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 LI B R.ARY 
 
 OF THL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 GGGd 
 
 V.I

 
 J\J\
 
 THE 
 
 DEAN'S DAUGHTER; 
 
 THE DAYS WE LIVE IN. 
 
 BY MRS. GORE, 
 
 AUTHORESS OF 
 
 MOTUERS AND DAVGHTEKS," "MK3. ARMYTAGE," "THE BANKERS WIFE, 
 &C. &C. 
 
 " Thus we play the fools with the time ; and the spirits of the wise sit in the 
 clouds and mock us."— shakspeare. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HUEST AiS'D BLACKETT, PUBLISHEES, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MAELBOEOTJGH STREET. 
 1853.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street.
 
 TO 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS, ESQ., 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 
 IS DEDICATED, 
 
 AS A SLIGHT TRIBUTE 
 OF 
 
 REGARD, RESPECT, AXD ADMIRATION.
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 Paze 31, line 7, for and to recognise read and rejoiced to recognise 
 ,," 46, last line, for approachecl read approaches 
 „ 94, line 14, for Emma read Julia 
 ,, 144, „ 9, for precise read precis 
 „ 171, „ 7, for polite read politic 
 „ 208, „ 16, /or rebuke read repulse 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 Page 8, line 22, for But as even read But since even 
 ,, 30, „ 8, for idem read eadem 
 
 86, „ 8, for ungently read urgently 
 „ 101, „ 8, for her daughters read his' daughters 
 „ 142, „ 12, for Goexsiyl read Goerwl
 
 THE DEAN'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A friend, or sister more beloved ; 
 My playmate when we both were clothed alike. 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Of the nine thousand seven hundred and 
 thirteen inhabitants of the cathedral town of 
 
 R , none perhaps more popular than 
 
 the Dean. The quahties which had won this 
 universal affection were chiefly of a negative 
 order. Early trouble and a natural deficiency 
 of animal spirits, had endowed him with a 
 serene gravity, highly becoming his vocation; 
 and when, on rare occasions, he emerged from 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 his stall to the pulpit, the spinster coteries 
 of R , subdued by the charm of his high- 
 bred deportment and attenuated features, re- 
 garded liis grey head as that of a saint. 
 
 The indolence which estranged him from 
 their whist-tables, and the dyspepsia which 
 enforced abstemiousness and sobriety, passed, 
 
 somewhat gratuitously, at R for Christian 
 
 vii'tues. But that he was mild and unassum- 
 ing, though ennobled by birth as well as a 
 dignitary of the Church, w^re merits no one 
 could dispute. 
 
 Eminent, however, as was his present 
 position, the Dean had undergone his share 
 of the rough visitings of adversity. While 
 his elder brother, Lord MildenhaE, enjoyed an 
 income of fifteen thousand per annum, he, 
 Reginald !Mordaunt, was one of the nine 
 younger children who divided among them 
 as many hundreds ; and though the army and 
 navy, and the results of Egypt, Dunkirk, 
 Assam, and the yeUow fever, had decimated the 
 tribe, Reginald, the best looking but puniest of
 
 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 the family, had been fostered in a humble berth in 
 the Church ; that he might eventually repay him- 
 self for the cares of curatehood, by the fine family 
 living of Mildenhall. 
 
 As if covetous of the perils conceded to 
 his martial brothers, he chose to create to 
 himself the danger of starvation, by marrying, 
 while still penniless and unbeneficed, a wife 
 as high-born and poor, as delicate and helpless 
 as himself. To the shame of his cloth be 
 it spoken, it was a runaway match; and the 
 famiUes of both parties, having before their 
 eyes the fear of involuntary contributions to 
 their maintenance, resolutely disowned the 
 young couple. After contending four years 
 against sickness and poverty. Lady Mary 
 Mordaunt died ; if not for want of the neces- 
 saries of life, certainly for want of its luxuries. 
 
 Constitutionally consumptive, the damp at- 
 mosphere of Bassingdon Parsonage did not 
 agree with her ; but she could not afford to 
 change it. Airings were prescribed for the 
 invalid ; but she had no carriage. Her bed- 
 
 B 2
 
 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 room looked to the north ; but her husband's 
 humble dwelling afforded no alternative. 
 
 Robust people talk of the duty of looking 
 such evils in the face, and conforming ourselves 
 to the exigencies of our position in life; and 
 certain of Lady Mary's severely rational country 
 neighbours hinted that the parson's wife gave 
 way too much, that her husband spoiled her, 
 that a little exertion would do her worlds of 
 good. Thus taunted, she did exert herself, 
 poor soul ; but, having brought into the world 
 a little girl as feeble as her two elder children 
 were strong and promising she fell into a 
 rapid dechne, and found refuge from further 
 suffering in an untimely grave. 
 
 The censorious, though touched for a moment 
 by pity and remorse, soon began to find as much 
 fault with the afflicted widower, as formerly 
 with his delicate wife. 
 
 " It was really scandalous to see a minister 
 of the gospel, like Mr Mordaunt, take on so 
 unreasonably ! Anybody would suppose he 
 was dissatisfied with the dispensations of Pro-
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 vidence. Instead of saying ' God's will be 
 done,' as became his cloth, he was always 
 fretting. When his parishioners called on 
 business at the Parsonage, they w^ere sure to 
 find him in tears ; and the sexton complained 
 that his reverence was perpetually loitering 
 in the church-yard, near his late lady's grave- 
 stone : a pretty example of resignation to the 
 parish of Bassingdon !" 
 
 A little later, and they accused him not only 
 of rebellion against Providence, but of ingra- 
 titude towards his august mother-in-law, the 
 Countess of Bournemouth; w^ho condescended 
 to relieve his hands of his sickly infant, by 
 removing it to all the luxury and watchfulness 
 of her dowager residence at Hephanger HaU. 
 It was not for them to interpret Reginald 
 Mordaunt's bitter reflection, that the tardy 
 mercy vouchsafed by his wife's family to her 
 child, might, if accorded to herself, have rescued 
 her from a bed of sickness — an early grave. 
 And though it was something to have his little 
 motherless girl well tended and provided for,
 
 6 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 he would have been better pleased to part with 
 the two noisy boys, whose health and spirits 
 were almost too much for his careworn mind. 
 
 Mordaunt was really an invalid ; really 
 unable to bear at all times the companionship of 
 children. But a bad education had found and 
 left him selfish and inert; and with the plea 
 of domestic grief to sanctify his habits of 
 indolence, he soon became a confirmed vale- 
 tudinarian. Sorrow and sloth mutually nou- 
 rished each other ; and though a kind-hearted 
 man, the curate was often peevish, even with 
 his boys, when their sports disturbed his 
 occupations. By the time he had brooded five 
 years over his affliction and the fate he accused 
 himself of having inflicted on his lovely young 
 wife. Lady Mary would have had a sorry time 
 of it, could she have returned to earth, a 
 second Eurydice, to listen to his murmurs, 
 and contemplate his nervous head-aches. 
 
 The widower of Bassingdon Parsonage was, 
 however, fond of the two boys, whose pastimes 
 molested him, and who were beginning to suffer
 
 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 from his neglect. Though little Reginald had 
 attained his ninth year and Willy his eighth, 
 he would not hear of sending them to school; 
 and while he solaced himself with green tea 
 and sal-volatile, his elder son was usually to be 
 found ravaging some tall tree in the orchard ; 
 while Willy, of a more sociable turn, was en- 
 joying a game at hop-scotch with the village 
 ragamuffins. 
 
 In spite of these clandestine exploits, their 
 life was a weary one. The daily lessons be- 
 stowed on them by their father fell as heavy 
 on their young minds as is usually the case 
 where teacher and pupil are equally reluctant. 
 They saw that the close of the task was as 
 great a relief to him as to themselves ; and in 
 such deference to his infirmities had they been 
 reared, that when once he retired to his own 
 room to enjoy one of his habitual fits of poorli- 
 ness, no act of tyranny practised on them by 
 the servants was a sufficient plea for intrusion. 
 Papa's sanctum was sacred. The elder boy 
 had more than once betaken himself a truant
 
 8 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 
 
 to the. woods, and been lost and found again, 
 without any one having dared disturb, on his 
 account, the parent who had found refuge from 
 the cares of life in the mysteries of a patent 
 medicine chest. 
 
 Time passed on ; till one summer day, some 
 seven years after the death of Lady Mary, the 
 two boys were preparing to enjoy a holiday, 
 produced by their father's absence from home 
 on compulsory business with the bishop of his 
 diocese. On the threadbare carpet of the un- 
 tidy parlour lay Reginald, arranging flies and 
 hooks in the sheet of waste paper which served 
 him for fishing-book ; while Willy, tiptoe on a 
 rickety chair, was searching the bookshelves 
 which contained their shabby juvenile hbrary, 
 for a volume less thumbed and familiar than 
 the rest, to beguile a day in the woods, between 
 the sports of bird's-nesting and squirrel-snaring. 
 When lo ! the sound of wheels, and a carriage 
 rolled to the door. Not the rattling dog-cart 
 of the tax-gatherer, — not the one-horse chaise 
 of a neighbouring curate, — not the family coach
 
 THE dean's daughter. 9. 
 
 of the squire of the parish ; but a hanjisome 
 travelling chariot, with posters, and a scarcely 
 perceptible coronet on the rail. In a moment 
 all the curs in the stable-yard were on the bark, 
 and the two equally shaggy boys on the qui 
 vive. 
 
 Leaning on each other's shoulders, their 
 bright sunburnt faces close together, like two 
 over-ripe hazel-nuts in a tawny husk, they 
 peered anxiously from the window ; awaiting the 
 result of their slovenly servant maid's declara- 
 tion that " Master was out for the day." 
 
 The voluminous old lady to whom the infor- 
 mation was addressed, bustled, notwithstanding, 
 out of the carriage ; followed by the tripsome 
 figure of a richly-dressed little girl. Defying 
 all remonstrances, the self-constituted guest per- 
 sisted in paying off the post-boy, who, at her 
 bidding, had already conveyed into the entry a 
 chaise-seat and other encumbrances; and now 
 undertook to deposit at the village-inn the 
 carriage for which there was no room in the 
 parsonic chaise-house. And all this was accom-
 
 10 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 plished before the two astonished lads could be 
 half made to understand that the fussy old lady 
 was their quondam nurse, Mrs. Hatley ; and 
 the be-frilled little girl their sister, Margaret 
 Mordaunt. The little stranger had no share in 
 their thoughts or recollections. They had sel- 
 dom heard her name. Of the mother who was 
 with their Father in Heaven, or the sister who 
 was in consequence estranged from them, Mr. 
 Mordaunt had never nerved his courage to talk 
 to the boys. Living in selfish dread of painful 
 emotions, as fatal to his precarious health, he 
 allowed them to grow up in utter ignorance of 
 their family connections. 
 
 Indignant at the coolness of her reception, 
 and disgusted by the aspect of the mean 
 room and staring, rough-looking boys, the 
 little girl insisted on rushing back into the 
 carriage. 
 
 " I want to go back to Hephanger, Hatley. 
 I won't stay here. I want to go home !" cried 
 the disappointed child. 
 
 " But you are at home, my dear," remon-
 
 THE dean's daughter. 11 
 
 strated the nurse, after various useless endea- 
 vours to propitiate her refractory charge. 
 
 " No ! this can't be my papa's house !" per- 
 sisted the child, angrily resisting Mrs. Hatley's 
 attempts to untie her bonnet-strings. 
 
 " Didn't you hear me tell the post-boy, my 
 darling, to drive to Bassingdon Parsonage ? 
 And here we are at Bassingdon; and these two 
 young gentlemen is your dear little brothers, 
 Master Regy and Master Willy, whom you've 
 heard me tell of, hundreds and hundreds of 
 times ; and your dear papa, please God, will be 
 here afore night." 
 
 The pampered child eyed the " dear little 
 brothers " askance, as if strongly inclined to 
 disown the relationship : the two shy, shabby 
 boys being quite as unaccordant with her pre- 
 conceived notions of life and manners, as the 
 Parsonage parlour. Regy and Willy appeared 
 to her eyes to lack only hurdy-gurdys and 
 white mice, to resemble the ragged Savoyards 
 of the London streets, occasionally relieved with 
 sixpences by grandma. She still insisted on
 
 12 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 
 
 immediate departure ; till her childish resent- 
 ments ended in a burst of tears. 
 
 After sundry angry glances at the crying 
 child, as though he longed to silence her as he 
 would have done some village brat, by a good 
 pummelling, Reginald gathered up his flies, and 
 sulked off to his solitary sport. But Willy was 
 moved to sympathy by the tears that deluged 
 those waxen cheeks and soiled those silken 
 curls ; and as soon as the haughty little lady 
 could be prevailed on to disengage her face 
 from Mrs. Hatley's lap, in which she had been 
 stifling her sobs, she found her swarthy brother 
 endeavouring to pacify her by the offer of his 
 toys ; a torn picture-book, and a few mis- 
 matched marbles. 
 
 At sight of these humble treasures, the 
 pompous nurse upraised her eyes and hands to 
 Heaven. While drying the eyes of her spoiled 
 nursling, she could not refrain from blessing the 
 dear little heart of Master Willy — in former 
 days her favourite in the Bassingdon nursery. 
 But her benediction was not unaccompanied by
 
 THE dean's daughter. 13 
 
 mutterings that " it was unackiountable no 
 preparation should have been made to receive 
 them; or that Mr. Mordaunt should not so 
 much as have announced their coming. Still 
 more unackiountable that the dear young gentle- 
 men should be so neglected. — Well, well, — poor 
 dear Lady Mary was after all, mayhap, taken 
 from evil to come !"
 
 14 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER TI. 
 
 Like sportive deer, they chased about 
 And shouted as they ran ; 
 
 Turning to mirth the things of earth 
 As only boyhood can. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 The fact was that the hypochondriac of 
 Bassingdon — sorrow-stricken, sickness-stricken, 
 and poverty-stricken — had reduced himself to 
 so miserable a state of mental prostration, that 
 he scarcely dared to open a letter, or act, or 
 speak, or write, lest his selfish sensitiveness 
 should experience some new torture. 
 
 When his mother-in-law, the Dowager Coun- 
 tess of Bournemouth, first intimated, by the
 
 THE dean's daughter. 15 
 
 hand of her prim maiden daughter, Lady 
 Milicent Bourne, that she . was desirous of 
 placing her little grand-daughter under his pro- 
 tection for a few weeks, during a sojourn she 
 intended to make at the German Spas, he 
 despatched in reply the indispensable assent ; 
 but postponed the task of alluding to the 
 subject in his own household. Sufficient unto 
 the day of her coming, would be the shock of 
 little Margaret's arrival. The disastrous circum- 
 stances of her birth connected themselves so 
 painfully with the loss of his beloved wife, that 
 she seemed far more intimately united in his 
 mind with the Mary whom he still mourned, 
 than the boys, who were no less her children. 
 
 On his return home to dinner, on the even- 
 ing of her arrival, the sight of one so sadly 
 recalling the fair and delicate being who had 
 given her birth, completely overcame him. 
 Even the nurse who had ministered to the 
 death-bed of his wife, and placed her in her 
 coffin, was an object sacred in his sight ; and 
 little Margaret, strained in his arms, was ter-
 
 16 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 rified by the emotions of the pale, black-coated, 
 gray-haired stranger, whom she was bidden to 
 embrace and honour. 
 
 " You must not be afraid of papa," whispered 
 Willy, when he led her back into the corner 
 where his shattered playthings had previously 
 begun to engage her attention ; "I never saw 
 him so before. He never kisses, or cries 
 over us. Most likely he will soon notice 
 you as little as he does Regy and my- 
 self." 
 
 The boy was mistaken. Papa seemed never 
 weary of admiring the grace and elegance of the 
 little fairy, who so strikingly recalled the idol 
 wrested from his arms. Her coming was as 
 an angel visit, vouchsafed from above; the 
 blooming of a choice flower in his dreary desert. 
 Severely did he tax his narrow means to pro- 
 cure for little Margaret the luxuries to which 
 she was accustomed. Even the fussy, palaver- 
 ing Mrs. Hatley was to be conciliated for her 
 sake ; and the anxious father was almost 
 grateful to Willy for the tenderness of his
 
 THE dean's daughter. 17 
 
 endeavours to temper the wind of adversity to 
 their shorn lamb. 
 
 Reginald, indeed, stiU continued to regard 
 the intruder with the eye of a Cain. " Why 
 was the girl to be treated as a princess, pray, 
 and they as paupers ? Why couldn't she stay 
 at Hephanger during their grandmother's ab- 
 sence, if she was too good and great to share 
 their hard fare ?" 
 
 But though Willy had nothing to urge in 
 reply, a natural instinct prompted him to vie 
 with his father in ministering to the comfort 
 of one w^ho seemed strangely superior to their 
 common fate. 
 
 Till he beheld his little aristocratic sister, he 
 had not supposed that a being so beautiful 
 existed on earth. iVccustomed only to the 
 dirt and uncouthness of the village clodhoppers, 
 the high-bred delicacy of Margaret's features 
 and complexion appeared supernatural. Her 
 light step, her musical intonation, her thrilling 
 laugh (and, reconciled to the parsonage by her 
 father's idolatry and Willy's submission to her 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 whims, that laugh was not unfrequent) seemed 
 to endow her with more than mortal attraction. 
 
 If she sometimes bewildered her rustic com- 
 panion by descriptions of the grandeur of 
 Hephanger, its ponies, aviaries, graperies, and 
 tennis-court, she imparted far less charm to 
 those remote regions than to the morsel of 
 rough lawn attached to the parsonage ; or the 
 stream in whose crazy boat they shared their 
 breakfast, and their " Robinson Crusoe." 
 
 " Chassez le naturel," says a great writer ; 
 " il revient au galop." The shabby and torn 
 books containing the histories of " Philip 
 Quarll" and '* Goody Two Shoes," soon be- 
 came more precio\is to little Margaret than 
 the morocco-bound volumes which inculcated 
 at Hephanger the lessons of demurer teachers. 
 And when recalled to her adopted home, at the 
 close of two happy months, by the return of 
 Lady Bournemouth, she deeply regretted the 
 quiet Parsonage, which her departure, for two 
 of its inmates at least, reconverted into a 
 wilderness.
 
 19 
 
 Amid the softer scenery of Hephanger, 
 the child could not forget her kind father, or 
 her lo\4ng, sunny-faced brother. From morn- 
 ing till night, Lady Bournemouth was fated 
 to hear of nothing but " darling Willy," and 
 his good qualities ; and it needed all the counter- 
 evidence of Xurse Hatley, to convince the 
 perplexed dowager that she was not grand- 
 mother to an angel. 
 
 "I'm sure, my lady, it would go to your 
 ladyship's heart to see them two dear boys, 
 that is those two poor young gentlemen, so 
 shamefully neglected !" was the nurse's version 
 of the Bassingdon memoirs. " Poor Mr. Mor- 
 daunt's so wrapped up in his troubles, as one 
 may say, my lady, that he sees to nothing. 
 The housekeeping is all at sixes and sevens ; 
 and I'm sure I never expected to see my late 
 dear lady's sons a w^earing ragged shirts as 
 coarse as hopsack; or a adding up their sums 
 on a bit of slate, for all the world like 
 parish children. But that's not the worst. 
 Master Regy's language, my lady, is a scandal 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 to listen to ; and even his brother, though 
 better spoken, has took up the 'orrid lower-class 
 principles of the village scapegraces he's allowed 
 to consort with." 
 
 The cautious dowager, whom resentment of 
 her daughter's wilful marriage had prevented 
 from soothing with kindness and creature- 
 comforts the last days of her favourite child, 
 considered perhaps that she had done enough 
 for the widower by relieving him of a third 
 of his domestic burthen ; and for some time, 
 she turned a deaf ear to the testimony of 
 the nurse. But Mrs. Hatley knew how to 
 reach a vulnerable point. 
 
 " As sure as you're alive, my lady," she 
 resumed, " them young gentlemen, if not 
 better looked after, will grow from bad to 
 worse, and bring disgrace upon their family, my 
 lady ; and 'specially their poor, dear, blessed, 
 innercent Httle sister. Miss Margaret, whom 
 your ladyship's so proud on." 
 
 Such a denunciation startled even the im- 
 perturbable Lady Bournemouth. She had been
 
 THE dean's daughter. 21 
 
 sufficiently shamed by the elopement of one 
 of her two rigidly-reared daughters. It was 
 time that something should be done to arrest 
 the delinquency of the new generation. She 
 had allowed her daughter to become a \ictim : 
 she would at least prevent her grandsons from 
 becoming scamps. Her limited jointure, (she 
 assured herself, and Lady Mihcent strongly 
 confirmed the opinion,) did not admit of her 
 placing them at a suitable school. But she 
 would use her best exertions in their behalf. 
 Since their poor inert father did not choose 
 to attend to his duties, she would write to his 
 brother, Lord Mildenhall ; and represent to 
 him that the boy who was presumptive heir to 
 his title and estates was likely, in the interim, to 
 become a rogue and a vagabond. 
 
 Write she did ; just such a letter as long- 
 winded dowagers indite out of the abundance of 
 their arid natures ; prolix, obscure, and emi- 
 nently calculated to defeat its own object. 
 
 After working his way through its four 
 diffuse pages, Lord Mildenhall had some right
 
 22 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 to consider himself accused of starving his 
 brother, and teaching his nephews to curse, 
 swear, and play at hop-scotch. It was clearly 
 made out to be his fault that the present in- 
 cumbent of his best living — a living so fat 
 that, from generation to generation, a son of the 
 House of Mordaunt, talis qualisy was educated 
 for the Church — possessed so hale a constitu- 
 tion. It was clearly made out to be his fault 
 that the Honourable and Reverend Reginald, 
 who, by the will of the late Lord Mildenhall, 
 was to succeed him, still grovelled on, a curate. 
 The Viscount was exceeding wroth ; not (to 
 do him justice) with the unoffending Reginald, 
 but with the meddling dowager. To her, he 
 addressed one of his stiffest, presenting-com- 
 pliments letters ; stating that, *' having received 
 no application from his brother for pecuniary 
 assistance, he had no reason to suppose him in 
 necessitous circumstances." But the same post 
 which conveyed this haughty reply, enlisted 
 the services of a third person in behalf of 
 poor Reginald and his boys.
 
 23 
 
 Lord Mildenhall, if as wanting as his brother 
 in energy and knowledge of the world, had 
 found his deficiences more strongly forced upon 
 his admission by his responsibilities in life ; and 
 he was consequently one of those members 
 of the highest class of society, who never act 
 without the advice of a man of business. His 
 solicitor, the keeper of his conscience as well as 
 of his title-deeds, felt for him as well as thought 
 for him. Whether to draw out a lease, issue 
 an ejectment, or decide on the dowry of his 
 daughters or pin-money of his Viscountess, 
 the family solicitor was his unfailing authority. 
 If he had preferment to give away, money to 
 invest, or a ministerial appeal to evade, Wraxley 
 and Lumm were to be consulted ; or rather 
 Wraxley by himself Wraxley ; for the Co. 
 of the concern in Gray's Inn had no existence 
 for the Viscount. Wraxley, in short, was the 
 master who had predominated over him from 
 the day of their obtaining probate of the will 
 of the late Viscount, to that in which his lord- 
 ship now appealed to him for advice touching
 
 24 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 the best and speediest method of affording 
 relief to his brother. 
 
 The solicitor perfectly understood that by the 
 "best," his noble client meant the cheapest. 
 For he was a man who justified the confidence 
 of his patron, by cautious care over the family 
 resources ; and though incapable of suggesting 
 any measure obnoxious to the laws of the realm, 
 or indeed of what is called *' propriety," his 
 notions were, perhaps, more strictly prudential 
 than altogether became the coronet of his em- 
 ployer. 
 
 Such a man knew better than to propose 
 granting an allowance, or even a gratuity, to the 
 brother so inconveniently poor and absurdly 
 prolific. Though the Mordaunt family had 
 been pruned of its junior branches by climate 
 and casualties, so that only two remained extant, 
 he remarked that any undue act of liberality on 
 the part of the Viscount might establish a 
 dangerous precedent. He added, however, an 
 extenuating alternative. " Mr. Mordaunt," he 
 suggested, *' having expiated by much privation
 
 THE dean's daughter. 25 
 
 the imprudence of his early marriage in oppo- 
 sition to the ad\ace of the best of brothers, and 
 his precarious health and circumstances appear- 
 ing to render urgent an extension of his income, 
 he, Lord Mildenhall's humble adviser, presumed 
 to suppose that an application to the Govern- 
 ment so long supported in both the Upper and 
 Lower House by his lordship's vote and in- 
 fluence, could not fail to procure for the curate 
 of Bassingdon some profitable advancement in 
 his profession." 
 
 No time was lost in acting upon advice 
 so thoughtful; and a grateful Administration 
 fully justified the solicitor's good opinion, by 
 doing all, and more than all it w^as requested. 
 The astonished Mordaunt was almost aghast at 
 finding preferment steal upon him like a thief 
 in the night ; and lo ! the two boys were forth- 
 with invested in broadcloth and despatched to 
 Eton, and the compunctions of the old nurse 
 and the dowager set at rest. 
 
 Lady Bournemouth, indeed, went so far as 
 to whisper to her daughter that it would not
 
 26 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 much signify if the reverend rector of Milden- 
 hall survived a few years longer. His suc- 
 cessor presumptive was now amply provided 
 for, and in circumstances to indulge in half a 
 dozen new ailments.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 27 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Sa nature, tendre et faible, n'avait d'autre force que 
 celle d'inertie. II n'opposa aucune resistance dans la 
 lutte avec ses malheurs ; et laissa lachement la vague 
 passer sur lui. — lebegue. 
 
 Seven years of apprenticeship to good for- 
 tune now elapsed, without affecting any further 
 change in the destinies of Lord xMildenhall's 
 brother, save that of converting a melan- 
 choly prebendary into a grave archdeacon, and 
 a grave archdeacon into a still graver dean. 
 But even this aggrandisement did not render 
 him a contented man. The chains of care had 
 been worn, till they had corroded his very
 
 28 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 nature. In spite of the blessings he enjoyed, 
 Dr. Mordaunt still seemed to fancy himself the 
 creditor of Providence. 
 
 On quitting Bassingdon, a spot replete with 
 painful associations, he chose to believe that he 
 could be happy in no other home ; and when 
 his brother made it a condition of their recon- 
 ciliation that the boys should be sent to a public 
 school, Mordaunt, to whom their company had 
 been as a millstone round his neck, complained 
 fretfully of their loss. 
 
 " Poor fellows ! they had never been parted 
 from him. He had taught them all they knew. 
 He did not know how he should do without 
 them." 
 
 Even after his removal from his cheerless 
 parsonage, to the savoury dinners and chirruping 
 
 tea-parties of R , where he was welcomed 
 
 as became the brother of a viscount, and a well- 
 looking widower, (little more than five and forty 
 years of age, though in temperament and feel- 
 ings threescore), he led almost as retired a life as 
 in his obscure village. Camomile tea was a
 
 THE dean's daughter. 29 
 
 beverage dearer to his digestion than the best 
 of claret ; and in the course of a year or two, 
 he resigned himself and his dyspepsia into the 
 hands of a solemn jesuitical-looking butler, who 
 took care to bring on a fit of the gout when- 
 ever his Very Reverend master talked of a visit 
 to Mildenhall Rectory, to which he had by this 
 time succeeded ; but where a highly-trust- 
 worthy curate ministered efficiently in his stead. 
 Even among those who believed in the 
 infirmity of health proclaimed by the Dean 
 and attested by the stillness and soberness of 
 his habits of life, there were some who ex- 
 pressed surprise that his daughter, now a 
 charming girl of seventeen, was not recalled 
 from Hephanger to preside at the Deanery. 
 But excuses were readily found. Dr. Mor- 
 daunt was far too great an invalid to undertake 
 the duty of introducing her into society ; while 
 Lady Bournemouth was of an age aud temper 
 to dislike any change in her establishment. 
 Nor w^as Lady Milicent sorry to have her 
 attendance on the peevish dowager lightened
 
 30 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 by the company of the kind, pleasant-tempered 
 girl, into which Margaret had progressed. 
 
 There was every reason, in short, why the 
 young lady should remain quiet at Hephanger, 
 and her father still quieter at the Deanery : 
 every reason, except that Margaret herself 
 was pining after the sympathies of younger 
 companionship than a querimonious grand- 
 mother, and cross-grained aunt ; and that the 
 Dean, though still personating to himself the 
 part of chief mourner for the wife he had so 
 long survived, was gradually losing all sense 
 of paternal responsibility. The tears shed 
 over the memory of Lady Mary had produced, 
 like the drippings of the Knaresborough well, 
 a fine petrifaction. 
 
 His eldest son, meanwhile, progressed slowly, 
 at Eton, from a sullen fag into a tyrannic 
 master ; and from the bully of a public school 
 into an insolent fellow-commoner. 
 
 Overgrown and athletic, many of those who 
 mistake suUenness for dignity, pronounced him 
 to be a fine young man; and among them,
 
 THE dean's daughter. 31 
 
 luckily for himself, was his uncle Lord Milden- 
 hall ; who, when he found that nothing further 
 was required of him in behalf of his nephews, 
 called upon them one day at Eton, and received 
 a high character of his elder nephew (who, as 
 a sap, was a favourite with the head-master,) 
 and to recognise in him a fac simile of the 
 ungainly Mordaunt race. 
 
 From that day, he adopted him as a favourite, 
 and invited him frequently to the Abbey. The 
 Mildenhalls were advanced in years. The three 
 daughters, of whom their family consisted, of 
 whom one only remained single, were to divide 
 between them the unentailed estates ; while 
 the honours and Mildenhall Abbey must des- 
 cend to the Dean of R and his issue male ; 
 
 so that there was every reason for rejoicing that 
 Reginald would represent them worthily in 
 those moral and physical defects, which, at 
 Mildenhall, passed for family features. 
 
 Thus estranged from the Deanery, and 
 strengthening his worst qualities by companion- 
 ship with a proud, cold, selfish race, the elder 
 son gradually lost sight of his father and
 
 32 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 brother. He was perfectly satisfied so to do. 
 He preferred a spot where he was made more 
 of than at R— — . Nor was there a grain of 
 sympathy, beyond the natural instincts of 
 brotherhood, between him and Willy ; who 
 had been justly described to Lord Mildenhall 
 on his memorable visit to Eton, as an idle, care- 
 less scapegrace, likely to prove a source of much 
 anxiety to his friends. 
 
 Had the noble uncle pursued his inquiries in 
 the Playing Fields instead of catechizing Dr. 
 Keate, he would have heard another story ; 
 for Willy Mor daunt was one of the 
 most popular fellows in the Lower School. 
 He acquired, indeed, less distinction as a 
 scholar than became his excellent abilities. For 
 no one encouraged him — no one seemed to 
 take pride in him — no Mildenhall Abbey 
 awaited his holidays ; and the Deanery at 
 
 R was a positive purgatory to a boy 
 
 of lively qualifications. Still, there was a 
 chance that, like writings in sympathetic ink, 
 his brilliant qualities might one day develop 
 themselves under a genial glow.
 
 33 
 
 The two young men had now attained the 
 debateable ground trenching on manhood ; a 
 period pregnant with passions and perils, errors 
 committed and habits contracted, which often 
 cast their shadow before to overcloud the path 
 of life. Yet their father had never mustered 
 strength or energy to discuss with them their fu- 
 ture prospects. It was chiefly through Wraxley 
 and Lumm they had been made aware that 
 Reginald was intended by his uncle to study 
 the law, to qualify him for the representation 
 of the family borough ; and William to enter 
 the Church, that he might hereafter succeed 
 his father in the rich rectory of Mildenhall. 
 
 " If they get me into the Church, it will not 
 be by fair means," was the secret comment of 
 the reckless William. " But sufficient unto the 
 day be the struggle. To-morrow, the hounds 
 meet at Walham Wood, and Dick Hargreave 
 has lent me his bay mare. So here goes for 
 the red coat, instead of the black ! With such 
 a friend as Dick to give me a lift (or a mount), 
 I defy aU the Dons of the University." 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Dissimilar in most points, the two young 
 Mordaunts were unanimous in distaste for their 
 
 cheerless home. The Deanery of R , as 
 
 constituted by the present resident, was in truth 
 a dreary place. Situated in the corner of a 
 gloomy quadrangle, in one of the dullest of 
 cathedral towns, its granite arches and muUioned 
 window^s might have possessed a certain charm 
 for eyes less accustomed to the venerable archi- 
 tecture of our collegiate institutions than 
 those of Reginald and William. To them, the 
 place was only Eton or Oxford — school or 
 college — on a less pleasant footing. Harman, 
 the solemn butler, and Mrs. Graves, the austere 
 housekeeper, were a degree more reserved than 
 even their uncommunicative master ; and the 
 jackdaws, perched on the parapet, were the only 
 vocal creatures about the place. 
 
 The gloomy mahogany furniture and Turkey 
 carpets, purchased by the Dean of his prede- 
 cessor, on the accession of the latter to a mitre, 
 muffled the rooms and corridors into the silence 
 of the tomb. The very chimney-pieces were of
 
 THE dean's daughter. 35 
 
 black or dark-gray marble ; and the pictures, 
 portraits of sour-looking divines in gown and 
 band, contained in massive walnut-wood frames. 
 The windows were partially obscured by dim 
 and cloudy stained glass. 
 
 In the sitting-room, the hangings were of 
 olive-coloured damask ; and between their 
 dingy draperies stood heavy bookcases, groan- 
 ing under musty tomes of obsolete divinity. 
 The peevish old servants seemed clothed in 
 sackcloth and ashes ; speaking in under tones, 
 which, though much resembling grumbling, 
 purported only to propitiate the tympanum of 
 the nervous Dean; a man so enamoui^ed of 
 stillness, that he had cut down a venerable 
 lime-tree abutting on his windows, because the 
 rustling of the leaves, and the twittering of the 
 birds they served to shelter, disturbed his 
 reveries. The fragrance of its blossoms and 
 freshness of its shade, pleaded nothing in its 
 favour. 
 
 Such a home, after the tumultuous sociability 
 of college life, was not likely to prove exhi- 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 larating. In spite of the augustness of his 
 silk apron, the Dean, so dignified in the eyes of 
 the Cathedral Close, and so interesting to the 
 
 tea-tables of R , was to his sons simply 
 
 the " governor." Even WiUiam, even " darling 
 Willy," though dutiful and affectionate, could 
 not help feehng what were called his " holidays" 
 to be both irksome and joyless. 
 
 Incapable of exertion, Dr. Mordaunt ex- 
 pected his sons to find pastimes for themselves. 
 He made them a liberal allowance ; and on 
 their arrival at home, welcomed them kindly. 
 But the slightest discord in the diocese — even 
 
 the trifling agitation produced in R by the 
 
 annual flower-show — affected his nerves so 
 painfuUy, that the young men knew better than 
 to molest him. 
 
 Reginald, indeed, conscious of his better 
 prospects, had long determined on emancipating 
 himself, at the earliest possible opportunity, 
 from the parental authority which the Dean 
 so little valued. He usually contrived to spend 
 his Christmas vacation at Mildenhall x\bbey,
 
 THE dean's daughter. 37 
 
 instead of droning it away at the Deanery : 
 a sad mortification to William, who had to 
 bear his burthen in undivided weight. 
 
 It was in the second year of his Oxford life 
 
 that he made his appearance at R , in the 
 
 midst of a heavy snow^-storm, to find the Dean 
 more than usually out of spirits : — overw^helmed 
 by the petty squabbles of his Chapter, and the 
 examination of Wraxley and Lumm's annual 
 account. When cordially greeted by his cheery- 
 hearted son, he shook his head despondingly, 
 and declared himself to be " poorly — very, very 
 poorly." 
 
