K? LI B R.AFLY OF THL UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS V.J R. Tatlor now the novelty of her beauty was passed, and her fortune nearly expended in pay- ing his debts, regarded her in no other light than as an incumbrance, and ran from the loud reproaches of her indignant spirit, and soon irritated temper, to the society 32 society of other women, to the tavern and the gaming-table. Nor was there any chance of his ever being reclaimed: for it was not in the nature of Agatha to soothe any one ; and still less could she subdue her feelings so far as to endeavour to please a man who was now on the point of becoming the object of her con- tempt as well as her resentment ; — and Agatha, the repentant Agatha, was as a wife, in every point of view com.pletely miserable. '' Well, sir," said she one day to her tormentor, " if you will not give me your own company, let me seek that of your friends. Introduce me, as you promised you would do, to your relations." Dan- vers turned round, looked at her with a smile of great meaning and contempt, saying '' Never!" and left the room in disorder. Agaiha was motionless with amaze- ment S3 ment and fear of she knew not what ; — for why should she not be presented to his friends and relations ? From this mo- ment a feeling of fcrlornness took posses- sion of her mind, which not even the con- sciousness that she was soon to enjoy the happiness of being. a mother could over- come, — and she again sat down to address Mrs. Torrington; who, though she had not written to her daughter, had so far relented as to send her trunks and trinkets, as soon as she knew where she was to be fouyl. On this indulgence Agatha built hopes of future pardon, and she wrote in the fullness of her hopes and of her gra- titude. Mrs. Torrington answered her letter : but she told her she would nevcF forgive her ; and, had not a tear evidently dropped upon the paper, and proved that she was more full of grief than indigna- tion when she wrote, Agatha would have despaired perhaps of ever being pardoned, c 5 But 54 But in the first place hei- mother had deigned to write, and in the next place she had wept while she wrote. ' " Courage!*' said Agatha to herself ; " I will write to her again when I am be- come a mother; and I think, I am sure that the image of her only daughter giving birth to her first child, unsoothed and unsupported by her presence, will soften her heart in my favour, and she will receive me and my poor babe into the safe asylum of her bosom :'* — and then she shed tears of bitterness at the recollection that, though a wife, she was likely some time or other to need such an asylum. At length Agatha gave birth to a daughter ; and my heroine came into the world welcomed, fondly welcomed, by the caresses and tears of her mother, and received with sullen indifference by her vicious and cold-hearted father. '' Now then," thought Agatha, " I will write S5 write my intended letter :" — but in a few days siie became so ill that her life was despaired of; and Emma was four months old before Agatha was able to announce her birth to I\Irs. Torrington. Indeed she had scarcely courage to begin the task ; for she had to entreat from her mother's bounty the means of living separate from her husband, if she would not receive her and her child into her own house ; and Ac^c.tha hesitated to narrate the sad tale of her sorrows and her injuries. Ban vers was now never at home; but she observed that he went out more carefully drest than usual, and commonly returned home sober, and at a decent hour. She also observed that he wrote notes frequently, and in a very neat hand and on expensive paper ; and from these and other circum- stances she conjectured that the present object that drew him so frequently from home, and seemed to engross his thoughts v>hen 36 when there, was a woman of character and respectability, who might perhaps encou- rage his addresses, not knowing that he was already mai ried, and whose affections might become irrevocably and fatally engaged. Soon after, as she was taking an even- ing walk in St. James's Park with her child and its maid, feeling herself tired, she sat down on one of the chairs in the principal promenade, — when she saw her husband approach, in company with some ladies elegantly dressed, and apparently cf great respectability. To one of these ladies, who leaned on the arm of an el- derly gentleman, she observed that Dan- vers paid the most devoted attention, and that he addressed her in a low voice, while she replied to what he said, with evident confusion and delight. She had sufficient leisure to make these observations, as the party walked backwards and forwards slowly and frequently ; and as she wore a thick S7 a thick veil, she could observe them with- out any fear of being known even by her husband^ if his attention had not been wholly engrossed by his companion ; v/hile the nursery-maid, though she v/ondered why the husband and wife did not notice each other, was too much in awe of Aga- tha even to say " Look, madam ! there is my master 1" What Agatha now beheld confirmed all her suspicions. She saw in Danvers that dangerous expression of countenance and gentle insinuation of manner which had won her inexperienced heart, and she left the Park resolved to expostulate with him the next morning. That night Danvers returned early and in good humour, — so much so, luckily for Agatha, that he threw a purse of thirty guineas into her lap, and told her that he had won the money at cardsj and that she had a right to share the luck which she had 38 had occasioned : "for/' added he laughing, '^ you know the proverb says^ That if a man has bad luck in a wife, he has ^ood luck at cards." The fullness of Agatha's torn heart deprived her of the power of answer- ing him, and she deferred her intended expostulation till the next day ; when, in all the bitterness of a wounded spirit, she told Danvers what she had witnessed ; and dis- closing to him her suspicions of his inten- tions towards the young lady whom she had seen, she declared that she would do all in her power to warn her of her danger. " She is in no danger," replied Danvers, thinking the moment was now come for him to throw off the mask entirely, " as you are no obstacle to my marriage with her ; for I am a single man now, and you never were my lawful wife. Know, ma- dam, when I led you to the ahar, my friends and relations could have informed your mother. 59 mother, if you had given her time to make the proper inquiries, that I was married six years ago in India, and that when I married you I had a wife Hving in that country." Agatha heard him with speechless and overwhelming horror. Now then his aver- sion to her seeing or corresponding with any of her relations and friends was ex- plained, and his refusal to present her to his own : — now then the whole hopeless wretchedness of her fate was disclosed to her. She saw that she was a mother, with- out being a wife ; and that she had given birth to a child who had no legal inherit- ance, and though not the offspring of a mo- ther's guilt was undoubtedly the victim of a fathers depravity ! With the rapidity of lightning these overwhelming certainties darted across her mind, and with the force of it they stretched her in a moment sense* less on the earth. Slow and miserable was her reco- very y 40 very^ and such was her frantic agony when she took her child in her arms, that though her manners, too often un- der the influence of her temper, had not conciliated the regard of the persons where she lodged, the mistress of the house, whom Danvers had sent to her assistance previously to his leaving home, when he found her senses returning, hung over her with the appearance of compassionate sympathy ; and at length by her scothings moved the broken-hearted Agatha to tears, which in all probability saved her from immediate destruction. In a few hours she was able to form some projects for the future. To remain even a night longer in the house with Danvers was now, in her just conceptions of propriety, criminal : — But whither should she go ? Would her mother con- sent to receive that child when proved to be only the mistress of Danvers, whom she had refused to receive when she ap- peared 41 peared to be his lawful wife ? She dared not anticipate the probable answer of Mrs. Torrington : — but to Hy from Dan- vers and implore the protection of her mother was now her sole hope, her sole resource. While she sat lost in mournful reverie^ she heard Danvers return ; and shutting himself into his own apartment with great force, he continued to walk about some time in violent agitation. At length he entered the room where she was, and looked at her in silence with a counte- nance of such savage and cruel defiance, that the original violence of her sorrow returned, and she was carried to bed in a state of hisenslbility. Had Agatha suspected the cause of Danvers's agitation, and the severity in his expression when he looked at her, she would have felt emotions of thankfulness, not of sorrow; for he had that morning received 42 received intelligence which defeated the expectations of his love, and showed him that his viilany towards Agatha had been wholly unsuccessful. When he informed her that he had, at the time of his mar- riage with her, a wife living in India^ he told her what he imagined to be true^ (as he had received information of his wife'sdeath only a few days preceding that conversa- tion;) and she, to whom the practice of falsehood was unknown, implicitly believed the horrid truth which he asserted. But he had scarcely left the house when a letter was put into his hands, containing not only a detailed account of his wife's illness and death, but also the exact day, and even hour^ when she breathed her last; by which he found that she had been dead full three weeks before he led Agatha to the altar, and that consequently Agatha TORRINGTON W^AS HIS LAWFUL WIFE ! He also met at the house of his agent a woman 43 woman of colour just arrived from India, who was inquiring his address^ and who, by the mother's advice, had brought over to England his only child, a beautiful boy of five years old : and from her he received ample confirmation of the intel- ligence which burthened him so unex- pectedly with a wife whom he disliked, and made it difficult and dangerous per- haps to prosecute his endeavours to marry the woman whom he loved. But as he grew calmer, he began to reflect that he had told Agatha she was not his lawful wife, and she believed him ; therefore he hoped he should have no difficulty in keeping the real state of the case from her knowledge. But in order to make " assurance doubly sure," he resolved that the woman of colour before mentioned should be introduced to Aga- tha, in order to confirm his statement. Nor was this woman averse to do so, when 4h when she heard his reasons for requiring this service from her. In early life this unhappy being, then living at Calcutta in his father's family, had been the fa- vourite mistress of Danvers ; and she had ever remained so vi'armly attached to^ him, that when he married, her af- fliction, and her hatred of his wife were so great, as to make it advisable for her to be sent up the country, lest in a transport of jealous fury she might gratify her ha- tred on her innocent and then beloved rival. But when she heard that this rival- was in her turn forsaken, and was sepa- rated' from her inconstant husband, she forgot her animosity ; and hearing that Mrs, Danvers was in want of a nurse- maid to attend on her child, she returned to Calcutta, where Mrs. Danvers resided, and became the attached and confidential servant of that lady, who on her death- bed consigned her son to her care, and charged 45 charged her to see him safe into his fa- ther's arms. This charge of her dying mistress the fahhful creature punctually obeyed ; and when inquiring for Danvers of his agent, he, as I have stated before, unexpectedly entered, the sight of him renewed in all its force the passion of her early youth ; and when he told her that he had a wife whom he hated, and whom he wished to 'get rid of, she was very ready to assist him, in the weak but natural hope that she might, for a time at least, be bis again. Had she known that Danvers wanted to get rid of Agatha in order to obtain another woman, she would not have shown such a pernicious alacrity to oblige him : but she now readily pro- mised to tell the falsehood which he dic- tated ; and the next moming, while Aga- tha, buried in thought, was leaning on her hands and endeavouring to decide on some 46 some immediate plan of action, Danvers entered the room, leading in his little boy, and followed by the woman of co- lour. At sight of the author of her misery, Agatha started, trembled, and rose from her seat, with a look so terrible and so wild, that the frightened Indian gazed on her with mingled awe and terror. Agatha, in compliance with the wishes of Danvers, had never worn powder ; she usually when at home wore her hair, which was very thick and glossy, and had a natural wave amidst its other beauties, parted on the forehead, and hanging down on either side of her long and finely-formed throat. This flowing hair, which was commonly kept in the nicest order, was now neglected, and it fell disordered and dishevelled, while a long white bed-gown, loosely folded round her, completed the disorder of her dress, and added to the frantic 47 frantic appearance of her countenance and action. " Who are these ? " she demanded in a tone of desperation. " This," said Danvers, " is the faith- ful servant of my late wife, who attended her in her last moments ; and I have brought her hither, lest you should be inclined to disbelieve my assurance that you never were my lawful wife, in order to tell you the very day and hour on which she died, namely, two months after my marriage with you." " It was wholly unnecessary, sir," said Agatha, turning sdll paler than before ; " for I believed your own statement im- plicitly. But surely, sir, you are liable to a prosecution for bigamy ? " added Agatha. " Undoubtedly I am," replied Dan- vers ; " but even if you had it in your power to adduce evidence of my two marriages. 48 marriages, — which you have not^ nor ever can have, — stilly I know your pride and delicacy to be too great to allow you to proceed against me, especially as by so doing you would neither establish your own marriage, nor legidmate your child." *'True, — most true,". said Agatha^ shud- dering. " But what child is this ?*' said she, drawing near the little boy, who hid his face in his nurse's gown, as if alarmed at the approach of a stranger. *' It is my son," replied Dan vers. '' Aye," returned Agatha, " your legi- timate son. But what then is this inno- cent babe?" snatching to her heart the child sleeping on a sofa beside her. Danvers, spite of his dauntless calmness of feeling, turned away in confusion. " Poor boy!" condnued Agatha, " why shouldest thou hide thy face, as if in shame? for thou art notthe childofshame. Nor art thou either, poor unconscious victim ! 41) victim! Let me do myself justice/' she exclaimed, pressing her child closely to her bosom : " it is for thy father thou wilt have to blush, not for thy mother !'* Then with an air of proud insulted dig- nity she bade Danvers and the woman of colour to be gone immediately : — and as if awed by her manner, and conscious of her superiority, they instantly and ra- pidly obeyed. The rest of the day was spent by Aga- tha in forming plans for her future con- duct; and after long and varied delibera- tion, she resolved to write to her mother again, but not till she could date her let- ter from a roof unpolluted by the pre- sence of the man who had betrayed her, and inform her that she had parted with him to behold him no more. That night Danvers, to whom the dread of a discovery, in spite of the pains which he had taken to prevent it, occa- voL, I. D sioned 30 sjoned considerable agitation, indulged more than usual in the excesses of the bottle at the tavern where he dined^ and was brought home and put to bed in an apoplexy of drunkenness. In the middle of the night, Agatha, who, unable to sleep, was pacing the floor of her cham- ber in morbid restlessness, thought she heard an alarming noise in Danvers's apartment, from which she was separated only by a dressing-room ; and aware of the state in which he returned, she stole gently to his door, from an impulse not of alarmed affection, but of principled humanity. She listened a few moments, and all was still again; and the stillness alarming her as much as the previous noise, she entered the chamber, and anxiously surveyed her flushed and insen- sible betrayer. But a few moments convinced her that she had nothing to apprehend for his life, and 51 and she was gently returning, when she saw on the floor papers that had evidently dropped from the pocket of the coat which was thrown in a disordered man- ner on the chair by the side of the bed. Involuntarily she stooped, in order to re- place them, and her eye glanced on an open letter, sealed with black, addressed to George Dan vers, Esq. Bru ton-street, Berkley-square, London, England. An impulse not to be resisted urged her to read this letter. It probably was the one he al- luded to, containing the account of his wife's death ! and setting the candle on a table, she opened it, and read the con- tents ; which were such as immediately to throw her on her knees in a transport of thanksgiving. It was indeed the letter giving an account of Mrs. Danvers's last moments, and also of the very day and hour that she died : and Agatha, as Dan- vers had done before, saw that beyond the D 2 power 52 power of doubt she herself was the law- ful WIFE of Danvers, and her child the ofispringofa legitimate marriage. When the transports of her joy and grati- tude had a little subsided, she folded the letter up and deposited it in her bosom, re- solved to keep it as a defence against the evidently villanous intentions of Dan vers ; and with a lightened heart she returned to her own apartment. The next morning she made a small bundle of the clothes most requisite for herself and child ; and leaving a note for Danvers, informing him of the discovery which she had made, and of her intention to take every legal means to substantiate her marriage, bidding him at the same time farewell for ever, she walked with her child in her arms to a stand of coaches, and, having called one, desired the coachman to drive to a street which she named, at some distance from Dan- vers 's 53 vers's lodgings, and then to stop wherever he saw " Lodgings to let'* in the window. Luckily for Agatha, she found two apartments to let, on the ground floor, in a distressed but honest family ; and hav- ing taken them for one week, she sat down to deliberate on her best mode of proceeding. To obtain a certificate of her marriage seemed a necessary step : but first she resolved to write a full de- tail to her mother, flattering herself that, as the conduct of Danvers was calculated to injure the fame of her daughter, Mrs. Torrington's pride might be roused to resent it, though her tenderness might remain unmoved. Unfortunately for Agatha, Danvers was of the same opinion ; and as soon as he found that Agatha was in pos- session of the letter, he took every pos- sible means in his power to frustrate the success of her application to Mrs. Tor rington. rington, and to deprive her of every evi- dence that a marriage with him had ta* ken place. Danvers knew, though Aga- tha did not, that her mother was at a retired watering place, about a day's journey from London ; and thither he immediately sent the woman of colour, and his little boy, whose deep mourning and excessive beauty were, he well knew, likely to attract the attention of all women, but more especially of mothers. Nor Vv^as he mistaken in his expecta- tions. Mrs. Torrington observed and admired the perhaps orphan child, who was constantly led along the walks which she most frequented ; and at last sh^ could not help stopping the servant to in- quire the name of that beautiful child, and the cause of the deep mourning which he wore. *'He is in mourning for Mrs. Dan- vers, fat this name Mrs. Torrington started,] 55 started,] his poor mamma, who died a little while ago in India.'* " But has he no father?''^ asked Mrs. Torrington. *' O dear I yes/' replied the woman of colour, *' a fine gentleman indeed, Mr. George Danvers, formerly of ■ regiment, who lives in Bruton- street, Berkley-square, just now." '* Impossible! quite impossible !" an- sw^ered Mrs. Torrington, tottering to a bench w^hich was near her. " Surely that Mr. Danvers has a wife living ! " " A wife 1" resumed the artful Indian with a look full of sarcastic meaning. ** No 1 my master never had any wife, I am sure, but my poor dear mistress. That miss (miss Torrington I believe her name is) who lives with him only goes by his name, and is only his miss." It was too much for a mother to bear ; and and believing Implicitly a tale vvliich Sfem- ed so plausible, Mrs. Torrington fell from her seat in a state of insensibility, and it was many hours before she recover- ed her senses and her recollection. But at the very moment she did so, a letter from Agatha was put into her hands, and toiii unread into a thousand pieces ; while the woman of colour remained a fevir days longer at the watering- place, in or- der to avoid any appearance of having come thither merely to effect a purpose,-— and then returned to the delighted Dan- vers, who had no doubt of the success of his scheme in order to prevent the money and power of Mrs. Torrington from being exerted in her daughter's favour. But his machinations did not end here. In the clerk at the church where they were married he had recognised an old friend and his assistant in the unprincipled se- duction 57 duction of a farmer's daughter ; and who, though he had to his great surprise, when he last saw him, found him in a situation of trust and respectability, he was very sure was a being so completely unprin- cipled as not to scruple any action, how- ever bad, for which his avarice was to receive a single gratification. Accord- ingly he set off for the village where he had been united to Agatha ; and while the church register was lying in the li- brary of the rector^ for the purpose of having extracts made from it, the clerk, bribed by Danvers, contrived to tear out the leaf which contained the evidence of his marriage , and as, owing to circum- stances, no copy had yet been taken of the register, Danvers returned to his own apartments with the consciousness of successful guilt, Agatha, meanwhile, watched the ar- D 5 rival 5f rival of the post every day with vain and fruitless anxiety, till her feelings ap- proached the very verge of insanity, and the nourishment which she had hitherto afforded her child began to be dried up ^ for dark and hopeless was the prospect before her. At length she wrote again to her mother. And the letter Mrs. Torrington opened ; but seeing that Aga- tha, presuming as she conceived on her superior understanding, was trying to impose on her, by making her believe that she was the deserted wife of Danvers, she read only the first sentence or two ; then, in a letter of reproach and invec- tive, she returned it to the expecting and half-distraeted Agatha. Agatha received her own letter back, and read her mother's with the calm firm- ness of desperation, and also with the indignant pride of conscious and out- raged 59 raged innocence. But where could she turn for assistance, advice, and redress ? She was too proud to confide in inferiors, too proud also to apply, in that equivocal situation, which even exposed her to be called infamous by a mother^ to the scorn or suspicions of her own relations and friends. Yet something she must do ; and her good sense taught her, as before, that she must try to obtain a certificate of her mar- riage. Accordingly she hired a coach, and drove, as Danvers had done, to the village where they were married. She was directed to the clerk's house; and little did Agatha suspect with what ma- lignant joy this base agent of her unwor- thy husband saw her arrive at his door, and knew the errand on which she came. For during the childhood of Agatha, this man had been a hanger-on in her mother's kitchen ; 60 kitchen ; and his little girl, a most lovely- child, the darling of his heart, had beea often the playfellow of Agatha, and the slave of her tyrannical humours. But one day this uncorrected tyrant, in a fit of passion, gave a blow to the poor childy who was forced into the misery of playing with her ; and though the blow itself could have done her little injury, — in en- deavouring to avoid it, she struck her head against a marble table so severely that she was taken up stunned and ap- parently dead ; and while the terrified and therefore penitent Agatha was by her cri- minally weak parent soothed and com- forted as tenderly as her little victim was by the parents who feared for her life, the father of the endangered child breathed curses on the head of the unamiable Agatha, and wished from the bottom of his soul to be revenged on her. True — True — Agatha meant not to hurt so seriously the offending child, but who can say where may terminate the conse- quences of a blow aimed by the hand of passion ! True — many presents were la- vished on the child, when she recovered, both by Mrs. Torrington and her daugh- ter : — but the darling of a father's heart had suffered pain, and had experienced danger ; and the man hated the being that had inflicted them; for this darling did not live to womanhood, and her father always believed this blow was the occa- sion of her death. Soon after he left the neighbourhood, and he never saw Agatha again till he beheld her at the altar. He now saw her once more, and he had had the revenge on her which he desired. But his vengeance was going to be more amply gratified: — be he was going to see her writhe under the misery to which he had contributed. Agatha was requested to alight, and the well-remembered face of the clerk met her view. Still she had no idea tvhere she had seen him, and he had no inclina- tion to inform her ; while with suppressed agitation she begged to have a copy of the register of her marriage, mentioning the day and hour when it was solemnized. The clerk feigned astonishment, and looked at her as if he doubted her being m her senses. But Agatha persisted in her statement and her demand, and the clerk at last accompanied her to the church, having procured the keys of the vestry closet from the sexton ; and the re- gister was opened at the month which she mentioned. But in vain did she seek the record which she required j — it was not there I 63 there ! and speechless with surprise stood the helpless and injured Agatha. At length, however, indignation gave her words, and turning scornfully round to Cammell — '' You are a villain ! '* she exclaimed, " and the mean agent of a greater villain still. Let me see your rector himself: to his justice I shall appeal." Cammell bowed ; and said, if the lady- insisted on it, he would go to him. " No," replied Agatha ; " I will ac- company you, nor shall you quit my sight till I have seen him." The clerk again bowed, and saying The lady must be obeyed, led the way to the rector's house. At the door the servant said his master was dressing, but that the clerk might be admitted ; and Agatha was, unwillingly, forced to sub- mit to this separation. Her 64 Her suspicions of its consequences were not unfounded. The clerk described her as a maniac ; a woman, he had heard, deprived of her senses by the marriage of a man who had seduced and abandoned her ; that she was become mad on the idea that she was his wife ; and was in the habit of going to different churches demanding a copy of her mar- riage register. