as to the 
 course to be pursued — but, as, in my opinion, 
 there is not a tittle of evidence in existence, 
 which can fairly shake her title — or ought to 
 produce the shadow of a doubt in' any unpre- 
 judiced mind. I hold it to be a course 
 so miserably mistaken and wrong, to harass her 
 young mind with the scruples, which un- 
 happily distress your own, — that I make it the
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 255 
 
 condition of leaving her under your care, that 
 I have your solemn promise that this fatal 
 secret be kept inviolably from her knowledge. 
 — / will not suffer this fan* promise of future 
 excellence — this earnest of happiness and good 
 — to be blighted by the effect which irritating, 
 perplexing, slightly-grounded scruples, might 
 throw over her young years. — Till she is 
 of age — for so long my authority lasts 
 — I forbid it. — Afterwards, her mother may do 
 as she pleases. — Her young mind promises to 
 have strength enough by that time to resist 
 the evil influence of sophistry — and to decide 
 between contradictions." 
 
 " Slightly grounded ! — You admit, then, the 
 existence of some ground, at least," was Lady 
 Emmas remark. — She seemed to seize upon 
 that one idea, and to overlook the remainder 
 of the speech. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy's countenance grew darker. 
 
 " Did your ladyship do me the honour to 
 give your attention to the rest of what I 
 said?" '
 
 256 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " Oh ! if there are grounds, however slight 
 —if, however slight, you admit their exis- 
 tence — how can you — how is it possible to 
 lend yourself where there is a possibility you 
 may be mistaken — as you, yourself, now 
 admit — how can you lend yourself to the pos- 
 sibility of perpetrating such a wrong ? " 
 
 " I beseech you, Madam, to make an end 
 of this : that subject is with me laid at rest. 
 In a case like the present, the mind must come 
 to some decision or other. — 1 have made mine. 
 — It is the one at which, I am firmly per- 
 suaded, every straightforward, well-balanced 
 mind would arrive. The matter must not be left 
 in a most injurious uncertainty, for the sake of 
 all most nearly concerned. Either the child 
 is the heiress, and as such must be considered 
 and treated — or she is not. I am persuaded 
 that the right is hers ; and, being so persuaded, 
 will maintain her in it — and, having so resolved, 
 I have come to another resolution ; and that 
 is, that I will not suffer her mind to be dis- 
 turbed, her peace to be shipwrecked, and the
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 257 
 
 conscience rendered diseased, by vain doubts 
 and endless scruples. / will not allow this 
 fatal blight to fall upon so fair a flower ; and, 
 therefore, it is the condition, and the indis- 
 pensable condition, upon which I yield up my 
 guardianship into the hands of the mother — 
 that I have that mother's solemn promise 
 never in any way whatsoever, to give the child 
 the slightest suspicion of the peculiar situation 
 in which she stands." 
 
 " The condition seems an impossible one," 
 said Lady Emma, looking scared and misera- 
 ble, and pale and wretched in the extreme. 
 " How can Mr. Glenroy impose upon any fel- 
 low-creature a life-long of falsehood and deceit? 
 Does he not think that such an obligation may 
 render it impossible for me to do justice by 
 this child myself? How can I undertake an 
 education of which truth ought to form 
 the indispensable basis ; — upon a foundation, 
 which I firmly believe — which I may say I 
 know — to be so hollow. It is impossible. — 
 Every act, every sentence, would be darkened 
 
 vol. i. s
 
 258 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 and distorted by this medium of falsehood. — 
 Oh, Mr. Glenroy — we may differ — we do differ 
 as to the facts and bearings of this most dis- 
 tressing case, — but let us, at least, in this hor- 
 rible confusion — hold fast by one guiding star. 
 Let us be truthful as far as we can — and let 
 us be sincere with this innocent child — to 
 deceive her is the most dreadful part of it all." 
 Mr. Glenroy was a righteous and sensible, 
 but he was also an obstinate, self-willed 
 man, who rarely listened to any reason but 
 his own, or to the dictates of any other con- 
 science but his own; — yet the earnest sin- 
 cerity .with which Lady Emma spoke — that 
 deep reverence for justice and truth — which, 
 whatever faults and errors he might accuse her 
 of, she displayed in every word and action, 
 touched him, and a sentiment of respect began 
 to arise in his breast, which was strengthened 
 every hour he passed with her. 
 
 This inherent truthfulness was the excellent 
 foundation of a character which unfortunate 
 circumstances had rendered, in many respects,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 259 
 
 so imperfect : it was an anchor which held her 
 firmly attached to the true rock, in spite of all 
 the variations of her excitable, imaginative, 
 and imperfectly disciplined temperament. 
 
 He did not reply for some time ; at last he 
 said, with an air of more cordiality than he 
 had yet assumed — 
 
 " There is much in what you urge, 
 Madam. — I see that I had too hastily decided 
 upon this question. — It requires time and 
 examination before absolutely determining 
 upon the course to be pursued. — Certainly, 
 this little child must not be brought up under 
 the shadow of a lie/' 
 
 Poor Emma's countenance brightened. A 
 gleam passed over it — one bright gleam of the 
 sunshine of better days. 
 
 "Oh, truth !— truth !— Only the truth," 
 she said, earnestly. 
 
 " Ah, Madam !— but, as Pilate asked — what 
 is truth?" 
 
 " It is evident enough to me," said Emma, 
 sadly. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON, 
 
 " And that, Madam," cried Mr. Glenroy, 
 again aroused and irritated by this positive re- 
 assertion of that which he was resolved not to 
 admit — " that, Madam — it is just that, which 
 makes such a dogged self-willed brute of me. — 
 Nothing under heaven provokes me like the ob- 
 stinacy of women — that obstinacy — under par- 
 don — in which they take refuge, when they are 
 in danger of being overcome by reasoning they 
 cannot refute. Let a woman once resolve to be- 
 lieve a matter, and those may beat the notion out 
 of her head who can. I never saw the man who 
 could do it. Why, my lady, you speak as if this 
 abominable invention were an unquestionable 
 fact — as if there could be no doubt as to how 
 the justice of the case lay, so a man were but 
 candid enough to admit it. — You forget, what 
 I have repeated, times innumerable, that I do 
 not attach the slightest credit to the ravings of 
 a woman driven mad by grief and rage, — -if, 
 indeed, her expressions in that moment of dis- 
 tress and agony, when analyzed, even bear 
 the interpretation you are pleased to put
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 261 
 
 upon them — which, I think, without offence 
 to any one, may fairly be questioned. — The 
 property of most men would rest upon very 
 insecure foundations, if the assertions of any 
 distracted and possibly malignant creature like 
 this, were to be allowed to deprive us of our 
 birthrights — or rob a child of the heritage of its 
 ancestors. Why, Madam, society could not 
 exist upon such terms. — Moreover, I am much 
 deceived in my impressions, if, even grant- 
 ing that this insane and most malignant false- 
 hood were to be acted upon — I doubt whether 
 it would make any difference. — William Aubrey 
 derives his estate from an express testamentary 
 disposition not only by inheritance as next 
 of kin, — and the child's title in this view of the 
 subject, is, I believe you will find, not to be 
 shaken." 
 
