CHAP. I.

IN one of those villages, immediately under the ridge of chalky hills, called the South Downs, where the soil changing suddenly to a strong clay, renders the country deep, and the roads bad; there dwelt, a few years since, the rector of a neighbouring parish, of the name of Lessington. In the village where he lived, he was only the curate; e [...]g his residence there, because the house was larger and more commodious, th [...] that which belonged to his own living, three miles distant. His family consisted of a wife, two sons, and four daughters.

One of the sons had a fellowship at Oxford. The other was a younger partner in a respectable tradesman's house in London.

The daughters were reckoned handsome. The two eldest had been, for some years, the toasts at the convivial meetings in the next market towns. The third was now a candidate for an equal share [Page 2] of rustic admiration, and her claims were gene­rally allowed. But the youngest, who was about eighteen, when this narrative commences, though she was still considered as a child by her sisters, and treated as such by her mother; was thought by some of the few persons who happened to see her, to be much the handsomest of the four, though her beauty was of a very different cha­racter from that of her sisters.

Perhaps in these days of refinement the ima­gination might be in some degree assisted, by the romantic singularity of her name. She was called Rosalie at the request of a lady of the Catholic religion, the wife of a man of very large fortune, who sometimes inhabited an old family seat, about three miles farther from the hills. Mrs. Lessington had been for some years her most intimate friend, and accepted with pleasure her offer of answering for, and giving her name, to the youngest of her girls. Mrs. Vyvian, the daughter of an illustrious Catholic family, being born at Naples, had received the name of the female saint so highly venerated in the two Sicilies; and before her marriage, had lived a good deal alone with an infirm father at Holm­wood House, which, having descended to her mother from noble ancestors, became hers, and was part of the great fortune she brought to Mr. Vyvian.

During the solitary years when she attended the couch of a parent, the victim of complicated diseases, the society of Mrs. Lessington had been her greatest consolation. It continued so till her [Page 3] marriage—a marriage which she was compelled to consent to, by her father's peremptory com­mands. Mrs. Vyvian afterwards passed some years on the continent with her husband; and returned to England mother of three children, a son and two daughters. And whenever this fa­mily inhabited the old mansion-house of Holm­wood, Rosalie passed all her time with them. When young Vyvian was about thirteen, his sisters twelve and eleven, the young ladies were so much attached to their companion, that Mrs. Vyvian, to indulge them, took her with them to London, and afterwards to their estate in the North. Young Vyvian, the only son of the fa­mily, being sent abroad, Rosalie remained with his mother and sisters above two years, making only short visits at home. At the end of that period, Mr. Vyvian thought proper to have his daughters introduced into the world, and in a stile of life to which Rosalie could have no pre­tensions. She therefore returned to the parsonage; and though she could not but be sensible of the great change in her situation, her good sense, and the peculiar mildness of her disposition, ena­bled her, if not to conquer her regret, at least so far to conceal it, that, though generally pen­sive, she was neither sullen nor melancholy; and entered with placid resignation into a way of life, so different from that to which she had (she now thought unfortunately) been accustomed.—Her mother, who probably remembered that she had been sensible of something like the same uneasy sensation when she bade adieu to the society of [Page 4] her friend, then Miss Montalbert, to marry Mr▪ Lessington, seemed to pity, though she forbore to notice, the dejection which was occasionally visible in her youngest daughter, in despite of her endeavours to hide it. As to her father, he treat­ed her as he did the rest, with general kindness, but no marked affection. Her sisters were not unkind to her, so long as she affected no superiori­ty, but seemed better pleased to be considered as too young to be admitted of their parties, than to make one, where she knew she should find no enjoyment: And they were, on their parts, content to leave out, as long as they could, a person who would be at least a formidable competitor for the prize of beauty. The eldest was courted by a gentleman-farmer of considerable property in the county, the second by an attorney in a neighbouring town: And as these lovers were accepted, parties of pleasure were continually ma [...] for the Miss Lessingtons—sometimes to the sea coast, or the races or cricket matches, Mr. Lessington attended his daughters on these expeditions, till the eldest was married. The care of Miss Catharine and Miss Maria, was then left to her; and the Vicar of Mayfield returned to the duties of his parishes, and his farm.

On these occasions, Mrs. Lessington and her youngest daughter being left alone, their conver­sation sometimes turned on the family of Vyvian. It was a subject of which Rosalie was never weary, though it was not always that her mother would indulge her with talking upon it. Rosalie was ten­derly and gratefully attached to Mrs. Vyvian, even [Page 5] more than to her young friends; and frequently mentioned to her mother, how much she had been hurt at remarking, during the latter part of her stay in the family, that this amiable and ex­cellent woman was extremely unhappy. One day when they were sitting at work together, this conversation was renewed—"You hear nothing, Madam," said Rosalie to her mother, "of our neighbours at Holmwood Park, being to come down soon."—"Nothing," replied her mother coldly; "I suppose, from what Mr. Allingham said," (Mr. Allingham was the Catholic priest of the neighbouring town), "that we shall not see them here this year."—Rosalie sighed.—"He told me" added Mrs. Lessington, "that Mrs. Vyvian was so much indisposed when he saw her in town, that the physicians talked of order­ing her to Cheltenham. It is more than two months since I have had a letter from her."— Rosalie sighed again.—"It is her mind" said she, "that preys upon her frame; and will I am afraid, destroy her."

"I hope not," replied Mrs. Lessington, "for I think her spirits have been always much the same since I knew her. Perhaps they are not mended by Mr. Vyvian's having renounced his religion, and by having her children brought up Protest­ants, contrary to his promise, when he himself changed. Besides, you know he is a harsh and hasty man, positive, violent, and ill-natured enough to make a woman, like Mrs. Vyvian, unhappy, if there is no other cause."

[Page 6]"Ah! that other," said Rosalie: "I have heard a great deal about it."

"About what?" cried Mrs. Lessington in a tone of surprise.

"About the—the—the lover," replied Rosalie, blushing "that Mrs. Vyvian was so much at­tached to before she was married to Mr. Vyvian."

"I don't know," said her mother, colouring as if by sympathy, "who could tell you, child, of any such foolish story."

"Nay, dear Madam, but was it not so?"

"Was it not, how? I really know nothing about it; and yet I believe nobody saw so much of my friend Mrs. Vyvian, as I did at that time; for though it was long after I married, I used to be almost as much with her as when we were both single."

"The gentleman is still living, Madam," said Rosalie.

"I again assure you, Rose," replied her mother, peevishly, "that I know nothing of—of any gen­tleman. But I think I heard your father come into his study—Do, child, ask him for the key of the closet above."

Rosalie obeyed. But she well knew her father was not in his study, and saw that her mother only sent her to seek him, that she might escape from conversation, which, for some reason or other, she was strangely unwilling to continue. This was not the first time Rosalie had remarked, that her mother solicitously avoided recounting any circumstance that used to happen in her gir­lish days, at those periods when she was con­nected [Page 7] with the family of Montalbert: and if ever she unconsciously began to speak of Miss Montalbert, now Mrs. Vyvian, she either stop­ped as soon as she recollected herself, and chang­ed the conversation, or spoke in a manner par­ticularly guarded, and only of trifling occurren­ces.

"What can be my mother's reason?" said Rosalie, musing to herself as she went to walk in their little garden. "There is some mystery certainly. Surely the marriage with the man Mrs. Vyvian was so attached to, could not have been broken off on her account?—Impossible! for though my mother, I believe, has been a very handsome woman, she certainly never could be compared to her friend; who even now, in ill health, and half heart-broken, as she is, is much more beautiful than either of her daughters."

Rosalie sighing when she thought of Mrs. Vyvian's illness, and regretting that she did not this year come into the country, felt all the cold and blank regret, which departed pleasure leaves. She wished now, that she had passed less time in the Vyvian family, where she had been accus­tomed to the conversation of Mrs. Vyvian, of which she was particularly fond; and to a man­ner of life, very different from that which she was now in—still more different, from what it was probable she would be expected to enter into, when her two elder sisters were both married: her father having lately said, half laughingly, and as if he supposed it would please her, that she should then go out with Maria; appear at [Page 8] assemblies, and try to get an husband too; for he wanted to get his girls off his hands as fast as he could.

Rosalie felt, that she had an invincible aversion to this plan of dressing and going out in hopes of getting as her father termed it, an husband. She was convinced, that to be addressed by such men as the husband of her eldest sister, or the man to whom the second was soon to be married, would render her completely miserable; for it seemed but too probable, that her father would not allow her a negative.

Youth, however, dwells not long on remote possibilities. But though no acute uneasiness assailed her, the languor and dejection of Rosalie increased as the Autumn came on. Solitude was infinitely preferable to the society, such as was at present within her reach: But seclusion so per­fect as that she was now condemned to, depress­ed her spirits. In every other period of her be­ing at home, at this season of the year, her elder brother had been there also, who, being very par­tial to her, delighted to instruct her. But now this dear brother was gone [...]nto the North with one of his college friends, and was to be at home only for a few days before his return to Oxford. She thought every body was gone to the North; for the Vyvian family were perhaps there by this time, if Mrs. Vyvian's health had allowed her to leave Cheltenham; and never had she felt so de­jected and forlorn. The hill which arose imme­diately behind the vicarage house, afforded a view even half way up, of a great extent of coun­try; [Page 9] and Holmwood Park, the old family seat of Mr. Vyvian, though at near three miles distance, seemed to be within five minutes walk. Rosalie had now a melancholy pleasure, in viewing it from the high grounds, as the setting sun blazed on the western windows, while the characters of the inhabitants were forcibly recalled to her mind.

Mr. Vyvian, a man of very extensive posses­sions, and the head of an ancient Catholic family, had been rather received as an husband by Miss Montalbert, because her father commanded her to receive him, than for any other reason; [...] so far were they from having any sympathy, that their religion was the only thing in which they agreed; and even that tie of union between them did not long exist: for soon after the death of his wife's father, he renounced the church of Rome, and going through all the ceremonies of reconci­liation to that of England, entitled himself to re­present a borough that belonged to him, and became a member of parliament. From that time, the tutors that had been entrusted with the edu­cation of his son, were removed. His daughters, contrary to the promise he had at first made to his wife, were no longer suffered to go to mass, or to be instructed by the old priest, who had for a great number of years resided in their mother's house. And Mrs. Vyvian▪ who was strongly attached to the religion of her ancestors, was from that period a solitary and desolate being in the midst of her family.

Mr. Vyvian was one of those men, wh [...] n [...] ­turally haughty and tyrannical, had never use [Page 10] because he never would endure, the least contra­diction. His temper resembled that of those rea­sonable beings one sometimes sees among the common people, who not unfrequently beat their children till they make them cry; and then beat them for crying. Just so he contrived to do ex­actly what he knew would make his wife com­pletely miserable; and then quarrelled with her because she could not (though she endeavoured to do so most sincerely), always conceal her wretch­edness. Till lately, she had found the estrange­ment of her daughters, who too much resem­bled their father, compensated in a great measure by the attentive gratitude of Rosalie, who used to pass much of her time at Holmwood, while Mrs. Vyvian was there alone, and her family remained in London. But lately she appeared to have lost all pleasure, even in visiting this favorite seat; and though when she did write to Mrs. Lessington, or to Rosalie, her letters expressed all her former regard, yet these letters became every day more rare. At length she hardly ever wrote to Rosalie. An air of languor and disquiet pervaded those parts of the letters addressed to her mother, that Rosalie sometimes saw; for it now and then happened, that Mrs. Lessington received letters which her daughter knew to be from Mrs. Vyvian, the contents of which she never disclosed, and did not seem pleased to be questioned upon them.—These Rosalie concluded [...] filled with the murmurs of an oppressed [...] that found a melancholy indulgence in view eve [...] its hopeless sorrows into the bosom of an [Page 11] old and faithful friend; though she herself had never heard one repining sentence.

The venerable priest, now the only inhabitant, except servants, of the solitary mansion of Holm­wood, had been accustomed to walk over now and then to Barlton-Brook, (the name of the pa­rish where the Lessington family resided); and Rosalie, who honoured his character, and knew how highly Mrs. Vyvian esteemed him, was never happier than when she was allowed to make his tea for him, or to walk with him part of the way home. During the present summer, how­ever, these visits had become less frequent, and at length entirely ceased; a terrible deprivation to Rosalie, though none of the rest of the family seemed conscious that it had happened. Rosalie at length remarked it to her mother, who an­swered drily, that Mr. Hayward was probably ill. "May I not walk over some day to Holmwood Mamma, and see how he does?"

"I do not know when I can spare you, my dear," was the reply, and the conversation drop­ped.

Another, and another week passed; and Mr. Hayward did not appear. Rosalie then enquired news of him, of one of those itinerant fishmon­gers who travel round the country, and who constantly carried his wares to Holmwood. The man assured her, that he had that day seen Mr. Hayward in good health. Rosalie soon after­wards discovered, but with extreme vexation, that her old friend forbore to visit her, because it had been hinted to him, that the suspicion of [Page 12] his influencing her on religious subjects was likely to be very injurious to her future prospects in the world: Mr. Grierson, who had married her elder sister, and Mr. Blagham, the intended husband of the second, having declared their ap­prehensions of her becoming a Papist; in which opinion two young men, who had very much ad­mired her, also agreed. The sisters of one of them protesting that she was sure Miss Rose Lessington was disposed to that religion, which made her give into such mopish ways, and always affect soli­tude, like nuns, and such sort of people. Thus de­prived of the innocent pleasure of conversing with a man, whom, from her infancy, she had consider­ed almost as a second father—a cypher at home— and rather suffered as one of the family, than seeming to make a part of it, necessary to the happiness of the rest, Rosalie had no other re­source than in her own mind against the unvary­ing medium of life. Her mother though not more ignorant than the generality of women in middling life, had received no better education than a country boarding school afforded, which, five and thirty years ago, were much less cele­brated for the accomplishments they communica­ted, than they are at present. Since that period, she had studied the utile rather than the dulce. Having, before her marriage, lived very much in the family of Montalbert, though by no means in the style of an humble companion (for she had a small independent fortune), she had accustomed herself to undertake many little domestic duties for the friend she loved; and after her marriage, [Page 13] she had a family which kept her constantly occu­pied; so that, never having her curiosity raised in regard to books, and never having been accus­tomed to read, she had now no relish even for books of amusement; and wondered at the eager­ness she sometimes heard her acquaintance ex­press for them. It may easily be believed, that thus disposed, she had no collection of books likely to amuse her daughter; who had long since exhausted all the information or entertain­ment afforded, by an odd volume of the Tatler— Robinson Crusoe—Nelson's Feasts and Fasts— Hervey's Meditations—a volume of Echard's Gazetteer—Mrs. Glass's Cookery—and every Lady her own House-keeper.

The library of Mr. Lessington, though more extensive and occupying a room dignified with the name of a study, was not better adapted to be­guile the solitary hours of a very young woman. It consisted solely of sermons—Polemics—such publications as related to Questions on infant Baptism, and Elaborate Defences of the Thirty-nine Articles—Clarendon's History—Rapin, and bad Translations of Mezerai and Froissart—an old History of Rome, in black letters—Josephus —Thomas a Kempis—Elucidations of difficult Parts of Scripture—and Treatises on the Nature of the Soul. Among all these it was the his­tory only that could attract Rosalie; and du­ring this solitary summer, she became a tolerable historian: though she did not find it either con­tributed to enlarge her philanthropy, or furnish her with rules for the conduct of her life; since [Page 14] she flattered herself, that beings so dishonest and despicable as modern history represents, are found only in those elevated regions of human existence where it was never likely to be her lot to move.

During her frequent visits to the family of Vy­vian, where that language was generally spoken, Rosalie had learnt to speak French fluently; could read well, and speak a little Italian, which Mr. Hayward had taken great pleasure in teach­ing her. These little acquirements were, she knew not for what reason, more the object of her sisters' envy than any other of the advantages her being with the Miss Vyvians might have given her over them. She saw with surprise and con­cern, that though her sisters were as little, as she now was herself, in company where to speak foreign languages, could be of the slightest ad­vantage, yet that her being qualified to do so, vexed and humbled them. She therefore con­cealed what indeed there was now little merit, and less difficulty in concealing; and having no books to read in either language, and no longer an [...] opportunity of conversing with Mr. Hayward, she felt, with infinite concern, that this source of amusement and of knowledge would very soon be lost to her.

The only pleasure she now found was in draw­ing; in which, though no great proficient, she was far enough advanced to find herself improve very materially, by following, and continually practising the few rules she had learned. To seat herself on the turf of the down above the house, on the root of a thorn, or one of those [Page 15] beech trees which were scattered about the foot of the hill, and make sketches of detached pieces of the extensive landscape stretched before her; or of the old and fantastic trees that formed her shady canopy, was now become her only enjoy­ment. And very sincerely did she regret, and very reluctantly did she obey, the summons, she too frequently received to return to the house, either to make tea for some accidental visitors of her new brother-in-law's acquaintance, or to superintend a syllabub in the summer house.— These parties calling at the parsonage, now be­came frequent; for this new member of the fami­ly lived in the vale, a few miles from Barlton Brook; and the house of his father-in-law lay directly in the horse way to what is called in tha [...] country, "up the hills." Those hills (the South Downs) gradually decline towards the sea. On the coast, within a few years, many bathing pla­ces have been established, where the sick and the idle pass the summer or autumnal months. The variety of people thus collected make a visit to the sea-coast, a pleasurable jaunt to the inhabitants of the neighbouring country; and Mr. Grierson, a man perfectly at ease in his circumstances, and lately married to one of the most celebrated beau­ties in the county, failed not to amuse his bride and her friends with many of these tours. His fu­ture brother-in-law, Blagham the attorney, who lived at Chichester, was a great promoter of what he called "a little sociability." He gratified at once two passions; the love of what he called pleasure, and the prospect of future advantage, [Page 16] to which he always looked forward with peculiar earnestness. While he was bustling about with Grierson and his wife, together with his "own intended," as he chose to call her, he was display­ing his skill in ordering dinners, in hiring boats for water-parties, in consoling "the ladies," when they were sick, and, "cutting jokes upon them when they got better"—in making sure bets at Broad ^* Halfpenny, for "Egad, Sir, he always knew what he was about"—and in hedging well at poney races. And while this went on, "Egad, Sir, he never lost sight of the main chance—not he. Egad, Sir, he had all his eyes about him."

And it was true, that while thus entered into what he called "the enjoyments of life, and a little sociability," he made acquaintance among the yeomanry, or the few of that rank of men who are still called so: among men, however, who had made money to put out at interest, and who employed him to find for them good securi­ties, and to transact other matters for them. So that though a young man in the honourable pro­fession of an attorney, and newly established in the already well-stocked city of Chichester, he was considered as very likely to make his fortune; and Mr. Lessington had, in the contemplation of such a prospect, granted him the hand of the fair Catharine, his second daughter; rich indeed only in herself—in very handsome wedding clothes, which were now preparing for her—and in her connections and acquaintance among the gentlemen's families of the county.

CHAP. II.

IT was on a beautiful afternoon towards the end of August, when Rosalie, retired to her usual seat on the hill, was again engaged in her now favour­ite occupation. The rays of the sun declining early in the afternoon, gilt the landscape with tints more than usually luxuriant. Holmwood House, its windows always lighted up when th [...] evening rays glanced on them, was an object which, as it continually forced itself upon her observation, she almost for the first time in her life wished to escape from. Yet insensibly it brought to her mind a train of ideas melancho [...]ly, yet not to be repelled. Her pencils and drawing cards were laid down on the turf, while, with folded arms, and her head reclined against the tree she was sitting under, she fell into a reverie. A long row of old pines, stretched their grotesque heads from the eastern side of the house towards a rising ground, where this wild and irregular avenue was terminated by an octagon temple, now falling fast to ruin; where Rosalie remembered to have passed many hours, when she was a child, the happy thoughtless com­panion of the little Vyvians, who used to call this old summer-house their house, and to carry thither their play things, and make their sportive arrangements, while their governess a little old [Page 18] Frenchwoman, was accustomed to sit on the steps knitting or netting. The steps Rosalie could distinguish from her solitary seat on the hill: But the playful groupe, and their old little guardian, were gone. Rosalie recollected how happy she had been there: And already she had acquired that painful experience that had made her fear she should taste of unalloyed happiness no more. Her friend and protectress, Mrs. Vyvian, who now seemed to have deserted, from some unac­countable change of taste, the habitation she was once so fond of, appeared before her in imagina­tion more pale and dejected than usual. She fancied she saw her slowly coming out of the little conservatory, which she had caused to be built, and in which she took peculiar pleasure. She had a nosegay in her hand for each of her girls— Rosalie was once received under that appellation —and she beckoned to them as she saw them walking in the shrubbery, and, with one of her pensive smiles, gave to every one her little present. The Abbé Hayward, that excellent and venera­ble man, met her. Benignity and pious resig­nation were in his countenance, as he endea­voured to find some conversation that might cheer the depressed spirits of Mrs. Vyvian. She bade her daughters and Rosalie walk before them; and, making a short tour in the plantations, seemed to remove her languor, and enable her to meet her family at supper with some appearance of cheerfulness.

Such were the scenes Rosalie was recalling to her mind, and such the figures with which me­mory [Page 19] was busy in peopling them, when her con­templations were disturbed by figures very differ­ent, who presented themselves under all the disadvantages of contrast. . . . Blagham, and two other young men, whom she did not recollect ever to have seen before, came whooping and hallooing from the house, and ascended the hill towards her. As it soon became very steep, Blagham leaped from his horse, and ran towards her; and the other two followed him.

"Why, my sweet Rose," cried he, "my Rose of the world! why do you cruelly hide yourself among thorns? Only to be looked after —eh! my pretty Rose,—Aye, 'tis the way of you all:—there's my Kate below yonder, would fain serve me the same sauce—but I'm come to drink tea with you, my dear little sister, that is to be, and to introduce two of my friends to you." The friends by this time were come to the spot. "This, Madam, is Captain Mildred of the 98th, now quartered in our town; and this," [...]ded he, with all solemnity, "this is the Rev. Philibert Hughson, a worthy clergyman, and Rector of Higginston cum Sillingbourn in this county." Rosalie had nothing to do but to cur­tesy to them both. Her future brother-in-law, however, had not yet done with her; but, step­ping back, he made a ridiculous bow, and in a theatrical tone, exclaimed, "And, now, gentle­men, give me the superlative pleasure of introduc­ing to your admiration Miss Rosalie Lessington, fourth and youngest daughter of the Rev. Joseph Lessington, Master of Arts, Vicar of Cold Hamp­ton, and Curate of Barlton Brooks in this county: [Page 20] A young lady, of whose personal perfections, gentlemen, I dare not speak; but who is, I may venture to say, endowed with every qualification to render the marriage state completely happy." —Shocked and amazed at this impertinent ad­dress, Rosalie felt her cheeks glow with anger and indignation; but recovering herself, she ask­ed coldly, if her mother had sent for her?

"She has—she has"—cried her persecutor, who, she now perceived, had added to his natu­ral impertinence all that which liquor gives when it overflows a shallow brain,—"She has, fair flower of the desart, and we are the beatified ambassadors charged with the delectable commis­sion. Come then, bright nymph!"—

He was proceeding in this style, when Rosalie, taking from him the hand he would forcibly have held, said, "I wish my mother had sent some person who was more in possession of his reason."—"Ah! Madam," cried the young man, who was announced as the Rev. Philibert Hughson, "there are moments when reason is lost in wonder and delight, and when"— "What, Sir?" interrupted Rosalie, in a tone so unexpected, that the young divine was unable to proceed, and even blushed as he attempted to finish a speech, which he probably thought was in the style of the society he was with.

As they walked down the hill towards the house, she turned to Captain Mildred, who, as he had hitherto been silent, had not offended her; and whom, being an officer, she hoped was a gentleman, and entered with him into the com­mon [Page 21] conversation, while Blagham, too drunk to make much speed, staggered after them, and Mr. Hughson went sidling down a little before her. As if still solicitous to attract her notice, yet half afraid of another rebuff, he was trying to recal his consciousness of self importance.— The Rev. Philibert Hughson was what is called a dapper, tight-made, little man. His face nei­ther well nor ill, but with something in the ex­pression of it that soon let an observer of faces in­to his character. If the Rev. Philibert Hughson had even ventured to think, in the same unre­strained manner in which he sometimes spoke, it is very certain he thought himself a d—d clever fellow. The second son of a very rich father, he had been a buck of the first rate at Cambridge, spent four times as much as he was allowed, and contrived to get some thousands in debt. He was an excellent judge of horse-flesh, and a great connoisseur in carriages. He knew the dimen­sions and properties of every vehicle from a phaeton to a sulky; had possessed them all by turns, and had changed them oftener than his clothes, or his friends. He had made a merit of taking orders, when he knew his careful father had bought the valuable livings of Higginston cum Sillingbourn, worth together above eight hundred a year. Nor did he determine to make this sacrifice, and, from the smartest fellow at Cambridge, sink into a country parson, till he had stipulated for the payment of his debts, and a handsome sum in ready money. He then cut off his hair, turned his green coat into a grey one, [Page 22] and resolved to be very orthodox and very good. His father most devoutly hoping he would keep his word, complied with all his conditions, and was delighted when he had sworn that he felt an irresistible call from heaven, and was inducted to the living of Higginston cum Sillingbourn. The most pleasant circumstance attending his new situation, was, that this cure of souls was under­taken in the best country possible for killing phea­sants, and not half a mile from him partridges were equally plenty. A pack of the best fox hounds in England were within five miles; and he had greyhounds of his own, of the true Orford breed. To take advantage of all these pleasures, he had begun by sitting up and enlarging the sta­bles, filling them with high-prized hunters, and sending to Newmarket for boys to attend them. He stored his cellars—furnished his house for his brother sportsmen who had promised to visit him —bought a new phaeton; changed it for a curri­cle; then imagined a new whisky of his own com­posing, calculated for the Suffex roads. And, in short, during the eight months that he had been in possession of the living, had felt so many irre­sistible impulses, besides that which had given so valuable a member to the church, that he had already received from the friendship of his dear friend Blagham a trifling accommodation of the 'needful'; for to apply to the old gentleman so soon was hardly discreet; parental patience, like some other virtues, being sometimes apt to wear out, if too frequently called into use.

Mr. Blagham had not been many days introdu­ced [Page 23] to the Rev. Philibert Hughson, before he discovered that something very advantageous might arise from cultivating his acquaintance. He perfectly understood the way to recommend himself, and set about it with so much zeal, that he became very soon the dearest friend he had in the world. . . . . . . Blagham thought he could not do better than endeavour to recommend one of the sisters of his intended wife: And he had already tried to persuade his friend that he was in love with Maria, in which he would probably have succeeded, if, at a convivial meeting where the beauty of the neighbouring damsels was can­vassed, some young man, who had accidentally seen Rosalie, had not warmly assured him, that she was the prettiest girl in the county; and when another spoke of the celebrity of her sisters, agreed that they were fine women, but assured Mr. Hughson, to whom he sat near, in half a whisper, that there was no more comparison between them and the youngest sister, than between light and darkness. This had greatly raised the curiosity of Hughson, who had since pressed his friend Blagham to carry him to the house of his intended father-in-law; a request which was heard with pleasure, and immediately granted.

Equally rash and headstrong in whatever he undertook, Hughson was passionately in love at first sight; and as immediately determined to pursue the object that had thus struck him, no­thing doubting her ready and even joyful accept­ance of a man so unexceptionable in point of for­tune, and so very clever a fellow. Under this [Page 24] impression he took no pains to conceal his admira­tion, but persecuted the distressed and reluctant Rosalie with speeches to which it was impossible for her to reply. She looked timidly towards her father for protection: but she saw, that far from being willing to afford it to her, he seemed delighted with the attention Mr. Hughson paid her; and smiled and rubbed his hands, as who should say, "Oh! oh! here comes a chapman for another of my girls."—Mrs. Lessington ap­peared to be impressed with the same idea, and overwhelmed the little man with civility; while Maria, to whom he had before shewn a great pre­ference, and who seemed to have been much bet­ter pleased with it, was piqued at his now ad­dressing himself entirely to her sister; and shewed that she severely felt the mortification, but en­deavoured to conceal her vexation, by laughing and talking with Captain Mildred, who, being one of those military heroes whose talents are greater in the field than in the cabinet, she found it rather difficult to keep up the gaiety she affect­ed; for Captain Mildred besides that his head was very scantily stocked with ideas, was too fine a man to give himself the trouble to produce the few he had, to amuse a country parson's daugh­ter. He only came with Blagham and Hughson, because he had nothing better to do with him­self; and had besides an inclination to buy one of Hughson's horses, which he was in hopes of get­ting a bargain, and which he had therefore been depreciating, and trying to put the little divine out of conceit with; telling him that the horse in [Page 25] the first place had been strained behind, and would never stand sound. "And besides," said he, "my dear Doctor, it grieves all your friends to see you upon such a tall, long-legged animal. By Heavens! Jack Norton of our regiment cal­led to me the other day, as you rode through East Street, and asked me who that little fellow upon the tail horse was: 'For damme,' says he, 'he puts me in mind of Tom Thumb upon an ele­phant.'—Such was Captain Mildred, on whom neither beauty nor wit could make the slightest impression, and who, equally stupid and selfish, had every qualification for a rogue, except talents. But he had a tolerable person, a red coat, and was said to be a man of fortune; so that he had been reckoned among the misses a very charming man, and their mammas had invited him to their concerts and their card parties.

Before the tea was finished, at which Rosalie so reluctantly assisted, Mr. Hughson received from both her father and mother the most press­ing invitation to renew his visits as often as he could. "And I hope, my good Sir," cried Mr. Lessington, "I hope you will not let the begin­ning of the shooting season deprive us of the hap­piness of seeing you; for, I assure you, we shall have excellent sport round about this village. I myself know of a great number of birds. I ex­pect my son too. My eldest son, will be here shortly: and I am sure he will be greatly flattered by the honour of your acquaintance."

"I am sure he will not," sighed Rosalie to herself; "for never can a man be imagined [Page 26] whom William would like so little. But, alas! my father knows he is not coming."

Plans were now talked of for the next week, which Hughson spoke of as dedicated to the gun, with childish eagerness. He gave to Mr. Les­sington a very long and elaborate description of a new gun he had bought, which had cost him five and twenty guineas: not indeed that he wanted any such thing, for he was an admirable shot— killed nineteen out of twenty, and was reckoned as sure as any man in Norfolk. "I remember about two years ago," said he, "I went out, only I and my father's gamekeeper: and we killed, that is, I killed, about forty brace in about five hours; for he hardly ever fired."

"Birds were remarkably plenty I suppose," said Mr. Lessington.

"Why no, really not so very remarkably plenty—I have seen them as much so: but, my dear Sir, Norfolk is the county for game. . . . why, I have seen, Sir, of a morning, when the birds were at feed, the very ground covered with them; so that you could not have thrown a peb­ble without touching them—as close, Sir,—as close"—

Lessington, who by a glance from Rosalie's eye, saw that Hughson was doing himself disser­vice with her by this sort of rhodomontading, saved him the trouble of finding the comparison he was seeking for, by saying, "Yes, yes—I have been in Norfolk—I know there is a pro­digious quantity of game in that county."

[Page 27]But Hughson, elevated with wine and inspir­ed by love, could no longer check the violent inclination he always felt, to relate some very marvellous story, and to make himself the hero of it. He thought it was impossible to find any audience better disposed to listen and believe, with the exception only of Captain Mildred, whose coldness he imputed to envy. He began, therefore, and told some of the most extraordi­nary adventures that ever were heard:—how he once, with his single arm, defended several offi­cers of dragoons from the insults of an enraged populace, whom some of them had offended, just for throwing an old woman over a bridge into the river in a frolic. . . . "The old woman," said he, "swam like a cork, and was taken out not a bit the worse. My friend, Ned Whatley, as honest a fellow as ever lived, gave her a crown, and bid her not make such a d—d yelling, since there was no harm done. But there came up a parcel of fishwomen and washerwomen▪ and the devil knows who; and presently all the [...]n, tag rag and bob tail, were under arms: and my friends were forced to retreat to the Red Lion, and there they shut themselves up in a room, Sir—so, presently up comes the mob, and begins to batter the door, Sir. . . . Oh! oh!— thin [...] I—are you there, my good friends? I shall have a little conversation with you, gentle­men, in a minute. . . . So, Sir, out I went among them all, and began to reason with them. They hissed, however, and began to be very troublesome: but that I did not mind. I seized [Page 28] one of the foremost by the collar; "damme"— says I. I was not in orders then you know— "Damme"—says I—"I'll make an example of some of you. So, Sir, up comes a fellow, six feet high, and as strong as Sampson. But I seiz­ed him with the other hand, and was going to drag both him and the first rascal into the room, when up comes a great strapping wench with a red hot poker in her hand. She gave me a blow, Sir, upon my head, which cut through a thick hunt­ing hat, Sir, and stunned me sure enough."

"And pray, Hughson," said the Captain, with an air of incredulity, "what were your friends the officers of horse doing all this while?"— "Doing?"—answered he—"Doing?—Why —why they were—they were shut up in the room. What could they do, you know."

The evident fallacy and folly of such a story would not have been tolerated in any other com­pany. But Mildred was too heavy and too indo­len [...] to confute or ridicule it; and the rest were th [...] [...]ery humble servants of the relator, except Rosalie, who, disgusted more and more with every word he spoke, was extremely glad to be relieved from hearing either his compliments or his stories; when it was proposed they should all take a walk to the top of the hill, and that the gentlemen should walk thither with them▪ and have their horses led. In the bustle of their de­parture, Rosalie left the room, as if to get her hat. But having done so, she glided away, and passing as quickly as she could through a small orchard that lay on the other side of the house▪ [Page 29] she went into a copse that adjoined to it, and was presently out of hearing the inquiries that she sup­posed would be made for her. Perhaps her fa­ther and mother might chide her on her return to the house. But she had so invincible a dislike to being exposed to the impertinence of Blagham, or the ridiculous speeches of his new friend, that there was nothing she had not rather submit to, that temporary ill-humour could inflict, than to be exposed to such teasing and disgusting con­versation.

CHAP. III.

THE copse into which Rosalie had thrown herself, like an affrighted bird, was very exten­sive, stretching along the edge of the hill, and making a curve as if to let in the few houses that composed the village. It spread beyond into a very extensive wood, and there assumed the [...]me of the Hunacres, probably a corruption of hundred acres. It was as wild and almost as [Page 30] unfrequented as when the ancient Anderid [...]e sought their food amidst the same entangled woods, then overshadowing the whole country under the hills.

Now, however, there were some winding paths through it, made to solitary farms around: And a nobleman, to whom the greater part of it belonged, had cut ridings from the Downs to­wards his own house in two or three directions, to facilitate the way of the sportsman. The path along which Rosalie went, was so intricate, that she forgot how far or whither it carried her, till she found it became dusk, and was stopped by arriving at one of these ridings or cuts through the wood. She then recollected how far she had wandered from home, and was turning to go back, when three gentlemen on horseback, fol­lowed by two servants, came gal [...]oping so fast from a turn in this green lane a little beyond her, that they were near her almost as soon as she per­cei [...]d them. The foremost of them checking his [...]rse, and looking at her with some surprise, said to his companions, "Here is a young lady who, if we are not right, I am sure will be so obliging as to direct us."

Rather wondering than alarmed, Rosalie stop­ped, and the gentleman who had first spoken, said, politely taking off his hat—"We are going, Madam, to Holmwood Park, which we plainly distinguished from the hill, and to which my friend here, who ought to know, thought he could lead us by a nearer way than that which we were directed to take. But he now thinks he has ta­ken [Page 31] the wrong turning, and that we are too much to the left. Can you inform us how we can best make our way out of the wood? for if we could see the house again, we could easily reach it."

Rosalie was about to answer, that the way they were in, led directly to a common, which ad­joined the Park at Holmwood, when the young man, of whom the inquirer had spoken, as one who ought to know the way to it, jumped from his horse, and exclaimed, "I cannot have forgot­ten you, whatever else I have forgotten during two years absence. It is Rosalie, my dear play-fellow and companion."

"It is indeed," answered she; "but, Hea­vens! Mr. Vyvian, how tall you are grown? Upon my word, I should hardly have recollected you. How is my dear Mrs. Vyvian?—How are your sisters?"

The other two gentlemen, seeing the dialogue was not li [...]ely immediately to end, dismounted, and were introduced to Rosalie; the one as the nephew of Mrs. Vyvian, Mr. Montalbert, who, after a long residence abroad, was come to Eng­land for a few months only, on a visit to the Vy­vian family: the other as the Count de Torriani, an Italian nobleman, to whom also the Vyvians were, though more distantly, related. So many and so rapid were the questions that Mr. Charles Vyvian now had to make, that he wholly engross­ed the conversation: And as they slowly walked down the green avenue before them, he seemed totally to have forgotten whither he was going, [...] that he had any other business in the world [Page 32] than to converse with Rosalie as long as he could. It was now, however, so nearly dark, that she thought it would be wrong to proceed any far­ther.—"I must wish you a good night," said she, "and make the best of my way through the wood home."

"Indeed, but you must not think of returning by yourself," answered Vyvian.—"Harry," ad­ded he, speaking to Montalbert "let us go home with Miss Lessington.—Shall we not, Harry?"

Harry answered, "With great pleasure:" and the opposition of Rosalie was in vain.

"But we need not go down this way, surely," said Vyvian; "we may go along the path I saw you in, and so through your father's orchard or garden, or something—I am sure I remember such a way."

Rosalie answered, that it was certainly a much shorter road, but it was only a foot-path, and that there was a stile to pass.

"Never mind the stile," cried the young man, "we will leap our horses over."

He then led the way into the path, which only allowed two persons to walk abreast. Mr. Montalbert and the Count de Torriani followed; the former murmuring loudly against Vyvian's monopoly, and the narrowness of the path.

Rosalie expected to have found her father and mother returned from their walk, and in no very pleasant humour, because she had left them▪ but, on entering the house through the garden, the noise she heard in her father's book-room convinced her that the party whom she so earnest­ly [Page 33] wished to avoid were not gone, but were, on the contrary, set in to drinking; an alteration of plan which did not at all surprise her, when Mr. Blagham and Mr. Hughson were of the party.

Young Vyvian, whose sole meaning was to see her safe, was however now compelled in common civility to inquire for her mother and her sisters. Mrs. Lessington, amazed at his sud­den appearance, received him with a mixture of civility and confusion, for which Rosalie knew not how to account. Mingled with this extraor­dinary expression, there was also some anger towards her, and something that seemed like a disposition to reproach her for having introduced visitors so unexpected.

Mrs. Lessington expressing her surprize at see­ing him, when she imagined he was at Chelten­ham, or in the North with the rest of the family, he said, "The Count de Torriani and my cousin Harry, having an inclination to see Holmwood, we agreed to make a tour round the Coast, to pass about ten days at Brighthelmstone, and to make Holmwood in our way back. The Abbé Hayward had notice of our intentions yesterday, and expects us this evening. We lost our way some how by a blunder of mine, and got down into Hu [...]acre wood, where we had the singular good fortune to meet Miss Rosalie."

To Mrs. Lessington's inquiry after his mother's health, he said, that his last letters spoke of her a [...] being rather better. "But it is," said he [...] more than six weeks since I have seen her, for [...] long have we been rambling about; and her [Page 34] impatience to have me return is now so great, that I shall only stay one day at Holmwood.—Yet added he, evidently addressing himself to Rosalie. "I am at this moment more disposed than ever I was in my life [...] make a longer abode at our old enchanted, but not enchanting castle." Rosalie did not seem to think any answer necessary to this: and Mrs. Lessington put on a look of great gravity and reserve, but said nothing; and as at that mo­ment Mr. Montalbert did not seem to find any thing to say, a profound silence ensued for a minute, which was interrupted by the noisy en­trance of Mr. Lessington and his friends. The former being apprised of the arrival of young Vy­vian, came to pay him his compliments: And the others were about to depart, or at least to at­tempt it, though the whole party, without ex­cepting even the master of the house, seemed to have taken such large potations, that they ap­peared to be but little in possession of their senses. Mr. Lessington, however, bustled up to young Vyvian, expressing the greatest delight in meet­ing him: And, amidst the confusion, Mr. Mont­albert approached Rosalie, to whom he had yet hardly had an opportunity of speaking, though his eyes had declared how much he wished it. "Do you not recollect me Miss Lessington?" said he, speaking low—"I perfectly remember you, and the days I once passed with you at Holmwood made an impression on me that never will be effaced. It has ever appeared to me since▪ the very happiest period of the happy hours of my childhood; for I was then but a boy. It [...] [Page 35] more," added he, "than eight years ago, and you were then very young."