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the clergyman should, when he beheld Agatha, discover imme- diately in her looks the phrensy attri- buted to her : — and to her appeal for jus- tice, and her accusation of her husband and Cammell, he replied with shrugs of the shoulders, shakes of the head, and *' Really, ma'am, I can't say, — I can- not believe . . . ." which drove the proud, irritable, and aggrieved Agatha into the real phrensy which the clerk had feigned. And And when the clergyman wished her good morning, and attempted to leave the room, she, to his great consternation, suddenly seized his arm, and commanded him to stay. Then turning to Cammell, she started, mused a moment, and ex- claimed, " Where have I seen that dark and gloomy face before ? It haunts my recol- lection like some miserable remembrance of pain endured long since I" Here the clerk and the clergyman ex- changed significant glances ; and the clerk, prefacing his words with a look of pity, and "Poor, distracted creature!" assured him that he had never seen her before in his life. " You are both in a league against me, I perceive," said she, '* and where to turn, and what to do, I know not. — Sir,'* ( turning round so quickly as to make the clergy- 66 clergyman start,) " sir, who keeps the keys of the place where you deposit the register ? " " Myself. " *' And you never trust them to others, except as 1 have myself witnessed this day ? '' " Never.*' " You never have it at your own house?'* " Yes J but then it is never out of my sight/' " Never ! And this you would swear in a court of justice ? '* "I would." *' And there, sir, you shall swear it then," replied Agatha. Then darting at them both a look of ineffable and fierce disdain, she walked majestically away ; and, having found her coach, returned in an agony of unspeak- able 67 able wretchedness to London ; while those whom she left behind remained differently affected, though equally glad that she was gone. The clergyman was really afraid of her, on account of her imagined disorder, though at the same time he felt charmed by her beauty, and awed by the evident dignity of her manner — the natural result of conscious importance : while Cammell, though he rejoiced in his revenge, was every mo- ment afraid that Agatha would recollect him and his name, and prove beyond a doubt that he had lyed in declaring he had never seen her before. Meanwhile Agatha, with despair in her heart, arrived at her lodgings, and was eagerly knocking at the door, having scarcely waited till the step was put down; while, so anxious was she to see her child, whom she had never left before, that she forgot to ask the driver his fare. But he surlily 68 surlily reminded her of her neglect, and made a most exorbitant demand. Agatha, however, complied with it im- mediately ; and taking the purse which Danvers had given her, and which once contained thirty guineas, but was now re- duced to much less than a fourth of the sum, she paid the man what he required. But he, his avarice being awakened by a compliance he so little expected, seized her arm, and told her she had not given him enough, andhe must and would have more. Against this evident imposidon even the fast-clouding intellect of Agatha re- volted, and she refused to comply ; but alarmed at the violence of the coachman, and the crowd that began to gather, her hand dropped the purse, which scattered the guineas around as it fell. The coachman immediately let go his hold; and Agatha feeling herself at liberty, and hearing her child cry, rushed into the then G9 then opening door, and was not conscious she had dropped her purse till the maid of the house brought it to her a few minutes afterwards, declaring that the coachman and the crowd had run away with all but one solitary guinea. — But she spoke to one who heard her not. The mistress of the lodging house had met Agatha on her return, holding her screaming child in her arras, who had been vainly for some time requiring the food v^hich her fevered and agitated mother even wnen she arrived could no longer bestow on her. And while the poor woman, who had never been a mo- ther herself, was lamenting her inability to offer either advice or assistance, Aga- tha sat in a sort of desperate silence, clasp- ing the gradually siiiking child to her heart, and ruminating sad and desperate resolutions. At length she started up, and, wrap- ping 70 ping her child in a large mantle, with outward composure, but inward perturba- tion, told her landlady that she was obliged to leave the lodgings directly, and begged to know what she was indebted to her ; while she heard with horror, that the sum exceeded, far exceeded, the guinea which, Agatha now comprehended, was all that remained of her once well filled purse ! *' Do not distress yourself thus, ma- dam," said the kind-hearted woman, to whom her own sorrows had taught sym- pathy with those of others, " it is not much, and we can wait ; and if you ne- ver pay us, it does not signify." " I shall never be able to pay you if I do not pay you now," replied Agatha in a mournful and solemn tone : *' but I believe my clothes are more than worth the money. I shall therefore leave them behind me ; and if you do not hear from me in a month's time, look on them as your property." The 71 The woman, alarmed she scarcely knew why by the manner of Agatha, earnest- ly entreated her to remain one night longer where she was, and offered to go in search of a wet-nurse for the child. But Agatha, by a commanding look, imposed silence on her importunities ; and, borrowing a shilling to pay her coach- hire, desired a coach to be called, and took a feeling, though distant, farewel of her anxious and kind hostess. The coachman had driven Agatha, who knew Uttle of the geography of London, as far as Windmill-street, on her way to Westminster-bridge, when she recollect- ed that probably a shilling would not be sufficient to pay her fare thither. Ac- cordingly she stopped the coach, and, de- siring to be set down, got out, offered the shilling as payment, and was relieved to find that it was immediately accepted. " I can ask my way thither,'* said Agatha 72 Agatha to herself," it is the only trouble I shall ever again give my fellow creatures ;" and she pressed her sleeping because ex- hausted babe, still closer to her bosom ; while the grave appeared her only place of refuge. For Agatha was married, yet had no husband ; had a mother, yet was motherless; she was herself a parent, without the means of prolonging the ex- istence of her child ; she was spotless in virtue, yet was believed criminal even by the mother who bore her in her bosom ; she had uttered her just complaints^ and had been treated as a maniac : and dis- carded by the only being who could ena- ble her to redress her wrongs, where on earth could she look for succour and for sustenance ! " I will seek the mercy and pardon of my God ! " she exclaimed, and with a firm voice she desired to be shown the way to Westminster-bridge. But she was told told it in vain ; and in Cockspur-street she was again at a loss, and was debating of whom she should next inquire^ when, just as a most severe summer shower be- gan to fall, she was forced to stand up against the door of a shop in order to avoid a carriage. The pale face of Aga- tha was slightly shaded by so very costly a lace veil depending from a small straw bonnet, and around her tall majestic fi- gure was wrapt a laced muslin mantle of such curious texture, and her air and mien were of so pure and commanding a nature, that it was impossible for her to be mistaken either for a servant, or for a depraved woman, or indeed for any thing but what she was — a gentlewoman. Yet this lady, as every thing about her proved her to be, \vas wandering alone in the streets of London, and carrying, like a menial, an infant in her arms. *' This is very strange," said a Mr. VOL. I. E ^ Orwell Orwell to himself as Agatha stopped a- gainst his door ; and his wife's counte- nance expressed equal surprise with that of her husband. It was a bright evening in the first week of July, undimmed even by the showerthen falling, for it still glittered with the evening rays; and many of the inhabitants of Cock- spur- street stood at their doors to enjoy the genial season. The door of Mr. Orwell's shop was very near that of his parlour, which also stood open, and he and his wife were drinking tea, and seeing the carriages and people pass ; when Agatha, after throwing a wild unconscious look into the shop, stood up, as I before said, for safety. There was something in her look, her dress, her air, which irresisti- bly impelled Mr. Orwell to start from his seat and approach her ; and an impulse equally strong led his wife to follow his example. Coach after coach continued to to impede the progress of the passengers, and barrow after barrow j while the in- creasing rain made all who were not pro- vided with umbrellas seek shelter in some friendly door-way. But Agatha remained in the wet, unconscious that it rained ; when, turning round, her wild yet sunk eye met that of Mr. Orwell. ** Pray, madam, come in," said he in ^n accent of kindness, an accent made kinder than it was wont to be by recently- experienced affliction ; " it rains very hard, and you will be wet through, ma'am." *' Aye, pray do come in, and sit down till the rain is over/' said h!s equally kind wife ; and Agatha, though she scarcely knew why she did so, complied with their request, and entered the shop. '* Here is a chair, ma'am," said Mr. Orwell y and Agatha took it ; but to sit E 2 was 76 was impossible. She hastily arose, and began, ill-suited as the narrow bounds of the place were for the purpose, to pace backwards and forwards with the mani- acal walk of overwhelming misery. Here a faint cry from the infant called her at- tention to it, and awakened still more forcibly th:-u of the Orwells. " I thought it was a child you were carrying, madam,'* said Mrs. Orwell ; *' May I, without offence, beg leave to look at it ? " " It is not worth looking at noiVy* re- plied Agatha, unclosing the mantle : and Mrs. Orwell brushed away a tear caused by a painful recollection, as she saw in its pale and sunken cheek the evident ap- proaches of death. Agatha saw her tear, and understood it. *' It will not suffer long !" said she ; " neither shall I :*' and she pronounced this / < this in a tone of voice so deep, so solemn, and with a look so expressive of the re- solution of despair, that I\Ir. Orwell, who was gazing on her when she spoke, guessed the misery, and suspected the desperate purpose of her soul. '• 1 will follow and not lose sight of h er,'* SLiid he mentally ; " but firct I will endeavour to draw her into the relief of conversation." Agatha had resumed her walk, and extended it into the parlour, where the tea yet smoking m the cups and tlie new bread attracted her- unconsciously, and Siie recollected that she had not eaten food for days. Mrs. Orwell observed the eager loo^ she cast on the well- filled table, and with great humility, — for she saw that x'^gatha, as she afterwards ex- pressed it, was " somebody,'' — asked har to take a cup of warm tea to counteract the cold, should her wet clothes have ex- posed 78 - posed her to It : and Agatha, her wonted pride yielding to her sense of fatigue and hunger, gave a ready assent ; and in a moment more she was seated at the hum- ble board of Mr. and Mrs. Orwell. " Well ; I am degraded for the last time !** said Agatha to herself; and she immediately began to ask her way to Westminster-bridge. "To Westminster-bridge!'* said Mr. Orwell, looking at her steadfastly : " It is past eight o'clock, and it will soon be dark: What can a young lady hke you, burthen- ed too with an infant, do at such a place at this late hour ?" " I am going to meet a friend there,*' said Agatha, sighing deeply. " Indeed !" said Mrs. Orwell : "Well, Mr. Orwell, I'm sure, will see you safe so far, if you will allow him." " No ! madam,'' replied Agatha haugh- tily ; " I shall go alone.^* Mrs. Mrs. Orwell was awed, and begged her pardon submissively : but Mr. Or- well coolly replied, " You shall go alone, or with me, as you please, madam ; but not till you have had a hearty meal here : so pray condescend to sit down again :" while, presenting Agatha with some bread and butter, he opened a cupboard, and offered her some cold meat, to tempt and gratify the ravenous appedte with which she devoured whatever was set before her. '' You are very kind," said Agatha, ** and this is so welcome to me ! I had not tasted food for hours — no, not for davs." " No 1 — Then to be sure you are not a nurse f" observed Mrs. Orwell. " I was a nurse," said Agaiha ; " but all is dry here now/* putdng her hand on her bosom. Mr. Orwell left the room. " No wonder : — if you starve yourself, you must starve your child." Agaiha 80 Agntha started. " True — most true/' she replied ; " but if " (" If I have no money to buy food/* she meant to say.) ^' If you were to eat and drink, the poof little thing might still live and do well," resumed Mrs. Orviell, uho in her zeal in the cause of maternity forgot her fear of Agatha ; '' and I Vvonder you can answer it to ycur conscience not to do all you can for ir. — In the mean time let us see what /can do." Immediately, and while Agatha, now alive only to the idea of relieving her famished infant, sat gazing in wild but still expectation, Mrs. Orwell ordered some milk to be warmed ; and in a very few minutes by artificial means, known to her who had been herself a mother, the exhausted infant sucked nou- rishment eagerly and copiously while she lay on Mrs. Orwell's lap : — and Agatha, encouraged by Mrs. Orwell to expect with 81 with certainty the restoration of her babe, uttered a wild hysteric scream of joy, and sunk back, laughing and almost con- vulsed, into the arms of Mr. Orwell, who at that moment returned. " My dear," said Mr. Orwell, while his wife was administering remedies to her interesting charge, " I trust we have not saved the child only !" And as he gazed on Agatha, tears in quick succession rolled down his cheek. " My dear/' re- sumed he, " I see a hkeness ; Don't you? " "Yes/' replied Mrs. Orwell with a deep sigh ; '' especially now that her eyes are closed, and she looks so like death. Our poor child, when dying " Here emotion broke off her speech. " I wish she was not a lady," said the old man ; " else, for the child and grandchild we have just lost, it should seem that Providence had thus sent us this distracted stranger and her poor babe." At length Agatha completely recovered E 5 her 82 her senses and her powers, and found her head resting on the compassionate bosom of Mr. Orwell, who if she had been a neighbour's child would have pressed the poor forlorn one to his heart, and bidden her be comforted. But Mr. Orwell's feelings towards Agatha were checked by the cold and haughty dignity of her mien, which not even affliction could subdue ; and before she could herself proudly withdraw from his supporting arm, he had resigned her to the care of his wife. Strange, mixed, and almost insupporta- ble sensations returned with her senses to the heart of Agatha ; and pride yet unsub- dued, — for I believe the proud are rendered prouder still by adversity, — urged her to. leave these kind but lowly strangers, who had stopt her on her way to the peace and independence of death. — " But must she die ? Could she not live and her poor infant too?" And the moment she had once borne 9B borne to ask herself the quejtjoxi, the reign of despair was beginning to cease, and that of hope to return. " It still rains," said Mr. Orwell, *' and is now nearly dark : your friend, madam, at Weslminster-bridge cannot expect you now ! Allow me to see you to your own honse.** Agatha started, shuddered, and hid ber face in her hands. " Madam, 1 wait your commands," said Mr. Orwell, taking his hat down from the peg : *' Shall I call a coach, and see you home r" *' I have no home !" exclaimed Agatha wildly. " Nor, when I leave this hos- pitable shelter, know I where to seek an- other, except ... . *' Here she remained choked by violent emotions ; while Mr. Orwell, replacing his hat, eagerly locked the street-door of his shop, ordered the shutters to be closed, and 84 and drawing a chair seated himself by the side of Agatha. '' My dear young lady," said he^ " excuse my freedom ; but my home is yours for this night at least ; and were you not so much our superior, it should be yours as long as we lived, as I am sure guilt has had no share in your evi» dent distress." " Bless you ! bless you for that 1" said Agatha. " You, you do me justice; you, a stranger^ while she . . . /' " Allow me," said Mr. Orwell, " to tell you something of the man who thus presumes. Perhaps it is merely the sug- gestions of my own conceit; but I cannot help thinking you must have considered my language as superior to my situation in life." Agatha only bowed ; for she had not thought on the subject : and Mr. Orwell continued thus: — *^ I have known better days, and hav- ing ing been heir to great wealth, received a suitable education. But unfortunate spe- culation ruined my father, and I was glad at last to settle in this little shop, where in the bosom of my family I became ob« scurely indeed but thoroughly happy j and I blessed the present goodness, with- out ever repining at the past reverse dis- pensations, of Providence. I had not, how- ever, yet suffered my appointed share of affliction. I had an only daughler : — she married, had a child, and came to die in our arms : — she did do so : but still we were resigned j despair was never in our hearts, nor its expressions on our lips ; but we suffered, suffered deeply, and we still suffer . . . ." Here he hid his face, and wept: and Aga- tha, though at first half inclined to resent being thus preached to, conscious of the obligations she owed him, sat and listened with evident attention and sympathy. Mrs S6 Mrs. Orwell meanwhile, was still nursing the sleeping babe of Agatha, and weeping as she did so j while her husband went on. *' My dear young lady, you resemble our poor child, and ....'* *' Aye^ you do indeed,'* cried Mrs. Or- well with a violent burst of sorrow ; " and when you lay just now looking so like death, I could not help kissing your poor pale lips and fancying you my poor Mary. Oh ! that you were not, as I see you are, a lady, though now so sad and friendless j for then I could throw myself on your neck, and call you my lost daughter, my dear — dear Mary!" Agatha's heart could not stand this ap- peal to its best feelings : every emotion of pride was annihilated ; and bursting into a flood of tears, the first she had shed for many days, she threw herself on th€ neck of Mrs. Orwell, and exclaimed, "Do " Do call me your child, your Mar/, if it will relieve your poor heart !" And when composure was a little restored, Agatha, whose oppressed head and bosom had been greatly relieved by crying, blessed her in the most grateful and affectionate manner for having saved her child and her also from destruction. " Well, but you will stay here till you can do something better I '* said Mrs. Or- well. " You shall have a room to yourself," said her husband ; " and you shall pay me what you will,, either little or much." " I have not a shilling in the world !'^ cried Agatha. *' 1 am glad of it," replied Mrs. Or- well ; " for then you may be pleased to stay wiih us." " I fear, not;'* observed Mr. Orwell ; while Agatha gratefully and gracefully pressed his wife's hand to her quivering lip. But 88 But a sudden thought struck across her brain : — she jumped up, she ran into the shop, examined the contents of the shop- windows ; and returning with a counte- nance radiant with renewed hope and joy, she fell on her knees, and audibly re- turned thanks to God for having allowed her to be snatched from irremediable per- dition. Her new friends listened, and beheld her with considerable alarm, and feared her phrensy had only taken a new turn. But they were relieved when Agatha, as soon as tears — tears of joy — would allow her to speak, told them she had disco- vered that they sold prints, patterns, wa- ter-coloured drawings, and paintings of flowers. " To be sure we do," said Mrs. Or- well; *' but what then, my dear young lady?" . *' Why then you can employ me ; and 1 shall 89 1 shall be able to maintain myself and chili by the exertion of those talents which to the rich heiress were only the source of most pernicious vanity." " And you are a good artist then, are you ?'* said Mr. Orwell doubtingly ; for he knew something of art, and of what lady-artists too often are. " You shall .see what I can do," said Agatha : and she took from her pocke: a miniature of her mother. '' Excellent!*' said Orwell: " A copy, I presume r " " No ! an original : but that is not all ; give me pencil and paper, and let me sketch that dear group." lie gave them to her i and in a few minutes she designed with great skill and accuracy, INIrs. Orwell and her child upon her lap. " Admirable!" said the delighted and convinced old mar. '' It is not so hand- some 90 some as my old woman, to be sure j but it is a very pretty sketch. Why, ma- dam, you may make my fortune and* your own too. And what else can you do ? '* *' I can paint much better than those unnatural, stiff, ill-coloured groups of flowers for patterns are painted. In short, I am somewhat skilled in every branch of your trade, and you wili save me from distraction and death by promising to employ me to the very utmost.'* Words cannot express the joy of the benevolent and affectionate old couple as Agatha spoke thus. " Then you will stay with us now ?" said Mrs. Orwell. " Yes/' said Mr. Orwell, " now you can do so without incurring pecuniary obligation : — for I see, young lady-, that you have your full share of the pride of a gentlewoman, and have not yet been afflicted 91 afflicted long enough to be humble. How- ever, wko you are, and ivhat you are, you will tell us when yoii choose.'* " All I can tell you, I will tell you now^' returned Agatha : " 1 am a de^ scried tvife, and a discarded daughter ; but I am innocent; and now that I have a prospect of being able to earn a livelihood, I may one day live to triumph over my enemies. Perhaps some time or other I may tell you more ; — but now I wish to suspend the opera- tion of painful images on my mind O ye kind, generous, Christian beings, who, though I was a stranger, took me in and cherished me I — may you in the last moments be soothed by the reflection that you were the means of saving from destruction, from ie//'- destruction, a wretched, injured, but virtuous fellow- creature 1" " Kubh ! hush ! don't speak so loud," said 92 said Mrs. Orwell, smiling through her tears; " you'll wake the dear babe. Well, ril put it to-bedj for the bed is ready for you, my dear — madam ^ I mean.'* And Agacha, affectionately pressing Mrs. Orwell's hand, followed her to her apart- ment. It was a clean and quiet though not a spacious chamber, and Agatha with a relieved and grateful heart retired to the prospect of rest which it afforded her ; and having again fed her evidently re- covering infant, she soon sank into repose by its side. In the morning, Agatha, wondering, humbled, sad, yet no longer despairing, awoke to many mingled and overpowering sensations ; amidst which, gratitude to her IMaker for preservation from a sinful death was the predominant feeling : — and happy would it have been for her, had^ not the sentiment of grateful adoration to God been nearly paralleled by one of vindictive 93 vindictive resentment towards a feliow- creature, and that fellow-creature the mother who had given her being. But TEMPER, the bane of Agatha's existence and the ruler of her conduct, towered in all its strength by the side of her religious emotions, and rendered vain the resources against the evils of her situation, to uhich a person uninfluenced by temper would gladly have had recourse. True it was that her husband had denied her to be his wife, and destroyed as she could not doubt one evidence of his marriage with her : — but did it follow that there was no other remaining, which legal means might not enable her to procure r True it was, that her mother had renounced her, and declared her belief that she was only the mistress of Danvers. But she had power- ful though not near relations in London ; and it was most likely that the tale she had to tell them, tfiough they might at first 94 first disbelieve it, would at last find its way to their hearts, and through them to her mother's, by the irresistible and om- nipotent power of truth. But Agatha derived a sad and sullen joy, a malignant consciousness of future revenge, from the idea that one time or other, when no one could know and no one disclose the fate of her lost daughter, the mother who had dared to suspect the virtue of that daughter, and to discard her in consequence of that suspicion, would regret her lost child, would wish she had been less hasty to condemn her, and feel in all its bitterness the agony of a fault for which it was no longer in her power to make any reparation. It was perhaps an angi7 feeling like this, that, adding force to the other source of misery, prompted her to the Resolution of committing vio- lence on her and her infant's life : — for there is little doubt that suicides have been often. 95 often, very often, occasioned merely by the vindictive wish of planting an everlast- ing thorn in the breast of the parent, the lover, the mistress, the wife, or the hus- band, whose conduct has in the opinion of the weak sufferer, the slave of an ill- governed temper, excited the terrible cra- vings of a vicious resentment. — Sure is it, that Temper, — like the unseen but busy subterranean fires in the bosom of a volcano, is always at work where it has once gained an existence, and is for ever threatening to explode, and scatter ruia and desolation around it. Parents^ beware how you omit to check the first evidences of its empire in your children ; and treni- hk lest the powerless hand which is only- lifted in childless anger against you, should, if its impotent fury remains un- corrected, in future life be armed with more destructive fury against its own ex- istence, or that of a fellow-creature ! « No/' 96 ^' No,'' said Agatha to herself, " I will conceal my name and my wrongs in ob- livion the most complete. Not even the good and generous beings to whom I owe my life and its continuance shall be in- formed of them ; but sustained by the proud consciousness of my own desert, I will be all-sufficient to myself and to my child ; and the injured heiress of thou- sands shall derive more honourable pride from the exertions of her talents in honest industry, than she ever felt as the idol of an interested crowd." And unfortunately the persevering ob- stinacy of Agatha led her to adhere rigidly to the determination which Temper led her to form. Had she not done so, — had she opened her heart, and told the tale of her injuries to the benevolent Mr. Orwell, — it is possible that his representa- tions might have induced such a line of conduct as would have been the means of restoring 07 restoring her to her mother, and certain- ly it would have enabled her to establish her marriage beyond dispute ; for Mr. Or- well would have advised her to have imme- diate recourse to legal advice, and would gladly have afforded her the means of doing so ; by which means she could in- stantly have learnt that, though a villain might have been bribed to destroy the evidence of a marriage in the register of a parish church, it was most probable that a copy of that marriage must nevertheless exist, unsubjected to the daring of a villain, in some register ofEce connected with the parish where the ceremony took place j and that time and expense alone were re- quisite to procure for the injured every possible satisfaction from the injurer. But her resolution was taken, and she never allowed herself to suppose that from her resolutions there could ever be any appeal. At an early hour Agatha^ who with VOL. I, p the 9S the feeling of a real gentlewoman wished to conform to the hours of her hosts, took her seat at the breakfast table, and with a quivering lip beheld her child received into the arms of Mrs. Orwell, while her husband took her seat and occupation at the board. Still, spite of the even parental kindness of these ex- cellent people, Agatha felt that she was not in her place : and notwithstanding her efforts to be affable, she was at last only graciously condescending. *' You are not so like our poor Mary today," said Mrs. Orwell, attentively re- garding her. " No," said Mr. Orwell ; "•' our Mary was not a lady, and therefore had not the look or air of one; nor had she this lady's beauty.'