 She felt, as we all feel, when brought into 
 contact with characters of Mr. Glenroy's sort. 
 The influence she had exercised was but mo- 
 mentary — like the distension of some highly 
 elastic substance, which almost instantaneously 
 returns to its original form.
 
 262 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 The last observation, however, had not been 
 made before it instantly struck her afresh — as 
 aggravation of the wrong. That varying ex- 
 pressive countenance of her's assumed a look 
 of almost indescribable reluctance and distress, 
 but she forced herself to ask, though in a 
 trembling voice — 
 
 " Is Mr. Glenroy aware of the circumstances 
 under which the will he alludes to was made ?" 
 
 "Yes," said he. 
 
 " Of all the circumstances ?" her pale 
 troubled face leaning forward, and fixing her 
 eyes upon him. 
 
 "Of course — Why, Madam, do you ask, 
 and with so much distress in your counte- 
 nance? It was a painful story- — but I, for 
 one, never questioned the wisdom and justice 
 of Mr. Aubrey's decision. They were twin 
 brothers, after all — and besides, there is an 
 end of it — for the other man is dead." 
 
 She sighed, and cast her eyes in a sort of 
 deprecating manner round her — as if seeking 
 help to disentangle the web of error in
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 263 
 
 which everything seemed involved. Her voice 
 trembled more and more ; it was lower than 
 ever, and almost inarticulate, as she whispered 
 rather than spoke — 
 
 " I believe you are ignorant, as I was" 
 
 "The story was, unhappily, too public a 
 one for any one to remain in the dark as to the 
 leading facts," said he, with indifference; 
 " and I was, I believe, the man who enjoyed 
 more of Mr. Aubrey and William Aubrey's 
 confidence than any other in the world." 
 
 " But did he ever? oh! did he never?" 
 almost gasping for breath, as she spoke — " Did 
 William Aubrey never confess ? Oh ! that he 
 had — but, alas ! — alas ! I see that he never 
 did — did he never confess his great sin ? Oh ! 
 fool that I was to hope it ! No — no — I 
 see he never, never did — how could he? 
 It was left to me to do it — the burden of it 
 falls upon me — poor creature !" and the tears 
 rose fast to her eyes. " Oh, Mr. G-lenroy, 
 that it should be I who have to tell it !" 
 
 He looked at her with a cold astonishment,
 
 264 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 and a severity of aspect which would have 
 daunted a less fervent character — as in a 
 hoarse, faltering whisper, she went on to relate 
 the fatal discovery she had made. 
 
 As she proceeded, there was an evident 
 change in the countenance of the listener — 
 his eyes darkened, and his cheek grew very 
 pale. 
 
 In spite of all the prejudices against Lady 
 Emma with which Alice Craven had succeeded 
 in filling his mind, there was, as I have said, 
 an impress of truth about her, and a single 
 transparent sincerity, which was irresistible. 
 He felt this now. Fain would he have dis- 
 believed the painful story — it could not be — 
 to doubt her veracity was impossible. 
 
 " It ought to be as painful to you to tell 
 me this, as it is for me to hear it," was all he 
 said. 
 
 " It is" she answered from her heart. 
 
 " I believe you," was all he answered. 
 
 And he laid his large bony hand upon her's, 
 so wasted and so delicate in its beauty — and
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 265 
 
 pressed it as iron might have pressed wax — 
 but though the slender fingers seemed crush- 
 ing within the grasp, the heart felt its mean- 
 ing, and was a little comforted. 
 
 There was the sympathy of mutual pain 
 expressed by it. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy was, indeed, suffering intense 
 mental pain. 
 
 u But he is dead — the injured man is dead 
 — He died unconscious of the heavy injury." 
 
 " He rushed to the precipice under the 
 goadings of a father's curse," she said, and 
 shuddered. 
 
 " But he was spared the pain you and I, 
 Madam, feel now — and that was much" — 
 added Mr. Glenroy, with the look and accent 
 of one struggling to support with composure 
 an almost insupportable anguish. 
 
 "He is dead" — he repeated again — as if 
 there was a species of satisfaction in that per- 
 suasion. 
 
 " Have you not heard, then ? — Did he, you 
 called your friend, never confide to you — that
 
 266 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON* 
 
 there was reason to believe that he was not 
 dead — and more than this — reason to believe 
 that a son of his lives also ?" 
 
 " We did not love to refer to that painful 
 story. — It was useless to recall a time so dis- 
 tressing — and William Aubrey — I understand 
 it too well now — used to flinch from the sub- 
 ject, as if those wounds were still too recent to 
 bear to be touched — I am a hard, unfeeling 
 man, myself — but I loved my friend, for what 
 I thought — what I thought people would call — 
 his sensibility." 
 
 " Mr. Glenroy may recollect, that he seemed 
 very much displeased when allusion was made 
 to the possibility of the fact of Edward's exist- 
 ence a day or two ago — I was so nervous at 
 the time that I had not courage to say more — 
 but he must not believe that I intended to let 
 the subject thus be passed over: — either by 
 word of mouth, or by letter, I had resolved to 
 make him acquainted with all I knew. I felt 
 sure he was not aware of the full force of the 
 facts I had gathered— -and it was necessary
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 267 
 
 that, at least, he should know the grounds 
 upon which I was acting." 
 
 She then went on to relate all she had 
 learned upon the subject of Edward Aubrey's 
 probable fate ; to which Mr. Glenroy listened 
 with deep attention. She was proceeding to 
 add her own surmises and convictions — but he 
 laid that knotty hand of his upon her arm 
 again, and somewhat roughly stopped her — 
 
 " The facts — Nothing but the unadorned 
 facts, if you please, Madam." 
 