"You do me too much honour," answered Rosalie; "I was, indeed, very young—but (an involuntary sigh forced its way as she spoke) those were my days of unallowed felicity; it was my golden age, and every scene has imprinted itself deeply on my memory. . . Yes! I well remem­ber your coming to Holmwood—with your father, was it not?

"Yes; and an Italian tutor. I recollect, but I dare say you do not, that then I could speak very little English."

"Why, you can't speak much now, Sir," in­terrupted a voice from behind Rosalie's chair. "I suppose by your accent, Sir, that you are a foreigner?"

"You suppose, Sir," said Mr. Montalbert angrily; and pray, Sir, who are you?"

"Me, Sir!" answered the Rev. Mr. Hugh­son—"Me, Sir!—Why, Sir, my name is Hughson."

"Well, Sir," said Montalbert haughtily, "whatever name you bear, I suppose it is not ne­cessary for you to make a third in my conversa­tion with this lady." The stout, the brave, the magnanimous Hughson, he who had kept at b [...]y an enraged populace, and protected, with his single arm, a whole corps of officers of dragoons, was, for some reason or other, appalled by the decided and contemptuous tone taken up by Mr. Montalbert. The effects of liquor vary on dif­ [...]nt constitutions. Some cowards it renders [Page 36] brave, and may, perhaps, render some brave men cowards. However, that might be, Hugh­son attempted no reply: But still, unwilling that this stranger should engross the attention of Rosa­lie, he determined at least to keep as close to her as he could, and therefore squatted down in the window seat near her, being in truth not very well able to stand.

Montalbert, shocked at his vulgarity and im­pertinence, and having no idea that much cere­mony was necessary towards a man, whom he supposed to be a little, dirty, drunken curate, spoke in a still lower tone to Rosalie, and what was yet more mortifying, he spoke in Italian, while, with open mouth and watery eyes, her unfortunate admirer sat gasping and staring be­hind her totally disregarded.

Montalbert, as well as Rosalie, had forgotten not only that he was in the room, but that any other persons were in it but themselves. From an oblivion so pleasing, however, they were soon roused by Vyvian, who, disengaging himself with great difficulty from the mandling civilities of Mr. Lessington, who was very drunk and very tedious, came hastily to Montalbert and told him they must go. Vyvian then took Rosalie's hand, and sighing said, "Alas! how little I have seen of you, and that only by chance; can I not come to-morrow to take leave of you, Rosalie? for you know I am going abroad again almost immediate­ly; and who knows when we shall meet once more? Tell me, Rosalie, do you think I [...] call here again to-morrow?" Mrs. Le [...] [Page 37] had by this time sidled up near her daughter, to whom she did not allow time to reply, but with an air most repulsively grave and formal, she said, "I am very sorry, Mr. Vyvian, it happens so, as your time is so short; but my daughter is par­ticularly engaged to-morrow. We are all par­ticularly engaged. It is extremely unfortunate indeed. Another time I hope we shall be more lucky."

This rebuff seemed particularly mortifying to Vyvian. He bowed coldly to the mother, and then, gently pressing the hand of Rosalie, which he still held, he said in a whisper, "I must see you again; where are you going to?"—"I do not know, indeed," answered Rosalie, "for this is the first I have heard of any engagement. I am afraid it is on some party with these men." She could add no more; for a servant informed Mr. Vyvian and the other gentlemen that their horse [...] were brought round. Lessington again came [...] persecuting them with his civilities; and [...] Lessington very evidently wished them gone. [...] became impossible for either Vyvian or Montal­bert to speak to Rosalie apart, though they ap­peared equally to desire it; and with reluctance, that neither could conceal, they left the house.

Blagham was no longer in a situation to be troublesome: And Miss Catharine, somewhat ashamed of the figure he had made, had prevailed upon him to leave the room. . . . . Hughson, however, to whom the departure of the strangers [...]ed to have restored his consequence, sailed [...] listen eagerly to the remarks Mrs. Lessing­ton [Page 38] and Miss Catharine made upon them. "I should not have known Mr. Charles Vyvian," said the latter. "How very tall he is."

"He is tall, indeed" replied her mother; "but you may see he is a mere boy. That young man, would you believe it, Mr. Hughson, is hardly seventeen? He is the son of Mr. Vyvi­an, you know, of Holmwood, with whose lady I used to be so intimate. My daughter Rose used to live there a good deal when she was a child, and this young man looks upon her as one of the family."—Hughson, checking a hickup which had nearly broken the sentence, cried, "Indeed! —really!—nothing to be sure can be more natu­ral."

"Pray, Ma'am," said Miss Catharine, "who is that other gentleman; I don't mean the fo­reign Count, but the other Englishman? He is a remarkable handsome man."

"I am surprised dear Miss Kitty should think so," sputtered Hughson. "To my fancy now, he does not look at all like an Englishman—not the least."

"Why, certainly," replied Mrs. Lessington, "he can hardly be called an Englishman; for in the first place, his mother was a foreign lady; and, though his father is an Englishman, he liv­ed chiefly abroad, and this gentleman has never been in England above half a year at a time, though they have a very fine seat in the North of England, and a great fortune in the family."

"He seems to be a very proud man," said Hughson. "I believe I have affronted h [...] though I am sure I don't know what I said."

[Page 39]"I believe, indeed, that you did not," said Ro­salie, "and you will pardon me, Mr. Hughson, if I say, that you seemed to intend to affront him."

Hughson who had no clear idea of what he had said, would have taken her hand, but she snatch­ed it away, and hastened out of the room. Soon after she had the satisfaction of hearing the whole party leave the house, and scamper away with a degree of rashness which she thought must make her sister uneasy for the safety of her lover.

Rosalie, whose spirits were fatigued by the events of the afternoon, could not, however, compose herself to sleep. The sight of Charles Vyvian had recalled all those scenes which she had vainly been trying to forget, and to think of with less concern: And his manners, but still more those of his relation, Mr. Montalbert, formed so decided a contrast to those of the persons with whom it was now her lot to be associated, that she found she should, by continually making the comparison, be rendered more uneasy than ever. She saw too, by her mother's manner, that she would have yet to undergo some severe reproofs for having brought Charles Vyvian and his two companions home with her; and though it was easy to account for their appearance, which it must be known was merely in consequence of ac­cidentally meeting her, yet she knew that the circumstance of her so abruptly quitting company, in which it was her father's wish that she should remain, would bring upon her reproaches that she should not soon or easily appease.

[Page 40]The next day verified her apprehensions. Her father ordered her to attend him in his study at an early hour of the morning, as he was going out. She entered dejectedly. Her mother was there, and both looked coolly upon her, as they bade her shut the door and sit down. Mr. Lessington thus began:

"Rose, it is fit and right that you should know that you have extremely displeased me."

"I am extremely sorry for it, Sir. It was by no means my intention."

"You think then, perhaps, that it is not im­proper to slight my friends, and shew that you despise them—gentlemen whose notice does you so much honour, and whose good opinion perhaps may be so material to you. Do you consider, girl, that you have no fortune? That a clergy­man's income dies with him? That it is your business to endeavour to procure an establishment, instead of affecting these fine romantic airs?"

"I affected no airs, Sir. I obeyed your com­mands, and made tea for the gentlemen. I did not know you wished me to remain with them af­terwards, especially as you must have perceived that they were not in a situation in which they could be pleasant company for women."

"Prudish airs—Were not your mother and your sisters with you? And do you think I would have asked either them or you to stay in improper company?—Let me hear no more of all this, but listen to what I have to say to you. Mr. Hugh­son is a young man of fortune; he is, in his fami­ly, his situation, and prospects, every way unex­ [...]eptionable. [Page 41] He seemed to take particular notice [...]f you, notwithstanding your rudeness to him. [...] expect, if this partiality on his part should go [...] my farther, that you will dispose yourself to [...]eceive him as a man to whom it would be agree­ [...]ble to me, and highly honourable and advanta­geous to you, to be allied."

Rosalie was about to answer: But her father, [...]ising and leaving the room, said, with yet more [...]ternness, "I will have no answer, unless it be an answer of compliance." Then, turning to Mrs. Lessington, he added, "you will not fail to enforce what I have said, and to impress on the mind of this young woman, that, though she has hitherto found me an indulgent father, I know how to make myself be obeyed."—He then left the room, and Mrs. Lessington said, "You see, Rose, that your father is peremotory. If Mr. Hughson. . . . . . .

"Dear Madam," said Rosalie, "what occa­sion can there be for all these menaces of anger, if I do not listen to Mr. Hughson, when it is not even known whether Mr. Hughson will ever think of me again?"

"Perhaps your father has reasons, with which he may not think proper to acquaint you, why he knows Mr. Hughson means to address you."

"Very certainly, Madam, Mr. Hughson could not communicate to my father what he could not know himself last night; for so far from being capable of thinking what he intended for the future, he knew not what he was about then; [Page 42] but, admitting it to be so, why must I be com­pelled to listen to him? Indeed, my dear Mam­ma, this Mr. Hughson is a man it is utterly impossible for me to like."

"It would be something new, Rose, and alto­gether unlike the heroines whose adventures you have studied, if you should happen to like the man recommended to you by your friends, and in every respect eligible. Do not think of doing a thing so entirely out of rule; but contrive to take a liking not only to some other man, but, if possible, to the very man to whom of all others it is impossible you can ever be united."

"Rosalie blushed deeply, without exactly know­ing why. "Dear Madam," said she, "what a strange thing that is to say."

"As strange as true," replied Mrs. Lessington. "Its truth, I am much afraid, will be too soon verified; but have a care, I promise you not only that nobody will defend you in this dangerous ab­surdity, but that it will be the certain means of estranging from you those friends who love you best. . . . . . I won't be interrupted," added she, seeing her daughter was going to speak, "I won't be interrupted—hear me, and tell me afterwards, whether you who have nothing, you who must go into some humble business [...]r even, perhaps, to service, if your father should die, have any sort of pretensions to pleasing yourself, even if the people you fancy you prefer were indeed so foolishly inconsistent as to think for a moment of commit­ting such a folly as taking you out of the [...]ank you are in, which, you may be assured, child, nev [...] [Page 43] entered their heads, whatever your vanity and your ignorance of the world may have put into yours."

"For God's sake, my dear mother!" said Ro­salie, with tears in her eyes, "what do you mean? This is the first time you ever talked to me in this manner! How I have deserved it now, I am entirely ignorant. Did I ever say I liked any particular person?—or—"

"Pho! pho!" cried Mrs. Lessington, inter­rupting her, "you cannot deceive me. But let me earnestly exhort you, Rosalie, never to think of the persons to whom you know I allude, but to determine to follow, like a reasonable woman, the advice of those who know better what is fit for you than you do yourself."

Rosalie remained silent. Her soul abhorred the idea of receiving Hughson as a lover; nor could she endure that a mother should for a mo­ment believe her capable of hesitating about him. The conversation she had held, however, was so new, and so strange, that she had not courage to defend herself; and after a short pause, Mrs. Lessington thus went on:—

"Did you ever know any woman who married just according to her own romantic whims in set­ting out in life?—Did I do it, do you think?— Did Mrs. Vyvian?"

"Of you, Madam, [...] said Rosalie, "I cannot pretend to speak. Mrs. Vyvian certainly did not marry Mr. Vyvian from choice; but has she been happy? has not [...]er whole life been embitter­ed by the sacrifice she made, as I have heard to her [...]ther's commands?"

[Page 44]"That was very different," said Mrs. Lessing­ton. "My friend was—" She stopped, as she had often done before when their conver­sation had been led to the same topic; and then immediately changing it, said, "But you now know my opinion, and your father's commands. We are going to-day where you will again be in company with Mr. Hughson: And it is expected of you, that you will behave to him as a friend of your father's, and a gentleman whose partiality does you honour."

"Whither am I to go, Madam?" said Rosa­lie in a dejected tone.

"To Chichester," replied her mother dryly. . . "We dine with Mr. Blagham. His uncle is to be there with some other friends. Your sister Catharine's settlement is to be signed. After­wards a party of friends dine with him on venison; and we shall remain there all night, perhaps go to the assembly the night after: You will, therefore, put up a small packet of cloaths, and act accord­ingly."

From the manner in which this was said, Ro­salie knew no remonstrance against an expedition so very irksome to her would be listened to; and that, however, hateful to her, she must obey. She retired, therefore, with an heavy heart to her own room, and began to dress, and to prepare for the party.

But her mother's oblique reproaches had made a great impression on her mind. She imagined they must allude to Mr. Charles Vyvian or Mr. Mont­albert; but probably the former, as her mother [Page 45] could hardly suspect her of a partiality for a man she had not seen since she was ten or eleven years old. In regard to Mr. Vyvian her heart acquit­ted her; but she was at the same time consci­ous that nothing could do so great a disservice to Hughson, in her opinion, as putting him a moment in comparison with such [...] man as Montalbert.

CHAP. IV.

ROSALIE was soon ready to proceed on an expedition, from which she found no pretence would excuse her. She mounted her sister Ca­tharine's poney with reluctance. Her father, mother, and Miss Lessington, were in the post chaise. The other sister was also on horseback; and it did not add much to Rosalie's prospect for the day, that it was her sister Maria who had been put out of humour the preceding evening by the unfortunate and undesired preference Hugh­son had shewn Rosalie; and who, now sullen and [Page 46] pouting, endeavoured to shew her sister that she had not forgotten the mortification.

They had ascended and were riding along the hill; but the morning being hot and sultry, Ro­salie turned her horse towards its edge, where began a wood that shaded one side of it, and the ash and beech afforded a temporary skreen. Several roads wound up the hill from the villages below, and as Rosalie was crossing one of these, she saw Montalbert suddenly appear, who, ap­proaching her with the common salutation of the morning, rode along by her side without noticing the rest of the party.

Rosalie conscious that this would give great of­fence to her father and mother, and unwilling to increase the dislike they seemed already to have taken to him from the little attention he shewed to them the preceding evening, inquired if he would not speak to them?

"Bye and bye," said he coldly; "but good God, is it never possible to have a moment's con­versation with you?—I have a great respect for Mr. and Mrs. Lessington, because they are so nearly related to you: But you know I have not the pleasure of being acquainted with them."

There was something of peculiar dejection in the manner of Montalbert as he spoke.

"You are not well?" said Rosalie.

"Not very well," replied he; "but the hot weather of England never agrees with me. There is something strangely oppressive in it. I don't know whether it is that which has affected poor Charles; but, I assure you, he is seriously [Page 47] ill—so ill, that we do not think of going to-mor­row. The Count, being obliged to be in Lon­don, left us this morning, as it was uncertain when Charles would be well enough."

"I am very sorry," said Rosalie with quick­ness, "it will so distress my dear Mrs. Vyvian!— Has he sent for any advice?"

[...]It were well worth while to be ill," said Montalbert, "were one sure of exciting interest so tender."—"But you do not answer me," said Rosalie, affecting not to hear him. "Has Mr. Vyvian sent for Mr. Harrison, the apothecary?"

"I believe Mr. Hayward intended it," replied Montalbert; "for the poor old man was frighten­ed out of his wits. Charles, however, opposed it. Perhaps it will be nothing. But you know that his mother has nursed him to death; and [...] Hayward is as timid as an old woman about him."

"I am very uneasy," said Rosalie, pausing [...] moment. "I think I had better tell my mother▪ She will surely see Mr. Vyvian, as she knows how very wretched her friend would be sh [...] her son b [...]l at a distance from her." Thus say­ing, and without waiting for an answer, she rode towards the chaise and bade the driver stop. Montalbert did not go with her, but followed the chaise at some distance.

"Well?"—said Mrs. Lessington sharply, as the chaise stopped—"and what now?"

"Dear Madam," answered Rosalie in visible consternation, "here is Mr. Montalbert, whom I have met by accident, who tells me that Mr. Charles Vyvian is taken very ill!"

[Page 48]"Well?"—cried Mrs. Lessington impatiently —"and what would you have us do?"

"I thought, Madam," said Rosalie, deeply blushing and speaking quick, 'I thought you might be alarmed on account of your friend Mrs. Vyvi­an, and might—might—"

"I don't see what we can do, my dear," said Mr. Lessington. "Probably Mr. Hayward has taken proper care of the young gentleman.—I suppose," added he, addressing himself to Rosalie, "since Mr. Montalbert came hither by accident, that Mr. Charles has not sent any message ex­pressing a wish to see your mother?"

"No, Sir," answered Rosalie.

"Well then, child, there is no call for our in [...]ference: I wish him better with all my heart. [...], you keep up with the chaise—Andrew, drive on, we shall be late."

Andrew obeyed: And Montalbert, who had very slowly rode on while this conference lasted stopped, as the chaise passed and made a formal bow [...] [...]he persons in it, but without shewing any [...]ntention to speak to them. He then rejoined Rosalie, and continued to ride the p [...] [...] forty or fifty yards behind the chaise, complain­ing of the perverseness of his fate, in her being to stay perhaps several days at Chicheste [...] ▪ while she, in her turn, expressed very great uneasiness about Mr. Vyvian, and seemed to attend very little to the unequivocal expressions Montalbert used to impress her with an idea of his own at­tachment to her. At length they came into the turnpike road. Rosalie saw her father look out [Page 49] repeatedly, as if enquiring with angry counten­ance, whether Montalbert had left her, which she now entreated him to do. He sighed deeply, and said, in a mournful tone, "And so you are going to that town, and do not return perhaps these two or three days, and before that time we shall have left the country, and I shall see you no more!"

This idea, which seemed so distressing to him, was by no means the pleasantest that could be presented to the imagination of Rosalie. Her heart seemed to re-echo, "I shall see him no more!" But she attempted to smile, and to an­swer cheerfully, "O yes—I am persuaded we shall meet again."—"But when? or where?" cried Montalbert, fixing his [...] earnestly on her face. "Alas! Miss Lessington, I shall soon leave England; and this, perhaps, is the last time we shall meet!"

"I should be so sorry to believe that," an­swered she, hesitating and blushing, "that I will not stay to hear it repeated. . . . . Adieu, Sir▪ fail not to assure your friend of my sincere wishes for his recovery; and tell my dear venerable friend, the Abbe Hayward, how much I lament that we never meet as we used to do."

Mr. [...]sington, now putting his head once more out of the window, waved his hand impa­tiently for his daughter to keep up with them. Rosalie understood the signal but too well; and though relu [...]ntly, put her horse in a gallop, while Montalbert checked his, more reluctantly still. But, as he was on a rising ground, he re­mained [Page 50] in the same place, following with his eyes the object from which he was so unwilling to part, till a wood, into which the road turned, concealed her from his sight.

Rosalie, in the mean time, proceeded with a heavier heart than she knew how to account for. The illness of Charles Vyvian, which alarmed her not only on his own account, but on that of his mother, and the certainty that she should be compelled to pass two or three days among per­sons so extremely disagreeable to her, were in­deed reasons enough for chagrin; but the con­cern she felt was something deeper than belonged to either of these. That she had seen Montalbert for the last time, she could not think of without the most acute uneasiness: And so much did that [...]dea dwell on her mind, that she arrived at the end of her journey hardly knowing how she got t [...]ere: Nor was she roused from the indulgence [...] these painful reflections, till the troublesome assiduities of Hughson restored her to herself, by imposing on he [...] [...]he necessity of repressing his im­pertinence; wh [...] she did, however with an asperity so unusual to her, that her mother se­verely reproved her the moment they were alone. "Dear Madam," said Rosali [...] ▪ "that man is so utterly disagreeable to me: He is so [...]ward, so ignorant—" "It is a misfortune to you, child," answered her mother gravely, "that you have lived in a style, and among people who have given you a distaste for those of [...]ur own rank. However that may be," added she, with still greater solemnity, "I repeat to you Rosalie, that [Page 51] you are expected by your father to behave to Mr. Hughson not only as to his particular friend, but as to one, if you should be lucky enough to pro­cure him for an husband, would establish you in possession of a fortune much greater than you ever can have the least right to expect."—"I had ra­ther dedicate my whole life to the most humili­ating poverty, Madam," answered Rosalie with spirit; "I had rather not only go to service, but submit to the most laborious offices, even to work in the fields, than condemn myself to become the wife of Mr. Hughson."

"Very fine, indeed," said Mrs. Lessington, "very romantic, and very sublime. But hear me Miss Rose: If you are weak, wicked, and vain enough to think, for a moment, of that sim­ple young man, Charles Vyvian, which I f [...] I greatly fear, that proud coxcomb Montalbert has been putting in your head, know that the most remote hint given of any such—such absurd and ridiculous idea, to my friend Mrs. Vyvian, would not only put an eternal bar between you, but would forever ruin you in her good opini­on."

"I think of Mr. Charles Vyvian, Madam," said Rosalie, "no otherwise than as the son of my dear benefactress!—No, indeed, my dear Mam­ma, I never was quite so absurd as to have any other idea!"

"Take care you never are then," replied her [...]her, "and be not so blind to your own inte­ [...] or so deaf to the dictates of common sense, [...]o throw away, by refusing Mr. Hughson, an [Page 52] opportunity that may never offer again." Then, perceiving her daughter was about to answer her, she added, "Let us have no more romance, Rosalie. It will answer no purpose, but to irri­tate your father without changing his resolution. You will dress for dinner. To-morrow there is to be an assembly. It is already settled that we are to go; and, as it is the first time you have been seen there, I desire you will look as well as you can."

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Rosalie, as soon as her mother left her, "I am thus to be dressed up, and offered like an animal to sale; and my mother seems to think it a matter of course. . . . . . Oh! Montalbert, how different, are your manners from those of the people I am condemned to live among!—Dear and amiable patroness of my happy infancy, little did you imagine, when you were so tenderly kind to your unfortunate Rosalie, that you were laying up [...] her future years insupportable mortifica­tion!—Had I never been blessed in your society, had I never known those who are related to you, I should not now be perpetually making compa­risons so much to the disadvantage of persons among whom it is my lot to live, and I should then have been as happy as my sisters."

Very heavily for Rosalie passed t [...] day. Mr. Hughson was sometimes extremely troublesome▪ But finding her still cold and repulsive, he [...] and then tried what could be effected by cha [...] his battery, and affecting to neglect her so [...] sister, who, in her turn, put on a disdainful [...] [Page 53] in evident resentment of the preference he had lately shewn Rosalie, who so little desired it.

It was not, however, in the eyes of Hughson only that she appeared the fairest of the rural nymphs from 'under the hills.' Others of Mr. Blagham's acquaintance, who were of their din­ner party, made the same discovery: And two of them attempted, during the afternoon, to en­gage her for the ball of the ensuing evening. She refused them both civilly, but positively.

"Aye," said one of them in a whisper, "I see how it is—Hughson is the happy man. Is it not so, Miss Rose?"

"If you mean, Sir," answered she coldly, "that Mr. Hughson's happiness is to arise [...] dancing with me to-morrow, I assure you▪ [...] are mistaken."

"What, are you not engaged to him then?"

"No, Sir; nor shall I engage myself to any body."

"Hey!"—cried Hughson, rising and skipping across the room—"Hey! what's all that?—who talks of engagements?—Hey!—why, I [...]ope, Miss Rosalie, nobody has been pretending to take away my partner. Surely you understand Ma'am that you are engaged to me?"

"Indeed, Sir, I do not," replied Rosalie, "and I should be sorry you understood it."

"There!"—cried one of the young men who came from a provincial town in another county,— [...]here! I have still a chance. Sir," added he, [...]essing himself very solemnly to Hughson, [...] tell you what is a rule with us—that is with [Page 54] our ladies—and you know what excellent, gen­teel, fashionable meetings we have at—Sir, it is a rule among the ladies of—never to engage themselves to a gentleman of a black coat, while they have a chance of being asked by any other: And damme if I don't think they are in the right."

"You think, Sir," said Hughson, colouring violently and trembling with passion; "and pray Sir—I say—Sir, that is—was there any question asked as to what you, Sir, think, Sir?"

"I beg," said Rosalie, who had no inclination to have a quarrel begin between these two coats of different colours on her account, "I beg that the conversation may drop. I have no intention [...]. Hughson, of dancing at all."

"Oh!" cried the young man, his opponent, "the whole room will rise, by G—, against such an inhuman resolution. . . . . No, no, that will never be allowed.—Here, Blagham, before you sit down to cards, you dog you, come and set this matter to rights for us."

"I beg leave to retire from the discussion then, Sir," said Rosalie rising; "though I cannot imagine how either you, or Mr. Blagham, can be interested in a matter so immaterial to you both."

"Eh!" cried Blagham—"why, my Rose of beauty, you have all your thorns about you [...] night. Aye! aye! Sir, thus it is—thus it is [...] thus do these imperious little divinities trea [...] till they are married. . . Why now there's [...] Kitty as great a tyrant as that little lioness [...] [Page 55] sister; but you see she begins to look tame and de­mure already. Come, come, Miss Rose, frowns do not become the fair, child."—He was then proceeding in the same style, when, her patience being entirely exhausted, she snatched away her hand, which Blagham endeavoured to hold, and left the room.

Before she returned, the card tables were ad­justed: And Mr. and Mrs. Lessington, who dear­ly loved a game at whist, were settled with Blag­ham, who really had, and Hughson who fan­cied he had, great skill in the game. Rosalie, therefore, seeing her two persecutors employed, and her father and mother deeply engaged, took out her work, and sat down behind Mrs. Lessing­ton, as much out of sight as possible: But this peaceful state she was not long suffered to enjoy. The idle men, who remained, insisted on making a party for a round table; and with whatever reluctance, Rosalie was compelled to join them▪ and to be listening for three mortal hours to [...] sad attempts at wit, which a commerce tabl [...] never fails to produce.

At length, however, the evening ended; [...] for Rosalie the following arrived but too soon.

Dragged to a scene, where she considered herself exposed as an animal in a market to the remarks [...]d purchase of the best bidder, it was w [...] extreme reluctance that Rosalie entered the b [...]room; nor had she by any means taken [...] to add to the attractions of her person which [...]e [...] mother had insisted upon. The simplest and [...]est muslin dre [...] without feathers, flowers or [Page 56] ribands, was all she put on; [...] her sister Maria came down as showy and blooming as ri­bands and rouge could make her.

Mrs. Lessington would have reproved her youngest daughter for having thus neglected her admonitions; but, when she saw the three to­gether, she could not help being sensible that Ro­salie looked like a girl of fashion, while Catharine and Maria had the appearance of people dressed for the performance of strolling plays, with all the finery the property man could furnish. Without any remonstrance, therefore, she was suffered to go with the rest: But not so easily did she escape from the renewed importunities of Mr. Hughson to dance with him, who having engaged her father to interfere in his favour, she received so peremptory an order to accept him, accompanied by looks so angry and menacing, that she was compelled, though with extreme reluctance, to submit. Her sister, on the point of being marri­ed, was of course taken out by her lover: But by some mortifying fatality Miss Maria was unasked; and the first dance was nearly ended, when, to the extreme surprize of Rosalie, who with her skipping partner was arrived at the bottom, she saw, (almost doubting the information of her eyes) her sister Maria standing up with Montalbert▪

The change of her countenance, when it was her turn to take hands with him, expressed [...] forcibly than words could have done her asto [...] ­ment. Montalbert perceived it. "You [...] wonder to see me here?" said he.—"Wond [...]" cried she—"Good Heavens!—and your fr [...] [Page 57] how does he do?—He is certainly better, since you could leave him." The figure of the dance now obliged them to separate; but in a few mo­ments declining to go down the dance, which was soon after over, Montalbert seated himself by her, taking without any scruple the place of her partner, whom she sent away for some negus. "You inquire after my friend," said Montalbert, "with an interest so tender, that, however I may envy his happiness in exciting that interest, it be­comes me to satisfy your inquiries: Yet you might, perhaps, obtain more satisfactory infor­mation from himself."

"From himself!" cried Rosalie eagerly; "is he here then?"

"Alas!" answered Montalbert, again deeply sighing, "he seems insensible of the good fortune which I would purchase with worlds, if I possess­ed them, for there he is conversing with L [...]d [...] —, and Lady Anne —, at the other en [...] of the room. Shall I go and tell him, Madam," added he coolly, "that you desire to see him?"

"By no means," replied Rosalie, "by [...] means—not for the world!"

"Insensible fellow!" cried Montalbert, "whom rank can a moment detain from Miss Rosalie Les­sington. Ah! if he saw with my eyes—if his heart felt as mine does!"—

"I am very glad, however," said she, affect­ing not to understand this, "I am extremely glad to find Mr. Vyvian so much recovered; I was [...] alarmed at his threatened illness on account of his mother."

[Page 58]"On account of his mother!" repeated Mon­talbert.

"Yes; Sir," said Rosalie gravely, "certainly on account of his mother."

At this moment two persons of very different description approached them. . . . Hughson came smirking and prancing with a glass of negus, and began telling how he had mixed it after a manner peculiar to himself; but seeing that Rosalie gave no attention to him, and that Montalbert mad [...] no offer to resign the place he had usurped, he re­mained looking even less wise than ordinary, till his dismay was increased by the appearance of Vyvian, who, putting him on one side with very little ceremony, entered into conversation with Rosalie, who expressed as warmly as [...]e felt it, the pleasure his recovery gave [...] [...]he loved Charles Vyvian exactly as she loved her brothers. Brought up with him from her childhood, she had never considered him for a moment in any other light, nor did she suppose it possible, not­withstanding what her mother had said, that any other person could entertain an idea of his having for her any other attachment than that which might subsist between a brother and a sister. Vyvian was fourteen months younger than she was; and nothing could in her apprehension, be more absurd than to suppose Vyvian, not yet eighteen, would see her in any other light than she thought of him. This gave to her manner towards him an ease which she was far from feel­ing when she conversed with Montalbert [...] now, without any hesitation, or indeed any ap­prehension [Page 59] of impropriety, she rose from her seat, and walked with him to the other end of the room, Montalbert taking his place in silence on the other side; while the luckless Hughson drank up himself what he had fetched for his part­ner, and then went with a rueful countenance to find at the sideboard below something more pow­erful to dissipate the chagrin he felt, as well as the aukward sensations of conscious inferiority. Rosalie in the mean time, not thinking about him, was inquiring of Charles Vyvian why he prolonged his stay in the country, when he was well enough to go? "I thought," said she, "I thought you told me, that Mrs. Vyvian did not even know of your intentions of being at Holm­wood. If she should hea [...] of your remaining there on account of illness, 'tis so far from advice, I cannot imagine why you stay."

"What would you think," replied he in a [...] whisper, as if he was solicitous that his [...] might not hear him—"what would you think Rosalie, if I were to tell you, that I went thither in the hope of seeing you; that I linger here for no other reason than because I cannot prevail up­on myself to quit the country where you are?"

"I should think," said Rosalie hesitating, "and I should say, that I was very sorry Mr. Vyvian should talk so wildly and improperly—." She was proceeding, though she hesitated, blushed, and was evidently disconcert­ed, when she was interrupted by her mother, who coming towards her, said, with more ap­pearance of ang [...]r than she had ever yet shewn, [Page 60] "Why is it, Rose, that you thus quit Mr. Hugh­son I am astonished at your rudeness, child, and must insist upon having no more of such behavi­our." Mrs. Lessington then seized her hand, and giving it into that of Hughson, said, with a sort of convulsive laugh, "Here, Sir—I am sure Rose will be happy—he! he! he!—to go down the dance with you. I am sure she does not wish to be left out of this dance."

Hughson then, endeavouring to smile and smirk in order to conceal the extreme vexation he felt, advanced to take her hand; but, from some unusual courage which at that moment she felt, some sudden impulse for which she could hardly account, and which she afterwards thought blameable, she snatched away the hand Hughson would have taken, and telling him disdainfully that she did not know that she should dance any [...]ore, she turned to the seat she had before occu­pied, whither Vyvian, wholly regardless of the evident anger of Mrs. Lessington, followed her▪

Hughson, swelling with rage and resentment, which he had, however, no means of satisfying, now seemed to give up the point in absolute des­pair. But, accustomed as he had been to fancy that so clever a little fellow, with his fortune and expectations, might have his choice among the young women of a whole county, he could not repress the mortification he felt. The plan that Montalbert had adopted of dancing with Maria Lessington, in order to obtain the opportunity of conversing with her sister, had been so far from answering, that it had entirely ba [...]ed his pu [...]se. [Page 61] . . . . . He now saw himself engaged for the even­ing, and prevented from enjoying a moment's conversation with Rosalie, while his more fortu­nate cousin was happy enough wholly to engro [...] her attention.

Montalbert, however, who had seen too much of the world to be easily diverted from his design, made a false step as he was going down the dance that was now begun, and protesting he had hurt himself so as to make his going on impossible, was limping to a seat; but seizing on poor Hugh­son in his way, he cried, "My good Sir, I per­ceive your fair partner declines dancing a [...] more; I am, most unfortunately for myself, di [...] abled—It will be happy for you; for you [...] have the pleasure of taking one lovely sister instead of the other."

Hughson, clever fellow as he thought himself, was so over-awed by the easy manners and con­scious superiority of Montalbert, that he had no­thing to say, but advancing towards Miss Maria, as if this was an arrangement to which he was under the necessity of submitting, they sullenly finished the dance together; while Montalbert availing himself of the success of his stratagem, seated himself on the other side of Rosalie, who, however, unwilling to disoblige her mother, for­got in a few moments that she was likely to do so, while she attended sometimes to Vyvian as to a brother whom she loved, or as to a very young man whose wild sallies were pardonable; but to Montalbert she listened with sensations very dif­ferent. She kn [...]w far less how to repress the [Page 62] oblique declarations he made to her—declarations which she trembled to listen to, while she felt conscious, though not daring to own it to herself, [...]at all the future happiness of her days depended on their sincerity.

Mrs. Lessington had retired to cards after her last sharp remonstrances to her daughter; and the eagerness with which she always pursued her game, kept her in another room for some time. At length, however, she was either put out of the game by rotation, or some evil-disposed per­sons had whispered to her what was passing among the dancers; for about an hour and an half after her last rebuke, she returned to the ball-room, and, in a voice and manner more angry than be­fore, told Rosalie that she was going home, and should take her thither at the same time. "As to your sisters," added she, laying great empha­ [...] on her words, "as they know better how to [...] have, I need not interrupt their amusement —they shall stay as long as they please."

Rejoiced to be released on any terms from a repetition of reproaches in a public room, she [...]ed her mother that she was quite ready to attend her. "Very well, Miss," replied Mrs. Lessington—"it is mighty well. . . . . . . Come, Sir," continued she, turning to Charles Vyvian, "as we are old acquaintance, you know, you shall favour me with your arm—but stop— I must beg that you will first be so good as to ac­company me to the top of the room, I must speak to Catharine and Maria."—Without waiting for an answer from Vyvian, she [...]ook his arm, and led him away.

[Page 63]"My blessing on your dear Mamma!" said Montalbert, smiling half maliciously—"how kind she is to me! but the moments are precious [...] tell me, I do beseech you, Rosalie, is it impo [...] ble for me to see you again before I leave th [...] country—before I leave England—for years!"

"How is it possible?" answered Rosalie, hard­ly knowing what she said.

"It would be possible," replied he, "if you would only try to oblige me."

"O no! no!" cried she with quickness, "pray do not think of it. It would be utterly improper, if it were not impossible."

"Do you rise early?" said Montalbert, dis [...] ­garding this faint repulse—"Do you [...]ver w [...] before breakfast?"

"Why will you ask?" answered Rosalie.

"Because, as I shall certainly quit Holmwood House after to-morrow—as I cannot again impor­tune you—as I shall probably—ah! too p [...] —never see you again, let me entreat you [...] see me for one half hour before I go?"

"I cannot indeed, S [...]!" ans [...] [...] "To what end would you ask, what [...] you would think it very wrong were I to grant▪

"But if I am in the neighbourhood of your house, early on the morning after to-morrow, I might have a chance of saying adieu for the last time?"

Rosalie did not reply: For her mother was by th [...] [...]e returned, and sharply bidding her fol­low, went hastily to the hired chaise that waited for them.

CHAP. V.

VERY bitter were the reproaches which Rosalie was compelled to hear during their way home. She bore them with patience and silence, conscious perhaps that they were not wholly un­merited. She was, indeed, willing enough to acknowledge that she should not so rudely have repulsed Hughson in positive disobedience of her father's commands. But why her mother should make her conversation with Charles Vyvian so great a crime, she could not imagine, since in fact she had shewn a much greater disposition to [...]verse with his cousin than with him, and was perfectly conscious that she gave him no other [...]ence than what arose from the long intimacy, [...] being so much together in childhood, had created between them. . . . . On this conversation, however, it was that Mrs. Lessington dwelt with acrimonious repetition—protesting to her daugh­ter, that if Mrs. Vyvian were acquainted with the impropriety, folly, and disobedience she had been guilty of, her favour would be forfeited for­ever.

After listening to such sharp reproaches, inter­mingled with many assurances of the ang [...] and [Page 65] resentment of both her parents, unless she be­haved in a very different manner to Mr. Hugh­son▪ Rosalie obtained with some difficulty leave to retire, when the image of Montalbert was the only one that she found rested forcibly on her mind. His conversation made a deeper impressi­on the more she reflected on it. Montalbert was not only the most elegant and agreeable man she had ever conversed with, but he appeared to her to be the most unlikely man in the world to amuse himself with the cruel, yet too frequent folly of making professions that mean nothing. Montal­bert therefore loved her. An idea so soothing acquired new power to charm her in proportion as she reflected on all he had said, and the man­ner in which he said it. How fortunate would be her destiny, should she become the wife of such a man, and how was it possible that her mother, who must see the marked preference he gave her, could hesitate a moment between him and such a man as Hughson! It was true, Mr. Montalbert was a Catholic, but of what consequence was that? Was not her mother's earliest and be [...] friend of the same persuasion?—Such were [...] of the contemplations which engrossed the thoughts of Rosalie, and, fatigued as she was, kept her from repose till she heard the whole party return. Loud mirth, which echoed throughout the house, declared the joyous hearts of the company. Rosalie particularly distinguish­ed the boisterous laugh and horse-play of Blagh­am, and the ideot-like chuckle of Hughson. Rosalie, delighted to have escaped this conclusion [Page 66] to the evening, and fearing that her sister, who shared her bed for that night, might either be elated with the amusements of the latter part of the evening, or not yet have recovered of the ill-humour she had felt at the beginning of it so as to enter into conversation with her, either to testify her pleasure or ve [...]t her ill-humour, Rosa­lie affected to be asleep. The next morning was fixed for their return home.

At breakfast every body affected to resent to Rosalie what had passed the evening before.— And while Mr. Lessington regarded her with evident marks of displeasure, and would not speak to her, while her mother, still more angry, talk­ed at her, and encouraged Blagham, in his strict­ures on the company who were at the assembly, to ridicule the two travelled men, who were, he said, the greatest coxcombs he ever recollected to have seen—to which Hughson very warm­ly assented, casting at the same time a look of re­sentment at Rosalie, as if to say, "Yet you Miss, preferred these men to me?"

"For my part," said Blagham, "by the Lord, if I had a sister who preferred such Frenchified chaps to honest Heart of Oak Englishmen, why I'd send her off to be a Signora or Mademoiselle among them—I should think such a bad taste a disgrace to my family. To be sure, in regard to these two fine gentlemen, they being Papists is reason enough for their being educated among your Seniors and Monseers; but what the use is of sending our young nobility▪ and gentry to learn a parcel of useless coxcomb [...] amongst them, I [Page 67] never cou [...] discover; and I own Sir," addressing himself to Mr. Lessington, "that when I consider this matter, I cannot but think that the Le­gislature of our three kingdoms ought to inter­fere."