* " Our Mary was very pretty, my dear," interrupted Mrs. Orwell, " and looked so good and sweet-tempered !" " She was certainly quite perfect in her parent's 93 parent's eyes," replied Mr. Orwell, the big drops swelling in his eye ; — " but she is gone — and it is a comfort we cannot be too grateful for, that we were allowed to administer to her wants during her last illness : — *' On some fond breast the p:irtlng soul relies,*' added he, willing perhaps to show off his little reading to Agatha. But he was interrupted by her starting from her chair, and pacing with distempered haste the narrow floor of the room. " Excellent people !" said she at length, taking a hand of each, and press- ing them affectionately: — "you feel as parents should feel ; — and would I had been in reality your Mary ! for then I should have breathed my last on a bosom which loved me. — But now.... ! *' Here her voice failed her, and she burst into tears. And as she viewed her soft- F 2 eiied 3 00 ened eye, her languid air, poor Mrs. Orwell again recognised her lost Mary. " But come,'* said Agatha with a more cheerful countenance, as soon as breakfast was over ; " let us to business — I long to be earning money : procure me some flowers, and I will paint a group im- mediately.'* And in a very short time Mr. Orwell had procured the best flowers Covent-garden afforded ; while Agatha was diligently employed in copying them. As soon as the group was finished, it was exhibited by the delighted Mr. Or- well in the shop window ; and to his and Agatha's satisfaction it was sold as soon as it was seen. It was bought by a gen- tleman of some rank and distinction in society, and he bespoke eleven more by the same artist, as he wanted them to de- corate some particular room in a villa which he had lately purchased ; promising at 101 at the same time to recommend Mr. Or- well's shop to all his friends. ** It was a kind Providence for me as well as you, madam/' said Mr. Orwell, *' that brought you to my house.'*' " I trust it will turn out so/* said the gratified Agatha, who worked with such assiduity, that in a very short time the twelve paintings were completed, and declared admirable by the satisfied pur- chaser. By this time Mrs. Orwell, who was be- come used to Agatha's " grand manner," as she called it, and who naturally enough was attached to her by a sense of the benefit she had conferred, was very de- sirous to learn whether she meant to con- tinue with them, especially as she had contrived, by removing their own bed to the top of the house, to make a sit- ting-room for Agatha. But the latter, though her heart glowed with gratitude towards 102 towards these excellent people as her pre- servers, could not prevail on herself to remain an inmate of their house, nor in- deed of any other in London. She felt, in this respect wisely felt, tliat though Mr. Orwell had been a gentleman, and had had the education of one (however his manners might have lost some of their habitual polish by collision with vulgar society), Mrs. Orwell was only a trades- man's wife ; and she knew that not only her pride but her taste would be offend- ed by constant association with one so much her inferior; and whose affection- ate familiarity she might, however re- luctantly, be at times forced to repel. For it is not pride alone, but a sense of fitness, that makes persons prefer living with their equals to association with their inferiors. It is the want of equal education thai makes the great difference between man and 103 and man ; and the bar that diviJis the vulgar man from the gentleman is not so much a sense of superior birth, as a feeling of difference, a consciousness of different habits, ways of thinking, and manners — the result of opposite situ- ations. '* No, no, — I cannot, must not stay here,** said Agatha to herself: — '• Mrs. Orwell is not a fit companion fjr me ; and I cannot bear to pain her affectionate heart, by throwing her at the distance which the difference of our rank in life and the habit resulting thence would place her: — besides,! long for the country, and some wild sequestered place where my infant may derive health and strength from the mountain breeze, and I may escape all chance of being known." But in order to reach " this mountain breeze,'* it would be necessary for Aga- tha to undertake a long and expensive journey. 104 journey^ and live at a most inconvenient and expensive distance from the metro- polis. Her drawings and paintings for sale would in that case be some days oil the road, and the carriage to London consequently, considerably diminish the profits of her employers. She was there- fore at last prevailed upon by Mr. Or- well to reside in a village in Sussex, suf- ficiently lonely, bleak, and desolate, to satisfy the gloomy and unsocial taste of Agatha ; sufficiently near the sea to make it a healthy residence in her opinion for her child ; and near enough to the metro- polis for the purposes of business : — while Mr, Orwell pleased himself with the idea that he could occasionally step into a stage coach, and in twelve hours time be set down within a walk of the habitation of Agatha. Besides, his benevolence was gratified by being enabled from Agatha's choice of the abode he had recommended to 105 to be of pecuniary service, without her knowledge that he was so. — ^He had hired rooms for her in the house of a dependent relation of his ; and binding the woman to secrecy, he had desired her to ask of Aga- tha only such a sum for the apartments, paying her himself the real rent which she had a right to demand, Agatha, when she arrived at her new abode, resolved in solitude the most rigo- rous to devote her days to unremitting industry, in order to maintain herself and child ; endeavouring at the same time to impart to her little Emma those accomplishments and refinements which she had herself been taught, in order that she might be able to acquit her« self with propriety and elegance, when (as Agatha had no doubt she would be) she should be called upon to emerge from obscurity, and move in that sphere of life in which her birth had originally designed F 5 her 106 her to move. For Agatha was sure, she scarcely knew why perhaps, that her mother would not always remain inexora- ble ; and though resolved never to hold communion herself with her tardily relent- ing parent, she looked forward with angry pleasure to the time when she would be- come an object of unavailing regret to her mother, and her daughter an object of pride and of tenderness. In the mean while, her natural activity both of body and mind being rendered still more vigo- rous by an almost phrensied senseof injury and unkindness, she exerted her varied talents to the utmost, and had the satis- faction of knowing that she thereby in- creased to a considerable degree the pro- fits of her affectionate benefactors ; though they could not often prevail on themselves to sell a drawing however good that seemed taken from Agatha or her child j for '' if we did not give, we at 107 at least saved their lives/' said Mr. Orwell; " and every memorial of their persons is precious to us from that recollection.'* But to return to Mrs. Torrington, — who, deceived by the arts of Danvers into a be- lief of her daughter's infamy, gave way to all the indignation which a proud and virtuous woman would feel on such a conviction : and while she returned to brood in solitude over her shame and her distress to her sequestered seat in Cum- berland, she was surprised there by a visit from her cousin the honourable Mr. Castlemain, oneof her earliest friends and admirers, but whose suit she had rejected in favour of Mr. Torrington. Mr. Castlemain, faithful to his first at- tachment, had never married ; and hearing of the distress in which Agatha's conduct had involved her mother, he hastened from the continent, where he had long resided, in order to express to her in person 108 person his sympathy in her sorrow, with a hope, perhaps as yet scarcely defined to himself, that in her forlorn and childless state Mrs. Torrington might be induced to listen to his addresses, and secure to herself an attached and aifectionate com- panion* Nor was he deceived in his ex- pectations. Mrs. Torrington, grateful for his long and faithful affection, and eager to lose in new^ ties the remembrance of those which appeared dissolved for ever, consented to become his wife; and the birth of another daughter had in a degree reconciled her to the loss of Agatha, when, four years after her marriage with Mr. Castlemain, death deprived her not only of a husband whom she sincerely esteem- ed, but of the child to whom she looked for a renewal of all that happiness which Agatha's conduct had deprived her of. — At first she almost sank under the blow j but as she recovered her powers of reflec tion J03 tion, the idea that Agatha, though dis- graced and distant, was yet alive, pre- sented itself, and spoke peace to her wounded mind. — " After all, she is my child ! " said Mrs. Castlemain to herself, " and it was cruel to discard her for a first and only fault: — for who knows what base arts were used to mislead her!" Andfromthe moment she had allowed herself to think and feel thus, she became constantly soli- citous to discover the residence of Aga- tha. — But her solicitude was soon heiorht- o ened almost to phrensy by the following circumstance. There is probably no heart so callous, no human being so thoroughly depraved, as not to feel at some moment the ago- nizing pang of remorse and compassion towards the victim of its successful villany. — When Danvers recollected that he had put it out of the power of Agatha to obtain a copy of the certificate of her marriage 110 marriage at the church where the ceremony took place, and that owing to accident no copy of it had been previously trans- mitted according to the usual forms Ito any other register, he knew that he was perfectly secure from any legal prosecu- tion in order to establish the fact of the marriage having taken place, and that his subsequent conduct in order to make Mrs. Torrington discard her daughter entirely had been a piece of villany as needless as it was detestable ; and concluding froip Agatha's temper and disposition that her mother's rejection of her on the plea that she was only a mistress, though she endeavoured to make herself be received as a wife, would in all probability drive his unhappy victim to the phrensy of de- speration, and involve his child also in all the misery incident to a deserted orphan, — he in a moment of remorse and self-con- demnation wrote to Mrs. Torrington just before Ill before he sailed for the West Indies, to as- sure her that he had really led Agatha to the altar, and tha:, as she never even sus- pected he had a wife Hving, she was con- sequently in intentionas pure and virtuous as when she left her mother's house : — he added, that as soon as she found she w^as not his lawful wife, she had fled from him for ever, cain'ing her child along with her ; — and ended by conjuring Mrs. Torrinrrton to give her innocent and injured daughter an asylum under her roof. Though no representations from a man of such confessed profligacy as Danvers was, were worthy of credit, still Mrs. Castlemain did not for a moment hesitate to believe even his testimony to the inno- cence of Agatha, a belief at the same time precious though agonizing to her heart ; and wild with remorse, regret and anxiety, she left no means untried to find out 112 out the retreat of the sufferer, and induce her to return to the arms of her repentant mother. Danvers, meanwhile satisfied that if Agatha lived she would be restored to the favour of her mother, or that his child at least would receive from her the pro- tection of a parent, left England with a mind lightened of a considerable load, and felt himself less painfully haunted than he had lately been by the image of his victim. Of Mrs. Torrington*s second marriage he had never heard, nor of her change of abode. The letter, however, as I have stated above, reached her ia safety, and occasioned her repeated and long unavail- ing endeavours to discover the retreat of her daughter. But no traces could be found of this long-lost daughter : and at last, despair- ing of any other means, iVIrs. Castlemain caused a paragraph or advertisement, ad- dressed to *' Agatha," to be inserted in every 113 every paper, desiring that an answer should be directed to her lawyer in London. Bat as Agatha never saw a newspaper, this advertisement would have appeared in vain, had not Mr. Orwell seen it, who, suspecting that the Agatha so addressed was the interesting object of his benevo- lence, sent the newspaper immediately down to her. Agatha in the mean time had been endea- vouring to make herself amends for the loss of other ties, by inspiring her child with an exclusive attachment to herself. " She is all to me, and I will be all to her 1 *' was her constant exclamation: and when she fancied " Agatha," as she noiu called lier, (since " Emma," the name of her mother, after whom she had christened her, was become odious to her,) was old enough to understand her, she used to delight in telling her the story of her cruel treatment ; and she took a s*d and savage pleasure 314 pleasure in hearing her express hatred of her grandmother and her father, because they had been so cruel to her dear mam- ma : — ^A•hilethe lesson of deep resentment for a mother's wrongs was daily inculcated. But though Agatha hated or rather de- spised her husband, she was far from feel- ing sentiments of this nature in reality to- wards her mother ; for her conscience told her she had violated her duty in marrying contrary to the laws of decorum and the express will of a parent : and though she could not remember without indignation that her mother had presumed to question the purity of her conduct, she felt that it was but justice to make allowancefor those \iolent and resentful feelings which after all were the result of her own disobedience. Such was her frame of mind when she received a parcel from Mr. Orwell : and the address to " Agatha/' — an address so worded that she could not but immediately feel 115 feel that she was the person addressee], — met her eager eye, and convulsed her whole frame with emotion. " So then/' cried she, " I am at last forgiven, regretted, and solicited to return to the home so long denied me! — Be it so : and when I am on my death-bed I too will forgive, and be contented to be for- given — but not before." Stilly in spite of this angry resolution, she read the welcome address of parental affection over and over again j and several times she caught herself calling her daugh- ter by the long-prohibited name of Emma, the name of her mother : and as she did so the last tiaie, she burst into tears, and folded the astonished child to her bosom with emotions of a various and contend- ing nature. But the name so recalled to her memory and her tongue vvas not again banished thence. " I am Agatha, not Emma, mamma," c^aid the little girl. " You IIG " You are both, my dear/' replied her mother, making an effort to restrain her tears j " and henceforth I shall call you Emma;' Another and another week elapsed : the advertisement was repeated again and again, and the paper sent down to her eve^ day; while the resolution of Agatha, never to let her mother hear of or from her but on her death-bed, grew weaker and weaker; and she began bitterly to repent of the pains which she had taken to make her child imbibe an aversion to her grandmother. '^ Let me endeavour," said she to herself, " to eradicate this aversion while it is yet time." But she found the task a much more difficult one than she at first imagined. Other persons had helped to deepen the feeling of dislike which she had origi- nally inculcated. The surgeon of the village had several children, vath whom Emma 117 Emma was occasionally permitted to as- sociate, and sorry am I to add that they were frequently sufferers from the violence of her uncorrected temper. The conse- quence was, that her little play-fellows, finding her grandmother was an object of terror and aversion to Emma, used to frighten her into submission by threaten- ing to send her to her grandmamma. And Agatha found too late, that she had inspired her child with a sentiment of hatred un- worthy of a Christian to feel or to inculcate. Shuddering at this conviction, and at her own guilt in having cherished so vile a feeling in the heart of her child, — '' Hov/ crimmal I have been!" she exclaimed in the anguish of her soul : '• but let me. now make all the expiation I can." " My dear child," cried Agatha, " you are to forgive your enemies, and to love every body." *' Yes," replied Emma, *' forgive and love 118 love eTery body : — No, no, — forgive and love every body but grandmamma/* Agatha was confounded at the tenaci- ousness of Emma*s memory and feelings, and eagerly answered : — " No : — you must forgive and love grandmamma too ; for she is a very good woman," '' No, no, — she is not a good woman ; she is cruel to you, and uses you ill, and beats you ! " " Indeed she is good, and you must love her, Emma," replied the distressed Agatha; " for she will love you and me very dearly, and perhaps we shall live with grandmamma very soon." Words would fail to express Agatha*s consternation at the violent expression of rage and aversion which this information excited in her child : for she was not in the least aware that her mother had long been a bugbear to Emma, through the means of her play-fellows. — And with 119 with painful surprise she heard the child, stamping with terror and passion, declare that she never never would go nigh so wicked, so very v icked a woman. " I deserve this," said Agatha mourn- fully :— '' I violated my duty both as a child and mother, when I tried to pollute that innocent heart with the angry and disturbed passions of mine." Then melt- ing into tears of tenderness, she sighed over the injury which she had done Mrs. Castlemain by steeling her child's heart against her : and the feelings of returning affection towards her were deepened by the consciousness. The next week the advertisement was again repeated ; and Agatha's heart was completely overcome. '' Mother ! dear mother ! " she exclaimed, " you shall not long sigh for me in vain." It so happened that on the Sunday following the parable of the Prodigal Son was read at church. Agatha listened to it 120 it with emotions the most overwhelming : and when the preacher came to those words, ^' I will arise and go to my father," — her feelings became uncontrollable; and throwing herself on her knees, she hid her face on the seat, and nearly sobbed aloud. Her emotion had not escaped the ob- servant eye of the amiable being who was ofHciating ; and when service was over he followed Agatha^ resolved that he would no longer permit her to reject as she had hitherto done his advances to acquaintance, since he was now convinced that some- thing weighed heavily on her mind ; and he therefore believed that conversation with him in his professional capacity, if not as a friend, might be the means of lightening her sorrows. But he soon found that Agatha was no longer averse to form the acquaintance which he sought. Her mind was wounded by the reproaches of conscience j and knowing the character of 121 of this truly pious man, she hoped that if she unbosomed herself to him he might speak peace to her self-upbraiding spirit. Accordingly she requested an interview with him, which he readily granted. She then detailed to him the eventful his- tory of her short life, and of the feelings of regret, remorse, and repentant affec- tion excited in her by her mother's ad- vertisement. " Let me advise you," cried Mr. Eger- ton, sighing as he spoke, '' to lose no time in writing to your mother! Let her feel no longer the agony of ' hope deferred!' " And as he said this, overcome by some painful recollection, he brushed a tear from his eye. Agatha promised that she would write the next m.orning : — and cheerfully acceding to her request, that he would give her the benefit of his soci- ety as often as he could, he took his de- parture, leaving Agatha full of regret that VOL. le G ' she 122 she had allowed the feelings of disappoint- ment aiul proud resentment to shut up her heart so long against the comforts of society and the consolations of religion. But, alas ! Agatha had neglected to profit by the past and the present, and for her there was no future in store. Whether the agitation which she had experienced in church was the cause of illness, or whether it was only the effect of an illness then impending, it is impos- sible to determine ; but that night she was seized with all the symptoms of a low and dangerous fever, and was soon pro- nounced to be past any hopes of recovery. In one of the intervals of delirium she sent for Mr. Egerton ; and after having gone through with him the duties of reli- gion, she earnestly entreated him to take her child under his care, till her mother, to whom she was about to write, should make known her will concerning her. « I will 123 *' I will do more/' replied Mr. Egerton ; — " I will myself deliver your daughter and your letter into your mother's hands." " What ! undertake so long a journey yourself?" " Can I be better employed ! — Re- member that your mother will need con- solation ; — and who so likely to give it to her as the man who attended you in your last moments ? for believe me," continued he, " I shall not leave you till all is over." *' May God reward you ! ' ' cried Aga- tha, grasping his hand fervently — ^' O that I had known you sooner !" — Then, making a violent effort, she scrawled with a trembling hand the following Hnes : '* 1 presumed to indulge the bitterness of resentment, and towards a mother too ; and I am punished for it ! for just as L was going to throw myself into your arms, and accept your protection for me and my poor child, I was seized with a mortal G 2 malady ; 124 malady; and when you receive this, I shall be no more. — Take then my last blessing and farewell ! Would I could have seen you before I died! — but I have a child; — love her: — she will be presented to you by the pious and generous being whose kindness has soothed to nie the agonies of my last moments. If you and he think it right, let my claims and my Emma's (I called my child Emma after you) on my deluded husband be pro- secuted legally ; and let him be told, if you bring forward my claims, that with my last breath 1 forgave and prayed for him ! . " A thousand sad and fond thoughts, my dearest mother, struggle for utterance as I write ; but 1 can no more- I farewell- 1 '' Here she fell back exhausted on her pillow ; and in a few hours she expired. Emma in the meanwhile had been kept as much as possible at the house of the 225 the surgeon, as said before^ where she had been in the habit of -v^isitincr; but the affectionate child could with difficulty be restrained from going home, though forbidden to go thither; for Agatha, as soon as she found that her disorder was infectious, had courageously determined not to see her child again. When Agatha had breathed her last, Mr. Egerton went m search of the poor unconscious orphan, who eagerly ran up to him, and begged him to take her to her mamma. " My dear child,*' replied Mr. Eger- ton, tears starting in his eyes, " your mamma has desired that I should take you home with me." The child for a moment sullenly re- fused to go : but when he gravely added, ^ And can you h:>ve the cruelty to dis- obL^y your poor sick mamma?" Emma burst 126 burst into tears, and suffered him to lead her to his house. But it was some time before he had resolution to tell the quick-feeling child that she could see her mother no more ; nor, when he did so, had he fortitude enough to retain any thing like self-com- mand when he witnessed her frantic agony at hearing it. Of death, indeed, she had but a vague idea ; but not seeing her mother was a positive and intelligible evil : and hour succeeded to hour, and still the little sufferer was not consoled. But the next day the violence of her feelings had abated ; and though t^he occasionally gave way to dreadful bursts of sorrow, the pains which Mr. Egerton's house- keeper took to amuse her were not thrown away upon her. On the fourth day after Agatha died, the funeral took place ; but Mr. Egerton did 127 did not allow Emma to attend it. He knew how little used to restraint she had been ; and he dreaded, from a degree of curiosity and proneness to inquiry above her years, questions and conduct ill-as- sorted to the solemnity of the scene. But he desired that Emma might be put into deep mourning. And on his. re- turn from the performance of the la^t melancholy duties to Agatha, with a heart fall of sadness and a cheek paie with emotion, he started and shuddered at witnessing the childish joy with which Emma ran forward to meet him, and showed him her new clothes and her fine black sash. "Poor child!" said Mr. Egerton, shedding tears as he clasped her to his generous bosom, " one day thou wilt know how dearly they are purchased ! *' A few days after, Mr. Egerton, having learnt from Mrs. Castlemain's agent in Londoa 128 London her change of name and her pre- sent abode, set off with Emma for the house of her grandmother. But he was careful not to let her know whither they were going, as he was aware of the child's aversion to Mrs. Castlemain, and knew that it would be better to conquer it by degrees, than attempt to overcome it by violence. Mrs. Castlemain still lived in Cumberland, and her house was situ- ated between Keswick and Ambleside : it was therefore some days before Mr. Egerton reached his journey's end, and beheld at the foot of a mountain the beautiful mansion of Mrs. Castlemain. But the journey had not appeared long to him. Emma, though not much more than six years old, had found the way to his heart, and had unlocked his long- dormant affections. By turns he had been charmed by the quickness of her perceptions and had been terrified by the 1 '29 cfie quickness of her sensibilities. He soon' saw that she required a strict and unusu- ally watchful eye to be kept over her ; and long before they were arrived at their journey's end, he had convinced him- self that Emma could have no guardian so watchful over her as he should be. '' Poor thing ! how useful I could be to her!" he had said to himself: — and having once admitted the truth of that proposition, it was impossible for a man so conscientious as Mr. Egerton not to resolve to act accordingly ; and his heart had fondly and for ever adopted the or- phan Emma, v/hen the postillion informed him that the house he saw before him was the house of Mrs. Castlemain, and by that means recalled to his recollection that he was going to present Emma to one who had real and natural claims on her, which might entirely annihilate those which he G 5 had ISO had resolved to put in force. " But if her grandmother should not be willing to receive her ?'