 She did as he desired her ; and without far- 
 ther comment went on to relate the history of 
 the little boy. 
 
 To this he also listened with mute atten- 
 tion — pressing her arm again as she concluded 
 her narrative, as if to prevent her adding a 
 word more. 
 
 He remained without changing the attitude in 
 in which he had been sitting, listening in deep 
 thought, for a considerable time. — He was care- 
 fully reviewing all that he had heard — he was 
 endeavouring to arrive at a just view of the cir-
 
 268 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 cumstances; and, as he thought — trying to 
 discover the truth. He fancied that he was 
 doing this without a bias ; but he was so in- 
 vincibly one-sided, that this was impossible. — 
 And then, the little girl! — This partiality 
 which had assumed the shape of a passion! A 
 passion made up of all that was best in his cha- 
 racter — and what passions are so dangerous and 
 delusive as those — and which lent its colour to 
 everything. — He thought he was wise, and fair, 
 and just, and sensible in doing as he had done the 
 night before — in yielding to that strong leaning 
 of his character against everything that was ima- 
 ginative or exceptional, and laying hold of the 
 prominent — what may be called the prosaic, ob- 
 vious side of every case. He thought he was 
 only acting the part of a straightforward, 
 sensible man — as he thus spoke, when at last 
 he did speak — in a serious measured tone, 
 weighing every word as he uttered it — 
 
 "It seems like a fatality . . The same elements 
 of uncertain facts, ill-defmed suspicions, and 
 imperfect conjectures, in both instances — The
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 269 
 
 same hasty — excuse me, Madam — the same 
 seeming inclination to jump to hasty con- 
 clusions — the same incomprehensible bias 
 against the interests of the young child — And 
 the same," he added, slightly raising his voice, 
 and seeming to warm a little as he proceeded — 
 " the same call upon me — the same duty im- 
 posed upon me to defend the cause of one who 
 has, as it appears, no champion but myself. — 
 Madam, our parts are reversed — We must not 
 harshly judge each other — but, Heaven knows! 
 I would be glad to believe that yours was the 
 more difficult of the two. — I would be glad to 
 read that in the mother's breast — which would 
 make the part she has undertaken, perhaps, a 
 little more painful than it appears just at pre- 
 sent to be. — A mother's leanings are usually for 
 her child — but the child of William Aubrey 
 is . . . Well ! well ! it is a dry, hard heart, 
 they say, that lies beneath this old breast of 
 mine- — but, good or bad, it shall warm for her !" 
 " Excuse me," — as Lady Emma was about 
 to interrupt him — " I shall soon have finished 
 all I wish to say."
 
 270 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 " This history, then, is like the other history 
 — it may by possibility be true — but I, for 
 one, do not believe it ; and the law of this 
 land, if appealed to, would upon such evidence, 
 I am persuaded, reject it — but, true or not, it 
 avails nothing. The money comes to William 
 Aubrey by testament — and by testament it de- 
 scends to his child. Whether the unfortunate 
 man you speak of perished or not, makes no 
 difference as to her rights — no more than the 
 awful revelation which has this day been made 
 to me. That wrong, if done, is done; and it is 
 now impossible to repair it — William Aubrey 
 should have executed that — unhappy man ! 
 
 " He did — he did ! — I have the paper, 
 Grace Birchell drew up at his dictation — but, 
 alas ! alas ! — it was too late — he died before 
 he signed it." 
 
 He took the paper — his hand slightly shook, 
 as he brushed the back of it hastily across his 
 eyes. 
 
 " This paper is utterly worthless," he said, 
 " and it is well for many helpless creatures
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 271 
 
 that it is so. The terms of it would involve 
 the property in endless law-suits, during which 
 everything would fall to ruin, and hundreds of 
 neglected beings sink to misery, body and 
 soul. Be content, madam, that things are as 
 they are. That little child has a princely 
 heart — or rather, if history does not lie — a 
 heart such as rarely falls to the share of 
 the children of princes. Let us have done 
 with vain and unprofitable scruples, and unite 
 our endeavours, so to act, and so to rear her, 
 that this kingdom, which has through such 
 strange, perplexing circumstances fallen to 
 her share, may be so administered by us, and 
 by her — as to be a blessing to the numerous 
 souls who on her depend — souls dependent 
 upon her — not alone for the bread which 
 perisheth, but for that better bread, and that 
 living water which nourisheth to everlasting 
 life." 
 
 " Ah — but .... wrong ! — wrong ! — How 
 can what is good ever come of wrong ? — Oh ! 
 that I could but think as you do — poor
 
 272 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 Edward ! — Poor, disinherited Edward ! — Poor 
 defrauded little boy ! " 
 
 " Again !" he said, with renewed displeasure 
 in his tone — " Are we never to have done with 
 this?" 
 
 " Never," she said, " unless some means of 
 reconciliation can be found." 
 
 " Some compromise, you mean. The word 
 sounds Jesuitical in matters of this nature — 
 but I do not mean a compromise with justice 
 — for I do not admit the justice — but a com- 
 promise between your view of this subject and 
 mine. If that can be found, so as to satisfy 
 a spirit which I see and believe sincerely 
 desires the just — though the sense of justice 
 is, as it appears to me, somewhat swayed by 
 inclination and prejudice — we will try to find 
 it. Do you search for such a compromise upon 
 your side, as I will do upon mine — honest 
 purpose seldom fails of its object. In one 
 thing only, your ladyship must yield to me. 
 The child, however other things may be ar- 
 ranged, must be kept in ignorance of this
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 273 
 
 story. And, so long as my authority lasts, 
 she shall — she must — be left to the free, spon- 
 taneous action and unfettered development of 
 her character, in order to fit her for the position 
 in life to which she has been called. We must 
 not perplex her by communicating the vain 
 scruples of others — nor destroy the best faith 
 of her heart, by revealing this miserable tale 
 of sin and falsehood, which has preceded her. 
 Let her grow up to her own fair perfections. 
 Teach her the instability of all human posses- 
 sions — teach her to look up to the Hand which 
 gave — and may, as it gave, take away — teach 
 her this — for this is truth — truth universal. 
 As for the wretched man's history, let it 
 be consigned again to that silence — which had 
 better never have been broken" 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 274 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 And the pure and good intent 
 
 Of the child He noted well, 
 And the high and holy bent 
 
 Of the thoughts he could not tell. 
 