 Poorly, indeed, for a beneficed divine — a 
 responsible Christian ! — Beyond his physical 
 sensations, he had not a thought or a care — 
 beyond that gloomy room, not a sympathy. 
 The souls entrusted to his cure, the progress 
 of the faith he professed, of national civilization, 
 of human happiness, of science, Kterature, art — 
 what were such trifles to a man addicted to 
 nervous headache, and engrossed by the daily 
 study of Buchan's Domestic Medicine ! —
 
 38 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Still, when seated in dignified abstraction in 
 his stall, keeping measure with the responses 
 of the choir, and looking like a portrait of St. 
 Jerome by the tender pencil of Guido, there 
 was plausible pretext for the affection with 
 which he was pointed out to strangers as " the 
 popular Dean of R ."
 
 THE dean's daughter. 39 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 For what avail the largest gifts of Heaven 
 
 When drooping health and spirits go amiss ? 
 How tasteless then whatever can be given ! 
 
 Health is the vital principal of bliss, 
 And exercise, of health. In proof of this, 
 
 Behold the wretch who slugs his life away 
 Soon swallowed in disease's sad abyss. 
 
 WTiile he whom toil hath brac'd, or manly play, 
 Has light as air each Hmb, each thought as clear as day. 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 " What on earth shall I say, by way of 
 excuse, to Hargreave and Fanshawe !" mused 
 the voiing Oxonian, as he sat brooding over 
 the expiring embers of an old-fashioned grate,
 
 40 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 ill-calculated to warm a chamber into which the 
 sun had not penetrated since the days of 
 Leland; the Dean having, according to his 
 winter custom, swallowed at nine o'clock a 
 basin of thin gruel; and at ten, scrupulously 
 to a minute, retired to rest. " What reason 
 can I possibly assign for not inviting them here, 
 when they are coming to hunt so near us as 
 Dursley Park ? And after old Hargreave's 
 splendid hospitalities to me at Oak Hill, during 
 the yachting season ! Yet I verily believe a 
 visit from those two fellows would drive my 
 poor old nervous father out of his wits ! If I 
 made the proposal he would not refuse. He 
 seldom refuses. Opposition is too much 
 trouble. But that sleek old Humblechunks, 
 Harman, would contrive to convince him, 
 before the time arrived, that he would not 
 survive such a visitation ! 
 
 " Better put the best face upon the matter, 
 and write word at once to Fanshawe and Har- 
 greave, that I find my father too great an in- 
 valid to render his house a pleasant sojourn
 
 THE dean's daughter. 41 
 
 for young men — I must not say boys — one of 
 whom, indeed, behaves like a child. Hargreave 
 is too good a fellow to be affronted ; and even 
 Fanshawe will make a bad pun or two, and 
 alter his plans." 
 
 Never had the dulness of the Deanery struck 
 him so disagreeably as at that moment. When 
 he quitted it in September, the drone of the 
 flies in the rarely-opened embayed windows, 
 and the loud clicking of the old clock in the 
 corridor, had nearly worried him into a fever. 
 But now, with the wintry wind moaning elegiac- 
 ally in the quadrangle over the departed lime- 
 tree, and the sleet driving against the windows 
 as strenuously as if discharging a duty, the 
 loneliness of the place became insupportable. 
 
 His morning meal, next day, with the Dean, 
 was not much more cheerful. A screen was 
 interposed between the breakfast-table and the 
 fire-place. Harm an waited in list shoes upon 
 his silent master. The morning papers were 
 in- process of being aired and ironed. Nothing 
 was audible but the occasional crackling of the
 
 42 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 coals, or of the dry toast languidly masticated 
 by the Dean. 
 
 At length, several phthisicky hems apprised 
 William Mordaunt that his father was about to 
 address him. 
 
 "I must ask you, Willy, to write a letter for 
 me after breakfast," said the Dean, " My right 
 hand feels a little uncomfortable. Harman has 
 been advising a dose of Gregory's mixture, for 
 some days past. Under such circumstances, 
 letter-writing is out of the question." 
 
 " I shall be most happy. Sir, to officiate as 
 your secretary." 
 
 " I knew you would. I waited, in fact, for 
 your arrival, to answer dear Margaret's letter." 
 
 " My sister ? — you want me to write to my 
 sister? My conscience reproaches me that I 
 am myself a letter in her debt." 
 
 " Yes ! Margaret complains that you are a 
 bad correspondent: — an additional motive, I 
 presume, for her desire to spend part of the 
 vacation with you here." 
 
 " And does my grandmother consent ? How
 
 THE dean's daughter. 43 
 
 delightful ! Nothing on earth should I enjoy 
 so much !" 
 
 " My dear boy, the thing is totally impos- 
 sible," said the Dean, taking a nail-file from his 
 writing-table, and leisurely proceeding to polish 
 his nails (one of the few bodily exertions he 
 ever indulged in). ''It was thoughtless enough 
 of Margaret to propose it ; but you, an eye- 
 witness of my infirm state of health, must be 
 aware of the utter impossibility of my receiving 
 guests under my roof." 
 
 " But your own daughter, Sir !" 
 
 " My daughter is unfortunately as much a 
 stranger to me as any other. To say the truth, 
 William, I thought it both wise and considerate 
 of Reginald to propose passing his Christmas 
 at ^Mildenhall Abbey." 
 
 " Reginald was here in the summer, Sir, 
 Margaret not for three years ; nor have you 
 even seen her in the interim." 
 
 " No fault of mine, William. Into Hep- 
 hanger, you are well aware, I have never set 
 foot since the day of my marriage. And the
 
 44 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 last time Lady Bournemouth was able to spare 
 your sister, the scarlet fever was raging at 
 
 R . As Harman observed, it would have 
 
 been cruel kindness to accept Miss Mordaunt's 
 company at such a time." 
 
 " But now, father, — there is no scarlet fever 
 raging here now. — And it would be so delightful 
 to have her with us !" 
 
 The Dean shook his head despondingly — 
 almost reprovingly. 
 
 " If you knew," said he, in a querulous voice, 
 " the overpowering headache to which I have 
 been subject since my attack of influenza last 
 autumn, you would perceive the impossibility of 
 exposing myself to the society of a couple of 
 noisy young people in the heyday of health and 
 spirits. I should be quite unhinged. My 
 establishment would be totally disorganized." 
 
 Conscious of the incursion of Picts and 
 Scots he had been secretly meditating, in the 
 persons of his Christchurch chums, Fanshawe 
 and Hargreave, WilUam, though vexed at his 
 father's selfishness, could scarcely repress a smile.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 45 
 
 " It would be so great a comfort to me, Sir, 
 to see my sister again," pleaded he, after as 
 careful an examination of the crest on his tea- 
 spoon, as though it were the first time the 
 family emblazonment had met his eye, — " that, 
 since you are disinclined to receive her here, I 
 will, if you please, make my way over to Hep- 
 hanger, and — " 
 
 " My dear boy," interrupted the Dean, " it is 
 precisely because Lady Bournemouth and her 
 daughter are about to leave home to spend a 
 week or two at Bath, (your grandmother is 
 getting into years, William, and had a very 
 unpleasant hint of a paralytic attack last spring) 
 — it is precisely because the family is about to 
 leave home, I say, that your sister finds herself 
 at liberty to visit the Deanery." 
 
 "You are certain that Margaret does not 
 accompany them to Bath ?" — 
 
 " No, my dear. Lady Milicent appears to think 
 that as her mother is laid up, and her niece has 
 not yet been introduced into society, Margaret 
 would be awkwardly situated in so gay a place."
 
 46 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " Lady Milicent intends to immure my sister 
 at Hephanger, till she grows an ugly, cross, 
 peevish old maid, like herself!" cried William, 
 angrily. 
 
 " Margaret may grow old, but she will never 
 be either cross or peevish," remonstrated the 
 invalid, in so kindly a tone, as to encourage his 
 son to renew his solicitations. 
 
 " She must lead a sad life, Sir, with those 
 two peremptory old women," said he, watching 
 the countenance of the Dean. " My grand- 
 mother is fond of her, and liberal and kind ; 
 but Lady Milicent makes the poor girl pay 
 dearly for every act of kindness on the part of 
 the old lady. Lady Mihcent is jealous and 
 envious of my sister." 
 
 " So she was of her own. So she was of my 
 poor dear Mary !" murmured the Dean, the tears 
 gathering in his eyes. " Yet Margaret always 
 assures me she is happy at Hephanger." 
 
 " You have not seen her. Sir, for years. Her 
 letters have often led me, on the contrary to 
 fear that, as she approached womanhood, she is
 
 THE dean's daughter. 47 
 
 beginning to yearn for pleasanter company than 
 that of two tiresome old ladies." 
 
 The demure Dean looked a little shocked, 
 perhaps a little displeased. 
 
 " But since they have determined to leave my 
 sister behind," resumed his son, " and you cannot 
 receive her here, as she proposes, why shouldn't 
 I spend the fortnight with her, at Hephanger ?" 
 
 " Uninvited — and during Lady Bourne- 
 mouth's absence? No, no, that would never 
 do !" retorted the invalid, with more spirit than 
 he had yet displayed. For, still resenting 
 against the family of his lamented wife their 
 unnatural conduct towards her, his pride rebel- 
 led against the idea that one of her children 
 might be accounted an intrusive guest. " I 
 cannot hear of your going to Hephanger, 
 William ; but since you and your sister have set 
 your hearts on being together, this winter, let 
 Margaret know that, in accordance with her 
 request, my carriage and horses shall be at 
 Homerton to meet her, at tw^elve o'clock on 
 Friday next. I conclude I may rely upon Lady
 
 48 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Bournemouth to have her properly escorted 
 thither." 
 
 " A thousand, thousand thanks, my dear 
 father. She shall be properly escorted. I will 
 go myself to fetch her !" cried William, hasten- 
 ing with such grateful impetuosity to seize the 
 hand of the Dean, that the sedate invalid re- 
 coiled from his approach as from the attack of 
 a highwayman. He was not accustomed to 
 such exuberant demonstrations. The speed of 
 a parliamentary train sufficed for all the move- 
 ments of his heart or intellect.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 49 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 She never had in busie cities bin, 
 
 Ne'er warm'd with hopes, nor e'er alloy'd with fears ; 
 Not seeing punishment could guess no sin, 
 
 And sin not seeing, ne'er had use of tears. 
 Her sire with dear regard, lier gifts doth wear 
 
 Of flowers which she in mystic order ties ; 
 And with the sacrifice of many a tear 
 
 Salutes her long-lost mother in her eyes. 
 
 SIR W. DAVENAXT. 
 
 It were as pleasant a task to describe the 
 beautiful girl who alighted from the dark-green 
 chariot of Dean Mordaunt under the gloomy 
 
 cloisters of R , on the snowy Friday in 
 
 question, as to paint " a rosebud on its dewy 
 
 TOL. I. E
 
 50 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 stalk." But such descriptions are usually- 
 tedious to the reader; who, if of the gentler 
 sex, loves to suppose a heroine of her own 
 " black, brown, or fair" complexion ; or if a man, 
 prefers to invest the ideal beauty with the con- 
 tour and colours of his lady-love. 
 
 Suffice it, therefore, that our Margaret was 
 lovely, according to the severest rules of art; 
 and lovelier with the far more rare endowments 
 of elegance and grace. 
 
 The spinster votaries of the handsome Dean, 
 admitted that his daughter was worthy of him ; 
 while the head verger of the cathedral protested 
 that when Miss M or daunt appeared in the 
 aisle, it was as if one of the angels had stepped 
 out of the altar piece. The nine thousand seven 
 
 hundred and thirteen inhabitants of R , 
 
 were unanimous in her praises, with the single 
 exception of her father. For in delicacy of 
 feature, and gentleness of deportment, Margaret 
 so painfully resembled the wife he had lost, 
 that tears choked his utterance, whenever he 
 attempted to pronounce her name.
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 5 I 
 
 Even the fractious, pampered servants were 
 subdued into courtesy by the gracefulness of the 
 young girl, who glided like a spirit of peace 
 along the sunless corridors ; her white draperies, 
 like those of Clarissa in her prison, diffusing 
 light through the low-browed chambers. 
 
 Throughout the first evening, her brother 
 sat gazing at her, her father pointedly away 
 from her ; as though her presence had stirred 
 the innermost fountains of their hearts. 
 
 By the time the Dean had despatched his 
 basin of gruel and retired to rest, William had 
 discovered that his sister was as pleasant to 
 listen to, as to look at. She was so cheerful, 
 so forbearing, so disposed to contemplate the 
 bright side of things ! Like the princess in the 
 fairy tale, her lips let fall only pearls and dia- 
 monds. In answer to Willy's salHes against 
 the pompous, prosy old dowager from whom 
 they had that morning parted, she cited a 
 thousand anecdotes of Lady Bournemouth's bene- 
 volence. " Her death would be a sad loss to 
 her dependants — a real calamity to the poor." 
 
 E 2 
 
 UBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSfTV OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Though somewhat imbued with the ironical 
 spirit of the age, William Mordaunt did not for 
 a moment mistrust the sincerity of the pany- 
 gerist. Suppressing his smiles, he replied only 
 by a cordial pressure of her hand. It was 
 comforting to learn that Margaret had been 
 so kindly used at Hephanger. It was re- 
 assuring to know that, though Lady Milicent*s 
 jealousy of her young niece was too apparent, 
 Margaret had suffered nothing from its in- 
 fluence; more particularly since, though sin- 
 cerely attached to those by whom her life was 
 made happy, her heart was still faithful to the 
 dear brother Willy, with whom she had climbed 
 the old elm-trees at Bassingdon, and shared the 
 punishment awarded to the exploit. 
 
 He was perhaps the only person in R 
 
 who experienced no surprise at the miracles 
 accomphshed by Margaret's arrival. For the 
 Deanery was become an altered place, the Dean 
 a new man. Instead of confining himself to 
 his study, and breakfasting in his own room, 
 he found legs to walk, a tongue to talk, and
 
 THE dean's daughter. 53 
 
 ears to listen. Twice was his nightly gruel 
 sent away untouched, because his daughter was 
 reading aloud to him, in that sweet voice, 
 trained by much practice to suit the dowagerly 
 acoustics of Lady Bournemouth. He had even 
 enquired of Harman on what day the bishop 
 and his family were expected at the palace, 
 for the Christmas hoHdays, with a minuteness 
 denoting alarming projects of hospitality. Al- 
 ready, in spite of his detestation of letter- 
 writing, he had addressed a few lines to 
 Reginald, requesting him to hasten his return 
 from Mildenhall Abbey. Not content with his 
 own love and admiration of Margaret, he was 
 evidently desirous that justice should be ren- 
 dered her by every member of the family. 
 
 " It seems partial to say so," he observed to 
 his medical attendant, " but my daughter's voice 
 is so melodious that her conversation never 
 fatigues me. After an airing with her, I feel really 
 refreshed. So different from my solitary drives ! 
 My Margaret's cheerful looks and youthful ani- 
 mation seem to render me young again." —
 
 54 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 The autumnal flowers of the garden of life, 
 the parental affections, were at length, though 
 late, beginning to bloom for the Dean ; and the 
 dependants who had brought themselves to 
 respect his headaches and believe in his indiges- 
 tions, were astonished to find that, when excited 
 by natural emotions, their Very Reverend master 
 could be as well and nearly as active as his 
 neighbours. 
 
 One morning, however, the severity of the 
 weather having peremptorily confined him to 
 his fireside, his son and daughter endeavoured 
 to nerve themselves against the frost by a 
 bracing walk. On their return to the grim old 
 porch, their cheeks glowing with exercise and 
 their hearts with that goodwill towards all man- 
 kind which is the best dowry of youth, William 
 vainly endeavoured to entice his sister back 
 to some water-meadows adjoining the town, 
 frozen over after a recent inundation, so as to 
 form an excellent area for skaiting. They br d 
 
 found half the population of R assembled 
 
 there, either as performers or spectators ; — and
 
 THE dean's daughter. 55 
 
 William had returned to fetch his skaits ; 
 nothing doubting that his sister would be unable 
 to refuse herself the pleasure of witnessing his 
 skill. 
 
 " You must come and see me take the shine 
 out of those bumpkins," said he. " You can 
 remain on the bank, my dear Meg, with Mrs. 
 Pleydell and her niece ; while I favour you with 
 a double eagle, and a new flourish of my own 
 particular invention.'* 
 
 But Margaret was not to be persuaded. She 
 had promised her father to be at home within 
 the hour. The hoary turret-clock of the 
 Deanery was appealed to ; and, lo ! its jangling 
 voice seized the opportunity to make itself 
 heard above the noise of the jackdaws, in con- 
 firmation of Miss Mordaunt's assurance that 
 her leave of absence had expired. 
 
 While William, therefore, made his way, 
 skaits in hand, along the slippery cloister lead- 
 ing to the suburbs, his sister slowly ascended 
 the staircase whose heavy Axminster carpeting 
 served to muffle all sound within doors, in a
 
 56 
 
 spot secure from every species of disturbance 
 from without. Her tlioughts were absorbed in 
 the busy scene she had quitted. She would 
 have so Hked to see her bold athletic " darling 
 Willy," dashing along the ice among the rest ! 
 
 So thoroughly was she engrossed by the 
 picture her fancy had created, that she heard 
 nothing of certain unusual sounds audible 
 through the baized door of the sitting-room 
 she was approaching ; and she had turned the 
 ebony handle, and was actually in her father's 
 presence, before she discovered that, so far from 
 fidgeting for her return, the Dean was engaged 
 in conversation with a couple of strangers. 
 
 Another moment, and while a blush of sur- 
 prise heightened the rich bloom already derived 
 from the frosty air, her father presented his two 
 visitors as " Mr. Fanshawe, Mr. Hargreave." 
 
 " Where is WiUiam, my dear ? His friends 
 here are anxiously expecting him," said the 
 Dean. 
 
 Miss Mordaunt instantly proposed to despatch 
 a servant, and recal her brother. But the young
 
 57 
 
 men would not hear of it. " They would join 
 their friend Mordaunt in the meadows. They 
 had no idea that skaiting was going on at 
 
 R . They had driven in from Dursley 
 
 Park, because all chance of hunting was knocked 
 on the head ; and had been in hopes of persuad- 
 ing Mordaunt to return with them, to dine and 
 sleep." 
 
 Still, though they talked of going, not a step 
 did either of them stir ; and no sooner had 
 Margaret laid aside her bonnet and taken a 
 chau* beside her father, than both the guests 
 involuntarily resumed their seats. They had been 
 cordially welcomed by the well-bred old Dean ; 
 who, but a short month before, w^ould have 
 been disposed to resent the intrusion of two 
 young gentlemen whose united ages did not 
 equal his own. — But he was now humanized. — 
 The current of his blood flowed more freely ; 
 and the cooller of the two strangers, (between 
 whom ^Margaret could only distinguish at 
 present that one was dark, and the other fair,) 
 had consequently some excuse for endeavouring
 
 58 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 to explain to his friend's sister, what had been 
 made perfectly clear to his friend's father pre- 
 vious to her arrival. 
 
 " When Mordaunt quitted Christchurch a 
 fornight ago," said he, " he promised to come 
 and hunt with us at Dursley. Perhaps he was 
 not then aware how much he should have to 
 relinquish ? He certainly omitted to enumerate 
 a sister among the attractions of the Deanery." 
 
 From a peculiar glance which accompanied 
 the inquiry, Margaret inferred that William was 
 in the habit of describing his dreary home with 
 less of fihal reverence than was due to his lares 
 and penates. 
 
 " My visit to R was unexpected," said 
 
 she, so simply as to discountenance the implied 
 compliment. 
 
 " Still, though disposed to make allowance 
 for Mordaunt's change of plans," said the least 
 forward of the two strangers, " we cannot afford 
 to renounce his company without a r^ruggle. 
 He is a great favourite with the family at 
 Dursley Park. Surely you will be kind enough
 
 THE dean's daughter. 59 
 
 to sacrifice his society for a day or two, that so 
 large a circle may not be disappointed?" 
 
 "Why not teU Miss Mordaunt honestly at 
 once, that we can't get on without Willy, either 
 for our own tennis, or Lady Hargreave's theatri- 
 cals," interposed his friend. " Your son is our 
 Admirable Crichton, Sir," he continued, " the 
 mainspring which keeps us going. We can do 
 nothing at Dursley without Mordaunt." 
 
 Even the unobservant Dean began to think it 
 strange that, while one of his \'isitors affected 
 to address him, and both to talk only of 
 William, neither of them withdi'ew his eyes 
 from the fair face of Margaret. They were, in 
 fact, scarcely less startled than pleased at find- 
 ing so lovely a creature in a spot where they 
 expected only the grinning \'isages of corbels and 
 waterspouts. A more worldly man than Dr. 
 Mordaunt would have been instantly on his 
 guard ; but unaccustomed to play the paternal, 
 it would have shocked him to connect ideas of 
 conquest or match-making with the coUege- 
 friends of his son. Without mahce prepense,
 
 60 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 however, he observed, in an all but valedictory 
 tone : " My daughter's visit will terminate, I 
 am sorry to say, in a week; after which, 
 William will be at liberty to fulfil his engage- 
 ments. In the interim, should the frost 
 continue, you may perhaps find it convenient, 
 
 gentlemen, to visit R again, and settle your 
 
 plans with my son." 
 
 Both visitors evidently foresaw that it would 
 be particularly convenient. But the alterna- 
 tive thus offered having been warmly accepted, 
 nothing remained but to relieve the courteous 
 old gentleman of their presence. 
 
 Even after their departure, though probably 
 no foot so fearless as theirs had ever been set 
 on his floor, and no voice so unsubdued beset 
 his tympanum, the Dean found nothing to say 
 against his guests. 
 
 " Two fine young men as ever I saw, my 
 dear," said he ; " acquaintances who do credit 
 to my son. I wish, Margaret, they had not 
 appeared so fond of fox-hunting — a dangerous 
 and expensive pursuit. On that point, I trust.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 61 
 
 your brother will abstain from following their 
 example. Many things are permissible to the 
 son of Sir Thomas Hargreave of Dursley Park, 
 which, on the part of a young man intended 
 for the Church, would be sadly out of 
 place." 
 
 " Dursley Park ? That fine old seat on the 
 left bank of the river, between Homerton 
 
 and R ?" inquired Margaret, with some 
 
 interest. 
 
 " Precisely. William informed me some 
 time ago that he had promised the Hargreaves 
 a visit. He has often talked to me in high 
 terms of his friend Dick Hargreave." 
 
 " Mr. Hargreave's manner is not so taking 
 as that of his companion," observed Miss Mor- 
 daunt, thoughtfully. 
 
 And the father and daughter were still busy 
 with the comparison, when William made his 
 appearance to be vexed by news of the visit. 
 His first apprehension was, that his gay com- 
 panions might have found cause for quizzing 
 in his father's peculiar habits, and the home-
 
 62 
 
 liness of his home. From this foolish fear, 
 however, he was relieved by a single glance 
 round the apartment. All was so decent, so 
 thoroughly in accordance with the age and 
 calling of the Dean, that the brilliancy of Oak 
 Hill, and splendours of Dursley Park, faded in 
 the distance. The gentlemanly bearing of the 
 mild old egotist was as unimpeachable, as the 
 graceful naivete of his lovely child. 
 
 Mord aunt's next source of secret regret was 
 of a graver kind ; — ^reluctance namely, to expose 
 that fair young sister to the admiration of men 
 whose habits of life were far from immaculate ; 
 and whose liberty of speech exceeded even that 
 of their conduct. *' Hargreave and Fanshawe 
 were excellent fellows ; but he was sorry to 
 find they had been invited to return to the 
 Deanery. Margaret was so young — so inex- 
 perienced — so unprotected ! — Under all the cir- 
 cumstances, Fanshawe was one of the last men 
 on earth he could have wished to introduce to 
 the acquaintance of his sister."
 
 THE dean's daughter. 63 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Wit she hath, without desire 
 
 To make knowne how much she hath ; 
 And her anger flames no higher 
 
 Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
 Reason masters every sense. 
 
 And her vertues grace her birth ; 
 Lovely as all excellence, — 
 
 Modest in her most of mirth. 
 
 W. BROWNE. 
 
 • 
 " This Mr. Hargreave, then, is brother to 
 the Emma and Julia I have heard you speak of 
 as such pleasant, accomplished girls '?" inquired 
 Margaret of her brother, that night, after the 
 Dean had gruelled and retired to his room.
 
 64 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " Pleasant — yes. Did I say accomplished ? 
 Well, for want of a better word, I suppose I 
 must stick to it. They certainly sing, play, 
 ride, and dance better than most girls — better, 
 dearest Margaret, than I ever wish to hear or 
 see perform a sister of mine. They laugh and 
 chatter to the right and left, as though their 
 hearts were as empty as their heads ; and give 
 their opinions as freely as if those opinions were 
 their own." 
 
 " Willy, Willy !"— 
 
 " All which," continued the young Cato, 
 without noticing her interruption, "tends to 
 render their father's house agreeable to those 
 who regard it only as a house of entertainment. 
 But I have so often seen my friend Dick 
 annoyed by their foolish flirting, that it has 
 put me almost out of conceit of their pretty 
 faces." 
 
 " Mr. Hargreave, then, is perhaps what you 
 understand by the word accomplished ?" 
 
 " Dick Hargreave ? — not a bit, — not the 
 least in nature ! Dick is a plain, practical,
 
 THE dean's daughter. 65 
 
 straightforward fellow, a hater of humbug in 
 all its branches; feeling deeply and acting 
 honestly ; but neither bookish nor fine-artish. 
 Disposed, however, to take the w^orld as he finds 
 it, unless w^hen his father and family render it 
 disagreeable." 
 
 "In what way?" 
 
 " By hounding him on to distinctions for 
 which he is unfitted, or fancies himself unfitted, 
 or does not care to be fitted. The Hargreaves 
 are new people. The father and uncle from 
 whom Sir Thomas inherited his splendid fortune, 
 rose from nothing ; and the great ambition of 
 the baronet is to efface the stigma by forming 
 high connections, and accomplishing personal 
 honours. He seems to want an apology for 
 his thirty thousand a year." 
 
 " But why should that annoy his son ?" 
 
 " Because Dick, like a wise fellow^, is content 
 to take the goods the gods provide him, and 
 be thankful. Independent in mind, body and 
 estate, why cudgel his brains, for instance, to 
 obtain University distinctions ? Sir Thomas has 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 been sulking with Dick for the last three terms, 
 because he will not read for an honour." 
 
 " What better could he do ? Surely wealth 
 does not supersede the necessity for enlighten- 
 ment ?"— 
 
 " On the contrary, a position such as Har- 
 greave's imposes duties on a man which require 
 that his mind should be enlightened : but not 
 by dry scholarship. Dick ought to see the 
 world. Dick ought to travel. Dick ought to 
 learn the art of making himself useful and 
 agreeable. He is growing shyer and shyer every 
 day." 
 
 " I saw no remarkable shyness in his manner 
 this morning." 
 
 " He is more at his ease anywhere than in 
 his father's house," replied William. " There, 
 he knows they are lying in wait to criticise all 
 he says and does. Sir Thomas is so bent upon 
 making him a great man,- — his sisters so deter- 
 mined that he shall be a man of fashion, — that 
 I sometimes fear they will end by making him 
 a brute."
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 67 
 
 " His friend, Mr. Fanshawe, does not seem 
 likely to become a brute," said Margaret, 
 stitching on diligently at her tapestry. " I 
 never saw a finer countenance." 
 
 " Very handsome, is he not ? Rawborne 
 (our Oxford Phidias,) is always wanting to 
 take a cast of his head. But Herbert Fan- 
 shawe is not easy to manage. Herbert does 
 not eat out of every one's hand. Herbert 
 is not good every day of the week !" 
 
 "You do not give a prepossessing account 
 of the temper of either of your friends." 
 
 " Because, among friends, one is allowed to 
 see the reverse of the tapestry. Besides, at 
 our age, nature is apt to run riot. Young 
 tempers, like young horses, want breaking. 
 The world w^ill put a collar round our necks, 
 a bit in our mouths ; and then, we shall jog on 
 in harness like our neighbours." 
 
 " I am sure, Willy, you need no such dis- 
 cipline. I never saw you out of sorts in my 
 life," said his sister, fondly. 
 
 " Don't make me out quite such a muff, 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE DEA^ S DAUGHTER. 
 
 or I shall hate myself," cried her brother, 
 " I promise you that after a row with 
 old Snarforth, my tutor, I can be as brutal 
 as the worst of 'em. But through life, my 
 temper has had such easy elbow room, 
 that it would have no excuse for turning 
 out crooked. When my father was a poor 
 man, he gave us our own way, because 
 he had nothing else to give. When he 
 grew rich, he added a handsome allowance, 
 in order to make the way more pleasant. 
 Then, at Lord Mildenhall's suggestion, (who 
 was advised by his lawyer that it would be 
 the means of extending the family connection,) 
 he dispatched Regy to Cambridge, myself 
 to Oxford ; so that instead of the grudges and 
 rivalship too often engendered between brothers, 
 we meet, between Terms, far too unfamiliar to 
 quarrel." 
 
 " Much too unfamiliar, I am afraid. Regy's 
 answer to your last letter was far less affec- 
 tionate towards both of us than I could wish." 
 
 " Regy is an odd fellow. — I can't quite
 
 THE dean's daughter. 69 
 
 make him out. And Mildenhall Abbey is not 
 the place to cultivate extraordinary expansion 
 of the feelings. When he becomes his own 
 master, I hope we shall understand each other 
 better." 
 
 " But you are on good terms with him ?" 
 inquired Margaret, raising her eyes from her 
 work. 
 
 " We have no grounds for collision. Parallel 
 lines can't cross each other ; and I certainly 
 never go out of my way to traverse Regy's. 
 It would cut me to the soul, however, if we 
 two, who lived so happily together at Bassingdon, 
 (didn't we Margaret ? You must remember that, 
 when you came to visit us, little spoiled darling 
 that you were, with your Mrs. Hatley, and 
 your frills and flounces !) it w^ould vex me to 
 death, I say, to fancy that Regy and I could 
 ever become as cool to each other, as my uncle 
 Mildenhall and my father." 
 
 " Lord Mildenhall is such a cold, proud, re- 
 served man !" 
 
 '' I don't suppose that at twenty, he was
 
 70 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 proud, cold, or reserved. And I have noticed 
 a marked change in Regy since he became 
 the adopted of the Abbey. Between ourselves, 
 Margaret, it is said the Mildenhalls want to 
 marry him to their daughter." 
 
 " Have they still one single ?" — 
 
 " The youngest, Anne Mordaunt, — two years 
 older, however, than Reginald." 
 
 " And what sort of person ?" 
 
 "When I was last at the Abbey, she was 
 staying with one of her married sisters. At 
 my previous visit, she was in the school-room." 
 
 '' So that you know nothing about her ?" 
 
 " Very little more. But I can't help fancying 
 that, if she possessed superior attractions in 
 addition to her five-and-twenty thousand pounds, 
 the Mildenhalls would not think it worth while 
 to pay such court to their heir presumptive, 
 with a view to converting him into a son- 
 in-law." 
 
 " Papa would scarcely like Reginald to marry 
 so young ?" said Margaret, thoughtfully. 
 
 " My father is the last person Regy is
 
 THE dean's daughter. Ji 
 
 likely to consult. Regy is far more the nephew 
 of his uncle than a son of the Dean of R ." 
 
 Margaret was silent. The news her' brother 
 was communicating was far from welcome. 
 Reginald was almost a stranger to her. An 
 early marriage would probably estrange him 
 from her for the rest of their lives ; and she 
 was unwilling to forfeit her stake in his 
 affections. 
 
 The following day, on quitting the luncheon 
 table, she found the Dean carefully examining 
 through his spectacles a visiting card, w^hich 
 Harm an had just deposited by his side. 
 
 "'EatJn 5^arcp:fabc, 
 
 ©ursleg ^arft.'" 
 
 read he, aloud. " In my time, people were 
 less scrupulously grammatical. In my time, 
 it would have been Lady and the Miss Har- 
 greaves, Dursley Park." 
 
 " Wrong there, Sir !" exclaimed his son,
 
 72 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 who had just entered the room. " In your 
 time, Dursley Park knew not Hargreaves. 
 Dursley was then one of the Duke of Here- 
 ford's family seats. The Hargreaves were then 
 cotton-spinning in Lancashire. The Hargreaves 
 purchased Dursley of the Duke's trustees, within 
 the last fifteen years/' 
 
 " And to their credit be it spoken, my dear 
 boy," mildly remonstrated the Dean. " Better 
 the honest mechanic who has elevated himself 
 in the world, than the spendthrift peer who 
 despoils his children of the inheritance of their 
 fathers," and, unconscious of having uttered 
 a claptrap such as would have brought down 
 three rounds of applause from the gallery of 
 the Surrey Theatre, he proceeded to observe 
 that " it was a very pretty attention on the 
 part of Lady Hargreave to call upon the sister 
 of the friend of her son." 
 
 "And the other card, papa?" said Margaret, 
 pointing to one of larger dimensions, which still 
 remained untouched on the silver waiter. 
 
 " The other, my love ? Ay, ay 1 there is
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 another, I declare. Bless my soul ! an invita- 
 tion for you and William, for the 20th of the 
 month : * Lady Hargreave, at Home. Dancing, 
 10 o'clock.'" 
 
 " In your time, I suppose, Sir, it would have 
 been eight ?" said William, laughing. 
 
 But the Dean made no reply. His thoughts 
 were divided between satisfaction at the compli- 
 ment paid to his pretty daughter, and regret 
 that any rational being — the mother of a family 
 — the wife of a county member — should be 
 thoughtless enough to issue cards for a ball, 
 with the glass below zero, and the roads as 
 shppery as glass. 
 
 " The 20th, 1 fancy, falls on Thursday next 
 — six days hence," continued WiUiam, pursuing 
 his own very diiferent reflexions. " How lucky I 
 We shall have a moon for our*expedition." 
 
 " Oitr expedition ?" repeated the Dean, 
 aghast. 
 
 " Margaret will not leave us. Sir, this fort- 
 night. My grandmother does not return to 
 Hephanger before the 28th."
 
 74 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " But you surely do not suppose, William," 
 interrupted the Dean, " that I would risk your 
 sister's health — the health of a delicate young 
 girl of eighteen — by exposing her to the in- 
 clemency of a winter's night, merely to acknow- 
 ledge the politeness of Lady Hargreave ?" 
 
 " Not merely for that, my dear father. But 
 to afford her a pleasure she has so few oppor- 
 tunities of enjoying." 
 
 " Wilham ! your thoughtlessness shocks and 
 alarms me," remonstrated the Dean. " A cold 
 caught at this time of year, infallibly ends in 
 cough ; and a Christmas cough is proverbially 
 said to last till Easter !" 
 
 " I will take excellent care of her, Sir. I 
 will not allow her to catch cold !" cried William, 
 glancing fondly at his sister. 
 
 " But even if you succeeded in satisfying 
 papa's misgivings, Willy," said Miss Mordaunt, 
 who was still examining the card of invitation, 
 "this ball would be out of the question. It 
 was because Grandmamma and Aunt Milicent 
 considered it impossible for me to appear in
 
 THE dean's daughter. 75 
 
 society without having been presented at Court, 
 that they did not jDermit me to accompany them 
 to Bath." 
 
 " Grandmamma and Aunt Milicent are a 
 couple of — " he paused. The epithet was 
 fitter for the atmosphere of Ch. Ch. than 
 
 for the Deanery of R . " I don't see what 
 
 voice they have in the business," he resumed, 
 somewhat less energetically, " if my father 
 consents to your going." 
 