Before Mr. Lessington, who never spoke with­out due consideration and emphasis, could return an answer, 'Miss Maria said, "Oh! there they go."

"Who go," inquired her mother.

"My sister Rose's great and fine friends▪" answered Maria, "Mr. Vyvian and Mr.— I forget his name, that very finest of all fine men."

Rosalie who had seen them as well as her sister, could not help blushing. Montalbert had looked earnestly in as he passed, and checked his horse a moment when he perceived he had caught her eye.

"I hope," said Mrs. Lessington austerely, "that Mr. Vyvian is returning immediately to his mother, who is extremely ill, who knows no­thing of his being here, and who would be ex­tremely unhappy were she to be informed of it. It was but the day before yesterday he was ill in bed," added she, casting a significant glance at her youngest daughter, "and last night he was at a ball."

"He did not dance, however, Madam," said Rosalie; "and I understood came hither only to consult a physician."

"Who informed you of all this, Ma'am," an­swered her mother, "and why do you take upon [...] to answer for him [...]

[Page 68]Rosalie whose conscience was perfectly clear in regard to Vyvian, answered calmly, "He told me so himself, Madam; and I answered, because I thought your conversation addressed particular­ly to me."

"Humph,"—said Mrs. Lessington contemptu­ously—"silence, child, would often become you much better."

The other young ladies had a great deal to do in the town; for Miss Catharine was now to be married in three days. Mantua-makers and mil­liners were therefore to be hurried; and, as soon as breakfast was over, they went out together for that purpose, attended by Blagham and Hughson, while Rosalie remained where she was, having no ambition to accompany them. Her prepara­tions for her sister's wedding were confined, (as it was intended that Maria only should accompa­ny the bride,) and about these she was by no means solicitous.

Disagreeable and uneasy to her as the remon­strances and reproaches were that she was still obliged to hear, she flattered herself that one good effect would arise from the circumstances of the preceding evening—that Hughson, convinced of its inefficacy, would carry his suit no farther, and that his pride would prevent her being teazed with addresses, which her sister seemed disposed to receive favourably.

But in this hope she was disppointed. The admiration Rosalie had so universally excited, while her sister had been hardly noticed, the whispers of approbation that he had heard from [Page 69] the most fashionable set in the room, for whose opinion the whole country around had the most implicit deference, as well as the impression she seemed to have made on Vyvian and Montalbert, were altogether circumstances so far from deter­ring Hughson from pursuing her, that they serv­ed only to inflame his ambition: And, though he affected to direct his attention towards Miss Ma­ria, for a while, in hopes of piquing Rosalie, he soon renewed those expressions of affection and protestations of unwearied perseverance, from which Rosalie foresaw so much persecution and trouble.

As Hughson was to perform the marriage cere­mony between his friend Blagham and Miss Kitty Lessington, he went back with the family; and by his troublesome assiduities, and ridiculous at­tempts at gaiety and wit, deprived her of the satis­faction she would have derived from having left a place so very disagreeable to her as the provin­cial town where they had passed the last three days. . . . . At home she at least hoped to enjoy the solitude of her own room; but she dared not ask herself, whether she ought to venture the meeting Montalbert had so earnestly solicited▪ [...] She felt all its impropriety; then endeavoured [...] reconcile herself to a step from which she thought no evil consequence could possibly arise. "My mother," said she, arguing this point with herself, "my mother will never forgive me, should she know it. But how will she know it?—and what [...] harm is there in it?—It would certainly have a bad appearance, were a young woman [Page 70] known to have private meetings with any one— but what meetings can I have?—Is not Mr. Mon­talbert immediately going back to Italy: And is there any probability of my ever seeing him again?—Ah! no."—The argument concluded with a deep sigh: But it had not helped to deter­mine her. From an almost intuitive sense of pro­priety, for she had received but little instruction on such matters, she was conscious that she ought not to go out with a view of meeting Mon­talbert. Yet to think that she had seen him for the last time, to let him go with impressions of her having a predilection in favour of such a man as Hughson, of her being happy among such soci­ety as she was condemned to, it was impossible to determine on. Sleep the ensuing night was driven from the pillow of Rosalie by these debates; but it was at this season, long before day appear­ed with its first dawn, however, she left her bed; for it would very soon be necessary to determine whether she would venture to commit such an impropriety as meeting Montalbert, or suffer him to depart under the impressions he would carry with him, if she saw him no more.

His dejection when he spoke of immediately leaving England, his respectful manners, the warm and lively affection he seemed to have for her, the advantageous light in which his honour­able addresses appeared to her, all contributed to dispose her to meet him. Against it there was only that internal sense of prudence, (which like the voice of conscience, could not be entirely stifled,) and the fear of offending her mother. [Page 71] Yet why should her mother be offended?—Con­sidered in every way whether as to fortune▪ rank of life, family, or prospects, there could, she thought, be no comparison between Montalbert and Hughson; and if to have her married well was the wish of her parents, why should they be angry at her not declining an acquaintance which seemed likely to end in an establishment above their hopes. There was some truth, but more sophistry, in the arguments she used with herself to conquer her remaining apprehensions; when, having determined to venture, since it could be but for once, she left the house, and trembling and looking behind her at every step, hastened through the heavy dews and grey fogs of a late October morning to the copse where she had first unexpectedly met Vyvian and Montalbert, and where he had told her he should be very early on this morning, the last of his stay in the country, in hopes of her giving him an opportunity of ta­king a long leave of her.

As she had usually been a very early riser, and frequently walked to some neighbouring village, or farm-house, before the rest of the family went risen, the servants and labourers, who saw h [...] pass, took no notice of it: And she had crossed the orchard, and traversed the first copse with the swiftness of an affrighted fawn, before she gave herself time to breathe. The gloomy quiet of every o [...] [...]round her, the heavy grey▪ mists that hung [...] the half-stripped trees, their sallow leaves slowly [...]lling in her path, had something particularly awful and oppressive. She could [Page 72] hardly draw her breath, and her heart beat so violently that she leaned against the style which in one place divided the wood. "Whither am I going?" said she; "to meet a man, who, till a week since, was a stranger to me! How am I sure that he will not despise me for this easy com­pliance; perhaps I shall forfeit his good opinion —perhaps—surely it were better to retreat." There was, however, no longer time to hesitate; for at the end of the path before her Montalbert appeared. He sprang forward eagerly, the mo­ment he saw her—"This is very good, dearest Miss Lessington," cried he; "how infinitely I am obliged to you!"

"And now," said Rosalie, collecting all her resolution, "let me not risk my mother's displea­sure by staying long; but receive, Sir—receive my sincere good wishes for your health and hap­piness, and suffer me to bid you adieu!"

"Good Heavens!" replied he, "and will you already leave me?—No, Rosalie, our time is precious, and I will not throw it away in a profu­sion of words. I love you, and am sensible that on you alone depends the happiness of my future [...]. I will not, however, deceive you. I am a younger brother; and though the fortune of my family is very considerable, much of my ex­pectations depend on my mother, who is a native of another country, who has hardly ever been in England, and who dislikes the customs, the manners, and, above all, the religion of this. With a great number of prejudices, which contri­bute but little to the happiness of her family, nor▪ [Page 73] I fear, to her own—she has however, always been to me an affectionate, if not a tender mother, and it would be equally ungrateful and impolitic, were I to act in absolute defiance of her known wishes. Yet, surely, a medium may be found. Without incurring her displeasure, I may escape the misery of resigning the only woman I ever saw, with whom I wish to pass my whole life."

"I do not see how," answered Rosalie, tremb­ling and faltering. "No, Sir; however flattered I may be by your good opinion, I entreat you to think of me no more, otherwise than as a friend. The obstacles between us are insurmountable, and—"

"Not if you do not make them so, Rosalie," interrupted he. "Hear me with patience: Though you may think my mother's known aver­sion to my marrying an English woman and a Protestant, together with the state of my fortune, sufficient reasons for refusing to unite your destiny with mine—yet surely you need not therefore refuse to remove the fear, the tormenting fear of losing you, by promising that you will not give yourself to another, at least till I have attempted to conquer the obstacles that oppose my happiness. O Rosalie! if you had any idea of the agonies I feel, when I think that while I return to Italy in the hope of finding a remedy against the perverse­ness of my destiny, the object of my affections may be the wife of another—even of this Hughson, on whom it seems to be the resolution of your family to throw you away."

[Page 74]"If it be any satisfaction to you, Sir," said Rosalie in a low voice, "to know that Mr. Hugh­son can never be more to me than a common ac­quaintance, I most positively assure you of it."

"I am persuaded you think so now," answered Montalbert with vivacity; "but who shall assure me, Rosalie, that you can always resist the im­portunities, the commands of your father—fa­mily convenience, and what is called the voice of prudence, and all those motives that may be urged to enforce your obedience? Besides, if you should have resolution enough to dismiss this man, how many others are there, who may have the same pretensions? No, nothing can give me a moment's peace, unless you promise me, loveli­est of creatures, that you will await my return from Italy—that you will then be mine, if the obstacles now between us can be removed."

"On so short an acquaintance, can I, ought I, to promise this?" replied Rosalie with increased emotion. She then, though in broken sentences, and in a faint and low voice, urged all the reasons there were against her forming such an en­gag [...]ment; but Montalbert found means to con­vince her of their fallacy one by one, till at length he extorted from her the promise he demanded. He insisted on being allowed to cut off a lock of her hair, and on her taking a miniature of himself which he drew from his pocket, and which he owned had been drawn in London for his mother. He then told her that he should write to her, and that she must find some means of their securely corresponding. This Rosalie declared was quite [Page 75] impossible; but while he was pressing her to re­flect farther, a loud voice was heard in the part of the wood adjoining to the orchard, calling on Rosalie. Terror now seized her. "It is my fa­ther," said she. "If he finds you with me, what shall I [...] suffer!—leave me—leave me, for Heaven's sake!"

"You terrify yourself needlessly; it may only be a servant sent to seek you."

"And why to seek me," replied she, "if there was no suspicion of my being improperly absent? It is not usual for them to inquire or call after me."

Montalbert now saw her so affected with ap­prehension, that he would not longer detain her; but kissing her hand, and pressing it a moment to his bosom, he told her he would find the means of writing to her, and disappeared, while Ro­salie endeavouring to recollect and compose herself, took the path that led towards home.

CHAP. VI.

HAD it indeed been Mr. Lessington himself, who had thus loudly summoned his daughter to return home, it would have been difficult for her to have concealed from him the agitation of her mind, notwithstanding her utmost endeavours to compose herself. But it was only Abraham a ser­vant who was occasionally bailiff, coachman, foot­man, groom, or whatever was wanted in the family, who, approaching her out of breath, cried, "Lord, Miss, I've been ever so long look­ing a'ter you. . . . . Why, here a been all on em looking for your coming; for what d'ye think."

"Indeed, I don't know," replied Rosalie, breathless, and terrified at this preamble.

"Ah! Miss—Miss!—you can't guess whose come?"

"No! no! Abraham—do pray tell me?"

"Iv'e a good mind not, for your giving me such a dance after you. (Abraham had seen her grow up from her infancy, and was no observer of forms.) "However, I'll tell you for once: 'Tis both our young masters; 'tis Mr. William from Oxford, and Mr. Francis from London— [...]oth— [Page 77] both on um be comed to be present at the wedding, and a rare time we shall all on us have on't I warrant too."

"I am very glad, indeed," said Rosalie, re­lieved from a thousand apprehensions of she knew not what. "I thought my brother William would not be here till to-morrow; and as for Frank, I did not know he was expected." She then hastened into the house, and in meeting her brothers particularly the eldest, to whom she was much attached, the embarrassment of her manner was not remarked, nor was any enquiry made where she had been.

It was not till she retired to dress for dinner that she was at liberty to reflect on all that had passed with Montalbert. The promise she had given seemed to be a relief to her spirits, when she re­membered that it should make her consider herself as betrothed to the only man in the world whom she preferred to all others; that she had now the best reasons in the world to strengthen her resolu­tion, never to listen to Hughson; reasons, which if she dared plead them, her father himself could not disapprove. She ran over in her mind every look, every sentence of Montalbert, and sincerity and tenderness seemed to dwell upon his tongue. What but real affection could induce him to speak, to act as he had done? and what could be so for­tunate as her inspiring such a man with a passion such as he professed to feel for her? A conscious­ness of attractions, which till very lately she ne­ver suspected that she possessed, gave her a mo­mentary pleasure; but she felt that those attrac­tions [Page 78] would have been without value▪ had they not secured for her the heart of Montalbert.

Soon dressed for the day, she sat in the window of her bed chamber, pensively looking towards the quarter where Holmwood House was situated, though she could not distinguish it. "He is gone!" said she. "Already he is on his way to London; in a few days after he arrives there he will leave it—will leave England—the sea will be between us!" She took out the picture he had given her, and, for the third time since it had been in her possession, fixed her eyes earnestly upon it. The candour and integrity of the coun­tenance struck her particularly. "Never," sighed she, "can the heart that belongs to these features be otherwise than generous, tender, and sincere." She was thus feeding the infant passion which had taken entire possession of her mind, and was lost in thought, holding the picture still in her hand, when her elder brother opened the door. "Are you dressed Rosalie?" said he, "and may I come in?"—"O yes! yes! brother," answer­ed she, hurrying the picture into her pocket, "pray come in."

"I have a great deal to say to you, my dear Rose," said he. "Come, give me a place in the window by you. You are very much impro­ved, my love, since I saw you last; I don't won­der at the havoc you make; but my mother complains of you, Rose."

"On what account, my brother? I am sure I never intentionally offended my mother."

[Page 79]"But she tells me that you have now an op­portunity of marrying extremely well; but that from some unaccountable perverseness, or unrea­sonable prejudice, or perhaps," added he, fixing his eyes earnestly on hers, "perhaps through some unhappy predilection, you drive from you, with contempt and disdain, a man every way unexceptionable."

"You have seen him, brother," answered Ro­salie, "and can tell whether you think him all that my mother has represented."

"I have only seen him for a moment, and have hardly exchanged ten words with him. His person is neither good nor bad; but surely my sister has too much sense to refuse a man mere­ly because he is not an Adonis."

"But indeed, brother, it is not that. Mr. Hughson is a man, whom it is impossible I can ever like. He is silly, noisy, and conceited; a boaster, and a sort of man whom I know will displease you when you see more of him. I dare say his fortune is greater than I have a right to expect. But I never saw a man more likely to spend a fortune than he is; and I cannot thi [...] there is much worldly wisdom in marrying a man with whom I might enjoy a short affluence, that would only make me feel more severely the indi­gence he might reduce me to."

"All that is very well," said William Lessing­ton; "but tell me, Rosalie, what do you say as to this prepossession in favour of another, of which my mother accuses you?"

[Page 80]"I can say nothing," replied she, "because I —because I know that—indeed I do not know who she means."

"Is there no such predilection existing then, Rosalie?"

"Not for the person my mother thinks of," answered she, colouring still higher.

"You allow there is for some other then?"

"Not at all. I am sure I did not say any thing like that; but if there were, why, my dear brother, should it of necessity be in favour of a person who would disgrace my family?"

"There may be very improper attachments, Rosalie," replied he very gravely, "which may not be disgraceful in the usual acceptation of the word: As, for example, if a young woman should be flattered into a partiality for a boy of a different religion, and in whose power it could ne­ver be to [...]ulfil any promises which a childish passion might induce him to make." The coun­tenance of Rosalie changed to a deeper scarlet. "I see how it is, my sister," added he, "and [...]ill not distress you any farther; but I trust to [...]our own sweetness and candour to give me an op­portunity of discussing this matter when we are both more at leisure. . . . . . I believe dinner is now ready."

"Before you go, my dear William," cried Rosalie, recovering herself a little, "let me assure you, that my mother has no grounds whatever for her suspicions, but because Mr. Charles Vy­vian has appeared particularly pleased at our m [...]t­ing; and what was more natural? We [...]e [Page 81] brought up together from children. As to my­self, I certainly did the other night find more pleasure in talking to my old friend, whose mo­ther I love so much, and am so much obliged to, than in dancing with Hughson, who is the most disagreeable man in the world to me—perhaps I might be rude to him—I am afraid I was; but why would my mother compel me to dance with him?"

"And is that all, Rosalie?"

"That is all, upon my honour, replied she, in regard of Mr. Vyvian."

Young Lessington, who did not know Montal­bert even by name, appeared satisfied, and they went down together; when, from the beginning of the dinner, conversation, and quantity of wine which Hughson very soon swallowed Rosalie flat­tered herself that long before the [...] [...]he even­ing he would do or say someth [...] [...] would thoroughly disgust her elder bro [...], and, by convincing him that she was right in refusing him, procure for her a defence against the irksome im­portunity of his future addresses.

In this she was not mistaken. Before you [...] Lessington had been two hours in company with Hughson, he was compelled to own that Rosalie could not be blamed for having kept at a distance a man whose manners were so unpleasu [...]. The other brother, however, who had seen very dif­ferent company, and whose ideas had taken quite another turn, thought of him as he did of him­self, that he was "a cleve [...], sprightly, little fel­low."

[Page 82]Dinner was hardly over, and the bottle going as briskly about as it could do before the ladies retired, when Abraham came stumbling into the room, and muttered something which nobody un­derstood: and, before there was time for enqui­ry, Mr. Charles Vyvian and Mr. Montalbert en­tered, to the displeasure of some of the company, and to the astonishment of Rosalie, who, on meeting her brother's eyes, looked so confused, that all the suspicions Mrs. Lessington had hin [...]ed to him in the morning seemed to be confirmed. The reception they received was cold and formal, particularly from Mrs. Lessington, who gravely expressed her surprise, after what Mr. Vyvian had told her, at his making so long a stay in the country.

"Oh!" answered he, "I was so unwell yester­day, tha [...] [...] good old doctor would not hear of my sett [...] [...] to-day; and, as my mother thinks we are sti [...] upon the ramble, and will not be un­easy, I have persuaded my worthy old Abbé to say nothing about it: however, we intend to be [...]d boys, and to go off to-morrow; and, upon [...] honour," continued he, rising and taking her [...]ands, "my dear Mrs. Lessington, I only came to know if you could not give me some little com­mission to my mother, to put her in good humour with her truant boy. . . . . . . . Come—come—I know you will oblige me with a letter—or—you, Madam, perhaps," turning to one of the other sisters—"if not, I am sure Miss Rosalie will."

The repulsive gravity with which Mrs. Less­ington answered him, was but ill seconded by the [Page 83] increasing confusion of her daughter, who hesitat­ed, blushed, and stammered out a few incoherent words; symptoms which did not escape her bro­ther, who narrowly watched her, and who sailed not to impute it all to a very different motive from the real one.

Montalbert, in the mean time, was on thorns. Surrounded as she was, there was no possibility of speaking to her: and he could not bear to leave her without having fixed on some means by which they might hear from each other. He recollected that none of her family understood Italian: he looked round to see if it was likely any one in the room did, and being soon convinced he had no­thing to apprehend, unless it was from the Oxford man, and even with him he thought the chances were much in his favour, he told Rosalie, addres­sing her with great gravity, that sinc [...] [...] had the pleasure of seeing her, he had rec [...]cted the words of the Italian song she had mentioned, and that, if she would favour him with a [...]en and ink in the next room, he would write them out.

At this moment the mistress of the house, [...] ceiving a hint from her husband to depart, said as she rose from the table, "we will send you one down sir."—"O no!" replied he, "rather let me write it, dear Madam, in your apartment; and, Vyvian, as we must immediately return home, we will now wish Mr. Lessington and his friends good night." This short ceremony passed with great formality on all sides: and Vyvian and Mon­talbert followed the woman of the family into an­other room, the latter sat himself down with great [Page 84] solemnity to write out his song, which having done in the plainest Italian he could imagine, but written as if it was in measure, he gave it to Rosa­lie; and Vyvian, who had been talking earnestly to her the whole time, reluctantly took his leave also, and they both departed.

They were hardly out of the room before Mrs. Lessington, whose anger and suspicions were rous­ed anew, demanded to see the paper Montalbert had given her. Rosalie, not without fear and trembling, delivered it to her. She looked at it a moment; and believing from the manner in which it was written it was really a song, gave it her back again, not without evident marks of displeasure, and many hints of her resolution to inform Mrs. Vyvian where her son was, and of the impropriety of his conduct, if he did not leave th [...] [...]ntry the next day. Of all this, as Rosalie [...] not obliged to think it addressed to her, she took no notice.

The next day the wedding of her second sister and Mr. Blagham was celebrated. The party were more noisy and disagreeable than is even usual on such occasions. Hughson was the most drunk, and consequently the most impertinent; and never was an hour so welcome to Rosalie as that which took them all away, by the favour of a full moon, and left her alone with her mother.

Till now the tumult, with which she had been surrounded, had not allowed her a moment, ex­cept those allotted to repose, to indulge reflections on what had passed. The sullen calm that suc­ceeded was calculated to restore her dissipated [Page 85] and bewildered thoughts. Her mother, busied in arranging her house, left her to herself. Her father had accompanied the bride and bridegroom to their house, and was afterwards to go on a tour with them into the eastern part of the coun­ty. It was at once a matter of pleasure and sur­prise to Rosalie, that he had never once proposed her being of the party: and she remarked that he now appeared much less anxious than her mother to promote with her the suit of Mr. Hughson; it seemed as if he would have been as well contented that his daughter Maria should ensure this important conquest.

Mr. Lessington was one of those men who have just as much understanding as enables them to fill, with tolerable decency, their part on the theatre of the world. He loved the conveniences of life, and indulged rather too much in [...] pleasures of the table. His less fortunate acquaintances (a race of people to whom he was not particular­ly attached) knew that Mr. Lessington was not a man to whom the distressed could apply with [...]y hope of receiving any thing but good a [...] Those who were more fortunate had for the most part a very good opinion of Mr. Lessington. If he was exact and somewhat strict in exacting his dues, he was also very regular in the duties of his office; and if he did not feel much for the distresses of the poor, he never offended, as some country curates have done, the ears of the rich, by complaints which those who overlook the labourers in the vineyard are always so unwilling to hear. He had brought up a large family [Page 86] respectably: and every body concluded he had some private fortune, besides the two or three thousand pounds he was known to have received with his wife. He kept a post-chaise; not, in­deed, a very superb and fashionable equipage, but very well for that country. His cart horses drew it, but they were sleek and well trimmed: and Abraham trussed up in a tight blue jacket, and his broad cheeks set off by a jockey cap, made a very respectable appearance as conductor of a vehicle which gave no inconsiderable degree of consequence to its owners in a country thinly inhabited by gentlemen. Mr. Lessington was the most punctual man imaginable at all meetings of the clergy, where he did equal honour to the sublunary good things that were to be eaten, and the spiritual good things that were to be listened to. He [...] an high idea of his consequence in the church, and was a violent opposer of all inno­vations; against which he had drawn his pen with more internal satisfaction to himself than with visi­ble profit to his bookseller; his works, though he [...] them with extreme complacency, having, through want of orthodox taste in the modern world, the misfortune to be, according to a term most painful to the ears of an author, shelfed.

This, however, affected Mr. Lessington less than it would have done many authors: for he wrote less for literary fame, or literary profit, than to recommend himself to certain persons who so greatly dreaded any of those impertinent people that dare to think some odd old customs might be altered a little for the better▪ [...] no­thing [Page 87] would, he knew, be so effectual a recom­mendation to the favour of these dignitaries as zeal, in [...]p [...]en with rushes the gaps threat­ened by such innovators, even before they were visible to any but the jealous eyes that saw, or fancied they saw, the whole sence levelled. The prosperity of his family might be considered as being in some degree the effect of his thus keep­ing always on the right side; for he was reckoneded a rising man, and one who would at no very remote period be promoted to higher dignities. Mr. Blagham had not been entirely without con­siderations of this sort, when he married a wife with no other portion than her wedding clothes. But Mr. Lessington had promised her something handsome at his death: and there was no doubt in the mind of the lawyer of his ability to fulfil his promise.

Mrs. Lessington and Rosalie had now been at home alone three days. The former had settled her house, and was quietly enjoying the order she had restored after all the bustle they had lately been in; while Rosalie, with mingled emo [...]ons of fear, anxiety, and doubt, waited for intelli­gence from Montalbert.

It was in the evening of the third day, that as she was walking in a sort of court, that was before the house next a road, an horseman stopped, and inquired if this was not the parsonage? On Rosa­lie's answering in the affirmative, he produced a letter, which he said he had been sent with from Lewes.

[Page 88]The predominant idea in the head of Rosalie being Montalbert, she trembled like a leaf when the man gave her the letter, and, without consi­dering whether it was likely her lover should send it thus openly, or how it should come from Lewes, she hastened breathless into the house to obtain a light to read it by, for it was now nearly dark. In her way to the kitchen, she was met by her mother, who, seeing her extreme agita­tion, and a letter in her hand, for she had not had presence of mind to conceal it, immediately fan­cied it came from Charles Vyvian, who was always haunting her imagination. In this persuasion she took it from her daughter; and carrying it immediately to a candle, found—not a billet- [...]eaux to Rosalie, but intelligence of a ve­ry different nature—it was a letter from Mr. Blagham, informing her, after a short preface, that Mr. Lessington died that morning in an apo­plectic [...]it.

Though nothing was more likely than such an event, from the form and manner of life of her husband, it had never once occurred to her as possible. The shock, therefore, was great; and the widow's grief not a little increased by the re­flection, that their income arising from church preferment was at an end.

Rosalie felt as she ought on the loss of a parent. But as it was more to the purpose to endeavour to assuage her mother's sorrow than to indulge her own, she gave her whole attention to that pur­pose. Mrs. Lessington was too reasonable to be a very inconsolable widow; and in a [...] hours [Page 89] was in a condition to consider what ought to be done, which Rosalie set about executing, by writing to Mr. Blagham, and giving such orders as her mother thought necessary.

CHAP. VII.

IT is not necessary to relate all that passed in the Lessington family, till the period when all its members were assembled to hear the will read. It was then found that he had given his widow, for her life, a third of all he possessed, which amounted in the whole to about eight thousand pounds, and divided the rest among his children, to each of whom he allotted a certain portion to be paid at a certain time, except to Rosalie, whose name was not even mentioned in the will.

All expressed their surprise at this except Mrs. Lessington, who said nothing in answer to their exclamations of wonder. Rosalie, indifferent as to fortune, of which she knew not the want or the v [...] [...]as no otherwise grieved at this strange [Page 90] omission, than as it proved her father's total want of affection for her—a conviction that cost her many tears; nor were those tears tried by the re­mark she made on the behaviour of her sisters and her younger brother, who all seemed pleased, though they affected concern. The behaviour of her elder brother, however, would have given her comfort, could she have conquered the pain­ful idea, that her father had thrown her off as a stranger to his blood. As soon as the funeral was over, her brother William took occasion to talk to her alone. "Be not so dejected, my dear Rosalie," said he; "unpromising as your pro­spects appear, you have at least the consolation of knowing that you have always a friend in me, who will never forsake you."

"You are too good, dearest William," replied the weeping mourner; "but do not imagine that it is the want of a share of my father's little pro­perty that grieves me—no; if he had but named me with kindness, I should not have been so un­happy. But when I think that he must certainly have died in anger with me, and that either from my seeming to refuse Mr. Hughson, or some other cause, he was irritated against me."

"If you reflect a moment, my sweet sister, on the date of the will, you will see that this could not be. The will is dated above three years since, when the very existence of such a man as Hughson was unknown to him, when you were only between fourteen and fifteen years of age, when you had been more with Mrs. Vyvian than at home, and when it was every way impossible [Page 91] that you could have given him the least offence. I rather think that this strange circumstance arose from the opinion he entertained, that Mrs. Vyvi­an would provide for you."

"How could my father think that," said Rosa­lie, "when he must have known that Mrs. Vyvi­an, notwithstanding the large fortune she brought, has not even the power to hire or discharge a ser­vant, and is hardly allowed enough yearly to ap­pear as her rank requires, least, as her cross tyrant of an husband says, she should squander his for­tune on begging friars and mummers of her own religion? She had, indeed, a settlement of her own: but I heard him reproach her with having disposed of it in some such way: but, however that may be, my father must have known that it was not in her power to do any thing for me. Of late, too, he must have thought that it was not her wish, for she has appeared almost entirely to have forgotten me."

"There is, however, no other way of account­ing for the circumstance: and the more I reflect on it, the more I am persuaded that this is the truth."

Rosalie, though far from being convinced by the reasoning of her brother, was consoled by his tenderness, and by degrees regained her serenity, which was, however, again disturbed by a letter from Montalbert, in which he renewed all the professions he had made on their parting; told her [...] continued to postpone his journey to Ital [...] for some time longer, and had done so only in [...] of seeing her again.

[Page 92]He did not seem to have heard of her father's death. She knew that her being left destitute of fortune would make no alteration whatever in his affection. The little she would in any case have possessed could never indeed have been any object to him, even if fortune had ever once been in his thoughts. She wrote to him, therefore, of what had happened; and without affecting to deny the partiality she felt for him, and lamenting the little probability of their meeting properly, submitted it to him, whether it would not be more prudent to forbear meeting at all till there was less danger of offending her mother. She told him, that of the future destination of the family she knew no­thing: but that, from what she could learn, her mother had some thoughts of taking a small house in or near London, when the period arrived, in which she must quit their present habitation.

Rosalie now found herself for a while relieved from the irksome importunities of Hughson, who was obliged to be absent. Her mother too seemed to have relaxed a good deal in the earnestness she had formerly shewn on this subject: and had not her extreme uncertainty, in regard to Montalbert been a constant source of anxiety, she would at this period have tasted of more tranquillity than had long fallen to her share.

Sometimes when her brother William, who continued at home, was either instructing her as the kindest tutor, or amusing her as the tenderest friend, her heart reproached her for [...] [...]ceri­ty towards such a brother, and [...] half tempted to relate to him her e [...] [...] [Page 93] Montalbert. But when she had nearly argue [...] herself into a resolution of doing this, her natural timidity checked her. She recollected how ma­terial it was to her lover, that their engagements should remain a secret: and she was besides de­terred by the fear that her brother would, from education and principle, in all probability, stren­uously oppose her becoming the wife of a Catho­lic.

But naturally ingenious and candid, it was impossible for her so well to dissimulate, but that Mr. Lessington saw there was something more on her mind than she ever ventured to express. The impression that his mother had given him of some attachment between her and young Vyvian fre­quently returned to his recollection; though he thought it could be only a childish passion on the part of Vyvian, who could think no more of it after he left England, he dreaded least the spirits and health of Rosalie might suffer, as he had seen so often happen to young women, who had been incautiously led to listen to vows and promises that were meant by the men that made them only as the amusement of an idle hour.

In his frequent conversations with his sister, therefore, and intermingled with the lessons he sometimes gave her, he found opportunities con­tinually to hint at the weakness and danger of attending to such sort of professions; while, at other times, he took notice, how generally un­fortunate mar [...]ages turned out to be, where the pa [...] were of different religons, giving Mr. and [...] as an example immediately within [Page 94] their own knowledge. On these occasions, he fixed his eyes on those of Rosalie: and, sure that he meant more than he expressed, her counte­nance betrayed her consciousness; for whatever her brother said, when he remotely alluded to Vyvian, was equally applicable to Montalbert: and whatever resolutions she sometimes made, when she was alone, to avow ingenuously the truth, these hints entirely deprived her of the courage she had been thus trying to obtain.

Montalbert, who, by means of a servant at Holmwood House, on whose fidelity he could depend, continued to write to her and receive her letters, became now impatient to learn where was to be her future residence. As this seemed still uncertain, he implored leave to come down incog. to the neighbourhood of Holmwood; than which, he said, nothing was more easy, as he could be concealed in the house of a farmer, a tenant of Mr. Vyvian's, who, being a Catholic, was entirely devoted to his service, and of an integrity on which he could rely. Rosalie, how­ever, extremely alarmed at such a proposal, urg­ed so many reasons why it should not be executed, and assured him it would make her so extremely miserable, that he, for that time, consented to relinquish it, which was done with less reluctance, when she informed him, that within a few days her mother had talked in more positive terms of their immediate removal to London, or to its neighbourhood; that her broth [...] was [...]e to look for a house for them: and she [...] extremely probable, from the im [...] [...] [...] ther [Page 95] expressed, that they should there begin the new year. Rosalie was at a loss to comprehend by what means Montalbert prolonged his stay in England so much beyond the time, when he told her, his mother expected his return to Naples, where she generally resided. This surprised her still more, when she found by part of a letter from Mrs. Vyvian, which Mrs. Lessington read to her, that Charles Vyvian was already gone. The sentences of the letter which her mother chose to communicate ran thus:—

"I have determined, in order to be near Dr. W—, without residing immediately in London, to take an house at Hampstead, and my uphol­sterer informs me he has found one that answers my description. Mr. Vyvian has, in his cold way, assented to my engaging it, taking care, however, to let me understand, at the same time, that he thought my not being well or able to live in London was a mere whim, and that the air of Hampstead was not at all better than at his house in Park Lane, or even so good. Till now I did not know that he had taken an house in Park Lane, instead of that in Brook Street; but, alas! my dear old friend, there are many other reasons, besides the difference of the air, that will make me adhere to my intention of going to Hampstead. It is an unpleasant circumstance surely to be a cypher in one's own house, and such I am be­come; now that my son, my dear Charles, is gone, I feel that there is nobody here that is at all at [...]tive to me. The Miss Vyvians, young [...] are introduced into the world by [Page 96] their father, or their father's friends. The coun­tenance of a mother seems not necessary to them. They are formed, I believe, with spirits to en­joy all the pleasures of a gay life; and seem to fear, from me, that interruption which certainly is not my intention to give them. The oldest, though not yet sixteen, her father thinks of mar­rying to a man of high rank, with whom she got acquainted while she was with her father's sister in Yorkshire. He has not, however, the title to which he is to succeed; but his uncle, whose heir he is, being old and without children, and having some political connection, I know not what, with Mr. Vyvian, it is by them that this union is proposed: while the mother of the young man, who has an immense fortune in her own disposal, has hitherto shewn a disinclination to the match, in the persuasion that my daughter is still a Catholic. I have learned these particu­lars from persons who are in their confidence, which I am not, and I easily comprehend that this intended connection adds a strong reason to [...] others why the father and the daughter would be quite as well pleased if we saw no more of each other, during the winter, than we have done for these two last summers. Do not, how­ever, grieve for me, my dear Catharine. You know my sufferings, and you know how I am enabled to bear them. From Mr. Vyvian why should I expect kindness? I am thankful that my lot is not yet more bitter than it is. It [...]uld be a great pleasure to me, should your affa [...] [...] you to settle in the neighbourhoo [...] [...] [Page 97] determined, for the present, to fix my residence. I am, as you well know, no great judge of such matters. But, I believe, from all the inquiries I have been able to make, that you would not, in point of oeconomy, find the difference so great between living near London and in a country town as you may perhaps imagine; at least not to a family, which would not, I imagine, enter much into the card playing societies of the village, but would live a good deal retired, though, con­sidering your two unmarried daughters, you could not, perhaps, be quite such a recluse as I shall be, who, except my nephew Montalbert, whose stay, however, in England will not be long, shall probably live for weeks together wi [...] out seeing any body but my confessor▪"

"The rest of the letter," said Mrs. Lessing­ton, as she put it into her pocket, "is of condo­lence, and so forth, on Mr. Lessington's death."

"And is there no other mention of me in it?" said Rosalie.

"No, not any other," answered her mother coldly; "but what, does that make you sigh?"

"Indeed it does, Ma'am," answered she; "for how can I help lamenting that Mrs. Vyvian, who used to love me so, seems, and indeed has lon [...] seemed, entirely to forget me."

"O, when she sees you again, she will recol­lect her former partiality for you. You know that my friend is so wrapped up in a particular set of notions, and such an enthusiast in her religion, that she thinks [...] a very wrong thing to be much [...] any body; and endeavours to wea [...] [Page 98] herself from all affections that may prevent her giving up her whole heart to God. And really, considering the way in which her family treat her, I really think it is extremely fortunate that her tender heart and weak spirits have taken that turn; otherwise, to be treated, poor dear woman, as she is, to have such a husband, and such children, would certainly break her heart."

"Though her daughters," said Rosalie grave­ly, "are certainly very unlike what she could wish them, I believe her son is dutiful and af­fectionate—I never saw any thing wrong in him."

"You never saw," repeated her mother—"I dare say. It is very becoming in you, to be sure, Rosalie, to enter on his defence. I wish I may be mistaken; but I am much afraid that her son will no more contribute to her happiness than her daughters. However, the boy is gone now, thank God, and at least will not give her the sort of uneasiness she would have felt, could she have known of his behaviour while he was here."

"What behaviour, dear Madam?" said Rosa­lie, who wished to know the extent of her mo­ther's suspicions.

"What behaviour! why, did he not talk a great deal of nonsense to you?—Did he not pre­tend to make love to you?"

"No, upon my word," answered she; he said a great many civil things, and foolish things, if you please to call them so, but nothing that was at all like making love to me."

Mrs. Lessington then put an end to the [...]er­sation, by saying, that as he was [...]ow [...] [Page 99] for some years, it did not much signify what boy­ish nonsense he had talked, since it had gone no further: And Rosalie left her, well pleased to find, from what she had said, that her intention of removing her family to Hampstead was confirmed by this letter from her old friend, and that she meant almost immediately to put it in execution.

In a fortnight afterwards, all their arrange­ments being made, they departed for ever from a part of the country where Mrs. Lessington had resided above seven and twenty years, or rather from her native country, for she was born not far from Holmwood House. She left it, however, with much less regret than people usually feel on quitting a spot to which they have long been habituated. Miss Maria—or, to speak more properly, Miss Lessington, for she was now the eldest unmarried sister, was pleased with a change which offered her a prospect of seeing London where she had never been for more than two or three days.

The Abbe Hayward, dismissed by Mr. Vyvi­an from Holmwood, had now left that venerable edifice to servants. The way of the Lessingt [...] family to the next post-town lay through the par [...] As Rosalie passed this scene of her former hap [...] ness, a thousand mournful thoughts crowded [...] her recollection, but she consoled herself with the thoughts of being soon near Mrs. Vyvian, and that she was going where, since Charles Vyvian would no longer be there to alarm the vigilance of [...] her, she hoped to be allowed the inno­ [...] [...] of conve [...]ing with Montalbert, [Page 100] without the necessity of contrivances that she felt to be unworthy of both.

CHAP. VIII.

MRS. Vyvian arrived at the house she had taken at Hampstead a few days after the family of Mrs. Lessington had become inhabitants of that village. The description of the first meeting be­tween her and her old friend may be given best in Rosalie's own words to Montalbert; who, it was agreed, should not appear immediately on their arrival. "At length I have seen her, my [...]iend—this dear Mrs. Vyvian—so nearly related to you, and therefore dear to me—the first and [...]st friend of my childhood; for I never recol­lect having received so many proofs of affection from my mother as from her. . . . . . Ah! Mon­talbert, how is she changed since I saw her last; yet it is but a little while, not yet two years; but trouble, as she said with a melancholy yet sweet smile, makes greater [...]avoc in the co [...] than time. I do not know, Monta [...] [...] [Page 101] it is her being so nearly related to you, or the memory of her past kindness, or both, but to me there is an attraction about Mrs. Vyvian that I never was conscious of in any other person. The eminent beauty she once possessed is gone, and its ruins only remain: but the delicacy, the faded loveliness of her whole form, is, perhaps, more interesting than the most animated bloom of youth and health. She had not spirits for the first two days after her arrival to receive us all. My mo­ther only was admitted to see her. Yesterday however, my sister and I were allowed to attend her at an early hour of the afternoon. Maria was going to the play with a family who live here, who are distantly related to the husband of one of my sisters, and who imagained, and per­haps not without reason, that to make parties for us to visit public places is the first kindness they can shew to some of the family. Only Maria, however, accepted this invitation: for I had hopes of passing the evening with Mrs. Vyvian: a pleasure I would not have exchanged for the most brilliant spectacle that London offers.