 Mrs. Acton Tindal. 
 
 It is certain that the legal opinions, when they 
 arrived, coincided with Mr. Glenroy's views. — 
 That the matter should, if possible, be made 
 the subject of family arrangement, was 
 suggested in each one of the opinions sent in 
 by the several eminent lawyers who had been 
 consulted, but all agreed, that unless further 
 evidence in confirmation of Alice Craven's 
 assertions were forthcoming — upon the exist- 
 ing grounds, no court of justice on earth would 
 deprive a child of its father's inheritance.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 275 
 
 The opinions agreed, also, in another and 
 still more important point — namely, that even 
 admitting the story of Alice Craven to be 
 true, the terms of Mr. Aubrey's (the father) 
 will were such, that it would be very doubtful 
 whether any question could be raised as to the 
 property being legally his reputed son's. 
 
 Such being the state of things, — Emma 
 and her friends felt that nothing more was 
 to be done. — Time might bring forward 
 circumstances in confirmation of the truth— 
 on whichever side it lay. — There was nothing 
 left for it, but to submit to let things take their 
 course, and be patient. 
 
 In the meanwhile, nature seemed to 
 have taken to a certain degree the confirm- 
 ation of the story, into her own hands. — The 
 resemblance the little boy bore to Edward, 
 strengthened every day — as did the likeness 
 which — now attention was directed to the 
 subject — it was impossible to deny that the 
 little girl bore to Alice Craven. 
 
 This likeness lay not precisely in feature, 
 
 t 2
 
 276 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 still less in complexion — for the little Imogene, 
 in this respect, inherited a considerable share 
 of her mother's beauty, — but in indescribable 
 turns of expression, tones, and gestures, not 
 to be overlooked. 
 
 Yet nothing further could be done. 
 
 Emma, however, gained one point, — that 
 the little girl should be brought up under a 
 peculiar sense of the instability of all human 
 things, and that she herself should be allowed 
 to make this idea a more prominent part of 
 her moral teaching than is usual, or perhaps 
 desirable, in general. In her own mind, she 
 likewise resolved to have recourse to another 
 expedient. 
 
 The only possible way to satisfy her sense 
 of justioe, and restore, as far as she could, that 
 property to Edward, of which in two several 
 ways he had been so unrighteously defrauded, 
 lay — as it appeared to her — in the scheme of 
 uniting the two children in marriage, when 
 they should arrive at the proper age. 
 
 It was one of those plans, which had so
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 277 
 
 much the aspect of romance, that she felt it 
 impossible even to allude to it with Mr. 
 Glenroy. She wanted courage to expose 
 herself to the polite sarcasms, which she believed 
 such a plan of reconciling difficulties would 
 call forth. She feared, too, that the scheme 
 might meet with direct opposition upon 
 his part, — yet she clung to it, as a just and 
 righteous heart clings to the only possible 
 scheme it can devise, for extrication from an 
 involuntary act of injustice. 
 
 The more she considered her plan, the more 
 it appeared to her — if feasible— to be the best, 
 nay, the only one to be adopted. Sanguine 
 of temper, and little experienced in the 
 perversity of the human temper, nothing 
 appeared to her more natural than the idea. 
 — It was only necessary to bring the 
 children up together ; to promote their affection t 
 in every way ; and to keep them as much 
 as possible separated from others — to insure 
 success. 
 
 They were both possessed of rare loveliness
 
 278 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTOff. 
 
 in their several ways— they must, of course- 
 under such advantages for the growth of 
 peculiar affection, prefer each other to all the 
 world, 
 
 Thus she settled this matter with herself ; — 
 and, having once arranged the plan in her own 
 mind, she did as people are so apt to do with 
 schemes of this description, — she made an idol of 
 it ; — and, to this idol, she was soon ready to 
 sacrifice every other consideration. 
 
 It is to be observed, also, that, in spite of 
 the confidence she reposed in Grace and Mr. 
 Birchell, she did not mention the matter to 
 either of them. — -She nursed it as her hidden 
 consolation and treasure — one of those secret 
 joys, with which no stranger, not even the 
 closest friend, shall intermeddle. — She hugged 
 it to her heart; and it was to her what a 
 saint, a divinity, is to the superstitious wor- 
 shipper of such false gods. Her spiritual life 
 had not yet advanced beyond this. 
 
 She could not walk uprightly from day to 
 day — trusting that the Author of truth and
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 279 
 
 justice would, in His own good time, as she 
 proceeded, point out the course which duty 
 commanded her to pursue. She must lay 
 down a plan, the result of which it was im- 
 possible for her to secure ; and, in the prosecu- 
 tion of this plan, which was to reconcile all 
 her doubts and scruples, she was to find con- 
 solation and peace. — And, certainly, she did, 
 at first, find both. 
 
 Under the hidden influence of such thoughts, 
 her mind recovered, in some degree, its com- 
 posure; her life, its purpose. She could 
 look forward cheerfully to the issues of this 
 perplexing story ; for every principle of 
 justice and every craving of secret affection 
 were to be satisfied thus. The restless 
 feeling with which she had regarded the little 
 girl — the innocent cause of so much secret 
 distress — abated ; though, alas, it was yet 
 impossible for her to regard her in the 
 wholesome light of maternal affection. Imogene 
 still remained an enigma and a mystery ; — a 
 source of anxious interest, rather than of spon- 
 taneous love.
 
 280 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 The next thing that was necessary to be 
 done, so far as Mr. Glenroy was concerned, 
 was to signify to that gentleman her intention of 
 receiving the young Eugene at Haughton ; and, 
 until more could be learned of his father's fate, 
 providing for his education herself, out of the 
 large allowance bequeathed to her. To this, 
 Mr. Glenroy — a little to the surprise of Emma 
 and the Birch ells — offered not the slightest 
 opposition ; — perhaps, in spite of all his pro- 
 fessions, he was not, in secret, sorry himself, 
 that something in the way of compensation 
 should thus be secured to the boy. 
 
 He had seen Eugene ; and, though he would 
 not acknowledge it, the extraordinary re- 
 semblance the child bore to Edward Aubrey 
 did not escape him. 
 
 And so, thus far, things were settled, as it 
 appeared, upon the fairest and best footing of 
 which circumstances would admit. 
 