 " But he does not consent," said Margaret, 
 unable exactly to interpret the smile that played 
 on the wan face of the Dean. 
 
 " If I felt sure," said he, in answer to her 
 implied interrogative, " that you would not 
 over-fatigue yourself with dancing, and that 
 William would see you properly wrapped up on 
 leaving the house, I really think that, with a 
 hot-water bottle in the carriage, and the fur 
 basket for your feet — " 
 
 " Dearest Papa !" 
 
 " One might venture to accept the invita-
 
 76 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 With the usual contrariety of human nature, 
 no sooner did the Dean exhibit symptoms of 
 relenting, than William's former disinclination 
 that his sister should be exposed to the bantering 
 of his Oxford chums, recurred to his mind. 
 
 "After all. Sir," said he, "you probably 
 judged wisely. Margaret is certainly young to 
 appear in a large assembly under such chape- 
 ronage as mine." 
 
 " Of course, my dear boy. I never dreamt of 
 such a thing. If Margaret goes, it must be 
 under the protection of my friend Mrs. Pleydell, 
 an unfailing guest at Dursley Park." 
 
 " That tiresome, toadying woman !" muttered 
 William, regardless that the shovel hat of her 
 
 husband the Archdeacon of R ouaht to 
 
 be her protection. But the Dean heard him 
 not. 
 
 He was reflecting that, though his daughter 
 appeared so little anxious for the ball at Dursley 
 Park, the time was come when she should be 
 seen and admired. And was it not in the ap- 
 pointed order of things that Margaret should
 
 THE dean's daughter. 77 
 
 become the idolized Mary of some heart as 
 devoted as his own? The same ideas which 
 to William were repulsive, assumed a sentiment 
 of solemn grace in the mind of her father. 
 
 Unless Margaret expressed a decided objec- 
 tion, therefore, or Harm an suggested an in- 
 superable obstacle, the Dean determined, as 
 resolutety as he could determine anything, 
 that his daughter should accompany Mrs. 
 PleydeU. 
 
 The weather seconded his intentions. The 
 same thaw which enabled William to join his 
 young friends at the covert-side, sustained the 
 projects of the Dean. Mrs. Pleydell, certain of 
 being doubly welcome at Dursley as the chaperon 
 of the beautiful daughter of the popular Dean 
 of R , was eager in acceptance of the pro- 
 posed trust ; and having with some difficulty 
 persuaded him that the danger of a cold from 
 the simple white muslin dress, in which Margaret 
 proposed to appear, was a peril braved and sur- 
 vived every winter by legions of young ladies, 
 all was finally arranged, and Margaret was easily
 
 78 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 reconciled to her fate. Miss Esther Pleydell, the 
 spinster niece of the Archdeacon, visited the 
 Deanery daily, with hints and instructions ; and 
 even Willy, when he found the invitation sc- 
 cepted, began to interest himself in the fitting 
 of the white gloves, and the skill of his sister's 
 en avant-deux. 
 
 The Dean's solicitudes were of a different 
 nature. Lamb's-wool socks and a box of Tola 
 lozenges were the chief preparations he sug- 
 gested for the dehiit of his daughter. The 
 weather-glass, not the looking-glass, w^as the 
 authority he required her to consult.
 
 79 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Let a broad stream with golden sand 
 Through all his meadows roll, 
 
 He*s but a wretch, with all his land, 
 Who hath a narrow soul. 
 
 WATTS. 
 
 Most people have seen a London ball ; and 
 those who have seen one, have seen a thou- 
 sand : the same blaze of light, the same band 
 of music, the same supper tables, the same 
 tumult at the door, and crowd upon the stair- 
 case; the same weary hostess curtseying to 
 strangers, the same peevish dowagers wrang- 
 ling in the cloak-room, the same ubiquitous
 
 80 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 youngest ensign in the Guards asking for every 
 one's carriage ; the same hoarse link man reite- 
 rating the same names. 
 
 But a country ball is a very different affair. 
 A country ball is not a vapid fac simile of its 
 predecessor. A country ball is not given merely 
 because, for the last twenty years, Lady Hailsham 
 has sent out cards as systematically as the parish 
 waits send in theirs after Christmas. It is 
 given by one county family because a son is 
 born ; by another, because a daughter is mar- 
 ried ; by a third, in honour of a successful 
 candidature for Parliament ; by a fourth, because 
 the family mansion has been re-decorated ; by 
 a fifth — but the enumeration might stretch 
 till the crack of doom. 
 
 The ball at Dursley Park implied a combina- 
 tion of these motives. The Hargreaves, new 
 people in the county, were ambitious of ingra- 
 tiating themselves with the old. The father of 
 Sir Thomas had succeeded _^ to the enormous 
 property of an elder brother — a Lancashire 
 manufacturer — in consequence of the accidental
 
 THE dean's daughter. 81 
 
 death of his only son, at a period of hfe when 
 it was no longer possible to bestow upon 
 his children the education essential to their 
 new position in life ; — his son, the present 
 baronet, being already married to the daughter 
 of a neighbouring cotton-spinner, who was still 
 more in awe than himself of the greatness 
 thrust upon them. But twenty years of opulence 
 had by this time tolerably re-assured them ; and 
 the routine of parliamentary life and the 
 baronetcy (ayed out of a grateful administra- 
 tion) which, if it did not elevate him to the 
 rank of those he aspired to equal, raised him at 
 least above the level of his late uncle and father, 
 — had served to convert Sir Thomas Hargreave 
 into a very tolerable representative of an exten- 
 sive county property. 
 
 Had there been in the market, at the period 
 of his purchasing Dursley, an estate equally 
 attractive situated in a county shared amongst 
 aristocratic proprietors, his position would have 
 been more advantageous. As yet unversed in 
 the habits and prejudices of society, the 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Hargreaves had fancied it a recommendation 
 to their new residence, that not a family of rank 
 was established within five and twenty miles. 
 But experience soon taught the elder branches, 
 that, by neighbours of established precedence, 
 they would have been better received, than by 
 landed gentry jealous of their intrusion and 
 envious of their luxury of wealth. In a noble 
 circle, their personal value would have been more 
 liberally estimated. The vote of Sir Thomas, 
 and his power of commanding the ear of the 
 House on questions of mercantile interest, would 
 have secured him due consideration from those 
 of whom the House is the banker. 
 
 Fifteen years wasted in endeavouring to pro- 
 pitiate the " county families " had, in fact, con- 
 vinced both the husband and wife of their error 
 in congratulating themselves, during their first 
 winter at Dursley, that the only peer on their 
 visiting list was a spiritual one — the Lord 
 
 Bishop of R . They would have preferred 
 
 the loftiest duke or duchess in the land, to the 
 supercilious Mr. and Mrs. Brampton Brylls of
 
 THE dean's daughter. 83 
 
 BryEholm Place, whose rookery croaked them 
 into the blue devils whenever the wind was 
 easterly. 
 
 For many years, Mrs. Brampton Brylls and 
 her son, when they arrived in their old- 
 fashioned chariot, drawn by plough horses in 
 plated harness, whereof the copper rims, were 
 as apparent as those of Moses Primrose's green 
 spectacles, to dine at Dursley, contrived to make 
 poor Mrs. Hargreave as thoroughly ashamed of 
 her massive plate and costly furniture, as though 
 their splendour concealed a crime ; and in the 
 damp mildewed parlour at Bryllholm Place, she 
 actually trembled when she first heard herself 
 announced as '' Lady Hargreave." The pinched 
 mouth of the widow of an estated esquire of 
 twenty descents, would, she foresaw, sneer her 
 back into plebeianism. 
 
 Later still, when extended intercourse with 
 the London world had enlarged her horizon, and 
 the connections formed by her gentlemanly son 
 and accomplished daughters had inaugurated 
 the whole family into a higher and pleasanter 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 mode of existence, the half-educated parvenue 
 mother remained uneasily at odds with her 
 velvet ottomans and damask hangings. During 
 the absence of her husband and children, it was 
 her delight to pry into details of domestic 
 economy, unmeet for her interference ; and the 
 new Lady Hargreave had been more than once 
 put to the blush, surprised by the upper-house- 
 maid with a duster in her hand. 
 
 On state occasions, however, her dress and de- 
 portment fully equalled the requirements of the 
 lady paramount of Dursley ; and by the libe- 
 rahty of their hospitality, the Hargreaves had 
 gradually estabhshed themselves in general 
 favour. The best families from all sides of the 
 county sought introductions to them; and 
 unless they managed to injure this growing 
 good-will by undue pretensions, they were likely 
 to go down to their graves as creditably, as 
 though born to the escutcheons created by their 
 family industry. 
 
 When Lady Hargreave rustled forward in all 
 the resplendence of her diamonds, blue satin,
 
 THE dean's daughter. 85 
 
 and affability, to welcome the daughter of the 
 Dean, presented to her by Mrs. Pleydell, 
 Margaret thought she had never beheld a more 
 august personage ; and though, after a few 
 minutes conversation, it occurred to her that 
 there was far more dignity in her dry meagrely- 
 attired grandmother, Lady Bournemouth, it was 
 impossible to deny that the lady of Sir Thomas 
 Hargreave corresponded admirably with his 
 over-gilded ceilings and over-illuminated haU. 
 To no one of the three hundred persons assem- 
 bled by their hospitality, did the Hargreaves do 
 the honours of their house more graciously 
 than to Margaret Mordaunt. xA.ware, per 
 favour of Burke's Peerage that the Dean of 
 
 R was heir presumptive to the ancient 
 
 Viscounty of Mildenhall, they took for granted 
 that the son with whom their own had formed 
 so close an intimacy at Oxford, was his eldest 
 and heir ; and the secluded habits of the Dean 
 hanng frustrated aU attempts at acquaintance- 
 rship, they held it a happy chance which opened 
 a door of approach.
 
 86 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 The only drawback to their satisfaction arose 
 from the perversity of their son„ Dancing had 
 not commenced when the Pleydell party made 
 its appearance ; and Margaret was, by birth as 
 well as beauty, entitled to precedence. But 
 Dick Hargreave would not hear of inviting her 
 to open the ball. 
 
 "You know I detest dancing, mother," he 
 remonstrated. " It is quite out of my way." 
 
 "But you are engaged to Elinor Mait- 
 land r 
 
 " Yes — as an old friend — to go down a 
 country-dance some time or other in the course 
 of the evening. Not to make my awkwardness 
 conspicuous by drawing general attention. Let 
 one of my sisters open the ball with Fan- 
 shawe." 
 
 " But the neighbourhood, my dear Dick ! — 
 
 The neighbourhood, and especially the R 
 
 people, will expect some mark of attention to 
 be shown to the Mordaunts," 
 
 "Then let Emma open the ball with my 
 friend Willy. Don't waste time, mother, in
 
 THE dean's daughter. 87 
 
 endeavouring to persuade me. I have made 
 up my mind not to stir a step till after 
 supper." 
 
 With a sigh such as corpulent, well-laced 
 matrons heave over the rebellion of their off- 
 spring, Lady Hargreave moved off to make the 
 arrangement suggested ; and her son, who, 
 pounced upon by a chaperon with daughters 
 to dispose of, relieved himself between the 
 period of an elaborate prose by watching the 
 opening quadrille, found cause, perhaps, to 
 repent his obduracy, when he noticed the 
 almost painful timidity of the partner he had 
 rejected. Poor Margaret's frequent change of 
 colour could not be altogether ascribed to the 
 blunders of the hobbledehoy son of her cha- 
 peron, Mrs. Pleydell, assigned to her as a 
 partner. Her embarrassment arose from the 
 annoyance of finding herself the object of uni- 
 versal attention. 
 
 Scarcely was the dance at an end, when her 
 brother's friend, the sho\\7, handsome, fashion- 
 able Herbert Fanshawe, while engaging her
 
 88 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 hand for the second quadrille, increased her 
 distress by assuring her with all the ardour 
 apprehended by her brother, that she was the 
 cynosure of the evening. 
 
 " When I saw my friend Willy retreat into 
 the conservatory just now," said he, " I fancied 
 (forgive me) that he was afraid of witnessing 
 your want of experience in an art where it is 
 not alone * le premier pas qui coiite' You 
 dance, as you look, like an angel." 
 
 At which impertinent compliment, Margaret's 
 complexion varied no longer ; but became per- 
 manent crimson. 
 
 Great was her relief when her brother ap- 
 proached the group, near which they were 
 standing. William, she was certain, would not 
 countenance such flightiness. 
 
 " You have got over your alarms now, dar- 
 ling ?" said he, kindly. " You will now begin 
 to enjoy yourself." 
 
 Thus encouraged, her spirits revived. The 
 Miss Hargreaves seemed to understand that it 
 was a graceful act to devote themselves to the
 
 THE dean's daughter. 89 
 
 new beauty by whom they were so completely 
 eclipsed ; and their attentions thoroughly atoned 
 for the singular neglect with which she was 
 treated by their brother. 
 
 " Why have you not danced with that 
 beautiful girl ?" inquired Elinor Maitland of 
 him, as they sat together between the pauses 
 of the long waited-for country dance. 
 
 " Because I hate dancing, except with an old 
 friend like yourself," said he, addressing a plain 
 answer to the plain girl ; the daughter of a 
 neighbouring clergyman, with whom, in earlier 
 years, he had been a pupil. 
 
 " You dance with me from good nature ; 
 because you know I am not otherwise likely to 
 stand up. But Miss Mordaunt is in all respects 
 so suitable a partner — " 
 
 " So my mother has been dinning into my 
 ears for the last three hours ! Had they let 
 me alone, I should naturally have asked her. 
 Willy Mordaunt's sister, and a stranger here, 
 she is entitled to every civility, even if less pretty 
 and pleasing. But my family seem to take
 
 90 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 pleasure in harassing me into doing disagreeable 
 things. If you knew what it was, Elinor, to be 
 told from morning till night that you have a 
 part to play in the world ; — that this, that, and 
 the other is expected of you : — " 
 
 " But you have a part to play in the world." 
 
 " The part of a gentleman, like Fanshawe, or 
 Mordaunt, or any other young fellow of my 
 acquaintance; whose parents are not eternally 
 bothering them about the connections they are 
 to make, or the rank of the young lady they are 
 to dance with." 
 
 Elinor Maitland smiled. The heir of the 
 house had evidently been reprimanded by his 
 mother and sisters for selecting her as a partner. 
 But so simple was the nature of her intimacy 
 with young Hargreave, that she was indifferent 
 to the imputation. 
 
 " Come, come !" said she, good-humouredly, 
 " you have done your duty to your tutor's 
 daughter. Why slight the sister of your friend ? 
 Relent in your own favour, and go and dance 
 with the prettiest girl in the room !"
 
 THE dean's daughter. 91 
 
 Though half ashamed to own it, Dick was 
 never more inclined to be persuaded. He re- 
 collected how courteously he had been welcomed 
 to the Deanery. It even glanced into his mind 
 that Margaret had blushed a little on seeing 
 him again. At length, as if touched by the 
 remonstrance of his sensible companion, he rose 
 from his lounging attitude by her side ; took his 
 hands from his pockets, and proceeded in search 
 of the Pleydell party, with intentions which 
 would have rejoiced the heart of his parents. 
 
 But he was too late. Already, they were 
 cloaked for departure. The family coach (in- 
 cluding the furred basket and hot water bottle) 
 was at the door ; and the hobbledehoy son had 
 the happiness of escorting Miss Mordaunt to it, 
 leaving Miss Esther Pleydell to the charge of 
 the heir of Dursley Park ! 
 
 " Good night, Hargreave !" cried William 
 Mordaunt, as he hurried in after them ; and his 
 conscience-struck fi-iend could not help fancying 
 there was an inflexion of pique in his voice.
 
 92 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Whose was the gentle voice, that, whispering sweet, 
 Promised methought long days of bliss sincere ; 
 Soothing it stole on my deluded ear 
 
 Most Hke soft music. 
 
 BOWLES. 
 
 Already vexed by learning from his demure 
 housekeeper, Mrs. Graves, that his daughter had 
 declined a basin of her celebrated gruel on her 
 return from the ball, the Dean was not altogether 
 satisfied with the account rendered to him by 
 William, as they breakfasted together the follow- 
 ing day. By persevering interrogatories, he 
 contrived to extract from his son that Margaret 
 had sat in no draughts, and indulged in no iced
 
 THE dean's daughter. 93 
 
 refreshments. On the other hand, he thought 
 it almost superfluous when Willy volunteered 
 the information that his sister was the best 
 dressed and most attractive girl in the room. 
 How could it be otherwise ? — Was she not the 
 child — nay, was she not the image, of his 
 idohzed Mary ? — 
 
 *' Had you been a little older, William," said 
 the Dean, in a low voice, " when you lost your 
 dear mother, you would no longer wonder at 
 your sister's beauty." 
 
 Touched by the deep emotion so foreign to 
 the undemonstrative invalid, William remained 
 silent during the remainder of their meal. But 
 his cogitations were far from agreeable. He 
 had accidentally overheard a remark, amid the 
 crush of the ball-room the preceding night, that 
 " young Hargreave would make a famous catch 
 
 for the Dean of R 's handsome daughter ;" 
 
 and, indignant at hearing his sister's name for 
 the first time thus familiarly cited, he felt 
 susceptibly uneasy lest some encouragement 
 unwittingly afforded to the attentions of his
 
 94 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 
 
 friend Dick, should have given grounds for 
 supposing that she or her family entertained 
 projects of the kind. If at the moment the 
 impertinent suggestion reached his ear, he could 
 have approached the unsuspecting girl, he would 
 have suggested that, if possible, she should 
 decline dancing with Hargreave. 
 
 But on finding that no such alternative had 
 been afforded her, he was absurdly displeased. 
 The indignity offered, could not proceed from 
 the heads of the house ; for Sir Thomas and 
 his portly moiety were marked in their en- 
 couragement of his attentions to their daughter 
 Emma : while flirting with w^hom, in a bower 
 of evergreens in the ante-room. Lady Hargreave 
 had passed with an approving nod. His quarrel 
 therefore was with Dick. But might not 
 Margaret have been in fault? — Had she not 
 too openly smiled upon Herbert Fanshawe's 
 flighty attentions ? — 
 
 He did not care to interrogate her on the 
 subject. It seemed indelicate to discuss such 
 topics with one so young. But he began to
 
 95 
 
 regret that he had not more strongly opposed 
 his sister's appearance at the Dursley fete ; and 
 still more, that her foolish chaperon should be 
 entitled to talk over Miss Mordaunt's triumph 
 or failure, with the rest of the vulgar gossips 
 of R . 
 
 His meditations soon found other matter and 
 other method. Within a few davs of the 
 Dursley ball, his sister was conveyed back in 
 the dark-green chariot to Homer ton, to await 
 the dowager carriage which was to re-transport 
 her to Hephangcr ; and the Deanery reverted 
 to its former gloomy stillness. " Darling Willy" 
 was forced to have recourse to the covert side 
 and hard riding, to solace him for the loss of his 
 gentle companion. 
 
 The eyes of the poor Dean were noticed to 
 become unusually red of an evening, after the 
 departure of his child. It might be that, 
 missing Margaret to read to him, he w^as 
 forced to strain them by poring over books 
 and newspapers. It might be that he was 
 beginning to freshen the recollection of the
 
 96 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 pleasant days which Margaret had enabled him 
 to pass, with the same showers which once 
 bedewed the memory of his beloved Mary. 
 At all events, the bottle labelled " Camphor 
 Julep" in his favourite medicine-chest, was, just 
 then, oftener despatched to the chemist's for 
 replenishment, than at any earlier period. 
 
 There was nothing to replace the loss he 
 had sustained. Willy was forced to return to 
 Christchurch ; and Reginald proceeded straight 
 to Cambridge from Mildenhall Abbey. Except 
 that Mrs. Pleydell and her elderly niece occas- 
 ionally forced their way into his solitary cell, 
 to tell him the wind had changed, and inquire 
 what news from Hephanger, nothing from 
 without disturbed the monotonous torpor of 
 his life. 
 
 Sir Thomas Hargreave, indeed, made it 
 
 his duty to wait upon the Dean of R 
 
 previous to quitting Dursley for town at the 
 meeting of Parliament ; to thank him, as he 
 said, for having permitted his son and charming 
 daughter to join their family circle. But the
 
 THE dean's daughter. 97 
 
 mild hypochondriac recoiled from the expan- 
 siveness of the prosperous baronet. A man 
 who had gone through his probation at Bas- 
 singdon Parsonage, shrank from the rampant 
 worshipper of Mammon, who seemed to re- 
 cognize no motive of human action but gold. 
 Beneath his ostentatious philanthropy, the 
 Dean discov^ered a vein of iron. He doubted 
 not that, in spite of Lady Hargreave's diamonds 
 and gorgeous fiirniture, she was a miserable 
 woman. Sir Thomas made no mystery of his 
 slave-driving propensities. At Dursley, he was 
 absolute lord and master ; at Dursley, Vetat 
 c'etait lui. 
 
 The mild Dean, whose will was woven as 
 it were of lambswool, regarded with awe the 
 active, self-asserting, arbitrary man, whose whole 
 life appeared to form an act of government. 
 Unable to maintain his own authority over 
 so much as his butler, he looked upon Sir 
 Thomas Hargreave as almost an institution. 
 
 Poor Margaret, meanwhile, found on her 
 return to Hephanger, that she had undergone 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 the usual fate of the absent. Lady Bourne- 
 mouth had learned that she could dispense 
 with her company ; nay, that if 
 
 Crabbed age and youth 
 Cannot live together, 
 
 still less can infirm age abide the presence of 
 healthful girlhood. Lady Milicent had not 
 lost an opportunity since they parted of making 
 it clear to the dowager, that their temporary 
 release from the responsibility of guardianship 
 and chaperonage, had proved of serious ad- 
 vantage to her health. Paralytic and fractious, 
 Lady Bournemouth could no longer bear 
 either sound or movement. Music in the 
 house was out of the question. Even the 
 rustling of a newspaper or silk dress, disturbed 
 her nerves. Margaret's favourite dog was 
 banished. Her cheerful voice must sink into 
 a whisper. The Deanery itself was a lively 
 spot compared with Hephanger. 
 
 It was not, however, on that account that 
 Margaret pined to return to the roof
 
 THE dean's daughter. 99 
 
 of her father. She had now tasted the 
 ineffable sweetness of home ; of sitting by a 
 fireside where she was not grudgingly enter- 
 tained ; of being gazed upon from morning 
 till night with looks of love. She would 
 probably have expressed these sentiments as 
 strongly as they were felt, either to the Dean 
 himself, or to her brother; had she not per- 
 ceived that if her company and attendance 
 were less welcome than formerly to the grand- 
 mother by whom her infancy had been shel- 
 tered, they were far more necessary. Lady 
 Milicent was a jealous guardian, rather than a 
 tender nurse ; and Lady Bournemouth would 
 have been often left to grumble alone, while her 
 austere daughter was engaged in spiritual 
 conference with a canting Scotchman, a certain 
 Gabriel Macwheeble, D.D. — lean and perpen- 
 dicular as a way post, and the popular lecturer 
 of a West end chapel ; — who, after alternately 
 fawning upon, and anathematizing the wealthy 
 dowager and her daughter during their residence 
 in London, within reach of the tyranny of his 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 ministry, had found it worth while to establish 
 himself in the neighbourhood of Hephanger, 
 and even escort his fair penitents to Bath ; 
 had not Margaret, at such moments, stolen 
 into her grandmother's dressing-room, to 
 replace the reluctant attendance of her morose 
 waiting-maid, Mrs. Marvyn. 
 
 " I cannot leave her, helpless as she is. She 
 might want me — she might miss me — if I 
 
 obtained permission to return to R ," 
 
 mused Miss Mordaunt, while watching beside 
 the arm-chair of the infirm woman. " I should 
 be wretched if I thought she was neglected ; 
 and Aunt Milicent seems every day more and 
 more engrossed by that canting man who rules 
 the whole house. No ! I must not leave grand- 
 mamma. Till her faculties were impaired, she 
 loved me dearly — I must not desert her now.^' 
 
 If the reveries of the young girl occasionally 
 wandered from the sick room in which she was 
 an unnoticed watcher, to the scarcely less cheer- 
 less parlour at the Deanery, occasionally bright- 
 ened, or at least once brightened by pleasant
 
 THE dean's daughter. 101 
 
 visitors, or to that brilliant ball-room where the 
 kindly voice and handsome face of her brother's 
 friend had cheered away her shyness and 
 initiated her into the pleasures natural to her 
 age, the peril was wholly her own. Her often- 
 renewed recollections of Herbert Fanshawe, with 
 his expressiv^e eyes and pleasant accents, never 
 interfered with her zealous attendance on the 
 invalid. 
 
 It certainly did not detract from the pleasure 
 with which the letters of darling Willy were 
 welcomed, that there occasionally appeared in a 
 postcript " Fanshawe and Hargreave desire to 
 be remembered to you ;" or " Hargreave talks 
 of shirking his degree ; which w^ould probably 
 cause a lasting feud between him and his 
 father ; who, making him a splendid allowance, 
 fancies himself entitled to passive obedience in 
 return. Herbert Fanshawe, on the contrary, is 
 sapping like a good one! I look on him as 
 booked for a double first. To be sure, in his 
 case, it is of more consequence." 
 
 Margaret did not understand why : but since
 
 102 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 William thought so, he must be right. All 
 she opined concerning Herbert Fanshawe, or his 
 prospects, was that he was the son of a Sir 
 Something Fanshawe ; and that, superior to 
 young Hargreave in person and address, he was 
 probably his superior in all things. It was not 
 for her guilelessness to surmise that the Sir 
 Something Fanshawe, instead of being a wealthy 
 baronet, was a K.C.B., whose red riband and 
 diplomatic pension were all that his cousin 
 german, the Duke of Merioneth, had been able 
 to obtain for him in guerdon of his services; 
 and that Herbert, like his father before him, 
 must work his own way in the world. 
 
 In such girlish musings, the winter wore 
 itself away ; the fancies engendered by a single 
 day of pastime having melted in common with 
 the icicles of the season. — By the time the 
 spring days began to warm themselves in 
 brighter sunshine, the thoughts of Margaret, 
 like the glades of Hephanger, wore a more 
 auspicious aspect. The thrushes were tuning 
 up their mellow song ; the fruit-blossoms had
 
 103 
 
 already shed their snowy showers ; and the poor 
 old Countess, brightening in her turn, was talk- 
 ing of resuming her airings. And could Margaret 
 venture just then to petition for a summer visit 
 to her father ? — 
 
 One evening in May, she had been devoting 
 her afternoon to the sick woman ; seeing that 
 it was the third day of the week, set apart, as 
 well as the sixth, by Lady MiUcent and Dr. 
 Macwheeble, for inflicting their visitations upon 
 the neighbouring poor ; so that the duties of 
 nurse were shared for hours between Mar- 
 garet and Mrs. Mar^Tn; who executed her 
 share by sitting in an arm-chair in the adjoining 
 room, dozing over serious books and serious 
 sewing. Margaret felt more than usually- 
 cheered by the aspect of the shrubberies, as 
 she saw them from the window, with their 
 intermingled masses of lilac and gold ; as well 
 as by the evensong of the birds, which reached 
 her faintly from a distance. 
 
 Even Lady Bournemouth was in a more 
 benign mood than her w^ont. Lady Bourne-
 
 104 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 mouth twice called her " dearest Margaret," as 
 in better times ; and had even selected as a 
 present for her, from the innermost recesses of 
 an ebony cabinet which was sometimes placed 
 on the table before her to rummage in, like a 
 child's baby-house, a pair of old-fashioned garnet 
 bracelets ; their clasps being embellished with 
 faded miniatures of Lady Mary and Lady 
 Milicent Bourne, in their childhood, attired in 
 broad blue sarsnet sashes and beaver hats. 
 
 The old lady was evidently refreshed in body 
 and soul by the influence of the weather ; and 
 havino; kissed her withered hand in token of 
 gratitude for her generosity, her granddaughter 
 retired, with the bracelets clasped upon her arms, 
 to a distant seat ; prepared to read away the 
 time till the return of her aunt enabled her 
 to saunter into the grounds, and enjoy a breath 
 of the delicious air systematically excluded from 
 that stifling chamber. 
 
 At length the poor dowager, weary of her 
 toy, turned the key in the lock of the cabinet ; 
 reclined back in her easy chair, and fell asleep ;
 
 THE dean's daughter. 105 
 
 whereupon Margaret rose and drew down the 
 holland blind, that the light of the setting sun 
 might not molest her. In passing on tip- 
 toe beside her chair, she noticed with satisfac- 
 tion that a smile had overspread the old lady's 
 face, as though she enjoyed pleasant dreams. 
 
 The door opening from the dressing-room 
 into the room where Mrs. Marvyn sat hemming 
 one of her interminable strips of muslin, was 
 ajar ; so that Margaret, finding Lady Bourne- 
 mouth set in for her regular evening doze, had 
 no hesitation in stealing out of the sick chamber, 
 lest the deepening twilight should debar her 
 of all chance of a walk. She was aware that, 
 now the nightingales were in song, and the 
 hawthorns in bloom, the antiquated couple 
 whose philanderings had so plausible a pretext, 
 would probably make their way home from 
 the village, through the coppices, twice as long 
 as in less propitious weather. 
 
 Having emerged through a glass door into 
 the garden, such a gust of summer fragrance 
 burst upon her senses, as seemed almost intoxi-
 
 106 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 eating. It was a delicious evening. The glow 
 of sunset still brightened the sky, and the 
 incense of a thousand flower-beds saluted its 
 parting brilliance. Margaret lingered on the 
 elastic turf, lingered beside the variegated borders 
 which, at that prolific season, every passing hour 
 endows with beauty and change. Her bosom's 
 lord sat lightly on his throne. She felt almost 
 too happy. Youth glowed in her veins. 
 Cheerfulness swelled in her heart. The moths 
 flitting in the twilight amid those summen. 
 flowers, the bees hovering their golden way back 
 to the hive, were not lighter on the wing. If, 
 at that moment, her thoughts glanced towards 
 the renowned gardens of Christchurch, with 
 their quivering lime-trees and glassy waters, let 
 us hope that it was darling Willy, alone, who 
 piloted their way. 
 
 Grievous that these soothing summer hours 
 should be as transient as enchanting ! The 
 sweetest flowers dispense but the perfume of a 
 moment ! The song of the nightingale melts 
 into silence. The twilight glow subsides into
 
 THE dean's daughter. 107 
 
 the gloom of night. The realities of life assert 
 their ascendancy; and care, grim care, over- 
 masters the chirping of the cricket, and the 
 murmur of the bee. Margaret soon heard 
 herself summoned back to the house. Servants 
 were seeking her in the shrubberies. Lady 
 Milicent, returned from charity-mongering with 
 the Doctor, was displeased at her absence. 
 
 Prepared for a reprimand, she groped her 
 way up the dim staircase towards the apart- 
 ments she had so lately quitted. Already, 
 lights were placed there; and unusual sounds 
 issued from the rarely-opened door. Servants 
 of all kinds seemed crowding into a chamber, 
 on most occasions sacred from intrusion ; and 
 an angry voice predominated over their mur- 
 murs. 
 
 Gliding hastily into the room, Margaret 
 beheld Lady MiHcent still attired in her bonnet 
 and shawl, gesticulating vehemently, and utter- 
 ing lamentations and execrations, mingled with 
 the shrillest outcries. — Her own name was 
 involved in the latter ; — in the former, that of
 
 108 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 her grandmother. Yet the poor old lady sat 
 reclining unmoved in her chair, as though her 
 slumbers defied even the rabid animosity of her 
 daughter. And well they might ; — for alas ! 
 that heavy sleep was the sleep of death ! — 
 
 " This is your doing, Margaret Mordaunt ;" 
 cried the excited Lady Milicent, the moment 
 her eyes caught sight of her horror-stricken 
 niece. "Yes ! you have killed your grand- 
 mother. She forgave all your mother's wicked- 
 ness; she loved you, and cherished you, like 
 her own child. And in return, you have mur- 
 dered your benefactress." 
 
 Involuntarily, the servants in attendance 
 turned towards their young lady ; in utter 
 amazement at the charge thus solemnly 
 enounced. 
 
 But to their surprise, she gave no sign of 
 having so much as heard the frantic accu- 
 sations of her aunt. Already, she was on her 
 knees beside the chair of Lady Bournemouth ; 
 imprinting hurried kisses upon the hands that 
 hung nerveless, but still warm and unstiffened,
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 109 
 
 by her side as is the case when life hath de- 
 parted, and death not yet affixed a firm grasp 
 upon his prey. 
 
 '' Has any one been sent for ? There may 
 yet be hope !" cried Margaret, addressing Mrs. 
 MarvTn, who was mechanically smoothing the 
 pillow of the deceased. 
 
 " Dr. Macwheeble's been sent for, Miss Mor- 
 daunt. Dr. Macwheeble will be here in a 
 moment," faltered the panic-stricken woman. 
 
 " No, no ! a physician. Send off a man 
 and horse to Mr. Robinson," cried Margaret. 
 " If he is not at home, an express to Dr. 
 Maunsell." 
 
 She was interrupted by the sonorous voice of 
 the D.D. endeavouring to silence, with appro- 
 priate texts, the wild clamour of Lady Milicent, 
 and requiring her to withdraw from the cham- 
 ber. Having succeeded in removing her, he 
 returned after a time, and in a tone of authority 
 desired all present to quit the room ; except 
 Mrs. ^Nlarvyn, who, as the personal attendant 
 of the late Countess, would remain in possession
 
 no THE DEAN*S DAUGHTER. 
 
 of the body till the arrival of the medical 
 men, to examine into and attest the causes of 
 death. 
 
 Margaret's first impulse was to resist. She 
 felt that her place was by the side of the dead. 
 But Dr. Macwheeble spoke with such severity, 
 that to provoke a contest with him would have 
 been unbecoming the time and place. They 
 were not on friendly terms. He had found her 
 an obstacle to his uncouth courtship ; and judged 
 her likely to impinge upon the inheritance of 
 Lady Milicent Macwheeble. Still the Doctor 
 was not weak enough to attribute to her, by an 
 act of either omission or commission, the recent 
 fatal event ; and as a daughter of the future 
 Lord Mildenhall, a beneficed member of the 
 Church, Miss Mordaunt was entitled to decent 
 respect. 
 
 In detailing to the professional men, who soon 
 hovered like vultures over Hephanger, the cause 
 of their patient being alone when she breathed 
 her last, he accordingly described Lady Milicent 
 as having been engaged elsewhere in acts of good
 
 THE dean's daughter. Ill 
 
 Samaritanism towards her mother's tenants; 
 and Margaret as a thoughtless girl, who had 
 neglected her duty in pursuit of childish pastimes. 
 It did not much matter. A Dowager Coun- 
 tess, in the enjoyment of a handsome jointure 
 and country seat, may die as suddenly as she 
 pleases, without much fear of the interference of 
 the County Coroner ; and when the first startle 
 of the moment had subsided, the death of one 
 so infirm, in the full ripeness of years, was pro- 
 nounced by general consent to be a merciful 
 deliverance.
 