"How can Mr. Vyvian treat this charming woman with coldness, even with cruel [...] [...] am afraid he does, though my mother [...] never complains?—How is it possible [...] daughters can neglect her?—Were I her d [...] ­ter, I think it would be the greatest happiness [...] my life to watch her very wishes before she could express them, and to relieve that languor which always seems to hang ove [...] [...] spirits, and cloud [...] [...]ancy of an understanding naturally so [Page 102] good. But I have heard, Montalbert, she was compelled to resign the man to whom she was attached, and to marry Mr. Vyvian, who, though he knew her reluctance, was determined [...]o per­severe. Strange that there can be found a human being so selfish as to act thus, and then treat with cruelty the victim whom he has forced into his power. I hope I shall never again see this man; for I feel such an antipathy to him that it would really be painful to me. As to the young ladies, I find they are frequently to visit their mother: but I shall avoid them as much as possible; for they are so much changed since we played together as children of the same family, that there is no longer any affection probably between us—I shall be despised as the daughter of a country curate; and though, I hope, I am not proud, I do not love to be despised. . . . . . Ah! Montalbert, it is your partiality that has, perhaps, taught me to feel this sensation more than I ought to do. The little rustic thinks that she is preferred by Montalbert, and forgets her humility.

"I thank you, most sincerely thank you, for your forbearance. Believe me, a little self-deni­ [...] [...] will greatly accellerate the security with [...] [...]e may see each other hereafter. My [...] has so little idea of your having any par­ [...]y for me, that she seems quite easy now [...]les Vyvian is gone; and, except that she [...]till thinks I have done extremely wrong in refu­sing to encourage the addresses of Hughson, she seldom dwells on what is passed. From present appearances, my dear friend, it seems [...] if [...] [Page 103] should be fortunate enough to pass a few tranquil and pleasant hours in the society of each other before you go to Italy. Alas! they will be but transient; for yesterday, Mrs. Vyvian, in speak­ing of my drawing, and recommending to my mother to procure me a good master, she said, 'When my nephew, Montalbert, goes back, as he must now do very soon, since I find his mo­ther is become very impatient at his long stay, he shall send over some chalks and crayons, for Ro­salie, much better than can be found in London.' —If either of them had looked at me, at that mo­ment, they would have remarked, that I did not hear with indifference the name of Montalbert, but fortunately I escaped observation, and soon recovered myself.

"It is long, very long, since any circumstance has given me such pleasure as being restored to my beloved benefactress; yet she says little to me. She makes no professions of that kindness towards me, which, I believe, has not been les­sened even by our long separation; but there is an affection in her manner which I cannot de­scribe. She is civiller to my sister than to me. But she addresses her as Miss Lessington▪ while she calls me Rosalie. I recollect that [...] name, and it seems in her mouth to have [...] charms.

"I have passed, perhaps, too much ti [...] [...]ce I left her in reflecting how happy I might be, could I be related to this dear woman without op­position from the more near relations of Montal­bert. You have often told me, that you love [Page 104] her as a mother, though only the half sister of your father. The sweetness of her manners, even that weak health, and that air of pensive sorrow, which her own children, at least her daughters, seem to consider as the effect of bigo­try or unsociable humour, make her to me an ob­ject of tenderer attention. O Montalbert! what delight it would be to me to soothe the hours which are embittered by matrimonial discord, and, I fear, by filial neglect.

"Yet, while I think thus, perhaps I am con­tinuing a correspondence with you, that may be displeasing to her, that may add to her solicitude, and deprive her of the satisfaction of seeing her nephew married to a woman of equal rank and of his own church. This reflection is extremely bitter to me: and it occurs the oftener, because I see with what alarm she thinks of her son's making any other alliance than what his father would chuse for him; though it is very certain that ambition only will govern him, and that, in regard to religion, she cannot, if Mr. Vyvian dictates, be gratified.

"I shall hardly hear from you, Montalbert, [...]ain▪ before you will be here. As I now expect [...] I [...]all not, I think, betray myself when we [...] Till then, my dear friend, farewell!"

That she was totally destitute of fortune gave not a moment's concern to Rosalie. Dependent wholly on her mother, and likely, in case of her death, to be left wholly destitute on the world, since the share she had of Mr. Lessington's fortune was to go to her other children at her decease, [...] [Page 105] felt not the least uneasiness as to pecuniary circum­stances. But, with the easy faith of youth, trust­ed that the attachment of her lover would save her from every distress, and that before she should be deprived of her surviving parent, whose life was apparently a very good one, she should be the wife of Montalbert.

He now saw her almost every day; for as he had always been very attentive to Mrs. Vyvian, there was nothing remarkable in his frequent visits to her; nor was it strange that he should renew his slight acquaintance with her friends.

Miss Lessington, whose acquaintance increased every day, had continual invitations to stay at the houses of some of them for several nights together. Rosalie failed not sometimes to receive the same kind of compliments: but she generally declined them, saying, that she could not leave her mo­ther alone. But, in fact, she had no wish to mix in those societies, or to enter into those public amusements, which gave so much pleasure to her sister. And Maria, apprehensive of the superior elegance of Rosalie, shewed a visible disinclination to her joining these parties, and gradually discouraged her friends from giving these invita [...] by observing, that [...]r sister was of a very r [...] ed turn; that she had formed connections in a very different sphere of life from the rest of her family; and that it was merely giving her the trouble to find excuses, to invite her to scenes or society for which she had a decided repugnance.

In a very short time, therefore, the attornies' and brokers' wives, to whom Mr. Blagham had [Page 106] introduced the family, forebore to attempt engag­ing a young woman, who, they imagined, gave herself airs, & was extremely proud & reserved. Miss Lessington was left in undisturbed possession of all the admiration the set of men that belonged to these "worshipful societies" had to bestow, and Rosalie at liberty to pass her time in company much more agreeable to her.

Her mother, less refined, and loving cards ra­ther too much, was not equally difficult as to her companions; though she had really as much af­fection for Mrs. Vyvian as she was capable of feel­ing for any body, she could not help being some­times sensible of a want of variety. Her friend's piety and estrangement from the world made her, as good Mrs. Lessington sometimes thought, ra­ther respectable than amusing: and instead of such long visits from her confessor, Mrs. Lessing­ton secretly wished for another, that they might make up a rubber. Insensibly she became ac­quainted with some "mighty agreeable people" in the village, who never played high, but were happy to make a little snug party just to pass away the long evenings. One of these pa [...]ties [...]duced a second, a second a third, till Mrs. [...]ngton could hardly spa [...] one day in a week to pass with her friend Mrs. Vyvian, who, when Rosalie was with her, seemed, however, to be scarcely sensible of the absence of her mother.

But from that unfortunate prepossession receiv­ed early in life, that to deny herself the most in­nocent gratifications were sacrifices acceptable to Heaven, Mrs. Vyvian frequently abstained from [Page 107] indulging herself with the cheerful conversation of Rosalie, who then, as her mother was so fre­quently out, and now went occasionally to Lon­don for two or three days among her own and her eldest daughter's friends, [...] left at home, and the visits of Montalbert were uninterrupted, [...] without [...]quiry. To be continually in presence of a beloved object, to see or suppose that his attachment every moment becomes stronger, to listen to arguments to which the heart yields but too ready an assent, was a situation of all others the most dangerous for a young woman who had not seen her nineteenth year. Montalbert, besides the advantages of a very handsome person, had the most insinuating manners and the most in­teresting address. He was naturally eloquent— love rendered his eloquence doubly formidable; and Rosalie had nothing to oppose to his earnest entreaties for a secret marriage, but the arms with which he had himself furnished her—the fear of a discovery on the part of his mother, which he owned would injure, indeed ruin, his future prospects in life. This he still acknow­ledged, but averred that it was impossibl [...] his mo­ther, who resided at Naples, should know that he was married in England. Rosalie repr [...]ent [...] that if Mrs. Vyvian knew it, it must inevitably be known to her. Montalbert insisted that there was no necessity of Mrs. Vyvian's knowing any thing about it. Rosalie entreated that he would first go to Italy, without risking the displeasure of a parent on whom he depended. [...]ntalbert declared, he should be wretched to leave her; [Page 108] that he did not know how to acquire resolution enough to absent himself, leaving her, perhaps, exposed to the persecution of other lovers, which it distracted him only to think of, while he would pass the miserable [...]ours in which he should be absent from her, in anxiety, in torture, which, if she was once securely his, would be infinitely less insupportable.

But notwithstanding the frequent opportunities they now had of meeting, and even of passing whole hours alone together, how was it possible that a private marriage could be effected?—Ro­salie knew that to escape to Scotland, and return without being missed, and without avowedly elop­ing, was impossible. Montalbert allowed it to be so, but he had another expedient ready—they might be married by a Catholic priest. Rosalie had heard but in a vague way, that such mar­riages were not valid: but Montalbert reasoned her out of this persuasion. "Admitting," said he, "my dearest love, that it were as you have heard, would not such a marriage be binding to me? Might it not at any time be renewed accord­ing to the laws of any country where we may reside, "when I shall be wholly at liberty? and is it ma [...]al to you what restrictions are laid upon such marriages in England, if your husband looks upon other laws binding to him?—Even if we were to have the ceremony performed in your church, I should think it necessary to have it gone over a second time by a priest of ours." By such arguments he sometimes shook the wavering resolution of Rosalie, who, except the [Page 109] single circumstance of his mother's known aver­sion to his marrying an English protestant which her reason told her was unjust and unreasonable▪ saw nothing that ought to prevent her giving her person where she had already given her heart. In point of family and fortune, Montalbert was infinitely her superior. Her mother, therefore, however she might reproach her with having married clandestinely, could not accuse her with having debased herself▪ or degraded her family. She had no other person to whom she was account­able, unless it was her elder brother, whom she loved too much to be quite easy as to his senti­ments: but, on the other hand, it was in [...]le h [...] could make any objection, unless it [...] difference of religion. Yet she dared not ven­ture to tell him, lest that single circumstance should appear to him of consequence enough to prevent entirely a union otherwise so desirable.

Every opportunity that occurred, Montalbert pressed his suit with redoubled ardour. He urg­ed, with all the vehemence of passion, the neces­sity of his immediate return to Italy, as he had already on various pretences, prolonged his stay two months beyond the time he intended.—There was now danger that his mother might suspect that some of those connections, she was so averse to, were the occasion of his prolonged absence, and might engage some of her friends in England in an inquiry that would be the cause of discover­ing what nobody now seemed to suspect. This and numberless other reasons Montalbert always had ready to offer, why there was no time to [Page 110] deliberate. He had already conquered one ob­stacle—the difficulty of finding a Catholic priest who would venture to perform the ceremony.

Besides the consequence, both in England and in Italy, of his family and his connections, the ease with which a dispensation might be obtained whenever his mother withdrew her opposition, and the pecuniary advantage Montalbert pro­mised, the priest, with whom he had at length succeeded, knew that Rosalie was the daughter of of a country clergyman▪ and had no relations who were at all likely to be displeased at her marry­ing a man so greatly her superior, and of course not likely to proceed against one who had com­m [...] a breach of law so much to their advant­age. He rather wished to detach Montalbert from his pursuit, by representing the great dis­tance between him and Rosalie in temporal con­cerns, as well as the difference in spiritual affairs, which appeared to him so momentous. Finding it, however, very bootless to argue with a man of three and twenty, madly in love, he consent­ed to do as Montalbert required, and reconciled his conscience by that accommodating reflection at hand on so many occasions, "If I do not do it some other will." He stipulated with Montal­bert, however, that if there should be any pro­bability of his incurring the heavy penalty for marrying a minor, that he should be immediately sent to Rome at the expence of Montalbert; an expedient which Montalbert immediately agreed to, as indeed he would have done to any demands the father thought proper to have made, however unreasonable they might have been.

[Page 111]The longer Rosalie reflected on the proposals of her lover, the fainter became her opposition; yet still conscious that it could not be right to dis­pose of herself without the consent of her mother and her brother, she more than once intreated Montalbert to allow her to consult them. But he heard this request always with impatience, de­claring, that if she determined to tear herself from him, to abandon him to all the horrors of that despair which her loss would inflict, she could find no way more certain than what sh [...] proposed. His vehemence, and the convict [...] of his sincerity, which that vehemence brought with it, once more conquered her scruples. Montalbert extorted once more a reluctant and trembling acquiescence, and then eagerly insist­ing on finding some immediate opportunity for them to meet, where the priest might attend. Rosalie, terrified at the step she was about to take, again recoiled, and intreated to be released from her inconsiderate promise.

Though the attachment between these young people seemed not even to be suspected either by Mrs. Vyvian or Mrs. Lessington, yet the conflict in the mind of Rosalie had such an effect on her frame, that the former one day observed it to her as they were sitting together alone. "Sure­ly, my dear," said she, laying down her work, and looking very earnestly at Rosalie, "surely you are not well."

"Dear Ma'am," [...]wered Rosalie, "why do you suppose so?"

[Page 112]"You are pale," said Mrs. Vyvian; "your eyes are heavy and languid, I am afraid, my love, . . . . . . . . . . . . . ." She hesitated: and the conscience of Rosalie at that moment accusing her, a faint blush overspread her countenance as she eagerly cried, "Afraid my dear Madam, of what?"

"Nay, of nothing, Rosalie, that need alarm you. I will tell you my fears—either you have some affection that makes you uneasy; or the al­most total seclusion in which you live is too much for your spirits."

"Indeed, Madam, my spirits would very ill bear the dissipation in which my sister lives. The seclusion that gives me an opportunity of pas­sing some of my hours with you, is the greatest gratification I can enjoy."

"But to the other article, Rosalie, what do you say?"

"To what article, Madam?"

"Oh! you have forgotten already—to what I told you I feared as one cause of the alteration I have observed."

"Indeed, my dear Mrs. Vyvian, I am sensible of no alteration. You know how few people I see, and that with fewer still I have much acquaint­ance, or wish it."

Mrs. Vyvian shook her head with an air of in­credulity and, as Rosalie fancied, of concern; but she suffered the discourse to drop; and Rosa­lie left her, trembling lest the truth was suspected, and dreading, yet feeling it necessary, to give an account of this dialogue to Montalbert.

CHAP. IX.

WHAT had passed the preceding evening be­tween Mrs. Vyvian and Rosalie was no sooner re­peated to Montalbert, than it served as an additi­onal argument to enforce the consent he had been so long soliciting. Montalbert was of a warm and impetuous temper. Though he had never yet been emancipated from the government of an high-spirited and imperious mother, he was not the less bent on pleasing himself, than are those who have never been contradicted. It seemed, indeed, as if the severe restraint he had so long habitually been under, disposed him to be more earnest in a circumstance on which the whole happiness of his life depended: and when Rosalie asked him how he could hope ever to reconcile his mother to a marriage, to which he hi [...] owned she would have unconquerable objectio [...] he inquired, in his turn, what amends she co [...] make him for opposing the only connection which could make him happy, only from prejudice and difference of opinion in matters wherein he could not think as she did, and wherein he thought it unreasonable that her prepossessions should inter­fere [Page 114] with his choice. "I will certainly not make my mother uneasy." said he. "I will so far pay a compliment to her unfortunate prejudices, as to conceal from her what would make her so. But to relinquish the only woman I could ever love, is surely a greater sacrifice than she ought to demand of me. If, indeed, I were about to disgrace her, Rosalie, by uniting myself with a woman without reputation, or of a very mean and unworthy origin, I should feel that I ought not to be forgiven. But why, because our modes of worshipping God are different—why, because my mother was born in Italy, and you in England, should an imaginary barrier be raised, which must shut me out from happiness for ever? What has reason and common sense to do with all this?"—Rosalie was compelled to acknowledge that it had very little. Still, however, the idea of a clandestine marriage shocked her. She soli­cited most earnestly that her mother might be made acquainted with it. This he strenuously opposed; representing, that if Mrs. Lessington knew it, it would not be a secret from Mrs. Vyvi­an, "Who, however, she may love you," said he [...] "would make it a point of conscience to pre­vent my marrying a Protestant, and ruining my­self, as she would conclude I should, in the affec­tions of my mother for ever. You know, Rosa­lie, how much I love my aunt. There is a pen­sive resignation to a very unhappy fate, a sort of acquiescence, which arises not from want of sen­sibility, but from the patience and self-govern­ment she has learned, that render her to me in­finitely [Page 115] interesting, while her kindness and affec­tion to me demand all my gratitude. But with great virtues, and I know hardly any one who has so many, she is not without prejudices, which greatly add to her own unhappiness. It is unne­cessary to point out to you what these are; nor need I tell you, Rosalie, that they are exactly such as would induce her to think it her indispen­sible duty to inform my mother of our attachment. Then all the evils, I apprehend, would follow. I must either hazard offending her beyond all hope of forgiveness, or I must lose you for ever." —Let no fastidious critic, on the characters of a noval, declaim against the heroine of this, as be­ing too forward or too imprudent. There are only two ways of drawing such characters: they must either be represented as— ‘"Such faultless monsters as the world never saw"—’ Or with the faults and imperfections which occur in real life. Of these, many are such as would were they described as existing in a character fo [...] which the reader is to be interested, entirely de [...] troy that interest. There are other [...] which, in an imaginary heroine, we may at once blame and pity, without finding the interest we take in her story weakened. This is the senti­ [...]t that Rolalie may excite, who being tender­ly attached to a man, not only amiable in his per­son, but of the most insinuating manners, believ­ing his [...]larations of love and persuaded that [Page 116] her friends could not disapprove of the step he so earnestly urged her to take; searing, on the o­ther hand, to lose him; that he would be con­vinced he was indifferent to her, would return to Italy, and make an effort to forget her; found her objections giving way before so many motives, and at length, though with trembling reluctance, agreed to the expedient Montalbert proposed—of their being married by the priest whom he had engaged for that purpose. Rosalie neither knew the danger this man incurred, nor that her marriage would not be binding. She knew, however enough, from such information as she had casually picked up, to express her doubts to Montalbert as to its legality, who found the means of satisfying her scruples. "It is binding to [...]e." said he, "since the ceremony is performed after the laws of our own church; and where then, my Rosalie, can be the foundation of your doubts:—In a few, a very few days after that fortunate hour, which shall give me a right to call you mine, I must leave you. But I shall know myself to be your husband; I shall feel no disquiet, lest the persua­ [...]ion of your family, or any other circumstance, should throw you into the arms of another, and [...] hope of returning soon to England to claim you for my wife, will give me patience not only to endure this enforced absence, but will animate me to those exertions that may shorten its durati­on."—The calmer reason of Rosalie some [...] told her, that there was much of sophistry in [...] ­ny of these arguments; but what [...] woman of her age listens long to reason, in [...]tion to [Page 117] the pleadings of the man she loves?—Montalbert was equally passionate and persevering▪ he had some plausible manner of obviating every appre­hension, and it now only remained to be consider­ed, how the marriage ceremony might pass with most secrecy.

Though Montalbert had not seemed to make more frequent visits than usual at the house of Mrs. Vyvian, nor to appear oftner at Hampstead, he had in reality hardly ever quitted it since Mrs. Vyvian had settled there; but had taken an ob­scure lodging in the lower part of the village, where he was sure he should not be known: and this gave him an opportunity of remaining later either with his aunt, when Rosalie happened to be there, or at the house of Mrs. Lessington, who was now more frequently than ever in London. Then it was that Rosalie passed the evenings en­tirely with Mrs. Vyvian, and nothing was so na­tural as that Montalbert, when he happened to be there, should attend her home, to which Mrs. Vyvian never seemed to make any objections on Rosalie's account, [...]h she often expressed h [...] apprehensions [...] [...]nger he incurred in retur [...] ing so late to [...].

It was strange, [...] suspecting as Mrs. Vyvia [...] seemed to do, som [...] [...]achment which made R [...] ­salie unhappy, the [...] no notion that her nephew might be the object of this attachment; but it seemed never once to have occurred to her: and Montalbert conducted himself so cautiously be­fore he [...] [...] Rosalie was of the party, that she had [...] to believe he regarded her o­therwise [Page 118] than as a common acquaintance. Mon­talbert young as he was, had been a great travel­ler. He had lived at Paris, at Vienna, at Tu­rin, at Rome, and at Florence, and had acquir­ed in the more early part of his life the reputation of being a young man of dissipation and intrigue. These gaieties had been exaggerated: and Mrs. Vyvian had received an impression of his liber­tinism, which had never been effaced. She now, therefore, could not imagine, that for such a man the simplicity of Rosalie's beauty could have any attractions; and persuaded, as she was, that he was engaged in intrigues among women of a very different description, she sometimes gently re­proved and sometines slightly rallied him, on these fashionable excesses. He humoured her in the answers he gave; listened as if half disposed to feel contrition, or defended himself, as if con­scious of the truth of these charges—management which would have concealed his real sentiments and designs from a more penetrating observer than Mrs. Vyvian.

During the few days [...] Montalbert was in doubt how to procure un [...]d the admission [...] [...]e priest to Rosalie, wh [...] [...] was with her, the family of his aunt ar [...] from their house [...] the north to settle for the winter in Park Lane. Mr. Vyvian contented h [...] h [...]lf with calling one morning on horseback, with a slight and col [...] in­quiry. He told his wife, that he had directed his steward to attend her whenever she pleased, on money matters, and that his daughter should visit her the next day. He t [...] m [...]oned the [Page 119] marriage of the eldest, of which the preliminaries were now settled; he did not, however, tell Mrs. Vyvian of this, because he thought her ap­probation not of any consequence, but spoke of it as a matter settled, signifying, at the same time, that it was his pleasure she should speak to her daughter of the arrangement, as being what every part of her family could not but approve. Mrs. Vyvian acquiesced, without any remonstrance on the cruelty of thus disposing of her child at so early an age, without even consulting her mother. A few tears involuntarily fell from her eyes as soon as her unfeeling husband was gone; but she immediately went to her oratory, and found consolation in the duties of religion; to which, under all these trying circumstances, she had ever recourse.

But the appearance of the two Miss Vyvians had another effect on Montalbert. These ladies, young as they were, had been early initiated into the world. They were no longer diffident and unassuming, but had all the confidence of women of middle age, without their judgement; were careless of the opinion of all the world as to my thing but their beauty and air of high ton, [...] rather incline to provoke censure, by their [...] gularity, than to conciliate by civility, or en­gage by gentleness. They had already learned that disdain of all inferiors which belongs to peo­ple of the very first rank; and the alliance the eldest was about to form, which would eventual­ly place her in the first class of nobility, seemed to have [...]ev [...] [...]he haughty spirits of both: an [Page 120] alteration which, on their very first visit, their mother saw with additional disquiet; while Mon­talbert, who was with Mrs. Vyvian when they came, beheld and heard them with a disgust, that amounted almost to aversion.

During the stay Montalbert made at her fa­ther's seat in the north, Miss Vyvian had been piqued at the little attention he had shewn her, and mortified to observe his neglect of those charms, which she thought, and which her maid assured her, ought to attract the homage of all the world. That Montalbert [...]s so far from paying her this homage, that he took the privilege of his near relationship to tell her of her faults, was not to be forgiven by Miss Vyvian. She had by no means forgotten, now that she met him in Lon­don, the slights she had received in Yorkshire, and attacked him with a severe sort of raillery, which he failed not to return, though with more good-humour than the lady deserved. Thus pas­sed the first visit; but, on the second, (as the young ladies affected still to retain so much con­sideration for their mother as to make their air­ [...]ng [...] very frequently towards Hampstead), it hap­pe [...]ed, unluckily enough, that Mrs. Vyvian, n [...] aware of their coming, had sent for Rosalie to sit with her. Montalbert soon after came in; and as Mrs. Vyvian was pleased to encourage her taste in drawing, Montalbert, who, without any affectation understood it extremely well, was giving her some rules, and leaning over her chair, was lost in the pleasure of instructing his charming pupil. But he sometimes varied a [...] [Page 121] what he undertook to teach, and instead of giving her a sketch of the object he was describing, he wrote a line or two in Italian. Mrs. Vyvian was pensively at work, and did not regard them. The room where they sat was at a distance from the door to which the coaches drove up, an [...] while this was going on, a footman entered, an­nouncing the two Miss Vyvians.

Montalbert in confusion quitted the table near which he was standing; and Rosalie, whose cheeks were dyed with blushes, was putting away her drawings. But Mrs. Vyvian, speaking mild­ly, bade her not disturb herself; then, welcom­ing her daughters, she said, "My dears, he [...] your playfellow and acquaintance, the youn [...] Miss Lessington, your old friend Rosalie."

Miss Vyvian, towards whom her younger sister seemed to look, as if to regulate her own behavi­our, turned haughtily to Rosalie, and making her a formal and cold courtesy, muttered something in so low a voice, that it could not be heard; then, without taking any further notice, began to tell her mother where she had been, and w [...] she had seen. Miss Barbara, the youngest▪ too [...] not the least notice of Rosalie, but, as if she [...] never see [...] her before, sat profoundly silent.

Montalbert, who remarked wi [...] indignatio [...] this insolent behaviour, and who saw a fa [...] blush of grief and regret wavering on the pale [...] of Mrs. Vyvian, was tempted to express some [...] of what he felt; but he checked himself, and had determined to go, when Miss Vyvian, casting a malicious look at the drawing-table, and then a [...] [Page 122] Rosalie, who sat by it unoccupied, said, "Oh! I see now, Mr. Montalbert, from whence it hap­pens, that your friends in town complain that they never see you—you have found employment here in teaching some of the fine arts."

"If I were capable of teaching them," replied Montalbert, who could not so command his coun­tenance, but that it expressed his resentment, "if I were capable, Miss Vyvian, of instructing, I should think myself highly honoured were that young lady to become my scholar; but, I assure you, she is already so great a proficient, that it would not be in my power to improve the elegance of her execution."

"Oh! I dare say," replied Miss Vyvian; "and no [...] I recollect, Miss Lessington, I think you used to be fond of drawing, and had some lessons when you lived with us. But Mr. Montalbert, since this lady has no occasion for your instructi­ons, do tell me what i [...] is you do with yourself? Do you know, that out of the few people I have [...]n, at least a dozen have asked me, what is [...]come of my gay and gallant cousin? Some have asserted," added she, with a very significant [...]ook, "that you are married, and others, that you are become melancholy mad for the love of some rural beauty; but all agree that you are a lost creature."

Mrs. Vyvian, however, hurt at such a wild and improper speech, had not time to express, as much as she dared do, her sense of its indeco­rum, before she was struck with the pale counten­ance of Rosalie, who seemed ready to fai [...] [Page 123] Montalbert was about to reply, when Mrs. Vy­vian, as if unable to check herself, rose from her seat, and taking Rosalie's hand, said, in a tremu­lous voice, "I am sorry, my dear Miss Lessing­ton, that you are so shocked at the unkindness and rudeness of Miss Vyvian; I will take care that you shall not again be subject to it. My woman shall wait on you home, and I beg you and your mother will accept my apology, thus hastily made, till I can renew it in person."

Rosalie, who had never seen Mrs. Vyvian ex­ert so much spirit before, but who was more ter­rified than ever, lest the retort of her daughter should bring on a quarrel of which she would be the cause; alarmed too at the hint given about Montalbert, and almost sinking under her appre­hensions of every kind, was glad to quit the room, which she did immediately; but, disabled by the violence of her emotions to go farther than the next, she sat down and burst into tears.

While she was, however, reasoning herself in­to some degree of composure, Mrs. Vyvi [...] whose languid spirits were roused by the ill-be [...] viour of her daughter, was reproving her in very bitter terms, such indeed as she had never us [...] before. But far from feeling the severity of a re­monstrance she so well deserved, she affected to turn off her impertinence with a laugh▪ "Dear Madam," cried she, "I had no notion [...] you so angry. Upon my honour I meant nothing in the way of affronting your fair protegee; and as to behaving as if I had forgotten her, dear, [...]u know one really forgets every body in a year [...] two."

[Page 124]"You have at least forgot yourself, Miss Vy­vian," said her mother.

Miss Barbara now fancied it necessary for her to enter into a defence of her sister. "I am sure, Madam, my sister meant nothing; but one must really feel it grating to find that Miss, that coun­try parson's daughter, preferred to us. People have often said, indeed, a great while ago, that the Lessington family had as much of your favour as your nearest relations. I am sure neither of us, neither my sister or me, had a thought of of­fending you: but it does seem hard to your own children, to see people, who are comparatively strangers, so much more taken notice of."

"It is you and your sister Barbara, said the unhappy mother, while sobs stifled her voice, who have estranged yourselves from me; it is you and your sister. . . . . . . ." She could not go on. Montalbert, shocked by the sight of her distress, approached her, and, tenderly taking her hand, said, "Dearest Madam, do not, I [...]plore you, distress yourself thus. These ladies [...]e young and inconsequent; they may learn, and, I heartily hope, will, to know the value of such a mother." The agony of Mrs. Vyvian re­doubled. "Nay, but I intreat you," continued he, "to be calm. Allow me to send your wo­man to you."

"O no!" cried she, with a deep sigh, "do not leave me, Montalbert. I have in you all the consolation which is left me, now that my son is sent far from me."

"Since you oblige me to speak plai [...] [Page 125] Madam" said Miss Vyvian, who seemed wholly unmoved at her mother's distress, "since you compel me to say disagreeable things, I must tell you that it was quite time my brother was sent, as my Papa sent him; for he too was in danger of becoming too much attached to the same people that have weaned your affections from us. I should never have mentioned it, though, I assure you, if I had not seen that girl here, and been so found fault with for not worshipping her enough; for now my brother is gone, it is a matter of in­difference to me who her heart attracts; other people are old enough to take care of themselves —but come, sister, our company does not seem just now to give Mamma any pleasure; another time, perhaps, we may be more fortunate."

"Before you go," said Mrs. Vyvian, endea­vouring to stifle her convulsive sighs, and to speak distinctly, "I conjure you to tell me what you mean about my son."

"It is a very unwelcome task, Ma'am," re­plied her eldest daughter, "and I might not be believed; but if you ask the Abbe Hayward, h [...] perhaps, may obtain credit, even when he tells you so unwelcome a truth, as that your son, when you thought him engaged in quite another tour, was at Holmwood with one or two of his friends," she cast a malicious look at Montalbert as she said this, "and there was reason to appre­hend [...] this Miss, or some of the Misses her sisters, were the occasion of his paying much more frequent visits at the parsonage house, than [...]en you yourself, perhaps, would have approv­ed [Page 126] of; since, I can hardly think, your friendship would induce you to overlook the shocking dispa­rity between the only son of Mr. Vyvian and such people as those.

It seemed as if the unfortunate mother was utterly incapable of answering. She repeated in a faint voice, "The Abbe Hayward!—My son— My son at Holmwood!"—Her daughters, who appeared thus to have plunged a dagger in her heart, left her without any attempt to mitigate the pain they had inflicted; and she remained alone with Montalbert, who, during this conver­sation, had exhibited symptoms of anger and disquiet, which Mrs. Vyvian was too much af­fected to observe. It was some moments before she recovered herself enough to command her voice. "Tell me, dear Montalbert," cried she at length, "what does Miss Vyvian mean?— Tell me, when was my Charles at Holmwood? —When did he thus visit Mr. Lessington's family?"

"Never, Madam, I can venture to assure you, with the least improper design. . . . It is true, that when we were upon our tour this summer round the coast, the Count and I expressed a wish to see Holmwood. He, as having heard it spoken of as a fine old place; I, because I used to be fond of it when I was a boy, and passed there the most pleasant of my hours during my occasional visits to England. As Vyvian was as [...] [...]f the scheme as we were, we went thither for four or five days. Charles fatigued himself too [...] and was taken ill; but he recovered perfectly [...] [Page 127] next day: for some reason or other, he did not seem to wish you and his father should know he had visited Holmwood. This I only know by his enjoining the Count to secrecy, when being obliged to return to London, he left us there."

"You staid there then some time?"

"I cannot be correct," answered Montalbert, hesitating; "our stay, whether there or elsewhere, seemed to me to be a matter of no consequence at the time—nor could I imagine why it was neces­sary to keep a man's visit to the seat of his father a secret. As near as I can recollect, we were there about seven or eight days."

"Seven or eight days!" repeated Mrs. Vy­vian; "and did Charles pass so much time at the house of Mr. Lessington?"

"Indeed he did not. I believe I may venture to assure you, he never was there but when I ac­companied him. I am sure, I may say, that he went with no design that you could disapprove, and that all Miss Vyvian has thought proper to say, originates in misrepresentation on one side, and malicious jealousy on the other. For Hea­ven's sake, dearest Madam, make yourself easy I am persuaded, that, in regard at least to Charles, you have no reason to be otherwise."

A little soothed by these assurances, Mrs. Vy­vian became more calm; and at that moment see­ing the Abbe Hayward coming up the garden, of which [...]e had a key to let himself in, from his [...] Montalbert rang for Nesbit, Mrs. Vyvian's [...], and leaving her mistress to her care, [...]ed away to speak to him.

[Page 128]Their conference was long and serious. Mr. Hayward assured Montalbert, that he would quiet the spirits of Mrs. Vyvian relative to the supposed visits of her son at Barlton Brooks; and recommended it to Montalbert very earnestly to conceal, as far as was now possible, the disagree­able dialogue which had passed that morning. "You know Mr. Vyvian," said he, "and how violent and unfeeling he is. . . . . . . There is no knowing what rudeness and reproaches he may throw on that excellent lady, if this family dis­pute goes to any length. . . . . . .I tremble for her peace."—The council this good man gave was perfectly reasonable. Montalbert felt that it was so; yet there was something in his manner, when he spoke of the Lessington family, which gave Montalbert an idea of some mystery that he could not comprehend. He returned, however, no more to the house, but hastened to find Rosalie at that of her mother.

Mrs. Lessington had gone to London early in the morning, was to go to a play that night, and to an opera the next, a spectacle which she had not seen for many years, and about which she had expressed as much eagerness as a girl. It was in hopes of making his advantage of this absence, that Montalbert had met Rosalie at Mrs. Vyvian's in the morning. Rosalie, dreading importunity which she had no longer resolution to contend with, had taken shelter there. Mrs. [...]yvian, not at all expecting either Montalbert [...] daughters, had engaged her to stay all [...] when Miss Vyvian's jealously and malice, [...] ened [Page 129] by the sight of Rosalie, whom she had never thought so very handsome before, had, together with some circumstances hitherto concealed or stifled, occasioned the scene of the morning: a scene which did more to accelerate the views of Montalbert, than he could have done in another week with all the eloquence of the most passionate love.

CHAP. X.

THERE could be little doubt but that [...]he correspondence between Montalbert and Rosalie was suspected, if not absolutely discov [...] ­ed. Firmly as he thought he could rely on the fidelity of the person he had employed, it was but too evident that he was in some degree betrayed: and Rosalie, whom he found in tears, acknow­ledge [...] that their situation admitted [...]ot of hesita­ [...] that Montalbert must either return imme­ [...]tely to Italy, or risque every discovery in re­ [...]ard to his mother, which he had so many rea­sons to avoid.

[Page 130]It was vain to weary themselves with conjec­tures as to the source from which Mrs. Vyvian derived the intelligence that she detailed with so much malicious pleasure. On any other occasi­on, Montalbert would have flown into one of those transports of passion to which he was but too subject, and have insisted on an explanation▪ but the tears and terrors of Rosalie, who saw [...]he discovery likely not only to produce every kind of mischief they dreaded, but eventually to separate them for ever, now checked every im­pulse of resentment, and left to Montalbert no other wish than to secure her his, and to return to Italy before the malignity of his cousin should have conveyed intelligence thither, which would embroil him for ever with his mother, and pro­bably deprive him of that affluence to which it was now his delight to think he should raise the woman he adored.

There now seemed no alternative between re­signing Montalbert for ever, depriving him of his inheritance by a discovery, or consenting to sa­crifice her own scruples. It is not difficult to foresee that she chose the latter. Another whole day was to pass before the return of her mother; and it was settled that the priest, whom Montal­bert had engaged, should call early in the morn­ing on pretence of a message from Mrs. Lessing­ton to Rosalie; that Montalbert should soon aft [...] arrive on his way to Mrs. Vyvian's, of whom he was supposed to be on the point of taking [...] —and that the marriage should then be cele [...] ed [Page 131] according to the Romish ritual, in the pre­sence of a friend whom Montalbert was to bring with him. There was, in fact, neither difficulty nor danger of detection in this arrangement. The country servants of Mrs. Lessington, a maid and a boy, took every thing that was told them for granted. The ceremony was soon over; and a testimony of its performance being given to Rosalie, the priest departed for London with the friend of Montalbert, while he himself went to Mrs. Vyvian's, where he intended to dine, and where he hoped his aunt would, without any so­licitation, send for Rosalie. In this, however, he was mistaken. He found Mrs. Vyvian so much affected by the scene of the day before, that she was confined to her bed. She admitted him to her bed side: and he was shocked to see the havoc which even a few hours acute uneasi­ness had made in her enfeebled frame. "You see," said she, "how it is with me, Montalbert. I have no longer strength to resist that most corro­sive of all miseries, the estrangement and ingrati­tude of my own children—of my daughters, I ought to say—for Charles, my poor boy, I be­lieve loves me; but what I suffer from them, Montalbert, is indeed— ‘'Sharper than the serpent's tooth."’

Montalbert endeavoured to sooth her agitated spirits, by representing to her, that her daugh­ters were young and thoughtless, giddy with [...] health, and prosperity, and that a few [...] would in all probability, produce [...] [...] change in their volatile dispositions▪ [...] [Page 132] few years!" said Mrs. Vyvian, with a melan­choly smile; "and do you think that a very few years, or more probably a very few months, will not finish all for me in a much more certain ma [...]er?—O yes! yes!" . . . . . .

She paused a moment, as if to recover herself, and then said, in a still lower tone: "But there is one thing, my dear Harry, that I wish to say to you. Perhaps—perhaps I may never see you again, and I would fain —"

Montalbert remained silent in anxious expec­tation of what she was going to say▪ but, as if she could not collect resolution enough, she sigh­ed deeply, put her hand to her head, and seemed to suffer great pain there; then, becoming more languid, said, "But I hope I shall see you again, Harry, when I am more able to converse: yet surely you do not mean to prolong much your stay in England?"

"If my mother would grant me permission," answered he, "to stay till spring, I own it would be agreeable to me."

"I should not suppose she would, Harry," said Mrs. Vyvian. I understood that her last letters expressed great anxiety for your return; and you know she does not very patiently bear contradiction. . . . . But I wonder, Montalbert, what attractions England can have for you. Oh! if it were in my power to go to Italy, how readily would I quit this country for ever; and yet—"—Again she hesitated and sigh­ed; and Montalbert, finding no pretence for naming Rosalie, and that it was unlikely he [Page 133] should pass the day with her as he had fondly hoped, assured her he would see her again several times before he left England, since he should await the arriva [...] of his next letters before he fixed the day of his departure; and then took his leave.

It was but too certain, however, that he had that morning received the most positive commands from his mother to set out immediately, mingled with some severe reproaches for his having delay­ed his journey, from time to time, so much be­yond that which he had originally fixed for his stay. He now thought it more than ever impossible to leave Rosalie, though he had sworn that if she were once irrevocably his, he would go without further hesitation. To invent some plausible pre­tence for the evasion of this promise, was now his object; and so great was the reluctance with which he thought of going, that he some­times determined rather to brave the displeasure of his mother, and boldly to combat her prejudi­ces, than leave his wife, now more dear to him than ever: but was there no medium between these extremities? was it not possible for hi [...] to take her with him?—While he meditated on the practicability of such a project and the arguments he should use to prevail upon her to consent to it, he found himself before the door of Mrs. Lessing­ton's house, and was going in, when he was amazed and concerned to observe her and her daughter Maria getting out of a coach, which he had till then imagined had just stopped at the house of one of her neighbours. As he could not retreat without being seen, and his [Page 134] uneasy curiosity was excited by this unexpected and unwelcome return, he advanced towards Mrs. Lessington, and was beginning a speech about Mrs. Vyvian, whose name he meant to use as an excuse for his calling; but, without seem­ing to attend, she began to apologize for not hav­ing it in her power to ask him in, being, she said, in great alarm on account of her daughter.