 The little Imogene was received as the 
 acknowledged heiress — the future queen of 
 these immense possessions. Emma, as her
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 281 
 
 mother, and in the receipt of a very plentiful 
 income, took her place as regent of the castle ; 
 under, however, the somewhat strict super- 
 vision and interference of her co-guardian, Mr. 
 G-lenroy, who, in any matters which he deemed 
 of importance, and on which his views might 
 differ from hers, would not allow his authority 
 to be disputed. The little Eugene was to be 
 received at the Hall, in a short time, and Lady 
 Emma's heart opened to welcome him, and to 
 treat him as a near relation, whose position in 
 life was, in every respect, equal to that of his 
 cousin. 
 
 As the son of the renowned Omar Bey, 
 whose great and good deeds in Egypt had 
 obtained a certain reputation even in remote, 
 western Europe — too often so ignorant and so 
 indifferent as to what is doing in the Eastern 
 world — he was secure of his position. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy now prepared, for the present, 
 to take his leave.
 
 282 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 The feast he had promised little Moggie 
 that she should give to her miners and their 
 families could not, of course, come off at pre- 
 sent. Time must elapse before it would be 
 proper or decent to allow of any festive doings 
 of this sort upon the hapless William Aubrey's 
 property. Lady Emma, indeed, still con- 
 tinued very averse to everything that could in 
 any manner bring the little girl prominently 
 forward in the character of Heiress of Haughton 
 Hall; but Mr. Glenroy would listen to no 
 difficulties of this sort. He, however, yielded 
 to her urgent entreaties, that a year might 
 elapse before any very open demonstrations of 
 this kind were made, for he could not object 
 to that mark of respect to his deceased friend's 
 memory. It was, therefore, fixed that in some- 
 what more than a year from the present time — 
 when little Moggie should have completed 
 her seventh year — this entertainment, upon 
 which the child's heart was quite fixed, 
 should take place. 
 
 It was upon a following occasion of this 
 description, some years afterwards, that I be-
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 283 
 
 came acquainted with the dwellers at Haughton 
 Hall — but, before giving an account of that, 
 a few circumstances must be related. 
 And, first, let us inquire how Lady Emma 
 commenced that most difficult enterprise, upon 
 the success of which the whole happiness of 
 her life, and all her future peace of mind, 
 seemed to depend. 
 
 One most sinister event was the first to take 
 place — an event which hastened the removal 
 of Eugene to , Haughton Hall. Mr. Birchell 
 was preferred to an Archdeaconry in the East 
 Indies ; and thus Emma was deprived of the 
 advice and assistance of her judicious friends, 
 at a time when they were so greatly needed. 
 
 She had not, as I said, ever confided her 
 scheme to Mrs. Birchell. A kind of instinctive 
 dread of her friend's disapprobation kept her 
 silent ; and yet, if she could have ventured to 
 inquire, she must have found, that not only 
 Mr. and Mrs. Birchell, but possibly even Mr. 
 G-lenroy himself, nourished an unconfessed 
 hope that to this conclusion the story might
 
 284 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 come at last — a conclusion that would recon- 
 cile all difficulties, and satisfy all scruples. 
 
 They were, however, far too wise to breathe 
 such an idea ; assured, as they were, that a 
 suspicion of the existence of such a plan, was 
 the most likely way to defeat it. 
 
 Mr. Glenroy and little Imogene passed much 
 of their time together during the few. days he 
 remained at the Hall; — for Lady Emma, 
 thoroughly exhausted by the struggles she had 
 gone through, sank, when the combat ended, 
 under the consequent reaction. 
 
 She mostly kept her room until dinner time 
 — not asking for her little girl, whose presence 
 was still too painful to her irritable nerves. — 
 Little Moggie, therefore, after having been 
 taken to her Mamma's bed-side to receive her 
 morning kiss, was left to herself — and Mr. 
 Glenroy was certain, after a few hours devoted 
 to business, to lay claim to her. 
 
 He carried her with him in all his excursions 
 to visit and inspect the property — which he 
 made a principle of doing upon a regular
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 285 
 
 system, until every portion of it had been care- 
 fully explored and surveyed. He did not 
 think, as many might have done, that this child 
 was too young to profit by such opportunities 
 — he had not been slow to perceive the excel- 
 lence of her capacity, or the generous strength 
 and rectitude of her disposition — he was 
 deeply interested in her, and had formed to 
 himself an ideal of what such a being, under 
 such circumstances, might be led to become, 
 — but he thought that — except as far as he 
 himself was concerned — the influences that 
 surrounded her, were peculiarly unfavourable. 
 
 The reason why men so rarely succeed when 
 they undertake the task of education, is, I 
 think, that they are too absolute in their ideas ; 
 they overlook the fact, that every individual 
 education is a fresh experiment, and are neg- 
 ligent of the various shadings and softenings, 
 that are necessary to make any general system 
 harmonise with any one individual character. 
 
 Perhaps, however, in this instance, Mr. 
 Glenroy was less mistaken than characters so
 
 286 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 dogmatical and absolute in their views as his, 
 usually find themselves at last to be ; for cer- 
 tainly he was not deceived in the confidence he 
 placed in the character of this remarkable child. 
 She responded in a way, that many will think 
 an incredible exaggeration, to his instructions 
 and exhortations — and before he quitted 
 Haughton, had imbibed as decided an impression 
 of her own place, dignity, and responsibility, 
 as he could possibly wish. 
 
 You would have smiled to have seen the 
 grave attention, with which the little thing 
 followed his pointing hand with her eye, when 
 in visiting the different farms, he drew the at- 
 tention of the agent who accompanied him, to 
 repairs that were necessary, or improvements 
 desirable to be made — the interest she took 
 in the subject, or the quickness with which she 
 began, herself, to detect little matters that were 
 defective, or wanting — but such were things 
 of indifference to her, in comparison with her 
 anxiety upon the subject of Armidale. The 
 impression Mr. Glenroy had laboured to produce
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 287 
 
 was indelible, and it was a constant subject of 
 her inquiries, — "What was to be done for the 
 poor men that worked under the ground." 
 