 112 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Let's talk of graves, and worms, and epitaphs. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Margaret remained at Hepbanger till after 
 the funeral. Not that she was permitted to 
 attend her grandmother to the family vault. 
 Lady Milicent decided that the appearance of 
 females at such ceremonies was an indecent inno- 
 vation ; and having, from the day of their com- 
 mon bereavement, given publicity to her mar- 
 riage, (which had long been a secret only to her 
 mother and niece,) the demure D.D. had forth- 
 with taken upon himself the domination of the 
 establishment.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 1 1 3 
 
 The result was, that the sentiments of horror, 
 instinctive in every human breast at the first 
 aspect of death, had been, in Margaret's case, 
 deadened by the influence of a thousand personal 
 vexations. The animosity of her aunt towards 
 herself, and the indignant rebellion of the old 
 servants against the strange master set over 
 them, converted the house of mourning into a 
 house of dissension. To determine Lady Bour- 
 nemouth's wishes concerning her mode of inter- 
 ment, her will had been sought for ; and, as is 
 not unusually the case \sith superannuated dow- 
 agers, two, nay, two and a-half, were discovered. 
 
 The first, formally executed shortly after she 
 became a widow, assigned her propert}^ to be 
 equally divided between her two dear daughters 
 Mary and Milicent. By a second, written imme- 
 diately after the elopement of Lady Mary, the 
 former was cancelled; and the whole estate of 
 Sophia, Countess of Bournemouth, real and per- 
 sonal, devised to the exemplary Lady Milicent ; 
 but whereas in this second hasty instrument no 
 mention was made of legacies to executors, gra- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 tuities to friends, pensions to old servants, or 
 benefactions to the parish poor, it was by far the 
 less popular of the two. 
 
 Of the third, it seems needless to speak. It 
 was not a will ; that is, not a will according to 
 the utmost rigour of the law. For, though 
 written from the first word to the last in the 
 well-known handwriting of the deceased, and 
 dated on the very day of her death, so as 
 unquestionably to record her latest wishes, — 
 nay, though found in a drawer of the cabinet 
 which she had opened to place it there and 
 locked to secure it, so as to leave no doubt of 
 the value she set upon the document, — yet, 
 wanting witnesses, it was inoperative in the 
 eye of the giant enemy we have created to 
 fetter our own hands and overmaster our own 
 intentions. 
 
 By this memorandum, " Sophia Bournemouth 
 again bequeathed her whole property to her 
 daughter Milicent, for the term of her natural 
 life ; burthened with annuities of six hundred 
 pounds a-year a-piece to her beloved grand-
 
 THE dean's daughter 115 
 
 children William and Margaret Mordaunt, and 
 fifty to Mrs. Marvyn : the whole of her estate 
 to revert to the said beloved grandchildren at 
 the death of her said daughter Milicent, if she 
 died unmarried; or, being married, without 
 male issue." 
 
 It was clear to Margaret that these provisions, 
 long meditated by the dowager, and often 
 frustrated by Lady Milicent's assurances that 
 it was " time enough to summon her man of 
 business and execute a will," had been hurriedly 
 written down by the tremulous hand of the 
 invalid, during the unusually long absence of 
 her filial Argus. In all probability, Lady 
 Bournemouth was beginning to apprehend the 
 part played in her house by Dr. Macwheeble ; 
 and to feel anxious for the future destinies of 
 poor Mary's daughter, when the home of her 
 childhood became desecrated. Her search after 
 the garnet bracelets was perhaps devised only 
 as the means of secreting her testamentary 
 intentions. 
 
 '• At all events, you must allow me to keep 
 
 I 2
 
 116 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 this paper, which you say is invalid, as a 
 memento of the last act of kindness of my poor 
 grandmother," said Margaret, refolding and 
 taking possession of the shabby-looking sheet of 
 note-paper, scrawled with crooked, feeble cha- 
 racters, after it had been contemptuously thrown 
 aside by Lady Milicent. And as the harsh 
 woman, compounded of bride and mourner, 
 who seemed afraid to shed a tear lest she 
 could discountenance her hybrid position, was 
 too much occupied in the enumeration of her 
 multiplied sources of wealth to care much for 
 a scrap of paper, she took no heed of its 
 appropriation by one against whom she still 
 pretended to resent the circumstances of her 
 mother's decease. 
 
 While Margaret remained at Hephanger, 
 Lady Milicent never ceased to talk at her; 
 and though, on the evening of Lady Bourne- 
 mouth's funeral, and the eve of her grand- 
 daughter's departure from the home of her 
 early years. Dr. Macwheeble thought fit to 
 snuffle through a long exhortation to his new
 
 THE dean's daughter. 117 
 
 niece to " arise and lay aside the vain and 
 ungodly covetings of this wicked world, and 
 reflect ere it w^as too late on the precarious 
 nature of human life, as exemphfied by the 
 untimely departure of one who perhaps but 
 from her levity might, by the will of Providence 
 and the skill of the leech, be still preserved to 
 her family and friends," — Lady Milicent, albeit 
 she nodded time to his harmonious periods, 
 added nothing beyond a stern good-bye. It 
 was an unspeakable comfort to her that her 
 niece acquiesced so quietly in her arrangements ; 
 and that the Dean was as willing to receive her, 
 as Margaret to go. 
 
 Perhaps, indeed, he had never felt her so 
 completely his child, as when pressed once more 
 in his arms, in all the pomp of black crape and 
 bombazine. In her infancy, his own griefs — 
 in her girlhood, the claims of her mother's 
 family — had interposed between them. Now, 
 that lovely, gentle, weeping daughter was all 
 his own. For Margaret wept unrestrainedly. 
 The courage which had borne her up against
 
 118 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 the bitter attack of Lady Milicent, gave way at 
 once when she found herself pressed to her 
 father's heart. She had formerly allowed her- 
 self to fancy that by that father she w^as less 
 loved than daughters have a right to be ; and 
 that the door of the Deanery was not at all 
 times paternally hospitable. But she now felt 
 that the fault must have been her own. At all 
 events, if coldness had previously existed, it 
 should exist no longer. Her utmost endeavours 
 should be exerted. The respondent tears in 
 her father's eyes assured her that she was both 
 beloved and welcome; and Margaret was re- 
 solved that, so soon as her strength was 
 restored, she would brighten and bless his 
 remaining days by her dutiful devotion. 
 
 The Dean, the least interested of human 
 beings, had inquired, among other questionings, 
 whether Lady Bournemouth had left a will; and 
 when informed that she had bequeathed her 
 whole fortune to her daughter by a will executed 
 before the birth of either of his children, he 
 perceived that it was an act of vengeance
 
 THE dean's daughter. 119 
 
 against the offending Lady Mary, and was too 
 delicate to inquire further. For a moment, he 
 felt grieved that his offspring, especially Mar- 
 garet, should have been injured by the impru- 
 dence of their parents. But bygones were 
 bygones. He w^ould repay his daughter's loss 
 a thousandfold, when he succeeded to the Mil- 
 denhall estate. 
 
 Saddened by the melancholy scenes through 
 which she had passed, Margaret began to won- 
 der how she could ever have considered the 
 Deaner}^ gloomy, or the routine of her father's 
 life monotonous. It was now summer. The 
 sweetbriar hedge fringing the old quadrangle 
 was green and fragrant, and even the Dean 
 seemed to revive under the influence of the 
 balmy atmosphere. The higher class of inha- 
 bitants of R had deserted the cathedral 
 
 close and grassy streets for the sea coast or 
 foreign travel. The statelier families of Dursley, 
 and the other Parks of the neighbourhood, 
 were stiU fretting away their souls and bodies 
 amidst the laboui's and pleasures of the London
 
 120 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 
 
 season ; and the two sons of the Honourable and 
 Very Reverend Dr. Mordaunt wearing their 
 trencher caps at their several universities. But 
 even thus thrown upon her own resources, 
 Margaret was too happy in her release from 
 the bondage of Hephanger, to be otherwise than 
 content. She was allowed to fill with flowers 
 the embrasures of her gothic windows. She 
 was allowed the disposal of her time, and the 
 command of an extensive library ; and so plea- 
 sant was it to find her every word and move- 
 ment a matter of commendation, that she almost 
 fancied Mrs. Pleydell and her niece must be 
 speaking ironically, when they condoled with 
 her on the dulness of her life. 
 
 The Dean, indeed, sometimes talked of a 
 visit to his Rectory, before the autumn set in. 
 But as Lord and Lady . Mildenhall were tra- 
 velling on the continent, there was less induce- 
 ment than usual for so long a journey; and 
 from one week to another, from one month 
 to another, the Mordaunts had brought it to 
 the end of August ; when a visit from Willy,
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 121 
 
 at the close of the yachting season, renainded 
 them, for the first time, that the scarlet heps on 
 the sweetbriar hedge proved the summer to 
 be at an end. 
 
 " How grave you are grown, dear Margaret," 
 said he, after contemplating his sister in her 
 mourning array. " The gloom of this dreary 
 place is too much for you. You are looking 
 quite thin and pale. Not pale now, however," 
 he added, on perceiving that his abruptness 
 had brought a blush into the cheeks of his 
 sister. 
 
 " I have not yet recovered my long atten- 
 dance upon my grandmother," said she. " At 
 Hephanger, I was far more closely confined to 
 the house than here." 
 
 " And to think that the old egotist who 
 converted you into an upper servant, should 
 net have left you the smallest token of gra- 
 titude!"— 
 
 " I cannot blame grandmamma ; she did 
 her best. Could she have had her own way, 
 WiUy, we should have been both liberally pro- 
 vided for."
 
 122 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " But what prevented her having her own 
 way ?" 
 
 *' Her ignorance of the law, which gives 
 everything to Lady Mihcent." 
 
 " There would have been plenty for Lady 
 Milicent, and even for the fusty presbyterian 
 she has engrafted on the family tree, after 
 bestowing upon us half the portion which 
 was due to our mother," persisted William. 
 
 And so bitterly didhe proceed to inveigh against 
 the memory of the dowager, that his sister 
 thought it due to her memory to exhibit the 
 memorandum written on the day of her decease. 
 Much as Margaret disliked talking about money- 
 matters, she did her best to explain the defi- 
 ciencies of the document, and satisfy him of 
 the good intentions of the testatrix. 
 
 " And my father has taken no legal opinion 
 upon this ?" — cried he, as soon as he had perused 
 the paper. " By Jove ! Reginald is right. 
 The Dean's apathy about money matters 
 literally amounts to a monomania. He allows 
 twelve hundred a year to slip out of the family 
 as easily as sand through an hour-glass ! Whose
 
 THE dean's daughter. 123 
 
 word have we but that precious Dr. Macwheeble's 
 that this will is invalid ? We ought to take 
 counsel's opinion, Margaret; we ought to 
 consult the best civilian going. This question 
 concerns me, my dear girl, as nearly as yourself. 
 Had I known of the existence of this paper, 
 I should have endeavoured to establish it before 
 probate was granted to Lady Bournemouth's 
 antecedent will." 
 
 Margaret looked puzzled. " I wrote you 
 word," said she, " that my grandmother had left 
 an informal memorandum, in which our names 
 were mentioned." 
 
 " Ay ; but not to what effect." 
 
 " It seemed useless to enlarge upon it, since I 
 was assured by every one at Hephanger that the 
 paper was of no kind of value. And, just then, 
 I was so chilled by the shock of my grand- 
 mother's sudden death, and the events that suc- 
 ceeded, that money appeared to lose its value." 
 
 " You have inherited my father's contempt for 
 the yellow dross, eh, Margaret?" said her 
 brother, kissing her forehead. " But if some of
 
 124 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 the family do not look to the main chance, we 
 may chance to see our Bassingdon miseries 
 reviving. So, with your leave, I will run up to 
 London to-morrow and consult Wraxley and 
 Lumm, counsel-keepers, by appointment, to the 
 house of Mordaunt." 
 
 Margaret readily entrusted to her brother's 
 keeping, the paper on which she had been 
 instructed to ground no hope of advantage. But 
 unluckily, an engagement intervening to prevent 
 the morrow's journey, William Mordaunt, eager 
 and impatient, resolved to satisfy his misgivings 
 by an appeal to certain local authorities, whose 
 law, common and uncommon, governed the in- 
 terests of the Dean and Chapter of R . 
 
 " Old Lazenby has been fingering pounce and 
 parchment these fifty years," argued William 
 with himself; " and one of his sons is said to be 
 an excellent lawyer. No harm can be done by 
 taking their opinion. By this time, they must 
 know^ something of their profession." 
 
 He almost repented his determination, how- 
 ever, after undergoing the cool cross-examination
 
 THE dean's daughter. 125 
 
 of the dry old attorney. While Lazenby, senior, 
 circumstantially investigated, through his clumsy 
 silver spectacles, the paper reverenced by Wil- 
 liam as the diploma of his independence for life, 
 following it line by line with his knuckly fore- 
 finger, and muttering audibly concerning the 
 dotage of dowagerhood, his young client with 
 difficulty repressed certain counter mutterings far 
 from complimentary. But having carefully 
 perused the paper, refolded it, replaced it in its 
 envelope, and returned it to its owner, he shook 
 young Mordaunt cordially by the hand. 
 
 " I wish you joy. Sir ; joy to your charming 
 sister, Sir; joy to my friend, the Dean. A 
 holographic testament of the most unquestionable 
 authenticity; supported by living witnesses of 
 the utmost respectability ! You may look upon 
 this will. Sir, as already admitted to probate. 
 We carried through just such a cause last term, 
 Sir, for my old friend and client, Mrs. Susan 
 Grimsthorpe, of Stoke Hall. I sincerely wish 
 you joy." 
 
 Another vehement shake of the hand served
 
 126 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 to confirm a statement, the glibness of which 
 created a momentary distrust in the mind of his 
 auditor. 
 
 " Two opinions, Sir, are better than one," re- 
 sumed the old prig ; " and if you will entrust the 
 paper to me, I will look it over with my son 
 Daniel, whom I am expecting in every moment. 
 Should his view of the case be as favourable as 
 mine. Sir, we will draw up a little statement, to 
 submit to our proctor in Doctor's Commons: 
 and, by Friday's post, Mr. Mordaunt, your 
 mind shall be perfectly set at rest." 
 
 Plausible words — sufficiently plausible to draw 
 from William Mordaunt's pocket and replace 
 in the hand of the man of business, the docu- 
 ment, on which hung his destinies and those of 
 Margaret. He felt almost grateful to the old 
 lawyer for relieving him from a dusty journey 
 to an empty metropolis. If in the sequel dis- 
 satisfied with the verdict of the Lazenbys' 
 proctor, it was but referring the matter at last 
 to Wraxley and Lumm. 
 
 Thus lightly and thus thoroughly under the
 
 127 
 
 influence of adventitious circumstances, has 
 more than one lawsuit been commenced, entail- 
 ing ruin upon generation after generation ! The 
 Lazenbys clearly did know something of their 
 profession — they understoood the art of en- 
 tangling a chent. The opinion they obtained 
 w^as strongly in favour of establishing the 
 " holographic will of the late Countess of 
 Bournemouth." It was no longer called a 
 paper. It was styled curtly a will. ^Messrs. 
 John and Daniel Lazenby expressed much 
 regret, indeed, that they had not been consulted 
 in time to enter a caveat before probate was 
 granted, as they found it had been, to an earlier 
 paper, propounded by the Lady Milicent Harriet 
 Macwheeble, daughter of the deceased Countess. 
 But it was not too late. x\ suit in the Eccle- 
 siastical Court, or a bill filed in Chancery, 
 would soon settle the business. The cost would 
 be trifling, as compared with the value of the 
 property in dispute — a stake decidedly worth 
 playing for. 
 
 It now became necessary to involve the Dean
 
 128 
 
 in the dilemma. Aware of his father's repug- 
 nance to business of any kind (a pecuniary 
 discussion invariably sufficing to draw the nail- 
 file from his tremulous hands and bring on one 
 of his worst head-aches,) William had carefully 
 abstained from consulting him. But as it was 
 impossible for Miss Mordaunt, a minor, to 
 become plaintiff in a Chancery suit otherwise, 
 than with the sanction of her natural guardian 
 or next friend, the Honourable and Very Reve- 
 rend Reginald was required to pledge himself 
 for his children. 
 
 Before the Hargreaves arrived at Dursley 
 Park from Oak HiU, for pheasant-shooting, the 
 Deanery was accordingly entangled, heart and 
 soul, in meshes of red tape : — the most fatal net, 
 perhaps, that can envelop a human destiny.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 129 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I'll no say men are villains a'. — 
 
 The real harden' d wicked : 
 Wha hae nae check but human law 
 
 Are to a few restricket. 
 But och ! mankind are unco' weak, 
 
 An' little to be trusted : 
 If self the wavering balance shake, 
 
 Tis rarely right adjusted. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 Even could the poor Dean have surmised 
 that the instahnent of his daughter under his 
 roof would be concurrent with the suspension 
 of the sword of Damocles over his head, in the 
 shape of a lawsuit, he would have compounded 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE dean's daughter. , 
 
 for the peril to secure the comfort of such 
 companionship. For Lear had begun to under- 
 stand the value of his Cordelia ; and even the 
 plausible Harman and sanctimonious Mrs. 
 Graves, when they found the young lady so 
 unworldly-wise, and so little disposed to pry 
 into account-books, were thankful for the ray 
 of sunshine diifused by her presence into the 
 old Deanery. 
 
 Margaret was perfectly happy. She read 
 much; she read with advantage, for she 
 had leisure to digest the knowledge she 
 acquired. The contact of death had sobered 
 her youthful spirits ; and a thoughtful mind now 
 imparted expression to the fair face hitherto 
 brightened only by impulses of feeling. She 
 was becoming eminently beautiful. Even Mrs. 
 Pleydell and her niece, who, though their visits 
 for the purpose of lubricating the dear Dean, 
 were somewhat interrupted by his daughter's 
 instalment as his legitimate consolatress, still 
 haunted the premises, could not but admit that 
 he was no longer the same man since his
 
 THE dean's daughter. 131 
 
 daughter's arrival. " Miss Mordaunt was equally 
 changed. So strangely womanly ! So grave, 
 and yet so cheerful ! They supposed it was 
 the law-suit — the prospect of a fine fortune." 
 
 The Mordaunts not being a communicative 
 
 race, the gossips of R , aware that they 
 
 had " gone to law" with Lady Bournemouth's 
 representative, but nothing wherefore, — were 
 forced to fix the cypher of the tens of thousands 
 contended for, according to the dictation of their 
 fancy. And as it is not worth while to waste 
 sympathy on trifles, they decided that the beauti- 
 ful daughter of the popular Dean was about 
 to become an heiress. 
 
 To assert that some portion of the changes 
 of her mutable countenance was not attributable 
 to the promises held out by the lawyers, would 
 be untrue ; for the sanguine Willy had such 
 impHcit faith in Knightrider Street, and Mar- 
 garet believed so implicitly in the judgment of 
 the sanguine Willy, that when he returned to 
 Oxford (from the learned durance of which his 
 seniors by a year, Hargreave and Fanshawe, 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 were already released), she was as fully con- 
 vinced as himself that the dawn of the new 
 year would find them rich and independent; 
 and if rich, how much pleasure was in store for 
 hoth ! What benefits to be bestowed on Nurse 
 Hatley's needy children, — on the poor of Hep- 
 hanger, — who, in losing the dowager, had lost 
 their all. 
 
 While William, on the other hand, who, 
 like most young men with an over-liberal 
 supply of money, was considerably in debt, 
 was painfully eager concerning the results of 
 the suit, Margaret, confident of success^ in- 
 dulged only in pleasant visions of good to be 
 done, kindly little surprises to her father ; and, 
 perhaps, a cadeau or two to herself of favourite 
 books and engravings. 
 
 On the Dean himself, meanvA'hile, the excite- 
 ment arising from the uncertainty of his chil- 
 dren's prospects, had the beneficial effect of an 
 effervescing draught. If the degradation of 
 Bassingdon had unnerved him, and the pros- 
 perity of Mildenhall rendered him comatose,
 
 THE dean's daughter. 133 
 
 the hazards of Chancery seemed to rouse him 
 up into youth and vigour. 
 
 " You have really no further excuse, my dear 
 Mr. Dean," observed Sir Thomas Hargreave, at 
 the close of a long visit of business, relating to 
 lands held by the wealthy baronet under the 
 
 Chapter of R , " for secluding yourself 
 
 from the society of your friends. You admit 
 that you feel better than you have done for 
 years. Why not come amongst us a little, and 
 perfect your cure ? — Change of air, my dear 
 Sir, would set you up for the winter." 
 
 The mere proposition almost sufficed to throw 
 back the poor Dean upon the superseded re- 
 sources of his medicine-chest. Tranquillity, 
 and a cheerful home, had restored him to 
 health. Strangers and the clamour of social 
 merriment, would, he knew, be the death of 
 him ! 
 
 Sir Thomas, however, so far misinterpreted 
 the silence caused by his consternation, into a 
 desire to be pressed, as to persist and persist. 
 Devoid, like most parvenus, of tact, he burst
 
 134 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 into the sort of voluble argument which an 
 invalid finds more irresistible than persuasion ; 
 till he ended by extorting a promise that (D. V. 
 and Harm an and Mrs. Graves not opposing) 
 the Dean and Miss Mordaunt would, on the 
 following Thursday, dine and sleep at Dursley 
 Park. 
 
 That it would be easy to send an excuse in 
 the interim, was the only atonement to himself 
 the Dean could suggest for the cruel injury he 
 meditated to his own health and comfort. But 
 when the plan came to be confided to Margaret, 
 she so immediately embraced it as a pleasant 
 interlude in their monotonous life, that he had 
 not courage to announce his sinister intentions. 
 A constitutional dread of giving or enduring 
 pain, rendered it impossible to disappoint his 
 darling child. 
 
 On a fine autumnal day, therefore, calculated 
 to set rheumatism and influenza at defiance, the 
 Dean allowed himself to be enveloped in a 
 comforter or two, a few great-coats, and a pair 
 of furred goloshes, and transferred to the cheer-
 
 135 
 
 ful latitudes of Dursley Park. The town of 
 
 R could scarcely believe its eyes when the 
 
 green chariot, encumbered with seiTants and 
 imperials, issued from the archway of the 
 Deanery yard. They wished no harm might 
 come of it. But the apothecary and Mrs. 
 Pleydell mutually confided to each other their 
 opinion, that this sudden change of habits in 
 their valued old friend, like the unseasonable 
 autumnal blossoming of an apple-tree, intim- 
 ated lurking mischief, and perhaps a premature 
 end. 
 
 But neither they, nor any other person, could 
 -appreciate the singular effect produced on Dr. 
 Mordaunt by emergence from such prolonged 
 shade, into the warmth and glare of a modern 
 house, the abode of luxury and vanity, youth 
 and ambition; chambers and conservatories 
 glowing with all the colours of the rainbow^ and 
 odours of the East ; as though the five senses 
 were to be indulged without let or hindrance ; 
 and green shades and Godfrey's salts, were a 
 superfluous precaution. That he could have
 
 136 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 undergone a noisy dinner of three courses, and 
 an evening of lighted chandeliers and song and 
 music, and survived it all, was a thing which, 
 some weeks before, he would have pronounced 
 impossible ; and which, some weeks afterwards, 
 he could not reflect upon without shuddering. 
 The respectful attentions of the Hargreave 
 family, however, were not without their share 
 in sustaining his strength. 
 
 But, to do him justice, his chief pleasure in 
 the visit was derived from seeing Margaret 
 admired and caressed. In her simple black 
 dress, how far more distinguished than the Har- 
 greaves in their Frenchifications ! — How grace- 
 ful her quiet manners ! — How prepossessing her 
 smile ! — ^And, above all, how strange that those 
 dressy, noisy, flippant, flirting damsels should 
 appreciate her merit 1 
 
 The next morning, however, brought its re- 
 action of pains and penalties ; perhaps because 
 the lack of his customary basin of water-gruel 
 had rendered his pillow sleepless; perhaps be- 
 cause a breakfast- table groaning, as country-
 
 THE dean's daughter. 137 
 
 house breakfast-tables are apt to groan, filled 
 his mind with dyspeptic visions and com- 
 punctions. So complete, at aU events, was his 
 panic, that when implored by his host and 
 hostess to prolong his \isit, because his son's 
 friend, Mr. Fanshawe, and his son's friend's 
 father, Sir Claude, were expected that day at 
 Dursley Park, he was glad to compromise the 
 matter by leaving Margaret as hostage in his 
 place ; Lady Hargreave undertaking to pay her 
 back on demand. 
 
 His daughter, indeed, was inchned to demur ; 
 not only because averse that her father should 
 return alone to his cheerless home, but over- 
 awed by the thought of finding herself unsup- 
 ported in the midst of such a host of strangers. 
 The Hargreave girls were too animated — too 
 brilliant — for her taste or spirits. They seemed 
 to glitter inwardly and outwardly from the re- 
 flection of prosperity. They had suffered no 
 persecution, and learned no mercy. Even when 
 they applauded, she shrank from them, as a dog 
 from the patting of a boisterous child. No
 
 138 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 delicacy of reserve in their natures ! — All was 
 show and glare, like the garlands of flowers and 
 golden arabesques adorning their Aubusson 
 carpets. 
 
 Emma and Julia were not, however, the less 
 appreciated by the rest of the party ; and as 
 they did their utmost to render the house 
 pleasant to visitors, were honestly entitled to 
 their reward. Sir Claude Fanshawe, whose red 
 riband had figured at half the courts in Europe, 
 after toadying Sir Thomas, and playing the 
 Chesterfield to Lady Hargreave, was seen listen- 
 ing with rapture to the sallies of one sister, 
 and the chansonnettes of the other. 
 
 "Charming creatures, my dear Sir Thomas! 
 Fine, natural charming creatures !" was his con- 
 stant cry ; and his dear Sir Thomas, already 
 touched to the quick of his vanity by hearing 
 his crude political theories applauded and anno- 
 tated by the be-Bathed Machiavel, was grateful 
 for such judicious praise. He had long noticed 
 that young Fanshawe was more attentive than 
 the common herd of dandies frequenting his
 
 139 
 
 house, to his daughter Emma, and was not 
 sorry to find his views thus sanctioned by 
 paternal praise. 
 
 " My daughters are excellent girls," he re- 
 plied. " They have been brought up to adorn 
 the highest lot, or comfqi't the lowest ; for I 
 have always determined that their inclination, 
 and not mine, shall decide their marriage 
 choice." 
 
 *' My own principle, to a hair !" retorted Sir 
 Claude. " I have but one child, my dear Sir 
 Thomas ; and to him I have ever said, ' marry 
 young, my dear boy, marry young ; and above 
 all, be your own match-maker.' I recognise in 
 Herbert too superior an understanding to be 
 subjected to subordination. No need to train 
 your fine, healthy young sapling. Let it be 
 rained upon, and snowed upon, and shone 
 upon, and it will grow up as straight as an 
 arrow." 
 
 As Sir Thomas could by no means second 
 propositions so unpaternally comprehensive, in- 
 asmuch as for the last ten years his authority
 
 140 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 had been sitting like a night-mare on the spirit 
 of his only son, judiciously evaded the argu- 
 ment. 
 
 " Yonder is another very sweet creature," 
 said he, glancing with a patronizing nod towards 
 Margaret Mordaunt ; who sat listening with 
 admiring wonder to the bravuras of her ac- 
 complished friends. 
 
 " The young lady in mourning ?" 
 
 *' In mourning for her grandmother, — the late 
 Countess of Bournemouth." 
 
 " Lady Bournemouth ? God bless my soul ! 
 One of my earliest friends. But, if I remember 
 right, her daughter married some dissenting 
 parson — some ranter ?" — 
 
 " Lady Milicent Bourne made, late in life, a 
 very discreditable match ; and is now, I find, 
 disputing the fiimily property with my daugh- 
 ters' young friend yonder ; who, I am assured, 
 is certain of retaining it. Her father the 
 
 popular Dean of R , will, you know, be 
 
 the next Lord Mildenhall." 
 
 " Reginald Mordaunt ? To be sure ! We
 
 141 
 
 were at Eton together, and the greatest 
 cronies !" cried Sir Claude, whom ill-natured 
 people accused of knowing every body in every 
 part of the w^orld. " And he won't be long 
 out of his property, I suspect ! Mildenhall 
 has been abroad for his health these ten months 
 past ; and some friends of mine the March- 
 monts, met him at Nice the other day, looking 
 like a ghost." 
 
 " \Yhen the Dean comes into his peerage 
 and fortune," observed Sir Thomas, " he will 
 resign, T imagine, his church preferment ?" 
 
 "- Ton honour, I cannot guess ! I have not 
 met him since we w^ere boys together. Mine 
 has been an active career; he has burrowed 
 snugly in the Church. But judging on general 
 premises, my dear Sii* Thomas, I should say 
 — ha ! ha ! ha ! that these are not times in 
 which anybody is inclined to resign any pre- 
 ferment for any reason." 
 
 Sir Thomas laughed the laugh expected of 
 him ; but returned to the subject of the Dean. 
 Since no particular intimacy existed between
 
 142 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 him and Sir Claude, it was easy to treat of 
 him as a valued neighbour, whom it would be 
 grievous to see transferred to Mildenhall Abbey. 
 
 " The Dean of R ," he added, " left us 
 
 only yesterday. I was not aware that you were 
 acquainted ; or I should have insisted on pre- 
 vailing upon him to stay. Miss Mordaunt is 
 a delightful acquisition to the society of my 
 girls. But, of course, we shall not have her 
 long among us. With her splendid prospects 
 and great attractions, she will be soon appro- 
 priated. You have no daughter, I think?" 
 he continued, perceiving that the thoughts of 
 Sir Claude were astray. 
 
 " None, thank Heaven ! To my active career, 
 a daughter would have been a sad incumbrance. 
 I must trust to Herbert for granddaughters 
 to comfort my old age. But I fear my son 
 will be less inclined than I would wish, to 
 marry early. In these times, ambition is the 
 favourite mistress. Most of our young men are 
 wedded to public life.'' 
 
 " Most, but not all !" replied the Baronet
 
 143 
 
 of Dursley Park, with a sorrowful waive of the 
 head, " I don't believe my boy would be 
 tempted into the trammels of office to be made 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer." 
 
 " And no wonder," retorted Sir Claude, with 
 an involuntary glance round the sumptuous 
 drawing-room, the glowing pictures on the 
 walls, and glorious marbles on their pedestals. 
 " With such enjoyments in prospect, it is not 
 likely he should become one of the working bees. 
 Literary leisure, combined with the useful and 
 healthful career of a country gentleman, afford 
 a too seductive alternative. My son must work 
 his own way in the world." Then fearing that 
 he might have deteriorated the position of 
 Herbert in the eyes of one whom he had long 
 marked down as his future father-in-law^, he 
 added — " and between ourselves, Herbert would 
 disappoint more expectations than mine were he 
 to shirk the thorns and briars of a public 
 career. He was more thought of at Oxford, 
 than my utmost wishes could have anticipated. 
 My friends in the administration have their eye
 
 144 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 upon him ; and, young as he is, are anxious to 
 bring him into parliament. 
 
 " At his age ? — a compliment indeed !" — 
 " Not at his present age ; for just now, they 
 have no seat for him. Meanwhile, I mean to 
 keep him in close training. If I encourage 
 iiim to choose a wife, it is because, in politics, 
 he has allowed me to direct his choice. I con- 
 sider Herbert the first precise writer of the day ; 
 and many a leading article, highly influential in 
 the late party controversy, has been attributed 
 to my pen, for which my boy is solely respon- 
 sible." 
 
 Sir Thomas was wonderstruck and enchanted. 
 He had unlimited faith in leading articles ; and, 
 himself a day-labourer in the field of politics, 
 regarded with prodigious deference the over- 
 seer of the works. On the skirts of the man 
 admitted within the inner tabernacle of the 
 official temple, supernatural brightness seemed 
 to shine. Sir Claude need not have been 
 afraid of placing his son in the light of a politi- 
 cal adventurer. A political adventurer, pre-
 
 THE dean's daughter. 145 
 
 assured of success, was, in the eyes of Sir 
 Thomas Hargreave, worth a wilderness of 
 wealthy esquires. 
 
 In the little circle at Dursley Park, there w^as 
 however, a person still more impressed than 
 even Sir Thomas Hargreave, with the conse- 
 quence and deserts of Herbert Fanshawe. Mar- 
 garet, who had often accused herself in the 
 interval which had elapsed since their first 
 meeting, of unduly magnifying his merits, was 
 startled, on seeing him again, to find him far 
 handsomer in person, far more ingratiating in 
 manner, than memory had pictured him; 
 though memory had probably been as prodigal 
 as she usually is towards the hero of a first 
 romance. But at Fanshawe's age, a year is a 
 considerable lapse of time ; and in his case, long 
 months of social enjoyment had effected the 
 same maturement, which sorrow and seclusion 
 had wrought for the Dean's daughter. 
 
 They were no longer girl and boy. Margaret 
 was not so childishly shy ; or Fanshawe half so 
 flippant. More polished he was, however, and 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 148 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Dire was his thought who first in poison steep' d 
 The weapon form'd for slaughter ; direr his 
 And worthier of damnation, who instill' d 
 The mortal venom in the social cup. 
 To fill the veins with death instead of life. 
 
 MASSINGER. 
 
 The old must remember of their own know- 
 ledge, and the young may have been taught by 
 novelists and dramatists (who teach more, by 
 the way, than their scholars are apt to admit,) 
 that the toady of former days, and the parasite 
 of other centuries, was a complaisant, compliant 
 creature; making its way in the world by subser- 
 vience and acquiescence.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 149 
 
 It is not so now. The distinctive features of 
 the class had grown too notorious ; the nature 
 of the beast was apparent at a glance ; and all 
 were on their guard. At the present moment, 
 look out, on arriving in a strange house, for the 
 man who complains to his host that his wine 
 is corked, to the hostess that her children are 
 troublesome ; the man v;ho bullies the servants, 
 and overworks the horses ; and in the shape of a 
 domestic tyrant, or at all events of the man 
 universally contradictory, you will be pretty sure 
 to find the dirty dog of the estabHshment. 
 
 " What on earth could make Lady Hargreave 
 invite Barty Tomlinson !" observed Sir Claude 
 to his son, when they quitted the smoking-room 
 together, on the night of the arrival of a loud 
 Jewish-looking little man, who had been warmly 
 welcomed by every member of the party at 
 Dursley, and bitterly canvassed the moment his 
 back was turned. 
 
 " Barty is a good deal here. This is one of 
 the country-houses he preys upon, between the 
 London seasons."
 
 148 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Dire was his thought who first in poison steep' d 
 The weapon form'd for slaughter ; direr his 
 And worthier of damnation, who instill' d 
 The mortal venom in the social cup. 
 To fill the veins with death instead of life. 
 
 MASSINGER. 
 
 The old must remember of their own know- 
 ledge, and the young may have been taught by 
 novelists and dramatists (who teach more, by 
 the way, than their scholars are apt to admit,) 
 that the toady of former days, and the parasite 
 of other centuries, was a complaisant, compliant 
 creature; making its way in the world by subser- 
 vience and acquiescence.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 149 
 
 It is not so now. The distinctive features of 
 the class had grown too notorious ; the nature 
 of the beast was apparent at a glance ; and all 
 were on their guard. At the present moment, 
 look out, on arriving in a strange house, for the 
 man who complains to his host that his wine 
 is corked, to the hostess that her children are 
 troublesome ; the man who bullies the servants, 
 and overw^orks the horses ; and in the shape of a 
 domestic tyrant, or at all events of the man 
 universally contradictory, you will be pretty sure 
 to find the dirty dog of the estabhshment. 
 
 " What on earth could make Lady Hargreave 
 invite Barty Tomlinson !" observed Sir Claude 
 to his son, when they quitted the smoking-room 
 together, on the night of the arrival of a loud 
 Jewish-looking little man, who had been warmly 
 welcomed by every member of the party at 
 Dursley, and bitterly canvassed the moment his 
 back was turned. 
 