"What daughter?—and oh! for Heaven's sake, what is the matter?"—were words that were on the point of issuing from Montalbert's lips, who thought only of Rosalie: when this in­discretion on his part was prevented by Mrs. Lessington's proceeding to tell him, that her eldest married daughter, who was near her time, had suffered from being overturned in a cha [...]se, and had entreated to see her mother, who had, therefore, hastened from London, where she re­ceived the letter, to pack up a few necessaries, and was setting out post immediately afterwards for the house of her daughter in Sussex. Mon­talbert, alarmed lest Rosalie was going too, troubled so much, that he had not courage to ask but to leave the house without knowing was im­possible. Regardless, therefore, of the rules of decorum, which certainly demanded that he should absent himself, he followed Mrs. Lessing­ton into the house, where his sudden re-appear­ance, and the unexpected arrival of her mother, had such an effect on the countenance and man­ner of Rosalie, as could not have escaped observa­tion, had not Mrs. Lessington and Maria been both much engaged with the immediate prepara­tions [Page 135] for their journey; for amidst her maternal anxiety for her daughter, the elder lady was by no means indifferent to the appearance she was to make among her former country neighbours and though she was still in deep mourning, she observed that it was not the less necessary to be "tolerably dressed."

Miss Maria was of course more solicitous on this important matter than her mother: and in the midst of their giving orders to one to run to the mantua-makers, and another to fetch home a new bonnet, &c. &c. they neither of them seem­ed to recollect that it was necessary to make some arrangement about Rosalie, or even to remember that she was in the house.

She remained, therefore, a few moments in the parlour with Montalbert, who, advancing trembling to her, inquired eagerly if she also was going? "I think not," answered she. "But my mother in her hurry, seems totally to have forgotten me."—"I pray Heaven," said he, "that you may be left behind! If you go, I shall be distracted. When will it be decided? —How can I know?"

"I had better go up to my mother," answered Rosalie, "offer to assist her, and ask for her com­mands."—"O hasten," cried Montalbert, "my angel, or I shall die with impatience!—I must stay till I know what is to be your destination, and will make some pretence for my intrusion." Ro­salie then went up to her mother, who seemed to be awakened, by her presence, to some sense of recollection as to what was to become of her [Page 136] youngest daughter during her absense. "I don't know, child." said she, "how to take you with us very well, as your brother Blagham is in town for two days on law business, and is desi­rous of going down with us in a post chaise."— Rosalie's heart beat so, that she could hardly breathe.

"I declare," continued her mother, "I know not how to manage about you. To be sure it will be but a disagreeable journey▪ and I suppose my dear you do not want to go?"

"If I could be of any use to my sister," said Rosalie, hesitating.

"Oh! as to that," answered Mrs. Lessington, "there is no occasion to be sure; but it will be lonely for you at home, unless, indeed, Mrs. Vyvian would be so good as to take you."

Rosalie knew, from the scene of the preceding morning, that Mrs. Vyvian could not, without exposing herself anew to the insults of her daugh­ter, which was painful even to think of.

This, however, she could not now explain to her mother, who, after a moment's hesitation, proceeded. . . . . ."I have a mind to send to Mrs. Vyvian; yet I don't know—perhaps it will be inconvenient to her. There are times when I know it would be painful to her to have com­pany;—but—let me—see—I dare say my friends the Hillmores would take you for a few days, and then you might come back; and Mrs. Vy­vian would, perhaps, nay I am sure she would, have you with her as much as her spirits will al­low, and by that time—most probably, you know we should be come back."

[Page 137]Though Rosalie knew the Hillmores were the most disagreeable people in the world, she had neither courage to object, nor presence of mind to propose any other plan. She thought she saw in her mother's manner an evident wish to get her off her hands, on the present occasion, without much solicitude as to the propriety of her situation during her absence: and at that mo­ment she felt happy in the consciousness of being the wife of Montalbert, who would, in every event, defend and protect her.

She remained silent, however: and Mrs. Lessington, who was still busily engaged in pack­ing, at length turned to her, and said, "Well, child! and what do you say to the plan of passing the little time we shall be away between Mrs. Vyvian and Mr. Hillmore's?"

"I know very little of Mr. Hillmore's family," said Rosalie timidly; "but I dare say, Madam, you are sure they would be kind enough to [...] ­ceive me."

"To be sure I am," replied Mrs. Lessington; "and as to Mrs. Vyvian, I wish I could see her myself—but—I have not time.—However—st [...] —do you think Mr. Montalbert is gone [...] dare say he would be so good as to carry a m [...]s­sage for me."

"I am persuaded he would," said Rosalie timidly, "if he is not gone."

"Do go down and see: no—I will go myself." She then descended to the room where Montal­bert still remained, who, when he heard the commission she gave him to his aunt, accepted it [Page 138] with transport he could with difficulty disguise. "I only waited here," said he, "to know if I could be of any use to you in your present hurry; and you cannot oblige me more than in employing me." He then hastened to Mrs. Vyvian, to whom he delivered a message rather suited to his own purposes than very exact as to correctness; and modulating Mrs. Vyvian's answer in the same way, he returned instantly to Mrs. Lessington, who, concluding the disposal of Rosalie settled her own way, told her she would have a note for her friends, the Hillmores, which she hastily wrote, and then directed Rosalie to stay a few hours af­ter her to adjust the house and put every thing away, which her present hurry did not allow her to attend to. After which a hackney-coach was to convey Rosalie to Mincing Lane, where Mr. Hillmore lived, and she was herself to deliver the note that was to secure her reception for the first three or four days of her mother's absence: after which, if that absence continued, she was to return and remain under the protection of Mrs. Vyvian.

This arrangement was so exactly calculated to answer all the wishes of Montalbert, that he now trembled with apprehension lest it should be re­voked. He would not, however, venture to stay, lest Mrs. Lessington should entertain any suspicions of the cause of his extraordinary zeal. He therefore wished her a good journey, and left her. Soon after which Rosalie saw her mother and sister get into a post-chaise, which was order­ed to stop to take up Mr Blagham at the house of [Page 139] a friend at Islington; and then they drove awake leaving her to reflect on the extraordinary cir­cumstances that had thus left her at liberty, and to wait with a beating heart the return of Mon­talbert.

In less than half an hour he appeared; and telling the maid who opened th [...] [...] that he brought a message [...], he was admitted. As nothing was [...]eafy as for Rosalie to leave the house with her clothes, under the directions her mother had given her, nor less hazardous than to postpone her visit to Mr. Hill­more's family for a day or two, Montalbert van­quished every objection she made to going with him. The hackney-coach, therefore, that was to have conveyed her to Mincing Lane, and in which she did not set out till towards evening▪ went no further than to the suburbs of London, where Montalbert waited for her with another, from whence they got into a post-chaise, and were soon at a distance from London.

Thither, however, it was necessary that Rosa­lie should return in two days at the farthest, least her mother should direct to her there, and her absence be discovered It was long before Mon­talbert would listen to her earnest representations on this subject. But there was no alternative▪ he must either tear himself from her, or suffer it to be known that she had eloped, nor could it long remain a secret with whom. Her represen­tations were so forcible, and he felt them to be so just, that his reluctance at length gave way to the consideration of his wife's tranquility: and [Page 140] he consented to her return to town, whether he conducted her, and putting her into a coach, followed it at a distance on foot, till it set her down at the house of her mother's friends.

But as Mrs. Vyvian had no acquaintance or communication with this family, the principal of [...] [...]torney in the city, nothing was more ea [...] [...] [...]he day on which she left their house, [...] concealed the time when her mothe [...] [...] [...]d her visit should begin to them. This, however, depended on the re­turn of Mrs. Lessington.

Rosalie on her arrival at the house of Mr. Hill­more, found a very cordial reception; but the manners of the whole family were so unlike those she had in the happiest part of her life been accus­tomed to—the old lady was so vulgarly civil, the young men so impertinently familiar, and the misses so full of flutter and fashions,—that Rosalie foresaw she would be esteemed very bad company. They had already, from the report of Miss Maria, entertained an idea that their guest was proud and reserved; and Rosalie saw by their manner, that they disliked her, and wished her away. The mother, because she feared her beauty might at­tract one of her sons; the daughters, through jealousy of their lovers. The next day after her arrival there she received a letter from her mo­ther, which informed her, that though Mrs. Grierson was doing well, yet it would be ten days before she should return. Rosalie, therefore, armed herself with patience, to pass a few days longer where she was, before she returned to [Page 141] Hampstead: but Montalbert could not suffer her to remain there without seeing her. As he was not known to the people of the house, he called under pretence of a message from Mrs. Vyvian, but he could only see her in a formal way in the presence of Mrs. Hillmore and her daughter, who prodigiously admired him [...] genteel man indeed. [...] that evening to the p [...] [...] [...]mined to be himself.

It was then that he saw the [...] [...]r beauty of Rosalie attract all eyes, and he [...] inquiries around him, who that lovely girl was in mourn­ing? The faces of the Miss Hillmores were well known, tho' their party would have passed whol­ly unnoticed, but for the brilliant star that now first appeared among them. Montalbert, [...] the other side of the house, enjoyed a peculiar kind of pleasure at the admiration excited by his wife. But one of the foibles of his temper was jealousy; when therefore he saw two or three young men, acquaintances of the Hillmores, en­ter their box, evidently with a design of l [...]ng in­troduced to her; when he saw young Hillmore [...], who was a sort of a city wit and city buck, dis­placed one of his sisters in order to sit near to Rosa­lie, he could remain where he was no longer; [...] crossing the house, went into the next box, when he sat the remainder of the evening, not near e­nough to speak to her, so entirely was she sur­rounded; but suffering inexpressible torment be­cause she was spoken to by others.

His impetuous spirit could ill submit to a long­er [Page 142] course of such punishment. He went out, therefore, to a tavern, a few moments before the play was over, and wrote a note to her, in which he insisted on her leaving the Hillmores the next morning. "I will send a servant," said he, "with a chariot and a letter, as if from Mrs. Vyvian. [...] [...]ple you are with, know neither h [...] [...] [...]g, you may very easi­ly leave [...] wi [...] the least suspicion. I will take care of the rest. But remember, Rosalie, I must not be refused—I would not leave you ex­posed another day to the impertinence of the vul­gar puppies you are surrounded by to be master of an empire.

Montalbert, having sealed this letter, waited at the door of the box for her coming out; but as she had on each side of her competitors for the ho­ [...]or of leading her out, it was not without difficul­ty he found an apportunity of giving it to her.

The next day an handsome chariot, with a ser­vant in livery, was at the door of Mr. Hillmore by eleven o'clock: the latter brought a note ap­parently from Mrs. Vyvian, which Rosalie shew­ed a [...] a reason for leaving Mrs. Hillmore, who, while she expressed great concern that they were so soon to lose the pleasure of her good company, was, as well the young ladies, heartily glad to see her depart. A short time brought her to a place where Montalbert waited for her to begin another short excursion from London. He en­deavoured to appease the excessive fear she ex­pressed, left these journies should be discovered by assuring her that he had taken every p [...] [Page 143] precaution to prevent it. That Mrs. Vyvian did not expect her for two or three days, at the end of which time he promised she should go back to Hampstead: and he had engaged a person to convey to him any letters that might arrive in the mean time from Mrs. Lessington, lest, from any alteration in her plan, she should [...] find her daughter where she expec [...] [...] measures, and Montalbert's solemn [...]ra [...] that as soon as he saw her once more safe u [...] the protection of her mother, he would no longer delay a journey which was so necessary on ac­count of his own, and that he would force himself, though at the expence of his present felicity, to pursue such measures as might secure uninterrupt­ed possession hereafter.

CHAP. XI.

WHILE Rosalie was thus, as Mrs. Vyvian [...]ed, passing part of the time of her mother's [Page 144] absence as she had directed, that excellent but unhappy woman, Mrs. Vyvian herself, was suf­fering under the most acute anxiety. The ab­sence of her son, the estrangement of her two daughters, and the cold and even severe conduct of the man to whom she had been sacrificed, [...] together a cruel combination of evils; [...], [...]ver, did not so entirely occupy her [...]d, [...]t that she felt for Rosalie, to whom she [...] ever shewn the tenderest partiality, and to whom she would with delight have granted an assylum in her own house, had she not been de­terred by the envy and ill-humour which her daughters had expressed, and terrified at the hints they had given of an affection for her on the part of her son, which, if it should once reach the ears of Mr. Vyvian, would, she knew, so greatly enrage him, that he would forbid her ever receiving any of the Lessington family again. Timid and mild, and with nerves shaken and en­ [...]bled by a long course of unhappiness, Mrs. [...]y [...]n was unequal to contention with a violent, [...]ou [...]y, and unfeeling man, who disdained to listen to reason, and held all friendly attachments, every thing that did not coincide with self-inter­ested motives, to be mere cant and pretence. He had never considered the Lessington family with an eye of favour; but while Lessington lived, he had been useful to him in electioneering matters, and therefore he, and of course his family, had been endured. But the apprehension of any at­tachment between young Vyvian and a person whom his father considered so infinitely be [...] [Page 145] him, would not have been suffered a moment▪ and Mrs. Vyvian knew that on the slightest sus­picion, she should be overwhelmed with menaces and reproaches, which she found herself altoge­ther unable to sustain. This dread alone pre­vented her from hazarding a repetition of the lan­guage her daughters had held, and compelled her to submit to so great a depra [...]s that of often resigning Rosalies company, [...] interest­ing gratitude, and innocent, [...] [...]e, con­versation, formed one of her g [...] pleasures, and was best calculated to soothe her wounded heart.

Still, however, she was uneasy that so young and so pretty a woman should be consigned to the care of people of whom she had no very high opinion. She fancied they were low bred: a [...] was persuaded that if the morals of Rosalie were in no danger among them, her delicacy of min [...] must suffer from the style of such co [...] When, therefore, she saw Montalbert, [...] while Rosalie was really at Mr. Hillmore's c [...] upon his aunt as usual, lest his absence might be remarked, she continually questioned him, about these people; and he, not willing to appear to know much about them gave her such answers as served rather to increase her solicitude for her former protegee, and her regret that she could not give her protection in her own house.

Montalbert never loved his aunt so well as when he thus saw her interested for Rosalie; and sometimes it seemed as if this interest was so [Page 146] strong, that she could not be angry at finding his sentiments so entirely agree with hers. Half resolved to open his whole heart to her, and entreat her countenance, her protection, for his wife, he sat meditating what to say, when the entrance of Mr. Hayward, or some sentence Mrs. Vyvian uttered, again shook his resolution, and deterred him from entrusting to her a secret of so much consequence; while, if it still remained a secret to every body but to her, his Rosalie could derive no benefit from the partial information; for Mrs. Vyvian would still be deprived of the power of receiving her as Rosalie Lessington; and as the wife of Montalbert it would be still mo [...] impossible.

It was now time for her to return to Hampstead [...]here all Mrs. Vyvian could do was to receive her on those days when none of her own family were likely to call upon her, or if they did, to send her into another room. Montalbert, during the four or five days that were to be the last of his stay in England, passed a part of each with Mrs. Vyvian, who, while she thought it her duty to press him to begin a journey that had been so long delayed, began to be serio [...]sly uneasy about his health, which she thought was evident­ly declined. He was pensive and absent, spoke little, and had lost his appetite—symptoms that she fancied indicated a decline, and induced her to urge him with increased earnestness to begin his journey, in the persuasion that the winter in England was inimical to his constitution. Mon­talbert every day promised to fix the time of his [Page 147] departure; but every day brought with it some excuse:—his baggage, some things he had bespoke as presents to his Italian friends, were not ready; his own servant was taken ill; he must wait the arrival of a friend from the country, with whom he had business relative to his family's northern property. While this went on, he lived in a miserable state of restraint, never seeing his wife but for a short time in the presence of Mrs. Vyvian, unless she happened to be there of an evening, in which case he went home with her, but attended by a servant, under petenc [...] that his horses were at a stable not far from the house of Mrs. Lessington.

Such a state of constraint was insupportable. More passionately attached to Rosalie than before he became her husband, the idea of leaving her for weeks and months was become more terrible than that of death. He fancied it disgraceful to submit to divide himself from all he held dear, influenced merely by pecuniary consider [...] and often resolved to acknowledge his marriage and brave the consequences. But then the fear of reducing to poverty the woman he adored—of exposing to the inconveniences of indigence her whom he thought worthy of a throne, checked his resolution of making this dangerous avowal; and again he determined to leave her in the hope [...] [...]eturning to claim her, and place her in a situation of life which she seemed born to [...]ll.

Rosalie seized every opportunity that now presented itself to press his going.—She urged his former promises, his own acknowledgments [Page 148] of the necessity of his departure. Again he promised he would go, but again found it impos­sible to tear himself from her. But now her mother returned; and their meeting must become mo [...]e [...]are and more difficult; and at length, but not till after he had received another letter from his mother, Montalbert determined to go. The last interview he could obtain with his wife was short and hazardous. Neither of them could say farewel; and when he was gone, and Rosalie knew she should see him no more, she felt so de­pressed, that, apprehensive of the remarks that might be made, she retired to her bed under pretence of a violent head ach, though the pain she felt was in her heart.

This pretence could not, however, be long continued: and Rosalie returned, though reluc­tantly, to the common business of life, while Montalbert, scarcely knowing what he did, pur­sued his way to the sea coast from whence he was to embark for France, meaning to pass through that country to Italy. But the greater the dis­tance became between him and the object of his love, the less supportable it became. A thou­sand times he was tempted to return, and rather hazard every future consequence than subject himself to the present misery of a separation so painful. Arrived at the borders of the sea, this distracting irresolution redoubled. It was yet in his power to return to all he held dear on earth— a few leagues of land only were between them, but soon immense worlds of water would divide them: and he was conscious, that the single cir­cumstance [Page 149] of its being out of his power to return when he would, must increase all the impatience he now felt. Yet his reason told him, that his temporary absence ought to be undergone, since it might secure the repose hereafter of the woman he loved.

As it was now a time when multitudes of English, who had long been prevented by the war from visiting the continent, were hastening to France, Montalbert was not many hours waiting for a wind, before he met some of his acquaintance, from whom it was impossible for him to escape. The gaiety and vivacity of these men, fatigued without amusing the mind of Mon­talbert. They were, however, of some use to him in calling off his attention from the subject, on which it was painful and useless for him [...] dwell. One of his friends rallied his supposed melancholy; another rattled away on past adven­tures and future projects of his own; and, amidst this variety of conversation, the wind becoming favourable, the whole party were summoned on board, and in a few hours Montalbert found him­self at Calais.

His friends, impatient to get to Paris, hasten­ed on their way, while Montalbert was again [...] alone to indulge his uneasy reflections.

The traveller, who quits England with ang [...] of mind, has often found a transient relief [...] the variety and novelty offered by his arrival in a country, which, though so near his own, [...] seemes so unlike those he has been accustomed to. But this change had lost its power over the mi [...] [Page 150] of Montalbert, having travelled so often between Italy and England through France, each country was equally well known to him; and [...]apsing into his former despondence, he wandered along the French coast, looking with aching eyes to­wards England, and again tempted to return to it. —At length, however, after two days indulgence of this weakness, for such he owned it was, he once more reasoned himself into a resolution to proceed, and though with an heart which became more heavy every league, he hastened towards Naples, making no stay at Paris, or any other town through which his route lay.

While he was thus obeying the imperious dic­tates of duty, Rosalie, concealing the wretched­ness of her heart, endeavoured to pass the time of this cruel absence in perfecting herself in those branches of knowledge most agreeable to him. But very unpleasant were the many hours she was obliged to pass among people who had no ideas in common with her, who were engaged in other pursuits, and who seemed to consider her, what indeed she really was, a being of quite another species, who, in being among them, was evidently displaced.

The only time she passed with any degree of satisfaction, was that when she was admitted to sit with Mrs. Vyvian, and to converse with the Abbe Hayward.—Miss Vyvian was now married and gone, accompanied by her father and sister, to the seat of her husband's family in great parade. Her mother, of whom she had taken a cold leave, sunk into deeper dejection than ever [Page 151] not that she felt as a misfortune this more certain separation from a daughter, who had long ceased to return her maternal tenderness; but it seemed as if her frame could no longer resist the sorrow inflicted upon her by the absence of a son she adored, aggravated by the ingratitude of his sisters.

Rosalie appeared to be more dear to her than ever, and there was now no impediment to their being often together. But Mrs. Vyvian, whose health visibly declined, was not always well en­ough to leave her bed, or to be amused with Ro­salie's endeavours to relieve her long hours of solitude by reading or music. When she was able, however, to sit up, the duties of her religion, which she fulfilled with the most scrupulous ex­actness, alone detained her from the society of Rosalie. Whatever might be the dejection of Mrs. Vyvian's mind, her penetration was not blunted: and she saw that something unusual pressed upon the spirits of her young friend: again then she spoke to her of what she apprehended— "you are certainly not well, Rosalie," said Mrs. Vyvian, as they were sitting alone together, "or you are unhappy?"—"I am well, indeed, my dear Madam," she replied; "as to being unhap­py, I am not particularly so. I own to you, that the continual round of company in which my mother is engaged, is far from adding to the plea­santness of my life; and sometimes I languish for an abode in my native country, as solitary as our parsonage under the southern hills."

[Page 152]"There is more in it than that, dear girl," said Mrs. Vyvian, with a look that expressed her incredulity.

"You would not surely wonder if there were," answered Rosalie. "I have often wondered at my own inconsequence in not being more depres­sed, when I recollect, that, whenever I lose my mother, I shall become a friendless and destitute orphan."

"Not, if I live," said Mrs. Vyvian. Then, pausing a moment, she added, in a slow and so­lemn voice—"for, as I think, my early indul­gence to my daughters, or rather to myself, in having you so much at Holmwood during your infancy, has perhaps been the means of strang­ing you from your family, I consider it as my duty to make you what little amends I can. Much, alas! is not in my power, for the unin­tentional injury I have done you."

The tears rose in the eyes of Rosalie as Mrs. Vyvian concluded this sentence. "O no dearest Madam," answered she—"your kindness to me, never, never, injured me: so far otherwise, that I think I should, but for that kindness, have been the most unhappy creature in the world. At least I know that the only moments for which I would wish to live are those when you permit me to be with you."

"And therefore it is, my love, that I think I have injured you. Your mother, your sisters, are happy among acquaintance and parties of their own, from which you fly with disgust: nor is this [Page 153] all—I am sensible that you have refused a very advantageous match from the same prepossession."

"I assure you, my dear Mrs. Vyvian, that, as far as I am able to judge, I should have refused Mr. Hughson, though I had never enjoyed the advantages of being admitted to Holmwood. In­deed, had I been in the most humble condition of life, I am sure I should have preferred remain­ing in it, and even embracing the hardest labour, to giving my person to a man from whom my heart recoiled."

A deep and long-drawn sigh, as if some painful recollections had arisen at that moment, half interrupted the answer of Mrs. Vyvian, who said, "You are certainly right in the sentiment, Rosalie: but it is sometimes not in the power of young women to resist parental authority. How­ever, admitting that a man, less disagreeable than you represent this Hughson to have b [...], should now present himself; tell me, Rosalie— answer me ingenuously—would he not be equally rejected?"

The eyes of Mrs. Vyvian, which, though [...] nerally soft and languid, were very expressive, were fixed steadily on the countenance of Ro­salie as she asked this question. Rosalie, who af­fected to be steadily at work, looked up, and met these penetrating eyes. A deep blush suffused her cheeks; she was conscious of it, and became more confused. Yet, making an effort to recol­lect herself, and to speak with composure, she said, "O nothing is so—so very unlikely, as that any man should have a preference for me!—I [Page 154] never thought whether I should refuse any other offer or no: because it is so improbable, that it is hardly worth while to suppose about it."

"Not so improbable as you affect to imagine, Rosalie; but you are not sincere. I do not wish my dear, to distress you; and we will drop the discourse at this time. But another day, per­haps, I may talk to you further; for I have some­thing very serious to say to you: and I think, Rosalie, you will not deceive me, since it may be very material to us both."

More and more confused, and not doubting but that by some means or other Mrs. Vyvian had discovered her marriage, she was too much agitated to allow herself to consider, whether, if this were really the case, it was likely Mrs. Vy­vian should speak as she had done. But trembling and breathless she hastened to put her work into the work-basket, and, affecting to understand what her friend had last said as an hint to de­part, she smiled, and replying that she was al­ways happy to answer any questions from her, and that she hoped always to be ingenuous with so good a friend, she hastened away, which Mrs. Vyvian did not oppose.

CHAP. XII.

THE night that followed this conversation was the most uneasy Rosalie had ever yet known. From what had passed she could not doubt but that Mrs. Vyvian knew of her marriage. Yet it was incomprehensible if she did, that she should have expressed so little anger or disapprobation: yet what else but her knowing of the mutual at­tachment between her nephew and her protegee could have urged her to speak as she did?

The various conjectures that agitated the mi [...] of Rosalie, allowed her not to sleep. She h [...] never till now tasted, in its full bitterness, the pain that is inflicted on an ingenuous mind by concealment and dissimulation. Conscious that she merited the loss of Mrs. Vyvian's good opini­on, and that the longer this mystery was contin­ued on her part, the more unpardonable it would appear, she endeavoured to reason herself into a resolution of unbosoming herself to Mrs. Vyvian, and rather enduring her reproaches for precipi­tancy and indiscretion, than suffer the misery of living in continual dread of being detected in a falsehood. The most probable conjecture she could form, was, that Mrs. Vyvian knew the [Page 156] truth, and had held the conversation she had heard the preceding evening to give Rosalie an opportunity of declaring what was already known. This supposition strengthened her wavering re­solves: and she arose in the morning, believing she had force of mind enough to disclose the secret that weighed upon her mind. But when a note came from Mrs. Vyvian requesting to see her as soon as she had breakfasted, her courage at once forsook her, and hardly could she find strength to obey the summons.

On her arrival, however at the house of Mrs. Vyvian, she found nothing remarkable in the manner or looks of her friend, who seemed as to her health to suffer less than usual. Rosalie in­quired, as she had been accustomed to do, if she should fetch a book. Mrs. Vyvian answered no; and bid her take her work.

For some time the conversation ran on indiffer­rent topics. At length, contriving to bring it without abruptness to the point she w [...]shed, Mrs. Vyvian renewed the subject on which she had touched the day before. Rosalie, whose heart was beating so violently that she could hardly breathe, listened to her in silence.

"I spoke to you yesterday, my love," said she, "with a desire to hear your sentiments on a m [...] very important to you. You say that you some­times accuse yourself of not having sufficient pre­voyance—of looking forward with too little [...] ­licitude to a future, which certainly promises [...] little prosperity.—What, if a way was to [...] of escaping from these fears?—If an establishment▪ [Page 157] in most respects unexceptionable, were to be found?"

"I am not my own mistress, you know, my dear Madam," said Rosalie, speaking this equi­vocation, for it could not be called a falsehood, in so low a voice as hardly to be heard.

"That is true," answered Mrs. Vyvian; "but I think, indeed I am sure, your friends would not disapprove the proposal in question—indeed there can be but one objection to it, which I think would not have much weight; the gentleman is a Catholic."

"A Catholic!" repeated Rosalie faintly.

"You are surprised, I see; but you know, Rosalie, there are considerations that may influ­ence persons to overlook this difference of opinion. Tell me now ingenuously: should a man of that religion offer, whose circumstances, whose cha­racter, are such as would preclude all those fea [...] that you, or those who love you, might have as to your future fate?—Tell me, if you should hesitate to accept of his hand?—Remember I ex­pect you to be candid. Would you receive such a man as your husband?"

The first attempt Rosalie made to answer this question failed; she was unable to articulate a syllable. Collecting, however, all her resolution, she at last found courage to say, "I am very sen­sible, Madam, that I ought to feel extremely grateful for the notice of any man of whom you have a good opinion;—but—my dear, dear be­ne [...]ress," added she in a voice that her agitati­on re [...]red indistinct, and rising from her seat, [Page 158] "I cannot any longer conceal the truth from you —I am already married."

"Already married!" exclaimed Mrs. Vyvian with a tone and look of amazement;—"Already married!—Merciful Heaven! and to whom?"

"Can I hope, dearest and best of women, to be forgiven, when I tell you—O no!—I dare not —you will reproach me, perhaps detest me, and cast me off for ever."

"Speak," said Mrs. Vyvian, trembling as much as the unhappy girl—speak". . . . . . She had her salts in her hand; and her eyes were eagerly fixed on the face of Rosalie, who was compelled to support herself by holding the table.

"Since you have just said, Madam, that a Catholic might, in your opinion, make such an alliance.". . . . . .

"A Catholic!" cried Mrs. Vyvian, still more faintly.

"I might hope, perhaps," continued Rosalie, "to be forgiven for every thing, but the presump­tion of becoming part of your family—of marrying a very near relation of your own."

Rosalie might have continued her confession without interruption another hour. Mrs. Vyvi­an heard no more, but sunk back in her chair to all appearance lifeless.

In an agony of terror, to which no words can do justice, Rosalie flew towards her, then to the bell, which she rang with violence: and when her servants came, she assisted in carrying Mrs. Vyvian to her room, though she was herself [...] situation but little better. . . . . . "I am u [...]ne," [Page 159] said she,—"I shall never be forgiven. . . . . No, I see that my more than mother cannot, will not, forgive me.—O Montalbert! why are you not here to plead with me for pardon?—What will become of your unhappy Rosalie, if her first, her best friend abandons and abhors her, while you are far far off, and unable to protect her from the insults of the rest of the world?"

While Rosalie was making this mournful mo­nologue on one side of the bed, the applications used by Mrs. Vyvian's woman were so successful, that she opened her eyes; but, turning them on Rosalie, she seemed shocked by the sight of her, and without speaking, waved her hand that she might leave her.

This was too much. Rosalie, regardless of the presence of the servant, threw herself upon her knees by the bed side, and attempted to take Mrs. Vyvian's hand—she snatched it from her with abhorrence, and, speaking with great dif­ficulty, said, "Wretched, most wretched girl— if you would not see me die before your face— go—I conjure you go."

"Hear me but for one moment; let Hallam leave the room while I speak to you for the last time, if it must be so."

The maid, who understood nothing of all this, and who felt no curiosity to know what it meant, restrained by some degree of terror, retired with­out being bid; and Rosalie again most earnestly imploring for pity and pardon, Mrs. Vyvian, in a [...]ice at once shrill and plaintive, said—

"It is now I feel, in all its severity, the pu­nishment [Page 160] I have deserved: long has the dread of it pursued me—long has it embittered every mo­ment of my wretched existence—but at length it overtakes, it crushes, it destroys me. . . . . . . . . . Miserable girl!—the unfortunate young man, to whom you believe yourself married—is—graci­ous God!—do I live to tell it—is your bro­ther!"

"My brother!"—cried Rosalie—"Heaven defend me!—My dear Madam—Mrs. Vyvian! —"Nothing occurred to her at that moment, but that the senses of her friend were gone.

"You are my daughter," said Mrs. Vyvian, the unhappy child of an unfortunate man, whose very name I never suffer to escape my lips."

This confirmed Rosalie in the apprehensions that her mind was deranged; but, heart struck with horror, she could not speak. Mrs. Vyvian, after a short pause, proceeded—

"Destined from your birth to be an outcast— to appear a stranger even to your mother—I guiltily indulged myself with a sight of you, till Vyvian, my son, victim of my crimes. . . . . . . ."

"Vyvian!" cried Rosalie, not knowing what to believe—"it is not Vyvian, but Montalbert, who is my husband."

"Montalbert!—and am I not then the wretch I thought myself?—O Heaven! hast thou yet mercy upon me!"

"If, dearest, dearest Mrs. Vyvian, you would but listen calmly to me. . . . . . ." Terror, for still she apprehended that Mrs. Vyvian wa [...] [...] ­come insane, again prevented her proceeding [...] [Page 161] nor was this impression weakened by the solemnity with which she now spoke.

"Yes, Rosalie," said she, "you are my child —I am not mad—I am only miserable—yet not so very miserable as I thought I was. Oh! why have so many cruel people been endeavouring to embitter the sad hours of my unhappy life, by repeating to me continually that Vyvian was so strongly attached to you, that neither reason nor absence could cure him of his passion. They knew not that in raising this idea in my mind, they poured into my heart the most fatal poison—Alas! they knew not that the dread of this horrible crime drove from me my Rosalie—the dear, un­happy object of so many years of silent anguish and stifled solicitude."

Rosalie, more and more amazed, and doubting the evidence of her senses, could only listen in breathless wonder, while Mrs. Vyvian, whose heart seemed to be already relieved, proceeded—

"Montalbert then is your husband. . . . . Ah! my poor girl, what a store of future misery you have laid up, it is too probable, for yourself. I am now amazed at my own blindness. Many, many hours of the most cruel anxiety would have been spared me, had not so strong a prepos­session been given me of Charles's frantic passion for you: yet I now wonder I did not discover that it was Montalbert you loved—that you were at­tached to somebody I was sure, and when I thought it was to Charles—oh! no words [...] do justice to the tortures that wrung my [...]."

[Page 162]Rosalie sighed deeply. But not knowing what to say that should express the mingled emotions she felt, she remained silent, still holding the hand of Mrs. Vyvian, who seemed to be collecting some of the presence of mind her late terrors had so entirely dissipated.

The pause had something of horror in it. Rosalie watched her countenance with a fearful and anxious eye, still assailed by the idea of some temporary derangement of intellect: For how could she, whose parents were never even doubt­ed, be the daughter of Mrs. Vyvian?—The whole scene appeared to be a dream: and, during this silence, Rosalie apprehended that she should again see her relapse into phrenzy. Till these fears gradually subsided, as Mrs. Vyvian began with some degree of calmness to inquire into the particulars of the marriage; it was legally and properly celebrated according to all her ideas.

"But tell me," added she, when this inquiry was at an end—"was Montalbert ingenuous with you?—Did he tell you that he depends for every thing but a bare subsistence, on the bounty of his mother?—Did he tell you, that mother has prejudices the most unconquerable against the natives and the established religion of England? . . . . . . . Ah! my poor dear girl, the same soft­ness of heart that destroyed me, has been, I fear, most dangerous to you. I cannot," continued she, deeply sighing, "I cannot now tell you the sad particulars of your birth. . . . I have not strength either of mind or body—The ho [...] idea, that my unhappy, perhaps guilty, attach [...] ­ment [Page 163] would be punished by a yet more fatal one between my children, was so very terrible, that it could not be sustained.—I tremble still like a wretch, who, having seen himself on the brink of a precipice, into which he must inevitably fall, is snatched from it as it were by miracle, and can hardly believe his safety. . . . . . . . Let it suffice, my dearest love, for the present, to tell you, that there are the most material reasons why you should conceal, even from Mrs. Lessington, this unexpected explanation between us. Let her not know, I conjure you, what has happened. But let her, at least for a while, suppose the se­cret known only to her and to me. I need not tell you, that your future welfare, and that of my nephew, depend entirely on your still keeping se­cret this clandestine engagement. There are e­vents that may obviate the inconveniences I fore­see.—Ah, Rosalie! from an affection cherished in secret, arose the misfortunes that have embit­tered my life, and fearful to my imagination is any dissimulation. But I dare not speak farther now. I am unequal to it. Already there is too much reason to fear that the violence of our e­motions may have given rise to conjectures, which it is so necessary for us to stifle. Let what has happened be supposed to arise from indisposi­tion on my part, and on yours from the fears that indisposition occasioned; and try, my best love to recover yourself as much as you can, and to resume your usual composure."

Rosalie, still in astonishment at all she had [...]d, and surprised at the tranquility with [Page 164] which Mrs. Vyvian now spoke, obeyed her as well as she could; but, as she kissed her hand, and would have bade her adieu, the new sensati­ons she felt, while she considered as her mother the friend whom she had always so tenderly loved, quite overcame her spirits, and her tears blinded her. Mrs. Vyvian, yielding for a moment to the tenderness she had for so many years suppres­sed, clasped her daughter fondly to her bosom, and, for almost the first time in her life, called her by the dear name of her child. There was some danger that they would both have indulged too long in these effusions of natural affection, but a rap at the chamber-door compelled them hastily to recover themselves. It was a message from the venerable Mr. Hayward, who, return­ing from his morning walk, had heard of Mrs. Vyvian's being greatly indisposed, and now so­licited leave to enquire after her. Rosalie, therefore, who knew that for every wound of the mind Mrs. Vyvian found a resource in the spiritual consolation offered her by this excellent man, hastened to follow her wishes as to leaving her; & remaining only a few moments in another room to recover herself yet a little more, she left the house of her real, and returned to that of her supposed mother.

Nothing could be less in harmony with her feelings than the groupe she found assembled there. A large party from the city, some of whom were entirely unknown to her, had been on a jaunt of pleasure to a village about ten miles distant and, on their way back to London, had been en­gaged [Page 165] by Miss Lessington, who was one of the company, to dine and pass the rest of the day at her mother's house at Hampstead.

Some of the gentlemen, who seemed to be of that rank of beings who are called "City Bucks —Young Men of Spirit—Fine Flashy Fellows" —were, in Rosalie's opinion, the rudest and most insupportable set she had ever seen. Agita­ted almost beyond endurance, as her spirits were, she was yet under the mortifying necessity of remaining for some time in this company, which did not separate till one of the men proposed finishing their pleasurable party by a jaunt to Ranelagh. It was now early spring, and it was not without difficulty that she was at length al­lowed to decline going, and saw Miss Lessington and this groupe of good folks, so perfectly content­ed with themselves, depart without her.

She was then left alone with her supposed mother; but to conceal from her the perturbation of her mind was by no means difficult. Mrs. Lessington, whose new manner of life was much more pleasing to her than that she had lived in, t [...] uniform insipidity of a country village, retained, however, so much of her original notable oecono­my, as to use every hour to advantage which was not given to the vigils of the card table. She now, therefore, busily employed herself in do­mestic arrangements, that she might enjoy with higher relish the rubber of the evening; and she had [...]e to make observations on the appear­ance [...] [...]osalie.

Thus left to herself, she reviewed with asto­nishment [Page 166] the strange discovery of the day. To find herself the daughter of Mrs. Vyvian, though of her father she was yet ignorant, seemed to be knowledge more flattering, more elevating than any event that could be imagined.—She was now ready to account for a thousand things which had before seemed extraordinary. The little af­fection Mr. Lessington had ever shewn for her; his leaving her name entirely out of his will; the indifference of Mrs. Lessington, who sometimes, and particularly lately, had seemed to forget her assumed character of mother, and to express only what she felt, the cold civility of a common ac­quaintance; the want of even the slightest family resemblance between her and the other children of the family, and innumerable other circum­stances which crowded together upon her recol­lection. But if on one hand she now saw only strangers among those whom she had hitherto considered as her nearest relations, she beheld in Mrs. Vyvian a mother whom her heart bounded to acknowledge. To be her daughter, to be with her knowledge the wife of Montalbert, left her hardly any thing to wish but that the hour was come when she might [...] at least the latter title, and be received as belonging to a man, who had not disdained to give her that title when he thought her Rosalie Lessington, and knew not that she inherited a portion of the noble blood of the Montalbert family: a family which, though now debarred from farther elevation [...] [...]ffering from the established religion, and es [...]d by foreign connections, had not formerly been infe­rior [Page 167] either in antiquity or honour, to the most illustrious of the British nobility.

CHAP. XIII.