^ thought Mr. Egerton ; and he was shocked to find how much he wished that Mrs. Castlemain might give them a cold reception. While these ideas were passing in his mind, and while Emma, sitting on his lap, was leaning against his bosom, and playfully parting the unpowdered locks that hung over his forehead, among which sorrow, not time, had scattered the gray hairs of age, the chaise stopped at the door of the White Cottage as it was called, and a lady, whose dress and manner bespoke her the mistress of the place, while her appearance proclaimed her worn with sorrow and anxiety, came to the green gate at which they stopped, and in a faint and languid tone demanded their business. "Do 151 "Do I see Mrs. Castlemain?" said Mr. Egerton. "Yes, sir," replied the lady : and struck with compassion at sight of her evident and habitual state of depression^ he forgot the wish which he had just expressed^ of keeping Emma to himself; and thought of nothing but the probable comfort which she would prove to her forlorn and miserable relation. " I have some business with you, ma- dam," answered Mr. Egerton ; " and with your leave I will alight." In a few moments Mr. Egerton, lead- ing Emma by the hand, whose features were shaded from the view by her ring- lets and the bonnet which she wore, fol- lowed the anxious and uneasy Mrs. Cas- tlemain into the house, and prepared him- self to give her the information which she was too anxious to demand. But Mr. Egertoa felt himself unable to 1S2 to speak before Emma : he therefore re- quested that she might be allowed to play ill the garden before the house ; and Em- ma having eagerly accepted the permission given her, he found himself at last alone with the mother of Agatha. " Is that your little girl, sir?" said Mrs. Castlemain, while with an anxious and inquiring look she gazed on Emma from the window, and saw her bound along the lawn with all the untamed vi- vacity of childhood. " Oj no ! " answered Mr. Egerton, " she is not my child ; — would to heaven she were ! She " Here he paused, for he had not yet courage to enter on .the mournful task that awaited him. " You were going to say something, sir/* said Mrs. Castlemain, seating her- self by him, and speaking in a faltering voice, as if her heart foreboded something unusual. "That sweet child^ sir, by her dress 133 dress seems to have lately sustained a great loss?" " Yes, madam, the greatest of all losses," replied Mr. Egerton, making a great effort ; " poor Emma has just lost her mother!" *' Emma ! did you say ?" cried Mrs, Castlemain, catching hold of his arm, and gazing wildly in his face : " Who was her mother, sir ? " " You you had a daughter, ma- dam," replied Mr. Egerton. *' I had a daughter!" exclaimed Mrs. Castlemain, and fell back insensible in her chair. Mr. Egerton immediately rang for as- sistance : and while the servants ran back- wards and forwards with restoratives^ Emma, who saw them pass to and fro, imagined that refreshments for them were preparing, and instantly returning to the house she re-entered the parlour just as Mrs. 134 Mrs. Castlemain had recovered her senses, and had learnt from Mr. Egerton that Agatha on her death-bed had bequeathed her orphan child to her care. Mr. Eger- ton was going to add, that Emma had con- ceived so great a terror and hatred of her grandmother, that it was advisable Mrs. Castlemain should not for the present be known to her as any thing more than a friend of her mother's, — when he was pre- vented by her unexpected entrance. As soon as Mrs. (Castlemain saw her, a thousand fond and uncontrollable emo- tions urged her towards the unconscious orphan; while tears of tenderness trickling down her wan cheek, she stretched forth her arms to the astonished and affrighted child, and dropping on her knees en- treated her to come to the arms of her grandmother. At that name Emma, starting from Mrs. Castlemain's grasp as if from the touch touch of a serpent, uttered a loud and piercing shriek, and darting through the open doors flew over the lawn ; while jMrs. Castlemain, shocked and surprised^ sank ahnost fainting on the floor, and demanded of Mr. Egerton an explanation of this strange conduct. " By some unfortunate means or other,'* replied he, " she has learned to associate with the name of her grandmother ideas of fear and dislike, which her poor mo- ther has vainly endeavoured to remove." " But then she did endeavour to re- move them ? " eagerly remarked Mrs, Castlemain. " She did," said Mr. Egerton. " Thank God ! " returned the unhappy and repentant mother ; (and Mr. Egerton immediately gave her Agatha's letter ;) — then begging Mr. Egerton to go and find Emma, and endeavour to soothe her, she hastily 136 hastily left the room to read it in the so- Ktude of her own apartment. Mr; Egerton went immediately in search- of Emma. He found her in a paroxysm of rage and terror. At sight of him she stamped with all the violence of passion, and protested that she would go away that moment. Mr. Egerton replied that he had brought her there by her poor mother's express command ; but that if she would not stay where she was, he- must take her away again; still he could not and would nof go till he had eaten his dinner : he therefore expected that she should return into the house with him. But the violent child refused to comply; for she said the house be- longed to her wicked grandmamma. '^ So does the bank on which you are sitting, my dear," replied Mr. Egerton: and Emma started from it immediately; " The 157 " The place on which you are standing is hers also ; — every thing you see is hers^ except the post-chaise," observed Mr. Egerton : " therefore w'hile I dine I know not what can become of vou, as vou can't bear to remain on your grandmother's premises." " I will sit in the post-chaise," said Emma, sobbing violently- And Mr. Egerton having ordered the postillion to put the horses into the stable, and to go into the house himself, he assisted Emma into the chaise ; and then left her to herself, expecting that solitude and hunger would at length subdue her as yet untamed and pernicious anger and animosity. It was near an hour before Mrs. Castle- main was sufficiently composed to venture into the parlour again : and during that time the cloth was laid for dinner, and he saw that Emma from the chaise window could 138 could see the preparations which were going on. iVJrs. Castlemain at length came down ; and with a countenance so full of woe that Mr. Egerton could not speak to her v/hen he beheld her, but was forced to turn to the window to hide his emotion. "Where is my child, my all now?" said Mrs. Castlemain in a voice almost extinct with sorrow. "I have left her to herself," replied Mr. Egerton ; " for at present she is too headstrong for me to attempt to bring her hither.'* "Shall I go to her? shall I humble myself before her f '* " By no means. On the first impres- sion which you now give her of yourself will depend her future conduct toward you ; and if she finds you submissive, depend on it she is discerning enough to act accordingly." " No 139 *' No matter/' cried Mrs. Castlemain, '' so that she does but love me." " But for her sake as well as for yours, my dear madam, it is necessary that she should respect you too. At least allow me to advise you today, and we will see what tomorrow will produce." " You shall direct, and I will obey you,'' replied Mrs. Castlemain ; ''' for a mind so injured by distress as mine is, scarcely knows what is right : — and indeed," added she, *' I would have seen no one but you, after the sad intelligence which I have just received j — but you have such claiuis on me ! Besides, from you I can learn all the particulars of . , " Here her voice failed her, Mr. Egerton was at no loss to fancy the remainder of the sentence. Soon after, dinner was announced, and Mrs. Castleiu ciin as slie seated herself at the table asked Mr. Egerton if she must really not in\ite Emrna to join them. " Cer- 140 " Certainly not/' he replied : " but let us open the windows, that she may see what is going forward/' Mrs. Castlemain, whom sorrow kept fasting, sat opposite the window ; and as she could not eat, her whole attention was directed to Emma : she saw her con- tinually locking out of the window of the chaise, as if she wished to be a sharer in what was going forward ; and Mrs. Castle- main begged to be allowed to carry her some dinner. But Mr. Egerton requested that she would not be so perniciously in- dulgent. When dinner was ended, and a dessert of fine fruit brought on the table, Emma proclaimed by her gestures and her angry screams the violence of her rage and her disappointment. " I cannot bear this ; — I must go to her/' said Mrs. Castlemain. " Forgive me, but it is not yet time.'* *'But there is a mist rising from the lakes, Mr. Egerton, and she will catch cold." " I had 141 " I had rather, madam, her health should be temporarily affected, than her temper ruined eternally, — which it must be, if she be allowed to see that by persist- ing in violence she can gain a point." At these words, at this stntiment, Mrs. Castlemain sighed deeply, and became silent ; for she had heard them before : she had beard them from that beloved husband whose precepts she had disre- garded, whose rules for education she had neglected to act upon, and had by that means occasioned the ruin of her daughter ! Terrible are the wounds inflicted by self-reproach ; — and Mrs, Castlemain felt them severely. When Mr. Egerton had finished his fruit, he went out to Emma. He found her quiet, but sullen : and he took care to let her know that, but for him, her grandmother Mrs. Castlemain would have brought 142 brought her out some dinner ; but that he told her he knew very well that she "would take nothing from her hands. The child hung her conscious head on her bosom at these words, and, bursting into a loud fit of sobbing, replied, " But I am so hungry ! " '^ Indeed 1" answered Mr. Egerton ; *• I am sorry to hear it ; for hungry you must remain, unless you choose to eat some of your grandmother's excellent pudding and fruit." " I am so hungry I" cried Emma again : and Mr. Egerton immediately let- ting down the step of the chaise, Emma allowed him to lead her in silence into the house ; while with all the grimaces and distortions of sheepishness and sullenness she accepted a chair and plate at the table, and turning her back on Mrs. Castlemain, eagerly ate the good things which were set before her. When 14:3 When she had satisfied her hunger, she got up and begged Mr. Egerton to order the chaise, and take her away again. " Not to-night," said Mr. Egerton, coolly ; '^ for I have promised to stay and sleep here." Emma heard hitn in sullen silence : but it was not long before she gladly con- sented to be undressed and put into a warm bed ; where, with the happy for- getfulness of her age, she soon ceased to remember on whose bed she was,, and fell into a deep and peaceful slumber. " Thank God ! " cried Mrs. Castlemain when she heard of it, gratefully pressing Mr. Egerton 's hand as she spoke, " the child of my poor Agatha is reposing un- der my roof.'' The rest of the evening was passed in anxious and interesting questions on the part of Mrs. Castlemain, and as interesting answers 144 answers on the part of Mr. Egerton ; who, though prejudiced greatly against Mrs. Castlemain by knowing Agatha, and the faults in her temper, a character which he attributed to a defective education, was so deeply impressed by her evident distress, so affected by the '' venerable presence of misery," (as Sterne calls it,) that he re- tired to rest, full of kindness and regard for his unhappy hostess, and resolved to do all that lay in his power to console her afflictions. - The next morning, when Emma awoke (and worn out with the fatigue and angry agitation of the day before she had slept much later than usual,} she found two ser- vants watching by her bed-side, and ready to assist her to dress as soon as she was disposed to rise. It is difficult to say how soon a child loves to be made of im- portance ; and certain it is, th?t Emma was fully capable of feeling the delight of being 145 being waited upon. She was also equally alive to the pleasures of a repast far more luxurious than she had ever seen; and* the sight of a breakfast consisting of hot bread, honey, cream, preserved goose- berries, potted char, and fruit, imme- diately had power to suppress the emo- tions of terror and aversion which the sight of Mrs. Castlemain again occasioned her. Mr. Egerton was also careful to let her receive everything which she desired from the hand of Mrs. Castlemain : and the latter, having received the hint from Mr. Egerton, called the servants into the room; and after introducing Emma to them as her granddaughter and sole heiress, and their future mistress, desired them, as they valued her favour, to show her every pos- sible attention. Where one association is already pow- erful, it can be destroyed only by one a$ VOL. I. H powerful. 14G powerful, or still more so. The grandmo- ther, hitherto an object of dread to Emma, and a being with whom she associated nothing but ideas of hatred and aversion, was now, because she had ministered to Emma's pleasure and ambition, become associated with agreeable images only in her mind; and with the versatility of child- hood she now no longer shrank from the offered kiss of Mrs. Castlemain, but gazed on her with a propitiatory smile as the dispenser of plenty and happiness. Mrs. Castlemain beheld with delight the victory which she had gained ; and eager to insure its duration, she went in search of some old toys which had belonged to her daughter: and not waiting to in- dulge the painful recollections which the sight of them occasioned her, she soon returned laden with them into the parlour; where Emma, uttering a scream of joy, ran forward to meet her, and with eager- 147 ness received in her lap the precious case. The scream, the eager look of joyful im- patience, the mottled and extended arms, reminded Mrs. Castlemain so powerfully of her lost daughter, that with a heart op- pressed almost to bursting she rushed out of the room, and walked on the lawn to recover herself. But then she recollect- ed how foolish she was to allow herself to be so painfully overcome by a resem- blance which must endear Emma to her, and she resolved to re-enter the parlour, to contemplate the likeness from which she had before fled. But the lapse of years on her return was entirely forgotten, and the illusion complete. Emma was seated on the car- pet, encompassed by her mother's toys, and in the same room which had so often witnessed the childish sports of Agatha ! and as she shook back her auburn and H 2 clus- 148 clustering ringlets from her face^ and smilingly held up one of the playthings to Mrs. Castlemain on her entrance, she rushed forward to embrace Emma, ex- claiming as she did so, " My dear dear child ! " Then, suddenly recollecting her- self, she left the room, overcome by the mixed and painful feelings which over- whelmed her. At this moment, as she slowly walked down the lawn before the house, she met Mr. Egerton, to v\'hom she expressed the emotion which Emma occasioned her to experience from her strong likeness to her poor mother. *' The likeness strikes even me," re- plied Mr. Egerton, *' who saw your daughter only when pale and faded by un- • easiness of mind. — And I fear," added Mr. Egerton, " that the likeness in one re- spect extends scill further ; and that in the quickness 149 quickness of feeling and in the ungovera- ableness of her temper she also resemble* her mother." ** Perhaps she does/' said Mrs. Casrle- main ; '• bat so as she be but like her, [ cave not however dear the complete re- bomblance may cost mel" Mr. Egerton forgave the irrationality of this speech, for the sake of the feeling which it contained : but he felt it his duty to convince Mrs. Castlemain, that she was bound in conscience to endeavour to cor- rect and eradicate those defects in Emma's temper and disposition which h?.d had so fatal an effect on her mother's happiness. And he did so in a manner so kind and soothing, at the sanie time that he ex- pressed his seniiments firmly and umqai- vocally, that Mrs. Castlemain confessed thj impropriety of the sentiment which she had before indulged, and promised that i: should be the s*uJy cf h:r life to make 150 make Emma's temper as milJ and tracta- ble as her poor mother's had been other- wise. " But, indeed," said Mrs. Castlemain, " I fear my own weakness, my own want orresolution. Sorrow and remorse have, changed almost into imbecility and inca- pacity of resistance that proud tyrannical spirit to which I attribute all my woes ; — and against the child of my injured Aga- tha, never never can I use severe mea- sures, even though they may be deemed necessary.*' " I can enter into the feelings which produce that conviction/' replied Mr, Egerton, " and have no doubt but that you will sometimes act upon them to Em- ma's disadvantage ; therefore you will want an assistant in the important office of educating your dear charge." '* I shall : — but where, O ! where can I find the person with the proper requi- sites IJl sites to undertake that office ? If you, sir, would and can undertake it, believe me, my fondest hopes for Emma's welfare would at once be realized." " To say the truth, madam," answered ,Mr. Egerton, '' 1 have been wishing to ijfFer you my services." " Indeed ! " cried Mrs. Castlemain eagerly : " then all my fears are at an end. — Name your own terms, and I will instantly accede to them. I should think my whole income cheaply spent in insur- ing to my Agatha's child those advantages which 1 was incapable of affording to her mother," " Believe me, my dear madam, that the pecuniary reward which 1 shall ask for my trouble will be very HrJe ; my best and dearest reward will be your esteem and respect, and the affection of Emma. I was a solitary, insulated, unattached be- ing ; but I feel uou: that I have still affec- tions. 152 rions, and that my heart is not entirely buried in the grave : and while I travel- led from Suc^sex hither with your orphan, grandchild, I learnt to love her so ten- derly, that I thought I should never have the courage to separate from her again." *' I hope you never will/* replied Mrs. Casilemaln. " I don't mean to do so at present. — In a fit of gloom, and disgust to the world, I solicited the curacy of the village near w hich your daughter resided ; but I found not there the comfort which 1 sought. I had been used to society, and I saw my- self in a desert : — true, there were poor around me, and I could minister to their wants ; but they were as ignorant as they v/ere indigent, and 1 felt the w^retchedness which made me leave the world, increased by the fancied remedy which I had chosen. 1 hcrefore I was resolved to give up the situation and seek a less gloomy ^ one, one, when I became acquainted with your lost Agatha, and learnt to know the va- lue of that society which the sullen proud reserve, springing from a con- sciousness of unmerited misfortune, was always careful to withhold from me. — But this is not to the point in question ; — You wish me to assist you in educa- ting Emma, and I wish to afford you such assistance. My terms then are these : — • You shall give me the same sum (and no more) which I received as a curate ; and as preaching does not agree with my health 5 1 will give it up entirely, and content myself with performing the other duties of a parish priest, namely, visiting the sick and the afflicted, and bestowing on them the consolations of religion. — But I must have a house to myself." " What! will you not live with me?'* *' By no means ; but as near you as you please. And t^hould any one in the H 5 neighbour- 154 neighbourhood have another pupil to of- fer me, I will agree to receive another pupil, either boy or girl." " Nothing can be more fortunate," eagerly returned Mrs. Castlemain : " Mr. Hargrave, a gentleman who lives about two miles off^ is at this time greatly in want of a tutor in some way or other, for his nephew Henry St. Aubyn, whom, from some caprice or other, he has taken from Westminster school : he has a very pretty little cottage on his estate, which is now to let : therefore, if you will not indulge me by living in my house. . . ." '* Indulge you, my dear madam ! — What! make you and me the theme of all the gossips in the town of Keswick! No :— we are neither of us old enough to set busy tongues at defiance : besides, as we are to educate Emma, we must not set her the example of a violation of de- corum J for I deem an attention to de- corum 1^5 corum one of the first bulwarks of female chastity." Mrs. Castlemain In a happier moment would not perhaps have been sorry to be told that she was still too young to escape scandal ; but she was very sorry that she could not make her arrangements so as to enjoy the comfort of I\Ir. Eger- tons conversation at all times. She how- ever rejoiced at having succeeded so much to her own satisfaction in procuring a pre- ceptor for the orphan Emma. " But what sort of man is Mr. Mar- grave ? " asked Mr. Egerton, *' O ! a humourist, and a domestic ty- rant ; a man v;ho can't bear contradiction, and who likes to keep even those whora he pretends to love, in an abject state of dependence on his will.*' *' Was he ever at College for a short time ? " " Yes." <'At 156 *' At Cambridge ? " ** 1 believe so." "Is he rich?'' " Very rich/' " And is his name Henry r " " It is." " Then it must be the same Har- grave whom I knew at College. He is my senior by some years, but I occasion- ally associated with him during his short stay there/* " I flatter myself he is the Mr. Har- grave whom you know ; for I hope there are not two such queer- tempered beings in the w^orld." " This Henry Hargrave had a very beautiful sister who came to visit her brother^ a very snowy dressing, dash- ing girl, and her name was Henrietta." " That convinces me," replied Mrs. Castleraain, " my neighbour and your Col- lege friend are the same person ; for Henrietta Henrietta Hargrave married Mr. St. Au- byn, a gentleman of an old and honour- able family and large estates ; and having ruined him by her extravagance, he died, it is said, broken-hearted ; and she as well as her son is now dependent on the bounty of Mr. Hargrave, and at this mo- ment she resides at Kesv/ick, and Henry with his uncle." *' So," replied Mr. Egerton, '' I am here then en pays cle connoissance ; and for your sake, Mrs. Castlemain, I rejoice in being so, for you can now receive pro- per testimonials to convince you that I am the man of education and honour which I have professed myself to be : for, my dear madam, you must own that you have at present only my own word to prove that I am the reverend Lionel Eger- ton, and no sharper or swindler." " Sir," replied Mrs. Castlemain with great feeling, " it is enough for me that my 158 my poor child named you with gratitude and affection in her letter, and that you have been the protector of her orphan hither/' " But suppose I have robbed the real Egerton of the letter and the child ?" re* plied Mr. Egerton smiling. '* O ! my dear sir, your looks and man- ner are sufficient proofs that ....'" ** Well, well, — I see you are deter- mined to think well of me, and that it was not imprudent in you to receive me into your house without a certificate of my good intentions : however, I feel at this moment so satisfied with myself, with you, and with my present prospects, that, as I am in a conversable humour, I will trouble you to tell me my way to Mr. Hargrave's; and I will call upon him, and beg him to assure you that your confidence is really not ill placed." Then, having received the necessary infor- 1.59 information, Mr. Egerton set off on his visit to the Vale-House, as Mr. Margrave's seat was called. I will now give a short sketch of Mr. Egerton's history. But it is a history common to many men. Events in life are often not important in themselves, but rendered so by the effect which they produce in the person to whom they oc- cur. Mr. Egerton was the youngest son of a very numerous and respectable family, and brought up to the Church, on the prospect of being provided for by a noble relation. At College he soon di- stinguished himself by his knowledge of the classics and his conversational powers ; and he was so deservedly a fa- vourite of the circle in which he moved, that, having become a fellow at the age of twenty-eight, he was contented to await at the University a good College living, or 160 or one from his long-promiseJ patron ; when, unfortunately for his peace, he was introduced to the beautiful sister of a Col- lege friend, and became passionately and irrecoverably in love for the first time in his life. Nor was the young lady slow to return his passion ; — but to marry was impossible. Miss Ainslie was the daughter of an extravagant man of fashion, and her ha- bits had been expensive in a degree far beyond what her fortune warranted. True, she was willing in a transport of youthful enthusiasm to share the poverty of the man of her heart, and to quit " the scenes so gay, where she was fairest of the fair.'' But Mr. Egerton knew that it was the nature of enthusiasm to subside, and that love, when exposed to the assaults of poverty and the teasing details of se- vere domestic oeconomy, is only too apt to struggle against them in vain : and though IGl though sure that his passion was proof a;.