 " Barty is a good deal here. This is one of 
 the country-houses he preys upon, between the 
 London seasons."
 
 150 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " Why, what does he expect to extract from 
 such people as the Hargreaves? They would 
 not throw away one of their daughters, with her 
 fifty thousand pounds, on such a nonentity 1" 
 
 •' Certainly not. Nor would either of the 
 daughters commit suicide so rashly." 
 
 " On the other hand, Sir Thomas has no 
 government interest. He squandered his last 
 doit, in that way, to secure his baronetcy." 
 
 " T don't suppose Barty Tomhnson comes 
 here place-hunting. Your salmon-fisher stoops 
 occasionally to trout. Barty likes a house 
 where he is sure of having his own way for as 
 many weeks of the fifty- two as he finds no better 
 entertainment for man and horse." 
 
 *' Pleasant quarters, I admit, for a vulgar, 
 spunging fellow like Tomlinson ! — But what 
 are the Hargreaves about in submitting to be 
 hectored by so vulgar a little dog ?" 
 
 " Here, he does not pass for a vulgar little 
 dog. They know that he dines constantly at 
 A. House and O. House ; that he is the 
 frequent guest of the Delaviles and Fitz-
 
 THE dean's daughter. 151 
 
 mortons ; and seeing him admitted among the 
 elite, have some right to suppose him good 
 company." 
 
 Sir Claude shrugged his shoulders as if to 
 imply "what sort of discrimination can one 
 expect of parvenus like the Hargreaves !" 
 
 His son, perhaps to get a rise out of the 
 K.C.B., went on to contend that though 
 Barty Tomlinson was rough in manner and 
 fractious in words, he was a useful serviable 
 little animal; who had done a great deal for 
 Lady Hargreave by pushing her acquaintance 
 among his aristocratic patronesses. 
 
 " Tomlinson finds his way everywhere," said 
 Herbert ; " a grain of sand that slips through 
 every sieve ; — a trivial atom, not worth kicking 
 out of the way. And he has puffed the 
 Hargreave cuisine, and Hargreave Dresden, and 
 Hargreave pictures, with the small trumpet of a 
 buzzing gnat, till people like the Delaviles and 
 Fitzmortons become curious, and accept an 
 invitation." 
 
 " That is the worst of houses where there are
 
 152 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 daughters to marry !" ejaculated Sir Claude, 
 peevishly. " The moment balls are in requisition, 
 it is impossible for the circle to remain select. 
 The Hargreaves may have reason to regret the 
 introduction of such nondescripts as Tomlinson 
 into their house. Men whose company is worth 
 having, will not risk collision with a presuming 
 nobody ; — pretending to have opinions of his 
 own merely to throw you off your guard and 
 pick your pocket of yours, to refresh his stock 
 in trade as a retailer of anecdotes, or jackal to 
 the press." 
 
 " Come, come, my dear father 1-^ — Not quite 
 so hard upon little Tomlinson." — 
 
 " Why you told me yourself you often caught 
 him in Wellington Street, sneaking out of the 
 editor's room ?" 
 
 " He may say that he often catches me in 
 Wellington Street, sneaking in. No matter. 
 People are found sneaking into many a worse 
 place. But, as regards Tomlinson, let me 
 strongly advise you, Sir, not to tread on his toe. 
 Tomlinson is a shrewd and vindictive little cur ;
 
 THE dean's daughter. 153 
 
 and would certainly attack, in return, your vul- 
 nerable heel." 
 
 Sir Claude was about to say, as he would 
 have done had he been holding forth at his club, 
 " I defy him !" But if most men fail to be 
 heroes to their valet-de-chambrey a fashionable 
 father, of Sir Claude Fanshawe's class, seldom 
 contrives to remain a hero to his only son. 
 He contented himself, therefore, with blandly 
 replying, " He might, at all events, my dear 
 boy, do you an ill turn with the Hargreaves." 
 
 Herbert Fanshawe smiled superior ; con- 
 scious that it needed but the uplifting of his 
 little finger to expel such an animalcule as 
 Tomlinson from Dursley Park ; seeing that the 
 services rendered by this paltry fetcher and 
 carrier of invitations could be twice as effec- 
 tively accomplished by himself. 
 
 " That little girl of the Dean of R 's," 
 
 resumed Sir Claude, in the careless off-hand 
 manner his son always found him assume when 
 his interest in a subject was more considerable 
 than creditable, — '' did you know her to be a 
 great heiress ?"
 
 154 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " Miss Mordaunt an heiress ? My dear father ! 
 who can have imposed upon you so imperti- 
 nently ?" replied Herbert, smiling. " She has 
 two brothers ; one, with whom I was at college, 
 still poorer and more in debt than myself 1" 
 
 A cloud passed over the specious brow of 
 Sir Claude. 
 
 — " Which does not prevent his sister from 
 being a heiress," resumed the K.C.B. " The 
 young lady will come in, it seems, for a large 
 share of my old friend Lady Bournemouth's 
 fine fortune ; besides what may be added when 
 the Mildenhall property devolves upon the 
 Dean of R ." 
 
 " That accounts for Dick Hargreave's cold- 
 ness towards her !" muttered Herbert, aside. 
 " I could not make out the cause of his rude- 
 ness to Willy ^lordaunt's sister. His people, 
 no doubt, have been tormenting him to make 
 up to her ; a thing that never answers." 
 
 This last hint was intended for the ear of the 
 tender parent who, for a year past, had been 
 suggesting to him that Miss Hargreave, with 
 two thousand a year, would form a substantial
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 155 
 
 groundwork for his future fortunes ; that, for the 
 able, active, only son of a Sir Claude Fanshawe, 
 thus established, it would be easy to obtain 
 place and profits ; whereas for a young man of 
 wit and pleasure about town, leading a club 
 life, and scrambling his way into notice, a clerk- 
 ship, or at most, attacheship, would be the only 
 attainable preferment. 
 
 " T have worked my way to distinction," had 
 whispered the K.C.B. to his son, from the time 
 he was old enough to* understand and keep his 
 counsel. " But I have been unable to do more 
 than live au jour le jour. Rank I have 
 attained ; wealth you must accomplish. A 
 mine of gold, however, lies under your feet. 
 Nature has given you a personable exterior and 
 excellent abilities — I, an excellent education. 
 The pedestal is established. It remains for you 
 to provide it with a statue." 
 
 As yet the wily father, who, after all, was a 
 tender parent as far as comported with the 
 Hght that was in him, felt uncertain how far 
 his lessons had profited. One of the objects
 
 156 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 
 
 of his present visit to Dursley Park, was to 
 determine whether it were worth while to pro- 
 secute the Hargreave project. 
 
 " In dealing with very young people, one 
 never sees one's way," was Sir Claude's secret 
 reflection, as they travelled down. " A pair of 
 blue eyes may overturn one's farthest-sighted 
 schemes ; and who knows but that the daughter 
 of a new baronet may aspire far above a com- 
 moner ? — I will see, and judge for myself." 
 
 By the rest of the Dursley party, the com- 
 pany of the contemned Tomlinson was other- 
 wise appreciated than by the Fanshawes. To 
 most country-house parties, indeed, he was 
 considered an acquisition. Barty Tomlinson 
 w^as a man not afraid of hearing his own voice ; 
 even in interruption of the deadest silence or 
 most august personage. He was always ready 
 to impart information to those who knew better 
 than himself, — to patronize his superiors, — and 
 to go in and win from his despisers. There 
 was nothing he would not attempt in the way 
 of rallying the dull out of their dulness, and
 
 THE dean's daughter. 157 
 
 promoting by the discomfiture of the few the 
 hilarity of the many. 
 
 His principal victims were his host and 
 hostess. Lest anybody should suppose that he 
 overvalued the venison and claret of Sir 
 Thomas, or because aware that personal in- 
 solence often induces parvenus to set the same 
 value upon a man which he sets upon himself, 
 he seldom neglected an opportunity of placing 
 themselves and their possessions in the most 
 depreciating light. He made it a rule to contra- 
 dict aU they asserted, and oppose all they 
 desired. 
 
 It was chiefly because he had overheard Sir 
 Thomas Hargreave desire his son to give his 
 arm to Miss Mordaunt into the dinner room, 
 on the day of her arrival, that he made a point 
 of becoming her cavalier. But Margaret was 
 the gainer ; for she would otherwise have fallen 
 to the share of the cold and reluctant Dick 
 Hargreave ; whereas the little toady excited him- 
 self to the utmost for her entertainment ; and 
 verv little did he surmise the relief she ex-
 
 158 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 perienced at being overtaken by him, and 
 escorted to her place, as she was loitering in 
 the corridors towards the breakfast room next 
 morning, lacking courage to confront so large 
 a party. 
 
 The Hargreaves, though selfish and super- 
 ficial, were not ill-natured girls. They were 
 willing to exchange with their fair guest the 
 usual kindnesses interchanged among interesting 
 young ladies ; of lending her a saddle horse, 
 teaching her their pet songs, and calling her 
 by her Christian name — three inductive steps 
 towards the sentimental friendships of eighteen. 
 But to study her nature sufficiently to surmise 
 that a girl brought up in such complete seclu- 
 sion, might shrink from the publicity of a large 
 party in a country house — feel shy whenever 
 she was addressed by strangers — and hesitate 
 about entering a room containing only twenty 
 people — was a stretch of sympathy beyond their 
 powers. They consequently inflicted many a 
 painful minute upon the timid girl ; who, 
 reared in dowager decorum and the muffled
 
 • THE dean's daughter. 159 
 
 presence of an invalid, found even a loud laugh 
 an innovation. 
 
 She rallied her spirits indeed ; and tried to 
 raise them to the level of the rest of the party. 
 But the pompous interpellations of Sir Thomas 
 from the end of the table, still made her heart 
 beat ; and the morose silence of Dick Hargreave, 
 and forward volubility of Tomlinson, often 
 brought blushes to her cheek. The person, 
 however, of whom she stood most in awe, was 
 a certain Mrs. Hargreave, commonly known in 
 the family by the name of Aunt Martha ; a 
 spinster sister of Sir Thomas, who, residing in 
 Lancashire, in the heart of the former asso- 
 ciations and connections of the family, to the 
 dismay of Lady Hargreave and her daughters, 
 paid them an annual visit of some wrecks, 
 either at Dursley, Oak Hill, or in town ; accord- 
 ing to their account, wherever she could make 
 herself most disagreeable. 
 
 Aunt Martha was a sort of Nilometer of 
 the family fortunes. She w^as not vulgar ; 
 although, being dry in her deportment and
 
 160 THE dean's daughter. . 
 
 quizzical in her dress, she was accounted 
 so hy her sister-in-law and nieces ; for she 
 never uttered an ignoble sentiment, or com- 
 mitted an unladylike action. But she was as 
 stiff as became the spinster-hood implied in her 
 name; and her steely gray eye searched into 
 things with a degree of severity which converted 
 her into the walking conscience of the house. 
 Aunt Martha mistrusted its grandeur, and 
 despised its finery. In her own establishment,, 
 she contented herself with the best of every- 
 thing, of the plainest kind. — But though 
 incapable of luxuriating in rich brocades, or 
 showy marqueterie, Uke Lady Hargreave, if 
 possessed of them, she was equally incapable 
 of over solicitude about their conservation, or 
 pride in their display. 
 
 For her brother, the hard spinster cherished 
 one of those strong affections which women 
 left alone in the world often entertain towards 
 their nearest male relative. Of him, she was 
 both fond and proud ; nor did her limited 
 knowledge of the world enable her to discerr*
 
 THE dean's daughter. 161 
 
 the defects and shortcomings perceptible 
 enough to the practised eye of a Sir Claude 
 Fanshawe. But with his children, she was 
 beginning to be dissatisfied. As long as they 
 were children, the charm and prettiness of 
 childhood, and occasional resemblances of look 
 and gesture to their father, attached her to 
 them all ; and gratitude for her gifts and 
 caresses, gave them the appearance of loving 
 her in return ; — the greatest of all charms 
 in almost every human sight. But now she 
 saw clearer. She perceived that they disliked, 
 and were ashamed of her; and was conse- 
 quently free to discern that their gaiety was 
 hollow, and their egotism not the less heartless 
 for being veiled by conventional politeness. 
 
 She was the first person to discover how 
 much Miss Mordaunt suffered from being alone 
 in the midst of their restless, chattering, banter- 
 ing group ; and one day, on finding poor Mar- 
 garet hurrying down late to dinner, at the 
 summons of the gong, yet standing panic- 
 struck at the entrance of the brilliantly-lighted 
 
 VOL. L M
 
 162 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 hall, she tucked her cavalierly under her arm 
 and marched her forward, with the stern perpen- 
 dicularity of a policeman escorting a delinquent. 
 
 Aunt Martha little guessed how Margaret 
 trembled in her grasp. But when, on taking 
 her place at table, the unpopular spinster found 
 herself a mark for the Minie-rifle raillery of 
 Tomlinson, she silenced him by one of those 
 sledge-hammer retorts, which justified at once 
 the terror of the young girl, and the discomfiture 
 of the, brazen face so rarely discountenanced. 
 
 Sir Thomas, who had noticed the entrance 
 of his sister and the Dean's daughter arm-in- 
 arm, which implied a favour towards her on the 
 part of the former strongly confirmative of his 
 projects, renewed all Margaret's flutterings by 
 choosing the first interval of conversation to 
 address her by name. It was one of the gaudy 
 days of Dursley. Several neighbouring families 
 were assembled, in addition to their own large 
 party ; and he fancied it conducive to her con- 
 sequence and his own to signalize the high 
 connections of his timid young inmate, by
 
 THE dean's daughter. 163 
 
 " hoping the post had brought her satisfactory 
 accounts of her father ; and that the Dean had 
 received better news from the continent of the 
 health of his brother, Lord MildenhaU." As 
 this was the third time since she arrived at 
 Dursley that Margaret had found occasion to 
 reply, that they seldom heard from her brother 
 Reginald, and that between her father and uncle 
 there was no sort of correspondence, she could 
 not help wondering why, since Sir Thomas had 
 so deep a personal interest in the health of Lord 
 Mildenhall, he did not apply to informants 
 better qualified to set his anxiety to rest. 
 
 The heightened colour with which she en- 
 deavoured to make her answer audible to the 
 man from whom she was divided by half a 
 service of plate, and a dozen inquisitive-looking 
 faces, drew upon her the stare of all the 
 strangers present; and the relief was as great 
 as unexpected when Herbert Fanshawe, who 
 was seated near her, drew off the attention of 
 Sir Thomas by a hasty proposal of shooting 
 his outlying coverts the following day. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " I cannot get Dick to make arrangements 
 with the keepers, Sir Thomas," said he; "and 
 the birds are getting scarce in the hdme wood- 
 lands — Mieux vaut avoir affaire a Dieu, qu'a 
 ses saints ; and I therefore invoke your 
 authority." 
 
 Sir Thomas bowed, smiled, and took sherry 
 with his interlocutor as if he understood every 
 word ; while young Hargreave sat wondering 
 from a distance what sudden fit of stupidity or 
 forgetfulness could have taken possession of his 
 friend Herbert, that he should not remember 
 where they had been shooting the previous 
 day, or what capital sport they had enjoyed. 
 
 " The pheasants in Waltham Wood have less 
 to thank me for than yourself, Miss Mordaunt." 
 said Fanshawe, in a low voice, on finding 
 Margaret a moment alone, that evening, looking 
 over the illustrations of a batch of German 
 fairy-tale books, which had just arrived from 
 town. " You would have had to afford bulletins 
 of the health of the whole Mordaunt family, in 
 a voice capable of penetrating a pair of ears
 
 THE dean's daughter. 165 
 
 stunned by twenty years of parliamentary 
 debating, had I not come to your assistance." 
 
 Margaret was astonished. It was the first 
 time Mr. Fanshawe had addressed her familiarly 
 since they had been in the house together. And 
 now, he spoke so kindly, to announce how con- 
 siderately he had befriended her ! — She was not 
 ready at reply ; but her eloquent countenance 
 expressed sufficient gratitude. 
 
 " Sir Thomas is one of those worthy men," 
 he continued, setting down his coffee-cup, and 
 taking a seat by her side, " who abuse the 
 privilege of being a bore conceded to country 
 baronets. At his age, he ought to be aware 
 of the impropriety of asking questions else- 
 where than in Parliament, which are as irksome 
 to the person questioned as the reply is in- 
 different to all present — himself included. I 
 remember the time when he used to cross- 
 question and discountenance my blushing, 
 modest self, concerning my Oxford studies ; 
 nay — further back still — concerning my progress 
 in trap-ball and the Eton grammar."
 
 166 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " Have you been so long acquainted with the 
 Hargreaves?" said Margaret, a little surprised. 
 '' No wonder you seem like one of the 
 family!"— 
 
 " Do I seem like one of the family ? Well — 
 if you say so, I suppose I must submit. But I 
 should never have surmised it. Do not mention 
 your opinion to my poor father ; with whom 
 I saw you flirting desperately in the billiard- 
 room after breakfast ; or it might bring on an 
 apoplectic fit." 
 
 " But why ? — Since they appear so much 
 your friends, and after so long a series of 
 years ?" — 
 
 " Oh ! nothing — only we of the old Saxon 
 blood are apt to fancy distinctions between our 
 race and that of — but my observations are 
 getting nearly as saugrenu as those of Sir 
 Thomas ! By the way, Miss Mordaunt, may 
 I inquire whether you have consented to ride 
 Dun Patty to-morrow ? — I heard Julia Hargreave 
 making arrangements with Tomlinson and 
 Harberton, and endeavouring to persuade their
 
 THE dean's daughter. 167 
 
 brother and father to join them ; on the plea 
 that you had promised to accompany them to 
 the meet." 
 
 " They proposed my being of the party. 
 But I understood that it was to be with Lady 
 Hargreave, or their aunt, in the barouche." 
 
 " Lady Hargreave finds herself too rheumatic 
 for open carriages, now that the trees have lost 
 even their russet suits. As to Aunt Martha, 
 the poor old lady is as Hkely to be found behind 
 the scenes at the Opera, as at the covert side ! 
 The arrangement for you is, that you should 
 ride Miss Hargreave's mare, while she borrows 
 her brother's second hunter." 
 
 " If they are all going to ride, I shall be de- 
 lighted to join them." 
 
 " How many do you comprehend within that 
 significant * all?' If among them your unworthy 
 humble servant, you make him a very happy 
 man, and determine him at once to give up the 
 shooting party. For to say the truth, dear 
 Miss Mordaunt, no one is better up than 
 myself in the pranks of Dun Patty ; whom T
 
 168 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 sold to Dick Hargreave, not for his sister's use, 
 but his own. I fear she is not altogether to 
 he trusted within sight of hounds and red 
 coats." 
 
 "Yet Julia manages her to perfection !" 
 *' Julia Hargreave rides — passez-moi le mot 
 — like a rough rider. Julia Hargreave rides as 
 I should not allow my sister, and should be 
 sorry to see my wife. I flatter myself, that 
 Miss Mordaunt would be quite unequal to 
 manage Dun Patty, unless closely seconded by 
 one of the harder sex." 
 
 Miss Mordaunt was luckily not called upon 
 to answer just then, or to make the attempt 
 on the morrow. The moment Aunt Martha 
 understood that her chaperonship could be ad- 
 vantageous to the fair young girl in mourning, 
 whose voice was so gentle, and whose deport- 
 ment so diffident, she expressed a strong desire 
 to see the meet. And there she appeared, the 
 following day ; in a brown merino gown and 
 cloak, contrasting strangely with the rich lining 
 and silken fringe of the family barouche.
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 169 
 
 As they were about to enter the carriage, Lady 
 Hargreave vainly endeavoured to conceal her 
 queer, gaunt sister-in-law's figure, under her 
 own velvet mantle. Aunt Martha looked dis- 
 pleased, and talked of a Welsh whittle. She 
 had calculated justly. Not an eye at the covert 
 side strayed towards her. All the attention 
 that could be spared from horses and hounds, 
 was absorbed by the lovely being at her side. —
 
 170 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Fair Bessie Bell I lo'ed yestreen 
 And thought I ne'er could alter ; 
 
 But Mary Gray's twa pawky e'en 
 Have garr'd my courage falter. 
 
 scots' song. 
 
 Margaret was now an established county 
 beauty. The event of an hour will often ac- 
 complish this perilous triumph. The award of 
 a drawing-room, a Christmas ball, an archery 
 meeting, a race- stand, suddenly converts some 
 unnoticed girl into an angel. And thus 
 Margaret Mordaunt was promoted, as by the 
 Gazette, into '* the beautiful daughter of the 
 Dean of R ." 
 
 No one was surprised that she should receive
 
 THE dean's daughter. IJl 
 
 marked homage from the guests assemhled at 
 Dursley, including Sir Claude Fanshawe and 
 his son ; and if it occurred to Emma Hargreave 
 that the attentions of the latter were somewhat 
 more demonstrative than was becoming in one 
 who had been long her all but declared lover, she 
 was too proud or too pohte to complain. 
 
 The cry after a new beauty resembles a 
 popular panic ; an infectious mania, leaving no 
 leisure for discussion. People vied with each 
 other in bringing flowers to Margaret; in 
 lending books to Margaret ; in inditing verses 
 for Margaret. Everybody suggested some new 
 occupation for her ; everybody projected some 
 new diversion. 
 
 The Hargreave girls joined strenuously in 
 the general Poean. But in their hearts, they 
 probably wished her safe back at the Deanery ; 
 for it was plain from their brother's increasing 
 coldness towards her, that he had no intention 
 of seconding the matrimonial schemes injudi- 
 ciously betrayed by the heads of the family. 
 They settled it between themselves, that Dick
 
 172 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 had probably formed an attachment elsewhere ; 
 or that he considered Margaret Mordaunt too 
 shy and inanimate for the brilliant position in 
 life fated to be filled by his wife. Both of 
 them had seen him watch her closely, and 
 with an air of contemptuous compassion ; more 
 particularly when his friend Fanshawe was 
 vainly labouring to warm her up into conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Margaret was, in fact, a far more eloquent 
 listener than talker; her varying countenance 
 and complexion affording answer enough to one 
 whose conversational powers formed, graceful and 
 handsome as he was, one of his brightest en- 
 dowments. It would have been strange indeed, 
 if a recluse like Lady Bournemouth's grand- 
 daughter had remained undazzled by displays 
 which even the London wit- mongers estimated 
 at a high premium. 
 
 Had any one presumed to salute Herbert Fan- 
 shawe with the title of "literary man," both 
 father and son would have indignantly repelled 
 the aspersion. Not at the haughty prompting
 
 THE dean's daughter. 173 
 
 of the Saxon blood, of which, in suitable junc- 
 tures, they affected to be proud. But because 
 aware that the smallest sprinkling of printer's 
 ink affixes an indelible stain on the character of 
 an official aspirant. We all know that scarcely 
 a man of mark in public life but has perpetrated 
 his book ; — memoirs, drama, essay, pamphlet, or 
 novel. But they know, and to their cost, that 
 they have achieved office, not by virtue of author- 
 ship, but in its despite. They know how often 
 the crime of letters has been thrown in their 
 teeth ; and how, in their place in Parliament, 
 they have writhed under the scoffs and scorns 
 vented upon the wretched author in his guise of 
 senator, simply because elsewhere it was less safe 
 to call him " scribbler," or " back." 
 
 But though the Fanshawes were much too 
 worldly to be ignorant, that with a social position 
 such as theirs, the notoriety of authorship would 
 do more harm than good to the rising young 
 man, they w^ere not blind to the advantages to 
 be derived from association with lettered men. 
 Even before Herbert ceased to be a Ch. Ch. cub.
 
 174 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 accordingly he frequented literary clubs, and lite- 
 rary society; was privileged to shake by the 
 hand the leading bibhopoles and journalists, 
 as well as to touch his hat to men whose names 
 are consecrated by Quarterly Reviews, and ren- 
 dered contraband on foreign frontiers. Actors 
 and dramatists were covetous of his plaudits ; 
 and many a budding poet hastened to forward 
 to Herbert Fanshawe, Esq. an early copy of his 
 maiden volume. 
 
 For in these days, the part of Mecaenas is not 
 as of old, an onerous vocation. A future Lord 
 Chesterfield might accept the dedication of a 
 new dictionary, without peril to his 3 per cents., 
 or fear of a Johnsonian diatribe. Grub Street, 
 we are told by a great living authority, is among 
 the things that have been ; and authors are so 
 much prouder, or so much less poor, than in the 
 days of Goldsmith, that even the shabbiest of 
 patrons need not button up his pocket too osten- 
 sibly. Aspiring geniuses, like young Fanshawe, 
 may, consequently, spunge upon their contempo- 
 raries for ideas ; may prey upon their wit ; may
 
 THE dean's daughter. IJo 
 
 pirate their intelligence; may brighten their 
 dulness by contact with more precious metal; 
 may season their insipidity by pilfering the vivid 
 effusions of the convivial hour ; and, after inter- 
 polating into their own vapid discourse the ster- 
 ling sense, or sparkhng phrases, they have 
 pocketed as link men pick up the jewels scattered 
 in the dust after a fete, are free to look down su- 
 perior on a literary career, and estimate the makers 
 of books among other manufacturing classes ! 
 There is no patent law for colloquial inventions ; 
 and many a pregnant thought has been stolen 
 by interlopers in the world of letters, and carried 
 up into the high places of the land, to germ and 
 fructify for their advantage ; as the eagle carries 
 off a lamb from the fold of the poor shepherd, 
 and feeds upon it in his eyrie. 
 
 And such was the origin of Herbert Fan- 
 shawe's raciest wit and most pungent sallies. 
 The anecdotes he so judiciously strung together, 
 were pearls collected by needy, naked divers ; 
 and heartily astonished would have been many 
 of his mates of the Garrick, and unproduceable
 
 176 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 friends of the Cyder-cellar, could they have heard 
 the aristocratic mirth elicited by their trans- 
 planted hon mots, the savour discovered in the 
 grapes gathered from their thorns, and the 
 figs filched from their thistles. 
 
 Tomlinson indeed occasionally saluted the 
 brilliant Herbert with an ironical cheer ; a hint 
 that his incomparable mimicry of a popular 
 actor was but the imitation of an imitation; 
 that his best charade was a shabby crib from 
 Hook, and his best song a parody on the worst 
 of Barham's. But Sir Thomas, whose know- 
 ledge of books was confined to the backs of 
 those in his library, which he had purchased 
 with the Dursley property, or the costly Blue- 
 books provided for him by the State, continued 
 to bestow his ponderous applause whenever the 
 forked lightning of the plagiarist served to clear 
 the heavy atmosphere of his dinner-table. 
 
 But what mattered far more to Herbert Fan- 
 shawe, the beautiful Margaret, in whose eyes 
 the very names he quoted reflected back the 
 far-off brilliancy of planets, listened to him with
 
 THE dean's daughter. 177 
 
 her whole soul beaming out of her dark grey 
 eyes. — Was it in gratitude for her attention 
 that he followed up his bon mots with whispers 
 very far from audible in the gallery ? — 
 
 Ten days had elapsed since the Dean's de- 
 parture, and Margaret was still at Dursley. For 
 though she had daily planned her departure for 
 the morrow, letters had as constantly arrived 
 in answ^er to Lady Hargreave's petitions for an 
 extension of Miss Mordaunt's leave of absence, 
 fully authorising her stay. At length, at the 
 close of a fortnight, in spite of the growing 
 docility of Dun Patty, the unconcealed passion 
 of Herbert Fanshawe, and the extravagant 
 adulation of Sir Claude, anxiety concerning her 
 father prevailed over her keen enjoyment of the 
 sunny life shining around her, and the dreams 
 that were lending wings to her imagination. 
 The green chariot was, according to her request, 
 despatched for her. The time for departure 
 arrived. Her hands w^ere shaken by a dozen 
 other hands, with more or less intensity of 
 
 VOL. I, N
 
 178 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 pressure. Her cheek was warmly kissed by 
 one sister, her brow slightly touched by the 
 other ; and lo ! the Jupiter Tonans of the 
 house, Sir Thomas Hargreave, took her arm 
 under his own, and conducted her in state to 
 the portico, where his crowd of menials was* 
 clustered. 
 
 With repeated " compliments to his excellent 
 friend the Dean," he handed her into a carriage 
 which his London-bred head-coachman decided 
 ought to be " brukken up for lumber." The 
 door closed. The curtain fell upon the brilliant 
 scene at Dursley Park ; and away went Mar- 
 garet Mordaunt back to R , with as many 
 
 new thoughts and feelings struggling in her 
 heart and brain, as beset the young scholar 
 digesting his first perusal of Homer. 
 
 On arriving at the Deanery, the stillness of 
 the old place struck a chill into her heart. She 
 almost sickened, while mounting the muffled 
 staircase, at the accustomed smell of mildew ; 
 well-calculated to suggest to the invalid pro-
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 179 
 
 prietor, visions of medicine chests, water-gruel, 
 and the family vault. Once in her father's 
 presence, however, her heart-sickness vanished ; 
 for she was greeted not only with one of the 
 Dean's outbursts of nervous emotion, but with 
 that outbeaming smile of innermost love, which 
 never beams more brightly than from the eyes 
 of a parent. Many had lately dwelt fondly 
 upon Margaret ; but none with the hallowing 
 light that fell upon her from those of her 
 father. 
 
 Poor old man ! — He was inexpressibly 
 glad to have her near him again ; and it was 
 an act of real self-sacrifice to have spared her 
 so long ! — Margaret felt that it was ; and 
 every moment felt it more and more, as she 
 noticed how far less well in bodily health he 
 appeared, than when they parted at Dursley. 
 Could fretting for her company have diminished 
 his strength and appetite ; so as to bring into 
 such striking rehef the lineaments of that hand- 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 some profile, the boast of the partial spinsters 
 of R ? 
 
 " You have not been taken care of during 
 my absence, dear papa,'* said Margaret, taking 
 his hand, after assuming her habitual place by 
 his side. "Mrs. Graves has allowed you to 
 grow quite thin and languid. Do you feel ill ? 
 — Does Harman foresee a fit of the gout ?" — 
 
 " Not in the least, my dear — not in the 
 least!" — quickly rejoined her father, as if superior 
 to his usual evil forebodings. "I never felt 
 better in my life." 
 
 But his faltering voice belied his words : and 
 when he laid his hand upon the head of his 
 daughter, it trembled more than she had ever 
 felt it before. 
 
 "I am afraid then that the R people 
 
 have been boring you ?" she fondly persisted. 
 " That troublesome Archdeacon has been worry- 
 ing you with Chapter squabbles ; or Mrs. 
 Pleydell has renewed her daily calls ?" — 
 
 " No, my darling. Everything has been
 
 THE dean's daughter. 181 
 
 quieter than usual ; and the Pleydells are still at 
 Scarborough." 
 
 Margaret said no more. She almost feared 
 that her father might have missed the society of 
 Mrs. Pleydell and her niece, rather than her 
 own. For she had been warned at Dursley 
 that the mellow spinster fully intended to 
 become her mother-in-law ! 
 
 By degrees, roused by her questions, the 
 Dean grew^ more cheerful ; interesting himself 
 in the details of her visit to Dursley, and 
 recalling to mind his juvenile acquaintance with 
 Sir Claude, well known at Eton by the name of 
 Lying Fanshawe. And when night came, and 
 after the basin of gruel swallowed apparently 
 with his usual gusto, the Dean, summoned to 
 rest by Harman, took leave of her by saying, 
 " God bless you, my own dearest child. It 
 makes me happy to have you under my roof 
 again !" Margaret felt that she had been wrong 
 throughout; — most so, perhaps, in having re- 
 mained so long away.
 
 182 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Next morning, it was impossible not tq 
 discern that the Deanery looked far more grim 
 and desolate than before her introduction to 
 brighter scenes. Her book grew heavy in her 
 hand, as she endeavoured to turn the pages. 
 She could not work ; for there was no one to 
 read or chat to her, to animate her stitching. 
 The fire smoked slightly ; and she rang for 
 some logs to make a blaze. But firewood was 
 not the order of the day at the Deanery : 
 Dr. Mordaunt entertaining a sanatory dread of 
 carbonic acid gas. She was fain, therefore, to 
 put up with the smothering atmosphere, and 
 the quarto which so weightily replaced the light 
 reviews and pleasant serials of Dursley Park. 
 
 But she felt that life at the Deanery of R 
 
 was a ponderous vehicle, moving upon creaking 
 wheels. 
 
 Her spirits were not cheered by a letter from 
 her brother WiUiam ; which, some days after 
 her return, was placed in her hands. — Not that it 
 was of a desponding nature. Far from it. The
 
 THE dean's daughter. 183 
 
 letter was only too light — too wild — too reckless ! 
 The writer was evidently fluctuating on those 
 buoyant pinions of Hope, so apt to elevate the 
 sanguine into perilous altitudes. 
 
 " I have capital news of our suit, dearest 
 Meg," wrote he. " There seems httle question 
 bit that January will see it decided in our 
 f£.vour. At first, you know, I determined, in 
 the event of gaining it, to resign the allowance 
 of five hundred a-year made me by my father. 
 But the dear old fellow, with his usual gentle- 
 manly liberality, would not entertain the propo- 
 sition ; for which, between ourselves, I am 
 thankful — seeing that, like many of my betters 
 at Ch. Ch., and most of my worsers, I have 
 managed to get confoundedly in debt. But 
 what I am far more grateful for to Providence 
 and my grandmother than even the power of 
 honestly whitewashing myself, is the certainty 
 of escaping the tarring, without the feathering, 
 to which I am so barbarously predestined by 
 my nearest of kin. To think of being able to
 
 184 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 pitch into the great deep the living of Milden- 
 hall, with all its tithes, instead of tying it like 
 a mill-stone round my neck ! — No one — not 
 even my worst friend or best enemy — could 
 think it necessary for me to take orders, now 
 that I am so amply provided for. I hare 
 already signified as much to Regy ; who seems 
 to be maundering on in his lymphatic courtship 
 of Anne Mordaunt ; accompanying the Milden- 
 halls from one mineral spring or crack or quack 
 doctor to another; in search of les eaux de 
 Jouvence for a mouldy Viscount ; who having 
 been only half-alive through his three score 
 years, has lived only thirty, Q. E. D. What 
 I write to ask you, my dear sister, is to break 
 mildly to the old gentleman all I have cavalierly 
 manifested to my unloving brother; namely, 
 that I have positively determined against entering 
 the Church." 
 
 This was a trying commission for Margaret. 
 Her father's heart was set upon seeing his 
 favourite son succeed him in his preferment;
 
 THE dean's daughter. 185 
 
 and, on \Yilliana's account, costly improvements 
 had been sanctioned at Mildenhall Rectory. 
 The only personal vanity, indeed, indulged in 
 by the popular Dean, was the notion that 
 when he was gone, a Mordaunt would still 
 be cited as an orthodox pillar of the Church ; 
 gentlemanly in deportment, and spotless in 
 social hfe as in his surplice. Graces more 
 ghostly were beyond his imagining. But he 
 did hope that William would be loved by his 
 parishioners, respected in his diocese, and dig- 
 nified in the pulpit. 
 
 Aware of all this, his daughter could not 
 bear to think of his disappointment. More 
 cognizant of the frailties of her brother's cha- 
 racter, she was far from wishing him to take 
 Orders, unless his mind were prepared for 
 the sacrifices due to his vocation. But she 
 had firmly hoped that time would render him 
 more steady ; and that at the appointed season, 
 William would adopt those graver views of the 
 duties of life, essential to perfect his character.
 
 186 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Her hopes were now at an end. He was 
 evidently growing flightier and flightier. But 
 why inflict upon her the task of removing the 
 scales from the eyes of their father ? 
 