 He took her to the place once or twice more 
 — for he was himself deeply interested in the 
 subject, and was shocked, indeed, to find how far 
 the right administration of this large commu- 
 nity had been neglected. He did not worry, 
 or confuse the child's imagination, you may be 
 sure, by directing her attention to the greater 
 evils and oppressions of the system — the way of 
 paying wages — the truck system — the want of 
 proper religious instruction, and so on; but he 
 taught the child to sympathize with the children 
 of her own age — explained to her the necessity 
 of instruction — the vice, disease, and misery 
 consequent upon idleness — proposed that she 
 should lay the foundation-stone of an infant 
 school, to be begun upon immediately, and 
 that she should herself visit it regularly, 
 "because," he said, " you know you can find out 
 whether little children, younger than yourself, 
 are happy and good."
 
 288 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 Oh, how the little creature pressed the hand 
 she held, and leaped up for joy ! — And how 
 gaily she prattled away— what a thousand 
 questions to be asked- — how she loved Mr. 
 Glenroy ! . They became, in truth, the greatest 
 friends in the world, and it was with a pang 
 that he would have thought himself quite in- 
 capable of feeling, that he at length tore him- 
 self away — promising very shortly to return. 
 
 It was not till Mr. Glenroy had taken his 
 departure, that Lady Emma began to breathe. 
 His presence was like an incubus upon her 
 bosom. She feared him, and she disliked him, 
 and yet she respected him — respected him too 
 much not to feel the weight of his opinion — 
 though fearing and disliking him too much to 
 enter upon and discuss a subject with anything 
 approaching to ease ; and no fetters are so 
 onerous, perhaps, as those imposed by respect, 
 when sympathy and liking are not. However, 
 he was gone — and, in a few days, the Birchells 
 must go, too, and little Eugene make his entree 
 at Haughton Hall. To engage the affection
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 289 
 
 and good will of its little mistress in his be- 
 half, and lay the foundation for stronger ties 
 hereafter, was now the greatest of Emma's 
 anxieties. 
 
 To engage the little girl's interest through 
 her feelings, was the plan she resolved upon — 
 for she knew and understood the excellence 
 of the heart in whose generosity she confided. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 290 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Oil thou goddess, 
 Thou divine nature, how thyself thou blazon'st 
 In these two children ! 
 
 Cymbeline. 
 
 " Little Moggie," began Lady Emma, one 
 morning, in a voice of unusual softness, which 
 went straight to the little girl's heart, — "come 
 and sit down by me — I have a story to tell 
 you." 
 
 Little Moggie, who was sitting upon a low 
 stool by the window, busily intent upon the intri- 
 cate mysteries of a double full-blown rose, which 
 she was endeavouring to transfer to the small 
 square of canvass she held in her hand, arose 
 alert and happy, responding to the affectionate
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 291 
 
 tone of voice by her sweet, loving coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " Nay, bring your cushion with you— 
 and your work, and sit down here, close by 
 me — and between me and the window. You 
 can listen and do nothing, you know, though 
 you do hold that pretty beginning of a rose in 
 your hand, my little one." 
 
 Little Moggie cheerfully obeyed. She came 
 hugging the velvet cushion, upon which she had 
 been sitting, with both her hands ; and her mo- 
 ther looked on and smiled upon the little over- 
 loaded toiler, struggling along as one sees some 
 minute ant over-burthened by a straw. The busi- 
 ness was, however, accomplished — the cushion 
 placed close to Lady Emma's knee, between 
 her and an open window, which commanded 
 the lovely sylvan and champaign view which 
 stretched before the front of Haughton Hall. 
 One little hand rested upon Lady Emma's lap, 
 the other held the work. The earnest eyes 
 were lifted to the mother's face. 
 
 " Now, Mamma," — settling herself upon her 
 
 u 2
 
 292 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 cushion, in that pretty way little children do 
 who feel themselves particularly comfortable. 
 
 " There was once a little boy," began Lady 
 Emma — " of about little Moggie's age. He 
 was a sweet, beautiful, good child; but, 
 poor little thing, he had no mamma — and his 
 papa was a great, great way off — so far away, 
 that nobody knew whether he was alive or 
 dead — and the poor little boy had no brother 
 nor sister — nor any one to love him, except 
 two kind friends. They were very kind — but 
 they could only love and pity him — they could 
 not defend him from a very great wrong." 
 
 "Do you understand me, dear?" — as the 
 dark grey eyes were lifted up, and fixed upon 
 hers, with an expression of sorrowing sym- 
 pathy, mingled with perplexity. — "Do you 
 understand, little girl, what I mean, by a very 
 great wrong ? 
 
 "Look round you, Imogene, at this 
 beautiful room in which we are sitting, 
 and now out of the window over the 
 gardens and slirubberies, at this fine view,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 293 
 
 and at this fine house. — You think this all 
 very nice and pretty, don't you/' — Lady Emma 
 continued. 
 
 " Oh ! so pretty ! — and so sweet !" cried 
 little Moggie — who, young as she was, 
 possessed a most exquisite sense of the 
 beautiful in nature. 
 
 " And you think yourself very happy to 
 live in so charming a place, don't you ?" 
 
 " Yes, Mamma, — I love it all very, very 
 much, — and Mr. Glenroy says, I cannot love 
 it too much — for its all all, my own, own, and 
 I need never, never, go away." 
 
 A cloud passed over Lady Emma's face. 
 
 "This was the way Mr. Glenroy talked to 
 you, sometimes?" 
 
 " Oh ! numbers and numbers of times, — 
 always ! He was always saying — • Eemember — 
 all these things are little Moggie's own, and 
 she must be a very good child, — and deserve 
 them, and take care of them.' — And so I will, 
 indeed, Mammie," — with that half imploring, 
 half deprecating look, which the little face
 
 294 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 assumed, when she thought Lady Emma, for 
 some unaccountable reason, spoke coldly to 
 her. 
 
 Lady Emma sighed, coloured, — her 
 heart smote her as usual, whenever she 
 indulged this unjust humour. She took the 
 delicate tiny hand in hers, and pressed it — 
 upon which little sign of amity, the small fingers 
 twined themselves round hers like clasping ivy 
 buds. 
 