^ainst all attacks whatever, he was un- willing to expose that of miss Ainslie to the trial which he did not fear for his own. It was therefore settled on mature deliberation that the lovers should not marry till Mr. Egerton obtained a living ; and in the mean while Mr. Egerton and miss Ainslie's friends were both very ac« tive in their endeavours to obtain, from the noble relation mentioned before, the long-promised living. But year succeed- ed to year, application to application, and still Mr. Egerton 's claims were overlook- ed or forgotten ; and the sickly hue of " hope deferred" began to be visible on the once blooming cheek of Clara Ainslie. To her a union with Mr. Egerton was desirable, not only because he was a man whom her heart and her reason both ap- proved, but she longed to seek shelter in the protection and quiet of a house of her own. 162 own, from the profligate and dissipated company which frequented the house of her deluded father, and scmetimes in- sulted her v.'ith addresses to which her well-known, poverty but too frequently exposed her. But her hopes of emanci- pation from her sufferings stiil continued fruitless ; and she saw herself at the age of five and-thirty the ghost of what she was, and vainly endeavouring, by the faint glimmerings of a distant hope of a union v/ith her still devoted lover, to cheer her drooping spirits, and light up the languid radiance of her eye. But the frame, weak and delicate while warm with youth and the consciousness of happiness, shrank and faded before the constant and corrod- ing power of restless v.ii;hes and certain distresses; while Egerton, only kept alive himself by a sure though distant pro- spect as he thought of having his long- raised expectations gratified, hung over her 163 her drooping form with still increased affection and anxiety. At length he heard in the fourteenth year of their courtship that the incumbent on a very considerable living in Lord Ds gift was a very old man, and at the point of death ; and he hastened to the house of a friend at about forty miles distance, where Clara was then staying, in order to impart to her this welcome intelligence. He arrived, and found her in a rapid de- cline. Her constitution had at length yielded to the constant demands made on it by her feelings ; — and she had scarcely smiled on the welcome news which her lover brought, had scarcely received the kiss on her pale cheek, whh which he hailed her his in prospect for ever — when, laying her head on his bosom, she murmured out. " We shall then at length be happy !" and expired. On the day of her funeral, and while Egerton JG4 Egertoii with the cahiiness of deep-rooteif anguish was visiting the body for the last time and gazing on it in sohtary woe, the letter announcing the death of the incumbent above mentioned foilowed him to the chamber of mourning; and he found that a living worth a thousand a year waited his immediate acceptance ! Ohl what agony did he not endure, while in a hollow and mournful tone he exclaimed, " It comes too late 1 '" — and stooping down as he did so, rested his cheek on the cold brow of Clara. " It comes too late, and I reject it : — I scorn the wealth of which she lives not to partake ; and now welcome poverty and solitude!" was his only answer to his patron ; and v/iih a sort of spiteful sor- row and savage grief he gave up his fellowship, and sought for the trifling curacy above mentioned, resclved to court the difnculucs and privations of a narrow 165 narrow Income. But when time, the great soother, had calmed the first transports of his sorrow, he became dissatisfied with his situation : — not that he wished for means of living better, for in principle he had alw-ays practised the strictest de- nial, nor had he ever found his yearly- savings insufficient to relieve the really deserving indigent around him : but he was conscious of having other treasures which he could not in solitude bestow — the treasures of his learning, his know- ledge of mankind, and his experience. He saw himself amply possessed of the power of being useful, but completely shut out from the means of employing that power. If he talked, there were none to listen to or understand him ; and though he felt convinced that his affec- tions were for ever buried in the tomb of Clara, he sighed for a kindred mind, and wished for an intelligent companion, if it was 166 was only to listen to the tale of his sorrows. As soon as he saw Agatha he thought he had found this companion. He read an expression of fixed sorrow in her countenance that interested him ; but he soon found that it was a sort of savage, proud, sulien sorrow, like what his own had originally been ; and though he felt her endeared to him by this conviction, he also felt that this disposition was a bar to all hopes of intimacy : and he had lived in the same village with Agatha two years before he had exchanged two words with her. But when he saw her melted into tears at church at the pathetic parable of the Prodigal Son, he felt that the power of sullen grief was past, and he doubted not but that the moment was ar- rived when the voice of consolation would be welcome to Agatha, and when her heart, as I before observed, would be lightened of half its load, could she but tell the tale of her 167 her sorrows to one who would listen to and pity them. Accordingly he did speak to her: — he heard her mournful tale : and while he hung over her death-bed, and received her last parting wishes, and pro- mised to obey them, — with the conscious- ness of being useful returned a degree of tranquillity to his mind; and the death of Agatha awakened him to new life and the prospect of new enjoyment. Besides, he read in her deep and guilty resentment, — in that sullen indignation which had caused her to put off the day of forgive- ness till the pardon which she longed to pronounce and to implore was arrested on her lips by death, — a warning lesson and a salutary reproof to himself. Because a patron had neglected to fulfil his promises till according to his long- treasured hopes he could no longer profit by his bounty, in the sullenness of resentment, — a resent- ment which could injure and mortify him- self 168 self alone, — he had fled from the Society of men, to brood in retirement over the proud consciousness of injury. He had allowed the powers of his mind to droop, unstimulated by the influence of collision ; and had suffered hours, precious hours, to be wasted in the languor of unavailing regret, which he might have employed to amuse, to instruct, and to enlighten his fellow- creatures. " I have erred ; but I will endeavour instantly to repair my error," he exclaim- ed, as he stood by the corpse of Aga- tha ; — adding, as he imprinted a kiss on the cold unconscious hand beside him, " Thou shalt not have suffered and re- pented in vain. And I will repay, by endeavouring to benefit thy child, the gratitude I owe thee for the good I have derived from thy warning example." He kept his resolution : and the child of Agatha became the pupil of his affection. When 1G3 When Mr. Egeiton returned from his visit to Mr. Hargrave, who happened to be in a good humour, and therefore re- ceived him graciously, he was pleased to find thnt when the postillion had come to the dorr with the chaise, according to the orders given the preceding day, Emma had burst into tears at sight of him, had protested that she would stay where she was, and had screamed as much at the idea of leaving her grandmother as she had before done at the idea of staying with her: nor could she be at all pacified till Mrs. Castlemain had paid and discharged the driver and his chaise. ^' May all her hatreds through life .be as evanescent as her hatred of you has been, my dear madam 1^' said Mr. Eger- ton ; " for the being who hates easily and eternally, is a curse to himself and a pest to his fellow-creatures." Mr. Egerton returned, accompanied by vot, I. I Henry 170 Henry St. Aubyn, the nephew of Mr. Hargrave, and now the pupil in prospect of Mr. Egerton, who ever and anon re- garded him with such looks of interest and affection, as, considering the short- ness of their acquaintance, were matter of surprise to Mrs. Castlemain. Henry St. Aubyn was a tall, lank, un- formed boy of fourteen ; his figure all bone, and his face all eyes; for the rest of his features had not as yet grown suf- ficiently to bear any proportion to the large dark gray eyes, shaded with long and silken black eyelashes, which formed the striking feature in his sun-burnt yet bloom- ing face. His hair, which once curled in luxuriant ringlets down his shoulders, was, to the great mortification of his mother's vanity, cropt close to his head, to gratify the arbitrary will of his uncle. But to prevent his hair from curling was impossible j — short, but full^ his dark ring- lets 171 lets still clustered round his straight low forehead, and gave his head the resem- blance of the bust of some young Greek, Still, though his appearance was certainly picturesque and interesting, he was not yet handsome enough to deserve the earnest gaze of affectionate and silent ad- miration which Mr. Egerton bestowed on him: but Mrs. Castlemain ceased to be sur- prised, when Mr. Egerton, sighing deeply as he turned away from a long examination of St. Aubyns features, said to her, *• That dear boy, madam, is, by his father, I find, second cousin to the Ainslies, and to her whom I have mentioned to you. And I am sure, quite vSure, that in the cut of his dark gray eye, and in countenance, particularly when he smiles, he greatly re- sembles her. Judge then, madam, with what delight I shall undertake the task of instructing him." Before Mrs. Castlemain could reply^ I 2 Emma, 172 Emmaj who had just been fresh wash- ed and dressed, came running into the room ; and jumping on Mr. Egerton's lap, told him with a scream of joy that the postchaise was gone, and that they were to stay where they were, and go away no more. " I am glad of it," cried Henry St. Aubyn ; " for I hope you will stay and play with me, and love me." Emma at first drew back from his offered hand ; but after looking at him some time under her ringlets that hung over her eyes, she ventured to give her hand ; and in a short time she very kindly took him to see her baby-house. The intim.acy thus happily begun, was as happily matured by time. Mr. Egerton became the inhabitant of a small house at an equal distance between Mr. Hargrave's and Mrs. Castlemain's; but he taught Em- ma and St. Aubyn together at the house of the latter ; while Emma, urged on by the 173 the example and praises of St. Aubyii, learnt eagerly and readily every thing which Mr. Egerton taught her, and was soon the pride and delioht of her grand- mother, her preceptor, and her companion. But it was not in her studies only that Emma profited by the society of St. Au- byn ; her heart and her temper were benefited by his example. It was at first a difficult task for Mrs. Castlemain by kindness, and Mr. Egerton by judicious severity, to break their pupil of those ha- bits of violence and ill-humour, which the unfavourable circumstances in which s'r.e had been placed had exposed her to ac- quire. But this task was rendered easy at length by the model of fine temper antJ obedience exhibited to her every day by St. Aubyn. Henry St. Aubyn's most striking cha- racteristic was filial piety. He was an only child^ and his mind and feelings exhi- bited 174 bitedthat precocity which is often observed in those children who have been the exclu- sive objects of attention and instruction. But he had also been in situations which never fail to bring forward prematurely the sensibility and the intellect. He had been nursed and educated in scenes of domestic distress : — the tears of his mother had mingled with her caresses of him, while she loudly lamented that extravagance, though she had not resolution to relin- quish it, w^hich would unavoidably de- stroy the future fortune of her son. He had also wept on his father's neck, while in unavailing agony the self-condemned parent had implored his forgiveness, for having weakly allowed his fond folly as a husband to get the better of his duty as a father, and suifer Mrs. St. Aubyn to pur- sue that ruinous line of conduct which had made them all beggars and dependants. But luckily for Henry it was only as a hu&baud 113 husband that Mr. St. Aiihyn was weak and criminaliy indulgent : as a father, h j knew how to unite kindness with restraint and tenderness with firniness so judicious- ly, that the temper of h:s son was neither soured by cruel privations, nor injured still more by blind and excessive indulgence. Henry St. Aubyn obeyed his father in. infancy, because he knew that on disobe- dience awaited certain punishment ; and thus the habit of obedience to proper re- straint and proper commands was acquired without trouble. As he grew older, he found that he was thus constrained because his ruler knew better what was good for him than he for himself, and he continued to obey from respect as well as from habit: and as his father possessed that command of temper himself which he endeavoured tx) teach, St. Aubyn both from precept and example became mild without ab- jectness, and good-humoured without ef- fort. i:cj fort. Besides, he had the great advantage of being his fatlier's constant companion 5 and being thus early the v/itness of his pa- rents' sorrows, he learnt to feel and to re- flect deeply at a time of life when children in general only know '' the tear forgot as soon as shed/* and the almost uninterrupt- ed sunshine of the breast. Ke also felt himself the sole comfort of his father ; and his young self-love flattered by the consciousness, he preferred his own lonely flreside and the sad society of his unhappy parent, to the sports of childhood and the heartless mirth of his companions. When his father was on his death-bed, he called St. Aubyn to him, who had then not long reached the age of thirteen ; and telling him that he knew he was in vir- tue and understanding considerably above his years, he bequeathed his mother to his care and protection ; desiring him, whatever might be her errors, to behave to 177 to her with tenderness and forbearance, and to prove himself in every thing not only a fond and obedient son, but a guar- dian and a defender. " The charge was needless," replied St. Aubyn melting into tears : " but, to give you all the satisfaction in my power, hear me swear. Thai in all emergencies ic hat ever, my mother s peace and comfort shall be my first care and my first motive of action.''' Mr. St. Aubyn accepted the oath ; called him the best of children, prayed for his welfare ; and the last words he pronounced while with clasped hands he awaited his final struggle, were a prayer for Henry. St. Aubvn's father had not been dead above nine months when he first saw Emma at Mrs. Castlemain's, and her mourning habit for her mother he beheld with a sympathedc interest. 1 5 •' Poor 178 " Poor child 1" said he one day, as he looked at her black dress. ''Ayel" replied Mrs. Castlemain, " unhappy child ! — it is very hard to lose a parent so young !" " Say rather, Happy child !" said St. Aubyn bursting into tears, "to lose a pa- rent when she was too young to know the greatness of her loss 1 " *' Don't cry, master Henry," said Em- ma, putting up her pretty mouth to kiss him ; " grandmamma is not angry with you.'* And St. Aubyn, catching her to his bosom, wept over her with mixed pity and affection. When Mrs. Castlemain was again alone with Mr. Egerton, she said to him after some little hesitation, "But by what name, my dear sir, shall I call our Emma?" '' By what name, my dear madam ? By her own name, certainly, — that of her father — Danvers." " No,. 179^ "No, sir, no !" replied Mrs. Castlemaiii with great agitation ; " I cannot bear to be every moment reminded of that vil- lain!'* " But consider, madam, that by not calling your granddaughter and heiress by the name of her father, you would seem to admit her illegitimacy, and that she was not born in wedlock." *' No, sir, no ; because I mean to call her Castlemain I" " But, madam, her name is not Cas- tlemain ; and I am a decided enemy to all sorts of fraud. For whom, and what, madam, do you wish this^ear child to be imposed on the world ?*' " Sir, I scorn the idea of imposition as much as you.** *' Then, to prove It, call the child Aga- tha Danvers ; for then, and then only, will- the real truth be told." " No, sir j I will call her by the name 180 name of my late husband, who was my first cousin, as I mean as soon as she is of age to give her an estate left me by Mr. Castlemain, and shall solicit leave for her to bear the name and arms of Castle- main." " But in the mean while, madam, for what do you wish her to be taken by strangers ? — for your child by Mr. Castle- main ?" " I do not see, sir, that it is neces- sary for her own and her mother's story to be told to every one. Our intimate friends know it of course ; and should any gentleman pay his addresses to Emma, he also will be told the truth." " But suppose, madam, that, believing Emma to be the daughter of the honour- able Mrs. Castlemain, a gentleman allows himself to become in love with Emma, under the sanction of a father's appro- bation p do you not think that gentle- man 181 man will have reason to reproach you, when he finds he has been deceived by the change of name ; and that your heiress is the fruit of a marriage which in all hu- man probability will never be proved to have taken place ? '* " Sir," said Mrs. Castlemain angrily, " you are putting an extreme case, and fancying, I hope, an improbability that does not exist I Sir, my peace of mind depends on my not hearing the hateful name of Danvers ; and in this respect^ sir, I must beg, sir — nay^ sir, I must in^ sist on having my own wayl" " Well, madam, then I must submit, though against my principles and my judgement ; for never y-t did I know any good the result of deception, — and God grant that from this no material mischief may ensue !'* Accordingly the orphan of Agatha was in future known by the name of Em- ma Castlemain. But 182 But before I go on with the history of Emma and her young companion Henry St. Aubyn, I shall make my readers ac- quainted with two persons who will be prominent characters in these pages, and on whose influence, directly and indirectly, will in a great measure depend the fate both of my hero and my heroine. Mr. Hargrave was one of those fortu- nate men whom a series of unforeseen ac- cidents, aided by quickness of talent and in- dustry, elevate from a mean and obscure si^ tuation of life to one of opulence and gen- tihty; and, as is often the case with persons who are the makers of their own fortune, he valued himself greatly on the extent of. his possessions, and had a particular spite against family pride, and what he denomi- nated" a poor proud gentleman.'' Mr.Har- grave*s understanding was good, but he fancied it better than it really was ; or rather, perhaps he did not so much over- value his own ability, as undervalue that of 1S3 of those who surrounded him. He did not fancy, while measuring himself with. others, that he was a giant ; but he errone- ously imagined them to be pygmies, while he piqued himself on his talent of over- reaching and imposing upon his less acute companions. This propensity alone would have prevented him from being a de- sirable companion; as, though he was unconscious of it, his attempts were often discovered by the objects of them ; and however politeness might prevent them from disclosing the discovery, they felt an indignant resentment at being supposed weak enough to be so deceived. But there was a otill stronger reason why, though he might be an active citizen, an upright tradesman, and a. generous rela- tion, he could never be an amiable man,, an agreeable companion, or a beloved friend. He was the slave of a bad and incorrigible temper^ and this slave to him- self 184 self became the tyrant of others. The spoiled child of a weak and ignorant mo- ther, whose understanding he despised, and of an indolent and sottish father, whose helpless yet contented indigence disgcsted him, — he was thrown upon the world with all his irritable feelings uncor- rected and unsubdued, except where in- terest and ambition made it necessary for him to assume the virtue which he had not* At the age of thirty, love asserted its turn to reign over his yet unwounded heart ; and the object of his affection had extreme youth, loveliness and gentleness,, to recommend iier to his notice. Her fortune was small ; but that he did not consider as any obstacle to his wishes, as he had wealth enough for both; and her birth and connexions were such as to flat* ter his pride. Nor was he long before he made known his passion and his views: and 185 and the lady seemed so fully to return his aoectioii, and to share in the warm ap- probation of his suit which her parents expressed, that even a time for their union was fixed ; while the prospect of happi- ness as perfect as this world can afford, seemed to soften the usual asperity of Mr. Hargrave's disposition, and he felt desirous of imparting to others the cheer- fulness w-hich he was conscious of himself* But his hopes and his benevolence were only too soon clouded, as it were for ever, by the most cruel and unmerited of dis- appointments. A better connexion, and perhaps a more amiable man, were of- fered to the mercenary parents of Mr. Hargrave's betrothed wife ; and in a short time, by a number of little neglects and petty affronts, he was given to understand that both the lady and hor family were become tired of him and his pretensions : and while by letters of earnest expostu- lation 186 latlon he was daily requesting to. be in- formed how he had deserved to forfeit the favour of the parents and the tender- ness of the daughter, he received the overwhelming and heart-rending intelli- gence that the woman of his affections was married to another ! It would be needless for me to point out to my readers the natural effect of an injury and a disappointment like this, on a proud and irritable temper like that of Mr. Hargrave. Suffice that, having shortly realized by a successful specula- tion a fortune sufficient even for his lofty- ambition, he resolved to give up busi* ness and retire into the country, in order to brood in solitude over the recollection of promised joys to him for ever lost, and the wrongs which, though common to many, his resentment magnified into injuries never experienced before by any one but himself.. But 187 But the affair did not end here. The biother of his mistress, hearing that Mr. Hargrave in the bitterness of just resent- ment had used very opprobrious terms when speaking of her conduct, insisted that he should either retract what he had said, or give him the satisfaction of a gentleman. With this latter demand Mr. Hargrave eagerly complied, and his se- cond fire stretched his adversary on the ground, apparently deprived of life. Bat though the surgeon in attendance de- clared that life was only suspended, his wound was so dangerous a one that Mr. Hargrave and the seconds thought proper to abscond. During a whole twelvemonth the former was forced to be an exile from his country, and to experience the tor- menting fear of being obliged never to re- turn to it, or of standing a trial for his life. At length, however, the cause of his distress was declared whollv out of dan- eer. 188 ger, and Mr. Hargrave returned to Eng* land: — but both from principle and feeling he was become so decided an enemy tc^ duelling, that he solemnly declared he would discard, pursue with implacable hatred^ and disinherit a relation, how- ever dear to him, who should cither give or accept a challenge. He returned too so disgusted with the world, that he im- mediately went in search of an estate in £ome distant part of the country ; and having on the death of his parents made his orphan sister the mistress of his house, he took her with him on his journey. It was while making the tour of the Lakes that chance introduced Mr, St. Aubyn to their acquaintance, who, captivated with the beauty of miss Har- grave, formed that hasty and ill-advised union with her, which was the ruin of his fortune and the bane of his peace of mind. The 189 The marriage of his sister wich Mr. St. Aubyn, though welcome to Mr. Har- grave in some points of view, as he got rid by k of a sister whose want of manage- ment hourly offended him, was very un- pleasing to him in others. Mr. St. Aubyn, whose estates were deeply mortgaged, owing to the extravagance of his father, was a poor and proud gentleman, and Mr. Hargrave^ as I have before observed, hated persons of that description : and the dignified refinement of Mr. St. Aubyn's manners, which as he could not imitate he therefore pretended to despise, was ill-suited to the coarse banter and un- polished demeanour of his brother-in-law. Nor could Mr. St. Aubyn always com- mand his temper when the latter was de- termined to put him off his guard ; and at such moments the just but haughty resentment of the man of family used to show itself in a manner which the man of 190 of wealth never pardoned. And as Mr. Hargrave, like all angry persons, was apt to duell on the provocation which he re- ceived, and to forget that which he gave, the proximity of the St. Aubyn estate to that which Mr. Hargrave purchased in the county of Cumberland soon made it a very undesirable residence for him ; he therefore removed w^ith his wife and infant son to a house which he still possessed near the west end of the metropolis. But he soon found reason to repenX of his re- moval, as his wife's extravagance became such, that in a very short time he saw himself reduced to the alternative of go- ing to a gaol or of parting with his pa- ternal estate ; and as a purchaser for St. Aubyn (the name of his seat) offered at fhis critical moment, he with a sort of desperate resolution accepted the offer, and bade for ever farewell to the dear abode of his ancestors. Soon 191 Soon after, he discovered that the real- purchaser of a possession so valued by him was the purse-proud Mr. Hargrave ; and the agony of his situation was con- siderably increased by the news. But he soon after recollected, that if Mr. Har- grave did not marry, — and he had so- lemnly resolved that he never would marry, — his son would in all probability be his heir, and Sr. Aubyn would revert to its original poss ssor ! This thought was rapture to him ; and in the happy state of mind which it occasioned,, he even fancied that Mr. Hargrave made the pur- chase from the benevolent wish of pre- venting the estate from going out of the family ; and as Mr. St. Aubyn was re- solved to act upon this idea, and in Mr. Hargrave's supposed generosity to forget his unkindness, the latter soon after re- ceived a most affectionate letter from his brother-in-law, requesting him to forget all 192 - all tliat had passed, and to receive them fbr a few weeks as his guests. Mr. Har- grave^ flattered at being thus courted to a reconciliation^ promised to forget and forgive every thing ; and the St. Aubyns came to Vale House on a visit. But in kss than two years Mr. Hargrave, either in a fit of spleen against Mr. St. Aubyn, or from the love of accumulation, sold the highly-prized estate for a very large pre- mium to another possessor ; and Mr. St. Aubyn never recovered the blow. " How I have mortified the pride of that poor gentleman!