ROSALIE now saw the beloved parent, whom she yet dared not own, every day. And the discovery of her marriage with Montalbert, which she had so much dreaded, had been the means of procuring her the knowledge of the [...]es­sing she possessed in a mother, who now secr [...] indulged all the tenderness of her heart. The eldest Miss Vyvian, now Mrs. Bosworth, was still at the family seat of her husband with her sister, and her father was gone into the north du­ring the recess of parliament. No impediment, therefore, existed at present against Rosalie's pas­sing almost all her time with Mrs. Vyvian, and so happy di [...] this indulgence make her, that, had Montalbert been in England, she would hardly have had a wish left ungratified.

[Page 168]It was now indeed that such a friend was more necessary to her than ever; and it was more re­quisite that this dear friend should know she was a wife, since she found it was probable she should become a mother. Nothing was more immedi­ately pressing than that Montalbert should be in­formed of this. But without the concurrence of Mrs. Vyvian, and indeed without her assistance, she dared not hazard a letter, which, if it fell into the hands of his mother, might be of the most fatal consequence. The two letters she had received from Montalbert were but too ex­pressive of his despondence and uneasiness; and though he seemed to stifle part of the anguish of his heart from tenderness towards his wife, she saw that the reception his mother had given him was far from having been pleasant, and that, while he yet acknowledged the necessity of his journey, he regretted that he had made it.

But Mrs. Vyvian, who had received letters from her son, knew yet more. She had learned that one reason for the impatience, expressed by the mother of Montalbert for his return to Naples, w [...] that she had projected a marriage for him with the daughter of a friend of her own, who h [...] lately lost her husband, a Roman of high rank, and was now a very rich widow. Charles Vyvian related all the advantages offered by such an alliance. On the beauty of the young widow, and her predilection in favour of Montalbert, with whom she had been acquainted before her first marriage, he dwelt particularly; [...] added, laughingly, that he supposed Harry had left his [Page 169] heart in England, for at present he seemed as in­sensible to the charms of the lady, as deaf to the remonstrances of his mother.

Mrs. Vyvian was extremely distressed by this intelligence, which she carefully avoided com­municating. Though she loved Montalbert ex­tremely, she had many doubts whether in affairs of love he had more honour than other gay young men. She had reason formerly to believe his principles were very free, and she could not but fear, that he might consider his marriage with Rosalie, celebrated as it had been contrary to the laws of England, as an engagement so little bind­ing, that he might break it whenever ambition or the love of variety might induce him to it.

The situation, therefore, of this beloved child, more dear than ever to her, was a dreadful weight on the spirits of Mrs. Vyvian: and she now felt renewed, in the person of Rosalie, all those cruel sensations which had corroded her own heart, when, betrayed by an unhappy passion into g [...] and dangerous imprudence, she was compelled [...] undergo all the meanness of concealment, and [...] the terrors of detection. The similarity of their destinies hitherto endeared to her mother this lovely unfortunate young woman, who seemed too likely to be doubly a victim. Yet, circumstan­ced as she was herself, she could not protect her openly, and even trembled every time she reflect­ed that, with the return of the family of her hus­band▪ the indulgence of ever seeing Rosalie must be resigned; and that they must equally sti [...] their fears and their affections.

[Page 170]Every day rendered the situation of Rosalie more critical. Though Mrs. Lessington seemed, as if by a tacit agreement with Mrs. Vyvian, not to notice the preference Rosalie so evidently gave to the latter, and to suffer her to act as she pleas­ed, others, who still supposed her a member of the Lessington family, could not be but surprised at her associating so little with them, nor help re­marking, that whenever they did see her among them, there was something peculiar in her man­ner and appearance. The men, who had admir­ed her beauty, but who had been repulsed by her coldness, now discovered, as they always do on such occasions, that the poor girl was in love: and while the elder ladies thought her proud, conceited, and full of airs, some of the younger entirely agreed with them; while others, more candid or more sensible, pitied her on the suppo­sition that she had an "unhappy attachment;" or, as the damsels of the lower rank would have expressed it, "that she was crossed in love."

Mrs. Vyvian was too deeply interested to have a moment's tranquility; and when the hour of Mrs. Bosworth's return approached, this anxiety became more and more insupportable: and it was certain that health so delicate could not long resist such painful solicitude.

After long deliberation and consulting with the Abbe Hayward, who had long been aware of who Rosalie really was, Mrs. Vyvian determined to write to Montalbert with the same precautions as those Rosalie used by his directions. This she executed, not without finding it the most difficult [Page 171] and painful task she had ever undertaken. To avow the dissimulation of her whole life to her nephew, to explain to him circumstances of which she knew he must be entirely ignorant, words were not easily found. At length, how­ever, the letter was written and sent off: and she returned once more to her long and pensive con­ferences with the object of it, with whom also a task yet remained quite as distressing to her.

This was to tell Rosalie to whom she owed her birth; to give a relation of circumstances which she knew must appear very strange to her. Mrs. Vyvian saw her often look as if she at once dread­ed and expected this explanation; but never yet had she acquired courage to begin the conversa­tion, and Rosalie was too timid to make any in­quiries that led to it.

But Mrs. Bosworth and Miss Vyvian would now return in a short time: and then the mother and daughter must no longer indulge themselves with being together for whole days as they were now—a heavy presentiment of future evil, to which the former was too apt to yield, told her, that if the present time was lost, future opportuni­ties might be wanting.—The next morning, therefore, after having made her resolution▪ she put it into execution.

Rosalie, whom she had desired to come early, was seated at work by her bed-side, for she was too much indisposed to leave it; when Mrs. Vy­vian, opening a little casket which she had pre­viously placed near her pillow, put into the hand [...] of Rosalie a miniature picture, and, in a tremb­ling [Page 172] voice, said, "It is the likeness of—your fa­ther! —It represented a man of two or three and twenty: the countenance expressed under­standing and vivacity of sentiment, and the whole figure was remarkably handsome. Rosalie gazed on it in silence, and with sensations that cannot be described. "Do you see no resem­blance, my Rosalie," said Mrs. Vyvian, "to a face you know?—Ah! do you not trace in these features the likeness you bear to. . . . . . .?— Believe me, my child," continued she, unable to restrain her tears, "this morning is the first time for many years that I have allowed myself to look at that picture; and now I resign it for ever. —Take it, my dear girl, and may you not resem­ble him in fortune as in features."

"Does my father yet live, Madam?" Rosalie would have said; but she could not articulate the sentence. Her mother, however, understood her. "He does," replied she, "but not in Eng­land. I shall never see him more—nor am I guil­ty or wretched enough to wish it.—Never have these eyes beheld him since that fatal hour when I was compelled to give to another the hand which was his in the sight of God. But, though my hand was not at my own disposal, never has it acknowledged any sovereign but him to whom my first vows were given: yet I very sincerely tried, when under the cruel necessity of giving myself to Mr. Vyvian, to fulfil the duties that were imposed upon me. He knew that I was compelled to marry him. He was indelicate and selfish enough to consider only the convenience of [Page 173] my fortune, and a person, which was then an object to a man, licentious and dissolute as he was. Yet I think he never has had any just rea­son to complain of my conduct since I have borne the name of his wife. He knew I neither did nor ever could love him—for I told him so when I married him. He was contented to possess my fortune and my person—my heart he never thought worth the experiment that some men would have made to have gained it." A deep sigh and a long pause, which Rosalie did not in­terrupt, now followed.—

In a few moments Mrs. Vyvian seemed to have regained her resolution, and thus proceeded—

"You should have an idea of what sort of a man, my father, Mr. Montalbert, was, before you can imagine how I was situated. I do not believe you know more than his name; for Mrs. Lessington was probably cautious of entering into any part of my unfortunate history.—Mr. Montalbert then, my father, was the elder bro­ther of a family, which, from its name, was evidently of Norman extraction—a boast that is generally deemed a sufficient ground for the pride of ancestry in England. The Montalberts, how­ever, could carry their genealogy much farther, and were content to begin it only among the Em­perors of the East. As English Peers, they adhered to the unfortunate James the Second, were banished with him, and lost their property, their title, and their rights as British subjects. My father, being much connected with noble families more fortunate, had interest enough [Page 174] to obtain restitution of a small part indeed of the great fortunes of his family, but sufficient to give him once more a footing in England, where he was happy enough to marry one of its richest heiresses. My mother who was the only offspring of an alliance between two noble houses, inherit­ed all their possessions, and gave them and herself to my father, in despite of the opposition of such of her family as pretended to any right of giving their opinion; for her father and mother being dead, there were only uncles or cousins whose dissent could not prevent her following her own inclinations.

"This great property was divided between me and my brother, the father of Montalbert, your husband, but not equally; for he had of course the greatest share. The noble castle and the estates, belonging to it in the north, are the principal part of what remains to him in England; for having early formed connections upon the continent, he never loved or lived long in Eng­land. His life was not long, for he died soon after the birth of your husband; so soon, indeed, that he had neglected to make for him the provi­sion he ought to have made, and, by a prior will, Harry Montalbert was left almost entirely depen­dent on his mother.

"In consequence of the long absence, and afterwards of the early death of my brother, I [...]e to be considered by my father as an only child. Dissatisfied with a world, which he had, from personal infirmities, no longer the power of enjoying, he retired to Holmwood when I was [Page 175] about fifteen; and, from that time, you may imagine, my life was very recluse; for then the country around it was less inhabited, and the roads less passable than they are now.

"Harsh as my father was, I loved him very tenderly, and therefore did not murmur at the confinement thus imposed upon me at a time of life when other young women enter the world and enjoy its pleasures: nor did the fatigues of con­stant attendance in a sick chamber, and continu­ing to read sometimes for half the night, for a moment deter me from doing my duty, or for a moment induce me to repine.

"I have since thought, Rosalie, that this peri­od, with all its little hardships and inconvenien­ces, was the happiest of my life.—My friend Mrs. Lessington, though then married, and some years older than me, was still often my compani­on, and shared a task which without her I could not have executed so well. Whenever I was re­leased from the chamber of my suffering parent, I saw around me scenes of nature, which seemed to put on new beauties as if to reward me for my perseverance in painful duties; and if I tasted not of pleasures, which are accounted happiness by very young women, I was at least content. Thus, without much variation, passed more than three years of my life.

"My father had a relation in Ireland, whose ancestors having suffered in the same cause as that in which the Montalberts had lost their property, had not been so fortunate in re-establishing their affairs; but their descendant was, with a nu­merous [Page 176] family, obliged to live on a very small estate, and in great obscurity in the north of Ireland.

"One of the sons, however, having been sent young to the East Indies, had done so well, that he wrote to have two of his three brothers follow him, informing his father, that though he could not make remittances for the purpose of sitting them out, he was sure when they arrived there, of getting them into situations nearly as advan­tageous as his own.

"In consequence of this, their father sent his third and fourth sons to England, to solicit among their friends and their relations the means of equipping them in such a way as might enable them to avail themselves of these advantageous prospects. The eldest of the two soon found assistance in London, and departed; but the younger having been seized with a violent fit of illness in London, was under the necessity of see­ing the last ship of the season sail without him; and at the invitation of my father, who had taken most of the expence of his equipment upon him­self, he came down to Holmwood to recover his health, while he waited for an opportunity of fol­lowing his brother, which was not likely to offer for some months.

"Ormsby was about one and twenty when he was thus received into the house of my father, who soon learned to consider him as a son; be­coming so attached to him, that he was not easy in his absence.

"Even at this distance of time, I reflect with [Page 177] wonder on the carelessness with which my father suffered two very young people to be continually together, without appearing to think of the proba­bility there was that they might form an attach­ment to each other. It is true that I have myself discovered inattention of the same sort in regard to you and Montalbert; but besides the prepossession of your predilection in favour of Vyvian, with which my mind was distracted, the character of Montalbert was so different from that of Ormsby, that it never occurred to me that there was equal hazard in your being continually in his compa­ny."—

Mrs. Vyvian now seemed to be so much fa­tigued, and to be so little able to continue a nar­rative so affecting to her spirits, that Rosalie en­treated her to forbear concluding it till she was less likely to suffer by dwelling on scenes which it gave her so much pain to recal. But the pro­bability that their long and private conferences might be less frequent when they were continually liable to be broken in upon by Mrs. Bosworth and her sister, and the necessity there was that Rosalie should know the circumstances of her birth, and what were Mrs. Vyvian's wishes as to her future conduct, determined her, to exert herself to the utmost of her power, to conclude all she had to relate—the singular circumstances of her former life.

CHAP. XIV.

IN the evening Mrs. Vyvian found herself able to proceed, and thus continued her narrative:—

"My friend Mrs. Lessington, who had now a family of children, was no longer at liberty to give me so much of her time as she had hitherto done; but, at this period, the living of May­field, which was in my father's gift, becoming vacant, I was fortunate enough to procure it for her husband, and had the comfort of seeing her settled within four miles of Holmwood.

"Greatly, indeed, had I need of the prudence and steadiness of a friend. . . . . . . Imagine, my Rosalie, how I was at this time situated. Orms­by, though he lived so much with me, was yet so sensible of the distance fortune had placed between us, that, for many months after he be­came an inmate in our house, he never breathed the most distant expression of his affection. Yet, young as I was, I could not mistake the meaning of his looks, and those silent attentions he inces­santly paid me. He seemed—ah! he was—too artless to disguise entirely his sentiments. But the ineffectual struggle he made to do so, was a [Page 179] spectacle infinitely more dangerous for me than the warmest professions could have been. He had even the generosity to avoid me for some time, and, as if by tacit consent, we met only in my fathers room, where he now almost always supplied my place, and sat whole days, and often whole nights, with a tenderness and patience that, in my opinion, overpaid the debt of grati­tude which he owed him. But sometimes, when my fathers old servant was able to give that attendance for which he was often disqualified by illness, Ormsby was unexpectedly released; and it was at one of these periods that the explanation was brought on, which afterwards cost me so dear.

"My father had been extremely ill for many days. It was spring, a season that always brought on the most painful paroxysms of the gout: his old servant, hardly less a victim to this disease than himself, had been laid up, and Ormsby had been my father's attendant for ten days, almost without taking off his clothes, and certainly with­out having had any interval of rest.

"Barford, my father's servant, having a little recovered, came down to his relief; for no other person was suffered to enter the room, but Orms­by, myself, and this man.

"At this time Ormsby was so much fatigued, that he could hardly support himself. He hasten­ed to procure what refreshment a change of clothes afforded, and then to relieve a violent head-ache, the effect of want of sleep, he wandered into the garden for the air. . . . . . You remember, [Page 180] Rosalie, the temple at the end of the avenue of stone pines—thither I often went with my work, or with a book, when I was alone; behind it is, you recollect, a copse, which, at the season of the year now present, for it was the middle of May, echoed with the music of innumerable birds. Every object breathed of peace and beauty; and as my heart had long since learned to associate the idea of Ormsby with every scene that gave me pleasure, I was meditating on fu­ture possibilities of happiness, when the object of my dangerous contemplations suddenly appear­ed coming towards the place where I sat.

"To the lively interest he always inspired was now added, that which arose from the fatigue he had evidently undergone. He was pale, and his eyes were heavy for want of rest. I saw him with a slow and languid step ascend the little turf hill on which the temple is situated. I could not have escaped from it without his seeing me, if I had wished to have done so. But, in truth, I had no desire to fly from him; and though I trembled as he approached me, it was with a sort of delightful apprehension; for I fancied he would now speak to me, if not in direct terms—yet in such as would leave me no longer in doubt as to his real sentiments: yet while I wished this, I dreaded it: and when he entered the place where I sat, I know not which of us appeared the most confused. He had long studiously avoided me, and certainly did not now expect to meet me. But as he knew I had seen him, and perhaps had not resolution enough to deny himself the unex­pected [Page 181] opportunity of speaking to me, he came into that wing of the temple, and, after the com­mon salutation of the morning, sat down near me.

"I inquired after my father, though it was not an hour since I had been in the room; but it gave me occasion to say, though in a faltering voice, how much I was obliged to Ormsby for his con­s [...]nt attendance. I had not concluded the sen­tence, when▪ he said, 'Obligations, Miss Mon­talbert!—surely all obligations are mine; but were it otherwise, were not your father my best friend—that he is your father would be enough to induce me to make any sacrifices. There is a happiness in being able to serve him as my bene­factor; but there is somet [...]ing more than happi­ness in thinking that▪ in attending on the respect­able parent of Miss Montalbert, I save her from one hour's fatigue, or mitigate to her one hour of anxiety.'

"I will not relate the s [...]quel of our conversati­on. Before it ended▪ Ormsby, while he a [...]sed himself at once of presumption and ingra [...] professed for me the most violent, though hope­less, passion. He saw to evidently, that if it de­pended on me it would not be hopeless. Already my heart had said to me much more than Ormsby, even in making this declaration, dared to inti­mate. It had whispered that my father's par­tiality for him mi [...]ht very probably conquer the objections that his total want of fortune might raise. I had fancied that it was impossible my father could leave us so much together, unless he m [...]nt to give a tacit consent to an affection [Page 182] which was so likely to arise between two young persons. I had imagined, that, finding us both necessary to his comfort, he intended to unite us. My fortune must be such, as I supposed, made any consideration as to that of my lover entirely needless.—Alas! how little is the inexperienced mind of youth capable of judging of those motives that influence men in advanced life. Though my father was retired from the world, he had not lost in retirement the passions that influence the men of that world. On the contrary, living where he was the lord of many miles, where none, either in his house or around it, ever dis­puted his will, he had, like a despot, entirely forgotten that others had any will at all. Of a marriage of love he had no idea; nor did it ever occur to him, as a thing possible, that a depen­dent relation, who was indebted to his bounty for a subsistence, could dare to lift his eyes to a daughter of the house of Montalbert, for whom, though he had never yet hinted at them, my father had very different views.

"But love, too apt to listen to the voice of hope, suffered us not to see the misery we were laying up for ourselves; and even amidst the re­proaches Ormsby often made himself, for what he termed treachery and ingratitude, the flatter­ing illusions into which we were betrayed by youthful inexperience, not only quieted these alarms of conscience, but made us listen with something bordering on resentment to the remon­strances of my friend, Mrs. Lessington, who took every occasion of representing the danger of my [Page 183] indulging a predilection for Ormsby. I endea­voured to persuade her, as I had persuaded my­self, that I should one day become his wife, with the permission of my father. Mrs. Lessington, who undoubtedly knew the world and my father's temper much better than I did, left nothing un­said that was likely to convince me of this danger­ous error. She even threatened to inform my father of the truth, unless I endeavoured to con­quer this fatal prepossession; and she assured me if she did, the consequence would be the imme­diate disgrace and dismission of Ormsby. This menace which I knew she would never execute, had an effect exactly opposite to that which she intended. The idea of Ormsby driven from the house, suffering poverty and mortification, and abandoned by the world only for his attachment to me, endeared him to me infinitely more than he would have been had I seen him surrounded with affluence and prosperity. Nothing is so dangerous as pity; and my friend, in attempting to save me, hastened my ruin by exciting it.

"I cannot, Rosalie, trace the progress of this fatal passion. My confessor, who alone might have checked its progress, was surely careless of his charge, or was possibly become indifferent to the welfare of a family he was soon on the point of quitting. He went to Rome exactly at the time when he might perhaps have saved me, and it was some time before he was replaced by Mr. Hayward.

"During that interval, as Mrs. Lessington was gone into the west on a visit to her husband's [Page 184] relations, Ormsby was more than ever alone with me. [...]very hour, indeed, in which the atten­dance of the one or the other was not necessary in my father's room, we passed together. From an habit of indulging myself in the illusive hope that I might one day be his wife▪ I insensibly learned to consider myself already so in the sight of Hea­ven. . . . . . Ormsby was young and passionate: he was not an artful seducer; but I had no mother, I had no friend, and those who candidly reflect on my situation will surely compassionate, though they may not perhaps acquit me.

"How soon, alas! was this deviation from rectitude and honour severely and bitterly punish­ed. Though my father had been wilfully blind or strangely negligent, the servants, and from them the neighbours, saw enough to make them suspect more. We had little or no communica­tion with the gentlemen's families around us, divided from them as we were by the difference of religion, habits and connections. But in ours, as in every other neighbourhood, there were of­ficious and impertinent people, whose greatest pleasure was to inquire into the affairs of others, and disturb as much was in their power the peace of families. The country town adjoining to Holmwood produced at that time, as indeed it has done since, but too many of this description. —I, who hardly knew that such persons existed, was, however, marked out for the victim of their malignity; and, as if the terrors that now inces­santly beset me were insufficient, for I found my­self likely to become a mother, one of th [...]se [Page 185] officious fiends completed, or rather accelerated, the evil destiny that hung over me.

"While I waited with agonising impatience the return of Mrs. Lessington, whose counsel was so necessary in my present alarming situation, Ormsby, more wretched than I was, attempted to sooth and console me; and I was insensible of any other comfort than what I derived from weeping in his arms. Little dreaming of the storm that was ready to burst upon us, I sought him as usual one morning in the plantation, where we were accustomed as it was yet early autumn, to meet in a morning before either the family were likely to interrupt us, and before my father demanded either his attendance or mine. I found him not. Supposing it earlier than I had believed, I traversed for some time the walks of the wood without uneasiness—but at length his absence surprised and then alarmed me. I returned slowly towards the house, more and more amazed that Ormsby did not appear— I met the under gardener, and, without any precise design, I asked him some trifling question —the man, instead of answering, looked at me with a countenance expressive of terror and surprise; then without answering, hurried away; while I, dreading I knew not what, quickened my steps towards the house, and was met in the lawn that immediately surrounded it by my own maid, a young woman who had been lately sent to me from France by a friend, and who was al­ready much attached to me. Her countenance startled me infinitely more than that of the man [Page 186] I had just passed—I hastily inquired what was the matter?—Helene attempted to utter a few words in French; but her voice failed her; and, seiz­ing my hands, she looked at me with such an expression of terror and an [...]h, that the only idea it conveyed was the death of my father. Before my incoherent and breathless inquiries, or her attempts to answer them succeeded, my fa­ther's old butler came out, and, though he seem­ed equally terrified, he had just command enough of himself to tell me that I must immediately attend his master. Without having any distinct notion of the cause for which I was thus unex­pectedly summoned, I obeyed in such confusion of mind that I know not how I reached the room.

"My father was not as usual at so early an hour in his bed, but sitting in a chair. I saw that something had greatly disturbed him, and my guilty conscience whispered to me that our fatal secret was discovered. . . . . Trembling, so that I could not move across the room without the assistance of Helene, I at length approached the place. My father's eyes were sternly fixed on my face. His lips quivered, and his voice fal­tered, while he reached his hand towards me, and gave me a letter he held in it.

'Read that'—said he sternly—'read it—and hear me for the first and the last time I shall ever speak again on so hateful a subject. If I thought you capable of any part of the folly, the infamy, which this letter attaches to your conduct, I would not hold even this parley with you. But [Page 187] I will not think it. Though I severely arraign myself for my i [...]tention, yet I know that [...] daughter of mine would not dare to encourage any man without my approbation; still less, is it possible that Rosalie Montalbert should think of a boy, who, th [...] distantly my relation, and therefore a gentleman▪ is a beggar. . . He is gone—you will see him no more.'

"I heard▪ indeed no more; for my senses for­sook me and I escaped from the rage and reproach­es of my father; nor was I awakened from this trance till I found myself on my bed, with Helene weeping by me.—'What has happened to me, Helene?' said I; for at that moment my recol­lection was confused, and, though I had the im­pression of something very dreadful on my mind, I rememebred no more than that some dreadful e­vil had befallen Ormsby. Helene could only an­swer by tears and s [...]bs—I raised myself in my bed—'Tell me,' said I 'my dear friend, what did my father mean?—what is become of Orms­by?'

'Ah! dear young lady,' replied Helene, 'what would become of you, what would become of us all, if our master new the truth, which now he will not allow himself even to suspect.—Oh! he is so passionate, he is so terrible, when he is an­gry, that I believe, upon my honour, he would destroy us all.'

'I wish he would destroy me, Helene,' said [...] sighing deeply; 'but, unless you now intend to suffer me to die before you, tell me, I conjure you to tell me, what my father meant by saying that I should never see Ormsby more?'

[Page 188]'Indeed,' replied Helene, 'my dear mistress, I know no more of it than you do. In this great house you know that what is done at one end of it may very easily be unknown at the other. . . . I am as ignorant as you are how—but Mr. Orms­by is gone, or—'

"She stopped and hesitated.—'They have kil­led him,' exclaimed I—'I know they have de­stroyed him. Do not deceive me—I will not be deceived.—But let not my father, my inhuman father imagine that I will survive—no, I will in­stantly go, I will avow the truth, and follow my husband to the grave.'—The frenzy that possess­ed me gave me strength. I sprang from the bed, and, in a state of desparation, was rushing to­wards my father's room, when Helene, terrified at my attempt, threw herself before me, and [...]hutting the door, locked it, and secured the key. This presence of mind alone saved me from the [...]truction on which I was throwing myself; for I believe, that had I at that moment appear­ed before my father, acknowledged my situation and my attachment to Ormsby, that he would, without hesitation, have stabbed me to the heart.

"Such was the distracted state of my mind, that it was only when my strength was entirely exhausted that Helene could prevail upon me to listen to her arguments. At length I sunk into silent despair, because I had [...] longer the power of speaking; and then Helene ventured to leave me, carefully locking the door of my cham­ber after her, as well as that of the anti-room, and hastened away to procure not only [Page 189] some medicine for me, which she hoped would quiet my agitated spirits, but the benefit of the counsel she knew she should receive from the Abbe Hayward, who, though he had not been more than a week in the house, had gained the confidence and good opinion of every one in the family.

"When she was gone, I endeavoured to re­cal to my mind the words, the looks, and ges­tures of my father. . . . . I shuddered as they passed in my memory, and I dared not think steadily upon the scene I had passed. Even now Rosalie—even at the distance of almost nineteen years. I find that I cannot dwell upon it without horror."

It was true the recollection affected Mrs. Vyvian so much, that a col [...] trembling seized her. Her voice sailed, and Rosalie, terrified at the situation in which she saw her mother, entreated her to forbear any farther exertion till she was more able to undertake it. It was more than an hour before she was sufficiently recovered for Rosalie to leave her; at length, finding Mrs. Vyvian more composed, she retired to the house she used to call her home, having settled to be again at her mother's bedside at a very early hour the following morning.

CHAP. XV.

ONCE more seated by the bedside of her mo­ther, who, on this morning, was too much in­disposed to be able to leave it, Rosalie listened in silence to the continuation of a narrative in which she was so deeply interested.

"While Helene was gone," said Mrs. Vyvi­an, "I collected strength enough to rise and go to the window of my bed-chamber. It was now night, but there was light enough to enable me to discern every object on the lawn round the house. I gazed, however, without knowing why, or on what:—the thought of Ormsby gone—lost to me forever—perhaps destroyed— filled me with such undescribable horror, that my power of reflection seemed to be annihilated. Impressed with that one idea, my heart seemed petrified; the certainty of instant death would have been received as a matter of indifference. All that I wished was, to be assured of the fate of Ormsby—I thought that if I knew what was become of him, I could brave the severest anger of my father, and die content, since I believed my death inevitable. . . How dismal every object [Page 191] that I surveyed from my window appeared!—not a human being appeared round the house: the woods that you may recollect terminate the lawn on one side were almost half stripped of their leaves; but they looked black, dreary, and fit for deeds of horror.—Yet do not, my dear Rosalie, believe, that however cruel I at that moment thought my father, I could suppose him capable of so dreadful a crime as that of directing the death of Ormsby; but I figured to myself, that, rendered desperate by the force that had been used to tear him away, he had resisted, and sunk under the numbers of unfeeling men who were ready at every hazard to obey my father's orders—no otherwise could I account, in the pre­sent confused state of my mind, for his having disappeared without sending me one line—one la [...] adieu!—or having made any attempt to give me notice of the scene that awaited me, or to arm me with the courage it required to pass through it.

"I cannot discriminate the various emotions that agitated my mind during the absence of Helene, who, on her return in about an hour, found me still sitting at the window, as if I ex­pected to see Ormsby pass, as he sometimes used to do under it of an evening, when he used to tell me he had peculiar delight in watching the light in my room, and seeing me pass across it, long before he dared to tell me he loved me.

"But now, alas! he was to appear there no more—and when Helene returned and came into my apartment, carefully locking the door after [Page 192] her, the expression of fear and dismay which her countenance [...]ore renewed all my terrors. . . . . . I flew towards her, and, though unable to speak, she saw that I anticipated the worst news she could relate to me.

"She tried to command herself, that she might prevail upon me to be tranquil enough to attend to my own safety. It was, however, some time before I was in a condition to listen to her.

"Helene at length related to me that the house was now apparently quiet, but that an a [...] of amazement and conste [...]nation was perceivable on the faces of all its inhabitants; all of whom seemed afraid to speak or even to look at each other.—The Abbe Hayward, she said, had been [...]lone with my father the whole day, and none of the servants had been permitted to wait but the old butler; that, on her applying to him for in­telligence, he said he had orders to tell her, when she came down from her young lady, that Mr. Montalbert ordered her attendance.

'Ah, Madam,' said Helene in French, 'how I trembled when I heard this. . . . . . . . . I went, however, and my master ordering me to approach the place where he sat, said—Helene, it is my express orders, as well to you as to every other servant in my house, that no gossipping, no con­versation, not even a word, shall be uttered as to any circumstance that has happened, or that you may suppose has happened in this family. The slightest failure in this respect will be atten­ded with ill consequences—the least of [...]h will [Page 193] be the loss of your place. . . . . . . . . I ask you no questions as to your past discretion—As to your lady, tell her from me that I expect she will to-morrow appear before me as my daughter ought to appear; on which condition only, the folly, or the affectation of this day, for I know not which to call it, shall be forgotten. You will tell her, as I have already caused it to be in­timated to my people, that from this hour the name of Ormsby is never to be mentioned within these walls—go—and remember what I say to you—Your father, Madam,' continued He­lene, 'looked more stern than ever, as he said this; and indeed I trembled so, that I thought I must have fallen down as you did. That dear good man, the Abbe Hayward, looked at me as if he wished, but dared not, say any thing to comfort me. I got out of the room as well as I could, and went, looking I believe more white than a ghost, into the servant's hall, where I saw no person but the coachman and the gardener; neither of them spoke to me—they seem even afraid of speaking to each other. I passed into the housekeeper's room, under pretence of asking for something for you: Mrs. Nelson was there, with the two house-maids and the laundry-maid; but instead of asking me any questions about you, as Mrs. Nelson almost always does if you are at any time the least ill, she never inquired after you, though she knew you had been confined to your room ill the whole day; as to the maids they seemed like statues, and while I staid on one pre­tence or other, in hopes of gaining some intelli­gence, [Page 194] Mrs. Nelson would have sent one of them to the store-room, but she turned as pale as death, and said it was impossible to go unless one of the other maids went with her. Mrs. Nelson gave her a strange look▪ but said nothing, and they went away together.'

"All this, so strangely obscure and unacount­able, redoubled my inquietude.—Something very unusual then had happened in the house, which had impressed terror on the minds of its inha­bitants—What could this be but some violence that had been offered to Ormsby, which was known to all the servants, but which none of them dared to speak of?—There were few events, the certainty of which could be so dreadful as the state of horrible suspence I was now in. I think that my intellects, unable to sustain, sunk under it, and that the artificial calm that followed was the effect of the agonies in which I passed this melancholy day, and the night that followed it.

"Still placed in the window, with my eyes fixed on the lawn and woods that surrounded it, I heard the incoherent narrative of Helene, and continued to torment myself with every terrific idea that my sickening brain could raise. . . . . Hideous shadows seemed to flit before me—I al­most imagined that, in the murmurs of the wind, I heard the dying groans of Ormsby—that I heard him call upon me, and bid me adieu.— From the indulgence of waking dreams so horri­ble, I was startled by a rapping at the door of the anti-room that led from the staircase to my [Page 195] bedchamber. Helene, fearing she knew not what, hesitated, and dared not open it; she ask­ed me what she should do, but I was utterly incapable of answering, and we were at length relieved from our terrors by hearing the voice of Mr. Hayward, who desired to be admitted.

"He spoke to me with so much soothing kind­ness, and reasoned so properly with me, that tears, which had been for many hours denied me, flowed from my eyes: I dared not, however, ask—for I yet knew but very little of Mr. Hay­ward—I dared not ask what was become of the unfortunate Ormsby; but, as if this worthy man had read the thoughts, I had not courage to express—he gradually managed his conversation so as to bring it to the point he wanted to speak upon.—'I was extremely concerned,' said he, 'that the precipitancy of Mr. Montalbert's man­ner alarmed you as it did. . . . . Indeed I have told him, that I greatly blame his needless harsh­ness produced only by an anonymous letter, and certainly unsounded. I can easily imagine how the abrupt manner in which he spoke to you might have the effect it had, and I have at length per­suaded him to believe, that without any improper attachment to Mr. Ormsby, you might be affected in the manner you were. He is become more reasonable since his passion has subsided, which was raised to a degree of frenzy by that infamous letter, and he seems concerned for the terror he inflicted upon you, and willing to forget it [...] one positive condition.'

"Having no courage to ask what [...] [...] dition [Page 196] was, I remained silent. Mr. Hayward thus proceeded—

'As Mr. Montalbert cannot subdue his dis­pleasure, when he thinks it possible that Mr. Ormsby had or could be supposed to have been guilty of the presumption of pretending to you, he has thought it proper to remove him from hence immediately, and, to put an end at once to the very recollection of such a report, he in­sists upon it that the name of Ormsby is not men­tioned in the house.'

"I sighed, but dared not ask what was the fate of this unfortunate Ormsby. . . . . . . . . . . I felt, however, considerable relief from the manner in which Mr. Hayward spoke of him; for I was persuaded, that had my father taken any very cruel measures in regard to him, such a man as Mr. Hayward would neither have tole­rated such conduct, or, if he could not have checked it, would he have spoken of it so calmly.

"Still, however, the sad uncertainty of what was become of him seemed so heavily to press on my heart, that it was ready to burst. . . . I could not speak; but Mr. Hayward who appeared to be well acquainted with the painful sensations which were probably pictured on my counte­nance, went on, in the most soothing manner, to tell me what was, he thought, the best part I could take for my peace of mind, and for the [...]ral tranquility of the family.

[...] [...]t I wish you to consider of, my dear [...] [...]ontalbert,' said he, 'is, whether it would [Page 197] not contribute much to your future ease and comfort, could you determine, in compliance with your father's commands, not only to men­tion no more of this unfortunate young man, but to resolve on appearing before your father to-mor­row, at the hour he has appointed, to hear mass, with a calm and even cheerful countenance. Let him not suppose that the observance of his commands is a greater sacrifice than it ought to be—appear to think, that whatever is his pleasure ought not to be disputed, and, I think, I can venture to say, that whatever uneasiness this wicked letter has raised in the breast of your father will be at an end, as your behaviour will prove to him that the charges in it were entirely unfounded:—you will be restored to his confi­dence and to your own peace.'

"I was still incapable of answering; but, as I remained quiet, and shed not a tear, Mr. Hay­ward thought he might venture to proceed.

'I am convinced,' continued he, 'that you feel the force of all I have urged; but, I believe, it is better to state to you what are my apprehen­sions of the consequences, if you fail of acquiring this command over yourself. . . . . . . . It will, I fear, make your father suspect, that this malici­ous informer had some ground for the assertions he or she has dared to make. It is much to be apprehended, that Mr. Ormsby who is wholly. I believe [...] in his power, will suffer if such an imagination predominates in your father's mind; and I should doubt whether the extreme indigna­tion which he suffers himself to feel might not so [Page 198] far annihilate his tenderness for you, as to urge him even to so harsh a measure as that of sending you to a convent in Italy, and compelling you to take the veil.'

"Mr. Hayward stopped, expecting that I might by this time have so far recovered my spi­rits, as to be able to promise that I would attempt at least to regulate my behaviour by his advice— but I remained silent. . . . . . Rendered desperate by what I had heard, I became incapable of at­tending to the consequences of the step I was about to take: the moment, however, I could find voice and words, I related, in a slow and solemn tone, the dreadful truth; but before I had entirely finished my melancholy narrative, the room turned round with me, my eyes became dim, and my senses forsook me.

"When I recovered, Helene was chasing my temples, and taking other means to bring me to myself; the Abbe Hayward was traversing the room in the agitated manner of a person who has received some alarming intelligence, and knows not how to act. When he saw that I was a little restored, he approached me, and, in a voice hardly articulate, said, 'Most unhappy young woman, this is no time to flatter—destruction hangs over you, and it is only in your own pow­er to escape it; for without your own efforts, nobody can save you. I will not deceive you, Miss Montalbert—I will tell you what I really believe, that if your father was assured of what you have now entrusted me with, the life of Mr. Ormsby would be insufficient to satisfy his ven­geance [Page 199] —though he would be the first victim. . . Heaven direct me for the best!' cried the good man 'Heaven direct me!—What can I do?'

"He again traversed the room in silent an­guish; but what were his feelings compared to mine!

"At length he recovered himself enough to speak again with composure.

'Something must be done,' said he; 'but till I have more time to consider what, let me once more ask you, if you cannot, my dear Miss Mon­talbert, command resolution [...]ough to appear before your father to-morrow with some degree of serenity?—Reflect a moment how much depends on this exertion on your part: [...] otherwise than by this necessary dissimulation can you hope to avert the impending danger—danger that may so fatally affect more lives than one.'

"I now acquired steadiness of voice enough to say, 'Let Ormsby live—let him but escape the vengeance which ought not to fall on him, and let me, who alone am to blame, perish under the indignation of my incensed father. . . . . . . One victim will perhaps satisfy him—I desire to die —and when I am dead, the resentment raised by injured honour may surely be appeased.'

"That I spoke at all, and spoke calmly, though it was with the sudden sadness of despair, seemed to Mr. Hayward to be a favourable symp­tom. He pursued his argument, therefore, and endeavoured to convince me whatever hope re­mained of concealing th [...] fatal secret, must rest entirely upon my own resolution and discretion.

[Page 200]"The life of Ormsby, he said, was in my hands:—he recalled to my mind the temper of my father—the fierceness of his anger—the stea­diness of his resentment. . . . . . . . I listened and shuddered.

'If,' said he, 'the mere information that the suspicion of such an affection between you and Mr. Ormsby was entertained in a neighbourhood, where he cares nothing about the people, has so enraged Mr. Montalbert as to induce him to act as he has done in regard to Mr. Ormsby— what would there no [...]e to dread from the fury of his resentment, were [...]e to know what you have to­night related to me—

"I took advantage of a pause Mr. Hayward made to repeat some of the words he had used.— 'Acted as he has done,' cried I 'in regard to Ormsby? tell me then—I conjure you tell me— how has my father acted?—By what stratagem or force, could he tear away that unhappy young man, even before he knew that there was the least ground for the charge that was made against him?—Oh, Mr. Hayward!—if you are capable of mercy—if you really pity the agonies that rend my heart, tell me, I conjure you tell me, what is become of Ormsby?—I think, that if I once knew, I should become calm—I think I could summon resolution enough to consult my own safety; but, indeed, the misery of this uncertain­ty is such. . . . . All my thoughts are so full of horror, that the death with which I am threat­ened would be a welcome release from such into­lerable torture.'

[Page 201]'I solemnly assure you,' replied Mr. Hayward, 'that I do not know what is become of our unfortunate friend, nor, perhaps, shall I ever know. . . . . . I dare not make any inquiry; and all I have been able to learn is, that, on receiving the infamous scrall last night, your father ordered every body out of his room, and remained alone, or only with Ormsby, for some time. He then directed two of the grooms to be sent to him, and that the steward might also attend. . . . . . Mr. Ormsby appeared no more. These two men, the grooms, have never been seen since; but there is no track of a carriage around the house, nor has any body been seen to leave it. The steward ob­serves the most profound silence, and all that is known in the house is, that something has happen­ed which has obliged Mr. Ormsby suddenly to leave it; that he has deeply offended Mr. Montalbert; and that it is required of all who would not enrage their master, and be dismissed from the family, never to mention the name of Ormsby even to each other.