 It was November weather; and the cold 
 fog of a drizzly day filled the room whenever 
 the casement was slightly opened to dispel the 
 gusts of smoke. Nothing could be more 
 depressing. As soon as the Dean in his 
 wadded gown made his appearance, Margaret 
 endeavoured to enliven his monotonous day 
 by reading to him, first the newspaper, next, 
 one of those favourite volumes of Cowper, or 
 Hayley, from which for half a century, he had 
 extracted a mild satisfaction. But in labouring 
 mechanically through the University Intelligence 
 of the Morning Herald, or some lengthy letter 
 signed " Philalethes," or " Ecclesiasticus," touch- 
 ing Diocesal wrongs or Catholic Innovations, 
 she was pained at the querulous drone insen- 
 sibly acquired by her own weary voice. While 
 reciting the milk-and water trials of " Serena,''
 
 187 
 
 or the namby-pamby philosophy of the " Task," 
 her soul thh'sted for the stirring ballads of 
 Macaulay, or the touching lyrics of Tennyson 
 and Longfellow, which she had recently heard 
 with her ears, — how exquisitely declaimed by one 
 of the most harmonious voices in the world ! — 
 
 She managed, however, to read her father 
 gradually to sleep ; (a frequent triumph, alas ! 
 of filial piety on hazy November afternoons ;) 
 when the muffin bell tinkles the knell of parting 
 day, and firelight gains the ascendancy over 
 that cobweb-coloured daylight, which England 
 enjoys after the sun has entered Aquarius. 
 
 Then, having closed her thin quarto, she 
 laid it patiently on her knees, lest by moving 
 she should disturb the Dean ; and supplied 
 the want of better occupation by one of those 
 fire-gazing reveries which are supposed to 
 discover towns and cities in the burning coals \ 
 but which are far more apt to detect " antres 
 vast and desarts idle," in the solitudes of our 
 own heart.
 
 188 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Could any girl, still in her teens, have done 
 less at such a moment, than waste a thought on 
 Dun Patty ; and two or three on the gallant 
 cavalier, who, as poor Hood sings. 
 
 Rode so gaily by her side, 
 And whispered her so near, 
 
 while instructing her to manage that wilful 
 palfrey ? — Pleasant was it to recal their rambling 
 rides through the woodlands, where the sturdy 
 old oaks defended against the autumnal breezes 
 their coats of tawny; where the acorns came 
 ratthng down like hail, and the pine-cones were 
 impelled like shuttlecoks from the elastic 
 boughs. The feathery fern, deepening from 
 gold to russet, the robins singing among the 
 fading branches, the aromatic fragrance of the 
 dewy woods, were again around her. She 
 seemed to hear the muffied tramp of the horses 
 on the moist grass strewn with dead leaves ; the 
 merry laughter of the Hargreaves in the 
 distance; the occasional short gallop of a
 
 THE dean's daughter. 189 
 
 horseman breaking forward to apprise the 
 stragglers of some change in the route; the 
 shout addressed to some lagging groom, or 
 vagrant of the party. And still, the same 
 ingratiating whisper breathing in her ear ; and 
 still, the blue sky bending over all : — that clear, 
 ultra-marine autumnal sky, flecked with fleecy 
 clouds ; or encrusted with hard, high, gleams 
 of sheeny white, like lapis lazuli with mother 
 of pearl. 
 
 How difl^erent from the low-browed, smoky, 
 dingy library from whence that youthful spirit 
 took its flight ! — Margaret ! make the most of 
 thy vision! — Thou wilt recur to it, child, in 
 drearier scenes, amidst the stern realities of life, 
 as to a mirage of thy heart's first love : — 
 
 that all 
 Which Eve hath left her daughters since her fall. 
 
 Already, alas! a dark perspective gloomed 
 before her, to counterbalance these pleasant 
 reminiscences. If a second time invited to
 
 190 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Dursley, she could not again leave her father ; 
 and even if again invited, and faithless to her 
 filial duties, no chance of a second meeting with 
 Herbert Fanshawe. Sir Claude had more than 
 once apprised her that he and his son were 
 bound for Paris ; that they were to spend the 
 winter there, at the express invitation of his old 
 friend the Ambassador ; and though she might 
 have supposed it possible for the mercurial 
 son to change his mind, that hard-featured, 
 hard-hearted, hard-headed, but particularly soft- 
 spoken old K.C.B, was as immutable as an 
 almanack. 
 
 Then rose other dreams before the mild, 
 grey eyes, still strained, as if to examine the 
 glowing grate : dreams of Paris — that Paradise 
 of forbidden fruit, where intellectual excitement 
 is sublimated to its highest ecstacy ; and sensual 
 pleasures are purified of half their grossness. 
 Paris would interpose between them like a 
 gorgeous curtain, whose velvet folds no thought 
 of her would ever penetrate, — the flattery she
 
 THE dean's daughter. 191 
 
 had found so irresistible would, perhaps address 
 itself to other ears ; and the sweet smiles which 
 had enthralled her, poison some other heart. — 
 She wished, she almost wished it had never 
 been her fortime to incur the fatal influence of 
 Herbert Fanshawe's love.
 
 192 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 The shadows flit upon the wall. 
 
 By the still dancing fire-flames made ; 
 And now they slumber, moveless all. 
 
 And now they melt to one deep shade, 
 But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee, 
 I dream thee with mine eyes and at my heart I feel thee. 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 She thought all this over again that night 
 upon her pillow ; in the vague moment pre- 
 ceding slumber, so exquisitely described by 
 Coleridge ; when the colour of our latest reflec- 
 tions is apt to influence the texture of our 
 dreams ; that instant of the 86,400, which, 
 of all others, one would select to be remembered
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 193 
 
 in by the person whose affections are dearest to 
 us upon earth. 
 
 Whether Margaret's visions of the night 
 were inspired or not by her reminiscences, she 
 certainlv woke next mornino: — 
 
 In that perplexity of mind 
 
 Wiiich dreams too earnest leave behind ; 
 
 nor could she forbear congratulating herself that 
 she should have the day to herself, to be sad in. 
 
 " Thank Heaven, those tiresome Pleydells are 
 still at the sea-side,'* said she. " I could not 
 have borne their officious cross-questioning 
 concerning the Dursley party. My father is 
 so different ; — asking nothing more than one 
 wants to tell, and putting no misconstructions 
 on one's tellings, or one's silence." 
 
 The weather was perseveringly disagreeable, 
 as if priding itself on its ill-doing ; and Margaret 
 resumed her place in the same chair, with the 
 self-same book in her hand, with her beautifully 
 braided hair yielding back the same streaks of 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 
 
 light to the same reflections from the fire, as 
 though she had heen nailed to her place all 
 night, like an Italian greyhound tortured at 
 leisure in one of Majendie's experiments. 
 Unhappily, the Dean was less slumberous than 
 the preceding day. Still more unhappily, a 
 letter from the Lazenbys having put him into 
 unusual spirits, he began to talk of William, 
 and his happy prospects in life, as was his wont 
 when his digestion was good. 
 
 In the midst of his cheerful anticipations, as 
 he sat with Margaret's hand clasped in his own 
 — while with the other she held the still un- 
 opened volume, carefully marked at their leaving 
 off, which, poor girl, she was very little likely 
 otherwise to have remembered, — the door was 
 opened by Harman less gingerly than usual, to 
 announce " Sir Claude and Mr. Fanshawe." 
 
 A hurried business it was for Margaret to 
 disengage her hand, and lay aside " The 
 Triumphs of Temper" in time to welcome 
 them with decorum. So completely, indeed,
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 195 
 
 was she startled, that Herbert Fanshawe, pre- 
 suming on the former graciousness of the Dean, 
 took on himself the presentation of his father, 
 as " an old Eton friend of Dr. Mordaunt, most 
 anxious to have the honour of renewing his 
 acquaintance after a lapse of five-and-thirty 
 years." 
 
 As thorou2:hlv " Ivins: Fanshawe " as when 
 they trap-balled together aforetime in the play- 
 ing-fields, Sir Claude stepped briskly up to 
 the infirm man ; pressed his hand with plausible 
 unction ; and asked more questions in a breath, 
 than the Dean was in the habit of answering in 
 a week. Any one might have supposed not 
 
 only that the K.C.B. had driven to R , 
 
 ten miles out of his way on his road to town, 
 solelv for the pleasure of an interview with its 
 popular Dean ; but that, for years past. Sir 
 Claude had entertained no dearer wish than to 
 re-cement their broken intimacy. For he was 
 one of those worst of hypocrites who assume 
 at will a truly na'if honhommie ; — with a 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 semblance of warmth capable of ripening green 
 grapes on a northern wall. — Overpowered by 
 his ardour, the Dean felt ashamed that he 
 should have judged him so severely in boyhood, 
 and so completely forgotten him ever since. 
 
 His son, meanwhile, profited by the reminis- 
 cences they were mutually recalling of Surly 
 Hall and Brocas meadows, and " the Montem 
 when Harberton was Captain," to whisper in 
 the ear of Margaret, a faint echo of all he 
 had been hourly pouring into it before they 
 parted at Dursley. He inquired anxiously when 
 she was again likely to visit the Hargreaves ; 
 and whether, if he were able to get away from 
 Paris for a week during the carnival fwhen his 
 father would be too much engaged to miss 
 him) there would be any chance of his being 
 welcome at R ? 
 
 He spoke of the misery of leaving England, 
 as though a journey to Paris were an Arctic 
 expedition ; and of himself as the most wretched 
 of victims, in being pledged to accompany Sir
 
 THE dean's daughter. 197 
 
 Claude, when his whole soul would remain 
 riveted at R . He called her " dear Marga- 
 ret." Yes ! in the faintest and tenderest of whis- 
 pers, with tears brimming in his eyes, he ven- 
 tured to call her Margaret, " his Margaret," He 
 said in short every thing usually said by young 
 gentlemen at liberty to be desperately in love ; 
 but not quite at liberty to make an offer of their 
 hand. 
 
 What Sir Claude might be offering at that 
 moment to the Dean, it would have been 
 difficult to conjecture— so propitiating were 
 his smiles — so flattering his words. It might 
 be a son-in-law — it might be a mitre ! — For 
 he expressed both wonder and indignation at 
 finding that Lord Mildenhall's interest had 
 carried his old school-fellow no higher up the 
 ladder of preferment than a " paltry Deanery ;" 
 and was appeased only on hearing that the 
 Cain of the House of Mordaunt was in most 
 precarious health ; ha\dng his peace to .make
 
 198 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 with a higher Power than the First Lord of the 
 Treasury. 
 
 Having ascertained that his quondam cricket- 
 mate never stirred from home, Sir Claude 
 invited him strenuously to pay him a visit in 
 Spring Gardens ; and was just beginning to 
 compliment him on the possession of a daughter 
 whose beauty was worthy to produce the siege 
 of a modern Troy, in a tone loud enough 
 to bring blushes to the cheek of Margaret and 
 cause those of her companion to wax paler 
 than usual, when, lo ! once more — a rare 
 occurrence twice within one day — the door 
 of the library was thrown open for the an- 
 nouncement of visitors ; and in cackled Mrs. 
 and Miss Pleydell; like a couple of Shanghai 
 fowls at a poultry show. 
 
 At all times garrulous about nothing, they 
 came prepared to relate to the Dean the inci- 
 dents of their six weeks' pleasuring ; with all 
 the circumstantiality of two foolish vulgar
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 199 
 
 women, accustomed to find their vapid anec- 
 dotes acceptable to a sedentary invalid Devoid 
 of tact to perceive that their tattle was impor- 
 tunate in presence of strangers, Mrs. Pleydell 
 monopolised the Dean, and her niece his 
 daughter, with an outbreak of volubility such as 
 distanced even that of Sir Claude Fanshawe. 
 
 On the entrance of these untimely visitors, 
 the K.C.B. prepared himself to be affable ; for 
 had he found a bison seated by the fireside of 
 Lord Mildenhall's brother, he would have for- 
 borne with the beast, and inquired kindly after 
 its health. But when Mrs. Pleydell (after 
 playing over again all the rubbers at whist 
 
 she' had won or lost since she quitted R , 
 
 and discussing certain miraculous cures she had 
 seen effected by cod-liver oil, interlarding her 
 narrative with the text and argument of the 
 
 Bishop of R 's last visitation sermon), turned 
 
 towards Herbert Fanshawe to Inquire when 
 thev were to receive wedding favours for his 
 marriaofe with their sweet young friend, Emma
 
 200 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Hargreave, his patience ran short. He deniecj 
 the imputation as angrily as if his son had 
 been destined to a Cardinal's hat. 
 
 " I understood that my good friend, Lady 
 Hargreave was not quite satisfied with the 
 match," retorted the Archdeacon's lady. " For 
 Lady Hargreave, bless her silly heart, has 
 always had a hankering after titles. She would 
 not have disliked for a son-in-law the son of 
 our friend here, the Dean ; merely because her 
 daughter would be the Honourable Mrs. Mor- 
 daunt. But you must not be downhearted. 
 She'll come round in time. After all, what 
 matters how people's letters are addressed, or in 
 what order they walk out of a room ; and, 
 except in such matters, what difference, pray, 
 betwixt the Honourable Mrs. Mordaunt and 
 plain Mrs. Fanshawe?" — 
 
 It was poor consolation to Margaret, whose 
 cheeks were dyed with crimson by this unlady- 
 like loquacity, that the countenance of Herbert 
 Fanshawe implied how much he pitied her for
 
 THE dean's daughter. 201 
 
 being condemned to associate with such a 
 Vandal, — 
 
 Sir Claude, foreseeing no end to her visit, 
 and apprehensive that she might bring her 
 tomahawk to bear upon himself, rose to take 
 leave. And as the door closed upon the depart- 
 ing guests, Margaret would fain have exclaimed 
 with the despairing Juliet — 
 
 Farewell ! Heaven knows when we may meet again ! 
 
 Her day for despair, however, was over. She 
 repined no longer. She became active — she 
 became cheerful. She ceased to fret that her 
 brother had thrown his surplice aux orties ; or 
 to perceive that her father was wasting away. 
 Nay, before a week was over, she had not only 
 forgiven, but was almost beginning to feel an 
 interest in the Pleydells ; as having been present 
 at that memorable interview which enriched her 
 with the certainty of being beloved. 
 
 The days might now be as dark as they 
 pleased ; the heart of Margaret w^as bright with
 
 202 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 excess of light. She read Hay ley with as con- 
 tented an intonation as though it had been 
 Wordsworth ; and Caliban might have brought 
 her " firing at requiring," and she would not 
 have perceived that pine logs replaced sea-coal. 
 All which must suffice as evidence that Mar- 
 garet Mordaunt was decidedly in love. 
 
 Had it been otherwise, she could not have 
 failed to notice how often her father called for 
 his spectacles, and put them on to examine certain 
 lengthy documents w^hich reached him per post, 
 the corners whereof were bound together with 
 green galloon, and the edges of the paper jagged 
 and business-like: — indicative of those concen- 
 trated essences of human right and human wrong, 
 called legal documents. She must have seen 
 that his face was growing care-crazed ; that he 
 ate his gruel without relish, and trifled with the 
 spoon as with a tooth-pick. Though aware that 
 the Hargreaves were absent from Dursley on a 
 tour of visits, he more than once asked his 
 daughter, in an absent way, why they never came
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 203 
 
 to call upon her ; and once, when Mrs. Pleydell 
 remarked in his presence upon the complimentary 
 flourishes of Sir Claude Fanshawe as savourins- 
 
 o 
 
 of the foreign diplomat rather than the EngUsh 
 gentleman, the Dean, usually so reserved and 
 forbearing, exclaimed, as if inadvertently, " Ay ! 
 the same artful impostor as ever. — Plummet 
 could never sound the depths of ' lying Fan- 
 shawe.' " 
 
 Had not his mind been thoroughly unhinged, 
 he would not have let slip expressions so censo- 
 rious. 
 
 But a season was now at hand when, by uni- 
 versal consent of Christendom, w^orldly cares 
 are annually set aside for the celebration of the 
 great festival of the year. Christmas, vouch- 
 safed as a Divine endowment, like the Jewish 
 Sabbath to the pristine hewers of wood and 
 drawers of water, lest perpetual contest with the 
 briars and flints of this world should prove too 
 harassing, was coming with its white banner of 
 peace and good will uplifted in the gloomy sky ;
 
 204 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 to bring back the absent, soften the surly, and 
 reunite disjointed bonds of family union. 
 
 The town of R , as became its collegiate 
 
 character, was uniformly prompt and lively in its 
 Chritmas demonstrations. The cathedral bells 
 began to ring, long before the bells of less quali- 
 fied steeples; and by St. Thomas's day, whole 
 groves of holly and laurustinus made their appear- 
 ance in the market-place. As in most cathedral 
 towns, a variety of public doles were impending. 
 Dame Bridget this, and Dame Mildred that, had 
 bequeathed scores of silver groats and rations of 
 manchet bread and strong beer, to hundreds of 
 old men and women ; while Sir Mamaduke 
 Maultravers, knight of the shire in King Ste- 
 phen's time, had given bolls of meal and bushels 
 of malt to fifty Christian souls, to pray for the 
 repose of his own at the festival of our Lord. 
 
 But besides these moss-grown benefactions, to 
 quicken the languid circulation of the ragged 
 purlieus of the city, beeves and beer were liberally 
 bestowed by the sitting members; and coals
 
 THE dean's daughter. 205 
 
 and blankets sternly inflicted, with a suitable 
 admonition, by the Bishop's lady. Sir Thomas 
 Hargreave too, since he became a landed propri- 
 etor within the liberties of R , had judged it 
 
 becoming his income and his portliness to 
 patronize the poor, during the season of universal 
 philanthropy ; so that the same cart which con- 
 veyed from Dursley Park a buck to the corpo- 
 ration, and a leash of pheasants to the Dean, 
 took over as many fat sheep for distribution, as 
 the bailiff considered due to his master's standing 
 in the county. 
 
 No wonder therefore that the bells chimed 
 merrily ; and while the very beggars grew in- 
 different to the holes in their shoes, because 
 donations of worsted stockings were impending, 
 the rich were, in their turn, preparing to make 
 merry. Real Twelfth cakes, variegated as with 
 encaustic tiles, superseded in the confectioners' 
 window, those fictitious moulds of jelly in 
 yellow glass, or pates de Perigord in Wedge- 
 wood-ware containing, like Gratiano's dis-
 
 206 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 course, an infinite deal of nothing. Little 
 boys in comforters, and little girls in beaver 
 bonnets, fondly twitched by the hand along 
 the pavement by shopping parents, announced 
 that the holidays had begun ; and the plate 
 glass windows of Priggins and Bradyll, the 
 
 grand haberdashers and drapers of R , 
 
 whose mahogany counters and unparallelled 
 sacrifices were worthy of Oxford Street or the 
 Gazette, exhibited, instead of festoons of gauzy 
 kerchiefs and filmy ribbons, a display of furs 
 worthy of a bazaar at Astrakan. 
 
 The good Dean appeared to yield mecha- 
 nically to the pressure from without. He 
 listened without a murmur to Mrs. Pley dell's 
 annual recapitulation of the statistics of the 
 Dorcas Society, over which she presided, and 
 to which he largely subscribed ; the Branch 
 Coal Society ; the Cottage Scripture-reading 
 Society ; the An ti- Chimney-Sweepers' Asso- 
 ciation, and divers others of the humanity 
 salves and elixirs, whereby the orthodox oi
 
 THE dean's daughter. 207 
 
 R affected to heal the wounds inflicted 
 
 by their intolerance. 
 
 One day, after undergoing this penance till 
 the words " grateful recipients of this judicious 
 Charity," seemed to ring in his ears almost 
 louder than the chimes of St. Rennet's, Margaret 
 was injudicious enough to follow up the alms- 
 hunt, after Mrs. Pleydell and her niece had 
 bustled their circulars into their muffs, and 
 themselves out of the room, by a petition in 
 favour of one of nurse Hatley's ever-craving 
 offspring. 
 
 " Isaac Hatley writes me word, dear papa," 
 said she, " that he is to sail for Australia the 
 end of January — " 
 
 "And a very good riddance, my dear, both 
 for us and for his family." 
 
 *•' But that his going depends on being able 
 to make him up five-and-thirty pounds for 
 passage money and outfit," continued Margaret. 
 " I am sorry to say, I have only five-and-twenty 
 left. But if you would be so very good as
 
 208 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 to advance me the other ten, I will repay it 
 when we receive our arrears from Lady Milicent, 
 which Williams assures me cannot fail to be 
 within six weeks." 
 
 An involuntary gesture of impatience be- 
 trayed the incredulity of the Dean. He had 
 previously shrugged his shoulders at her martyr- 
 dom to the encroachments of the Hatleys. He 
 might have been even provoked so far as some 
 peevish remark, had not his eye been caught 
 by the sweet face of his daughter: — her lips 
 apart while waiting his reply, and her soft gray 
 eyes looking into his ; as confident of favourable 
 interpretation as his dear Mary's, in their hap- 
 piest days of attachment. 
 
 To rebuke such a daughter would have been 
 difficult ; to deny her, was impossible. He was 
 more incfined to be angry with himself for his 
 first hasty moment of displeasure. His desk 
 was open in a moment, and a cheque written ; 
 not for the ten pounds demanded, but the whole 
 five-and-thirty extorted by Isaac Hatley, ,
 
 THE dean's daughter. 209 
 
 " We must learn, dearest child, to be a 
 little more chary of these fatal letters, 
 L. S. D.," said the Dean, with a faint smile, 
 as he placed in Margaret's hands the draft 
 which was far more gratefully welcomed than 
 if it had been a gift to herself. Some- 
 thing unusual — something constrained — in 
 the tone of his voice, caused her, however, 
 to pause in folding up the paper, which 
 she purposed to enclose by the post to her 
 protege. 
 
 " In that case, dearest father, let me 
 return this cheque to you," said she, with 
 some emotion. " It was only because I 
 heard Mrs. Pleydell parading your donations, 
 and fancied you must just now be very, very 
 rich, that I trespassed so largely on your 
 purse." 
 
 " No, my child, keep it," said he. " I 
 can afford you this little sum without incon- 
 venience. It was rather to the future I 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 alluded, Margaret. To secure ourselves 
 against being poor, we must learn, my little 
 girl, to be prudent. Your brother's mar- 
 riage will be a heavy pull upon us all." 
 
 " My brother^ s marriage ?" exclaimed 
 Margaret, in utter amazement ; for so great 
 a stranger was Reginald, in his natural 
 home, that, at the name of brother, the idea 
 of Willy alone presented itself. " I heard 
 from him this morning. He alluded to 
 nothing of the kind." 
 
 " It is only three weeks since he made 
 the announcement to myself,'* replied her 
 father. Nay, I doubt whether he would 
 have thought it necessary to apply for my 
 consent at all, had not my assistance in 
 money-matters been wanting. Reginald mar- 
 ries his cousin, Anne Mordaunt ; as everyone 
 has long foreseen, and as her parents appear 
 to have long intended." 
 
 " But so suddenly ! And without a line
 
 THE dean's daughter. 211 
 
 of intimation to any of us !" cried Margaret, 
 a little relieved. 
 
 " My brother Mildenhall's precarious 
 health has been made the plea for hastening 
 the ceremony," said the Dean. " It is cer- 
 tainly expedient, since Reginald is to remain 
 with them on the continent, that the marriage 
 should be solemnized at once." 
 
 "Anne Mordaunt is older than my 
 brother?" said Margaret, anxiously. 
 
 " By a year or two. I have not seen my 
 niece since she grew up. She was a cold, 
 silent child; too much like her mother for 
 my taste. Lady Mildenhall is one of the 
 most reserved, calculating women I ever met 
 with." 
 
 Margaret had now re-seated herself, and 
 replaced the cheque upon the desk. 
 
 " And does William know of this match ?" 
 she inquired. 
 
 " Most likely not. Reginald was always 
 
 p 2
 
 212 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 cool and distant with his brother. Reginald 
 has ever abided on that side of the house 
 where the sun shone. He preferred Milden- 
 hall Abbey to Bassingdon Parsonage. Even 
 when here, he always appears to look dow^n 
 upon us. He does not, however, feel superior 
 to drinking out of our scanty cruise, and 
 stoops to share our crust !" added the Dean, 
 more bitterly than could have been expected 
 of his gentle nature. 
 
 ** But may I not write and apprise Willy 
 of an event so important to us all ?" 
 
 " He will be here in a few days, Margaret. 
 Time enough then to inform him. The 
 settlements were signed by me while you were 
 staying at Dursley. They cannot have 
 reached Italy. The ceremony cannot yet be 
 solemnized." 
 
 " I should have imagined that Reginald 
 would desire the company of his only brother 
 on an occasion so important," said Mar-
 
 THE dean's daughter. 213 
 
 garet, musingly. " His indifference towards 
 his family does not promise well for Anne 
 Mordaunt" 
 
 "If my son's indifference were all we 
 had to complain of!" ejaculated the Dean. 
 " But let us not dwell upon the subject, 
 my own Margaret. A thousand circum- 
 stances connected with this match (a match 
 which, Mrs. Pleydell informs me, the world 
 considers unexceptionable !) have, I confess, 
 wounded me to the soul !" 
 
 " And you never breathed a word to me 
 on the subject, dearest father. While ha- 
 rassed by this business, you have allowed 
 me to molest you about endless frivolous 
 interests ! — " 
 
 " My little Margaret must not become 
 careworn and wrinkled before her time 1" 
 said the Dean, again endeavouring to smile, 
 as he accepted the dutiful kiss imprinted 
 by his daughter upon his brow. " Time
 
 214 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 enough to think and talk of it all when 
 Willy arrives to teach us, with his cheerful 
 spirits, to make the best of our troubles. 
 And now, go and dress for dinner, Margaret. 
 For the first bell has rung; and Harman 
 grumbles sadly if the soup is kept wait- 
 ing."
 
 THE dean's daughter. 215 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I did send for thee 
 Tliat Talbot's name might be in thee reviv'd, 
 ^lien sapless age and weak unable limbs 
 Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 It was a sad drawback upon Mar- 
 garet's delight, when William's cheery voice 
 was heard in the hall, and William's manly 
 step on the stair, that vexations of divers 
 kinds were throbbing in her heart when 
 pressed to his after so long an absence. The 
 Ch. Ch. atmosphere which still surrounded
 
 216 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 him on his arrival, would doubtless evaporate, 
 the moment she disclosed her dismal story. 
 
 But to her surprise — perhaps to her relief 
 — Willy would not hear of being miserable. 
 
 She told her worst, and he was nearly as 
 joyous as ever ! 
 
 "You amaze me, my pet,'* cried he, 
 " to have expected kinder dealing from 
 Regy ! I gave him up two years ago — 
 gave him up, I mean, as more than a 
 tolerably gentlemanly acquaintance. We 
 shake hands when we meet, and talk plau- 
 sibly about the weather. But ever since he 
 took to doing the heir-presumptive of Mil- 
 denhall Abbey, he ceased to be a brother of 
 mine." 
 
 " Oh ! Willy, Willy !" 
 
 "Nay, I believe he has as completely 
 forgotten as 1 have, that we ever wore patched 
 jackets together at Bassingdon Parsonage. 
 Regy is now such a painfully well-dressed.
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 217 
 
 well-mannered young gentleman, that, as 
 the railway queen said of her king, ^ he's 
 like a pat of butter on a hot plate — one 
 never knows where to have him.' " 
 
 "Oh! Willy, Willy !" — again remon- 
 strated Margaret. And in order, if possible, 
 to render him a moment serious, she slightly 
 alluded to her father's intimation of pecuniary 
 distress. 
 
 William Mordaunt did listen then. For 
 a moment, his cheerful face was over- 
 clouded. But the mist cleared off again as 
 quickly. 
 
 "My dear Meg," cried he, encircling 
 his sister's waist with his arm, and looking 
 fondly into her tearful eyes, " how can you 
 be so absurdly cast down because my 
 father, nettled by Regy's contemptuous usage, 
 is labouring under a fit of dyspepsia ! The 
 old fellow is a little out of sorts; thafs 
 all. I dare say Harman has been bullying
 
 218 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 him; or Mrs. Graves has perhaps been 
 making his gruel too thick. — But in 
 difRculties ? — Impossible ! — My father has a 
 splendid income; and does not spend a 
 third of it !" 
 
 " He makes us large allowances, Willy." 
 " Granted. Thirteen hundred a-year, 
 between the three ; and Regy's wages, T 
 suppose, will now be raised. Not a bad 
 dodge, eh ! Margaret, to double one's 
 income by so slight a ceremony as matri- 
 mony. But even if the Mildenhalls have 
 exacted a thousand a-year, the Dean of 
 
 R must still have elbow-room to keep 
 
 up the ball." 
 
 *' I am glad you think so ; for you 
 understand money-matters better than I do. 
 But my father has always been so liberal — 
 so charitable ; and Harman and Mrs. Graves 
 are such cormorants, that I cannot help 
 fearing he is really a Httle embarrassed. When
 
 THE dean's daughter. 219 
 
 he talked to me about it on Thursday, that 
 is, when I made him talk about it, his 
 hand was as cold as marble." 
 
 " Peoples' hands are usually as cold as 
 marble when made to talk about things 
 they dislike. My father above all ; for he is 
 naturally a reserved man. My father hates 
 to discuss business of any kind. I have 
 seen him hesitate about broaching a money 
 question, as I do about pulling the string 
 of a shower-bath. He used to take a 
 third glass of claret, (in defiance of 
 Harman and a fit of the gout), when, 
 on the eve of our departure for College, 
 it became necessary to vote the sup- 
 plies." 
 
 "May you prove in the right," said 
 Margaret, with a heavy sigh; for at that 
 moment, it struck her that Willy had in- 
 herited some portion of their father's anti- 
 pathy to disagreeable discussions. " But I
 
 220 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 still think something serious is preying on 
 his mind." 
 
 " You exaggerate, Meg, you really exag- 
 gerate, as the Gascon said to the execu- 
 tioner, who told him he was condemned 
 to be hanged instead of broken on the wheel. 
 When my father is undergoing a nervous 
 fit, anything and everything preys upon his 
 mind: and, like the feather and the dump 
 in an exhausted receiver, all things have 
 equal weight with him. The buzzing moth 
 torments him as much as the gnawing 
 worm. Ask Harman, and he will satisfy 
 you that a few spoonfuls of Gregory's mix- 
 ture will set the disorganised machine to 
 rights. And now let us talk about some- 
 thing else, my dear child ; and be Christ- 
 massy and comfortable. Tell me about 
 
 R and its whist tables ? — Are the 
 
 Pleydells plotting an evening entertainment 
 against the peace of the place ?" —
 
 THE dean's daughter. 221 
 
 " I have seen little of them since they 
 returned from Scarborough.'* 
 
 " True. I forgot that you have been 
 staying at Dursley, and grown fine and 
 fastidious. You have probably learned to 
 call the Pleydells et hoc ' those people of 
 R !' " 
 
 " On the contrary, I learnt nothing at 
 Dursley but to ride restive horses and 
 dance the Mazurka," replied Margaret, en- 
 deavouring to meet his livelier mood. 
 
 ''Under the tuition of my friend, Herbert 
 Fanshawe ; — eh ! Margaret ?" 
 
 Her colour rose vividly as he spoke. 
 
 " Come, come ! Don't look guiltier than 
 I hope, the occasion needs," resumed William, 
 carelessly. — "The worst I heard about 
 you was that Herbert Fanshawe and the 
 Hargreave girls have been inducting you 
 into the mysteries of Belgravianism ; and 
 that you are not only up to riding Dun Patty,
 
 222 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 
 
 with a snaffle, but to whispering in conser- 
 vatories, and flirting over albums, like the 
 best-taught Seraphina going ! — " 
 
 " And who has been writing all this non- 
 sense to you ?" 
 
 " Know me better, sweetest sister, than 
 to accuse me of correspondance with 
 any one but my tailor ! — I have not read 
 or written a letter for ages, except to 
 and from your little ladyship — duns and 
 lawyers' letters excepted. — No, Meg ! the 
 evil reported of you was told by word of 
 mouth. Dick Hargreave, who has been 
 in town with me for the last two days, 
 informed me (and his hand, too, Margaret, 
 was cold when he related the shocking 
 fact) that you had cut out his sister Emma 
 with our friend Herbert, and were both going 
 it like an express train !" — 
 
 " And you believed all this ?" 
 
 "I believed that you had been snubbing
 
 THE dean's daughter. 223 
 
 my friend Dick ; who appears, Margaret, to 
 love you ' not wisely but too well.' " 
 
 "About as well as you love Esther 
 Pleydell ! — During my whole stay at Dursley, 
 we did not exchange ten words ! — " 
 
 " Then it must have been your own fault, 
 Meg ; for he preached about you till I 
 began to long for the close of the sermon. 
 Dick's powers of prosing are of the first 
 quality. — He will one day make a model 
 county-member." — 
 
 " At Dursley, Mr. Hargreave seldom opens 
 his lips. At Dursley, he is a mere kill- 
 
 joy." 
 
 '* Because the only rational animal on 
 the estate ! His family weigh upon him 
 like lead ; and then wonder he has not 
 spirits to dance on the tight-rope. Ha ! 
 those dear old bells ! with their memories 
 of snap-dragon, weak negus, and lady's 
 fingers ; and Esther Pleydell drawing lots
 
 224 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 for the last life at commerce. — How young 
 it makes one, Margaret, to hear them 
 again !" — 
 
 "Are you already old enough to want 
 such a reminder?" said his sister, gaily. 
 
 " Older, by ten centuries, than when we 
 parted," was his careless retort ; " as old, 
 within a hundred years or so, as that prince 
 of grey-beards, my brother Reginald." 
 
 " At all events, you have shown little 
 haste to hear our poor bells : since you 
 have been idling in town these two days." 
 
 " Who told you I had been idling ? I wish 
 the Lord Chancellor may ever work so hard ! I 
 promise you Hargreave and I not only heard 
 the chimes at midnight, but looked ten 
 o'clock in the morning in the face, as well 
 as the fogs of Gray's Inn would allow." 
 
 " Dearest Willy, what can have taken you 
 and Mr. Hargreave, together, to Gray's Inn !" 
 
 "To make our wills, of course. No
 
 THE dean's daughter. 225 
 
 matter, Meg! The business that caused 
 us to hunt in couples, so early, was of a 
 nature to prove to me that Dick Hargreave 
 is a friend worth scores of Fanshawes, or 
 Reginald Mordaunts. I was going to say 
 that Dick was the man for my monev ; 
 perhaps, I ought to admit that I am the 
 man for his. If it were not for that family 
 of his, I would sooner see you manied to 
 Dick Hargreave than to the finest gentleman 
 of my acquaintance." 
 
 An involuntary expression of repugnance 
 overspread the delicate features of Miss 
 Mordaimt. That sullen, silent, uncourteous 
 being, who had all but sent her to Coventry ; 
 who walked every morning without apology, 
 into his sister's morning-room to perfume 
 it with his leather shooting-leggings ; and 
 who regularly went to sleep of an evening, 
 when Mendelsohn or Beethoven, or the 
 vague melodies of Schubert, resounded in 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 the music-room : — a man without a soul, 
 and in a wide-wake ; — a man who knew not 
 French, but was well-up in the Manual of 
 the Art of Draining. — 
 
 For a time, indignation kept her silent. 
 Nor was she in much haste to renew a 
 tete-a-tete with the reckless brother, who 
 might again attempt to break a lance with 
 her in the cause of Dick Hargreave; or 
 hazard allusions to Herbert Fanshawe, which 
 she scarcely knew how to parry. 
 