*' said Mr. Hargrave to himself in one of his angry and ma- lignant humours. But he had it in his power to inflict still greater mortificadon on him. Debt suc- ceeded to debt, embarrassment to embar- rassment, — till so little of his once com- fortable fortune remained, that Mr. St. Aubyn on his death-bed saw himself obliged 193 obliged to recommend his wife and child to the protection and bounty of Mr. Har- grave ! It was a moment of triumph for Mr. Hargrave : the representative of the ancient family of the St. Aubyns was thenceforth thrown by his high bom father on the pity and dependence of a man of yesterday. How humbled was now the pride of the man of family ! But a better feeling succeeded to the throb of ungene- rous exultation. Mr. Hargrave gazed on the pale and care-worn cheek, the imploring and sunk eye of Mr. St. Aubyn with pity, not un- mixed perhaps with remorse. " She shall not ruin me^' said he with ungracious graciousness ; " but I will maintain her handsomely ; and if he behaves well, I will be a father to the child." The eyes of the dying man beamed with momentary joy, — for he knew Henry would " behave well," — and visions of future greatness, VOL. I. K and 194 and even of the recovery of the family es- tate, danced momentarily before his closing eyes j while a blessings a fervent blessing, faltered on his quivering lips, and wrung a tear from the usually dry lid of Mr. Hargrave. Mr. St. Aubyn died ; and he fulfilled his promise to the dying : he hired a small house for his sister in the town of Keswick, and allowed her a respectable income; but took Henry to reside with him, pro- posing to provide for and to educate him as if he were his own child. But it was impossible for a man of Mr. Hargrave*s temper and disposition to make conscious dependence easy to be borne. On the contrary, every day, every hour, every moment, reminded the St. Aubyns that they were eating the bread of de- pendence ; and Mrs. St. Aubyn had at once to dread from her brother the sneer of contempt, the frcv.'n of reproof, and, what 195 what was still more painful to endure with composure, the coarse and noisy banter of sometimes well deserved ridicule. The circumstances in which Mrs. St. Aubyn had been placed in early life, were the most unfavourable in every point of view to form a well-principled and respectable woman. Praises of her beauty were the first sounds that met her ear ; while, as she grew up, her weak and unprincipled mo- ther, in order to obtain means to pur- chase ornaments for the child whose per- sonal graces were her pride, used to set apart forthat purpose, with her knowledge, small sums from the slender allowance given her by her husband for their daily meals ; and by this means her daughter's young mind learnt a lesson of artifice and dis- ingenuousness to which it never could rise superior. Nor was her father's sense of moral rectitude much greater than that of his wife, as a love of truth made no K 2 part J9t) part of his precepts or his practice ; and the ready lie with which his daughter usually endeavoured to hide the faults which she committed, was looked upon, both by him as well as Mrs. Hargrave, as a proof of talent and quickness above her Years, and received with a wink of the eye at each other, and an ill- suppressed smile, which convinced the young delin- quent, that the only crime in lying was that of being found out. In addition to this sort of training, was a constant assurance from her mother that nothing was so necessary to a young woman as to look well, and that if she set off her person to advantage there was no doubt but that her beauty would make her for- tune. But spite of her attention to her dress, and the splendour of her personal charms, miss Hargrave's apparent folly and flippancy had so far counteracted the power of her beauty, that she had reached the 197 the age of twenry-fiv-e without having held one offer of marria'i^e worth acceptiri;; ; when, on the death of her parents, her brother mvited her to resi.ie with him ; and Mr. St. Aubvn saw her with Mr. Hargrave, as I befoie mentioned, on his tour to the Lakes. The vivacity and perhaps even the sil- liness- of her expression gave miss Har- grave the appearance of extreme youth, an appearance which her manner strongly confirin.'J, and the bloom of her fine coraplixron, heightened by air and exer- cise, considerably increased. Mr. St. Au- byn gazed on her, the first moment that he beheld her, with admiration and delight. He saw in her youth, beauty, grace, every thing that his heart had ever sought in woman ; and when he became acquainted with her, and accompanied her hanging on his arm through the romantic scenes around him, he felt that she was becofue the ar- biter 198 biter of his fate, and that it was impossible for him to be happy without her. Indeed she appeared to Mr. St. Aubyn under pe- culiar advantages. The fear of her bro- ther made her always silent and timid in his presence ; therefore her lover heard not her usually insipid volubility, and her occasional he considered as general timi- dity. When they were alone, indeed, he found that she talked a great deal ; but this he attributed to the sort of intoxica- ting relief which she felt at being removed from the alarming eye of her tyrant : and judging thence how great must be her suf- ferings from a residence with such a man, pity assisted to fan the flame of love, and he felt that it would be both a just and generous action to remove so fascinating a victim from the fetters that galled her. Her want of fortune was indeed a serious obstacle to his wishes ; as Mr, St. Aubyn, in order to pay off several heavy 199 heavy mortgages on his estates, had been living many years on a very incon- siderable part of his income, and it was necessary that he should continue so to do, in order to effect the honourable de- sign which his integrity had dictated. But if miss Hargrave loved him, he thought every obstacle would vanish ; for she had been accustomed to live on a nar- row income, and that which he had to offer her was certainly larger than the one on which she had been accustomed to live. Accordingly, rendered blind and confiding by the illusions of passion, Mr. St. Aubyn revealed his love to the object of it, and received from her an avow- al of mutual regard. Immediately trans- ported with joy, and the hopes of future happiness, he declared to her his situa« tion, his well-principled plans of ceconomy, and all that he required of his wife du- ring the first years of marriage, in order to 200 to assist him in rescuing from oblcquy the memory of a much-respected though improvident father. Miss Hargrave Hstened to and approved his plan, promised every thing that he desired, and performed noihing. Still her infatuated husband admired and adored her ; and even while they remain- ed at their country seat, he indulged her pride and her vanity by resuming much of the ancient state of his family in his mode of living. But when, in consequence of repeated differences wich Mr. Hargrave, they removed to the vicinity of London, her extravagance knew no bounds, and her husband had not the heart to reprove or restrain her ; for was she not called "the beautiful Mrs. St. Aubyn?" was she not the most admired woman in the drawing-room ? and while her charms ad- ministered thus to the gratification of his vanity and his affecdon, Mr. St. Aubyn endeavoured 501 endeavoured to forget that the mortgages remained unpaid, and that debts were accumulating around him. The result I have before detailed, and the consequences of that fatal uxoriousness, and want of proper energy, that led to the utter ruin of his fortune, and precipitated him into an early grave. But, let me speak it to his honour, he never, in his consciousness of the errors of the wife, forgot for a moment the respect which he, as a gentleman, thought due to her as a woman. Though too late convinced of her folly, her vanity, her extravagance, her disregard of truth, — he behaved to her before his servants and his son with as much politeness and deference as if her words were oracles. He took no mean revenge on her for her weak- ness, by wounding her self-love either in public or even in private ; and though K 5 her 202 her foibles were such as to make her often an object of ridicule, he deplored but never scoffed at her weakness : what- ever she ordered respecting her son, he never contradicted if wrong ; he told her it was so in private, and the order was repealed by herself, as if from her own conviction, and not his desire ; and it was owing to this kind, generous, and manly conduct in her husband, that Henry St. Aubyn, in the midst of his convictions of his mother's follies, never lost sight for one moment of the respect due to her as his parent. — His father had accustomed him to treat her with re- spect by his own example; and when crushed to the earth by the avowed con- tempt and ridicule of her brother, Mrs, St. Aubyn's tearful eyes could turn on her son with confiding and never de- ceived affection, and her self-love was immediately 203 immediately soothed by his respectful at- tentiou to herself, and the firm, decided* but cool and gentle manner in which he defended and supported her under the at- tacks of his uncle ; — while Mr. Hargrave feared, approved, oppressed, admired, and envied his nephew— love him he did not; it is not in nature for us to love those whom we feel to be our superiors in those qualities which entitle a person to the ap- pellation of amiable. No one loved Mr. Hargrave, and every one loved St. Au- byn. How then could he possibly for- give his nephew an advantage which he had never possessed, and never could possess himself ? But he could torment him occasionally, and that pleasure he often gave himself by speaking slightingly of his father ; and once with ingenious malignity he tried to wound St. Aubyn to the utmost by leading Mrs. St. Aubyn to join join him in disrespect to the memory of her husband. " After all, Harriet/' said he, " St. Aubyn turned out a very bad match for you : with your beauty and power o^ pleasing you might have done better : a rich London merchant would have been a more proper husband for you, than a poor and proud country gentle- man ; and I dare say you think so your- self; for then, you know, whatever you had spent, he could have supplied you by his increasing gains; and instead of flow being dependent on a queer-tem- pered fellow like myself, perhaps at this moment you might have been Lady- Mayoress." St. Aubyn turned pale at this en- afnaring speech, and sat in fearful ex- pectation for his mother's reply, who, trembling with agitation, arose from her seat, and pressing both her hands upon her 205 her bosom, as if to keep down tlic emo- tions that struggled there, indignantly ex- claimed, " What, sir, do you think I ever wish that I had been the wife of any other man than Mr. St. Aubyn ?-— No, sir; I know he was only too good for mej I know how faulty I am, and how indul- gent he was.- — No, Mr. Hargrave, believe me, with all my faults, I can never for- get what I owed to the best of husbands ; and I had rather have the proud con- sciousness of having been his wife, than be married to an emperor ! '* Here sobs interrupted her ; and while Henry, with whom this energetic tribute to his father's worth effaced a score of her faults, ran to her, and laid her head on his bosom, Mr. Hargrave, struggling himself with a little rising in his throat, held out his hand affectionately to her, and said, *' Come, come, Harriet, don't be a fool, I only I only said what I did to try you. — So, I find you have a heart ; and as St. Aubyn, but for his confounded pride, was a very fine fellow, if you did not feel concerning him as you do I should despise you :-— but you have said what you ought 5 so shake hands, and be friends," She gave him her hand, smiled, and forgot what had passed. But her son could not so soon forget this wanton trial of his mother, and the torture inflicted on himself; but with a look of reproach, which Mr. Hargrave felt, though he did not choose to notice it, he folded his arms in a sort of contemplative sadness, and left the room. But to return to the inhabitants of the White Cottage. 1 shall pass over the details of the succeeding eight years, con- tenting myself with saying, that during that time Emma's progress in acquire- ments had fully equalled the expectations of 207 of her preceptors, and that her improve- ment in temper, from the firm though gentle authority of Mr. Egerton and the influence and example of St. Aubyn, had surpassed even their warmest hopes. Indeed, in that difficult part of good- temper which consists in forbearance and accommodation to the ill-humour of others, St. Aubyn was unrivalled; and Mr. Egerton was never tired of dwelling on his praises, and holding him up in this instance as an unfailing and admirable example. " Excuse me, Mr. Egerton," said Mrs. Castlemain one day, piqued perhaps at the evident superiority which he attributed to St. Aubyn over Emma in this particular, *' excuse me, — but I think you consider Temper as a quality of more importance than it really is." " I am surprised at such an opinion from you, madam," replied Mr. Egerton gravely, 208 gravely, '' as I should have thought that you must have been aware, the chief part of your misfortunes and those of your daughter were occasioned by Temper." Mrs. Castlemain looked down and sighed, conscience-stricken. . " So far from agreeing with you, ma- dam," continued Mr. Egerton, " in what you have just advanced, I consider Tem- per as one of the most busy and universal agents in all human actions. Philosophers believe that the electric fluid, though in- visible, is every where in the physical world ; so I believe that Temper is equal- ly at work, though sometimes unseen except in its effects, in the moral world. Perhaps nothing is rarer than a single motive ; almost all our motives are com- pound ; and if we examine our own hearts and actions with that accuracy and diffidence which become us as finite and responsible beings, we shall find that of our 209 our motives to bad actions Temper is very ohen a principal ingredient, and that it is not unfrequenrly one incitement to a good one. 1 am also convinced,'* added he, " that the crimes both of pri- vate individuals and of sovereigns are to be traced up to an uncorrected and un- educated temperas their source." " You seem to have conbidered this subject very carefully, and in a manner wholly new to me/' answered Mrs. Cas- rlcinain in an accent of uncomfortableness 5 • and you probably are right : but if you 1>3, how many then are wrong!" " x\las!" replied Mr. Egerton, " the niany are indeed, in my humble opinion, wrong ; lor few persons are sufHciently aware how much the virtue, the dignity, and the happiness of life depend on a well governed temp-r. You may re- member that the Bourgeois gentiihomme in Moliere finds, to his great surprise, that 210 that he has been speaking prose all his life without knowing it ; and 1 have often observed, that parents and preceptors have in theirgift the best and most compendious of all possessions, that of a good and well- governed temper, without at least the seem- ing consciousness that it is in their dispo- sal : and that to watch over the temper of a child, ameliorate it by salutary or proper indulgence, or control it by salutary re- straints, is far far more necessary to its future welfare, than to reprove a fault in grammar, or to correct an exercise/' " Well, sir," said Mrs. Castlemain,^ " education and care may do much ; but I suppose you will allow that some per- sons have tempers naturally good, — and there is no merit in that.*' " No, madam,*' answered Mr. Eger- ton smiling ; ^' but there is great conve- nience. I will allow, as the contrary does not admit of proof, that there are persons 211 persons who seem to come into the world with good tempers, and that therefore they have no more merit in beine^ good- humoured than in having fine eyes. But then what a world of trouble they them- selves are spared 1 as they have no ill- humours to subdue ; and how pleasant is an intercourse with them ! because you are not afraid that their temper, hke a tiger chained, should occasionally break loose and tear asunder the scarcely well- knit tie of affection, destroying the confi- dence and comfort of society. But many possess this sort of good temper, which may be called the physical part of it, with- out having an atom of the other sort, which may be called the moral part.*' ^' I do not understand you, sir ; you are too deep for me," observed Mi*s.Castlemain. " I will explain my meaning, madam, if you will permit me to talk a little longer — I own that I am given to preach, — but preaching 212 preaching you know is my vocation, — therefore 1 hope you will excuse it. I mean by the moral part of good-humour, that which shows itself in bearing with the ill-humour and provoking irritability of others ; and this necessary and valuable power, I must say, is rarely, in my opi- nion, possessed by any one who has not 2 good understai-ding. Now St. Aubyn possesses both sorts of good temper, and '* '•' Ah I *' interrupted Mrs. Castlemain, *' I thought how this long harangue would end ; namely, in the introduction of your favourite's name, and of his praises : but they are not ntiv to me : therefore, excuse my staying to hear more." So saying, she left the room with a toss of the head and a quick step ; not conscious, perhaps, how much she herself was at that moment under the dominion of temper. Mr. Egerton smiled, but not in de- rision C13 nsion. It was not for Mrs. Castlemain that he had harangued, but for the silent and attentive Emma, who was present, and in whose young and conscious heart every word that he had uttered had made a due and salutary impression. " Sir," said Emma, coming to Mr. Egerton, and leaning on the back of his chair ; " pray, sir, go on with what you were going to say about Henry; — for I like to hear him praised for his temper, — though I can't help thinking, sir, that grandmamma does not." *' Indeed ! *' said Mr. Egerton, sup- pressing a smile ; " and what makes you think so ? *' *' O! her look and her manner, and I think I know why too ; I think . . . ." " What dost thou think, my dear child ? " said Mr. Egerton, taking her hand. " I think, sir, that she looks upon such praise 214 praise as a reproach to me ; for you know, sir, I am not half so good-temper- ed as Henry St. Aubyn.'* '' O yes, much more than kalf^ my dearest girl," replied Mr, Egerton ; " but I believe you are right in your observa- tion : and as Mrs. Castlemain is hurt at the praise of Henry, merely out of her af- fection for you, you ought to love her the better for being so/' " Certainly, sir," said Emma : " but you know her love to me need not make her unjust to others; and I am sure Henry deserves all you can say of him." " True, very true. Well, then it is in your power to put a stop to Mrs. Castle- main's affectionate error, as you think it, by becoming as tractable, as mild, and as forbearing, as Henry himself.'* " I will, sir, indeed I will, " said Emma : and Mr. Egerton, sayings " I be- lieve 215 lieve thee, dear child ! " set out for his evening walk. But to resolve and to execute are, alas ! very different things ; and even that evening, as well as the next day, exhibited proofs of Emma's love of excellence being stronger than her power of imitating it. That very evening Mrs. Castlemain in- vited Emma to walk with her to the town of Keswick ; and when there, business kd the former to the shop of a milliner. In the shop, unfortunately for Emma, was that weak, vain, inconsiderate woman, the mother of St. Aubyn ; and on the coun- ter, as unfortunately, lay a straw bonnet trimmed with pale blue ribbands. Em- ma's eyes were soon attracted to the bon- net ; which the shopwoman perceiving, she instantly begged the young lady would put it on, assuring her it was the last new fashion, and amazingly becoming. To resist this entreaty was impossible. Emma's 216 Emma's own bonnet, though nearly new, became immediately of no value in her eyes, especially as the milliner and Mrs. St. Aubyn declared, when Emma put on the new one, that there never was any thing so becoming, and that it seemed made on purpose for her. Mrs. Castlemain was silent, her look grave and unapproving : but Emma had a quarterly allowance, and enough re- maining of it to pay for the bonnet at least. Aye ; but she did not want it, and she knew that Mr. Egerton and Mrs. Castlemain would both disapprove her in- curring so unnecessary an expense. Yet the bonnet was so pretty and so be- coming, and Mrs. St. Aubyn advised her so earnestly to buy it, that Emma had faintly articulated " Well, I think I must have it/' when Mrs. Castlemain, who re- collected that Mr. Egerton had said no opportunity of inculcating the practice of self- '211 self-denial iu Emma shoutd be passed over, gravely observed, '* You must please yourself^ miss Cas- tlemain, as I have made you in a measure independent of me m your expenses j but I must say, that if you are so extra- vagant as to purchase, for the indulgence of a whim, a hat which you do not want, I shall be very seriously displeased." Emma*s proud spirit revolted at th'S threat, uttered before so many witnesses ; and saying within herself. ^' What signi- fies my independence ii I am nqt allowed to use it ? " she had half resolved to dis- obey her grandmother, when her recoiu- tion was completely coniinned by Mrs. 8t. Aubyn's indiscreetly and iir^perti- nently observing, " Dear girl ! it does not signify how much she spends 1 but do, dear madam, buy it for her 1 she looks so beautiful in it. — I assure you, miss Castlen-iainj my VOL. J. L v'.l 218 son Henry says nothing becomes you so much as pale blue." This was decisive ; and after a short struggle between duty and inclination, Emma threw down tlie money for the hat on the counter^ and desired it might be put into the carriage, which now came to the door, as they were to walk only one way. The drive home was gloomy and un- comfortable. Mrs. Castlemain was too greatly irritated to speak : and Emma, to the painful consciousness of having in- dulged a refractory temper, and of hav- ing displeased and disobeyed her grand- mother, added that of having unnecessa- rily expended nearly the last farthing of her allowance, and it wanted some weeks Xo the quarter-day. Mr. Egerton, who met them on their return, soon discovered that something unpleasant had happened j and he sighed as 219 as he observed that the Ingenuous vi- vacity which had sparkled in Emma's eves when she set out on her w^alk, from having formed a virtuous resolution with the full intention of keeping it, was re- placed by a sullen downcast look, indica- tive of self upbraiding and the conscious- ness of having failed in some necessary duty. Mrs. Castlemain was silent, and spoke and answered in monosyllables: but as soon as Emma, tired and dejected, had retired to bed without her supper, she told her tale of grievances to Mr. Eger- ton, who, though much mortified at hearing of the weakness of his pupil, hoped that the inconveniences to which the want of money would expose her, would at once punish and amend the fault of which she had been guilty : and after volunteering a promise to Mrs. Cas- tlemain that he would neither give nor lend Emma any money, however she JL 2 might 220 tiiight require it, and receiving a similar promise from her in return, he could not help hinting to Mrs. Castlemain, that this Tvas a fresh proof of the importance of a good and yic Iding temper ; and he oblig- ed her to own that, under similar circum- stances, Henry St. Aubyn would not have gratified his own inclinations at the expense of a frown or a pang to his mother. " But/' added he, " depend on it, my dear madam, that our joint and incessant care will at length succeed in abating, if we cannot entirely remove, this only fault in the object of our solicitude, and one entirely owing to the pernicious effect of early and erroneous habits." The next day, to the joy of Emma, was a day of splendid sunshine ; so much so, that there seemed no likelihood any rain would fall during the day : and as this was the case, she looked forward with all the delight of her age to a party of pleasure, nieasiire. in a bcaiitiial vale about two miles distant iroin Mrs.CastlejViain's house, which was to take place it the ueaiiier promised to be tine and settled. This party was to coisist of INIr. Hargrave, Mrs. St. Aubyn, her son, some young ladies in the neighbourhood, and Mrs. Castlemain, Mr. Egerton, and Emma. It was in order to look w-cll on this occa- sion that Emma was so eager to have the new hat : and when told that she might prepare for this promised expedition, as the weather would certainly be good, the pleasure she felt on putting on this dearly- purchased ornament almost deadened her regret for having disobeyed and displeased Mrs. Castleniain. The place of their destination was Watenlaih, or the valley on the top of rocks ; a scene as beautiful and s quester- ed as the warmest faiicy can conceive, and beyond the power of the most finished pencil to describe. It was agreed that Mr. ooo ^Ir. Egerton, Mrs. Castlemain^ and Em- ma, should walk thither, and meet the rest of the party there ; they having re- solved to go on horseback, as to them the vale was well known ; but Mr. Egerton and Emma had never seen Watenlath, and its peculiar beauty could best be felt if approached on foot, and by means of one particular pathway. The party were to dine in the valley, and a pony well laden with provisions was to follow at a certain hour. The party from the White Cottage were to go in the carriage as far as Keswick ; and at length nine o'clock, the time for setting off, being arrived, Emma, drest to the very utmost of her wishes, joined Mrs. Castiemain and Mr. Egerton on the lawn. «i So — you have gotten a new bonnet, I see ! " observed the latter : " but I don't think you look so well in it as you did in your old one. Not that the hat is not a pretty hat, and the colour of the ribband becoming becoming to you ; but you don't look so happy as usual, and your countenance has not that open vivacity which I saw on it when you Si't ofF on your walk yester- day. Believe me^ my dear girl," added Mr. Egerton, taking the hand of the con- scious and blushing Emma, " the best ornament to a young woman is a mind at peace with itself, and a brow unruffled by a frown." This remark, though well-meant, was perhaps ill-timed. It convinced her that Mrs. Castlemain had told tales ; and the resentment of the preceding evening, which had nearly subsided, was again called forth. Within a mile of Keswick, one of the wheels came ofF, and obliged them to alight; when on the road, which in places was exceedingly heavy and dirty, (and against which Emma's feet were fortifi- ed by a pair of thick shoes which fastened higH'on the instep, and were buckled on one 1224. one side by a pair of small but substan- tial silver buckles, which had belonged to Mrs. Castlemain's grandfather,) the in- terest of the party was excited, and their course arrested, by the sight of a woman fainting by the side of a hedge, whom a child seemingly of eight or nine years old was vainly attempting to recover. ButMrs. Castlcmain was more successful in her ef- forts : and when the poor creature, whose tattered garments bespoke her extreme poverty, recovered her senses, she said ihat the was a soldier's widow, and was tra- velling with her child to her parish, which was in Carlisle; but that, being worn down with sorrow, hunger, and fatigue, she had lain down, as she thought, to die on the road The woman's countenance bore a strong testimony to the truth of her narration ; — and her auditors listened to it with the sincerest compassion. But to pity her di- stresses was not sufficient ; they resolved to 225 to alleviate them : and having procure J refreshments both for her and her child from a neighbouring cottage, they resolv- ed to walk on briskly to Keswick, and hire a man and cart to convey her to Penrith, where she was to stay a night or two to recriiit her exhausted strength. Longer time she said she could not spare, as she had a mother on her death-bed whom she wished if possible to see once more. When she was quite recovered, Aiid was seated comfortably at the cottage door awaiting the arrival of the cart, Mrs. Castlemain and Mr. Egerton took out their purses ; and both not only relieved her present wants, but gave her money suffi- cient, as they hoped, to procure her a con- veyance as far as Carlisle. Now then the moment was arrived to (ill the generous heart of Emma with sorrow for the needless extravagance of the preceding evening, and Mrs. Castle- L 5 main 226 main was amply revenged. For the first time in her life since she had money to bestow, she had it not in her power to add her mite to the bounty of her friend and her relation ; who, as soon as they had given the poor woman what they intended, walked forward to escape from her thanks, and hasten the intended conveyance for her ; while Emma, sad, mortified, and irresolute, lingered behind, reading, as she fancied, in the sufferer's looks an expres- sion of wonder that she gave her nothing, and also of expectation and supplication. " I have no monev in my pocket," said Emma mournfully ; '' but I will borrow some :" and having overtaken Mr. Egerton, who was behind Mrs. Cas- tlemain, she begged him in a faltering voice to lend her five shillings. ^' I have no silver, my dear,'* cried he: "ask Mrs. Castlemain." But the latter angrily turned round and said she would '221 would not lend her money, as she did not deserve it ; adding, '' This is a pro- per punishment for your obstinate folly and extravagance in buying what you did not want last night." This was only too true : and angry, sorry, abashed yet irritated, Emma ran back to the cottage, and soon to her great satisfaction lost sight of her monitors. Immediately she stooped down, took out her old-fashioned silver buckles, and then drawhig the twist out which confined her gloves over her dimpled elbows, she en- deavoured as well as she could to re- fasten her shoes by tying them ; and then, as much impelled, I fear, by spite as by generosity, she entered the cottage, and telling the woman that she could not give her money, but that those buckles were silver, and would sell for some, she waited neither for an acceptance or a de- nial of her gift ; then^ almost afraid to re- flect 228 fleet on what she had done, she ran vio- lently forward to overtake Pvlr. Egerton and Mrs. Castlemain : but not liking to show her tied shoes in the town of Kes- wick, she called out to tell them they would find her on the lake, and turned oiF to hasten to the boat in waiting to convey them to the spot whence they were to ascend the mountain; which having entered, she sat silently, sorrow- fully, and even fearfully ; for she dreaded the discovery of what she had done, and began to wish that she had had more self-government. At length Mrs. Castlemain and Mr. Egerton, with the expression of satisfied benevolence on their countenances, ar- rived at the boat, having procured the promised cart for the poor soldier's widow. But the joy of both of them was soon damped by observing the clouded coun- tenance of Emma, who could with some difficulty C29 difficuliy contrive lo hide her feet under the bench on which she was seated. At length they landed near the foot of the Lodore waterfall, and began rheir laborious walk ; when to Mr. Eger- ton's surprise he found that Emma, so remarkable for the agility with which she used to climb mountains, coiild now ^ith difficulty keep up with her comoa- nions, and evidently walked with un- comfortable effort; while ever and anon she was stooping down to adjust her shoes. *' This is very strange," thought he^ turning round and offering her his assist- ance, (while Mrs. Castlemain, whom no- thing impeded in her progress, was nearly out of sight :) but Lmma in so pettish and peremptory a manner rejected his assistance, and turned her bcick while she stooped, that a suspicion of the truth darted across his mind ; and when she again turned round, he saw that his sus- picions 230 picions were jusr. He said nothing however, but contented himself with ob- serving Emma as first one string broke and then another, till at last they were too much broken to be used again ; and poor Emma, almost crying with vexation, was forced to proceed with the straps of her shoes hanging loose and threatening to throw her down everv moment. To add to her distress, the road was wet and full of bogs ; and at last both her shoes stuck completely fast in the mud, and unable to help herself, she was precipitated for- ward on her knees, — when a new calamity befel her ; for before she could put her hand to her head to^^revent it, the new hat was blown off by^ a sudden gust of wind, and the blue ribbands disfigured with mud ! In spite of his love for Emma, his compassionate vexation at her distress, and his self-command, — when Mr. Egerton saw 231 saw this last accident, and beheld the hat, the cause of all the mischief, on the ground, he could not refrain from a vio- lent fit of laughter ; which so irritated the poor prostrate Emma, that as he stooped to raise her from the ground she attempted to strike him. Mr. Egerton shocked, but instantly- recovering himself, said with great calm- ness, " I shall address you, my dear, in the words of a celebrated Greek general on a similar provocation : I shall say to you, ' Strike, if you please ; but hear me ! ' '' " No, no," exclaimed the sobbing and now subdued Emma: '' hear me, hear mc ! 