'My father did see him?' inquired I—'had they any conversation which urged on this preci­pitate violence?'

'I believe they had, but I know nothing cer­tainly—any attempt on my part to draw from Mr. Montalbert more than he chuses to entrust me with, would not only be abortive, but would, in all probability, deprive me of every future op­portunity of softening the asperity of his resent­ment. Let me conjure you, my dearest Madam, if you would not hereafter reproach yourself with [Page 202] the fatal effects of this resentment, to exert your utmost resolution—endeavour to command your­self so as to appear to-morrow before your fa­ther. . . . . The second attempt Will be more easy, and I trust, in a day or two, your spirits will be so much calmed, that you will be able to consider of taking the measures [...]o necessary to be thought of for the preservation of your reputation, perhaps of your life.'

'You believe then,' said I, 'that the life of poor Ormsby is safe?'

'Believe it!'—exclaimed Mr. Hayward— 'surely I believe it. . . . To whatever extremities the unhappy prejudices or violent passions of Mr. Montalbert may drive him, and none can have greater apprehensions on that subject than I have, hitherto I hope and believe that Mr. Montalbert has taken no unjustifiable measures in regard to this luckless young man.'—Then deeply sighing, Mr. Hayward added—'In my opinion his future fate depends entirely upon you—it is in your power to save or to destroy him.'

'Gracious Heaven!'—exclaimed I—'what right has my father over this ill starred young man?—My life may be in his power—he gave it me, and most willingly would I resign it; but Ormsby surely ought not to suffer.'

'Mr. Montalbert,' interrupted Mr. Hayward, 'will consider but little what he ought to do, or what he has a right to do, when vengeance is in question; but surely I need urge this subject no further—you are perfectly acquainted with his temper—you know that he is master of the coun­try [Page 203] around for some miles. His servants, his dependents, his tenants, are in such habits of obeying him, that he is in some measure capable of exercising a sort of despotism, which, though frequent enough in other countries, is seldom seen in this. . . . . . . I will now leave you, my dear Miss Montalbert—again beseeching you to consider what I have said, and to command your­self as much as possible to-morrow.'

"Mr. Hayward then left me, and sent to my faithful Helene to attend me, who had been ab­sent during our conversation; but my senses were yet stunned by the violence of the shock I had received—I could not shed a tear and sat like a statue repeating almost unconsciously to myself —'Ormsby is gone!—he is lost for ever—he is condemned to ignominy and disgrace, and it is I who have undone him, who may perhaps occa­sion his death!

"I know not now by what arguments Helene at length prevailed upon me to take some refresh­ment, and to undress myself. . . . . . . I believed that by the contrivance of Mr. Hayward, who, as I afterwards found, kept a small dispensary of medicines in his own room, Helene gave me some remedy that assisted in quieting my spirits—for after passing some time in a state of mind which I cannot even at this distance of time reflect upon without horror, I sunk into insensibility, from which I was suddenly startled by a fancied noise, and awoke only to recollect all the bitterness of my destiny."

The narrative of Mrs. Vyvian, which became [Page 204] every moment more interesting to Rosalie, was now interrupted by a letter which announced the arrival of Mr. Vyvian, Mrs. Bosworth, and her sister, in London. Her spirits were already agi­tated by recollecting scenes in which he had for­merly suffered so much, and this intelligence con­tributed to overwhelm them. The visit from her family was not to be made till the second or third day after the present; there was yet, therefore, time enough for her to relate the sequel of her sto­ry; which at the request of Rosalie, who sacrifi­ced her own impatience to consideration for her mother's health, was postponed to the following morning.

CHAP. XVI.

MRS. Vyvian on the following day thus pro­ceeded—

"When I look back on the situation I was now in, I am astonished that ever I supported it— [Page 205] description at this distance of time could but do little justice to the state of my mind, even if I were capable of discriminating now the variety of mise­ries I then suffered under. It seems, on retro­spection, the most extraordinary circumstance in the world, that in such a state of mind as I was in, I should have acquired resolution enough to appear before my father, as Mr. Hayward re­commended, on the following day; but this I did do: and though I cannot but suppose that my figure and countenance bore sufficient testimony of the state of my heart, he seemed determined not to notice the deadly paleness of my counte­nance, or the feeble and uncertain step with which I approached him: yet, when he supposed I did not remark him, he cast towards me looks of indignation and resentment, the meaning of which I could not mistake. I shuddered when I observed them, but in my turn affected to be as tranquil as before this storm that had wrecked for ever my happiness and my peace.

"It was highly probable that the violent agi­tation I had undergone, as well as the dreadful uneasiness that preyed on my mind, for the fate of my unfortunate lover, would finish my inqui­etudes for the future, and bury in oblivion the fatal secret of this hapless affection; but this did not happen, and now every hour as it passed ad­ded such insupportable dread of what was to hap­pen in future to the miseries of the present moment that to exist long in such a state seemed impossible [...]et were my sufferings but begun.

"Nothing could be more dreary and desolate [Page 206] than every object appeared round the house. It was the dark and melancholy month of Novem­ber, and nature seemed to be in unison with my feelings. I looked now on the same scenes as I had so lately beheld luxuriant in foliage, and il­luminated with the summer sun—the same scenes in which Ormsby had so long been a principal object. . . . Now—as the leaves fell slowly from the sallow trees, they seemed to strew his grave— the wind, as murmured hollow through the pe­rennial foliage of the pines and firs, sounded to my ears as if it was loaded with his dying groans —I heard him sigh among the thick shrubs that bordered the wood walks; he seemed to reproach my calmness—yet it was not the tranquility of indifference, it was the torpor of despair.

"I went out alone, that I might weep at liber­ty; yet, when I found myself in the silent soli­tude of the woods, I was unable to shed a tear, but sat down on one of the benches, and gazed on vacancy with fixed eyes, and without having any distinct idea of the objects I beheld. In these dismal rambles rain and tempest, and once or twice night, overtook me. I was careless or insensible of outward circumstances; and certainly if my father had not determined to shut his eyes to the truth, as if the only alternative was between extreme severity and total ignorance, he must have discovered from my conduct that all his suspicions did not go beyond the reality.

"Some very fatal catastrophe would have fol­lowed the state of mind I was in, had not the pi [...] and friendly councils of the Abbe Hayward, and [Page 207] the assiduous care of Helene, saved me from my­self: the one exhorted me to patience, and a reli­ance on the mercy of Heaven; the other soothed and flattered my sickening soul with the hope of better days, and enabled me to endure the present by encouraging me to look forward to the return of Mrs. Lessington, who alone seemed to be like­ly to advise and succour me in a situation which every hour and every day rendered more peril­ous.

"Mr. Hayward frequently followed me into the depth of the woods, argued, remonstrated, and then soothed and endeavoured to console me. I heard his arguments, and even his reprooss, with submission and calmness; but when he told me that I ought to be cheerful, to be resigned, to endeavour to conquer my affection for Ormsby, and to attempt by every means in my power, to conceal that it had ever existed to so fatal an excess—I lost my patience, and my respect for this good man did not prevent my flying from him with something like resentment and disgust.

"So passed a month—a wretched month, during which time the name of Ormsby had never reach­ed my ears, save only when Mr. Hayward, in the conversation which he thought it necessary to hold with me, reluctantly named him, or when I could so far command the agonies with which my heart was torn as to name him to Helene, and listen to the conjectures with which she attempt­ed to relieve me as to what was become of him.

"Of this, however, she knew no more than [Page 208] I did; yet, from the looks and manners of the servants with whom she conversed at the times when they were necessarily altogether, a thousand vague ideas floated in her mind, to which she sometimes gave utterance with more zeal than prudence. From her I learned, that the two men who had disappeared when Ormsby was so suddenly sent away had never since returned, and that the places they filled were now occupied by others. I heard too, that though the name of Ormsby was never mentioned whenever the steward, my father's old servant, or the house­keeper were present; yet that the inferior ser­vants were continually whispering strange things, and that the people in the neighbourhood talked of nothing else; some of them going so far as to say, that inquiry ought to be made by people authorised, for that Mr. Ormsby had certainly been spirited away; while others gave dark hints, that, considering the revengeful temper of Mr. Montalbert, it would be well if something worse than being spirited away had not befallen the poor young man.

"All this I heard with alternate anguish and depression, of which it would be difficult to con­vey any idea to another. The fatal predilection that I had for Ormsby was then known, for no other reason could be given for such conduct to­wards him as was imputed to my father. I now saw none of the neighbours, for of the very few who had been accustomed to visit at the house, not one at this time approached it, and as [...] be­lieved curiosity would have prompted them to [Page 209] come if they had no other motive, I thought it certain that my father had taken measures to prevent their visits. This I was not displeased at, for their looks would have been more uneasy to me than were those of the servants; whenever I saw any of them I was covered with confusion, and fancied they would remark and account for the sad change in my face and figure, of which I could not fail to be myself conscious.

"But if I fled thus from the observation of servants, what was my fear when compelled to appear before the severe and scrutinising eyes of my father?—I had always an awe approaching to dread of him, even in those comparatively happy days when no reproaches of conscience assailed me. . . . . Now I endeavoured to attend on him with the same assiduity as I used to do before Ormsby became a sharer in the task, or rather undertook it entirely; but whether it was that my timidity made me aukward, and that, therefore, I was incapable of acquitting myself as I formerly did, or whether my father, more really angry than he chose to avow, took these occasions to vent in peevishness some part of the resentment and indignation he felt. Certain it is, that his harshness and asperity were almost insup­portable, and the unkind expressions he sometimes used, the looks of rage and disdain he cast upon me, were not unfrequently such as affected my spirits so much as to throw me into fainting fits, [...] which I reproached my poor Helene for re­ [...]ng me. . . . Death, which alone seemed likely to end my miseries, I continually invoked, [Page 210] and I know not what would have been the conse­quence of such a series of present suffering, added to the dread of the future, had they continued much longer.

"Yet before the return of Mrs. Lessington, to which only I looked forward with the least hope of mitigating my woes, I had some trials of fortitude to encounter more difficult to sustain than any I had yet experienced.

"At the end of a long row of elms, of which now a few single trees only remain, you recollect a high mount now planted with firs, poplars, and larches, into which, as it is railed round, nobo­dy now enters; you perhaps remember too, the very large yew tree that shadows a great space of ground near it, and which is also railed round. That mound covers the ruins of a small parish church, and that yew tree was in the church­yard.

"An avenue of ancient trees was terminated by this church, at the distance of something more than a quarter of a mile from the house. It was merely the chancel of a larger edifice which had belonged to a monastery, some of the ruins of which remained scattered over the ground, and when I and my brother were children, we had been told by the servants many of those legends that almost always belong to such places. It was said too among them, that beneath these vestiges of buildings, which were not con [...] ­ble above the ground, there were arched [...] and subterraneous passages, which formerly serv­ed as burial places for the religious persons of [Page 211] this monastery. Their coffins, placed in niches along the walls, had been formerly seen by seve­ral persons, who had given a very terrific ac­count of the skeletons in these dismal recesses; accounts which were now traditional in the neighbouring villages, and were of course greatly exaggerated.—The mournful relics that had been seen under the earth were imagined to visit its surface, and the place was universally believed to be haunted. The style of the building that remained, where light was admitted through long windows obscured by pieces of coloured glass, and now darkened by the ivy that mantled almost the whole edifice; the walls of great thickness, in some places green with the damps that continually streamed from the roof, in others marked with the remains of Latin sentences, sur­rounding the half-effaced representations of the crucifixion, all contributed to give an air of wild­ness and horror to this almost-deserted building; where, though at the Reformation, as it is called, under Henry the Eighth, it became a parish church, yet service was performed in it only once a year, as a mere matter of form, for the parish contained only the house of Holmwood, and three cottages belonging to my father, and [...] pulled down. So that when it was his pleasure to destroy this small church entirely, and unite the parish it belonged to with another, there were none to oppose the act of parliament he soli­cited and obtained for that purpose. At the time, however of which I am speaking, this desolate spot inspired all that melancholy sort of horror [Page 212] which naturally gives rise to the reports of super­natural appearances; there was not a servant who would on any account have gone thither of a night, and even the gardeners and workmen, who were at any time occupied near it, related strange stories of uncommon noises, as of mourn­ing and complaint, and more than once have ran in terror to their fellow labourers, declaring that some obscure figures had issued from the vaults beneath, and then melted into air.

"Such was the stern spirit of my father, and he so little knew how to make allowances for any weakness which he had never felt, that had any domestic betrayed fears of this sort before him, they would have been dismissed with disgrace, nor did my brother and I, while children, though we knew all the legends of the country, ever dare speak to him of the stories we had been taught. Thus compelled to stifle our infantine fears, they were gradually subdued as our reason became stronger; and we were accustomed not only to find our way in the dark all over the extensive old buildings of Holmwood, but to traverse without fear the avenue that led to, and even the area that surrounded, the ruined church, though we credited the probable account that in the [...]aul [...]' [...] beneath rested the remains of the former inhabi­tants of the decayed monastery.

"At the time I am now speaking of, I mean about six weeks after the departure of Ormsby, such was the gloomy temper of my soul, [...] I was pleased only with horrors, and [...] the avenue of elms, and towards the [...] that I [Page 213] now frequently directed my solitary walk, I ob­served, however, that when, in compliance with Helene's earnest entreaty, I told her which way I was going, she [...]uddered and turned pale▪ and if I seemed disposed to go thither, when she was with me, she would find every possible excuse, such as that it was dewy from the high grass, or dirty▪ of the wind was in our faces, or any other objection she could raise against our taking that path; but none seemed to suit me so well. . . . I found a melancholy sort of satisfaction in indulg­ing the sad thoughts that incessantly pressed on my mind, in a place where I was sure none would interrupt my sorrows: even the labourer fa­tigued with the toils of the day, or the benighted traveller from one village to another, would not, to save a longer journey, cross my father's grounds near this place. An adventurous sports­man, perhaps, might violate the gloomy shade with his gun; but, at the season of which I now speak, the end of December, even the hostile sounds of field sports were seldom heard—a [...]e [...] ­ry and mournful silence reigned around Holm­wood, for it was long since the voice of hospitality or gaiety had been heard. The rooks returning in the evening to the high elm trees that led to the church-yard, and the owls that inhabited the ivies that half mantled it seemed to be the only living creatures that could endure the melancholy solitude.

"My father, who had at this time an interval of [...] [...]gh the asperities of his temper were [...] [...]itigated, sometimes released me [Page 214] from my attendance after dinner early enough to allow me to take my solitary walk before it was too dark.

"The intelligence I had received on this par­ticular evening from Mr. Hayward, that he had heard Mrs. Lessington would be at home in two or three days, had given some relief to my spirits, and, rather less [...]ressed than usual, I strolled almost mechanically up the avenues. It was a calm and still evening—so still, indeed, that every bird was heard whose slender feet perched on the leafless boughs, or flitted among them, and the bells of the sheep folding in the distant fields, and the remoter sound of a mill and mill stream, were brought in low murmurs to the ear.

"The well-known objects around me were becoming indistinct, but I continued to walk slowly on—I even sat down for a few moments on the remains of a rustic tomb, and listened to the dull sighing of the wind as it sung round the but­tresses, and waved the black boughs of the old yew tree. As I sat musing, I recollected the sto­ries I had often heard of spectres being seen, and strange noises being heard round these receptacles of the dead.—So little pleasure had I in look­ing forward to any thing that life could now afford me, so long had my thoughts been accus­tomed to consider death as the only end of all my miseries, that I felt no horror in the idea of seeing, or, if it were possible, of conversing with departed spirits. A sort of chilly and shuddering sensation, however, warned me to return before it was [...] dark to the house. I arose from the [...] [Page 215] stone on which I had been sitting, and, advancing a few paces to return into the elm avenue, I fan­cied I saw a form glide before me among the trunks of the trees; but beneath the trees it was so dark, that I could not distinguish what it was. I continued, however, to gaze steadily on the place where I fancied this shape had appeared: the illusion was over—I saw nothing. Without any emotion of fear I proceeded, therefore, ex­actly to that spot, for it was my direct path to the house; I entered it, and, looking down the ave­nue, again fancied I saw an object moving at a distance about fifty yards [...] but almost immediately my [...] by some­thing white that lay just before me in the path. It seemed to be a book, a letter, or a folded handkerchief: I stooped and took it up—it was a sheet of paper, folded like a large letter, and tied with a bit of black ribband. The circumstance rather surprised than alarmed me: I wondered what it could be, because I knew that the path was never frequented, or at least never by persons who were likely to drop a paper. I put it into my pocket, and went hastily towards the house; when I got thither, I found my father had been enquiring for me, and I soon discovered that his temper was much disturbed. . . For more than two hours I was compelled to stay with him, and to listen to reproaches and sarcasms uttered with the utmost ill-humour. Alas! I should have borne these more calmly, had I not felt that I de­served his indignation; but now they pierced my [...] soul▪—At length, however, I was dismissed [Page 216] to my own room, where the vision, or fancied vision, of the evening immediately recurring to me, I hastily drew the paper from my pocket. Ah, Rosalie! imagine the sensations with which I read these lines—

'Vivo oh Dio!—ma più non ti vedrö—Prima di scriverti in questo modo, pensa quante pene, e quanti martiri bisogna aver soffe [...]i [...] o più tosto che il tuo bel cor non fa riflessione sopra la nostra sorte tiranna. Abbia cura della tua pre­cioza salute; ora non si puo far 'altro per il [...]ventura [...]o O.'

'I exist—but we never meet again!—Think what I must have endured before I could write thus; or rather do not reflect on our inevitable miseries, but take care of your health—it is all you can now do for the unhappy O.'

"The writing appeared to be Ormsby's; but the lines were crooked, and the letters ill formed, as if they had been traced by a weak and uncer­tain hand. As I gazed on the paper, that, and every object round me, swam before my eyes— again I read the words, again attempted to recal what I had seen, or supposed I had seen, in the elm walk, and it seemed possible that it was Ormsby himself—for who else could have appear­ed there?—Yet, from whence did he come?— Where had he so long been confined, or how could he now escape?—If it were indeed himself, why did he not approach?—if it had been but to have spoken one word to me, with the assurance that he lived. . . . Ah! it could not be Ormsby! —Ormsby would never have seen me so near him, [Page 217] and have left me to tears, conjectures, and ter­rors; but if it were not himself, who could have been in the avenue?—Who could have written the billet I found there, in a language, in which, though Ormsby himself was only a scholar, no other person in the house, except my father and the Abbe Hayward, knew a syllable?—Who was likely to write a hand resembling Ormsby's?— Who, indeed, except my father, whose fingers being entirely disabled by the gout, had almost always employed Ormsby to write, knew his hand well enough to attempt an imitation of it? —Any conjecture that led to a supposition of its being a forgery, seemed even more improbable than that it should be Ormsby himself—if any thing could be more improbable than that he was so greatly changed as to be so near me, and yet fly from me. This uncertainty, and my own conjectures, equally endless and uncertain, soon became so insupportable, that my reason once more threatened to forsake me, and I believe I should have lost it, had I not communicated to Helene what had happened, and explained to her the purport of the letter. [...] [...]his, I observ­ed her countenance cha [...] [...] pale and trembled—then, in a [...] in her own language, that I shou [...] [...] often she had entreated of [...] the elm walk—not to frequent [...] [...]ut the [...] ­pel.

"I eagerly inquired what those precautions [...] to do with what I was now talking of. Helene [...]embling and weeping, at length told me, it [...] [Page 218] the general opinion in the family, that Mr. Orms­by had been killed in attempting to resist the force that was used to remove him from the house; that he was buried in the vaults under the old church and ruined monastry; and that his spirit had been frequently seen since. This at once accounted for the apprehensions I had seen Helene so often express, and renewed all the terrors for the life of Ormsby, which the assurances of Mr. Hay­ward had a little appeased. . . . . My heart sunk within me, and again I seemed to be on the point of losing my misery and my existence together. The horrible idea thus conveyed, could not be a moment sustained without forcing the mind to an effort for its own relief. The moment I had re­covered myself enough to reflect, my reason re­turned to dissipate this hideous phantacy. I might have believed that I had seen the shade of Ormsby lingering about the place of his interment —for to what weak [...] might not such sufferings as I underwent sul [...] [...] [...]he understanding? but I knew that the spirit [...] [...]e dead write no letters, and by whom [...] [...]by could the lines I held have been wr [...] [...] [...]o, but either himself, or some age [...] [...] [...]yed, could have drop­ped the [...] had found? As soon as the tu [...] [...] [...]ere a little calmed by these [...] [...]urage to question He­ [...] [...] that had passed on this [...]ct in the [...]y.

She told me that ever since the sudden disap­pearance of my unhappy lover, strange stories had [...] been whispered in the family at every op­portunity, [Page 219] when the inferior domestics had an opportunity of escaping from the observation of the steward and housekeeper; that the most fright­ful reports had gone abroad in the country; and that it was every where believed that Mr. Orms­by had fallen the victim of my father's violence, and had been buried in the vaults: a report which was the more strongly credited, as the two men who disappeared with him had never returned. To this account, which was nearly the same in substance as that which she had at first related, she added many wild stories of noises heard, and sights seen, every one of which some person might be brought to attest. Nothing could be more dreadful than to reflect on these imp [...]s a­mong the neighbours which, from the account given by Helene seemed to be gaining ground, and might not improbably bring on some inquiry that would irritate to phrenzy such a temper a [...] my father's, and overwhelm me with shame and disgrace."

The recollection of this part of her life, adde [...] to the fatigue of having spoken so long, was more than Mrs. Vyvian could now sustain; and Rosa­lie once more prevailed upon her to delay the rest of her strange and melancholy narrative till the next day, which was likely to be the last they should uninterruptedly pass together.

CHAP. XVII.

THE narrative of Mrs. Vyvian thus went on—

"I had not yet recovered any degree of com­posure after the strange circumstance of finding the letter, which I continually read and studied, when some of the apprehensions, [...] which the intelligence I had got from Helene had given rise, w [...] [...] too [...]ly realised. Such, indeed, were the various tortures in which I had b [...] kept for fa [...]ime, that is astonishing, in the situation I was in, how I survived it. I might well say in the words of a favourite air which I should have sung, had not my heart been too heavy to find relief even in music—

[Page 221]"I know not whether my mind dwelt most continually on the circumstance of the letter, or on the dread of the inquiry that might be made from the reports that had been spread in the country. In regard to this last, however, I en­deavoured to persuade myself, that Helene, un­derstanding English imperfectly, might miscon­ceive or exaggerate the expressions made use of by the rest of the servants; and while I attempted to mitigate part of my anxiety by this persuasion, I endeavoured to acquire courage to investigate the grounds of the other; and for this purpose I took again and again the same walk alone, for not even Helene's sincere attachment [...] me would, I knew, have engaged her to ha [...] companied me without great reluctance. I thought too, that if by any strange means which I could not comprehend, nor hardly think possible, Ormsby yet lingered round Holmwood, he would be prevented by the presence of a third person from speaking to me. Life was now in my eyes of so little value, that to fear, unless it were fear of my father, I was insensible; and I believe that I should have met with indifference, or rather torpor, the most terrific figures that imagination has ever dressed out to deter from crimes, or to enforce repentance. In my solitary and gloomy walks, however, I saw no more any object like that which had before alarmed me, nor did I hear any noise but such as I could easi­ly account for. Every evening, without any re­gard to the weather, or any thing but the precau­tion necessary in regard to my father, I took the [Page 222] same lonely walk, and for many evenings return­ed more astonished and depressed; for the longer this mystery remained unexplained, the more I became the prey of wild conjectures and torment­ing solicitude.

"But imagine, my Rosalie, if it be possible, imagine what I suffered, when, about five days after the circumstance of my finding the letter, I was alarmed by the sudden entrance of Helene into my room, who breathless with some new ter­ror, endeavoured to explain something, which it was long before I understood. At length I made out, that a neighbouring gentleman in the com­mission was come, as the servants believed, to ap­prehend my father with peace officers, for that a regular complaint had been laid, it was not known by whom, of the sudden disappearance of Orms­by; and at length the accusation of having mur­dered him had been so often repeated, and the clamours of the country, where certainly my fa­ther had many enemies, had become so loud, that the gentleman in question could act no otherwise than he did.

"Endeavour to imagine what I endured while such a conferrence as this lasted, which it did for upwards of two hours; at the end of that time, the magistrates and his myrmidons departed toge­ther. Helene, who had watched them, came to tell me so: they had been out for some time with the steward and the old butler, and she was sure, she said, they had been up to the church; then they returned to the house, and, after a few moments of farther conversation with my father [...]uitted Holmwood apparently satisfied.

[Page 223]"So confused, so mingled with horror and amazement, were all my ideas, that I recollect nothing of what passed in my mind, till I saw my­self seated at table as usual to help my father, who sat opposite in his great chair; when I falteringly made the usual inquiry of the day, he did not answer me. I began, however, to carve as usu­al for him, but he fixed his eyes on my face, with a look so menacing and stern, that it was with the utmost difficulty I supported myself. . . . . . . I looked in vain for comfort in the faces around me; the old butler looked as if he pitied, but could not assist me; and the footman seemed to be under such terror, that having made two or three awkward blunders, he received a very severe reprimand, and was ordered to leave the room. Our silent and melancholy meal was soon over, for my father ate little, and I in vain at­tempted to swallow. The table cloth was remov­ed, and I collected voice enough to ask him, as nearly as I could in my usual manner, whether I should read to him?—He answered loudly and angrily—No—

"Then, after a pause, a dreadful pause, dur­ing which I was afraid I should have sunk upon the floor, my father spoke thus—

'If I thought only for one moment, that the infamous reports, which have gone forth in the country, had originated in your folly, or rather wickedness, I should not hesitate what to do. As for the ungrateful villain, who might, perhaps, have had the insolence to attempt, as a return for my receiving him into my house, to steal my [Page 224] daughter and my property from it, you will never see him or hear of him more; nor can a matter of self-defence be again tortured into what the laws might here call a crime. But for your­self, know that it is my pleasure that you imme­diately prepare to receive, as your husband, a friend of mine, whose estate is such as you have no pretensions to expect, unless it be as my daughter. I will not suffer myself to suppose you have forfeited that title. On your part you will be pleased to make up your mind, and to divest yourself of a manner and behaviour which I will suffer no longer. I should have forborne to have given you my commands in regard to Mr. Vy­vian, till his arrival, if I had not remarked your perseverance in a sort of conduct which I will not understand, lest the most terrible vengeance should follow. . . . . . . . . . I have said enough. Go to your own room, and learn to obey.'

"This terrible sentence, which ended in so loud a tone as almost to stun me, deprived me for a moment of my recollection. As soon, how­ever, as I was able, I arose from my chair, and with difficulty reached the door, my father's eyes following me with a look so scrutinizing and ang­ry, that I wished at that moment the earth might open beneath my feet, and swallow me for ever. I found Helene near the door; for, alarmed by the transactions of the morning, and probably by the report of the footman, she waited there for me. Without her aid I should never have got to my own room. I sat down in a state of torpid despair, which it is impossible to describe. Helene [...] to me in vain. The words I had heard, [...] [Page 225] dreadful command I had received, still vibrated in my ears: and the horrors of my fate were so forcibly presented to my mind, that the few dis­tinct thoughts that passed through it pointed to suicide as the only way to escape from a destiny I was utterly unable to support. At length the tears and prayers of my faithful Helene restored to me some degree of recollection. She knelt at my feet, imploring me to have mercy on myself and on my infant, and to exert myself, if it were only to save my sa [...] from the crimes to which his furious revenge [...]ht excite him. She en­deavoured to persuade [...], that what he had said of Mr. Vyvian might be only a finesse; or, that if there was such a marriage in agitation, I might delay or escape it by the interposition of Mrs. Les­sington, who was probably by this time, or would be in a few days, within four miles, and from whose prudence, as well as influence over the mind of my father, much might be hoped.

"Though I knew great part of this reasoning was fallacious, I affected to be more calm, that Helene who would not be dismissed, might talk to me no longer. But what a night did I pass! and when I obtained by opiate half an hour of un­quiet slumber, with what anguish did I recollect, the moment I awoke, all that had passed the pre­ceding day, with what dread look forward to what might befal me in that which was begun?

"One consolatory circumstance happened in the morning, which enabled me to go through it. I received a letter from Mrs. Lessington, to in­form me she was arrived at home, and would see [Page 226] me the next day. This prospect of alleviating my sufferings gave me the power of going down to dinner with some degree of resolution. I even took courage to meet the piercing eyes of my se­vere, my sometimes cruel father, and to repeat, when dinner was over, my question, whether I should read to him?—He again answered, No— though with less harshness than the evening be­fore. He felt himself indisposed, and said he should endeavour to sleep.

"I no sooner had left [...], than in despite of the earnest entreaty of [...]lene, who incessantly besought me to have more regard to my own safe­ty, I went into the avenue, though it was nearly dark. An early moon, however, lit up, with faint but cheering radiance, the winter sky, and her rays glancing through, the leafless trees, and falling on the gray trunks of a few arbeals and birches that were scattered among the more gloo­my elms towards the middle of the line, I could have indulged my shuddering fancy in supposing them, indistinctly seen as they were, to be spec­tres beckoning me to the only sure asylum of all sorrows in the cemetery beyond.

"Why should those fear who have nothing to hope?—Of beings of this world I had no dread; for I was so miserable that religion only arrested my feeble hands, or they would have been lifted against a life which might have been called a living death. Supernatural beings I had never learned to fear. If such were ever permitted to appear, I hoped it might be with tidings of mercy. Thus arguing and reflecting, I had reached the [...] of [Page 227] the avenue, and stood a moment looking at the half-ruined church, and meditating on the horri­ble idea taken up by the people of the country, that Ormsby was destroyed and buried is this place. . . . . What an opinion must they have of the violence and ferocity of my father's spirit! What an idea of the provocation he had received before they could have supposed him likely to be driven to extremities so dangerous and dreadful! —It was impossible but the cause for such ven­geance must be suspected. The secret of our attachment, my disgrace and shame, then were known, or, what was nearly the same thing, guessed at. Though I no longer supposed it pos­sible that my father could for a moment harbour a thought so contrary to humanity as the destruction of the unhappy Ormsby; yet there were a thou­sand daggers for my heart in the reflection that such a history was the conversation of the sur­rounding country, and that the real or imaginary crimes of our family were discussed by the igno­rant, and enjoyed by the malicious.

"But even these reflections were ease compared to those that assailed me when I remembered the conversation of the evening before, and repeated to myself the dreadful name of Vyvian.—There is a kind and a degree of grief that annihilates the feelings from its violent pressure, as the extreme­ties of bodily pain are said to deprive the sufferer of sensation. This was the effect which the com­mands of my father had on my mind, now that, alone, and amidst the silence of the night, I re­ [...]ed on them. Lost in the terrible contempla­tion [Page 228] of the future, I forgot the present, and was unconscious of the dreary scene around me, till I was startled from my reverie by the sight of a man, who, coming from among the ruins, slowly ap­proached. Rivetted to the spot by fear, mingled with a strange desire to know whether this was a being of another world, or whether it brought me intelligence of Ormsby, I had no power to stir. The figure approached, and, as if encouraged by my remaining where I was, spoke to me in a low voice, and said something as if entreating me not to be alarmed. But I heard only the beginning of the sentence; the voice was, I thought, Orms­by's, and a thousand sensations, which I could neither discriminate then, nor can describe now, contributed to deprive me of my senses. The predominant idea, however, was, the hazard Ormsby was in, in thus returning round the house, for of any supernatural appearance I had none.

"On recovering some degree of recollection, I found myself on the ground, and a man kneeling by me, whom I still believed to be Ormsby, till he explained himself nearly in these words—

'I have long waited for an opportunity of speak­ing to you, Miss Montalbert—recover your re­collection—your presence of mind—the life of Ormsby depends on you.'

'Of Ormsby?' cried I faintly.

'Of Ormsby!' answered he—'my unfortunate brother. . . . . It is you who must either release him; who must either restore him to life and liberty, or condemn him to end his miserable days in poverty and imprisonment.'—I have not [Page 229] strength▪ Rosalie, to relate every word as it pass­ed; suffice it therefore to tell you, that it was one of the brothers of poor, unhappy Ormsby, who related, that he had come from Ireland on finding that my father had imprisoned Ormsby for debt; and that he had declared to the elder Mr. Orms­by by letter, that he never would release him, unless under the most positive promise, that he would go immediately to India—never again see or correspond with me, and renounce, in the most solemn manner, every claim that I might have given him to my person or my affections. This Ormsby had positively refused to do. My father, irritated to phrenzy by a circumstance that re­newed all his suspicions, declared, in terms of the greatest violence, that Ormsby should perish in prison. His father could do nothing for him; but sent over his second son, only two years older than Ormsby, to endeavour to appease the anger of Mr. Montalbert, by engaging his brother to make the concessions that were required of him.

'I have now,' said the young man, 'lingered about the place more than a fortnight, in hopes of having an opportunity of speaking to you. At the risk of my life I have attempted to make my way into the house, and probably have owed my preservation to the notion impressed upon your father's servants, that the restless spirit of my brother, whom they supposed to have been mur­dered, haunted the house and gardens. . . . . . . Now, dearest Madam,' continued George Orms­by, 'if you have, indeed, honoured my brother with your regard, resolve to save him—resolve [Page 230] to restore to my poor, unhappy parents the peace this fatal circumstance has robbed them of.'— I asked faintly, what I could do?—He answered, that by consenting to marry the man proposed to me by my father, I should end at once the persecu­tion of Ormsby, and secure my own peace. I shuddered, and was on the point of declaring why it was impossible for me to do this, when the noise of voices at a distance compelled him hastily to quit me. He retired again among the ruins; and I, without knowing how I found strength, walked towards the house. I met Helene and one of the men servants coming in search of me. Helene, in accosting me trembled so she could hardly speak—I leaned on her arm and reached the house, where I had again to encounter the angry looks and fierce interrogatories of my fa­ther. I know not how I answered. Over­whelmed by the scene I had just passed, I sunk once more under the violent agitation of my mind, and could hardly be said to be sensible till the soothing voice of Mrs. Lessington, at my bed side the next morning, restored me in some mea­sure to my reason. But notwithstanding the per­fect reliance I had on her friendship, I should ne­ver have had courage to relate to this dear friend the extent of my imprudence & its consequences; but Helene had already told her so much, that she entered at once upon the subject as soon as I appeared in a state to attend to her. By trans­ferring the blame from me to my father, she re­conciled me in some measure to myself; and, with some degree of composure, I suffered her to [Page 231] speak of what could be done in circumstances so dreadful and distressing.

"Nothing, however, could be immediately determined upon. I agreed with her, that it was necessary her husband should know my cruel em­barrassment, for without his assistance and parti­cipation she could do nothing. She gave me in the mean time every consolation in her power; but I thought I perceived, notwithstanding she evaded the conversation, that she thought I ought to relinguish every idea of ever again seeing Orms­by, and that if I could escape from the perils of my present melancholy situation, I should dispose myself to act in compliance with my father's com­mands.

"Many were the conferences we now had; but probably it would have been impossible to have saved me from that death, which my fa­ther might have thought could alone wipe away the dishonour I had brought upon his family, had not providence interfered in my favour.

"Mrs. Lessington now met and conversed with George Ormsby. They agreed that the only means of saving his brother was to procure his renunciation of every pretension to me in what­ever form my father should dictate. This I alone could engage him to do; and this at length Mrs. Lessington extorted from me in a few lines, by which I asked this of him. With a trembling hand, and eyes overflowing with tears, I signed the fatal paper. Mrs. Lessington assured me, that George Ormsby went immediately with it to [Page 232] London.—In about ten days afterwards, Mrs. Lessington, who remained at Holmwood, inform­ed me she had heard from him; that his brother Charles was released, and on his voyage to India. There was something in all this that I could not comprehend; but I dared not trust myself either with inquiries or conjectures—Ormsby was lost to me for ever; and I, sometimes in the bitter­ness of my soul, accused him of having abandoned me, though, in more reasonable moments, I was compelled to acknowledge that his stay would have been destructive to us both. . . . . . My father, who, as it appeared from his conduct, knew much of the truth, though the loss of my honour was yet unknown to him, became some­what less severe towards me. Yet I shrunk more than ever from his eye, and my timidity and ter­ror must have betrayed me, if the change in my person, now every day more evident, could have escaped observation; but whether it was that the violence of temper, which my father had yielded to in regard to Ormsby, had aggravated his athri­tic complaints, or whether his constitution was entirely breaking up, he became at this period so ill, that a physician, who had always successfully attended him, was sent for from London; he gave him some relief, but declared, that unless he went to town, where constant attendance could be given him, the consequence would be greatly to be apprehended.

"The result of this advice was, that we re­moved to London. Thither also my friends Mr. and Mrs. Lessington removed. And Mrs Les­sington [Page 233] being then near her time, it was so managed, that when the hour arrived when you, my beloved child, came into the world, you were concealed by Mrs. Lessington for three weeks, and then produced as twin with the daughter of which she was delivered, who is since dead.

"You may imagine, my Rosalie, how very difficult it was to conceal the fatal secret of your birth—you may imagine, for I cannot describe, what were the terrors I had to encounter—the anguish of heart with which, when I had once beheld you, once pressed you to my heart, I saw you torn from me, and knew that I should never dare to call you mine, or again to shed over you the tears excited by the resemblance your infant features bore to those of your father.

"But, on calmer reflection, I agreed with Mrs. Lessington, who represented to me inces­santly, how thankful I ought to be for the good fortune with which I had saved my reputation, if not my life. The suspicions that had been enter­tained, in consequence of my father's violent conduct towards Ormsby, were now, she said, blown over and forgotten. His family had re­ported, that so far from his having undergone any persecution from Mr. Montalbert, it was to [...] he was obliged for the advantageous situation in which he was gone out to India; that the circum­stances which had given rise to such strange re­ports in the neighbourhood of Holmwood origi­nated in [...] and misrepresentation; and, in a word, that [...]e Ormsby's, instead of shewing any [Page 234] resentment towards my father, every where made his eulogium as the benefactor of the whole fami­ly. I was not however, the less miserable, though I owned the truth of all Mrs. Lessington urged; and whenever I was alone, I gave way to that anguish of heart, which, while I was with her, I endeavoured to repress or conceal, because I would not be thought ungrateful, or insensible of the obligations I owed to her friendship.

"During my father's very severe illness, I heard no more of Mr. Vyvian. Indeed I seldom saw my father, and when it was unavoidable, only for a few minutes. Mrs. Lessington, in whom he had great confidence, and expressed a regard unusual for him to feel, had contrived to obtain his leave for me to stay with her while she was very ill and unable to come to me; and by this management only it was that I escaped ob­servation at the period when I could so little bear it. As my father recovered, however, my more constant attendance was again necessary. He now sometimes ordered me to read to him, and, when he was still more at ease, to play at chess with him. I was, indeed, but a poor substitute for Ormsby or Mr. Hayward; but I fancied that the latter sometimes got out of the way, as if on purpose to make me more necessary to my father, and to leave us together.

"It was in one of these tete-a-tete parties, that my father, without much ceremony or much preface, asked me, whether I had reflected on what he had determined upon in regard to Mr. Vyvian, who would now in a fe [...] days be in [Page 235] England, whither he came on purpose to receive my hand?

"The violent effect of this intelligence was evident on my countenance. I tried in vain to speak. My lips refused to articulate a syllable. Not only disregarding but enraged at the pain I seemed to feel, he declared in a voice that made me tremble like a leaf, that if I did not de­termine to obey without remonstrance, or hesita­tion, he knew how to punish, and would punish me as I deserved. He added, that I had already been the occasion of his undergoing uneasiness, which had brought on his late illness; of scenes the most disgraceful to his character, never fullied until he found a curse instead of a blessing in his daughter; and that not content with having once been nearly the cause of his death, I now was disposed to complete my work, and destroy him who had given me life.—Figure to yourself, if [...] be possible, what I endured at this moment, and if it be possible to carry your imagination farther, suppose what I must have suffered before I was compelled to give my hand to Mr. Vyvian, while my heart was devoted to Ormsby; while I would most willingly have shared with him the most ob­scure destiny; while I would have followed him to India, or to Nova Zembla, and have exposed myself to endure any hardships in any region of the world rather than have been mistress of the world on condition of being the wife of Mr. Vyvian.