 " This little boy, my Imogene — had a right 
 to as beautiful a place as this — and to all the 
 good things which Mr. Glenroy tells you are 
 to be yours ; but, by a very wicked falsehood, 
 people have robbed him of them. Perhaps, 
 some day or other, he may get them back, but 
 I don't know — he has no one here to take his 
 part. Perhaps his father may, some day or 
 other, come home and right him, but I don't 
 know; in the meantime, this little ill-used 
 boy wants a home, because the friends I 
 told you of are forced to go away, and cannot 
 take him with them. And," she went on,
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 295 
 
 u we have plenty of room here, little girl, I 
 think — and I mean to ask him to come and 
 live with us till his father comes back again — 
 if ever he does come back again ; and what 
 I want of my little Moggie is, that she will 
 love this little boy — and that she will remem- 
 ber how ill people have used him, and try to 
 make him so happy that he shall forget it. 
 Will my Moggie do this ?" 
 
 Under that name, and so conjured, what 
 would not the loving heart have done? 
 But it wanted no prompting, where a deed of 
 pity or generosity was to be performed — it re- 
 sponded to sympathy like the harp-strings to 
 the breath of the morning. 
 
 " Poor, poor little boy ! — Oh, Mammie ! I 
 am so glad you will have him here — Oh, yes ! 
 We will love him, and be very, very, very kind 
 to him — won't we, Mammie dear ?" 
 
 Lady Emma stooped down and kissed the 
 forehead of the small, earnest, upturned face. 
 
 " And now, don't you want to know who 
 the little boy is, and what is his name ? — He
 
 296 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 is a little boy you know already — it is little 
 Eugene — Mrs. Birchell's own, darling little 
 Eugene. — You love him already, I am sure, — 
 he is such a sweet, pretty boy, Imogene, is he 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes," said Imogene, — but she looked 
 rather disappointed. The childish fancy, per- 
 haps, had pictured something in the stranger 
 quite different. — It was a certain letting down 
 of the imagination, to discover that the hero of 
 this romance, was an every-day playmate. 
 Eugene was certainly a beautiful child ; but 
 he was too nearly the age of Imogene herself 
 to inspire that admiration which children feel 
 for personal beauty in infants, or in grown 
 persons ; they seem scarcely conscious of the 
 charm of loveliness in those of much their 
 own age. 
 
 "Don't you love Eugene dearly?" inquired 
 Lady Emma, with anxiety — "He is such a 
 sweet, little boy." 
 
 " I love Mamma, and — Mr. Glenroy," was 
 Moggie's answer.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 297 
 
 " But you cannot help loving such a dear, 
 sweet child as Eugene, surely ! " 
 
 Little Moggie was silent. 
 
 "Why, what can this mean?" cried Lady 
 Emma, with some slight impatience — " what 
 can you mean, Imogene ? — Surely you are not 
 such an imjust child as to have taken a dislike 
 to the poor little boy — and he so unfortunate, 
 too." 
 
 " I forgot that," said the little girl, casting 
 down her eyes. 
 
 " Then you will love him — you will promise 
 me to love him, Imogene," said Lady Emma, 
 looking very anxious. — " Poor little Eugene, 
 robbed of a beautiful — beautiful place, just like 
 this ; — think of that, Imogene — love him — you 
 must and will love him, or you would be very 
 hard-hearted and naughty, indeed." 
 
 The little girl's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " I won't be naughty — I want to be good, 
 Mamma." 
 
 U Then you will love and be kind to poor 
 Eugene. — Promise me, Imogene, that you 
 will."
 
 298 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 But the child drew back. — Already she had 
 learned to be very conscientious upon the 
 subject of promises. 
 
 " Little Moggie will try to be a good, and 
 not a naughty, hard-hearted child." 
 
 And this was all the satisfaction that could 
 be got from her. 
 
 "But, Imogene," persisted Lady Emma, — 
 " only put yourself into his place. — Suppose 
 some very wicked person were to come and 
 tell a great many bad lies, and get you and me 
 turned into the street, — would not every kind 
 person try to love, and pity, and help us ? — 
 Don't forget it, Imogene ; — Never, never forget 
 it, little girl — You don't know. It cannot enter 
 into your head to guess, how cruelly that poor 
 little boy has been used, — and everybody is 
 against him — and another child has got all the 
 beautiful things that belong to him. ,; 
 
 " That is a naughty child," observed little 
 Moggie. 
 
 " No — the child does not know, for nobody 
 has told her but Moggie, dear, put your-
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 299 
 
 self into the place of that child — because, you 
 know Mr. Glenroy tells you what a quantity of 
 things are yours — and try to think, if I were 
 that child, what I would do for the poor 
 robbed boy that everybody goes against — and 
 then you will love Eugene, and be very kind 
 to him — I am sure — sure you will — Don't you 
 think, Imogene, you must be very hard-hearted 
 if you were not." 
 
 The little head was bent down, in silent 
 reflection as it appeared. Children, young 
 as this, reflect much when they have such 
 heads and such hearts as my little Moggie. 
 
 " Think, Moggie — think, Imogene" — Lady 
 Emma kept reiterating, with an earnestness 
 approaching to severity, that was anything but 
 wise under the circumstances. 
 
 " Mamma," at last Imogene replied, with a 
 gravity w r orthy rather of her station than of 
 her years, and as if she already felt something 
 of the effect of her own dignity — "Little 
 Moggie will be a good girl — and ( Be you to 
 others,' to poor little Eugene."
 
 300 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 The i Be you to others ' — was the title she 
 gave to a simple verse it was her custom to 
 repeat every night with her prayers — 
 
 Be you to others kind and true, 
 As you'd have others be to you ; 
 And neither do nor say to men, 
 Whate'er you would not like again. 
 
 " And Moggie will try all she can to make him 
 happy — and give him up everything, because 
 he has nothing." 
 
 The mother ought to have clasped the little 
 darling to her heart; but such rapture was 
 not for her, in the perplexity and confusion of 
 her feelings ; yet she did lay her hand ten- 
 derly, and almost reverently upon the small 
 head, and whispered — " God bless you, Mog- 
 gie — for you are a good child." 
 
 And the child, with a perseverance that 
 would have done honour to one of far riper 
 years, redeemed her promise.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 301 
 
 The docility, the intelligence, the aspirations 
 after all that is generous, kind, and good to 
 be remarked in some children of this age, is 
 wonderful. Little Moggie is no monster — her 
 heart and intelligence are described from the 
 life. — The next morning Lady Emma and her 
 little Imogene, set forward immediately after 
 breakfast, in the carriage, to fetch Eugene. 
 The little girl was in high spirits, and full of 
 her schemes and plans to ensure Eugene's 
 happiness. 
 