 Instead, meanwhile, of dwelling on her 
 father's grievances, she resigned herself to 
 be carried forward by the rippling current 
 of her brother's gaiety. Whenever or where- 
 ver, a ray of sunshine appeared, it was sure 
 to fall on William ; and the Dean, when he 
 cut down the lime-tree because it gave shelter 
 to song-birds and quivered in the summer- 
 breeze, little anticipated that he should be 
 one day afflicted with a son, whose carol
 
 THE dean's daughter. 227 
 
 was perpetually audible, even through his 
 baized doors. 
 
 Before William had been many days es- 
 tablished at R , the Hargreaves made 
 
 their appearance with an earnest renewal of 
 invitations. Though it had been a blow to 
 the young ladies to discover that he pos- 
 sessed a surreptitious elder brother — a 
 brother not only robust of health, but on 
 the eve of marrying to perpetuate a super- 
 fluous branch, and shut out their views of 
 the Mildenhall coronet, — they appreciated the 
 value of Willy Mordaunt as a good-looking 
 partner, and well-bred acquaintance. Besides 
 they had been commanded by their peremp- 
 tory father to cultivate the Mordaunt family, 
 and were fain to obey. For Sir Thomas was 
 absolute. And as the discriminating Haw- 
 thorne observes : " there is no greater bug- 
 bear than a strong willed relative in the 
 circle of his own connections." 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 The Mordaunts, however, were just then 
 as hard to cultivate as Bagshot, or any 
 other Heath. The brother and sister, severally 
 uneasy, relied on each other's company for 
 support, that each might be the better able 
 to cheer the poor old Dean. Neither of them 
 would hear of leaving him, even for a day. 
 Home is doubly home at Christmas-tide ; 
 and to cherish even its tribulations appears 
 a duty. Sir Thomas Hargreave's pheasants 
 might have been sparrows, for any hold 
 they obtained over William and his Purdeys. 
 
 It was in vain the two girls boasted to 
 Margaret of the new and far pleasanter party 
 about to assemble under their roof; for it is 
 observable, in houses like theirs, that a per- 
 petual change of slides in the magic-lantern 
 is considered essential to its brilliancy ; 
 whereas in old mansions, the circle of 
 friends and guests is as permanent as the 
 rookery. They announced theatricals and
 
 THE dean's daughter. 229 
 
 charades, and talked of a three pommelled 
 saddle made by Whippy for Dun Patty, under 
 their brother Richard's direction. But Mar- 
 garet's ambitions about horsemanship were 
 just then limited to the Bois de Boulogne ; 
 and as to the coverts of Dursley, as far 
 as she was concerned, they would have been 
 drawn a blank. 
 
 The Dean sat chafing his thin shinbone 
 before the fire without a word, during the 
 explosion of Lady Hargreave's hospitality. 
 In silence he heard her assure his daughter 
 how charmed she would be with the bed- 
 room of the western gallery, which had been 
 refurnished since she left them ; and how 
 her daughters' picture by Thorburn had 
 arrived from town, and was waiting to be 
 hung up till she had chosen the place. 
 
 He said nothing either to prevent or to 
 promote the purposed visit. But when it 
 had been firmly declined, and the Hargreave
 
 230 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 tribe had rustled their voluminous skirts out 
 of the room, and the door was closed, and 
 all things restored to the stillness he so 
 dearly prized, the Dean pressed Margaret's 
 hand to his lips, and gently thanked his 
 son for his kindness in remaining with 
 him. 
 
 There was something inexpressibly touch- 
 ing in the humihty of his paternal grati- 
 tude. 
 
 " I don't think the old fellow is quite well ; 
 his heart is so softened !" observed Willy to 
 his sister, winking away a rising tear, when, 
 soon afterwards, they found themselves 
 alone. 
 
 Meanwhile, Paris — that butterfly which, 
 in defiance of crysalis transformation, flutters 
 its gaudy wings in winter time more gaily 
 than at midsummer, — was tuning up the 
 fiddles of thousands of orchestras, develop- 
 ing the interest of hundreds of new
 
 THE dean's daughter. 231 
 
 dramas, and glittering in myriads of artistic 
 inventions to tempt the generosity of the 
 rich, the envy of the poor, and tickle into 
 ecstasy those five poor senses vouchsafed us 
 for milder exercise. 
 
 The jour de Van was come and gone, with 
 its bonbons and etrennes ; an epidemic of 
 pound-foolishness condemning the remaining 
 twelve months to penny- wisdom. That effer- 
 vescence of excitement which nothing but 
 the spontaneous combustion of a continental 
 crowd ever creates, was filling the theatres, 
 the ball-rooms, the very streets, with smiling 
 faces and merry voices whose gaiety is as 
 the crackHng of thorns. 
 
 Diplomatic f^tes abounded. The Tuileries 
 shone nightly. Drama, song, dance, orgie, 
 succeeded each other like tempting courses 
 at the banquet of life. The Fanshawes, who 
 were the very people to sup full of these 
 highly-spiced viands, luxuriated in the
 
 232 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 pungent atmosphere of Paris life, as re- 
 vived wireworms dance merrily in vitriol. 
 The levity of Parisian wit, with its epi- 
 grammatic repartees, was the diapason 
 attuned for their ears ; the malicious ca- 
 ricature or bitter sketch, the tit-bits meet 
 their eyes. The son, an accomplished 
 mimic, was able to enliven the histrionic 
 suppers whose champagne is rendered pi- 
 quant by professional spites, with imitations 
 of our eminent performers, whether on the 
 stage of the Theatres Royal, or of St. 
 Stephens. He sang too wdth all the feeling 
 in which he was deficient ; and, thanks to 
 these diversified accomplishments, obtained 
 the sort of succes which sensible men dis- 
 dain, and moral men abominate ; but which 
 an acolyte of fashion would purchase with 
 his perdition. 
 
 Sir Claude looked on with a tolerant 
 smile, which he mistook for a smile of
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 233 
 
 superiority. When any of his English friends 
 deplored the dissipated habits of his son, 
 he answered that " he had been young him- 
 self, and that il faut que la jeunesse se 
 passe." But to the French, he admitted 
 his conviction that les coulisses and les 
 petits soupers, masked balls and public 
 gardens, constitute the academic por- 
 tico of a young man destined for public 
 life. 
 
 " // faut passer par la, mon cher .'" he 
 observed to the Austrian secretary of legation, 
 a roue, whose premature decrepitude aiforded 
 the best commentary upon the text. " Avant 
 d^etre homme politique, il faut devenir 
 rhomme blase." 
 
 The K.C.B. himself, was as much at 
 home on the pave of Paris as Rob Roy on 
 his native heath. Whenever in England, 
 he found himself in danger of becoming an 
 honest man, which he called growing prosy.
 
 234 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 back he went to the land of double- 
 meanings ; and, Antseus-like, had only to 
 touch the asphalte of the Boulevards with 
 his varnished boot, to renew his strength 
 as a political intrigant. Whatever time 
 hung upon his hands, he expended in that 
 focus of finesse, where private life is a plot, 
 and conspiracy the normal state of society. 
 
 In England, official men talk chiefly of 
 Melton or Newmarket, ballet-dancers or 
 cooks. Except on the day of publication of 
 a new Edinburgh or Quarterly, or a crack 
 pamphlet, or of the opening of the Session, or 
 the downfal of a ministry, public measures 
 are seldom canvassed among those who have 
 enough to do in manufacturing them. The 
 Sir Claude Fanshawes, who, like Shake- 
 spear's Bezonian (query Bisognon ?) must 
 " speak or die," come to be voted bores, 
 and soon find their house counted out. 
 
 But in Paris, where conversation is one
 
 THE dean's daughter. 235 
 
 of the staple commodities of life, he found 
 himself listened to, a charge de revanche, 
 whenever he chose to pretend to the secret 
 information, rarely, if ever, obtained by those 
 by whom it is likely to be promulgated. 
 
 As " an Amurath, an Amurath succeeds," 
 Sir Claude had hoped to find, in his brilliant 
 son, an Hereditary Prince of Small Talk, who 
 would fetch and carry early intelligence, 
 correspond with attaches and editors, and 
 mouth in the ears of the nobodies the 
 nothings he had picked up among the some- 
 bodies. But, as yet, the handsome Herbert 
 remained superior to the dirty work of such 
 a vocation. He was " still climbing trees in 
 the Hesperides ;" still convinced that the Pre- 
 sence Chamber may be attained by the grand 
 staircase as easily as by the back stairs. 
 He felt qualified to carry the fortress of 
 life by a coup de main, rather than descend 
 to such petty strategy.
 
 236 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Herbert Fanshawe entertained personal 
 projects, on the other hand, which he deemed 
 it inexpedient to confide to the old diplomat 
 so apt to over varnish his mask, that no one 
 could mistake it for his face ; and, intense as 
 was his enjoyment of the hals masques of 
 the Carnival, with their soupers fins and 
 compromising breakfasts, he never lost sight 
 of the Christmas visit he had promised and 
 vowed to Margaret Mordaunt. January was 
 passing away; and, as yet, he had been 
 unable to obtain leave of absence from Sir 
 Claude, " to run over to England for a 
 week or two." But, though that great 
 parental authority had been the first to 
 suggest the advantage of an alliance with 
 the Dean's daughter, he saw safety in 
 delay. 
 
 " I had not thought you so young, my 
 boy, as to be enthralled by a pair of grey 
 eyes!" was Sir Claude's sneering reply, when
 
 THE dean's daughter. 237 
 
 Herbert solicited his passport, i. e., a credit 
 on his banker. 
 
 The Lovelace of the day was about to 
 retort, " enthralled by the irresistable charms 
 of sixty thousand pounds, with a slice of a 
 tolerable landed estate," according to his 
 father's previous suggestions. But he checked 
 himself. He remembered, perhaps, the story 
 of the wizard Michael Scott's finessing with 
 the devil ; and would fain have replied, some- 
 what after the fashion of that arch-master of 
 glamourye, — " What is that to thee ? Take 
 thy pen, Diabolus, and write an order upon 
 Drummond." — But he felt that his cause 
 would be better served by reminding his 
 father of the precarious condition of Lord 
 Mildenhall. 
 
 " At all events, wait the result," was the 
 cautious rejoinder. " When the Dean takes 
 possession of his fortune, and the lawsuit is 
 decided, time enough to come forward. I
 
 238 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 have watched the Law Reports in the 
 'Times/ and the Bournemouth Will Cause 
 has certainly not come on." 
 
 "But if the Mordaunts gain it, and the 
 Dean becomes a peer and a miUionnaire, 
 how many pretendants do you suppose will 
 struggle with me for the prize?" said Her- 
 bert, arranging his whiskers with a pocket- 
 comb. " First in the field, my dear father, 
 is an advantage with which I do not feel 
 myself qualified to dispense." 
 
 " You are grown wondrously modest of a 
 sudden !" — retorted Sir Claude. " Luckily, I 
 am at hand to prevent your committing 
 yourself. FU tell you what, my boy ! If I 
 had to begin life again, and found myself 
 what is called in love, — by Jove ! Fd cut out 
 the place as if bitten by a mad dog, and 
 cauterize the wound afterwards ; to secure 
 myself against any recurrence of a malady so 
 frightful and so fatal."
 
 THE dean's daughter. 239 
 
 Such was the influence against which 
 Margaret had to contend. Such was the 
 father of him for whom the prayers of the 
 pure and high-minded girl rose nightly to 
 Heaven, as fervent as those of a mother 
 praying for her ailing child. 
 
 But Herbert w^as as yet a seraph com- 
 pared with the corrupt old diplomat. 
 Herbert, if wicked, was weak in wickedness. 
 He was his own dupe as well as his father's. 
 The delay imposed upon him was vexatious ; 
 but he had not sufficient fixity of purpose to 
 rebel against the interdictions of Sir Claude. 
 A few days, moreover, served to reconcile 
 him to his fate. No place on earth like 
 Paris for obliterating resolutions, good or 
 bad. 
 
 Even when Barty Tomlinson made his 
 annual appearance at the Hotel Bristol, to 
 get up dinner anecdotes for the London 
 season, and secure invitations to the Em-
 
 240 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 bassy by informing his Excellency that his 
 cuisine was a failure, and her Excellency 
 that it was a slow thing to have a Spitz dog 
 for a pet, when pugs were the only animals 
 which Duff-le-magne considers worth the 
 attention of the dog-stealers, — even when 
 little Tomlinson informed him, while mono- 
 polizing the hearth-rug at the Cercle, that 
 though he had so scandalously thrown over 
 poor Emma Hargreave for the Dean's daugh- 
 ter, neither of them would be at all the worse 
 for it — Miss Hargreave having picked up 
 a case with an Irish peer, or Scotch bishop, 
 or railway contractor, or something or 
 other of that demi-semi-description ; while 
 Miss Mordaunt had thrown him over, in her 
 turn, for — he had forgotten wliom, — probably 
 the Master in Chancery to whom her Will 
 Cause was referred ; even then, though he 
 longed to lapidate the little gossip with his own 
 flashy waistcoat-studs, he scarcely repented
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 24 1 
 
 ha\dng adhered to the city where hearts are 
 so hard and entrees so tender. 
 
 The suppers of Eglantine, and breakfasts 
 of Guy de Choiseul, were worth a hundred 
 visits to the Deanery. Once caught up in 
 the whirlwind of dissipation, the every-day 
 world is lost sight of. Languid with 
 irregular hours and wild excesses, the over- 
 taxed instrument becomes out of tune ; and 
 there was more risk that Herbert Fanshawe 
 might wreak retribution on little Tomlinson 
 by one of those vitriolic retorts which burn 
 to the bone and must be slaked with blood- 
 spill, than distui'b himself by a precipitate 
 return to England to redeem an equivocal 
 pledge. 
 
 One morning, while breakfasting with Sir 
 Claude, at Tortoni's, on curried shrimps and 
 ailerons de dinde a la glace y his father, 
 unable to elicit more than monosyllables by 
 way of conversation, from one who, having 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 gone through the conflict of a champagne? 
 supper at four, found it difficult to break his 
 squeamish fast at noon, called for " Galig- 
 nani/' with his coffee, to aid his digestion. 
 And a very potent chasse-cafe it is, that 
 epitome of pungent condiments ! For if a 
 tesselated page, variegated with close-grained 
 polished fragments of " Times," " Post," 
 " Chronicle" and " Daily News," " Exami- 
 ner," " Spectator," and " Punch," fail to 
 produce a brilliant mosaic, where, in the 
 name of printer's ink, is entertainment to be 
 found?— 
 
 One by one, these dainty morsels of intelli- 
 gence or opinion, underwent their deglutition ; 
 with as much appetite as could be expected 
 of a chef who had assisted in the cooking of 
 the raw material of similar bills of fare. No 
 one knew better than Sir Claude, that the 
 " our long-founded and, we trust, not wholly 
 ?aninfluential opinion of the policy of the
 
 THE dean's daughter. 243 
 
 Porte," emanated, perhaps, from some lanky 
 lad, dipping his steel pen into a maiden ink 
 bottle, in an attic of the Seven Dials ; and 
 that the " Let the Treasury look to it. We 
 have the best authority for believing that the 
 division of Tuesday next must place an 
 extinguisher on the most incompetent ad- 
 ministration which ever did its feeble best to 
 undermine the foundations of our glorious 
 constitution," might be the froth of some 
 miss in her teens, bitten by a rabid editor. 
 But he was also w^iser than to despise these 
 atoms, — as susceptible of mischievous results 
 as grains of gunpowder ! but valued them as 
 tin vanes are valued — because demonstrating 
 the cuiTent of those tremendous breezes 
 called public opinion ; or as the dancing 
 motes wiiich serve to reveal the passage of 
 the sunbeam. 
 
 " Here is that foolish fellow, Timpkins, of 
 the "Pilot," attacking the Colonial Office 
 
 R 2
 
 mmmm 
 
 244 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 again, about the consulship at Ching-nang- 
 fo!" said Sir Claude, peevishly, addressing 
 his son, who was busy with his rince houche. 
 "He might just as well attempt to write 
 down the sparrow's nests out of the steeple 
 of St. Clement's ! — But, eh ! God bless my 
 soul !— What have we here? — ' On the 23rd 
 of January, aged 54, at the Deanery of 
 
 R , after a very few hours' illness, the 
 
 Honourable and Very Reverend Reginald 
 Hammond Mordaunt, Dean of R 1"
 
 THE dean's daughter. 245 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Parental love, my friend, has power o'er wisdom, 
 And as the charm which, like the falconer's lure. 
 Can bring from Heaven the highest soaring spirits. 
 So, when fam'd Prospero doffed his magic robe, 
 It was Miranda pluck' d it from his shoulders. 
 
 Before the reader is allowed to overhear 
 the ejaculations of wonder extorted from 
 the two Fanshawes, it may be as well to 
 recapitulate the incidents preceding this 
 grievous catastrophe. 
 
 The owl did not shriek, or the crickets
 
 246 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 cry, nor so much as a bird of evil omen 
 hover over the Deanery, to justify the 
 slightest augury of coming mischance. On 
 the contrary, soon after the arrival of 
 William Mordaunt from Oxford, the old 
 walls resounded with merriment. For as 
 the Dean, for unexplained motives, had 
 forborne to communicate to his son any 
 unpleasant impressions made on his mind 
 by Reginald's marriage, it seemed due both 
 to themselves and the Mildenhalls to treat 
 it as a festive occasion. No sooner, therefore, 
 was the event announced by the papers to 
 have taken place at the British Embassy at 
 Florence, than William insisted that the 
 establishment ought to be regaled. For a 
 marvel, mirth and song resounded in the 
 old cloisters; and untimely lights streamed 
 from the mullioned windows of the Deanery. 
 The old gentleman was undisguisedly 
 harassed by a concession he knew not how
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 247 
 
 to refuse ; and Margaret long afterwards 
 recalled to mind that, when the cheers 
 celebrating the health of the newly-married 
 couple, and the chorus to which more than 
 one bass voice of the choir of R im- 
 parted consistency, shook the rafters of 
 the old building, so as to reach even the 
 sitting-room where the family was assembled, 
 her father, instead of joining in the huzza 
 half-ironically raised by William, heaved a 
 profound sigh and '' looked in her face till 
 her heart w^as like to break." 
 
 Three days afterwards, late in the evening, 
 between tea-time and gruel-time, Harman, 
 who, engrossed at that hour by much 
 cribbage in the lower regions, never made 
 his appearance save to place the Dean's 
 bed-candle on a side-table, opened the door 
 mysteriously, and advanced on tiptoe toward 
 William : — " A gentleman wished to speak to 
 him on business."
 
 248 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 •^A gentleman wish to speak to me at 
 this hour, on business ?" exclaimed he. 
 " What can this mean ? — I am not aware of 
 having insulted anybody. — Who the deuce is 
 wanting to call me out ?" — 
 
 Harman now produced a card ; and the 
 Dean, shading his eyes with his hand, began 
 to examine what was going on in the room 
 more scrutinizingly than he usually permitted 
 himself to do by candlelight. 
 
 " ' Mr. Mathan ?' By Jove ! old Lazenby's 
 confidential clerk !" cried William, starting 
 up after a glance at the card. " He would 
 not come at this time of night except to 
 announce good news. Our suit is won. 
 Depend on it, Meg, our suit is won ! Put 
 candles into the dining-room, Harman, and 
 show Mr. Mathan in there," he continued, 
 on perceiving that his father had turned as 
 pale as ashes, — almost ghastly, — and was by 
 no means in a state to give audience to a
 
 THE dean's daughter. 249 
 
 comparative stranger. A moment afterwards, 
 Margaret found herself alone with the Dean ; 
 who was evidently so faint that, but for the 
 fear of mortifying him by marking her 
 perception of his overmuch solicitude for 
 the things of this w^orld, she would have 
 fetched him a glass of water. 
 
 " Margaret, my child 1" said he in a 
 hoarse and hollow^ voice, as soon as he could 
 command his utterance, " set not vour heart 
 upon success in this business. My mind 
 misgives me, Margaret. These Lazenbys 
 were from the first over-sanguine. Wraxley 
 had always a bad opinion of the business. 
 Be calm, Margaret, — be resigned !" 
 
 How much more need had the Dean 
 himself of being exhorted to composure ! 
 
 A silence of suspense ensued; during which, 
 the old clock might have been heard ticking 
 louder than it was ever heard to tick before. 
 Margaret held her breath to listen for her
 
 250 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 brother's returning footsteps. But it was 
 only because her father's whole senses seemed 
 concentrated in the interest of the impending 
 crisis. 
 
 At length, William calmly re-entered the 
 room ; so calmly, that his sister saw in a 
 moment all was lost ; even before she noticed 
 that his face was nearly as colourless as his 
 father's had been a few minutes before. 
 
 " I have to make these peoples' apology 
 to you, Sir, for disturbing you so late," said 
 William, as if he wanted patience to pronounce 
 their names. " But they were anxious we 
 should not first hear of our defeat through 
 to-morrow's newspapers. The bad news 
 came down by express. W^e have lost our 
 suit." 
 
 " Well ! we are no poorer than we were 
 before. We cannot be said to have lost 
 what we never enjoyed," observed Margaret, 
 eager to make the best of what she saw was
 
 THE dean's daughter. 251 
 
 a source of bitter disappointment to her 
 father. 
 
 " How can you talk such confounded non- 
 sense?" said William, inexpressibly irritated 
 by what, unaware of the state of his father's 
 mind, he considered her stupid apathy. " Is 
 it nothing to have that dirty sneak Mac- 
 wheeble appropriate our inheritance ? Is it 
 nothing to have that confounded hypocrite, 
 Lady Milicent, triumph at our expense ?" 
 
 Margaret attempted to pacify him by a few 
 palliative words, which only served to add 
 fuel to the fire. 
 
 "Enough to satisfy all our reasonable 
 desires, do you say ? Of course we have ! 
 But why are we to be a perpetual burthen to 
 my father ? — Why are we to encroach on his 
 income? — This fellow, Mathan, has just 
 owned to me, Margaret, that the mere costs 
 of the suit will exceed a thousand pounds !" 
 
 He spoke as if unaware of his father's
 
 252 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 presence ; and probably was so ; for disap- 
 pointment and remorse were agitating every 
 fibre of his frame. Luckily for all parties, 
 Harman, anxious for a little insight into what 
 might have arisen from a visit so untimely as 
 Mathan's, anticipated the usual moment for 
 bringing in the gruel tray; and, as so 
 often occurs in civilized life, the presence of 
 a servant startled all parties into a sense of 
 propriety. 
 
 " I want nothing more to-night, Harman," 
 said the Dean, addressing him in a voice so 
 low that none but an accustomed ear could 
 have distinguished the words. " Light my 
 candle, and give me your arm. I feel a little 
 gout flying about me. I should like to go to 
 bed at once." 
 
 William was grateful to his father for the 
 movement ; for he had much to say to his sister. 
 Not as before, angrily. For he now perceived 
 that, while he was accusing her of insensibility,
 
 THE dean's daughter. 253 
 
 tears had fallen silently, and been silently 
 wiped away. And the moment the family 
 " good night " had been spoken, and the door 
 closed careftdly upon Harman and his master, 
 the agitated young man started forwards, 
 strained his sister to his heart, and entreated 
 her pardon. 
 
 *'l was so horribly put out, dearest; so 
 grieved — so thwarted — so miserable!" cried 
 he. " Forgive me, if I thought you selfish 
 and insensible. I forgot how ignorant you 
 were of the extent to which this disappoint- 
 ment will involve and compromise me. Those 
 infernal lawyers ! — I relied so implicitly on 
 their honesty — " 
 
 " Be just — be just ! — They must have 
 deceived themselves, not us." 
 
 " On their professional sagacity then, 
 — that I have been daily adding to embar- 
 rassments already considerable. Ass that
 
 254 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 I was, to be so confident ! I am not only 
 deeply in debt, Margaret ; but in a manner 
 the most painful — to friends, to acquaint- 
 ances, — who may perhaps suspect me of 
 having deceived them, as I have been pro- 
 voked into accusing the Lazenbys." 
 
 " Impossible, dear Willy ! — You, the soul 
 of honour ! — Besides, the papers will publish 
 every particular of the trial." 
 
 " Ay, small thanks to them ! The morn- 
 ing's papers will announce that in re Mor- 
 daunt versus Macwheeble, the plaintiffs were 
 dismissed with costs — unth costs ! — Where- 
 upon the post of the following day will bring 
 me cartloads of duns." 
 
 Margaret folded her hands in despair. 
 The decent economy of Hephanger had 
 screened her girlhood against all experience 
 of pecuniary distress. To her the word dun 
 w^as a word of shame.
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 255 
 
 " My father will assist you, Willy ; my 
 father is all kindness," said she, in a depressed 
 voice. 
 
 " Ay poor dear good old soul ! But can he, 
 Margaret ? — What reason have we for sup- 
 posing that he possesses the means ? — My 
 father has been sadly hampered (he has 
 owned as much to me, or rather I have 
 taxed him with it, and he could not disown 
 it,) by Reginald's marriage. However, let 
 us say no more about it to-night !" he con- 
 tinued, kissing her, and placing her candle 
 in her hand, alarmed at seeing her so pale. 
 " Better try and sleep off the blow. Night, 
 they say, Meg, is a cogent counsellor. Pray, 
 therefore, that before to-morrow I may have 
 received its best ad\ace." 
 
 Before the morrow, William Mordaunt 
 sustained a stroke still more severe. After 
 tossing upon his pillow in all the feverish 
 disturbance of a spirit at odds with itself,
 
 256 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 he fell at length asleep — heavily asleep — 
 as people are apt to do whose faculties have 
 been overtaxed during the day. Like most 
 persons labouring under painful excitement, 
 he dreamed of unpleasant things, occurring 
 in pleasant places; of bird's-nesting with 
 Margaret at Bassingdon, and hiding after- 
 wards from Mrs. Hatley's wrath at a torn 
 frock and tanned shoulders; of driving a 
 tandem with two bolters from Oxford to a 
 Woodstock ball; or starting from Oak Hill 
 to win the cup in Dick Hargreave's yacht the 
 '' Nautilus," and losing their bowsprit. 
 
 His spirit seemed to hover like a light 
 insect from flower to flower ; now, all honey 
 and sunshine, — now all poison and storm. 
 
 From these visions, he was recalled by an 
 unusual sound. When it ceased, he troubled 
 not himself with its origin, but turned to 
 sleep again. A fortnight before, he had 
 been woke twice by the waits, and reproached
 
 257 
 
 himself next morning for having suffered 
 their snoring trombone to disturb his 
 rest, 
 
 Before he had dozed long, however, he 
 was roused by a candle shining close before 
 his eyes. His ow^n man was calling him. 
 For a moment, he fancied it was a hunting 
 morning, and that he was late for the 
 meet. 
 
 " You had better get up, if you please, 
 Sir," said the man, " the Dean is took very 
 poorly. Miss Mordaunt's been about him 
 for the last half hour. Mr. Harman's half 
 out of his W'its, Sir, and the medical gentle- 
 men is not yet come." 
 
 In a moment, WiUiam was in his dressing- 
 gown, and at his father's bedside. The 
 Dean was speechless. It was easy to see that, 
 for once, a servant's account of sudden illness 
 was not exaggerated. 
 
 Harman explained aU readily. For some 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 days, the Dean had been labouring under 
 flying gout. Sudden emotion had sent it to 
 a vital part, the head or stomach. When 
 the Doctors came, they, of course, unsettled 
 all by asking a multiplicity of questions 
 wholly foreign to the case, and inconsistent 
 with the habits of the sufferer ; insisting that 
 the Dean must have been out and got wet 
 that rainy day, though he had never left his 
 room ; or taken a few extra glasses of wine, 
 though his strongest potation was water- 
 gruel. 
 
 Having conferred together, both doctor 
 and apothecary decided that the patient must 
 lose blood, and a surgeon be instantly sent 
 for. 
 
 "If you bleed him, gentlemen, you'll kill 
 him, that's all !" exclaimed the indignant 
 Harman, losing sight of his usual pomposity 
 in the urgency of the case. And William 
 having represented that this faithful servant
 
 THE dean's daughter. 259 
 
 had been familiar with his master's constitu- 
 tion for the last thirty years, they condescen- 
 ded to pause in their plans of assassination, 
 and suggested that mustard poultices might 
 first be tried. 
 
 They were tried and with effect ; for con- 
 sciousness w^as gradually restored. Before 
 day had fully dawned — a dreary, sunless 
 winter's day, that seemed made to dawn 
 upon affliction — the Dean extended his hand 
 to his daughter, who w^as standing like a 
 marble statue beside his bed. Margaret, who 
 had never expected to see him move again, 
 burst into a flood of tears. Her hopes 
 revived. She blessed God that the old man 
 her father was yet alive. 
 
 " Let me hope that you will excuse my 
 abruptness, Sir," said one of the medical 
 men to William Mordaunt, as soon as cir- 
 cumstances admitted of their withdrawing 
 
 s 2
 
 260 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 together from the sick chamber ; "but I 
 grieve to say no time must be lost, if you 
 suppose that the Dean has any worldly affairs 
 requiring adjustment." 
 
 " My father is in imminent danger, then ? 
 Yet surely the symptoms are improving ?" — 
 
 " With less than supernatural strength of 
 constitution, I fear he cannot live through 
 the day." 
 
 " I have heard that said of him before, in 
 similar attacks, yet he still survives," said the 
 sanguine young man, his agitated looks 
 belying his expressions of confidence. " I 
 thank you, however, for your warning, and 
 wiU consult with my sister." 
 
 But Margaret would not hear of the alarm- 
 ing intimation being extended to the patient. 
 " With my poor dear father's nervous 
 temperament," said she, " such an announce- 
 ment would be fatal." 
 
 *' He may, however, have important papers
 
 THE dean's daughter. 261 
 
 requiring signature, which render it our duty 
 to apprise him?" 
 
 "They can involve no interest but ours. 
 Dear Willy 1 I entreat you not to alarm my 
 poor father in his present weak state." 
 
 " At least, let me send for the Archdeacon. 
 Prayers are read with the sick as well as 
 the dying. It might comfort him to talk 
 to PleydeU." 
 
 " His anguish is far too great to admit 
 of spiritual consolation. As regards his 
 preparation for death," said Margaret, her 
 pale lips quivering at the word, " my father's 
 life has been harmless as that of a child. 
 He has no sins to repent — no restitution to 
 make." — 
 
 "We have all sins to repent," replied 
 William, more sternly than might have 
 been expected of his thoughtless nature. 
 
 "At aU events, do not send for the Arch- 
 deacon. Every word uttered by my poor,
 
 262 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 suffering father would be repeated to Mrs. 
 Pleydell, and by her to the whole town of 
 R r 
 
 " Have your own way, Meg !" said the 
 harassed young man, heaving a deep sigh ; 
 "but if my father should die without a 
 parting word of comfort from the ministers 
 of his faith, or a last word of farewell to his 
 children, be the heavy responsibility on your 
 head/' 
 
 Margaret was so far justified in her 
 reluctance, that the sufferer was undergoing 
 severe bodily torture. His features were 
 convulsed with pain, and his parched lips 
 muttered words that scarcely appeared words 
 of prayer. 
 
 By degrees, as the fever augmented,, 
 delirium came on; and even the awe-struck 
 Harman, so much accustomed to minister 
 to his master's distemperatures> lost all 
 power of cQunseL
 
 THE dean's daughter. 263 
 
 " I never saw my master so before, Miss 
 Mordaunt," whispered he, with knitted brows 
 and quickened respiration. " I'm afraid, poor 
 old gentleman, he's past help. I'm afraid we 
 must prepare for the worst." 
 
 Intervals of restless sleep, procured by 
 opiates, in which the Dean stiU kept grinding 
 his teeth or murmuring to himself, did not 
 suffice to cool the two hectic spots burning 
 brightly on his sallow cheeks. 
 
 WiUiam Mordaunt, fondly believing that a 
 real amendment was taking place, quitted the 
 house for half an hour, while he slept, to 
 advise with one or two of the nearest friends 
 of the Dean. 
 
 Towards evening — but evening comes 
 early in January to deepen the sadness of a 
 gloomy day — Margaret was sitting in the 
 sick-room, lighted only by the fire, and a 
 single watchlight. 
 
 " Who is with me ? — Who is near me ?"
 
 264 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 cried the dying man, starting, with a rambling 
 mind, from his feverish slumber, " What 
 woman abideth beside the sepulchre, faithful 
 in the watches of the night, and amid the 
 bowlings of the storm ? Oh, Mary, dear 
 Mary ! leave me ! I am unworthy of you. 
 I have ruined our poor children. I have 
 left them penniless to the mercies of the 
 world. Save me, Mary. I have been a 
 careless, selfish father — thinking more of my 
 own ease than of their worldly or spiritual 
 welfare. And now, I must atone for all. 
 Now I must burn in hell. Oh ! agony — 
 1 suffer — I suffer — Mary, Mary — save 
 me 1" 
 
 A cold dew burst from the brows of 
 Margaret, as shriek after shriek escaped the 
 lips of the tortured man. How was she to 
 act? To ring for help was to expose his 
 conscience- wrung avowals to the vulgar 
 wonder of his servants. To leave him
 
 THE dean's daughter. 265 
 
 without better aid was, perhaps, to hasten his 
 end. — How, how was she to act? — Falling 
 humbly upon her knees, she prayed for 
 comfort from above, and Heaven's mercy 
 upon them both. 
 
 The professional friends, consulted in the 
 mean while by WiUiam Mordaunt, insisted, 
 as is usually the case, that the Dean ought 
 to be apprised that his end was approaching. 
 The Archdeacon reminded his young friend 
 that Dr. Mordaunt was not a child to be 
 intimidated by the aspect of death ; that, ac- 
 customed to prepare others for their end, he 
 must be prepared to meet the event as be- 
 came a dignitary of the Established Church. 
 It was the duty of the universally-respected 
 
 Dean of R to set an edifying example 
 
 of death-bed resignation. Messrs. Lazenby 
 argued, on the other hand, that it was the 
 prior duty of a man approaching to three score 
 years of age, not to slip out of the world
 
 266 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 without having provided for his just debts, 
 and lawful issue. The Dean was the repre- 
 sentative of interests, public as well as private. 
 The affairs of the Chapter might require 
 enlightenment at his hands. For anything 
 they knew, he might not have even made a 
 will. They, Lazenby and Son, had often 
 given the Dean such hints on the subject as 
 delicacy would permit, but could not answer 
 for it that they had been attended to. 
 
 The currier of course proposed to fortify 
 the town with leather; and the end of all 
 this was, that William returned to the 
 Deanery, accompanied by the Archdeacon 
 and Mathan ; who were, however, by the 
 interposition of Providence, spared all fur- 
 ther exercise of their narrow judgment, and 
 worse taste. From the moment of reaching 
 the lobby at the head of the stairs, the 
 groans and cries of the dying man reached 
 their ears ; proving that reason had left him.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 267 
 
 and that life was departing. There was 
 something unspeakably appalling in those 
 sounds, in a spot so uniformly still and de- 
 corous : above all, in the wild uplifting of 
 that voice, through life so low and plain- 
 tive. 
 
 The men who came to counsel, spake no 
 further. A greater than they was dealing 
 wdth the mortal about to put on immor- 
 tality. 
 
 Before a last loud outcry, followed by a 
 momentary stillness, and next by an outbreak 
 of sobs, announced that all was over, the 
 lawyer and divine had quitted the Deanery ; 
 dreading to become spectators of a family 
 affliction, which they were not conscious of 
 sufficient warmth of heart, or elevation of 
 soul, to exhort with composure.
 