1 beg and entreat your pardon. O do do, Mr. Egerton, forgive me ! but I am sure I shall never forgive myself." " I do forgive you, my dear, and will not say what I meant to say, and I scarcely regret what has passed ; because I am sure that to a mind ingenuous and generous as yours C^9 yours is, it will afford an indelible Ies.*on, and one for which you will be the better as long as you live : besides, I am well con- \inced that your own reproaches are more severe, and will be of more benefit, than any I should have the heart to address to you.'' " You are too too good,'' replied Emma, almost convulsed with sobs, and leaning her head against his arm. *' But recover yourself, my child," said Mr. -Egerton, '' and let U5? see what we can do for you, for you are in a terrible condition — shoes, stockings, petticoats, hat, covered with niud !" " Well, I must bear it patiently/' said Emma meekly, " for I deserve it all.'' " Good girl 1" said Mr. Egerton af- fectionately : and Emma was able to look up once more. '' But, my dear girl,'* added Mr. Egerton, " let me put you on your guard. You know Mr. Hargrave, and ^;33 •aiiJ you know that to tease and to tor- ment is one of the great delights of his hfe ; and I always hold him up as con- stantly as an exaniple to deter, as I do his nephew as an example to invite. Then you will readily believe that he will make a nuinber of provoking and teasing ob- servations on your draggled appearance ; but ' forewarned forearmed,' and as you owe some reparation for the pain your conduct has occasioned me, make it by w/.tiwiig Willi L'^iMx^.*Zl ctiiu caiiiliuLo^ cue; sneers and sarcasms of Mr. Hargrave." " I will try to obey you, sir," replied Emma; '' but indeed I have lost all confi- dence in myself." Then leaning on the now welcome arm of Mr. E^erton, Emma slowly and wich dimculty renev/ed her walk; but though dirty and fatigued from bting scarcely able to lift her feet from the slippery and tenacious ground, her mind was considerably lightened, and she even began to observe the beauty beauty of the richly wooded rficks, and the flowery and velvet carpet^ which, the further they advanced, still more and more kept spreading under their feet j while the sound of the cataract of Lodore, lately so distinctly heard^ grew every mo- ment fainter and fainter, and the lake of Keswick became diminished to the eye- Yet so gradual had been the ascent that they had scarcely perceived it, and now could only ascertain its length and height by the effect exhibited to the sight. They now began to approach the expected val- ley, and beheld with wonder that they were still, though on the top of mountains, sur- rounded by mountains and rocks, and were eagerly gazing around them, when' some of the party whom they expected to join appeared in sight coming to meet them. " Now, Emma, now your hour of trial begins ; and I see by the sneer flicker- ing on Mr. Hargrave's upper lip, and the expression 253 expression of his fierce projecting eye, that I was right In my forebodings/' said Mr. Egerton. Mrs. Castlemain at this moment was expatiating to Mr. Margrave on the great progress which Emma had made in the study of Latin, and even of Greek, as Mr. Egerton had readily acceded to her wish of learning those languages, because he wi ely considered that it was the ostentatious display of learning in a wo- man, and not the learning itself, that v/as to be objected to ; and telling Emma that all he required of her was a promise never to quote a Latin saying<, or talk of Greek quantities, he tried to make her as good a classical scholar as he did St. Aubyn. And at this mom^ent, as I before stated, this unlucky moment, Mrs. Castlemain was reporting her progress to the cynical Mr. Iiargrave,who, as soon as he saw poor Emma with the straps of her shoes hanging down. 236 down, a draggle.i frock, end dirty stock- ings, observed, as niany men, aye and many women too, would have observed on a si- milar occasi:;n — *^' Yes, madam, I don't doubt bur. that hc-r progress has been con- siderable ; for, see, she looks very like a learned lady indeed! There's a smart figure for ycu I Pray admire her 1" On hearing this, the eyes of all the company were turned on Emma ; and Henry St. Aubyn kindly ran forward to inquire what had happened. " Bless me ! Where are your buckles, Emma?" asked Mrs. Castlemain, half suspecting the true state of the case-; and Emma could not answer her. "O!" said Mr. Hargrave, *' I sup- pose she forgot to put them on : geniuses cannot attend to such tjifles. you know 1" " Ycu don't answer my question, Em- ma," resumed ivlrs. Castlemain: " Was Mr. Hargrave's conjecture right ? " " No, '^ No, madam," answered Emma, sob- bing as she did so ; while Mr. Egerton preserved a grave silence. '* Come, come, Mrs. Castlemain, don't distress the fair classic," exclaimed Mr. Hargrave; " but let us return to the val- ley, or we shall not see ail its beauties before dinner :" and she, suspecting she had notblng to hear that would give her pleasure^ consented to his proposal ; while Emma, having begged her young compaiiions to walk on without her, re- mained behind with Henry St. Aubyn, who declared he would not leave her ; and Mr. Egerton, who v/as better pleased to gaze on the beauties of the surround- ing scene .alone, than surrounded by lo- quacious companions, walked slowly on before Emma and Henry, yet was not so far before them but that he heard their conversation. '• Now do tell me, dear Emma," said 238 said Henry, *' why you have neither ribband nor buckles in your shoes ? — YOU who are generally so neat in your dress ! " " Why, then, I must tell you," replied Emma, " that as I had no money to give, I gave my buckles to a poor distressed woman whom I saw on the road." This explanation, so flattering to the generous pity of Emma, if not to her judgement, alarmed Mr. Egerton for the sincerity of his pupil ; and he listened anxiously for what was to follow, " Dear, generous girl ! " cried Henry : *' so this was the truth ; and yet you bore my uncle's taunts in silence ! But I will go and tell him.' "No, no, Henry," returned Emma, detaining him; "for, if you knew «//, I doubt you would blame rather than praise me." Here Mr, Egerton breathed freely again. " Indeed ! 239 " Indeed! Well, what is this dreadful " Why, you must know; Henry, that I yesterday spent my last shilling most foohshly and unnecessarily : therefore, to the joy I believe of my mother and Mr. Egerton, 1 was punished by having no money to give the poor woman." '• Well, but you gave her your buckles, you know." " True ; but I tried to borrow some money first, and was refused ; therefore as much out of spite as charity I gave her my buckles: and now what do you think of me,'^" Here Mr. Egerton almost bounded for- ward with joy. " Think of you ! " replied Henry ; " why, even more highly than before, for so nobly disclaiming the praise that was not due to you." «you 240 " You are right, quite right, my dear boy," said Mr. Egerton turning round ; " ingenuousness like this is a much rarer quality than that of a disposition to re- lieve distress. I have overheard all that passed, and I own, Emma, I am again proud of my pupil. But be not elated by this well earned praise : remember, you have still a terrible defect to conquer — a defect of temper ; and that on the excel- lence or badness of temper chiefly de- pends not only one's own but the happi* ness of others. But come, let us forget every thing now, except the beauties that surround us." But Emma pointed sorrowfully to her shoes, and declared she must sit down on a piece of rock near them ; while Mr. Egerton, producing a piece of strong cord from his pocket, (which from principle he had not produced before,) contrived, though 241 though rather awkwardly, to fasten Em- ma's straps over her fea, and enable hjr to walk with less effort. While thus employed, neither of them was conscious of the disappearance of St. Aubyn : but when they looked up again he was out of sight. "This is very strange I" said Mr, Egerton. " This is very strange ! " echoed Emma. But the next moment a suspicion of the cause of St. Aubyn's absence came across the mind of both, though neither of them communicated it to the other. Emma was now sufBciently rested to proceed as fast as her admiration would let her, while Mr. Egerton pointed out to her the picturesque beauties v/hich met her eye as she advanced. They now found themselves on the banks of a clear and rapid river called the Lodorcj whose waters fall into the cascade known by VOL. I. M that 242 that name, which forms one of the great features on the shores of Keswick Lake. The green and v. Ivet banks of this river were bounded on either side, and at no con- siderable distance, by bare, by wooded and nearly perpendicular rocks, of which, as Gilpin observes, the particularity con- sists in their being nearly as much asun- der at the bottom as at the top. It was then the hay season, and the unrivalled verdure of the scene was beautifully con- trasted with the golden haycocks that were reared almost profusely around ; while in places the dark green alder, and the mountain ash then decorated with its brightest berries, met across the stream, and united their well- assorted branches. At some distance a small lake was dis- coverable, on whose shores were scattered a few white cottages. Near the lake, and on the point of en- tering a boat, Mr. Egerton and Emma now 21.3 now discovered their whole party, and amongst them Mrs. St. Aubyii, who was endeavouring, though evidently she was angrily repulsed by her brother, to assise him in getting ready his fishing-tackle as the lake contained excellent trout. On not seeing St. Aubyn wiih the companions with whom he had left him, Mr. Hargrave angrily desired to know what was become of his nephew, that he was not there to assist him with his fish- ing tackle, which was entangled. Mr, Egerton coldly replied, that he knew nothing of Mr. St. x\ubyn ; but that he doubted not, when he returned, he w^ould be able to account for his ab- sence in a satisfactory manner. *' Oh, that I am sure he will," said Mrs. St. Aubyn: then seeing a frov.n gather on her tyrant brother's brov/, ^e exclaimed, glad to turn the conversation, *' Dear me, what a pity ! Why, the rib- M 2 bands 244 banJs on the beautiful hat of miss Cas- tlemain are covered with dirt ! Still, young ladies, pray look, is it not very becom- ing ? She would not have bought it if 1 had not persuaded her, and told her that I had heard it observed how becoming blue was to her/* " So, Mrs. St. Aubyn !" said Mr. Har- grave with a provoking sneer ; " you are not content with being a coxcomb your- selfj but you must endeavour to make one of a mere child?" " Dear me, brother, you are so " but her declaration of uhat he was, was stopped on her lips by a frown so terrible, that the poor woman almost trembled with apprehension ; while Mr. Egerton was not sorry to find that Emma's obsti- nate extravagance was occasioned as much by the folly of another as by her own. But still St. Aubyn came not ; and his uncle was so discontented at his absence that 'J 4. J that nothing pleased him : nobody could steer a boat so well as Henry, he declared, as he was not there to steer it; for had he been there his excellence would not have been allowed : and after rowing about the lake some little time, stopping occasionally to let Mr. Hargrave endea- vour to angle, in order if possible to get him into good humour, the party return- ed to shore ; and soon after, his cheek crimsoned with heat and exercise, and bearing a bundle under his arm, St. Au- byn appeared. '' 1 thought so," cried Emma, running forward with artless delight to meet him, and hanging affectionately on his arm while he told her the bundle contained clean stockings, shoes, petticoat, and frock for her. '• So ! " cried Mr. Kargrave,/' it was well worth while, was it not ? for you to go and heat yourself into a fever in order to make a little 246 a little gfrl clean, who, I dare say, does not care whether she be clean or dirty!" " But I do care very much, sir,'' said llmma; " and I am sure I am so obliged to Henry — " " It is more than I am," muttered his uncle ; " but I am always to be last served." " Nay, I am sure, brother,'* observed Mrs. St. Aubyn, "Henry is always ready to wait on you ; and it was only his good- nature that led him to for I am sure Henry is the sweetest and most obliging temper ! " "That he is," exclaim.ed Mrs. Castle- hiain, giving Henry her hand ; " and this is a proof of it." And so said all the young ladies, and Mr. Egerton too. This praise of his now well-grov^^n ne- phew, and for a qua'ity which Mr. Har- grave was conscious that he did not him- self possess, either in reality or in repu- tation. 247 tation, was more than he could bear, as he had ah'eady begun to be so jealous of his nephew's virtues, and the general love Vhich they excited, that he felt a sort of Tnalevolent consolation in the knowledge of his complete dependence on him, and on his will. " Come, let's have no more of your flattery, if you please," he angrily ex- cbimed : " the boy is a good boy enough^ bwt no such paragon as you represent him to be." St. Aubyn, more gratified by the praise he had received chan wounded by his un- cle's ungraciousness, now attempted to turn the discourse by following Emma, who was going into an adjacent cottage to change her dress ; and producing a paper he said, " Here, dear Emma, here is some blue ribband to supply the place of that dirty one ; — pray accept it as a pre- sent from me." — And while Emma with a spark. 24S a sparkling eye and dimpled cheek re- ceived this new proof of Henry's kind- ness, ]Mr. Ilargrave, who had overheard him, observed, with a look of more than common malice, '* I am glad, Mr. St. Aubyn, to find ycu are rick enough to make/rre^eTz^A." " This is a present," said Mr. Egerton eagerly, " which / must beg leave to make niy young pupil, — and net Mr. St. Aubyn ; as I knew that, if the ribband be my gift, it will recall to her mind some events of this day, from the recollection of which I trust she will never cease to de- rive improvement." *' I dare not dispute this matter with you," replied Henry rirnidly, ^' as your right is so much beyond mine ; but, dear sir," said he in a whisper, '' do itll her that what I have dene was meant as a re- ward for her ingemiousness/' In a short time after, and before the beauty 249 beauty of the scene and the pleasant tone of spirits which it inspired had begun to pall upon the feelings, and to allow any sensation of hunger to prevail amongst the party, Mr. Hargrave proposed having dinner : — and as he was generally con- scious of bein^ the richest individual in company, (an advantage of which he was very proud,) his proposals were usual- ly uttered in the tone of commands : — and as Mrs. Castlemain, the only person present who had any ri=;hc to oppose his will, was on this occa- sion willing to accede to it in hopes that he might eat himself into good hu- mour, dinner was served up as soon as ever Mr. Hargrave expressed his wishes on the subject. But the angry pardcles of a bad temper, when once they have begun to effervesce, do not soon subside again. Mr. Hargrave was still dissatisfied: — the meat-pie was M 5 too 230 too salt, the fHiit-pie too sweet, the pot- ted char wanted seasoning, and the home- brewed ale wanted strength. Every word from his poor dependent sister called forth from him an expression of insulting con- tempt; while his nephew, whom he could not even pretend to despise, was treated by him with sullen disregard. " He is nothing but an old baby/' whispered Emma to Mr. Egerton. " True," replied Mr. Egerton ; ^' but remember that all this disgusting conduct is the effect of temper; — and be warned by his example ! " At this moment Mr. Hargrave asked Emma to help him to some tart which stood near her 5 and in her haste to com- ply with his request, — a haste perhaps occasioned by her consciousness of having just spoken of him in a degrading man- ner, — she unfortunately spilt some of the juice on the table-cloth, which happened to 251 to be his ; and this trifling accident irri- tated him so much that he exclaimed, '' Pshaw 1 I might have known better than to have employed yoa to help me, as geniuses are above knowing how to do common things." Henry blushed with indignation at this coarse speech, and Mr. Egerton looked ready to resent it ; but Emma meekly re- plied, " I am very sorry for my awkwardness, sir, as 1 wish to do every thing well. I am certainly a bad carver, but I will try to become a good one/' Mr. Egerton and Henry looked at each other with an expression of mutual satisfaction while she said this ; and Mrs. Castlemain, looking proudly round her, exclaimed, *' You are a good girl, Emma, for you can return good for evil, and that is bet- ter O.V2 ter than being a good scholar, as you cer- tainly are." " But is she a good workwoman ? and can she make a pudding or a pie ? " cried the impracticable Mr. Hargrave. " No, sir ; but I can learn — '* " Can learn ! — But will you ? would you not think such things beneath you?" " 1 am sure, sir," cried Henry eagerly, " miss Castlemain has too much good sense to think it beneath her to be useful." . " I did not speak to you, you puppy," replied Mr. Hargrave : " What says miss Castlemain herself?*' " That time will discover how justly Henry St. Aubyn answered for me." And Mr. Hargrave, pleased at the trim- ming which, as he boasted afterwards, he had given these uncommon folks, was tolerably good-humoured the rest of the day. Nor was this change lost upon the resl 153 rest of the party ; for it had an agreeable effect on their spints. So certain is it that one splenetic, sullen, and unruly per- son in company operates on that com- pany. Mr. Hargrave, now deigning to be agreeable, offered Mrs. Castlemain his arm, and even complimented her on 7rearin<^ well ; while Mr. Egerton offered his arm to the now loquacious and sim*. pering Mrs. St. Aubyn, who, no longer awed by the dark and frowning brow^ of her brother, began to play off all the ar- tillery of her airs and graces on the uncoa- scious Mr. Egerton. Little indeed did he think that even the vanity of Mrs. St. Aubyn could have ima- gined his affection for his amiable pupil Henry was at all increased by admiration of this mother ; — yet such was this weak woman's belief j — and while with the com- mon 251. mon care and attention of a gentleman he handed her over broken pieces of rock, or little rivulets difficult to cross, which ever and anon obstructed their path, she fancied his supporting grasp was one of overflowing tenderness ; and if he sighed, she sighed audibly in return. " What a countenance that young man ^las ! " cried Mr. Egerton, as Henry bounded past, and smiled on them as he went. '' He has indeed,'* simpered Mrs. St. Aubyn ; adding, with affected and hesi- tating timidity, '' Do you see any like- ness P Some people say that " *^ A likeness! O yes, I do indeed, ma- dam," replied Mr. Egerton in a faltering voice, " I do indeed see his likeness to one very dear to me ; " — for he conclu- ded she alluded to her husband's cousin, Clara Ainslie, v/hose image was always present '255 present to his mind, and \^hose name he thought I\Irs. St. Aubyn from delicacy forbore to mention. *' Do yoii not see the likeness your- self, dear madam r " asked he, pressing her arm gently as he spoke. " Why— yes/' replied the lady, " l believe I do ; but I must be a bad judge^ vou know " '^ You are too modest," rejoined Mi\ Egerton, again pressing her arm liindly, and hoping she would gently hint some praise of his regretted love : but Mrs. St. Aubyn only pressed his arm in return, and he felt the action to be an expression of her sympathy in his afiiiction and sor- rows; which being recalled to his mind by this supposed allusion of Mrs. St. Au- byn's, he fell into a melancholy reverie, which his companion mistook for a tender one, with her for its object. But at length. '23a length, tired of his long and unnecessary silence, she ventured to express to him how happy she esteemed her son in having found in him such a friend and preceptor, nay even a father, as it vrere. " A father ! *' cried Mr. Egerton, en- thusiastically and suddenly starting from his reverie ; " you say well, madam ; I hope I shall one day or other prove a father to him ! '* " Dear me ! " said Mrs. St. Aubyn, affectedly disengaging her arm from Mr. Egerton's, for she thought this speech amounted to little less than an offer of his hand. Bu.t Mr. Egerton, wrapt in his own thoughts, heard not her exclama- tion, neither was he conscious of the de- licate scruple w^hich unlocked her arm from his, nor of the action itself: — but seeing Emma before him evidently wait- ing, for his approach, he walked hastily forward, 257 forward, and^ taking her under his arm, left Mrs. St. Aubyn to wander, — but at the same time to hope also ; as she attri- buted his abrupt departure from her to the fear of having disclosed too much of his intentions on so short an acquamiance ; and she earnestly wished she had let her arm remain where it was. But she had no opportunity of regaining the station which she had lost ; for when the party, who all w.ilked home, reached the tOAn of Kes- wick, they separated and went to their respective homes : and as Mr. Egerton before he entered Mrs. Castlemain's car- riage, which met them at Keswick, bowed low to Mrs. St. Aubyn wirh- O'dt looking her in the fiice, the tender- ness which she had t'jrown into her last look was wholly thrown away : but she mused for hours after on her prospect of becoming the wife of Mr. Egerton, 2J8 EgertoDj and had in fancy made him ex- change his grayish unpowdered locks for an auburn Brutus. Meanwhile Mr. Egerton, wholly un- suspicious of his power and of the dan- gerous hopes which his words and atten- tions had excited, was^ together with Mrs. Castlemain, conversing with Emma on the errors which she had committed in the beginning of the day, and the virtues with which she had made amends for that error ; wliile Emma, penitent yet pleased, and smiling through her tears, promised to turn the events of that day to profit the most unfailing. The next day Henry, being obliged to go to Penrith on business for his uncle, did not attend at the usual hour for les- sons ; and Mr. Egerton, observing that Emma was very absent, desired to know the reason. On which she confessed that she 259 she thought herself pledged to learn those branches of houseuifery which Mr. Har- grave had reproached her for not know- ing. " I have no objection/' said Mr. Eger- ton smiling, " to your being closely initi- ated into all the mysteries of the kiiLhen and the pantry, provided the motives for learning them be good ones : — but if your only motive be a w-ish to triumph over a splenetic old man, I object to it ; for then it would be only ijour temper taking its revenge on his,*' " I own," replied Emma blushing, " that I should like to prove to him that the fair classic can b? useful ; but I do assure you that I had a painful feeling of 5A Tell me, my pretty classic, were you not much elated when those fools at Penrith applauded you for what you had done ? I dare say your little heart beat with ex- ultation and conceit, ha ! " Mr. Egerton was going to answer for her, dreading that Emma would make an angry reply, as he had marked the varying colour of her cheek, and the quick heaving of her bosom; — but she spoke before he was aware of it, and in a voice so gentle that his alarm subsided. " No, indeed, sir," she mildly replied; *' for I did net add to the folly of giving away my buckles that of valuing myself on what I had done : — on the contrary, sir. 287 sir, my conscience told me that my fatal present was given more from ill-humour and spite than generosity ; and the mo- ments which you fancy I thought so flat- tering, were to me the most humiliating that I ever experienced/' " There, sir ! " cried Mrs. Castlemain in a tone of triumph. " Heyday ! what is all this ? what new stage effect have we here ?** '^ No stage effect, nor attempt at it,** said Mr. Egerton ; " but a plain matter of fact, as I will condescend to convince you ; though you hardly deserve that I should do so. But no, Emma shall tell her own story.*' — And thus encouraged, the blushing girl gave a circumstandal ac- count of her extravagance and all its con- sequences, and blamed herself so unaf- fectedly where Mr. Hargrave had fancied her valuing herself on her nobleness of feeling, that even he, though mortified to find 288 find he had not been able to mortify Emma^ allowed she was a veiy good and well-disposed girl ; — but he was afraid they would educate her into a pedant in petticoats. It was now near Mr. H.'s dinner- time, and his guests rose to depart ; but he would not allow it, and insisted so violent- ly on their staying to partake of his family meal, that they at length consented, es- pecially as they were anxious to await the return of Henry St. Aubyn, and be con- vinced that he had not at all suffered from his accident. — Their compliance put Mr. Hargrave into great good humour : still he could not entirely forget the de* Etruction of his chaise ; and he declared that Henry was a lad to be trusted alone any where ; but that, if his ridiculous mother went with him, he was always led by her into some scrape or another. "I am very certain," observed Mr. Egerton, 2S9 Egerton, " that Henry would not feel obliged to you for this compliment to him at the expense of his mother." " No, to be sure," answered Mr. Hargrave ; " I know he is your pious JEne2iS ;— or rather, I dare say you think pious jEneas was bloody Nero to Henry St. Aubyn. But, huzza ! here he is ! here is pious iEneas at last, and my chaise too, I declare ! But I vow Henry shall pay for the mending ! " By this time the wine which Mr. Har- grave had drunk had made him more than usually kind. He therefore received Henry most graciously; declared he was an honest fellow, and he was very glad he had not broken his neck as well as the chaise. Then filling up a bumper he desired him to drink it off to madam Castlemain's health, and wish her another husband and soon, (winking his eye as he spoke at Mr. Egerton) ; — then he chucked his YOL. I. o sister 290 sister under the chin by the title of old mother St. Aubyn ; and telling Emma she was a beauty, and he should come a- courting to her soon, he gave her so loud a kiss that St. Aubyn started from his seat with a feeling of pain which he could as yet have found it difficult to define even to himself. When the company separated, an early day was fixed for their meeting again at the house of Mrs. Castlemain : and Em- ma anticipated the arrival of that day with more pleasure than she had ever before felt when expecting to be in company with the dreaded Mr. Hargrave. But an attack of the gout deferred that gentle- man's visit even some weeks longer. At length, however, Mr, Hargrave's ma- lady left him, and he was able to pay his long-promised visit to Mrs. Castlemain; and Mr. Egerton was not a little amused to observe that Emma was an interested partaker 2D I partaker in the preparations making for Mr. Margrave's reception. *' You take such pains to please this odd-tempered man,'* said he laughing, *' that one might suppose you were in love with him 1" " Indeed," replied Emma with great simplicity, " I don't even like him : still I had rather please than displease him ; for he is Henry's uncle, you know." Mr. Egerton smiled again, but turned away as he did so, conscious that his smile had now assumed an arch expression which he would not have liked to ex- plain to her who called it forth. At the appointed hour Mr. Hargrave, his sister, and Henry arrived, and the former in good humour. But when Emma helped him to some fruit pie, and did it without spilling any of the juice, he observed that she took better care of o 2 Mrs. 292 Mrs. Castlemaln's table-cloths than she did of other people's. " Let me tell you, sir," said Mrs. Castlemain, *' that you are very ungrate- ful to Emma, considering the pains which she has taken to please you. The custard which you are now eating and commending, was made by her ; and you reward her by reverting to past griev- ances." " He ! what ! " replied Mr. Hargrave : "" Why, how should I know this ? How should I suspect that the young genius had so condescended ? — Here, give us your, hand, my girl; and believe me, this pretty hand will look prettier covered with the remains of paste and pie- crust, than daubed with ink from writing La- tin themes, or scribbling verses.'