 She had already made a division of her pos- 
 sessions in the way of toys, — reserving her two 
 beloved dolls to herself, without scruple ; but 
 allotting to him by far the largest and best 
 portion of all beside. The evening before she 
 had led Lady Emma to her garden — which, by 
 the express desire of Mr. Glenroy, was left to 
 her own management and care. — The piece 
 was too large for her little arms actually to 
 keep in cultivation; but everything was 
 directed by herself, and the man who assisted 
 her was strictly forbidden to interfere in her
 
 302 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 plans, except by a slight suggestion now and 
 then. So the garden was a tiny fairy crea- 
 tion of a child's fancy, with twisting walks, and 
 mounts topped with a shrub or so — and grot- 
 toes, and flowers — all put down in a pretty 
 but very complete confusion. 
 
 Little of plan there appeared, but much of 
 plan there nevertheless was, in the young artist's 
 head ; and when she came to the division of the 
 garden — and to the destruction of her schemes, 
 by thus breaking the unity of the design, and 
 partitioning it into two portions, she felt very 
 sorry. 
 
 Lady Emma observed that she looked rather 
 downcast, as, hand-in-hand, they approached 
 the spot where one of the gardeners was busily 
 employed making — as she had directed — a ditch, 
 surmounted by a hedge of sweet briar, through 
 the very centre of her picture. Most anxious 
 to cultivate every affectionate feeling in 
 Imogene towards the new-comer, Lady Emma 
 regretted that the connection should begin by 
 what was evidently a painful sacrifice upon 
 little Moggie's part.
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGIITON. 303 
 
 " But you are sorry to give up so much of 
 your garden, Iniogene, I can see — Why do 
 you? — Surely, the gardener can make another 
 garden for Eugene without disturbing yours." 
 " But it won't be so pretty — I know it 
 won't ; and it can't be so full of flowers — I 
 know it can't ; — because that's not possible, 
 — unless you planted the flowers by their 
 stems," laughing, " like the silly little boy 
 in the story." 
 
 "Mamma," -she went on, with a pretty 
 seriousness, " we must not forget that poor 
 Eugene has had his pretty gardens robbed away 
 
 from him " 
 
 " No, my dear one ; we will never forget 
 that — and we will love him very much, and be 
 very kind to him, won't we ? — Little Moggie 
 will love him — he's such a sweet little boy — 
 Moggie can't help loving him." 
 
 Alas ! she is taking the way I fear to over- 
 shoot the mark, at which she aims with such 
 an almost agonising desire to succeed.- 
 
 The two children, hand-in-hand, employed
 
 304 THE HEIRESS OF BAUGHTON. 
 
 the principal part of the afternoon of that day, 
 in running about the walks and terraces, and 
 visiting all little Imogene's favourite nooks 
 and corners. 
 
 The little Eugene seemed perfectly happy, and 
 accepted all the nice things which she had set 
 apart for him, with the ease of one to whom 
 they, in right, might have belonged. He did 
 not seem aware of the extent of Imogene's 
 kindness and generosity ; indeed, his attention 
 was not very much excited by these offerings. 
 — He did appear indifferent to most toys, and 
 especially to those, the use of which required 
 much activity, and he took little pleasure in the 
 possession of his garden — a possession it had 
 cost her so much to surrender. He seemed 
 fonder of wandering about, inhaling, as it were 
 the beauty around him, than of busying him- 
 self in a thousand ways, like the ever-active 
 little mistress of these possessions. He would 
 lie under a tree, and listen to the singing of 
 the birds, and the hum of the insects in the 
 sun, as long as she would let him alone ; and
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 305 
 
 was evidently rather teased than delighted 
 with her endeavours to make him take part in 
 what she thought such charming occupations. 
 
 Not a book did she read, but her active and 
 creative spirit seemed intent upon realising the 
 pictures represented. She bad her Robinson 
 Crusoe's cave ; the cabin of the children in the 
 Robinson Suisse ; fairy bowers and magic 
 gardens without end. Eugene looked at them 
 with pleasure, but, that he would aid in the 
 creation of such, by his personal exertions, the 
 indefatigable little, labouring bee soon found 
 it vain to expect. He was a poet, not an 
 artificer. 
 
 This was a disappointment. 
 
 It would have been such a bond of union 
 between them to have worked together ; but she 
 was obliged to content herself with his taking 
 the part of a spectator and critic of what she 
 did. And this, in fact, gave new zest to her 
 occupations, so that her cheerful spirit was 
 soon contented that things should be as they 
 were. 
 
 vol. i x
 
 306 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 
 
 And so the two children settled down into 
 the parts in harmony with their respective 
 characters, though not exactly those that from 
 their sex they ought to have assumed. 
 
 Thus far, however, it was well — their inclina- 
 tions did not cross each other. Her love of 
 action, and schemes of creation and progression 
 were not interfered with by Eugene. He was 
 content that most things should be managed in 
 her own way, provided he could indulge in 
 the enjoyment of what was accomplished. 
 Nay, so far had the two exchanged characters, 
 that the task of protecting, as well as of work — 
 ing for him, fell upon the girl — though this 
 only lasted during their early childhood — She 
 had to beat off many a cat, and to keep her 
 mother's cross little pet-dog in order; for 
 Eugene would stamp, and cry, and scream 
 with terror at the slightest approach of any- 
 thing alarming. 
 
 It was Imogene who first attempted the 
 pony, Lady Emma had provided them with ; 
 Imogene who first scaled the steep slip-
 
 THE HEIRESS OF HAUGHTON. 307 
 
 pery paths in the shrubberies behind the house ; 
 Imogene, who, laughing and bantering, en- 
 couraged her little friend to exertions of labour 
 or of courage; — and yet, strange as it may 
 appear, this very necessity for protection 
 seemed to be laying the foundation of that 
 affection which Lady Emma so passionately 
 desired should exist. Eugene had something 
 undoubtedly interesting about him, — children 
 of the poetical temperament are usually so to 
 those who know them intimately and nearly — 
 If Imogene worked for and protected both, 
 she had her reward, when seated together 
 under some wide-branching beech or plane 
 tree, Eugene would beguile the hours by tales 
 and stories of his own inventing, or by a talk 
 so full of imagery and fancy, that it was the 
 delight of her life to listen to it. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 CHARLES BEVAN AND SON PRINTERS, STREET'S BUILDINGS, 
 CHAPEL STREET, GROSVENOR SQUARE.
 
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