 268 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Hark ! how the flood 
 Of the rich organ harmony bears up 
 Voices on its high waves — a mighty burst ! 
 And the old minster, forest-like and dim, 
 With its long avenues of pillared shade. 
 Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 
 O'erflows its deep recesses ; leaving not 
 One tone unthrilled by the strong sympathy. 
 
 The cathedral of R tolled a muffled 
 
 peal in honour of its popular Dean. The 
 head verger not only attached a crape to his 
 rusty hat out of respect to his memory ; but
 
 THE dean's daughter. 269 
 
 throughout the day, was unahle to attend 
 to his duties, or for weeks, to hear mention 
 of his name without tears. The decorous 
 High Street darkened its shops ; and from 
 one end of the town to the other, lamenta- 
 tions were heard over the sudden death of 
 Dr. Mordaunt. 
 
 The nine thousand seven hundred and 
 
 thirteen souls so long submitted to his 
 
 charge, recalled to mind the urbanity of his 
 
 manners and kindliness of his nature. Rich 
 
 as he was in all exterior Christian graces, 
 
 it was not for them to decide what secret 
 
 sins he might have committed, or what 
 
 private duties left unfulfilled. Whether he 
 
 evinced culpable weakness in suffering the 
 
 rights of the Chapter to fall into desuetude, 
 
 or the unorthodox to escape unpunished, 
 
 was no question for the laity. But that, 
 
 through life, he had borne and forborne, 
 
 constituted his best virtue and apology.
 
 270 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 And oh ! that greater men would emulate 
 his charity of soul. — Better for the Christian 
 Church — better for the heathen universe. 
 
 In the Cathedral Close, the departed Doctor 
 of Divinity did not escape so easily. As a 
 dignitary of the Church, he had been lax, 
 inert, indifferent. The man who, in earher 
 days of heresy and schism, would never 
 have decreed the burning of a fellow 
 Christian, had refrained in days of Tracta- 
 rianism from persecutmg or prosecuting 
 backsliders. Dr. Mordaunt had done nothing 
 to uphold the autocracy of the crosier, or 
 augment the revenue of the Court of Arches. 
 And, how could he be lamented as a cham- 
 pion of the Church, in a cathedral town, 
 where the voice of the Canons, like the 
 cannon's mouth, affords ultima ratio. 
 
 These professional displeasures, however, 
 had little influence on the opinions of the 
 community. The popularity of the late
 
 THE dean's daughter. 271 
 
 Dean was too well established ; and lo ! a 
 splendid funeral was soon in process of 
 preparation. By a will executed ten years 
 before, Dr. Mordaunt had enacted that he 
 was to be laid among the Deans, his prede- 
 cessors ; and the ceremony w^as likely to 
 be as imposing as became the occasion. 
 The precedents of office were to be upheld : 
 — a paramount duty in such a spot. 
 
 The existence of that will had afforded 
 to William Mordaunt a consolatory surprise. 
 Contrary to his father's dying declarations, 
 Margaret and himself proved to be suffi- 
 ciently provided for ; while an especial clause 
 regarded the payment of his just debts and 
 funeral expenses. Dr. Mordaunt bequeathed 
 to his younger children a policy of insurance 
 for the sum of fourteen thousand pounds 
 sterling secured in the Sun Office, burthened 
 only by the clause in question ; a vast sum 
 for thp Dean to have set aside out of his
 
 272 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 preferment, considering the cost of insuring a 
 life so notoriously precarious. 
 
 Relieved beyond measure to find that his 
 sister would not be dependent on the liber- 
 ality of Lord Mildenhall and Reginald, and 
 that he should be able to free himself from 
 humiliating obligations, he observed to his 
 sister that, in his last moments, their poor 
 father's intellects must have been wandering. 
 But Margaret had no thought to bestow on 
 silver or gold. Her heart was crushed within 
 her. For the second time within twelve 
 months had death snatched away, without 
 warning, one on whom she relied for love and 
 protection ; for the second time within twelve 
 months, she had had to revile her own error 
 of judgment in ministering to their infirmities. 
 Twice had she failed. Twice had she done 
 amiss. But for her. Lady Bournemouth and 
 her father might be still alive; or at least, 
 have died absolved and comforted. Poor
 
 THE dean's daughter. 273 
 
 self-reproachful girl! What need of such 
 morbid remorse to increase the misery of her 
 orphan condition ! 
 
 She was kindly watched over, however. 
 All the wives of all the canons, all the ladies 
 of birth and breeding comprehended in the 
 9,713 souls, were prompt in attention. Some 
 offered her their company ; some a home. 
 No one would hear of her being left to herself. 
 Mrs. Pleydell profited by privilege of seniority 
 as oldest friend, to be the most intrusive. 
 She came armed with tracts and common- 
 places, such as fall unnoticed on the ear which 
 thirsteth for a voice that is silent ; and when 
 she found that Margaret's mourning was 
 ordered by Mrs. Graves, and that the Dean 
 had not left the Archdeacon so much as a 
 ring for a memento, she went on her way 
 mumbling, under a strong sense of ill-usage. 
 
 Even from Dursley Park came affectionate 
 letters, entreating that Margaret would make 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 that house her home, till her plans were 
 determined. Lady Hargreave would come 
 and fetch her immediately, or on the day of 
 the funeral, which Sir Thomas and his son 
 proposed attending in person. Miss Mordaunt 
 should have a suite of rooms to herself; and 
 not be asked to join the family for as many 
 weeks as she might feel disposed to seclusion. 
 Nothing could be better felt than the invi- 
 tation; nothing better worded. Lady Har- 
 greave wrote to her as a mother ; the girls 
 as sisters ; and, to the infinite distress of poor 
 Margaret, her brother was of opinion that 
 she would do wisely to accept their proposals. 
 " You cannot remain here, darling," said 
 William, after many soothing words. " By 
 the will of my poor father, it is provided that 
 his furniture shall be immediately sold ; and 
 his successor will probably be desirous to 
 secure it, and take possession, as soon as 
 decency will allow. What will become of
 
 THE dean's daughter. 275 
 
 you, Meg, till, by mutual aiTangement, I 
 have a home to offer you? Reginald has 
 been written to. But I am convinced that, 
 so far from coming over to attend the funeral, 
 as there is ample time for him to do, his 
 father's death will not hasten his return from 
 Italy by a day or an hour." 
 
 " My uncle's health and comfort are pro- 
 bably his first object." 
 
 " No ! His first object is the comfort 
 and convenience of one Reginald Mordaunt ; 
 which you will find out hereafter, Margaret, 
 as / have found out already." 
 
 " But why must all this drive me to 
 Dursley Park?" mournfully remarked his 
 sister. " Why can I not take refuge, for a 
 time, in lodgings at R ?" 
 
 " A girl of your age ? — alone ? Not to 
 be heard of! It would not be decent. It 
 would not even be respectful to my father's 
 memory ; for you know how much he would 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 have disapproved such a step. Besides, the 
 thing would never be allowed by all these 
 people. Mrs. Pleydell, Mrs. Barnhurst, the 
 whole set of them, would be up in arms. 
 They feel a sort of prescriptive right in 
 you." 
 
 " They are all very kind — far kinder than 
 I deserve. But if you knew what a comfort 
 it would be to me to be alone ! I have 
 so many serious things to reflect upon — to 
 decide upon !" — 
 
 William looked at her in some surprise. 
 
 " Not so serious, I should think," said he, 
 " but that the society of your own sex might 
 be a solace and advantage. We have not 
 many personal friends, my poor Margaret. 
 Take my advice, and propitiate their kind- 
 ness. The time may come, my darling 
 sister, when you will look round the world, 
 and not find one ready to step forward and 
 take you by the hand."
 
 THE dean's daughter. 277 
 
 Margaret's heart grew colder and colder. 
 But she knew that her brother's admonitions 
 were not only well-meant, but that they 
 might be wiser than she could wish. That 
 Herbert Fanshawe, on learning the mis- 
 fortune which had befallen her, would hurry 
 back to England, she did not a moment 
 question ; and when six days had elapsed 
 after the announcement in the papers of her 
 father's death, she hourly expected his 
 arrival. Devoted as was his affection, he 
 would come and claim her of her brother. 
 He would come and tell her that, the 
 moment the forms of society permitted, she 
 must become his wife. He had admitted, in 
 brighter hours, how fondly he loved her. It 
 was his duty, therefore, to console her afflic- 
 tion, and lighten the heavy burthen of life. 
 At any minute he might appear. And how 
 could she bear that he should find her 
 amidst the heartless vain-glories of Durslej 
 
 Park?
 
 278 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Still, William must have his way. He 
 was now her guide and counsellor. He 
 stood in her father*s place. Reginald, even 
 when he became Lord Mildenhall, would 
 never appear in her eyes half so much the 
 head of the family as William ; — darling 
 Willy, her first friend; — darling Willy, 
 who had closed the eyes of their father. 
 
 She authorised him, therefore, to answer 
 Lady Hargreave*s letter, and accept her 
 friendly offer. And he did so in grateful 
 terms ; for he was already better aware than 
 Margaret that friends are fruit which grows 
 not on every bush ; but requires care and 
 warmth in the cultivation. 
 
 He felt comforted in knowing that, 
 for a time, his sister was secure of a tranquil 
 home ; that womanly hearts would surround 
 her. William had a notion, natural at his 
 age, that kindness, decency, and peace are 
 natural products of a feminine atmosphere. 
 Solaced by her own sex, the spirit of his
 
 THE dean's daughter. 279 
 
 poor sister would be soothed, and the wounds 
 of her heart healed. 
 
 But when she was gone — when she had 
 been carried half insensible down the dim 
 staircase of the Deaner\^ for the last time, 
 and placed in Lady Hargreave's carriage, 
 the night before the funeral, which being of 
 a public nature, did not admit of compliance 
 with her pious wish to follow her father to 
 the grave, or ev^n of her remaining in the 
 house of mourning, where so numerous a 
 train of mourners was to assemble, — then, 
 indeed, he almost repented the persuasions 
 he had used ; so miserably lost did he 
 feel, — alone — alone with the dead ! 
 
 He paid a last visit to that darkened 
 chamber, of which the undertakers and their 
 pomps were about to take possession. He 
 knelt beside the coffin — he moistened it 
 with bis tears ; he asked pardon of him 
 who could pardon no longer, for the offences
 
 280 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 of his careless childhood, his unguarded 
 youth ; and at length rushed from the room, 
 his heart full, and his eyes overflowing. 
 
 He had not recovered even the semblance 
 of composure, when Harman stepped up to 
 him with a request, which at that moment 
 he considered importunate. But Harman 
 had already ceased to be the servant of the 
 house. Provided for, to the amount of 
 some hundreds, by the will of the late Dean ; 
 he and Mrs. Graves had selected the crisis 
 of a death in the family to notify 
 publicly their marriage, long tacitly under- 
 stood by their indulgent master. Imme- 
 diately after the sale at the Deanery, they 
 were to set up in " some genteel business," 
 
 in R ; and an air of independence already 
 
 sharpened the aspect of the pseudo house- 
 holder, as he informed the son of his bene- 
 factor that " Mr. Mathan was waiting for 
 him in the library."
 
 THE dean's daughter. 281 
 
 William Mordaunt declined the visit. 
 " He was not equal, just then, to business." 
 The last disastrous visit of Mathan to that 
 house had been productive of consequences 
 so fatal, that the very name sounded like a 
 death-knell. 
 
 " I believe Mr. WiUiam," persisted the 
 ex-butler, " you had better see him at 
 once. Mr. Mathan is here, Sir, on business 
 of the utmost consequence. He is here on 
 business that cannot be deferred." 
 
 As if any business could be of a nature 
 to supersede the self-communing of a son 
 who had just taken a last leave of the ashes 
 of his only surviving parent ! — Best, however, 
 control his feelings, and comply. — It was no 
 moment for altercation. — 
 
 When William entered the library, he 
 found the lawyer's clerk, instead of adhering 
 to his usual respectful decorum, pacing the 
 room fretfully, and wiping his forehead with
 
 282 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 a handkerchief, as if his walk to the house 
 had been a hurried one. 
 
 " I should perhaps apologise for intruding, 
 Sir," said he, in a tone anything but apolo- 
 getic. " My employers are, however, so 
 uneasy, that, judging you would probably 
 
 quit R immediately after the funeral 
 
 to-morrow morning, they are desirous of 
 entering into a few urgent explanations." 
 
 WilHam had not courage to bid him 
 sit down. But as he himself sank into 
 a seat, Mathan mechanically followed his 
 example. 
 
 " Circumstances of a delicate nature con- 
 nected with the estate of the late Dean 
 Mordaunt, have transpired," said he, abruptly, 
 " which determined my employers last night, 
 to despatch me at once to London for a 
 conference with his professional advisers, 
 or rather the professional advisers of the 
 Mordaunt family, Messrs. Wraxley and
 
 THE dean's daughter. 283 
 
 Lumm. From these gentlemen, Sir, (though 
 they appear to have been hurt at your 
 selection of our firm to prosecute your late 
 Chancery suit,) I received much courtesy ; 
 and had no difficulty in obtaining information 
 which I cannot but think, I cannot but 
 Aope, Mr. Mordaunt, will prove as new 
 and unexpected to yourself, as it has been 
 to Messrs. Lazenby and Son." 
 
 William removed the hand by w^hich he 
 had been screening his features from ob- 
 servation, and looked his visitor full in the 
 face. These uncoiu-teous preliminaries roused 
 his broken spirit. The hoarse altered voice 
 in which he ejaculated, " What do you mean, 
 Sir? — Speak out!" — would have silenced 
 anybody short of a lawyer's clerk. 
 
 " I mean, Mr. Mordaunt, that the will you 
 have entrusted to us for probate, is null and 
 void; and that the Dean your father, has 
 died insolvent."
 
 284 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 
 
 "You heard this from Wraxley and 
 Lumm ?'* faltered William, aghast. 
 
 " I heard from them, Sir, this very morn- 
 ing, that the policy of insurance which con- 
 stitutes the personal estate of the deceased, 
 was made over by him, only three weeks 
 ago, to his eldest son ; on occasion of his 
 marriage settlement with the daughter of 
 Lord Mildenhall, for the benefit of the issue 
 of that marriage." 
 
 " For the benefit of children unborn, when 
 his own were wholly unprovided for? — Im- 
 possible !" — 
 
 " Scandalous, Sir, if you please ; but, un- 
 luckily, not impossible. Lord Mildenhall 
 demanded a provision for his daughter, whose 
 fortune it seems, is not tangible till his 
 demise ; and the reversionary sum in ques- 
 tion was all that Dean Mordaunt had to 
 offer." 
 
 " My uncle could not have been so grasp-
 
 THE dean's daughter. 2S5 
 
 ing — my brother could not have been so 
 base ! — But why do I say so ? — When were 
 those Mildenhalls ever otherwise than base 
 and sordid ! — And Reginald is their mere 
 shadow\ Yet, my father — surely, surely, 
 Mr. Ma than, my father cannot have been 
 persuaded into such an act?" — 
 
 " The Dean, Sir, with your pardon, has 
 always been a weak man — a man of whom 
 Mr. Wraxley truly observed, that his phy- 
 sical infirmities seem to have enfeebled his 
 moral nature. Lord Mildenhall insisted — his 
 son was importunate — he gave way. Messrs. 
 Wraxley and Lumm admitted that the con- 
 cession was one they could not, in justice to 
 their own character, have suggested. But 
 w^hen dictated by the Dean's own flesh and 
 blood, (aristocratic flesh and blood, moreover, 
 and consequently sworn to honourable deal- 
 ing), why were they to be more squeamish ?"
 
 286 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " Flesh and blood !" faintly repeated 
 William Mordaunt. 
 
 " But it is not to canvass the equity of this 
 family compact, I am here, Sir," added 
 Mathan, suddenly recovering his professional 
 squareness ; " I am deputed by Lazenby and 
 Son, to inquire, with all due respect and 
 courtesy, to whom they are to look for pay- 
 ment of the heavy sums owing to them, 
 not only by the late Dean Mordaunt, but by 
 yourself. Business is business. Sir, even 
 under circumstances as delicate as the pre- 
 sent. In a word, Mr. Mordaunt, the costs 
 of the suit commenced under your instruc- 
 tions, were undertaken by your late father, 
 as far as concerned his daughter Margaret 
 Mordaunt, a minor, and must fall on his 
 insolvent estate. But you, Sir, having at- 
 tained your majority some months before you 
 did us the honour to entrust us with your
 
 287 
 
 business, are liable for the payment of at 
 least one moiety of our claim, amounting to 
 £1272 95. 6d. The justice of this you 
 really cannot dispute." 
 
 " The justice, no ! — The propriety of urging 
 it at such a moment is another matter." 
 
 "You must make allowances for our 
 position, Mr. Mordaunt. We have been 
 deceived into a considerable outlay." 
 
 " Deceived ?" — retorted William, with a 
 heightened voice and colour. 
 
 " The expression may seem harsh, but the 
 fact is undeniable. Who was to suppose. Sir, 
 that a highly-beneficed clergyman, the brother 
 of a peer of the realm, a man universally 
 looked up to and respected, like Dean 
 Mordaunt, would die at last without leaving 
 a rap behind him ! Excuse me if I speak 
 plainly ; but I call it deception when hard- 
 working professional men, like myself and 
 my employers, are deluded into giving our
 
 288 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 time and credit on the showing of opulence 
 which does not exist, and probity which 
 seems to have been nearly as problematical." 
 
 William Mordaunt started up with a half- 
 clenched hand. But only to subside into his 
 chair. A brawl under the roof of his un- 
 buried father would be almost worse than 
 listening to insults to his memory. — The 
 peace of the House of Death was sacred ! 
 
 " I have no wish to offend you, Mr. 
 Mordaunt," said Mathan, in a lowered tone, 
 sympathising as far as his professional 
 practicability would admit with the filial 
 warmth of the young man he had been 
 goading and tormenting. " All I wish is to 
 come to a clear understanding with you, on 
 behalf of my employers, before we lose sight 
 of each other. Messrs. Wraxley and Lumm 
 let fall a hint that when Dean Mordaunt 
 acceded to the extraordinary demands of his 
 brother and son, it was on an undertaking
 
 289 
 
 among the parties, that at his decease, the 
 younger children should be properly provided 
 for: I say properly provided for, a phrase 
 which (under your permission,) means every- 
 thing and nothing. I am consequently 
 instructed by Messrs. Lazenby and Son, to 
 inquire whether you sanction our applying, 
 on your behalf, to Viscount Mildenhall, or to 
 Mr. Reginald Mordaunt, for an arrangement 
 concerning the liquidation of claims ?" 
 
 " Certainly not .'" w^as William's firm 
 reply. 
 
 "Not when you reflect. Sir," continued 
 the lawyer's clerk, glancing round the dis- 
 ordered room, " how inadequate will be the 
 product of your late father's personalty, to 
 defray even his funeral expenses — far more 
 his just debts — which you will find, I am 
 afraid, considerable ?" 
 
 " Mr. Mathan, I adjure you as a man and 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 Christian, spare me these calculations just 
 now !" cried William, harassed out of all 
 self-control. " Forbear only for four-and- 
 twenty hours. Forbear only till the grey 
 head which lies in the adjoining chamber 
 is quiet in the tomb. I promise you, as a 
 gentleman, not to quit R without grant- 
 ing you another interview. I promise you 
 to do my best to meet your demands — to 
 lay aside all pride, all wilfulness such as 
 you may have heretofore seen in me. — I 
 will submit to every thing — I will be as 
 amenable as you can wish — on condition 
 that, till my poor father has been followed 
 to the grave by his son, his friends, and his 
 townspeople, you refrain from circulating 
 rumours to his discredit." 
 
 "/ circulate — " Mathan was indignantly 
 beginning. 
 
 " Not another word, Sir !" interrupted
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 291 
 
 William, incensed into the utmost emotion. 
 *' We have each our duties to perform ; — 
 and by the God of Heaven if you so much 
 as whisper a syllable against the memory 
 of him I have lost, you shall have cause 
 to wish you had never been born. — Ay ! even 
 though my own ruin be the cost of my 
 vengeance." — 
 
 With a man thus excited, Mathan saw 
 it would be useless to argue. He took his 
 hat and departed. It would be worse than 
 idle to record the angry words that escaped 
 his Ups as he encountered, in descending the 
 stairs, a portion of the pompous parapher- 
 nalia prepared to grace the interment of the 
 insolvent Dean. 
 
 Less bitter, but not less vigorous, were 
 those which burst from the soul of William 
 Mordaunt, when, on the exit of his 
 persecutor, he flung liimself on the sofa 
 
 u 2
 
 292 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 and buried his head in the cushions, — to 
 close his ears against the closing of his 
 father's coffin, — to stifle his groans over the 
 downfall of his father's house ! —
 
 THE dean's daughter. 293 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Queen. For Heaveu's sake, speak comfortable words. 
 
 York. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts. 
 Comfort's in Heaven, and we are on the earth. 
 Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and griefs . 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Those who saw him officiate next morn- 
 ing as chief mourner at the imposing 
 obsequies of him who had already passed 
 out of date, and was called by lawyers' clerks 
 *'Dean Mordaunt," instead of the popular 
 
 Dean of R , were of opinion that they 
 
 never beheld a more edifying example of
 
 294 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 filial piety. — William was oldened by ten 
 years. — William was a wreck ! — 
 
 He had not closed his eyes the preceding 
 night. He had not even taken off his clothes, 
 or tasted food, save a draught of water ; and 
 so wan was his face, and so seared his eyes> 
 that though not a tear had escaped them, he 
 looked as if he had been weeping tears of 
 blood. 
 
 One of the oldest of the elders who ar- 
 rived with bowed heads and solemn footsteps 
 at the Deanery, took him by the arm, and 
 bad him in God's name be comforted ; for 
 so profound was evidently his distress, that 
 all pitied, and many feared for him. Still, 
 he continued absorbed, like one moving in a 
 dream ; closing his ears lest, peradventure, he 
 should overhear a whisper reflecting blame 
 on his father — averting his eyes, lest he 
 should behold scornful or indignant faces. 
 The undertaker's man who handed him his
 
 THE dean's daughter. 295 
 
 mourning-gloves, observed afterwards to the 
 sobbing housekeeper, that never had he 
 touched so icy a hand. 
 
 There was enough in the scene around 
 him to paralyse even a less feeling heart. 
 The pageant had been projected when the 
 children of the Dean believed themselves 
 entitled to mark by a liberal outlay their 
 gratitude for his self-denial in setting aside so 
 large a portion of his income to provide for 
 their welfiire ; and many things were as 
 sumptuous as accorded better w-ith his aris- 
 tocratic birth, than with his Christian voca- 
 cation. What mockery, what vain-glory I 
 What discrepance between those emblazoned 
 escutcheons and waving plumes, and the dust 
 about to be scattered upon the less than dust 
 they were consigning to darkness and the worm! 
 
 Nevertheless, to the vulgar eye the cere- 
 mony comported suitably with the dignity 
 and popularity of the dead. The assistants
 
 296 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 being chiefly of the clergy, a becoming 
 solemnity governed their movements. The 
 honour of the diocese was at stake. The 
 old Cathedral was doing its best. Never 
 had the organ pealed more impressively 
 through its groined arches than for that 
 touching requiem ; never had the sweet 
 voices of the choir breathed more exquisitely 
 the beauty of holiness. The finest of our 
 Church-services could not have been better 
 because it would not have been more 
 simply recited, than by the venerable Bishop ; 
 who had come from afar to do honour to his 
 
 noble subordinate. The people of R , 
 
 and more especially the poor of R , 
 
 crowded the aisles. Impossible to be more 
 augustly impressive than the gloomy mum- 
 mery, wherewith we attempt to conceal under 
 a show of ghastly ti'iumph our defeat at the 
 bands of Death ! — 
 
 Poor William, who knew that the voices
 
 THE dean's daughter. 297 
 
 which now hymned his father's praises, would 
 shortly be vindictively upraised against him, 
 shuddered while he listened. Another day, 
 and those who felt themselves defrauded, would 
 deal with his name as with that of an enemy 
 or delinquent. What would he have given, 
 at that moment, to be away from the 
 gorgeous chancel, with its gem-like windows 
 and heraldic scutcheons, to be away from 
 the pealing anthem and the white-robed 
 choir, in some quiet village churchyard ; where 
 the name of Mordaunt was imknown, and 
 where there was nothing but the green sod 
 upturned to receive the remains about to be 
 consigned to their last abode. 
 
 But this was not to be. Other trials had 
 still to be gone through. He must maintain 
 his strength and govern his deportment. 
 Thousands of eyes were upon him. Even 
 when the body had been deposited in the 
 vault, to moulder among the preceding Deans,
 
 298 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 whose brasses tinged the walls with verdigris, 
 or whose marble effigies slumbered in arched 
 niches around, ceremonies had still to be 
 accomplished. Forms of etiquette must be 
 observed in the taking up of mourning- 
 coaches ; and already the official mourners 
 were moving off with alacrity, as from a 
 painful duty brought satisfactorily to an end. 
 While the scuffling mutes were squabbling 
 with the crowding populace, he had to listen 
 respectfully to the formal condolences of the 
 Bishop, and shake hands gratefully with Sir 
 Thomas Hargreave. He had to be stared at 
 and commiserated by nearly five thousand 
 people. — Five thousand people, and not a 
 single friend ! — 
 
 The torture of the traveller in the desart, 
 thirsting after a drop of water, so forceful 
 and so true, has been so abused as a simile, 
 that it shall not be burthen ed with the re- 
 presentation of William Mordaunt's feelings.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 299 
 
 He was alone in a desart, however ; and he 
 did thirst as with the parchedness of a barren 
 and dry land where no w^ater is. And 
 when he ascended the lonely stairs at the 
 Deanery — a house whose echoes were now 
 subdued as the sighs of human sorrow — his 
 head reeled and his pulses faltered. — Oh ! 
 aching sense of loneliness ! w^hy was not his 
 sister there? — Why was not any one there 
 who could so much as exhort him to say, 
 " God's will be done !"— 
 • Even the servants were away, loitering of 
 necessity among the latest of the hooded 
 mourners. Even the ticking of the clock 
 was silent. — 
 
 William rushed wildly into his chamber, 
 as if to repay himself for the restraint hereto- 
 fore imposed upon his movements ; and 
 there, what joy unhoped for, he found him- 
 self clasped to a bosom which loved him as 
 its own life. Honest Dick Hargreave was
 
 300 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 seated there, in deep mourning, to await his 
 return and share his burthen of sorrow. 
 
 " I am come to take you from this place. 
 You must not remain here. No, my dear 
 William; whatever your inclination, indeed 
 you must not remain here," said Hargreave, 
 after a mutual expansion of feeling, which, 
 for some minutes, kept them silent. 
 
 William Mordaunt replied nothing, even 
 in the negative, beyond a mournful waive of 
 the head. 
 
 " I do not ask you to join your sister at 
 Dursley," continued Hargreave. "Dursley 
 is not the place for you just now. Let us 
 travel, William. I am ready to go with you 
 where you will." 
 
 Almost impatiently, William Mordaunt 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " If you have not courage for a long tour, 
 then," resumed his friend, misinterpreting 
 the meaning of his gesture, " Oak Hill is
 
 THE dean's daughter. 301 
 
 at my disposal during the winter months. 
 Come with me, at once, to Oak Hill. There 
 you will be at peace — there you will have 
 leisure to form plans for the future." 
 
 " Plans for the future !" murmured Wil- 
 liam, at length urged into reply. " What 
 plans am I at liberty to form ? Look at me 
 and pity me, Hargreave ! I am no longer a 
 free agent. He whom you have seen so 
 independent, so prosperous, so bold, so 
 way^svard, is now a poor, abject beggar — 
 worse than a beggar. Were you other than 
 the noble fellow you are, and did I love you 
 less than I have always done, I should now 
 see in you, not the kind friend come to comfort 
 me in my distress, but a creditor — a man 
 whose heavy claims upon me I may never 
 have the means of discharging. — Pity me, 
 Hargreave !" 
 
 For a moment, poor Dick, who had never 
 seen displayed by William Mordaunt stronger
 
 302 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 emotion than became a Christchurch dandy 
 — accepting the vexations of daily life in 
 almost too easy a style, — fancied that excess 
 of grief had over-taxed the mind of his 
 friend. His first anxiety was to tranquillise 
 him. He allowed him, therefore, without 
 further molestation, to exhaust his irritability 
 in hurriedly pacing the room. 
 
 "You are shocked at my violence," said 
 WilUam, interpreting his look of consterna- 
 tion, " and no wonder ! But you will see 
 me madder and more wretched still, Dick 
 Hargreave, if you continue to interest your- 
 self in my fate. You will see me, when I 
 have been forced to break the heart of my 
 dear Margaret, and tell her she is without a 
 shilling — without a home ; — that her natural 
 protector, ruined like herself, must dig, or 
 beg, for her daily bread." 
 
 " I entreat you to be calm, William ; nay, 
 I insist upon it that you compose your-
 
 THE DEAN S DAUGHTER. 303 
 
 self," said Hargi'eave, leading him forcibly 
 to a chair, as he would have done a furious 
 child or raving lunatic. — " You are not your- 
 self. — These are delusions — " 
 
 The over-excited young man replied by a 
 laugh all but hysterical. 
 
 " If you would but prove to me that I 
 am dreaming ! — But I know what I am 
 saying. — I am as sane as you are. — This is 
 
 R Deaner}-, Hargreave. This is the 
 
 day of my father's funeral. This is the 
 ven- room where, ten days ago, he enjoyed 
 his usual health, the love and respect of his 
 children, the esteem of his flock. I am 
 rational, you see. My mind is as composed 
 as my feelings are distracted." 
 
 " For both our sakes, then, indulge them 
 less w^ildly. Confide in your friend. What 
 has thus moved you? — Some one has 
 irritated you. — Some enemy has injured 
 
 you."—
 
 304 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 " An enemy ? No ! The being whom 
 next to God I loved and reverenced ; the 
 being who, let him have used me as he 
 may, I shall learn to love and venerate 
 again, when the wounds now rankling in my 
 heart have ceased to bleed. My father, 
 Hargreave ! — my poor father — apparently 
 so kind and generous, — my poor, poor 
 father." 
 
 Tears now relieved his anguish ; tears of 
 which his companion was careful not to inter- 
 rupt the course. Ha^ang wept himself, not 
 into composure, but into exhaustion, William 
 commenced an explanation of his miserable 
 position ; not very lucid or coherent indeed, 
 but sufficiently so to impress the mind of 
 Hargreave with heartfelt compassion. 
 
 " This is a grievous history, my dearest 
 William," said he, after a patient hearing. 
 " But remember that, at present, you have 
 only a single authority for its authenticity.
 
 THE dean's daughter. 305 
 
 The Lazenbys may have deceived you, — may 
 have deceived themselves. I know that, in 
 some transactions he had with them, my 
 father formed no great opinion of their 
 judgment. Even supposing the worst — 
 which Heaven avert ! — why need you des- 
 pair? — You have resources in your family. 
 Lord Mildenhall cannot but provide liberally 
 for the nephew and niece his mean instiga- 
 tions have so wronged." 
 
 " Mean once, mean ever. — My uncle will 
 do nothing for us." 
 
 " Your brother then — " 
 
 " Let him clear my father's memoiy from 
 obloquy. I ask no more of him." 
 
 " And besides these resources, you have 
 youth, health, intellect. Remember the motto 
 of the princely house of Gruthuys which 
 we admired so much last year at Bruges, — 
 ' Plus est en vous !' — You wiU be your 
 own benefactor — your sister's." 
 
 VOL. L X
 
 306 THE dean's DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Hargreave ! I feel at this moment, as 
 if every good angel or good impulse had 
 deserted me. I feel as if, even for her, I 
 was incapable of exertion." 
 
 " You feel so because you are exhausted 
 by grief, by anxiety, even by fasting. You 
 must take food — you must take courage. 
 You must quit this spot till you are more 
 equal to look your trials in the face." 
 
 " It would be indeed a relief," said Wil- 
 liam, glancing round the cheerless room. 
 " But people situated as I am cannot indulge 
 their inclinations. Already, 1 am a prisoner. 
 I have pledged myself to see Mathan again 
 
 before I leave R . I cannot break my 
 
 word." 
 
 " Let me see him in your place." 
 
 " No, he wants more of me than word of 
 mouth. These people, these Lazenbys, are 
 afraid, forsooth, lest their wretched debtor 
 should escape them. They want to tie me
 
 THE DEANS DAUGHTER. 307 
 
 down by signature to a discharge of my 
 debt." 
 
 " But even that could be as easily under- 
 taken from Oak Hill as from this house." 
 
 "They don't seem to entertain so much 
 confidence in my honour," said William, 
 bitterly. " I doubt whether they would 
 allow me to quit the town." 
 
 " Not quit the town ? Confound them ! 
 But you cannot have understood them 
 rightly," said Hargreave, readily conceiving 
 that his companion's exalted state of feeling 
 at that moment might lead him into exagge- 
 ration. " At all events, I really cannot allow 
 you to be exposed to an interview with 
 Mathan. I will start this moment for 
 Lazenby's office, and undertake, by a few- 
 words, to bring the old man to a sense of 
 decency." 
 
 " Why should you, my dear fellow, be 
 embroiled in this wietched affair !" 
 
 X 2
 
 308 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 "It is no case of embroiling. The 
 Lazenbys are our attorneys as well as yours ; 
 and my father's business is worth their 
 utmost consideration. I answer for it, Wil- • 
 liam, that you will hear nothing further from 
 these people after I have explained the 
 nature of vour situation." 
 
 There was no need to mortify William 
 Mordaunt's harassed feelings at that moment, 
 by stating that he intended to offer his own 
 signature as security for the discharge of the 
 debt. 
 
 "If, therefore," he continued, perceiving 
 that the resolution of his friend was waver- 
 ing, " if I bring you back from them a letter 
 expressing their acquiescence in our plan of 
 
 leaving R this night, will you consent to 
 
 accompany me to Oak Hill ? My britschka 
 with posters will be ready for us in an hour. 
 Dear William! — be persuaded. — Do not refuse 
 your friend !"
 
 THE dean's daughter. 309 
 
 Resistance would have been difficult, even 
 in a less exhausted condition of mind and 
 body than that of William Mordaunt. He 
 assented. While Hargreave took his hat and 
 rushed off to procure from old Lazenby a 
 document such as he knew he should ex- 
 perience no difficulty in obtaining, William 
 with Harman's somewhat reluctant aid, pre- 
 pared for departure. It was a trying effort. 
 Though the servants had been careful to 
 remove out of sight the principal personal 
 effects of their late master, a thousand 
 unconsidered trifles were still lying about, 
 replete with afflicting associations : a favourite 
 walking-stick, on whose crutch he was fond 
 of leaning ; a pair of furred gloves, which he 
 had worn on the morning of his seizure ; 
 a blotting-book in which there still remained 
 impressions of his tremulous hand-writing. 
 Heart-rending, indeed, to lay aside for ever 
 these vivid traces of one whose memory was
 
 312 THE dean's daughter. 
 
 *'We are enjoined to honour and obey our 
 parents, not to judge them. As you have 
 loved yours living, love him still ! Between 
 him and his Maker be his sentence. It 
 is much to have lived and died, as he has 
 done, in charity with all mankind." 
 
 Wilham heard, but heeded not. Enfeebled 
 as he v^as, however, he suffered himself to be 
 led like a child from the room. The ser- 
 vants, muffled in their new mourning, stood 
 afar off, at the foot of the stairs, to witness 
 his departure from the desecrated Deanery. 
 They were still panic-struck, at the sudden 
 break-up of the family. — What then were 
 the sensations, that grievous evening, of the 
 homeless children of the Dean ? 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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