* *' Every thing in its season, Mr. l^f' grave/' replied Mrs. Castlemain, piqued at 293 at his ungraciousness: but she hoped that the present which Emma had in store for him would make him repent and pierhaps amend his harshness ; and ia a low voice she desired her to bring down her work. Emma obeyed. Then timidly ap- proaching Mr. Ilargrave, she begged his acceptance of a silk handkerchief to replace one which he had mentioned having lost. *« He ! What !— What have we here ?"' said he ; " and whose work is this ? and why is it given to me ?" " It is Emma's work ; she botli made and marked ir ; and now she begs you will reward her for her trouble by ac- cepting and wearing it.'* " Nay, madam,'* returned Mr. Ili'r- grave, " I am not much obliged to her, I b#Pieve. Come hither, girl : and so you did all this to prove to me that I was an old fool, and to give me the lie, did you ?*' (Here 294 (Here Henry with indignant emotion started from his seat.) " No, sir/' answered Emma, her eyes filling with tears as she spoke : " I did it merely to gain your good opinion and my own ; as I agree with you in think- ing that a woman should learn every thing that is useful." Even Mr. Hargrave was not proof against this meek and modest reply ; and catching her in his arms, he swore she was the best little girl in the world. ** But," added he, as if afraid of being too amiable, " I shall never dare to use my handkerchief; but I shall lay it up in lavender, and show it as a wonder — Neat work by a learned young lady." Mrs. Casllemain, Mr. Egerton, and Henry looked their indignation at this ungracious and sarcastic courtesy : but Emma, as if she did not feel the bitter- ness of it, replied, " Pray, sir, do not do 295 do that ; for when it is worn out I should be very happy to make you another." Mr, Hargrave looked at her a mo- ment in silence ; then said, taking her hand and kissing it respectfully, " You have conquered, young lady; and I will never call you learned again/' While Emma, venturing to raise her eyes to those of Mr. Egerton and Henry, read in them such lively approbation of her forbearance as amply re'.^arded her for her efforts to obtain it, and flattered her much more than Mrs. St. Aubyn's re- peated assurances, that to be sure she was the sweetest temper in the world. In the evening Mr. Hargrave and M^-s. Casilemain played chess, and unfortu- nately the latter was the conqueror, — a circumstance which was particularly gall- ing to the former, because he had an avowed contempt for the talents of wo- men, and piqued himself on his skill as a chess- 296 chess-player: and secretly displeased as he had before been, and as Mr. Egerton suspected he would be, by Emma's tri- umph, his ill temper became ungovern- able ; and on his poor dependent sister's coming near him, he vented some of his f^pleen on her by desiring her, with an oath, to get out of the way, and accom- panying what he said with a push violent enough to send her almost on her face to the other end of the room. Scon after, on Mrs. Castlemain's ven- turing to contradict him, he was so gross in his abuse of her that she replied in no very gentle manner. The consequence was that they parted immediately, resolv- ing never on any terms to meet again. Vain were Mrs. St. Aubyn's tears, and Mr. Egerton's remonstrances. Mr. Har- grave persisted in leaving the house, and Mrs. Castlemain in approving his depar- ture J and meeting Henry at the gate re- turning 297 turning with Emma from a walk in an adjacent valley^ he seized his arm, and exclaimed, " Come along, you puppy! and mark me, I do not choose you should be inveigled by any artful old woman or her base-born brats : so come home, and never presume to enter these doors again." *' What has happened ? for mercy's sake tell me what has happened!" cried Henry ; while Emma ran into the house: but repeating his '' Come away, I tell you ! " Henry had only time to say *' Good night, my dear Emma, and I, will try to see you tomorrow." But that very night Mrs. Castlemain toJd Emma, that as Mr. Hargrave and she^ in consequence of a violent quarrel, had parted never to meet again, it was not at all likely that Henry would be allowed to continue his visits : and Emma did not behave like a heroine on the occasion, . for she retired in great distress to her . o 5 spartment^. , 293 apartmeFit, and literally cried herself to sleep. The next morning Henry did not appear according to his promise, either at Mrs. Castlemain's or Mr. Egerton's; and Mr. Egerton, after endeavouring with some, little success to calm the vio- lence of Mrs. Castlemain's resentment, set out for Vale House with the benevo- lent intention of appea.^ing that of Mr, Hargrave. But his efforts were wholly unsuccessful, and he was forced to re- turn with no prospect of a reconciliation between the parties, unless it should be in the power of time or accident to effect it ; and, however deeply his want of suc- cess might affect the heart of Emma, it was not less sensibly felt by Mr. Egerton himself. Emma could not be more desirous of pleasing Mr. Hargrave, because he was the uncle of St. Aubyn, than Mr. Eger- ton was. He allowed his paradoxes to pass 299 pass uncontradicted, his asperities of tem- per to remain unresented, rather than offend the man on whose caprice the des- tiny of St. Aubyn depended ; for his heart was bent on an union between Em- ma and Henry ; and he well knew that by displeasing Mr. Hargrave he should jun the risk of weakening if not of de- stroying the chance of this desired union's taking place. But all his forbearance was now rendered vain, and by a cir- cumstance more likely to prove fatal to his views than a dispute between him and Mr. Hargrave could have been. The near relation of Emma had mortally of- fended the arbiter of Henry St. Aubyn 's fete; and when Emma ran out to meet him, as soon as he appeared in sight, she discovered by his countenance, before he answered her interrogating eyes, that he had no pleasing intelligence to communi- cate. But to submit with patience to a positive soo positive evil, even though It be unavoid- able, Is a hard task for youth to learn ; and to bear with fortitude the loss of her companion, her monitor, and her ex- ample, was a lesson which Mr. Egerton found it difficult to teach his usually do- cile scholar. In a few days, however, Mrs. Castle- main observed that Em.ma had recovered her spirits 5 and she also observed that though she herself rose very early, Em- ma rose still earlier, and immediately went out to take a walk. At first this unusual circumstance excited no suspi- cion in Mrs. Castlemain, and she forgot to question Emma concerning it. But one morning it occurred to her that these early walks must have a motive, and she determined to follow her. She did so, and found that she went to meet St. Au- byn. On seeing Mrs. Castlemain, Henry and Emma advanced towards her, afraid perhaps SOI perhaps of being received with some de- gree of coldness, but not conscious that they deserved the severity of reproof. St. Aubyn therefore was shocked, and Emma irritated, at hearing himself ac- cusedby Mrs. Castlemain of having se- duced her child into the commission of a disobedient, indeHcate, and clandestine ac- tion, and secret, unbecoming intercourse. " You astonish and distress me,'*" cried St. Aubyn ; while Emma was too indignant to speak. *' You know I am forbidden to visit both at your house and Mr. Egerton's (a command which I dare not disobey), but I am not forbidden to associate either with you, Mr. Egerton, or Emma, if I happen to meet you : there- fore, having been so fortunate as to meet Emma by chance one morning, I pre- vailed on her to indulge me with her company ; and in hopes of enjoying the same pleasure again, though not by ap- point ment. 302 pointmejit, I have walked the same way every morning ever since ; and . . . ." " She has been so complaisant as to do- rhe same, I suppose ?'* " She has/' replied St. Aubyn blush- mg ; " nor did either of us imagine that in so doing we were guilty of an impro- priety.'* *' Sweet innocents V' said Mrs. Castle- main reddening with resentment : *^' but though you, Mr. St. Aubyn, may, and no> doubt do, disapprove your uncle's unwar- rantable conduct to me, and therefore do not at all feel disposed to enter into his quarrel, miss Castlemain ought to have resented my injuries so far as to scorn to have meetings with the nephew of the man who has offended me j espe- cially when she knows that her inter- course with you, if known to Mr. Har- grave, would be disapproved by him, and consequently forbidden. But if she does not S03 not know how to act with proper cpirlr, I must teach her: therefore, sir, whil^ Mr. Hargrave and I are at^ variance, I positively forbid you to see or speak to miss Castlemain ; and I forbid her to see or speak to you." So saying she turned hastily away, refusing to listen to St. Au- byn's remonstrances, and desiring Emma to follow her immediately. Emma obeyed, but slowly and sul- lenly ; and till she lost sight of St, Au- byn she continued to kiss her hand to him ; while the rapid tears that coursed each other down her cheek sufficiently betrayed her sorrow at this cruel: and in her opinion unnecessary prohibition, *' And you expect me to obey you, madam?" said Emma in a tone more akin to defiance than submission. " I do," hastily replied Mrs. Castle- main ; " or you must take the conse- quences." It 304 It happened unfortunately that Emma, who had been told by a tattling old ser- vant who waited on her, some imperfect particulars of her mother's rash marriage, and Mrs. Castlemain's bitter and long re- sentment of it, had asked St. Aubyn if he could give her any information on the subject ; and he, though he endeavoured to soften his account of Mrs. Castle- main's implacability as much as possible, had said enough to recall to Emma*s mind the recollection of the dread and hatred which she used to feel towards her grand- mother, and to account for her mother's having, as she concluded, inspired her with them. It was at this moment, this unlucky moment, that Mrs. Castlemain, having kept Emma in sight, followed her at a distance ; and seeing her walking with St. Aubyn, suddenly appeared be- fore them with determined ^severity and resentment 505 resentment In her look : and while Em- ma listened to her words with a heart bursting with indignation, her mother's sorrows, her mother's WTongs alone were present to her view ; and she forgot all Mrs. Castlemaln's kindness to herself, and her own daily sense of that kindness ; and she only saw in her indulgent and fostering parent the object of her early and just terror and aversion. No wonder then that her proud spirit rose at hearing a sort of threat from Mrs. Castlemain of future vengeance if she dared to disobey her ; and that she listened with a rebellious heart to the lecture on propriety, which after breakfast (of which Emma refused to partake) Mrs. Castlemain thought it her duty to give her. " I see no harm in what we have done," replied Emma : " and as an uncle is not one's father, nor a grandmother one's 306 one's own mother, and therefore their right to command may very well be dis- puted, I should not at all scruple to meet Henry St. Aubyn again, and walk with him in spite of your prohibition and Mr. Hargrave's." Mr. Egerton, who had entered the room just before Emn>a made this unbe- com.ing reply, now came forward in great emotion j but she was too angry to be awed even by his presence. " I see bv vour countenance, Mr. Egerton,'' said Mrs. Castlemain, " that you have heard \^hat this ungrateful girl has been saying, and that you are shocked at it.'* Mr. Egerton bowed in silence. " I am glad you are here, sir," she continued, " that you m.ay also hear what I am going to say ; namely, that if in defiance of my express commands, and 307 and all the laws of propriety, miss Cas- tlemain persists in meeting Mr. St. Au- byn, I shall " " Renounce me for ever ! I suppose,** cried Emma rising and pale with anger; *' for I know you are not vtry forgiving in your nature. My poor injured dis- carded mother knew that to her cost !'* A thunderbolt could no: have had a more overpowering effect on Mrs. Castle- main than this cruelly reproachful speech. She fell back in her chair : she spoke not — she stirred not — but lay with her eyes fixed in glaring unconsciousness. Emma on seeing this gave a loud shriek, and sprang forward to her assist- ance ; but Mr. Egerton.indignanrly push- ing her away with violence, exclaimed, " You have killed her ! or you have driven her to phrensyi" and ringing the bell for the servants, he would not suffer Emma to share in his endeavours to re- store SOS store her victim, ss he called her, to life and reason ; and Emma, screaming dread- fully, threw herself in frantic agony on the ground. This roused Mrs. Castlemain from her stupor; she sobbed violently, and in a few moments tears came to her relief; while a ** Thank God!" that seemed to come from the bottom of her heart, burst from 'the self-judged Emm.a. In a short time Mrs. Castlemain was able to speak ; and as she then begged to be left to recover herself alone, Mr, Egerton took Emma away with him, and led her into a room which she but rarely entered, namely the dressing-room of Mrs. Casile- main. " Poor child of passion ! '* cried Illr. Egerton, seizing Emma's hand ; " what an act of brutality have you been guilty ofl Do you see that picture?" ( pointing to a picture hanging over the chimney-piece, and drawing aside the curtaia curtain which concealed it as he spoke ;) " know then, that the hfe of that indul- gent parent whose heart you have so cruelly wounded, is already tortured by incessant repentance and self-upbraiding ; and that it was only yesterday, when un- perceived I entered the adjoining apart- ment, that I overheai'd her, as she knelt before that picture, speaking aloud in all the agonies of a broken and contrite spi- rit, and calling on her lost daughter to witness her sufferings and pardon her in- justice! Cruel unnatural child ! was it for you to inflict a still severer pang on a heart already lacerated and bleeding with remorse ?" Emma staid to hear no more; but rushing out of the room she almost flew into the apartment where she had left Mrs. Castlemain, and throwing herself on her knees before her, earnestly con- jured her to pity and forgive her, though she S10 she declared that she never never should forgive herself. ".Forgive thee! my child/' replied Mrs. Castlemain in mournful and fal- tering accents ; " aye, from the bottom of my soul do I forgive thee ; for I have only too much need of forgiveness." Here she pressed Emma almost convul- sively to her bosom ; and as she again wished to be left alone, Emma returned to Mr. Egerton. But as she had foreseen, it was not easy for her to obtain her own pardon for the wound she had inflicted on the feelings of Mrs. Castlemain : during the whole of that day she was occasionally in paroxysms of frantic anguish, and the death-like figure of Mrs. Castlemain was present to her view ; for what agony can exceed that of a young and virtuous heart that feels for the first time the horrors of remorse I That 311 That evening, after Emma, exhausted by exertion, was retired to rest, Mr. Egerton told Mrs. Castlemain that he thought, as Emma was more than fifteen, she was old enough to be told her un- happy mother's story ; " and at this mo- ment," added he, " that her mind is melted and humbled by self-upbraiding, the warning moral which it inculcates will sink into it deeply, and she will also learn to understand and hold sacred your claims, your just claims, to her obedience and affection.'* " I believe you are right,*' replied Mrs. Castlemain ; "but as the narration would only call into additional force feelings and recollections which are already only too present to my mind, I shall order the carriage and go out for a long drive, that I may be out of the way of it. But, here," said she, taking a letter out of a case 512 case deposited in her bosom, " here is my child's last letter to me ; show it to her daughter, who in some respects I see too nearly resembles her, and as soon as I shall have driven from the door tomor- row, begin your melancholy task/' Mr. Egerton approved of Mrs. Castle- main's intended absence ; and having on his return to his own cottage that night looked over some papers containing par- ticulars necessary to be accurately ex- plained, he was prepared the next morn- ing to give Emma the desired and neces- sary information. As soon as Mrs. Castlemain had left the house, Mr. Egerton told Emma that he wished to have some conversation with her on some circumstances very interesting to her feelings ; and leading her into Mrs. Castlemain's dressing-room, he again un- drew the curtain that concealed the pic- ture 313 ture of Agatha. "1 am going," said he, " to relate the history of that dear unhappy woman." " I am glad of it, very glad of it in- deed," replied Emma bursting into tears : " but is it possible that that can be my mo- ther's picture ? 1 believe my grandmother showed it to me sonie years ago^ and told me it was so ; but I have never seen it since, and I had quite forgotten there was such a picture.^' Then going close to it, she regarded it some moments in silence, and, turning mournfully round, exclaimed, " O sir, is it possible that my mother could ever have looked so young, so happy, so beautiful ?'* " Yes, my dear," replied Mr. Egerton gravely, " till she became the slave of an imperious temper and ungovernable passions^ and by an act of disobedience paved the way to her own misery and early death.** Emma blushed, looked down, and re- voL. I. p mained 314 mained silent for a moment^ but look- ing again at the picture, she suddenly ob- served, " Surely I have seen a face like that, for the features seem quite familiar tome!" " You have," said Mr. Egerton with a significant look, which, as Emma's eyes involuntarily turned towards a pier glass opposite to her, she was at no difficulty to explain, and she blushed again ; (but from emotions of a mixed nature, for pleasure was one of them,) as the con- sciousness of self-approving beauty stole across her busy thought. " Yes, Emma," cried Mr. Egerton, replying to the deepened and expressive glow of her cheek, and the involuntary complacency that dimpled the corners of her closed mouth : " that picture is as like you as if it had been painted from you ; and you yourself have pronounced it beautiful. But be not elated by the conviction which it gives you j for, What's 315 What's female beauty, but an air divine Thro' which the mind's all-gentle graces bhine ? Therefore, how easy it is for temper and passion, by leaving their traces on the countenance, to injure if not to de- stroy loveliness even perfect as that is ! Such as is that picture was your dear unhappy mother at the age of sixteen ; — and such as is this picture was the saqie woman at the age of tic enty -four ; (giv- ing Emma a large miniature of her mo- ther as he spoke ;) so great and so ob- vious were the ravages which the passions had made in her appearance." Emma, surprised and affected, took the picture with a trembling hand, but had no sooner beheld it, than she ex- claimed in a voice inarticulate from emo- tion, " This is indeed my mother !" and sunk back in her chair almost choked with the violence of her feelings. When she recovered herself sufficiently p2 to 316 to speak, she asked why this resemblance of her mother as she was accustomed to see her, had been -so long concealed from her : and Mr. Egerton informed her that Agatha had desired him to let it re- main unknown to her till she was old enough to hear the story of her mother's wrongs. — " When that time arrives, and not till then^ show Emma," said she, " this picture which I have painted on purpose for her." '' I have obeyed your mother, my dear child," added Mr. Egerton, *' in the one respect ; it now only remains for me to obey her in the other/' " How many heart-achs should we spare ourselves/' said Mr. Egerton as he prepared to narrate to Emma the history of her m.other's sorrows, " if we were careful to check every unkind word or ac- tion tov.'ards those we love, as it is occa- sionally suggested to us by the infirmities of 317 of our temper, by this anticipating re- flection : — * The time may soon arrive when the being whom I am now about to afflict may be snatched from me for ever to the cold recesses of the grave ; secured from the assaults of my petulance^ and deaf to the voice of my remorseful peni- tence!' O Emma! had Mrs. Castle- main fallen a victim last night to the strong emotion your cruel reproaches occasioned her, what today would not have been your bitter and unavailing agonies ! " Emma, conscience-stricken, did not at- tempt to answer him even by a promise of future self-control ; and Mr. Egertonk continued thus : — " ' She is dead, and never knew how much I loved, and how truly I forgave her ! ' was the exclamation of Mrs. Cas- tlemain when I informed her that your mother was no more ; and the tone in which she spoke conveyed to my mind such 518 such an impression of remorse and agony- as no time can eradicate from my memo- ry ! and when you shall learn how much both of your mother's and of Mrs. Cas- tlemain's miseries was the result of ill- humour improperly indulged, I trust, my dear child, that you will not wonder at the incessant care with which I have en- deavoured to teach you the virtue of self- command/^ Mr. Egerton then proceeded to his long and melancholy detail, with which my readers are already acquainted: — but 1 wish to observe, that when Mr. Egerton said her mother was led to the altar, Emma eagerly interrupted him, and ex- claimed with great emotion, " Is it indeed true that my mother was really married to my father ?" " Certainly,'' replied Mr. Egerton,. amazed at her agitated manner. " Bless you ! bless you ! sir^ for telling me 519 tne so!" returned Einma bursting inta tears : " O what a load have you taken off my mind! I thought I had been told ■ but now that agony is over, and I have not the misery of blushing for a mother's guilt!" " But/' replied Mr. Egerton affection- ately, " it is only too probable your mc-^ ther's fame may never be cleared in the eyes of the world." " It is cleared, sir, in the eyes of her daughter," replied Emma ; " and other considerations are comparatively in- different* I know her to be innocent, and I bless God that I know it: but pray go on, 1 think I can now bear to hear the detail of my father's depravity." Mr. Egerton, satisfied with his pupil, pressed her hand kindly, and proceeded in his narration. It is not in the power of words to de- scribe the force nor the variety of the emodons which agitated the heart of Emma 320 Emma while she listened to the tale of her mother's wrongs and sorrows ; nor of the affectionate eagerness w^hich she ex- pressed to see the Orwells, the humble but admirable friends of her mother, to whom Mr. Egerton was in the habit of writing occasionally, and sending little presents in the name of Emma. " I should like to go to London on purpose to see them," said Emma : and Mr. Egerton kept alive in her young heart a sense of gratitude so honourable and so just. But he soon found that the praises of the Orwells, which Emma was for ever indulging in, sounded harshly on the ears of Mrs. Castlemain; for they recalled her own hasty renunciation of Agatha to her mind, and she felt that if she had done her duty by her, she would not have been forced to incur such vast obligations from the benevolence of ob- scure strangers. " My 321 '^ My dear child/* said Mr. Egerton to Emma when they were alone together, " do not mention the Orwells again in the presence of your grandmother." And Emma, who immediately discerned the cause of his request, imphcitly obeyed him. It was now that Mr. Egerton [thought the time was come for some Inquiries to be made concerning the father of Emma, and for some steps to be taken in order to force him to acknowledge her as his legi- timate daughter ; and to the propriety of these measures, as a justice due to the memory of her child, Mrs. Castlemain reluctantly consented. Hitherto, the ter^ ror of being forced to resign her to a father's claims, when those claims were established, had kept them from bringing the affair forward ; but selfish considera- tions could not now with propriety be acted upon any further ; and Mr. Egerton employed^an agent in London to inquire what 322 what was become of Dan vers. And it was with no small degree of satisfaction they heard that, after many inquiries, the agent could only discover that Danvers had sail- ed nearly fifteen years back for the West Indies, and was supposed to have died there of the yellow fellow, as no person of that name was known upon any of the islands. *' Then you are mine, exclusively mine nrnvt' said Mrs. Castlemain affec- tionately embracing Emma, " and all that is necessary to be done, is to procure a copy of the register of your mother's m.arriage, in order to clear her fame from the shadow of suspicion.*' But though sure of still remaining un- der the protection which she loved, though in hope of being proved the legitimate child of her mother, and lawful heiress of her grandmother, gaiety no longer lighted up the eye nor bloomed on the cheek of Emma ; for Mr. Hargrave re- mained 323 mained at variance with Mrs. Castlemain, and Henry St. Aubyn therefore was no longer ^ vis.'tor at the Cottage. Mr. Eger- ton too missed his pupil as much as Em- ma her companion. Still at church they met ; but for two successive Sundays, Emma had vainly looked both for St. Aubyn and his mother, and she wondered at an absence so unusual. But she heard the reason of it only too soon from the gossip of the town of Keswick ; and learnt with indescribable emotion, that St. Aubyn and his mother were gone on a tour of the Lakes with the honourable Mrs. Felton, a beautiful widow with a large jointure, to whom report said St. Aubyn was shortly to be united. END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. Printed by Richard Taylor and Co., Shoe Lane, London.