"My friend Mrs. Lessington, however, and the Abbe Hayward, joined in this cruel persecu­tion. The former removed you from my sight [Page 236] entirely, and sent you into the country. The latter seemed to have lost his usual humanity and tenderness, and to think that duty, which I had once violated, had now stronger claims upon me than before the fatal indiscretion I had been guilty of. From your father I heard nothing. His family reported every where that he was married to a woman of fortune, with whom he became acquainted on her voyage to India, whither she was sent for by an uncle, whose heiress she was. This I believed, as I had done many other stories that were among the artifices that were used to force me into this detested marriage. They suc­ceeded but too well, or rather the extreme terror I had of my father left me no means of escape. I became then the wife of Mr. Vyvian. I have been ever since the most miserable of women; my son only, and the consolation of having sa­crificed myself to duty, alone supported me. Before, however, I was driven into this misera­ble union, I executed, as I was then of age, a deed of gift, in which I made over, during my life, to Mr. and Mrs. Lessington, the interest of four thousand pounds, which was the gift of a relation, and which I possessed independent of my father, but without the power of alienating the principal. This is part of the money which Mr. Vyvian has so often reproached me with wasting, as he terms it, on begging monks and canting hypocrites; though, had I really bestow­ed it on my necessitous fellow creatures, I should have thought myself well justified in such a dis­posal of it.

[Page 237]"I had not been married above fifteen months when my father died, and left Mr. Vyvian in possession of that fortune, which was undoubtedly his chief motive for overlooking my reluctance which I repeatedly avowed to him, and which he well knew accompanied me to the altar. After my father's death, he no longer affected to treat me with the least regard. We went abroad for some years, which served in some measure to relieve and dissipate the heaviness of my heart. I had often the consolation of hearing from Mrs. Lessington: and in her letters, with the account she gave me of her family, my Rosalie, as one of that family, was always mentioned. When I returned to England, I found you, child of my fond affections, all that my fancy could form of loveliness and perfection. So many tears had my fatal error cost me, and so much, I hoped, had been expiated by the subsequent sacrifice I made▪ that I trusted it was not criminal to indulge my­self with a sight of you. You know how easily I enjoyed that happiness; but I only knew [...] exquisite happiness it was till you grew up, and till Charles, returning from abroad, shewed so much partiality for you, as made me tremble for the consequence. This fear, which a thousand circumstances contributed to irritate, rendered my life miserable. I thought, that as the heavi­est punishment it could inflict, Heaven might per­mit a fatal passion to take place between you. This was the cause not only of the deep melan­choly into which I fell, but of conduct which you then thought and I felt to be unkind and cruel."

[Page 238]Mrs. Vyvian here ended her long narrative: and, kissing the tears from the cheeks of her daughter, she dismissed her for that day, referr­ing till the next any farther conversation in re­gard to Montalbert.

CHAP. XVIII.

AT home and alone Rosalie had time to re­flect on the story she had heard; and though she knew very little of the world, and Mrs. Vyvian [...] failed to be very minute in many parts of her story, it seemed certain that the family of Mr. Ormsby had been the principal instruments in ter­rifying her into a marriage, which would have rendered her life miserable even if her heart and her person had not belonged to another. The Italian letter, which was probably written in that language, lest it should fall into other hands, and might have been read had it been in English; the improbability that George Ormsby should venture to appear about Holmwood, unless with the con­nivance of some of the family, if no [...] of Mr. [Page 239] Montalbert; and the eagerness with which Mrs. Lessington and Mr. Hayward had adopted the views of Mr. Montalbert, though they knew her situation, were a combination of circumstances which seemed to leave no doubt in the mind of Rosalie but that her mother had been betrayed by some or all of those whom she considered as her best friends. Their motives were probably good; but Rosalie could not help reflecting, that had not such been their conduct, she might now have been the acknowledged daughter of the most tender and affectionate of mothers; she might have known and been blessed by the fondness and protection of her father; and they might in a happy union have effaced the remembrance of their early indiscretion; for the death of Mr. Montalbert would soon have left his daughter at liberty: and her life would not have been passed in the miseries of such a marriage, nor her spirits have been overwhelmed with the consciousness of being the wife of one man while her whole heart was another's. "I should not then," said Rosa­lie, as she considered these events, "I should not then have been despicable in the eyes of Mon­talbert's relations. I might have been received by his mother with pride and pleasure, from the hands of my own; but now I am an outcast, and have no right to claim the protection of any human being, unless it be thine, Mon­talbert▪ and thou art far, far from me!— [...] [...]nows whether we shall ever meet [...]

[Page 240]A shower of tears fell from her eyes while she indulged these melancholy thoughts; but, from longer meditation, she was roused by a short note from Mr [...] ▪ Vyvian, who informed her, that her daughters had just been with her; that they should now seldom be at liberty to meet, for that Miss Vyvian, who, for some reason or other, did not seem happy and satisfied with her sister, was to come to her mother during an excursion Mr. and Mrs. Bosworth were about to make to Scarborough.—"She is my daughter," said Mrs. Vyvian, "and I cannot refuse her my protection —alas! I will fulfil to the end of my life the duties that have been imposed upon me. Hither­to the consciousness of having acquitted myself of a very arduous task, to the utmost of my power, has sustained me in many an hour of anguish; it will smooth the bed of death, and no inconvenience I can sustain, no ingratitude with which I may be repaid, shall for a moment weaken the resolution I have made to acquit myself to my own consci­ence. . . . . . . Come to me, however, my Rosalie, to-morrow, as Bab will not be here till evening. Mr. Vyvian staid only a day in Lon­don. He is now gone into the west to visit the borough for which he is representative, & is after­wards to make I know not what tour, with I know not whom, which is likely to detain him all the summer. Alas! I dare not hope that the mono­tonous life I lead can be pleasant to Bar [...] [...] who probably comes with reluctance that w [...] [...] us both equally miserable. How differ [...] [...] Rosalie, could I indulge myself with [...] [Page 241] always with me, would our hours pass: but I will not add a word more on this subject."

Rosalie saw that, from this unlucky arrrange­ment, she should be deprived of the consolation she might derive from the advice and conversation of her best friend, when she most wanted such comforts. The aversion that Barbara Vyvian seemed to have to her was even greater than that of Mrs. Bosworth; and on recollecting several circumstances that had happened since the estrangement the sisters had shewn towards her, Rosalie could not but imagine that they knew, or suspected, her near relationship to their mother. . . . . . . . Ingenuous and liberal as her own heart was, she imagined not that it was possible for envy only, malignant hatred of superior excellence and beauty, to call forth the ill-humour and provoke the ill offices of these young women, though she had already had a specimen of the effect of those odious passions in the behaviour of the Miss Les­singtons, whom she once thought her sisters.

In this family she now seemed to be almost a stranger. The character of Mrs. Lessington, since the death of her husband, seemed totally changed; and her passion for cards, and for the society of the set of people among whom she now lived, absorbed almost every other feeling but her passion for money. To Rosalie she was not only become perfectly indifferent; but seemed weary of the task of affecting sentiments she did not feel. From the present situation of Mrs. Vyvian, it was probable she would never be able to increase the [...]al gift she had made as a consideration for [Page 242] adopting her daughter, and her former and long attachment to her, seemed, if not entirely forgot­ten, at least insufficient now to urge her to any exertions of friendship and attention. She seldom saw Mrs. Vyvian, and, when she did, her con­versation related entirely to people with whom the latter held no intercourse, and her visit ap­peared to be always a matter of ceremony rather than of choi [...]. Though the solitude in which Rosalie was left, was infinitely the most pleasing circumstance of her present residence, yet she could not but imagine that the style in which she was treated in the family must occasion suspicions of the truth. The difficulties of concealing for a series of years such a secret, appeared the more wonderful the longer she thought of it. But, from these meditations on the extraordinary e­vents Mrs. Vyvian had related to her, she re­covered herself only to reflect on what was to be her future fate. Her mother had been abandoned by the man to whom she had sacrificed her honor and her peace. And though probably it was to preserve her life and his own that this separation had been submitted to, though it was certain that compulsion had at first been used to bring about this cruel separation, and that reason and a respect for the object of his unfortunate love had after­wards prevented Mr. Ormsby from making any attempt to write to her, Rosalie could not think, without extreme pain, that even such an attach­ment was not proof against time and absence. Mrs. Vyvian had said, that she believed that though Ormsby still lived, he had forgotten [...] [Page 243] entirely. She added, that she most sincerely hoped he had; but, as she said this▪ her tears fell more abundantly, and her heart seemed to feel all the bitterness that attends the conviction of being forgotten by those we have fondly loved. Rosalie thought that nothing could ever induce her even to say, that she wished to be forgotten by Montalbert.

It was now some weeks since she had heard from him. There had even been time for an an­swer to Mrs. Vyvian's le [...]r. Should he long delay answering it, what agonies of mind should she not be exposed to! she trem [...] to look for­ward to such a possibility, and felt [...]at it would be difficult for her to exist long under doubts of Montalbert's affection.

When she saw her mother in the morning, it was with increased concern she observed the deep dejection into which Mrs. Vyvian had sunk. The little strength which she had collected to enable her to relate to Rosalie what it was ne­cessary she should know, was now exhausted: and pale and languid, she appeared to sustain with difficulty the fatigue of leaving her bed to receive her daughters, who were to be with her at noon: the one to take leave of her again for some time, the other to become a resident in a house which offered scenes so different from those to which she had long been accustomed.

As the sight of Rosalie seemed rather more deeply to affect than to relieve her mother, she shortened her visit, and returned to her usual home, where she passed the day entirely alone; [Page 244] Mrs. Lessington and her daughter being both in town, and not likely to return till the following morning.

In the evening she sat down to write to Mon­talbert, and had nearly finished her letter, when a maid (for there were only two female servants in the [...]ouse) came to tell her, that there was a person at the gate who desired to speak to her; who, upon her asking his business, answered that he could communicate it only to herself.

As Rosalie had no acquaintance likely to make such a visit, nor any business to transact, and as so nea [...] London there is always danger of admitting strangers, she bid the servant tell him, she could speak to no person with whose name and purpose she was unacquainted. The girl staid some time, and then returned with a piece of paper, on which was written with a pencil, "Be not alarmed. It is Montalbert, who, compelled to return in secret, has been to Mrs. Vyvian's, and finds persons with her before whom it is im­possible for him to appear."

The mingled joy and surprise, not without some alloy of fear, with which Rosalie read this, may be easily imagined. But it would be diffi­cult to describe, in adequate terms, the trans­ports of Montalbert on meeting after so long an absence, or with what tenderness and gratitude Rosalie learned the purpose of his journey. When they were calm enough to converse upon it, he told her, that as soon as he had rec [...]ed Mrs. Vyvian's letter, he determined to [...] over himself to England at every hazard.— It [Page 245] was not very easy," said he, "to prevail on my mother, who has, unluckily for me, projects in her head for establishing my fortune, which made her more unwilling to allow of my absence. But a young Sicilian nobleman, with whom I was brought up, and who is distantly related to my mother, was exactly at that period returning to Sicily for a few months. I communicated my distress to him, and he managed the difficulty so well, that I obtained a short leave of absence, and am now supposed to be with him in Sicily. A thousand circumstances may happen to betray me. But I trust much to the friendship and prevoyance of my friend to guard against detection at present; and, for the future, I know my Rosalie will not shrink from any trial of that affection which makes the happiness of my existence—even though a greater sacrifice were required of her than to quit her present abode."

The answer that Rosalie gave to this was, that with him every place and every country would be equally pleasant to her. He then explained to her his views.—"Unable to live without you," said he, "I have never ceased, since I have been in Italy, to meditate on the means of conciliating my happiness, and the deference I owe my mo­ther. That friend, of whom I have just been speaking, is now master of his fortune. He has offered me a small, but beautiful villa in Sicily, about seven miles from Messina, and not more than two and a half from the sea. There you may live, my Rosalie, unremarked and unques­tioned; and there I can pass months with you, [Page 246] without incurring, on the part of my mother, any suspicion, or any other remonstrance, than must in every event arise from my refusal of the match she wishes to make for me. When, how­ever, she finds I am determined, and loses her apprehensions of my forming some attachment to an English-woman and a Protestant, I shall be left at liberty to wander about Italy occasionally as I used to do: and we may be happy at the present with each other, without risking the loss of that prosperity hereafter, in which it is the first wish of my heart to place you."

This plan appeared to Rosalie not only practi­cable, but delightful. The unfeigned pleasure with which she embraced it seemed to redouble the satisfaction with which Montalbert expatiated on their future prospects. He appeared, indeed, to have thought of every thing, and settled what should be said to persons in England, to account for her departure. It was to be given out, that Mrs. Vyvian had procured for her a situation in a foreign family of distinction, who were desirous of having a young Englishwoman as instructress to their daughters; an establishment, which, as Rosalie Lessington was left entirely without for­tune, was extremely advantageous and desirable. —However improbable such an arrangement might appear to those who were acquainted with Italian customs and manners, Rosalie and Montal­bert agreed, that there were none of that descrip­tion among those who were likely to inquire of the Lessington family; she had appeared, indeed, so little in their societies, that it was probable she would soon be wholly forgotten.

[Page 247]Mrs. Bosworth and Miss Vyvian were certainly more likely to inquire after her with more active malignity, and, doubting any story that was at all unlikely, to form conjectures to her disadvan­tage. But, as the journey of Montalbert, at this period, was unknown to them, as they had no communication with the Lessington family, and were both too proud to annex any consequence to Rosalie, except what she had derived from their fears of their brother's or their mother's too great affection for her, it was probable that when they saw her, and heard of her no more, they would cease to think about her.

It was, however, a very inconvenient circum­stance to them, that the presence of Barbara Vy­vian prevented Montalbert's seeing her mother, with whom it was so necessary for him to consult. As he could not stay more than a week in Eng­land, there was not a moment to lose. Many purchases were to be made for Rosalie, as well as many precautions to be taken; and it was proper that Mrs. Vyvian and Mrs. Lessington should meet to adjust several points relative to a person in whom both were interested.

After some debate how to obtain admittance to Mrs. Vyvian, it was agreed that this could be done only by the means of Mr. Hayward. To him, therefore, Montalbert immediately wrote, engaging him to meet him at a tavern early the following morning. Then reluctantly, and not without her repeating her remonstrances on the impropriety of his staying any longer, he took leave of Rosalie, and retired for the night to the [Page 248] house, where, in pursuance of his appointment, Mr. Hayward came to him the next day at six o'clock.

They together contrived so well, that Mrs. Lessington was admitted to the apartment of her friend without any suspicion on the part of Miss Vyvian; and in a few days every necessary ar­rangement was made, and Rosalie ready to de­part.

There were in England only two persons, of whom to take leave for so long a time, perhaps for ever, gave her severe pain. These were her real mother, for whom her affection seemed to be greater than if she had been accustomed always to consider her in that endearing relationship, and the eldest Mr. Lessington, from whom she had for so many years received instruction, and to­wards whom she had been used to look for future protection and regard. To him, however, she could have no opportunity of saying farewel, as he was gone into Wales with a young man of for­tune, from whom he had expectations of prefer­ment. Rosalie dared not even write to him, as Mrs. Lessington, for some reason or other, object­ed to it; she was compelled, therefore, to go without bidding him adieu.

Her parting with her mother was attended with many tears on both sides; but each wished to shorten a painful scene, which it was not safe long to continue, as Rosalie and Montalbert were introduced into the house by stealth. This sad farewel being over, they got into a hackney [...]ch with their baggage, and being set dow [...] [...] an [Page 249] inn in Holborn, a quarter of the town where Montalbert was little likely to be observed by any of his acquaintance, they there found his servant waiting with a post-chaise according to his or­ders, and immediately proceeded on their way to Dover.

CHAP XIX.

THE fatigue of travelling, and the suffering [...] from sea-sickness, were rendered supportable to Rosalie by every care and attention which vigi­lant love could dictate. Having recovered from the latter, and wondered at the novelty which a French town presents to one who never before crossed the channel, the travellers proceeded, after a few days rest, to Paris, and from thence to Lyons. Rosalie, though delighted with her journey, and acquiring new ideas at every step, was impatient to proceed, because she dreaded nothing so much as that the mother of Montal­bert should discover, by his protracted stay, that [Page 250] he had been to England; while he, more solicit­ous for the health of his lovely wife, than influ­enced by any other motive, regulated his journey rather by her convenience, than by the necessity of appearing in proper time from his supposed Sicilian voyage, leaving to his friend, the Count of —, the care of keeping up appearances for him as well as he could.

Had not apprehensions of what might happen to embitter his future felicity a little derogated from the enjoyment of the present, it would have been difficult to have found a happier being than Montalbert. While he pointed out to Rosalie the beauty of the country through which they were passing, every scene, every view, seemed to acquire new charms. The pleasure which the varied prospects of nature gave to her young and unadulterated heart, the desire of information she expressed, and the sense and solidity of her re­marks, communicated to him delight more ex­quisite than that which he felt in contemplating the beauty of her form and face, which he could not but observe, attracted universal admiration wherever she appeared, even in the haste of a journey, and under the few advantages of a tra­velling dress.

In France, superior or even common beauty is generally much noticed; and almost at every post town Montalbert heard some observation on the loveliness of la jeune Anglaise: or, if they remained in any city more than a day, had an attempt made by some gay young man or other to be introduced to his notice.

[Page 251]From these sort of acquaintance, however, Montalbert shrunk, with a sensibility unusual on such occasions to his natural character, which was open, unsuspicious, and sociable. He not unfrequently was sensible of something like jea­lousy, for which he failed not to reason with himself. But still his dislike of the adulation which he saw likely to be offered to his wife, wherever she appeared, conquered the sense he had of the absurdity of feeling such a sentiment in regard to her, who was all innocence and simpli­city; who certainly lived but to please him, and was so unconscious of her personal attractions as not to have the least idea of the reasons which made him avoid every sort of society on the road. She imputed his shunning it, to the fear he had, lest he should be met by some of his former ac­quaintance, who might betray to his mother his present expedition.—There was, however, in this reserve of Montalbert's less of personal jea­lousy than of another sentiment. The mind of Rosalie, unadulterated by the false refinements of modern education, and yet new to the world, seemed, to her husband, capable of being adorned with all that lends grace to beauty, and gives perfection to genius. She had seen so little of society since her short residence near London, that the bloom of the mind (if such an expres­sion may be allowed) had not been tarnished by any commerce with inferior society, or the com­mon studies of a circulating library. Her natu­ral understanding was excellent: and she had more judgment than generally attends on so much [Page 252] genius as she possessed; but hitherto this judg­ment had been unexercised, and this genius dor­mant.

The little she had read was but ill-calculated to form the first: and the society she had been usually among, had allowed her little scope for the latter. But, at a very early period of her life she became conscious, that such sort of peo­ple as she was usually thrown among, people who only escape from dullness by flying to defamation, were extremely tiresome to her, though she saw that nobody else thought so, and suspected herself of being fastidious and perverse. The cold, and sometimes contemptuous treatment she had met with from her supposed sisters, the little real affection she had ever found from the persons whom she believed to be her parents, had render­ed her timid and diffident.—As nobody but Mrs. Vyvian seemed to love her, she supposed that to none but Mrs. Vyvian she seemed worthy of affection. Since the explanation that had been given, all the passages of her former life appeared in a new light: and she accounted for the indif­ference of her supposed, and the tenderness of her real, parent.

This extraordinary discovery was a frequent topic of conversation between her and Montal­bert as they pursued on their journey: and they often canvassed the circumstances that would, if the narrative of Mrs. Vyvian had been less au­thenticated, have given rise to incredulity.— Montalbert, when he first heard it from Rosalie, had remarked these circumstances—"It is [Page 253] strange" said he "that the account you have giv­en of your father's present situation is so vague, so indistinct, that you have no clue to guide you even to the certainty of his existence, none by which you can identify yourself to him. I can make every allowance for the singular circumstan­ces in which Mrs. Vyvian was placed; for the timidity of her temper, and for the violence of my grandfather, whom I have always heard re­presented as a tyrant, who was not to be, would not be, contradicted. Still it appears equally un­fortunate and strange, that she omitted to tell you whether he knew of your birth? whether the fa­mily of Ormsby were apprised of it?"

In answer to these remarks, the justice of which she however acknowledged, Rosalie bade him recollect, how much of all the circumstances most interresting to her might be unknown, even to Mrs. Vyvian herself.

"When I remember" said she "the counte­nance and manner of my mother, when she re­called those scenes in which she suffered so cruel­ly, when I think how little capable she was, even at this distance of time, of dwelling on those parts of her story, where she had occasion to name my unfortunate father, and the awe she had of her own, as well as the tyranny she had since experi­enced from Mr. Vyvian, and the necessity there has ever been for secrecy as to a part of her for­mer life, which would undoubtedly have aggra­vated her actual sorrows, I cannot wonder, though, perhaps, I may have occasion to lament the incomplete information this dear unhappy pa­rent [Page 254] has given me. . . . . I have seen her lips tremble, and cold and death-like dew on her temples, while, in a languid voice, she was re­lating what I have repeated to you; and I know that no motives less powerful than her love and her fears for me could have engaged her to write as she did to you. Long years of sorrow have so broken her spirits, that the most gloomy ideas sometimes take possession of her mind; she trem­bles, lest incidents in her life, for which surely she has already been punished sufficiently, should still draw the anger of Heaven on her children, as well as hazard her future happiness. She thinks, that she should not have deceived Mr. Vyvian; though, had she not done so, there is no imagin­ing what might have been the consequence from the furious temper of her father; and the consci­ousness of having done so has made her patiently submit to every unworthy treatment—offering" to use her own pathetic phrase "her sufferings as a sacrifice to the God whom she had offended, and hoping their bitterness and duration might expi­ate the errors of her early life.—From hence I ac­count for many parts of my mother's conduct," continued Rosalie, "that before appeared myste­rious—her severe penances, her voluntary resig­nation of the world—and her patient submission to the undutiful and even cruel conduct of her daughters. And from the pains these ladies took to alarm her about their brother's attachment to me, though ignorant of all the agonies they were inflicting, I have an explanation of that forced and involuntary neglect of me, which rendered [Page 255] me so very wretched for some time, and of which I am persuaded nothing but this cruel idea could have induced her to assume even the appear­ance."

Montalbert listened silently to this natural and sensible vindication of conduct, which appeared to him more extraordinary and less accountable than it did to Rosalie. He thought it, indeed, almost impossible that Mr. Vyvian should be so ignorant of his wife's former attachment as he seemed to be; and he was sure that her father had known, if not all, yet so much of the truth, as had induced him to act in concert with Orms­by's family, or at least to compel them so to act with him as to have saved his daughter's reputa­tion at the expence of her happiness.

The conversation on this subject was frequently renewed during the progress of their journey: and the tears of Rosalie as often flowed from the recollection of the sad state of spirits and health in which she had left her mother. So great were Mrs. Vyvian's apprehensions of any accident, that might discover the secret so long cherished like a serpent in her bosom, that she had desired Rosalie and Montalbert not to write to her on the way; thus depriving herself of what she owned would be one great alleviation of the restraint and misery under which she was condemned to repine. The moments of reflection, therefore, on the un­easy hours of this beloved parent, were the only moments that passed without pleasure, amounting sometimes to rapture, when, as she approached [Page 256] the Alps, the most sublime and magnificent views of nature were opened to her astonished view.

Accustomed of late to the flat, monotonous, and uninteresting views round London, she had frequently sighed for the more animating land­scapes of her native country; and had no ideas of beauty superior to that which is formed by those green and undulating hills, in some places fringed half-way up by beech woods, in others rearing their turfy mounds, covered with sheep on one side above the once impenetrable forests of the weald, on the other gradually declining towards the apparently boundless ocean that forms the English channel.

But when she saw the rich and luxuriant coun­try, which nature, "with all her great works about her," spreads before the astonished travel­ler, between Lyons and Civita Vecchia, the port from whence Montalbert determined to embark for Sicily, in order to avoid both Rome and Na­ples, her mind was exalted by scenes so much superior to any she had ever formed an idea of either from the efforts of the pen or the pencil. She seemed transported to a world of higher rank in the universe than that she had inhabited while she was in England; and she was of an age and disposition to forget, or at least be indifferent to those circumstances which can hardly fail to re­mind English travellers, that, though other countries may have more bold and attractive scenery, their own is that where life is enjoyed with the greatest comfort.

[Page 257]Arrived at Civita Vecchia, after an absence of ten weeks, from England, Montalbert felt some degree of uneasiness when he knew he must hear from his friend, the Count d'Alozzi, what had passed during his absence. From this he was re­lieved by finding a servant of the Count's waiting for him with a small vessel hired to convey him and Rosalie to Messina, where the Count waited his arrival, that, after Rosalie was fixed at the habitation he had prepared for her, they might return together to Naples.

Montalbert, who now saw himself freed from the painful solicitudes that had so long perplexed him, would not, however, listen to Rosalie's en­treaties to embark immediately. But, fearful of exposing her too soon to sea-sickness after the sati [...]e of so long a journey by land, he remained a few days at the port, while Rosalie, who had no terror so great as that of meeting the mother of Montalbert, and no idea how far she was from her, concealed herself at the inn where she lodg­ed, and could not, without alarm, suffer Mon­talbert to quit her for a moment.

Montalbert, however, who knew that this was not a place where it was likely he should be known, remained with great tranquillity for three days. All seemed [...] favour their voyage, which he considered, not without some pain, must be twice as long as if he had sailed from the Bay of Naples. The weather, however, was mild, and the wind favourable; and a voyage begun thus propitiously was as happily concluded, though not till they had been eight days at sea. On the [Page 258] evening of the last, by as bright a moon as ever enlightened the swelling waves of the Mediterra­nean, they entered the port of Messina. Never did the magnificent spectacle it afforded give more delight than Rosalie felt, as, sitting upon deck, Montalbert pointed out to her the beauty of the scene. The inconveniences and tedious­ness of the voyage were no longer remembered. As the vessel slowly approached the shore, every object, in the beautiful bay, was distinctly visible. The bright light of the moon fell on the long line of magnificent buildings that overlook the Faro of Messina, above which rose the mountains, whose outline was boldly marked in the deep blue aether, while Etna, no otherwise distinguish­ed than by its towering grandeur, rose sublimely above the rest. The sea, calm as the Ce [...]lean above it, scarce broke in trembling lines as it ap­proached the shore, but seemed to be with all na­ture in deep repose. At the distance of two or three miles were seen floating lights of the fisher­men employed in taking the pisca spada, or sword-fish, which gave to the gently undulating tide the appearance of being enchanted, and of bearing fairy lights on its bosom.

Arrived at the lodgings provided for him by the active friendship of hi [...] friend, the Count d'Alozzi, Montalbert saw his beloved Rosalie in safety, and all his cares were for the present sus­pended; but this could not, he knew, last long. He had many acquaintances at Messina, and many people were there occasionally who knew his mother; it would, therefore, be unsafe for [Page 259] him to appear publicly with his wife, and, after one day of repose at his lodgings, they removed in a carriage, with which they were accommo­dated by the Count to the villa he had lent them, at the distance of hardly three miles from Messina, where they found every thing that could contri­bute to their convenience; and were, in a few days, as much settled, as if they had already inhabited this enchanting spot for many years.

CHAP XX.

WHILE Montalbert felt himself highly grati­fied and obliged by the car [...] his friend had taken to provide every thing in their new abode that could render it convenient and agreeable to Rosa­lie, she was never weary with contemplating the beauty of the scenery around her. A garden, which even the false Italian taste could not spoil, arose behind the house, and its orange trees fring­ed the foot of a hill, which would in England have been called a mountain. Even the verdure [Page 260] of England was in some measure enjoyed here amid the glowing suns of Italy; for the higher lands are refreshed by dews, which prevent their being parched like the plains. Beyond the en­closure, shrubs, which are carefully cultivated in England, grew spontaneously, and formed a na­tural wilderness of the gayest colours and lightest foliage. From hence the most glorious view presented itself that imagination could picture: the sea, and the opposite coast of Calabria; the Lipari islands; Strombolo, marked by a black wreath of curling smoke staining the mild and clear sky; innumerable vessels scattered about the blue expanse of water; and the faro of Mes­sina giving to the whole a new and singular fea­ture, connecting the varieties of an extensive sea view with a port, seemed almost to unite the island to the opposite continent.

Divested of every care that related to the past, save only her solicitude for Mrs. Vyvian, Rosalie would have fancied herself in Paradise, had not Montalbert been reminded by the Count of the necessity of their immediately departing together for Naples.

This zealous friend had forborne to visit them till some days after their being settled in their new habitation. He appeared [...]o feel for Rosalie all that respectful admiration which beauty and sweetness, like hers, naturally inspired. Her manner of speaking Italian was particularly in­teresting to the Count, who seemed to be delight­ed to instruct her. He lamented to her the cru­el but necessary representations that he thought [Page 261] himself obliged to make to Montalbert, that he must either determine to go back to Naples, or give up the plan of concealment which had alrea­dy cost him so much trouble. Rosalie in her in­genuous and interesting manner, confessed their obligations to him, but sighed, and with difficulty restrained from tears; while acknowledging the truth of his observations, she trembled at the ne­cessity of yielding to them.

Montalbert, with whom reason and love were at variance with each other, became every day more gloomy, pensive, and uneasy. Sometimes he determined to hazard every thing rather than leave her. "After all," said he, as he entered into these arguments with himself—"after all, what is it that I am contending for?—for what is it that I am sacrificing those hours that will re­turn no more?—for money which I may never enjoy—for high prosperity which is not, that I know of, conducive to real happiness. Is it not true, that a day, an hour, at this season of my life, is worth half an age towards its close?—Yet I am throwing away these precious hours of youth and health, in hopes of being a very rich man hereafter."

However, these arguments, whatever might be their solidity, if tried by the maxims of Epi­curean Philosophy, sometimes yielded to other considerations.—He was not devoid of ambition; nor could he wholly divest himself of that sort of attachment towards his mother, which, though it had more of fear than of love it it, had become a sort of principle from habit.

[Page 262]His frequent fits of silence, his melancholy look, and long solitary walks by the sea side, the evident irresolution and deep depression he labour­ed under, gave to Rosalie the most poignant un­easiness. She sometimes was afraid of increasing these symptoms of a mind, ill at ease, by appear­ing to notice them. At other times she ventured gently to remonstrate with him. At length, after a conference of some hours with Alozzi, he sud­denly took a resolution to depart the next day. Alozzi was returning to Naples, and they were to embark together.

This resolution he seemed to have adopted in consequence of having reflected, that, if he did not soon go, he might not return time enough for the hour so dreaded, yet so desired, when Rosalie might give birth to another being only less dear to him than herself. This was to be expected now within two months. To be absent at such a time was infinitely more formidable to his imagination than leaving her now; and, as if this had never occurred to him before, he now resolutely determined to tear himself away.

Rosalie saw him depart with anguish of heart, which she endeavoured to stifle, that what he felt might not be increased. But when Alozzi had carried him off, almost by force, so dreadful did it seem to him to say adieu!—she was so much affected, that she could not remain at the window till they were out of sight; but, shutting her­self in her own appartment, she gave herself up to tears.

[Page 263]The remonstrances, however, of her Italian woman, who was already much attached to her, and the care which, under such circumstances, she owed to her own health, even for his sake, whose absence she lamented, roused her at length from this indulgence of useless regret. She now sought to amuse her mind by contemplating anew the scenes around her; but their charms were in a great measure lost. Montalbert was no longer with her to point out the beauties that every where surrounded their abode, or to enjoy them with her. There was an aweful sublimity in the great outline of Etna, its deep forests, and mag­nificent features, which afforded a kind of me­lancholy pleasure. Not in situation to explore the scenes it offered more minutely, yet feeling infinite curiosity, she endeavoured to amuse her mind with the prospect of future days. Montal­bert would return to her; she should be blessed in beholding his tenderness for his child; sh [...] should again listen to his animated description of a country replete with wonders, or be able, per­haps, to visit it with him. In the mean time she determined to pass the heavy, heavy hours in cultivating the talents he loved. She took up her pencils, and, strolling into the garden, placed herself on the seat where, as they often fat toge­ther, he had pointed out to her some points of view which were particularly favourable to the painter. She would have sketched them, but her efforts were faint and uncertain. In spite of all her exertions, [...]ark presentiments of future evil hung upon her spirits. Their depression she im­puted [Page 264] to her personal sufferings. The period, to which it was so natural for her to look forward with dread, was now near. She had heard, indeed, that in the climate of Sicily infinitely less was to be apprehended than in England. But this she only knew from the report of persons who might say it to appease her sears and reassure her spirits. Perhaps it was her destiny to be snatched from Montalbert, to release him from his embar­rassment, and to make room for the Roman lady, to whom his mother was so desirous of uniting him.—While these thoughts passed through her mind, in gloomy succession, she repeated, from the little, simple ballad of Gay—

At length, however slowly, the tedious hours wore away. Montalbert returned. He return­ed apparently more enamoured than before this absence of nine weeks, and Rosalie forgot that she had ever been unhappy.

When, the first joy of their meeting being a little subdued, Rosalie spoke to her husband of his mother, she fancied that though he declined conversation on the subject, he was in reality less anxious about the future consequences of his mar­riage than she had ever yet seen him. When he could not wholly evade speaking on the subject, he affected an indifference, which made Rosalie believe he was himself at ease; for, little skilled herself in dissimulation, she did not for a moment imagine that this tranquillity was artificial.

[Page 265]At length the hour arrived when real joy suc­ceeded to this external calm. Rosalie brought into the world a lovely boy: and her own health was so soon re-established, that, in a very few weeks, her beauty appeared more brilliant than before her confinement. More attached to her than ever, Montalbert could hardly bear to have her a moment out of his sight; yet the time was come, when, if he followed the dictates of that prudence to which he had already made so many sacrifices, he must return to Naples.

Alozzi, whose friendship for him appeared to be undiminished, failed not to remind Montalbert of the necessity of this return. But his remon­strances, however reasonable and gentle, were always received with uneasiness, and sometimes with impatience and ill-humour. The visits of Alozzi had not been more frequent than formerly; on the contrary, he had been more rarely their visitor than during his former stay at Messi [...] though he returned thither before Montalbert, he never appeared at the residence of Rosalie till his friend arrived there. Notwithstanding these precautions, however, the fault of Montalbert's temper found food to nourish itself in the looks of Alozzi, who he fancied, regarded Rosalie [...] too much admiration, and sometimes fixed on her eyes in which passion and hope were too evi­dently expressed. This idea having once seized the imagination of Montalbert, became a source of inexpressible torment: and when he reflected, that he must soon leave his wife in the house of this friend, who was, he persuaded himself, in [Page 266] love with her, neither her virtues, nor her at­tachment to him, neither the honour of his friend nor the confidence he ought to have had in Rosa­lie, were sufficient to quiet his apprehensions, though he felt them to be alike injurious to his own peace, and to that of those whom he most loved.

Sometimes he gazed on Rosalie as she sat with his boy sleeping in her arms, and tried to per­suade himself, that if once his mother could see these interesting creatures, she would not only pardon him, but receive them to her protection and tenderness. Then, recollecting what had passed during his last visit to this violent and impracticable parent, he felt that all such hopes were delusive. He became ashamed of what often appeared to him an unpardonable meanness, and resolved, at whatever pecuniary risk, to throw off a yoke which degraded him in his own eyes; to produce his wife and his child and abide the consequences of his mother's displea­sure.

While Montalbert was thus deliberating, and every hour forming and abandoning projects for the future, a letter he received from Naples, compelled him to adopt the measure of immedi­ately going thither. It was from a female rela­tion, who usually resided with his mother; and who now informed him, that she was extremely ill, and it was absolutely necessary for him to see her as immediately as possible.

Wretched is the policy which too often puts at variance the best feelings of human nature; which sets the parent against the child, because [Page 267] expences either affect his ease, or are painful to his avarice; which estrange the brother from the sister, and make enemies of the amiable and love­ly group, who, but a few, a very few years be­fore, were happy associates in the innocent▪ thoughtless hours of childhood.—Ah! wretched is the policy which makes the son too often rejoice when she who bore him and nourished him min­gles with the dust; when those eyes are closed which have so often been filled with tears of ten­der anxiety as they gazed on him!—and yet all the contrivances, which cunning and caution have invented for the security of property, have a direct tendency to occasion all this, while mistaken views of happiness, unfortunate mistakes in the head, or deficiency of feeling in the heart, do the rest, and occasion more than half the miseries of life.

Montalbert, on receiving the letter that gave him notice of his mother's danger, felt, for a mo­ment, that he was her son; but almost as soon this sense of filial duty and affection was lost in an involuntary recollection of the release which her death would give him from the pain of con­cealing a clandestine marriage, or reducing him­self and his posterity to indigence if he betrayed it.

He had no sooner felt this sentiment arise in his mind than he was shocked at and resisted it; but again it arose: and he found all his affection for his mother weak, when opposed to the idea of the advantages he might derive from her quit­ting the world where she alone was the barrier [Page 268] between him and happiness with the woman he adored.

It was not, however, a time to investigate these sentiments deeply, but to act in pursuance of the letter. He hastened, therefore, to inform his wife of its contents, who agreed with him entire­ly as to the urgency of his immediate departure, yet wept and hung about him as if impressed with some unusual apprehension of future sorrow; and, as she kissed her child, she almost drowned it with her tears.

Montalbert, who felt none of this violent grief at an absence, the duration of which would, as he thought, depend on himself, consoled her with views of future prosperity and uninterrupted hap­piness. Alozzi had a few days before left Messi­na, and was gone to Agrigentum, where he intended to remain some time. Montalbert, therefore, who had no doubt but that he should return within five or six weeks, felt no uneasiness at the thoughts of leaving to frequent interviews with his wife, in his absence, a man whom all his reason did not enable him to see with her, in his presence, without pain.

The letter Montalbert had received was written in such pressing terms, that there was no time to be lost; and he determined to begin his journey on the next day.

Rosalie, far from feeling the usual tranquility, saw the moment of his bidding her adieu arrive with agonies of sorrow, which she knew not how to account for—yet could not stifle or command. Nothing new had occurred in her situation to [Page 269] make this absence more dreadful than the two preceding ones. Indeed it should have been otherwise, for the presence of her infant, on which she doated with all the fondness of a first maternal affection, was what was most likely to console her in this temporary parting from its father: nor had she to say, with the unhappy Dido—

The servants about her were the same as those with whom she had formerly reason to be satisfied. The situation around her offered all that the m [...] lively scenes of nature could do to assuage the pain inflicted by her husband's involuntary and short absence. All this she urged to appease the tumult of her spirits. She owned the justice of it all: but nothing gave her any consolation; and, when she at last allowed him to tear himself away, the resolution to see him depart was ac­quired by an effort so painful, that he was hardly out of sight before her senses forsook her; and it was many hours before the remostrances of Zuli­etta, her Italian maid, and of an older woman who assisted in the care of her infant boy, so far roused her from the despondence into which she fell, as to engage her to attend to the care of her own health, on which depended that of the child she nourished at her breast.

[Page 270]By degrees, however, she became more com­posed. She received a cheerful letter from Mon­talbert, sent by a vessel which passed them at sea. It [...]ntioned, that they were becalmed, but that he [...]as perfectly well, and had no doubt of writ­ing to her the next day from Naples. Ashamed of fears and of despondence, which seemed, as soon as she could reason upon them, to have so little foundation, she returned once more to the amusements which used to beguile the hours of her husband's absence: and all that were not de­dicated to the care of her child, whom she at­tended to herself, she passed in cultivating those talents which Montalbert loved, and in which he had assisted and marked her progress with such exquisite delight.